THE MAGGOT AT THE CORE
Hervey's look of surprise quickly changed to one of displeasure. To
him his sister's attitude merely suggested incredulity, nothing more.
"Well?" he said at last, as her laugh died out suddenly.
Prudence turned upon him with a strange fierceness.
"Go on. You must tell me more than that to convince me. George
Iredale--smuggler, murderer! You must be mad!"
Hervey kept himself well in hand. He was playing for a great stake. He
would lose nothing through any ill-advised bluster.
"I was never more sane in my life," he answered coldly. "I am ready to
prove my words."
"Prove them."
Prudence's face and the tone of her voice were icy. Her mouth was set
firmly, the declined corners testifying to the hard setting of her
jaws. She looked straight into her brother's face with an intentness
which made him lower his eyes. He had no conception of the fires which
he had stirred within her. One unconquerable desire swayed her. This
man must tell her all he knew. Then she would refute every word, tell
him what manner of man he was, and have him driven from the farm. She
hated him at that moment as she might hate a rattlesnake. She was
filled with a longing to strike him, her own brother, to the earth.
Hervey spoke in measured, even tones.
"You know the ranch and its surroundings well. You have been there.
You have heard the so-called owl cries which greet the visitor
upon entering the valley. Those are not owl cries at all, but the
work of human sentries always on the watch, ready to give immediate
alarm at the approach of danger. The secret of the ranch lies in the
graveyard." Prudence started. "That is where I made my first
discovery, a discovery of which I should not have understood the
significance but for your experiences when picnicking in that region
two or three days before. At the time I speak of I had come upon the
cemetery for the first time. I had Neche with me. I paused at the
broken fence which surrounded it, and surveyed the overgrown
graves. While I did so, Neche mouched about among them with canine
inquisitiveness. Suddenly he became agitated, and showed signs of
having hit upon a hot scent. I watched him curiously. He ran up a
path and then paused at one of the stone-marked graves. Here he
began to tear wildly at the edge of it. I followed him up and saw that
he had dug a hole below the stone. I dragged him away, and found that
beneath the stone the grave was hollow. Then I moved hastily away,
and, taking the dog to the ruined dead-house, put him on the scent
again. He dashed in, whining excitedly as he went. It was while I
stood watching for his return that I discovered the most significant
point. Directly under my feet, somewhere under the ground, I heard a
sound of hammering. Then I knew that the graveyard was no longer the
resting-place of the dead, but the abode of the living. Instantly I
remembered all the details of your ghost story, and determined to
witness for myself the scenes you had observed. Settle it for once
and all in your mind. I was troubled with no superstitious fears
upon the matter. I guessed the truth." Hervey broke off, but resumed
quickly. "That evening I returned to the graveyard surreptitiously,
and took up a position in the black shelter of the surrounding
woods. I saw all you saw. But the robed figures were not the ghosts
which you thought them to be; they were Chinese, carrying their boxes
and bundles of personal luggage, and, I have no doubt, a cargo of
opium. Then I understood that the graveyard was honeycombed with
cellars, and that this place formed the central depot of Iredale's
traffic and his distributing station. I can understand how these
'yellow-devils' are distributed by means of loaded hayracks and
such things. The point I have not fathomed is the means by which
the 'goods' are brought into the country. I suggest the only means I
can think of as being almost without risk, and that is the lake."
Hervey paused to watch the effect of his story. Prudence gave no sign.
She no longer looked at her companion, but away across the harvested
fields in the direction of Iredale's ranch. As he waited for her
comment her lips moved.
"Go on," was all she said; and the man proceeded.
"It was an unconscious expression which, in the first flush of
discovery I made use of which ultimately gave me a clue to the rest.
As realization of Iredale's doings came to me I thought of the
notorious 'Traffic in Yellow.' That night I pondered long over the
whole thing. I had learned to like Iredale better than any man I have
ever known. He had always seemed such an honest, straightforward
man. And all of you folks were so fond of him. It was a painful
awakening; but there was worse to come, for, as I lay awake
thinking, there flashed through my brain the recollection of what
you had told me of Grey's death and his reference to the notice in
the paper. Instantly the interpretation of that line came to me. It
related to the yellow traffic. And I shuddered as I reviewed the
possibilities which my discovery opened up. I couldn't rest. A
feverish desire to know the worst assailed me. I questioned you as
you may remember, and, with every reply you gave me, my fears
received confirmation. In the end I could no longer keep silence,
and my anger drove me to a course which I have since almost regretted,
for it has destroyed the last vestige of the regard I entertained for
the man you have all so liked and respected. I went over to the
ranch and challenged George Iredale----"
"On the night of the storm. The night he visited me. Go on."
Prudence's face was ghastly in its pallor. She gave no other sign of
emotion.
"Yes, on the night of the storm. I taxed him with smuggling. He
admitted it. I taxed him with the authorship of that notice----"
"Well?" The girl leant forward in her eagerness.
"He did not contradict it. His attitude was a tacit admission. That is
my evidence."
Hervey ceased speaking, and a long pause followed. The man waited. He
did not wish to hurry her. He was not blind to the fact that she
regarded Iredale with something more than mere friendly feeling, and,
with fiendish cunning, he had played upon the knowledge by his
allusions to his own regard for the man and the trust which they all
placed in him. This woman's love for Iredale he knew would help him;
for, gradually, as the damning evidence he had produced filtered
through her armour of loyal affection, her hatred for the man would be
doubled and trebled. In this Hervey displayed a knowledge of human
nature which one would scarcely have credited him with.
At last Prudence turned. The pallor of her face was unchanged. Only
the look in her eyes had altered. The horror which had shone there had
become a world of piteous appeal. All her soul shone forth in those
sweet, brown eyes. Surely it must have needed a heart of stone to
resist her. Her body was leaning forward, her two brown hands were
held out towards him.
"I don't believe it! I can't believe it! George is no--murderer."
Hervey's great eyes lowered before that heartful look. His face was a
study in hopelessness. From his expression of deep sorrow Iredale
might have been his own brother who was accused of murder.
"I'm afraid there is no hope of what you say, Prue. Leslie was
conscious; he knew what he was saying. _Iredale had every reason for
shooting him_. The circumstantial evidence is damning. The most
sceptical jury would be convinced."
"O God! O God! And he has asked me to be his wife." Prudence covered
her face with her hands, and her body heaved with great, passionate
sobs.
Hervey started at the words. His face lit up with a wicked joy. This
was better than he had expected. George should pay dearly for his
refusal to buy his silence.
"You say he dared to propose to you with that foul crime upon his
soul? He is a worse villain than I had believed. By heavens, he shall
swing for his crime! I had hoped that my news had come in time to save
you this cruel wrong. The scum! The foul, black-hearted scum!"
Hervey's rage was melodramatic. But the girl, even in the depths of
her misery and distraught feelings, was impressed. Her heart cried out
for her lover, and proclaimed his innocence in terms which would not
be silenced. His image rose before her mind's eye, and she looked upon
that kindly, strong face, the vigorous bearing of that manly figure,
and the story she had just listened to became dwarfed as her faith in
him rose superior to the evidence of her senses. It could not be. Her
quivering lips struggled to frame the words she longed to utter, but
no sound came. Hervey's words, his attitude, his appearance of deep,
honest sorrow for his sister paralyzed her faculties and hope died
down in her heart.
The man moved forward to her side, and touched her gently on the
shoulders.
"Come, Prue, we had best go back to the house. I can do no work
to-day. You, too, need quiet for reflection. The heartless villain!"
And he harped upon the information his sister had provided him with.
Prudence allowed herself to be led. She did not care whither she went
or what happened. She was incapable of reasoning. She was stunned by
the cruel blow that had fallen. Later she would recover herself, for
all such blows are but passing; in waking moments mind and reason
cannot long remain inert and sanity obtain. For the present she was a
mere automaton.
Hervey grew uncomfortable at the girl's prolonged silence. He cared
nothing for her feelings; he cared nothing for the heart he had
broken. He cared only for the money he had not yet secured. He
realized only too well that, whatever protest his sister might offer,
he had convinced her of Iredale's guilt; it was only a question of
time before she admitted it openly. But some feeling of doubt prompted
him to secure his wage without delay. Thus his greed rushed him on to
a false trail.
Halfway to the house he broke the silence.
"Well, Prue, you cannot refute my evidence. Iredale is the man you
have all been seeking. I have served you well. You yourself have
escaped a course which would have brought you lifelong regret. Think
of it! What would it have meant to you had you married the man?
Terrible! Terrible!"
The girl looked up. There was a wild, hunted look in her eyes. Her
brother's words had in some way driven her at bay. He had struck a
chord which had set her every nerve on edge, and in doing so had upset
all his best-laid schemes. A flood of passionate protest surged to her
lips and flowed forth in a seething torrent. She remembered what his
story had been told for; she had forgotten for the moment, so well had
he acted his part, and had thought only that what he had said was the
outcome of his regard for her. Now she turned upon him like a
tigress.
"Judas!" she cried, a flush of rage sweeping up into her face as the
words hissed from between her teeth. "You have come to sell this man.
Your thoughts have nothing to do with the meting out of human justice.
You want a price for your filthy work. I loathe you! What curse is on
our family that you should have been born into it? You shall have your
money; do you hear? You shall have it, and with it goes my curse. But
not yet. My conditions are not fulfilled. I do not believe you; your
story has not convinced me; I can see no reason in it. Ha, ha!" and
she laughed hysterically. "You cannot make me believe it because I
will not. You shall have your money, I will not go back on my word;
but you must fulfil the conditions. You must convince me of the reason
in your story. You will earn your pay as you have never earned
anything in your life. Shall I tell you how you will earn it? You will
prove your story before judge and jury. When you have convinced them
you will have convinced me. Then I will pay you. My God, what taint
has brought such blood into the veins of our flesh? If Iredale is the
murderer he shall pay the extreme penalty, and you--whether you like
it or not--shall be instrumental in that punishment. You shall be his
accuser; you shall see him to the scaffold. And after it is over,
after you have received the sum of your blood-money, I will tell the
world of your doings. That you--my brother--demanded a price for your
work. They--the world--shall know you; shall loathe you as I loathe
you. You shall be an outcast wherever you go, stamped with the brand
of Judas--the most despised of all men. Better for you if you stood in
George Iredale's place on the scaffold than face the world so branded.
Oh, you wretched man, you have destroyed my life--my all! Go, and
bring the police. Go to those whose duty it is to listen to such
stories as yours. Now I will drive you to it; you shall go, whether
you like it or not. Refuse, and I will lay the information and force
you to become a witness. You thought you were dealing with a soft,
silly woman; you thought to cajole the price out of me, and then,
having obtained what you desired, to leave me to do the work. Fool!
You will face George Iredale, the accuser and the accused. You shall
earn your money. I know the ways of such men as you. Do you know what
you are doing? Do you know the name that such work as yours goes by?
It is blackmail!"
The girl paused for breath. Then she went on with a bitterness that
was almost worse than the contempt in all she had said before.
"But rest content. Every penny you have asked for shall be yours when
Iredale's crimes are expiated. Nor shall I give to the world the story
of my brother's perfidy until such time as you have gone out of our
world for ever. Go, go from me now; I will not walk beside you."
Hervey's face was a study in villainous expression as he listened to
his sister's hysterical denunciation. He knew the reason of her
tirade. He knew that she loved Iredale. He had convinced her of this
lover's crimes; he knew this. And now, woman-like, she turned upon
him--for his hand, his words had destroyed her happiness. But her
words smote hard. The lowest natures care not what others think of
them, but those others' spoken thoughts have a different effect. So it
was with Hervey. It mattered nothing to him what the girl thought of
him--what the world thought of him. But words--abuse--had still power
to move him.
She struck the right note when she said the money down was what he
wanted. Now he saw that he had over-reached himself, and he cursed
himself for having trusted to a woman's promise. There was but one
thing left for him to do. He controlled himself well when he replied.
"Very well, sister," he said. "In spite of what you say, you are going
back on your word. You should have thought to fling dirt before you
entered into a compact with me. However, I care nothing for all your
threats. As you have said, I want money. Nothing else matters to me.
So I will go to Winnipeg and see this thing through."
"You certainly will have to do so. Andy shall drive you into town
to-night, and I could find it in my heart to wish that I might never
see your face again."
"Very well." Hervey laughed harshly. "As you wish. I accept your
commands. See you as readily fulfil your part of the contract when the
time comes. You do not hoodwink me again with impunity."
And so brother and sister parted. The girl walked on to the house,
her feet dragging wearily over the dusty trail. Hervey paused
irresolutely. His burning eyes, filled with a look of bitter hatred,
gazed after the slight figure of his sister, whose life he had so
wantonly helped to wreck. Then he laughed cruelly and turned abruptly
back on his tracks and returned once more to the harvesters.
Prudence gained the house and went straight to her room. She wanted to
be alone. She wanted to straighten out the chaos of her thoughts. She
heard the cheery voices of her mother and Alice talking in the
kitchen. She heard the clatter of plates and dishes, and she knew that
these two were washing up. But beyond that she noticed nothing; she
did not even see the plump figure of Sarah Gurridge approaching the
house from the direction of Leonville.
Once in her own little room she flung herself into an arm-chair and
sat staring straight in front of her. Her paramount feeling was one of
awful horror. The mystery was solved, and George Iredale was the
murderer. The metal alarm clock ticked away upon the wooden top of her
bureau, and the sound pervaded the room with its steady throb. Her
feelings, her thoughts, seemed to pulsate in concert with its rhythm.
The words which expressed her dominant emotions hammered themselves
into her brain with the steady precision of the ticking--
"George Iredale, the murderer of Leslie Grey!"
The moments passed, but time brought the girl no relief. All thought
of the man who had told her of this thing had passed from her. Only
the fact remained. Slowly, as she sat with nerves tingling and
whirling brain, a flush of blood mounted to her head, her brain became
hot, and she seemed to be looking out on a red world. The ticking of
the clock grew fainter and more distant. The room seemed to diminish
in size, while the objects about her drew nearer and nearer. A sense
of compression was hers, although she seemed to be gazing out over
some great distance with everything around her in due perspective.
Mechanically she rose and opened the window; then she returned to her
chair with something of the action of an automaton.
And as she sat the blood seemed to recede from her brain and an icy
dew broke out upon her forehead. She was numbed with a sort of
paralysis now, and the measured beat of the clock no longer pounded
out the words of her thought. Only her heart beat painfully, and she
was conscious of a horrible void. Something was wrong with her, but
she was incapable of realizing what it was.
She moved, the chair creaked under her, and again thought flowed
through her brain. It came with a rush; the deadly numbness had gone
as quickly as it had come, and once more her faculties worked
feverishly. Now she realized pain, horror, despair, hopelessness in a
sudden, overwhelming flood. She shrank back deeper into the chair as
though to avoid physical blows which were being rained upon her by
some unseen hand.
Presently she started up with a faint cry. She walked across the room
and back again. She paused at the bureau, muttering--
"It can't be! It can't be!" she said to herself, in an agony of
terror. "George is too good, too honest. Ah!"
Her love cried out for the man, but reason checked her while her heart
tried to rush her into extravagant hopefulness. Iredale had admitted
the smuggling. She had seen with her own eyes the doings at the
graveyard. And therein lay the key to everything. Leslie had said so
with his dying breath. But as this thought came to her it was chased
away by her love in a fresh burst of fervour. She could not believe
it. There must be some awful, some horrible mistake.
Slowly her mind steadied itself; the long years of calmness which she
had spent amidst the profound peace of the prairie helped her. She
gripped herself lest the dreadful thought of what she had heard should
drive her to madness. She went over what she had been told with a keen
examination. She listened to her own arguments for and against the man
she loved. She went back to the time when Leslie had told her of his
"coup." She remembered everything so well. She paused as she
recollected her dead lover's anger at George's coming to the party.
And, for a moment, her heart almost stood still. She asked herself,
had she misinterpreted his meaning? Had there been something
underlying his expressed displeasure at George's coming which related
to what he knew of his, George Iredale's, doings at the ranch? Every
word he had said came back to her. She remembered that he had finished
up his protest with a broken sentence.
"--And besides----"
There was a significance in those words now which she could not help
dwelling upon. Then she put the thought from her as her faith in her
lover re-asserted itself. But the effort was a feeble one; her love
was being overwhelmed by the damning evidence.
She moved restlessly from the bureau to the window. The curtained
aperture looked out upon the far-reaching cornfields, which were now
only a mass of brown stubble. In the distance, beyond the dyke, she
could see the white steam of the traction-engine and the figures of
many men working. The carts and racks were moving in the picture, but
for all else the view was one of peaceful, unbroken calm.
Her mind passed on to the time when the party had broken up. She
remembered how in searching for Iredale she had found the two men
quarrelling, or something in that nature. Again Leslie had been on the
verge of telling her something, but the moment had gone by and he had
kept silence. She tried to deny the significance of these things, but
reason checked her, and her heart sank to zero. And she no longer
tried to defend her lover.
Then came the recollection of that picnic. The screech-owls; the boats
laden with their human freight moving suspiciously over the waters of
the great lake. She thought of the graveyard and the ghostly
procession. And all the time her look was hardening and the protests
of her heart slowly died out. If she had doubted Hervey's words, all
these things of which she now thought were facts evident to her own
senses. The hard light in her eyes changed to the bright flash of
anger. This man had come to her with his love, she reminded herself,
and she had yielded to him all that she had power to bestow. The brown
eyes grew darker until their glowing depths partially resembled those
of her brother.
As the anger in her heart rose her pain increased, and she recoiled in
horror at the thought that this man had dared to offer her his love
while his hands were stained with black crime. At best he was a
law-breaker; at the worst he was----
She paced her room with agitated steps. The blood rose to her head
again, and she felt dizzy and dazed. What could she do? What must she
do? She longed for some one to whom she could tell all that was in her
heart, but she could not speak of it--she dared not. She felt that she
must be going mad. Through all her agony of mind she knew that she
loved this man who was--a murderer.
She told herself that she hated him, and she knew that she lied to
deceive herself. No, no, he was not guilty. He had not been proved
guilty, and no man is guilty until he is proved so. Thoughts crowded
thick and fast on her sorely-taxed brain, and again and again her
hands went up to her head with the action of one who is mentally
distracted. But in spite of the conflict that raged within her the
angry light in her eyes grew, and a look which was out of all keeping
with the sweet face was slowly settling itself upon her features.
Again she cried in her heart, "What shall I do?"
Suddenly a light broke through her darkness and revealed to her a
definite course. This man must not be judged, at least by her, without
a hearing. Why should she not go to him? Why not challenge him with
the story? If he were the murderer, perhaps he would strike her to the
earth, and add her to the list of his victims. She laughed bitterly.
It would be good to die by his hand, she thought. Under any
circumstances life was not worth living. The thought fascinated her.
Yes, she would do it. Then her spirit of justice rose and rebelled.
No. He would then go unpunished. Leslie's death would remain
unavenged. The murderer would have triumphed.
She thought long; she moved wildly about the room. And as the hours
passed a demon seemed to come to her and take hold of her. It was the
demon which looked out of her brother's eyes, and which now looked out
of hers. He whispered to her, and her willing ears listened to all he
said. Her heart, torn by conflicting passions, drank in the cruel
promptings.
"Why not kill him? Why not kill him?" suggested the demon. "If he is
guilty, kill him, and your life will not have been lived in vain. If
he be a murderer it were but justice. You will have fulfilled your
promise of vengeance. After that you could turn your hand against
yourself."
And her heart echoed the question, "Why not?"
For nearly an hour she continued to pace her room. Yes, yes! Hers was
the right, she told herself. If he were the murderer she did not care
to live. They should die together; they should journey beyond
together. She thought over all the details, and all the time the demon
looked out of her eyes and jogged her with fresh arguments when her
heart failed. She knew where her brother kept his pistols. She would
wait until he had set out for Winnipeg. Then, on the morrow, she would
ride over to Lonely Ranch.
She nursed her anger; she encouraged it at every turn. And she longed
for the morrow. But outwardly she grew calm. Only her eyes betrayed
her. And they were not the eyes of perfect sanity. They glowed with a
lurid fire, the fire which shone in the fierce, dark eyes of her
brother.