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Prudence allowed herself to be led. She did not care whither she went or what happened. She was incapable of reasoning. She was stunned by the cruel blow that had fallen. Later she would recover herself, for all such blows are but passing; in waking moments mind and reason cannot long remain inert and sanity obtain. For the present she was a mere automaton.
Hervey grew uncomfortable at the girl’s prolonged silence. He cared nothing for her feelings; he cared nothing for the heart he had broken. He cared only for the money he had not yet secured. He realized only too well that, whatever protest his sister might offer, he had convinced her of Iredale’s guilt; it was only a question of time before she admitted it openly. But some feeling of doubt prompted him to secure his wage without delay. Thus his greed rushed him on to a false trail.
Halfway to the house he broke the silence.
“Well, Prue, you cannot refute my evidence. Iredale is the man you have all been seeking. I have served you well. You yourself have escaped a course which would have brought you lifelong regret. Think of it! What would it have meant to you had you married the man? Terrible! Terrible!”
The girl looked up. There was a wild, hunted look in her eyes. Her brother’s words had in some way driven her at bay. He had struck a chord which had set her every nerve on edge, and in doing so had upset all his best-laid schemes. A flood of passionate protest surged to her lips and flowed forth in a seething torrent. She remembered what his story had been told for; she had forgotten for the moment, so well had he acted his part, and had thought only that264what he had said was the outcome of his regard for her. Now she turned upon him like a tigress.
“Judas!” she cried, a flush of rage sweeping up into her face as the words hissed from between her teeth. “You have come to sell this man. Your thoughts have nothing to do with the meting out of human justice. You want a price for your filthy work. I loathe you! What curse is on our family that you should have been born into it? You shall have your money; do you hear? You shall have it, and with it goes my curse. But not yet. My conditions are not fulfilled. I do not believe you; your story has not convinced me; I can see no reason in it. Ha, ha!” and she laughed hysterically. “You cannot make me believe it because I will not. You shall have your money, I will not go back on my word; but you must fulfil the conditions. You must convince me of the reason in your story. You will earn your pay as you have never earned anything in your life. Shall I tell you how you will earn it? You will prove your story before judge and jury. When you have convinced them you will have convinced me. Then I will pay you. My God, what taint has brought such blood into the veins of our flesh? If Iredale is the murderer he shall pay the extreme penalty, and you––whether you like it or not––shall be instrumental in that punishment. You shall be his accuser; you shall see him to the scaffold. And after it is over, after you have received the sum of your blood-money, I will tell the world of your doings. That you––my brother––demanded a price for your work. They––the world––shall know you; shall loathe you as I loathe you. You shall be an265outcast wherever you go, stamped with the brand of Judas––the most despised of all men. Better for you if you stood in George Iredale’s place on the scaffold than face the world so branded. Oh, you wretched man, you have destroyed my life––my all! Go, and bring the police. Go to those whose duty it is to listen to such stories as yours. Now I will drive you to it; you shall go, whether you like it or not. Refuse, and I will lay the information and force you to become a witness. You thought you were dealing with a soft, silly woman; you thought to cajole the price out of me, and then, having obtained what you desired, to leave me to do the work. Fool! You will face George Iredale, the accuser and the accused. You shall earn your money. I know the ways of such men as you. Do you know what you are doing? Do you know the name that such work as yours goes by? It is blackmail!”
The girl paused for breath. Then she went on with a bitterness that was almost worse than the contempt in all she had said before.
“But rest content. Every penny you have asked for shall be yours when Iredale’s crimes are expiated. Nor shall I give to the world the story of my brother’s perfidy until such time as you have gone out of our world for ever. Go, go from me now; I will not walk beside you.”
Hervey’s face was a study in villainous expression as he listened to his sister’s hysterical denunciation. He knew the reason of her tirade. He knew that she loved Iredale. He had convinced her of this lover’s crimes; he knew this. And now, woman-like, she turned upon him––for his hand, his words had266destroyed her happiness. But her words smote hard. The lowest natures care not what others think of them, but those others’ spoken thoughts have a different effect. So it was with Hervey. It mattered nothing to him what the girl thought of him––what the world thought of him. But words––abuse––had still power to move him.
She struck the right note when she said the money down was what he wanted. Now he saw that he had over-reached himself, and he cursed himself for having trusted to a woman’s promise. There was but one thing left for him to do. He controlled himself well when he replied.
“Very well, sister,” he said. “In spite of what you say, you are going back on your word. You should have thought to fling dirt before you entered into a compact with me. However, I care nothing for all your threats. As you have said, I want money. Nothing else matters to me. So I will go to Winnipeg and see this thing through.”
“You certainly will have to do so. Andy shall drive you into town to-night, and I could find it in my heart to wish that I might never see your face again.”
“Very well.” Hervey laughed harshly. “As you wish. I accept your commands. See you as readily fulfil your part of the contract when the time comes. You do not hoodwink me again with impunity.”
And so brother and sister parted. The girl walked on to the house, her feet dragging wearily over the dusty trail. Hervey paused irresolutely. His burning eyes, filled with a look of bitter hatred, gazed after the slight figure of his sister, whose life he had so267wantonly helped to wreck. Then he laughed cruelly and turned abruptly back on his tracks and returned once more to the harvesters.
Prudence gained the house and went straight to her room. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to straighten out the chaos of her thoughts. She heard the cheery voices of her mother and Alice talking in the kitchen. She heard the clatter of plates and dishes, and she knew that these two were washing up. But beyond that she noticed nothing; she did not even see the plump figure of Sarah Gurridge approaching the house from the direction of Leonville.
Once in her own little room she flung herself into an arm-chair and sat staring straight in front of her. Her paramount feeling was one of awful horror. The mystery was solved, and George Iredale was the murderer. The metal alarm clock ticked away upon the wooden top of her bureau, and the sound pervaded the room with its steady throb. Her feelings, her thoughts, seemed to pulsate in concert with its rhythm. The words which expressed her dominant emotions hammered themselves into her brain with the steady precision of the ticking––
“George Iredale, the murderer of Leslie Grey!”
The moments passed, but time brought the girl no relief. All thought of the man who had told her of this thing had passed from her. Only the fact remained. Slowly, as she sat with nerves tingling and whirling brain, a flush of blood mounted to her head, her brain became hot, and she seemed to be looking out on a red world. The ticking of the clock grew fainter and more distant. The room seemed to diminish in size, while the objects about her drew268nearer and nearer. A sense of compression was hers, although she seemed to be gazing out over some great distance with everything around her in due perspective.
Mechanically she rose and opened the window; then she returned to her chair with something of the action of an automaton.
And as she sat the blood seemed to recede from her brain and an icy dew broke out upon her forehead. She was numbed with a sort of paralysis now, and the measured beat of the clock no longer pounded out the words of her thought. Only her heart beat painfully, and she was conscious of a horrible void. Something was wrong with her, but she was incapable of realizing what it was.
She moved, the chair creaked under her, and again thought flowed through her brain. It came with a rush; the deadly numbness had gone as quickly as it had come, and once more her faculties worked feverishly. Now she realized pain, horror, despair, hopelessness in a sudden, overwhelming flood. She shrank back deeper into the chair as though to avoid physical blows which were being rained upon her by some unseen hand.
Presently she started up with a faint cry. She walked across the room and back again. She paused at the bureau, muttering––
“It can’t be! It can’t be!” she said to herself, in an agony of terror. “George is too good, too honest. Ah!”
Her love cried out for the man, but reason checked her while her heart tried to rush her into extravagant hopefulness. Iredale had admitted the smuggling.269She had seen with her own eyes the doings at the graveyard. And therein lay the key to everything. Leslie had said so with his dying breath. But as this thought came to her it was chased away by her love in a fresh burst of fervour. She could not believe it. There must be some awful, some horrible mistake.
Slowly her mind steadied itself; the long years of calmness which she had spent amidst the profound peace of the prairie helped her. She gripped herself lest the dreadful thought of what she had heard should drive her to madness. She went over what she had been told with a keen examination. She listened to her own arguments for and against the man she loved. She went back to the time when Leslie had told her of his “coup.” She remembered everything so well. She paused as she recollected her dead lover’s anger at George’s coming to the party. And, for a moment, her heart almost stood still. She asked herself, had she misinterpreted his meaning? Had there been something underlying his expressed displeasure at George’s coming which related to what he knew of his, George Iredale’s, doings at the ranch? Every word he had said came back to her. She remembered that he had finished up his protest with a broken sentence.
“––And besides–––”
There was a significance in those words now which she could not help dwelling upon. Then she put the thought from her as her faith in her lover re-asserted itself. But the effort was a feeble one; her love was being overwhelmed by the damning evidence.
She moved restlessly from the bureau to the window. The curtained aperture looked out upon270the far-reaching cornfields, which were now only a mass of brown stubble. In the distance, beyond the dyke, she could see the white steam of the traction-engine and the figures of many men working. The carts and racks were moving in the picture, but for all else the view was one of peaceful, unbroken calm.
Her mind passed on to the time when the party had broken up. She remembered how in searching for Iredale she had found the two men quarrelling, or something in that nature. Again Leslie had been on the verge of telling her something, but the moment had gone by and he had kept silence. She tried to deny the significance of these things, but reason checked her, and her heart sank to zero. And she no longer tried to defend her lover.
Then came the recollection of that picnic. The screech-owls; the boats laden with their human freight moving suspiciously over the waters of the great lake. She thought of the graveyard and the ghostly procession. And all the time her look was hardening and the protests of her heart slowly died out. If she had doubted Hervey’s words, all these things of which she now thought were facts evident to her own senses. The hard light in her eyes changed to the bright flash of anger. This man had come to her with his love, she reminded herself, and she had yielded to him all that she had power to bestow. The brown eyes grew darker until their glowing depths partially resembled those of her brother.
As the anger in her heart rose her pain increased, and she recoiled in horror at the thought that this man had dared to offer her his love while his hands271were stained with black crime. At best he was a law-breaker; at the worst he was–––
She paced her room with agitated steps. The blood rose to her head again, and she felt dizzy and dazed. What could she do? What must she do? She longed for some one to whom she could tell all that was in her heart, but she could not speak of it––she dared not. She felt that she must be going mad. Through all her agony of mind she knew that she loved this man who was––a murderer.
She told herself that she hated him, and she knew that she lied to deceive herself. No, no, he was not guilty. He had not been proved guilty, and no man is guilty until he is proved so. Thoughts crowded thick and fast on her sorely-taxed brain, and again and again her hands went up to her head with the action of one who is mentally distracted. But in spite of the conflict that raged within her the angry light in her eyes grew, and a look which was out of all keeping with the sweet face was slowly settling itself upon her features. Again she cried in her heart, “What shall I do?”
Suddenly a light broke through her darkness and revealed to her a definite course. This man must not be judged, at least by her, without a hearing. Why should she not go to him? Why not challenge him with the story? If he were the murderer, perhaps he would strike her to the earth, and add her to the list of his victims. She laughed bitterly. It would be good to die by his hand, she thought. Under any circumstances life was not worth living. The thought fascinated her. Yes, she would do it. Then her spirit of justice rose and rebelled. No.272He would then go unpunished. Leslie’s death would remain unavenged. The murderer would have triumphed.
She thought long; she moved wildly about the room. And as the hours passed a demon seemed to come to her and take hold of her. It was the demon which looked out of her brother’s eyes, and which now looked out of hers. He whispered to her, and her willing ears listened to all he said. Her heart, torn by conflicting passions, drank in the cruel promptings.
“Why not kill him? Why not kill him?” suggested the demon. “If he is guilty, kill him, and your life will not have been lived in vain. If he be a murderer it were but justice. You will have fulfilled your promise of vengeance. After that you could turn your hand against yourself.”
And her heart echoed the question, “Why not?”
For nearly an hour she continued to pace her room. Yes, yes! Hers was the right, she told herself. If he were the murderer she did not care to live. They should die together; they should journey beyond together. She thought over all the details, and all the time the demon looked out of her eyes and jogged her with fresh arguments when her heart failed. She knew where her brother kept his pistols. She would wait until he had set out for Winnipeg. Then, on the morrow, she would ride over to Lonely Ranch.
She nursed her anger; she encouraged it at every turn. And she longed for the morrow. But outwardly she grew calm. Only her eyes betrayed her. And they were not the eyes of perfect sanity. They glowed with a lurid fire, the fire which shone in the fierce, dark eyes of her brother.
273CHAPTER XVIAN ECHO FROM THE ALASKAN MOUNTAINS
Alice searched all over the farm for her friend. The last place in which she thought of looking was the little bedroom the two girls shared. Here at length she arrived, and a shock awaited her.
Prudence was sitting beside the window. She was gazing out at the bare, harvested fields, nor did she turn at her friend’s approach. It was not until Alice spoke that she looked round.
“Here you are, Prue! Why, whatever is the matter?” she exclaimed, as she noted the grey pallor of the face before her; the drawn lines about the mouth, the fiercely burning eyes. “You poor soul, you are ill; and you never told me a word about it. I have been looking everywhere for you. It is tea-time. What is it, dear?”
“Do I look ill?” Prudence asked wearily. She passed her hand across her forehead. She was almost dazed. Then she went on as she turned again to the window: “I’m all right; my head is aching––that’s all. I don’t think I want any tea.” The next moment she was all alertness. “Has Hervey returned from the fields?”
“Hervey? Yes; why? He’s returned and gone274away again; gone into Winnipeg. He nearly frightened poor mother Hephzy out of her wits. Came in all of a sudden and declared he must hurry off to Winnipeg at once, and he wanted Andy to drive him. You know his way. He wouldn’t give any explanation. He was like a bear to his mother. My fingers were just itching to slap his face. But come along, dear, you must have some tea. It’ll do your head good.”
While she was speaking Alice’s eyes never left her friend’s face. There was something about Prudence’s expression she didn’t like. Her mind at once reverted to thoughts of fever and sunstroke and such things, but she said nothing that might cause alarm. She merely persisted when the other shook her head.
Eventually her persuasions prevailed.
“Mother Hephzy’s fretting away down-stairs and Sarah is backing her up. The long-suffering Mary has been catching it in consequence. So come along and be your most cheerful self, Prue. The poor old dears must be humoured.”
And Alice with gentle insistence led her companion down to the parlour.
“And where, miss, have you been all this precious time?” asked Mrs. Malling, when the two girls reached the parlour. “Sleeping, I’ll be bound, to judge by them spectacles around your eyes. There’s no git-up about young folk now-a-days,” she went on, turning to Sarah. “Six hours’ sleep for healthy-minded women, I says; not an hour more nor an hour less. Sister Emma was allus one o’ them for her sy-esta.” Then she turned back to Prudence. “Maybe she learned you, my girl.”
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“I haven’t been sleeping, mother,” Prudence protested, taking her place at the table. “I don’t feel very well.”
“Ah, you don’t say so,” exclaimed the old lady, all anxiety at once. “An’ why didn’t you tell me before? Now maybe you’ve got a touch o’ the sun?”
“Have you been faint and giddy?” asked Sarah, fixing her quiet eyes upon the girl’s face.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got a headache––nothing more.”
“Ah; cold bath and lemon soda,” observed her mother practically.
“Tea, and be left alone,” suggested Sarah.
“‘Nature designs all human ills, but in the making Suggests the cure which best is for the taking.’”
“‘Nature designs all human ills, but in the making Suggests the cure which best is for the taking.’”
Her steady old eyes seemed able to penetrate mere outward signs.
“Quite right, ‘Aunt’ Sarah,” said Alice decidedly. “Leave the nostrums and quackeries alone. Prue will be all right after a nice cup of tea. Now, mother Hephzy, one of your best for the invalid, and, please, I’ll have some more ham.”
“That you shall, you flighty harum-scarum. And to think o’ the likes o’ you dictating to me about nostrums and physickings,” replied the farm-wife, with a comfortable laugh. “I’ll soon be having Mary teaching me to toss a buckwheat ‘slap-jack.’ Now see an’ cut from the sides o’ that ham where the curin’s primest. I do allow as the hams didn’t cure just so, last winter. Folks at my board must have of the best.”
“I never knew any one to get anything else here,”276laughed Alice. Then she turned her head sharply and sat listening.
Mrs. Malling looked over towards the window. Prudence silently sipped her tea, keeping her eyes lowered as much as possible. She knew that, in spite of their talk, these kindly people were worried about her, and she tried hard to relieve their anxiety.
“Some one for us,” said Alice, as the sound of horse’s hoofs came in through the open window.
“Some one from Lakeville, I expect,” said Mrs. Malling, making a guess.
“That’s George Iredale’s horse,” said Sarah, who had detected the sound of a pacer’s gait.
Prudence looked up in a startled, frightened way. Sarah was looking directly at her. She made no further comment aloud, but contented herself with a quiet mental note.
“Something wrong,” she thought; “and it’s to do with him. Poor child, poor child. Maybe she’s fretting herself because–––”
Her reflections were abruptly broken off as the sound of a man’s voice hailing at the front door penetrated to the parlour.
“Any one in?” cried the voice; and instantly Alice sprang to her feet.
“It’s Robb!” she exclaimed. There was a clatter as her chair fell back behind her; she nearly fell over it, reached the door, and the next moment those in the parlour heard the sound of joyous exclamations proceeding from the hall.
Prudence’s expression was a world of relief. Her mother was overjoyed.
“This is real good. Bring him in! Bring him in,277Miss Thoughtless! Don’t keep him there a-philandering when there’s good fare in the parlour!”
“‘Love feeds on kisses, we read in ancient lay; Meaning the love of yore; not of to-day,’”
“‘Love feeds on kisses, we read in ancient lay; Meaning the love of yore; not of to-day,’”
murmured Sarah, with a pensive smile, while she turned expectantly to greet the visitor.
Radiant, her face shining with conscious happiness, Alice led her fiancé into the room. And Robb Chillingwood found himself sitting before the farm-wife’s generous board almost before he was aware of it. While he was being served he had to face a running fire of questions from, at least, three of the ladies present.
Robb was a cheerful soul and ever ready with a pleasant laugh. This snatched holiday from a stress of under-paid work was like a “bunk” to a schoolboy. It was more delightful to him by reason of the knowledge that he would have to pay up for it afterwards with extra exertions and overtime work.
“You didn’t tell us when you were coming,” said Alice.
“Didn’t know myself. Thought I’d ride over from Iredale’s place on spec’.”
“And you’re come from there now?” asked Mrs. Malling.
Prudence looked up eagerly.
“Yes; I’ve just bought all his stock for a Scotch client of mine.”
“Scotch?” Sarah turned away with a motion of disgust.
“What, has George sold all his beasties at last?” exclaimed the farm-wife.
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“Why, yes. Didn’t you know? He’s giving up his ranch.”
Robb looked round the table in surprise. There was a pause. Then Mrs. Malling broke it––
“He has spoken of it––hinted. But we wasn’t expectin’ it so soon. He’s made his pile.”
“Yes, he must have done so,” said Robb readily. “The price he parted with his cattle to me for was ridiculous. I shall make a large profit out of my client. It’ll all help towards furnishing, Al,” he went on, turning to his fiancée.
“I’m so glad you are doing well now, Robb,” the girl replied, with a happy smile.
“Yes.” Then the man turned to Mrs. Malling. “We’re going to get married this fall. I hope Alice has been learning something of housekeeping”––with a laugh.
“Why, yes. Alice knows a deal more than she reckons to let on, I guess,” said the farm-wife, with a fat chuckle.
Prudence now spoke for the first time since Robb’s arrival. She looked up suddenly, and, though she tried hard to speak conversationally, there was a slightly eager ring in her voice.
“When is George Iredale going to leave the ranch?”
Robb turned to her at once.
“Can’t say. Not yet, I should think. He seems to have made no preparations. Besides, I’ve got to see him again in a day or two.”
“Then you will stay out here?” asked Alice eagerly.
“Well, no.” Robb shook his head with a comical279expression of chagrin. “Can’t be done, I’m afraid. But I’ll come over here when I’m in the neighbourhood, if possible.” Then to Mrs. Malling, “May I?”
“Why, certainly,” said the farm-wife, with characteristic heartiness. “If you come to this district without so much as a look in here, well, you can just pass right along for the future.”
When the meal was over the old lady rose from the table.
“Alice,” said she, “you stay right here. Sarah and I’ll clear away. Prudence, my girl, just lie down and get your rest. Maybe you’ll feel better later on. Come along, Sarah; the young folks can get on comfortably without us for once.”
Prudence made no attempt to do as her mother suggested. She moved about the room, helping with the work. Then the two old ladies adjourned to the kitchen. Robb and Alice had moved over to the well-worn sofa at the far end of the room, and Prudence took up her position at the open window. She seemed to have no thought of leaving the lovers together; in fact, it seemed as though she had forgotten their existence altogether. She stood staring out over the little front garden with hard, unmeaning eyes. From her expression it is doubtful if she saw what her eyes looked upon. Her thoughts were of other matters that concerned only herself and another.
The low tones of the lovers sounded monotonously through the room. They, too, were now wrapt in their own concerns, and had forgotten the presence of the girl at the window. They had so much to say280and so little time in which to say it; for Robb had to make Ainsley that night.
The cool August evening was drawing on. The threshing gang was returning from the fields, and the purple haze of sundown was rising above the eastern horizon; Prudence did not move. Her hands were clasped before her; her pale face might have been of carved stone. There was only the faintest sign of life about her, and that was the steady rise and fall of her bosom.
A cool breeze rustled in through the open window and set the curtains moving. Then all became still again. Two birds squabbled viciously amongst the branches of a blue-gum in the little patch of a garden, but Prudence’s gaze was still directed towards the horizon. She saw nothing; she felt nothing but the pain which her own thoughts brought her.
Suddenly the sound of something moving outside became audible. There was the noisy yawn of some large animal rising from its rest. Then came the slow, heavy patter of the creature’s feet. Neche approached the window. His fierce-looking head stood well above the sill. His greenish eyes looked up solemnly at the still figure framed in the opening. His ears twitched attentively. There was no friendly motion of his straight, lank tail; but his appearance was undoubtedly expressive of some sort of well-meaning, canine regard. Whether the dog understood and sympathized with the girl at the window it would have taken something more than a keen observer to have said. But in his strangely unyielding fashion he was certainly struggling to convey281something to this girl from whom he was accustomed to receive nothing but kindness.
For some moments he stood thus, quite still. His unkempt body rose and fell under his wiry coat. He was a vast beast, and the wolf-grey and black of his colouring was horribly suggestive of his ancestry. Presently he lifted one great paw to the window. Balancing his weight upon his only serviceable hind-leg, he lifted himself and stood with both front feet upon the sill, and pushed his nose against the girl’s dress. She awoke from her reverie at the touch, and her hands unclasped, and she slowly caressed the bristly head. The animal seemed to appreciate the attention, for, with his powerful paws, he drew himself further into the room.
The girl offered no objection. She paid no heed to what he was doing. Her hand merely rested on his head, and she thought no more about him. Finding himself unrebuffed Neche made further efforts; then, suddenly, he became aware of the other occupants of the room. Quick as a flash his nose was directed towards the old sofa on which they were seated, and his eyes, like two balls of phosphorescent light, gleamed in their direction. He became motionless at once. It seemed as though he were uncertain of something.
He was inclined to resent the presence of these two, but the caress of the soft, warm hand checked any hostile demonstration beyond a whine, half plaintive, half of anger.
The disturbing sound drew Alice’s attention, and she looked over to where Prudence was standing; it was then she encountered the unblinking stare of the282hound’s wicked eyes. The sight thrilled her for a moment, nor could she repress a slight shudder. She nudged her companion and drew his attention without speaking. Robb followed the direction of her gaze, and a silence followed whilst he surveyed the strange apparition.
He could only see the dog’s head––the rest of the creature was hidden behind the window curtain––and its enormous size suggested the great body and powerful limbs which remained concealed. To Robb there was a suggestion of hell about the cruel lustre of the relentless eyes.
At last he broke into a little nervous laugh.
“By Jove!” he said. “I thought for the moment I’d got ’em. Gee-whizz! The brute looks like the devil himself. What is it? Whose?”
Without replying, Alice called to her friend.
“Let Neche come in, Prue,” she said. “That is”––dubiously––“if you think it’s safe.” Then she turned to Robb. “He’s so savage that I’m afraid of him. Still, with Prue here, I think he’ll be all right; he’s devoted to her.”
At the sound of the girl’s voice Prudence turned back from the window like one awakening from a dream. Her eyes still had a far-away look in them, and though she had heard the voice it seemed doubtful as to whether she had taken the meaning of the words. For a moment her eyes rested on Alice’s face, then they drooped to the dog at her side, but Alice was forced to repeat her question before the other moved. Then, in silence, she stepped back and summoned the dog to her with an encouraging chirrup. Neche needed no second bidding. There was a283scramble and a scraping of sharp claws upon the woodwork, then the animal stood in the room. And his attitude as he eyed the two seated upon the sofa said as plainly as possible, “Well, which one is it to be first?”
Robb felt uneasy. Alice was decidedly alarmed at the dog’s truculent appearance.
But the tension was relieved a moment later by the brute’s own strange behaviour. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Neche plumped down upon his hind-quarters. His pricked ears drooped, and his two fore paws began to beat a sort of tattoo upon the floor. Then followed a broken whine, tremulous and blandishing, and the great head moved from side to side with that curious movement which only dogs use to express their gladness. Then the strange, three-legged beast went further. Down he threw himself full length upon the floor and grovelled effusively, whining and scraping the boards in a perfect fervour of abject delight.
Robb looked hard at the dog. Then he laughed and turned to Alice.
“What is the creature’s name? I didn’t catch it.”
“Neche,” she replied.
Robb held out his hand encouragingly and called the dog by name. The animal continued to squirm but did not offer to come nearer. Every now and then its head was turned back, and the green eyes looked up into Prudence’s face. At last Robb ceased his efforts. His blandishments were ineffectual beyond increasing the dog’s effusive display.
“A husky,” he said, looking across at Prudence. “A bad dog to have about the house. He reminds284me of the animals we had up north in our dog-train. They’re devils to handle and as fierce as wild cats. We had one just like him. Unusually big brute. He was our ‘wheeler.’ The most vicious dog of the lot. The resemblance is striking. By Jove!” he went on reminiscently, “he was a sulky, cantankerous cuss. His name was ‘Sitting Bull,’ after the renowned Sioux Indian chief. We had to be very careful of the other dogs on account of his ‘scrapping’ propensities. He killed one poor beast I think we nicknamed him rather appropriately. He was affectionately dubbed ‘Bully.’”
As Robb pronounced the name he held out his hand again and flicked his fingers. The dog rose from his grovelling posture and came eagerly forward, wagging his lank tail. He rubbed his nose against the man’s hand and slowly licked the sun-tanned skin.
Robb’s brows drew together in a pucker of deep perplexity. He looked the animal over long and earnestly, and slowly there crept into his eyes an expression of wondering astonishment. He was interrupted in his inspection by the girl at his side.
“Why, he’s treating you like an old friend, Robb.”
The man sat gazing down upon the wiry coat of the beast.
“Yes,” he said shortly. Then he looked over at Prudence. “Yours?” he went on.
The girl shook her head.
“No, he belongs to Hervey.”
“Um! I wonder where he got him from,” in a meditative tone.
“Somewhere out in the wilds of the Yukon,” put in Alice.
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“Ah! The Yukon.” And Robb’s face was serious as he turned towards the window and looked out at the creeping shadows of evening.
There was a pause. Prudence was thinking of anything but the subject of Robb’s inquiries. Alice was curious, but she forbore to question. She had heard her lover’s account of his misadventure in the Alaskan hills, but she saw no connection between the hound and that disastrous affair. But the man’s thoughts were hard at work. Presently he rose to depart.
He bade Prudence good-bye and moved towards the door. The dog remained where he had been standing and looked after him. At the door Robb hesitated, then he turned and looked back.
“Poor old Bully,” he said.
With a bound the dog was at his side. Then the man turned away, and, accompanied by Alice, left the room. In the passage he paused, and Alice saw an expression on his face she had never seen before. He was nervous and excited, and his eyes shone in the half-light.
“Al,” he said slowly, “I know that dog.And his name is Bully. Don’t say anything to anybody. Hervey may be able to tell me something of those who robbed us up in the hills. But on no account must you say anything to him; leave it to me. I shall come here again––soon. Good-bye, little woman.”
That evening as Robb Chillingwood rode back to Ainsley he thought of many things, but chiefly he reviewed the details of that last disastrous journey when he and Grey had traversed the snow-fields of Alaska together.
286CHAPTER XVIITHE LAST OF LONELY RANCH
There are moments which come in all lives when calm reflection is powerless to influence the individual acts; when calmness, even in the most phlegmatic natures, is impossible; when a tide of impulse sweeps us on, giving us not even so much as a breathless, momentary pause in which to consider the result of our headlong career. We blunder on against every jagged obstacle, lacerated and bleeding, jolting cruelly from point to point, whither our passions irresistibly drive us. It is a blind, reckless journey, from which there is no escape when the tide sets in. We see our goal ahead, and we fondly believe that because it is ahead we must come to it. We do not consider the awful road we travel, nor the gradual exhaustion which is overtaking us. We do not realize that we must fall by the wayside for lack of strength, nor even, if our strength be sufficient to carry us on to the end, do we ask ourselves, shall we be able to draw aside out of the raging torrent when our goal is reached? or shall we be swept on to the yawning Beyond where, for evermore, we must continue to struggle hopelessly to return? Once give passion unchecked sway, and who can say what the end will be?
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It was at such a moment in her life at which Prudence had arrived. Her mind was set upon an object which absorbed all her faculties, all her brain, all her feelings. Had she been able to pause, even for one moment, reason must have asserted itself and she would have understood the folly of what she was doing. But that moment was denied her. All the latent passions of a strong nature had been let loose and she was swept on by their irresistible tide. She believed that she was the appointed avenger of the man she had once loved, and that this duty unfulfilled would be a crime, the stain of which nothing could wipe out. Iredale must be confronted, challenged, and–––
And so she came to Lonely Ranch on her self-imposed errand of justice.
The man she sought was not in the house when she came. The valley seemed to be devoid of life as she rode up. But the solitude was almost instantly broken by the appearance of Chintz from the region of the barn. She dispatched him in search of his master and passed into the bachelor sitting-room to await his coming.
She was restless and her nerves were strung to a great tension. Her eyes still shone with that peculiar light which ever seemed to look out of her brother’s. There was no yielding in the set of her mouth. Her resolve disfigured the sweetness which usually characterized her beautiful features.
She stood before the window, looking out upon the shadow-bathed valley. She saw before her the dark wall of foliage which rose to the heights of the Front Hill. Not a living soul was about, only was there a288rising wind which disturbed the unbroken forest of pines. She turned abruptly from the view as though she could not bear the solitude which was thus made so apparent. She crossed over to where the bookcase stood against the wall, and glanced in through the glazed doors. But she comprehended nothing of what she saw. She was thinking, thinking, and her mind was in a tumult of hysterical fancies. And she was listening too; listening for a sound––any sound other than that which the wind made. Mechanically she came over to the table and leant against it in an attitude of abstraction. She shivered; she stood up to steady herself and she shivered again. And all the time the frenzied eyes gleamed in their beautiful oval setting, the lips were drawn inwards, and there remained only a sharply-defined line to mark the sweet mouth. Presently her lips parted and she moistened them with her tongue. A fever seemed to be upon her, and mouth and throat were parched.
Suddenly the sound for which she waited came. She darted eagerly to the window and saw Chintz pass round in the direction of the barn. Then she saw the burly figure of the man she was awaiting appear in the clearing fronting the house.
George Iredale came along at a robust gait. He was clad in moleskin riding-breeches, much stained with clay, as though he had been digging; a soft shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up above the elbow; his Stetson hat was adjusted at the correct angle upon his head; and he wore a pair of tan-coloured field boots, much smeared with the signs of toil. He came rapidly towards the house. There was nothing furtive, nothing guilty about this man’s bearing; he289came readily to meet his visitor, and his appearance was the confident bearing of a man who has little to fear.
She saw him look towards the window where she stood, and his smile of welcome set her nerves tingling with a sensation she failed to understand. Her hand went round to the pocket of her linen riding-skirt and remained there. She heard his step in the hall; she heard him approach and turn the door handle. As he came into the room she faced him.
“Why, Prudence, this is a delightful–––” he began. But she interrupted him coldly.
“One moment,” she said, and her voice was hoarse with the dryness of her throat. “I have not come over for any visit of pleasure, but strictly upon a matter of––of––business. There are some explanations which we both need to make, but more especially you.”
“Yes.”
Iredale was gazing earnestly into the face before him. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her coldness. For the moment he wondered; then, slowly, he began to understand that Hervey had been at work.
“You got my note,” he said, choosing to ignore the result of his observations. “My delay in calling at the farm was unavoidable. I am in the midst of disposing of my ranch. I had not expected that I should have been called upon to do so so soon. I beg that you will forgive me what must seem an unwarrantable delay.”
Prudence’s nerves were so strung that she felt as though she could strike him for his calm words. Her290condition demanded the opposition of passion equal to her own. His coolness maddened her. So long had she dwelt upon the accusation Hervey had brought against him that she believed in this man’s guilt. The evidence of her own senses had militated against him, and now she steeled herself in an armour of unbelief. But, in spite of herself, the dictates of her heart were struggling hard to find the joints of her armour. Nor were the struggles lessened now that she stood confronting him. His coolness, though maddening to her, was not without effect. The moral influence he wielded was great.
She backed to the table; then she plunged into the subject of her mission without further preamble. Her eyes stared straight into his, and her tones sounded incisively in the stillness of the room.
“I little knew the man whom I was listening to when he offered me his life, nor had I an idea of how near I was to the man who inspired the words which have appeared in the paper––the words which were the last Leslie Grey ever uttered. What must have been your feelings when I told you that I knew their author to be a murderer?” Then, with scathing bitterness: “But your feelings must have long since been dead––dead as the poor creature you so wantonly sent to his reckoning. The time has come for you to defend yourself; that is, if defence you can offer. No flimsy excuse or extenuation will cover you. Even the Scriptures teach us that the penalty is ‘a life for a life.’ Yours is the hand that struck Leslie down, and now you must face the consequences of your wanton act.”
Iredale’s quiet eyes never attempted to avoid the291girl’s direct gaze, nor did he flinch as the accusation fell from her lips. Never was he more alert, never more gently disposed towards this half-demented creature than at that moment. He recognized the hand that had been at work, and he laid no blame upon her. His feelings were of sorrow––sorrow for the woman he loved, and sorrow for himself. But his thoughts were chiefly for her. He knew, as she had said, that his time had come.
“So Hervey has been to you to sell the discovery which I rejected at the price he asked. He told you that I was a smuggler; that the announcement in the paper was mine. And did he tell you that I was the murderer of Leslie Grey? Or did your heart prompt you to that conclusion?”
The girl supported herself against the table with one hand, and the other was still in the pocket behind her. Iredale noted these things without moving his eyes from her face.
“Hervey told me the facts and the inevitable proof they bore. Nor was his statement exaggerated. My own reason told me that.”
The man sighed. He had hoped that the work had been only of the brother’s doings. He had hoped that she had come bearing Hervey’s accusation and not her own.
“Go on,” he said.
“I know you for what you really are, George Iredale. And now I have come to you to give you the chance of defending yourself. No man must be condemned without a hearing. Neither shall you. The evidence against you is overwhelming; I can see no escape for you. But speak, if you have anything292to say in your defence, and I will listen. I charge you with the murder of Leslie Grey.”
Just for one brief moment Iredale felt a shiver pass through his body. The icy tones of the girl’s voice, the seemingly dispassionate words filled him with a horror unspeakable. Then he pulled himself together. He was on his defence before the one person in the world from whose condemnation he shrank. He did not answer at once. He wished to make no mistake. When at last he spoke his words came slowly as though he weighed well each syllable before he gave it utterance.
“With one exception all that Hervey has doubtless said of me is true. I am a smuggler; I inspired that line in the paper; but I am no––murderer. Leslie Grey’s life was sacred to me at the time if only for the reason that he was your affianced husband. I loved you at that time as I have loved you for years, and all my thoughts and wishes were for your happiness. It would have made you happy to have married Grey, therefore I wished that you should marry him. I am quite unchanged. I will tell you now what neither you nor Hervey knows, even though it makes my case look blacker. I knew that Grey was on my track. I knew that he had discovered my secret. How he had done so I cannot say. He quarrelled with me, and, in the heat of his anger, told me of his intentions. It was late one night at a card-party at your house, and just before he was so foully murdered. No doubt you, or any right-minded person for that matter, will say that this evidence only clinches the case against me. But, in spite of it, I assert my innocence. Amongst my many sins the crime Hervey293charges me with”––he purposely avoided associating the charge with her––“is not numbered. Can I hope that you will believe me?”
The gentle tones in which the burly man spoke, the earnest fearlessness which looked out from his quiet eyes, gave infinite weight to all he said. Prudence shook her head slowly, but the fire in her eyes was less bright, and the voice of her own heart crying out began to make itself heard in the midst of her chaotic thought.
She tried to stiffen herself for the task she had undertaken, but the result was not all she sought Still, she replied coldly––
“How can I believe with all the black evidence against you? You, in all this region, were the one man interested in Leslie’s death. His life meant penitentiary to you; his death meant liberty. Your own words tell me that. How can I believe such a denial as you now make? Tell me, have you no proof to offer? Account for the day on which Leslie met his death; prove your movements upon that day.”
The girl’s denial of belief was belied by the eagerness in her voice. For one brief instant a flash of hope rose in her. She saw a loophole for her lover. She longed to believe him. But the hope died down, leaving her worse distracted for its coming.
For Iredale did not speak, and his face assumed a look of gloom.
“Ah, you cannot––you cannot,” she went on hysterically. “I might have known, I did know.” A world of passion again leapt into her eyes. Then something of the woman broke through her anger,294and a heart-breaking piteousness sounded in her voice. “Oh, why, why did you do this thing? Why did you stain your hands with such a crime as murder? What would his living have meant to you? At worst the penitentiary. Was it worth it to destroy thus the last chance of your immortal soul? Oh, God! And to think of it! A murderer!” Then the fierce anger became dominant once more. “But you shall not escape. Your crime shall be expiated as far as human crimes can be expiated. The gallows awaits you, George Iredale, and your story shall be told to the world. You shall hang unless you can give to judge and jury a better denial than you have given to me.” She suddenly broke off. A whistling indrawn breath startled the man before her. She gazed round her wildly; she had remembered what she had come for. She had forgotten when she had talked of “judge and jury.” Her face assumed a ghastly hue at the recollection. Her eyes alone still told of the madness that possessed her.
Nor was Iredale without an uneasy feeling at what he saw––that catch of breath; that hunted look as she gazed about the room. Intuition served him in the moment of crisis. What was the meaning? Why was that hand concealed in her dress? There was only one possible answer to such questions, and he read the answer aright.
“Prudence,” he said, in his deep musical voice, whilst his keen eyes riveted her attention, “I can prove my innocence of the crime you charge me with. Listen to me patiently, and I will tell you how. Do not let your anger drive you to any rash act which might bring you––lifelong regret.”