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 mass 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 pass 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 Dyke 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 passed out.
"Evening," said the horseman, in a voice muffled by the fur of his
coat-collar.
"Good-evening," replied Grey shortly.
"Loon Dyke 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, passing 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 passed 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 assume, "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.'"
"Glad to see you, Mrs. Gurridge. No, I haven't forgotten you," the man
replied.
A slight pause followed. The women-folk had so much to say that they
hardly knew where to begin. That trifling hesitation might have been
accounted for by this fact. Or it might have been that Hervey was less
overjoyed at his home-coming than were his mother and sister.
Prudence was the first to speak.
"Funny that I should have set a place more than I intended at the
tea-table," she said, "and funnier still that when I found out what
I'd done I didn't remove the plate and things. And now you turn up."
She laughed joyously.
Sarah Gurridge looked over in the girl's direction and shook an
admonitory forefinger at her.
"Mr. Grey, my dear--you were thinking of Mr. Grey, in spite of your
lover's tiff."
"Who did you say?" asked Hervey, with a quick glance at Prudence.
"Leslie Grey," said his mother, before the old school-ma'am could
reply. "Didn't our Prudence tell you when she wrote? He's the man
she's going to marry. I must say he's not the man I should have set
on for her; but she's got her own ploughing to seed, and I'm not the
one to say her 'nay' when she chooses her man."
Hervey busied himself with his food, nor did he look up when he
spoke.
"That was Grey, I s'pose, I saw riding away as I came up? Good,
square-set chunk of a man."
"Yes, he left just before you came," said Prudence. "But never mind
about him, brother. Tell us about yourself. Have you made a fortune?"
"For sure, he must," said their mother, gazing with round, proud eyes
upon her boy, "for how else came he to travel from California to here,
just to set his eyes on us and see a slip of a girl take to herself a
husband? My, but it's a great journey for a boy to take."
"Nothing to what I've done in my time," replied Hervey. "Besides,
mother, I've got further to go yet. And as for sister Prudence's
marriage, I'm afraid I can't stay for that."
"Not stay?" exclaimed his mother.
"Do you mean it?" asked his sister incredulously.
Sarah Gurridge contented herself with looking her dismay.
"You see, it's like this," said Hervey. He had an uncomfortable habit
of keeping his eyes fixed upon the table, only just permitting himself
occasional swift upward glances over the other folk's heads. "When I
got your letter, Prudence, I was just preparing to come up from Los
Mares to go and see a big fruit-grower at Niagara. The truth is that
my fruit farm is a failure and I am trying to sell it."
"My poor boy!" exclaimed his mother; "and you never told me. But
there, you were always as proud as proud, and never would let me help
you. Your poor father was just the same; when things went wrong he
wouldn't own up to any one. I remember how we lost sixty acres of
forty-bushel, No. 1 wheat with an August frost. I never learned it
till we'd taken in the finest crop in the district at the next
harvesting. But you didn't put all your savings into fruit?"
"I'm afraid I did, mother, worse luck."
"All you made up at the Yukon goldfields?" asked Prudence, alarm in
her voice.
"Every cent."
There followed a dead silence.
"Then----" Mrs. Malling could get no further.
"I'm broke--dead broke. And I'm going East to sell my land to pay off
my debts. I've had an offer for it, and I'm going to clinch the deal
quick. Say, I just came along here to see you, and I'm going on at
once. I only got into Winnipeg yesterday. I rode out without delay,
but struck the Ainsley trail, or I should have been here sooner. Now,
see here, mother," Hervey went on, as a woe-begone expression closely
verging on tears came into the old dame's eyes, "it's no use crying
over this business. What's done is done. I'm going to get clear of my
farm first, and maybe afterwards I'll come here again and we'll talk
things over a bit."
Prudence sat staring at her brother, but Hervey avoided her gaze. Mrs.
Malling was too heartbroken to speak yet. Her weather-tanned face had
blanched as much as it was possible for it to do. Her boy had gone
out upon the world to seek his fortune, and he had succeeded in
establishing himself, he had written and told her. He had found gold
in quantities in the Yukon valley, and now--now, at last, he had
failed. The shock had for the moment crushed her; her boy, her proud
independent boy, as she had been wont to consider him, had failed. She
did not ask herself, or him, the reason of his failure. Such failure,
she felt, must be through no fault of his, but the result of adverse
circumstances.
She never thought of the gambling-table. She never thought of reckless
living. Such things could not enter her simple mind and be in any way
associated with her boy. Hephzibah Malling loved her son; to her he
was the king who could do no wrong. She continued to gaze blankly in
the man's direction.
Sarah Gurridge alone of the trio allowed herself sidelong, speculative
glances at the man's face. She had seen the furtive overhead glances;
the steady avoidance of the loving observation of his womankind. She
had known Hervey as well, and perhaps just a shade better than his
mother and sister had; and long since, in his childish school-days,
she had detected a lurking weakness in an otherwise good character.
She wondered now if he had lived to outgrow that juvenile trait, or
had it grown with him, gaining strength as the greater passions of
manhood developed?
After the first shock of Hervey's announcement had passed, Mrs.
Malling sought refuge in the consolation of her own ability to help
her son. He must never know want, or suffer the least privation. She
could and would give him everything he needed. Besides, after all, she
argued with womanly feeling, now perhaps she could persuade him to
look after the farm for her; to stay by her side. He should be in no
way dependent. She would install him as manager at a comfortable
salary. The idea pleased her beyond measure, and it was with
difficulty she could keep herself from at once putting her proposal
into words. However, by a great effort, she checked her enthusiasm.
"Then when do you think of going East?" she asked, with some
trepidation. "You won't go at once, sure."
"Yes, I must go at once," Hervey replied promptly. "That is, to-morrow
morning."
"Then you will stay to-night," said Prudence.
"Yes; but only to get a good long sleep and rest my horse. I'm
thoroughly worn out. I've been in saddle since early this morning."
"Have you sent your horse round to the barn?" asked Sarah Gurridge.
"Well, no. He's hitched to the fence." The observing Sarah had been
sure of it.
Prudence rose from her seat and called out to the hired girl--
"Mary, send out and tell Andy to take the horse round to the barn.
He's hitched to the fence." Then she came back. "You'll join our party
to-night, of course."
"Hoity, girl, of course not," said their mother. "How's the lad going
to get rest gallivanting with a lot of clowns who can only talk of
'bowers' and 'jokers'? You think of nothing but 'how-de-doin' with
your neighbours since you're going to be married. Things were
different in my day. I'll look after Hervey," she continued, turning
to her son. "You shall have a good night, lad, or my name's not
Hephzibah Malling. Maybe you'll tell me by and by what you'd like to
do."
"That's right, mother," replied Hervey, with an air of relief. "You
understand what it is for a man to need rest. I'll just hang around
till the folks come, and then sneak off to bed. You don't mind, Prue,
do you? I'm dead beat, and I want to leave at daybreak."
"Mind?" answered Prudence; "certainly not, Hervey. I should have liked
you to meet Mr. Grey, but you must get your rest."
"Sure," added her mother, "and as for meeting Mr. Grey--well, your
brother won't sicken for want of seeing him, I'll wager. Come along,
Hervey, we'll go to the kitchen; Prudence has to get her best parlour
ready for these chattering noodles. And, miss," turning to her
daughter with an expression of pretended severity, "don't forget that
I've got a batch o' layer cakes in the ice-box, and you've not told me
what you want in the way of drinks. La, young folks never think of the
comforts. I'm sure I don't know what you'll do without your mother,
girl. Some o' these times your carelessness will get your parties made
a laughing-stock of. Come along, Hervey."
The old lady bustled out, bearing her son off in triumph to the
kitchen. She was quite happy again now. Her scheme for her son's
welfare had shut out all thought of his bad news. Most women are like
this; the joy of giving to their own is perhaps the greatest joy in
the life of a mother.
In the hall they met the flying, agitated figure of the hired girl,
Mary.
"Oh, please, 'm, there's such a racket going on by the barn. There's
Andy an' the two dogs fighting with a great, strange, three-legged dog
wot looks like a wolf. They're that mussed up that I don't know, I'm
sure."
"It's that brute Neche of mine," said Hervey, with an imprecation.
"It's all right, girl; I'll go."
Hervey rushed out to the barn. The great three-legged savage was in
the midst of a fierce scrimmage. Two farm dogs were attacking him.
They were both half-bred sheep-dogs. One was making futile attempts to
get a hold upon the stranger, and Neche was shaking the other as a
terrier would shake a rat. And Andy, the choreman, was lambasting the
intruder with the business end of a two-tine hay-fork, and shouting
frightful curses at him in a strong American accent.
As Hervey came upon the scene, Neche hurled his victim from him,
either dead or dying, for the dog lay quite still where it fell upon
the snow. Then, impervious to the onslaught of the choreman, he seized
the other dog.
"Come out of it, Andy," cried Hervey.
The hired man ceased his efforts at once, glad to be done with the
savage. Hervey then ran up to the infuriated husky, and dealt him two
or three terrible kicks.
The dog turned round instantly. His fangs were dripping with blood,
and he snarled fiercely, his baleful eyes glowing with ferocity. But
he slunk off when he recognized his assailant, allowing the second
dog to run for its life, howling with canine fear.
Andy went over to the dog that was stretched upon the snow.
"Guess 'e's done, boss," he said, looking up at Hervey as the latter
came over to his side. "Say, that's about the slickest scrapper round
these parts. Gee-whizz, 'e went fur me like the tail end o' a cyclone
when I took your plug to the barn. It was they curs that kind o'
distracted his attention. Mebbe thar's more wolf nor dog in him.
Mebbe, I sez."
"Yes, he's a devil-tempered husky," said Hervey. "I'll have to shoot
him one of these days."
"Wa'al, I do 'lows that it's a mercy 'e ain't got no more'n three
shanks. Mackinaw! but he's handy."
The four women had watched the scene from the kitchen door. Hervey
came over to where they were standing.
"I'm sorry, mother," he said. "Neche has killed one of your dogs. He's
a fiend for fighting. I've a good mind to shoot him now."
"No, don't go for to do that," said his mother. "We oughtn't to have
sent Andy to take your horse. I expect the beast thought he was doing
right."
"He's a brute. Curse him!"
Prudence said nothing. Now she moved a little away from the house and
talked to the dog. He was placidly, and with no show of penitence,
lying down and licking a laceration on one of his front legs. He
occasionally shook his great head, and stained the snow with the blood
which dripped from his fierce-looking ears. He paused in his operation
at the sound of the girl's voice, and looked up. Her tone was gentle
and caressing. Hervey suddenly called to her.
"Don't go near him. He's as treacherous as a dogone Indian."
"Come back," called out her mother.
The girl paid no attention. She called again, and patted her blue
apron encouragingly. The animal rose slowly to his feet, looked
dubiously in her direction, then, without any display of enthusiasm,
came slowly towards her. His limp added to his wicked aspect, but he
came, nor did he stop until his head was resting against her dress,
and her hand was caressing his great back. The huge creature seemed to
appreciate the girl's attitude, for he made no attempt to move away.
It is probable that this was the first caress the dog had ever known
in all his savage life.
Hervey looked on and scratched his beard thoughtfully, but he said
nothing more. Mrs. Malling went back to the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge
alone had anything to say.
"Poor creature," she observed, in tones of deep pity. "I wonder how he
lost his foot. Is he always fighting? A poor companion, I should
say."
Hervey laughed unpleasantly.
"Oh, he's not so bad. He's savage, and all that But he's a good
friend."
"Ah, and a deadly enemy. I suppose he's very fond of you. He lets you
kick him," she added significantly.
"I hardly know--and I must say I don't much care--what his feelings
are towards me. Yes, he lets me kick him." Then, after a pause, "But
I think he really hates me."
And Hervey turned abruptly and went back into the kitchen. He
preferred the more pleasant atmosphere of his mother's adulation to
the serious reflections of Sarah Gurridge.