“Enough said!” I shouted.
She flinched. Then I realized just how I must have sounded, for she
said, “I didn’t mean to make you angry!”
I couldn’t blame her for mistaking my looks; I was so mad at myself that
I wanted to lash my back with my own whip.
“No, no, no! It isn’t the way you seem to think it is! I want to say
that after this--after what you have said to me--if there’s any more
cutting-up in this village I’ll-strip the pelt off the chap who does
the job.” I beat my hand on my breast. “It’s the proudest day of my life
when I can take orders from you.”
“But I haven’t given orders, Mr. Sidney.”
“You have. They’re orders to me. The littlest thing you can wish for is
orders to me. If you said for me to cut my hand off I’d do it. Oh, you
don’t know! I have--I don’t know how to say it--but for years--oh, I’m
crazy--” And I was. It was lunacy provoked by the passion of love trying
to outvoice those devilish shotes.
By the funny look she gave me she was taking me at my word. She hurried
to step into her little chaise.
“All I mean is this,” I quavered. “I’ll make ’em quit. You look to me.
I’ll be responsible. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m sure everything will be all right after this,” she told me. “I’ll
depend on you, and I thank you.”
She went on her way, and the burden I had assumed seemed lighter than
feathers and more precious than golden ingots.
She had given me her confidence--she had asked me for a service!
She had thought of me and my trouble when she was away at school!
A few minutes before I had not dreamed that she was conscious that such
a person as Ross Sidney walked the earth.
Now, at all events, my poor self was in a little corner of her thoughts.
She was looking to me for help in something which she had made her own
concern.