Tom steadied himself for a moment before he spoke. When he replied,

it was in a heavy, monotonous voice: “Yes; I’ve been to see Patty and

she’s told me all. I do believe it’ll break her heart. Poor girl! poor

girl!” Then he stopped for a moment. Hitherto he had spoken in a low,

dull voice; but as he thought of Patty’s grief, his self-restraint

gave way and he burst out passionately, “She’s mine, Isaac Naylor—she’s

mine! She loves me and no other man in all the world! By the eternal,

neither thee nor any other man shall take her from me! I’ll let no man

take her from me; I don’t care who he may be!”

He waved his hands about furiously as he spoke, clapping his palms

together and pouring the words out upon one another in a torrent. Isaac

Naylor must have had some fear that Tom would do him a harm in his

passion, for he stepped a pace back. “Come, come, Thomas!” said he,

soothingly; “don’t be violent; I’ve done thee no harm—at least, I’ve

done thee no witting harm. Every one said that thee was dead; even thy

own people said so. Go thy ways, Thomas, and let me go mine in peace.

Come; let me past!”

“No, by G-d! Thee’ll not go a step from this till I let thee. Thee

shan’t see Patty this day! She’s mine and no other man shall have her

for his wife! Will thee give her up to me, Isaac Naylor? Will thee give

her up? Will thee give her up, I say?”

Every time he repeated this he came a step forward and Isaac moved a

step back. Tom was more than half crazy with his fury and the Friend

seemed very anxious and looked back at the road.

“Thomas! Thomas!” said he, “don’t be violent; be reasonable; how could

I make thee any such promise as that? Let me past, I must see Patty;

there’s reason why I must see her now.”

“Will thee give my darling back to me again?”

“I tell thee, Thomas, it can’t be done. I cannot do it!”

“Thee won’t do it?” Tom stepped forward as he spoke, waving his fist

threateningly, and again Isaac stepped backward before him, until he

stood against the fence at the roadside, and could go no farther; his

face was very white now, and he was in deadly terror. “Let me go,

Thomas,” said he, in a trembling voice; “let me go—I’ll not go to

Patty; I’ll go back home again.” As he spoke he made a movement to

turn, as though to escape.

Tom’s head was in a mad whirl; there was a ringing in his ears, and

bright sparks danced and swam before his eyes. “By the eternal! thee’ll

never leave this place, Isaac Naylor,” cried he, in a terrible voice.

Then Isaac gave a shrill cry—“Help! Help!” As the words left his lips,

Tom leaped upon him, and grappled with him. He struggled furiously,

and Tom heard him give another sharp and terrible cry. Tom twisted his

fingers into the Friend’s neckerchief, and, after that he made no other

noise but a half-choked, strangling gurgle. Tom dragged him backward,

and flung him down upon his knees. There was a rough-knotted stake

lying by him; it was a part of a fence rail. He picked it up and raised

it to strike.

I thank the Lord that his reason came back to him when it did. Another

moment, and he would have been beating the life out of the poor

terrified wretch at his knee. But suddenly, as though a cloud passed

from before his eyes, he saw the white horror-struck face, the parted

lips, and the staring eyes that were glaring up at him. Then he gave a

cry so sharp that it rang in his own ears, and flinging down the stake,

loosened his hold on Isaac.

He stood for a moment staring at the Friend, who staggered to his feet,

and then sank down on a great rock that lay near to them, swaying this

way and that, as though he were about to faint. Then Tom turned and ran.

The next minute he was out in the highroad.

Beside the bridge was a shallow pool, through which folks drove their

teams in the summer time, and where they often stopped to water their

horses. There was a black horse standing in the shallow now, and a man

was sitting upon its back. Tom looked up as he ran out into the road,

and saw that it was Mr. Moor.

Mr. Moor’s eyes were fixed upon his own with a very singular look, and

it struck Tom how white his face was. But all this he saw only in one

quick glance, for he turned the corner of the road, and ran toward home

without stopping. There was a long and steep hill in front of him,

and before he reached the top he fell into a walk, for he was panting

and laboring for breath. After a while he reached the crest of the

hill, and before him lay a level stretch of road; some distance along

it he could see the tall cedars that stood around the old homestead

farm-house. At last he came to where the long lane ran winding down

from the house amongst the maple and ailanthus trees, and opened on the

turnpike road through a gate that always stood open. Then Tom broke

into a run again; up the lane he went, and so came at last to the

paved porch at the back of the house, noticing as he passed, that Will

Gaines’ horse and gig were standing beside the horse block across the

road. Then he burst into the house, and into the best room.

All of the shutters were bowed but one, which was half opened, giving a

faint light into the darkened room. Tom’s father and mother, his sister

Susan, and his two elder brothers and Will Gaines were all there. His

mother was sitting in a rocking chair, the tears running down her pale

face, and Susan was fanning her with a palm-leaf fan. Will Gaines had

told them of his coming, and Tom afterward found that his mother had

fainted, and had only just recovered from her swoon.

“Mother!” cried he, and he ran to her and flung himself on his knees in

front of her, burying his face in her lap, while great sobs shook him

through and through.

No one spoke for a long time, but Tom felt his mother’s soft touch

smoothing his hair. I think that they were all weeping at that time.

I know that Susan was crying on the corner of the sofa, where she had

flung herself, burying her face in the cushion. It was Will Gaines who

spoke first.

“I guess I’ll go now,” said he, in a broken voice; and Tom presently

heard him shutting the door softly behind him.

Then another space of dead silence followed, broken only by Susan’s

catching breath. At last Tom’s mother spoke.

“Where has thee been, Thomas?” said she.

“I’ve been to see Patty, mother.”

“Oh, Tom! Tom!” cried Susan; and Tom could feel his mother’s hand

trembling as it rested upon his head. Presently she spoke in an

unsteady voice:

“Leave us for a little while, father; it’ll be best—just for a little

while.”

Then the others went out, and they were left alone. Tom told all about

his meeting with Patty, in broken and disconnected words. Every now and

then he would stop, for there were times when the words that he sought

to say would not come. He felt that his mother was crying, though she

was crying silently. It was good for him to tell all of his troubles,

for there are times when our sorrows gather upon us like great waters,

that will overwhelm the soul if they do not find an outlet in speech.

Tom’s mother knew of the comfort that words bring with them, so she let

him talk on, without saying anything herself. When he had ended, she

spoke gentle and loving words to him, though she could give him no hope.

“I wish that I’d not seen Patty,” said Tom; “I wish that I’d come

straight home as Will told me to do. Why didn’t he tell me of all

this?”

“I suppose that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

“I wish I’d not seen her,” said Tom, again.

“It’s too late for wishing now,” said his mother.

Nothing more was said between them, and both knew that the marriage

must be gone through with now. The time had been fixed for the wedding.

It was for eleven o’clock the next morning. The friends had all been

asked, the new house was furnished, the linen provided, and even

Patty’s dresses made. It could not be stopped without great scandal to

all concerned. If only he had not come back again. Then Patty would

have been married quietly to a man whom she could respect, if not love,

and her life would not have been without contentment. But now that she

had seen him, what contentment could she have, loving him and marrying

another man?

At last they quitted the room together; but the first bitterness had

passed and gone. The first one whom he met was Susan. She flung her

arms around his neck and kissed him, the tears brimming in her eyes as

she did so.

“Dear, dear Tom,” said she, and Tom knew from the tone of her voice

that she was thinking of Patty, though her name had not been spoken

betwixt them.

“Don’t, Susan,” said he, huskily, for his heart was still very sore.

Then his father came and shook hands with him, as did William also,

and presently John came over from the barnyard and joined them. This

was all of the family that were at home, for Henry was in a store in

Lancaster and Mary was visiting friends in Chester.

Friends, of the old times especially, were a restrained, self-repressed

people, giving but little freedom to the flow of natural feeling. Tom’s

father and his brothers had been moved—deeply moved; but now, when they

came forward to shake him by the hand, excepting for the closeness of

the grip that they gave him and the firmness of the pressure of palm

to palm, no one would have thought that he had returned to them as the

dead might return from the grave. It was, so far as any outward forms

were concerned, as though he had but just come home after a two weeks’

absence.

After a few hesitating words of welcome, the men folks sat down and Tom

began telling of those things that had befallen him in the year and a

half past. He spun his yarn pretty steadily, though every now and then

he would stop in his speech, for as he told of the finding of the money

on the island, his words brought before him all of those hopes that had

borne him up through the toil; then a rush of feeling would sweep over

him as he thought how all this had been taken out of his life, and he

would stop in his talking to steady himself. He said nothing of this to

the others, but I think that they all felt the sorrow that was lying at

the bottom of his heart. Then they sat down to supper.

Tom’s father tried to turn the talk more cheerfully.

“We haven’t told thee the great news, Thomas,” said he.

“What is it?” said Tom.

“Thee sees, thy coming upset us all, so that we didn’t think of it.

Thee tell him, Susan.”

Susan looked down, and the color rose in her face.

“What is the news?” said Tom, again.

“Well,” said his father, “as Susan don’t seem inclined to tell thee,

I suppose I must do it myself. How would thee like Will Gaines for a

brother?”

Tom did not speak for a moment, then he said, a little unsteadily; “I—I

wish thee joy, Susan; thee’s chosen a good man for thy husband, and I

believe he’ll make thee happy.”

Then they were silent for a while.

“When is thee going to be married?” said Tom again, at last.

“The time’s not fixed yet; some time in the eleventh month, I guess.”

After a while Tom’s father spoke.

“What’s thee going to do now, Thomas?” said he.

“I don’t know exactly,” said Tom, huskily; “I’m going to Philadelphia

again on the first stage to-morrow.”

His mother looked earnestly at him, and the tears rose in her eyes, and

rolled slowly down her cheeks; then she pushed back her chair, and left

the table hurriedly.

Presently they all arose and went into the sitting-room. There was a

fire burning in the fireplace, for, though the days were warm, the

evenings were cool and frosty. The four men sat down around the fire,

smoking and talking together in a rambling fashion. Their words were

constrained, for each felt upon his mind the parting that was to come

to-morrow.

So the time passed until the old clock in the corner struck nine. Then

Tom’s father arose in the way that Tom knew so well, and lit his candle

with one of the paper lamplighters on the mantle shelf. Before he left

the room he came to Tom and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Thy burthen’s heavy, Thomas,” said he; “bear it like a man.”

“I’ll try,” said Tom.

“I wish that we could have thee longer with us, but thee’s doing right

to go; thee mustn’t stay in the neighborhood just now.” He stood for a

moment as though he were about to say something more; he did not speak

again, however, but presently turned and left the room.

Such was Tom’s home-coming after a year and a half of shipwreck and

misery. How had he looked forward to that home-coming, and how had it,

like dead sea fruit, turned to bitterness in the mouth! Truly, it is

kind in the good Father that he has given us to look into the past, and

not forward into that which is to come. What hope would there be left

in the world, if we could know the sorrows that were to come upon us in

time?

CHAPTER XVI.

IT oftentimes comes in this world that cares and troubles fall upon

one, not in one deadly blow, but in stroke after stroke, as though to

bear the man to the earth with their constant beating. Surely men’s

souls are of tough fibre that they can so bend beneath such blows,

beaten down only to rise again, bruised, wounded, but living. There

is within a man a courage bred of hope that lives even in the darkest

moments; a courage that lifts him up again out of the dust and supports

him along his way, lame and sore, perhaps, but not broken down utterly.

So it was with Tom. Bitter troubles had come upon him during the past

year and a half, and the bitterest and darkest of all had fallen upon

him the day before. Still more were to come, and yet he has lived

through these and others until his life has covered a span of nigh four

score and ten, and at the end of them all he can still say that life is

a pleasant thing.

Tom was up at the peep of day, for there were some things that he

wished to take with him, and the packing of them must be done before

breakfast time. He was to leave on the Enterprise stage, which passed

the house about eight o’clock.

Little was said amongst the members of the family during breakfast

time, and only a few words were spoken about his going. Half-past seven

came and then Tom stood up and kissed his mother and Susan. Susan clung

to him weeping; his mother’s eyes were full of tears, but they did not

flow over.

“The Lord bless thee, my son!” said she, with trembling lips. These

were all the words that she spoke.

“Come, Thomas,” said his father at last; “the stage’ll soon be along,

and thee’ll miss it if thee don’t look out. I’ll walk down to the road

with thee.”

“Farewell, William,” said Tom, shaking hands with his brother.

“Farewell, Thomas.”

“John—”

“I guess I’ll walk down to the road with thee, Thomas. Let me carry thy

bundle,” said John.

“Never mind; it’s very light,” said Tom.

They were silent as they went down the lane, and silent for a while as

they stood at the roadside waiting for the stage; each was occupied

with his own thoughts. At last John broke through the painful silence.

“The stage is mighty late this morning,” said he, in a constrained

voice.

“Thee’ll write to us, won’t thee, Thomas?” said his father, looking

away as he spoke.

“Yes,” said Tom.

“Yonder’s the stage coming down Wilkes’ Hill,” said John.

But it was destined that Tom was not to go to Philadelphia that day on

the _Enterprise_ stage, or for some time to come.

“Who’s that coming up the road yonder,” said John.

“It looks like William Gaines,” said Tom’s father.

“It _is_ Will Gaines,” said Tom.

So Will came galloping up to them, and then all three men saw from his

face that he was the bearer of strange news. He leaped from his horse

without a word of greeting, or without seeming to wonder why the three

were standing there. His mind was too preoccupied to give attention to

anything but his thoughts.

“Have you heard what’s happened?” said he.

“No.”

“What?”

Will hesitated for a moment and then said, in a solemn voice: “Isaac

Naylor has been murdered!”

There was a space of dead silence.

“Isaac Naylor murdered!” said Tom’s father under his breath. Will

nodded his head; he was looking straight at Tom; his face was very pale

and there was a troubled, anxious look in his eyes.

“Murdered!” repeated John, mechanically, “where, when, how?”

“Ephraim Whiteley and his colored man found him at five o’clock this

morning; his scull was beaten in with a piece of fence-rail!”

“My God!” cried Tom. He put his hand to his forehead, for horrible

thoughts were passing through his mind. Could he—could he have killed

Isaac? Was it a creation of his fancy that had left him sitting upon

the rock, half strangled, but otherwise unhurt?

“Where did they find him?” said John, in a low voice.

“On the old mill road, about three hundred yards from the turnpike.”

Tom looked slowly about him; was he dreaming? Did he really hear the

words that Will spoke?

The Philadelphia coach had come up to them, but no one had noticed its

coming. They must have showed by their faces that something strange

had happened, for the coach stopped when it came to where they were

standing.

“What’s the matter?” cried old John Grundy, from the box.

“Isaac Naylor’s been murdered,” said John, in a low voice.

“My Lord! Isaac Naylor murdered!” Then, after a moment’s

pause—“Where?—How?—When?” A half a dozen heads were thrust out of the

coach windows by this time—they all listened in silence while John

repeated that which Will had just told them. The coach went on down the

road, but it did not take Tom with it.

Then Will turned to Tom—“Tom, I want to speak to you for a minute,”

said he.

Tom stepped aside with him, without answering.

Will was holding his horse by the reins; he did not speak for a moment

or two, but stood as though thinking what to say.

“Tom, have you seen Isaac Naylor since you’ve come back?” said he, at

last.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Tom hesitated before he spoke.

“Where?” said Will, again.

“At—at the place where they found him this morning,” said Tom. He

looked straight at Will as he spoke, but Will turned his eyes away.

“Tom,” said he, “there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

“Mine!”

“Yes; yours, Tom. I expect the constable’s on his way from Eastcaster

now. Anyway, there’s no time to lose. Here’s a horse ready for you;

jump on her and leave the country!”

“Will.”

“Well; what is it?”

“Do you believe that I killed Isaac Naylor?”

Will did not answer, but stood looking fixedly on the ground.

“Never mind; I don’t ask you to answer me, Will. I’ll tell you,

however, that I did not do it. I’ll stay and face the music.”

Then Tom turned and called his father and John. “Father—John—did you

hear what Will said?”

“No.”

“He said that there’s a warrant out against me for this thing.”

“A warrant out against thee?”

“Yes.”

“But thee hasn’t seen Isaac Naylor since thee came home, Thomas,” said

his father.

“Yes, I did, father.”

“Where?”

“At the very place where he was murdered.”

Then he told all that had passed between him and Isaac Naylor, and of

how near he had come to doing that of which he was accused. His father

listened without a word, looking deeply and fixedly into Tom’s eyes the

while. John was looking intently at him, too. Will was standing, turned

half away. When Tom had ended, his father spoke to him in a low voice:

“Thomas.”

“Well?”

“Is—is that all? Has thee told us all?”

“Yes, father.”

“Why didn’t thee speak of it before?”

“I couldn’t bear to do it. I was afraid to tell how I had treated

him—an overseer in the meeting.”

Tom’s heart crumbled within him at the silence that followed his words.

“Father,” he said, “so help me God, my hands are clean of this thing.

Does thee suppose I’d have come home if I’d done it?”

“Wait a minute, Thomas; I’m thinking,” said his father. He stood

picking at his finger-tips, and looking earnestly at them. At last he

raised his head. “I don’t believe that thee did do it, Thomas. I can’t

believe it.”

“Neither can I!” burst out John. “My brother couldn’t do a thing like

that. My mother’s son couldn’t kill a man. I don’t believe it, and I

can’t believe it!”

The tears sprang into Tom’s eyes at these words. He looked at Will, but

Will’s head was still turned away. “Here comes the constable,” said he,

at last, in a low voice.

A horse and gig had come up from behind Stony-Brook Hill. When it

reached the level road between them and the crest of the rise the nag

broke into a trot.

“Yes, that’s Johnson’s team,” said John, and then he turned his head

away.

They all stood silently until at last the gig came up to where they

were. The constable and his deputy were both in it. The constable drew

up the horse, and threw the reins to the deputy. Then he stepped out

and came over to where the others were standing, drawing a paper out of

his breast-pocket as he did so. He had not said a word up to this time.

“I know what you’re coming for,” said Tom; “I’m ready to go with you,

Johnson.”

“The Lord knows—I’d rather lose a hundred dollars, than have to do

this,” said the constable.

“I believe you would,” said Tom.

“Can thee wait a little while, Eben?” said Tom’s father; “I’d like to

drive over to Squire Morrow’s along with you. I’ll slip up to the house

and gear Nelly to the wagon; it won’t take me a minute.”

The constable drew a watch out of his fob, and looked at it. “I guess

I can wait a little bit, Mr. Granger,” said he; “the witnesses weren’t

all at the squire’s when I left. You’ll have to step into the gig

though, Tom, and I’ll—I’ll have to put cuffs on you.”

“Will you have to do that?”

“I’m afraid I will;”—he drew the hand-cuffs out of his pocket as he

spoke; there was a sharp “click! click!” and Tom felt the cold iron

circling his wrists.

His father groaned, and when Tom looked at him, he saw that his face

was as white as wax. He turned, and he and John walked slowly up the

lane toward the house.

Then Tom stepped to the gig, and climbed in beside the deputy

constable. Johnson went to the roadside, and sat down on the bank. He

sat with his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands hanging clasped

together between them. Will stood leaning against the pailing fence,

and nothing was said, excepting once when the constable spoke to his

deputy.

“Better turn the hoss, Jos; you won’t have to do it then when Mr.

Granger and John come back.”

After a while they saw John drive the farm-wagon over from the stable

to the house. William was sitting beside him and presently Tom’s father

came out of the house and climbed slowly into it. Then they drove down

the road to where the others were waiting.

“Father, how did mother take the news?” said Tom.

“Very well! Very well! Better than I expected,” said his father,

briefly; then he turned to Will: “Thee’d better go up to the house,

William; I’d like thee to stay with mother and Susan while we’re gone.”

Will mounted his horse without a word, and, turning into the lane,

galloped up to the house beneath the shadows of the trees.

“Are you all ready?” said the constable, standing with one foot on the

step of the gig.

“All ready.”

Then he climbed in and they all drove away toward Eastcaster.

CHAPTER XVII.

AS the gig rattled down the hill and past the end of Penrose’s road,

Tom leaned forward and looked up toward the spot where he had met Isaac

Naylor the day before. A knot of people had gathered about the place

where the body had been found, collected there by the morbid curiosity

that stirs men at such a time; they were talking earnestly together,

some sitting on the fence, some leaning against it.

At last they reached the level road that led into Eastcaster, and the

nag broke into a trot. The houses were clustered more thickly together

around the outskirts of the town. Of course, the news had spread

everywhere, and knots of people were gathered here and there talking

the matter over. As the gig with the three men in it rattled along the

stony street, the talk would be hushed in these groups, and the people

would turn and gaze at the constables and their prisoner. Tom had not

realized all that he would have to pass through till now; he had not

known what it would be to have his neighbors and old acquaintances

staring at him with that look of mixed curiosity and horror. He shrunk

together in the gig back of the constables, striving to hide himself

behind them. Johnson must have known how he felt, for he laid the whip

to the horse and drove on as fast as possible.

At last they reached Squire Morrow’s office, at the corner of Market

and Andover streets. It was a small, dark two-storied building, with

an old-fashioned hipped roof;—it has since been torn down to make way

for Prettyman’s new store. A great crowd had gathered around the corner

about the squire’s office, and they could see through the windows that

the room was packed with the people inside. The gig drew up to the

sidewalk and the constable stepped down out of it.

“You’ll have to get down, now, Tom,” whispered Jos Giddings, the

deputy, in Tom’s ear. Then Tom stepped out and the deputy followed him.

The constable had a great deal of trouble in pushing his way through

the people, for they crowded up very closely to get a look at Tom. He

walked with his eyes fixed straight ahead of him; he saw nothing but

the crown of the constable’s hat, but he knew, as well as though he had

looked about him, that a mass of faces were gazing at him with eager

and intense curiosity. He also knew that his father and his brothers,

John and William, had gotten out of the farm wagon and were following

close behind him.

“Stand out of the way there!” said the constable, in a loud voice,

as he pushed into the office, and then Tom found himself standing

beside a railing that separated the squire’s desk from the mass of

people packed into the body of the office. The light came through a

little window in the end of the room, so that Tom could see things

only duskily after coming in from the dazzling glare of the sunlight

outside. Mr. Morrow was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair,

with a very troubled look in his eyes. He was playing absently with a

pen that lay on the table in front of him.

“Won’t the prisoner sit down, constable?” said he; “he looks pretty

badly.”

“I don’t care to sit down,” said Tom, “I’d rather stand.” He was

resting with his handcuffed hands on the railing in front of him; after

a while he collected his courage, and then he looked slowly around him.

A number of people were sitting inside of the railing; the first one

that he saw was Patty Penrose, and on her his eyes lingered long and

painfully. She was very white, and dark rings encircled her eyes. She

sat with her handkerchief in her hand, and she wiped the slow tears

from her cheeks with it every now and then. Her father sat beside her,

looking very hard and stern. He did not glance at Tom until later in

the examination that followed. Just behind Elihu Penrose sat Mr. Moor.

He, too, was very pale, and every now and then he wiped his face with a

bandana handkerchief. Beside these three were Ephraim Whiteley and his

colored man, Mrs. Bond, the landlady of the _Crown and Angel_, and Dr.

Winterapple.

Then Tom looked up and saw that his father and his two brothers stood

beside him.

The first witness called was Ephraim Whiteley. He was tall, ungainly,

round shouldered and loose jointed. He was an elderly man; a very plain

Friend, and, like Isaac Naylor, was one of the overseers of the meeting.

Of course, he affirmed, for Friends are not allowed, by the Society,

to take oath as to the truth of evidence. He testified that he and his

colored man “Jim” were going to Downeyville with a load of potatoes.

They had started early in the morning—about five o’clock, he should

think. Had found deceased lying in front of the “big stone” beside

the roadside, about two or three hundred yards from the turnpike. Had

thought that it was some one who had been drinking—remembers that Jim

said something to that effect. Had not thought differently from this,

until he had come close to where deceased was lying. He noticed then a

dark stain on the collar, and also deceased’s plain coat—he knew that

something was wrong. He stopped the wagon, and he and Jim went over to

where the body was lying. Found a heavy knotted piece of wood lying

close to the deceased, and noticed that there was blood upon it. He

had turned deceased over; did not know who it was until he heard Jim

say, “Good Lord! it’s Mr. Naylor!” He and Jim lifted the body into the

wagon, and drove over to Elijah Hunt’s, thinking it best to take it to

deceased’s cousin. Had summoned the coroner at Elijah Hunt’s request.

The next witness called was James Madison Trusty (colored).

He was in Mr. Whiteley’s employ. He had gone with Mr. Whiteley to

take a load of potatoes to Downeyville. He had called Mr. Whiteley’s

attention to the body of the deceased. It was lying on it’s face in the

grass, close to the “big stone.” He had thought at first that it was

some one drunk. He had said to Mr. Whiteley that “there was a happy

man,” or, “that man ought to be happy,” or some such speech—could not

remember the exact words. He did not think much about it till Mr.

Whiteley stopped the cart and jumped out. Mr. Whiteley had turned the

body over, and he had recognized the face as that of Mr. Naylor—called

Mr. Whiteley’s attention to the same. Mr. Whiteley called on him to

lift deceased into the cart. He was very sick, and it was some time

before he could bring himself to touch the body.

(Doctor) Justin S. Winterapple was the next witness called.

He had made the post-mortem examination before the coroner’s jury.

There was the mark of only one contusion—it was at the base of the

cranium, immediately behind and under the right ear. The bone was

fractured as though with some heavy weapon. It might have been

done with the club or knotted piece of wood found lying beside the

deceased—thought altogether likely that it was done by it. He did not

think that the deceased died immediately upon receiving the blow.

All this was terrible to Tom; so terrible that he grasped the railing

in front of him, until his finger nails were livid with the force of

the grip. But what must it have been to Patty? Tom looked at her, and

the expression of her face made him forget his own troubles. “Oh, God!”

muttered he to himself, “that I should have come home to bring all this

upon her!”

The next witness called was Mrs. Bond.

She testified that the prisoner had come by the _Union_ line, in stage

No. 3, the day before. He and Mr. Gaines had met, and had gone into the

parlor; they had talked there a long time, and at last the prisoner

had come out, and had gone up Market street in the direction of his

home. She had not known the prisoner until Mr. Gaines had told her.

She remembered to have remarked how changed he was, and that she would

never have known him with his long beard and his grey hair.

Mr. Morrow looked vexed. “Why hasn’t Mr. Gaines been called?” said he;

“how is it he hasn’t been called? Where is he now?”

“He’s out at Mr. Milton Granger’s,” said the constable.

The magistrate “pished” and “pshawed,” but at last he said that they

might as well go on with the examination of the other witnesses, and

that they could send for Mr. Gaines if his evidence should be found to

be necessary.

The next witness called was Edmund R. Moor. The Bible was passed to

him to swear upon, but he pushed it hurriedly away from him and said

that he would affirm, and not swear to the truth of his statement. Mr.

Morrow seemed somewhat surprised, but he said nothing, and took Mr.

Moor’s affirmation as he desired. He then testified that he had been

with Isaac Naylor the afternoon before, at about four o’clock. The

deceased had come to consult him upon a matter of business concerning

some money that he, the witness, had invested for the other. He had

left him, saying that he was going down to White’s store for his

letters. He had seen deceased about half an hour later, walking up

Market Street. He, the witness, had been feeling ill all day, and had

quitted his office to step around to the stable for his horse, thinking

a ride might be of benefit to him. He had seen deceased turn into

Penrose’s road, and remembered to have heard him say, a little while

before, that he was going to see Elihu Penrose’s daughter, whom he was

engaged to marry.

Tom looked at Patty as Mr. Moor said these words, and saw her hide her

face with her trembling hands. He groaned when he saw the agony that it

caused her.

The witness then went on to say that he had thought no more of it, but

was watering his horse at the shallow, when he saw the prisoner run out

of the road and turn up the turnpike, in the direction of Granger’s

farmhouse.

The magistrate asked Mr. Moor several questions, in answer to which

he said that he had not known the prisoner, because of the beard and

the whiteness of his hair; he did not think of its being Mr. Thomas

Granger. He also said that he had gone on up the turnpike after he had

watered his horse; that he had not thought of anything having happened

to Isaac Naylor, and that he did not hear any cry or call for help, to

make him think that anything had gone wrong.

Mr. Moor was so white that the magistrate asked him if he was ill.

“I do feel sick,” said he. “I haven’t felt well since yesterday

morning. Maybe it’s the closeness of the room that makes me feel sick

now.”

He wiped his face with his bandana handkerchief as he spoke, for it was

wet with the sweat that ran trickling down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry you feel so sick, Mr. Moor,” said the magistrate.

“If you have no more use for me, I’d like to go,” said Mr. Moor.

Mr. Morrow said that he might leave now, if he wished, so he worked his

way through the crowd in the office, looking neither to the right nor

to the left, and so went into the street.

The next witness called was Patty Penrose, and she stood up, resting

her hand on the top of her chair as she did so. There was not a

particle of color in her face as she stood before the magistrate. A

strand of hair had fallen across her brow, but she did not brush

it back, or seem to notice it. Tom’s heart bled for her as he stood

looking at her.

“Will you swear or affirm?” said the magistrate.

“I affirm,” she answered, in a low voice. Then she repeated after

him the words of affirmation: “I do most solemnly affirm—that what I

tell—is the truth—the whole truth—and nothing but the truth.”

“When did you see the prisoner last?”

“Yesterday.”

“At what time was it?”

“In the afternoon.”

“But what time was it—at what time in the afternoon was it that you saw

him?”

She did not answer immediately, and Tom, as he looked at her, saw that

she was swaying, as though she was about to fall.

“Perhaps the witness had better sit down while she gives her evidence,”

said Mr. Morrow.

Patty did not seem to understand him, and her father spoke to her in a

low voice. Then she sat down mechanically, as though she did not know

what she was doing.

“Take courage, Patty!” burst out Tom. “God knows I am innocent of this!

God knows I am!”

“The prisoner must be silent!” said the magistrate, rapping on the desk

before him with his knuckles. Then, speaking to Patty again: “At what

hour in the afternoon was it that you saw him?”

Patty looked up and her eyes met Tom’s. He tried to smile. “Speak out,

Patty, and tell everything,” said he.

“About five o’clock,” said she, faintly.

“What was said between you?” said the magistrate.

There was a pause of dead silence, every one listening to catch the

answer. At last the magistrate, after waiting a while for her to speak,

repeated:

“Can you tell me what was said between you?”

There was another pause, and still Patty made no answer. Suddenly she

burst forth: “Oh, I can’t!—I can’t!—I can’t!” She covered her face

with her hands as she spoke, rocking her body back and forth, while

convulsive sobs shook her through and through.

I think that few eyes were dry in the magistrate’s office. Tom stood

looking at his darling with trembling lips, the tears trickling

unnoticed down his cheeks. Old Elihu Penrose sat gazing stonily ahead

of him, his hands clasped tightly together upon his lap.

Nothing was said for some time, and Mr. Morrow sat wiping his

spectacles. After a while he spoke in a gentle and soothing manner:

“You must answer me—you must, indeed. It is sad, very sad. I wouldn’t

ask you these things if I didn’t have to. But you must answer me. Can’t

you tell me what was said between you when you saw him last?”

“I—I—I told-him—that I was to—to be married—to-day.”

There was a moment of hesitation before the magistrate asked the next

question. Then it came;

“Was there a promise of marriage between you and the prisoner before he

left Eastcaster a year and a half ago?”

Again there was no answer given to Mr. Morrow’s question, and, after a

little pause, the magistrate repeated it.

Still Patty said nothing; her face sank lower, lower, lower upon her

breast and her hands slid helplessly to her lap; then she swayed slowly

from one side to the other. Tom was looking intently at her, and

suddenly he gave a sharp and bitter cry:—

“Catch her; she’s falling! My God, you’ve killed her!”

As he spoke she sank forward, and would have fallen if her father had

not caught her in his arms and so saved her. Then he looked at Tom for

the first time since he had come into the magistrate’s office.

“If she’s killed, it’s thy doings, Thomas Granger,” said he, in a low,

constrained voice. He stood grimly holding her, but all around him was

confusion and tumult. Mr. Morrow pushed his chair back hastily and

arose and Dr. Winterapple ran to her.

“Let her lie on the floor!” he cried, “she’s fainted! Some water,

quick!”

Her father laid her down upon the floor and Dr. Winterapple, snatching

up a pitcher of water that sat upon the table, began sprinkling her

face and bathing her temples. Mrs. Bond kneeled beside her, chafing and

slapping her hands.

Elihu Penrose sat down in his chair again, staring at Patty with the

same expressionless look that he had worn all along. After a while her

bosom rose with a deep, convulsive sigh and she partially unclosed her

eyes, moving her head from side to side. They lifted her up and sat her

in a chair, and Mrs. Bond fanned her. Then Tom turned to the magistrate.

“Mr. Morrow,” said he, “for the love of heaven, don’t torture her any

more; I’ll tell everything!”

“Take care,” said Mr. Morrow, warningly; “I tell you plainly that

what you say will be taken in evidence against you. Your case is dark

enough—don’t make it any blacker.”

“I don’t care how black the case is against me! I’d rather have

anything happen to me than have you make that poor girl convict me out

of her own mouth! I’ve kept my lips shut too long already.”

“I have only to say, take care what you say!” said the magistrate again.

“I’ll take care! You asked her if there was any promise of marriage

between us before I sailed away on this last cruise. There was a

promise of marriage! I’ll tell you farther—”

“I’ll have to commit you from your own lips, if there’s more such

evidence to come.”

“I don’t care!” said Tom, in a ringing voice, “I’ll tell you that I was

half crazy after I left her, for I didn’t know that she was going to be

married till she told me herself. I met Isaac Naylor at the very place

where he was killed, and I did use violence to him; but I neither

struck him nor killed him.”

“That’ll do,” said Mr. Morrow, “I’ll have to commit you for trial. I’d

have had to commit you, anyhow, even if you hadn’t spoken a word, for

there was evidence enough for it. I’m sorry for you; very sorry.”

He dipped his pen in the ink as he spoke, and began writing.

Tom’s father laid his horny palm on Tom’s hand as he stood clutching

the railing in front of him. “Thee’s done right to speak, even if it

weighs against thee, Thomas,” said he. The tears arose in Tom’s eyes at

his father’s words. All the time he had been speaking, he was looking

at Patty. She was leaning back in her chair with her lips apart, and

her eyes just showing through the half-closed lids. He saw that she had

heard nothing of what he had said, and he was glad of it.

The magistrate reached across the railing, and handed the commitment to

the constable.

“Farewell, father,” said Tom, “thee believes that I’m innocent; don’t

thee?”

“Yes; I do,” said his father, in a husky voice. Then he gave way to his

feelings, as no one had ever seen him do before—he laid both hands on

his son’s shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Farewell, John; farewell, William,” said he, reaching out his hands to

his brothers.

“Farewell, Thomas,” said John, clapping him upon the shoulder, and

trying to speak cheerfully; “thee’ll come out all right; I know thee

will!”

“I hope so,” said Tom.

“You’ll have to come along, now,” said the constable. Then they went

out again through the curious crowd, Johnson pushing a way through the

people for himself and his prisoner. They stepped into the gig, and

drove away to the gaol.

CHAPTER XVIII.

TOM GRANGER had been in Eastcaster gaol about an hour, when Will Gaines

came to see him.

Since the click of the lock that shut him in his cell as a murderer had

sounded in his ears, a calmness and a peace almost akin to happiness

had fallen upon his spirit. This may sound strange, but there are

periods, in times of trouble and grief, when the soul is relaxed from

its tension of pain, and quietude comes for the time being. Tom’s brain

was as clear as crystal, and he reviewed his position with a keenness

that surprised himself He saw that the evidence was strong against

him—damningly strong. As he walked up and down his cell, thinking over

all that the witnesses had said—and he seemed to remember every word—he

felt as though he were shut in by a wall of evidence that he could

never hope to break through. But, though realizing all this, he had

none of that anxiety regarding it, that it would have seemed natural

for him to feel; it was almost as though these things concerned another

person.

So he walked up and down his cell, going over all that had passed

in the squire’s office. Of a sudden, a flaw in a certain part of the

evidence struck him; it was but a small thing, but it was sufficient

to arouse a new thought within him. Then he stood quite still in

the middle of the cell, looking down upon the floor, and sunk in

meditation, for his mind was busy in following up point after point

of this thought, as a hound follows up the scent of game that it has

freshly started.

How long he stood there I do not know, but he was aroused at last by

the opening of the door of his cell, and Will Gaines came in to him.

Will did not say a word; neither did he look at Tom, but he flung his

hat and cloak despondingly upon the table.

“Sit down, Will,” said Tom, “take that chair; I’ll sit here on the edge

of the cot.”

“Thank’ee,” said Will, “I will sit down, if you don’t mind. I’m kind of

tired and fagged out.”

“How did you leave mother and Susan?” said Tom, after a moment or two

of silence had passed.

“Oh, pretty well. Of course, your mother is very troubled at what has

occurred, but, on the whole, she bears it better than I could have

hoped for. She believes that you’re innocent.”

“She’s right.”

Will heaved a sigh. “I hope she is,” said he.

“Thank’ee,” said Tom, a little grimly, and then the talk lapsed between

them again.

“Tom,” said Will, breaking the silence, “your father has engaged me to

act as your attorney in this matter. The Lord knows, I wish I had more

experience. I haven’t always worked as hard as I might have done, and

now, when it has fallen to my lot to have to defend the brother of the

girl that I hope to marry from a charge of murder, it seems likely that

I’ll have to pay a bitter price for all the time that I have wasted.

However, I’ll go to Philadelphia to-morrow and see Mr. Fargio, and get

him to take up your case. I’ve come to talk over the matter with you,

Tom.”

“Wait a minute, Will. I have a question to ask you, first. Do you

believe me guilty?”

Will Gaines looked fixedly out of the window of the cell, but he did

not answer. Tom smiled a little sadly.

“I think I know how you feel about it, without the asking, Will,” said

he. “Now, do you think that I’d have a man defend me who didn’t believe

that I was innocent?”

“Of course; you’d have to have some one to defend you.”

“I don’t see that. If I really was guilty of this thing, it seems to

me that I ought to be punished as the law calls for. However, that is

neither here nor there, for I hope to make you believe in my innocence

before you quit this cell.”

“I wish to Heaven you could,” said Will, but his tone was rather gloomy

than hopeful.

“Well, I’ll have a try at it. In the first place, I’ll have to ask you

whether you think that I’m the kind of man that would murder another in

cold blood?”

“Of course I don’t believe that,” said Will.

“You don’t think that I’m capable of lying in wait for Isaac Naylor,

and deliberately killing him—not in heat of passion, but with a cool

hand?”

“Certainly not. You don’t think that I’d believe such a thing of you as

that, do you?”

“Then, if I had killed him, I would have been in a rage, and hardly

conscious of what I was doing?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I think that I can easily convince you that I didn’t do

it at all.”

“I wish you could,” said Will, again.

“Do you believe what I told you up home, about meeting Isaac Naylor,

and fighting with him?”

Will nodded his head.

“If I’d killed him at all, I would have killed him then, and in that

struggle, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. Now, Dr. Winterapple affirmed before the magistrate that

only one blow had been given, and that that blow was immediately behind

and under the right ear.”

Will was looking very earnestly at Tom. “I heard his evidence before

the coroner’s jury,” said he.

“Well, I’m right, ain’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Where are your wits, man? How could I strike him in the back part

of the head, and under the right ear, if I struck him while he was

fighting me off, as he must have been doing under the circumstances?

Look here; suppose you and I are facing one another, so—I have a club

in my hand to strike you with; I couldn’t possibly reach you to strike

you where Isaac received the blow that finished him. If I were to

strike you a blow in a moment of fury, it would be on the top or on

the left side of the head. It would be impossible to strike you on the

right side, without I were left handed.”

“Tom,” said Will, “I hadn’t thought of that—what a fool I have been.”

“Well, I suppose you didn’t think of it,” said Tom, “but I don’t see

that that makes a fool of you.”

“You’ve made a great point,” said Will; “I see now; of course you

couldn’t.”

“Wait a bit,” said Tom, “you’re going too fast, now. Any one, except

a friend, who wanted to believe in my innocence, would say that Isaac

might have broken away from me, and have run. If I’d struck him while

he was running away, I’d have given him just such a blow as killed him.”

“That’s true.”

“But, if he’d tried to run away from me, he’d have run in the beaten

track, and not in the grass and briars along the roadside. Now, he was

found lying in the grass just as he had fallen, and surely, it isn’t

likely that if I had struck him down in the middle of the road, I would

afterward have dragged him into the grass. My first instinct, after I

had done the deed, would be to run away, and leave him lying where he

was. He was sitting on the ‘big stone’ when he was struck, and he fell

forward just where Ephraim Whiteley found him.”

So Tom ended and stood looking at Will. Will said nothing at first, but

at last he spoke.

“Tom,” said he, drawing a deep breath, “I am more thankful to you than

I can tell; you have lifted a great load off my mind. I don’t think

that I ever fully believed that you were guilty of this thing, but, I

was afraid—I was afraid. The evidence was strong against you—you did

meet Isaac Naylor, according to your own confession, and you kept that

meeting secret from every one. You had just seen Patty, and had heard

all, and I know that you must have been half crazy with it. I believe

in your innocence now, but the circumstances were very strong against

you.”

“Yes; they were, Will,” said Tom; “you had good reason to suspect me;

nevertheless, I own freely, I felt kind of cut up when I saw what you

thought. Even this that I’ve just said to you, wouldn’t go for much,

only that you are ready and anxious to believe me. It wouldn’t weigh a

moment with a jury.”

“I’m not so sure of that.”

Tom made no answer to this last speech; he took a turn or two up and

down his cell, and then stopped suddenly in front of the other.

“You believe I’m innocent now, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Firmly?”

“Firmly.”

“And you won’t think that anything further that I may say to you’ll be

for the purpose of throwing the blame off my own shoulders and upon

those of another man?”

“No.”

“Then I believe I know who it was that did kill Isaac Naylor.”

“Who?” said Will, almost breathlessly.

Tom looked him in the eyes for a moment or two before he spoke.

“Edmund Moor,” said he, quietly.

For a time Will glared at him with wide-opened eyes and mouth. “Tom,”

said he, at last, in a low voice, “what makes you say such a thing as

that? What leads you to make so horrible an accusation against such a

man as Mr. Moor?”

“That horrible accusation was made against me.”

“But the circumstances were strong against you.”

“I think the circumstances are strong against him.”

“I don’t see it.”

Tom sat down on the edge of the table facing the other. “Look here,

Will;” said he, “suppose that a man bearing testimony against another

accused of murder should give evidence that was faulty in nearly every

point; wouldn’t your first thought be that he knew more of the real

story than he was inclined to tell, and that he was willing to let the

accused suffer for it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what Mr. Moor did; you didn’t hear his evidence before the

magistrate, but I did, and what’s more, I remember every word of it.

This is what he said: That he was riding out the turnpike for pleasure,

and that he saw Isaac Naylor turn into Penrose’s road; that he stopped

his horse to water it at the shallow beside the bridge; that he saw me

run out of the mill road and up the turnpike, and that he did not know

who I was; that he heard no sound of any kind to make him suspect that

something was going wrong; that he thought nothing more about Isaac

Naylor, but went along the turnpike without looking up the road where

Isaac had gone. Now, Will, is there nothing that strikes you as strange

in all that?”

“Well, no; I can’t see anything strange in it. It sounds

straightforward enough to me.”

“It sounds straightforward enough, Will, but it won’t bear looking

into. When a man invents a story, it may seem to be reasonable enough,

but, you may depend upon it, it’s not sound in all it’s parts, and must

give way somewheres. The first thing that struck me as strange in this

was a small matter enough, but it set me to thinking. Mr. Moor’s horse

was standing in the shallow beside the bridge when I ran out into the

turnpike. Now, in thinking the matter over, it occurred to me that, if

I was out riding for pleasure, and my horse was fresh from the stable,

I wouldn’t stop within three quarters of a mile from home to water it;

would you?”

Will was gazing fixedly into Tom’s eyes; he made no answer to the

question, but he shook his head.

“That, as I say, was the first thing that struck me; it was a little

thing, but it set me athinking, and I began to wonder why Mr. Moor

should have stopped his horse. The day wasn’t warm enough to make it

any pleasure to drive through a shallow; one wouldn’t think of doing

such a thing on a cool autumn day. So I began turning things over and

over in my mind and, after a while, the whole story went to pieces,

like a card house when you take away one of the cards. Now, I think I

can prove to you from Mr. Moor’s own evidence before the magistrate,

that he was within three hundred yards of Isaac Naylor and me during

the whole time that we were together, and that he saw all that passed

between us. Mr. Moor said that he saw Isaac Naylor turn into the mill

road. To do that, he must have been pretty well down the hill or he

couldn’t have seen him for the trees; he couldn’t have been over five

hundred yards away from him, could he?”

Will shook his head.

“Now, Isaac Naylor walked about two or three hundred yards down the

mill road before he met me, and there’s where he was found the next

morning—killed. While he walked that three hundred yards, Mr. Moor, on

horseback, could easily have covered the five hundred yards between the

spot from where he saw him to the place where the mill road opens into

the turnpike, so that he could have come up to the opening of the road

just about the time that Isaac Naylor met me. Now,” said Tom, patting

the edge of the table upon which he was sitting to give force to that

which he was saying, “is it reasonable that I could have talked to

Isaac Naylor, have fought with him and have killed him, and then have

run the three hundred yards to the turnpike while Mr. Moor sat on his

horse watering it at the shallow? Is it reasonable, say?”

“No,” said Will, “it’s not.” He seemed half dazed with that which Tom

was telling him, but Tom saw that he was following him, and that was

all that he wanted.

“Now, here’s another point. According to this, he was within three

hundred yards of the scene of the murder at the very time that the

murder was being done, and yet, by his evidence, he didn’t hear a

single sound. Now, Isaac Naylor called for help while I was fighting

with him—and called twice, and yet Mr. Moor, though it is clear that he

was so near to us, heard nothing of it.”

Will rose from his chair and began walking excitedly up and down the

room. Tom watched him for a while in silence. “Have I made my meaning

clear to you?” said he, at last.

“Clear? Yes—yes; of course you’ve made it clear.”

“I’ve more to say yet,” said Tom, “and when you’ll sit down and listen

coolly, I’ll go on.”

Then Will sat down in his chair again without a word.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Mr. Moor said that when he had done watering his horse, he rode

on up the turnpike. The horse wasn’t drinking when I saw it. I ran on

up the road, but I stopped before I got to the crest of the hill, for

my breath gave out. I walked the rest of the way, which was about half

a mile, to the homestead. Now, I take it, a man on horseback could have

passed me, even if I’d run all the way. But Mr. Moor didn’t pass me,

and there was no sign of him when I turned into the lane; so he did

not ride on up the pike as he said he did. Neither did he turn back

home, for no man would turn back from a pleasure ride after he had gone

only three quarters of a mile. Will, how many roads are there between

Stonybrook bridge and father’s house?”

“Only one.”

“And that is—”

“Penrose’s road.”

“Will,” said Tom, leaning forward, looking into the other’s eyes and

speaking very slowly, “when I left Edmund Moor he rode up Penrose’s

road.”

“Tom! Tom!” cried Will Gaines, springing to his feet, “this is

incredible!”

“Incredible! Doesn’t it sound reasonable?”

“Yes, yes; only too reasonable!” Then he began walking up and down.

Suddenly he stopped in front of Tom. “Who would have thought,” said he,

“that such a quiet, dull-seeming fellow as you, Tom Granger, would

have thought out all this for yourself!”

“I don’t see anything wonderful in my thinking the matter out,

considering that my own life and the happiness of all belonging to me

are concerned in my thinking. But, I haven’t done yet. According to my

certain knowledge, Mr. Moor did not ride up the turnpike; therefore he

must have turned up Penrose’s road, for there was no other. Now, if I’d

killed Isaac Naylor, he’d found him lying there, even if he’d heard no

sound to make him suspect anything. If he’d found Isaac Naylor alive

and left him alive, one word from him would have been enough to have

cleared me. He said no word, therefore he wished the blame to rest upon

me; he wished the blame to rest upon me, therefore he had something

that he wished to hide. Without he was concerned in the affair he would

want to hide nothing. If he _was_ concerned in it, he was concerned in

it alone, for there was no one but him near enough to hear Isaac call

for help; if there had been they would have come. Yesterday afternoon,

when I came to Eastcaster in the stage, I saw Mr. Moor and Isaac Naylor

looking out of Moor’s office window; if nothing had happened since, I

don’t know that I would have thought anything of it, but, in looking

back now, I tell you that there was something wrong between them;

there was a look about them—the way in which they were standing, the

expression of their faces, that makes me feel that I am right in what

I say. When I ran out into the road after leaving Isaac Naylor, Mr.

Moor’s face was as white as wax, now—” here Tom paused abruptly and

began walking restlessly up and down the cell. After a while he stopped

and stood in the middle of the room. He looked out of the window and

not at Will when he spoke again.

“Will,” said he, solemnly, “I don’t know what has come over me; I don’t

know whether it’s the state of mind that I’m in or not, but I can

see the way that Isaac Naylor was killed—at least, I think I can—as

clearly as though I had second sight. God forgive me if I’m wrong, but

this is how I see it in my mind’s eye. I don’t know why Mr. Moor was

riding along the turnpike just at that time, but I believe that it was

to see and speak to Isaac Naylor again. However that may be, he _was_

riding along the pike, and came to the end of the mill road where

it opens upon the highway. There he saw Isaac talking to me and he

stopped, either because what he wanted to say to Isaac was to be said

in private, or because he knew me and wanted to see what would come of

our talk. He saw me attack Isaac and heard him call for help, but he

didn’t come to him because he’d hoped I’d kill him. That was why he was

so white when I saw him a minute or two later. When he saw me leave

Isaac Naylor and run up the road, he backed his horse into the water

so as to make it seem as though he was just giving it a drink. I don’t

believe that he would have any settled plan for doing this; it would

be his instinct to do it. When he saw that Isaac was about to escape

after all, he rode up to where he was sitting on the rock. Maybe they

exchanged a few words; maybe he just picked up the stake and struck

him where he sat, half dazed. I guess his mind must have been all in a

toss and ferment at what he had seen me about to do, and the thought

flashed through him, why shouldn’t he finish what he had seen me begin?

I would be the one suspected, for all the circumstances would point to

me, and I had come within a hair’s breadth of doing the deed myself.

After he had struck Isaac and saw him lying in the grass, he realized

what he had done, then he turned and mounted his horse and rode away. I

think that this is so, because there was only one blow given, and Dr.

Winterapple said in his evidence that he didn’t believe that it killed

him right away; if Moor had coolly intended to kill Isaac, he would

have made sure of it. This is my notion of what happened; of course, I

may be mistaken in it.”

Tom turned as he ended, and looked at Will; the other was gazing

intently at him.

At last Will spoke: “I—I follow your thoughts, Tom. It all sounds

reasonable enough, but I must have time to think it over. I—I can’t

believe it, somehow.”

“I don’t wonder at that,” said Tom, “beside, it’s only my own notion of

it. Some one did kill Isaac Naylor, and it is clear that he was killed

soon after I left him, for he never got to Elihu Penrose’s house, and

he was found dead just where I left him. It only remains now to find

out who it was. In my opinion, the most likely one to have done it was

Mr. Moor. We must set about finding out several things, and that I

depend on your doing.”

“I’ll do all that I can,” said Will.

“Very well, then; we’ll throw aside all that I’ve said, as to my notion

of how it was done, and set to work, with the point given that Mr. Moor

might have been the one that did the murder. The first thing to find

out, is whether he had cause for the act. If there was no cause, of

course, everything falls to the ground. Who is Isaac Naylor’s lawyer?”

“White & Tenny, I think.”

“Then the first thing to find, is whether Mr. Moor was tangled in some

business trouble with Isaac; can you do that?”

“I don’t know; I’ll try.”

“The next thing to find out, is whether Mr. Moor really was sick

yesterday morning. If he was not sick, he didn’t take a ride for his

health, and must have taken it on business. If he had any business, it

concerned Isaac Naylor, for he followed Isaac, and went no where else,

according to my notion. The third thing to do, is to find what time he

got back home yesterday afternoon, and what he did after he came home.

Each one of these things hangs on the other.”

Will sat in silence for a long time. At last he stood up. “Tom,” said

he, and his tones were serious, almost solemn, “as I said before,

all this is reasonable, and is wonderfully thought out I won’t say

off-hand that I think Mr. Moor did kill Isaac Naylor, but I’ll say

this,—I think he _might_ have done it. I’ll see what I can find out

from White & Tenny—that I can manage myself. As to Mr. Moor’s private

movements, we’ll have to put some one on the track of them that’s used

to hunting up evidence. When I was studying law with Mr. Fargio, in

Philadelphia, he had a fellow named Daly, whom he employed in the case

of Smithers _vs._ Black. He’s a clever hand at ferreting out this kind

of evidence, and I’ll get him to run down here and see what he can

make out of this. The only trouble with him, is that he drinks, but I

guess I can contrive to keep him sober till we’ve found out all we want

to know. And now I’ll have to leave you, Tom, for I must set about my

part of the business. Though it’s hard for me to believe that Mr. Moor

was concerned in this—I’ll say this, I _don’t_ believe that you did

it; you’ve convinced me that far. I’ll say, too, that your reasoning

against Moor is very strong.”

“If you’ll wait a minute, Will, I’ll drop a line to Patty, and get you

to take it to her,” said Tom. “Of course, you’ll keep secret all that’s

been said between us. You may tell the home folks, but don’t let it go

any further.”

“Of course, I won’t.”

Then, while Will walked up and down the floor of the cell, Tom sat down

and wrote his letter to Patty. He represented his case very much as

he had done to Will Gaines, and spoke cheerfully and hopefully of his

position.

He did not tell her anything about Mr. Moor; he felt that it would be

better not to do so, for her father might chance to see the letter, and

it behooved them to keep the matter as quiet as possible.

Then he folded the letter and gave it to Will, who left the cell

without a word, but with a firm grip of the hand at parting.

CHAPTER XIX.

IT was not until the next day at noon that Will Gaines came to see Tom

again; in the meantime, Tom’s father and his brother John had visited

him. They had a long talk together, and, when they left, they seemed

hopeful, and even cheerful. Will Gaines had told them of the suspicion

that Tom held against Mr. Moor. Tom repeated to them what he had said

the day before, and it seemed to them to be almost unanswerable.

When Will came in about noon, Tom saw, at once, that he was very much

excited. He flung himself down in the chair, and mopped his forehead

with his handkerchief.

“What’s the matter, Will?” said he, after waiting for a while, and

seeing that there was no immediate prospect of his friend breaking the

silence.

“Tom,” burst out Will, “if everything that you’ve thought out in this

case is as true as that which I have just heard, I’ll acknowledge that

you are a most wonderful reasoner.”

“What have you learned?”

“I’ve just seen Sheriff Mathers.”

“Well?”

“Well, to begin at the beginning, I went down to White & Tenny’s office

yesterday, but didn’t find either of them in. Their clerk was there,

and said that they wouldn’t be back till some time to-day. I was just

going down to their office a little while ago, when I met Sheriff

Mathers in front of the _Crown and Angel_. He stopped me and began

asking me about your case; or rather about Isaac Naylor’s death. I was

just on the point of leaving him, when he dropped out that it was a

lucky thing for some one in this town, that Isaac died when he did. You

may guess how this caught my ear, for there was a deal of meaning in

the sheriff’s tone. I began inquiring about the matter, but he didn’t

give me very much satisfaction; he said that this concerned another

party entirely, and hadn’t anything to do with the murder.

“‘Oh! it’s about Edmund Moor, is it?’ said I, as easily as I could

speak.

“‘How did you know that?’ said he; ‘What do you know about the

business?’

“Well, to make a long story short, after talking to him a good while, I

found that Isaac Naylor had held a judgment against Moor (for how much

I don’t know), and was about to put the sheriff on him. The judgment

was to be lodged in the sheriff’s hands the very day that Isaac was

killed. What do you think of that, Tom?”

There was silence for some time; Tom’s heart was thumping against his

ribs so that he could hardly breathe. However, he spoke as quietly as

he could. “I fancied that there must be something of the kind,” said he.

Will eyed him for a moment or two, “You seem to take it monstrously

cool,” said he, at last.

Tom made no answer to this speech; after a while he asked Will when

he was going to send for the man Daly, of whom he had spoken the day

before.

“I have sent for him,” said Will. “I wrote a note to Mr. Fargio

yesterday, and urged haste in it. I shouldn’t be surprised if Daly

would be here in to-morrow’s stage.”

Daly did come in the stage the next afternoon. It was about five

o’clock when the turnkey brought a man to Tom’s cell whom he had never

seen before. “Mr. Gaines told me to bring you this letter,” said the

man, handing Tom a note as he spoke; then Tom knew that it was Daly.

“Can’t you leave us a little while?” said Tom to the turnkey.

Will’s note ran thus:

“DEAR TOM:

“This is Daly of whom I spoke to you the other day. I

thought better to introduce you to him thus than to come

with him myself. You had better tell him everything

concerning the case, just as you told me. I think you may

trust him.

“W. W. GAINES.”

Tom looked at Daly as he folded Will’s note. I cannot say that he took

very much fancy to the man. He was short, rather fat and bow-legged. He

had a large, heavy face, with a bluish growth of beard about the lips

and chin and cheeks. His head sat close upon his shoulders, and was

covered with a mat of close-cropped hair. He had a sly hang-dog look,

and anything but a pleasant expression. So Tom, sitting on the edge of

the table where he had been reading Will’s note, looked at Daly, and

Daly stood returning the look out of the corners of his eyes.

“So you’re John Daly, are you?” said Tom, at last.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Gaines says, in this note, that I may tell you everything.”

“Well, I think you’d better.”

“Sit down.”

“Thank’ee; got a spitpatoon here?”

“There’s one.”

After using the spittoon, the fellow pushed it over beside the chair

with his foot. Then he sat down comfortably. “Fire away,” said he.

“In the first place,” said Tom, “I’ll show you, as I did Mr. Gaines,

why, in my opinion, I couldn’t have killed this man.” Then he ran over

the evidence just as I have already done, showing, by the position of

the blow, that he could not have given it. Daly listened in silence,

every now and then nodding his head; but he did not speak a word until

Tom had ended. Then he looked up.

“Very true—very true, indeed,” said he. “It satisfies me an’ your other

friends; but it won’t go down with a jury, just now. Reckon you ha’n’t

seen the papers lately?”

“No.”

Daly nodded his head; “I guess your folks ha’ kept ’em from you,” he

said; “there’s nasty tales going about in ’em just now—tales about you

an’ your mate deserting a ship, an’ leaving the captain and the crew to

drown in her.”

“But,” said Tom, “I didn’t leave the ship with my own free will—I was

taken off by force.”

“That may all be very true; I don’t question your word at all—only this

is the report of the committee who examined you an’ your friend. You

ought to ha’ told ’em how you were taken off; you had the chance.”

“But I wasn’t going to tell ugly things against my mate, when he

wouldn’t tell of them himself.”

“That’s all very fine, but he ha’n’t in prison for murder.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with the matter, anyhow.”

“Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. When your case is before the jury, the

prosecuting attorney’ll tell ’em that any man who’ld run away from his

captain and his shipmates, and leave ’em to drown, wouldn’t hesitate

to strike a man from behind. Of course, it isn’t so, but the jury’ll

believe it all the same.”

Tom was silent; he saw the weight of what the man said, and his heart

sank within him. Daly sat, meditatively, chewing his tobacco. At last,

after expectorating copiously, he broke the silence.

“Never mind, sir,” said he; “I don’t believe that you killed that

feller; your argument’s good enough for me. I know too much about this

kind o’ thing to believe that you’re the sort of man to strike another

from behind. Mr. Gaines tells me that you’re on the track of the man

who did do it—let’s have your idee.”

Then Tom told of all the circumstances that led him to suspect Mr.

Moor, and once more Daly listened to him without a word. He sat with

his elbows on his knees; he had taken a dirty handkerchief out of his

hat, and was alternately crushing it together and unfolding it in his

hands. When Tom had ended, he looked up at him from under his brows.

“You’ve thought all that out in a mighty derned clever style,” said he.

“It’s all as true as gospil. I believe you’re right, and that this man

Moor did kill the other feller.”

“I couldn’t make Mr. Gaines believe it as you do,” said Tom.

“Of course, you couldn’t. Mr. Gaines knows this Moor, and always has

known him. It’s hard to believe that a man that you’ve seen under your

eye every day would do a thing like this. I don’t know anything about

him, and I can look at it reasonable like. I believe he did do it.

The next thing is to ketch him, and that ain’t goin’ to be so easy,

neither, for, without I’m much mistook, he’s as sharp as a steel trap.

Never mind, he’ll have to get up early in the morning if he’s going to

get ahead of ‘Fatty’ Daly, I can tell you.”

After this he took up his hat and quitted the gaol, and Tom was left

alone again.

Two or three days passed before there were any more developments. Will

kept Tom well posted as to the agent’s movements, but nothing of any

note happened.

The first thing that Daly did was to become acquainted with Mr. Moor’s

help, who, being rather old and not over-handsome, was glad for any

young man to come courting her—even such an one as Daly. However, the

agent was cautious, and nothing was found out for two or three days.

On the morning of the third day after Daly had come to Eastcaster, Will

came into Tom’s cell in a great state of hurry and excitement. Daly had

found something that he thought was of great moment.

“I want you to tell me your idea of the matter before I give you

Daly’s,” said he. “The fellow seems to have a great notion of your

ability and told me to find what your opinion was and see whether his

agreed with it.” Then he handed Tom a sheet or two of paper, covered

with a crooked, blotted scrawl. It was Daly’s report; it ran thus:

“Last evening went to Mr. Moor’s house to see his servant

girl Susan. Up to that time had not said anything about

murder, but then began to talk about it. Began by asking

how Mr. Moor was, and said that I was sorry to hear he was

sick. Girl said that he had not been well for three or four

days. She said that he was very sick the morning that he was

at squire’s office, and that he came home and laid down on

the sofa that morning and laid there almost all day. Asked

her if he had been sick the day before, and she said not

until evening when _he came home sick from a ride that he

took_. Began questioning her about this and got all from

her without her suspecting anything, I think. Said that he

came home after dark and went straight to his room. Heard

him walking up and down for some time. Supper was ready

before he came in. He came in at half-past six, for she

looked at clock when she heard him open front door. Came

down stairs in a half an hour, and she went out to tell

him that supper was ready. He spoke sharply to her, and

said that he did not want any supper. He turned at the door

and spoke more quietly. Said, on second thoughts, that she

might save supper for him. He had a carpet-bag in his hand

and a hat on at the time. He said that there were papers in

the carpet-bag, and that he was going to see a Mr. Henry

Sharpley on business. He came back in half an hour, with

mud on his shoes, which left tracks in the entry. He went

out just about seven o’clock, and came back at half-past

seven. Questioned servant girl closely as dared as to time.

Said that she noticed time, because she was keeping supper

waiting for Mr. Moor. When he came in, drank two cups of

coffee, but did not touch any supper.”

Such was Daly’s report. After Tom had read it, he folded it up, and sat

for a while thinking deeply. Presently he looked at Will. “Will,” said

he, “I believe I know what Daly thinks.”

“What?”

“That Mr. Moor had blood on his clothes, and went out to hide them.”

“That’s just what he does think, Tom.”

“And I believe that he’s right; Mr. Moor certainly had something to

hide, and it could have been nothing, without it was evidence. All

that Daly gathered from the servant girl goes to show that there was

something of the kind. I believe that Mr. Moor would have gone straight

home after he had done the deed, if he had dared to do so, and he

would have dared, without he had some signs of what he had done upon

him. What signs of the deed could he have had about him, if it was not

blood spattered on his clothes? Now, if we can find that he has hidden

any of his clothes in some out-of-the-way place, we’ll have a great

point gained, won’t we?”

“We will, indeed.”

“Has Daly any notion of where they were hidden?”

“No.”

“Have you?”

“Not I.”

“What’s Daly going to do about it?”

“His idea is to hunt in all the likely places near at hand on the

chance of finding them. He says that they can’t be far away, because

Mr. Moor was such a short time gone; only half an hour.”

“That’s very true, but, without he has something to guide him in his

search, it’ll be like hunting for a needle in a hay-stack.”

“Have you any notion about it, Tom?”

“Not yet,” said Tom; “let me think.” He buried his face in his hands,

and sat for a long time without moving. At last, he opened the note

that Daly had sent him, and looked at it again. Presently he spoke:

“Now, Will, let’s start from the time that he was supposed to have

struck the blow, and let’s trace him as well as we can. After he had

struck Isaac down, and saw that he had killed him, and also saw that

there were signs upon him what might point to his having done the deed,

he wouldn’t go out either into the turnpike or the mill road, for he

would be afraid of some one meeting him. He would go into the woods,

and would hide there until dark. He must have suffered horribly in

the woods at night, with the thought of what he had done fresh upon

his heart—of course, it would unfit him for any cool and collected

thinking, and therefore we have an advantage over him. At last he comes

home. Try to put yourself in his place, and conceive of the terrible

state of mind that he must have been in at the time. There would be

blood upon his clothes, and his first thought would be to get rid of

them as soon as possible. If he had been cool, he would have waited

until the next day, but he did not think of any such thing at the time.

‘Where shall I hide them?’ he would say to himself; ‘not at home, not

about the house, for who knows how soon they may be found?’ Then he

would go over a number of places in his mind. He would not be collected

enough to think of some out-of-the-way spot; he would think of some

place that he had seen before, and that would be remarkable enough for

him to remember it, even at such a moment. Now, let’s see what he did,

according to that which the servant girl told Daly. He doesn’t see the

servant girl when he first comes into the house, but, after he had

stuffed his clothes into a carpet-bag, and had come down stairs again,

he meets her face to face, and shows very plainly how much the sight of

her has disturbed him. He tells her sharply enough for her to remember

that he don’t want any supper. The next minute the thought comes to

him that she’ll think his actions very strange, so he turns around and

gives her an explanation of his movements, such as he would never think

of doing in an ordinary case. He tells her that he is going to _Henry

Sharpley’s_, on business. Without I’m mistaken, he made a blunder there

that will give help to us. So far we can follow him tolerably well.

Now, we have a gape of half an hour, and that gape we’ve got to fill

up.”

“That’s just it,” said Will.

“We’ll leave that now, and see what he did after he came home. The girl

was a very careful housekeeper, for she noticed that he had mud on his

shoes, and that he left tracks in the house. She wouldn’t have noticed

that without she had an eye to keeping things clean. He told her to

save supper for him, and yet he ate nothing. That, I think, is all that

we really know.”

“That’s all.”

“And now, to fill up the gape of half an hour—Have you had any rain

lately?”

“Well—let me see. No; there’s been none for over a week.”

“Well, that’s a great point gained, for the roads must be very dusty.”

“They are.”

“Then, how could Mr. Moor have mud on his shoes in going to Henry

Sharpley’s house and back again? His shoes might have been dusty, but

they couldn’t have been muddy. He must have been in some wet or marshy

place to get mud on him.”

“That’s so.”

“Well, that’s one point gained. Now, let’s see how much the servant

girl can be relied upon as to the length of time that he was gone. She

said that he left at seven o’clock and came back at half-past seven.

The time was impressed upon her mind because she was keeping supper

waiting for him. She was a careful housekeeper, as we’ve seen, so, no

doubt, she kept a watch on the clock while she was keeping the victuals

and dishes warm. I think we may take it for granted that she was pretty

nearly right as regards the time. He was gone half an hour, therefore

he was not more than a quarter of an hour’s walk from home—a mile,

let’s say. I think we may say that he went straight to the place where

he hid his clothes, and that he came straight home again after he had

hidden them; it would be the natural thing for him to do. So we may

feel tolerably sure that he didn’t go more, and not much less, than a

mile from home.”

Here Tom stopped, and sat for a long time buried in thought. Will did

not say anything, but waited for him to begin again. At last Tom broke

the silence.

“Now,” said he, “it would be a hard thing for us to follow Moor with

only the mud on his shoes as a clue to guide us, but to my thinking he

himself gave us a better hint than this, by one word too much that he

spoke. He told the help girl that he was going to see Henry Sharpley,

and this he told her on the spur of the moment, with hardly a second

thought. It isn’t likely that he would have mentioned Henry Sharpley’s

name without Henry was in his mind at the time. If this wasn’t so, why

should he mention that special name? Now, he was either going to see

Henry, as he said, or he was going in the direction where he knew Henry

was to be found.

“He did not go to see Henry, because it would have taken more than

half an hour to talk over business concerning a whole carpet-bag full

of papers, so I think we may take it for granted that he went in the

direction of Henry Sharpley’s house. Now, if we can find that his

actions fit perfectly with this idea, we can feel pretty certain that

we are right. Let’s try to think how we would do if we were in Mr.

Moor’s place. Let’s say that I’m going to hide these clothes. I have

thought of a place not very far distant. That place is out of town, but

not far. I quit the town just beyond Henry Sharpley’s house. I say to

myself, if I can slip out quietly and hide these things, I’ll be back

in a little while, and I’ll just mention that I went out on a little

matter of business. I go down stairs with this on my mind, and come

suddenly face to face with the help. She catches me in the act of going

out of the house with the carpet-bag in my hand. What will she think of

it? She says something about supper—a little thing to speak of in my

present state of mind. Without thinking, I speak sharply to her. The

next minute it strikes me that her suspicions will be increased by the

strangeness of my speech and actions. I am anxious to set myself right

with her, and, not knowing of anything better to say at the moment,

I tell her what I had already planned to do—that I was going out on

business. In the flurry of the moment I say one word too much. I am

going in the direction of Henry Sharpley’s house; my mind is full of

where I am going; so, without a second thought, I tell her that I am

going to see _Henry Sharpley_ on business. Then it flashes across me

that the girl will wonder what I am doing with my carpet-bag at that

time of the night. I can think of no other explanation to give than

that it is full of papers. Does all that sound reasonable?”

Will drew a deep breath. “Reasonable?” said he; “of course it sounds

reasonable.”

“Of course, I may be all at sea in what I fancy. At the same I _may_

be right, and it’s worth having a try for. Now, we’ll take for granted

that Mr. Moor did go down Beaver street toward Sharpley’s house. Of

course, he wouldn’t go out aimlessly into the night; he had some place

already fixed in his mind where to hide his clothes, and he went

straight to that place with as few steps aside as possible. Now, it

would seem at first as though he had thought of some place to hide his

clothes near Sharpley’s house or the blacksmith shop opposite; but two

reasons stand in the way of this. In the first place, his mind would be

in too much confusion to think deliberately of any cunning plan. If he

had waited until the next day, it might have been different. I think he

had a place fixed in his mind when he came home; he certainly doesn’t

seem to have spent much time in laying plans. In the second place, he

was gone half an hour. It wouldn’t have taken him five minutes to walk

to Sharpley’s and back, and I don’t believe he would tarry anywhere in

the dark after he had hidden his clothes. Beside all this, he told the

servant girl that he would _be back inside of an hour_. He told her

this at the moment of meeting her, and it isn’t likely that he would

have said it if he hadn’t a longish distance in his mind at the time.

He would have to walk along the street while he was in town, for he

wouldn’t go cutting across people’s gardens and climbing fences. So he

wouldn’t leave the sidewalk till he had come to Sharpley’s house or

the blacksmith shop, which are the last houses before you come to open

lots. As soon as he was out of town, he would strike a straight line

for the place that he had in his mind—and now, let’s see how far he

went.

“We’ll say it took him three minutes to walk to Sharpley’s house; that

leaves twelve minutes of the quarter of an hour. Say it took him four

minutes to hide his clothes when he had come to the spot that he had in

his mind. The half of four is two; that leaves ten minutes for him to

walk after he had left the town. If he’d kept to the road he might have

walked three quarters of a mile in that time; but he didn’t do that,

for he got his shoes muddy somewhere. Beside, it isn’t likely that he

would walk along the highroad at night with a carpet bag in his hand.

It’ld look mighty strange to any one who’d meet him. If he had to walk

across lots and climb fences, he couldn’t have covered over half a mile

in ten minutes; nor is it likely he would walk less than a quarter of a

mile. Now, imagine a pair of big compasses. Open them till they measure

a half a mile from point to point; put one point of them on the road

between the blacksmith shop and Sharpley’s house and draw a circle. Now

draw another circle of a quarter of a mile from point to point. You now

have a belt a quarter of a mile wide running in a circle a quarter of a

mile distant from the blacksmith shop. If I’ve argued the matter right,

you’ll find his clothes hidden somewhere in that belt.”

Will heaved a deep sigh. “Tom,” said he, “you ought to be the lawyer,

and I the accused. You’d make a better fist out of my case than I’ll

ever be able to do out of yours. I’ll put Daly on the track right away,

and see what he makes of it.”

“Hold hard, Will,” said Tom; “as we’ve gone this far, we might as well

see whether we can’t go a little farther. Let’s see in what kind of a

place Mr. Moor would be likely to hide those clothes. He’d think of

only very simple plans in his state of mind, I take it. He might bury

them, or burn them, or sink them in the water somewhere. He didn’t

bury them, for he took no tools with him, and he couldn’t very well

have done it without. Woolen clothes, such as a man wears at this

time of the year, don’t burn very easily, and he’d have to go a long

distance before he dared build a fire, and, beside, he hadn’t time to

do it in the half of an hour that he was gone. Of the three the most

likely thing for him to do would be to throw his clothes in the water.

Another point is that his shoes were muddy, and so he must have been

where it was wet. We have seen that the place he hid his clothes was

about a half a mile out of town, and that it was a place such as would

occur to him at this time.” Tom stopped abruptly, and rose to his feet.

“Will,” cried he, “can’t you guess where he sunk his clothes?”

“Tom—you—you mean the old quarry, don’t you?”

Tom nodded his head. Will sat looking at him for a time, without

speaking.

“Will,” said Tom, presently, “that place was in my mind almost from the

very first. I wasn’t arguing to find it, but to prove to myself that I

was right. Now, the whole thing amounts to this—if we drag the quarry,

and find the clothes there, I’ve made a good guess.”

“You have, indeed—a good enough guess to get your neck out of the

halter. I’ll say nothing more; only this—I didn’t think that you had so

much in you!”

CHAPTER XX.

AND now I find the story of Tom Granger’s adventures drawing rapidly

to a close. I have sometimes wondered whether all happenings, such as

are usually allotted to a man’s life, were not crowded into this one

year and a half, for since that time it has been even and uneventful,

excepting as to such small things as occur in our quiet Quaker

neighborhood.

But, these adventures were not to close without one more thing

happening that made a stir; not only in Eastcaster, but throughout the

whole country. No doubt, if you were to pick up a newspaper of the fall

and winter of that year, no matter where that paper was printed, you

would see some mention made of all these things.

However, I have nothing to do with that; I have only to tell my own

story, or the balance of it as quickly as possible, for it has grown to

a huge length beneath my hands as I have worked upon it, so much, so

that I fear few will have patience to read it through to the end.

I think that it was about noon of the next day that a note was brought

to Tom. It was in Will’s handwriting, and was only of one line. This

is what it said:

“Dragged the quarry this morning. Clothes found.

“W. W. G.”

Heretofore, Tom had been surprised at his own endurance. I think that

he was braced more tensely than he had any idea of, and that now came

the reaction that is sure to follow overtaxing of the powers. After

he had read the note, and had seen how truly his surmises had been

fulfilled, he grew weak and nervous. Every now and then a spell of

trembling would pass over him, and at last he flung himself down upon

the cot, and buried his face in the pillow. “I’d better have died! I’d

better have died!” he kept repeating to himself; for, it seemed to him,

as though his coming to Eastcaster had brought misery upon every one

with whom he had to do. But for him Isaac would have been alive at this

time, and Mr. Moor would never have had the burthen of such a great

crime upon his soul. At last he fell into a nervous sleep, though, in

truth, he scarcely knew whether it was sleep or not, for he seemed to

be conscious of everything that was around him. Between twelve and one

o’clock his course prison fare was brought in to him. He heard the

turnkey open the door, lay the platter of victuals on the table, and

then go out again, but he heard it as though it were all a part of the

troubled dreams that were upon him. Through his half sleep he heard the

court-house bell strike one, and two, and three and four o’clock, and

still he lay there. Suddenly there were footsteps in the corridor, a

rattle of the key in the lock, and then some one burst into the room.

Tom roused himself and sat up—it was Will Gaines. Tom began to tremble,

for there was a very strange look in Will’s face. He flung himself down

on the chair, and wiped his brow, which was wet with sweat.

“Tom,” said he, at last, in a low, solemn voice, “what do you think’s

happened?”

Tom sprang to his feet, and held out both hands, as though to defend

himself. “Oh, Will, Will!” cried he, hoarsely; “don’t tell me any more!

I can’t bear any more!”

“But you must hear this,” said Will.

Tom sat down upon his cot again. “Well,” said he, at last, in a dull

voice; “tell me, if you must.”

“Edmund Moor has committed suicide.”

Tom looked fixedly at Will, and it seemed as though he was a long

distance away. The room appeared to lengthen out on all sides of him.

Then there was a sound of rushing and roaring in his ears, and a dark

cloud seemed to rise and shut in everything from his sight. He heard

Will’s voice calling to him, as though from afar—“Tom, Tom, are you

sick?”

He tried to shape the words, but it seemed as though his lips had no

power to move. He felt Will’s arms around him; there was a humming in

his ears, and a tingling at his finger tips, and then the dark cloud

passed away, and he saw everything.

“I’m better now,” said he, and then he sat up. Will was standing in

front of him, holding a tumbler of water. He reached out and took the

glass, and drained it at a swallow, and it seemed to bring fresh life

to him.

“I guess I’d better not tell you any more,” said Will.

“No, I’ll hear all now,” said Tom; “the worst’s over.” Then, after a

pause, “When did it happen?”

“About a couple of hours ago.”

“Did he—did he—” Tom stopped and looked at Will.

“He left a confession,” said Will.

“Tell me all about it,” said Tom.

“Well, by noon I had got together all the evidence I had at hand, and

about one o’clock I went up to swear out a warrant for Moor’s arrest,

at the squire’s. The squire wasn’t in, and I waited about half an

hour. Then I slipped down to the office, to see what had become of

Daly. He had promised to come up to the squire’s and meet me at one

o’clock, and here it was half-past one, and no signs of him. He had

left me at half-past twelve, saying that he was going to get dinner,

and that he would come over as soon as he had done. I was afraid that

something was wrong, for I had a notion that he had been drinking this

morning. However, I thought it just possible that he might be at the

office. But there was no signs of him, so I went out again and stood

on the sidewalk, looking for him up and down the street. Who should

come along, but Mr. Moor. He stopped, and began talking to me, and I

couldn’t help thinking that he suspected something, though, of course,

he didn’t. I can’t tell you how I felt, Tom, to have that fellow

talking to me about little trivial things, joking all the time, as he

was given to doing. I don’t know how I answered, but I guess that it

was all at random. Just then I saw Daly come out of the _Crown and

Angel_, across the street. He staggered as he came down the steps,

and stood on the sidewalk, looking all around him. I saw that he was

as drunk as a lord, and was afraid that nothing could be done at the

squire’s that day. As luck would have it, he caught sight of Mr. Moor

talking to me, and he came right across the street to where we were,

staggering like a brute. As soon as he came to us he caught hold of

Mr. Moor’s hand and began shaking it. Mr. Moor tried to pass it off

as a joke, for he saw how drunk the fellow was. But I was on pins and

needles all the time, I can tell you.

“‘What do you mean, sir?’ said I; ‘go into the office.’

“‘You be d—d!’ was all that the fellow said to me. Then he turned to

Moor. ‘Mr. Moor,’ says he, ‘you’re a good feller—a good feller! I’m d—d

sorry for what you did, for you’re a good feller. I know all about it

(here he winked), but, between you and me, I don’t care a d—n.’

“There wasn’t a shade of color in Moor’s face. ‘What do you mean, you

scoundrel?’ said he.

“Daly straightened himself up with all the dignity that he could

manage. ‘Scoundrel, eh?’ said he. ‘Oh! all right! I’m a scoundrel, am

I? We’ll fix you for that; won’t we, Mr. Gaines? I reckon you thought

no one’ld find them old clo’s o’ yourn, didn’t you?’

“I never saw such a look come over any man’s face in all my life,

as came over Moor’s. He went staggering back, as though he had been

shot. I turned on the scoundrel, hardly knowing what I did, I was in

such a towering rage. I left fly at him, and knocked him nearly into

the middle of the street. He jumped up and ran at me, swearing like a

soldier, and as soon as he had come within distance, I left fly another

blow, and down he went again, for he was too drunk to guard himself. By

this time a crowd had gathered, running from all directions. Some of

them caught hold of Daly and held him, and he stood there cursing and

swearing as I never heard a man curse and swear before. When I had time

to look around again, I saw that Moor had gone. I asked Jerry White,

who was standing near,—if he had seen him, and he said yes; that he

had caught sight of him running down Market street, as though he was

going home. By this time there was a crowd around me, all wanting to

know what was the matter, and I told them in as few words as I could. A

lot of them ran down to Beaver street, which suited me very well, for

they would keep Moor in sight if he were to try to get away. Daly was

washing the blood from his face in the trough before the _Crown and

Angel_, and what with the licking and the pump water, he was pretty

sober by this time. He was very sorry at what had happened, and didn’t

seem to bear me any grudge. I waited till he had made himself as

decent looking as he could, and then went up to the squire’s with him,

though he had a bad eye where I had struck him. We found the squire,

and he gave me the warrant against Moor. I had a hard time to find the

sheriff, but I got him at last. This was about two o’clock.

“He and I went down to Beaver street together. There was a great crowd

around Moor’s house by this time, and the house itself was shut up as

though no one was in it. The sheriff tried the office door, but found

it locked. Then he went to the house door, and knocked a long while

before he could get any answer, but at last the servant girl came. She

seemed very much frightened at all the crowd and excitement, but she

told us that Mr. Moor had come in about half an hour before, and had

not gone out again. The sheriff told her that he had a warrant for Mr.

Moor’s arrest, and asked her to show him into the office. The servant

led us across the parlor to the door that opens into the office from

the house.

“The sheriff knocked at the door, calling; ‘Mr. Moor! Mr. Moor! You

might as well let us in! If you don’t let us in, I’ll have to force the

door!’ But no one answered him. By that time the parlor was pretty full

of men, who had followed us in from the street. Sheriff Mathers shook

at the door, and knocked for some time, calling to Moor to open it,

but getting no answer. After a while, he peeped through the key hole.

I asked him whether he could see anything of Moor; he said yes—he was

standing in the corner. Then I advised him to force the door, and he

did so, putting his shoulder to it. He had to push pretty hard, so that

when the door broke open, he ran into the room, nearly falling down.

He gave a cry and ran out against Johnny Black, who was just going

in. I didn’t go into the room, but I could see over Black’s shoulder

that Moor was hanging from a rope that was tied to a large hook in

the corner of the room. He left a few lines lying on his office desk,

confessing that it was he who murdered Isaac Naylor, and that he was

tired of the misery of living. I can’t remember them exactly, but they

were read before the coroner’s jury.

“As soon as I saw how matters had turned out, I hunted up Judge West.

He went down with me to the squire’s, without losing a moment, for he

said that no innocent man should be kept in gaol longer than need be.

It took about an hour to get the needful witnesses together. As soon as

the matter was settled the judge gave the release, and—”

Here Will stopped abruptly. He stood listening, and presently Tom heard

a scuffling of feet out in the corridor. The door was opened, and his

father and his brothers, John and William, came into the cell.

“Are you ready now?” said Will.

“Yes,” said Tom’s father; “I borrowed Philip Winterapple’s gig. It’s

waiting at the door.”

“Are you ready to go, Tom?”

“Ready to go where?” said Tom, looking about him in a dazed way.

“Ready to go home.”

In this simple manner, and with these few words was his bitter trouble

brought to a close.

Well, that is all the yarn concerning Tom Granger that need be told.

The troubles that had followed him in the year and a half past had been

bitter indeed, but they had all gone by now. I am not going to tell you

how he married, and how he lived happily, and all that sort of matter.

Surely, such a home as I see around me, and such a crowd of loving

faces as gather about me at times, children, grand-children, and three

great-grand-children, bespeak a life not all unhappy of its kind.

Even yet, beside me is that one whose face, always sweet, now shines

with a light that comes not of this life, but of the life beyond. I do

thank the Giver of all good things that He has permitted us to walk the

path of life hand-in-hand together for this long time. A day or two

now, and one of us may go—I care not which it be, for the other will

not be long in tarrying.

What matters then all these troubles of which I have been telling you!

Such troubles, bitter and keen at the time, are but as a breath on the

glass of life, that fade away, and are gone long before that glass

itself is shivered.

So, as I say, these sorrows and griefs that were once so bitter to me,

stir me not at this day, saving now and then, while, as I sat writing

these lines, a chord of memory did ring occasionally to the touch. Yes;

all is gone by—happiness and grief, joy and suffering, and I am like a

ship, one time battered and buffeted with the bitter storms of trouble

and despair, but now, full freighted with my cargo of years, safe at

anchor in my peaceful haven _Within the Capes_.

THE END.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation was retained

including Stony-Brook and Stonybrook.

Page 91, “your” changed to “you’re” (you’re not to lord)

Page 106, “Bale” changed to “Bail” (Bail her out smartly)

Page 235, “be” changed to “he” (he backed his horse)

Page 267, “Gra e” changed to “Grace” (His Grace of Osmonde)