THE CLOSING OF A DOOR
The six young people on their ponies came stragglingly together at
Alamositas headquarters. They checked there a little awkwardly, as
though waiting for the big family carriage to come up.
Pearse had ranged his horse up to Hilda’s as they left the picnic
place on the Caliente, and without invitation or permission, or
anything being said one way or the other, had ridden the whole
twelve miles beside her. Maybelle, in an excited, defiant mood that
Hilda had never seen in her before, laughing loud and playing
tricks, skylarked with Lefty and Sam, galloping, all dust and noise,
sometimes ahead, sometimes behind the other three. Fayte hung
persistently at Hilda’s other side. He looked black, but said
nothing. It was clear to her—and the assurance thrilled her—that he
was afraid of Pearse. The Mexican boy ran out and opened the front
yard gate, and Maybelle, leading the way, called gayly:
“Come in, all of you. Mr. Masters, stay and have supper—the boys are
going to,” paying no attention to her brother’s angry, astonished
glare. But Lefty and Sam rode on, with hasty, muttered excuses.
Pearse shook his head at the supper invitation, but moved with them
slowly through the gate.
“I’ll run on ahead and get things started.” Maybelle jumped from her
pony. “Come on, Fayte—you help me.”
“I’m only waiting till the colonel gets here, Miss
Maybelle”—Pearse’s tone was cool and civil—“I’ll be on my way
then—thank you just the same for your invitation.”
Pearse’s words covered the fact that, having come on Alamositas land
against a settled understanding, he had no intention of seeming to
run away before he had shown himself here to the man who had issued
that order. Maybelle stopped where she was, the rein of her pony
over her shoulder; Fayte didn’t even dismount; they waited in
silence, drawn back to the edge of the gravel so that the big
carriage, when it came, would have room to turn. In it rolled
finally, and it seemed to Hilda that every one riding in it was
staring at Pearse, as it made the sweep and the colonel threw his
lines to the waiting Mexican boy, got out and turned to help out his
wife, Miss Ferguson and the children.
“Well, Pa,” Maybelle strolled forward with this new, jaunty air of
hers, “aren’t you going to speak a word? I don’t even remember
hearing you say back there at the creek that you were much obliged
to this young man that shot the steer and kept your oldest daughter
from getting killed. You are obliged to him—aren’t you? Even if you
could spare me pretty easy—there’s Hilda to think about. What could
you have said to Mr. Pearsall if she’d been killed?”
So far, the colonel had kept his back to them; now he twisted around
and looked at Maybelle, then past her at the others. His glance
lingered longest on his son, and Fayte swung down with the air of
one who had got an order, came around to help Hilda off, but she
shook her head and sat in her saddle, waiting for what the colonel
would do or say. Maybelle laughed hardily.
“Make you acquainted with Mr. Masters, Colonel Marchbanks,” she went
on. “Ever meet the gentleman before? Hilda has. She says she’s known
him ever since she was a baby.”
“She does?”
There fell a curious silence after the colonel’s two words, only the
movements of the ponies, Jinnie’s tired whimpering as she pulled at
her mother’s hand, the creaking of saddle leather making itself
heard. At last Marchbanks, looking Pearse up and down, observed
dryly:
“Funny Pearsall never mentioned you to me.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
Pearse’s reply seemed to cover a good deal. But what it covered was
not for explanation here.
“You don’t? Then you’re not a friend of his—only of Hilda’s? That
it?”
“That’s about it,” agreed Pearse coolly.
Hilda clutched her bridle rein in fingers that shook, as she looked
at the two men facing each other.
“Pearsall is Hilda’s guardian,” Marchbanks said sharply; and once
again it flitted across Hilda’s mind how, years ago, he had tried to
oust Uncle Hank from that place. “I’m not. But till you have his
permission you can’t visit her in my house.”
“I had no intention of attempting to do so, Colonel Marchbanks,”
Pearse returned steadily. “Good night, everybody.” He wheeled his
pony. “Ride with me to the gate, Hilda,” and she found herself
following him, the people they left at first letting them go
silently and then seeming to begin to quarrel about it.
“Pearse,” she cried, bringing her horse up beside his, “what a
shameful way to treat you—after—They know well enough that Maybelle
and I might have been killed if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Never mind about me. I don’t care how they treat me.” He glanced
carelessly back toward the group at the porch edge. “It’s you I’m
thinking of.”
“Well, I care!” Hilda’s voice shook with anger. “I feel as though I
never wanted to see one of them again. I’d like to go straight home,
if it wasn’t for—”
“Better not do that,” said Pearse uncertainly. “Not right away,
anyhow. But you and I are going to be friends, aren’t we, Hilda?
Even if I have to go over to the Three Sorrows and eat humble pie.”
“Oh—would you come?” cried Hilda breathlessly.
“Of course I’ll come,” Pearse said. “But your Uncle Hank, as you
call him, may treat me about as Marchbanks did just now. Had you
ever thought of that?”
“He wouldn’t. And if he did—”
“Well, if he did—you’d have to choose between us—wouldn’t you,
Hilda?”
“I couldn’t—Uncle Hank—” The words came almost unconsciously. A
moment to think and Hilda never would have said them. For the Pearse
she’d known before to-day—before the night at the dance at
Grainger’s—would, she was sure, at the sound of them have ridden
away and left her. This Pearse didn’t. He held in his impatient
pony, and they sat looking at each other, close.
“That’s the way you choose between us, is it?” he asked.
“I’m not choosing,” Hilda cried in distress. “I haven’t any choice.
You don’t understand, Pearse. If it was my own father, I might. But
Uncle Hank didn’t owe me anything—he wasn’t paying a debt he owed
me—and he’s given everything. He’s got nobody but me. I couldn’t.
Don’t ask it.”
Through this snatched moment of talk, they had been conscious of the
wrangling of the Marchbanks family, back there by the porch. Now the
voices went up to an angry climax; some one started down the path
toward them.
“All right,” said Pearse hastily. “Then you won’t go—just yet,
anyhow? Not till I’ve seen you again? ... Here comes our friend
Marchbanks.” Pearse reached for her hand. Holding it, speaking low
and rapidly: “Stay here till I get the chance,” His hand tightened
down hard on the one he held in a farewell pressure. Then he
loosened the reins, started his horse, and said in a good loud
voice, “See you soon again, Hilda. Good-by for the present,” and
went off at a lope.
Of course the colonel heard that last—and, of course, Pearse
intended he should. Exasperated, unable to retaliate, as she went
through the gate he did that unforgivable thing—reached up and took
hold of her pony’s bit with a jerk.
Instantly she was out of the saddle. She’d not go back to the house,
led like a bad child. Marchbanks flung the rein to the waiting boy
and followed at once. Not a soul on the porch now. They went through
the front door almost together.
Hilda walked into the whole family; Fayte over at the farther end of
the big dining-room, apparently getting himself something to eat at
the sideboard; Maybelle, half-way up the stairs, looking back across
her shoulder, making a little sign to Hilda—Maybelle was thinking
only of her own affairs and the possibility of Hilda, under
pressure, letting out something about them; the children were
pulling at their mother, begging for their bread and milk. Mrs.
Marchbanks tried to shove them off with Miss Ferguson. They didn’t
want to go with the teacher. The two women were moving slowly in the
direction of the dining-room arch when Mrs. Marchbanks caught sight
of her husband and Hilda at the front door. She came toward them.
“Hold on a minute, Hilda,” the colonel was saying, “I don’t want you
to make any mistake about this. Understand—you can’t stay in my
house and keep up an affair with a fellow like Pearse Masters.”
Hilda stopped short; her face flamed as though it had been slapped.
“I’m not keeping up an affair—with anybody. You’ve no right to say
such a thing to me, Colonel Marchbanks!” She looked about; all the
eyes were upon her, “And I think I’d better not stay in your house,
anyhow.”
“Now, don’t go and make her mad, Lee.” Mrs. Marchbanks came over.
“She’s tired and excited. Of course she’s going to stay with us.
We’re all sort of upset this evening. It’s no time to pick at the
girl about—about— Run on to your room, Hilda, and wash up for
supper. I’ll talk to this cross man. It’ll be all right.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Marchbanks, I don’t want any supper,”
Hilda said; but she moved toward the stairs from which Maybelle had
disappeared. The children were established at the dining table,
eating noisily, poor, bewildered Miss Ferguson trying to wait on
them. Fayte stood, a sandwich in his hand, backed against the
sideboard, laughing silently at her.
“She’ll stay, all right,” he called, half tauntingly.
“I’ll not!” At his words and tone Hilda whirled from the lowest step
of the stairs. “I will not. You’ll see!”