The Hound From The North Part 21

Prudence turned a pair of astonished brown eyes on her companion.

Alice didn't answer, and the two looked squarely into each other's faces. The elder girl read the meaning which Alice did not attempt to conceal, and a warm flush mounted quickly and suffused her sun-tanned face.

Then followed a long silence, and the crackling of the pine-cones beneath the horses' feet alone aroused the echoes of the woods.

Prudence was thinking deeply. A thoughtful pucker marred the perfect arch of her brows, and her half-veiled eyes were turned upon her horse's mane.

George Iredale. What of him? He seemed so to have grown into her life of late that she would now scarcely recognize Loon d.y.k.e Farm without him. This sudden reminder made her look back over the days since her return from "down East," and she realized that George, since that time, had literally formed part of her life. He was always in her thoughts in some way or other. Every one on the farm spoke of him as if he belonged to it. Hardly a day pa.s.sed but what some portion of it was spent by him in her company. His absence was only when his business took him elsewhere.

And what was the meaning of it all? What was he to her that her friend should talk of "poaching" when regarding her own intercourse with this man? Prudence's face grew hotter. The awakening had come. At that moment she knew that George Iredale was a good deal to her, and she felt a certain maidenly shame at the discovery. He had never uttered a word of love to her--not one, in all the years she had known him, and, unbidden, she had given him her love. In those first moments of realization her heart was filled with something like dismay which was not wholly without a feeling of joy. She felt herself flushing under the thoughts conjured by her friend's implication, and her feelings became worse as Alice went on.

"Ah, Prue, you can't hide these things from me. I have always intended to say something, but you are such an austere person that I was afraid of getting a snub. Mr. Iredale is a charming man, and--well--I hope when it comes off you'll be very, very happy."

"Don't be absurd, Alice." Prudence had recovered herself now.

"My dear Prue," the girl retorted emphatically, and imitating the other's lofty tone, "George Iredale just worships the ground you walk on. One word of encouragement from you, if you haven't already given it to him, and in a short time you will be the mistress of Lonely Ranch."

"Nothing of the sort"

"My dear girl, I know."

"You know less than you think you do, and I am not going to listen to any more of your nonsense."

Prudence touched her horse's flank with her heel and trotted on ahead of her companion. But in her heart she knew that what Alice had said was true.

Alice called after her to wait. The trees were so closely set that she had difficulty in steering clear of them; but Prudence was obdurate and kept right on. Nor did she draw rein until the sh.o.r.e of the lake was reached, and then only did she do so because of the impa.s.sable tangle of undergrowth which confronted her. Just as Alice came up with her she started off again at right angles to the direction they had come, riding parallel with the bank. Alice, breathless and laughing, followed in her wake, until at length a break in the trees showed them a gra.s.sy patch which sank slowly down in a gentle declivity to the water's edge. By the time this was reached Prudence's good-humour was quite restored.

"A nice dance you've led me," expostulated Alice, as they dismounted and began to off-saddle.

"Serves you right for your impertinence," Prudence smiled over at the other.

"All the same I'm right."

"Now keep quiet, or I'll ride off again and leave you."

"So you can if you like; this old mare I'm riding will take me home straight as the crow flies. What's that?"

Out across the water came a long-drawn cry, so weird yet so human that the two girls stood still as statues, their faces blanching under their tan. The echoes seemed to die hard, growing slowly fainter and fainter. Alice's eyes were widely staring and filled with an expression of horror. Prudence recovered herself first. She laughed a little constrainedly, however.

"We are in the region of Owl Hoot," she said significantly. "That was one of the screech-owls."

"O-oh! I thought it was some one being murdered."

"We shall probably hear lots of strange cries; these regions are renowned for them. You've got the kettle on your saddle, Al. Get all the things out whilst I gather some kindling and make a fire."

"For goodness' sake don't leave me here alone for long," Alice entreated. "I won't mention George's name again, sure."

But Prudence had tethered her horse and set off on her quest. Alice, left alone, secured her horse and proceeded to disgorge the contents of her saddle-bags, and also those on her friend's saddle. This done, she stepped down to the water's edge, and, pushing the reedy vegetation on one side, filled the kettle. As she rose from her task she looked out down the wide inlet. The view was an enchanting one.

The wooded banks opposite her rose abruptly from the water, overshadowing it, and throwing a black reflection upon its still surface. There was not a breath of air stirring; the world seemed wondrously still.

Away to the left the water widened out, and was overhung by a haze of heat. She was about to turn away when, from out of the distance, there appeared another long boat. Instantly the girl was all attention. This boat was not travelling in the same direction as were those they had first seen, but was making for the point where the others had appeared. She had a much better view down here at the bank of anything moving on the lake than from the higher land, and she could not help being struck by the fact that, whoever the occupants of the strange craft, they were not Indians. One man was standing in the stern steering the boat by the aid of a long paddle, and this man was garbed in white-man's attire. The distance she was away from the object of her curiosity prevented her distinguishing the features of these people of the lake; but that which was apparent to her was the fact that they were not fishermen, nor was their boat a fishing-boat. It was long, and built with the narrowness of a rice-lake canoe, and so low in the water that its gunwale looked to be within an inch of the gla.s.sy surface.

So intent was the girl upon this strange appearance that she did not notice Prudence's return, and as the strange craft disappeared within the undergrowth of the opposite sh.o.r.e, she turned with a start at the sound of her friend's voice beside her.

"Another boat," asked Prudence, "or the one we saw before?"

"Another."

There was a silence; then the two turned away and prepared their dinner.

They pitched their camp in the shade, and the meal was quickly prepared. The smoke from their fire helped to keep off the few late summer mosquitoes that hummed drowsily upon the sultry air. Everything was wonderfully peaceful and sleepy about their little encampment. Not a leaf stirred or a bough creaked; there was the stillness of death over all. Gradually the silence communicated itself to the girls, and the pauses in their chatter grew longer and their eyes more thoughtful. Even their horses for the most part stood idly by. The green gra.s.s had but a pa.s.sing attraction for them. They nibbled at it occasionally, it is true, but with apparently little appet.i.te. After dinner the two friends spread their saddle-blankets upon the gra.s.s, and stretched themselves thereon in att.i.tudes of comfort, from which they could look out across the shining surface of the lake; and soon their talk almost entirely ceased. Then, for a while, they lay dreaming the time away in happy waking dreams of the future.

Alice had bridged for a moment the miles which divided Owl Hoot from Ainsley, and her thoughts were with her st.u.r.dy lover, Robb Chillingwood. She was contemplating their future together, that future which would contain for them, if no great ease and luxury, at least the happiness of a perfect love and mutual a.s.sistance in times of trial. Her practical mind did not permit her to gaze on visionary times of prosperity and rises to position, but rather she considered their present trifling income, and what they two could do with it. Now and again she sighed, not with any feeling of discontent, but merely at the thought of her own inability to augment her future husband's resources. She was in a serious mood, and pondered long upon these, to her, all-important things.

Prudence's thoughts were of a very different nature, although she too was dreaming of the man whom her sudden realization had brought so p.r.o.nouncedly into her life. Her round dark face was clouded with a look of sore perplexity, and at first the dominant note of her reflections was her blindness to the real state of her own feelings.

Now everything was clear to her of the manner in which George Iredale had steadily grown into her daily life, and how her own friendly liking for him had already ripened into something warmer. He was so quiet, so undemonstrative, so good and kind. She saw now how she had grown accustomed to look for and abide by his decisions in matters which required more consideration than she could give--matters which were beyond her. She understood the strong, reliant nature which underlaid the quiet exterior. And now, when she came to think of it, in all the days of her grown womanhood he had ever been near her, seeking her society always. There was just that brief period during which Leslie Grey had swayed her heart with his tempestuous manner, for the rest it was Iredale. She tried to shut him out; to contemplate his removal from the round of her daily life. Instantly the picture of that life lost its brightness and colouring, and her world appeared to her a very dreary smudge of endless toil. Yes, Alice had sounded the keynote, and Prudence's heart had responded with the chord in sympathy. She knew now that she loved George Iredale.

This realization was not wholly pleasurable, for with it came a sudden grip of fear at her simple heart. Her thoughts went back to some eight months before. And she found herself again looking into the death-chamber at the Leonville school-house. That scene had no longer power to move her; at least not in the way one might have expected. She no longer loved the dead man; he had pa.s.sed from her thoughts as though she had never cared for him. But a new feeling had sprung up in her heart which the realization of this indifference had brought. And this feeling filled her with an utter self-loathing.

She shuddered as she thought of her own heartlessness, the shallow nature which was hers. She remembered her feelings at that bedside as she listened to the dying man's last words. Worst of all, she remembered how, in the paroxysm of her grief, she had sworn to discover the murderer of Leslie Grey and see justice administered. Now she asked herself, What had she done? And the answer came in all its callous significance--Nothing!

She roused herself; her face was very pale. Her thoughts framed themselves into unspoken words.

"If this is the way I have fulfilled my promise to the dead, if this is the extent and depth of my love, then I am the most worthless woman on earth. What surety can I give that my love for George is a better thing than was my affection for Leslie Grey?"

She sat herself up, she looked over at her companion and noted the drooping eyelids. Her features were strangely set, and her smooth forehead wore a disfiguring frown. Then she spoke in a sharp tone that startled the girl beside her.

"Alice, do you think it is possible to imagine you are in love with a man--I mean, that you honestly believe you love him at the time and really do not?"

Alice endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.

"Why, yes, I suppose so. I've been in love with a dozen men at one time and another, never longer than a month with any one of them. I never go to a dance but what I fall in love with at least two of my partners, and my undying affection for both just lasts the evening out. Imagination is strongly developed in some people--when they're young."

"No, be serious."

Alice gazed at the other curiously. Then--

"Out with it, Prue. What is it that's troubling you? Your face is significant of some dire tragedy."

"How long have you been engaged to Robb Chillingwood?"

"Nearly six months. Why?"

"And you've never thought of any other man?"

Alice shook her head. For once she was quite serious.

"Couldn't look at another man. Robb hasn't got two cents to his name, but I'm going to marry him or--or--die an old maid."

For a moment the expression of Prudence's face relaxed, but a moment later it set itself into more stern lines than ever.