And there was no understanding in her tone. Her mind seemed to be groping blindly, and she merely repeated the two words which struck her most forcibly.
“Yes, ‘murder’ and ‘Hervey,’” Prudence retorted. “Hervey has accused George Iredale of the murder of Leslie Grey. Now will you listen to my explanation?”
Hephzibah precipitated herself into a chair. The rolling-pin was returned to its place upon the dough-board with a clatter, and the basket of eggs was set down with a force that sorely jeopardized its contents.
“Yes, girl. Tell me all. Let me hear what devil’s work my Hervey’s been up to. La sakes! an’ George Iredale a murderer!”
And Prudence, her anger evaporated as swiftly as her mother’s, told the two old ladies of her love for Iredale, and how he had asked her to be his wife. She told them how Hervey had come to her with the story of his discovery; how, after attempting to blackmail his victim, he had offered his information to her at a price. How she forced him to prove his case, and had sent him to Winnipeg with that object; how she had been nearly distracted, and eventually made up her mind to go and see Iredale himself; how the accused man had established to her his innocence beyond any doubt, and how he had shown her how impossible it would be for him to use the same means of clearing himself in a court of law. She dwelt upon each point, so that these two, who 326 were so dear to her, should not fail to understand as she understood. Then she told them how, recognizing George’s danger, she had resolved to intercept Hervey, and, with her mother’s assistance, pay him off; and, finally, how she had been overtaken by the forest fire; and how, her mare exhausted, she had arrived at Damside in time to send her message to her brother; and how, failing any other means of returning home, she had taken shelter with the elevator clerk’s wife until her mare had recovered and she was able to resume her journey to the farm.
It was a long story, and the many interruptions of her mother gave the girl much extra trouble in the telling; but with a wonderful patience, born of her anxiety for her lover, she dealt with every little point that puzzled her audience.
When the story was finished its effect was made curiously manifest. The one thing which seemed to have gripped her mother’s intensest feeling was the part her boy had played. Her round eyes had grown stern, and her comely lips had parted as her breath came heavy and fast. At last she burst out with a curious mixture of anger and sorrow in her words.
“Bone of my Silas; flesh of my flesh; an’ to think o’ the like. My Hervey a whelp of hell; a bloodsucker. Oh, that I should ha’ lived to see such a day,” and she rocked herself, with her hand supporting her head and her elbows planted upon her knees. “Oh, them travellin’s in foreign parts. My poor, poor Silas; if he’d jest lived long ’nough to git around our boy with a horsewhip we might ha’ been spared this disgrace. Prudence, girl, I’m that sorry for what I’ve said to you.”
Tears welled in the old eyes, which had now become very wistful, and slowly rolled down the plump cheeks. Suddenly she gathered up her apron and flung it up over her head, and the rocking continued dismally. Prudence came over to her and knelt at her side, caressing her stout figure in sympathy. Sarah sat looking away towards the window with dreamy eyes. The old school-mistress made no comment; she was thinking deeply.