THE AVENGER
Alice was standing at the gate of the little front garden. She was
talking to her lover, who had just ridden up from the direction of Owl
Hoot. Robb had not dismounted, and his face was very serious as he
leant down towards her.
"And I never knew a word about it. It's a jolly good thing I obtained
the delivery of his bunch of cattle when I did, or goodness knows what
would have happened. Well, anyhow I've lost a nice lump. My client,
when he heard about the place being for sale, wanted to buy it for a
back country for his beeves to winter in. Just my confounded luck. I
knew there was a big fire out this way, but I never thought that
Iredale was the unfortunate victim. Now I've got to go over to
Lakeville to see him--he's staying there, you know, since he was burnt
out. I'll come back this way, and if Mrs Malling can put me up for the
night, I'll be grateful. My 'plug' won't stand the journey back home.
You say Hervey will be along this evening?"
"Yes," replied the girl Then seriously, "What are you going to do?"
"Interview him. There are things about that dog that want explaining.
I take it he can explain 'em. I don't easily forget. And I owe some
one a deal more than I've yet been able to pay. P'r'aps that dog'll
help me to discharge my debt. Good-bye, Al; I must be off or I shan't
get back this afternoon."
Robb turned away in his cheerful, debonair manner and rode off.
Troubles sat lightly on his stout heart. His effervescent nature never
left him long depressed when Fortune played her freakish tricks upon
him. He had lost his commission upon the sale of Iredale's land, but
he had secured the better deal of the cattle. Therefore he was
satisfied. But Robb was a very persistent man in his seemingly
haphazard fashion. He had promised himself an interview with Hervey
about his dog. He had never forgotten or forgiven the disaster in the
mountains, and he believed that Hervey would be able to set him on the
track of Zachary Smith, whom he felt certain he had seen at the
Winnipeg depot. He hoped so; and, for this purpose, he intended to
spend the night at Loon Dyke Farm.
As her lover rode away Alice turned back to the house. The anxious
look was still upon her face. She knew that there was serious trouble
in the family, and she could see no way of helping these people she
loved. Prudence was in sad disgrace with her mother; she had been
absent from the farm for two days and had only returned that morning.
Mrs. Malling had been distracted with anxiety and grief until the
re-appearance of her daughter, and then, when she saw that she was
well and that no accident had happened to her, she had flown into such
a terrible passion that even Prudence had quailed before her. Never
in her life had Alice seen the kindly old soul give way to such rage.
No disparaging epithet had been too bad for her child, and she had
literally chased the girl from the room in which they had met. Since
then Prudence had retreated to her bedroom, and Hephzibah had poured
out the vials of her wrath upon an empty kitchen, for even the
long-suffering hired girl had feared to face her.
Now, as Alice approached the front door again, she heard the sound of
high-pitched voices coming from the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge had come
over while the farm-wife's rage was at its height; and, as Alice
listened, she thought that these two old cronies were quarrelling. But
her ears quickly told her that her surmise was wrong. She heard
Prudence's voice raised in angry protest, and, instead of entering the
house, she discreetly withdrew, passing round to the farmyard
instead.
In the kitchen a stormy scene was being enacted.
Prudence was standing just inside the door. Her mother was beside a
long table on which were laid out the necessaries for pastry-making.
She had faced round upon the girl and stood brandishing a rolling-pin
in one hand, and in the other she held a small basket of eggs. Sarah
was seated in a high-backed Windsor chair. Her arms were folded across
her waist, and her face expressed perplexed alarm. Prudence's face was
aflame; nor were her eyes one whit less angry than her mother's.
"But I say you shall hear me, mother, whether you like it or not. I'll
not let you or any one else call me the filth which you did this
morning for nothing."
The girl's voice was hoarse with nervous feeling, Mrs Mailing shook
her rolling-pin in a perfect fury.
"Out of this kitchen, you baggage! Out of it, do you hear me? Go an'
get your garments packed up, and out ye go into the street. Child o'
my flesh, are ye? Out of my house, you drab, or maybe I'll be doing
you a harm. I'll teach the like o' you to be stoppin' out o' nights
an' then to come back wi'out a word of explainin'. I'll teach you."
"Give the child a hearing, Hephzibah," said Sarah, in her soft even
tones, as there came a lull in the angry mother's tirade.
Prudence shot a grateful glance in her preceptor's direction.
Hephzibah turned swiftly on the peaceful Sarah. But the words of anger
which hovered upon her lips remained unspoken. Sarah was an influence
in the old lady's life, and long association was not without effect.
She visibly calmed. Prudence saw the change and took advantage of it.
"How could I explain when you wouldn't listen to me?" she exclaimed
resentfully. "Almost before I could say a word you called me all the
shameful things you could think of. You drove me to silence when I was
willing to tell you all--I was more than willing. You _must_ know all,
for the story I have to tell as nearly affects you as it does me. I
stayed away from home to save an innocent man from the dreadful charge
of murder, and your son from perpetrating the most wanton act of his
worthless life."
A dead silence followed her words. Hephzibah stared at her with an
expression of stupefied amazement, while Sarah turned in her chair
with a movement which was almost a jolt. The silence was at last
broken by the girl's mother.
"Murder? Hervey?"
And there was no understanding in her tone. Her mind seemed to be
groping blindly, and she merely repeated the two words which struck
her most forcibly.
"Yes, 'murder' and 'Hervey,'" Prudence retorted. "Hervey has accused
George Iredale of the murder of Leslie Grey. Now will you listen to my
explanation?"
Hephzibah precipitated herself into a chair. The rolling-pin was
returned to its place upon the dough-board with a clatter, and the
basket of eggs was set down with a force that sorely jeopardized its
contents.
"Yes, girl. Tell me all. Let me hear what devil's work my Hervey's
been up to. La sakes! an' George Iredale a murderer!"
And Prudence, her anger evaporated as swiftly as her mother's, told
the two old ladies of her love for Iredale, and how he had asked her
to be his wife. She told them how Hervey had come to her with the
story of his discovery; how, after attempting to blackmail his victim,
he had offered his information to her at a price. How she forced him
to prove his case, and had sent him to Winnipeg with that object; how
she had been nearly distracted, and eventually made up her mind to go
and see Iredale himself; how the accused man had established to her
his innocence beyond any doubt, and how he had shown her how
impossible it would be for him to use the same means of clearing
himself in a court of law. She dwelt upon each point, so that these
two, who were so dear to her, should not fail to understand as she
understood. Then she told them how, recognizing George's danger, she
had resolved to intercept Hervey, and, with her mother's assistance,
pay him off; and, finally, how she had been overtaken by the forest
fire; and how, her mare exhausted, she had arrived at Damside in time
to send her message to her brother; and how, failing any other means
of returning home, she had taken shelter with the elevator clerk's
wife until her mare had recovered and she was able to resume her
journey to the farm.
It was a long story, and the many interruptions of her mother gave the
girl much extra trouble in the telling; but with a wonderful patience,
born of her anxiety for her lover, she dealt with every little point
that puzzled her audience.
When the story was finished its effect was made curiously manifest.
The one thing which seemed to have gripped her mother's intensest
feeling was the part her boy had played. Her round eyes had grown
stern, and her comely lips had parted as her breath came heavy and
fast. At last she burst out with a curious mixture of anger and sorrow
in her words.
"Bone of my Silas; flesh of my flesh; an' to think o' the like. My
Hervey a whelp of hell; a bloodsucker. Oh, that I should ha' lived to
see such a day," and she rocked herself, with her hand supporting her
head and her elbows planted upon her knees. "Oh, them travellin's in
foreign parts. My poor, poor Silas; if he'd jest lived long 'nough to
git around our boy with a horsewhip we might ha' been spared this
disgrace. Prudence, girl, I'm that sorry for what I've said to you."
Tears welled in the old eyes, which had now become very wistful, and
slowly rolled down the plump cheeks. Suddenly she gathered up her
apron and flung it up over her head, and the rocking continued
dismally. Prudence came over to her and knelt at her side, caressing
her stout figure in sympathy. Sarah sat looking away towards the
window with dreamy eyes. The old school-mistress made no comment; she
was thinking deeply.
"Don't cry, mother," said Prudence, with an ominous catch in her
voice. "Whatever Hervey's faults, he will reap his own punishment. I
want you to help me now, dear. I want you to give me the benefit of
your experience and your sound, practical sense. I must see this
through. I have a wicked brother and an obstinate lover to deal with,
and I want you to help me, and tell me what is best to do."
The apron was removed from Mrs. Malling's head, and her eyes, red and
watery, looked at the girl at her side with a world of love in their
depths.
"These two men will be here this afternoon," the girl went on. "George
is coming to tell you his story himself, that you may judge him. He
declares that, come what may, he will not rest with this shadow upon
him. In justice to us, his friends, and to himself, he must face the
consequences of his years of wrongdoing. Hervey will be here for his
money. This is the position; and, according to my reckoning, they will
arrive at about the same time. I don't quite know why, but I want to
confront Hervey with the man he accuses. Now tell me what you think."
"I'm thinking you make the third of a pack of fool-heads," said the
farm-wife gently. "George is no murderer, he's not the killin' sort.
He's a man, he is. Then why worrit? An' say, if that boy o' mine comes
along he'll learn that them Ar'tic goldfields is a cooler place for
his likes than his mother's farm." The old woman's choler was rising
again with tempestuous suddenness. "Say, he's worse'n a skunk, and a
sight more dangerous than a Greaser. My, but he'll learn somethin'
from them as can teach him!"
"Yes, mother," replied the girl, a little impatiently; "but you don't
seem to see the seriousness of what he charges----"
"That I do, miss. Am I wantin' in understandin'? George is as innocent
as an unborn babe, so what's the odds along o' Hervey's accusin'? It
don't amount to a heap o' corn shucks. That boy ain't responsible, I
tell ye. He's like to get locked up himself in a luny 'sylum. I'll
give him accusin'!"
"But, mother, that won't do any good. He must be paid off."
"An' so he shall--and so he shall, child. There's more dollars in this
farm than he reckons on, and they're ready for usin' when I say the
word. If it's pay that's needed, he shall be paid, though I ain't just
understandin' the need."
Sarah's voice broke in at this point.
"The child's right, Hephzibah; there's money to be spent over this
thing, or I'm no judge of human nature. Hervey's got a strong case,
and, from what the story tells us, George is a doomed man if he goes
before the court. Innocent he may be--innocent he is, I'll wager; but
if he's obstinate he's done for."
The farm-wife made no reply, but sat gazing wistfully before her.
"Yes, yes," Prudence said earnestly. "It is just the money--nothing
more. We must not let an innocent man suffer. And, 'Aunt' Sarah, we
must prevail upon George to let us stop Hervey's mouth. That is our
chief difficulty. You will help me--you and mother. You are so clever,
'Aunt' Sarah. George will listen to you. Oh, we must--must save him,
even against himself."
Sarah nodded her head sagely; she was deeply affected by all she had
heard, but she gave no outward sign.
"Child," she replied, "we will all do our best--for him--for you; but
yours is the tongue that will persuade him best. He loves you, child,
and you love him. He will not persist, if you are set against it."
"I hope it will be as you say," replied Prudence dubiously. "But when
he comes you will let him tell his story in his own way. You will
listen patiently to him. Then you can laugh at his determination and
bring your arguments to bear. Then we will keep him until Hervey
arrives, and we will settle the matter for ever. Oh, mother, I dread
what is to come."
Mrs. Mailing did not seem to be paying much heed, but, as the girl
moved away from her side, she spoke. There was no grief, no anger in
her voice now. She spoke quite coldly, and Sarah Gurridge looked
keenly over at her.
"Yes, girl, we'll settle this rumpus, and--Hervey."
Prudence moved towards the door. She turned at her mother's words.
"I will go up-stairs," she said. "I want to think."
She opened the door and nearly fell against the dog Neche, who was
standing outside it. There was a fanciful suggestion of the
eavesdropper about the creature; his attitude was almost furtive. He
moved slowly away, and walked with the girl to the foot of the stairs,
where he laid himself down with a complacent grunt. The girl went up
to her room.
"This day's doin's will be writ on my heart for ever," said the
farm-wife plaintively, as the door closed behind her daughter.
"An' see you, Hephzibah, and let no eyes read of them, for there will
be little credit for anyone in those same doings," said Sarah
solemnly.
Mrs. Malling hugged herself, and again began to rock slowly. But there
were no signs of tears in her round, dark eyes. Now and again her lips
moved, and occasionally she muttered to herself. Sarah heard the name
"Hervey" pass her lips once or twice, and she knew that her old friend
had been sorely stricken.
As the time for Iredale's arrival drew near, Prudence became restless.
Her day had been spent in idleness as far as her farm work was
concerned. She had chosen the companionship of Alice, and had
unburdened her heart to her. But sympathetic and practical as her
friend was, she was quite unable to help her.
As four o'clock drew near, however, Alice did the only thing possible.
She took herself off for a walk down the Lakeville trail. She felt
that it was better for everybody that she should be away while the
trouble was on, and, besides, she would meet her lover on his way to
the farm, and give him timely warning against making his meditated
stay for the night.
At the appointed hour there came the clatter of a pacer's hoofs at the
front gate, and a moment later Prudence led her lover into the
parlour. After a few brief words she hurriedly departed to summon her
mother and Sarah. There was a significant solemnity in this
assembling; nor was it lessened by the smuggler's manner. Even the
wolfish Neche seemed impressed with what was happening, for he clung
to the girl's heels, following her wherever she went, and finally laid
down upon the trailing portion of her skirt when she took up her
position beside her lover and waited for him to begin.
The opening was a painful one for everybody. Iredale scarcely knew how
to face those gentle folk and recount his disgraceful story. He
thought of all they had been to him during his long years upon the
prairie. He thought of their implicit trust and faith in him. He
almost quailed before the steady, honest eyes of the old people.
However, he at last forced himself to his task, and plunged into his
story with uncompromising bluntness.
"I am accused of murder," he said, and paused, while a sickly feeling
pervaded his stomach.
Mrs. Malling nodded her head. She was too open to remain silent long.
"Of Leslie Grey," she said at once. "And ye needn't to tell us nothin'
more, George. We know the yarn you are about to tell us. An' d'ye
think we're goin' to believe any addle-pated scalliwag such as my
Hervey, agin' you? Smuggler you may be, but that you've sunk to
killin' human flesh not even a minister o' the Gospel's goin' to
convince me. Here, I respects the man I give my hand to. Shake me by
the hand, George--shake me by the hand." And the farm-wife rose from
her chair and ambled across the room with her hand outstretched.
Iredale clasped it in both of his. And never in his life had he
experienced such a burst of thankfulness as he did at that moment. His
heart was too full to speak. Prudence smiled gravely as she watched
this whole-hearted token of her mother's loyalty to a friend. Nor was
Sarah backward in her expression of goodwill.
"Hephzibah's right, George, and she speaks for both of us. But there's
work to be done for all that. Hervey's to be dealt with."
"To be bribed," said Hephzibah uncompromisingly, as she returned to
her seat.
Iredale shook his head and his face set sternly. Prudence saw the look
she feared creep into her lover's eyes. She opened her lips to
protest, but the words remained unspoken. She had heard the rattle of
a buckboard outside. The sound died away, and she knew that the
vehicle had passed round to the barn. She waited in an agony of
suspense for her brother's appearance.
"You needn't to shake your head," went on the farm-wife. "This
matter's my concern. It's my dollars as is goin' to pay Master
Hervey--an' when he gets 'em may they blister his fingers, I sez."
Prudence heard a footstep in the hall. The crucial moment had arrived,
and her heart palpitated with nervous apprehension. Before Iredale
could reply the door was flung open, and Hervey stood in their midst.
Instantly every eye was turned upon him. He stood for a moment and
looked round. There was a slight unsteadiness in his attitude. His
great eyes looked wilder than ever, and they were curiously bloodshot.
At least one of the three ladies possessed an observant mind. Sarah
saw that the man had been drinking. To her the signs, though slight,
were unmistakable. The others did not seem to notice his condition.
"Ah," he said, with an attempt at pleasantry, "a nice little party.
Well, I've come for the dibs."
His eyes lit upon the figure of George Iredale, and he broke off. The
next moment he went on angrily--
"What's that man doing in this house?" he cried, his eyes fairly
blazing with sudden rage. "Is the place turned into a refuge
for--murderers?"
The man's fury had set fire to the powder train. His mother was on her
feet in a twinkling. Her comfortable body fairly shook in her
indignation. Her face was a flaming scarlet, and her round eyes
sparkled wickedly.
"And who be you to question the calling of my house, Hervey Malling?"
she cried; "since when comes it that you've the right to raise your
voice against my guests? An' by what right d'ye dare to accuse an
innocent man? Answer me, you imp of Evil," she demanded. But she gave
him no time to speak, and went on, her voice rising to a piercing
crescendo. "Spare your wicked tongue, which should be forked by reason
of the lies as has fallen from it. Oh, that you should be able to call
me 'mother.' I'd rather mother the offspring of a rattlesnake than
you. What have you done by us all your life but bring sorrow an'
trouble upon those who've done all that which in them is to help you?
Coward! Traitor! An' you come now with lies on your tongue to harm an
innocent man what's done you no harm." She breathed hard. Then her
wrath swept on, and the room rang with the piercing pitch of her
voice. "You've come for your blood-money--your thirty pieces. You
villain; if your poor father were alive this day he should lay a raw
hide about you till your bones were flayed. Sakes! I've a mind to set
about you myself. Look at him, the black-heart! Look at him all! Was
ever such filth of a man? and him my son. Blood-money! Blood-money!
And to think that I'm living to know it."
She paused. Hervey broke in--
"Silence, you old fool! You don't know what you're talking about. That
man," pointing over at Iredale, who sat waiting for an opportunity to
interfere, "is the murderer of Leslie Grey. I suppose he has been
priming you with blarney and yarns. But I tell you he murdered Grey.
I'm not here for any tomfoolery. I got Prudence's message to say the
money was forthcoming. Where is it? Fifteen thousand dollars buys me,
and that I want at once. If I have any more yapping I'll make it
twenty thousand."
He looked about him savagely, and his eyes finally paused at George
Iredale, seated beside Prudence. He cared nothing for his mother's
vituperation, but he was watchful of the smuggler.
Suddenly the burly rancher sprang to his feet. He stepped up to
Hervey. The latter moved a pace back.
"Not one cent, you cowardly hound!" he roared. "Not one cent shall you
have; do you hear? I thank God that I am here to stop you robbing
these, your mother and sister." Mrs. Malling tried to interfere, but
he waved her back. "I've come at the right time, and I tell you that
you shall not take one cent of the money. I will never leave you lest
you should wheedle it from them. I will spoil your game. This is what
I intend to do. You and I will set out for Winnipeg to-night, and
together we will interview the Commissioner of Police. Do you
understand me? I have the whip hand now. And I promise you your
silence shall _not_ be bought."
Prudence interfered.
"Listen to me, George. I implore you not to do this thing. Hervey can
have all he wants--everything. You are innocent we know, but you
cannot prove your innocence. Why should you break my heart when there
is a way out of the difficulty? There is but one person who can
denounce you, and his silence we can purchase. Oh, George," the girl
went on passionately, "as you love me, listen. My heart will break if
this thing you meditate comes to pass. Oh, my love, say you won't do
it! Let mother pay the man off that he may pass out of our lives for
ever. See, mother is going for the money now. It is so easy; so
simple."
Mrs. Mailing had risen from her seat and moved away to the door.
Hervey stood at the far end of the parlour facing the open window. He
saw his mother pass out, and a great look of satisfaction came into
his eyes. After all, these women meant to treat him fairly, he
thought.
He grinned over at Iredale.
"Better drop it, Iredale, and don't play the fool. When I get the
money I shall forget that I ever knew you."
The smuggler was about to fire a swift retort when the sound of voices
coming in at the open window interrupted him. The voices were a man's
and a woman's. Prudence recognized Alice's tones. The other's she did
not recognize at once.
Sarah Gurridge, who had been a silent observer of the scene, had heard
the sound too, but she was absorbed in what was being enacted about
her. Her eyes were upon Hervey. She saw him start, and his great
haunting eyes were turned upon the window. Suddenly he rushed forward
towards it. He had to pass round the table, close to where Prudence
was now standing. In doing so he kicked against the dog, which was
standing with its ears pricked up and its head turned in the direction
whence the voices sounded.
The man's evil face was blanched. A wild, hunted look was in his eyes.
Iredale saw, was startled, and his reply died upon his lips as he
wondered at this sudden change.
"Shut the window. Do you hear?" cried Hervey excitedly. "Don't let
them hear. Don't let them----"
He had reached the window to carry out his own instructions. His hands
were upon the casements, and he was about to fling the glass frames
together. But suddenly his arms dropped to his sides. He stood face to
face with the figure of Robb Chillingwood!
There was a dreadful silence. Then slowly Hervey backed away; his
glaring eyes were fixed upon the stern countenance of the ex-Customs
officer. Slowly he backed, backed from the apparition; and the
onlookers noted the pallid cheeks and blazing eyes, and they wondered
helplessly. Nor did Hervey pause until he reached the wall furthest
from the window. Then he stood, and his lips silently moved.
Suddenly there was a cry, and it rang with vengeful triumph. It came
from the man at the window--Robb Chillingwood.
"By God! it's Zachary Smith!"
The next instant and he was in the room.
The onlookers gazed blankly from one to the other of the two men. What
did it mean? Who was Zachary Smith? And why did Robb so call Hervey?
Then their eyes settled on the man against the wall. The cheeks were
no longer pallid; they were flushed with a hectic colouring, and those
strange eyes were filled with an awful, murderous light. The lips
continued to move, but he did not speak; only his right hand slipped
round behind him.
Then Robb's voice sounded through the room again.
"So, Mr. Zachary Smith, we meet again. And, by the Lord Harry, you
shall swing for what you did in the mountains! Highway robbery of the
Government bullion under the charge of Leslie Grey, and the murder of
our Indian guide, Rainy-Moon." Then he turned--"Hold that door!" he
shouted; and Iredale sprang to obey.
"But----" Prudence rushed forward, but Sarah stopped her and drew her
back.
A wild laugh came from Hervey's direction.
"And who's going to take me?" he cried. "You, Robb Chillingwood, you?
Ha, ha!" and his maniacal laugh rang out again. "Look to yourself, you
fool. Grey crossed my path, and he paid for it with his life. You
shall follow him."
While his words yet rang upon the air his hand shot out from behind
him, gripping a heavy revolver. The pistol was raised, and a shriek
went up from the two ladies.
Suddenly there was a rush, a snarl; and a great body seemed to
literally hurl itself through the air. A shot rang out; simultaneously
a cry echoed through the room; Hervey staggered as something seized
him by the throat and tore away the soft flesh; another shot
followed.
It all happened in a twinkling. Hervey fell to the ground with a
gurgling cry, and Neche, the dog, until then forgotten by everybody,
rolled over by his side with one dying yelp of pain. Then silence
reigned throughout the room and all was still.
Iredale returned his smoking pistol to his pocket, and went over to
Hervey's side. His movements seemed to release the others from the
spell under which they had been held. Robb, unharmed by Hervey's shot,
came forward, and Sarah and Prudence followed in his wake. But Iredale
waved the ladies back.
"Stand away, please," he said quietly. "The dog had finished him
before I got my shot in to save him. The brute has literally torn his
throat out." Then he looked over at the dead hound. "It's awful; I
wonder what made the dog turn upon him?"
"Are they both dead?" asked Robb, in an awestruck voice.
Iredale nodded.
"It must have been the sight of Hervey's levelled pistol that made the
dog rush at him," said Prudence. "I've seen him do so before."
"Strange, strange," murmured Iredale.
"That dog feared firearms," said Sarah.
"Perhaps he had reason," observed Robb significantly, "he only has
three sound legs. My God! And not content with his victims in the
mountains, he----But, yes, I see it. This man came here without
expecting to meet Grey or me." Robb broke off and looked at Prudence.
"Of course, I am beginning to understand. You and Grey were to have
been married." Then he turned back to the contemplation of the dead
bodies.
"Yes, the murderer of Grey lies confessed," said Iredale quietly, "and
I think that his motives were even stronger than those attributed
to----"
Prudence placed a hand over his mouth before he could complete his
sentence.
They were startled from their horrified contemplation of the work of
those last few moments by the sound of Hephzibah's voice calling from
her bedroom. The sitting-room door had been opened by Alice, who had
entered the moment Iredale had released the handle. Now they could
hear the farm-wife moving about overhead, evidently on her way
down-stairs.
Sarah was the first to recover her presence of mind. She turned upon
Robb.
"Not a word to her about--about----"
Robb shook his head.
Iredale snatched the pistol from the dead man's hand.
Mrs. Malling's footsteps came creaking down the stairs. Suddenly
Prudence's hands went up to her face as she thought of the shock
awaiting her mother. Alice dragged her away to a chair. Iredale and
Robb stood looking down at the two objects on the floor. Master and
hound were lying side by side.
Sarah ran to the door and met the farm-wife. She must never know that
her son was a murderer--a double murderer.
Those within the room heard the school-ma'am's gentle tones.
"No, no, Hephzibah, you must not go in there yet. There are
things--things which you must not see. The hound has killed him.
Hervey enraged the dog, and the wretched beast turned upon him--and he
is dead."
Then there came the sound of a scuffle. The next moment mother Hephzy
pushed her way into the room. She looked about her wildly; one hand
was clutching a bundle of hundred-dollar bills. Suddenly her round,
staring eyes fell upon the two objects lying side by side upon the
ground. She looked at the hound; then she looked upon her son. Iredale
had covered the torn throat with pocket-handkerchiefs.
The bills slowly fell in a shower from her hand, and her arms folded
themselves over her breast. Then she looked in a dazed fashion upon
those about her, muttering audibly.
"He's dead--he's dead," she repeated to herself over and over again.
Then suddenly she ceased her repetitions and shook her head.
"Mussy-a-me, mussy-a-me! The Lord's will be done!"
And she slowly fell in a heap by her dead son's side.
IN CONCLUSION
Time, the great healer of all sufferings, all sorrows, can do much,
but memory clings with a pertinacity which defies all Time's best
efforts. Time may soften the poignancy of deep-rooted sorrow, but it
cannot shut out altogether the pain of a mother's grief at the loss of
an only son. In spite of all Hervey's crimes he was "the only son of
his mother, and she was a widow." The story of his villainies was
rigidly kept from her, and so she thought of him only as a prodigal,
as a boy to be pitied, as one whose offences must be condoned; she
sought for his good points, and, in her sweet motherly heart, saw a
wonderful deal in him on which to centre her loving memory, which, had
he lived, even she could never have discovered. It is something that
erring man has to be humbly grateful for, that women are like this; so
full of the patient, enduring love which can see no wrong in the
object of their affections.
But Loon Dyke Farm became intolerable to Hephzibah Malling after the
ghastly tragedy of her son's death; and when Robb and Alice saw fit to
marry, urged on to that risky experiment by the two older ladies, she
insisted upon leasing the place to them on ridiculously easy terms.
She would have given it to them only for their steady refusal to
accept such a magnificent wedding gift from her.
The old lady was rich enough for her needs and her daughter's, and,
business woman as she was, she was generous to a fault where her
affections were concerned. Prudence too was satisfied with any
arrangement which would take her away from the farm. Knowing what she
knew of her brother, Loon Dyke could never again be her home. So
mother and daughter retired to Ainsley, and only once again did they
return to their old home on the briefest of visits, and that was to
assist at the function of christening the son and heir of the
Chillingwoods.
Later on Prudence induced her mother to make Winnipeg her home, but
though, for her daughter's sake, she acceded to the request, she was
never quite at ease among her new surroundings. Nor was Sarah
Gurridge, when she visited her old friend during her holidays, slow to
observe this. "My dear," she told Alice, one day after her summer
vacation, "Hephzibah is failing fast. She's quite old, although she is
my junior by two years and three months. An idle life doesn't suit
her; and as for Prudence, she wears fine clothes, and goes out in
society all day and most of the night, but she's that thin and
melancholy that you wouldn't know her for the same child. It's my
opinion that she's pining--they are both pining. I found a letter from
Hamilton when I got back home. It was from George Iredale, and I'm
going to answer it at once."
"And what are you going to say in your reply?" laughed Alice. "I know
your matchmaking propensity. So does Robb."
The quiet, dreamy face of the old school-mistress smiled over at the
happy mother.
"Say?" she exclaimed. "I'm going to give George a piece of my mind for
staying away so long. I know why he's doing so, and my belief as to
the cause of his absence is different from what Prudence is beginning
to imagine. She thinks he has left her because of her brother's
doings, and it's that that's driving her to an early grave. I shall
certainly tell George what I think." And Sarah wagged her head
sagely.
And she was as good as her word. She had not seen fit to tell Alice
that she had been in constant communication with George Iredale ever
since the day of the tragedy, or that she was in his confidence as
regarded Prudence. George had left the district to give both Prudence
and her mother time to recover from the shock. And now that a year or
more had passed away, he had written appealing to Sarah to tell him if
she thought the time auspicious for his return.
In a long, carefully-worded letter Sarah advised him not to delay.
"By dint of much perseverance," she wrote, "I have persuaded the child
out of her absurd notions about the reflections her brother's doings
have cast upon her. She looks at things from a healthier standpoint
now. Why should she not marry? What has she done to debar her from
fulfilling the mission which is appointed for every woman? Nothing!
And I am sure if a certain man should return and renew the appeal
which he made at the time when the Lord's anger was visited upon her
brother, she would give him a different reply. However, I must not
waste all my space upon the silly notions of a child with a
misdirected conscience."
And how her letter bore fruit, and how George Iredale returned and
sought Prudence in the midst of the distractions of Winnipeg's social
whirl, and how the girl's answer, when again he appealed to her,
turned out to be the one Sarah had prophesied for him, were matters of
great satisfaction to the sage old school-mistress.
She assisted at the wedding which followed, she saw the bride and
bridegroom off at the railway depot, she remained to console her old
friend for the loss of her daughter. Then she hied her off once more,
back to the bleak, staring school-house, where she continued to
propound sage maxims for the young of the district until her allotted
task was done, and the tally of her years complete.
THE END
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