PRINCE'S PREY.
The morning of the following day breaks gray and dismal. The wind has
been blowing all the night through, and wherever a tree stands, there
the fallen leaves lie, thick and rain-soaked; for it is raining,
drizzling weather, and above, below, and around, all is gray, and dull,
and dreary.
Dr. Heath's cottage stands aloof from all other dwellings, quite by
itself, for the houses stand wide apart in this suburban portion of the
town, and he has selected the pretty place because of its quiet beauty,
and comparative isolation. He has neighbors within sight, within
hearing, too, should he choose to be vociferous; but the houses about
him all stand within their own pleasant grounds. His nearest neighbor,
on the one hand, has placed a fine orchard between them, and on the
other hand, he has no neighbor at all; there is a vacant lot, well
planted and pleasantly ruinous to see. A fine dwelling had once occupied
the site, but fire had destroyed it, and the gaping cellar, a pile of
burnt bricks, and some charred débris, are all that remain. In summer
the place is one tangled growth of roses and flowering shrubs, and
Doctor Heath makes free with the flowers in their season, and even
swings his hammock there among the old trees, that outnumber his own,
and have outstripped them, too, in years and growth.
[Illustration: The cottage stands quite by itself.]
Opposite the doctor's cottage stands a handsome dwelling, far back among
the trees. It is the home of Lawyer O'Meara and his wife; and the two
are the doctor's firm friends.
Beyond the O'Meara dwelling and on the same side of the street,
stretches a row of cottages, built and owned by Mr. O'Meara. These are
occupied by some thrifty mechanics, and one or two of the best of the
mill workers. They are neat, new, tasteful, and well cared for by their
tenants.
Clifford Heath awakes a little later than usual, this dismal, gray
morning; he had returned from his second visit to Sybil Burrill at a
late hour, and after sitting beside his fire, pondering long over many
things, had retired, to sleep soundly, and to wake late. What first
rouses him is a knocking upon his door, a regular tattoo, beaten by his
housekeeper, grown impatient over coffee too long brewed, and muffins
too brown.
He makes his toilet after a leisurely fashion, smiling a little at the
vociferous barking of his dog, Prince.
The dog is always confined in the stable at night, where he is a safe
companion and sure protection to the doctor's fine horse; and now, it
being past the time when he is usually liberated, he is making his
wrongs heard, and there will be no more repose or quiet until Prince is
set free.
"Poor fellow," calls his master, as he swings open the stable door.
"Poor Prince! Good, old boy! Come now, and you shall have a splendid
breakfast, to compensate for my neglect."
The dog bounds out, a splendid bull dog, strong, fierce, and white as
milk. He fawns upon his master, leaps about him, barks joyfully, and
then follows obediently to the kitchen. The dog provided for, Doctor
Heath goes in out of the rain, shaking the water from his coat, and
tossing it aside in favor of a dry one; and then he applies himself to
his own breakfast.
The warmth and comfort within are intensified by the dreariness without.
Mrs. Gray has lighted a fire in the grate, and he turns toward it,
sipping his coffee leisurely, enjoying the warmth all the more because
of an occasional glance out of the window.
Two men pass--two of the cottagers--his neighbors, who, dismayed by the
storm, have turned back toward their homes.
"Poor devils!" mutters the doctor, sympathetically; "they don't fancy
laying brick and mixing mortar in weather like this; and one of them has
no overcoat; I must keep that in mind, and supply him, if he will accept
one, from out my store."
He stirs the fire briskly, takes another sip from his half emptied cup,
and goes off in a reverie. Presently there comes the sound of a dog's
angry barking, and soon mingled with the canine cries, the voices of men
calling to one another, crying for aid. But so pleasant is his
meditation, and so deep, that their sounds do not rouse him; they reach
his ears, 'tis true; he has a vague sense of disagreeable sounds, but
they do not break his reverie.
Something else does, however, a brisk hammering on the street door, and
a loud, high pitched voice, calling:
"Heath! Heath, I say!"
He starts up, shakes himself and his ideas, together, and goes to face
the intruder upon his meditations. It is his neighbor across the way.
"Heath, have you lost your ears? or your senses?" he cries, impatiently;
"what the devil has your dog found, that has set these fellows in such a
panic? Something's wrong; they want you to come and control the dog."
"Heath! Heath!" comes from the adjoining vacant lot; "come, for God's
sake, quick!"
In another moment, Clifford Heath has seized his hat, and, followed by
his neighbor, is out in the yard.
"Come this way, O'Meara," he says, quickly; "that is if you can leap the
fence, it's not high," and he strides through his own grounds, scales
the intervening palings, and in a few seconds is on the scene.
On the scene! At the edge of the old cellar, one of the men recently
denominated, "poor devils," by the musing doctor, is gesticulating
violently, and urging him forward with lips that are pale with terror.
Down in the old cellar, the second man, paler still than the first, is
making futile efforts to draw the dog away from something, at which he
is clawing and tearing, barking furiously all the time.
Something lies under a heaped up mass of leaves, grass, and freshly
turned earth; something from which the fierce beast is tearing away the
covering with rapid movements. As he leaps down into the cellar,
Clifford Heath sees what it is that has so terrified the two men. From
under the leaves and earth, Prince has brought to light a human foot and
leg!
Instantly he springs forward, his hand upon the dog's collar, his face
pale as ashes.
"Prince!" he cries; "Prince! come away, sir."
[Illustration: "Prince, come away, sir!"]
The dog crouches, quails for a moment, then utters a low growl, and
tries to shake himself free; for the first time, he refuses to obey his
master.
But it _is_ his master; there is a short, sharp struggle, and then the
brute cowers, whining at his feet.
"Wait!" he says, imperiously to the men, and then, speaking a stern word
of command, he strides away, followed by the conquered and trembling
brute.
It is the work of a moment to chain him fast; and then Clifford Heath
goes swiftly back to the men, who stand very much as he left them.
"Can this be some trick?" Mr. O'Meara is saying, peering down from the
edge of the cellar wall at the mound of earth and the protruding leg.
"There is no trick here," replies Clifford Heath, once more springing
down into the cellar. "My dog would not be deceived. Come down here,
O'Meara; this thing must be unearthed."
Mr. O'Meara lowers himself carefully down, and the man who has thus far
stood sentinel follows suit. Then the four approach the mound once more.
For a moment they regard each other silently; then one of the masons
says:
"If we had a spade."
"Not yet," breaks in Lawyer O'Meara. "Let's make sure that we have found
something before we cause any alarm to be given. Get some small boards;
we do not want a spade."
The boards are found easily, and they look to O'Meara again, all but
Clifford Heath, who stands near the mound gazing downward as if
fascinated. While O'Meara speaks, he stoops swiftly, and then carries
his hand to his pocket.
"Let's remove the--upper portion of whatever this is," says the lawyer
nervously, "and work carefully. This looks like--"
"It looks like _murder_," says Clifford Heath, quietly. "Pull away the
dirt carefully, men."
They are all strong-nerved, courageous men; yet they are all very pale,
as they bend to their task.
A few moments, and Mr. O'Meara utters a sharp exclamation, drops his
board, and draws back. They have unearthed a shoulder, an arm, a
clenched hand.
A moment more, and Clifford Heath, too, withdraws from his task, the
cold sweat standing thick upon his temples. They are uncovering a head,
a head that is shrouded with something white.
To Mr. O'Meara, to Clifford Heath, the moment is one of intense unmixed
horror. To the men who still bend to their work, the horror has its
mixture of curiosity. _Whose_ is the face they are about to look upon?
Instinctively the two more refined men draw farther back, instinctively
the others bend closer.
Swiftly they work. The last bit of earth is removed from the face;
carefully they draw away a large white handkerchief, then utter a cry of
horror.
"My God!" cries one, "it is _John Burrill_."