XXVI
There was a fire in Richard's temples as he reeled out of LawyerPerkins's office. It was now twelve o'clock, and the streets werethronged with the motley population disgorged by the various millsand workshops. Richard felt that every eye was upon him; he wasconscious of something wild in his aspect that must needs attract theattention of the passers-by. At each step he half expected theleveling of some accusing finger. The pitiless sunshine seemed tosingle him out and stream upon him like a calcium light. It wasintolerable. He must get away from this jostling crowd, this babel ofvoices. What should he do, where should he go? To return to the yardand face the workmen was not to be thought of; if he went to hislodgings he would be called to dinner, and have to listen to theinane prattle of the school-master. That would be even moreintolerable than this garish daylight, and these careless squads ofmen and women who paused in the midst of their laugh to turn andstare. Was there no spot in Stillwater where a broken man could hidehimself long enough to collect his senses?
With his hands thrust convulsively into the pockets of hissack-coat, Richard turned down a narrow passage-way fringing the rearof some warehouses. As he hurried along aimlessly his fingersencountered something in one of his pockets. It was the key of a newlock which had been put on the scullery door of the house in Welch'sCourt. Richard's heart gave a quick throb. There at least was atemporary refuge; he would go there and wait until it was time forhim to surrender himself to the officers.
It appeared to Richard that he was nearly a year reaching thelittle back yard of the lonely house. He slipped into the sculleryand locked the door, wondering if his movements had been observedsince he quitted the main street. Here he drew a long breath andlooked around him; then he began wandering restlessly through therooms, of which there were five or six on the ground-floor. Thefurniture, the carpets, and all the sordid fixtures of the house werejust as Richard had known them in his childhood. Everything wasunchanged, even to the faded peacock-feather stuck over the parlorlooking-glass. As he regarded the familiar objects and breathed thesnuffy atmosphere peculiar to the place, the past rose so vividlybefore him that he would scarcely have been startled if a lean, grayold man had suddenly appeared in one of the doorways. On a peg in thefront hall hung his cousin's napless beaver hat, satirically ready tobe put on; in the kitchen closet a pair of ancient shoes, worn downat the heel and with taps on the toe, had all the air of intending tostep forth. The shoes had been carefully blacked, but a thin skin ofmould had gathered over them. They looked like Lemuel Shackford. Theyhad taken a position habitual with him. Richard was struck by thesubtile irony which lay in these inanimate things. That a man's hatshould outlast the man, and have a jaunty expression of triumph! Thata dead man's shoes should mimic him!
The tall eight-day clock on the landing had run down. It hadstopped at twelve, and it now stood with solemnly uplifted finger, asif imposing silence on those small, unconsidered noises whichcommonly creep out, like mice, only at midnight. The house was fullof such stealthy sounds. The stairs creaked at intervals,mysteriously, as if under the weight of some heavy person ascending.Now and then the woodwork stretched itself with a snap, as though ithad grown stiff in the joints with remaining so long in one position.At times there were muffled reverberations of footfalls on theflooring overhead. Richard had a curious consciousness of not beingalone, but of moving in the midst of an invisible throng of personswho elbowed him softly and breathed in his face, and vaguelyimpressed themselves upon him as being former occupants of thepremises. This populous solitude, this silence with its busyinterruptions, grew insupportable as he passed from room to room.
One chamber he did not enter,--the chamber in which his cousin'sbody was found that Wednesday morning. In Richard's imagination itwas still lying there, white and piteous, by the hearth. He paused atthe threshold and glanced in; then turned abruptly and mounted thestaircase.
On gaining his old apartment in the gable, Richard seated himselfon the edge of the cot-bed. His shoulders sagged down and a stupefiedexpression settled upon his face, but his brain was in a tumult. Hisown identity was become a matter of doubt to him. Was he the sameRichard Shackford who had found life so sweet when he awoke thatmorning? IT must have been some other person who had sat by a windowin the sunrise thinking of Margaret Slocum's love,--some RichardShackford with unstained hands! This one was accused of murdering hiskinsman; the weapon with which he had done it, the very match he hadused to light him in the deed, were known! The victim himself hadwritten out the accusation in black and white. Richard's brain reeledas he tried to fix his thought on Lemuel Shackford's letter. Thatletter!--where had it been all this while, and how did it come intoTaggett's possession? Only one thing was clear to Richard in hisinextricable confusion,--he was not going to be able to prove hisinnocence; he was a doomed man, and within the hour his shame wouldbe published to the world. Rowland Slocum and Lawyer Perkins hadalready condemned him, and Margaret would condemn him when she knewall; for it was evident that up to last evening she had not beentold. How did it happen that these overwhelming proofs had rolledthemselves up against him? What malign influences were these at work,hurrying him on to destruction, and not leaving a single loophole ofescape? Who would believe the story of his innocent ramble on theturnpike that Tuesday night? Who could doubt that he had gonedirectly from the Slocums' to Welch's Court, and then crept homered-handed through the deserted streets?
Richard heard the steam-whistles recalling the operatives to work,and dimly understood it was one o'clock; but after that he paid noattention to the lapse of time. It was an hour later, perhaps twohours,--Richard could not tell,--when he roused himself from hisstupor, and descending the stairs passed through the kitchen into thescullery. There he halted and leaned against the sink, irresolute, asthough his purpose, if he had had a purpose, were escaping him. Hestood with his eyes resting listlessly on a barrel in the furthercorner of the apartment. It was a heavy-hooped wine-cask, in whichLemuel Shackford had been wont to keep his winter's supply of saltedmeat. Suddenly Richard started forward with an inarticulate cry, andat the same instant there came a loud knocking at the door behindhim. The sound reverberated through the empty house, filling theplace with awful echoes,--like those knocks at the gate of Macbeth'scastle the night of Duncan's murder. Richard stood petrified for asecond; then he hastily turned the key in the lock, and Mr. Taggettstepped into the scullery.
The two men exchanged swift glances. The bewildered air of amoment before had passed from Richard; the dullness had faded out ofhis eyes, leaving them the clear, alert expression they ordinarilywore. He was self-possessed, but the effort his self-possession costhim was obvious. There was a something in his face--a dilation of thenostril, a curve of the under lip--which put Mr. Taggett very much onhis guard. Mr. Taggett was the first to speak.
"I've a disagreeable mission here," he said slowly, with his handremaining on the latch of the door, which he had closed on entering."I have a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Shackford."
"Stop a moment!" said Richard, with a glow in his eyes. "I havesomething to say."
"I advise you not to make any statement."
"I understand my position perfectly, Mr. Taggett, and I shalldisregard the advice. After you have answered me one or twoquestions, I shall be quite at your service."
"If you insist, then."
"You were present at the examination of Thomas Blufton and WilliamDurgin, were you not?"
"I was."
"You recollect William Durgin's testimony?"
"Most distinctly."
"He stated that the stains on his clothes were from a certainbarrel, the head of which had been freshly painted red."
"I remember."
"Mr. Taggett, _the head of that barrel was painted blue!"_
The Stillwater Tragedy Page 26
