He watched the tall, drooping figure; then, as Hervey pa.s.sed from view, Iredale turned back and flung himself into his chair, and his laugh sounded through the stillness of the room.

But there was no mirth in that laugh. It was like the hysterical laugh of a man whose nerves are strained to breaking tension.

He knew he had made a terrible mistake. His rage had placed a deadly weapon in his enemy's hands. He had practically admitted his authorship of the notice in the Winnipeg paper. What would be the result? he asked himself. Again that strained laugh sounded through the room.

As Hervey rode away from the valley his fear of George Iredale fell from him as might a cloak. His face wore full expression of the evil in his heart.

He, too, laughed; but his laugh was an expression of triumph.

"You're less clever than I thought, George Iredale," he muttered.

"You would have done better to have bought my silence. Now I can sell my discovery elsewhere. Money I want, and money I mean to have."

But he spurred his horse on as an anxious thought came to him.

CHAPTER XIV

A STAB IN THE DARK

Mrs. Malling fumbled her gla.s.ses out of her pocket and adjusted them on her nose. She had paused in her work to receive her letters, which had just been brought from Lakeville. The girls stood by waiting to learn the news.

The summer kitchen was stifling hot. The great cook-stove, throwing off a fearful heat, helped to heighten the brilliancy of the farm-wife's complexion, and brought beads of perspiration out upon her forehead. Prudence and Alice looked cool beside "Mother Hephzy," but then they were never allowed to do any work in the kitchen. Mrs.

Malling loved her kitchen better than any part of the house. She had always reigned supreme there, and as long as she could work such would always be the case.

Now she was preparing the midday meal for the threshing gang which was at work in the fields. Great blocked-tin canteens stood about upon the floor waiting to receive the hot food which was to be sent down to the workers. Hephzibah was a woman of generous instincts where the inner man was concerned. The wages she paid were always board wages, but no hired man was ever allowed to work for her and pay for his keep. She invariably insisted that every labourer should be fed from her kitchen, and she took care that his food was the best she could provide.

"Alice, girl," the old lady said, as she tore open the first letter, "go and see if Andy is. .h.i.tching-up yet. Tell him that the dinner boxes will be ready in quarter-hour. Maybe you'll find him in the bean patch, I sent him to gather a peck o' broad beans. Who's this from?"

she went on, turning to the last page of her letter to look at the signature. "H'm--Winnipeg--the bank. Guess I'll read that later."

Alice ran off to find Andy, and Mrs. Malling picked up another envelope.

"Prudence, my girl," went on the farm-wife, as soon as Alice's back was turned, "just open that other," pointing to a blue envelope. "The postmark reads Ainsley. I take it, it's from young Robb Chillingwood.

Maybe it's to say as he'll be along d'rectly."

Prudence picked the last letter up.

"It is hot in here, mother; I wonder you can stand it."

Her mother looked up over her spectacles.

"Stand it, child? It's a woman's place, is the kitchen. I can't trust no one at the stove but myself. I've done it for over forty summers, an' I don't reckon to give it up now. This is from that p'lice feller.

He ain't doing much, I'm thinking. Seems to me he spends most of his time in making up his bills of expenses. Howsum, you look into it.

What's Master Robb say?"

She put her gla.s.ses back into their broad old-fashioned case and turned back to the stove. She could never allow anything to keep her long from her cooking. She lifted a lid and stabbed her cooking fork gently into a great boiler full of potatoes. Then she pa.s.sed round to the other side and shook up the fire.

"Oh, what a shame, mother! Won't Al be disappointed? Robb can't come out here, at least not to stay." Prudence had finished her letter and now looked disappointedly over at her mother.

"And how be that?" asked the old lady, standing with a shovel of anthracite coal poised in her hand.

"He says that the rush of emigrants to the district keeps him at work from daylight to dark. It's too bad. Poor old Al!"

Mrs. Malling dumped the coal into the stove with a clatter and replaced the circular iron top. She said nothing, and Prudence went on.

"He's coming out this way on business shortly, and will call over here if possible. But he can't stay. Says he's making money now, and is writing to Al and giving her all particulars. I _am_ sorry he can't come."

"Well, well; maybe it's for the best," said her mother, in a consolatory manner. "Seemingly his coming would only 'a caused bickerings with Hervey, and, good-sakes, we get enough of that now.

I'm not one for underhand dealings, but I'm thinking it would be for the best not to say anything to your brother about his coming at all.

If he asks, just say he can't come to stop. I'd sooner keep Hervey under my eye. If he goes off, as he said, you never know what mischief he'll be getting up to. He just goes into Winnipeg and gets around with them scallywags, and--and you never know. I have heard tell--though he never lets on--as he's too fond o' poker. Leastways, I do know as he spends more money than is good for him. Sarah and me was talking only the other day. Sarah's pretty 'cute, and she declares that he's got gaming writ in his lines. Maybe it's so. I'll not dispute. He won't have no excuse for leaving now." And she sighed heavily and took up the vegetables from the stove.

Alice returned, and the sound of wheels outside told the farm-wife that the buckboard was ready for the men's dinner.

The two girls and the old lady portioned out the food into the great canteens, and Andy lifted them on to the buckboard. Then the ch.o.r.eman drove away.

By the time the farm dinner was ready Alice had quite got over her disappointment. Prudence had told her the contents of the letter, and also her mother's wishes on the subject. Alice was naturally too cheerful to think much of the matter; besides, she was glad that Robb's business was improving.

Hervey came up from the fields in Andy's buckboard. He always came home for his dinner, and to-day he brought an atmosphere of unwonted cheerfulness with him. He had spent much thought and consideration upon his relations with George Iredale, and the result of his reflections was displayed in his manner when he returned from the fields. Never in his life had he held such a handful of trumps. His hand needed little playing, and the chances of a cross ruff looked to him remote.

After the meal he went out to the barn, where he smoked for awhile in pensive solitude. He thought long and earnestly, and was so absorbed that he looked up with a start at the sound of his mother's voice calling to him from the open kitchen window.

"Bestir yourself, Hervey, boy. There's work to be done down in the fields, which is your share in the day's doings."

And the man, removing the pipe from his mouth, forgot to grumble back a rough retort, and answered quite cheerfully--

"All right, mother. Is Prudence there?"

"Where should she be, if not?" replied his mother, turning back from the window to tell his sister that she was wanted.

Prudence came out. Hervey watched her as she approached. He could not but admit to himself the prettiness of her trim figure, the quiet sedateness of her beautiful, gentle face. Gazing intently, he failed to observe the faint shadow in the expression of her soft brown eyes.

There was no sympathy in his nature, and without sympathy it would have been impossible to read the expression. But Prudence was feeling a little sad and a little hurt. Iredale had not fulfilled his promise.

Two days had pa.s.sed since he had told her that he loved her and had asked her to be his wife; nor, since then, had he been over to the farm, nor had she heard a word from him. Fortunately, she told herself, she had said nothing of what had pa.s.sed between them, not even to her friend Alice; thus she was spared the sympathy of her friends. She had waited for his coming with a world of eager delight in her heart, and each moment of the day on which he was to have come to see her mother had been one of unalloyed happiness to her. Then as the evening drew on she became anxious. And again as night came, and still no sign from him, her anxiety had given place to alarm. That night she slept little, but she kept her trouble to herself. Alice was all eagerness to ask questions of her friend, but Prudence gave her no opportunity. The next morning a note had arrived. Business detained him, but he would be over at the earliest possible moment. And now the third day was well advanced and he still remained away. She did not doubt him, but she felt hurt and a little rebellious at the thought of his allowing himself to be detained by business. Surely his first duty was to her. It was not like him, she told herself; and she felt very unhappy.

Hervey greeted her with an a.s.sumption of kindness, almost of affection.

"Are you busy, Prue? I mean, I want to have a little talk with you.

I've been working in your interests lately. You may guess in what direction. And I have made a strange discovery. We haven't hit it off very well, I know, but you must forgive me my shortcomings. I have lived too long in the wilds to be a pleasant companion. Can you spare me a few minutes?"

The dark eyes of the man were quite gentle in their expression, and in the girl's present state of mind his apparent kindliness had a strong effect upon her. She was surprised, but she smiled up into his face with a world of grat.i.tude. In spite of all, her love for her brother was very deeply rooted. The simplicity of her nature and the life she lived made her an easy victim to his villainous wiles.

"Why, yes, Hervey; as long as you like."

"Good; I'm going down to the threshing. Will you walk some part of the way with me? Mother has just reminded me that my work must not be neglected. Another two days and we shall be ready for the fall ploughing."

The sun was pouring down with fervid intensity. The yard was very still and quiet. Everything that had leisure was resting drowsily in the trifling shade obtainable. The swine had ceased to make themselves heard and were sleeping upon each other's abdomens. The fowls were scratching with ruffled feathers in the sandy hollows of the parched earth, which they had made during the hours of morning energy. The pigeons had departed for the day to the shelter of a distant bluff.

Even the few horses remaining within the barn were dozing. The dog, Neche, alone seemed restless. He seemed to share with his master the stormy pa.s.sions of a cruel heart, for, with infinite duplicity, he was lying low, pretending to be occupied with a great beef shin-bone, while his evil eyes watched intently the movements of half-a-dozen weary milch cows, which were vainly endeavouring to reach the shelter of their sheds. But the dog would not have it. With a refinement of torture he would allow them to mouch slowly towards their yard, then, just as they were about to enter, he would fly into a dreadful pa.s.sion, and, limping vigorously at their heels, would chase them out upon the prairie and then return once more to his bone, only to await his opportunity of repeating the operation.