The Stillwater Tragedy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

  XXIV

  "Richard did come home last night, after all," said Mr. Slocum,with a flustered air, seating himself at the breakfast table.

  Margaret looked up quickly.

  "I just met Peters on the street, and he told me," added Mr.Slocum.

  "Richard returned last night, and did not come to us!"

  "It seems that he watched with Torrini,--the man is going to die."

  "Oh," said Margaret, cooling instantly. "That was like Richard; henever thinks of himself first. I would not have had him dodifferently. Last evening you were filled with I don't know whathorrible suspicions, yet see how simply everything explains itself."

  "If I could speak candidly, Margaret, if I could express myselfwithout putting you into a passion, I would tell you that Richard'spassing the night with that man has given me two or three uglyideas."

  "Positively, papa, you are worse than Mr. Taggett."

  "I shall not say another word," replied Mr. Slocum. Then heunfolded the newspaper lying beside him, and constructed a barrieragainst further colloquy.

  An hour afterwards, when Richard threw open the door of hisprivate workshop, Margaret was standing in the middle of the roomwaiting for him. She turned with a little cry of pleasure, andallowed Richard to take her in his arms, and kept to the spirit andthe letter of the promise she had made to herself. If there was anunwonted gravity in Margaret's manner, young Shackford was not keenenough to perceive it. All that morning, wherever he went, he carriedwith him a sense of Margaret's face resting for a moment against hisshoulder, and the happiness of it rendered him wholly oblivious tothe constrained and chilly demeanor of her father when they met. Theinterview was purposely cut short by Mr. Slocum, who avoided Richardthe rest of the day with a persistency that must have ended inforcing itself upon his notice, had he not been so engrossed by thework which had accumulated during his absence.

  Mr. Slocum had let the correspondence go to the winds, and aformidable collection of unanswered letters lay on Shackford's desk.The forenoon was consumed in reducing the pile and settling thequestions that had risen in the shops, for Mr. Slocum had neglectedeverything. Richard was speedily advised of Blake's dismissal fromthe yard, but, not knowing what explanation had been offered, wasunable to satisfy Stevens' curiosity on the subject. "I must seeSlocum about that at once," reflected Richard; but the opportunitydid not occur, and he was too much pressed to make a special businessof it.

  Mr. Slocum, meanwhile, was in a wretched state of suspense andapprehension. Justice Beemis's clerk had served some sort of legalpaper--presumably a subpoena--on Richard, who had coolly read it inthe yard under the gaze of all, and given no sign of discomposurebeyond a momentary lifting of the eyebrows. Then he had carelesslythrust the paper into one of his pockets and continued his directionsto the men. Clearly he had as yet no suspicion of the mine that wasready to be sprung under his feet.

  Shortly after this little incident, which Mr. Slocum had witnessedfrom the window of the counting-room, Richard spoke a word or two toStevens, and quitted the yard. Mr. Slocum dropped into the carvingdepartment.

  "Where is Mr. Shackford, Stevens?"

  "He has gone to Mitchell's Alley, sir. Said he'd be away an hour.Am I to say he was wanted?"

  "No," replied Mr. Slocum, hastily; "any time will do. You needn'tmention that I inquired for him," and Mr. Slocum returned to thecounting-room.

  Before the hour expired he again distinguished Richard's voice inthe workshops, and the cheery tone of it was a positive affront toMr. Slocum. Looking back to the week prior to the tragedy in Welch'sCourt, he recollected Richard's unaccountable dejection; he had hadthe air of a person meditating some momentous step,--the pallor, theset face, and the introspective eyes. Then came the murder, andRichard's complete prostration. Mr. Slocum in his own excitement hadnoted it superficially at the time, but now he recalled the youngman's inordinate sorrow, and it seemed rather like remorse. Was hispresent immobile serenity the natural expression of a man whose hearthad suddenly ossified, and was no longer capable of throbbing withits guilt? Richard Shackford was rapidly becoming an awful problem toMr. Slocum.

  Since the death of his cousin, Richard had not been so much likehis former self. He appeared to have taken up his cheerfulness at thepoint where he had dropped it three weeks before. If there were anyweight resting on his mind, he bore it lightly, with a kind ofcareless defiance.

  In his visit that forenoon to Mitchell's Alley he had arranged forMrs. Morganson, his cousin's old housekeeper, to watch with Torrinithe ensuing night. This left Richard at liberty to spend the eveningwith Margaret, and finish his correspondence. Directly after tea herepaired to the studio, and, lighting the German student-lamp, fellto work on the letters. Margaret came in shortly with a magazine, andseated herself near the round table at which he was writing. She haddreaded this evening; it could scarcely pass without some mention ofMr. Taggett, and she had resolved not to speak of him. If Richardquestioned her it would be very distressing. How could she tellRichard that Mr. Taggett accused him of the murder of his cousin, andthat her own father half believed the accusation? No, she could neveracknowledge that.

  For nearly an hour the silence of the room was interrupted only bythe scratching of Richard's pen and the rustling of the magazine asMargaret turned the leaf. Now and then he looked up and caught hereye, and smiled, and went on with his task. It was a veritable returnof the old times. Margaret became absorbed in the story she wasreading and forgot her uneasiness. Her left hand rested on the pileof answered letters, to which Richard added one at intervals, shemechanically lifting her palm and replacing it on the freshmanuscript. Presently Richard observed this movement and smiled insecret at the slim white hand unconsciously making a paper-weight ofitself. He regarded it covertly for a moment, and then his disastrousdream occurred to him. There should be no mistake this time. He drewthe small morocco case from his pocket, and leaning across the tableslipped the ring on Margaret's finger.

  Margaret gave a bewildered start, and then seeing what Richard haddone held out her hand to him with a gracious, impetuous littlegesture.

  "I mean to give it you this morning," he said, pressing his lip tothe ring, "but the daylight did not seem fine enough for it."

  "I thought you had forgotten," said Margaret, slowly turning theband on her finger.

  "The first thing I did in New York was to go to a jeweler's forthis ring, and since then I have guarded it day and night asdragonishly as if it had been the Koh-i-Noor diamond, or someinestimable gem which hundreds of envious persons were lying in waitto wrest from me. Walking the streets with this trinket in mypossession, I have actually had a sense of personal insecurity. Iseemed to invite general assault. That was being very sentimental,was it not?"

  "Yes, perhaps."

  "That small piece of gold meant so much to me."

  "And to me," said Margaret. "Have you finished your letters?"

  "Not yet. I shall be through in ten minutes, and then we'll havethe evening to ourselves."

  Richard hurriedly resumed his writing and Margaret turned to hernovel again; but the interest had faded out of it; the figures hadgrown threadbare and indistinct, like the figures in a piece of oldtapestry, and after a moment or two the magazine glided with anunnoticed flutter into the girl's lap. She sat absently twirling thegold loop on her finger.

  Richard added the address to the final envelope, dried it with theblotter, and abruptly shut down the lid of the inkstand with an airof as great satisfaction as if he had been the fisherman in theArabian story corking up the wicked afrite. With his finger stillpressing the leaden cover, as though he were afraid the imp of toilwould get out again, he was suddenly impressed by the fact that hehad seen very little of Mr. Slocum that day.

  "I have hardly spoken to him," he reflected. "Where is yourfather, to-night?"

  "He has a headache," said Margaret. "He went to his roomimmediately after supper."

  "It is nothing serious, of course."

  "I fancy not; papa
is easily excited, and he had had a great dealto trouble him lately,--the strike, and all that."

  "I wonder if Mr. Taggett has been bothering him."

  "I dare say Mr. Taggett has bothered him."

  "You knew of his being in the yard?"

  "Not while he was here. Papa told me yesterday. I think Mr.Taggett was scarcely the person to render much assistance."

  "Then he has found nothing whatever?"

  "Nothing important."

  "But anything? Trifles are of importance in a matter like this.Your father never wrote me a word about Taggett."

  "Mr. Taggett has made a failure of it, Richard."

  "If nothing new has transpired, then I do not understand thesummons I received to-day."

  "A summons!"

  "I've the paper somewhere. No, it is in the pocket of my othercoat. I take it there is to be a consultation of some kind at JusticeBeemis's office to-morrow."

  "I am very glad," said Margaret, with her face brightening.To-morrow would lift the cloud which had spread itself over them all,and was pressing down so heavily on one unconscious head. To-morrowRichard's innocence should shine forth and confound Mr. Taggett. Avague bitterness rose in Margaret's heart as she thought of herfather. "Let us talk of something else," she said, brusquely breakingher pause; "let us talk of something pleasant."

  "Of ourselves, then," suggested Richard, banishing the shadowwhich had gathered in his eyes at his first mention of Mr. Taggett'sname.

  "Of ourselves," repeated Margaret gayly.

  "Then you must give me your hand," stipulated Richard, drawing hischair closer to hers.

  "There!" said Margaret.

  While this was passing, Mr. Slocum, in the solitude of hischamber, was vainly attempting to solve the question whether he hadnot disregarded all the dictates of duty and common sense in allowingMargaret to spend the evening alone with Richard Shackford. Mr.Slocum saw one thing with painful distinctness--that he could nothelp himself.