Norman had little care for money. Before the fatal advent of Amy, I had supplied him freely with the means of gratifying his tastes; but when I found that he expended his allowance in presents for his fair cousin, on the plea of hard necessity I restricted his supplies, and finally limited him to a pittance, which only a feeble regard for the memory of our indulgent mother forced me to grant.
One day—I remember it well—he came to me with joy depicted in his countenance, and displayed a recent purchase, the fruits of his forced economy. It was a fine rifle; and he urged me and Amy to come and see him make a trial of the weapon. I rebuked him for his extravagance with a sharpness which brought tears into his eyes—but I consented to witness the trial. His first shot centered the target. He loaded again, and handed the weapon to me. My bullet was nowhere to be found. Norman's second shot lapped his first. Mine was again wide of the mark. Norman laughed thoughtlessly. Amy looked grave, for with a woman's quickness she had guessed at the truth of my feelings. I cut the scene short by summoning both to their studies. That morning Norman, whose thoughts were with his rifle, blundered sadly in his mathematics, and I rebuked him with more than my usual asperity.
Be it understood that my character stood high with the world. I was not undistinguished in public life, and had the rare good fortune to conciliate both parties. I was a working man in many charitable and philanthropic societies. I was a member of a church, and looked up to as a model of piety. As a husband and brother, I was held up as an example. I had so large a capital of character, I could deal in crime to an unlimited amount.
Some days after the occurrence just related, I was alone with my brother in the library.
"Come, Norman," said I, "leave those stupid books. Study is a poor business for a young free heart like yours. Leave books for old age and the rheumatism."
Norman sprang up joyously. "With all my heart, brother; I'm with you for a gallop or a ramble."
"I'm but a poor horseman, and an indifferent walker," I answered. "What do you say to a little rifle practice? I should like to try to mend my luck."
Norman's rifle was in his hand in a moment, and whistling his favorite spaniel, he sallied forth with me into the bright, sunshiny autumnal day. We hied to a hollow in the woods where he had set up a target. He made the first shot—a splendid one—and then reloaded the rifle.
"Take care," said he, "how you handle the trigger; you know the lock is an easy one—I am going to have it altered." And he went forward to set the target firmer in the ground, as his shot had shaken it.
He was twenty paces off—his back turned towards me. I lifted the rifle, and covered him with both sights. It was the work of a moment. My hand touched the trigger. A sharp report followed—the puff of blue smoke swirled upward—and my brother fell headlong to the ground. The bullet had gone crashing through his skull. He never moved.