THE DANCE AT GRAINGER’S
The big room they went into was a roil of confusion; two large beds
covered with great cocoons—each one a baby, wrapped in its own quilt
or shawl; several mothers of somewhat older children—though babies
still—trying to convince their offspring that it was time to go to
sleep—and not being very successful at it.
Jammed in anyway, were girls and women getting out of riding skirts
and into dancing trim, excited, laughing, squabbling over pins or a
chance at the mirror. Mrs. Marchbanks pushed through with the big
box that held the things for Maybelle and Hilda. She helped them to
dress, calling back and forth to the others, introducing Hilda to
every one, hardly taking her gaze off her, even while she hooked up
Maybelle’s waist. Hilda’s glimpse in the glass had shown her that
her color was flaming high. How big and bright it made her eyes
look! She was almost as beautiful in the party dress as she had
dreamed of being.
“There, you’re both all right now,” said Mrs. Marchbanks at last,
and whispered in Hilda’s ear as she pushed them toward the door,
“Mabs looks nice—but you’re a beauty!”
Maybelle, who had certainly heard her stepmother’s words, didn’t
seem to mind. It appeared that she had something to think about that
pleased her.
Outside, the big room was full of people. Maybelle had been right;
surely everybody within twenty miles was there. It was a very big
room indeed, with an earthen floor. The Grainger place, like the
house at the Alamositas, was adobe, and the canvas ceiling, tacked
to beams that were unpeeled logs, bulged with every draft. The deep
window-seats were occupied by young couples. Some of the girls wore
shirt waists and one or two from Juan Chico, or visitors bringing
the fashions of the larger towns, had evening gowns of silk or
chiffon. Hilda was very sure that her own dress, made by Mrs.
Johnnie, would bear comparison with any of them. Mothers were still
hurrying youngsters across the corner of the room. Occasionally
these held back and had to be lifted and carried, protesting, away
from the lights and the music which was beginning to tune up.
Alessandro Galindro’s sheep-shearer musicians were softly touching
the great harp, a violin and two guitars. The lamps were already
beginning to make the room hot. There would be no lack of partners,
for the young men outnumbered the girls almost two to one. They were
riders from the ranges, in full cowboy regalia, young fellows from
town, in clothing nearer ball-room usage. Hilda knew a good many of
them—had cared a lot for their admiration and their liking. If
Maybelle hadn’t said that about Pearse—this afternoon when they were
trying on the party dresses—she felt that this would have been a
proud and happy moment. As it was, most that might have been
enjoyment was swallowed up in the thought that if she met Pearse
to-night—and saw when she met him that what Maybelle said was
true—she must show him—
What was it Hilda was going to show Pearse Masters? At thought of
it, whatever it was, her head went up, her face glowed till she
shone out among the other girls as though they were pictures on a
canvas, and she one that had been painted on something transparent
so that the moving, rising, bending fires of life itself shone
through. Oh,—she was likely to show Pearse Masters!
“The J I C crowd hasn’t come yet,” Maybelle whispered, after a quick
glance around, “but will you look at old Mr. Hipp?”
A sun-baked ancient with a wrinkled frock coat ambled out into the
open of the dancing floor, displaying the horseman’s bowed legs.
“Hello, Hippy—going to dance?” Lefty Adams shouted.
“Sure,” crowed the aged one. “Cain’t you see I’m dyked out for
dancin’? Do you figger that I cain’t dance? Jest watch me a
spell—you’ll see me cuttin’ ’em right along with the yearlin’s.”
“Come on, quick,” whispered Maybelle. “That old thing is fixing to
ask one of us to dance. Let’s go down where Fayte is.”
Hilda was following perforce, since Maybelle had not let go of her
wrist, when somebody halted them both. She glanced at the tall
figure, a glance that despite the effort of girlish pride, herded
all her blood in one great pulse. The breath paused on her lips as
somebody said,
“Hilda!”
Now was the time for dignity and reserve. She raised her eyes and
tried to look coolly at Pearse, but she lowered them instantly
before his gaze.
She never knew when Lefty Adams took possession of Maybelle and led
her out to dance. She was not aware of Fayte’s coming from down the
room, pushing people out of his way to get to her, and then halting,
glowering and listening. She had schooled herself to show Pearse a
front of indifference, of smiling unconcern, when she should meet
him. But, after all, this almost young lady was the same Hilda Van
Brunt whose eager little face with its great questioning, welcoming
eyes Hank Pearsall had seen first looking out of the El Centro
stage, and thought how open a way happiness and pain would find to
that young heart. She had no skill at building barricades, at
wrapping veils around her spirit. It just would rush out and answer
with artless candor whenever life hailed it. At the utterance of her
name by Pearse in that tone, the pride and resentment she had tried
to gather about her melted away from her clutch like smoke-wreaths.
She tried in vain to steady her gaze beneath his, to hold that
highly desirable attitude of friendly indifference. As they stood
together looking into each other’s eyes, the earth floor beneath her
feet seemed to sink gently and slew around a bit; or was it that a
great hand lifted her and turned her bodily about, so that in a
flash all things were changed; she saw them—at a new angle?
Fayte Marchbanks, over there, with his half insolent flattery, his
open pursuit that had been disturbing, yet somehow fascinating—he
and it were as though they were not. She forgot that her first dance
would be due to him as her escort. The musicians had finally got
their instruments tuned; the violin sent out a little cry, the great
harp throbbed and twanged, the lesser beat and strum of guitars
answered, and all launched away on the music of a Spanish waltz;
Pearse said something, she hardly knew what. She had a swimming
sense of sweetness and relief as his arm went lightly around her
waist, her hand was clasped in his, and they swung forth on the
recurring surge and ebb of sound. Down the long room they circled
without once stopping. They crossed close by the dark-faced
musicians, and came slowly up the other side.
“Hilda”—Pearse found words by this time—“I hardly know you—yet it
could not have been anybody else in the world!”
She looked up into his face and smiled a bit, making no attempt to
reply.
“I saw you from across the room,” he went on eagerly. “I couldn’t
believe my eyes. Why, when I think of the little girl I saw last—”
He broke off and Hilda laughed at the recollection of her stained,
torn, cotton riding dress on that occasion, her sunburned face,
streaked with dust and perspiration, the soaked hair sticking to it.
“I must have looked a fright that day,” she half whispered.
“No—of course you didn’t!” Then he added, “But—but such a child,
Hilda! And now, all in a moment—”
“Oh, it’s been a good many moments.” She did try to make her tone a
bit sarcastic, though her voice was tremulous. “And maybe you only
thought I looked such a baby. I’m nearly seventeen. You”—she tried
to laugh—“you offered me the kids at the ranches to play with.”
“I was just a plain fool,” said Pearse. “I’d got used to thinking of
you as a child—and I—but you’ll forgive me, Hilda, and,” eagerly,
“give me the next dance and let’s sit it out. I’ve got so many
things to say to you.”
In their absorption, they did not notice that harp and violin were
stilled. Now Fayte’s voice broke in upon them.
“Mightn’t you folks just as well quit when the music does?”
They looked about them. The other couples were seeking seats.
“I’m to have the next I suppose, Hilda,” Fayte said, rather stiffly.
He stood squarely between them and the chairs to which Pearse would
have led his partner. He spoke only to the girl herself.
“Oh, why, I—I just promised that to—”
Hilda glanced up, in confusion. Pearse’s tone, cool, decisive,
solved the situation.
“She’s promised it to me, Marchbanks,” he finished for her. “The
room’s hot. We were going to sit on the porch.” Then he added
civilly, “She thought you’d excuse her.”
Fayte’s eye flashed. He seemed to restrain a hot retort. But Pearse,
choosing to see nothing amiss, pushed past him and kept himself
between Marchbanks and Hilda. The press of dancers around the door
opened out to let them through. Hilda went almost without volition
of her own. She had a sense of a great listening pause in her being.
Outside the door, Pearse passed ahead of her, leaping down off the
porch end, reaching up to lift her and settle her comfortably on its
edge.
“This’ll do,” he said. “We’ll get half a chance for a little talk
here.”
From his seat on the grass below he studied her, a radiant,
victorious Hilda, in the first exquisiteness of girlish bloom. She
got only a reflected light on his face, yet she could see that he
was trying to identify her with the little brown girl he had found
playing romances in the cyclone cellar, the half-seen girl at the
camp-fire beside the trail from Sandoval County, who had just been
making—as she told him—a full hand in a long, hard cattle drive, the
dusty, unkempt rider of that last interview in the little hollow by
the creek, so few months ago.
“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “why didn’t you give me a chance to see
you before? You must have been out here in Encinal County several
months.”
“Exactly three, Pearse.” Hilda’s eyes were dancing. “I’ve just about
finished my first term with Miss Ferguson. She’s a splendid teacher.
You’ll be interested to know about my studies. That’s what you said
in your letter.”
“My letter?” Pearse looked foolish.
“Yes,” nodding her head seriously. “It was an awfully good letter,
Pearse—sort of noble—but it scared me, too. I was hardly hoping you
would speak to me if you met me on the street over here. It was such
a relief to have you ask me to dance to-night—as though we were
really friends, after all.”
“Oh, come, Hilda—it wasn’t as bad as all that, was it?” he pleaded.
“Or worse.” Her delicate, three-cornered face was all eyes. She
caught her breath and took the plunge. “And—and I hadn’t heard then,
didn’t know till late this afternoon—about—about your going to
Galveston.”
That was as far as she could trust her voice. A curious darkening of
everything—darting lights in it that were like pain. Pearse’s voice
speaking swiftly.
“Oh, that’ll be all off—now I’ve seen you.”
What did that mean? What could it mean? Had she heard it right? Yes,
for he was going on:
“Couldn’t drive me out of Encinal County—while you’re in it, Hilda.
Remember those days in your old cyclone cellar at the Sorrows? I’ll
never forget them—that’s certain.”
He would never forget. Ah, but he’d not reminded her of them before
with such glowing eyes, spoken of them in such a tone!
“But you were going to Galveston to be—” she couldn’t finish. The
words, “to be married,” just wouldn’t come. Pearse didn’t seem to
notice. He was all taken up with her—with the fact that they were
sitting there together on the porch edge, people all around, but no
one paying any attention to them.
“Yes,” he said finally, “I was going down to the wedding. Several
from the ranch are. Fanny May’s marrying our assistant manager, you
know, and she’s the manager’s niece. Nice girl. But you and I aren’t
interested—are we?”
All Hilda’s forces deserted in a body to the enemy. The overwhelming
sweetness of the moment frightened her into hasty speech.
“Oh, Pearse,” she whispered, “I—do you know why I came over here?
Uncle Hank didn’t really want me to. I could see that. But he let me
choose—and I chose to come—because you were here. I did. It’s the
truth.”
People at the tub, getting lemonade. Too close to risk even another
whispered word. Pearse reached down into the shadows and caught a
slim hand that swung over the porch edge. The last time he had held
it, it was a brown little fist, the palm showing small round
callouses from ungloved use. Now three months at the Alamositas,
under the tuition of a lady who believed in, and honored, the
tradition of lily-white feminine fingers, had brought it into its
own. The Rensselaer hand, famous through generations for its pink
palm, tapering fingers and filbert nails, lay in Pearse’s and when
those slim fingers curled up and clasped his own, they took a grasp
upon his heartstrings.
“It’s awkward—your being with those people,” he said, when they
again had a chance not to be overheard. “But we’ll manage.”
“You don’t seem to find Fayte much in your way.” Hilda laughed a
little, because she was so happy.
“Not much.” Pearse’s tone was fairly preoccupied.
“I really must give him the next dance,” Hilda sighed. “But I don’t
want to ride home with him—and I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Of course you won’t. I’ll see that you don’t. Here he comes now.
Well—the dance—if you must.” And he helped her up.
From the doorway behind them Fayte’s voice, raised in a curious
jeering anger, answered some one there:
“I put my gun back on, because I want it on, Billy Grainger. I’m
liable to catch cold without it.”
He strode through the door. They got the outline of his figure in
the light, with the bulge the weapon made under his coat.
“Oh—don’t have any trouble with him,” Hilda whispered. “You heard
him. He’s armed.”
“And I’m not armed,” said Pearse, quite loud enough for Fayte to
hear. “There won’t be any trouble, Hilda. Don’t you be scared.” Then
to Fayte, himself. “Hilda and I are old friends. She may have told
you? Well—I want to be sure of it, because she’s going to give you
this dance—I suppose that’s what you came after?—and as a friend of
hers I want you to take off that gun you’re packing before she does
so.”
“I’ll take it off when she asks me to,” Fayte returned, but there
was no real defiance in his voice, and when Hilda made the request,
he was rather glad to be rid of it.
Fayte had his dance. Then there were other partners for Hilda—many
of them; she could get out of dancing with him again. Pearse had
gone straight to Mrs. Marchbanks, and now sat beside her, talking to
her. Hilda wondered what they were saying. Later, she saw him
dancing with Maybelle.
When Fayte caught sight of this couple, his sister plainly with her
whole battery of fascinations brought to bear, he was furious. The
waltz over, he got her outside and began:
“You dance with Pearse Masters just once more, Miss, and I’ll see
what dad’s got to say about the man you rode over here with
to-night.”
“Let go of me.” Maybelle shook her arm free. The two dark faces so
alike confronted. “I rode over here with you and Hilda. If it comes
to telling things to pa——I guess I’ll have a little something to say
that you don’t want told. Who fixed it for me to ride with
Gene——while you went on with Hilda?”
She turned and went back into the house; her brother, swearing under
his breath, flung away toward the corral for such consolation as was
to be found among the rougher fellows who were drinking down there.
Within, the Grainger dance, a great success from the start, was in
full swing.
“They need one more couple here,” Pearse Masters greeted Maybelle as
she reëntered. “Come on,” and they joined a set where Hilda and
Billy Grainger stood as one of the head couples. Big John Martin,
famous all over the range for his improvisations, was “calling off,”
dealing heavily in freehand epithet, comment and admonition.
“Now balance—balance all—and cut ’em to one side,
Swing—_swing_! Now chase your squirrels as fast as you can ride!”
There was applause and laughter from both dancers and lookers-on.
“Gents to the center. All Hippity-hop;
Hipp’s the youngest calf of all the blame’ crop.”
The ancient grinned. Some of the boys sounded a mild “Yip-pee!”
“Ladies, circle ’em, circle ’em, then,
Cut your partners out of the pen.”
Big John’s admiring eye encountered Maybelle.
“Miss Maybelle of the Alamo-seet,
She’s the lightest on her feet.”
“Yip-pee! Johnnie, old boy, come again!”
“First couple to the center—Bill, stir your lazy bones,
And lead the figger pretty with the beauty from Lame Jones
Yonder on the side porch there’s a tub of lemonade.
Swing—swing your partners. All promen—ade.”
Supper was to have been served at twelve o’clock; but a little after
eleven the dust kicked up by the dancing feet from the hard earth
floor became so thick that they could scarcely see each other’s
faces. Even Big John’s stentorian tones broke off occasionally in a
sort of barking snort. The company had just retired somewhat worsted
from a polka, when an inspired genius in cowboy boots and clinking
spurs He observed with a bucket of water sprinkling the floor.
“Hi, hi, you Red LeGraw!” bellowed Big John from his seat on the
edge of the musicians’ table. “For the Lord’s sake, what you doin’?
Quit that! Do you aim to bog this dance down right here?”
LeGraw stopped and confronted Martin, the bucket in his left hand,
while he gesticulated with his right, flinging large drops of water
into the bystanders’ eyes.
“Well, I’ve had two partners mighty nigh choked to death, an’ I
ain’t a-goin’ to—”
Big Martin sneezed at this point, a sneeze that fairly shook the
solid adobe walls. Then he began to get off the edge of the table.
LeGraw set down the bucket and squared his shoulders. There was a
backward movement in the crowd about. But Billy Grainger’s voice
fell soothingly on the disturbance.
“Aw, say, boys, don’t worry about it. Supper’s ready, anyhow. Come
on, people, and eat. We’ll get this floor fixed by the time you’re
done your suppers.”
Out to the side yard went the company, sniffling and Wiping its
eyes, and streamed over to the tables made of rough boards laid on
barrels, where the barbecued meats were served with bread, potatoes
roasted in the ashes, coffee in tin cups, and pies, cakes,
preserves, and sweetmeats, that had come from scores of baskets.
Fayte, with Hilda, was among the first to go; Maybelle and Lefty
Adams followed close. Pearse Masters, with an eye on their
movements, took out Mrs. Burkett, from over Caliente way, a
comparatively new neighbor of the Flying M household, and a warm
friend of young Masters. They sat just across from the Flying M
party.
Hilda, intensely aware of his presence, did not lift her eyes to
look at him. She never knew what she ate, or if she ate at all. They
walked back to the house after supper, Pearse and jolly, loud-voiced
Mrs. Burkett somewhere over to the left of Hilda and Fayte in the
semi-obscurity; and that cheek of Hilda’s, that shoulder and arm,
seemed to her to glow and palpitate in great electric waves, as she
answered Fayte at hasty, joyous random.
In the house, the floor had been, as Big Martin somewhat
discontentedly expressed it, “hoed off into pretty decent shape.”
Presently came “the roundup,” the cowboy’s own cotillion, in which
the couples are all in one great set, each pair going through every
all-around figure. Pearse came and asked Hilda, and with a throb of
joy touched with fear, she rose. Under cover of the round-up’s
boisterous romping, and during the long waits, these two talked
eagerly, swiftly.
“You’re not going to ride home with that fellow, Hilda.”
“I don’t want to, Pearse, but—”
“You’re not going to—dear.”
The final word was so low that Hilda didn’t actually hear it—she was
only thrillingly certain that it was there.
At the end of that dance, the Alamnositas party was leaving. Pearse
must have known that. He went right along with Mrs. Marchbanks,
gathering wraps and belongings, carrying Jinnie. Hilda saw, with a
sinking heart, that her pony, saddled, stood near the buggy along
with Fayte’s and Maybelle’s. There was Maybelle herself. Fayte was
coming from the corral. Lefty Adams rode up.
The buggy was double-seated, carrying four. Pearse pushed past Lefty
Adams, tucked in robes and bundles, around the children, and reached
a hand to help Hilda with:
“Hilda’s going to ride home with you, Mrs. Marchbanks. She’s too
tired for the pony. Lefty will lead it over. Good night.”
“Well, I must say—” Mrs. Marchbanks unconsciously lifted the lines.
The shivering impatient ponies sprang away at a lope. What Mrs.
Marchbanks must say would have to be said on the way home, for her
hands were now full looking after the team she was driving.
And, oddly enough to Hilda, no further mention of the matter was
made during the drive. Miss Ferguson saw nothing strange in the new
arrangement. An eastern woman, it seemed to her natural enough that
a girl who had raced to the Grainger ranch and danced as much as
Hilda had, should need rest. It was in the hall at home, in front of
her own bedroom door that Mrs. Marchbanks said,
“Hilda, I’ll have to speak to the colonel in the morning about this.
You know—or maybe you didn’t know?—that he doesn’t allow any of the
J I C men on the ranch.”
No need to answer that. Pearse hadn’t come on the ranch. He hadn’t
offered to. But how splendidly he’d handled the situation. How Fayte
gave ground before him. She went silently into her room and shut the
door.