by Howard Pyle
“What’s the matter?” cried old John Grundy, from the box.
“Isaac Naylor’s been murdered,” said John, in a low voice.
“My Lord! Isaac Naylor murdered!” Then, after a moment’s pause— “Where? — How? — When?” A half a dozen heads were thrust out of the coach windows by this time — they all listened in silence while John repeated that which Will had just told them. The coach went on down the road, but it did not take Tom with it.
Then Will turned to Tom— “Tom, I want to speak to you for a minute,” said he.
Tom stepped aside with him, without answering.
Will was holding his horse by the reins; he did not speak for a moment or two, but stood as though thinking what to say.
“Tom, have you seen Isaac Naylor since you’ve come back?” said he, at last.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Tom hesitated before he spoke.
“Where?” said Will, again.
“At — at the place where they found him this morning,” said Tom. He looked straight at Will as he spoke, but Will turned his eyes away.
“Tom,” said he, “there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
“Mine!”
“Yes; yours, Tom. I expect the constable’s on his way from Eastcaster now. Anyway, there’s no time to lose. Here’s a horse ready for you; jump on her and leave the country!”
“Will.”
“Well; what is it?”
“Do you believe that I killed Isaac Naylor?”
Will did not answer, but stood looking fixedly on the ground.
“Never mind; I don’t ask you to answer me, Will. I’ll tell you, however, that I did not do it. I’ll stay and face the music.”
Then Tom turned and called his father and John. “Father — John — did you hear what Will said?”
“No.”
“He said that there’s a warrant out against me for this thing.”
“A warrant out against thee?”
“Yes.”
“But thee hasn’t seen Isaac Naylor since thee came home, Thomas,” said his father.
“Yes, I did, father.”
“Where?”
“At the very place where he was murdered.”
Then he told all that had passed between him and Isaac Naylor, and of how near he had come to doing that of which he was accused. His father listened without a word, looking deeply and fixedly into Tom’s eyes the while. John was looking intently at him, too. Will was standing, turned half away. When Tom had ended, his father spoke to him in a low voice:
“Thomas.”
“Well?”
“Is — is that all? Has thee told us all?”
“Yes, father.”
“Why didn’t thee speak of it before?”
“I couldn’t bear to do it. I was afraid to tell how I had treated him — an overseer in the meeting.”
Tom’s heart crumbled within him at the silence that followed his words.
“Father,” he said, “so help me God, my hands are clean of this thing. Does thee suppose I’d have come home if I’d done it?”
“Wait a minute, Thomas; I’m thinking,” said his father. He stood picking at his finger-tips, and looking earnestly at them. At last he raised his head. “I don’t believe that thee did do it, Thomas. I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I!” burst out John. “My brother couldn’t do a thing like that. My mother’s son couldn’t kill a man. I don’t believe it, and I can’t believe it!”
The tears sprang into Tom’s eyes at these words. He looked at Will, but Will’s head was still turned away. “Here comes the constable,” said he, at last, in a low voice.
A horse and gig had come up from behind Stony-Brook Hill. When it reached the level road between them and the crest of the rise the nag broke into a trot.
“Yes, that’s Johnson’s team,” said John, and then he turned his head away.
They all stood silently until at last the gig came up to where they were. The constable and his deputy were both in it. The constable drew up the horse, and threw the reins to the deputy. Then he stepped out and came over to where the others were standing, drawing a paper out of his breast-pocket as he did so. He had not said a word up to this time.
“I know what you’re coming for,” said Tom; “I’m ready to go with you, Johnson.”
“The Lord knows — I’d rather lose a hundred dollars, than have to do this,” said the constable.
“I believe you would,” said Tom.
“Can thee wait a little while, Eben?” said Tom’s father; “I’d like to drive over to Squire Morrow’s along with you. I’ll slip up to the house and gear Nelly to the wagon; it won’t take me a minute.”
The constable drew a watch out of his fob, and looked at it. “I guess I can wait a little bit, Mr. Granger,” said he; “the witnesses weren’t all at the squire’s when I left. You’ll have to step into the gig though, Tom, and I’ll — I’ll have to put cuffs on you.”
“Will you have to do that?”
“I’m afraid I will;” — he drew the hand-cuffs out of his pocket as he spoke; there was a sharp “click! click!” and Tom felt the cold iron circling his wrists.
His father groaned, and when Tom looked at him, he saw that his face was as white as wax. He turned, and he and John walked slowly up the lane toward the house.
Then Tom stepped to the gig, and climbed in beside the deputy constable. Johnson went to the roadside, and sat down on the bank. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands hanging clasped together between them. Will stood leaning against the pailing fence, and nothing was said, excepting once when the constable spoke to his deputy.
“Better turn the hoss, Jos; you won’t have to do it then when Mr. Granger and John come back.”
After a while they saw John drive the farm-wagon over from the stable to the house. William was sitting beside him and presently Tom’s father came out of the house and climbed slowly into it. Then they drove down the road to where the others were waiting.
“Father, how did mother take the news?” said Tom.
“Very well! Very well! Better than I expected,” said his father, briefly; then he turned to Will: “Thee’d better go up to the house, William; I’d like thee to stay with mother and Susan while we’re gone.”
Will mounted his horse without a word, and, turning into the lane, galloped up to the house beneath the shadows of the trees.
“Are you all ready?” said the constable, standing with one foot on the step of the gig.
“All ready.”
Then he climbed in and they all drove away toward Eastcaster.
CHAPTER XVII.
AS THE GIG rattled down the hill and past the end of Penrose’s road, Tom leaned forward and looked up toward the spot where he had met Isaac Naylor the day before. A knot of people had gathered about the place where the body had been found, collected there by the morbid curiosity that stirs men at such a time; they were talking earnestly together, some sitting on the fence, some leaning against it.
At last they reached the level road that led into Eastcaster, and the nag broke into a trot. The houses were clustered more thickly together around the outskirts of the town. Of course, the news had spread everywhere, and knots of people were gathered here and there talking the matter over. As the gig with the three men in it rattled along the stony street, the talk would be hushed in these groups, and the people would turn and gaze at the constables and their prisoner. Tom had not realized all that he would have to pass through till now; he had not known what it would be to have his neighbors and old acquaintances staring at him with that look of mixed curiosity and horror. He shrunk together in the gig back of the constables, striving to hide himself behind them. Johnson must have known how he felt, for he laid the whip to the horse and drove on as fast as possible.
At last they reached Squire Morrow’s office, at the corner of Market and Andover streets. It was a small, dark two-storied buil
ding, with an old-fashioned hipped roof; — it has since been torn down to make way for Prettyman’s new store. A great crowd had gathered around the corner about the squire’s office, and they could see through the windows that the room was packed with the people inside. The gig drew up to the sidewalk and the constable stepped down out of it.
“You’ll have to get down, now, Tom,” whispered Jos Giddings, the deputy, in Tom’s ear. Then Tom stepped out and the deputy followed him. The constable had a great deal of trouble in pushing his way through the people, for they crowded up very closely to get a look at Tom. He walked with his eyes fixed straight ahead of him; he saw nothing but the crown of the constable’s hat, but he knew, as well as though he had looked about him, that a mass of faces were gazing at him with eager and intense curiosity. He also knew that his father and his brothers, John and William, had gotten out of the farm wagon and were following close behind him.
“Stand out of the way there!” said the constable, in a loud voice, as he pushed into the office, and then Tom found himself standing beside a railing that separated the squire’s desk from the mass of people packed into the body of the office. The light came through a little window in the end of the room, so that Tom could see things only duskily after coming in from the dazzling glare of the sunlight outside. Mr. Morrow was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair, with a very troubled look in his eyes. He was playing absently with a pen that lay on the table in front of him.
“Won’t the prisoner sit down, constable?” said he; “he looks pretty badly.”
“I don’t care to sit down,” said Tom, “I’d rather stand.” He was resting with his handcuffed hands on the railing in front of him; after a while he collected his courage, and then he looked slowly around him.
A number of people were sitting inside of the railing; the first one that he saw was Patty Penrose, and on her his eyes lingered long and painfully. She was very white, and dark rings encircled her eyes. She sat with her handkerchief in her hand, and she wiped the slow tears from her cheeks with it every now and then. Her father sat beside her, looking very hard and stern. He did not glance at Tom until later in the examination that followed. Just behind Elihu Penrose sat Mr. Moor. He, too, was very pale, and every now and then he wiped his face with a bandana handkerchief. Beside these three were Ephraim Whiteley and his colored man, Mrs. Bond, the landlady of the Crown and Angel, and Dr. Winterapple.
Then Tom looked up and saw that his father and his two brothers stood beside him.
The first witness called was Ephraim Whiteley. He was tall, ungainly, round shouldered and loose jointed. He was an elderly man; a very plain Friend, and, like Isaac Naylor, was one of the overseers of the meeting.
Of course, he affirmed, for Friends are not allowed, by the Society, to take oath as to the truth of evidence. He testified that he and his colored man “Jim” were going to Downeyville with a load of potatoes. They had started early in the morning — about five o’clock, he should think. Had found deceased lying in front of the “big stone” beside the roadside, about two or three hundred yards from the turnpike. Had thought that it was some one who had been drinking — remembers that Jim said something to that effect. Had not thought differently from this, until he had come close to where deceased was lying. He noticed then a dark stain on the collar, and also deceased’s plain coat — he knew that something was wrong. He stopped the wagon, and he and Jim went over to where the body was lying. Found a heavy knotted piece of wood lying close to the deceased, and noticed that there was blood upon it. He had turned deceased over; did not know who it was until he heard Jim say, “Good Lord! it’s Mr. Naylor!” He and Jim lifted the body into the wagon, and drove over to Elijah Hunt’s, thinking it best to take it to deceased’s cousin. Had summoned the coroner at Elijah Hunt’s request.
The next witness called was James Madison Trusty (colored).
He was in Mr. Whiteley’s employ. He had gone with Mr. Whiteley to take a load of potatoes to Downeyville. He had called Mr. Whiteley’s attention to the body of the deceased. It was lying on it’s face in the grass, close to the “big stone.” He had thought at first that it was some one drunk. He had said to Mr. Whiteley that “there was a happy man,” or, “that man ought to be happy,” or some such speech — could not remember the exact words. He did not think much about it till Mr. Whiteley stopped the cart and jumped out. Mr. Whiteley had turned the body over, and he had recognized the face as that of Mr. Naylor — called Mr. Whiteley’s attention to the same. Mr. Whiteley called on him to lift deceased into the cart. He was very sick, and it was some time before he could bring himself to touch the body.
(Doctor) Justin S. Winterapple was the next witness called.
He had made the post-mortem examination before the coroner’s jury. There was the mark of only one contusion — it was at the base of the cranium, immediately behind and under the right ear. The bone was fractured as though with some heavy weapon. It might have been done with the club or knotted piece of wood found lying beside the deceased — thought altogether likely that it was done by it. He did not think that the deceased died immediately upon receiving the blow.
All this was terrible to Tom; so terrible that he grasped the railing in front of him, until his finger nails were livid with the force of the grip. But what must it have been to Patty? Tom looked at her, and the expression of her face made him forget his own troubles. “Oh, God!” muttered he to himself, “that I should have come home to bring all this upon her!”
The next witness called was Mrs. Bond.
She testified that the prisoner had come by the Union line, in stage No. 3, the day before. He and Mr. Gaines had met, and had gone into the parlor; they had talked there a long time, and at last the prisoner had come out, and had gone up Market street in the direction of his home. She had not known the prisoner until Mr. Gaines had told her. She remembered to have remarked how changed he was, and that she would never have known him with his long beard and his grey hair.
Mr. Morrow looked vexed. “Why hasn’t Mr. Gaines been called?” said he; “how is it he hasn’t been called? Where is he now?”
“He’s out at Mr. Milton Granger’s,” said the constable.
The magistrate “pished” and “pshawed,” but at last he said that they might as well go on with the examination of the other witnesses, and that they could send for Mr. Gaines if his evidence should be found to be necessary.
The next witness called was Edmund R. Moor. The Bible was passed to him to swear upon, but he pushed it hurriedly away from him and said that he would affirm, and not swear to the truth of his statement. Mr. Morrow seemed somewhat surprised, but he said nothing, and took Mr. Moor’s affirmation as he desired. He then testified that he had been with Isaac Naylor the afternoon before, at about four o’clock. The deceased had come to consult him upon a matter of business concerning some money that he, the witness, had invested for the other. He had left him, saying that he was going down to White’s store for his letters. He had seen deceased about half an hour later, walking up Market Street. He, the witness, had been feeling ill all day, and had quitted his office to step around to the stable for his horse, thinking a ride might be of benefit to him. He had seen deceased turn into Penrose’s road, and remembered to have heard him say, a little while before, that he was going to see Elihu Penrose’s daughter, whom he was engaged to marry.
Tom looked at Patty as Mr. Moor said these words, and saw her hide her face with her trembling hands. He groaned when he saw the agony that it caused her.
The witness then went on to say that he had thought no more of it, but was watering his horse at the shallow, when he saw the prisoner run out of the road and turn up the turnpike, in the direction of Granger’s farmhouse.
The magistrate asked Mr. Moor several questions, in answer to which he said that he had not known the prisoner, because of the beard and the whiteness of his hair; he did not think of its being Mr. Thomas Granger. He also said that he had gone on up the turnpike a
fter he had watered his horse; that he had not thought of anything having happened to Isaac Naylor, and that he did not hear any cry or call for help, to make him think that anything had gone wrong.
Mr. Moor was so white that the magistrate asked him if he was ill.
“I do feel sick,” said he. “I haven’t felt well since yesterday morning. Maybe it’s the closeness of the room that makes me feel sick now.”
He wiped his face with his bandana handkerchief as he spoke, for it was wet with the sweat that ran trickling down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry you feel so sick, Mr. Moor,” said the magistrate.
“If you have no more use for me, I’d like to go,” said Mr. Moor.
Mr. Morrow said that he might leave now, if he wished, so he worked his way through the crowd in the office, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and so went into the street.
The next witness called was Patty Penrose, and she stood up, resting her hand on the top of her chair as she did so. There was not a particle of color in her face as she stood before the magistrate. A strand of hair had fallen across her brow, but she did not brush it back, or seem to notice it. Tom’s heart bled for her as he stood looking at her.
“Will you swear or affirm?” said the magistrate.
“I affirm,” she answered, in a low voice. Then she repeated after him the words of affirmation: “I do most solemnly affirm — that what I tell — is the truth — the whole truth — and nothing but the truth.”
“When did you see the prisoner last?”
“Yesterday.”
“At what time was it?”
“In the afternoon.”
“But what time was it — at what time in the afternoon was it that you saw him?”
She did not answer immediately, and Tom, as he looked at her, saw that she was swaying, as though she was about to fall.
“Perhaps the witness had better sit down while she gives her evidence,” said Mr. Morrow.