CHAPTER II.
FOUND.
"I suppose it's all right," said Samuel Doran, as he walked toward theschool-house, followed by three or four of the villagers, "called"because of their nearness, rather than "chosen"; "but Brierly'scertainly the last man to let any ordinary matter keep him from hispost. We'll hear what Miss Grant has to say."
Miss Grant met the group at the gate, and when she had told them all shehad to tell, ending with the testimony of the boy Peter, and thesuggestion concerning the target-shooting.
"Sho!" broke in one of the men, as she was about to express her personalopinion and her fears, "that's the top an' bottom of the hull business!Brierly's regularly took with ashootin' at a mark. I've been out withhim two or three evenin's of late. He's just got int'rusted, and forgotter look at his watch. We'll find him safe enough som'e'res along thebank; let's cut across the woods."
"He must have heard the bell," objected Mr. Doran, "but, of course, ifPeter Kramer saw him down there, that's our way. Don't be anxious, MissGrant; probably Hopkins is right."
The road which they followed for some distance ran a somewhat deviouscourse through the wood, which one entered very soon after leaving theschool-house. It ran along the hillside, near its base, but stillsomewhat above the stretch of ground, fully a hundred yards in width,between it and the lake shore.
Above the road, to eastward, the wooded growth climbed the gentle upwardslope, growing, as it seemed, more and more dense and shadowy as itmounted. But between the road and the river the trees grew less densely,with numerous sunny openings, but with much undergrowth, here and there,of hazel and sumach, wild vines, and along the border of the lake thelow overhanging scrub willow.
For more than a fourth of a mile the four men followed the road, walkingin couples, and not far apart, and contenting themselves with anoccasional "hallo, Brierly," and with peering into the openings throughwhich they could see the lake shore as they passed along.
A little further on, however, a bit of rising ground cut off all sightof the lake for a short distance. It was an oblong mound, so shapely, soevenly proportioned that it had became known as the Indian Mound, andwas believed to have been the work of the aborigines, a prehistoricfortification, or burial place.
As they came opposite this mound, the man Hopkins stopped, saying:
"Hadn't a couple of us fellers better go round the mound on t'otherside? Course, if he's on the bank, an' all right, he'd ort to hearus--but----"
"Yes," broke in the leader, who had been silent and very grave for somemoments. "Go that way, Hopkins, and we'll keep to the road and meet youat the further end of the mound."
They separated silently, and for some moments Mr. Doran and hiscompanions walked on, still silent, then--
"We ought to have brought that simpleton along," Doran said, as ifmeditating. "The Kramers live only a quarter of a mile beyond the mound,and it must have been near here--Stop!"
He drew his companions back from the track, as a pony's head appearedaround a curve of the road; and then, as a black shetland and lowphaeton came in sight, he stepped forward again, and took off his hat.
He was squarely in the middle of the road, and the lady in the littlephaeton pulled up her pony and met his gaze with a look of mute inquiry.She was a small, fair woman, with pale, regular features and large blueeyes. She was dressed in mourning, and, beyond a doubt, was not a nativeof Glenville.
"Excuse my haste, ma'am," said Doran, coming to the side of the phaeton."I'm James Doran, owner of the stable where this horse belongs, and weare out in search of our schoolmaster. Have you seen a tall young manalong this road anywhere?"
The lady was silent a moment, then--"Was he a fair young man?" sheasked, slowly.
"Yes, tall and fair."
The lady gathered up her reins.
"I passed such a person," she said, "when I drove out of town shortlyafter breakfast. He was going south, as I was. It must have beensomewhere not far from this place."
"And--did you see his face?"
"No; the pony was fresh then, and I was intent upon him."
She lifted the reins, and then turned as if to speak again when the manwho had been a silent witness of the little dialogue came a step nearer.
"I s'pose you hav'n't heard any noise--a pistol shot--nor anythin' likethat, have ye, ma'am?"
"Mercy! No, indeed! Why, what has happened?"
Before either could answer, there came a shout from the direction of thelake shore.
"Doran, come--quick!"
They were directly opposite the mound, at its central or highest point,and, turning swiftly, James Doran saw the man Hopkins at the top of it,waving his arms frantically.
"Is he found?" called Doran, moving toward him.
"Yes. He's hurt!"
With the words Hopkins disappeared behind the knoll, but Doran was nearenough to see that the man's face was scared and pale. He turned andcalled sharply to the lady, who had taken up her whip and was drivingon.
"Madam, stop! There's a man hurt. Wait there a moment; we may need yourhorse." The last words were uttered as he ran up the mound, hiscompanions close at his heels. And the lady checked the willing ponyonce more with a look half reluctant, wholly troubled.
"What a position," she said to herself, impatiently. "These villagersare not diffident, upon my word."
A few moments only had passed when approaching footsteps and the soundof quick panting breaths caused her to turn her head, and she saw JamesDoran running swiftly toward her, pale faced, and too full of anxietyto be observant of the courtesies.
"You must let me drive back to town with you, madam," he panted,springing into the little vehicle with a force that tried its springsand wrought havoc with the voluminous folds of the lady's gown. "We musthave the doctor, and--the coroner, too, I fear--at once!"
He put out his hand for the reins, but she anticipated the movement andstruck the pony a sharp and sudden blow that sent him galloping townwardat the top of his speed, the reins still in her two small,perfectly-gloved hands.
For a few moments no word was spoken; then, without turning her eyesfrom the road, she asked:
"What is it?"
"Death, I'm afraid!"
"What! Not suicide?"
"Never. An accident, of course."
"How horrible!" The small hands tightened their grasp upon the reins,and no other word was spoken until they were passing the school-house,when she asked--
"Who was it?"
"Charles Brierly, our head teacher, and a good man."
Miss Grant was standing at one of the front windows and she leanedanxiously out as the little trap darted past.
"We can't stop," said Doran, as much to himself as to his companion. "Imust have the pony, ma'am. Where can I leave you?"
"Anywhere here. Is there anything--any message I can deliver? I am astranger, but I understand the need of haste. Ought not those pupils tobe sent home?"
He put his hand upon the reins. "Stop him," he said. "You are quick tothink, madam. Will you take a message to the school-house--to MissGrant?"
"Surely."
They had passed the school-house and as the pony stopped, Doran sprangout and offered his hand, which she scarcely touched in alighting.
"What shall I say?" she asked as she sprang down.
"See Miss Grant. Tell her privately that Mr. Brierly has met with anaccident, and that the children must be sent home quietly and at once.At once, mind."
"I understand." She turned away with a quick, nervous movement, but hestopped her.
"One moment. Your name, please? Your evidence may be wanted."
"By whom?"
"By the coroner; to corroborate our story."
"I see. I am Mrs. Jamieson; at the Glenville House."
She turned from him with the last word, and walked swiftly back towardthe school-house.
Hilda Grant was still at the window. She had made no attempt to listento recitations, or even to call the roll; and she hastened out, at sig
htof the slight black robed figure entering the school yard, her big greyeyes full of the question her lips refused to frame.
They met at the foot of the steps, and Mrs. Jamieson spoke at once, asif in reply, to the wordless inquiry in the other's face.
"I am Mrs. Jamieson," she said, speaking low, mindful of the curiousfaces peering out from two windows, on either side of the open door. "Iwas stopped by Mr.--"
"Mr. Doran?"
"Yes. He wished me to tell you that the teacher, Mr. ----"
"Brierly?"
"Yes; that he has met with an accident; and that you had better closethe school, and send the children home quietly, and at once."
"Oh!" Suddenly the woman's small figure swayed; she threw out a hand asif for support and, before the half-dazed girl before her could reachher, she sank weakly upon the lowest step. "Oh!" she sighed again. "Idid not realise--I--I believe I am frightened!" And then, as Miss Grantbent over her, she added weakly: "Don't mind me. I--I'll rest here amoment. Send away your pupils; I only need rest."
When the wondering children had passed out from the school-rooms, andwere scattering, in slow-moving, eagerly-talking groups, Hilda Grantstood for a moment beside her desk, rigid and with all the anguish ofher soul revealed, in this instant of solitude, upon her face.
"He is dead!" she murmured. "I know it, I feel it! He is dead." Hervoice, even to herself, sounded hard and strange. She lifted a cold handto her eyes, but there were no tears there; and then suddenly sheremembered her guest.
A moment later, Mrs. Jamieson, walking weakly up the steps, met hercoming from the school-room with a glass of water in her hand, which sheproffered silently.
The stranger drank it eagerly. "Thank you," she said. "It is what Ineed. May I come inside for a little?"
Hilda led the way in silence, and, when her visitor was seated, came andsat down opposite her. "Will you tell me what you can?" she askedhesitatingly.
"Willingly. Only it is so little. I have been for some time a guest atthe Glenville House, seeking to recover here in your pure air andcountry quiet, from the effects of sorrow and a long illness. I havedriven about these hills and along the lake shore almost daily."
"I have seen you," said Hilda, "as you drove past more than once."
"And did you see me this morning?"
"No."
"Still, I passed this spot at eight o'clock; I think, perhaps, earlier.My physician has cautioned me against long drives, and this morning Idid not go quite so far as usual, because yesterday I went too far. Ihad turned my pony toward home just beyond that pretty mill where thelittle streams join the lake, and was driving slowly homeward when thisMr. Doran--is not that right?--this Mr. Doran stopped me to ask if I hadseen a man, a tall, fair man----"
"And had you?"
"I told him yes; and in a moment some one appeared at the top of theIndian Mound, and called out that the man was found."
"How--tell me how?"
Mrs. Jamieson drew back a little and looked into the girl's face withstrange intentness.
"I--I fear he was a friend of yours," she said in a strangely hesitatingmanner, her eyes swiftly scanning the pale face.
"You fear! Why do you fear? Tell me. You say he is injured. Tell meall--the worst!"
Still the small, erect, black-clad figure drew back, a look of suddenunderstanding and apprehension dawning in her face. She moved her lips,but no sound came from them.
"Tell me!" cried the girl again. "In mercy--oh, don't you understand?"
"Yes, I understand now." The lady drew weakly back in the seat andseemed to be compelling her own eyes and lips to steadiness.
"Listen! We must be calm--both of us. I--I am not strong; I dare notgive way. Yes, yes; this is all I can tell you. The man, Mr. Doran,asked me to wait in the road with the pony. He came back soon, and saidthat we must find the doctor and the coroner at once; there had been anaccident, and the man--the one for whom they searched--was dead, hefeared."
She sprang suddenly to her feet.
"You must not faint. If you do, I--I cannot help you; I am not strongenough."
"I shall not faint," replied Hilda Grant, in a hard strange voice, andshe, too, arose quickly, and went with straight swift steps through theopen door between the two rooms and out of sight.
Mrs. Jamieson stood looking after her for a moment, as if in doubt andwonder; then she put up an unsteady hand and drew down the gauze veilfolded back from her close-fitting mourning bonnet.
"How strange!" she whispered. "She turns from me as if--and yet I had totell her! Ugh! I cannot stay here alone. I shall break down, too, and Imust not. I must not. Here, and alone!"
A moment she stood irresolute, then walking slowly she went out of theschool-room, down the stone steps, and through the gate, townward,slowly at first, and then her pace increasing, and a look ofapprehension growing in her eyes.
"Oh," she murmured as she hurried on, "what a horrible morning!" Andthen she started hysterically as the shriek of the incoming fast mailtrain struck her ears. "Oh, how nervous this has made me," she murmured,and drew a sigh of relief as she paused unsteadily at the door of herhotel.
For fully fifteen minutes after Hilda Grant had reached the emptysolitude of her own school-room she stood crouched against the nearwall, her hands clenched and hanging straight at her side, her eyesfixed on space. Then, with eyes still tearless, but with dry sobsbreaking from her throat, she tottered to her seat before the desk, andlet her face fall forward upon her arms, moaning from time to time likesome hurt animal, and so heedless of all about her that she did nothear a light step in the hall without, nor the approach of the man whopaused in the doorway to gaze at her in troubled surprise.
He was a tall and slender young fellow, with a handsome face, an eyeclear, frank, and keen, and a mouth which, but for the moustache whichshadowed it, might have been pronounced too strong for beauty.
A moment he stood looking with growing pity upon the grieving woman, andthen he turned and silently tip-toed across the room and to the outerdoor. Standing there he seemed to ponder, and then, softly stepping backto the vacant platform, he seated himself in the teacher's chair andidly opened the first of the volumes scattered over the desk, smiling ashe read the name, Charles Brierly, written across the fly-leaf.
"Poor old Charley," he said to himself, as he closed the book. "I wonderhow he enjoys his pedagogic venture, the absurd fellow," and then bysome strange instinct he lifted his eyes to the clock on the oppositewall, and the strangeness of the situation seemed to strike him withsudden force and brought him to his feet.
What did it mean! This silent school-room! These empty desks andscattered books! Where were the pupils? the teacher? And why was thatbrown-tressed head with its hidden face bowed down in that other room,in an agony of sorrow?
Half a dozen quick strides brought him again to the door ofcommunication, and this time his strong, firm footsteps were heard, andthe bowed head lifted itself wearily, and the eyes of the two met, eachquestioning the other.
"I beg your pardon," spoke a rich, strong voice. "May I ask where Ishall find Mr. Brierly?"
Slowly, as if fascinated, the girl came toward him, a look almost ofterror in her face.
"Who are you?" she faltered.
"I am Robert Brierly. I had hoped to find my brother here at his post.Will you tell me----"
But the sudden cry from her lips checked him, and the pent-up tearsburst forth as Hilda Grant, her heart wrung with pity, flung herselfdown upon the low platform, and sitting there with her face bent uponher sleeves, sobbed out her own sorrow in her heartbreak of sympathy forthe grief that must soon overwhelm him and strike the happy light fromhis face.
Sobs choked her utterance, and the young man stood near her, uncertain,anxious, and troubled, until from the direction of the town the sound offlying wheels smote their ears, and Hilda sprang to her feet with asharp cry.
"I must tell you; you must bear it as well as I. Hark! they are goingto him; you must go too!" She turned tow
ard the window, swayed heavily,and was caught in his arms.
It was a brief swoon, but when she opened her eyes and looked about her,the sound of the flying wheels was dying away in the distance,southward.
He had found the pail of pure spring water, and applied some of it toher hands and temples with the quickness and ease of a woman, and he nowheld a glass to her lips.
She drank feverishly, put a hand before her eyes, raised herself with aneffort, and seemed to struggle mutely for self-control. Then she turnedtoward him.
"I am Hilda Grant," she said, brokenly.
"My brother's friend! My sister that is to be!"
"No, no; not now. Something has happened. You should have gone withthose men--with the doctor. They are going to bring him back."
"Miss Grant, sister!" His hands had closed firmly upon her wrists, andhis voice was firm. "You must tell me the worst, quick. Don't seek tospare me; think of him! What is it?"
"He--he went from home early, with his pistol, they say, to shoot at atarget. He is dead!"
"Dead! Charley dead! Quick! Where is he? I must see, I must. Oh! theremust be some horrible mistake."
He sprang toward the door, but she was before him.
"Go this way. Here is his wheel. Take it. Go south--the lake shore--theIndian Mound."
A moment later a young man with pallid face, set mouth and tragic eyeswas flying toward the Indian Mound upon a swift wheel, and in theschool-room, prone upon the floor, a girl lay in a death-like swoon.
The Last Stroke: A Detective Story Page 2