The Hound From The North. Ridgwell Cullum
George Iredale has promised to come to the cards to-night. Did I hear you say you were going now? I should have taken it homely if you would 63 have stayed to tea. The party begins at seven, don’t forget.”
Three pairs of quizzical eyes were fixed upon Grey’s good-looking but angry face. His anger was against Prudence entirely now. She had made him look foolish before these two ladies, and that was not easily to be forgiven. Grey’s lack of humour made him view things in a ponderous light. He felt most uncomfortable under the laughing gaze of those three ladies.
However, he would not give way an inch.
“Yes, I must go now,” he said ungraciously. “But not on account of George Iredale,” he added blunderingly. “I have some important work to do–––”
He was interrupted by a suppressed laugh from Prudence. He turned upon her suddenly, glared, then walked abruptly to the door.
“Good-bye,” he exclaimed shortly, and the door closed sharply behind him.
“Why, Prudence,” said Mrs. Malling, turning her round laughing face to her daughter and indicating the door. “Aren’t you–––”
“No, I’m not, mother dear,” the girl answered with a forced laugh.
Sarah Gurridge patted her late pupil’s shoulder affectionately. But her head shook gravely as though a weight of worldly wisdom was hers.
“I don’t think he’ll stay away,” said the mother, with a tender glance in the girl’s direction.
“He hasn’t chin enough,” said Sarah, who prided herself upon her understanding of physiognomy.
“Indeed he has,” retorted Prudence, who heard the remark.
64
Mrs. Malling was right, Leslie Grey was not going to stay away. He had no intention of doing so. But his reasons were quite apart from those Hephzibah Malling attributed to him. He wished to see George Iredale, and because of the man’s coming Grey would forego his angry desire to retaliate upon Prudence. He quite ignored what he was pleased to call his own pride in the matter. He would come because he had what he considered excellent reasons for so doing.
Prudence lit the lamps and laid the table for tea. Her mother ambled off to the great kitchen as fast as her bulk would allow her. There were many things in that wonderful place to see to for the supper, and on these occasions Mrs. Malling would not trust their supervision even to Prudence, much less to the hired girl, Mary. Sarah Gurridge remained in her seat by the stove watching the glowing coals dreamily, her mind galloping ahead through fanciful scenes of her own imagination. Had she been asked she would probably have stated that she was looking forward into the future of the pair who were so soon to be married.
Prudence went on quietly and nimbly with her work. Presently Sarah turned, and after a moment’s intent gaze at the trim, rounded figure, said in her profoundest tone––
| “ ‘Harvest your wheat ere the August frost; One breath of cold and the crop is lost.’ ” |
“Oh, bother––there, I’ve set a place for Leslie,” exclaimed Prudence in a tone of vexation. “What is that about ‘frost’ and ‘lost’?”
“Nothing, dear, I was only thinking aloud.” And Sarah Gurridge relapsed into silence, and continued to bask in the warm glow of the stove.
65
CHAPTER V
THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
Grey strode away from the house in no very amiable frame of mind. A fenced-in patch, planted with blue-gums and a mass of low-growing shrubs, formed a sort of garden in front of the farm.
This enclosure was devoid of all artistic effect, but in summer-time it served as a screen to break the rigour of the wooden farm-buildings. It was a practical but incongruous piece of man’s handiwork, divided down the centre by a pathway bordered with overlapped hoopings of bent red willow switches, which, even in winter, protruded hideously above the beaten snow. The path led to a front gate of primitive and bald manufacture, but stout and serviceable, as was everything else about the farm. And this was the main approach to the house.
It was necessary for Grey, having taken his departure by the front door, to pass out through this gate in order to reach the barn where he had left his saddle-horse. He might have saved himself this trouble by leaving the house by the back door, which opened out directly opposite the entrance to the great barn. But he was in no mood for back doors; the condition of his mind demanded nothing less than a 66 dignified exit, and a dignified exit is never compatible with a back door. Had he left Loon Dyke Farm in an amiable frame of mind, much that was to happen in his immediate future might have been different.
But the writing had been set forth, and there was no altering it.
He walked with a great show of unnecessary energy. It was his nature to do so. His energy was almost painful to behold. Too much vigour and energy is almost worse than chronic indolence; sooner or later people so afflicted find themselves in difficulties.
It was more than a year since his misadventure in the mountains. He had suffered for his own wrong-headedness over that matter, but he had not profited by his experience; he was incapable of doing so. His length of service and reputation for hard work had saved him from dismissal, but Chillingwood was less fortunate; subordinates in Government service generally are less fortunate when their superiors blunder.
However, Grey had outlived that unpleasantness. He was not the man to brood over disaster. Soon after he had been transferred to Ainsley the Town Clerkship fell vacant. He did what he could for Chillingwood, with the result that the younger man eventually secured the post, and thus found himself enjoying a bare existence on an income of $500 per annum.
Halfway down the path Grey became aware of a horseman approaching the farm. The figure was moving along slowly over the trail from Ainsley. In the dusk the horse appeared to be jaded; its head hung down, and its gait was ambling. The stranger 67 was tall, but beyond that Grey could see nothing, for the face was almost entirely hidden in the depths of the storm-collar of his coat. The officer looked hard at the new-comer. It was part of his work to know, at least by sight, every inhabitant of his district. This man was quite a stranger to him. The horse was unknown to him, and the fur coat was unfamiliar. In winter these things usually mark a man out to his acquaintances. The horse shows up against the snow, and the prairie man does not usually possess two fur coats.
On the stranger’s first appearance Grey’s thoughts had at once flown to George Iredale, but now, as he realized that the man was unknown to him, his interest relaxed. However, he walked slowly on to the gate so that he might obtain a closer inspection. Horse and rider were about twenty-five yards off when Grey reached the gate, and he saw that they were followed at some distance by a great wolfish-looking hound.
The evening shadows had grown rapidly. The grey vault of snow-clouds above made the twilight much darker than usual. Grey waited. The traveller silently drew up his horse, and for a moment sat gazing at the figure by the gate. All that was visible of his face was the suggestion of a nose and a pair of large dark eyes.
Grey opened the gate and passed out.
“Evening,” said the horseman, in a voice muffled by the fur of his coat-collar.
“Good-evening,” replied Grey shortly.
“Loon Dyke Farm,” said the stranger, in a tone less of inquiry than of making a statement.
68
Grey