THE PROGRESSIVE EUCHRE PARTY
The Mallings always had a good gathering at their card parties. Such
form of entertainment and dances were the chief winter amusement of
these prairie-bred folks. A twenty-mile drive in a box-sleigh, clad in
furs, buried beneath heavy fur robes, and reclining on a deep bedding
of sweet-smelling hay, in lieu of seats, made the journey as
comfortable to such people as would the more luxurious brougham to the
wealthy citizen of civilization. There was little thought of display
amongst the farmers of Manitoba. When they went to a party their
primary object was enjoyment, and they generally contrived to obtain
their desire at these gatherings. Journeys were chiefly taken in
parties; and the amount of snugness obtained in the bottom of a
box-sleigh would be surprising to those without such experience. There
was nothing _blase_ about the simple country folk. A hard day's work
was nothing to them. They would follow it up by an evening's enjoyment
with the keenest appreciation; and they knew how to revel with the
best.
The first to arrive at Loon Dyke Farm were the Furrers. Daisy,
Fortune, and Rachel, three girls of round proportions, all dressed
alike, and of age ranging in the region of twenty. They spoke well and
frequently; and their dancing eyes and ready laugh indicated spirits
at concert pitch. These three were great friends of Prudence, and were
loud in their admiration of her. Peter Furrer, their brother, was with
them; he was a red-faced boy of about seventeen, a giant of flesh, and
a pigmy of intellect--outside of farming operations. Mrs. Furrer
accompanied the party as chaperon--for even in the West chaperons are
recognized as useful adjuncts, and, besides, enjoyment is not always a
question of age.
Following closely on the heels of the Furrers came old Gleichen and
his two sons, Tim and Harry. Gleichen was a well-to-do "mixed"
farmer--a widower who was looking out for a partner as staid and
robust as himself. His two sons were less of the prairie than their
father, by reason of an education at St. John's University in
Winnipeg. Harry was an aspirant to Holy Orders, and already had charge
of a mission in the small neighbouring settlement of Lakeville. Tim
acted as foreman to his father's farm; a boy of enterprising ideas,
and who never hesitated to advocate to his steady-going parent the
advantage of devoting himself to stock-raising.
Others arrived in quick succession; a truly agricultural gathering.
Amongst the latest of the early arrivals were the Ganthorns; mother,
son, and daughter, pretentious folk of considerable means, and
recently imported from the Old Country.
By half-past seven everybody had arrived with the exception of George
Iredale and Leslie Grey. The fun began from the very first.
The dining-table had disappeared from the parlour, as had the rugs
from the floor, and somehow a layer of white wax, like an incipient
fall of snow, lay invitingly on the bare white pine boarding. And,
too, it seemed only natural that the moment she came into the room
ready for the fray, Daisy Furrer should make a rush for the ancient
piano, and tinkle out with fair execution the strains of an old waltz.
Her efforts broke up any sign of constraint; everybody knew everybody
else, so they danced. This was the beginning; cards would come later.
They could all dance, and right well, too. Faces devoid of the
absorbing properties of powder quickly shone with the exercise;
complexions innocent of all trace of pigments and the toilet arts
glowed with a healthy hue and beamed with perfect happiness. There
could be no doubt that Prudence and her mother knew their world as
well as any hostess could wish. And it was all so easy; no formality,
few punctilios to observe--just free-and-easy good-fellowship.
Mrs. Malling emerged from the region of the kitchen. She was a little
heated with her exertions, and a stray wisp or two of grey hair
escaping from beneath her quaint lace cap testified to her culinary
exertions. She had been stooping at her ovens regardless of her
appearance. She found her daughter standing beside the door of the
parlour engaged in a desultory conversation with Peter Furrer.
Prudence hailed her mother with an air of relief, and the monumental
Peter moved heavily away.
"Oh, mother dear, it's too bad of you," exclaimed the girl, gazing at
her critically. "And after all the trouble I took with your cap! Look
at it now. It's all on one side, and your hair is sticking out
like--like--Timothy grass. Stand still while I fix it."
The girl's deft fingers soon arranged her mother afresh, the old lady
protesting all the while, but submitting patiently to the operation.
"There, there; you children think of nothing but pushing and patting
and tittivating. La, but one 'ud think I was going to sit down at
table with a King or a Minister of the Church. Nobody's going to look
at me, child--until the victuals come on. Besides, what does it matter
with neighbours? Look at old Gleichen over there, bowing and scraping
to Mrs. Ganthorn; one would think it wasn't his way to do nothing
else. He's less elaborate when he's trailing after his plough. My, but
I can't abide such pretending. Guess some folks think women are blind.
And where's George Iredale? I don't see him. Now there'd be some
excuse for his doing the grand. He's a gentleman born and bred."
"Ah, yes, mother, we all know your weakness for Mr. Iredale," replied
Prudence, with an affectionate finishing pat to the grey old head.
"But then he just wouldn't 'bow and scrape,' as you call it, to Mrs.
Ganthorn or anybody else. He's not the sort for that kind of thing. He
hasn't come yet. I'll bring him to you at once, dear, when he
arrives," she finished up with a laugh.
"You're a saucy hussy," her mother returned, with a chuckle. Then:
"But I'd have taken to him as a son. Girls never learn anything
now-a-days until they're married to the man they fancy."
"Nothing like personal experience, lady mother. Did you ask any one's
advice when you married father?"
"That I didn't for sure, child, but it was different. Your father,
Silas, wasn't the man to be put off with any notions. He just said he
was going to marry me--and he did marry me. I was all sort of swept
off my feet."
"But still you chose him yourself," persisted the girl, laughing.
"Well, maybe I did, child, maybe I did."
"And _you_ didn't regret your own choice, mother; so why should I?"
"Ah, it was different with me--quite different. Ah, there's some one
coming in." Hephzibah Malling turned as she spoke, glad to be able to
change the subject. The front door was opened, and a fur-clad figure
entered. "It's George Iredale," she went on, as the man removed his
cap and displayed a crown of dark-brown hair, tinged here and there
with grey, a broad high forehead and a pair of serious eyes.
"Come along, George." Mrs. Malling bustled forward, followed by her
daughter. "I thought you couldn't get, maybe. The folks are all
dancing and dallying. You must come into the kitchen first and have
something warm. It's a cold night."
"I meant to come earlier," replied the new arrival, in a deep, quiet
voice. "Unfortunately, just as I was going to start, word was brought
in to me that a suspicious-looking horseman was hovering round. You
see my place is so isolated that any arrival has to be inquired into.
There are so many horse-thieves and other dangerous characters about
that I have to be careful. Well, I rode out to ascertain who the
intruder was, but I lost him. That delayed me. How are you, and
Prudence too? Why, it's ages since I've seen either of you. Yes,
something hot is always welcome after a long winter's ride."
George Iredale had divested himself of his coat and over-shoes, and
now followed his hostess to the kitchen. He was a man of considerable
inches, being little short of six feet in height. He was powerfully
built, although his clothes disguised the fact to a large extent, and
his height made him look even slim. He had a strong, keen, plain face
that was very large-featured, and would undoubtedly have been
downright ugly but for an expression of kindly patience, not unmixed
with a suspicion of amused tolerance. It was the face of a man in whom
women like to place confidence, and with whom men never attempt to
take liberties. He had, too, a charm of manner unusual in men living
the rough life of the prairie.
The tinkling strains of the waltz had ceased, and Prudence went back
to the parlour. She felt that it was high time to set the tables for
"progressive euchre." It was past eight and Grey had not turned up.
She began to think he intended carrying out his threat of staying
away. Well, if he chose to do so he could. She wouldn't ask him to do
otherwise. She felt unhappy about him in spite of her brave thoughts.
Her announcement of cards was hailed with delight, and the guests
departed with a rush to search the house for a sufficient number of
small tables to cope with the requirements of the game.
In the kitchen George Iredale was slowly sipping a steaming glass of
rye whisky toddy. He was seated in a rigid, high-backed arm-chair,
well away from the huge cook-stove, at which Hephzibah Malling was
presiding. Many kettles and saucepans stood steaming upon the black
iron top, and the occasional opening and shutting of the ovens told of
dainties which needed the old farm-wife's most watchful care. Mrs.
Malling's occupation, however, did not interrupt her flow of
conversation. George Iredale was a great favourite of hers.
"He's like his poor father in some things," she was saying, as she
lifted a batch of small biscuits out of the oven and moved towards the
ice-box with them. "He never squealed about his misfortune to me. Not
one letter did I get asking for help. He's proud, is Hervey. And now I
don't know, I'm sure."
She paused with her hand on the open door of the refrigerator and
looked back into the man's face.
"Did he tell you any details of his failure? What was responsible for
it?" Iredale asked, poising his glass on one of the unyielding arms of
his chair.
"No, that he didn't, not even that," in a tone of pride. "He just
said he'd failed. That he was 'broke.' He's too knocked up with
travelling--he's come from Winnipeg right here--or you should hear it
from his own lips. He never blamed no one."
"Ah--and you are going to help him, Mrs. Malling. What are you going
to do?"
"That's where I'm fixed some. Money he can have--all he wants."
Iredale shook his head gravely.
"Bad policy, Mrs. Malling--until you know all the facts."
"What, my own flesh and blood, too? Well, there----"
"I mean nothing derogatory to your boy, believe me," interrupted
Iredale, as he noted the heightened colour of face and the angry
sparkle that flashed in the good dame's eyes "I simply mean that it is
useless to throw good money after bad. Fruit farming is a lottery in
which the prizes go to those who take the most tickets. In other
words, it is a question of acreage. A small man may lose his crop
through blight, drought, a hundred causes. The larger man has a better
chance by reason of the extent of his crop. Now I should take it, you
could do better for your son by obtaining all the facts, sorting them
out and then deciding what to do. My experience prompts me to suggest
another business. Why not the farm?"
All signs of resentment had left Mrs. Malling's face. She deposited
her biscuits and returned to the stove, standing before her guest with
her hands buried deep in her apron pockets and a delighted smile on
her face.
"That's just what I thought at once," she said. "You're real smart,
George; why not the farm? I says that to myself right off. I couldn't
do better, I know, but there's drawbacks. Yes, drawbacks. Hervey isn't
much for the petticoats--meaning his own folks. He's not one to play
second fiddle, so to speak. Now while I live the farm is mine, and I
learned my business from one who could teach me--my Silas. Now I'd
make Hervey my foreman and give him a good wage. He'd have all he
wants, but he'd have to be _my_ foreman." The old lady shook her head
dubiously.
"And you think Hervey wouldn't accept a subordinate position?"
"He's that proud. Just like my poor Silas," murmured the mother.
"Then he's a fool. But you try him," Iredale said dryly.
"Do you think he might?"
"You never can tell."
"I wonder now if you--yes, I'll ask him."
"Offer it to him, you mean." George Iredale smiled quietly.
"Yes, offer it to him," the old lady corrected herself thoughtfully.
"But I'm forgetting my stewing oysters, and Mistress Prudence will get
going on--for she had them sent up all the way from St. John's--if
they're burned." She turned to one of the kettles and began stirring
at once. "Hervey is coming back after he's been to Niagara, and I'll
talk to him then. I wish you could have seen him before he went, but
he's abed."
"Never mind, there's time enough when he comes back. Ah, Prudence, how
is the euchre 'progressing'?" Iredale turned as the girl came
hurriedly in.
"Oh, here you are. You two gossiping as usual. Mother, it's too bad of
you to rob me of my guests. But I came to ask for more lemonade."
"Dip it out of yonder kettle, child. And you can take George off at
once. It's high time he got at the cards."
"He's too late, the game is nearly over. He'll have to sit out with
Leslie. He, also, was too late. Come along, Mr. Iredale,"--she had
filled the lemonade pitcher,--"and, mother, when shall you be ready
with the supper? Remember, you've got to come and give out the prizes
to the winners before that."
"Also to the losers," put in Iredale.
"Yes, they must all have prizes. What time, mother?"
"In an hour. And be off, the pair of you. Mary! Mary!" the old lady
called out, moving towards the summer kitchen. "Bustle about, girl,
and count down the plates from the dresser. La, look at you," she went
on, as the hired girl came running in; "where's the cap I gave you?
And for good-a-mussey's sake go and scrub your hands. My, but girls be
jades."
Iredale and Prudence went off to the parlour. The game was nearly
over, and the guests were laughing and chattering noisily. The
excitement was intense. Leslie Grey sat aloof. He was engaged in a
pretence at conversation with Sarah Gurridge, but, to judge by the
expression of his face, his temper was still sulky or his thoughts
were far away. The moment Iredale entered the room Grey's face lit up
with something like interest.
Prudence, accompanying the rancher, was quick to observe the change.
She had been prepared for something of the sort, although the reason
she assigned to his interest was very wide of the mark. She smiled to
herself as she turned to reply to something Iredale had just said.
The evening passed in boisterous jollification. And after the prizes
had been awarded supper was served. A solid supper, just such a repast
as these people could and did appreciate. The delicacies Mrs. Malling
offered to her guests were something to be remembered. She spared no
pains, and even her enemies, if she had any, which is doubtful,
admitted that she could cook; such an admission amongst the prairie
folks was a testimonial of the highest order.
After supper George Iredale, whose quiet manner and serious face
debarred him from the revels of the younger men, withdrew to a small
work-room which was usually set aside on these occasions for the use
of those who desired to smoke. Leslie Grey, who had been talking to
Mrs. Malling, and who had been watching for this opportunity, quickly
followed.
He fondly believed that Iredale came to the farm to thrust his
attentions upon Prudence. This was exasperating enough in itself, but
when Grey, in his righteous indignation, thought of other matters
pertaining to the owner of Lonely Ranch, his indignation rose to
boiling pitch. He meant to have it out with him to-night.
Iredale had already adjusted himself into a comfortable chintz-covered
arm-chair when Grey arrived upon the scene. A great briar pipe hung
from the corner of his strong, decided mouth, and he was smoking
thoughtfully.
Grey moved briskly to another chair and flung himself into its depths
with little regard for its age. Nor did he attempt to smoke. His mind
was too active and disturbed for anything so calm and soothing.
His first words indicated the condition of his mind.
"Kicking up a racket in there," he said jerkily, indicating the
parlour. "Can't stand such a noise when I've got a lot to think
about."
"No." Iredale nodded his head and spoke without removing the pipe from
his mouth.
"We are to be married to-morrow week--Prudence and I."
"So I've been told. I congratulate you."
Iredale looked at his companion with grave eyes. They were quite alone
in the room. He had met Grey frequently and had learned to understand
his ways and to know his bull-headed methods. Now he quietly waited.
He had a shrewd suspicion that the man had something unpleasant to
say. Unconsciously his teeth closed tighter upon his pipe.
Grey raised his eyebrows.
"Thanks. I hardly expected it."
"And why not?" Iredale was smiling, his grey eyes had a curious look
in them--something between quizzical amusement and surprise.
"Oh, I don't know," the other retorted with a shrug. "There is no
telling how some men will take these things."
Iredale removed his pipe, and pressed the ash down with his little
finger. The operation required the momentary lowering of his eyes from
his companion's face.
"I don't think I understand you."
Grey laughed unpleasantly.
"There's not much need of comprehension. If two men run after the same
girl and one succeeds where the other fails, the successful suitor
doesn't usually expect congratulations from his unfortunate rival."
"Supposing such to be the case in point," Iredale replied quietly, but
with an ominous lowering of his eyelids. "Mark you, I only say
'supposing.' I admit nothing--to you. The less successful man may
surely be honest enough, and man enough, to wish his rival well. I
have known such cases among--men."
Grey twisted himself round in his chair and assumed a truculent
attitude.
"Notwithstanding the fact that the rival in question never loses an
opportunity of seeking out the particular girl, and continuing his
attentions after she is engaged to the other? That may be the way
among--men. But not honest men."
The expression of Iredale's face remained quite calm. Only his
eyes--keen, direct-gazing eyes--lit up with an angry sparkle. He drew
a little more rapidly at his pipe, perhaps, but he spoke quietly
still. He quite understood that Grey intended forcing a quarrel upon
him.
"I shall not pretend to misunderstand you, Grey. Your manner puts that
out of the question. You are unwarrantably accusing me of a most
ungentlemanly proceeding. Such an accusation being made by any
one--what shall I say?--more responsible than you, I should take
considerable notice of; as it is, it is hardly worth my consideration.
You are at best a blunderer. I should pause before I replied had I the
misfortune to be you, and try to recollect where you are. If you wish
to quarrel there is time and place for so doing."
Iredale's words stung Leslie Grey to the quick. His irresponsible
temper fairly jumped within him, his eyes danced with rage, and he
could scarcely find words to express himself.
"You may sneer as much as you like," he at length blurted out, "but
you cannot deny that your visits to this house are paid with the
object of addressing my affianced wife. You are right when you
describe such conduct as ungentlemanly. You are no gentleman! But I do
not suppose that the man who owns Lonely Ranch will feel the sting of
being considered a--a--cad or anything else."
"Stop!" Iredale was roused, and there was no mistaking the set of his
square jaw and the compression between his brows. "You have gone a
step too far. You shall apologize or----"
"Stop--eh? You may well demand that I should--stop, Mr. George
Iredale. Were I to go on you would have a distinctly bad time of it.
But my present consideration is not with the concerns of Lonely Ranch,
but only with your visits here, which shall cease from to-day out. And
as for apologizing for anything I have said, I'll see you damned
first."
There was a pause; a breathless pause. The two men confronted each
other, both held calm by a strength which a moment ago would have
seemed impossible in at least one of them.
Grey's face worked painfully with suppressed excitement, but he
gripped himself. George Iredale was calm under the effort of swift
thought. He was the first to break the silence, and he did so in a
voice well modulated and under perfect control. But the mouthpiece of
his pipe was nearly bitten through.
"Now I shall be glad if you will go on. You apparently have further
charges to make against me. I hardly know whether I am in the presence
of a madman or a fool. One or the other, I am sure. You may as well
make your charges at once. You will certainly answer for all you have
already said, so make the list of your accusations complete
before----"
"You fool!" hissed Grey, goaded to the last extremity of patience. His
headlong nature could not long endure restraint. Now his words came
with a blind rush.
"Do you think I'd speak without being sure of my ground? Do you think,
because other men who have occupied the position which is mine at
Ainsley have been blind, that I am? Lonely Ranch; a fitting title for
your place," with a sneer. "Lonely! in neighbourhood, yes, but not as
regards its owner. You are wealthy, probably the wealthiest man in the
province of Manitoba; why, that alone should have been sufficient to
set the hounds of the law on your trail. I know the secret of Lonely
Ranch. I have watched day after day the notice you have inserted in
the _Free Press_--'Yellow booming--slump in Grey.' Nor have I rested
until I discovered your secret. I shall make no charge here beyond
what I have said, but----"
He suddenly broke off, awakening from his blind rage to the fact of
what he was doing. His mouth shut like a trap, and beads of
perspiration broke out upon his forehead. His eyes lowered before the
ironical gaze of his companion. Thus he sat for a moment a prey to
futile regrets. His anger had undone him. The sound of a short laugh
fell upon his ears, and, as though drawn by a magnet, his eyes were
once more turned on the face of the rancher.
"I was not sure which it was," said Iredale dryly; "whether you were a
fool or a madman. Now I know. I had hoped that it was madness. There
is hope for a madman, but none for a fool. Thank you, Grey, for the
information you have supplied me with. Your folly has defeated your
ends. Remember this. You will never be able to use the 'Secret'--as
you are pleased to call it--of Lonely Ranch. I will take good care of
that. And now, as I hear sounds of people running up-stairs, we will
postpone further discussion. This interview has been prolonged
sufficiently--more than sufficiently for you."
Iredale rose from his chair; to all appearance he was quite
undisturbed. Grey's condition was exactly the reverse.
He, too, rose from his seat. There was a sound of some one approaching
the door. Grey stepped up to his companion and put his mouth close to
his ear.
"Don't forget that you cannot conceal the traces that are round
your--ranch. Traces which are unmistakable to those who have an
inkling of the truth."
"No, but I can take steps which will effectually nullify the exertions
you have been put to. Remember you said I was wealthy. I am tired of
your stupid long-winded talk."
Iredale turned away with a movement of disgust and irritation just as
the door opened and Prudence came in.
"Ah, here you are, you two. I have been wondering where you were all
this time. Do you know the people are going home?"
The girl ceased speaking abruptly and looked keenly at the two men
before her. Iredale was smiling; Grey was gazing down at the stove,
and apparently not listening to her.
Prudence saw that something was wrong, but she had no suspicion of the
truth. She wondered; then she delivered a message she had brought and
dismissed Iredale.
"Mother wants to see you, Mr. Iredale; something about Hervey."
"I will go to her at once." And the owner of Lonely Ranch passed out
of the room.
The moment the door closed behind him the girl turned anxiously to her
lover.
"What is it, Leslie dear? You are not angry with me still?"
The man laughed mirthlessly.
"Angry? No, child. I wonder if I--no, better not. It's time to be off.
Give me a kiss, and I'll say good-night."