Bonnie Bell went pale as a sheet when she read that.
"Curly," says she, "I never saw it before."
I believed her. She'd of died rather 'n lie straight out to me. Maybe
she'd lie some--almost any woman would--but not straight out from the
shoulder between the eyes. So I believed her now.
"Read the next one," says I.
"Have you read my letters, Curly?" says she. She looked at me savage
now.
"I read one of 'em," says I, "and part of the next one. I didn't only
read the first page on that one. I didn't read the other one at all. But
I read enough."
On the first page of this second letter was something more:
I've waited and waited [it said]. I ought never to have met you as
I did--I ought never to have said what I did. I am in the deepest
distress over all this, for I would not be guilty of an act to
cause you pain. How could I when I----
Right there's where the first page ended and the second page begun.
"Did you read it all, Curly?" says she to me once more.
"No; only the first page," I says. "This last one we just took off'n
Peanut's collar. He brought 'em over."
She was reading the last letter now--the one I never did see. Her face
got soft somehow. Her eyes got bigger and brighter, and softer, somehow,
too.
She folded the letters all up and put 'em in her lap and looked up at
me.
"You didn't read all my letters, Curly?" says she.
"No," says I; "and I won't never read no more. There mustn't be no more,
Bonnie Bell. You know that."
"Yes," says she; "I know that."
But somehow she didn't seem unhappy like she ought to of been. I could
see that.
"How did Peanut get through the fence, Curly?" says she at last.
"There's a hole in the lower corner near the garridge. I thought it was
kept shut. Their hired man dug it through. He said it was to let Peanut
through to enjoy hisself digging up their petunies," says I, "or to have
a sociable fight with their dog. I reckon that's how Peanut got through.
It was easy enough to fasten things on his neck. Whether it was a
square thing to do, him knowing what he does--well, that's something you
ought to know."
She didn't say anything at that.
"A honorable man," says I, "would of come around to the front door,
Bonnie Bell."
"He had no part in this quarrel," says Bonnie Bell; at last, quiet like.
"Why blame him?"
That made me hot.
"Why blame him?" I broke out "Didn't I see him? Ain't I heard him? Can't
I see now? He ain't no part of a man at all or he wouldn't of done this
way. Now," says I, "I've shore got to tell the old man. I hoped I
wouldn't ever have to. But now I got to. The safest bet you ever made is
that hell will pop!"
She turned around right quick then and jumped up on her feet, and her
face was so white it scared me. She come up again and put her arms right
around my neck and looked at me.
"Honey," says I, "you got us in wrong--awful wrong! Now us men has got
to square it the best we can."
"Stop, Curly!" says she, and she shook me by the shoulder. "Stop!
He's--he's a good man. He's--he's honest. He's meant all right. Give him
a chance."
"He don't deserve no chance," says I, "and he won't get none."
"It was the best he could do! He had no chance to come here openly--not
a chance in the world. Maybe he only wanted to say good-by--oh, how do
you know?"
"Did he say good-by or good morning in that last letter, Bonnie Bell?" I
ast her. "Not that it makes much difference either way."
"I won't tell you what he said, Curly," she flared up at me now. "I only
say he did the best he could. He asked for his chance--that's all."
"His chance! The hired man of the worst enemy we got! His chance! His
chance! What chance has he give you? How fair is he playing the game
where all your happiness is up? Oh, Bonnie, shore you don't care for
him?" says I. "Now do you?"
She didn't say a word and I turned toward the door.
"Where you going, Curly?" says she, coming after me.
"I'm going downtown," I says to her.
"Why?"
"To see your pa," says I. "I got to tell him all about this, and do it
now."
She made a quick run at me then, and her arms come around my neck again.
"Oh, Curly! Curly!" she says; and she was crying now. "Oh, what have I
done? It'll kill dad if anything of this gets out--I couldn't stand it.
I can't stand to think of it, Curly. I can't! I can't!"
"Why can't you, Bonnie?" says I.
"Because, Curly"--she got me by the arms again and she was crying
hard--"because---- I'll have to tell you--I'll have to, Curly. I can't
help it! I didn't want it to happen--I fought it to keep it from
happening as long as I could--I didn't want it to be this way. It was
hard--so awfully hard. I tried every way I could; but I can't--I can't
_help_ it, Curly! I can't! I can't! It's no use!" She just run on, over
and over.
"What is it, Bonnie?" says I. "Do you love him?"
"Yes, yes; it's true! I do, Curly--I love him!"