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.