INVOLVING BETH
Goldite to the Eastern girl, who had found herself practically
abandoned for nearly a week, had proved to be a mixture of discomforts,
excitements, and disturbing elements. Fascinated by the maelstrom of
the mining-camp life, and unwilling to retreat from the scene until she
should see her roving brother, and gratify at least a curiosity
concerning Van, she nevertheless felt afraid to be there, not only on
account of the roughness and uncertainty of the existence, but also
because, despite herself, she had attracted undesirable attention.
Moreover, the house was full of "gentlemen" lodgers, with three of whom
Elsa was conducting most violent flirtations.
There were few respectable women in the town. It was still too early
for their advent. Beth had been annoyed past all endurance. There was
no possibility of even mild social diversions; there was no one to
visit. While the street could be described as perfectly safe, it was
nevertheless an uncomfortable place in which to walk. Bostwick's car
had been recovered and brought into camp, but skilled as she was at the
steering wheel, she had hardly desired or dared to take it out.
Crime was frequent in the streets and houses. Disturbing reports of
marauding expeditions on the part of the convicts, still at large, came
with insistent frequency. Altogether the week had been a trial to her
nerves. It had also been a vexation. No man had a right, she told
herself, to do and say the things that Van had said and done, only to
go off, without so much as a little good-by and give no further sign.
She told herself she had a right to at least some sort of opportunity
to tender her honest congratulations. She had heard of his claim--the
"Laughing Water"--and perhaps she wished to know how it chanced to have
this particular name. If certain disturbing reflections anent that
woman who had run to him wildly, out in the street, came mistily
clouding the estimate she tried to place upon his character, she
confessed he certainly had the right to make an explanation. In a
purely feminine manner she argued that she had the right to some such
explanation--if only because of certain liberties he had taken with her
hands--on which memories still warmly burned.
Wholly undecided as to what she would do if she could, and impatient
with Bostwick for his sheer neglect in searching out her brother, she
was thoroughly glad to see him to-day when he came so unannounced to
the house.
"Well if you don't look like a mountaineer!" she said, as she met him
in the dining-room, which was likewise the parlor of the place. "Where
in the world have you been, all this time? You haven't come back
without Glen?"
He had gone away ostensibly to find her brother.
"Well, the fact is he wasn't where I went, after all," he said. "I
hastened home, after all that trip, undertaken for nothing, and found a
letter from him here. I've come at once to have an important talk."
"A letter?" she cried. "Let me see it--let me read it, please.
He's--where? He's well? He's successful?"
"Sit down," answered Bostwick, taking a chair and placing his hat on
the table. "There's a good deal to say. But first, how have you been
here, all alone?"
"Oh--very well--I suppose," she answered, restraining the natural
resentment she felt at his patent neglect. "It isn't exactly the place
I'd choose to remain in, alone all the time."
"Poor little girl, I've been thinking of that," he told her, reaching
across the table to take her hands. "It's worried me, Beth, worried me
greatly--your unprotected position, and all that."
"Oh, you needn't worry." She withdrew her hands. Someway it seemed a
sacrilege for him to touch them--it was not to be borne--she hardly
knew why, or since when. "I want to know about Glen," she added.
"Never mind me."
"But I do mind," he assured her. His hand was trembling. "Beth, I--I
can't talk much--I mean romantic talk, and all that, but--well--I've
about concluded we ought to be married at once--for your sake--your
protection--and my peace of mind. I have thought about it ever since I
left you here alone."
The brightness expressive of the gayety of her nature departed from her
eyes. She looked fixedly at the man's dark face, with its gray,
deep-set, penetrative eyes, its bluish jaw, and knitted brows. It
frightened her, someway, as it never had before. He had magnetized her
always--sometimes more than now, but his influence crept upon her
subtly even here.
"But I--I think I'd rather not--just yet," she faltered, crimsoning and
dropping her gaze to the table. "You promised not to--to urge me
again--at least till I've spoken to Glen."
"But I could not have known--forseen these conditions," he told her,
leaning further towards her across the table. "Why shouldn't we be
married now--at once? A six months' engagement is certainly long
enough. Your position here is--well--almost dubious. You must see
that. It isn't right of me--decent--not to make you my wife
immediately. I wish to do so--I wish it very much."
She arose, as if to wrench herself free from the spell he was casting
upon her.
"I'm all right--I'm quite all right," she said. "I'd rather not--just
now. There's no one here who cares a penny who or what I am. If my
position here is misunderstood--it can do no harm. I'd rather you
wouldn't say anything further about it--just at present."
Her agitation did not escape him. If he thought of the horseman who
had carried her off while sending himself to the convicts, his plan for
vengeance only deepened.
"You must have some reason for refusing." He too arose.
"No--no particular reason," she answered, artlessly walking around the
table, apparently to pick up a button from the floor, but actually to
avoid his contact. "I just don't wish to--to be married
now--here--that's all. I ask you to keep your promise--not to ask it
while we remain."
He had feared to lose her a score of times before. He feared it now
more potently than ever. And there was much that he must ask. The
risk of giving her a fright was not to be incurred.
"Very well," he said resignedly, "but--it's very hard to wait."
"Won't you sit down?" she asked him, an impulse of gratitude upon her.
"Now do be good and sensible, and tell me all about Glen."
She returned to the table and resumed her seat.
Bostwick sat opposite and drew his forged letter from his pocket. He
had placed it in Glenmore's envelope after tearing the young man's
letter into scraps.
"This letter," said he, "was sent from way down in the desert--from
Starlight, another new camp. It looks to me as if the boy has struck
something very important. I'll read you what he says--or you can read
it for yourself."
"No, no--read it. I'd rather listen."
He read it haltingly, as one who puzzles over unfamiliar writing. Its
effect sank in the deeper for the method. Beth was open-eyed with
wonder, admiration, and delight over all that Glen had done and was
about to accomplish. She rose to the bait with sisterly eagerness.
"Why, he _must_ have the chance--he's _got_ to have the chance!" she
cried excitedly. "What do you think of it yourself?"
Bostwick fanned the blaze with conservatism.
"It's quite a sum of money and Glen might overestimate the value of the
mine. I've inquired around and learn that the property is considered
tremendously promising. If we--if he actually secures that claim it
will doubtless mean a for---- I don't like to lose my sense of
judgment, but I do want to help the boy along. Frankly, however, I
don't see how I can let him have so much. I couldn't possibly send him
but thirty thousand dollars at the most."
Beth's eyes were blazing with excitement. She had never dreamed that
Searle could be so generous--so splendid. An impulse of gratitude and
admiration surged throughout her being.
"You'd _do_ it?" she said. "You'll do as much as that for Glen?"
"Why, how can I do less?" he answered. "That claim will doubtless be
worth half a million, maybe more--if all I hear is reliable--and I get
it from disinterested parties. The boy has done a good big thing.
I've got to help him out. It seems too bad to offer him only half of
what he needs, but I'm not a very wealthy man. I can't be utterly
Quixotic. We've all got to help him all we can."
"Oh, thank you, Searle--thank you for saying 'we,'" she said in a voice
that slightly trembled. "I'm glad of the chance--glad to show dear
Glen that a sister can help a little, too."
He stared at her with an excellent imitation of surprise in his gaze.
"You'll--help?" he said in astonishment, masterfully simulated. "Not
with the other thirty thousand?"
"Why not?" she cried. "Why not, when Glen has the chance of his life?
You don't really think I'd hesitate?"
"But," said he, leading her onward, "he needs the money now--at once.
You'd have to get it here by wire, and all that sort of trouble."
"Then we'd better get things started," she said. "You'll help me,
Searle, I'm sure."
"If you wish it," said Bostwick, "certainly."
"Dear Glen!" she said. "Dear boy! I'll write him a letter at once."
Bostwick started, alertly, as she ran in her girlish pleasure to a
stand where she had placed her materials for writing.
"Good," he commented drily, "I'll mail it with one of my own."
She dashed off a bright effusion with all her spontaneous enthusiasm.
Bostwick supplied her with the address, and presently took the letter
in his hand. He had much to do at the bank, he informed her, by way of
preparing for the deal. He promised to return when he could.
On his way down street be deliberately tore the letter to the smallest
of fragments and scattered them widely on the wind.