The Hound From The North Part 8

"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.

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.

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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 dignified exit, and a dignified exit is never compatible with a back door. Had he left Loon d.y.k.e 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 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 pa.s.sed out.

"Evening," said the horseman, in a voice m.u.f.fled by the fur of his coat-collar.

"Good-evening," replied Grey shortly.

"Loon d.y.k.e Farm," said the stranger, in a tone less of inquiry than of making a statement.

Grey nodded, and turned to move away. Then he seemed to hesitate, and turned again to the stranger. Those eyes! Where had he seen just such a pair of eyes before? He tried to think, but somehow his memory failed him. The horseman had turned his face towards the house and so the great roving eyes were hidden. But Grey was too intent upon the business he had in hand to devote much thought to anything else.

There was no further reason for remaining; he had satisfied his curiosity. He would learn all about the stranger later on.

He hurried round to the stables. When he had gone the stranger dismounted; for a moment or two he stood with one hand on the gate and the other holding the horse's reins, gazing after the retreating form of the Customs officer. He waited until the other had disappeared, then leisurely hitched his horse's reins on to the fence of the enclosure, and, pa.s.sing in through the gate, approached the house.

Presently he saw Grey ride away, and a close observer might have detected the sound of a heavy sigh escaping from between the embracing folds of the fur collar as the man walked up the path and rapped loudly upon the front door with his mitted fist. The three-footed hound had closed up on his master, and now stood beside him.

Prudence opened the door. Tea was just ready; and she answered the summons, half expecting to find that her lover had thought better of his ill-humour and had returned to share the evening meal. She drew back well within the house when she realized her mistake. The stranger stood for one second as though in doubt; then his voice reached the waiting girl.

"Prudence, isn't it?"

The girl started. Then a smile broke over her pretty, dark face.

"Why, it's Hervey--brother Hervey. Here, mother," she called back into the house. "Quick, here's Hervey. Why, you dear boy, I didn't expect you for at least a week--and then I wasn't sure you would come. You got my letter safely then, and you must have started off almost at once--you're a real good brother to come so soon. Yes, in here; tea is just ready. Take off your coat. Come along, mother," she called out again joyously. "Hurry; come as fast as you can; Hervey is here." And she ran away towards the kitchen. Her mother's movements were far too slow to suit her.

The man removed his coat, and voices reached him from the direction of the kitchen.

"Dearie me, but, child, you do rush one about so. Where is he? There, you've left the door open; and whose is that hideous brute of a dog?

Why, it looks like a timber-wolf. Send him out."

Mrs. Malling talked far more rapidly than she walked, or rather trotted, under the force of her daughter's bustling excitement. Hervey went out into the hall to meet her. Standing framed in the doorway he saw his dog.

"Get out, you brute," he shouted, and stepping quickly up to the animal he launched a cruel kick at it which caught it squarely on the chest. The beast turned solemnly away without a sound, and Hervey closed the door.

The mother was the first to meet him. Her stout arms were outstretched, while her face beamed with pride, and her eyes were filled with tears of joy.

"My dear, dear boy," she exclaimed, smiling happily. Hervey made no reciprocal movement. He merely bent his head down to her level and allowed her to kiss his cheek. She hugged him forcefully to her ample bosom, an embrace from which he quickly released himself. Her words then poured forth in a swift, incoherent flow. "And to think I believed that I should never see you again. And how you have grown and filled out. Just like your father. And where have you been all this time, and have you kept well? Look at the tan on his face, Prudence, and the beard too. Why, I should hardly have known you, boy, if I hadn't 'a known who it was. Why, you must be inches taller than your father for sure--and he was a tall man. But you must tell me all about yourself when the folks are all gone to-night. We are having a party, you know. And isn't it nice?--you will be here for Prudence's wedding----"

"Don't you think we'd better go into the parlour instead of standing out here?" the girl interrupted practically. Her mother's rambling remarks had shown no sign of cessation, and the tea was waiting.

"Hervey must be tired and hungry."

"Well, I must confess I am utterly worn out," the man replied with a laugh. "Yes, mother, if tea is ready let's come along. We can talk during the meal."

They pa.s.sed into the parlour. As they seated themselves at the table, Sarah Gurridge joined them from her place beside the stove. Hervey had not noticed her presence when he first entered the room, and the good school-ma'am, quietly day-dreaming, had barely awakened to the fact of his coming. Now she, too, joined in the enthusiasm of the moment.

"Ah, Hervey," she said, with that complacent air of proprietorship which our early preceptors invariably a.s.sume, "you haven't forgotten me, I know.

'Though the tempest of life will oft shut out the past, The thoughts of our school-days remain to the last.'"