University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST SUSPICION.

“It's Peleg Brewster,” said Paul, kneeling
beside the corpse and peering into the sodden
face. “Peleg Brewster,” repeated he, rising
and looking at Brent, who was staring abstractedly
into the pool.

“Yes. I never knew him, though I remember
the name,” said he, rousing himself
with an effort. “Well, let us get the body
upon the stretcher.”

With laborious effort, the ghastly burden
was arranged, and the litter raised between
the two men. Through the rustling wood, and
along the quiet road, between hedges of goldenrod
and asters, they carried it, until coming
to the farm-house, they laid it upon the bed
prepared by Rachel Barstow's active care, and
left it in the hands of the doctor hastily summoned
by Nancy, Miss Barstow's maid.

“Quite dead hours ago, but not by drowning,”
mysteriously pronounced the healing
oracle, after a prolonged examination.

“What then?” asked Miss Rachel bluntly.

“He was killed by a shot fired from behind,

and passing through the heart, and out at the
other side. It is a pity it is lost.”

“Pity what is lost?”

“The bullet. It would help to convict the
murderer,” said the doctor gravely.

“He was murdered then?” asked Brent,
aghast.

“Men do not shoot themselves in the back,”
replied the physician dryly.

“Who could have done it? Had the man
enemies?” pursued Marston, upon whose mind
the satirical hint at his own obtuseness made
no more impression than a drop of vinegar
upon the coat of a Newfoundland dog.

“That is a question for the coroner and his
jury. You will have to attend, Mr. Brent.”

“I shall not be here. I leave early in the
morning for the West.”

“I am afraid you will have to postpone your
journey for a day at least. You are the principal
witness in this matter,” said the doctor
gravely; and the young man turned away with
an uncontrollable gesture of impatience.

The doctor's eyes followed him, and he
asked: “Did Mr. Brent know Brewster at all?
Had he ever any dealings with him?”

“No, he hadn't, Dr. Bliss. There's no use
in thinking about that,” said Miss Rachel,
somewhat sternly; and the two pairs of keen
eyes met and read each other. At last the
doctor said:

“Then I won't think about it, Miss Rachel.
I have no doubt you are right.”

“And I have no doubt that sugar is sweet,
or ice is cold, or the sun bright, or water wet,”
rejoined Miss Rachel with asperity. “And
after you have proved me wrong in all these,
we'll talk about the other matter.”

The doctor shook his head, with a smile at
once respectful and tolerant, saying the while:

“Very positive and very warm, as usual.
You don't change as the years go on, Miss
Rachel.”

“No, I don't change,” said Rachel Barstow
briefly; and they both remembered the day—
now twenty years by-gone—when she first had
said those words to Wyman Bliss.

The woman's hard face softened, and, after
a little while, she said, toying nervously with
her apron-string:

“My friends must take me as I am, Wyman,
Hard, and narrow, and obstinate, and cross-tempered.
I cannot change.”

“But you won't let them take you, as they
would be glad to do, good and bad together,”
said the doctor significantly; and Miss Rachel,
freezing suddenly, replied:

“If you have got through with the body,
Dr. Bliss, I will call Nancy to help lay it out.”

“By no means, Miss Rachel, by no means.
It must not be touched in any way until the
coroner has seen it. We will lock the door of
this room if you please, and leave every thing
just as it is until the morning. I will take all
the necessary steps toward making the matter
known to the authorities, if you like.”

“Thank you—I wish you would. Father is
old now, and we try to keep him as quiet as
we can,” said Miss Barstow wearily. And with
a few words of farewell, the doctor rode away,
saying to himself, as he turned into the road:

“A great pity, my dear—a great pity for us
both.”

Marston Brent meantime was striding home
across the moonlit fields, having left the Old
Garrison without seeing Beatrice, or even
hearing her name. Beside him walked Paul
Freeman, whom an uneasy and excited mood
had debarred from sleep or rest.

Nearly a mile had been passed, and neither
had spoken, when Paul suddenly asked:

“Would they hang a woman if she killed a
man, Mr. Brent?”

“Of course they would if she was convicted,”
said Brent.

Another silence—again broken by Paul:

“Well, it was the best thing that could
have happened to him.”

“That's weak as water, Paul. A man
should never want to die because things go
wrong, and he is miserable. Rather let him
live, and live it through, and live it down.
Work, my boy—that's the salvation of a sick
heart.”

He threw back his shoulders, opening his
broad chest, and looking up to the sky as he
spoke. Already the strong vitality of his
nature was gathering to assuage the wound
which at first had seemed so hopeless of cure.

Paul stared at him a moment, then said:
“Peleg Brewster had work enough to do; but
that didn't hinder this.”

“No,” replied Brent vaguely; and then:
“You knew him it seems?”

“He brought me up. His first wife was
like a mother to me. She was a real good
woman,” blurted the boy.

“And why did you say that death was the
best thing that could have happened to him?”

“He was so unhappy at home. You see,

sir, his wife died, and in a little while he married
again, and the second woman was just as
far below the mark as the other one was above.
She led him a dog's life, and, what was worst,
set his child and him against each other, till it
seemed as if the house couldn't hold the three
of them. Then Joe came to live with them,
and I quit.”

“Who was Joe?”

“Joe Brewster, brother to Peleg, and the
same for a man that Semanthy was for a
woman—only he was a coward, and she
wouldn't have been scared by Old Nick and
all his host.”

“And what happened then?”

“Why, it happened that, from quarrelling,
they come to fighting; and one day, Peleg
struck Semanthy in the face, and sent her up
against the wall. Lord, sir! Did you ever
see a cat that mad that she'd fly at the biggest
dog that ever was, and beat him too?
Then you've seen Semanthy Brewster as she
leaned up against the wall and looked at
Peleg and smiled. Yes, sir, smiled; and I
hope I'll never see another smile like that.”

“When did this happen?” asked Brent, after
a little while.

“About a year ago—just before I left there.”

“And how have they gone on since?”

“From bad to worse. I've been once in a
while to see Ruth.”

“Who is that?”

“The child of the first wife, and, to be sure,
the only child, for Semanthy never had any.
She's thirteen now.”

“And what sort of girl?”

“It would be hard saying, sir. Five years
ago, when her mother died, there wasn't a nicer
little girl nor a likelier anywhere round. She
was always shy and quiet to strangers, but
with her mother she'd come out and show for
what she was. Semanthy set out to ruin her,
and she's done it.”

“How, and why?”

“Why, because Peleg was fond of her, and
Semanthy meant to rule the roast herself; and
how, it would be hard to tell unless you seen
it. She made Ruth feel that her father wasn't
satisfied with her, and didn't think her equal
to other folks, and she made her think he
talked against her mother—which I don't believe
he ever did, for I know how he set by
her: and then she made Peleg think Ruth was
sulky and lazy, and told lies, and spoke disrespectful
of him behind his back. And so she
kept at work, now this side, and now that, till
she'd got a good wide wedge drove in between
them, as ought to be like the bark and the
wood, and then there was no healing the
wound. I haven't seen any of them for a
month or more; but Miss Rachel was telling
me that Ruth was going out to service, she
heard. I don't know if she's gone, but I hope
so.”

“Poor child! How old did you say?”

“Thirteen. Just three years younger than
me,” said Paul; and then the two walked on
in silence until they came upon the little farm-house
bequeathed to Marston Brent by his
father, lately dead.

Here they paused, and the elder said: “I
shall not get away to-morrow, Paul; and if you
can finish your business here, we may leave
together the next morning. I shall drive from
this house to Bloom, and you can go with me
if you choose.”

“Yes, sir, I should like to. I'll be on hand,”
said Paul, but with so marked a change from
the joyous alacrity he had shown in first
speaking of the matter, that Brent turned to
look at him curiously by the light of the setting
moon.

“Not falling back already, are you, boy?”

“No, sir; not a mite of it. I a'n't given to
backing down. But I was thinking of Ruth
Brewster—poor little Ruthie. I wish I knew
what she'll do.”

And bidding good-night, or rather good-morning,
the boy thrust his hands deep in his
pockets and strode thoughtfully away.