“Why, certainly,” said the farm-wife, with characteristic heartiness. “If you come to this district without so much as a look in here, well, you can just pass right along for the future.”
When the meal was over the old lady rose from the table.
“Alice,” said she, “you stay right here. Sarah and I’ll clear away. Prudence, my girl, just lie down and get your rest. Maybe you’ll feel better later on. Come along, Sarah; the young folks can get on comfortably without us for once.”
Prudence made no attempt to do as her mother suggested. She moved about the room, helping with the work. Then the two old ladies adjourned to the kitchen. Robb and Alice had moved over to the well-worn sofa at the far end of the room, and Prudence took up her position at the open window. She seemed to have no thought of leaving the lovers together; in fact, it seemed as though she had forgotten their existence altogether. She stood staring out over the little front garden with hard, unmeaning eyes. From her expression it is doubtful if she saw what her eyes looked upon. Her thoughts were of other matters that concerned only herself and another.
The low tones of the lovers sounded monotonously through the room. They, too, were now wrapt in their own concerns, and had forgotten the presence of the girl at the window. They had so much to say 280 and so little time in which to say it; for Robb had to make Ainsley that night.
The cool August evening was drawing on. The threshing gang was returning from the fields, and the purple haze of sundown was rising above the eastern horizon; Prudence did not move. Her hands were clasped before her; her pale face might have been of carved stone. There was only the faintest sign of life about her, and that was the steady rise and fall of her bosom.
A cool breeze rustled in through the open window and set the curtains moving. Then all became still again. Two birds squabbled viciously amongst the branches of a blue-gum in the little patch of a garden, but Prudence’s gaze was still directed towards the horizon. She saw nothing; she felt nothing but the pain which her own thoughts brought her.
Suddenly the sound of something moving outside became audible. There was the noisy yawn of some large animal rising from its rest. Then came the slow, heavy patter of the creature’s feet. Neche approached the window. His fierce-looking head stood well above the sill. His greenish eyes looked up solemnly at the still figure framed in the opening. His ears twitched attentively. There was no friendly motion of his straight, lank tail; but his appearance was undoubtedly expressive of some sort of well-meaning, canine regard. Whether the dog understood and sympathized with the girl at the window it would have taken something more than a keen observer to have said. But in his strangely unyielding fashion he was certainly struggling to convey 281 something to this girl from whom he was accustomed to receive nothing but kindness.
For some moments he stood thus, quite still. His unkempt body rose and fell under his wiry coat. He was a vast beast, and the wolf-grey and black of his colouring was horribly suggestive of his ancestry. Presently he lifted one great paw to the window. Balancing his weight upon his only serviceable hind-leg, he lifted himself and stood with both front feet upon the sill, and pushed his nose against the girl’s dress. She awoke from her reverie at the touch, and her hands unclasped, and she slowly caressed the bristly head. The animal seemed to appreciate the attention, for, with his powerful paws, he drew himself further into the room.
The girl offered no objection. She paid no heed to what he was doing. Her hand merely rested on his head, and she thought no more about him. Finding himself unrebuffed Neche made further efforts; then, suddenly, he became aware of the other occupants of the room. Quick as a flash his nose was directed towards the old sofa on which they were seated, and his eyes, like two balls of phosphorescent light, gleamed in their direction. He became motionless at once. It seemed as though he were uncertain of something.