Chapter XVIII.

       Murder

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      "But in his pulse there was no throb,

       Nor on his lips one dying sob;

       Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath

       Heralded his way to death."

      Siege of Corinth.

      "My brain runs this way and that way; 'twill not fix

       On aught but vengeance."

      Duke of Guise.

      I must now go back to an hour or two before Mary and her friends parted for the night. It might be about eight o'clock that evening, and the three Miss Carsons were sitting in their father's drawing-room. He was asleep in the dining-room, in his own comfortable chair. Mrs. Carson was (as was usual with her, when no particular excitement was going on) very poorly, and sitting up-stairs in her dressing-room, indulging in the luxury of a head-ache. She was not well, certainly. "Wind in the head," the servants called it. But it was but the natural consequence of the state of mental and bodily idleness in which she was placed. Without education enough to value the resources of wealth and leisure, she was so circumstanced as to command both. It would have done her more good than all the æther and sal-volatile she was daily in the habit of swallowing, if she might have taken the work of one of her own housemaids for a week; made beds, rubbed tables, shaken carpets, and gone out into the fresh morning air, without all the paraphernalia of shawl, cloak, boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, in which she was equipped before setting out for an "airing," in the closely shut-up carriage.

      So the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant, well-lighted drawing-room; and, like many similarly-situated young ladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the time until the tea-hour. The elder two had been at a dancing-party the night before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. One tried to read "Emerson's Essays," and fell asleep in the attempt; the other was turning over a parcel of new music, in order to select what she liked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. The air was heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scented flowers, which sent out their night odours from an adjoining conservatory.

      The clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. Sophy (the sleeping sister) started up at the sound.

      "What o'clock is that?" she asked.

      "Eight," said Amy.

      "Oh dear! how tired I am! Is Harry come in? Tea would rouse one up a little. Are not you worn out, Helen?"

      "Yes; I am tired enough. One is good for nothing the day after a dance. Yet I don't feel weary at the time; I suppose it is the lateness of the hours."

      "And yet, how could it be managed otherwise? So many don't dine till five or six, that one cannot begin before eight or nine; and then it takes a long time to get into the spirit of the evening. It is always more pleasant after supper than before."

      "Well, I'm too tired to-night to reform the world in the matter of dances or balls. What are you copying, Amy?"

      "Only that little Spanish air you sing—'Quien quiera.'"

      "What are you copying it for?" asked Helen.

      "Harry asked me to do it for him this morning at breakfast-time,—for Miss Richardson, he said."

      "For Jane Richardson!" said Sophy, as if a new idea were receiving strength in her mind.

      "Do you think Harry means any thing by his attention to her?" asked Helen.

      "Nay, I do not know any thing more than you do; I can only observe and conjecture. What do you think, Helen?"

      "Harry always likes to be of consequence to the belle of the room. If one girl is more admired than another, he likes to flutter about her, and seem to be on intimate terms with her. That is his way, and I have not noticed any thing beyond that in his manner to Jane Richardson."

      "But I don't think she knows it's only his way. Just watch her the next time we meet her when Harry is there, and see how she crimsons, and looks another way when she feels he is coming up to her. I think he sees it, too, and I think he is pleased with it."

      "I dare say Harry would like well enough to turn the head of such a lovely girl as Jane Richardson. But I'm not convinced that he is in love, whatever she may be."

      "Well, then!" said Sophy, indignantly, "though it is our own brother, I do think he is behaving very wrongly. The more I think of it the more sure I am that she thinks he means something, and that he intends her to think so. And then, when he leaves off paying her attention—"

      "Which will be as soon as a prettier girl makes her appearance," interrupted Helen.

      "As soon as he leaves off paying her attention," resumed Sophy, "she will have many and many a heart-ache, and then she will harden herself into being a flirt, a feminine flirt, as he is a masculine flirt. Poor girl!"

      "I don't like to hear you speak so of Harry," said Amy, looking up at Sophy.

      "And I don't like to have to speak so, Amy, for I love him dearly. He is a good, kind brother, but I do think him vain, and I think he hardly knows the misery, the crimes, to which indulged vanity may lead him."

      Helen yawned.

      "Oh! do you think we may ring for tea? Sleeping after dinner always makes me so feverish."

      "Yes, surely. Why should not we?" said the more energetic Sophy, pulling the bell with some determination.

      "Tea directly, Parker," said she, authoritatively, as the man entered the room.

      She was too little in the habit of reading expressions on the faces of others to notice Parker's countenance.

      Yet it was striking. It was blanched to a dead whiteness; the lips compressed as if to keep within some tale of horror; the eyes distended and unnatural. It was a terror-stricken face.

      The girls began to put away their music and books, in preparation for tea. The door slowly opened again, and this time it was the nurse who entered. I call her nurse, for such had been her office in by-gone days, though now she held rather an anomalous situation in the family. Seamstress, attendant on the young ladies, keeper of the stores; only "Nurse" was still her name. She had lived longer with them than any other servant, and to her their manner was far less haughty than to the other domestics. She occasionally came into the drawing-room to look for things belonging to their father or mother, so it did not excite any surprise when she advanced into the room. They went on arranging their various articles of employment.

      She wanted them to look up. She wanted them to read something in her face—her face so full of woe, of horror. But they went on without taking any notice. She coughed; not a natural cough; but one of those coughs which ask so plainly for remark.

      "Dear nurse, what is the matter?" asked Amy. "Are not you well?"

      "Is mamma ill?" asked Sophy, quickly.

      "Speak, speak, nurse!" said they all, as they saw her efforts to articulate, choked by the convulsive rising in her throat. They clustered round her with eager faces, catching a glimpse of some terrible truth to be revealed.

      "My dear young ladies! my dear girls," she gasped out at length, and then she burst into tears.

      "Oh! do tell us what it is, nurse," said one. "Any thing is better than this. Speak!"

      "My children! I don't know how to break it to you. My dears, poor Mr. Harry is brought home—"

      "Brought