"I have known you for a good many years, child; years which have helped to put a few grey hairs on my head, it is true, but still years which have taught me something which I never dreamed of learning out here on the prairie. They have taught me that such a thing as love exists for every man on this earth, and that somewhere in this world there is a woman who can inspire him with feelings which make the pettinesses of his own solitary existence seem very small indeed. I have learned that man was not made to live alone, but that a certain woman must share his life with him, or that life is an utterly worthless thing. I have learned that there is but one woman in the world who can help me to the better, loftier aspirations of man, and that woman is--you, Prudence."

The girl had ceased to work, and was staring straight in front of her out of the window, where the vivid lightning was now flashing incessantly. As Iredale p.r.o.nounced the last words she shook her head slowly--almost helplessly. The man had leaned forward in his chair, and his elbows rested on his parted knees, and his hands were tightly clasped.

"Don't shake your head, dear," he went on, with persuasive earnestness.

"Hear me out first, and then you shall give me your decision. I know I am much older than you, but surely that disparity need not stand in our way. I dare say I have many more years of life yet left than lots of younger men. Besides, I am rich--very rich. With me you can live the life you choose. If you wish to stay here on the prairie, why, you shall have the most perfect farm that money can buy; if, on the other hand, you choose to see the world, you only have to say the word.

Prudence, I know I am not a very attractive man. I have little to recommend me, and my life has not always been spent as perhaps it should have been; but I love you very dearly, and my future shall be devoted to your happiness. Will you be my wife?"

There was a deafening crash of thunder which seemed to come from directly overhead. The dog started up with a growl. Then he stood looking up into the girl's face. The dying reverberations slowly rolled away and left the room in deathly silence. The serious light in the girl's eyes was augmented by the decided set of her mouth. She kept her face studiously turned from Iredale, who, observing with all the intuition of a man in deadly earnest, read in her expression something of what his answer was to be.

"Can you not--do you not care for me sufficiently?"

The words contained such a world of appeal that Prudence felt herself forced to turn in his direction. She now looked squarely into his eyes, nor was there the faintest suspicion of embarra.s.sment in her manner. The moment had come when she must choose between herself and her self-imposed duty. She knew that she loved Iredale, but--she checked something which sounded very like a sigh. She had listened to the precepts of Sarah Gurridge all her life, and, in consequence, she had learned to regard her duty before all things. She now conceived she had a great duty to perform. She felt so helpless--so feeble in the matter; but the voice of conscience held her to her mistaken course.

"I believe I love you; I am sure I care for you very, very much, but----"

"Then you will marry me." The man reached out to take her hand, but she drew it back. His eager eyes shone in the stormy darkness in which the room was bathed.

She shook her head.

"When Leslie Grey was murdered I made a vow that I would not rest until the murderer was brought to justice. My vow is unfulfilled. I could not marry you and be happy while this is so. Do you know what marriage with you would mean? Simply that I should make no effort to fulfil my vow to the dead. I cannot marry you now."

Iredale was staggered by the woeful wrong-mindedness under which he considered she was labouring. For a moment he could scarcely find words to express himself.

"But--but surely, child, you are not going to let this phantom of duty come between us? Oh, you can never do such a thing! Besides, we would work together; we would not leave a stone unturned to discover the wretch who did him to death----"

He broke off. Prudence answered swiftly, and the set of her face seemed to grow harder as she felt the difficulty of abiding by her resolve.

"This is no phantom of duty, George. It is very much a reality. I cannot marry you--until--until----"

Iredale was smiling now. The shock of the girl's strange decision had pa.s.sed. He saw something of the motive underlying it. Her sense of duty seemed to have warped her judgment, and, with quiet firmness, he meant to set it aside.

"And this is the only reason for refusing me?" he asked. He had become serious again; he seemed merely to be seeking a.s.surance.

"Yes. Oh, George, can't you see how it is?" She gazed appealingly into his face. And the man had to keep a very tight hold upon his feelings.

"I am afraid I am a little dense, child," he said gravely.

"I must make you understand," Prudence went on with nervous haste. Her conscience urged her forward, whilst her love prompted her to set aside all recollection of the dead and to bask in the love this man offered her. She was a simple, womanly soul, trying with all the strength of her honest purpose to resist the dictates of her love, and to do that which seemed right in her own eyes. The task she had set herself had seemed easy when she had spoken of it to Alice, but now in the face of this man's love, in the face of her own self-realization, it seemed beyond her strength. "Listen to me, and you will see for yourself that I must not marry you--yet. I believed that I loved Leslie Grey truly, fondly. As I look back now I am sure I did. I was never happy but when I was with him. He seemed so strong and resolute.

I never had a moment in which to doubt myself. Then, when he died, the agony I suffered was something too dreadful to contemplate. As he lay on the little bed with his life slowly ebbing, and I watched him dying by inches, I was filled with such horror and despair that I thought surely I should go mad. Then it dawned on me that he had been murdered, and my anguish turned to a dreadful feeling of rage and longing to avenge him. Never in my life did I experience such terrible pa.s.sion as at that moment. I believe at the time I really was mad. The one thought in my mind was, 'Who--who has done this thing?' Then Leslie died, and in his death agony he spoke and told me, as well as his poor gasping faculties could tell me, what had happened. His words were unintelligible to every one except me. And those words formed a clue to the a.s.sa.s.sin's ident.i.ty. By his bedside I swore to avenge him.

Never would I rest until my oath was carried out. As you know, after that I became ill and went away. And, oh, the shame of it, during those months of rest and illness I forgot Leslie Grey, I forgot my vow. I forgot everything that claimed my duty. Think of it--the shame, the shallow heartlessness, the fickle nature which is mine. I, who had loved him as I believed no girl had ever loved, had forgotten him as though he had never come into my life."

Iredale nodded comprehensively as the girl paused.

"Then you came into my life," Prudence went on. Her face was turned towards the window now, outside of which she saw the tongues of lightning playing across the sky. "Time went on, and slowly something crept into my heart which made me realize my shortcomings. Gradually my conduct was revealed to me in its true colours, and I saw myself as I really was--a heartless, worthless creature, so despicable, even to myself, as to make me shudder when I contemplated the future. Let me be honest now, at least. I knew that I loved you, George, that is"--bitterly--"as far as I was capable of love; but what sort of affection was mine to give to anybody? I could not trust myself--I despised myself. My conscience cried out. Leslie's unavenged death still remained. My vow was still unfulfilled. Knowing this, how could I believe in this new love which had come to me? No, I could not. And it was then that I saw what I must do. Before I could ever dream of love I must redeem the pledge I made at Leslie's deathbed. That alone could restore my faith in myself. I know that it is almost impossible to convey to you all that I have thought upon the matter; but, believe me, I can never marry while Leslie remains unavenged."

Tears stood in the girl's eyes as she finished up her curiously twisted self-accusations. And the sincerity of her words was not to be doubted for a moment. Iredale had listened wonderingly, and he marvelled to himself at the wonders of perspective in a woman's mind.

"And you are prepared to undertake the matter--alone?"

"Mother is helping me--it costs money."

"Just so. But would not a man's help be of greater importance than your mother's? Don't you think that your husband's a.s.sistance might help you far more? That it might be able to lighten the burden of this self-imposed labour. Tut, tut, child. Because of your vow it should not deter you from marriage, especially when your husband is not only ready, but most willing to a.s.sist you in clearing up the mystery, and avenging Leslie Grey. As regards the quality"--with a quiet smile--"of your regard, well, come, you love me, little girl, on your own confession, and if you have no graver scruples than you have offered, then you must--marry me."

Iredale leant forward and took the girl's two hands in his. This time she made no resistance. She allowed them to rest in his broad palms, and, in spite of all her protests, felt ineffably happy.

At last she drew them away and shook her head weakly.

"No, it is no good, George. You must not be burdened with my undertaking. I cannot consent to such a thing. It is only your generosity and kindness which make you look at the matter so lightly.

You would regret your decision later on, and then----No, mother and I will see the matter through. We have already secured the services of the smartest detective in Winnipeg, and he is working upon the only clue we possess."

"But I insist," said Iredale, with a smile which made his plain features almost handsome. "And, Prue, I am going to tell your mother that you have engaged yourself to me, and that I am a new recruit, fortune as well, in the work. No--" holding up his hand as the girl was about to protest again--"no objections, sweetheart. And, before we go further, tell me of this clue."

Prudence smiled happily. She had done her duty; she had laid bare her heart to this man. She had spared herself in no way. She had let him see, she told herself, the sort of girl she was. He still cared for her; he still wished to marry her. She bowed her will to his quiet decision.

"It is not much to go upon, but, as Deane, that is the detective, says, it is a decided clue."

She rose from her seat and walked over to a small work-table. At that moment the house shook to its very foundations with a dreadful crash of thunder. Neche, who had moved with her, leapt fiercely at the window as though flying at some invisible enemy. The girl called him to her side, then she stood trembling. Flash after flash of lightning blazed in the heavens, and she covered her eyes with her hands, whilst the thunder seemed as though it would rend the earth from end to end.

Iredale was at her side in an instant, and his arm was about her, and he drew her head upon his shoulder. Instantly her nerve was restored, and, as the noise pa.s.sed, she quietly released herself. Then, stooping, she opened the drawer of the table and produced a torn copy of the Winnipeg _Free Press_. She held out the paper and pointed to the personal column.

"See," she said, with her index finger upon the second line of the column. "'Yellow booming--slump in Grey.' Those who are responsible for that message, whatever it may mean, are also responsible for Leslie's death."

Iredale's eyes were fixed with a terrible fascination upon the print.

A breath escaped him which sounded almost like a gasp. His hands clenched at his sides, and he stood like one turned into stone.

"How--how do you know this?" he asked, in a tense, hoa.r.s.e voice.

"Leslie said so with his last dying breath."

There came no answering word to the girl's statement. Iredale did not move. His eyes were still upon the paper. The silence of death reigned in the room. Even the storm seemed suddenly to have ceased; only was there the incessant swish of the torrential rain outside.

"That is the clue poor Leslie gave me."

"Ah!"

"What do you think?"

"You must give me time to think."

Iredale's mouth was parched. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. For the moment he could scarcely realize his position. An overwhelming horror was upon him. Suddenly he turned.

"What is the date of that paper?"

"A few days before Leslie's death. But this notice has appeared many times since--which will make our task the easier."

"Yes, it will make our task the easier."

Another pause, which was protracted until the silence could almost be felt. Then Prudence spoke.

"You will stay to tea?"