VAN AND BETH AND BOSTWICK
Van was far too occupied to retain for long the anger that Culver had
aroused in all his being. Moreover, he had come to camp in a mood of
joyousness, youth, and bounding emotions such as nothing could
submerge. The incident with Culver was closed. As for land-office
data, it was far from being indispensable, and Gettysburg's knife was
forgotten.
He had fetched down a nugget from the "Laughing Water" claim, a bright
lump of virgin gold, rudely fashioned by nature like a heart. This he
took at once to a jeweler's shop, where more fine diamonds were being
sold than in all the rest of the State, and while it was being soldered
to a pin he returned to the hay-yard for Dave. His business was to
purchase the mare on which, one beautiful morning when the wild peach
was in bloom, Beth Kent had ridden by his side. Dave would have given
him the animal out of hand. Van compelled him to receive a market
price. Even ponies here were valuable, and Dave had been poor all his
life.
"Say, Van," he drawled, when at length the transaction was complete,
"this camp has set me to thinkin'. It's full of these rich galoots,
all havin' an easy time. If ever I git a wad of dough I'm comin' here
and buy five dollars worth of good sardines and eat 'em, every one.
Never have had enough sardines in all my life."
"I'd buy them for you now and sit you down," said Van, "only why start
a graveyard with a friend?"
Some woman who had come and gone from Goldite had disposed of a
beautiful side saddle, exposed in the hay-yard to the weather. Van
paid fifty dollars and became its owner. The outfit for Beth was soon
complete. He ordered the best of feed and attention for her
roan--bills to be rendered to himself--and hastening off to the
jeweler's, found his pin ready and reposing in a small blue box.
Avoiding a number of admiring friends, he slipped around a corner, and
once more appeared at Mrs. Dick's.
Beth was in the dining-room, alone. Her papers were spread upon the
table. She was flushed with the day's excitements,
Van had entered unannounced. His active tread upon the carpet of the
hall had made no sound. When he halted in the doorway, transfixed by
the beauty of the face he saw reflected in the sideboard mirror
opposite, Beth was unconscious of his presence.
She was busily gathering up her documents. Her pretty hands were
moving lightly on the table. Her eyes were downcast, focused where she
worked. Only the wondrous addition of their matchless brown, thought
Van, was necessary to complete a picture of the most exquisite
loveliness he had ever beheld.
He had come there prepared to be sedate--at least not over-bold again,
or too presumptuous. Already, however, a riot of love was in his
veins. He loved as he fought--with all his strength, with a tidal
impetuosity that could scarcely understand resistance or imagine
defeat. To restrain himself from a quick descent upon her position and
a boyish sweeping of her up in his powerful arms was taxing the utmost
of his self-control. Then Beth glanced up at the mirror.
The light of her eyes seemed to liquify his heart. He felt that mad,
joyous organ spread abruptly, throughout his entire being.
She rose up suddenly and turned to greet him.
"Why--Mr. Van!" she stammered, flushing rosily. "I _heard_ you were in
town."
He came towards her quietly enough, the jeweler's box in his hand.
"I called before," he answered in his off-hand way. "You must have
been out with poor old Searle."
"Oh," she said, "poor old Searle? Why poor?"
"I told you why before," he said boldly, in spite of himself. He was
standing before her by the table, looking fairly into her eyes, with
that dancing boyishness amazingly bright in his own. "You remember,
too--you can't forget."
The flush in her cheeks increased. Her glance was lowered.
"You didn't give me time to--rebuke you for that," she answered,
attempting to assume a tone of severity. "You had no right--it wasn't
nice or like you in the least."
"Yes it was, nice, and like me," he corrected. "I've brought you a
nugget from the claim." He opened the box and shook out the pin on the
table.
She had started to make a reply concerning his actions when leaving on
that former occasion. The words were pushed aside.
"Oh, my!" she said in a little exclamation, instead. "A
nugget!--gold!--not from the--not from your claim?"
His hand slightly trembled.
"From the 'Laughing Water' claim. Named for the girl I'm going to
marry."
She gasped, almost audibly. The things he said were so wholly
unexpected--so almost naked in their bluntness.
"The girl--some girl you--Isn't it beautiful?" she faltered helplessly.
"Of course I don't know--how any girl could have such a singular name."
"Yes you do," he corrected in his shockingly candid way. "You know
when Dave gave her the name."
"Do I?" she asked weakly, trying to smile, and feeling some wonderful,
welcome sort of fear of the passion with which he fairly glowed. "You
are--very positive."
He moved a trifle closer, touching the pin, with a finger, as she held
it in her hand. His voice slightly shook as he asked:
"Do you like it?"
"The pin? Of course. A genuine nugget! You were very kind, I'm sure."
"I thought when you and I ride over to the claim, some day, you ought
to have a horse of your own," he announced in his manner of finality.
"So your horse and outfit are over at Charlie's, at your order."
She looked up at him swiftly. "My horse--over at Charlie's?"
"Yes, Charlie's--the hay-yard. I thought you liked a side-saddle best
and I found a good one in the hay."
"But--I haven't any horse," she protested, failing for a moment to
grasp his meaning. "How could I have a horse in Goldite?"
"You couldn't help having him--that's all--any more than you can help
having me."
The light in his eyes was far too magnetic for her own brown glance to
escape. She hardly knew what she was saying, or what she was thinking.
She was simply aflame with happiness in his presence--and she feared he
must read it in her glance. That the horse was his gift she
comprehended all at once--but--what had he said--what was it he had
said, that she must answer? Her heart and her mind had coalesced.
There was love in both and little of reason in either. She knew he was
holding her eyes to his with the sheer force of overwhelming love.
She tried to escape.
"You--mean-----"
He broke all control like a whirlwind.
"I mean I can't hold it any longer! I love you!--I love you to death!"
He took her in his arms suddenly, passionately, crushing her almost
fiercely against his heart. He kissed her on the lips--once--twice--a
dozen times in half a minute--feeling the warm, moist softness in the
contact and holding her pliant figure yet more closely.
She, too, was mad with it all, for a second. Then she began to battle
with his might.
"Van!--Mr. Van!" she said, pushing his face away with a hand he might
have devoured. "Let me go! Let me go! How dare---- You shan't! You
shan't! Let me go!"
Her nature, in revolt for a moment against her better judgment, refused
to do the bidding of her muscles. Then she gathered strength out of
the whirlwind itself and pushed him away like a tigress.
"You shan't!" she repeated. "You ought to be ashamed! How dare you
treat me----"
He had turned abruptly, looking towards the door. Her utterance was
halted by his movement of listening. She had barely time to take up
her papers, and make an effort at regaining her composure. Bostwick
was coming down the hall. He presently appeared at the door. For a
moment there was silence.
Van was the first to speak.
"How are you, Searle?" he said cheerily. "Got over your grouch?"
Bostwick looked him over with ill-concealed loathing.
"You thought you were clever, I suppose," he said in a growl-like tone
that certainly fitted his face. "What are you doing here, I'd like to
know?"
"Tottering angels!" said Van, "didn't that experience do you any good
after all? No wonder the convicts wouldn't have you!"
Beth was afraid for what Bostwick might have heard. She could not
censure Van for what he had done; she saw he would make no
explanations. At best she could only attempt to put some appearance of
the commonplace upon the horseman's visit.
"Mr. Van Buren came--to see Mrs. Dick," she faltered, steadying her
voice as best she might. "They're--very old friends."
"What's that?" demanded Bostwick, coming into the room and pointing at
the bright nugget pin, lying exposed upon the table. "Some present, I
suppose, for Mrs. Dick?" He started to take it in his hand.
Van interposed. "It's neither for Mrs. Dick nor for you. It's a
present I've made to Miss Kent."
Bostwick elevated his brows.
"Indeed?"
Beth fluttered in with a word of defense.
"It's just a little souvenir--that's all--a souvenir of--of my escape
from those terrible men."
"And Searle's return," added Van, who felt the very devil in his veins
at sight of Bostwick helpless and enraged.
Searle opened his lips as if to fling out something of his wrath. He
held it back and turned to Beth.
"It will soon be night. We have much to do. I suppose I may see you,
privately--even here?"
Beth was helpless. And in the circumstances she wished for Van to go.
"Certainly," she answered, raising her eyes for a second to the
horseman's, "--that is--if----"
"Certainly," Van answered cordially. "Good-by." He advanced and held
out his hand.
She gave him her own because there was nothing else to do--and the
tingling of his being made it burn. She did not dare to meet his gaze.
"So long, Searle," he added smilingly. "Better turn that grouch out to
pasture."
Then he went.