PATRICIA'S COWBOY LOVER
On Sunday evening Patricia Langdon was alone in the library of her
home, occupying her favorite corner beneath the drop-light. For an
hour she had tried in vain to interest herself in the reading of the
latest novel. Try as she might, she could not center her mind upon the
printed words contained in the volume she held, for, inevitably, her
thoughts drifted away to the occurrences of the preceding day and
evening. No matter how assiduously she endeavored to put those
thoughts aside, they insisted upon looming up before her, and at last,
with a sigh, she closed her book and laid it aside. The hour was still
early, it being barely eight o'clock, when James, the footman, entered
the room and announced:
"Miss Houston; Miss Frances Houston."
Patricia had fully intended to instruct the servants that she was not
to be at home to anyone, that evening, but, absorbed by other
thoughts, she had forgotten to do so, and now it was too late; so she
received the two young ladies who were presently shown into the
library. She greeted them in her usual manner, which was neither
cordial, nor repellant, but which was entirely characteristic of this
rather strange young woman. She understood perfectly well why they had
called upon her at this time. They had not missed seeing that article
in the one morning paper where it appeared.
"You see, Patricia," exclaimed Miss Houston, whose given name was
Agnes, "Frances and I happened to read that remarkable tale that was
printed in one of the papers this morning, about a marriage between
Rod Duncan and Beatrice. We thought it so absurd: We couldn't resist
the temptation to come over to see you, for a few minutes this very
evening, and discuss it; could we, Frances?"
"No, indeed," replied her sister.
"I have not seen any such article," said Patricia; and, indeed, she
had not. "But I don't know why either of you should wish to discuss it
with me; so, if you don't mind, we'll change the subject before we
begin it."
"Why, you see," began Agnes Houston, with some evidence of excitement;
but she was fortunately interrupted by the footman, who entered, and
announced in his automatic voice:
"Mr. Nesbit Farnham."
The workings of the human mind will forever remain a mystery. Had
Nesbit Farnham been announced before the arrival of the two young
women, Patricia would undoubtedly have denied herself to him; but,
with the announcement of his name, there came to her the sudden
recollection of the ultimatum pronounced by Richard Morton the
preceding afternoon, when he had brought her home from her father's
office in his automobile, the tonneau of which had been occupied by
the two young women who were now present with her in the room. Why the
announcement of Farnham's name should remind her of Morton's promise
to call, this Sunday evening, cannot be said; but it did so, and she
nodded to James.
"Hello, Patricia!" Farnham exclaimed, as he entered the room
vigorously, for this young society beau and cotillion-leader had long
been on terms of intimacy with the Langdon household, and was, in
fact, a privileged character throughout his social set. "I am mighty
glad that you received me. It's rather an off night, you know, and I
wasn't sure, at all that you would do so. Good-evening, Agnes. How
are you, Frances? Jolly glad to see you. I say, Patricia, what's all
that nonsense I saw in the paper this morning, about Duncan and
Beatrice getting married last night? Do you know anything about it?"
"I know nothing whatever about it, Nesbit, save that it is untrue,"
replied Patricia, calmly. "That much I do know; but I don't care to
discuss it."
Farnham flirted his handkerchief from his pocket, and patted it softly
against his forehead, smiling gently as he did so. Then, he said:
"To tell you the truth, Patricia, the news was rather a facer, don't
you know; for my first impulse was to believe it. Oh, I won't discuss
it; you needn't frown like that; but I just want to tell you that I've
been looking all over town for Duncan, and I couldn't find him. Then,
about an hour ago, I called upon Beatrice, only to be informed that
she was not at home, and had not been, ever since yesterday evening.
You see, I didn't get out of bed till two this afternoon, and it was
four by the time I was dressed and on the street. I didn't take much
stock, myself, in the report I read in the paper, until I was told
that Beatrice had disappeared. But that got me guessing, and so I came
to you, to find out the truth about it. Please tell me again that it
isn't true, and I'll be satisfied."
"It isn't true," replied Patricia, calmly.
James, the footman, made another appearance on the scene at that
moment, and proclaimed the arrival of Mr. Richard Morton, who stepped
passed him into the library as soon as the announcement was made.
He stopped just inside the threshold, and the chagrin pictured upon
his face when he found that Patricia was not alone was so plainly
evident, that even Patricia smiled, in recognition of it. Morton was
known to Patricia's other callers, having met them frequently since
his coming to New York, and, as soon as greetings had been exchanged,
they all drifted into a general conversation, which had no point to it
whatever, but was, for the most part, the small-talk of such impromptu
social gatherings. The subject of the supposed clandestine
marriage-ceremony between Duncan and Beatrice was not mentioned again,
and fifteen minutes later Miss Houston and her sister arose to take
their departure. Farnham, also, got upon his feet, and, stepping
lightly and quickly across the room toward Patricia, said to her in a
low tone:
"Won't you tell me where I can find Beatrice? I think you can do so,
if you will. Please, Patricia. You know why I ask."
"If you should call upon Sally Gardner and ask her that question, I
think it would be answered satisfactorily," replied Patricia, smiling
at him. "Go and see her, Nesbit, by all means."
A moment later, Miss Langdon found herself alone with Morton, who,
true to his promise of the preceding evening, had come to her. She had
forgotten him temporarily, but now she was not sorry that he had
called. Nevertheless, as she turned toward him, after bidding her
friends good-night, Patricia was conscious that the atmosphere had
suddenly became surcharged with portentous possibilities. She had
recognized in that expression of disappointment, so plainly depicted
upon Morton's face when he entered the room, that he had come to her
with a self-avowed determination to continue the conversation
interrupted by the Houston girls when he was bringing her home, the
preceding afternoon. On the instant, she was sorry that she had
permitted the others to leave her alone with this man. For some
inexplicable reason, she was suddenly afraid of him. She who had never
acknowledged fear of any person, who had always met every circumstance
calmly as it arose, found herself confronted now by a condition of
affairs that rendered her less self-reliant. Her mind was in a turmoil
of a hundred doubts and fears, and there was a vague sense of
apprehension upon her, which she could not dismiss, and which she
found it difficult to control.
"I told you that I would come, Patricia, and I am here," said Morton,
stepping forward quickly, and taking one of her hands, before she
could resume her seat. She attempted to withdraw it, but he held it
firmly in his own strong clasp; and that expression of unrelenting
determination was again in his face and eyes.
"No, Patricia," he said calmly, but in a tone of finality which there
was no denying, "I will not release your hand, just yet." He was
half-smiling, but wholly insistent and determined. "You see," he went
on, "I am taking advantage of your known qualities of courage. I have
come to you, determined to say something--something that is very close
to me." Patricia's arm relaxed; she permitted her hand to lie limply
inside his larger one. Then, she raised her eyes to his, and looked
calmly up at him.
As he gazed steadily and keenly into her dark eyes, Morton's face was
pale, under the tan of his skin, and he had the look of one who
ventures his all upon a single chance. In that moment, Patricia
admired him more than she had ever before, and, as he continued to
gaze upon her, she permitted her features slowly to relax, and,
gradually, a winning smile, which to Richard Morton was overwhelming,
was revealed upon her lips and in her eyes.
"You have no right to speak to me like that, Mr. Morton," she said.
"Still less have you the right to hold my hand, against my will. The
men of my acquaintance, with whom I have associated all my life, would
not do as you are doing now; but"--she shrugged her shoulders--"I
suppose it is a matter of training."
The words were like a blow, although she smiled while she uttered
them. With a sharp exclamation that came very near to being an oath,
he threw her hand from him with such force that she was half-turned
around where she stood, and he started back two paces away from her,
and folded his arms.
"Thank you," said Patricia, still smiling; and she crossed to the
chair she had previously occupied.
Morton did not move from the position he had assumed. He stood with
folded arms in the middle of the room, staring at her with set face
and hard eyes, wondering for the moment why he had been fool enough to
go there at all, and trying to read in her face, what was the charm
of her that so fatally attracted him.
"I do a great many things, Miss Langdon, that I have no right to do,"
he said, after a pause. "That, also, is a matter of training, as you
so fittingly adjudged my conduct, just now. But I was trained in the
open country, where one can see the sky-line toward any point of the
compass; I was trained in the West, where a man is a man, and a woman
is a woman, and they are judged only by their conduct toward others,
and toward themselves. It is true that I know very little about this
Eastern training, to which you have just now called my attention, but
from what little I have seen of it, I can't believe that it is
wholesome, or good. I was trained to tell the truth, and to insist
that the truth be told to me; I find here, in the East, that the truth
is the very last thing to be uttered; that it is avoided as long as it
possibly can be. In this way, Miss Langdon, our trainings differ.
Naturally, then, I am not like the men of your knowledge."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Morton, I didn't mean to give offense by what
I said." The girl was more amazed than she cared to show by his
vehemence.
"The fault is mine," he said to her. "I have no right to expect you to
meet me on the plane of my own past life, and with the freedom and
candor of the West, any more than you can demand from me, the usages
and customs of your social world in New York."
"Won't you sit down?" she asked him. She was beginning to be a bit
uneasy, because of Morton's determined attitude, and because she
realized that nothing she could say or do would turn him from his set
purpose of saying what he had come there to tell her.
"Not yet," he replied. "I can talk much better on my feet. I want you
to tell me what you meant by two expressions you used in your speech
with me yesterday, after you came from your father's office."
"We will not return to that subject, if you please, Mr. Morton," she
replied to him, coldly.
"Pardon me, Patricia, we must return to it--at least, I must. You
don't want me to kill anybody, do you?" He smiled grimly as he asked
the question, hesitatingly; "you need have no fear on that point, for
I probably won't have to."
"Probably won't have to kill anyone?" She raised her eyes to his, but
there was no fear in them; there was only amazement in their depths,
astonishment that he should dare to say such a thing to her.
"The qualification of my statement was made because I reserve the
right to do what I please, toward anyone who dares to bring pain upon
you, Patricia Langdon," he said, incisively; "but I tell you now that
I wouldn't trust myself not to kill--again my Western training is
uppermost, you see--if I were brought face to face with any man who
had dared to bring any sort of an affront upon you. Do you love this
man to whom you referred yesterday? Answer me!" The question came out
sharply and bluntly. It was totally unexpected, and it affected her
with a sort of shock she could not have described.
"You are impertinent," she replied.
"Impertinent, or not, I desire an answer. If you refuse an answer, I
shall find other means of ascertaining. Great God, girl, do you
suppose that, when my whole life is at stake, I am going to stand on
ceremony and surrender to a few petty conventions, just to please an
element of false pride that you have built around you, until there is
only one way of getting past it? I'm not the sort of man who stands
outside, and entreats. My training has taught me to get inside; and,
if there isn't a gate, or an opening of any sort, why, then I tear
down the barrier, just as I am doing now. Do you love that man?"
"I will not answer the question."
He laughed, shortly.
"From any other woman than you, such an answer as that would be
tantamount to an affirmative; but you are a puzzle, Patricia. You are
not like anybody else. There is a depth to you that I cannot sound.
There is a breadth to you that is like the open country of the
Northwest, where one cannot see beyond the sky-line, ever, and where
the sky-line remains, always, just so far away."
"I think I'll ask you to excuse me, Mr. Morton," she said, making as
if to rise. "This interview is not a pleasant one. You are not kind,
or considerate."
He did not move from his position, as he replied, as calmly as she had
spoken:
"I shall not go until I have finished. I came here to-night to tell
you, again, that I love you. You need not resent the telling of it,
for it can in no way offend you, or, at least, it should not. You told
me, yesterday, that you had agreed to some sort of business
transaction, as you called it, with some man whom you did not name,
by which you are to become his wife. I told you then, and I repeat
now, that, if you will but say you love this man, whoever he is, I'll
hit the trail for Montana without a moment's delay, and you shall
never be annoyed again by my Western training; so, answer me."
"I will not answer you." She looked him steadily in the eyes, and, all
unconsciously to herself, she could not avoid giving expression to
some small part of the admiration she felt for this daring, intrepid
ranchman, who defied her so openly, in the library of her own home.
"Who is the man?" he demanded, sharply.
"Again, I will not answer you."
"I shall find it out, then, and, when I have discovered who he is, I
shall go to him. Maybe, he will be able to answer the questions. If he
refuses, by God, I'll make him answer!"
She started from her chair, appalled by the implied threat. She did
not doubt that he meant every word of it.
"You would not dare do that!" she exclaimed. It was beyond her
knowledge that any man should have the courage so far to transgress
conventional usages. But he heard the word "dare," and applied to it
the only meaning he had ever known it to possess. He laughed outright.
"Not dare?" he exclaimed; and he laughed again. "I would dare
anything, and all things, in the mood I am in, just now."
Looking upon him, she believed what he said; and, strange to say, she
was more pleased than outraged by his determined demeanor.
Nevertheless, she realized that she was face to face with an emergency
which must be met promptly and finally, and so she left her chair, and
drew herself to her full height, directly in front of him.
"Mr. Morton," she said, slowly, and coldly, "I have had occasion, once
before, to refer to your training and to mine. We are as far apart as
if we belonged to different races of mankind. If you have really loved
me, which I doubt, I am sorry because of it, for I tell you, plainly
and truly, that I do not, and cannot, respond to you. I have given my
promise to another, and very shortly I shall be married. This sudden
passion for me that has come upon you, is an affair of the moment,
which you will soon forget when you become convinced that it is
impossible of fruition. I am the promised wife of another man, and
even your Western training, which you have chosen sarcastically to
refer to since I made my unfortunate remark about it, will tell you
that, no matter what rights you believe you possess, you certainly
have none whatever to compel me to listen to your declaration of
love." Her manner underwent a sudden and marked change, as she
continued rapidly, with a suggestion of moisture in her eyes: "Believe
me, I am intensely sorry for the necessity of this scene between us. I
do not, and I cannot, return the affection you so generously offer me;
and, whether I love another, or do not--whether I have ever loved
another, or have not--it would be the same, so far as you are
concerned. I am not for you, and I can never be for you, no matter
what may happen." She took a step nearer to him, and reached out her
hand, while she added, with her brightest smile: "But I like you, very
much, indeed. I should like to have you for a true, good friend. It
would be one of the proud moments of my life, if I could know that I
might rely upon you as such, and that you would not again transgress
in the way you have done to-night. Will you take my hand and be my
friend. Will you try and seek farther for someone who can appreciate
the love you have offered to me? I need a friend just now, Richard
Morton. Will you be that friend?"
For a time, he did not answer her. He stood quite still, staring into
her eyes, and through them and seemingly beyond them, while his own
face was hard, and set, and paler than she had ever seen it, before.
Presently, his lips relaxed their tension; the expression of his eyes
softened, and he drew his right hand across his brow.
He took the hand that was extended toward him, and held it between
both his own, and, for a full minute after that, he stood before her
in silence, while he fought the hardest battle of his life. When he
did speak, it was in an easy, careless drawl.
"I reckon you roped and tied me that time, Patricia," he said,
smilingly. "You've got your brand on me, all right, but maybe the iron
hasn't burnt quite as deep as it does sometimes; and, as you say,
possibly there will come a day when we can burn another brand on top
of it, so that the first one will never be recognized. Will I be your
friend? Indeed, I will, and I'll ask you, if you please, to forgive
and forget all my bad manners, and the harsh things I've said."
"It is not necessary to ask me that, Mr. Morton."
"Patricia, if you'll just call me Dick, like all the boys do, out on
the ranch, and if you'll grant me the permission which I have never
asked before, of addressing you as I have just now, it will make the
whole thing a heap-sight easier. Will you do it?
"I'd much rather call you Dick than anything else," she told him,
still permitting him to hold her hand clasped between his own.
He bent forward, nearer to her; and, although she perfectly understood
what he intended to do, she did not flinch, or falter.
He touched his lips lightly to her forehead, and then, with a
muttered, "God bless you, girl!" he turned quickly, and went out of
the room, leaving Patricia Langdon once again alone with her
thoughts.