“I will go up-stairs,” she said. “I want to think.”
She opened the door and nearly fell against the dog Neche, who was standing outside it. There was a fanciful suggestion of the eavesdropper about the creature; his attitude was almost furtive. He moved slowly away, and walked with the girl to the foot of the stairs, where he laid himself down with a complacent grunt. The girl went up to her room.
“This day’s doin’s will be writ on my heart for ever,” said the farm-wife plaintively, as the door closed behind her daughter.
“An’ see you, Hephzibah, and let no eyes read of them, for there will be little credit for anyone in those same doings,” said Sarah solemnly.
Mrs. Malling hugged herself, and again began to rock slowly. But there were no signs of tears in her round, dark eyes. Now and again her lips moved, and occasionally she muttered to herself. Sarah heard the name “Hervey” pass her lips once or twice, and she knew that her old friend had been sorely stricken.
As the time for Iredale’s arrival drew near, Prudence became restless. Her day had been spent in idleness as far as her farm work was concerned. She had chosen the companionship of Alice, and had unburdened her heart to her. But sympathetic and practical as her friend was, she was quite unable to help her.
As four o’clock drew near, however, Alice did the only thing possible. She took herself off for a walk down the Lakeville trail. She felt that it was better for everybody that she should be away while the trouble was on, and, besides, she would meet her 331 lover on his way to the farm, and give him timely warning against making his meditated stay for the night.
At the appointed hour there came the clatter of a pacer’s hoofs at the front gate, and a moment later Prudence led her lover into the parlour. After a few brief words she hurriedly departed to summon her mother and Sarah. There was a significant solemnity in this assembling; nor was it lessened by the smuggler’s manner. Even the wolfish Neche seemed impressed with what was happening, for he clung to the girl’s heels, following her wherever she went, and finally laid down upon the trailing portion of her skirt when she took up her position beside her lover and waited for him to begin.
The opening was a painful one for everybody. Iredale scarcely knew how to face those gentle folk and recount his disgraceful story. He thought of all they had been to him during his long years upon the prairie. He thought of their implicit trust and faith in him. He almost quailed before the steady, honest eyes of the old people. However, he at last forced himself to his task, and plunged into his story with uncompromising bluntness.
“I am accused of murder,” he said, and paused, while a sickly feeling pervaded his stomach.