"And that is my wife Nora, on the porch. She's the housekeeper, sir." And then, lowering his voice so that only the girls and Uncle John could hear, he added simply: "She's blind."
Patsy walked straight up to the eager, pathetic figure of the woman and took her hand in a warm clasp.
"I'm Patricia, Nora," she said, "and I'm sure we shall be friends."
Beth followed her cousin's lead.
"And I am Beth, Nora. Will you remember me?"
"Surely, miss; by your voice," returned the old woman, beaming delightedly at these evidences of kindliness.
"Here is another, Nora," said their cousin, in gentle tones. "I amLouise."
"Three young and pretty girls, Nora; and as good as they are pretty," announced Uncle John, proudly. "Will you show us in, Thomas, or will your wife?"
"Nora will take the young ladies to their rooms, sir."
"Not now, Uncle!" they all protested, in nearly identical words; and Louise added: "Let us drink in the delights of this pretty picture before we shut ourselves up in the stuffy rooms. I hope they've been aired."
Patsy ran to a chicken-coop on the side lawn, where a fussy hen was calling to her children that strangers had arrived. Beth exclaimed at the honeysuckle vines and Louise sank into a rustic chair with a sigh of content.
"I'm so glad you brought us here. Uncle," she said. "What a surprise it is to find the place so pretty!"
They could hear the rush of the Little Bill in the wood behind them and a soft breeze stirred the pines and wafted their fragrance to the nostrils of the new arrivals. Uncle John squatted on the shady steps and fairly beamed upon the rustic scene spread out before him. Patsy had now thrown aside her hat and jacket and lay outstretched upon the cool grass, while the chickens eyed her with evident suspicion. Beth was picking a bouquet of honeysuckles, just because they were so sweet and homely.
"I'm almost sure I sent some hammocks and a croquet set," remarked UncleJohn.
"They're here, sir," said Old Hucks, who had watched each one with his persistent smile and now stood awaiting his new master's commands. "But we didn't know jest where ye wanted 'em put."
Mary came out. She had taken off her things and donned her white apron.
"The house is quite wonderful, Mr. Merrick," she said. "There is everything we can possibly need, and all as neat as wax."
The report stirred the girls to explore. They all trooped into the big living room and were at once captivated by its charm. Nora led them upstairs to their chambers, finding the way as unerringly as if she possessed perfect vision, and here a new chorus of delight was evoked.
"The blue room is mine!" cried Louise.
"Mine is the pink room," said Beth.
"And I choose the white room," declared Patsy. "The Major's is just next, and it will please him because it is all green and gold. But where will Uncle John room?"
"The master will use the right wing," said old Nora, who had listened with real pleasure to the exclamations of delight. "It were Cap'n Wegg's room, ye know, an' we've fitted it all new."
Indeed, Uncle John was at that moment inspecting his apartment, and he sighed contentedly as he congratulated himself upon his foresight in sending down the furnishings on the chance of their being needed. They had effected a complete transformation of the old house.
But who had arranged everything? Surely the perfect taste and dainty touch evidenced everywhere was not to be attributed to blind Nora. The little man was thoughtful as he turned to Old Hucks.
"Who did it, Thomas?" he asked.
"Miss Ethel, sir; the school-ma'am."
"Oh. A city girl?"
"No, sir. Crazy Will Thompson's granddaughter. She lives 'bout nine mile away."
"Is she here now?"
"Went home this mornin', sir. It were a great pleasure to her, she said, an' she hoped as how you'd like everything, an' be happy here."
Undo John nodded.
"We must call on that girl," he remarked. "We owe her a good deal, I imagine, and she's entitled to our grateful thanks."
Millville waited in agonized suspense for three days for tangible evidence that "the nabob was in their midst," as Nib Corkins poetically expressed it; but the city folks seemed glued to the farm and no one of them had yet appeared in the village. As a matter of fact, Patsy and Uncle John were enthusiastically fishing in the Little Bill, far up in the pine woods, and having "the time of their lives" in spite of their scant success in capturing trout. Old Hucks could go out before breakfast and bring in an ample supply of speckled beauties for Mary to fry; but Uncle John's splendid outfit seemed scorned by the finny folk, and after getting her dress torn in sundry places and a hook in the fleshy part of her arm Patsy learned to seek shelter behind a tree whenever her uncle cast his fly. But they reveled in the woods, and would lie on the bank for hours listening to the murmur of the brook and the songs of the birds.
The temper of the other two girls was different. Beth De Graf had brought along an archery outfit, and she set up her target on the ample green the day following her arrival. Here she practiced persistently, shooting at sixty yards with much skill. But occasionally, when Louise tired of her novel and her cushions in the hammock, the two girls would play tennis or croquet together—Beth invariably winning.
Such delightful laziness could brook no interference for the first days of their arrival, and it was not until Peggy McNutt ventured over on Monday morning for a settlement with Mr. Merrick that any from the little world around them dared intrude upon the dwellers at the Wegg farm.
Although the agent had been late in starting from Millville and Nick Thorne's sorrel mare had walked every step of the way, Peggy was obliged to wait in the yard a good half hour for the "nabob" to finish his breakfast. During that time he tried to decide which of the two statements of accounts that he had prepared he was most justified in presenting. He had learned from the liveryman at the Junction that Mr. Merrick had paid five dollars for a trip that was usually made for two, and also that the extravagant man had paid seventy-five cents more to Lucky Todd, the hotel keeper, than his bill came to. The knowledge of such reckless expenditures had fortified little McNutt in "marking up" the account of the money he had received, and instead of charging two dollars a day for his own services, as he had at first intended, he put them down at three dollars a day—and made the days stretch as much as possible. Also he charged a round commission on the wages of Lon Taft and Ned Long, and doubled the liveryman's bill for hauling the goods over from the Junction. Ethel Thompson had refused to accept any payment for what she had done, but Peggy bravely charged it up at good round figures. When the bill was made out and figured up it left him a magnificent surplus for his private account; but at the last his heart failed him, and he made out another bill more modest in its extortions. He had brought them both along, though, one in each pocket, vacillating between them as he thought first of the Merrick millions and then of the righteous anger he might incur. By the time Uncle John came out to him, smiling and cordial, he had not thoroughly made up his mind which account to present.
"I must thank you for carrying out my orders so intelligently," began the millionaire. "Without your assistance I might have found things in bad shape, I fear."
McNutt was reassured. The nabob would stand for bill No. 1, without a doubt.
"I tried fer to do my best, sir," he said.
"And you did very well," was the reply. "I hope you kept your expenditures well within bounds?"
The agent's heart sank at the question and the shrewd, alert look that accompanied it. Even millionaires do not allow themselves to be swindled, if they can help it. Bill No. 2 would be stiff enough; he might even have to knock a few dollars off from that.
"Most things is high in Millville," he faltered, "an' wages has gone up jest terr'ble. The boys don't seem to wanter do nuthin' without big pay."
"That is the case everywhere," responded Mr. Merrick, thoughtfully; "and between us, McNutt, I'm glad wages are better in these prosperous times. The man who works by the day should be well paid, for he has to pay well for his living. Adequately paid labor is the foundation of all prosperity."
Peggy smiled cheerfully. He was glad he had had the forethought to bringBill No. 1 along with him.
"Hosses is high, too," he remarked, complacently, "an' lumber an' nails is up. As fer the live-stock I bought fer ye, I found I had to pay like sixty for it."
"I suppose they overcharged you because a city man wanted the animals.But of course you would not allow me to be robbed."
"Oh, 'course not, Mr. Merrick!"
"And that nag in the stable is a sorry old beast."
Peggy was in despair. Why in the world hadn't he charged for "the beast"? As it was now too late to add it to the bill he replied, grudgingly:
"The hoss you mention belongs to the place, sir. It went with the farm, 'long o' Old Hucks an' Nora."
"I'm glad you reminded me of those people," said Uncle John, seriously."Tell me their history."
Louise sauntered from the house, at this juncture, and sank gracefully upon the grass at her uncle's feet. She carried a book, but did not open it.
"Ain't much to tell, sir, 'bout them folks," replied the agent. "Cap'n Wegg brung the Huckses with him when he settled here. Wegg were a sea-cap'n, ye see, an' when he retired he Wanted to git as far from the sea's he could."
"That was strange. A sailor usually loves to be near salt water all his days," observed Uncle John.
"Wall, Wegg he were diff'rent. He come here when I were a boy, bringin' a sad-faced young woman an' Ol' Hucks an' Nora. I s'pose Hucks were a sailor, too, though he never says nuthin' 'bout that. The Cap'n bought this no'count farm an' had this house built on it—a proceedin' that, ef I do say it, struck ev'rybody as cur'ous."
"Itwascurious," agreed Mr. Merrick.
"But the cur'ous'est thing was thet he didn't make no 'tempt at farmin'. Folks said he had money to burn, fer he loaded it into this fool house an' then sot down an' smoked all day an' looked glum. Ol' Hucks planted the berry patch an' looked arter the orchard an' the stock; but Cap'n Wegg on'y smoked an' sulked. People at Millville was glad to leave him alone, an' the on'y friend he ever had were crazy Will Thompson."
"Crazy?"
"As a loon." The agent hitched uneasily on the lawn bench, where he was seated, and then continued, hastily: "But thet ain't neither here ner there. A baby was born arter a time, an' while he was young the sad-faced mother sickened an' died. Cap'n Wegg give her a decent fun'ral an' went right on smokin' his pipe an' sulkin', same as ever. Then he—he—died," rather lamely, "an' Joe—thet's the boy—bein' then about sixteen, dug out 'n' run away. We hain't seen him sense."
"Nice boy?" asked Uncle John.
"Joe were pretty well liked here, though he had a bit o' his dad's sulkiness. He 'n' Ethel Thompson—crazy Will's gran'daughter—seemed like to make up together; but even she don't know what drav him off—'nless it were the Cap'n's suddint death—ner where he went to."
Uncle John seemed thoughtful, but asked no more questions, and McNutt appeared to be relieved that he refrained. But the bill ought to be forthcoming now, and the agent gave a guilty start as his patron remarked:
"I want to settle with you for what you have done. I'm willing to pay a liberal price, you understand, but I won't submit to being robbed outrageously by you or any of your Millville people."
This was said so sternly that it sent McNutt into an ague of terror. He fumbled for the smallest bill, tremblingly placed it in Mr. Merrick's hand, and then with a thrill of despair realized he had presented the dreadful No. 1!
"It's—it's—a—'count of what I spent out," he stammered.
Uncle John ran his eye over the bill.
"What are Plymouth Rocks?" he demanded.
"He—hens, sir."
"Hens at a dollar apiece?"
"Thoroughbreds, sir. Extry fine stock. I raised 'em myself."
"H-m. You've charged them twice."
"Eh?"
"Here's an item: 'Twelve Plymouth Rocks, twelve dollars;' and farther down: 'Twelve Plymouth Rocks, eighteen dollars.'"
"Oh, yes; o' course. Ye see, I sold you a dozen first, of the dollar kind. Then I thought as how, bein' fine young birds, you'd be tempted fer to eat 'em, an' a dozen don't go fur on the table. So I up an' sold ye another dozen, extry ol' stock an' remarkable high-bred, fer a dollar-an'-a-half each. Which is dirt cheap because they's too old to eat an' jest right fer layers."
"Are they here?"
"Every one of 'em."
"Very good. I'm glad to have them. The cow seems reasonably priced, for a Jersey."
"It is. Jest extror'nary!" exclaimed Peggy, reassured.
"And your people have all done work of an unusual character in a painstaking manner. I am very much pleased. There seems to be a hundred and forty dollars my due, remaining from the five hundred I sent you."
"Here it is, sir," responded McNutt, taking the money from his pocket-book. In another place he had more money, which he had intended to pay if the smaller bill had been presented.
Uncle John took the money.
"You are an honest fellow, McNutt," said he. "I hadn't expected a dollar back, for folks usually take advantage of a stranger if he gives them half a chance. So I thank you for your honesty as well as for your services. Good morning."
The agent was thoroughly ashamed of himself. To be "sech a duffer" as to return that money, when by means of a little strategy he might have kept it, made him feel both humiliated and indignant. A hundred and forty dollars; When would he have a chance to get such a windfall again? Pah! he was a fool—to copy his identical thoughts: "a gol dum blithering idjit!"
All the way home he reflected dismally upon his lack of business foresight, and strove to plan ways to get money "out'n thet easy mark."
"Didn't the man rob you, Uncle?" asked Louise, when the agent had disappeared.
"Yes, dear; but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing I realized it."
"That was what I thought. By the way, that Wegg history seems both romantic and unusual," she said, musingly. "Don't you scent some mystery in what the man said of it?"
"Mystery!" cried Uncle John. "Lordy, no, Louise. You've been readin' too many novels. Romances don't grow in parts like these."
"But I think this is where they are most likely to grow, Uncle," persisted the girl, "just consider. A retired sea captain hides inland, with no companions but a grinning sailor and his blind housekeeper —except his pale wife, of course; and she is described as sad and unhappy. Who was she, do you think?"
"I don't think," said Uncle John, smiling and patting the fair check of his niece. "And it don't matter who she was."
"I'm sure it does. It is the key to the whole mystery. Even her baby could not cheer the poor thing's broken heart. Even the fine house the Captain built failed to interest her. She pined away and died, and——"
"And that finished the romance, Louise."
"Oh, no; that added to its interest. The boy grew up in this dismal place and brooded on his mother's wrongs. His stern, sulky old father died suddenly. Was he murdered?" in a low voice; "did the son revenge his mother's wrongs?"
"Figglepiff, Louise! You're getting theatric—and so early in the morning, too! Want to saddle my new farm with a murder, do you? Well, it's rubbish. Joe Wegg ran away from here to get busy in the world. Major Doyle helped him with my money, in exchange for this farm, which the boy was sensible to get rid of—although I'm glad it's now mine. The Major liked Joe Wegg, and says he's a clean-cut, fine young feller. He's an inventor, too, even if an unlucky one, and I've no doubt he'll make his way in the world and become a good citizen."
With these words Uncle John arose and sauntered around to the barn, to look at the litter of new pigs that just then served to interest and amuse him. The girl remained seated upon the grass, her hands clasped over her knee and a look of deep retrospection upon her face.
Louise Merrick was the eldest of Uncle John's nieces, having just passed her eighteenth birthday. In the city she was devoted to the requirements of fashionable society and—urged thereto by her worldly-minded mother—led a mere butterfly existence. Her two cousins frankly agreed that Louise was shallow, insincere and inclined to be affected; but of the three girls she displayed the most equable and pleasant disposition and under the most trying circumstances was composed and charming in manner. For this reason she was an agreeable companion, and men usually admired her graceful figure and her piquant, pretty face with its crown of fluffy blonde hair and winning expression. There was a rumor that she was engaged to be married to Arthur Weldon, a young man of position in the city; but Uncle John ignored the possibility of losing one of his cherished nieces and declared that Louise was still too young to think of marriage.
When away from her frivolous mother and the inconsequent home environments the girl was more unaffected and natural in her ways, and her faults were doubtless more the result of education than of natural tendency.
One thing was indisputable, however: Louise Merrick was a clever girl, possessing a quick intellect and a keen insight into the character of others. Her apparent shallowness was a blind of the same character as her assumed graciousness, and while she would have been more lovable without any pretence or sham she could not have been Louise Merrick and allow others to read her as she actually was. Patsy and Beth thought they knew her, and admired or liked rather than loved their cousin. Uncle John thought he knew her, too, and was very proud of his eldest niece in spite of some discovered qualities that were not wholly admirable.
An extensive course of light literature, not void of "detective stories," had at this moment primed Louise with its influence to the extent of inducing her to scent a mystery in the history of Captain Wegg. The plain folks around Millville might speculate listlessly upon the "queer doin's" at the farm, and never get anywhere near the truth. Indeed, the strange occurrences she had just heard were nearly forgotten in the community, and soon would be forgotten altogether—unless the quick ear of a young girl had caught the clue so long ignored.
At first she scarcely appreciated the importance of the undertaking. It occurred to her that an effort to read to the bottom of the sea captain's romance would be a charming diversion while she resided at Millville, and in undertaking the task she laughingly accused herself of becoming an amateur detective—an occupation that promised to be thrilling and delightful.
Warned, however, by the rebuff she had met with from Uncle John, the girl decided not to confide either her suspicions or her proposed investigation to anyone for the present, but to keep her own counsel until she could surprise them all with the denouement or required assistance to complete her work.
Inspired by the cleverness and fascination of this idea, Louise set to work to tabulate the information she had received thus far, noting the; element of mystery each fact evolved. First, Captain Wegg must have been a rich man in order to build this house, maintain two servants and live for years in comfort without any income from his barren farm lands. What became of his money after his death? Why was his only son obliged to fly to the cities in order to obtain a livelihood? Secondly, the Captain, a surly and silent man, had brought hither—perhaps by force—a young woman as his wife who was so unhappy that she pined away and died. Who was this woman? What had rendered her so unhappy and despairing?
Thirdly, the Captain's only friend had been a crazy man named Will Thompson. Was he crazy before the Captain's death, or had he become crazed at that time, some terrible tragedy unhinging his mind?
Fourthly, the granddaughter of Thompson, Ethel, and the son of Captain Wegg had been in love with each other, and people expected they would marry in time. But at his father's sudden death the boy fled and left his sweetheart without a word. Why—unless something had occurred that rendered their marriage impossible?
In the fifth place there was Old Hucks and his blind wife to be considered. What did they know about their old master's secret history? What tragic memories lurked beneath the man's perpetual smile and the woman's composed and sightless face?
Surely there was enough here to excite the curiosity and warrant an effort to untangle the mystery. And as instruments to the end there were several people available who could be of use to her; McNutt, the agent, who evidently knew more than he had cared to tell; Old Hucks and his wife and Ethel Thompson, the school-teacher. There might be others, but one or another of these four must know the truth, and it would be her pleasant duty to obtain a full disclosure. So she was anxious to begin her investigations at once.
When her uncle returned from his visit to the pigs Louise said to him:
"I've been thinking, dear, that we ought to call upon that young lady who arranged our rooms, and thank her for her kindness."
"That's true," he replied.
"Can't we drive over to Thompson's this morning, Uncle?"
"Beth and Patsy have planned a tramp to the lake, and a row after water-lilies."
"Then let us make our call together. We can invite the girl to come here and spend a day with us, when Patsy and Beth will be able to meet her."
"That's a good idea, Louise. I was wondering what I'd do this morning.Tell Old Hucks to get the nag harnessed."
The girl ran eagerly upon her errand. Old Hucks seemed surprised, and a curious expression showed for an instant through his smile. But he turned without a word to harness the horse.
Louise stood watching him.
"Your fingers are quite nimble, Thomas, considering the fact that you were once a sailor," she said.
"But sailors have to be nimble, miss," he returned, buckling a strap unmoved. "Who tol' ye I were once a sea-farin' man?"
"I guessed it."
As he appeared indisposed to say more on the subject she asked: "Did you sail with Captain Wegg?"
"Partly, miss. Dan's already now. Don't jerk the bit, fer his mouth's tender an' it makes him balky. Ef he balks jest let him rest a time, an' then speak to him. Dan ain't vicious; he's jest ornery."
She climbed into the dilapidated old buggy and took the reins. Dan groaned and ambled slowly around to where Uncle John stood awaiting his niece.
"Let me drive, Uncle," she said; "I understand Dan."
"Well, I don't," returned Uncle John, in his whimsical way, as he mounted to the seat beside her. "I don't understand how he's happened to live since the landing of Columbus, or what he's good for, or why someone don't knock him on the head."
Dan turned his long, lean face as if to give the speaker a reproachful look; then he groaned again, leaned forward, and drew the buggy slowly into the stony lane.
"Do you know where the Thompsons live?" inquired Uncle John.
"No. Whoa, Dan!"
That was the best thing the nag did. He knew how to whoa.
"Thomas!" called Uncle John, turning in his seat; and at the summons OldHucks came from the barn and approached them. "How do you get to MissThompson's place?"
"Miss Ethel's?" Another fleeting expression of surprise.
"Yes; we're going over to thank her for her kindness to us."
"I—I'm 'most sure as she'll be here soon to call, sir. And—perhaps you oughtn't to—to go to—Thompson's," stammered Hucks, glancing up at them with his bright, elusive smile.
"Well, we're going, anyhow," growled Mr. Merrick.
"Then turn left at the main road an' keep straight ahead to Thompson's.Ye can't miss it, sir. Brick schoolhouse on the other corner."
"Thank you, Thomas. Drive on, Louise."
Dan balked only twice on the journey, but even this moderate rebellion so annoyed Uncle John that he declared he would walk back rather than ride behind this "mulish antiquity" again.
When they came to the Thompson dwelling it at first sight seemed deserted. A knock on the front door failed to produce any response.
"Perhaps they're away from home," suggested Louise.
"There's a path around to the back," said Uncle John. "Let's explore in that direction."
They made their way leisurely toward the rear and had almost passed the house, when a deep roar broke the stillness. It was succeeded by another, and another, like the bellowing of a mad bull, and the intruders stopped short and Louise clung to her uncle in sudden panic.
"Be still, Will! Stop, I say—stop!"
A sharp crack, as of a lash, accompanied the words, and a moan or two was followed by absolute silence.
Uncle John and Louise looked at one another with startled eyes.
"He must be worse," said the old gentleman, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.
With one accord they started softly to retrace their steps when a new sound halted them again. It was a clear, fresh young voice singing a plaintive ditty in a nonchalant, careless tone.
"That's Ethel, I'm sure," exclaimed Louise, grasping her uncle's arm.
"Well, what shall we do?" he demanded.
"Mr.—the crazy man seems quiet now," she whispered. "Let us find the girl, if we can."
So again they traversed the path and this time came to the pretty garden behind the house. Ethel was tending a flower bed. She wore her gingham dress and a sunbonnet, and, kneeling in the path, stretched out her slim brown arm to uproot the weeds. But the crunching of the gravel aroused her attention, and, observing her visitors, she sprang up and hastened toward them.
Louise introduced her uncle and herself in her most pleasant and gracious way, and the school teacher led them to a garden bench and begged them to be seated.
"The day is lovely," she said, "and I always find my garden more cheerful than the house. Grandfather's illness makes the house unpleasant for strangers, too."
Louise was surprised at this frank reference, and Uncle John coughed to hide his embarrassment.
"I—I hope the invalid is—is improving," he said, doubtful whether he should say anything on the delicate subject or not.
"He is always the same, sir," was the quiet response. "I suppose they have told you that grandfather is a madman? Our great trouble is well known in this neighborhood."
"He is not dangerous. I suppose?" hazarded Uncle John, remembering the brutal bellowing.
"Oh, not at all. He is fully paralyzed from his waist down, poor grandfather, and can do no harm to anyone. But often his outbreaks are unpleasant to listen to," continued the girl, deprecatingly, as if suddenly conscious that they had overheard the recent uproar.
"Has he been—this way—for long?" inquired Louise.
"His mind has been erratic and unbalanced since I can remember,"answered Ethel, calmly, "but he first became violent at the time CaptainWegg died, some three years ago. Grandfather was very fond of theCaptain, and happened to be with him at the time of his sudden death.The shock drove him mad."
"Was he paralyzed before that time?" asked Louise, earnestly.
"No; but the paralysis followed almost immediately. The doctor says that a blood vessel which burst in the brain is responsible for both afflictions."
The pause that followed was growing awkward when Uncle John said, with an evident effort to change the subject:
"This is a fine old homestead."
"It is, indeed," responded Ethel, brightly, "and it enjoys the distinction of being one of the first houses built in the foothills. My great-grandfather was really the first settler in these parts and originally located his cabin where the mill now stands. 'Little Bill Thompson,' he was called, for he was a small, wiry man—very different from grandfather, who in his prime was a powerful man of over six feet. Little Bill Hill and Little Bill Creek were named after this pioneer great-grandsire, who was quite successful raising flocks of sheep on the plateau. Before he died he built this house, preferring the location to his first one."
"The garden is beautiful," said Louise, enthusiastically. "And do you teach in the little brick school-house across the way?"
"Yes. Grandfather built it years ago, without dreaming I would ever teach there. Now the county supports the school and pays me my salary."
"How long have you taught?"
"For two years. It is necessary, now that grandfather is disabled. He has a small income remaining, however, and with what I earn we get along very nicely."
"It was very good of you to assist in getting our house ready for us," said Louise. "We might have found things in sorry condition but for your kindness."
"Oh, I enjoyed the work, I assure you," replied Ethel. "As it is my vacation, it was a real pleasure to me to have something to do. But I fear my arrangement of your pretty furniture was very ungraceful."
"We haven't altered a single thing," declared Louise. "You must have found it a tedious task, unpacking and getting everything in shape."
"Tom and Nora were good help, because they are fond of me and seem to understand my wishes; and Peggy McNutt brought me some men to do the lifting and rough work," explained Ethel.
"Have you known Hucks and his wife long?" asked Uncle John.
"Since I can remember, sir. They came here many years ago, with CaptainWegg."
"And has Thomas always smiled?" Louise inquired.
"Always," was the laughing reply. "It's an odd expression—isn't it?—to dwell forever on a man's face. But Tom is never angry, or hurt or excited by anything, so there is no reason he should not smile. At the time of Captain Wegg's death and poor grandfather's terrible affliction, Old Hucks kept right on smiling, the same as ever; and perhaps his pleasant face helped to cheer us all."
Louise drew a long breath.
"Then the smile is a mask," she said, "and is assumed to conceal the man's real feelings."
"I do not think so," Ethel answered, thoughtfully. "The smile is habitual, and dominates any other expression his features might be capable of; but that it is assumed I do not believe. Thomas is a simple-minded, honest-hearted old fellow, and to face the world smilingly is a part of his religion. I am sure he has nothing to conceal, and his devotion to his blind wife is very beautiful."
"But Nora—how long has she been blind?"
"Perhaps all her life; I cannot tell how long. Yet it is wonderful how perfectly she finds her way without the aid of sight. Captain Wegg used to say she was the best housekeeper he ever knew."
"Did not his wife keep house for him, when she was alive?"
"I do not remember her."
"They say she was most unhappy."
Ethel dropped her eyes and did not reply.
"How about Cap'n Wegg?" asked Uncle John. "Did you like him? You see, we're mighty curious about the family, because we've acquired their old home, and are bound to be interested in the people that used to live there."
"That is natural," remarked the little school teacher, with a sigh. "Captain Wegg was always kind to me; but the neighbors as a rule thought him moody and bad-tempered." After a pause she added: "He was not as kind to his son as to me. But I think his life was an unhappy one, and we have no right to reprove his memory too severely for his faults."
"What made him unhappy?" asked Louise, quickly.
Ethel smiled into her eager face.
"No one has solved that problem, they say. The Captain was as silent as he was morose."
The detective instinct was alive in Louise. She hazarded a startling query:
"Who killed Captain Wegg?" she demanded, suddenly.
Another smile preceded the reply.
"A dreadful foe called heart disease. But come; let me show you my garden. There are no such roses as these for miles around."
Louise was confident she had made progress. Ethel had admitted several things that lent countenance to the suspicions already aroused; but perhaps this simple country girl had never imagined the tragedy that had been enacted at her very door.
She cordially urged Ethel Thompson to spend a day with them at the farm, and Uncle John, who was pleased with the modesty and frankness of the fair-haired little school teacher, earnestly seconded the invitation.
Then he thought of going home, and the thought reminded him of Dan.
"Do you know," he inquired, "where I could buy a decent horse?"
The girl looked thoughtful a moment; then glanced up with a bright smile.
"Will you buy one off me?" she asked.
"Willingly, my dear, if you've an animal to sell."
"It's—it's our Joe. He was grandfather's favorite colt when his trouble came upon him. We have no use for him now, for I always ride or drive my pony. And grandmother says he's eating his head off to no purpose; so we'd like to sell him. If you will come to the barn I'll introduce you to him."
Joe proved on inspection to be an excellent horse, if appearances were to be trusted, and Ethel assured Mr. Merrick that the steed was both gentle and intelligent.
"Do you use that surrey?" inquired Uncle John, pointing to a neat vehicle that seemed to be nearly new.
"Very seldom, sir. Grandmother would like to sell it with the horse."
"It's exactly what I need," declared Mr. Merrick. "How much for Joe and his harness, and the surrey?"
"I'll go and ask what grandmother wants."
She returned after a few minutes, stating a figure that made Uncle John lift his brows with a comical expression.
"A hundred dollars! Do you take me for a brigand, little girl? I know what horses are worth, for I've bought plenty of 'em. Your Joe seems sound as a dollar, and he's just in his prime. A hundred and fifty is dirt cheap for him, and the surrey will be worth at least seventy-five. Put in the harness at twenty-five, and I'll give you two-fifty for the outfit, and not a cent more or less. Eh?"
"No, indeed," said Ethel. "We could not get more than a hundred dollars from anyone else around here."
"Because your neighbors are countrymen, and can't afford a proper investment. So when they buy at all they only give about half what a thing is actually worth. But I'll be honest with you. The price I offer is a good deal less than I'd have to pay in the city—Hutchinson would charge me five hundred, at least—and I need just what you've got to sell. What do you say, Miss Ethel?"
"The price is one hundred dollars, Mr. Merrick."
"I won't pay it. Let me talk with your grandmother."
"She does not see anyone, sir."
Louise looked up sharply, scenting another clue.
"Isn't she well, dear?" she asked in smooth tones.
"She looks after grandfather, and helps Aunt Lucy with the housework."
"Well, come, Louise; we'll go home," said Uncle John, sadly. "I'd hoped to be able to drive this fine fellow back, but Dan'll have to groan an' balk all the way to the farm."
Ethel smiled.
"Better buy at my price, Mr. Merrick," she suggested.
"Tell you what I'll do," he said, pausing. "I'll split the difference.Take two hundred and well call it a bargain."
"But I cannot do that, sir."
"It will help pay you for the hard work of fixing up the house," he rejoined, pleadingly. "Your bill wasn't half enough."
"My bill?" wonderingly.
"The one I paid McNutt for your services."
"I made no charge, sir. I could not accept anything for a bit of assistance to a neighbor."
"Oh! Then McNutt got it, did he?"
"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Merrick. I told Peggy I would not accept payment."
"H-m. Never mind. We're not going to quarrel, little neighbor. May I hitch Joe to the surrey?"
"If you like. I'll help you."
Uncle John led Joe from his stall and together they harnessed the horse to the surrey. The girl knew better than the man how to buckle the straps properly, while Louise stood by helplessly and watched the performance.
Then Uncle John went for old Dan, whom he led, rickety buggy and all, into the Thompson stable.
"I'll send Hucks over to get him, although we might as well knock him in the head," he said as he unharnessed the ancient steed. "Now then, Louise, hop in."
"You'll be sure to come over Thursday, for the day, Miss Thompson?" asked Louise, taking Joe's reins from her uncle's hands.
"I'll not forget such a delightful engagement, be sure."
Uncle John had his pocketbook out, and now he wadded up some bills and thrust them into the little school teacher's hand.
"Drive ahead, Louise," he called. "Good morning, my dear. See you onThursday."
As the vehicle rolled out of the yard and turned into the highway, Ethel unrolled the bills with trembling fingers.
"If he has dared—!" she began, but paused abruptly with a smile of content.
The rich man had given her exactly one hundred dollars.
On Wednesday afternoon McNutt drove the sad-eyed sorrel mare over to the Wegg farm again. He had been racking his brain for a way to get more money out of the nabob, for the idea had become a veritable passion with him and now occupied all his thoughts.
That very morning an inspiration had come to him. Among other occupations he had at one time adopted that of a book-agent, and by dint of persistent energy had sold numerous copies of "Radford's Lives of the Saints" to the surrounding farmers. They had cost him ninety cents a copy and he had sold them at three dollars each, netting a fine profit in return for his labor. The books were printed upon cheap paper, fearfully illustrated with blurred cuts, but the covers were bound in bright red with gold lettering. Through misunderstandings three of these copies had come back to him, the subscribers refusing to accept them; and so thorough had been his canvassing that there remained no other available customers for the saintly works. So Peggy had kept them on a shelf in his "office" for several years, and now, when his eye chanced to light upon them, he gave a snort of triumph and pounced upon them eagerly. Mr. Merrick was a newcomer. Without doubt he could be induced to buy a copy of Radford's Lives.
An hour later McNutt was on his mission, the three copies, which had been carefully dusted, reclining on the buggy seat beside him. Arrived at the Wegg farm, he drove up to the stile and alighted.
Louise was reading in the hammock, and merely glanced at the little man, who solemnly stumped around to the back door with the three red volumes tucked underneath his arm. He had brought them all along to make his errand "look like business."
"Where's the nabob?" he asked blind Nora.
"What's that, Mr. McNutt?" she inquired, as if puzzled. She knew his voice, as she did that of nearly everyone with whom she had ever been brought in contact.
"Why, the nabob; the boss; Mr. Merrick."
"Oh. He's in the barn with Tom, I guess."
McNutt entered the barn. Uncle John was seated upon an overturned pail watching Old Hucks oil Joe's harness. The agent approached him with a deferential bow.
"Sir," said he, "you'll 'scuse my comin' agin so soon to be a-botherin'; but I hev here three copies of Radford's famis wucks on the Lives o' the Saints, in a edishun dee looks——"
"A what?"
"A edishun dee looks, which means extry fine. It's a great book an' they's all out'n print 'cept these three, which I hain't no doubt many folks would be glad to give their weight in gold fer, an' some over."
"Stand out of the light, McNutt."
The agent shifted his position.
"Them books, sir——"
"Oh, take 'em away."
"What!"
"I don't read novels."
McNutt scratched his head, perplexed at the rebuff. His "dee looks" speech had usually resulted in a sale. An idea flashed across his brain—perhaps evolved by the scratching.
"The young lady, sir—"
"Oh, the girls are loaded with books," growled the nabob.
The agent became desperate.
"But the young lady in the hammick, sir, as I jest now left, says to tell ye she wants one o' these books mighty bad, an' hopes you'll buy it for her eddificationing."
"Oh; she does, eh?"
"Mighty bad, sir."
Uncle John watched Thomas polish a buckle.
"Is it a moral work?" he asked.
"Nuthin' could be moraler, sir. All 'bout the lives o'—"
"How much is it?"
"Comes pretty high, sir. Three dollars. But it's—"
"Here. Take your money and get out. You're interrupting me."
"Very sorry, sir. Much obleeged, sir. Where'll I leave the book?"
"Throw it in the manger."
McNutt selected a volume that had a broken corner and laid it carefully on the edge of the oat-bin. Then he put his money in his pocket and turned away.
"Morn'n' to ye, Mr. Merrick."
"Stop a bit," said Uncle John, suddenly.
The agent stopped.
"I believe I paid you ten dollars for Miss Ethel Thompson's services. Is that correct?"
"Ye—yes, Mr. Merrick."
McNutt's heart was in his shoes and he looked guiltily at his accuser, the pale blue eyes bulging fearfully.
"Very well; see that she gets it."
"Of course, Mr. Merrick."
"And at once. You may go."
McNutt stumped from the barn. He felt that a dreadful catastrophe had overtaken him. Scarcely could he restrain the impulse to sob aloud. Ten dollars!—Ten dollars gone to the dogs as the result of his visit to the nabob that morning! To lose ten dollars in order to gain three was very bad business policy. McNutt reflected bitterly that he would have been better off had he stayed at home. He ought to have been contented with what he had already made, and the severe manner the nabob had used in addressing him told the agent plainly that he need not expect further pickings from this source.
In the midst of his despair the comforting thought that Ethel would surely refuse the money came to sustain him; so he recovered somewhat his former spirits. As he turned the corner of the house he observed Louise still reading in the hammock.
In some ways McNutt was a genius. He did not neglect opportunities.
"Here's my las' chance at these idjits," he muttered, "an' I'll learn thet nabob what it costs, to make Marsh McNutt stand out'n his light."
Then he hastened over to the hammock.
"'Scuse me, miss," said he, in his most ingratiating voice. "Is yer uncle 'round anywheres?"
"Isn't he in the barn?" asked the girl, looking up.
"Can't find him, high ner low. But he ordered a book of me t'other day—'Radford's Lives o' the Saints'—an' perhaps you'll take it an' pay me the money, so's I kin go home."
Louise gazed at the man musingly. He was one of the people she intended to pump for information concerning the mystery of Captain Wegg, and she must be gracious to him in order to win his good-will and induce him to speak freely. With this thought in mind she drew out her purse and asked:
"How much were you to be paid for the book?"
"Three dollars, miss."
"Here is the money, then. Tell me—your name is McNutt, isn't it?—how long have you lived in this place?"
"All my life, miss. Thank 'e, miss. Good day to ye, miss."
He placed the book in the hammock beside her.
"Don't go, please." said the girl. "I'd like you to tell me something about Captain Wegg, and of his poor wife who died, and—"
"Nuther time, miss, I'll be glad to. Ye'll find me in my orfice, any time. Jest now I'm in the dumdest hurry ye ever knew. Good day to ye, miss," he repeated, and stumped quickly to the buggy awaiting him. Next moment he had seized the reins and was urging the sorrel mare along the stony lane at her best pace.
Louise was both astonished and disappointed, but after a little thought she looked after the departing agent with a shrewd smile.
"He's afraid to talk," she murmured, "and that only confirms my suspicions that he knows more than he cares to tell."
Meantime McNutt was doing his best to get away from the premises before the discovery was made that he had sold two "Lives of the Saints" to one family. That there might be future consequences to follow his deception never occurred to him; only the immediate necessity for escape occupied his mind.
Nor were his fears altogether groundless. Turning his head from time to time for a glance behind, he had seen Mr. Merrick come from the barn with a red book in his hand and approach the hammock, whereupon the young lady arose and exhibited a second book. Then they both dropped the books and ran into the lane and began shouting for him to stop—the man's voice sounding especially indignant and imperative.
But McNutt chose to be deaf. He did not look around again, and was congratulating himself that he would soon be out of earshot when a sudden apparition ahead caused the mare to halt abruptly. It also caused the cold chills to run down the agent's back. Beth and Patsy had stepped into the lane from a field, being on their way home from their daily walk.
"They're calling to you, sir," said Patsy to the agent. "Didn't you hear them?"
"I—I'm a little deaf, miss," stammered McNutt, who recognized the young ladies as Mr. Merrick's nieces.
"I think they wish you to go back," remarked Beth, thoughtfully watching the frantic waves of Uncle John's chubby arms and Louise's energetic beckonings. They were too far off to be heard plainly, but their actions might surely be understood.
McNutt with reluctance looked over his shoulder, and a second shudder went through him.
"I hain't got time to go back," he said, as an inspiration came to him; "but I guess you kin do jest as well. This book here," picking up the last of the three from the seat, "I offered to sell yer uncle fer five dollars; but he wanted it fer four. I ain't no haggler, you understan', so I jest driv away. Now Mr. Merrick has changed his mind an' is willin' to give five fer it; but there ain't nuthin' small about me. Ef you gals'll jest give me the four dollars ye kin take the book to yer uncle, with my compliments; an' I won't hev t' go back. I'm in a drea'ful hurry."
Patsy laughed at the little man's excited manner.
"Fortunately I have some money with me," she said; "but you may as well take the five dollars, for unless Uncle had been willing to pay it he would not have called you back."
"I think so, myself, miss," he rejoined, taking the money and handing her the volume.
Uncle John and Louise, glaring at the distant group, saw the third red book change hands, and in answer to their renewed cries and gestures Patsy waved the "Lives of the Saints" at them reassuringly and came on at a brisk walk, followed by Beth.
McNutt slapped the sorrel with the ends of the reins so energetically that the mare broke into a trot, and before the girls had come within speaking distance of their uncle, the agent was well out of sight and exulting in the possession of eleven dollars to pay for his morning's work. Even if Ethel accepted that ten, he reflected, he would still be a dollar ahead. But he was sure she would tell him to keep it; and he'd "jest like to see thet air nabob git a penny back agin."
Meantime Uncle John's wrath, which was always an effervescent quality with the little gentleman, had changed to wonder when he saw his nieces approaching with the third red-and-gold book. Louise was leaning against the rail fence and laughing hysterically, and suddenly a merry smile appeared and spread over her uncle's round face as he said:
"Did you ever hear of such an audacious swindle in all your born days?"
"What will you do, Uncle?" asked the girl, wiping the tears of merriment from her eyes. "Have the man arrested?"
"Of course not, my dear. It's worth the money just to learn what talents the fellow possesses. Tell me, Patsy," he continued, as the other nieces joined them, "what did you pay for your book?"
"Five dollars. Uncle. He said—"
"Never mind what he said, my dear. It's all right. I wanted it to add to my collection. So far I've got three 'Lives of the Saints'—and I'm thankful they're not cats, or there'd be nine lives for me to accumulate."
Ethel Thompson came over the next day, as she had promised, and the sweet-faced, gentle school-mistress won the hearts of Uncle John's three nieces without an effort. She was the eldest of them all, but her retired country life had kept her fresh and natural, and Ethel seemed no more mature than the younger girls except in a certain gravity that early responsibility had thrust upon her.
Together the four laughing, light-hearted maids wandered through the pines, where the little school-ma'am showed them many pretty nooks and mossy banks that the others had not yet discovered. By following an unsuspected path, they cut across the wooded hills to the waterfall, where Little Bill Creek made a plunge of twenty feet into a rocky basin below. In spite of the bubbles, the water here showed clear as crystal, and the girls admiringly christened it the "Champagne Cup." They shed their shoes and stockings and waded in the pool, enjoying the sport with shrieks of merry laughter—more because they were happy than that there was anything to laugh at.
Afterward they traced the stream down to a lovely glade a half mile above Millville, where Ethel informed them the annual Sunday-school picnic was always held, and then trailed across the rocky plateau to the farm. By the time they reached home their appetites were well sharpened for Mary's excellent luncheon, and the afternoon was devoted to rest under the shady pines that grew beside the house.
It was now, when they felt thoroughly acquainted and at ease in one another's society, that the girls indulged in talks concerning events in their past, and Ethel was greatly interested in the nieces' recital of their recent trip abroad with Uncle John. They also spoke frankly of their old life together at Elmhurst, where Aunt Jane, who was Uncle John's sister, had congregated her three nieces for the purpose of choosing from among them one to inherit her vast estates. It seemed no source of regret to any of them that a boy, Kenneth Forbes, had finally succeeded to Aunt Jane's property, and this may be explained by the fact that Uncle John had at that interesting juncture appeared to take charge of the nieces. It was quite evident that the eccentric but kindly old fellow had succeeded in making these three girls as happy as their dispositions would allow them to be.
After the most interesting phases of their personal history had been discussed, the nieces began, perhaps unconsciously, to draw from Ethel her own story. It was simple enough, and derived its interest mainly from the fact that it concerned their new friend. Her parents had both passed away while she was young, and Ethel had always lived with her father's father, big Will Thompson, a man reputed very well-to-do for this section, and an energetic farmer from his youth.
Old Will had always been accused of being unsociable and considering himself above the neighboring farmers; and it was true that Bob West, the implement dealer, was his only associate before Captain Wegg arrived. A casual acquaintance with the Millville people might easily explain this.
With the advent of the Weggs, however, a strong friendship seemed to spring up between the retired sea captain and the bluff, erratic old farmer, which lasted until the fatal day when one died and the other became a paralytic and a maniac.
"We have always thought," said Ethel, "that the shock of the Captain's death unsettled my grandfather's mind. They had been sitting quietly in Captain Wegg's room one evening, as they were accustomed to do, when there was a sudden fall and a cry. Thomas ran in at once, and found grandfather raving over the Captain's dead body. The old seaman had heart disease, it seems, and had often declared he would die suddenly. It was a great blow to us all, but especially to Joe."
Her voice softened at this last remark, and Patsy exclaimed, impulsively:
"Tell us about Joe Wegg. Did you like him?"
"Yes," said Ethel, simply; "we were naturally thrown much together in our childhood, and became staunch friends. Grandpa often took me with him on his visits to the Weggs, and sometimes, but not often, the Captain would bring Joe to see us. He was a quiet, thoughtful boy; much like his mother, I imagine; but for some reason he had conceived an intense dislike for his father and an open hatred for this part of the country, where he was born. Aside from these morbid notions, Joe was healthy-minded and frank and genuine. Had he been educated in any other atmosphere than the gloomy one of the Wegg household I am sure Joe's character would have been wholly admirable, and I have never blamed the boy much for his peculiarities. Captain Wegg would not permit him to go to school, but himself attended to such instructions as Joe could acquire at home, and this was so meager and the boy so ambitious that I think it was one cause of his discontent. I remember, when I was sent to school at Troy, that Joe sobbed for days because he could not have the same advantages. He used to tell me wonderful stories of what he would accomplish if he could only get out into the world.
"When he implored his father to let him go away, Captain Wegg used to assure Joe that he would some day be rich, and there was no need of his preparing himself for either a business or a profession; but that did not satisfy Joe's ambition, as you may imagine. And, when the end came, scarcely a dollar of money could be found among the Captain's possessions, and no other property than this farm; so it is evident he deceived his son for some selfish purpose.
"Joe was at last free, and the only thing I reproach him for is going away without a word to me or any of his friends. I heard, indirectly, of his working his way through a technical school, for he was always crazy about mechanics, and then he went to New York and I lost all further trace of him."
"What do you suppose became of Captain Wegg's money?" asked Louise.
"I've no idea. It is a singular thing that most of my grandfather's savings disappeared at the same time. On account of his mental condition he can never tell us what became of his little fortune; but luckily the returns from the farm, which we rent on shares, and my own salary as teacher of the district school, enable us to live quite comfortably, although we must be economical."
"Why, it's really a romance!" cried Patsy, who had listened eagerly.
"There are many romances in real life," added Beth, in her undemonstrative way.
Louise said nothing, but her heart was throbbing with excitement engendered by the tale, which so strongly corroborated the suspicions she had begun to entertain. When Ethel had gone home Louise still deliberated upon this fascinating mystery, and her resolve grew to force some sort of an explanation from the smiling lips of Old Hucks. For the sole available witness of that fatal night's tragedy, when one strong man died and another was driven mad, was Thomas Hucks. The old servitor was also in a position to know much of the causes leading up to the catastrophe, he having been the confidential retainer of Captain Wegg for many years. Hucks must speak; but the girl was wise enough to realize that he would not do so unless urged by coaxing or forced by strategy. There was doubtless good reason why the old man had remained silent for three years. Her plan was to win his confidence. Interest him in Joe's welfare, and then the truth must come out.
The frankly related story of Ethel had supplied Louise with the motive for the crime, for that a crime had been committed she was now doubly sure. Captain Wegg had money; old Will Thompson had money; both were well-to-do men. In a retired country district, where there were no banks, it was reasonable to suppose they kept large sums of money on hand, and the knowledge of this fact had tempted some one to a dreadful deed. Captain Wegg had been killed and old Thompson perhaps injured by a blow upon the head from which he had never recovered. Any suspicion the fair young detective may have entertained that Thompson himself had killed his friend was eradicated by the fact that he had been robbed at the same time.
Louise had originally undertaken her investigation through curiosity and a desire to amuse herself by unveiling the mystery. Now she began to reflect that she was an instrument of justice, for a discovery of the truth might restore a fortune to poor Joe Wegg, now struggling with the world, and put sweet Ethel Thompson in a position where the necessity for her to teach school would be abolished. This thought added a strong impulse to her determination to succeed.
Sunday afternoon the girl took blind Nora for a long drive through the country, taking pains to explain to her all the points of interest they came to, and delighting the old woman with her bright chatter. Louise had been kind to Nora from the beginning, and her soft, sympathetic voice had quite won the poor creature's heart.
On the way home, in the delightful summer twilight, the girl dexterously led the conversation toward Nora's past history.
"Was Thomas a sailor when you married him?" she asked.
"Yes, miss. He were bos'n on Cap'n Wegg's schooner the 'Lively Kate,' an' I were livin' with Miss Mary, as come to be Mrs. Wegg arterward."
"Oh, I see. And were you blind then, Nora?"
"No, miss. I went blind arter our great trouble come to us."
"Trouble? Oh, I'm so sorry, dear. What was it?"
The old woman was silent for a time. Then she said:
"I'd better not mention it, I guess. Thomas likes to forgit, an' when I gets cryin' an' nervous he knows I've been thinkin' 'bout the old trouble."
Louise was disappointed, but changed the subject adroitly.
"And Miss Mary, who was afterward Mrs. Wegg. Did you love her, Nora?"
"Indeed I did, child."
"What was she like?"
"She were gentle, an' sweet, an' the mos' beautiful creetur in all—in—in the place where we lived. An' her fambily was that proud an' aristocratic thet no one could tech 'em with a ten-foot pole."
"I see. Did she love Captain Wegg?"
"Nat'rally, sense she married of him, an' fit all her fambily to do it. An' the Cap'n were thet proud o' her thet he thought the world lay in her sweet eyes."
"Oh. I had an idea he didn't treat her well," remarked the girl, soberly.
"That's wrong," declared Nora, promptly. "Arter the trouble come—fer it come to the Weggs as well as to Tom an' me—the Cap'n sort o' lost heart to see his Mary cry day arter day an' never be comforted. He were hard hit himself, ye see, an' that made it a gloomy house, an' no mistake."
"Do you mean after you moved here, to the farm?"
"Yes, deary."
"I hear Captain Wegg was very fond of Ethel's grandfather," continuedLouise, trying to find an opening to penetrate old Nora's reserve.
"They was good friends always," was the brief reply.
"Did they ever quarrel, Nora?"
"Never that I knows of."
"And what do you suppose became of their money?" asked the girl.
"I don't know, child. Air we gettin' near home?"
"We are quite near, now. I wish you would open your heart to me, and tell me about that great trouble, Nora. I might be able to comfort you in some way."
The blind woman shook her head.
"There's no comfort but in forgettin'," she said; "an' the way to forgit ain't to talk about it."
The unsatisfactory result of this conversation did not discourage Louise, although she was sorry to meet with no better success. Gradually she was learning the inside history of the Weggs. When she discovered what that "great trouble" had been she would secure an important clue in the mystery, she was sure. Nora might some time be induced to speak more freely, and it was possible she might get the desired information from Old Hucks. She would try, anyway.
A dozen theories might be constructed to account for this "great trouble." The one that Louise finally favored was that Captain Wegg had been guilty of some crime on the high seas in which his boatswain, Old Hucks, was likewise implicated. They were obliged to abandon the sea and fly to some out-of-the-way corner inland, where they could be safely hidden and their whereabouts never discovered. It was the knowledge of this crime, she conjectured, that had ruined sweet Mrs. Wegg's life and made her weep day after day until her guilty husband became surly and silent and unsociable.