The Hound From The North Part 11

"I meant to come earlier," replied the new arrival, in a deep, quiet voice. "Unfortunately, just as I was going to start, word was brought in to me that a suspicious-looking horseman was hovering round. You see my place is so isolated that any arrival has to be inquired into.

There are so many horse-thieves and other dangerous characters about that I have to be careful. Well, I rode out to ascertain who the intruder was, but I lost him. That delayed me. How are you, and Prudence too? Why, it's ages since I've seen either of you. Yes, something hot is always welcome after a long winter's ride."

George Iredale had divested himself of his coat and over-shoes, and now followed his hostess to the kitchen. He was a man of considerable inches, being little short of six feet in height. He was powerfully built, although his clothes disguised the fact to a large extent, and his height made him look even slim. He had a strong, keen, plain face that was very large-featured, and would undoubtedly have been downright ugly but for an expression of kindly patience, not unmixed with a suspicion of amused tolerance. It was the face of a man in whom women like to place confidence, and with whom men never attempt to take liberties. He had, too, a charm of manner unusual in men living the rough life of the prairie.

The tinkling strains of the waltz had ceased, and Prudence went back to the parlour. She felt that it was high time to set the tables for "progressive euchre." It was past eight and Grey had not turned up.

She began to think he intended carrying out his threat of staying away. Well, if he chose to do so he could. She wouldn't ask him to do otherwise. She felt unhappy about him in spite of her brave thoughts.

Her announcement of cards was hailed with delight, and the guests departed with a rush to search the house for a sufficient number of small tables to cope with the requirements of the game.

In the kitchen George Iredale was slowly sipping a steaming gla.s.s of rye whisky toddy. He was seated in a rigid, high-backed arm-chair, well away from the huge cook-stove, at which Hephzibah Malling was presiding. Many kettles and saucepans stood steaming upon the black iron top, and the occasional opening and shutting of the ovens told of dainties which needed the old farm-wife's most watchful care. Mrs.

Malling's occupation, however, did not interrupt her flow of conversation. George Iredale was a great favourite of hers.

"He's like his poor father in some things," she was saying, as she lifted a batch of small biscuits out of the oven and moved towards the ice-box with them. "He never squealed about his misfortune to me. Not one letter did I get asking for help. He's proud, is Hervey. And now I don't know, I'm sure."

She paused with her hand on the open door of the refrigerator and looked back into the man's face.

"Did he tell you any details of his failure? What was responsible for it?" Iredale asked, poising his gla.s.s on one of the unyielding arms of his chair.

"No, that he didn't, not even that," in a tone of pride. "He just said he'd failed. That he was 'broke.' He's too knocked up with travelling--he's come from Winnipeg right here--or you should hear it from his own lips. He never blamed no one."

"Ah--and you are going to help him, Mrs. Malling. What are you going to do?"

"That's where I'm fixed some. Money he can have--all he wants."

Iredale shook his head gravely.

"Bad policy, Mrs. Malling--until you know all the facts."

"What, my own flesh and blood, too? Well, there----"

"I mean nothing derogatory to your boy, believe me," interrupted Iredale, as he noted the heightened colour of face and the angry sparkle that flashed in the good dame's eyes "I simply mean that it is useless to throw good money after bad. Fruit farming is a lottery in which the prizes go to those who take the most tickets. In other words, it is a question of acreage. A small man may lose his crop through blight, drought, a hundred causes. The larger man has a better chance by reason of the extent of his crop. Now I should take it, you could do better for your son by obtaining all the facts, sorting them out and then deciding what to do. My experience prompts me to suggest another business. Why not the farm?"

All signs of resentment had left Mrs. Malling's face. She deposited her biscuits and returned to the stove, standing before her guest with her hands buried deep in her ap.r.o.n pockets and a delighted smile on her face.

"That's just what I thought at once," she said. "You're real smart, George; why not the farm? I says that to myself right off. I couldn't do better, I know, but there's drawbacks. Yes, drawbacks. Hervey isn't much for the petticoats--meaning his own folks. He's not one to play second fiddle, so to speak. Now while I live the farm is mine, and I learned my business from one who could teach me--my Silas. Now I'd make Hervey my foreman and give him a good wage. He'd have all he wants, but he'd have to be _my_ foreman." The old lady shook her head dubiously.

"And you think Hervey wouldn't accept a subordinate position?"

"He's that proud. Just like my poor Silas," murmured the mother.

"Then he's a fool. But you try him," Iredale said dryly.

"Do you think he might?"

"You never can tell."

"I wonder now if you--yes, I'll ask him."

"Offer it to him, you mean." George Iredale smiled quietly.

"Yes, offer it to him," the old lady corrected herself thoughtfully.

"But I'm forgetting my stewing oysters, and Mistress Prudence will get going on--for she had them sent up all the way from St. John's--if they're burned." She turned to one of the kettles and began stirring at once. "Hervey is coming back after he's been to Niagara, and I'll talk to him then. I wish you could have seen him before he went, but he's abed."

"Never mind, there's time enough when he comes back. Ah, Prudence, how is the euchre 'progressing'?" Iredale turned as the girl came hurriedly in.

"Oh, here you are. You two gossiping as usual. Mother, it's too bad of you to rob me of my guests. But I came to ask for more lemonade."

"Dip it out of yonder kettle, child. And you can take George off at once. It's high time he got at the cards."

"He's too late, the game is nearly over. He'll have to sit out with Leslie. He, also, was too late. Come along, Mr. Iredale,"--she had filled the lemonade pitcher,--"and, mother, when shall you be ready with the supper? Remember, you've got to come and give out the prizes to the winners before that."

"Also to the losers," put in Iredale.

"Yes, they must all have prizes. What time, mother?"

"In an hour. And be off, the pair of you. Mary! Mary!" the old lady called out, moving towards the summer kitchen. "Bustle about, girl, and count down the plates from the dresser. La, look at you," she went on, as the hired girl came running in; "where's the cap I gave you?

And for good-a-mussey's sake go and scrub your hands. My, but girls be jades."

Iredale and Prudence went off to the parlour. The game was nearly over, and the guests were laughing and chattering noisily. The excitement was intense. Leslie Grey sat aloof. He was engaged in a pretence at conversation with Sarah Gurridge, but, to judge by the expression of his face, his temper was still sulky or his thoughts were far away. The moment Iredale entered the room Grey's face lit up with something like interest.

Prudence, accompanying the rancher, was quick to observe the change.

She had been prepared for something of the sort, although the reason she a.s.signed to his interest was very wide of the mark. She smiled to herself as she turned to reply to something Iredale had just said.

The evening pa.s.sed in boisterous jollification. And after the prizes had been awarded supper was served. A solid supper, just such a repast as these people could and did appreciate. The delicacies Mrs. Malling offered to her guests were something to be remembered. She spared no pains, and even her enemies, if she had any, which is doubtful, admitted that she could cook; such an admission amongst the prairie folks was a testimonial of the highest order.

After supper George Iredale, whose quiet manner and serious face debarred him from the revels of the younger men, withdrew to a small work-room which was usually set aside on these occasions for the use of those who desired to smoke. Leslie Grey, who had been talking to Mrs. Malling, and who had been watching for this opportunity, quickly followed.

He fondly believed that Iredale came to the farm to thrust his attentions upon Prudence. This was exasperating enough in itself, but when Grey, in his righteous indignation, thought of other matters pertaining to the owner of Lonely Ranch, his indignation rose to boiling pitch. He meant to have it out with him to-night.

Iredale had already adjusted himself into a comfortable chintz-covered arm-chair when Grey arrived upon the scene. A great briar pipe hung from the corner of his strong, decided mouth, and he was smoking thoughtfully.

Grey moved briskly to another chair and flung himself into its depths with little regard for its age. Nor did he attempt to smoke. His mind was too active and disturbed for anything so calm and soothing.

His first words indicated the condition of his mind.

"Kicking up a racket in there," he said jerkily, indicating the parlour. "Can't stand such a noise when I've got a lot to think about."

"No." Iredale nodded his head and spoke without removing the pipe from his mouth.

"We are to be married to-morrow week--Prudence and I."

"So I've been told. I congratulate you."

Iredale looked at his companion with grave eyes. They were quite alone in the room. He had met Grey frequently and had learned to understand his ways and to know his bull-headed methods. Now he quietly waited.

He had a shrewd suspicion that the man had something unpleasant to say. Unconsciously his teeth closed tighter upon his pipe.

Grey raised his eyebrows.