<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<h3>‘YELLOW BOOMING––SLUMP IN GREY’</h3>
<p>The days are long since gone when the name of
the midland territory of the great Canadian world,
Manitoba, suggested to the uninitiated nothing but
Red Indians, buffalo and desperadoes of every sort
and condition. Now-a-days it is well known, even
in remote parts of the world, as one of the earth’s
greatest granaries; a land of rolling pastures, golden
cornfields and prosperous, simple farm folk. In a
short space of time, little more than a quarter of a
century, this section of the country has been elevated
from the profound obscurity of a lawless wilderness
to one of the most thriving provinces of a great
dominion. The old Fort Garry, one of the oldest
factories of the Hudson’s Bay Company, has given
place to the magnificent city of Winnipeg, with its
own University, its own governing assembly, its
own clubs, hotels, its own world-wide commercial
interests, besides being the great centre of railway
traffic in the country. All these things, and many
other indications of splendid prosperity too numerous
to mention, have grown up in a little over twenty-five
years. And with this growth the buffalo has gone,
the red-man has been herded on to a limited reservation,
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_47' name='page_47'></SPAN>47</span>
and the “Bad-man” is almost an unknown
quantity. Such is the Manitoba of to-day.</p>
<p>But during the stages of Manitoba’s transition its
history is interesting. The fight between law and
lawlessness was long and arduous, the pitched battles
many and frequent. Buffalo could be killed off
quickly, the red-man was but a poor thing after the
collapse of the Riel rebellion, but the “Bad-man”
died hard.</p>
<p>This is the period in the history of Manitoba which
at present interests us. When Winnipeg was building
with a rapidity almost rivalling that of the second
Chicago, and the army of older farmers in the land
was being hastily augmented by recruits from the
mother country. When the military police had withdrawn
their forces to the North-West Territories,
leaving only detachments to hold the American
border against the desperadoes which both countries
were equally anxious to be rid of.</p>
<p>In the remote south-eastern corner of the province,
forty-five miles from the nearest town––which happened
to be the village of Ainsley––dumped down on the
crest of a far-reaching ocean-like swell of rolling
prairie, bare to the blast of the four winds except for
the insignificant shelter of a small bluff on its northeastern
side, stood a large farm-house surrounded by
a small village of barns and outbuildings. It was a
typical Canadian farm of the older, western type.
One of those places which had grown by degrees
from the one central hut of logs, clay and thatch to
the more pretentious proportions of the modern frame
building of red pine weather-boarding, with shingled
roofing to match, and the whole coloured with paint
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_48' name='page_48'></SPAN>48</span>
of a deep, port-wine hue, the points and angles being
picked out with a dazzling white. It was a farm, let
there be no mistake, and not merely a homestead.</p>
<p>There were abundant signs of prosperity in the
trim, well-groomed appearance of the place. The
unmistakable hall-mark was to be found in the
presence of a steam-thresher, buried beneath a covering
of tarpaulin and snow, in the array of farming
machinery, and in the maze of pastures enclosed by
top-railed, barbed-wire fencing. All these things,
and the extent of the buildings, told of years of ceaseless
industry and thrift, of able management and a
proper pride in the vocation of its owner.</p>
<p>Nor were these outward signs in any way misleading.
Silas Malling in his lifetime had been
one of those sound-minded men, unimaginative and
practical, the dominant note of whose creed had
always been to do his duty in that state of life in
which he found himself. The son of an early pioneer
he had been born to the life of a farmer, and, having
the good fortune to follow in the footsteps of a thrifty
father, he had lived long enough to see his farm grow
to an extent many times larger and more prosperous
than that of any neighbour within a radius of a
hundred miles. But at the time of our story he had
been gathered to his forefathers for nearly three years,
and his worthy spouse, Hephzibah Malling, reigned in
his stead. She ruled with an equally practical hand,
and fortune had continued to smile upon her. Her
bank balance had grown by leaps and bounds, and
she was known to be one of the richest women in
Southern Manitoba, and her only daughter, Prudence,
to be heiress to no inconsiderable fortune. There
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_49' name='page_49'></SPAN>49</span>
was a son in the family, but he had eschewed the farm
life, and passing out of the home circle, as some
sons will, had gone into the world to seek his own
way––his own experiences of life.</p>
<p>In spite of the wealth of the owners of Loon Dyke
Farm they were very simple, unpretentious folk.
They lived the life they had always known, abiding
by the customs of childhood and the country to
which they belonged with the whole-hearted regard
which is now becoming so regrettably rare. Their
world was a wholesome one which provided them
with all they needed for thought, labour and recreation.
To journey to Winnipeg, a distance of a
hundred and twenty-six miles, was an event which
required two days’ preparation and as many weeks
of consideration. Ainsley, one of those little border
villages which dot the international boundary dividing
Canada from the United States, was a place rarely
visited by them, and when undertaken the trip was
regarded as a notable jaunt.</p>
<p>Just now Mrs. Malling was a prey to the wildest
excitement. An event was about to happen which
disturbed her to a degree. It is doubtful as to what
feeling was uppermost in her motherly bosom. She
was torn between many conflicting emotions––joy,
grief, pleasurable excitement. Her daughter, her
only child, as she was wont to confide to her matronly
friends––for her boy, whom she loved as only a mother
can love a son, she believed she would never see
again––was about to be married.</p>
<p>No visit to town, not even a sea voyage across the
ocean could possibly compare with this. It was a
more significant event in her life even than when she
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_50' name='page_50'></SPAN>50</span>
went into Winnipeg to choose the monument which
was to be erected over the grave of her departed
Silas. That she had always had in her mind’s eye,
not because she looked forward to his demise, but
because she hoped some day to share with him its
sheltering canopy. But somehow this forthcoming
marriage of her daughter was in the nature of a shock
to her. She was not mercenary, far from it, she was
above any such motive as that, but she had hoped,
when the time came for such matters to be considered,
that Prudence would have married a certain
rancher who lived out by the Lake of the Woods, a
man of great wealth, and a man whom Mrs. Malling
considered desirable in every way. Instead of that
Prudence had chosen for herself amongst her many
suitors, and worst of all she had chosen an insignificant
official in the Customs department. That
to Hephzibah Malling was the worst blow of all.
With proper motherly pride she had hoped that “her
girl” would have married a “some one” in her own
world.</p>
<p>The winter evening shadows––it was the middle of
January and winter still held sway upon the prairie––were
falling, and the parlour at the farm was enveloped
in a grey dusk. The room was large, low-ceiled, and
of irregular shape.</p>
<p>It was furnished to serve many purposes, principally
with a view to solid comfort. There was no blatant
display of wealth, and every article of furniture bore
signs of long though careful use. The spotless boarded
floor was bare of carpet, but was strewn with rough-cured
skins, timber-wolf, antelope, coyote and bear,
and here and there rugs of undoubted home make;
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_51' name='page_51'></SPAN>51</span>
these latter of the patchwork order. The centre
table was of wide proportions and of solid mahogany,
and told of the many services of the apartment; the
small chairs were old-fashioned mahogany pieces
with horse-hair seats, while the easy-chairs––and
there were several of these––were capacious and of
divers descriptions. A well-worn sofa was stowed
away in an obscure angle, and a piano with a rose-silk
front and fretwork occupied another of the many
dark corners which the room possessed.</p>
<p>The whole atmosphere of the place was of extreme
comfort. The bare description of furniture conveys
nothing, but the comfort was there and showed out
in the odds and ends of family possessions which
were in evidence everywhere––the grandfather’s clock,
the sewing-machine, the quaint old oil-lamps upon
the mantel-board over the place where the fire should
have been but was not; the soft hangings and curious
old family pictures and discoloured engravings; the
perfect femininity of the room. In all respects it was
a Canadian farm “best parlour.”</p>
<p>There were four occupants of the room. Two old
ladies, rotund, and garbed in modest raiment of some
sort of dark, clinging material, were gathered about
the monster self-feeding stove, seated in arm-chairs
in keeping with their ample proportions. One was
the widow of the late Silas Malling, and the other
was the school-ma’am from the Leonville school-house.
This good lady rejoiced in the name of
Gurridge, and Mrs. Gurridge was the oldest friend
of Hephzibah Malling, a fact which spoke highly
for the former good dame’s many excellent qualities.
Hephzibah was not a woman to set her affections
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_52' name='page_52'></SPAN>52</span>
on her sex without good reason. Her moral standard
was high, and though she was ever ready to
show kindliness to her fellow-creatures, she was
far too practical and honest herself to take to her
motherly bosom any one who was not worthy of
regard.</p>
<p>As was natural, they were talking of the forthcoming
marriage, and the tone of their lowered voices
indicated that their remarks were in the nature of
confidences. Mrs. Malling was sitting bolt upright,
and her plump, rather rough hands were folded in her
broad lap. Mrs. Gurridge was leaning towards the
stove, gazing into the fire through the mica sides of
the fire-box.</p>
<p>“I trust they will be happy,” said Mrs. Gurridge,
with a sigh. Then as an afterthought: “He seems
all right.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Mrs. Malling said, with a responsive exhalation,
“I think so. He has few faults. But he is not
the man to follow my Silas on this farm. I truly
believe, Sarah, that he couldn’t tell the difference
between a cabbage-field and a potato-patch. These
what-d’you-call-’ems, Civil servants, are only fit to
tot up figures and play around with a woman’s wardrobe
every time she crosses the border. Thank
goodness I’m not of the travelling kind; I’m sure I
should hide my face for very shame every time I saw
a Customs officer.”</p>
<p>The round, rosy face of the farm-wife assumed a
deeper hue, and her still comely lips were pursed into
an indignant <i>moue</i>. Her smooth grey head, adorned
by a black lace cap trimmed with pearl beads, was
turned in the direction of the two other occupants of
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_53' name='page_53'></SPAN>53</span>
the room, who were more or less buried in the
obscurity of a distant corner.</p>
<p>For a moment she gazed at the dimly-outlined
figure of a man who was seated on one of the horse-hair
chairs, leaning towards the sofa on which
reclined the form of her daughter, Prudence. His
elbows were resting on his knees and his chin was
supported upon his two clenched fists. He was
talking earnestly. Mrs. Malling watched him for
some moments, then her eyes drifted to the girl, the
object of her solicitude.</p>
<p>Although the latter was in the shadow her features
were, even at this distance, plainly discernible.
There was a strong resemblance between mother and
daughter. They were both of medium dark complexion,
with strong colouring. Both were possessed
of delightfully sweet brown eyes, and mouths and
chins firm but shapely. The one remarkable difference
between them was in the nasal organ. While
the mother’s was short, well-rounded, and what one
would call pretty though ordinary, the girl’s was
prominent and aquiline with a decided bridge. This
feature gave the younger woman a remarkable
amount of character to her face. Altogether hers was
a face which, wherever she went, would inevitably
attract admiring attention. Just now she was
evidently teasing the man before her, and the mother
turned back to the stove with a merry twinkle in her
eyes.</p>
<p>“I think Prudence will teach him a few lessons,”
she murmured to her friend.</p>
<p>“What––about the farm?”</p>
<p>“Well, I wasn’t just thinking of the farm.”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_54' name='page_54'></SPAN>54</span></div>
<p>The two ladies smiled into each other’s faces.</p>
<p>“She is a good child,” observed Mrs. Gurridge
affectionately, after awhile.</p>
<p>“Or she wouldn’t be her father’s child.”</p>
<p>“Or your daughter, Hephzibah,” said Sarah
Gurridge sincerely.</p>
<p>The two relapsed into silence. The glowing coals
in the stove shook lower and received augmentation
from the supply above. Darkness was drawing on.</p>
<p>Prudence was holding the <i>Free Press</i> out towards
the dying light and the man was protesting. The
latter is already known to us. His name was Leslie
Grey, now an under-official of the Customs department
at the border village of Ainsley.</p>
<p>“Don’t strain your eyes in this light, dear,” he was
saying. “Besides, I want to talk to you.” He laid his
hand upon the paper to take it from her. But the
girl quickly withdrew it out of his reach.</p>
<p>“You must let me look at the personal column,
Leslie,” she said teasingly, “I just love it. What do
you call it? The ‘Agony’ column, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” the man answered, with some show of irritation.
“But I want–––”</p>
<p>“Of course you do,” the girl interrupted. “You
want to talk to me––very right and proper. But
listen to this.”</p>
<p>Grey bit his lip. Prudence bent her face close to
the paper and read in a solemn whisper––</p>
<p>“‘Yellow booming––slump in Grey’! Now I wonder
what that means? Do you think it’s a disguised
love message to some forlorn damsel in the east, or
does it conceal the heartrending cry of a lost soul to
some fond but angry parent?” Then, as the man
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_55' name='page_55'></SPAN>55</span>
did not immediately answer, she went on with a
pucker of thought upon her brow. “‘Yellow’––that
might mean gold. ‘Booming’––ah, yes, the Kootenai
mines, or the Yukon. There is going to be a rush
there this year, isn’t there? Oh, I forgot,” with real
contrition, “I mustn’t mention the Yukon, must I?
That is where your disaster occurred that caused
you to be banished to the one-horsed station of
Ainsley.”</p>
<p>“Not forgetting the reduction of my salary to the
princely sum of two thousand dollars per annum,”
Grey added bitterly.</p>
<p>“Never mind, old boy, it brought us together, and
dollars aren’t likely to trouble us any. But let me
get on with my puzzle. ‘Slump in Grey.’ That’s
funny, isn’t it? ‘Slump’ certainly has to do with
business. I’ve seen ‘Slump’ in the finance columns
of the Toronto <i>Globe</i>. And then ‘Grey.’ That’s
your name.”</p>
<p>“I believe so.”</p>
<p>“Um. Guess I can’t make much of it. Seems to
me it must be some business message. I call it real
disappointing.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps not so disappointing as you think, sweetheart,”
Grey said thoughtfully.</p>
<p>“What, do you understand it?” The girl at once
became all interest.</p>
<p>“Yes,” slowly, “I understand it, but I don’t know
that I ought to tell you.”</p>
<p>“Of course you must. I’m just dying of curiosity.
Besides,” she went on coaxingly, “we are going to be
married, and it wouldn’t be right to have any secrets
from me. Dear old Gurridge never lost an opportunity
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_56' name='page_56'></SPAN>56</span>
of firing sage maxims at us when I used to go to
her school. I think the one to suit this occasion ran
something like this––</p>
<table summary=''><tr><td>
<p class='cg'>‘Secrets withheld ’twixt man and wife,<br/>
Infallibly end in connubial strife.’</p>
</td></tr></table>
<p>“She always made her rhymes up as she went
along. She’s a sweet old dear, but so funny.”</p>
<p>But Grey was not heeding the girl’s chatter. His
face was serious and his obstinate mouth was tight-shut.
He was gazing with introspective eyes at the
paper which was now lying in the girl’s lap.
Suddenly he leaned further forward and spoke almost
in a whisper.</p>
<p>“Look here, Prue, I want you to listen seriously to
what I have to say. I’m not a man given to undue
hopefulness. I generally take my own way in things
and see it through, whether that way is right or
wrong. So far I’ve had some successes and more
failures. If I were given to dreaming or repining I
should say Fate was dead against me. That last
smasher I came in the mountains, when I lost the
Government bullion, nearly settled me altogether, but,
in spite of it all, I haven’t given up hope yet, and
what is more, I anticipate making a big coup shortly
which will reinstate me in favour with the heads of
my department. My coup is in connection with the
notice you have just read out from the ‘Agony’
column.”</p>
<p>The girl nodded. She was quite serious now.
Grey paused, and the ticking of the grandfather’s
clock on the other side of the room pounded heavily
in the twilight The murmur of the old ladies’ voices
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_57' name='page_57'></SPAN>57</span>
occasionally reached the lovers, but it did not interrupt
them or divert their attention from their own
affairs.</p>
<p>“That notice,” Grey went on, “has appeared at
regular intervals in the paper, and is a message to
certain agents from a certain man, to say that certain
illicit work has been carried out. I have discovered
who this man is and the nature of his work. It does
not matter who he is or what the work; in fact, it
would be dangerous to mention either, even here;
the point is that I have discovered the secret, and I,
alone, am going to benefit by my discovery. I am
not going to let any one share the reward with me.
I want to reinstate myself with the authorities, and so
regain my lost position, then no one will be able to
say things about my marriage with you.”</p>
<p>“No one had better say anything against you in my
hearing, anyway, Leslie,” the girl put in quickly.
“Because I happen to be rich––or shall be––is nothing
to do with any one but myself. As far as I
can see it will be a blessing. Go on.”</p>
<p>“No doubt it is as you say, dear,” the man pursued;
“but there are plenty of people unkind enough to
believe that I am marrying you for your money.
However, I am going to get this man red-handed,
and, I tell you, it will be the greatest coup of my
life.”</p>
<p>“I hope you will succeed, Leslie,” the girl said, her
brown eyes fixed in admiration upon her lover. “Do
you know, I never thought you were such a determined
fellow,” she added impulsively. “Why, I can
almost believe that you’d learn to farm if you took
the notion.”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_58' name='page_58'></SPAN>58</span></div>
<p>Grey’s sense of humour was not equal to the
occasion, and he took her remark quite seriously.</p>
<p>“A man must be a fool if he can’t run a farm,” he
said roughly.</p>
<p>“Many folks labour under that mistake,” the girl
replied. Then: “Say, when are you going to do this
thing?”</p>
<p>“Strangely enough, the critical moment will come
two days after our marriage. Let’s see. This is
Monday. We are to be married to-morrow week.
That will make it Thursday week.”</p>
<p>The girl sat herself up on the sofa, and her
young face expressed dismay.</p>
<p>“Right in the middle of our honeymoon. Oh,
Leslie!”</p>
<p>“It can’t be helped, dearest. I shall only be away
from you for that afternoon and the night. Think
of what it means to me. Everything.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes.” She sank back again upon the sofa.
There was the faintest glimmer of a smile in the
depths of her dark eyes. “I forgot what it meant to
you.”</p>
<p>The unconscious irony of her words fell upon
stony ground.</p>
<p>Prudence Malling was deeply in love with Leslie
Grey. How few men fully appreciate the priceless
treasure of a good woman’s regard.</p>
<p>“If I bring this off it means immediate promotion,”
Grey went on, in his blindly selfish way. “I must
succeed. I hate failure.”</p>
<p>“They will take you off the border, then,” said the
girl musingly. “That will mean––leaving here.”</p>
<p>“Which also means a big step up.”</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_59' name='page_59'></SPAN>59</span></div>
<p>“Of course––it will mean a big step up.”</p>
<p>The girl sighed. She loved the farm; that home
which she had always known. She changed the
subject suddenly.</p>
<p>“It must be nearly tea-time. We are going to
have tea early, Leslie, so that we can get through
with it comfortably before the people come.”</p>
<p>“Oh yes, I forgot you are having a ‘Progressive
Euchre’ party to-night. What time does it begin?
I mean the party.”</p>
<p>“Seven o’clock. But you are going to stay to
tea?”</p>
<p>Grey glanced up at the yellow face of the grandfather’s
clock and shook his head.</p>
<p>“Afraid not, little girl. I’ve got some work to do
in connection with Thursday week. I will drop in
about nine o’clock. Who’re coming?”</p>
<p>“Is it really necessary, this work?” There was a
touch of bitterness in Prudence’s voice. But the next
moment she went on cheerfully. She would not
allow herself to stand in her lover’s way. “The usual
people are coming. It will be just our monthly
gathering of neighbouring––moss-backs,” with a laugh.
“The Turners, the Furrers––Peter Furrers, of course;
he still hopes to cut you out––and the girls; old
Gleichen and his two sons, Harry and Tim. And the
Ganthorns from Rosebank and their cousins the
Covills of Lakeville. And––I almost forgot him––mother’s
flame, George Iredale of Lonely Ranch.”</p>
<p>“Is Iredale coming? It’s too bad of you to have
him here, Prue. Your mother’s flame––um, I like
that. Why, he’s been after you for over three years.
It’s not right to ask him when I am here, besides–––”
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_60' name='page_60'></SPAN>60</span>
Grey broke off abruptly. Darkness hid the angry
flush which had spread over his face. The girl knew
he was angry. His tone was raised, and there was
no mistaking Leslie Grey’s anger. He was very
nearly a gentleman, but not quite.</p>
<p>“I think I have a perfect right to ask him, Leslie,”
she answered seriously. “His coming can make no
possible difference to you. Frankly, I like him, but
that makes no difference to my love for you. Why,
you dear, silly thing, if he asked me from now till
Doomsday I wouldn’t marry him. He’s just a real
good friend. But still, if it will please you, I don’t
mind admitting that mother insisted on his coming,
and that I had nothing to do with it. That is why
I call him mother’s flame. Now, then, take that
ugly frown off your face and say you’re sorry.”</p>
<p>Grey showed no sign of obedience; he was very
angry. It was believed and put about by the busy-bodies
of the district, that George Iredale had sought
Prudence Malling in marriage ever since she had
grown up. He was a bachelor of close upon forty.
One of those quiet, determined men, slow of speech,
even clumsy, but quick to make up their minds, and
endowed with a great tenacity of purpose. A man
who rarely said he was going to do a thing, but
generally did it. These known features in a man who,
up to the time of the announcement of Prudence’s
engagement to Grey, had been a frequent visitor to
the farm, and who was also well known to be wealthy
and more than approved of by Mrs. Malling, no
doubt, gave a certain amount of colour to the belief of
those who chose to pry into their neighbours’ affairs.</p>
<p>“Anyway I don’t think there is room for both
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_61' name='page_61'></SPAN>61</span>
Iredale and myself in the house,” Grey went on
heatedly. “If you didn’t want him you should have
put your foot down on your mother’s suggestion. I
don’t think I shall come to-night.”</p>
<p>For one moment the girl looked squarely into her
lover’s face and her pretty lips drew sharply together.
Then she spoke quite coldly.</p>
<p>“You will––or I’ll never speak to you again. You
are very foolish to make such a fuss.”</p>
<p>There was along silence between the lovers. Then
Grey drew out his watch, opened it, glanced at the
time, and snapped it closed again.</p>
<p>“I must go,” he said shortly.</p>
<p>Prudence had risen from the sofa. She no longer
seemed to heed her lover. She was looking across
the darkened room at the homely picture round the
glowing stove.</p>
<p>“Very well,” she said. And she moved away from
the man’s side.</p>
<p>The two old ladies pausing in their conversation
heard Grey’s announcement and the answer Prudence
made. Sarah Gurridge leaned towards her companion
with a confidential movement of the head.
The two grey heads came close together.</p>
<p>The school-ma’am whispered impressively––</p>
<table summary=''><tr><td>
<p class='cg'>“‘Maid who angers faithful swain<br/>
Will shed more tears and know mere pain<br/>
Than she who loves and loves in vain.’”</p>
</td></tr></table>
<p>Hephzibah laughed tolerantly. Sarah’s earnestness
never failed to amuse her.</p>
<p>“My dear,” the girl’s mother murmured back, when
her comfortable laugh had gurgled itself out, “young
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_62' name='page_62'></SPAN>62</span>
folks must skit-skat and bicker, or where would be
the making up? La, I’m sure when I was a girl I
used to tweak my poor Silas’s nose for the love of
making him angry––Silas had a long nose, my dear,
as you may remember. Men hate to be tweaked,
especially on their weak points. My Silas was always
silly about his nose. And we never had less than
half-an-hour’s making up. I wonder how Prudence
has tweaked Mr. Grey––I can’t bring myself to call
him Leslie, my dear.”</p>
<p>Prudence had reached her mother’s side. The two
old heads parted with guilty suddenness.</p>
<p>“Oh, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Malling, “how you
did startle me.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, mother,” the girl said, “but I wanted to
tell you that Leslie is not coming to-night.” Prudence
turned a mischievous face towards her lover.</p>
<p>Mrs. Malling wrinkled up her smooth forehead.
She assumed an air of surprise.</p>
<p>“Why not, my child?”</p>
<p>“Oh, because you have asked Mr. Iredale. Leslie
says it isn’t right.”</p>
<p>Prudence was still looking in her lover’s direction.
He had his back turned. He was more angry than
ever now.</p>
<p>“My dears,” said her mother with an indulgent
smile, “you are a pair of silly noodles. But Mr.
Grey––I mean Leslie––must please himself. George
Iredale is coming because I have asked him. This
house is yours to come and go as you like––er––Leslie.
George Iredale has promised to come to the
cards to-night. Did I hear you say you were going
now? I should have taken it homely if you would
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_63' name='page_63'></SPAN>63</span>
have stayed to tea. The party begins at seven, don’t
forget.”</p>
<p>Three pairs of quizzical eyes were fixed upon Grey’s
good-looking but angry face. His anger was against
Prudence entirely now. She had made him look
foolish before these two ladies, and that was not
easily to be forgiven. Grey’s lack of humour made
him view things in a ponderous light. He felt most
uncomfortable under the laughing gaze of those three
ladies.</p>
<p>However, he would not give way an inch.</p>
<p>“Yes, I must go now,” he said ungraciously. “But
not on account of George Iredale,” he added blunderingly.
“I have some important work to do–––”</p>
<p>He was interrupted by a suppressed laugh from
Prudence. He turned upon her suddenly, glared,
then walked abruptly to the door.</p>
<p>“Good-bye,” he exclaimed shortly, and the door
closed sharply behind him.</p>
<p>“Why, Prudence,” said Mrs. Malling, turning her
round laughing face to her daughter and indicating
the door. “Aren’t you–––”</p>
<p>“No, I’m not, mother dear,” the girl answered with
a forced laugh.</p>
<p>Sarah Gurridge patted her late pupil’s shoulder
affectionately. But her head shook gravely as though
a weight of worldly wisdom was hers.</p>
<p>“I don’t think he’ll stay away,” said the mother,
with a tender glance in the girl’s direction.</p>
<p>“He hasn’t chin enough,” said Sarah, who prided
herself upon her understanding of physiognomy.</p>
<p>“Indeed he has,” retorted Prudence, who heard the
remark.</p>
<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_64' name='page_64'></SPAN>64</span></div>
<p>Mrs. Malling was right, Leslie Grey was not going
to stay away. He had no intention of doing so. But
his reasons were quite apart from those Hephzibah
Malling attributed to him. He wished to see George
Iredale, and because of the man’s coming Grey would
forego his angry desire to retaliate upon Prudence.
He quite ignored what he was pleased to call his own
pride in the matter. He would come because he had
what he considered excellent reasons for so doing.</p>
<p>Prudence lit the lamps and laid the table for tea.
Her mother ambled off to the great kitchen as fast as
her bulk would allow her. There were many things
in that wonderful place to see to for the supper, and
on these occasions Mrs. Malling would not trust their
supervision even to Prudence, much less to the hired
girl, Mary. Sarah Gurridge remained in her seat by
the stove watching the glowing coals dreamily, her
mind galloping ahead through fanciful scenes of her
own imagination. Had she been asked she would
probably have stated that she was looking forward into
the future of the pair who were so soon to be married.</p>
<p>Prudence went on quietly and nimbly with her
work. Presently Sarah turned, and after a moment’s
intent gaze at the trim, rounded figure, said in her
profoundest tone––</p>
<table summary=''><tr><td>
<p class='cg'>“‘Harvest your wheat ere the August frost;<br/>
One breath of cold and the crop is lost.’”</p>
</td></tr></table>
<p>“Oh, bother––there, I’ve set a place for Leslie,”
exclaimed Prudence in a tone of vexation. “What is
that about ‘frost’ and ‘lost’?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, dear, I was only thinking aloud.” And
Sarah Gurridge relapsed into silence, and continued
to bask in the warm glow of the stove.</p>
<hr class='toprule' />
<span class='pagenum pncolor'><SPAN name='page_65' name='page_65'></SPAN>65</span>
<SPAN name='CHAPTER_V_THE_RETURN_OF_THE_PRODIGAL' id='CHAPTER_V_THE_RETURN_OF_THE_PRODIGAL'></SPAN>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />