While the Squire had never been a very popular man, in a general way, he was not known to have a single enemy who would be likely to do so dastardly a deed. Neither was the Squire in the habit of keeping money about the house, so that if the murderer knew the ways of his victim, he could not hope to gain a rich reward, therefore some motive besides robbery must have actuated the crime. What this motive was, had yet to be discovered, provided the adage came true that "murder will out."
Of those who were unfriendly to the Squire, none was so prominent to mind as his nephew, Milton Derr, no one would be more profited by the Squire's death than he, for he was next of kin, and, his uncle being unmarried, the property would revert to him. This point was especially emphasized—the uncle being unmarried, and the fact was strongly commented upon, that it was on the very eve of the Squire's marriage that he was murdered. Could the motive have been jealousy? The cause of the open rupture between the two men was generally known—that a woman was at the bottom of it and this woman was the one to whom the Squire was to have been wedded. The whole story was told and retold with many variations.
The neighbors spoke of these things in guarded undertones and with grave shakings of the head, and although no outspoken accusations were made, there was an undercurrent of suspicion, deepening into belief, and growing hourly, like a stream that rapidly swells beyond its banks when fed by countless minor tributaries. Public opinion was slowly and surely fastening the deed on the nephew's shoulders.
These vague rumors and surmises were conveyed from time to time by Mrs. Brown to her daughter's ears, and while the girl steadfastly and persistently asserted Milton Derr's innocence, there was, nevertheless, a horrible and slowly strengthening conviction at work in her own bosom which she could neither silence nor subdue—a conviction that warned her she was building on false hopes, which might at any moment crumble at the touch of circumstantial evidence, and reveal her lover not only to the world, but to her own prejudiced eyes, as a murderer whose soul was stained with a dark crime.
Closely allied to this harassing fear was a far different feeling that she could neither still nor repress, though it seemed a heartless and even cruel one—a feeling of great thankfulness that the Squire's untimely death had relieved her of a sacrifice that would have been but a living death to her.
How could she be sorry that he was no longer alive to claim this sacrifice? To pretend to a grief she did not feel was but base hypocrisy. Within her heart of hearts she was glad that she was free. Her only sorrow lay in the tragic manner of his death, and in the secret fear that Milton Derr, half crazed with a passionate jealousy, was responsible for it. Had it been possible to recall the Squire to life again, and so blot out the fearful act of the past night, she would most gladly have done so, and accepted her fate without a murmur, if its reward had been Milton's safety and innocence.
Possibly she was the only one who knew of Derr's presence in the neighborhood the night before. If such was the case, and he had succeeded in getting away without being seen by others, she would keep the dreadful secret securely locked in her own bosom, and no one should ever suspect its presence. She centered all hope of his safety on this supposition.
Along toward noon, some one passing the New Pike gate on the way from town, brought the latest news bearing on the tragedy.
As Mrs. Brown sought her daughter's presence, as soon as the informant had gone, her tone was almost jubilant, as she said:
"Well, they've caught the murderer."