Agatha Webb | Page 2

it was evident that the topic deeply
interested them. One of the five who had not previously spoken now
put in a word:
"I saw him when he first led out Miss Page to dance, and I saw him
again when he stood up opposite her in the last quadrille, and I tell you,
boys, there was a mighty deal of difference in the way he conducted
himself toward her in the beginning of the evening and the last. You
wouldn't have thought him the same man. Reckless young fellows like
him are not to be caught by dimples only. They want cash."
"Or family, at least; and she hasn't either. But what a pretty girl she is!
Many a fellow as rich as he and as well connected would be satisfied
with her good looks alone."
"Good looks!" High scorn was observable in this exclamation, which
was made by the young man whom I have before characterised as
ungainly. "I refuse to acknowledge that she has any good looks. On the
contrary, I consider her plain."
"Oh! Oh!" burst in protest from more than one mouth. "And why does
she have every fellow in the room dangling after her, then?" asked the
player on the flageolet.

"She hasn't a regular feature."
"What difference does that make when it isn't her features you notice,
but herself?"
"I don't like her."
A laugh followed this.
"That won't trouble her, Sweetwater. Sutherland does, if you don't, and
that's much more to the point. And he'll marry her yet; he can't help it.
Why, she'd witch the devil into leading her to the altar if she took a
notion to have him for her bridegroom."
"There would be consistency in that," muttered the fellow just
addressed. "But Mr. Frederick--"
"Hush! There's some one on the doorstep. Why, it's she!"
They all glanced back. The graceful figure of a young girl dressed in
white was to be seen leaning toward them from the open doorway.
Behind her shone a blaze of light--the candles not having been yet
extinguished in the hall--and against this brilliant background her slight
form, with all its bewitching outlines, stood out in plain relief.
"Who was that?" she began in a high, almost strident voice, totally out
of keeping with the sensuous curves of her strange, sweet face. But the
question remained unanswered, for at that moment her attention, as
well as that of the men lingering at the gate, was attracted by the sound
of hurrying feet and confused cries coming up the hill.
"Murder! Murder!" was the word panted out by more than one harsh
voice; and in another instant a dozen men and boys came rushing into
sight in a state of such excitement that the five musicians recoiled from
the gate, and one of them went so far as to start back toward the house.
As he did so he noticed a curious thing. The young woman whom they
had all perceived standing in the door a moment before had vanished,
yet she was known to possess the keenest curiosity of any one in town.

"Murder! Murder!" A terrible and unprecedented cry in this old,
God-fearing town. Then came in hoarse explanation from the jostling
group as they stopped at the gate: "Mrs. Webb has been killed! Stabbed
with a knife! Tell Mr. Sutherland!"
Mrs. Webb!
As the musicians heard this name, so honoured and so universally
beloved, they to a man uttered a cry. Mrs. Webb! Why, it was
impossible. Shouting in their turn for Mr. Sutherland, they all crowded
forward.
"Not Mrs. Webb!" they protested. "Who could have the daring or the
heart to kill HER?"
"God knows," answered a voice from the highway. "But she's dead--
we've just seen her!"
"Then it's the old man's work," quavered a piping voice. "I've always
said he would turn on his best friend some day. 'Sylum's the best place
for folks as has lost their wits. I--"
But here a hand was put over his mouth, and the rest of the words was
lost in an inarticulate gurgle. Mr. Sutherland had just appeared on the
porch.
He was a superb-looking man, with an expression of mingled kindness
and dignity that invariably awakened both awe and admiration in the
spectator. No man in the country--I was going to say no woman was
more beloved, or held in higher esteem. Yet he could not control his
only son, as everyone within ten miles of the hill well knew.
At this moment his face showed both pain and shock.
"What name are you shouting out there?" he brokenly demanded.
"Agatha Webb? Is Agatha Webb hurt?"
"Yes, sir; killed," repeated a half-dozen voices at once. "We've just

come from the house. All the town is up. Some say her husband did it."
"No,