A TRAGEDY ON THE BEACH
It is hardly necessary to say that the man with whom the fisherman was
engaged in deadly conflict was not the hermit. It was the stranger who,
in the tavern, had manifested so much curiosity on the subject of the
rich residents of Cook’s Harbor.
He was a desperado from New York, who, being too well known to the
police of that city, had found it expedient to seek a new field, where
he would not excite suspicion.
He had arrived at the cave only a few minutes before the fisherman and
had already explored the inner room in search of the large sum of money
which Trafton had given him to understand the hermit kept on hand.
He had no candle, but he found a lamp and lighted it.
He was in the midst of his search when he heard the entrance of the
fisherman. He concluded, very naturally, that it was the hermit, and he
prepared himself for an attack.
He instantly extinguished the lamp and stole out into the vestibule. It
was his first thought to glide by the supposed hermit and escape, but
this would cut him off from securing the booty of which he was in
quest.
He resolved upon a bolder course. He grappled with the newcomer,
confident of easily overcoming a feeble old man, but, to his
disagreeable surprise, he encountered a vigorous resistance far beyond
what he anticipated.
Neither of the two uttered a word, but silently the fierce conflict
continued.
“I must be weak if I cannot handle an old man,” thought the professional
burglar, and he increased his efforts.
“If he masters me and finds out who I am, I am lost!” thought John
Trafton; and he, too, put forth his utmost strength.
The fisherman had the disadvantage in one respect. He was wholly unarmed
and his opponent had a knife.
When he found that Trafton--who was of muscular build--was likely to
gain the advantage, with a muttered oath he drew his knife and plunged
it into his opponent’s breast.
They were struggling just on the verge of the precipice, and Trafton,
when he felt the blow, tottered and fell, his antagonist with him.
“The old fool’s dead, and I must fly,” thought the burglar.
With hasty step he fled along the sands till he came to a point where he
could easily scale the cliff. Reaching the top, he walked quickly away
from Cook’s Harbor.
Half an hour later the hermit beached his boat, fastened it and
proceeded to his quarters. He was plunged in thought and observed
nothing till he stumbled against the fisherman’s body.
“Some drunken fellow probably,” he said to himself.
He lit a match, and, bending over, was horror-stricken to see the fixed
features and the blood upon the garments of the unfortunate fisherman.
“There has been murder here! Who can it be?” he exclaimed.
He lit another match and took a closer look.
“As I live, it is Trafton, Robert’s uncle!” he cried. “What mystery is
here? How did the unhappy man come to his death?”
He was not long left to wonder alone, for Robert, as was not unusual
with him, had been taking an evening stroll on the beach, and, seeing
his employer, came up to speak to him.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, as yet innocent of the sad knowledge which
was soon to be his. “Is anything the matter?”
“Robert,” said the hermit solemnly, “prepare yourself for a terrible
surprise. A man has been killed and that man is----”
“My uncle!” exclaimed our hero in dismay.
“Yes, it is he!”
“How did it happen, sir?” asked Robert, a frightful suspicion entering
his mind.
“I know no better than you, my boy. I have just arrived from an evening
trip on the water. I was about to enter my quarters when I stumbled over
your uncle’s body.”
“What could have brought him here?”
“I cannot tell, nor can I conjecture who killed him.”
“It can’t be he,” thought Robert, dismissing his fleeting suspicion.
“What shall I do, sir?” he asked, unprepared, with his boyish
inexperience, to decide what to do under such terrible circumstances.
“Go and summon some of your neighbors to carry the poor man to his home.
Meanwhile break the news to your aunt as you best can,” said the hermit
in a tone of quiet decision.
“But should I not call the doctor?”
“It will be of no avail. Your uncle is past the help of any physician.
Go, and I will stay here till you return.”
The startling news which Robert brought to the fishermen served to bring
men, women and children to the spot where John Trafton lay, ghastly with
blood.
Well known as he was, the sight startled and agitated them, and, in
their ignorance of the real murderer, suspicion fastened upon the
hermit, who, tall and dignified, with his white hair falling upon his
shoulders, stood among them like a being from another world.
Trafton’s habits were well known, but the manner of his death enlisted
public sympathy.
“Poor John!” said Tom Scott. “I’ve known him, man and boy, for a’most
fifty years, and I never thought to see him lying like this.”
“And what will you do with his murderer?” asked his wife in a shrill
voice.
Mrs. Scott was somewhat of a virago, but she voiced the popular thought,
and all looked to Scott for an expression of feeling.
“He ought to be strung up when he’s found,” said Scott.
“You won’t have to look far for him, I’m thinkin’,” said Mrs. Scott.
“What do you mean, wife?” asked Scott, who was not of a suspicious
turn.
“There he stands!” said the virago, pointing with her extended finger to
the hermit.
As this was a thought which had come to others, hostile eyes looked upon
the hermit, and two or three moved forward as if to seize him.
The old man regarded the fishermen with surprise and said with dignity:
“My friends, what manner of man do you think I am that you suspect me of
such a deed?”
“There’s no one could have done it but you,” said a young man doggedly.
“Here lies Trafton at the foot of your ladder, with no one near him but
you. You was found with him. It’s a clear case.”
“To be sure!” exclaimed two or three of the women. “Didn’t Robert find
you here, standin’ by the dead body of his uncle?”
The hermit turned to our hero, who stood a little in the background, and
said quietly:
“Robert, do you think I killed your uncle?”
“I am sure you didn’t,” said Robert, manfully meeting the angry glances
which were now cast upon him.
“I am glad to have one friend here,” said the hermit--“one who judges me
better than the rest of my neighbors.”
“He doesn’t know anything about you and he’s only a boy!” said Mrs.
Scott, thrusting herself forward with arms akimbo. “I allus said there
was something wrong about you or you wouldn’t hide yourself away from
the sight of men in a cave. Like as not you’ve committed murder
before!”
“My good woman,” said the hermit with a sad smile, “I am sorry you have
so poor an opinion of me.”
“Don’t you call me good woman!” said Mrs. Scott, provoked. “I’m no more
a good woman than yourself! I tell you, friends and neighbors, you’ll do
wrong if you let this man go. We may all be murdered in our beds!”
She was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Trafton, who had not been
apprised of the tragedy from considerations for her feelings, but
hearing the stir and excitement, had followed her neighbors to the spot
and just ascertain what had happened.
“Where is my husband?” she cried.
All made way for her, feeling that hers was the foremost place, and she
stood with startled gaze before her dead husband. Ill as he had provided
for her and unworthy of her affections as he had proved, at that moment
she forgot all but that the husband of her youth lay before her, bereft
of life, and she kneeled, sobbing, at his side.
The hermit took off his hat and stood reverently by her side.
“Oh, John!” she sobbed, “I never thought it would come to this! Who
could have had the heart to kill you?”
“That’s the man! He murdered him!” said Mrs. Scott harshly, pointing to
the hermit.
The widow lifted her eyes to the man of whom she had heard so much from
Robert with a glance of incredulity.
He was too proud to defend himself from the coarse accusation and
returned her look with a glance of sympathy and compassion.
“I never can believe that!” said the widow in utter incredulity. “He has
been kind to my boy. He never would lift his hand against my husband!”
The hermit looked deeply gratified.
“Mrs. Trafton,” he said, “you are right. I had no cause to harm your
husband, nor would I have killed him for Robert’s sake, whatever wrong
he might have done me. But, in truth, I know of no reason why I should
seek to injure him.”
“If you are an innocent man,” persisted Mrs. Scott, “tell us who you are
and what brought you here.”
“Yes, tell us who you are!” echoed two others who had always felt
curious about the hermit.
“I do not choose to declare myself now,” said the hermit gravely. “The
time may come when I shall do so, but not now.”
“That’s because you’re a thief or murderer!” exclaimed Mrs. Scott,
exasperated.
“Wife, you’re goin’ too far!” said her husband.
“Mind your own business, Tom Scott!” retorted his wife in a tone with
which he was only too familiar. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself
tryin’ to screen the murderer of your next-door neighbor.”
“I am doing nothing of the kind. There’s no proof that the hermit of the
cliff murdered John Trafton.”
“You must be a fool if you can’t see it,” said Mrs. Scott.
Robert Coverdale was shocked to hear his friend so abused and he said
boldly:
“Mrs. Scott, I don’t know who murdered my poor uncle, but I know the
hermit did not. He has been a good friend to me, and he is no
murderer.”
“Go home and go to bed, boy!” said Mrs. Scott violently. “You take that
man’s part against your poor uncle.”
Robert was provoked and answered with energy:
“I would sooner suspect you than him. I never heard the hermit say a
word against my uncle, while only yesterday you called him a drunken
vagabond.”
This so turned the tables on Mrs. Scott that she was unable to return to
the attack.
“Well, if I ever!” she ejaculated. “Tom Scott, are you goin’ to see your
wife sassed by a boy?”
“It seems to me, wife, that the boy is in the right in this instance,”
answered Tom, who had a sense of justice.
“So you turn against your lawful wife, do you?” exclaimed Mrs. Scott
violently. “I’ll come up with you yet. See if I don’t.”
Tom Scott shrugged his shoulders with resignation.
“I’ve no doubt you will,” he answered with a half smile.
“My friends,” said the hermit with calm dignity, “as it appears that
some of you suspect me of this dastardly deed, I am quite willing to
submit to any restraint you may desire till the groundlessness of the
charge appears. You may leave a guard here in the cave or I will
accompany you to any of your own houses. I certainly have no desire to
escape while such suspicions are entertained.”
Robert indignantly protested against such a step, but the hermit stayed
his words.
“Robert,” he said, “it is better. It will do me no harm, and, under the
circumstances, while the matter is involved in mystery, I admit that it
is perfectly justifiable and proper. My friends, I am in your hands.
What will you do with me?”
Mrs. Scott expressed her opinion that he should be strung up
immediately, but no one seconded her.
It was decided that two of the fishermen should remain at the cave that
night to prevent any attempt at escape on the part of the hermit.
The body of the murdered fisherman was carried to his own cabin and
properly cared for till the coroner, who must be brought from a
neighboring town, should make his appearance.