GREY'S LAST WORDS
Rigid, hideous, stands the Leonville school-house sharply outlined
against the sky, upon the summit of a high, rising ground. It stands
quite alone as though in proud distinction for its classic vocation.
Its flat, uninteresting sides; its staring windows; its high-pitched
roof of warped shingles; its weather-boarding, innocent of paint; its
general air of neglect; these things strike one forcibly in that
region of Nature's carefully-finished handiwork.
However, its cheerless aspect was for the moment rendered less
apparent than usual by reason of many people gathered about the
storm-porch, and the number and variety of farmers' sleighs grouped
about the two tying-posts which stood by the roadside in front of it
An unbroken level of smooth prairie footed one side of the hill,
whilst at the back of the house stretched miles of broken, hilly
woodland.
The wedding party had arrived from Loon Dyke Farm. Hephzibah Malling
had gathered her friends together, and all had driven over for the
happy event amidst the wildest enthusiasm and excited anticipation.
Each girl, clad in her brightest colours beneath a sober outer
covering of fur, was accompanied by her attendant swain, the latter
well oiled about the hair and well bronzed about the face, and glowing
as an after-effect of the liberal use of soap and water. A wedding was
no common occurrence, and, in consequence, demanded special mark of
appreciation. No work would be done that day by any of those who
attended the function.
But the enthusiasm of the moment had died out at the first breath of
serious talk--talk inspired by the non-appearance of the bridegroom.
The hour of the ceremony was close at hand and still he had not
arrived. He should have been the first upon the scene. The elders were
agitated, the younger folk hopeful and full of excuses for the belated
groom, the Minister fingered his great silver timepiece nervously. He
had driven over from Lakeville, at much inconvenience to himself, to
officiate at the launching of his old friend's daughter upon the high
seas of wedded life.
The older ladies had rallied to Mrs. Malling's side. The younger
people held aloof. There was an ominous grouping and eager whispering,
and eyes were turned searchingly upon the grey trail which stretched
winding away towards the western horizon.
The Rev. Charles Danvers, the Methodist minister of Lakeville, was the
central figure of the situation, and at whom the elder ladies fired
their comments and suggestions. There could be no doubt, from the
nature and tone of these remarks, that a panic was spreading.
"It's quite too bad, you know," said Mrs. Covill, an iron-grey haired
lady of decided presence and possessing a hooked nose. "I can't
understand it in a man of Mr. Grey's business-like ways. Now he's
just the sort of man whom I should have expected would have been here
at least an hour before it was necessary."
"It is just his sort that fail on these occasions," put in Mrs.
Ganthorn pessimistically. "He's just too full of business for my
fancy. What is the time now, Mr. Danvers?"
"On the stroke of the half-hour," replied the parson, with a gloomy
look. "My eyesight is not very good; can I see anything on the trail,
or is that black object a bush?"
"Bush," said some one shortly.
"Ah," ejaculated the parson. Then he turned to Mrs. Malling, who stood
beside him staring down the trail with unblinking eyes. Her lips were
pursed and twitching nervously. "There can have been no mistake about
the time, I suppose?"
"Mistake? No," retorted the good lady with irritation. "Folks don't
make no mistake about the hour of their wedding. Not the bridegroom,
anyway. No, it's an accident, that's what it is, as sure as my name's
Hephzibah Malling. And that's what comes of his staying at Ainsley
when he ought to have been hereabouts. To think of a man driving forty
odd miles to get married. La' sakes! It just makes me mad with him.
There's my girl there most ready to cry her eyes out on her wedding
morning, and small blame to her neither. It's a shame, and I'm not the
one to be likely to forget to tell him so when he comes along. If he
were my man he'd better his ways, I know."
No one replied to the old lady's heated complaint. They all too
cordially agreed with her to defend the recalcitrant bridegroom. Mr.
Danvers drew out his watch for at least the twentieth time.
"Five minutes overdue," he murmured. Then aloud and in a judicial
tone: "We must allow him some margin. But, as you say, it certainly
was a mistake his remaining at Ainsley."
"Mistake--mistake, indeed," Mrs. Malling retorted, with all the scorn
she was capable of. "He's that fool-headed that he won't listen to no
reason. Why couldn't he have stopped at the farm? Propriety--
fiddlesticks!" Her face was flushed and her brow ominously puckered;
she folded her fat hands with no uncertain grip across the slight
frontal hollow which answered her purpose for a waist. Her anger was
chiefly based upon alarm, and that alarm was not alone for her
daughter. She was anxious for the man himself, and her anxiety found
vent in that peculiar angry protest which is so little meant by those
who resort to it. The good dame was on pins and needles of nervous
suspense. Had Grey suddenly appeared upon the scene doubtless her
kindly face would have at once wreathed itself into a broad expanse of
smiles. But the moments flew by and still the little group waited for
the coming which was so long delayed.
Three of the young men approached the agitated mother from the
juvenile gathering. Their faces were solemn. Their own optimism had
given way before the protracted delay. Tim Gleichen and Peter Furrers
came first, Andy, the choreman, brought up the rear.
"We've been thinking," said Tim, feeling it necessary to explain the
process which had brought them to a certain conclusion, "that maybe we
might just drive down the trail to see if we can see anything of him,
Mrs. Malling. Ye can't just say how things have gone with him. Maybe
he's struck a 'dump' and his sleigh's got smashed up. There's some
tidy drifts to come through, and it's dead easy to get dumped in 'em.
Peter and Andy here have volunteered to go with me."
"That's real sensible of you, Tim," replied Mrs. Malling, with an air
of relief. She felt quite convinced that an accident had happened. She
turned to the minister. In this matter she considered he was the best
judge. Like many of her neighbours, she looked to the minister as the
best worldly as well as spiritual adviser of his flock. "Like as not
the boys will be able to help him?" she suggested, in a tone of
inquiry.
"I don't think I should let them go yet," the man of the cloth
replied. "I should give him an hour. It seems to me it will be time
enough then. Ah, here's Mrs. Gurridge," as that lady appeared in the
doorway. "There's no sign of him," he called out in anticipation of
her inquiry. "I hope you are not letting the bride worry too much."
"It's too dreadful," said Mrs. Ganthorn, as her thoughts reverted to
Prudence waiting in the school-ma'am's sitting-room.
"Whatever can have happened to him?"
"That's what's been troubling us this hour and more," snapped the
girl's mother. She was in no humour to be asked silly questions,
however little they were intended to be answered.
She turned to Sarah. In this trouble the peaceful Sarah would act as
oil on troubled waters.
Sarah understood her look of inquiry.
"She's bearing up bravely, Hephzibah. She's not one of the crying
sort. Too much of your Silas in her for that. I've done my best to
console her."
She did not say that she had propounded several mottos more or less
suitable to the occasion, which had been delivered with great unction
to the disconsolate girl. Prudence had certainly benefited by the good
woman's company, but not in the way Sarah had hoped and believed. It
was the girl's own sense of humour which had helped her.
Mrs. Malling turned away abruptly. Her red face had grown a shade
paler, and her round, brown eyes were suspiciously watery. But she
gazed steadily down the trail on which all her hopes were set. The
guests stood around in respectful silence. The party which had arrived
so light-heartedly had now become as solemn as though they had come to
attend a funeral. The minister continued to glance at his watch from
time to time. He had probably never in his life so frequently referred
to that faithful companion of his preaching hours. Tim Gleichen and
Peter Furrers and Andy had moved off in the direction of the sleighs.
The others followed Mrs. Malling's example and bent their eyes upon
the vanishing point of the trail.
Suddenly an ejaculation escaped one of the bystanders. Something
moving had just come into view. All eyes concentrated upon a black
speck which was advancing rapidly in a cloud of ground snow. Hope rose
at a bound to wild, eager delight. The object was a sleigh. And the
speed at which it was coming down the trail told them that it was
bearing the belated bridegroom, who, conscious of his fault, was
endeavouring to make up the lost time. Mrs. Malling's round face shone
again in her relief, and a sigh of content escaped her. Word was sent
at once to the bride, and all was enthusiasm again. Then followed a
terrible shock. Peter Furrer, more long-sighted than the rest,
delivered it in a boorish fashion all his own.
"Ther' ain't no one aboard of that sleigh," he called out. "Say, them
plugs is just boltin'. Gum, but they be comin' hell-belt-fer-leckshuns."
Every one understood his expression, and faces that a moment before
had been radiant with hope changed their expression with equal
suddenness to doubt, then in a moment to apprehension.
"You don't say----" Mrs. Malling gasped; it was all she could say.
"It can't----" The minister got no further, and he fingered his watch
from force of habit.
"It's----" some one said and broke off. Then followed an excited
murmur. "What's Peter going to do?"
The young giant had darted off down the trail in the direction of the
approaching sleigh. He lurched heavily over the snow, his ungainly
body rolling to his gait, but he was covering ground in much the same
way that a racing elephant might. His stride carried him along at a
great pace. The onlookers wondered and exclaimed, their gaze
alternating in amazement between the two objects, the oncoming sleigh
and the huge lurching figure of the boy.
Now the sleigh was near enough for them to note the truth of Peter's
statement. The horses, ungoverned by any guiding hand, were tearing
along at a desperate pace. The cutter bumped and swayed in a
threatening manner; now it was lifted bodily from the trail as its
runners struck the banked sides of the furrows; now it balanced on one
side, hovering between overturning and righting itself, now on the
other; then again it would jerk forward with a rush on to the heels of
the affrighted horses with maddening effect. The poor brutes stretched
themselves wildly to escape from their terror. On they came amidst a
whirl of flying snow, and Peter had halted beside the trail awaiting
them.
Those who were watching saw the boy move outside the beaten track.
Already the panting of the runaways could be heard by those looking
on. If the animals were not stayed in their mad career they must
inevitably crash into the school-house or collide with the sleighs at
the tying-posts. There was no chance of their leaving the beaten
trail, for they were prairie horses.
Some of the men, as the realization of this fact dawned upon them,
hurried away to remove their possessions to some more secure position,
but most of them remained gaping at the runaway team.
Now they saw Peter crouch down, beating the snow under his feet to
give himself a firm footing. Barely fifty yards separated him from the
sleigh. He settled himself into an attitude as though about to spring.
Nearer drew the sleigh. The boy's position was fraught with the
greatest danger. The onlookers held their breath. What did he
contemplate? Peter had methods peculiar to himself, and those who
looked wondered. Nearer--nearer came the horses. A moment more and the
boy was lost in the cloud of snow which rose beneath the horses'
speeding feet. A sigh broke from many of the ladies as they saw him
disappear. Then, next, there came an exclamation of relief as they saw
his bulky figure struggling wildly to draw himself up over the high
back of the sleigh. It was no easy task, but Peter's great strength
availed him. They saw him climb over and stand upon the cushion, then,
for a moment, he looked down as though in doubt.
At last he leaned forward, and, laying hold of the rail of the
incurved dashboard, he climbed laboriously out on to the setting of
the sleigh's tongue. The flying end of one of the reins was waving
annoyingly beyond his reach. He ventured out further, still holding to
the dashboard, which swayed and bent under the unaccustomed weight.
Suddenly he made a grab and caught the elusive strap and overbalanced
in the effort. He came within an ace of falling, but was saved by
lurching on to the quarters of one of the horses. With a struggle he
recovered himself and regained the sleigh. The rest was the work of a
few seconds.
Bracing himself, he leant his whole weight on the single rein. The
horses swerved at once, and leaving the trail plunged into the deep
snow. The frantic animals fell, recovered themselves, and floundered
on, then with a great jolt the sleigh turned over. Peter shot clear of
the wreck, but with experience of such capsizes, he clung tenaciously
to the rein. He was dragged a few yards; then, trembling and ready to
start off again at a moment's notice, the jaded beasts stood.
There was a rush of men to Peter's assistance. The women followed. But
the latter never reached the sleigh. Something clad in the brown fur
of the buffalo was lying beside the trail where the cutter had
overturned. Here they came to a stand, and found themselves gazing
down upon the inanimate form of Leslie Grey.
It was a number of the younger ladies of the party who reached the
injured man first; the Furrer girls and one of the Miss Covills. They
paused abruptly within a couple of yards of the fur-clad object and
craned forward, gazing down at it with horrified eyes. The next minute
they were thrust aside by the parson. He came, followed by Mrs.
Malling.
In a moment he had thrown himself upon his knees and was looking into
the pallid face of the prostrate man, and almost unconsciously his
hand pushed itself in through the fastenings of the fur coat. He
withdrew it almost instantly, giving vent to a sharp exclamation. It
was covered with blood.
"Stand back, please, everybody," he commanded.
He was obeyed implicitly. But his order came too late. They had seen
the blood upon his hand.
Miss Ganthorn began to faint and was led away. Other girls looked as
though they might follow suit. Only Hephzibah Malling stood her
ground. Her face was blanched, but her mouth was tightly clenched. She
uttered no sound. All her anger against the prostrate man had
vanished; a world of pity was in her eyes as she silently looked on.
The parson summoned some of the men.
"Bear a hand, boys," he said, in a business-like tone which deceived
no one. "We'd better get him into the house." Then, seeing Mrs.
Malling, he went on, "Get Prudence away at once. She must not see."
The old farm-wife hurried off, and the others gently raised the body
of the unconscious man and bore it towards the house.
Thus did Leslie Grey attend his wedding.
The body was taken in by a back way to Sarah Gurridge's bedroom and
laid upon the bed. Tim Gleichen was dispatched at once to Lakeville
for the doctor. Then, dismissing everybody but Harry Gleichen, Mr.
Danvers proceeded to remove the sick man's outer clothing.
The room was small, the one window infinitely so. A single sunbeam
shone coldly in through the latter and lit up the well-scrubbed bare
floor. There was nothing but the plainest of "fixings" in the
apartment, but they had been set in position by the deft hand of a
woman of taste. The bed on which the unconscious man had been placed
was narrow and hard. Its coverlet was a patchwork affair of depressing
hue.
Mr. Danvers bent to his work with a full appreciation of the tragedy
which had happened. His face was solemn, and expressive of the most
tender solicitude for the injured man. In a whisper he dispatched his
assistant for warm water and bandages, whilst he unfastened and
removed the fur coat. Inside the clothing was saturated with still
warm blood. The minister's lips tightened as the truth of what had
happened slowly forced itself upon his mind.
So absorbed was he in his ministrations that he failed to heed the
sound of excited whisperings which came to him from beyond the door.
It was not until the creaking of the hinges had warned him that the
door was ajar, that he looked up from his occupation. At that moment
there was a rustle of silk, the noise of swift footsteps across the
bare boards, and Prudence was at the opposite side of the bed.
The soft oval of the girl's face was drawn, and deep lines of anxious
thought had broken up the smooth expanse of her forehead. Her eyes
seemed to be straining out of their sockets, and the whites were
bloodshot. She did not speak, but her look displayed an anguish
unspeakable. Her eyes were turned upon the face of the prostrate man;
she did not appear to see the minister. Her look suggested some mute
question, which seemed to pass from her troubled eyes to the silent
figure. Watching her, Danvers understood that, for the present, it
would be dangerous to break the dreadful silence that held her. He
stooped again and drew back the waistcoat and began to cut away the
under-garments from Grey's chest.
Swiftly as the minister's deft fingers moved about the man's body, his
thoughts travelled faster. He was not a man given to morbid
sentimentality; his calling demanded too much of the practical side of
human nature. He was there to aid his flock, materially as well as
spiritually, but at the moment he felt positively sick in the stomach
with sorrow and pity for the woman who stood like a statue on the
other side of what he knew to be this man's deathbed. He dared not
look over at her again. Instead, he bent his head lower and
concentrated his, mind on the work before him.
The silence continued, broken only by an occasional heavy gasp of
breath from the girl. The dripping shirt was cut clear of the man's
chest, and the woollen under-shirt was treated in a similar manner.
The exposed flesh was crimson with the blood which was slowly oozing
from a small wound a few inches higher up in the chest than where the
heart was so faintly beating. One glance sufficed to tell the parson
that medical aid would be useless. The wound was through the lungs.
For a moment he hesitated. His better sense warned him to keep
silence, but pity urged him to speak. Pity swayed him with the
stronger hand.
"He is alive," he said. And the next moment he regretted his words.
The tension of the girl's dreadful expression relaxed instantly. It
was as the lifting of a dead weight which had crushed her heart within
her. She had been numbed, paralyzed. Actual suffering had not been
hers, she had experienced a suspension of feeling which had resulted
from the shock. But that suspension was far more dreadful than the
most acute suffering. Her whole soul had asked her senses, "What is
it?" and the waiting for the answer had been to her in the nature of a
blank.
The minister's low murmured sentence had supplied her with an answer.
"He is alive." The words touched the springs of life within her and a
glad flush swept over her straining nerves. Reason once more resumed
its sway, and thought flowed through her brain in an unchecked torrent
It seemed to Prudence as though some barrier had suddenly shut off
the simple life which had always been hers, and had opened out for her
a fresh existence in which she found herself alone with the still,
broken body of her lover. For one brief instant her lips quivered, and
a faint in-catching of the breath told of the woman, which, at the
first return of feeling, had leapt uppermost in her. But before the
maturity of emotion brought about the breakdown, a calm strength came
to her aid and steadied her nerves and checked the tears which had so
suddenly come into her eyes. Women are like this. At a crisis in
sickness they rise superior to all emotion. When the crisis is past,
whether for good or ill, it is different.
The water was brought, and the minister set about cleaning the
discoloured flesh, while Prudence looked on in silence. She was very
pale, and her eyes were painfully bright. While her gaze followed the
gentle movements of the minister, her thoughts were running swiftly
over the scenes of her life in which the wounded man had played his
part. She remembered every look of the now closed eyes, and every
expression of his well-loved features. She called to mind his words of
hope, and the carefully-laid plans for his advancement. Nor was there
any taint of his selfishness in her recollection of these things.
Everything about him, to her, was good and true. She loved him with
all the passionate intensity of one who had only just attained to
perfect womanhood. He had been to her something of a hero, by reason
of his headstrong, dominating ways--ways which more often attract the
love of woman in the first flush of her youth than in her maturer,
more experienced years.
The sponging cleaned the flesh of the ghastly stain, and the small
wound with its blackened rim lay revealed in all its horrid
significance. The girl's eyes fixed themselves on it, and for some
seconds she watched the blood as it welled up to the surface. The
meaning of the puncture forced itself slowly upon her mind, and she
realized that it was no accident which had laid her lover low. Her
eyes remained directed towards the crimson flow, but their expression
had changed, as had the set of her features. A hard, relentless look
had replaced the one of tender pity--a look which indexed a feeling
more strong than any other in the human organism. She was beginning to
understand now that a crime had been committed, and a vengeful hate
for some person unknown possessed her.
She pointed at the wound, and her voice sounded icily upon the
stillness of the room.
"That," she said. "They have murdered him."
"He has been shot." The parson looked up into the girl's face.
Then followed a pause. Sarah Gurridge and Prudence's mother stole
softly in and approached the bedside. The former carried a tumbler of
brandy in her hand and came to Mr. Danvers's side; Mrs. Malling ranged
herself beside her daughter, but the latter paid no heed to her.
The farm-wife lifted the girl's hand from the bedpost and caressed it
in loving sympathy. Then she endeavoured to draw her away.
"Come, child, come with me. You can do no good here."
Prudence shook her off roughly. Nor did she answer. Her mother did not
renew her attempt.
All watched while Danvers forced some of the spirit between Grey's
tightly-closed lips and then stood up to note the effect.
He was actuated by a single thought. He knew that the man was doomed,
but he hoped that consciousness might be restored before the tiny
spark of life burnt itself out. There was something to be said if
human aid could give the dying man the power to say it. Prudence
seemed to understand the minister's motive, for she vaguely nodded her
approval as she saw the spirit administered.
All waited eagerly for the sign of life which the stimulating
properties of the spirit might reveal. The girl allowed her
thoughts to drift away to the lonely trail over which her lover had
driven. She saw in fancy the crouching assailants firing from the
cover of some wayside bluff. She seemed to hear many shots, to see
the speeding horses, to hear the dull sound of the fatal bullet as
her man was hit. She pictured to herself the assassins, with callous
indifference, as the cutter passed out of view, mounting their horses
and riding away. Her thoughts had turned to the only criminals she
understood--horse-thieves.
The sign of life which had been so anxiously awaited came at last. It
was apparent in the flicker of the wax-like eyelids; in the faintest
of sighs from between the colourless lips. Danvers bent again over the
dying man and administered more of the spirit It took almost
instantaneous effect. The eyelids half opened and the mouth distinctly
moved. The action was like that of one who is parched with thirst.
Grey gasped painfully, and a strange rattle came from his throat.
Danvers shook his head as he heard the sound. Prudence, whose eyes had
never left the dying man's face, spoke sharply. She voiced a common
thought "Who did it, Leslie?"
The minister nodded approval. For a moment his eyes rested admiringly
on the girl's eager face. Her courage astonished him. Then, as he read
her expression aright, his wonder lessened. The gulf is bridged by a
single span at the point of transition from the girl to the woman. He
understood that she had crossed that bridge.
Grey struggled to speak, but only succeeded in uttering an inarticulate
sound. The minutes dragged. The suspense was dreadful. They all realized
that he was fast sinking, but in every heart was a hope that he would
speak, would say one word which might give some clue to what had
happened.
The minister applied the rest of the brandy. The dying man's breathing
steadied. The eyes opened wider. Prudence leaned forward. Her whole
soul was in the look she bestowed upon the poor drawn face, and in the
tones of her voice.
"Leslie, Leslie, speak to me. My poor, poor boy. Tell me, how did it
happen? Who did it?"
The man gasped in response. He seemed to be making one last great
struggle against the overwhelming weakness which was his. His head
moved and a feeble cough escaped his lips. The girl put her arm under
his head and slightly raised it, and the dying eyes looked into hers.
She could no longer find words to utter; great passionate sobs shook
her slight frame, and scalding tears coursed down her cheeks and fell
upon the dingy coverlet.
A whistling breath came from between the dying man's parted lips, and
culminated in a hoarse rattling in his throat. Then his body moved
abruptly, and one arm lifted from the elbow-joint, the head half
turned towards the girl, and words distinct, but halting, came from
the working lips.
"He--he--did--it. _Free--P--Press_. Yell--ow--G----" The last word
died away to a gurgle. A violent fit of coughing seized the dying man,
then it ceased suddenly. His head weighed like lead upon the girl's
supporting hand, and a thin trickle of blood bubbled from the corners
of his mouth. Prudence withdrew her arm from beneath him and replaced
the head upon the pillow. Her tears had ceased to flow now.
"He is dead," she said with studied calmness, as she straightened
herself up from the bed.
She moved a step or two away. Then she paused uncertainly and gazed
about her like one dazed. Her mother went towards her, but before she
reached her side Prudence uttered a strange, wild cry and rushed from
the room, tearing wildly at the fastenings of her silk dress as though
to rid herself of the mocking reminder of that awful day.