SUE DECLARES HER LOVE.
It was Waterbury who was lying unconscious on the lonely Logan Pike;
Waterbury who had been thrown as the bay gelding strove desperately to
overhaul the flying runaway filly.
Sue had gone for an evening ride. She wished to be alone. It had been
impossible to lose the ubiquitous Mr. Waterbury, but this evening The
Rogue had evinced premonitory symptoms of a distemper, and the greatly
exercised colonel had induced the turfman to ride over and have a look
at him. This left Sue absolutely unfettered, the first occasion in a
week.
She was of the kind who fought out trouble silently, but not placidly.
She must have something to contend against; something on which to
work out the distemper of a heart and mind not in harmony. She must
experience physical exhaustion before resignation came. In learning a
lesson she could not remain inactive. She must walk, walk, up and down,
up an down, until its moral or text was beaten into her mentality with
her echoing footsteps.
On this occasion she was in the humor to dare the impossible; dare
through sheer irritability of heart--not mind. And so she saddled
Lethe--an unregenerate pinto of the Southern Trail, whose concealed
devilishness forcibly reminded one of Balzac's famous description: “A
clenched fist hidden in an empty sleeve.”
She had been forbidden to ride the pinto ever since the day it was
brought home to her with irrefutable emphasis that the shortest distance
between two points is a straight line. It was more of a parabola she
described, when, bucked off, her head smashed the ground, but the simile
serves.
But she would ride Lethe to-night. The other horses were too
comfortable. They served to irritate the bandit passions, not to subdue
them. She panted for some one, something, to break to her will.
Lethe felt that there was a passion that night riding her; a passion
that far surpassed her own. Womanlike, she decided to arbitrate. She
would wait until this all-powerful passion burned itself out; then she
could afford to safely agitate her own. It would not have grown less
in the necessary interim. So, much to Sue's surprise, the filly was as
gentle as the proverbial lamb.
As she turned for home, Waterbury rode out of the deepening shadows
behind her. He had left the colonel at his breeding-farm. Waterbury
and Sue rode in silence. The girl was giving all her attention to her
thoughts. What was left over was devoted to the insistent mouth
of Lethe, who ever and anon tested the grip on her bridle-rein;
ascertaining whether or not there were any symptoms of relaxation or
abstraction.
It is human nature to grow tired of being good. Waterbury's better
nature had been in the ascendancy for over a week. He thought he could
afford to draw on this surplus balance to his credit. He was riding very
close to Sue. He had encroached, inch by inch, but her oblivion had not
been inclination, as Waterbury fancied. He edged nearer. As she did not
heed the steal, he took it for a grant. We fit facts to our inclination.
The animal arose mightily in him. In stooping to avoid an overhanging
branch he brushed against her. The contact set him aflame. He was
hungrily eyeing her profile. Then in a second, he had crushed her head
to his shoulder, and was fiercely kissing her again and again--lips,
hair, eyes; eyes, hair, lips.
“There!” he panted, releasing her. He laughed foolishly, biting his
nails. His mouth felt as if roofed with sand-paper. His face was white,
but not as white as hers.
She was silent. Then she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and very
carefully wiped her lips. She was absolutely silent, but a pulse was
beating--beating in her slim throat. The action, her silence, inflamed
Waterbury. He made to crush her waist with his ravenous arm. Then, for
the first time, she turned slowly, and her narrowed eyes met his.
He saw, even in the gloom. Again he laughed, but the onrushing blood
purpled his neck.
Desperation came to help him brave those eyes--came and failed. He
talked, declaimed, avowed--grew brutally frank. Finally he spoke of the
mortgage he held, and waited, breathing heavily, for the answer. There
was none.
“I suppose it's some one else, eh?” he rapped out, red showing in the
brown of his eyes.
Silence. He savagely cut the gelding across the ears, and then checked
its answering, maddened leap. The red deepened in Sue's cheek--two red
spots, the flag of courage.
“It's this nephew of Major Calvert's,” added Waterbury. He lost the
last shred of common decency he could lay claim to; it was caught up and
whirled away in the tempest of his passion. “I saw him to-day, on my
way to the track. He didn't see me. When I knew him his name was
Garrison--Billy Garrison. I discharged him for dishonesty. I suppose he
sneaked home to a confiding uncle when the world had kicked him out. I
suppose they think he's all right, same as you do. But he's a thief. A
common, low-down--”
The girl turned swiftly, and her little gauntlet caught Waterbury full
across the mouth.
“You lie!” she whispered, very softly, her face white and quivering, her
eyes black with passion.
And then Lethe saw her opportunity. Sensed it in the momentary relaxing
of the bridle-rein. She whipped the bit into her fierce, even, white
teeth, and with a snort shot down the pike.
And then Waterbury's better self gained supremacy; contrition,
self-hatred rushing in like a fierce tidal wave and swamping the last
vestige of animalism. He spurred blindly after the fast-disappearing
filly.
*****
Garrison rode one of the best races of his life that night. It was a
trial of stamina and nerve. Lethe was primarily a sprinter, and the
gelding, raised to his greatest effort by the genius of his rider,
outfought her, outstayed her. As he flew down the moon-swept road,
bright as at any noontime, Garrison knew success would be his, providing
Sue kept her seat, her nerve, and the saddle from twisting.
Inch by inch the white, shadow-flecked space between the gelding and the
filly was eaten up. On, on, with only the tempest of their speed and the
flying hoofs for audience. On, on, until now the gelding had poked his
nose past the filly's flying hocks.
Garrison knew horses. He called on the gelding for a supreme effort,
and the gelding answered impressively. He hunched himself, shot past the
filly. Twenty yards' gain, twenty yards to the fore, and then Garrison
turned easily in the saddle. “All right, Miss Desha, let her come,” he
sang out cheerfully.
And the filly came, came hard; came with all the bitterness of being
outstripped by a clumsy gelding whom she had beaten time and again. As
she caught the latter's slowed pace, as her wicked nose drew alongside
of the other's withers, Garrison shot out a hand, clamped an iron clutch
on the spume-smeared bit, swung the gelding across the filly's right
of way; then, with his right hand, choked the fight from her widespread
nostrils.
And then, womanlike, Sue fainted, and Garrison was just in time to ease
her through his arms to the ground. The two horses, thoroughly blown,
placidly settled down to nibble the grass by the wayside.
Sue lay there, her wealth of hair clouding Garrison's shoulder. He
watched consciousness return, the flutter of her breath. The perfume
of her skin was in his nostrils, his mouth; stealing away his honor. He
held her close. She shivered.
He fought to keep from kissing her as she lay there unarmed. Then her
throat pulsed; her eyes opened. Garrison kissed her again and again;
gripping her as a drowning man grips at a passing straw.
With a great heave and a passionate cry she flung him from her. She rose
unsteadily to her feet. He stood, shame engulfing him. Then she caught
her breath hard.
“Oh!” she said softly, “it's--it's you!” She laughed tremulously. “I--I
thought it was Mr. Waterbury.”
Relief, longing was in the voice. She made a pleading motion with her
arms--a child longing for its mother's neck. He did not see, heed. He
was nervously running his hand through his hair, face flaming. Silence.
“Mr. Waterbury was thrown. I took his mount,” he blurted out, at length.
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head without replying; biting her lips. She was devouring
him with her eyes; eyes dark with passion. The memory of that moment
in his arms was seething within her. Why--why had she not known! They
looked at each other; eye to eye; soul to soul. Neither spoke.
She shivered, though the night was warm.
“Why did you call me Miss Desha?” she asked, at length.
“Because,” he said feebly--his nature was true to his Southern name. He
was fighting self like the girl--“I'm going away,” he added. It had to
come with a rush or not at all. And it must come. He heaved his chest
as a swimmer seeks to breast the waves. “I'm not worthy of you. I'm a--a
beast,” he said. “I lied to you; lied when I said I was not Garrison. I
am Billy Garrison. I did not know that I was. I know now. Know----”
“I knew you were,” said the girl simply. “Why did you try to hide it?
Shame?”
“No.” In sharp staccato sentences he told her of his lapse of memory.
“It was not because I was a thief; because I was kicked from the turf;
because I was a horse-poisoner--”
“Then--it's true?” she asked.
“That I'm a--beast?” he asked grimly. “Yes, it's true. You doubt me,
don't you? You think I knew my identity, my crimes all along, and that I
was afraid. Say you doubt me.”
“I believe you,” she said quietly.
“Thank you,” he replied as quietly.
“And--you think it necessary, imperative that you go away?” There was an
unuttered sob in her voice, though she sought to choke it back.
“I do.” He laughed a little--the laugh that had caused the righteous Dan
Crimmins to wince.
She made a passionate gesture with her hand. “Billy,” she said, and
stopped, eyes flaming.
“You were right to break the engagement,” he said slowly, eyes on
the ground. “I suppose Mr. Waterbury told you who I was, and--and, of
course, you could only act as you did.”
She was silent, her face quivering.
“And you think that of me? You would think it of me? No, from the first
I knew you were Garrison--”
“Forgive me,” he inserted.
“I broke the engagement,” she added, “because conditions were
changed--with me. My condition was no longer what it was when the
engagement was made--” She checked herself with an effort.
“I think I understand--now,” he said, and admiration was in his eyes;
“I know the track. I should.” He was speaking lifelessly, eyes on the
ground. “And I understand that you do not know--all.”
“All?”
“Um-m-m.” He looked up and faced her eyes, head held high. “I am an
adventurer,” he said slowly. “A scoundrel, an impostor. I am not--Major
Calvert's nephew.” And he watched her eyes; watched unflinchingly as
they changed and changed again. But he would not look away.
“I--I think I will sit down, if you don't mind,” she whispered, hand at
throat. She seated herself, as one in a maze, on a log by the wayside.
She looked up, a twisted little smile on her lips, as he stood above
her. “Won't--won't you sit down and tell--tell me all?”
He obeyed automatically, not striving to fathom the great charity of her
silence. And then he told all--all. Even as he had told that very good
trainer and righteous friend, Dan Crimmins. His voice was perfectly
lifeless. And the girl listened, lips clenched on teeth.
“And--and that's all,” he whispered. “God knows it's enough--too much.”
He drew himself away as some unclean thing.
“All that, all that, and you only a boy,” whispered the girl, half
to herself. “You must not tell the major. You must not,” she cried
fiercely.
“I must,” he whispered. “I will.”
“You must not. You won't. You must go away, go away. Wipe the slate
clean,” she added tensely. “You must not tell the major. It must be
broken to him gently, by degrees. Boy, boy, don't you know what it is
to love; to have your heart twisted, broken, trampled? You must not tell
him. It would kill. I--know.” She crushed her hands in her lap.
“I'm a coward if I run,” he said.
“A murderer if you stay,” she answered. “And Mr. Waterbury--he will flay
you--keep you in the mire. I know. No, you must go, you must go. Must
have a chance for regeneration.”
“You are very kind--very kind. You do not say you loathe me.” He arose
abruptly, clenching his hands above his head in silent agony.
“No, I do not,” she whispered, leaning forward, hands gripping the log,
eyes burning up into his face. “I do not. Because I can't. I can't.
Because I love you, love you, love you. Boy, boy, can't you see? Won't
you see? I love you--”
“Don't,” he cried sharply, as if in physical agony. “You don't know what
you say--”
“I do, I do. I love you, love you,” she stormed. Passion, long stamped
down, had arisen in all its might. The surging intensity of her nature
was at white heat. It had broken all bonds, swept everything aside in
its mad rush. “Take me with you. Take me with you--anywhere,” she panted
passionately. She arose and caught him swiftly by the arm, forcing up
her flaming face to his. “I don't care what you are--I know what you
will be. I've loved you from the first. I lied when I ever said I hated
you. I'll help you to make a new start. Oh, so hard! Try me. Try me.
Take me with you. You are all I have. I can't give you up. I won't! Take
me, take me. Do, do, do!” Her head thrown back, she forced a hungry arm
about his neck and strove to drag his lips to hers.
He caught both wrists and eyed her. She was panting, but her eyes
met his unwaveringly, gloriously unashamed. He fought for every word.
“Don't--tempt--me--Sue. Good God, girl! you don't know how I love you.
You can't. Loved you from that night in the train. Now I know who you
were, what you are to me--everything. Help me to think of you, not of
myself. You must guard yourself. I'm tired of fighting--I can't----”
“It's the girl up North?”
He drew back. He had forgotten. He turned away, head bowed. Both were
fighting--fighting against love--everything. Then Sue drew a great
breath and commenced to shiver.
“I was wrong. You must go to her,” she whispered. “She has the right of
way. She has the right of way. Go, go,” she blazed, passion slipping up
again. “Go before I forget honor; forget everything but that I love.”
Garrison turned. She never forgot the look his face held; never forgot
the tone of his voice.
“I go. Good-by, Sue. I go to the girl up North. You are above me in
every way--infinitely above me. Yes, the girl up North. I had forgotten.
She is my wife. And I have children.”
He swung on his heel and blindly flung himself upon the waiting gelding.
Sue stood motionless.