"Nor peace nor ease, the heart can know,
That, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But, turning, trembles too."
GREVILLE.
"Things seem to be taking a new turn," said the captain, meditatively,
over his coffee the next morning. "I own I thought we were at the bottom
of the mystery, yesterday, but this woman's testimony seems to set us
all adrift again, and we're no nearer a conclusion than we were a week
ago."
"What woman's?" asked Ellerton, who had just come in.
"The man's wife," said the captain.
"What man's?" demanded Ella, who generally arrived at a subject about
ten minutes after it had been introduced.
"Why the man who was supposed to have murdered the doctor, Miss Ella,
and whose body was found in the lake. We were all mightily relieved
yesterday, and thought the murderer had found his reward, and were only
sorry that he'd cheated the hangman. But in the meantime his wife turns
up, and brings a lot of things to light; swears that on the night of the
murder he was at Brandon, on an errand for the doctor, and brings the
landlord and barkeeper of the 'Brandon Shades' to testify to his
remaining there till after eleven o'clock. She also states that the
doctor and her husband were on good terms, and that the doctor often
employed him in a confidential way; that there was a person who, she
knew, bore malice against the doctor; she had overheard a conversation
between her husband and Dr. Hugh, in which"----
"But her testimony goes for nothing," I interrupted, eagerly. "She is
well known to be half crazy, and hardly ever sober. Her testimony can't
be worth a straw--nobody would listen to her for a moment."
"I don't know about that; her story hangs together, she's sober enough
now, and will be kept so till they have done with her. She says that the
doctor came to their shanty late the night before the murder, and called
John out; she crept to the keyhole and listened. She lost a good deal of
what they said for a little while, they talked so low; then John raised
his voice, and said with an oath, he'd take down the villain's pride for
him a bit; he wondered the doctor had stood his cursed ugliness so long;
for his part, he'd put a bullet through him to-morrow, with pleasure.
The doctor hushed him, and said, 'Not so fast, John, not so fast, wait
awhile; we must get a little more out of him before we send him to his
long account. We'll settle up old scores with pleasure, after we've no
further use for him. Attend to this little errand for me to-morrow, and
don't let him slip, and that'll be the first step toward a reckoning.'"
"Well, but I cannot see," said Mr. Rutledge, "what it all amounts to,
even if the woman's testimony is received, which is more than doubtful.
She didn't hear any names. Nobody has any doubt but that the doctor had
plenty of enemies, and that her man John was a scoundrel, and I cannot
see what else her evidence goes to prove."
"It goes to prove that there was _somebody_ with whom the doctor was not
on good terms, who has not appeared on the stage as yet, and of whom we
want to get hold. It goes to prove, my dear sir, that the man John was
sent to Brandon on a matter in some way connected with this person; and,
to my mind, when we shall have, found out who that person was, we shall
have found out who was the murderer of Dr. Hugh!"
"But," said Phil, "what do the barkeeper and landlord of 'The Shades'
say? Don't they know who he came to meet, and for whom he waited till
eleven?"
"John, it seems, 'kept dark,' lounged around the bar-room, and spoke
little to any one, as was his manner, but went often to the door, and
seemed to wait for some one. The barkeeper thinks, but is not sure, that
it was he who was there once before during the morning, with a letter
which he left, directed to a gentleman whose name he has forgotten, who
never called for it."
"Ah!" cried Phil, "now we shall get at it, I think. What became of the
letter?"
"The letter," interrupted Mr. Rutledge, "the letter that was left there
that morning"----
I crushed the newspaper that lay beside me with my nervous hand; I
smothered the cry that trembled on my lips, but my eyes burned on his
face. He avoided them and went on.
"The letter which was left there by some one, who, it is conjectured,
only _conjectured_, may have been this man, was addressed to some person
not at all known in Brandon, and who never came for it. It was opened
and examined, and proved to be only the business circular of some
importing house in New York. So all idea of tracing anything from that
was given up, and the letter thrown aside."
"Strange," said Phil, thoughtfully. "I should have thought something
could have been made out of it. In a small place like Brandon, where
everybody knows everybody, I should have thought that the circumstance
of a strange name on a letter left at a little tavern would have excited
some interest."
"Brandon is a railway station, you know, and consequently there are
strangers always coming and going."
"Do you remember the name on the letter, sir?"
"Some foreign name, I think. Captain McGuffy, do you remember it?" said
Mr. Rutledge, indifferently.
"I don't think I heard it," returned the captain. "And I really have
the curiosity to want to know something more about that letter, though
all the legal gentlemen, I know, have decided against its usefulness in
the case. I must remember to ask Judge Talbot to let me look at it," he
continued, taking out his memorandum-book and making an entry. "Phil,
don't you feel like taking a drive over to Brandon with me, this
morning, and seeing if there's anything new to be learned?"
"Captain McGuffy," I exclaimed, "don't you want to do me a favor? I am
perfectly wild to have a ride on horseback this morning, and you know
you promised to give me some lessons in 'cavalry practice' before we
left, and there is only one day more. What do you say to a canter over
to Windy Hill this fine morning?"
The captain fell in with the proposition very readily, and Mr. Rutledge
suggested that it would be a very good arrangement for all of the party
to accompany us, in the carriage and open wagon, and to make our
farewell call, also, to the Emersons.
"To-morrow may not be fine," said Mr. Rutledge, "and perhaps we had
better secure to-day."
The rest were agreed, and we hurried off to dress; as the two places
were far distant from each other and from Rutledge, it was necessary to
start as soon as possible. In my dread lest Phil should decline being of
the party, and should ride over to Brandon by himself, I called out to
him to know if he would not accept an appointment in my regiment? He
laughed, and accepted; and unheeding the flaming battery of Josephine's
eyes, I ran up to put on my habit. There was another lady's horse in the
stable, besides the one I should use, but Josephine and Ella, though
dying to ride, would neither of them volunteer to accompany me.
"You are too nervous to ride, Miss," said Kitty, as she buttoned my
gloves. "See how your hand shakes. Why will you go? You are not fit."
"I must; there is no help. Tell him why I go, Kitty, and that I will be
back as soon as I can, and you must manage to let me see him in the
course of the afternoon. And be sure you make him understand about my
going."
Glorious Madge! I had never expected to mount her again. I had never
expected to burden her with such a heavy heart. What a contrast to the
daring young rider of a few short months ago. Madge Wildfire was as
eager and untamed as then, but not so her mistress. Her mistress, the
fire quenched in her eye, the pride of her free step humbled, the
courage of her spirit broken, trembled at the very beauty of the animal
she rode.
"You are not fit for this," said Mr. Rutledge, in a low tone, as he put
me in the saddle. "You had better give it up. It is not too late; let
one of the others take your place."
"No, thank you. I shall be better for the ride."
"Captain McGuffy, you must remember your pupil is rather inexperienced,"
he said, uneasily, as the captain mounted and rode up beside me. "Madge
has not been used for some time, and she is feeling very fine."
"No danger," said the captain, as, followed by Phil, we trotted rapidly
down the avenue. There must have been a touch of human intelligence and
sympathy in Madge; she was burning to be off on a mad race across the
country; she was fairly throbbing with impatience; my weak grasp upon
her bridle she could have thrown off with one toss of her arched neck;
but, quivering with life and fire as she was, she restrained her pace to
suit my fears, and minded my slightest touch, with more than human
gentleness. By degrees, I came to realize this, and reassured and
emboldened, I sat more firmly and rode less timidly. The cool air of the
morning braced and strengthened my nerves; I could hardly have believed
that I could have felt so differently in so short a time, and every foot
of ground we put between us and Rutledge, seemed to distance just so
far my anxiety and wretchedness. My companions amused themselves, and
thought they were amusing me, by reminiscences of military adventures,
frontier experiences, and camp life; which served to keep them occupied,
and give me time to rest and recover myself. When we rode into the lodge
gate at Windy Hill, I was indeed so much better for my ride, that even
Phil noticed the change in my expression.
"You ought to have ridden every day while we have been here. You must
ride to-morrow by all means."
We were the first of the party to arrive, and had been seated in the
parlor some minutes, enjoying the prattle of the Misses Mason, before
the others drove up. All were made hugely welcome. One is surest of
appreciation, socially, in a visit to a lonely country place, where
visitors are at a premium, and where there are pining young daughters,
and unemployed young sons, and a hospitable head of the family, to swell
the note of welcome. All these elements of hospitality we found at Windy
Hill; never were guests more welcome, and the only doubt seemed to be,
whether we should ever be allowed to go. Lunch did not suffice, we must
stay to dinner. Mason _père_ said it should be so, and Mason _fils_
ordered the carriage away, and the horses taken out. Mrs. Churchill
pleaded our toilets, but was overruled. Mr. Rutledge advanced the
necessity for our visit at Beech Grove as an obstacle. That should be no
objection. After dinner the young people should join us, and we could
all go together. There being really no reason why we should not accept
this hospitality, it was at last decided we should remain. The morning
slipped away very fast; there was a great deal to be seen about the
place; fine views and pretty walks on every hand, outside, and a library
and picture-gallery full of interest within. New merchandisable
interest, that is. The Masons had just returned from Europe, and had
brought with them whatever had been procurable for money, unbacked by
taste or judgment. The result was, a good many pictures in rather
questionable taste, but framed and hung unexceptionably; a great deal of
so-so statuary, engravings bought by the portfolio, and "gems of art,"
bearing about the same relation to high art, that the contents of some
jeweller's show-case, in Chatham street, bears to the Koh-i-noor. My
particular friend, the younger Mr. Mason, attended me through the
library and picture-gallery; and though the names of the pictures and
the prices of the books seemed to be the items that he was most familiar
with, I could not but admire the grasp of mind that could master and
retain such dry statistics. By the time that dinner was announced, I
felt that we had earned it, so much listening, looking, admiring had we
done.
Dinner at the Masons' was never a brief meal; the master of the house
had known too much of short commons in his boyhood, and eighteen-penny
lunches at second-rate eating-houses during his clerkship, not to place
a full value upon the luxuries of the table; and on the present occasion
nothing was wanting to make it an elaborate and elegant repast,
honorable to guests and entertainers. It was five o'clock before we left
the table, and fully six before we were in the saddle. The ride to Beech
Grove occupied another hour; a mere call, of course, was impossible. We
were quite as cordially, though rather less enthusiastically, welcomed
by Mr. Emerson and his black-eyed daughter; the horses were again sent
away, and we were told to consider ourselves prisoners for the evening.
Not a very dreary and insupportable prison, certainly, we were condemned
to. Beech Grove was a lovely spot; the house, about one-third the size
of the one we had just left, was a gem in point of architectural beauty
and tasteful decoration. Cultivation and refinement spoke at every
turn--choice pictures, rare books, exquisite bronzes, were the natural
and unobtrusive furniture of the rooms; one was not called upon to
admire by anything more demonstrative than quiet enjoyment and ease. It
was the atmosphere of the place that one was to revel in; and no
obligation existed to analyze its component parts.
The realization of the speedy termination of our pleasant intercourse,
at least for the present, gave a very natural charm to the evening, and
made it a very prolonged and happy one. At least, to those of us who had
not forgotten how to be happy; for me, I could hardly remember when I
had not been wretched, so agonizingly long and miserable had the past
fortnight been, and so strongly had it marked itself on my memory. I
looked with a kind of wonder at the light-heartedness of my companions.
Was it possible I had ever found anything to laugh at in such things as
called forth their merriment, or anything to stir my anger in their
puerile slights and taunts? Grace was vexed by my indifference, and
tried, with no contemptible ingenuity, to irritate me; and Josephine and
Ella too, resented my determined appropriation of their beaux. I was too
listless though, at last they found, to make it pay to tease me; so, by
degrees, they dropped off and left me. Even Mr. Mason, it was evident,
was beginning to think that he had overrated my spirit, and the captain,
that my overtures of the morning did not mean quite so much, after all,
as he had flattered himself. Miss Emerson, who was a nice, bright girl,
not in the least afraid of herself or of any one else, and with whom one
felt intimate after half an hour's acquaintance, ran up to me and asked
me _sotto voce_, if it didn't bore me to death to have that man talk to
me; she was sure I looked tired, and she meant to relieve me; so, with
some clever excuse, in a few minutes she hurried me off to the library,
made me lie on the sofa while she sat beside me, and chatted with me in
her peculiarly piquant and amusing manner. It was very nice and
comfortable to be treated so; but I could not help wondering what her
other guests would think of her for absenting herself from them so much.
It was a matter of very little moment to Miss Janet, however, what any
one but "Papa" thought of her, and she was sure of a tender judgment
from him always; but at last it seemed to strike her that even he might
consider it rather negligent to leave the parlor so long, so springing
up, she said:
"I must go back to those people; but remember, you are not to stir; or,
yes, you may sit here by the table, and look over these engravings. You
are not fit to be dragged about making visits; they're a set of heathens
to make you go. I know you hate it. What _is_ the matter, really, now?"
she said, abruptly, stooping over me, and fixing her black eyes on my
face. "You don't look like the same girl latterly. If I hadn't known you
before, I should have thought you were tiresome and mopish and had no
spirit. I like you better than your French cousins, and I wish you'd
come and stay with me. Won't you? I'll make Papa coax Mrs. Churchill to
let you stay after they go."
I shook my head and sighed.
"You look as if it were no use to talk about it; but I don't give it up,
though I must go to the parlor. I shall come back and look after you
every little while, and I'm going to send some one to entertain you
while I'm gone."
"Oh! I'd rather not--I'd rather be quiet"----
Miss Janet shook her head with a very pretty determined shake.
"You shall have somebody that won't bore you--somebody that I like and
that you like; the only man here, in point of fact, worth talking to,
except Papa," and she ran off.
I leaned back in my chair and tried to be patient; since we left Windy
Hill every minute had grown longer than the last. I had been in a fever
of anxiety about the effect our absence might produce on Victor. I knew
his morbid bitterness would construe it into a willful thing on my part,
and that the neglect would seem unpardonable and cruel. The evening had
seemed interminable, and no one dreamed of going yet.
In a few moments I heard Miss Emerson's voice in the hall, and Mr.
Rutledge's in reply. "Of course, since you desire it, I will do my best
to be entertaining; but you know you have not told me who it is I am to
devote myself to."
"O, you shall see for yourself; go in the library, she is there, and be
sure you amuse and please her, for she's my particular favorite," and
with a laugh and a nod, she left him in the door.
Mr. Rutledge started a little, and did not look very much pleased when
he recognized me; but there was no help, so he sat down beside me at the
table.
"Miss Emerson told me she should send some one to entertain me. I didn't
know she meant to send you."
"Is there any one you would prefer? Mr. Arbuthnot, the captain, or your
heavy adorer, Mr. Theodore Mason? You need not hesitate to tell me. I
will resign in favor of any one you name."
I was too miserable to be angry at his tone; with a languid movement of
my hand, I answered:
"If you are willing to stay, sir, there is no one I should like so
well."
"It is not often you allow yourself in anything so gracious as that. I
will stay with pleasure. But Miss Emerson says I must entertain you--I
must be agreeable. Now, though I dare not, for my life, disobey anything
so blackeyed and imperious, still I haven't the first idea how to
proceed, and unless you give me a hint, I am certain I shall fail. What
shall I talk about? What do young ladies like, literature or
gossip--people or things?"
"My tastes haven't changed, Mr. Rutledge; you used to find no difficulty
in talking to me--at least, I never supposed it cost you much effort,
and you always succeeded in entertaining me; so if that is honestly your
object to-night, I do not think you need be at a loss."
"What did I use to talk about, when I amused you, if ever I was so
happy? If you would give me a suggestion"----
He turned his eyes full on me, as I answered: "When you first used to
talk to me, you seemed to think me a very foolish, frightened child, and
were very kind and gentle. Then, after you had found out I was old
enough to understand you, and clever enough to appreciate you, you used
to talk to me about your travels, and the people you had met, the
countries you had seen. Sometimes you would talk to me about books, and
make me tell you what ones I liked, and after you were convinced, I was
prejudiced and enthusiastic enough to make it worth your while to oppose
me, you would amuse yourself by contradicting and thwarting me. Then you
would suddenly change and be kind--oh! so kind!--and treat me as if I
were fit to be your friend and your companion; you would tell me about
the world that I had only dreamed of then; you warned me of its danger,
its heartlessness and treachery; you counselled me, and talked as if you
really cared what became of me; you told me the world was full of
coldness and unkindness, but oh! you did not tell me half you might have
told me about that. Then, sometimes--not often--you would tell me some
slight thing about yourself; you looked sterner and colder than ever
when you did; your eye would flash, and your lip would curl--some unseen
chain would gall you when you thought of the Past; something that came
with its memory humbled you, you hated it, you hated yourself; but I
liked you--I liked you better then than when you were talking to please
me, or to instruct me, or to please or instruct other people; you were
involuntary then--you were yourself--and though I liked you in those
days whatever you did, I liked you best of all when you talked of
yourself."
"Then I will talk of myself now; I have promised to entertain you, and
you have told me how to do it. They are dancing in the parlor now, and
the music and the laughing will screen us from them; you can listen at
your ease, and be entertained without fear of interruption. I believe
you when you say you like to hear me talk of myself, because it pleases
me to believe it, and men, you know, will go great lengths to believe
anything that suits their vanity.
"But first, you will not mind anything that I may say--you will not
shrink and blush? Remember, it is a man's life, and not a woman's, that
you are to hear about--a dark life, and not a prosperous one--and to
make it vivid to you, I must show you the blackness of the shadow and
the depth of the gloom; you must know what the trial has been before you
can know what grim strength was needed to endure it--what coldness and
sternness, as you call them, to keep down the pain within. You are a
child no longer; you know something of what suffering is, so I can tell
you with some hope of pity, if you will listen and not be dainty--if you
will forget all about yourself, and think only of what you hear. Can you
be such a listener? Such only are worthy of confidence. I never found
one before, but I will try you. Do you hear the rumbling of that distant
thunder? How strangely it mixes with the music across the hall! There is
a storm coming up; we cannot go home for two hours yet, and they will
not tire of dancing even then"----
There was a keen, piercing flash of lightning.
"Does it make you nervous? You used to be afraid in thunder-storms."
"I don't mind the lightning any more than the flare of the candle
to-night, Mr. Rutledge. Why don't you go on with what you promised to
tell me?"
"I will not begin by telling you about my childhood; a happy childhood
is a thing to be enjoyed once in reality, and forever in memory, but not
to be talked about; no one but the man himself can see the least pathos
or deliciousness in the details and recollections of his nursery days;
to others they are weariness and folly; to him they are the sweetest
pages in his memory; but he must not hope to find there is any other
than himself who can see any interest in them. Perhaps his mother, if
God spares her to him--perhaps the woman whom he has taught to love him,
and to whom he is all the world--perhaps his young children, before they
have learned their perfect lesson of egotism and selfishness--may listen
as if the story were their own; but I have found no one to whom I could
be egotistical and not be wearisome; I have found that most people like
to hear about themselves, and I have not thwarted them.
"But you shall hear of what I have told no one else."