Chapter XIV: Montcalm Finds Dante Inaccurate

On the second night after the inquest Montcalm fell into his first slumber since the nocturnal expedition which had robbed him of Nature's restorative and had deprived Green of mortal existence. In that state in which the reasoning faculties are yielding to the need of rest, the gradual transition from balanced consciousness to uncertain fancy, he thought he saw a broad, smoothly flowing river. The green meadow beside it, the adjacent woods, where huge trees seemed ineffectually striving to form bridges, were familiar to him. The house in which he was born he saw for an instant before its place was occupied by other objects. A cool breeze came from the water, bringing to him vigor and placidity. He had a strange sensation, yet it was one of peace. He was that river. In his way were no greater trials than the fallen trees which he swept around without inconvenience from their presence or animosity for their interference.

His being was now divided, but the division was unequal. A certain amount of perception alone, stripped of the power of action, separated from the river. Through this perception the dreamer continued his fancies. He could no longer see the river, which retained his capacity for good or evil, his moral responsibility. Gradually the stream narrowed and became more turbulent. This was indicated by the roar of its waters, which, continually rising in pitch, betokened the decline of power and the increase of violence. The cataract, for such it had grown to be, was now as small as that which falls over a schoolboy's dam. Still it decreased in size until it was no larger than an ordinary hand, and soon its water could have been drained as fast as it fell by a thirsty man. Montcalm started as the stream underwent its last diminution. Once before he had heard that measured trickling. Some time elapsed ere he could turn his head and view the remains of that river, which had parted with strength, beauty and serenity. At last he saw the dropping liquid, but it was not water. It was falling from the end of a plank into a well with a barrel curb. On the plank was the source of the stream, the form of a man with skull cloven and with brain exposed. The frightful wound, which was presented toward Montcalm, showed him that the victim was still cognizant of current events, for shadows of thought were passing along the convolutions of the cerebrum. The shadows, or waves, had no regularity of form or of appearance. At times they moved slowly, at others they passed with great rapidity, like the spokes of a swiftly revolving wheel. The eyes were fixed and lurid, but they were frequently darkened by clouds of meaning, the shades which were sweeping along the brain. The face, undergoing the not unusual exaggeration of dreams, alternately lengthened and broadened, one dimension reaching its maximum development as the other attained its minimum. The sleeper believed its hue was ghastlier than that of death. He reached the climax of his fright when the dead man, by a convulsive effort, changed his features to the aspect of life and fastened on him a look such as he might have given a poor neighbor on whose meager possessions he had a mortgage which he meant relentlessly to foreclose. He knew that Green never gave that wink and leer except when some cherished project of vengeance or finance was materializing to a certainty.

The repulsive object on the plank was once more hideously distorted. As the chin dropped in an abnormal distension, the mouth opened and seemed about to close on Montcalm, who inert and helpless, dreaded the first touch of the jagged lips. From the cavernous throat deformed beings beckoned to him to join them. What heightened his fear was a mad impulse to precipitate himself into the yawning chasm, an act which he knew would be followed by the most appalling consequences. Strenuously he tried to escape. Not a muscle would contract to help him in his emergency. Finally his will-power prevailed and he was able to flee. Leaving the cellar, he entered the apartment on the ground floor. Instantly from the vicinity of the well came the clamor of pursuit, and after him sprang a dozen men. He was in a very large house which he was determined to quit, but every door which he opened disclosed to him a division of the infinitely vast building. He raced from room to room, from each of which, sustaining a sharp conflict, he emerged, invariably frightened and invariably unhurt. His desperate defense was not prompted by courage, for he had but one desire, that of finding safety at whatever cost. His adversaries, on the contrary, though often driven back had stricken down, returned each time to the attack, not in the least dismayed by the blows which they had received. Presently they forced him to a corner from which he could not retreat. His guard was beaten down, and he was at the mercy of his pitiless enemies. They surrounded him, raising high their bludgeons, which poised an instant before descending.

With a gigantic leap he crashed through the wall and trod the solid earth. Given on this footing an unnatural speed, he swept over fields, fences and woods, barely treading the ground and propelling himself far at every light touch of his foot. No longer were his pursuers in sight or hearing, but fearful of the approach, he would not abate his exertions.

Before him was the great swamp, and his route was the causeway east of Ratke's. He was almost flying along the road, by the side of which the tamaracks grew large and tall, when to his inexpressible horror Archer arose from the bushes, pointed a revolver at him and fired. The shot at once robbed him of his great speed, and in his face blew a strong wind against which he could make little headway. His pursuers again drew new. With savage gesticulations and yells of triumph the pressed about him. In the intensity of despair he felt that he could neither flee nor fight. Helplessly he looked aloft and prayed for relief. As with limbs paralyzed, but with senses painfully acute, he lay momentarily expecting destruction, an angelic form flitted to his rescue, and interposing its bright wings, parried the threatening clubs.

The mien of the angel was benign and serene. Merciful in his strength, he did not injure those who were endeavoring to kill the wretch who had secured his intervention. Montcalm, confident in the will and ability of this being to protect him, imploringly clutched the hem of his garment. The angel stooped and lifted him; and together, propelled by those bright wings, hand in hand, they sped away at a rate which defied pursuit. Their course was midway between the horizontal and the vertical. Terrestrial objects, trees, rivers, hills and plains, blended indistinguishably together on the surface of the disappearing planet, which, a non-luminous ball, was drawing its dusky outlines into smaller compass.

Measureless was the space through which they flew. Montcalm became aware that his feet now and then met a substance which, though not solid, was more tangible than air. His footing grew firmer. He was entering a land where the common objects of inhabited earth were wanting, where irregularly formed bodies cast shadows along the uneven surface. A dull red glare, hovering over a strip of the horizon, gave a quantity of light insufficient to make vision plain. He drew closer to his protector, for he was intimidated by the unfamiliar sight. Journeying on, they came to a locality which was entirely occupied by somber rocks piled in mountain-like masses by convulsions of the sub-strata. In the distance a lurid flame shot up high in the heavens, as if the forces which had wrought that devastation, instead of dying out, had shifted in position and increased in intensity. Awe-stricken, Montcalm paused. Gladly would he have returned to the world from which he had fled; but, as he attempted to escape from his companion, his hand was tightly held, and he was unable to withdraw it. At the same moment the strange being underwent a transformation. His golden wings lost their brilliancy, from the top of his head sprang great horns, his face changed from benignity to diabolical ugliness and was dark and stern as the fire-blackened rocks around him. Agonized beyond measure, Montcalm gazed on him who destroys men's souls, and he remembered that he had voluntarily placed himself in his power. While he was shrinking from his repulsive master and fearfully awaiting the awful flame which had now neared him, he heard, repeated, a long shrill blast, the annunciation that "there should be time no longer."

He opened his eyes as the notes of one of the major's chanticleers was dying away. It was some minutes before he comprehended the unreality of his dream, and even after it was apparent to him, he frequently wondered if it were really a delusion. Day had not yet arrived. The light which came through the evergreens in front of his window was furnished chiefly by the moon, which had more than an hour ere its supersedure by the sun.

The plaster on the walls had cracked, leaving many seams which an unemployed imagination might construe to represent definite shapes. Montcalm's gaze followed one of these lines as, making a number of curves, it formed a grotesque resemblance to a man's head. Uneasily he turned toward the opposite wall, fancying that the picture was shaped like the exaggerated countenance of Green as it had appeared in his dream.

No sooner had he sought relief by changing his posture than his eyes fell on another set of seams which united in the shape of a broad-ax. He sprang from bed resolved that he would not longer stay where the most commonplace things united to make his sojourn hideous.

Weakened by the horrors of the night, he walked slowly from the house. The cattle were lying down in the barnyard. With the exception of himself and Mrs. Grippin's ducks neither animals nor men were astir about the place. Wearily he opened a barn door and climbing a stationary ladder, flung himself on the haymow. Sleep was for him impossible, but he might be able to rest. He did, indeed, find a partial refuge from his harrowing thoughts. But, as the day dawned, he was beset by a swarm of flies, which would give him no peace. When he had covered his face with his hat, they lighted on his hands, and when he had plunged his bands into the hay, they crowded under the hat and still tormented him. He believed that henceforth for him there was no quiet; that all nature had conspired to make him miserable. He heard the me chatting in the stable and about the barnyard. Not wishing to be discovered in the loft, he climbed down and was passing out, when he met Archer, whose inexpressive face reminded him of the shot which had stopped his flight in the swamp.

Breakfast was to him a severe trial. By dint of great exertion he managed to invent a few gay remarks and to deliver them in a sprightly manner; but the effort was so severe that it could not be prolonged, and he relapsed again into silence.

It was a fine Sabbath morning, and after his few chores were done, he sauntered back of the house, where he was joined by Ratke.

"The murder, has drawn my attention from my own affairs," said the major. "I am again financially embarrassed. Did I tell you about it, Trace?"

"No, you did not," answered Montcalm.

"I do not want to profane the Sabbath, but this is not a business matter," said Ratke, feeling in spite of his explanation that he was doing what he pretended to avoid, "that is, it is not a transaction in business to-day. Durgenson has written me that he must have $4,000 the 23d of this month. I have nothing for him unless I sell the Barton hundred and sixty. What would you do?"

"Do not pay him one cent," replied Montcalm, with an energy which he had not exhibited for days. "He wants to get your entire property. Let him have this farm, but keep----

"What!" exclaimed the major, "let the place go without an attempt to save it? Do you know how I have become attached to my home? To save it, I will sacrifice, if need be, all my possessions."

"That is what you will do," rejoined Montcalm, "and it will avail you nothing. If you do not pay your indebtedness on the day it is due, the farm belongs to Durgenson. Pay all you owe him, if you pay anything. He does not want it paid. He is longing to get every dollar you have. He would be disappointed to hear that you were prepared to discharge the debt. The shark in whose clutches you have fallen will show you no mercy until the shark of the sea returns a man unharmed to the deck of the vessel from which he has fallen."

"You have a new opinion of Durgenson," said the major. "You were the first one to advise me to take the step which I did."

"God forgive me, I did!" exclaimed Montcalm bitterly. "But all is not ruined now. You have a hundred and sixty acres of good land. That will keep you well, and you need not do a stroke of work. Suppose you let that go and are penniless, what will you do? You ought not to be obliged to labor at your age. I would keep it by all means."

Montcalm purposely strolled near a group of the hired men, and Ratke, unable to impart confidences, returned to the house. Had the gloomy young man been questioned by one who had authority to demand an answer, he could not have explained why he went down the road toward the church and plunged into the wood at the left.

It was with dread that he approached the pond. Its edge had retreated farther from its usual border than it was on the night when he had last visited it. Some turtles which were on a log fell with splashes into the water. A snake swam a rod or two from shore and dived for safety. Montcalm's hair arose as he saw a leech on the muddy bottom worming its way to shore. Sick with aversion, he turned away, believing that the pond and its vicinity was fit only for the habitation of devils. He put his hand inside the hollow tree and drew out the articles which he had there hidden. They were as he had left them, the plunder, the auger, the mask and the rough clothes with their blood-stains. He was not actuated by a love of his ill-acquired money, and he had little curiosity. Indeed, he did not open the pocket-book, and he barely glanced at the clothes.

Restoring to the tree what he had removed, he walked toward the swamp. In the gradual descent he found a spring, and stooping, he took a cool draught and from it bathed his face and head. After being thus invigorated, he resumed his walk in better spirits. From the side of the declivity bubbled other springs, the water of which met in a rivulet, which joined the creek in the tamaracks.

Montcalm sat down near a fallen tree-top which partly obstructed the brook. The limbs reached nearly across the channel; so that the water, sweeping by at one side, made its escape through a narrow passage. The current below was rapid. Above it moved slowly, halting at the tree-top where a partial dam of leaves, sticks and scum was collected. Long strings of green slime swayed to and fro, attached to the bottom and the sides of the channel. Whirled above by the eddies, small objects were passed into a peaceful bay formed by the tree-top and the bank or swept into the turbulent rapids beyond. Montcalm became impressed with the idea that the placid bay held safety and that in the rapid current beyond was destruction. Every piece of bark which was brought by the rivulet he watched to ascertain its fate. He was glad when one reached the smooth haven, disappointed when another swept around the obstruction and was hurried to its doom. By degrees he came to regard each floating substance as a representation of himself, his deeds, his chance of preservation.

An ant crawled down an overhanging bush which almost touched the surface of the brook. Ordinarily it would have maintained its balance, but as it whirled to ascend, struck by a puff of wind, it fell. Montcalm viewed its struggles with interest, for it reminded him of the manner in which he, tossed hither and thither, had been borne down the stream of fatality. He reflected that he could no more have resisted the temptations and circumstances by which he was surrounded than the poor insect could rise above the whirlpools and fly to land. And yet, the ant was in a measure responsible for its misfortune. It had realized the danger and hovered over it, believing that its vigilance was sufficient protection. He had known where flowed the river into which he had leaped, but he had thought that he could leave it before arriving at the fatal rapids, from which there could be no extrication. Not far from him was the cataract which descended to the abyss of eternal woe, its sheet of falling water, its projecting rocks, its appalling roar. If the ant passed into the still haven, he would believe that he might likewise escape. If, swept on by the angry waves, it perished, he would have no prospect of avoiding a similar fate. Anxiously he awaited the result on which in a spirit of fatalism he had based his hopes.

The ant, struggling, floated toward the rapids. The movement, however, was not decisive, and it swam nearer to the shelter of the right bank, where it lay hesitating between the shore and the stream. It again circled, and entering the current, was carried toward the point of a limb which separated the still and the agitated waters. Poised an instant in mock deliberation, it was hurled into the rushing waves. Montcalm was seized with a resolve to rescue the creature. He ran to a stick, which he clutched. When he turned to the brook, the ant had disappeared. He bent over the spot where he had last seen it, he rushed down the stream, he splashed the water with the stick. Not a trace could he find of the insect whose fate he had identified with his own.

"Why, what are you trying to do?" said a voice, at the sound of which he started in alarm, "dragging the river for a dead body?"

The speaker was Durgenson, who was spending Sunday with Sparks and who had approached, unobserved, during Montcalm's preoccupation. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and a suit of plaid clothes, with a sack coat which fitted tightly his full muscular figure. "You don't look well," he continued, without waiting for a reply to his question. "Ratke isn't in the habit of working his hands hard enough to hurt them."

"No," said Montcalm, "I am not overworked. I have been awake a great deal nights. I think I will leave the locality soon. I want sleep and a change of scene."

"That is what you ought to have," remarked Durgenson. "You have worked harder than people have any idea of. Now, I'll bet something handsome you can tell who hit old Green."

"Are you any better than I, you swindler?" retorted Montcalm. "You have tricked honest men of small means, from whom I would have been ashamed to take a dollar. I once owned a conscience, but you never had one."

"Oh, there's no use getting in a pet, Trace," responded Durgenson good-naturedly. "I didn't mean anything. I've come to bring you some money. That ought to put you in better humor. Suppose we settle to-day."

"I have long been wanting a settlement," replied Montcalm. "How much did the last horses bring?"

"The last I sold were the ones they had such a hunt for," said Durgenson. "They brought four hundred dollars."

"Four hundred dollars!" ejaculated Montcalm in surprise. "Madge T. alone ought to have sold for more than that!"

"I can't help that," returned Durgenson. "You can't take advantage of the market where you are dealing in such property. You have to dispose of it the best way you can. Here is two hundred dollars. That makes us square, don't it?"

"No," responded Montcalm, "you owe me a great deal more. I have done the planning for your enterprises and you have reaped the benefits. When I told you of the oat scheme, you agreed to pay me well for the time I spent. I worked at it until I had it perfected. You made thousands of dollars from it. Where is my share? I laid the plan of the Guerrero Mining Company and studied weeks to perfect it. Excepting the one share which I sold, what has it availed me?"

"Well, now, that hasn't panned out much yet," said Durgenson. "I expect it will pay."

"There is one matter I would like to speak about," said Montcalm. "I have made but few requests to you, and you ought to be willing to grant this one. You have Major Ratke's farm in your possession. You are now trying to get the proceeds from the Barton hundred and sixty. Take the old farm if you will, but let him have that fragment of his estate. I ask it as a personal favor, Durgenson."

"Now, that is asking a great deal," remarked Durgenson. "You want me to let him go after he is once in my hand. You helped to catch him yourself."

"So I did," replied Montcalm, "and I have a right to insist that part of my wishes concerning him shall be carried out. I have hated myself ever since I entrapped him."

"I'll see about it," said Durgenson. "Say how much you want a day for your work."

"Fifteen dollars," answered Montcalm, "and I put in, call it ten days."

"All right," said Durgenson, "That is satisfactory, I'll make it two hundred, and then you'll be satisfied. The oat business, though, was profitable. It was well got up, too. The name was worth a fortune. If it had been Chinese or Russian, the farmers might not have bit, but Nijni Novgorod, they couldn't stand that. I suppose you've no objection to getting a thousand more?"

"What do you want done?" inquired Montcalm.

"You see," answered Durgenson, "there's a fellow I don't like the looks of, not that he's homelier than other folks, but he don't look good to me. Now, I want that fellow got out of my sight, out of everybody's sight."

"What do you take me for, you scoundrel?" exclaimed Montcalm, "a cutthroat? I am bad enough, but I will not kill a man for hire."

"Why, you are getting conscientious," sneered Durgenson. "You never used to have any such compunctions. There's a man in the graveyard that would have been walking around if it hadn't been for you. When did you get virtuous?"

"Are you the one to twit me of vice?" angrily cried Montcalm. "You have encouraged me in it and fattened on my misdeeds. When I first knew you, I was an innocent boy, determined to make an honest man, I had no more thought of becoming what I am than you have of giving your property to a benevolent institution.

"My father died, my mother was in poor circumstances, and I was obliged to work in order that I might finish my college course. You hired me at first to bring cattle to the east. You made great professions of honesty and of concern for the welfare of others. In this way you won my confidence. Then you convinced me it was right to run a saloon, that if we did not some one else would and the liquor would still be drunk. From selling whisky, you lured me to swindling. You told me that every man must look out for himself, that honesty is the cant of hypocrites or the practice of fools, that the only wisdom is in looking to self-gain regardless of right or wrong. When you had schooled me well in swindling, you drilled me in horse-stealing, awarding me the danger and you the profit. I tell you, Durgenson, I am going straight to hell and it is you who have sent me. I said I was going to hell. I have been there. I am there now, and I can hardly restrain myself from pulling you in after me."

Durgenson started back, appalled by the terrific aspect of Montcalm, whose hand was raised aloft, whose face was deadly pale, and whose eyes were blazing almost with the fire of lunacy.

"Hold on!" expostulated the cattle-buyer. "Don't talk so loud! Somebody will hear you."

"What do I care if they do?" returned Montcalm, raising his voice still higher. "You have ruined me and are laughing at me for it. Why should I not ruin you? If killing myself would atone for half the evil I have done, I would blow out my brains! If shooting you would restore that old man his farm, you would not live an instant!"

"For God's sake. Trace," Durgenson said, "don't act so! You are crazy. What do you mean by saying you have been to hell?"

"Do you intimate that I lie?" asked Montcalm fiercely.

"No, no," said Durgenson, his astonishment and alarm increasing. "Of course you know where you've been."

"Yes," said Montcalm, with perfect composure, "I was in hell all night. I shall soon go back to stay forever. I am a devil and I know well the final home of devils. You had better leave me. There is no telling what violence you may tempt me to do."

"That is about what I was thinking," replied Durgenson, jumping across the brook. "You don't know who I can get to do the job I spoke of, do you?"

"The fellow who keeps so many dogs," said Montcalm.

Durgenson walked in the direction of Sparks', wondering at the sudden change in his hitherto devoted helper. Montcalm, exhausted in his weakened state by the violence of his passion, sat down at the foot of a tree. When he had been seated a few minutes, he separated a letter from a bundle of papers in his pocket. It was written in a quaint, round hand, which would have been taken at once for that of an old lady.

Cortland, N. V., June 30th, 187--.

My Son Traceworth:

It has been a long time since I have heard from you. The last
letter you sent was when you gave me that fifty dollars. Now
that I am alone, I don't know what I should do if Cod hadn't
given me a good boy. You must have changed some since I saw
you. That was five years ago. You used to write once a week
regularly. Now you don't let me hear from you oftener than
once a month. It seems so different now from what it did
when we were rich. But it was all for the best. I have
provisions enough. All I need now is to
hear from my boy. I pray for you every day, Traceworth,
two or three times a day. You know there was a spell when
you didn't keep good company. Remember what I have told you
and keep away from bad men.

Mother.

Montcalm put the letter with the papers into his pocket. Gloomily he left the woods to mingle in society which he hated, to listen to words the import of which he did not comprehend, to profess gayety while body and mind were being eaten away by the canker of remorse.