I stood close up to the boathouse door and was going to step out, but
what the hired man was saying to Bonnie Bell was so nervy I had to stop.
Besides, I wanted to hear what she'd say to show him his place.
"From the first minute I saw you," says he, "I couldn't help it. I swore
then I'd meet you some day, and sometime----"
"Is this the way?" I heard her say, low.
"It's the only way I have," says he. "If there was a better, don't you
think I'd take it? But what chance did I have? I had to make some way; I
wouldn't of been any sort of man if I hadn't."
She must just of stood looking at him. I couldn't see.
"I had to find some way to tell you," says he. "What part have I had in
this foolish squabble? Was that my fault? I'm only a servant now; but
give me a chance to break out of that. Why, when I was out West----"
"Were you out West?" says she, sudden.
"Yes; in the Yellow Bull Valley, among the cowmen--among the real
people. You came from that valley yourself."
"Yes, we did," says she; "and we'd far better of stayed there."
"You couldn't of stayed there," says he. "And besides, if you'd stayed
there I'd never of met you, or you me."
"Indeed! Was that all my fortune--to meet the servant of my father's
enemy?"
"It's all of mine! I'm not your enemy. But suppose now I went to your
father and told him--what would he do?"
"He'd maybe kill you," says Bonnie Bell simply; "or else Curly would."
"I wouldn't blame either of them," says he. "I don't want to sneak
around. I'm going away again----"
"What made you come back?" she says.
"Because I was sick in my heart. Because I thought I could look over
once in a while and see you. But when I came back, here was this cursed
fence and I couldn't see you any more. I thought I'd go mad. Maybe I
have; I don't know."
"With or without the fence," says Bonnie Bell, "how could our circles
cross, yours and mine?"
"Circles!" says he. "Circles! What are circles? I've heard this talk of
circles all my life," says he. "I've seen it going on all around me.
It's rot--rot! It's my misfortune to find one so far above me."
"My money?" says she, scornful. "I've a lot of it."
He didn't say a word to that for a long time.
"Did you really think that of me for a minute?" says he at last.
"You take it for granted that I've thought of you at all?" says she.
"I wouldn't of dared," says he--and it sounded like the truth, through
the door. "Don't class me that way!"
"How can a girl tell?" says she. "Men talk like this to girls----"
"Have they talked to you? Who was it?"
"My social opportunities," says she slow and bitter-like, "seem to be
confined to our neighbors' gardener."
"Don't!" says he. "Oh, don't! I don't want to see you hurt, even by your
own tongue."
I never'd heard any man hand out any talk of this sort to any girl
before. It was right interesting and I was glad I listened.
"How can a girl tell?" says she, like she was talking to herself.
"Shorely she can't tell all at once," he answers. "I'd never ask you to
do more than wait. I'd want to go away and stay away till I could come
in at your front door and be welcome," says he. "I wouldn't ask you to
decide one thing now. But, as for me, I decided everything long ago."
She didn't say nothing.
"As to your money," says he after a while, "listen to me. Look at
me--look close. Look into my eyes. Am I not honest? Tell me--if truth
like mine can be mistaken for deceit, then what chance has any man on
earth?"
She didn't answer, and he goes on like he had stepped up closer--I don't
know but what he did.
"Look into my eyes," says he. "Look at me close. Maybe that'll help me
some, for shorely you can see how much I----"
"Don't!" says she. "Don't!"