Mrs. Malling dumped the coal into the stove with a clatter and replaced the circular iron top. She said nothing, and Prudence went on.
“He’s coming out this way on business shortly, and will call over here if possible. But he can’t stay. Says he’s making money now, and is writing to Al and giving her all particulars. I am sorry he can’t come.”
“Well, well; maybe it’s for the best,” said her mother, in a consolatory manner. “Seemingly his coming would only ’a caused bickerings with Hervey, and, good-sakes, we get enough of that now. I’m not one for underhand dealings, but I’m thinking it would be for the best not to say anything to your brother about his coming at all. If he asks, just say he can’t come to stop. I’d sooner keep Hervey under my eye. If he goes off, as he said, you never know what mischief he’ll be getting up to. He just goes into Winnipeg and gets around with them scallywags, and––and 243 you never know. I have heard tell––though he never lets on––as he’s too fond o’ poker. Leastways, I do know as he spends more money than is good for him. Sarah and me was talking only the other day. Sarah’s pretty ’cute, and she declares that he’s got gaming writ in his lines. Maybe it’s so. I’ll not dispute. He won’t have no excuse for leaving now.” And she sighed heavily and took up the vegetables from the stove.
Alice returned, and the sound of wheels outside told the farm-wife that the buckboard was ready for the men’s dinner.
The two girls and the old lady portioned out the food into the great canteens, and Andy lifted them on to the buckboard. Then the choreman drove away.
By the time the farm dinner was ready Alice had quite got over her disappointment. Prudence had told her the contents of the letter, and also her mother’s wishes on the subject. Alice was naturally too cheerful to think much of the matter; besides, she was glad that Robb’s business was improving.
Hervey came up from the fields in Andy’s buckboard. He always came home for his dinner, and to-day he brought an atmosphere of unwonted cheerfulness with him. He had spent much thought and consideration upon his relations with George Iredale, and the result of his reflections was displayed in his manner when he returned from the fields. Never in his life had he held such a handful of trumps. His hand needed little playing, and the chances of a cross ruff looked to him remote.
After the meal he went out to the barn, where he smoked for awhile in pensive solitude. He thought 244 long and earnestly, and was so absorbed that he looked up with a start at the sound of his mother’s voice calling to him from the open kitchen window.
“Bestir yourself, Hervey, boy. There’s work to be done down in the fields, which is your share in the day’s doings.”
And the man, removing the pipe from his mouth, forgot to grumble back a rough retort, and answered quite cheerfully––