CHAPTER XXXIV.

"Nor peace nor ease, the heart can know, That, like the needle true, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But, turning, trembles too."

GREVILLE.

"Things seem to be taking a new turn," said the captain, meditatively, over his coffee the next morning. "I own I thought we were at the bottom of the mystery, yesterday, but this woman's testimony seems to set us all adrift again, and we're no nearer a conclusion than we were a week ago."

"What woman's?" asked Ellerton, who had just come in.

"The man's wife," said the captain.

"What man's?" demanded Ella, who generally arrived at a subject about ten minutes after it had been introduced.

"Why the man who was supposed to have murdered the doctor, Miss Ella, and whose body was found in the lake. We were all mightily relieved yesterday, and thought the murderer had found his reward, and were only sorry that he'd cheated the hangman. But in the meantime his wife turns up, and brings a lot of things to light; swears that on the night of the murder he was at Brandon, on an errand for the doctor, and brings the landlord and barkeeper of the 'Brandon Shades' to testify to his remaining there till after eleven o'clock. She also states that the doctor and her husband were on good terms, and that the doctor often employed him in a confidential way; that there was a person who, she knew, bore malice against the doctor; she had overheard a conversation between her husband and Dr. Hugh, in which"----

"But her testimony goes for nothing," I interrupted, eagerly. "She is well known to be half crazy, and hardly ever sober. Her testimony can't be worth a straw--nobody would listen to her for a moment."

"I don't know about that; her story hangs together, she's sober enough now, and will be kept so till they have done with her. She says that the doctor came to their shanty late the night before the murder, and called John out; she crept to the keyhole and listened. She lost a good deal of what they said for a little while, they talked so low; then John raised his voice, and said with an oath, he'd take down the villain's pride for him a bit; he wondered the doctor had stood his cursed ugliness so long; for his part, he'd put a bullet through him to-morrow, with pleasure. The doctor hushed him, and said, 'Not so fast, John, not so fast, wait awhile; we must get a little more out of him before we send him to his long account. We'll settle up old scores with pleasure, after we've no further use for him. Attend to this little errand for me to-morrow, and don't let him slip, and that'll be the first step toward a reckoning.'"

"Well, but I cannot see," said Mr. Rutledge, "what it all amounts to, even if the woman's testimony is received, which is more than doubtful. She didn't hear any names. Nobody has any doubt but that the doctor had plenty of enemies, and that her man John was a scoundrel, and I cannot see what else her evidence goes to prove."

"It goes to prove that there was _somebody_ with whom the doctor was not on good terms, who has not appeared on the stage as yet, and of whom we want to get hold. It goes to prove, my dear sir, that the man John was sent to Brandon on a matter in some way connected with this person; and, to my mind, when we shall have, found out who that person was, we shall have found out who was the murderer of Dr. Hugh!"

"But," said Phil, "what do the barkeeper and landlord of 'The Shades' say? Don't they know who he came to meet, and for whom he waited till eleven?"

"John, it seems, 'kept dark,' lounged around the bar-room, and spoke little to any one, as was his manner, but went often to the door, and seemed to wait for some one. The barkeeper thinks, but is not sure, that it was he who was there once before during the morning, with a letter which he left, directed to a gentleman whose name he has forgotten, who never called for it."

"Ah!" cried Phil, "now we shall get at it, I think. What became of the letter?"

"The letter," interrupted Mr. Rutledge, "the letter that was left there that morning"----

I crushed the newspaper that lay beside me with my nervous hand; I smothered the cry that trembled on my lips, but my eyes burned on his face. He avoided them and went on.

"The letter which was left there by some one, who, it is conjectured, only _conjectured_, may have been this man, was addressed to some person not at all known in Brandon, and who never came for it. It was opened and examined, and proved to be only the business circular of some importing house in New York. So all idea of tracing anything from that was given up, and the letter thrown aside."

"Strange," said Phil, thoughtfully. "I should have thought something could have been made out of it. In a small place like Brandon, where everybody knows everybody, I should have thought that the circumstance of a strange name on a letter left at a little tavern would have excited some interest."

"Brandon is a railway station, you know, and consequently there are strangers always coming and going."

"Do you remember the name on the letter, sir?"

"Some foreign name, I think. Captain McGuffy, do you remember it?" said Mr. Rutledge, indifferently.

"I don't think I heard it," returned the captain. "And I really have the curiosity to want to know something more about that letter, though all the legal gentlemen, I know, have decided against its usefulness in the case. I must remember to ask Judge Talbot to let me look at it," he continued, taking out his memorandum-book and making an entry. "Phil, don't you feel like taking a drive over to Brandon with me, this morning, and seeing if there's anything new to be learned?"

"Captain McGuffy," I exclaimed, "don't you want to do me a favor? I am perfectly wild to have a ride on horseback this morning, and you know you promised to give me some lessons in 'cavalry practice' before we left, and there is only one day more. What do you say to a canter over to Windy Hill this fine morning?"

The captain fell in with the proposition very readily, and Mr. Rutledge suggested that it would be a very good arrangement for all of the party to accompany us, in the carriage and open wagon, and to make our farewell call, also, to the Emersons.

"To-morrow may not be fine," said Mr. Rutledge, "and perhaps we had better secure to-day."

The rest were agreed, and we hurried off to dress; as the two places were far distant from each other and from Rutledge, it was necessary to start as soon as possible. In my dread lest Phil should decline being of the party, and should ride over to Brandon by himself, I called out to him to know if he would not accept an appointment in my regiment? He laughed, and accepted; and unheeding the flaming battery of Josephine's eyes, I ran up to put on my habit. There was another lady's horse in the stable, besides the one I should use, but Josephine and Ella, though dying to ride, would neither of them volunteer to accompany me.

"You are too nervous to ride, Miss," said Kitty, as she buttoned my gloves. "See how your hand shakes. Why will you go? You are not fit."

"I must; there is no help. Tell him why I go, Kitty, and that I will be back as soon as I can, and you must manage to let me see him in the course of the afternoon. And be sure you make him understand about my going."

Glorious Madge! I had never expected to mount her again. I had never expected to burden her with such a heavy heart. What a contrast to the daring young rider of a few short months ago. Madge Wildfire was as eager and untamed as then, but not so her mistress. Her mistress, the fire quenched in her eye, the pride of her free step humbled, the courage of her spirit broken, trembled at the very beauty of the animal she rode.

"You are not fit for this," said Mr. Rutledge, in a low tone, as he put me in the saddle. "You had better give it up. It is not too late; let one of the others take your place."

"No, thank you. I shall be better for the ride."

"Captain McGuffy, you must remember your pupil is rather inexperienced," he said, uneasily, as the captain mounted and rode up beside me. "Madge has not been used for some time, and she is feeling very fine."

"No danger," said the captain, as, followed by Phil, we trotted rapidly down the avenue. There must have been a touch of human intelligence and sympathy in Madge; she was burning to be off on a mad race across the country; she was fairly throbbing with impatience; my weak grasp upon her bridle she could have thrown off with one toss of her arched neck; but, quivering with life and fire as she was, she restrained her pace to suit my fears, and minded my slightest touch, with more than human gentleness. By degrees, I came to realize this, and reassured and emboldened, I sat more firmly and rode less timidly. The cool air of the morning braced and strengthened my nerves; I could hardly have believed that I could have felt so differently in so short a time, and every foot of ground we put between us and Rutledge, seemed to distance just so far my anxiety and wretchedness. My companions amused themselves, and thought they were amusing me, by reminiscences of military adventures, frontier experiences, and camp life; which served to keep them occupied, and give me time to rest and recover myself. When we rode into the lodge gate at Windy Hill, I was indeed so much better for my ride, that even Phil noticed the change in my expression.

"You ought to have ridden every day while we have been here. You must ride to-morrow by all means."

We were the first of the party to arrive, and had been seated in the parlor some minutes, enjoying the prattle of the Misses Mason, before the others drove up. All were made hugely welcome. One is surest of appreciation, socially, in a visit to a lonely country place, where visitors are at a premium, and where there are pining young daughters, and unemployed young sons, and a hospitable head of the family, to swell the note of welcome. All these elements of hospitality we found at Windy Hill; never were guests more welcome, and the only doubt seemed to be, whether we should ever be allowed to go. Lunch did not suffice, we must stay to dinner. Mason _père_ said it should be so, and Mason _fils_ ordered the carriage away, and the horses taken out. Mrs. Churchill pleaded our toilets, but was overruled. Mr. Rutledge advanced the necessity for our visit at Beech Grove as an obstacle. That should be no objection. After dinner the young people should join us, and we could all go together. There being really no reason why we should not accept this hospitality, it was at last decided we should remain. The morning slipped away very fast; there was a great deal to be seen about the place; fine views and pretty walks on every hand, outside, and a library and picture-gallery full of interest within. New merchandisable interest, that is. The Masons had just returned from Europe, and had brought with them whatever had been procurable for money, unbacked by taste or judgment. The result was, a good many pictures in rather questionable taste, but framed and hung unexceptionably; a great deal of so-so statuary, engravings bought by the portfolio, and "gems of art," bearing about the same relation to high art, that the contents of some jeweller's show-case, in Chatham street, bears to the Koh-i-noor. My particular friend, the younger Mr. Mason, attended me through the library and picture-gallery; and though the names of the pictures and the prices of the books seemed to be the items that he was most familiar with, I could not but admire the grasp of mind that could master and retain such dry statistics. By the time that dinner was announced, I felt that we had earned it, so much listening, looking, admiring had we done.

Dinner at the Masons' was never a brief meal; the master of the house had known too much of short commons in his boyhood, and eighteen-penny lunches at second-rate eating-houses during his clerkship, not to place a full value upon the luxuries of the table; and on the present occasion nothing was wanting to make it an elaborate and elegant repast, honorable to guests and entertainers. It was five o'clock before we left the table, and fully six before we were in the saddle. The ride to Beech Grove occupied another hour; a mere call, of course, was impossible. We were quite as cordially, though rather less enthusiastically, welcomed by Mr. Emerson and his black-eyed daughter; the horses were again sent away, and we were told to consider ourselves prisoners for the evening. Not a very dreary and insupportable prison, certainly, we were condemned to. Beech Grove was a lovely spot; the house, about one-third the size of the one we had just left, was a gem in point of architectural beauty and tasteful decoration. Cultivation and refinement spoke at every turn--choice pictures, rare books, exquisite bronzes, were the natural and unobtrusive furniture of the rooms; one was not called upon to admire by anything more demonstrative than quiet enjoyment and ease. It was the atmosphere of the place that one was to revel in; and no obligation existed to analyze its component parts.

The realization of the speedy termination of our pleasant intercourse, at least for the present, gave a very natural charm to the evening, and made it a very prolonged and happy one. At least, to those of us who had not forgotten how to be happy; for me, I could hardly remember when I had not been wretched, so agonizingly long and miserable had the past fortnight been, and so strongly had it marked itself on my memory. I looked with a kind of wonder at the light-heartedness of my companions. Was it possible I had ever found anything to laugh at in such things as called forth their merriment, or anything to stir my anger in their puerile slights and taunts? Grace was vexed by my indifference, and tried, with no contemptible ingenuity, to irritate me; and Josephine and Ella too, resented my determined appropriation of their beaux. I was too listless though, at last they found, to make it pay to tease me; so, by degrees, they dropped off and left me. Even Mr. Mason, it was evident, was beginning to think that he had overrated my spirit, and the captain, that my overtures of the morning did not mean quite so much, after all, as he had flattered himself. Miss Emerson, who was a nice, bright girl, not in the least afraid of herself or of any one else, and with whom one felt intimate after half an hour's acquaintance, ran up to me and asked me _sotto voce_, if it didn't bore me to death to have that man talk to me; she was sure I looked tired, and she meant to relieve me; so, with some clever excuse, in a few minutes she hurried me off to the library, made me lie on the sofa while she sat beside me, and chatted with me in her peculiarly piquant and amusing manner. It was very nice and comfortable to be treated so; but I could not help wondering what her other guests would think of her for absenting herself from them so much. It was a matter of very little moment to Miss Janet, however, what any one but "Papa" thought of her, and she was sure of a tender judgment from him always; but at last it seemed to strike her that even he might consider it rather negligent to leave the parlor so long, so springing up, she said:

"I must go back to those people; but remember, you are not to stir; or, yes, you may sit here by the table, and look over these engravings. You are not fit to be dragged about making visits; they're a set of heathens to make you go. I know you hate it. What _is_ the matter, really, now?" she said, abruptly, stooping over me, and fixing her black eyes on my face. "You don't look like the same girl latterly. If I hadn't known you before, I should have thought you were tiresome and mopish and had no spirit. I like you better than your French cousins, and I wish you'd come and stay with me. Won't you? I'll make Papa coax Mrs. Churchill to let you stay after they go."

I shook my head and sighed.

"You look as if it were no use to talk about it; but I don't give it up, though I must go to the parlor. I shall come back and look after you every little while, and I'm going to send some one to entertain you while I'm gone."

"Oh! I'd rather not--I'd rather be quiet"----

Miss Janet shook her head with a very pretty determined shake.

"You shall have somebody that won't bore you--somebody that I like and that you like; the only man here, in point of fact, worth talking to, except Papa," and she ran off.

I leaned back in my chair and tried to be patient; since we left Windy Hill every minute had grown longer than the last. I had been in a fever of anxiety about the effect our absence might produce on Victor. I knew his morbid bitterness would construe it into a willful thing on my part, and that the neglect would seem unpardonable and cruel. The evening had seemed interminable, and no one dreamed of going yet.

In a few moments I heard Miss Emerson's voice in the hall, and Mr. Rutledge's in reply. "Of course, since you desire it, I will do my best to be entertaining; but you know you have not told me who it is I am to devote myself to."

"O, you shall see for yourself; go in the library, she is there, and be sure you amuse and please her, for she's my particular favorite," and with a laugh and a nod, she left him in the door.

Mr. Rutledge started a little, and did not look very much pleased when he recognized me; but there was no help, so he sat down beside me at the table.

"Miss Emerson told me she should send some one to entertain me. I didn't know she meant to send you."

"Is there any one you would prefer? Mr. Arbuthnot, the captain, or your heavy adorer, Mr. Theodore Mason? You need not hesitate to tell me. I will resign in favor of any one you name."

I was too miserable to be angry at his tone; with a languid movement of my hand, I answered:

"If you are willing to stay, sir, there is no one I should like so well."

"It is not often you allow yourself in anything so gracious as that. I will stay with pleasure. But Miss Emerson says I must entertain you--I must be agreeable. Now, though I dare not, for my life, disobey anything so blackeyed and imperious, still I haven't the first idea how to proceed, and unless you give me a hint, I am certain I shall fail. What shall I talk about? What do young ladies like, literature or gossip--people or things?"

"My tastes haven't changed, Mr. Rutledge; you used to find no difficulty in talking to me--at least, I never supposed it cost you much effort, and you always succeeded in entertaining me; so if that is honestly your object to-night, I do not think you need be at a loss."

"What did I use to talk about, when I amused you, if ever I was so happy? If you would give me a suggestion"----

He turned his eyes full on me, as I answered: "When you first used to talk to me, you seemed to think me a very foolish, frightened child, and were very kind and gentle. Then, after you had found out I was old enough to understand you, and clever enough to appreciate you, you used to talk to me about your travels, and the people you had met, the countries you had seen. Sometimes you would talk to me about books, and make me tell you what ones I liked, and after you were convinced, I was prejudiced and enthusiastic enough to make it worth your while to oppose me, you would amuse yourself by contradicting and thwarting me. Then you would suddenly change and be kind--oh! so kind!--and treat me as if I were fit to be your friend and your companion; you would tell me about the world that I had only dreamed of then; you warned me of its danger, its heartlessness and treachery; you counselled me, and talked as if you really cared what became of me; you told me the world was full of coldness and unkindness, but oh! you did not tell me half you might have told me about that. Then, sometimes--not often--you would tell me some slight thing about yourself; you looked sterner and colder than ever when you did; your eye would flash, and your lip would curl--some unseen chain would gall you when you thought of the Past; something that came with its memory humbled you, you hated it, you hated yourself; but I liked you--I liked you better then than when you were talking to please me, or to instruct me, or to please or instruct other people; you were involuntary then--you were yourself--and though I liked you in those days whatever you did, I liked you best of all when you talked of yourself."

"Then I will talk of myself now; I have promised to entertain you, and you have told me how to do it. They are dancing in the parlor now, and the music and the laughing will screen us from them; you can listen at your ease, and be entertained without fear of interruption. I believe you when you say you like to hear me talk of myself, because it pleases me to believe it, and men, you know, will go great lengths to believe anything that suits their vanity.

"But first, you will not mind anything that I may say--you will not shrink and blush? Remember, it is a man's life, and not a woman's, that you are to hear about--a dark life, and not a prosperous one--and to make it vivid to you, I must show you the blackness of the shadow and the depth of the gloom; you must know what the trial has been before you can know what grim strength was needed to endure it--what coldness and sternness, as you call them, to keep down the pain within. You are a child no longer; you know something of what suffering is, so I can tell you with some hope of pity, if you will listen and not be dainty--if you will forget all about yourself, and think only of what you hear. Can you be such a listener? Such only are worthy of confidence. I never found one before, but I will try you. Do you hear the rumbling of that distant thunder? How strangely it mixes with the music across the hall! There is a storm coming up; we cannot go home for two hours yet, and they will not tire of dancing even then"----

There was a keen, piercing flash of lightning.

"Does it make you nervous? You used to be afraid in thunder-storms."

"I don't mind the lightning any more than the flare of the candle to-night, Mr. Rutledge. Why don't you go on with what you promised to tell me?"

"I will not begin by telling you about my childhood; a happy childhood is a thing to be enjoyed once in reality, and forever in memory, but not to be talked about; no one but the man himself can see the least pathos or deliciousness in the details and recollections of his nursery days; to others they are weariness and folly; to him they are the sweetest pages in his memory; but he must not hope to find there is any other than himself who can see any interest in them. Perhaps his mother, if God spares her to him--perhaps the woman whom he has taught to love him, and to whom he is all the world--perhaps his young children, before they have learned their perfect lesson of egotism and selfishness--may listen as if the story were their own; but I have found no one to whom I could be egotistical and not be wearisome; I have found that most people like to hear about themselves, and I have not thwarted them.

"But you shall hear of what I have told no one else."