58
Grey’s sense of humour was not equal to the occasion, and he took her remark quite seriously.
“A man must be a fool if he can’t run a farm,” he said roughly.
“Many folks labour under that mistake,” the girl replied. Then: “Say, when are you going to do this thing?”
“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.”
The girl sat herself up on the sofa, and her young face expressed dismay.
“Right in the middle of our honeymoon. Oh, Leslie!”
“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.”
“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.”
The unconscious irony of her words fell upon stony ground.
Prudence Malling was deeply in love with Leslie Grey. How few men fully appreciate the priceless treasure of a good woman’s regard.
“If I bring this off it means immediate promotion,” Grey went on, in his blindly selfish way. “I must succeed. I hate failure.”
“They will take you off the border, then,” said the girl musingly. “That will mean––leaving here.”
“Which also means a big step up.”
59
“Of course––it will mean a big step up.”
The girl sighed. She loved the farm; that home which she had always known. She changed the subject suddenly.
“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.”
“Oh yes, I forgot you are having a ‘Progressive Euchre’ party to-night. What time does it begin? I mean the party.”
“Seven o’clock. But you are going to stay to tea?”
Grey glanced up at the yellow face of the grandfather’s clock and shook his head.
“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?”
“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.”
“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–––” 60 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.
“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.”
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.
“Anyway I don’t think there is room for both 61 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.”
For one moment the girl looked squarely into her lover’s face and her pretty lips drew sharply together. Then she spoke quite coldly.
“You will––or I’ll never speak to you again. You are very foolish to make such a fuss.”
There was along silence between the lovers. Then Grey drew out his watch, opened it, glanced at the time, and snapped it closed again.
“I must go,” he said shortly.
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.
“Very well,” she said. And she moved away from the man’s side.
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.
The school-ma’am whispered impressively––
| “ ‘Maid who angers faithful swain Will shed more tears and know mere pain Than she who loves and loves in vain.’ ” |
Hephzibah laughed tolerantly. Sarah’s earnestness never failed to amuse her.
“My dear,” the girl’s mother murmured back, when her comfortable laugh had gurgled itself out, “young 62 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.”
Prudence had reached her mother’s side. The two old heads parted with guilty suddenness.
“Oh, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Malling, “how you did startle me.”
“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.
Mrs. Malling wrinkled up her smooth forehead. She assumed an air of surprise.
“Why not, my child?”
“Oh, because you have asked Mr. Iredale. Leslie says it isn’t right.”
Prudence was still looking in her lover’s direction. He had his back turned. He was more angry than ever now.
“My dears,” said her mother with an indulgent smile, “you are a pair of silly noodles. But Mr. Grey––I