“But still you chose him yourself,” persisted the girl, laughing.
“Well, maybe I did, child, maybe I did.”
“And you didn’t regret your own choice, mother; so why should I?”
“Ah, it was different with me––quite different. Ah, there’s some one coming in.” Hephzibah Malling turned as she spoke, glad to be able to change the subject. The front door was opened, and a fur-clad figure entered. “It’s George Iredale,” she went on, as the man removed his cap and displayed a crown of dark-brown hair, tinged here and there with grey, a broad high forehead and a pair of serious eyes.
“Come along, George.” Mrs. Malling bustled forward, followed by her daughter. “I thought you couldn’t get, maybe. The folks are all dancing and dallying. You must come into the kitchen first and have something warm. It’s a cold night.”
“I meant to come earlier,” replied the new arrival, in a deep, quiet voice. “Unfortunately, just as I was going to start, word was brought in to me that a suspicious-looking horseman was hovering round. You see my place is so isolated that any arrival has to be inquired into. There are so many horse-thieves and other dangerous characters about that I have to be careful. Well, I rode out to ascertain who the 86 intruder was, but I lost him. That delayed me. How are you, and Prudence too? Why, it’s ages since I’ve seen either of you. Yes, something hot is always welcome after a long winter’s ride.”
George Iredale had divested himself of his coat and over-shoes, and now followed his hostess to the kitchen. He was a man of considerable inches, being little short of six feet in height. He was powerfully built, although his clothes disguised the fact to a large extent, and his height made him look even slim. He had a strong, keen, plain face that was very large-featured, and would undoubtedly have been downright ugly but for an expression of kindly patience, not unmixed with a suspicion of amused tolerance. It was the face of a man in whom women like to place confidence, and with whom men never attempt to take liberties. He had, too, a charm of manner unusual in men living the rough life of the prairie.
The tinkling strains of the waltz had ceased, and Prudence went back to the parlour. She felt that it was high time to set the tables for “progressive euchre.” It was past eight and Grey had not turned up. She began to think he intended carrying out his threat of staying away. Well, if he chose to do so he could. She wouldn’t ask him to do otherwise. She felt unhappy about him in spite of her brave thoughts.
Her announcement of cards was hailed with delight, and the guests departed with a rush to search the house for a sufficient number of small tables to cope with the requirements of the game.
In the kitchen George Iredale was slowly sipping 87 a steaming glass of rye whisky toddy. He was seated in a rigid, high-backed arm-chair, well away from the huge cook-stove, at which Hephzibah Malling was presiding. Many kettles and saucepans stood steaming upon the black iron top, and the occasional opening and shutting of the ovens told of dainties which needed the old farm-wife’s most watchful care. Mrs. Malling’s occupation, however, did not interrupt her flow of conversation. George Iredale was a great favourite of hers.