Within the Capes

“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