A Comedy of Terrors
V.
DESPISED LOVE.
AFTER that unexpected meeting with Grimes and Carrol, the ladies drove home, and not a word was spoken by either. The house was not far away, and the drive was not long enough to allow them time to recover from the emotion which this meeting caused them. But over Maud’s pale face there came a hot angry flush, and her brows contracted into an indignant frown. She remained in her room longer than was strictly necessary for disrobing herself, and when she joined her sister she had become calmer.
“ O Maudie darling,” said Mrs. Lovell, “ I thought you were never coming. I do so want to talk to you. Only think how very odd it was that I should meet him in that way. And he looked so awfully embarrassed. Did n’t you notice it ? ”
“ No,” said Maud.
“ Why, how strange ! Well, you know, I never felt so cut up in all my life.”
“ Did you ? ”
“ Positively. I assure you I believe I’m growing prematurely old, and rapidly getting into my dotage. But how really magnificent he looked ! I ’m so glad I saw him, and I’m so glad he is n’t coming here any more. Do you know, darling, I ’m more afraid of myself than ever. Really, I sometimes think that I'm weaker than a child. How very fortunate for me it is that he has such real delicacy, and is so very punctilious and all that! Why, if he were different, one really could n’t tell what might happen. O dear, how very fortunate it is that I’m going to Paris ! But, Maudie dear, did you notice what a leonine aspect he had ? ”
“ Who ? ” asked Maud, languidly.
“ Who ? Why, how stupid ! Why, he, Mr. Grimes, of course. You can’t suppose that I meant Mr. Carrol. He looked anything but leonine. He was as white as a sheet, and as stiff as a statue.”
Maud sighed.
“ Well, I ’m sure,” resumed Mrs. Lovell, “ it’s particularly fortunate for me that I ’m going to Paris. I feel that I’m shamefully weak, and if I were to stay here I really don’t know what would become of me. As it is I shall escape from him. Of course he will be here immediately, but I shall evade him. But poor fellow,”—and Mrs. Lovell sighed, — “how terribly cut up he will be when he finds that I am gone ! And he won’t know where in the world I have gone to. He would follow me, of course, to the world’s end, but he can never, never think of Paris. Only he might think of it, and, O dear, if he were to find out, and follow me, what would become of me, Maudie ? Do you know ? I 'm sure I don’t, or, rather, I do know, but it’s really too horrible to think of. I 've an immense amount of strength of character, and all that sort of thing, Maudie dearest, but really if I should see him in Paris I ’m afraid I should quite give up, I really do not know what resource I should have, unless I might fly home and take refuge with poor dear papa, and I’m sure he’s had worry enough with me, and then only think what worry he’d have if Mr. Grimes should pursue me there and see me again. What could poor dear papa do ? He ’s so awfully fond of me that he’s quite unreliable. He always lets me do just what I choose. Really, do you know, Maudie, I sometimes think it is quite heartrending for one’s papa to be so very, very weak. I do really.”
“ Poor fellow ! ” said Maud, with a sigh.
“ Poor what ? ” exclaimed Mrs. Lovell, looking in astonishment at Maud. “ Really, Maudie, it strikes me that you have a very funny way of alluding to poor papa.”
“ Papa ? ” said Maud, “ I did n’t mean him. I meant — Mr. Carrol.”
“ O, Mr. Carrol. Well, Maudie, now that you remind me of him, it seems to me very odd. I thought he had bid you an eternal farewell, and all that. But it’s always the way with men. You don’t know how to take them. Really, you can never know when they are in earnest. For my part, I don’t believe they know, themselves. I really don’t.”
“ He did n’t speak,” said Maud, in a voice of indescribable sadness, “ he did n’t even look at me, and I was so — I thought so much of him. And then you know I really was n’t to blame.”
“ You, darling! you to blame ! You never were to blame in your life, my sweet Maudie. And it breaks my heart to see you so sad. And I hate him. I really do. But that’s the way with men. Fickle, variable, creatures of mere impulse, prone to wander, obeying nothing but mere passion, whimsical, incapable of careful and logical thought. Really, Maudie dear, I have a very, very low opinion of men, and my advice to you is, never, never allow yourself to think too much of any one man. He ’ll be sure to give you many a heart-ache. You follow my advice and do as I do.”
“ He looked so dreadfully pale, and sad, and careworn. It breaks my heart to think of it.”
“ Pale ? Why, Maudie dear, you need never imagine that his paleness had anything to do with you. Do you know what such a fancy is ? Why, it ’s morbid.”
“ He would n’t even look at me,” said Maud. “ And I longed so to catch his eye. I should have spoken to him.”
“ My dear Maudie, how very silly and unladylike ! As to his paleness, that is all assumed. These men, dear, are really all actors. They wear masks, Maudie, they really do. You can’t trust one of them. As for his paleness, I have no doubt it was simply indigestion, — or perhaps dissipation.”
“ Mr. Carrol is not at all dissipated,” said Maud, indignantly.
“ Well, dear, you need n’t take one up so, and really, you know you don’t know much about him. I dare say he’s very, very dissipated. At any rate, he’s very, very deceitful.”
“ Deceitful! ”
“ Yes ; did n’t he bid you an eternal farewell, and say he was going away ? Well, the first thing you know, you meet him calmly strolling about the streets.”
“ O,” cried Maud, fervently, “if I had only known it, I should have written him at once and explained it all. But, O Georgie ! I was so sure that he had gone away, and that thought filled me with despair.”
“ Really, Maudie, you use such strong language that I feel quite shocked. Despair ? What do you know of despair? Wait till you’ve had my experience.”
And Mrs. Lovell sighed heavily.
“ At any rate, Maudie,” said she, after a brief silence, “ one thing is quite plain to me, and that is, that he is at least very undecided. He really does n't know his own mind. He pretended to want you, and then he gave you up on account of a slight mistake. He wrote you solemnly, announcing his eternal departure, and yet he stayed here and wandered about on purpose to meet you and give you distress. And he does n’t know his own mind at this moment.”
Maud was silent.
“ O yes,” resumed Mrs. Lovell, “you 'll find it so, when you gain more experience, Maudie dearest, you ’ll learn to think very little of the men. They are all so very undecided. Quite worthless, in fact. Now you ’ll find that a man is never really worth anything till he gets a wile. And I suppose that’s one reason why they ’re all so eager to be married. Quite unsettled till then. Why, look at Adam,” continued Mrs. Lovell, speaking of the father of mankind in the same tone in which she would have alluded to some well-known friend, — “ look at Adam. He was quite worthless, O, I assure you, he was really quite worthless, till his wife was presented to him. But, Maudie, when you think of it, what a very awkward meeting it must have been ! Only themselves, you know, dear, and not a single soul to introduce them. I wonder how they managed it.”
And Mrs. Lovell paused, quite overcome by the inscrutable problem which was presented by this one idea.
To all of her sister’s somewhat desultory remarks Maud seemed to pay but little attention. She sat with an abstracted look, occupied by her own thoughts ; and so after Mrs. Lovell’s daring flight of fancy on the subject of Adam, she sighed, and said: “ I do wonder what kept him here. If I had only known it ! ”
“ My dear,” said Mrs. Lovell, “ I ’ll tell you what kept him here. He did it to tease you. Men do so love to tease, and worry, and vex, and annoy. Men are always so. Really, when I come to think of it, I wonder why men were created, I do positively, though of course it’s awfully wicked to make a remark of that kind, and seems almost like flying in the face of Providence. But perhaps it is the wisest plan in this life to try to make the best of our evils, instead of fighting against them, and I dare say it would be best for us to act on that principle with regard to men.”
Maud took no notice of this. She rose from her chair in an excited way and said, “Georgie, I must write him.”
“Write him! Why, my precious child ! ”
“ I must, Georgie, I really must write him. It’s been a terrible mistake, and my mistake, and I cannot let another hour pass without an explanation. It may be all too late, yet I must do it. I can never, never have any peace till I have explained it all.”
“ Well, Maudie, I must say I feel quite shocked at such a very unladylike proposal ; but, darling, if you really feel so very disturbed, and agitated, and all that, why, I won’t say one word ; only do try to calm yourself, dearest, you are so pale and sad, and have been so utterly unlike yourself ever since that horrid letter, that it quite breaks my heart to look at you. So go, Maudie, and do whatever you like, and try to get that wretched man off your mind if you possibly can.”
Maud sighed again, and left the room, while Mrs. Lovell leaned her head upon her hand and gave herself up to her own meditations.
After about an hour Maud came back with a letter in her hand.
“Well, darling?” said Mrs. Lovell, in an interrogative tone.
“ Well,” said Maud, “ I ’ve written him.”
“ Mind, darling, I don’t approve of it at all. I only yielded to you because you were so sad. I believe that he has treated you in a shockingly cruel manner, and is now trying his best to make you miserable. This letter will only draw another one from him worse than the last.”
“I cannot help it,”said Maud, mournfully. “I had to write. It was my mistake. I owed him an explanation.”
“ You owed him nothing of the kind, Maudie darling. Women never owe men any explanations of any kind. You are too weak altogether. But that’s always the way with women. They are always too magnanimous ; they are never petty and selfish ; they are too just ; they allow themselves to be influenced too much by reason, and would often be better for a little dash of passion, or temper, or proper pride ; and, Maudie dear, I do wish you would n’t be so absurd.”
“ I have my share of proper pride,” said Maud, quietly, “and enough to support me in the hour of trial. But I had to write this. I owed it to him. It was my own unfortunate mistake. I must explain this wretched blunder to him. If he will not receive this, why then I feel that my own pride and proper self-respect will sustain me, under all possible circumstances. And, Georgie dear, though I never suspected till now the real strength of my feelings, yet I am sure that if he should prove to be unworthy, I shall be able to overcome them, and succeed in time in casting him from my thoughts.”
“You’re too tragic, Maudie,” said Mrs. Lovell, anxiously; “and I don’t like to see you in this mood. But what have you written ? Of course, I only ask in a general way.”
“ Well, I explained the mistake, you know,” said Maud.
“ It was not at all necessary,” said Mrs. Lovell.
“ I told him how it happened,”said Maud, without noticing her sister’s remark, — “ the two letters, my own excitement and agitation, and all that.”
“Well, did you give him any reason to suppose that he would still be welcome ? ”
“ I certainly did,” said Maud. “ I wrote him in the same tone which I had used in the first unfortunate letter.”
Mrs. Lovell shook her head.
“ That was very, very unwise, Maudie dearest,” said she, “you should have been more cautious. You should have shown him how cruel he was. You should have written your letter in such a way as to show him that he was altogether in the wrong, and then after making him feel proper repentance you might have hinted, merely hinted, you know, that you would not be altogether indisposed to forgive him, if he — if he showed himself sufficiently sorry for his fault.”
“Well,” said Maud, “ I had to write as my heart prompted. I am incapable of any concealment ; I am anxious to explain a mistake. I don’t want anything more from him than — than an acknowledgment that he was mistaken in his cruel letter.”
At this juncture a caller was announced, and Maud, not feeling equal to the occasion, and being also anxious to send off her letter, took her departure.
When the caller had departed she rejoined her sister.
“ O Maudie,” said Mrs. Lovell, “who do you think it was? Why, Mrs. Anderson. And she told me such a shocking story about Mr. Carrol.”
Maud’s face turned whiter than ever ; she could not speak.
“ All the town’s talking about it,’ said Mrs. Lovell. “ I told you he was dissipated, you know.”
“ What — what was it ? ” said Maud, in a choked voice.
“ Well, you know, it was last night. He had been with a party of his boon companions at some bar-room or other, and they had all been dissipating and carousing, and they all began to fight, and Mr. Carrol was the worst of them all, and he knocked them all down, and behaved like a perfect fiend. O, he must have behaved fearfully; and so you see, Maudie dear, there was very good reason why he should be pale to-day and not dare to look you in the face. He felt thoroughly ashamed of himself, and for my part I wonder how he dared to walk the streets.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Maud, indignantly ; " Mrs. Anderson is an odious old gossip.”
“ Well, all the town believes it,” said Mrs. Lovell, in a resigned tone ; “and so you see, Maudie, it’s quite true, as I ’ve always said, that you are very fortunate in getting rid of Mr. Carrol, and the time will come, and very soon I hope, when you will feel very glad that this has happened.”
“ I don’t believe it,” said Maud, again, but in a tone that was a little less confident; yet as she said this she thought that it was not unnatural for a disappointed lover to seek solace in dissipation, and outdo his companions in extravagance, and as she thought of this her heart sank within her.
“ Well, I believe it,” said Mrs. Lovell, “ every word of it. For you know, Maudie dearest, that’s the way with the men. They are so weak, so childish, so impetuous, so wayward; and you know they are all so fond of getting intoxicated. Now we women never get intoxicated, do we, Maudie ? O, I assure you, if it were not for men the world would be a very different sort of a place, really it would, Maudie darling! ” The profound truth of this last remark was so evident that Maud did not seem inclined to dispute it; she sat in silence, pale, sorrowful, agitated, and wrapt up in her own mournful thoughts.
This explanatory letter was written on the day after Maud had received Carrol’s farewell. Before she sent it off, she wrote another to Du Potiron which was intended to make things clear to his mind. Having done this she waited for an answer.
She expected one on the following day, or rather she expected Carrol himself.
But the following day passed, and neither Carrol nor a letter came. Nor did one come from Du Potiron.
Maud felt more despondent than ever.
The next day passed, and no answer came from either.
This deepened Maud’s despondency.
Then came the third day. No answer came. Maud began to feel resentful.
The fourth day passed. Still not a word came. By this time Maud’s pride rose up in rebellion at such a wrong. She felt sure that Carrol was in the city, that he had received her letter and refused to answer it. So she determined to be as proud as he was. And this task she did not find a difficult one. To a nature like hers pride was the sure antidote to wounded affection.
On the fifth day she had lost all her despondency and sadness. Her pride sustained her fully, and a bitter mortification took the place of her former melancholy. She deeply regretted having written any explanation whatever.
On the sixth day they left Montreal for New York, to take the steamer for Europe ; and as she took her departure, Maud’s chief feeling was one of deep self-contempt and profound resentment against her false lover.
I will forget him, she thought to herself, as utterly as though he had never existed.
VI.
A DUEL IN THE DARK.
AT length the party reached their destination.
It was past midnight. There was no moon, and overhead the sky was covered with clouds that shut out even the stars. It was intensely dark. Around them there arose a grove of trees, through which the night wind sighed gently in a drear and mournful monotone. Beneath these trees the shadows fell darker, and the old house which stood near them was enveloped in a deeper gloom.
The house stood apart from the road, and from all other habitations. In the distance the city lay still and asleep. No wagons rolled along the highway ; no familiar noises greeted their ears. The silence was oppressive.
The seconds had brought out all that might be needed, and among other things a lantern. This Grimes proceeded to light, and then the whole party entered the old house.
The front door was gone, as has been said. Entering this, they found themselves in the hall from which a stairway went up, and on each side of which were rooms. On the left was one large room extending across the house, while on the right there were two apartments. The party entered the large room on the left. Two doorways led into this apartment ; the one in the rear was closed and the rusty lock still secured it, but in front the door was hanging by one hinge. There were four windows, two in front, and two in the rear. From all of these the glass was gone, and one of them had no sash at all. This one opened out on the rear of the house. The room was divided by an archway in the middle, in which there was an opening for sliding doors, but these had been taken away. It had a general air of the most forlorn kind. The paper hung loose upon the walls ; the floor was damp, and rotten, with fungus growths visible along the surface ; plaster had fallen from the ceiling, lying in heaps, and disclosing the laths above ; the grates were gone, and in front of each chimney was a pile of soot.
One glance was sufficient to reveal all this and to show this room in its most forbidding aspect, even down to trivial details. Carrol stood with a rigid stare. Du Potiron glanced around with feverish haste, and a tremor passed through his frame. He drew his second off to the back part of the room, and spoke a few words to him in a low voice. While they were speaking Grimes drew Carrol out into the hall.
“ Several small details,” said Grimes, “have been omitted in this here business, but you know what a devil of a hurry you were in. Besides we could n’t bring a doctor, for the first thing requisite is secrecy. Whoever falls will have to put it through, and the other fellow ’ll have to run for it ’s quick as his darned legs ’ll carry him. So now go ahead, my son, and I ’ll just shake hands for good by.”
“ But you won’t really leave a fellow,” said Carrol, ruefully.
“ Leave you ? By jingo ! I’ve got to. Why look at me. Think of the state of my mind, and my trunk. O, I must go, — right straight off,—in a bee line for some place or other. I ’ll just take a start, and where I pull up circumstances ’ll have to decide. I’m sorry I 'm not goin’ to Californy, or I’d ask you to drop in if you ever go that way. But I don’t know where I ’ll pull up, I don’t know where I ’ll go, the South Sea Islands p’aps, to civilize the natives, or China to export coolies, or Central Asia to travel ; or p’aps up North to hunt up the North Pole. It ’s all the same to me anyhow. So now good by, till we meet to part no more.”
With these words he seized Carrol’s hand, wrung it heartily, and then went back into the room. Carrol followed in silence. On entering it again it looked worse than ever. Du Potiron was still talking, and he gave a hurried start as the others entered.
“ You won’t have much trouble with that Moosoo,” whispered Grimes. " He’s as near dead now as can be.”
“ Well,” said Carrol, in a stifled voice ; “ make haste.”
“ All right,” said Grimes, and, calling the other second, he offered him one of two pistols.
“You see they didn’t bring their tools to America; and as I happened to have a pair, I offered to loan them for the occasion. You need n’t be particular, though, about returnin’ them. I’ve got more.”
Du Potiron’s second took one of the pistols with a bow, and gave it to his principal. Grimes gave the other to Carrol.
After this Grimes went over to Du Potiron, and held out his hand. The Frenchman took it. Whereupon Grimes made him a speech, brief, but to the point, in French, which, as he himself said with honest and patriotic pride, had a strong Yankee accent. He informed him that he was in a free country, and in the society of free men ; he exhorted him to be true to the immortal principles of ’76, and visit Californy before his return to France. After which he wrung the Frenchman’s hand hard, and left him.
Du Potiron gave a sickly smile, and bowed, but said nothing.
“ His hand’s damp as a wet rag, and as cold as a corpse,” whispered Grimes. “ If it were daylight now he’d be as venomous as a serpent, but the darkness takes away all his pison. And now, my son, for the last time, farewell forever.”
With these words Grimes went out, carrying the lantern. Du Potiron’s second followed.
“ We will shut the door and call — one — two — three. Then you may blaze away whenever you darn like.”
There was no answer.
The fallen door was then raised to its place, and shut, hanging by one hinge, and by the latch of the rusty lock. All was now darkness in the room. Some time was taken in adjusting the door, and much pulling and pushing and hammering and pounding was required before it could be properly fixed. The banging at the door echoed dismally through Carrol’s heart, and seemed to shake the whole house. The night air sighed ; the loose paper rustled ; there seemed footsteps all around him. He thought Du Potiron was stealing toward him so as to be within reach of the place where he was, and thus be able to fire at once. There seemed a stealthy footfall, as of one cautiously advancing.
Carrol hastily retreated from the middle of the room where he had been standing, and moved backwards toward the wall. Once he stumbled and nearly fell over a heap of plaster, but recovered himself. Groping with his hands he found the partition for the sliding doors, and cautiously took up a position in the angle which it formed with the wall of the front room. Here he waited in feverish suspense, with his left hand stretched forward, his right holding forth the pistol, and his body bent in a wary, anxious, vigilant position, while his eyes strained themselves to detect through that gloom the advancing figure of his enemy.
But now the noises ceased, the door was secured, and he heard the voice of Grimes.
“One !”
A pause.
“Two !”
Another pause.
“THREE!”
After this there came the shuffle and tramp of footsteps ; and the footsteps retreated from the house, till their sound died away in the distance.
Then silence remained.
For a time the silence was utter, and the only sound distinguishable by Carrol was the strong throb of his own heart. Other than this there was not a sound, not a breath, not a rustle. Eagerly he listened and anxiously for a renewal of that stealthy footfall which might announce the approach of his lurking foe. In vain. That foe now gave no sign. Evidently he had lost all trace of Carrol’s position, and after moving forward he had been baffled by Carrol’s retreat.
He stood in the attitude which has been described, not daring to move, rooted to the spot, with every muscle and every sinew and every nerve awake and on the alert to guard against his hidden foe ; and stilling even his own breathing, lest it should reveal the secret of his hiding-place. And all the time he watched and waited and listened for some sound that might indicate the approach of his enemy, But the sound came not. Why should it? Would his enemy be rash enough to attempt to move further amid the rubbish that lay on the floor, over which it was not possible to walk without disclosing one’s position ? His enemy had attempted it only while the door was being secured, and while the noise attendant upon that operation might drown the lesser noise of his own footsteps. In that first attempt he had evidently been baffled. It was not likely that he would try it again.
The silence at length was broken by the gentle sighing of the wind. It came through the open windows ; the loose paper on the walls again rustled and rattled as it swayed to and fro ; and the solemn sound of the wind without, as it murmured through the trees of the grove, was wafted to his ears. Then the wind grew gradually stronger; and overhead he heard long moans and sighs, as the night blast passed through the halls and chambers of the deserted house. Coming through the windows it seemed to enter as if in search of something ; and in that search to pass through every room, moaning in grief because it sought what it could not find; and then wailing out its long lamentation as it passed away in despair. And then there came other sounds ; there were loose doors that creaked, and loose window-sashes that rattled, and the combined effect of these was sometimes such that it conveyed the idea of beings wandering overhead, the patter of whose footfalls was audible on the floor. And thus, in that tension of his quickened senses, every sound became exaggerated ; and the aggregation of these grew at length to such proportions, that the reverberations of long-continued thunder would not be more manifest to the ordinary man than were these accumulated sounds to him.
To his eyes also, as they stared into the dark, the gloom seemed gradually to lessen, and there arose visible things which appeared and disappeared, the phantoms of night which chased one another across his perturbed vision. First there came the outlines of the windows gradually less indistinct, and growing more defined ; while beyond their bars hung the sky, whose former blackness seemed lessening, till on the horizon which was visible to him it changed to a dull gray hue. But it was only through the windows that images of visible things could come to his eyes. Within the room was nothing but thick darkness, and the opposite wall, whose loosened paper-hangings rustled at the night blast, could not be discerned.
Now, out of all this state of things, in which the ears were overwhelmed by the exaggeration of minute sounds, while the eyes were baffled by the impenetrable gloom, there came upon him that feeling of which he had already known a foretaste, a feeling which was the sure result of an imagination quickened by such surroundings as these, a horror of Great Darkness ; and at the touch of that horror his whole being seemed to sink away. Since material images no longer satisfied the craving of his eyes, his excited fancy supplied other forms, fashioned out of the stuff that dreams are made of. The enemy for whom he watched stood before him in thought, with vengeful face, cruel smile, and levelled pistol, ready to deal his doom, while lurking behind the form of his enemy there rose the Shadow of Death. Before that horrid apparition his nerveless hand seemed to lose control of his weapon ; he shrank down, and, crouching low to avoid the blow, he fell upon one knee. But the blow did not fall, and the noise which arose from this change of position awakened no response.
Had there been a response, had any answering noise made known to him the neighborhood of his enemy, it would have been a consolation ; but the utter silence only bewildered Carrol all the more, adding to his consternation and increasing his horror. His is excited imagination was rapidly overpowering every other sense and feeling. He found himself now no longer in possession of that thirst for vengeance which had animated him. Revenge itself, a passion which is usually considered the strongest of all, fainted, and failed, and died out before this new and terrific feeling which had taken possession of him. His baffled and despised love, his wrongs, his insults, all the things which had fed his hate and nourished his revenge, were now swept away into oblivion. High over all these towered up that overmastering horror, to which the darkness and the Shadow of Death had given birth. Over his soul there came a pitiable sense of utter weakness, and in his heart there arose a wild, mad longing for escape, an impulse of flight, a feeling which urged him to seek some refuge from the danger unseen, the strongest and most selfish of all human instincts,—that of selfpreservation. But in the midst of this, as his soul thus sank back within itself, and every ordinary passion died out, its terrified retreat was for a moment arrested. By a mighty effort Carrol summoned up all the pride of his manhood. He recalled his thoughts, dispelled his fears, and tried to sweep away the grim phantoms which had almost overpowered him.
For a time the horror passed. He regained some of his self-control and presence of mind. He looked forth into the dark more calmly. He wondered whether the experience of his enemy had been at all like his. He cursed himself for his weakness, and tried to fortify himself against a recurrence of anything of the sort.
He looked forward into the dark. It was as intense as ever, and for the moment was less oppressive because he no longer was a prey to his excited fancy. During that moment he had time to think over his situation.
Where was his enemy? He could not tell. There was not a sound. He could not be near. Doubtless he was in the back room somewhere concealed, like himself, and like himself waiting for some sign. He remembered that he had already given a sufficient sign of his own position, but perhaps his enemy misunderstood it, or perhaps he was waiting to make assurance doubly sure, so as not to throw away his shot and render himself defenceless. One thing was evident, and that was that his enemy must have the advantage over him. That enemy must have some idea of his position, but he himself had no idea whatever of the position of his enemy. He could not imagine in what part of the room he might be. He knew not from what quarter to expect an attack, or where to be on his guard. And how long was this to last ?
Already he felt the time to be prolonged to an intolerable degree. Such had been his sufferings, that it seemed to be hours since the footsteps of the departing friends had died away in the night. It might have been only minutes, but if so, it showed him how it was possible for a whole night under these circumstances to lengthen itself out to an infinity. Such a prospect was black indeed. Could he endure it ? The very thought was intolerable.
Although for the moment the horror had passed away, yet Carrol had now no confidence in himself, and no assurance against its return. Could he bear it? Or if he should meet it, and master it once more, how many times could he repeat the process in the course of the night? One more such experience was terrible ; many more would be worse than death. Rather than carry on such a struggle, he would meet his enemy, and rush upon his weapon. Better instant death than an unlimited repetition of such shame and anguish. If his enemy were only less wary, there might be some chance, but as it was, that enemy lay concealed, crouching low, watchful, patient, and biding his time. And doubtless that enemy would lie concealed thus, with unremitting vigilance, until he could gain his desires. In comparison with such an enemy, Carrol felt himself to be weak indeed. How much longer could he endure this ? Certainly for no great length of time. But his enemy might be prepared or even resolved to maintain his patient watch until the dawn of day, when he might have the game in his own hands. But could he wait till then ? He felt that he could not.
Even while meditating thus, Carrol began to feel the pressure of the old horror. It was once more returning. The hour and the occasion ; the darkness, and the Shadow of Death all once more became manifest. He struggled against his feelings; he sought to call up his courage, to fortify that courage by pride. The struggle within him became an agony. Over him descended the horror, while he fought with it, and tried by means of reason and manhood and pride, to arrest its descent. In the midst of this dread contest a sound arose. It came from the side of the room immediately opposite. It was a sound of trampling and crushing.
In an instant Carrol’s mind had decided what it was and what he should do. At last the moment had come. The enemy had betrayed himself. He pulled the trigger of his outstretched pistol.
The report sounded like a peal of thunder in his sharpened and excited sense of hearing. There was a rush and a fall of something.
Then all was still.
Carrol started up, trembling from head to foot, while the sweat started in great drops to his brow. For a few moments he waited in vague expectation of an answering shot, with his brain reeling in anticipation of his doom. But the doom was delayed, and the response came not, and no lightning flash burst forth again into the darkness, and no thunderous report again broke the stillness of the night.
“ Are you hit ? ” he cried, in a hoarse voice.
There was no reply.
“ Du Potiron ! ” he cried again in a yet hoarser voice.
Still there was no reply.
“ O my God ! ” groaned Carrol. " I 've killed him! He’s dead! I’m a murderer. O my God ! ”
For a moment there arose a faint desire to go over to his victim, and examine him. But it was only for a moment. The next instant all desire, all thought of such a thing passed away.
For then, sudden, and sharp, and terrific, and unspeakable, there descended upon him the full power of the horror against which he had been struggling; bringing with it the abhorrent thought that the Dead was here, — the Dead, his own victim. And the thought was intolerable.
Chilled to the very marrow, and with that horror now supreme in his soul, Carrol dropped the pistol from his nerveless hand, and sprang to the door. He tore it down, he burst through into the hall and leaped forth out of the house. He fled like a madman, with a frightful feeling that his victim was following close behind.
Such was the horror that overwhelmed him, that for some time he fled blindly, not knowing in which direction he was going. Of one thing alone he was conscious, and that was the overmastering feeling that had taken possession of him ; a hideous sense of being pursued, and a fear of being overtaken. The nightmare, Lifein-Death, which thickens man’s blood with cold, had been revealed to him within that gloomy house, and it was from this that he fled, and it was this that pursued.
At last lights flashed about him. He was in broad streets, whose lamps extended on either side far away before him. The sight of these at once brought relief and dispelled his panic ; and the long lines of twinkling lights, together with the commonplace figure of a policeman steadily pacing the sidewalk not far away, brought him down suddenly from the wild flight of morbid fancy to hard prosaic fact. He slackened his pace to a slow walk, and wandered onward, thinking over his situation.
Fancy had departed, and simple Fact alone remained ; yet now this simple Fact that confronted him seemed not much less terrible than the wild Vision which had lately pursued him.
And the fact was simply this, he was a murderer !
Under these circumstances one course only remained for him, and that was instant and immediate flight.
Fames DeMille.