“Granted that I overstep the bounds of friendship in speaking thus to you, but it is from no lack of respect; rather the deed of one who risks all upon one throw of the dice. Have mercy, I pray you, and grant me your friendship—your love.”
Then Grace Montfort said, while her eyes blazed with wrath: “Mr. Pollock, we are strangers here, my husband and I. He trusts you, and I have no wish to disturb that trust; but if you ever address such words to me again, I shall let Mr. Montfort know the kind of man you are. I promise you that he will know how to deal with you.” This conversation had taken place one night at a grand fête, where Grace had been the belle of the assembly; they were in the conservatory at the time. Anson Pollock was not accustomed to having his advances received in this way by any woman whom he elected to honor with his admiration. As the indignant woman swept back to the ballroom, he stood and watched her with an evil look, which meant no good. After that they met as usual, but Pollock had never ventured to speak to her again of love. Outwardly he was the same suave, genial gentleman, but within his breast was a living fire of hatred. The two men became faster friends than ever. Mrs. Montfort was pleased to have it so; they had so few friends in this alien land; she felt so lonely, so helpless. She dreaded making enemies. It was but the lull before the storm.
When the study door had closed behind the two men, Mr. Montfort dropped his pleasant, careless manner and faced Mr. Pollock with an anxious face.
“Pollock,” he began abruptly, “I’m worried.”
“What about?” asked Pollock, turning from the window, where he seemed to be viewing the landscape.
“Have you heard the rumors about my wife being of African descent?” Montfort asked, coming very close to Pollock, as though afraid the very air would hear him. “There are threats, too, against my life because of my desire to free my slaves.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Pollock. “I have heard the rumors about Mrs. Montfort, but that is nothing—nothing but the malice of some malicious, jealous woman. As for the threats against your life, how can you think of such things a second time. You are among the most chivalrous people on the face of the earth, who will protect you in your home.”
Montfort stood a moment before his friend, gazing at him earnestly; then he said: “Pollock, if anything happens to me, I want you to promise me to help my wife and babies to get back to Bermuda.”
“Why, what can happen, man; you are nervous without a cause.”
“In that safe,” continued Montfort, not heeding the interruption, “you will find money and deeds; promise me that you will save them for my family.”
“I promise; but it is all nonsense.”
“I shall hold you to your promise,” replied Montfort solemnly.
The committee on public safety generally met once a month. They had a chairman, but no one knew his identity save a chosen few of the committee. Indeed very little was known positively as to the identity of any of the members; certainly no one would ever have suspected the elegant Anson Pollock of being connected with such an organization.
On this particular evening Bill Sampson lounged by the Jefferson house on the lookout for some of his friends. Anson Pollock sat on the broad steps, evidently on the watch for someone, too. “Hi, Bill!” he called, as the latter came in sight.
“Holloa! want me?” returned Bill; and at a nod from his employer, he followed him through the entrance to a small back room, generally used for the meetings of the committee.
“Anything new for the committee tonight?” asked Pollock, as he lounged over the back of a chair. Bill took a seat on the edge of the table and began cutting circles in the air with his rawhide. Bill Sampson was a character in his way. One could not imagine New Bern without Bill, and no one could possibly imagine Bill without his rawhide.
“Wall, mabby, mabby; depends on what you call wurk. Somebody,” with a sly glance at Pollock from beneath his bushy eyebrows, “somebody’s been circlatin’ a r’port about a fren’ o’ yourn.”
“Well,” replied Pollock sharply.
“Looks like we’d treed a possum, sho.”
“Well.”
“Somebody says how’s Montfort’s slaves is wurkin’ fur part pay; leastways, every mother’s son o’ them’ll be free inside o’ five years.”
“Anything else?”
“We kin’ o’ thought that’d do fer a spell. He’s done nuff in that ar to convict him an’ buy his halter. Thet’ll do fer one pint.”
“But that don’t cover the case. What luck have you had in spreading the other report?”
“Wall,” said Bill, as he shot a copious draught of tobacco juice over the sanded floor, “mos’ the fellers think it a pity ’bout Mis’ Montfort. Blamed nice ’ooman. She’s been mighty good to Jeff Peterson’s fam’ly, an’ Jeff he feels mighty uncomf’table ’bout hurtin’ on her, durned ef he don’.”
“You and Jeff want to do your duty,” replied Pollock. “No matter about sentiment. Influence is great with certain people, and if niggers are tolerated in any way, it will end in weakening the law, and then goodbye to our institutions.”
“Course, course; we ’tend ter do our duty; yas, sir, our whol duty; but it beats all nater ’bout Mis’ Montfort. I knowed she wuz mixed the minute I seed her, but ’ain’t nuff to ’tract ’tention.” He paused a moment, and then said with a sigh: “Well, Cap’n, what’s yer orders?”
Pollock saw that the man’s sympathy was more than half enlisted on the woman’s side, and with arch diplomacy changed his tactics. He handed Bill a cigar, saying. “We may as well make ourselves comfortable”; and before the latter had fairly begun to enjoy the fragrant weed, had called for whiskey and was pressing him to help himself. Under its stimulating influence Bill soon lost what
