Hervey interrupted him eagerly. He brought his hand down heavily upon the table.
“By Jove! you are a good sort, George. If you could–just a loan, of course–you see I can offer you security on my certain inheritance of the farm–”
But Iredale had no wish to hear anything about his future possibilities of inheritance. He interrupted him sharply, and his tone was unusually icy.
“Tut–tut, man. Never mind about that. In spite of your need of money, I hope it will be many a year before your mother leaves our farming world.”
“I trust so,” murmured Hervey, without enthusiasm.
“How much will appease your creditors?”
Iredale spoke with such indifference about the amount that Hervey promptly decided to double the sum he originally intended to ask for.
“Five thousand dollars,” he said, with some show of diffidence, but with eyes that gazed hungrily towards this man who treated the loaning of a large amount in such a careless manner.
Iredale offered no comment. He merely rose from his seat, and opening a drawer in his bookcase, produced a cheque-book and a pen and ink. He made out a cheque for the amount named, and passed it across the table. His only remark was–
“Your luck may change. Pay me when you like. No, don’t bother about a receipt.”
Hervey seized upon the piece of paper. He was almost too staggered to tender his thanks. Iredale in his quiet way was watching, nor was any movement on his companion’s part lost to his observant eyes. He had “sized” this man up, from the soles of his boots to the crown of his head, and his contempt for him was profound. But he gave no sign. His cordiality was apparently perfect. The five thousand dollars were nothing to him, and he felt that the giving of that cheque might save those at Loon Dyke Farm from a world of anxiety and trouble. Somehow behind that impassive face he may have had some thoughts of the coming of a future time when he would be able to deal with this man’s mode of life with that firmness which only relationship could entitle him to–when he could personally relieve Hephzibah of the responsibility and wearing anxiety of her worthless son’s doings. In the meantime, like the seafaring man, he would just “stand by.”
“I can’t thank you enough, George,” said Hervey at last. “You have got me out of an awkward situation. If I can do you a good turn, I will.” Iredale detected a meaning emphasis in the last remark which he resented. “Some day,” the man went on; “but there–I will say no more.”
“No, I shouldn’t say anything. These things happen in the course of a lifetime, and one mustn’t say too much about them.” The two men then smoked on in silence.
Presently Hervey rose to go. It was nearly eight o’clock.
“Well,” said Iredale, as he prepared to bid his guest good-bye, “we have had a good afternoon’s sport. Now you know my coverts you must come over again. Come whenever you like. If I am unable to go with you, you are welcome to shoot over the land by yourself. There are some grand antelope about the place.”
“Thanks. I shall certainly come again. And–well, when are you coming over to us again? I can’t offer you any shooting.”
“Don’t trouble,” smiled Iredale.
Hervey saw the “boy” Chintz leading his horse round.
“You might tell your mother,” the rancher went on, “that I’ll come to-morrow to read over that fencing contract she spoke about for her.”
Hervey leered round upon him.
“Will it do if I tell Prue instead?”
“Certainly not.” Iredale’s face was quite expressionless at that moment. “You will please do as I ask.”
Hervey gulped down his chagrin; but his eyes were alight with the anger from which his lips refrained. He mounted his horse.
“Well, good-bye, George,” he said, with a great display of cordiality. “I hope those owls of yours will permit me to ride in peace.”
“I have no doubt they will,” replied Iredale, with an inscrutable smile. “Good-bye.”
Hervey rode away. The man he had left remained standing at his front door. The horseman half turned in his saddle as the bush closed about him.
“Curse the man for his d–d superiority,” he muttered. “I suppose he thinks I am blind. Well, Mr. Iredale, we’ve made a pleasant start from my point of view. If you intend to marry Prudence you’ll have to pay the piper. Guess I’m that piper. It’s money I want, and it’s money you’ll have to pay.”
The mysterious owner of Lonely Ranch was thinking deeply as he watched his guest depart.
“I believe he’s the greatest scoundrel I have ever come across,” he said to himself. “Money? Why, he’d sell his soul for it, or I’m no judge of men of his kidney, and, worse luck, I know his sort well enough. I wonder what made me do it? Not friendship. Prudence? No, not exactly. And yet–I don’t know. I think I’d sooner have him on my side than against me.” Then he turned his eyes towards the corrals and outbuildings which were dotted about amongst the trees, and finally they settled upon a little clearing on the side of Front Hill. It was a graveyard of the early settlers. “Yes, I must break away from it all–and as soon as possible. I have said so for many a year, but the fascination of it has held me. If I hope to ever marry Prudence I must give it up. I must not–dare not let her discover the truth. The child’s goodness drives me to desperation. Yes–it shall all go.”
His gaze wandered in the direction Hervey had taken, and a troubled look came into his calm eyes. A moment later he turned suddenly with a shiver and passed into the house. Somehow his thoughts were very gloomy.
CHAPTER X
THE GRAVEYARD AT OWL HOOT
Prudence and Alice Gordon surveyed the wild scene that suddenly opened out before them. They had drawn their horses up to a standstill on the brow of no inconsiderable hill, and beyond stretched a panorama of strikingly impressive beauty. Nature in one of her wildest moments, verdant and profound, was revealed.
Alice was a pretty girl, rather ordinary, and ever ready for laughter, which helped to conceal an undercurrent of serious thought. She was an old pupil of Sarah Gurridge’s, and consequently Prudence’s school-friend. But Alice lived in Ainsley, where, report had it, she was “keeping company” with Robb Chillingwood, and now the two girls only met when Alice visited the farm at such seasons of the year as the present.
“Do you think it will be safe to go further?” asked Alice, in a tone of awestruck amazement. “You say you are sure of the way. Would it not be better to turn off here and make for Lonely Ranch, and seek Chintz’s guidance? There is time enough, and it is so easy to get lost.”
The girls had set out to visit Lonely Ranch, to enjoy a ramble and a sort of picnic in the surrounding woods. Iredale was away on business, and the two friends, availing themselves of the opportunity, were taking a day off from the duties of the farm. They had started with the intention of riding over and leaving their horses with Iredale’s man, Chintz, and then proceeding on foot. At the last moment Prudence had changed her mind and decided on a visit to the great Lake of the Woods, which was two miles further on to the south-west of the ranch. They carried their provisions in their saddle-bags, and had made up their minds to find some suitable break in the woods on the shore of the lake where they could tether their horses and idle the afternoon away.
Instead of turning into the valley of Owl Hoot they had crossed the mouth of it, and were now at the summit of its eastern slope, gazing out upon the mysteries of the almost uninhabited regions beyond.
“Of course it’s safe, you silly,” said Prudence. “Why, suppose we were to lose ourselves, that old mare you are riding would take you home straight as the crow flies. Besides, I have no fancy for that ferret-faced Chintz becoming one of our party. We could never talk freely in front of him.”
“All right, then,” said Alice, with a sigh. “You are leader of this expedition. Don’t the woods look gloomy? And look out beyond. There seems to be no end to them. Shall we stop and have dinner here, and ride on afterwards?”
“Certainly not, madam,” Prudence said briskly. “No shirking; besides, we want water to make our tea. There’s none here.”
Prudence understood her friend’s fears, which were not without reason. It was a simple thing to get lost in such a forest. But anyway, as she had said, the old prairie horses they were riding would carry them home should they mistake the road. There was really no danger.
It was a gorgeous day. The sun was shining with unabated splendour; as yet it wanted an hour to noon. The brilliant daylight was somehow different here to what it was on the prairie. The fierce sunlight poured down upon an unbroken carpet of dull green, which seemed to have in it a tinge of the blackness of the heavy tree-trunks which it concealed beneath. The result was curiously striking. The brightness of the day was dulled, and the earth seemed bathed in a peculiar light such as a vault of grey rain-clouds above it bestows. The girls, gazing into the valley which yawned at their feet, were looking into a shadowed hollow of sombre melancholy–unchanging, unrelieved.
Beyond stretched a vista of hills, growing steadily greater as the hazy distance was reached. Behind where they stood was the Owl Hoot valley and woodlands, equally sombre, until the prairie was reached.
The moments passed, and they made no effort to move. They were both lost in thought, and looked out across the wild woodlands with eyes which beheld only that which was most profoundly beautiful. Prudence was enjoying the scene, the redolent air which rose from the woods below, the solitary grandeur of the world about her, with all the appreciation of a prairie-bred girl. Alice merely saw and marvelled at the picture before her. She was less enthusiastic, less used to such surroundings than her companion. They affected her differently. She marvelled, she wondered, but a peculiar nervousness was inspired by what she beheld. At length Prudence took the initiative. She lifted her reins and her horse moved forward.
“Come along, Alice,” she said. And the two disappeared down the slope into the giant forest below.
Once on their way Alice recovered her good spirits again. Within the forest the world did not seem so vast, so confusing to the eye. On either hand, ahead, were to be seen only bare tree-trunks beneath the ponderous green canopy which shut out the sunlight from above. The scrunch of the pine-cones crushing under the hoofs of the horses carried a welcome sense of companionship to the riders. Alice found the reality much less fearful than the contemplation from the heights above. In a few moments both girls were chattering gaily, all thoughts of losing themselves, or of other dangers which these virgin forests might conceal, having passed from their minds.
Whatever doubts may have assailed Alice they were soon set at rest, for, in a short time, after ascending another rather sharp slope, they found themselves gazing down upon a long, narrow sheet of water. It was one of the many inlets with which the shores of the mysterious Lake of the Woods abound. From where the girls first caught sight of it, it looked as though the forest had been cleanly rent by the glistening water which had cut its way into the dense growth, demolishing every sign of vegetation in its path, but leaving everything which grew even down to its very edge. This inlet widened out between two hills, and, beyond that, in a dazzling haze, the vast body of the lake, like a distant view of the sea, was just visible. It was a perfect picture.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” said Prudence enthusiastically. “Isn’t it worth a few miles’ ride to see it? I’m glad we didn’t go and bother that horrid little Chintz. It would have taken half the pleasure away to have had his ferrety face with us.”
“Lovely–lovely,” exclaimed Alice rapturously. Her bright eyes were dancing with delight, and her breath came and went rapidly. “Just fancy, Prue; I have lived all these years within reach of this place and this is the first time I have ever set eyes upon the lake.”
Her companion laughed.
“That is not to be wondered at. There are very few people who ever come this way. Why, I couldn’t say, unless it is that the country is bad to travel through on this side. Mind, although there are few habitations on the western shore, there are plenty to the east and south. I never could understand why George Iredale selected Owl Hoot for the site of his ranch. Just think how delightful it would be to have your home built on this hill.” The girl indicated their position with her riding-whip. “Wouldn’t it be delightful to wake each morning and gaze out upon such a scene?”
“Perfect,” said Alice, whilst her eyes glanced mischievously in her friend’s direction. “Summer or winter?”
“Summer, of course, you goose,” exclaimed Prudence.
“Of course; winter would be different, wouldn’t it?” Alice was laughing, but Prudence was quite serious.
“Yes; that’s the worst of all Nature’s finest handiwork. There’s always some drawback to it. Ugh, winter in this place would be too dreadful to contemplate. These wilds are only fit for Indians and coyotes and wolves when the summer is over.”
“But it’s a heavenly spot now,” said Alice. Suddenly she raised her whip and pointed. Far down, out upon the surface of the silvery belt of water, a tiny speck was slowly moving. At first so distant was it that it appeared to be stationary, but after a while it was distinctly to be seen moving. “What is it?” she questioned sharply.
“Looks like a boat,” replied Prudence. “I wonder whose?”
“I give it up. Does Mr. Iredale keep a boat?”
Although Prudence was the elder of the two girls she was much the simpler. She was essentially of the prairie. She had no suspicion of the apparently innocent inquiry.
“I don’t think so. I never really heard. No; I should think that must belong to some Indians or half-breed fishermen. There are some of those people about, I believe.”
She continued to watch the boat for some moments. The less serious girl beside her allowed her attention to wander. Prudence saw the boat approach the near shore. Then it disappeared under the shadow of the towering pines. An exclamation from Alice drew her attention.
“Look over the other side, Prue; there’s another boat. It has just shot out from that great clump of undergrowth. Why, there are a dozen people in it. Look! they are racing along. Where’s the other gone?”
“It disappeared under this bank. Ah, the other one is following in its wake. Yes, I should say those are Indians.”
“Let us go on down. We can see better from the bank. My curiosity is aroused. I didn’t know there was so much fishing done here. Mr. Iredale never speaks of it.”
“I don’t think Mr. Iredale sees much of the lake. His land–that is, his grazing–lies to the west of the house. But he rarely talks about his work. As he says, so few people care about this wild district that he does not like to worry folks by reminding them of its existence.”
“All the same,” replied Alice, “one of these fine days some enterprising American will come along and find out some, at present, unknown wealth in the place, and then the settlers round the district will kick themselves. Trust a Canuk for sitting down on his hundred and sixty acres and never moving beyond the limits of his fencing. I like this weird place, with its woods, its hills and valleys, its lake and its mysterious boats. You should draw George–I mean Mr. Iredale–out. There must be a deal that is of interest here.”
“Why should I draw him out?” asked Prudence innocently, as the horses ambled down the hill towards the shore of the lake. “You ask him. I believe he’d like to tell some one all about it.”
“No, thanks, friend Prue,” said Alice cheerfully. “I’m not what you might call a ‘free agent.’ There is a young man, to wit, a certain Robb, who might object. Besides, I have not turned poacher yet.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
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 Dyke 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 passed 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 shore of the lake was reached, and then only did she do so because of the impassable 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 grassy 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 glassy 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 shore, 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 grass had but a passing attraction for them. They nibbled at it occasionally, it is true, but with apparently little appetite. After dinner the two friends spread their saddle-blankets upon the grass, and stretched themselves thereon in attitudes 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 sturdy 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 assistance 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 pronouncedly 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 passed 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.
“Alice, you were right in what you said about George,” she went on slowly. “I can hardly believe it myself yet. Leslie Grey has only been dead eight months, and yet here I am thinking all day long of another man. I believe I am utterly heartless–worthless.”
“Well?”
“Well, it’s just this. I am not worth an honest man’s love. I used to think I worshipped the ground poor Leslie walked on–I’m sure I loved him to distraction,” the girl went on passionately. “Very well; suppose George asked me to marry him and I consented. In all probability, in the light of what has gone before, I should be tired of him in a year, and then–and then–”
“You’re talking nonsense now, Prue,” said Alice. She was alarmed at the other’s tone. The beautiful face of her friend was quite pale, and sharp lines were drawn about the mouth.
“I’m not talking nonsense,” the other went on in a tense, bitter tone. “What I say is true. In less than eight months I have forgotten the dead. I have done nothing to discover the murderer who robbed me of a husband and lover. I have simply forgotten–forgotten him. Put yourself in my place–put your Robb in Leslie’s place. What would you have done?”
Alice thought seriously before she answered.
“I should never have rested until I had avenged his death,” she said at last, and a hard glitter shone in her eyes. Then a moment after she smiled. “But it is different. I don’t think you really loved Leslie Grey. You merely thought you did.”