CHAPTER XXIII—A WORLD-OLD LONGING

Looking back upon the long period of Taylor’s convalescence, Marion

Harlan could easily understand why she had surrendered to the patient.

In the first place, she had liked Taylor from the very beginning—even

when she had affected to ridicule him on the train coming toward

Dawes. She had known all along that she had liked him, and on that

morning when she had visited the Arrow to ask about her father Taylor

had woven a magnetic spell about her.

That meeting and the succeeding ones had merely strengthened her

liking for him. But the inevitable intimacy between nurse and patient

during several long weeks of convalescence had wrought havoc with her

heart.

Taylor’s unfailing patience and good humor had been another factor in

bringing about her surrender. It was hard for her to believe that he

had fought a desperate battle which had resulted in the death of three

men and the wounding of Carrington and himself; for there were no

savage impulses or passions gleaming in the eyes that followed her

every movement while she had been busy in the sickroom for some weeks.

Nor could she see any lingering threat in them, promising more

violence upon his recovery. He seemed to have forgotten that there had

been a fight, and during the weeks that she had been close to him he

had not even mentioned it. He had been content, it seemed, to lounge

in a chair and listen to her while she read, to watch her; and there

had been times when she had seen a glow in his eyes that told her

things that she longed to hear him say.

The girl’s surrender had not been conveyed to Taylor in words, though

she was certain he knew of it; for the signs of it must have been

visible, since she could feel the blushes in her cheeks at times when

a word or a look passing between them was eloquent with the proof of

her aroused emotions.

It was on a morning about six weeks following the incident of the

shooting that she and Taylor had walked to the river. Upon a huge flat

rock near the edge of a slight promontory they seated themselves,

Taylor turned slightly, so that she had only a profile view of him.

Taylor’s thoughts were grave. For from where he and the girl sat—far

beyond the vast expanse of green-brown grass that carpeted the big

level—he could see a huge cleft in some mountains. And the sight of

that cleft sent Taylor’s thoughts leaping back to the days he and

Larry Harlan had spent in these mountains, searching for—and

finding—that gold for which they had come. And inevitably as the

contemplation of the mountains brought him recollections of Larry

Harlan he was reminded of his obligation to his old-time partner. And

the difficulties of discharging that obligation were increasing, it

seemed.

At least, Taylor’s duty was not quite clear to him. For while Parsons

still retained a place in the girl’s affections he could not turn over

to her Larry’s share of the money he had received from the sale of the

mine.

And Parsons did retain the girl’s affections—likewise her confidence

and trust. A man must be blind who could not see that. For the girl

looked after him as any dutiful girl might care for a father she

loved. Her attitude toward the man puzzled Taylor, for, he assured

himself, if she would but merely study the man’s face perfunctorily

she could not have failed to see the signs of deceit and hypocrisy in

it. All of which convinced Taylor of the truth of the old adage: “Love

is blind.”

One other influence which dissuaded Taylor from an impulse to turn

over Larry’s money to the girl was his determination to win her on his

own merits. That might have seemed selfishness on his part, but now

that the girl was at the Arrow he could see that she was well supplied

with everything she needed. Her legacy would not buy her more than he

would give her gratuitously. And he did not want her to think for a

single moment he was trying to buy her love. That, to his mind was

gross commercialism.

Marion was not looking at the mountains; she was watching Taylor’s

profile—and blushing over thoughts that came to her.

For she wished that she might have met him under different

conditions—upon a basis of equality. And that was not the basis upon

which they stood now. She had come to the Arrow because she had no

other place to go, vindicating her action upon Taylor’s declaration

that he had been her father’s friend.

That had been a tangible premise, and was sufficient to satisfy, or to

dull, any surface scruples he might have had regarding the propriety

of the action. But her own moral sense struck deeper than that. She

felt she had no right to be here; that Taylor had made the offer of a

partnership out of charity. And so long as she stayed here, dependent

upon him for food and shelter, she could not permit him to speak a

word of love to her—much as she wanted him to speak it. Such was the

puritanical principle driven deep into the moral fabric of her

character by a mother who had set her a bad example.

This man had fought for her; he had risked his life to punish a man

who had wronged her in thought, only; and she knew he loved her. And

yet, seated so near him, she could not put out the hand that longed to

touch him.

However, her thoughts were not tragic—far from it! Youth is hopeful

because it has so long to wait. And there was in her heart at this

moment a presentiment that time would sever the bonds of propriety

that held her. And the instincts of her sex—though never having been

tested in the arts of coquetry—told her how to keep his heart warm

toward her until that day, having achieved her independence, she could

meet him on a basis of equality.

“Mr. Squint,” she suddenly demanded; “what are you thinking about?”

He turned and looked full at her, his eyes glowing with a grave humor.

“I’d tell you if I thought you’d listen to me,” he returned,

significantly. “But it seems that every time I get on that subject you

poke fun at me. Is there _anything_ I can do to show you that I love

you—that I want you more than any man ever wanted a woman?”

“Yes—there is.” Her smile was tantalizing.

“Name it!” he demanded, eagerly.

“Stop being tragic. I don’t like you when you are tragic—or when you

are talking nonsense about love. I have heard so much of it!”

“From me, I suppose?” he said, gloomily.

He had turned his head and she shot a quick, eloquent glance at him.

“From you—and several others,” she said, deliberately.

There was a resentful, hurt look in his eyes when he turned and looked

at her. “Just how many?” he demanded, somewhat gruffly.

“Jealous!” she said, shaking her finger at him. “Do you want a bill of

particulars? Because if you do,” she added, looking demurely downward,

“I should have to take several days to think it over. You see, a woman

can’t catalogue everything men say to her—for they say so many silly

things!”

“Love isn’t silly,” he declared. He looked rather fiercely at her.

“What kind of a man do you like best?” he demanded.

She blushed. “I like a big man—about as big as you,” she said. “A man

with fierce eyes that glower at a woman when she talks to him of

love—she insisting that she hasn’t quite fallen in love—with _him_. I

like a man who is jealous of the reputation of the woman he

_professes_ to love; a man who is jealous of other men; a man who

isn’t so very good-looking, but who is a handsome man for all

that—because he is so very manly; a man who will fight and risk his

life for me.”

“Could you name such a man?” he said. There was a scornful gleam in

his eyes.

“I am looking at him this minute!” she said.

Grinning, for he knew all along that she had been talking of him, he

wheeled quickly and tried to catch her in his arms. But she slipped

off the rock and was around on the other side of it, keeping it

between them while he tried to catch her. Instinctively he realized

that the chase was hopeless, but he persisted.

“I’ll never speak to you again if you catch me!” she warned, her eyes

flashing.

“But you told me——”

“That I liked you,” she interrupted. “And liking a man isn’t——”

And then she paused and looked down, blushing, while Taylor, in the

act of vaulting over the rock, collapsed and sat on it instead, red of

face and embarrassed.

For within a dozen paces of them, and looking rather embarrassed and

self-conscious, himself, though with a twinkle in his eyes that made

Taylor’s cheeks turn redder—was Bud Hemmingway.

“I’m beggin’ your pardon,” said the puncher; “but I’ve come to tell

you that Neil Norton is here—again. He’s been settin’ on the porch for

an hour or two—he says. But I think he’s stretching it. Anyway, he’s

tired of waitin’ for you—he says—an’ he’s been wonderin’ if you was

goin’ to set on that boulder all day!”

Taylor slipped off the rock and started toward Bud, feigning

resentment.

Bud, his face agitated by a broad grin, deliberately winked at Miss

Harlan—though he spoke to Taylor.

“I’d be a little careful about how I went to jumpin’ off boulders—you

might bust your ankle again!”

And then Taylor grinned at Miss Harlan—who pretended a severity she

did not feel; while Bud, cackling mirthfully, went toward the

ranchhouse.