Part 13 (1/2)

It had been a wretched five days for d.i.c.k. Twice he had surprised Nellie in tears that she could not explain, and the old man had treated him with gross injustice on several occasions. All his old fury of manner had been redoubled. He openly accused d.i.c.k of having furnished money to aid Frost in getting away when he knew him to be a cheat and an impostor; knew that Frost had garbled the accounts and been stealing at the mill, and in all probability he was no better than an accomplice.

Twice d.i.c.k's indignation and wrath had given way to angry retort, and the story had gone far and wide around Nemahbin that the old man and the young one were bitter enemies, and d.i.c.k had openly vowed he could stand it no longer. Then Nellie, who had been coquetting with his hopes and fears, had once again plunged him into the depths. He loved her blindly, madly, poor fellow, and was bent as she willed, but the time had come when he could brook his ills no longer; and that Sunday evening, standing by the rus.h.i.+ng stream down below the dam, and moodily throwing stone after stone into the dark waters, d.i.c.k Graham had determined to face his fate, and have the matter ended then and there.

He was to take her to the village for evening service. She and her aunt quite frequently spent the night with friends in 'Mahbin in preference to coming back to the mill through the darkness, and this bright July day had turned to night, dark, cloudy, overcast, with heavy fog-wreaths whirling through the cheerless air. The rain came pattering down as they left the church, and hospitable friends urged their stay. Ten minutes later d.i.c.k was standing in the bright light of a parlor, face to face with the girl who had been his idol from boyhood until now. They were alone. She saw in his face that the crisis had come, and was pale and nervous as he was pale and determined, yet she strove to a.s.sume a light and laughing manner.

”What is it, d.i.c.k? You have been solemn as an undertaker for a whole week, and to-night you are like--I don't know what.”

Quickly he seized her hands, and held them firmly against every effort to draw them away. His heart beat like a hammer, his eyes were flaming with the fire of his love, his lips quivered and twitched with the intensity of his emotion.

”Nellie,” he said, ”I can stand it no longer! That man is back again; I saw you with him to-day. I--oh!--time and again I have told you how I loved you. It is more than love--it is wors.h.i.+p, almost. It has been so ever since you were a little girl and I carried you to school. You did care for me--you know you did--until this fellow came here and made us all wretched. Nellie, I will have an answer to-night. I will know if you love me; tell me, tell me now.” It was no longer an imploring prayer, it was a demand.

Struggle though she might, she could not free herself. His eyes seemed to burn into hers, and she shrank from their wild gaze as though they stung to her very soul.

”Answer me,” he said. ”You told me you loved me last Christmas. Do you love me now?”

”Oh, d.i.c.k, I--I didn't know. I could not tell,” she gasped; ”I thought I loved you, but--”

”But now you know you love him, is it?” he almost hissed. ”Do you know what I think of him? He is a scoundrel, a man without home or name. He has a history he dare not tell; he lies every time he answers a question; he wants to marry you because you will be rich, but that's all.”

”You shall not speak of him so,” she interrupted in wrath and indignation. ”He is a gentleman, and he does love me, and all you say of him is false. I know he has been unhappy, unfortunate--”

”He has been more than that, I'll be bound,” sneered Graham, all bitter, jealous anger now. ”He is a criminal of some kind--mark my words.”

”How dare you?” she cried; ”oh, how dare you? He would crush you if you would dare speak so to him. I will never forgive you--never. I never want to see or speak to you again--”

”What do you say?” he gasped, livid with pain and misery.

”I never want to see or speak to you again,” she repeated, though her eyes quailed before the dumb agony of his. For a moment there was dead silence. Then with one long look in her paling face he said, slowly, almost humbly:

”I take you at your word. Life has been h.e.l.l to me here for a long time, and you--you, whom I loved--have driven me from the only home I ever had.”

One instant more and he was gone, leaving her sobbing wildly, she hardly knew why.

And early next morning came the fearful news that her father lay murdered at the mill.

A week of intense excitement followed. Not only in Nemahbin was the mysterious death of old Morrow the one subject of conversation, but all through the surrounding counties people talked of nothing else. By sunset of that beautiful Monday the news had spread far and wide; the reporters of the city journals were already on the spot, and by Tuesday night the verdict of the coroner's jury had gone forth and the officers of the law were in search of the criminal, whose name flashed over the humming wires from one ocean to another. Richard Graham stood accused of the murder of his employer, and Richard Graham had gone, no one knew whither.

But there were those who could not and would not believe it of him, and foremost among them was the minister. The evidence against him was mainly circ.u.mstantial; the princ.i.p.al accuser was Frost, and the chain of circ.u.mstances that linked Graham with the crime were substantially as follows:

The boy who worked around the mill-house and slept in the second story of the Graham's cottage testified that about half an hour before sunset Sunday evening he heard old Morrow ”cussing and swearing” at somebody down in the mill, while he was going out to drive the cows home; didn't see who it was, but ten minutes afterwards as he came back he saw Graham pitching stones into the stream down below the mill, ”looking queer;”

called to him twice, but Graham did not answer; supposed he was mad at the old man for cussing him so--they had had lots of trouble for a week; heard the old man tell him he was going to get rid of him if he didn't do different.

That night he (the witness) went out in the country a piece and did not come home until half-past ten. It was all dark around the mill when he got back. It had been raining, but the sky was brighter then, and as he pa.s.sed the south door he was surprised to see it open. The old man generally locked it and went home early. He was just going to go and shut it when a man came out. It ”skeered” him because the old man had given him fits for being out late and lying abed in the morning, so he stopped short to wait until he got away. The man shut and locked the door, and walked up the road ahead of him, and then he saw that it was not the old man, but young Graham, and that Mr. Graham was going straight up to the mill-house, so he cut across to the cottage and got in soft as he could. Yes, it might have been eleven o'clock by that time, and he did not want Mr. Frost, or Mr. Graham either, to know he was out so late. It was all dark at the mill-house, and all dark at the cottage, but Mr. Frost heard him and called him into his room and asked for a dipper of water. Mr. Frost was in bed and asked him what time it was, and said he had been asleep, but waked up with a headache; told him he did not know the time; didn't want him to know it was so late, 'cause he might tell the old man. Mr. Frost asked him where d.i.c.k was, and just then they heard d.i.c.k coming up the front steps, and the witness went up to his own room. Heard them talking down-stairs for a little while, but could not understand what they were saying; did not listen particularly; went to sleep, and slept a good while; was awakened by hearing some noise in d.i.c.k's room, which was directly under his--sounded like something gla.s.s being broken, but everything was quiet right off, and he thought he might have dreamed it. Next thing he knowed it was morning, and Mandy, the cook over at the mill-house, was calling to him from the bottom of the stairs to get up right off--the master hadn't come home all night, and there was people waitin' down at the mill.

d.i.c.k's room was open and the bed hadn't been slept on, and his clothes and things were all thrown all round on the floor; it looked queer, she said; he was gone, too; ran down as quick as he could dress and called Mr. Frost, who was asleep in bed and did not wake easy; called him three or four times and banged on the door, and at last opened it and called him louder; then he woke up slowly and wanted to know the matter; told him Mandy said Mr. Morrow had not been home and that d.i.c.k was not there, and there was farmers with wheat at the mill. He said go and open the mill and he would be down in a minute; told him that d.i.c.k had the key and had locked the mill late last night; saw him do it. Mr. Frost jumped right up in bed excited like and said, ”You saw him do it! When, where were you?” and so had to tell him about d.i.c.k's being there, coming out of the mill late as nearly eleven o'clock. Then Mandy came back and said she found the key hanging on the peg inside the hall-door, and witness took it and went down and opened the south door. The office window-shade was down and the office door on the east side was shut, and so it was kinder dark, but he and the two men waiting there went right through the mill into the office, and there they found the old man dead on the floor, with lots of blood streaming from his head. It skeered him awful, and they ran out. Then Mr. Frost came, and he was pale, and said, ”My G.o.d, what an awful thing!” and they sent right to 'Mahbin for Dr.

Green, and the mayor and constable; and that was all he knowed.

Doctor Green's testimony, divested of professional technicalities, was to the effect that the miller had been killed at least six or eight hours, and that death was the result of the gun-shot wound through the head. The bullet was found imbedded in the skull at the back of the head, and had entered under the left eye. The face was burned and blackened by powder. No other wound or hurt was found upon the body. The doctor had arrived at the mill about 6.45 a.m., accompanied by Mr.

Lowrie, the mayor of Nemahbin, an old friend of the deceased. When they arrived, Mr. Frost was in charge of the premises, and stated that no one had entered the office since the moment he had arrived at the spot.

Mr. Lowrie testified to coming with the doctor; being received by Mr.