Ridgwell Cullum - The Hound From The North

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.”