DIANE AND VAUGHN
Then as gloom descended on me with my uttered thought, my heart smote me
at Sally's broken: "Oh, Russ! No! No!" Diane Sampson bent dark, shocked
eyes upon the hill and ranch in front of her; but they were sightless,
they looked into space and eternity, and in them I read the truth
suddenly and cruelly revealed to her--she loved Steele!
I found it impossible to leave Miss Sampson with the impression I had
given. My own mood fitted a kind of ruthless pleasure in seeing her
suffer through love as I had intimation I was to suffer.
But now, when my strange desire that she should love Steele had its
fulfilment, and my fiendish subtleties to that end had been crowned with
success, I was confounded in pity and the enormity of my crime. For it
had been a crime to make, or help to make, this noble and beautiful
woman love a Ranger, the enemy of her father, and surely the author of
her coming misery. I felt shocked at my work. I tried to hang an excuse
on my old motive that through her love we might all be saved. When it
was too late, however, I found that this motive was wrong and perhaps
without warrant.
We rode home in silence. Miss Sampson, contrary to her usual custom of
riding to the corrals or the porch, dismounted at a path leading in
among the trees and flowers. "I want to rest, to think before I go in,"
she said.
Sally accompanied me to the corrals. As our horses stopped at the gate I
turned to find confirmation of my fears in Sally's wet eyes.
"Russ," she said, "it's worse than we thought."
"Worse? I should say so," I replied.
"It'll about kill her. She never cared that way for any man. When the
Sampson women love, they love."
"Well, you're lucky to be a Langdon," I retorted bitterly.
"I'm Sampson enough to be unhappy," she flashed back at me, "and I'm
Langdon enough to have some sense. You haven't any sense or kindness,
either. Why'd you want to blurt out that Jack Blome was here to kill
Steele?"
"I'm ashamed, Sally," I returned, with hanging head. "I've been a brute.
I've wanted her to love Steele. I thought I had a reason, but now it
seems silly. Just now I wanted to see how much she did care.
"Sally, the other day you said misery loved company. That's the trouble.
I'm sore--bitter. I'm like a sick coyote that snaps at everything. I've
wanted you to go into the very depths of despair. But I couldn't send
you. So I took out my spite on poor Miss Sampson. It was a damn unmanly
thing for me to do."
"Oh, it's not so bad as all that. But you might have been less abrupt.
Russ, you seem to take an--an awful tragic view of your--your own case."
"Tragic? Hah!" I cried like the villain in the play. "What other way
could I look at it? I tell you I love you so I can't sleep or do
anything."
"That's not tragic. When you've no chance, _then_ that's tragic."
Sally, as swiftly as she had blushed, could change into that deadly
sweet mood. She did both now. She seemed warm, softened, agitated. How
could this be anything but sincere? I felt myself slipping; so I laughed
harshly.
"Chance! I've no chance on earth."
"Try!" she whispered.
But I caught myself in time. Then the shock of bitter renunciation made
it easy for me to simulate anger.
"You promised not to--not to--" I began, choking. My voice was hoarse
and it broke, matters surely far removed from pretense.
I had seen Sally Langdon in varying degrees of emotion, but never as she
appeared now. She was pale and she trembled a little. If it was not
fright, then I could not tell what it was. But there were contrition and
earnestness about her, too.
"Russ, I know. I promised not to--to tease--to tempt you anymore," she
faltered. "I've broken it. I'm ashamed. I haven't played the game
square. But I couldn't--I can't help myself. I've got sense enough not
to engage myself to you, but I can't keep from loving you. I can't let
you alone. There--if you want it on the square! What's more, I'll go on
as I have done unless you keep away from me. I don't care what I
deserve--what you do--I will--I will!"
She had begun falteringly and she ended passionately.
Somehow I kept my head, even though my heart pounded like a hammer and
the blood drummed in my ears. It was the thought of Steele that saved
me. But I felt cold at the narrow margin. I had reached a point, I
feared, where a kiss, one touch from this bewildering creature of fire
and change and sweetness would make me put her before Steele and my
duty.
"Sally, if you dare break your promise again, you'll wish you never had
been born," I said with all the fierceness at my command.
"I wish that now. And you can't bluff me, Mr. Gambler. I may have no
hand to play, but you can't make me lay it down," she replied.
Something told me Sally Langdon was finding herself; that presently I
could not frighten her, and then--then I would be doomed.
"Why, if I got drunk, I might do anything," I said cool and hard now.
"Cut off your beautiful chestnut hair for bracelets for my arms."
Sally laughed, but she was still white. She was indeed finding herself.
"If you ever get drunk again you can't kiss me any more. And if you
don't--you can."
I felt myself shake and, with all of the iron will I could assert, I hid
from her the sweetness of this thing that was my weakness and her
strength.
"I might lasso you from my horse, drag you through the cactus," I added
with the implacability of an Apache.
"Russ!" she cried. Something in this last ridiculous threat had found a
vital mark. "After all, maybe those awful stories Joe Harper told about
you were true."
"They sure were," I declared with great relief. "And now to forget
ourselves. I'm more than sorry I distressed Miss Sampson; more than
sorry because what I said wasn't on the square. Blome, no doubt, has
come to Linrock after Steele. His intention is to kill him. I said
that--let Miss Sampson think it all meant fatality to the Ranger. But,
Sally, I don't believe that Blome can kill Steele any more than--than
you can."
"Why?" she asked; and she seemed eager, glad.
"Because he's not man enough. That's all, without details. You need not
worry; and I wish you'd go tell Miss Sampson--"
"Go yourself," interrupted Sally. "I think she's afraid of my eyes. But
she won't fear you'd guess her secret.
"Go to her, Russ. Find some excuse to tell her. Say you thought it over,
believed she'd be distressed about what might never happen. Go--and
afterward pray for your sins, you queer, good-natured, love-meddling
cowboy-devil, you!"
For once I had no retort ready for Sally. I hurried off as quickly as I
could walk in chaps and spurs.
I found Miss Sampson sitting on a bench in the shade of a tree. Her
pallor and quiet composure told of the conquering and passing of the
storm. Always she had a smile for me, and now it smote me, for I in a
sense, had betrayed her.
"Miss Sampson," I began, awkwardly yet swiftly, "I--I got to thinking it
over, and the idea struck me, maybe you felt bad about this gun-fighter
Blome coming down here to kill Steele. At first I imagined you felt sick
just because there might be blood spilled. Then I thought you've showed
interest in Steele--naturally his kind of Ranger work is bound to appeal
to women--you might be sorry it couldn't go on, you might care."
"Russ, don't beat about the bush," she said interrupting my floundering.
"You know I care."
How wonderful her eyes were then--great dark, sad gulfs with the soul of
a woman at the bottom! Almost I loved her myself; I did love her truth,
the woman in her that scorned any subterfuge.
Instantly she inspired me to command over myself. "Listen," I said.
"Jack Blome has come here to meet Steele. There will be a fight. But
Blome can't kill Steele."
"How is that? Why can't he? You said this Blome was a killer of men. You
spoke of notches on his gun. I've heard my father and my cousin, too,
speak of Blome's record. He must be a terrible ruffian. If his intent is
evil, why will he fail in it?"
"Because, Miss Sampson, when it comes to the last word, Steele will be
on the lookout and Blome won't be quick enough on the draw to kill him.
That's all."
"Quick enough on the draw? I understand, but I want to know more."
"I doubt if there's a man on the frontier to-day quick enough to kill
Steele in an even break. That means a fair fight. This Blome is
conceited. He'll make the meeting fair enough. It'll come off about like
this, Miss Sampson.
"Blome will send out his bluff--he'll begin to blow--to look for Steele.
But Steele will avoid him as long as possible--perhaps altogether,
though that's improbable. If they do meet, then Blome must force the
issue. It's interesting to figure on that. Steele affects men strangely.
It's all very well for this Blome to rant about himself and to hunt
Steele up. But the test'll come when he faces the Ranger. He never saw
Steele. He doesn't know what he's up against. He knows Steele's
reputation, but I don't mean that. I mean Steele in the flesh, his
nerve, the something that's in his eyes.
"Now, when it comes to handling a gun the man doesn't breathe who has
anything on Steele. There was an outlaw, Duane, who might have killed
Steele, had they ever met. I'll tell you Duane's story some day. A girl
saved him, made a Ranger of him, then got him to go far away from
Texas."
"That was wise. Indeed, I'd like to hear the story," she replied. "Then,
after all, Russ, in this dreadful part of Texas life, when man faces
man, it's all in the quickness of hand?"
"Absolutely. It's the draw. And Steele's a wonder. See here. Look at
this."
I stepped back and drew my gun.
"I didn't see how you did that," she said curiously. "Try it again."
I complied, and still she was not quick enough of eye to see my draw.
Then I did it slowly, explaining to her the action of hand and then of
finger. She seemed fascinated, as a woman might have been by the
striking power of a rattlesnake.
"So men's lives depend on that! How horrible for me to be interested--to
ask about it--to watch you! But I'm out here on the frontier now, caught
somehow in its wildness, and I feel a relief, a gladness to know Vaughn
Steele has the skill you claim. Thank you, Russ."
She seemed about to dismiss me then, for she rose and half turned away.
Then she hesitated. She had one hand at her breast, the other on the
bench. "Have you been with him--talked to him lately?" she asked, and a
faint rose tint came into her cheeks. But her eyes were steady, dark,
and deep, and peered through and far beyond me.
"Yes, I've met him a few times, around places."
"Did he ever speak of--of me?"
"Once or twice, and then as if he couldn't help it."
"What did he say?"
"Well, the last time he seemed hungry to hear something about you. He
didn't exactly ask, but, all the same, he was begging. So I told him."
"What?"
"Oh, how you were dressed, how you looked, what you said, what you
did--all about you. Don't be offended with me, Miss Sampson. It was real
charity. I talk too much. It's my weakness. Please don't be offended."
She never heard my apology or my entreaty. There was a kind of glory in
her eyes. Looking at her, I found a dimness hazing my sight, and when I
rubbed it away it came back.
"Then--what did he say?" This was whispered, almost shyly, and I could
scarcely believe the proud Miss Sampson stood before me.
"Why, he flew into a fury, called me an--" Hastily I caught myself.
"Well, he said if I wanted to talk to him any more not to speak of you.
He was sure unreasonable."
"Russ--you think--you told me once--he--you think he still--" She was
not facing me at all now. She had her head bent. Both hands were at her
breast, and I saw it heave. Her cheek was white as a flower, her neck
darkly, richly red with mounting blood.
I understood. And I pitied her and hated myself and marveled at this
thing, love. It made another woman out of Diane Sampson. I could
scarcely comprehend that she was asking me, almost beseechingly, for
further assurance of Steele's love. I knew nothing of women, but this
seemed strange. Then a thought sent the blood chilling back to my heart.
Had Diane Sampson guessed the guilt of her father? Was it more for his
sake than for her own that she hoped--for surely she hoped--that Steele
loved her?
Here was more mystery, more food for reflection. Only a powerful motive
or a self-leveling love could have made a woman of Diane Sampson's pride
ask such a question. Whatever her reason, I determined to assure her,
once and forever, what I knew to be true. Accordingly, I told her in
unforgettable words, with my own regard for her and love for Sally
filling my voice with emotion, how I could see that Steele loved her,
how madly he was destined to love her, how terribly hard that was going
to make his work in Linrock.
There was a stillness about her then, a light on her face, which brought
to my mind thought of Sally when I had asked her to marry me.
"Russ, I beg you--bring us together," said Miss Sampson. "Bring about a
meeting. You are my friend." Then she went swiftly away through the
flowers, leaving me there, thrilled to my soul at her betrayal of
herself, ready to die in her service, yet cursing the fatal day Vaughn
Steele had chosen me for his comrade in this tragic game.
That evening in the girls' sitting-room, where they invited me, I was
led into a discourse upon the gun-fighters, outlaws, desperadoes, and
bad men of the frontier. Miss Sampson and Sally had been, before their
arrival in Texas, as ignorant of such characters as any girls in the
North or East. They were now peculiarly interested, fascinated, and at
the same time repelled.
Miss Sampson must have placed the Rangers in one of those classes,
somewhat as Governor Smith had, and her father, too. Sally thought she
was in love with a cowboy whom she had been led to believe had as bad a
record as any. They were certainly a most persuasive and appreciative
audience. So as it was in regard to horses, if I knew any subject well,
it was this one of dangerous and bad men. Texas, and the whole
developing Southwest, was full of such characters. It was a very
difficult thing to distinguish between fighters who were bad men and
fighters who were good men. However, it was no difficult thing for one
of my calling to tell the difference between a real bad man and the
imitation "four-flush."
Then I told the girls the story of Buck Duane, famous outlaw and Ranger.
And I narrated the histories of Murrell, most terrible of
blood-spillers ever known to Texas; of Hardin, whose long career of
crime ended in the main street in Huntsville when he faced Buck Duane;
of Sandobal, the Mexican terror; of Cheseldine, Bland, Alloway, and
other outlaws of the Rio Grande; of King Fisher and Thompson and
Sterrett, all still living and still busy adding notches to their guns.
I ended my little talk by telling the story of Amos Clark, a criminal of
a higher type than most bad men, yet infinitely more dangerous because
of that. He was a Southerner of good family. After the war he went to
Dimmick County and there developed and prospered with the country. He
became the most influential citizen of his town and the richest in that
section. He held offices. He was energetic in his opposition to rustlers
and outlaws. He was held in high esteem by his countrymen. But this Amos
Clark was the leader of a band of rustlers, highwaymen, and murderers.
Captain Neal and some of his Rangers ferreted out Clark's relation to
this lawless gang, and in the end caught him red-handed. He was arrested
and eventually hanged. His case was unusual, and it furnished an example
of what was possible in that wild country. Clark had a son who was
honest and a wife whom he dearly loved, both of whom had been utterly
ignorant of the other and wicked side of life. I told this last story
deliberately, yet with some misgivings. I wanted to see--I convinced
myself it was needful for me to see--if Miss Sampson had any suspicion
of her father. To look into her face then was no easy task. But when I
did I experienced a shock, though not exactly the kind I had prepared
myself for.
She knew something; maybe she knew actually more than Steele or I;
still, if it were a crime, she had a marvelous control over her true
feelings.
* * * * *
Jack Blome and his men had been in Linrock for several days; old Snecker
and his son Bo had reappeared, and other hard-looking customers, new to
me if not to Linrock. These helped to create a charged and waiting
atmosphere. The saloons did unusual business and were never closed.
Respectable citizens of the town were awakened in the early dawn by
rowdies carousing in the streets.
Steele kept pretty closely under cover. He did not entertain the
opinion, nor did I, that the first time he walked down the street he
would be a target for Blome and his gang. Things seldom happened that
way, and when they did happen so it was more accident than design. Blome
was setting the stage for his little drama.
Meanwhile Steele was not idle. He told me he had met Jim Hoden, Morton
and Zimmer, and that these men had approached others of like character;
a secret club had been formed and all the members were ready for action.
Steele also told me that he had spent hours at night watching the house
where George Wright stayed when he was not up at Sampson's. Wright had
almost recovered from the injury to his arm, but he still remained most
of the time indoors. At night he was visited, or at least his house was,
by strange men who were swift, stealthy, mysterious--all men who
formerly would not have been friends or neighbors.
Steele had not been able to recognize any of these night visitors, and
he did not think the time was ripe for a bold holding up of one of them.
Jim Hoden had forcibly declared and stated that some deviltry was afoot,
something vastly different from Blome's open intention of meeting the
Ranger.
Hoden was right. Not twenty-four hours after his last talk with Steele,
in which he advised quick action, he was found behind the little room of
his restaurant, with a bullet hole in his breast, dead. No one could be
found who had heard a shot.
It had been deliberate murder, for behind the bar had been left a piece
of paper rudely scrawled with a pencil:
"All friends of Ranger Steele look for the same."
Later that day I met Steele at Hoden's and was with him when he looked
at the body and the written message which spoke so tersely of the
enmity toward him. We left there together, and I hoped Steele would let
me stay with him from that moment.
"Russ, it's all in the dark," he said. "I feel Wright's hand in this."
I agreed. "I remember his face at Hoden's that day you winged him.
Because Jim swore you were wrong not to kill instead of wing him. You
were wrong."
"No, Russ, I never let feeling run wild with my head. We can't prove a
thing on Wright."
"Come on; let's hunt him up. I'll bet I can accuse him and make him show
his hand. Come on!"
That Steele found me hard to resist was all the satisfaction I got for
the anger and desire to avenge Jim Hoden that consumed me.
"Son, you'll have your belly full of trouble soon enough," replied
Steele. "Hold yourself in. Wait. Try to keep your eye on Sampson at
night. See if anyone visits him. Spy on him. I'll watch Wright."
"Don't you think you'd do well to keep out of town, especially when you
sleep?"
"Sure. I've got blankets out in the brush, and I go there every night
late and leave before daylight. But I keep a light burning in the 'dobe
house and make it look as if I were there."
"Good. That worried me. Now, what's this murder of Jim Hoden going to do
to Morton, Zimmer, and their crowd?"
"Russ, they've all got blood in their eyes. This'll make them see red.
I've only to say the word and we'll have all the backing we need."
"Have you run into Blome?"
"Once. I was across the street. He came out of the Hope So with some of
his gang. They lined up and watched me. But I went right on."
"He's here looking for trouble, Steele."
"Yes; and he'd have found it before this if I just knew his relation to
Sampson and Wright."
"Do you think Blome a dangerous man to meet?"
"Hardly. He's a genuine bad man, but for all that he's not much to be
feared. If he were quietly keeping away from trouble, then that'd be
different. Blome will probably die in his boots, thinking he's the worst
man and the quickest one on the draw in the West."
That was conclusive enough for me. The little shadow of worry that had
haunted me in spite of my confidence vanished entirely.
"Russ, for the present help me do something for Jim Hoden's family,"
went on Steele. "His wife's in bad shape. She's not a strong woman.
There are a lot of kids, and you know Jim Hoden was poor. She told me
her neighbors would keep shy of her now. They'd be afraid. Oh, it's
tough! But we can put Jim away decently and help his family."
Several days after this talk with Steele I took Miss Sampson and Sally
out to see Jim Hoden's wife and children. I knew Steele would be there
that afternoon, but I did not mention this fact to Miss Sampson. We rode
down to the little adobe house which belonged to Mrs. Hoden's people,
and where Steele and I had moved her and the children after Jim Hoden's
funeral. The house was small, but comfortable, and the yard green and
shady.
If this poor wife and mother had not been utterly forsaken by neighbors
and friends it certainly appeared so, for to my knowledge no one besides
Steele and me visited her. Miss Sampson had packed a big basket full of
good things to eat, and I carried this in front of me on the pommel as
we rode. We hitched our horses to the fence and went round to the back
of the house. There was a little porch with a stone flooring, and here
several children were playing. The door stood open. At my knock Mrs.
Hoden bade me come in. Evidently Steele was not there, so I went in with
the girls.
"Mrs. Hoden, I've brought Miss Sampson and her cousin to see you," I
said cheerfully.
The little room was not very light, there being only one window and the
door; but Mrs. Hoden could be seen plainly enough as she lay,
hollow-cheeked and haggard, on a bed. Once she had evidently been a
woman of some comeliness. The ravages of trouble and grief were there to
read in her worn face; it had not, however, any of the hard and bitter
lines that had characterized her husband's.
I wondered, considering that Sampson had ruined Hoden, how Mrs. Hoden
was going to regard the daughter of an enemy.
"So you're Roger Sampson's girl?" queried the woman, with her bright
black eyes fixed on her visitor.
"Yes," replied Miss Sampson, simply. "This is my cousin, Sally Langdon.
We've come to nurse you, take care of the children, help you in any way
you'll let us."
There was a long silence.
"Well, you look a little like Sampson," finally said Mrs. Hoden, "but
you're not at all like him. You must take after your mother. Miss
Sampson, I don't know if I can--if I _ought_ to accept anything from
you. Your father ruined my husband."
"Yes, I know," replied the girl sadly. "That's all the more reason you
should let me help you. Pray don't refuse. It will--mean so much to me."
If this poor, stricken woman had any resentment it speedily melted in
the warmth and sweetness of Miss Sampson's manner. My idea was that the
impression of Diane Sampson's beauty was always swiftly succeeded by
that of her generosity and nobility. At any rate, she had started well
with Mrs. Hoden, and no sooner had she begun to talk to the children
than both they and the mother were won.
The opening of that big basket was an event. Poor, starved little
beggars! I went out on the porch to get away from them. My feelings
seemed too easily aroused. Hard indeed would it have gone with Jim
Hoden's slayer if I could have laid my eyes on him then. However, Miss
Sampson and Sally, after the nature of tender and practical girls, did
not appear to take the sad situation to heart. The havoc had already
been wrought in that household. The needs now were cheerfulness,
kindness, help, action, and these the girls furnished with a spirit that
did me good.
"Mrs. Hoden, who dressed this baby?" presently asked Miss Sampson. I
peeped in to see a dilapidated youngster on her knees. That sight, if
any other was needed, completed my full and splendid estimate of Diane
Sampson.
"Mr. Steele," replied Mrs. Hoden.
"Mr. Steele!" exclaimed Miss Sampson.
"Yes; he's taken care of us all since--since--" Mrs. Hoden choked.
"Oh, so you've had no help but his," replied Miss Sampson hastily. "No
women? Too bad! I'll send someone, Mrs. Hoden, and I'll come myself."
"It'll be good of you," went on the older woman. "You see, Jim had few
friends--that is, right in town. And they've been afraid to help
us--afraid they'd get what poor Jim--"
"That's awful!" burst out Miss Sampson passionately. "A brave lot of
friends! Mrs. Hoden, don't you worry any more. We'll take care of you.
Here, Sally help me. Whatever is the matter with baby's dress?"
Manifestly Miss Sampson had some difficulty in subduing her emotion.
"Why, it's on hind side before," declared Sally. "I guess Mr. Steele
hasn't dressed many babies."
"He did the best he could," said Mrs. Hoden. "Lord only knows what would
have become of us! He brought your cowboy, Russ, who's been very good
too."
"Mr. Steele, then is--is something more than a Ranger?" queried Miss
Sampson, with a little break in her voice.
"He's more than I can tell," replied Mrs. Hoden. "He buried Jim. He paid
our debts. He fetched us here. He bought food for us. He cooked for us
and fed us. He washed and dressed the baby. He sat with me the first two
nights after Jim's death, when I thought I'd die myself.
"He's so kind, so gentle, so patient. He has kept me up just by being
near. Sometimes I'd wake from a doze an', seeing him there, I'd know how
false were all these tales Jim heard about him and believed at first.
Why, he plays with the children just--just like any good man might. When
he has the baby up I just can't believe he's a bloody gunman, as they
say.
"He's good, but he isn't happy. He has such sad eyes. He looks far off
sometimes when the children climb round him. They love him. I think he
must have loved some woman. His life is sad. Nobody need tell me--he
sees the good in things. Once he said somebody had to be a Ranger. Well,
I say, thank God for a Ranger like him!"
After that there was a long silence in the little room, broken only by
the cooing of the baby. I did not dare to peep in at Miss Sampson then.
Somehow I expected Steele to arrive at that moment, and his step did not
surprise me. He came round the corner as he always turned any corner,
quick, alert, with his hand down. If I had been an enemy waiting there
with a gun I would have needed to hurry. Steele was instinctively and
habitually on the defense.
"Hello, son! How are Mrs. Hoden and the youngster to-day?" he asked.
"Hello yourself! Why, they're doing fine! I brought the girls down--"
Then in the semishadow of the room, across Mrs. Hoden's bed, Diane
Sampson and Steele faced each other.
That was a moment! Having seen her face then I would not have missed
sight of it for anything I could name; never so long as memory remained
with me would I forget. She did not speak. Sally, however, bowed and
spoke to the Ranger. Steele, after the first start, showed no unusual
feeling. He greeted both girls pleasantly.
"Russ, that was thoughtful of you," he said. "It was womankind needed
here. I could do so little--Mrs. Hoden, you look better to-day. I'm
glad. And here's baby, all clean and white. Baby, what a time I had
trying to puzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Hoden,
didn't I tell you friends would come? So will the brighter side."
"Yes; I've more faith than I had," replied Mrs. Hoden. "Roger Sampson's
daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim's death I thought
I'd sink. We have nothing. How could I ever take care of my little ones?
But I'm gaining courage."
"Mrs. Hoden, do not distress yourself any more," said Miss Sampson. "I
shall see you are well cared for. I promise you."
"Miss Sampson, that's fine!" exclaimed Steele, with a ring in his voice.
"It's what I'd have hoped--expected of you..."
It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face
burned in a beautiful blush.
"And it's good of you, too, Miss Langdon, to come," added Steele. "Let
me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my
lonely task here. More than glad, for the sake of this good woman and
the little ones. But both of you be careful. Don't stir without Russ.
There's risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by. Mrs. Hoden, I'll drop in
again to-night. Good-by!"
Steele backed to the door, and I slipped out before him.
"Mr. Steele--wait!" called Miss Sampson as he stepped out. He uttered a
little sound like a hiss or a gasp or an intake of breath, I did not
know what; and then the incomprehensible fellow bestowed a kick upon me
that I thought about broke my leg. But I understood and gamely endured
the pain. Then we were looking at Diane Sampson. She was white and
wonderful. She stepped out of the door, close to Steele. She did not see
me; she cared nothing for my presence. All the world would not have
mattered to her then.
"I have wronged you!" she said impulsively.
Looking on, I seemed to see or feel some slow, mighty force gathering in
Steele to meet this ordeal. Then he appeared as always--yet, to me, how
different!
"Miss Sampson, how can you say that?" he returned.
"I believed what my father and George Wright said about you--that
bloody, despicable record! Now I do _not_ believe. I see--I wronged
you."
"You make me very glad when you tell me this. It was hard to have you
think so ill of me. But, Miss Sampson, please don't speak of wronging
me. I am a Ranger, and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on
others--sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that
duty is hard, too, on me."
"I did wrong you. In thought--in word. I ordered you from my home as if
you were indeed what they called you. But I was deceived. I see my
error. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I--"
"Please--please don't, Miss Sampson," interrupted poor Steele. I could
see the gray beneath his bronze and something that was like gold deep in
his eyes.
"But, sir, my conscience flays me," she went on. There was no other
sound like her voice. If I was all distraught with emotion, what must
Steele have been? "I make amends. Will you take my hand? Will you
forgive me?" She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at
her breast.
Steele took the proffered hand and held it, and did not release it. What
else could he have done? But he could not speak. Then it seemed to dawn
upon Steele there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of
her than just making amends for a fancied or real wrong. For myself, I
thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then.
And there was resistance; I felt it; she must have felt it. It was poor
Steele's hard fate to fight the charm and eloquence and sweetness of
this woman when, for some reason unknown to him, and only guessed at by
me, she was burning with all the fire and passion of her soul.
"Mr. Steele, I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,"
she said, and now her speech came swiftly. "When she was all alone and
helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Hoden
isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate.
Ah, how I may soon need a friend!
"Vaughn Steele, the man whom I need most to be my friend--want most to
lean upon--is the one whose duty is to stab me to the heart, to ruin
me. You! Will you be my friend? If you knew Diane Sampson you would know
she would never ask you to be false to your duty. Be true to us both!
I'm so alone--no one but Sally loves me. I'll need a friend soon--soon.
"Oh, I know--I know what you'll find out sooner or later. I know _now_!
I want to help you. Let us save life, if not honor. Must I stand
alone--all alone? Will you--will you be--"
Her voice failed. She was swaying toward Steele. I expected to see his
arms spread wide and enfold her in their embrace.
"Diane Sampson, I love you!" whispered Steele hoarsely, white now to his
lips. "I must be true to my duty. But if I can't be true to you, then by
God, I want no more of life!" He kissed her hand and rushed away.
She stood a moment as if blindly watching the place where he had
vanished, and then as a sister might have turned to a brother, she
reached for me.