The Hound From The North

Alice had bridged for a moment the miles which divided Owl Hoot from Ainsley, and her thoughts were with her sturdy lover, Robb Chillingwood. She was contemplating their future together, that future which would contain for them, if no great ease and luxury, at least the happiness of a perfect love and mutual assistance in times of trial. Her practical mind did not permit her to gaze on visionary times of prosperity and rises to position, but rather she considered their present trifling income, and what they two could do with it. Now and again she sighed, not with any feeling of discontent, but merely at the thought of her own inability to augment her future husband’s resources. She was in a serious mood, and pondered long upon these, to her, all-important things.

Prudence’s thoughts were of a very different nature, although she too was dreaming of the man whom her sudden realization had brought so pronouncedly into her life. Her round dark face was clouded with a look of sore perplexity, and at first the dominant note of her reflections was her blindness to the real state of her own feelings. Now everything was clear to her of the manner in which George Iredale had steadily grown into her daily life, and how her own friendly liking for him had already ripened into something warmer. He was so quiet, so undemonstrative, so good and kind. She saw now how she had grown accustomed to look for and abide by his decisions in matters which required more consideration than she could give–matters which were beyond her. She understood the strong, reliant nature which underlaid the quiet exterior. And now, when she came to think of it, in all the days of her grown womanhood he had ever been near her, seeking her society always. There was just that brief period during which Leslie Grey had swayed her heart with his tempestuous manner, for the rest it was Iredale. She tried to shut him out; to contemplate his removal from the round of her daily life. Instantly the picture of that life lost its brightness and colouring, and her world appeared to her a very dreary smudge of endless toil. Yes, Alice had sounded the keynote, and Prudence’s heart had responded with the chord in sympathy. She knew now that she loved George Iredale.

This realization was not wholly pleasurable, for with it came a sudden grip of fear at her simple heart. Her thoughts went back to some eight months before. And she found herself again looking into the death-chamber at the Leonville school-house. That scene had no longer power to move her; at least not in the way one might have expected. She no longer loved the dead man; he had passed from her thoughts as though she had never cared for him. But a new feeling had sprung up in her heart which the realization of this indifference had brought. And this feeling filled her with an utter self-loathing. She shuddered as she thought of her own heartlessness, the shallow nature which was hers. She remembered her feelings at that bedside as she listened to the dying man’s last words. Worst of all, she remembered how, in the paroxysm of her grief, she had sworn to discover the murderer of Leslie Grey and see justice administered. Now she asked herself, What had she done? And the answer came in all its callous significance–Nothing!

She roused herself; her face was very pale. Her thoughts framed themselves into unspoken words.

“If this is the way I have fulfilled my promise to the dead, if this is the extent and depth of my love, then I am the most worthless woman on earth. What surety can I give that my love for George is a better thing than was my affection for Leslie Grey?”

She sat herself up, she looked over at her companion and noted the drooping eyelids. Her features were strangely set, and her smooth forehead wore a disfiguring frown. Then she spoke in a sharp tone that startled the girl beside her.

“Alice, do you think it is possible to imagine you are in love with a man–I mean, that you honestly believe you love him at the time and really do not?”

Alice endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.

“Why, yes, I suppose so. I’ve been in love with a dozen men at one time and another, never longer than a month with any one of them. I never go to a dance but what I fall in love with at least two of my partners, and my undying affection for both just lasts the evening out. Imagination is strongly developed in some people–when they’re young.”

“No, be serious.”

Alice gazed at the other curiously. Then–

“Out with it, Prue. What is it that’s troubling you? Your face is significant of some dire tragedy.”

“How long have you been engaged to Robb Chillingwood?”

“Nearly six months. Why?”

“And you’ve never thought of any other man?”

Alice shook her head. For once she was quite serious.

“Couldn’t look at another man. Robb hasn’t got two cents to his name, but I’m going to marry him or–or–die an old maid.”

For a moment the expression of Prudence’s face relaxed, but a moment later it set itself into more stern lines than ever.

“Alice, you were right in what you said about George,” she went on slowly. “I can hardly believe it myself yet. Leslie Grey has only been dead eight months, and yet here I am thinking all day long of another man. I believe I am utterly heartless–worthless.”

“Well?”

“Well, it’s just this. I am not worth an honest man’s love. I used to think I worshipped the ground poor Leslie walked on–I’m sure I loved him to distraction,” the girl went on passionately. “Very well; suppose George asked me to marry him and I consented. In all probability, in the light of what has gone before, I should be tired of him in a year, and then–and then–”

“You’re talking nonsense now, Prue,” said Alice. She was alarmed at the other’s tone. The beautiful face of her friend was quite pale, and sharp lines were drawn about the mouth.

“I’m not talking nonsense,” the other went on in a tense, bitter tone. “What I say is true. In less than eight months I have forgotten the dead. I have done nothing to discover the murderer who robbed me of a husband and lover. I have simply forgotten–forgotten him. Put yourself in my place–put your Robb in Leslie’s place. What would you have done?”

Alice thought seriously before she answered.

“I should never have rested until I had avenged his death,” she said at last, and a hard glitter shone in her eyes. Then a moment after she smiled. “But it is different. I don’t think you really loved Leslie Grey. You merely thought you did.”

“That only makes it worse,” the other retorted. Prudence’s face was alight with inflexible resolve. “My debt to the dead must be paid. I see it now in a light in which it has never presented itself to me before. I must prove myself to myself before–before–” She broke off, only to resume again with a fierce and passionate earnestness of which Alice had never believed her capable. “I can never marry George Iredale with Leslie’s unavenged death upon my conscience. I could never trust myself. George may love me now; I believe I love him, but–No, Alice, I will never marry him until my duty to Leslie Grey is fulfilled. This shall be my punishment for my heartless forgetfulness.”

Alice surveyed her friend for some seconds without speaking. Then she burst out into a scathing protest–

“You are mad, Prue,–mad, mad, utterly mad. You would throw away a life’s happiness for the mere shadow of what you are pleased to consider a duty. Worse, you would destroy a man’s happiness for a morbid phantasm. What can you do towards avenging Leslie’s death? You hold no clue. What the police have failed to fathom, how can you hope to unravel? If I were a man, do you know what I’d do to you? I’d take you by the shoulders and shake you until that foolish head of yours threatened to part company with your equally foolish body. You should have thought of these things before, and not now, when you realize how fond you are of George, set about wrecking two healthy lives. Oh, Prue, you are–are–a fool! And I can scarcely keep my temper with you.” Alice paused for want of breath and lack of vocabulary for vituperation. Prudence was looking out across the water. Her expression was quite unchanged. With all the warped illogicalness of the feminine mind she had discovered the path in which she considered her duty to lie, and was resolved to follow it.

“I have a better clue than you suppose, Alice,” she said thoughtfully, “the clue of his dying words. I understood his reference to the Winnipeg Free Press. That must be the means by which the murderer is discovered. They were not horse-thieves who did him to death. And I will tell you something else. The notice in that paper to which he referred–you know–is even now inserted at certain times. The man or men who cause that notice to be inserted in the paper were in some way responsible for his death.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then Alice spoke quite calmly.

“Tell me, Prue, has George proposed yet?”

“No.”

“Ah!” And Alice smiled broadly and turned her eyes towards the setting sun. When she spoke again it was to draw attention to the time. As though by common consent the matter which had been under discussion was left in abeyance.

“It is time to be moving,” the girl said. “See, the sun will be down in an hour. Let us have tea and then we’ll saddle-up.”

Tea was prepared, and by the time the sun dipped below the horizon the horses were re-saddled and all was ready for the return journey. They set out for home. Alice was in the cheeriest of spirits, but Prudence was pre-occupied, even moody. That afternoon spent in the peaceful wilds of the “back” country had left its mark upon her. All her life–her world–seemed suddenly to have changed. It was as though this second coming of love to her had brought with it the banking clouds of an approaching storm. The two rode Indian fashion through the woods, and neither spoke for a long time; then, at last, it was Alice who ventured a protest.

“Where are you leading us to, Prue?” she asked. “I am sure this is not the way we came.”

Prudence looked round; she seemed as though she had only just awakened from some unpleasant dream.

“Not the way?” she echoed. Then she drew her horse up sharply. She was alert in an instant. “I’m afraid you’re right, Al.” Then in a tone of perplexity, “Where are we?”

Alice stared at her companion with an expression of dismay.

“Oh, Prue, you’ve gone and lost us–and the sun is already down.”

Prudence gazed about her blankly for a few moments, realizing only too well how truly her companion had spoken. She had not the vaguest notion of the way they had come. The forest was very dark. The day-long twilight which reigned beneath the green had darkened with the shadows of approaching night. There was no opening in view anywhere; there was nothing but the world of tree-trunks, and, beneath their horses’ feet, the soft carpet of rotting vegetation, whilst every moment the gloom was deepening to darkness–a darkness blacker than the blackest night.

“What shall we do?” asked Alice, in a tone of horror. Then: “Shall we go back?”

Prudence shook her head. Her prairie instincts were roused now.

“No; come along; give your mare her head. Our horses will find the way.”

They touched the animals sharply, and, in response, they moved forward unhesitatingly. The old mare Alice was riding took the lead, and the journey was continued. The gloom of the forest communicated something of its depressing influence to the travellers. There was no longer any attempt at talk. Each was intent upon ascertaining their whereabouts and watching the alert movements of the horses’ heads and ears. The darkness had closed in in the forest with alarming suddenness, and, in consequence, the progress was slow; but, in spite of this, the assurance with which the horses moved on brought confidence to the minds of the two girls. Prudence was in no way disturbed. Alice was not quite so calm. For an hour they threaded their way through the endless maze of trees. They had climbed hills and descended into valleys, but still no break in the dense foliage above. They had just emerged from one hollow, deeper and wider than the rest, and were slowly ascending a steep hill. Prudence was suddenly struck by an idea.

“Alice,” she said, “I believe we are heading for the ranch. The valleys all run north and south hereabouts. We are travelling westwards.”

“I hope so,” replied the other decidedly; “we shall then be able to get on the right trail for home. This is jolly miserable. O–oh!”

The girl’s exclamation was one of horror. A screech-owl had just sent its dreadful note in melancholy waves out upon the still night air. It started low, almost pianissimo, rose with a hideous crescendo to fortissimo, and then died away like the wail of a lost soul. It came from just ahead of them and to the right. Alice’s horse shied and danced nervously. Prudence’s horse stood stock still. Then, as no further sound came, they started forward again.

“My, but those owls are dreadful things,” said Alice. “I believe I nearly fainted.”

“Come on,” said Prudence. “After all they are only harmless owls.” Her consolatory words were as much for the benefit of her own nerves as for those of her friend.

The brow of the hill was passed and they began to descend the other side. Suddenly they saw the twinkling of stars ahead. Alice first caught sight of the welcome clearing.

“An opening at last, Prue; now we shall find out where we are.” A moment later she turned again. “A light,” she said. “That must be the ranch. Quick, come along.”

The blackness of the wood gave place to the starlit darkness of the night. They were about to pass out into the open when suddenly Alice’s horse came to a frightened stand. For an instant the mare swerved, then she reared and turned back whence she had come. Prudence checked her horse and looked for what had frightened the other animal.

A sight so weird presented itself that she suddenly raised one hand to her face and covered her eyes in nervous terror. Alice had regained the mastery of her animal and now drew up alongside the other. She looked, and the sharp catching of her breath told of what she saw. Suddenly she gripped Prudence’s arm and drew the girl’s hand from before her face.

“Keep quiet, Prue,” she whispered. “What is this place?”

“The Owl Hoot graveyard. This is the Haunted Hill.”

“And those?” Alice was pointing fearfully towards the clearing.

“Are–Oh, come away, I can’t stand it.”

But neither girl made a move to go. Their eyes were fixed in a gaze of burning fascination upon the scene before them. Dark, almost black, the surrounding woods threw up in relief the clearing lit by the stars. But even so the scene was indistinct and uncertain. A low broken fence surrounded a small patch of ground, in the middle of which stood a ruined log-hut. Round the centre were scattered half-a-dozen or more tumbled wooden crosses, planted each in the centre of an elongated mound of earth. Here and there a slab of stone marked the grave of some dead-and-gone resident of Owl Hoot, and a few shrubs had sprung up as though to further indicate these obscure monuments. But it was not these things which had filled the spectators with such horror. It was the crowd of silent flitting figures that seemed to come from out of one of the stone-marked graves, and pass, in regular procession, in amongst the ruins of the log-hut, and there disappear. To the girls’ distorted fancy they seemed to be shrouded human forms. Their faces were hidden by reason of their heads being bent forward under the pressure of some strange burden which rested on their shoulders. Forty of these gruesome phantoms rose from out of the ground and passed before their wildly-staring eyes and disappeared amidst the ruins. Not a sound was made by their swift-treading feet. They seemed to float over the ground. Then all became still again. Nothing moved, nor was there even the rustle of a leaf upon the boughs above. The stars twinkled brightly, and the calm of the night was undisturbed. Alice’s grip fell from her companion’s arm. Her horse reared and plunged, then, taking the bit between its teeth, it set off down the hill in the direction of Iredale’s house. The light which had burned in one of the windows had suddenly gone out, and there was nothing now to indicate the way, but the mare made no mistake. Prudence gave her horse its head and followed in hot pursuit.

Both animals came to a stand before the door of the barn behind the house, where, to the girls’ joy, they found the ferret-faced Chintz apparently awaiting them.

Alice was almost in a fainting condition, but Prudence was more self-possessed. She merely told the little man that they had lost their way, and asked his assistance to guide them out of the valley to where the trail to Loon Dyke Farm began. Such was the unexpected ending of their picnic.

CHAPTER XI

CANINE VAGARIES

The last stage of the girls’ journey–the ride home from the ranch–was like some horrible nightmare. It was as though recollection had suddenly turned itself into a hideous, tangible form which was pursuing them over the dark expanse of prairie. Even their horses seemed to share something of their riders’ fears, for their light springing stride never slackened during that ten miles’ stretch, and they had to be literally forced down to a walk to give them the necessary “breathing.” Like their riders, the animals’ one idea seemed to be to reach the security of the farm with all possible dispatch.

The farm dogs heralded their approach, and when the girls slid down from their saddles Hephzibah was at the threshold waiting for them. The rest of the evening was spent in recounting their adventures. Hephzibah listened to their narrative, filled with superstitious emotion whilst endeavouring to treat the matter in what she deemed a practical, common-sense manner. She was profoundly impressed. Hervey was there, but chose to treat their story with uncompromising incredulity. So little was he interested, although he listened to what was said, as to rouse the indignation of both girls, and only his sudden departure to bed saved a stormy ending to the scene.

It was not until the house was locked up, and Prudence and Alice were preparing to retire–they shared the same bedroom–that Hephzibah Malling dropped her mask of common-sense and laid bare the quaintly superstitious side of her character. The good farm-wife had not lived on the prairie all her life without contracting to the full the superstitions which always come to those whose lives are spent in such close communion with Nature. She could talk freely with these two girls when no one else was present. She had heard a hundred times the legends pertaining to the obscure valley of Owl Hoot, but this was the first time that she had heard the account of these things from eye-witnesses.

She came into the girls’ bedroom arrayed in a red flannel dressing-gown, which had shrunk considerably under the stress of many washings, and her night-cap with its long strings, white as driven snow, enveloped her head like a miniature sun-bonnet. She came with an excuse upon her lips, and seated herself in a rigid rush-bottomed chair. Prudence was brushing her hair and Alice was already in bed.

“My dears,” she said, as she plumped herself down; she was addressing them both, but her round eyes were turned upon Alice, who was sitting up in bed with her hands clasped about her knees, “I’ve been thinking that maybe we might ask young Mr. Chillingwood out here. It’s quite a time since I’ve seen him. He used to come frequent-like before–before–” with a sharp glance over at her daughter, “a few months back. He’s a good lad, and I thought as he’d make quite a companion for Hervey. An’ it ’ud do ’em a deal of good to air them spare rooms. I’m sure they’re smelling quite musty. What say?”

Alice blushed and Hephzibah’s old eyes twinkled with pleasure. Prudence answered at once–

“That’s a good idea, mother, I’ll write to him at once for you.” Then she turned her smiling face upon the old lady and shook a forefinger at her. “You’re an arch-plotter, lady mother. Look at Alice’s face. That’s not sunburn, I know.”

“Maybe it isn’t–maybe it isn’t,” replied Mrs. Malling, with a comfortable chuckle, whilst her fat face was turned up towards a gorgeous wool-worked text which hung directly over the head of the bed, “though I’ll not say but what a day in the sun like she’s just had mightn’t have redded the skin some.”

“I am very sun-burnt,” said Alice consciously.

“Why, we’ve been in the forest, where there’s no sun, nearly all day,” exclaimed Prudence quickly.

“Ah, them forests–them forests,” observed Hephzibah, in a pensive tone of reflection. “Folks says strange things about them forests.”

“Yes,” put in Alice, glad to turn attention from herself, “usually folks talk a lot of nonsense when they attribute supernatural things to certain places. But for once they’re right, mother Hephzy; I shall never disbelieve in ghosts again. Oh, the horror of it–it was awful,” and the girl gave a shudder of genuine horror.

“And could you see through ’em?” asked the old lady, in a tone of suppressed excitement.

“No, mother,” chimed in Prudence, leaving the dressing-table and seating herself on the patchwork coverlet of the bed. “They seemed quite–solid.”

“But they wore long robes,” said Alice.

“Did they now?” said Mrs. Malling, wagging her head meaningly. “But the lore has it that spectres is flimsy things as ye can see through–like the steam from under the lid of a stewpan.”

“Ye–es,” said Alice thoughtfully.

“All I can say is, that I wonder George Iredale can live beside that graveyard. I tell you, mother, there’s no arguing away what we saw. They came up out of one of those graves and marched in a procession into the ruined dead-house,” said Prudence seriously.

“And my mare nearly threw me in her fright.” Alice’s face had paled at the recollection.

Hephzibah nodded complacently. She was thoroughly enjoying herself.

“True–true. That’s just how ’tis. Animals has an instinct that ain’t like to human. They sees more. Now maybe your horses just stood of a tremble, bimeby like? That’s how it mostly takes ’em.”

Under any other circumstances the two girls would probably have laughed at the good lady’s appreciation of the supposed facts. But their adventures were of too recent a date; besides, they believed themselves. The gloom of the forest seemed to have got into their bones, and the horrid picture was still with them.

“The Haunted Hill,” said Prudence musingly. “I don’t think I ever heard in what way the valley was haunted. Have you, mother?”

“Sakes alive, girl, yes. It’s the way you have said, with fantastic fixin’s added accordin’ to taste. That’s how it come I never believed. Folks disagreed about the spooks. They all allowed as the place was haunted, but their notions wasn’t just alike. Your poor father, child, was a man o’ sense, an’ he argued as plain as a tie-post. He said there was fabrications around that valley ’cause of the variating yarns, and I wouldn’t gainsay him. But, as Sarah says, when the washing don’t dry white there’s mostly a prairie fire somewheres around. Your father was that set on his point that he wouldn’t never go an’ see for himself, although, I do say, I urged him to it for the sake of truth.”

Prudence yawned significantly and Alice had snuggled down on to her pillow. The former clambered in beneath the clothes.

“Well, mother, all I can say is, that never again, unless I am forced to, will I visit Owl Hoot. And under any circumstances I will never run the risk of getting benighted there.”

“Well, well,” said the farm-wife, rising heavily to her feet and preparing to depart, “maybe George would like to hear about the thing you’ve seen when he comes back.” She paused on her way to the door, and turned an earnest face upon the two girls. “Say, children, you didn’t see no blue lights, did ye?”

“No, mother Hephzy,” said Alice sleepily. “There were no blue lights.”

“Ah,” in a tone of relief. “There’s no gainsaying the blue lights. They’re bad. It means death, children, death, does the blue light–sure.” And the good lady passed out of the room with the shuffling gait which a pair of loose, heelless slippers contrived to give her.

“Prue,” said Alice, when the door had closed, “when are you going to ask Robb to come?”

“As soon as possible, if you like.”

“Thanks. Good-night, dear; mother Hephzy is a sweet old thing.”