A DESERTION
WHEN the afternoon waned, and Godfrey did not follow her, Gerty was
roused to uneasiness. Had she angered him by refusing to make the
definite promise? Could it be love, the sort of love she wanted,
if he could stay away like this when they could have the camp to
themselves, every one down at the break, no Hardins running in every
minute? Their first chance, and Godfrey slighting it! Something was
wrong. The Godfrey who had rushed on work like a glad hungry tiger, was
incomprehensible to her. Something must have happened.
She ruffled down to a disordered mess-tent. Wooster and one of the
Reclamation Service men were leaving as she went in. She had the table
to herself. MacLean, Jr., untidy, his clothes wet and dirty, came in
to snatch a bite, as she passed out, gay, indifferent. No Godfrey
in sight! Nor waiting for her in her tent. He would surely come
that evening, knowing that she would be alone! She arranged without
conscious thought the setting for a scene of pretty domesticity in the
ramada. After an hour or more, she tossed down the fluffy sewing and
picked up a novel, her work within reach of her hand. The approach of
her own climax dulled the printed sensations.
The little watch Tom had given her for an almost forgotten birthday
set the pace for her resentment. Nine, ten, eleven! How dared he treat
her so? She blew out the lamps when she found that she was shaking with
anger, and undressed in the dark. She could not see him, if he came
now, her self-control all gone! But she could not go to bed. She stood
in her darkened tent, shaken by her angry passions. Cruel, these men
to her. That black moment stripped her thoughts to nakedness. If she
had any other refuge, she would never forgive him, never. But what else
could she do? Where could she go? Those lonely, straitened widowhoods!
Not for her. She had been poor long enough. Even her little importance,
as the wife of Thomas Hardin, was gone. She dared not lose her hold on
Godfrey. It came to her then, how slight her hold on him was. A rover
with a conquering voice like that! Keep him tied to her wrist like a
tamed falcon?
Suppose that he were only trifling with her? What was that paper he had
thrust in her hand? Where had she laid it? Had she dropped it on the
way from the river? She groped for a match, and lighted a candle. Not
in the dress she had on, for none of her gowns had pockets. Not on the
floor, nor on the piano! There! She had dropped candle grease all over
the green mandarin skirt, but she didn’t care. A fond message, perhaps,
and she had lost it--out there somewhere, food for horrid talk! Her
bureau drawers were ransacked in a frenzy of fear and haste. Suddenly,
she remembered putting it in her handkerchief box.
Candle grease dripped over the yellow paper. It was a copy of a
telegram to Godfrey’s lawyer. “Start divorce proceedings at once. Any
grounds possible. Back soon. Godfrey.”
The frightened blood resumed its normal flow. If he had done this, for
her, then she had not lost him. But she had seen what a desert her
life would be, if she let him slip through her fingers. She couldn’t
endure Tom Hardin. And Rickard--they would expect her to play the glad
grandmother to their young romance! She couldn’t get away quick enough.
It was then the courage came to her. She would not be there to be told
of it. An apparent elopement, why had she never thought of that before?
That would cement their bond. Her scruples could grow on the road. Oh,
she could manage Godfrey! They would startle the world, a continent!
Godfrey was well known. It would seem splendid; they would believe her
happy. She would be happy! When she could get away from them all, she
would forget the look that sobered Rickard’s eyes when they fell on
Innes. That still had power to sting her. Away, she would find that
it was only anger. She did not care for him--she hated them all. If
Godfrey gave her happiness, she would keep him transported. She knew
she could. If only she did not feel so tired! So strangely old!
She blew out the candle, and went to the door of the tent-house. A
low line of smoke clouds shut out the river. Lines of hatred took
possession of her face. No one could have called it childish or pretty
then. There they all were, the people who had wrecked her life, the
Hardins, Rickard, Godfrey even, whom they would take from her if they
got the chance. She would not give them that chance! She would go
with him. She whipped herself into a pale imitation of excitement,
telling herself that Godfrey’s importance would make their affair
internationally conspicuous.
She was going to be happy. Perhaps that would cloud the mockery of
Rickard’s quizzical eyes. She was quite sure that she hated him. And
Tom? She would not let herself think of him! Had he not sacrificed her
youth, taken her into a country which ravages a woman’s beauty, keeping
her there until her chance to escape, her youth, is almost gone? Her
years smote her. She remembered that she must go to bed if she were to
have any looks in the morning.
When Godfrey came to her the next afternoon, penitent, refreshed after
a long morning’s sleep, he found a charming hostess. Self-controlled,
she listened to the story of the capture, and deflected his apology.
Serpent-wise, she smiled at him and called him a great foolish boy! She
was shy about his telegram. She fled through a forest of phrases and he
found he was running after her.
“You must go!” Enchantingly distant when he tried to reach her hand!
“We can’t keep this up.” How tired she felt!
“I can’t go without you,” he cried. He had discovered her
interpretation of his telegram, and it delighted him; he began to
believe it his own intention. “I can’t leave you. You will elude me. I
shall carry you off with me. I can’t leave you to your scruples, Gerty,
dear. I respect you for them, darling, you know that. But I’ve got to
keep near you to strengthen your will.”
She shut her eyes because she could not force fervor into them; his
were demanding it. How easy it had been! He was as plastic clay in her
hands. He thought that she was suffering. Life had been hard on her.
Poor little girl!
“I know. You shrink from it all. Don’t you think I know, dear? You
dread the steps that will free you--for he has been your husband--you
remember that; you will forget how he has treated you. You need me
beside you to help you. Let’s cut the knot. That makes it all easy.
To-night!”
“Not to-night. Maybe, to-morrow,” whispered Gerty, and then she managed
a few tears, and he was allowed to kiss her. It was all arranged before
he left the ramada. They were to leave together the next day.
She had let him sketch their trip to New York. She did not tell him
that she was going to stay in Los Angeles until the divorces were
obtained, unless she had to go to Reno. Plenty of time for scruples to
send forth long branches of regret between Yuma and Los Angeles; her
object would be accomplished by their leaving together. He would feel
that he owed her his name.
Of course, Gerty must do it the conventional way! She would have used
rope ladders had they been needed. The conventional note was pinned to
her bureau scarf.
Innes was with Tom when he found it. They came in together from the
river. Neither had noticed the odd looks from the men as they passed
through the encampment. A dozen men had seen Hardin’s wife leave for
the North with Godfrey.
Gerty’s letter told Tom that it was all over. She had tried to stand
it, to be true even through his cruelty, but a feeling stronger than
she was made her true to herself, and so true at last to him! Falsely
dramatic, every word of it, romantically cruel.
Innes’ revulsion lacked speech. The fulfilment of her intuitions left
a smudge; indelible, she knew when she looked at Tom’s face. She
stretched out her hand mutely for the letter. The common blatter
sickened her. She could offer no comfort. His eyes told her it was
worse than death.
He struck off her hand when it touched his shoulder. Gerty’s hand had
coerced him that way. He was done with softness.
His silence oppressed her. This was a man she did not know;
inarticulate, smitten. She told herself that even a sister was an
intruder--but she was afraid to leave him alone. She went out,
pitifully, questioning those tense face-muscles. She took a station by
her own tent door. She would not go down to dinner. Tom, in that mood,
frightened her. For hours, she watched his tent. When it grew dark, she
could no longer endure it. He did not answer her knock. She found him
where she had left him. But it was a different Hardin. The backward
look now for him. He had buried, in those hours, his optimism. His life
was lived. Gerty’s blow had made of him an old man.
She forced herself toward the volcano’s edge; and the swift eruption
scorched her. It was the pitiable wreck of dignity, of pride. His words
were incoherent; his wrath involved his sister, crouching in tears.
When he was done, he began hurling clothes and brushes indiscriminately
into his Gladstone.
“You are not going after them?” She had not gathered his plan.
“Yes, I’m going after them,” he shouted. “I’m not wanted, you mean. An
uninvited guest. I’ll give them a chance for reciprocity.”
She caught his arm. “Tom,” she pleaded, “you can’t go like this. Wait
until you are calm. Until you can see this clearly.” She thought then
that he meant to kill Godfrey.
His plan, when at last she pieced together his distorted idea, was so
sullen, so determined, that her slight weapons could not cope with
it. He had promised to protect Gerty, he kept repeating. Well, he
would keep his vows, if she didn’t. He drew, she could see, a grim
satisfaction from that antithesis. He would keep _his_ vows. He would
make that scoundrel promise on oath to divorce the other woman and
marry the woman whom he had dishonored. Unless he got that promise,
Hardin swore to kill him. Pacing up and down the canvased cage of a
tent, he delivered himself of his fury.
Innes shrank from him, the man she did not know. The coarse streak was
uncovered in all its repulsiveness. Old Jasper Gingg’s face leered
through the features of his descendant. Dementia and atavism glared
through his eyes. His hate was disfiguring. “I’ll protect my wife. I’ll
keep my vows.”
He turned on Innes suddenly. She was crying, a huddled heap on the
couch. “I’ve had enough crying--between you and Gerty. Will you get
out? I’ve got to have some sleep.”
Through her sobs, he could make out that she was afraid to leave him.
He stood staring at her, frowning at her fright, her intrusion.
“Well, then, I’ll go. I’m used to having to leave my own tent. A dog’s
life.” He flung out into the night.
She cried to him to come back, that she would go. “Don’t, Tom! Tom!”
Her voice rang through the encampment. The echo warned her. She saw
questioning slits of light from tents across the trapezium. She shut
the door.
She stood in the room he had left; the desecrated home of Tom Hardin.
It was the wreck she had foreseen. She would sit up for him. She could
not sit there watching that hateful, leering mandarin skirt, daubed
with candle-drippings; those sketches; everything recalled Gerty
Hardin’s wistful baby smile. She could not bring herself to lie on that
couch. She thrust her arms into Tom’s overcoat, buttoning it around
her, and went out to wait for him. His own cot was there.
A light shone from Rickard’s window. The peace of the stars, the light
from the window, smoothed out her terrors. She could picture Tom
walking out his trouble, crying out his hurt to those same distant
stars.
How fierce the resentment against pain! The atom beating his head in
revolt against the universe! That particular sting, Tom’s; another kind
of sorrow the next man’s heritage! But the stars know it, those worlds
of burned-out griefs; to them how tenderly humorous, she thought, must
be each individual resistance. A short span, a little joy, perhaps; a
little sorrow; rebellion;--and then the stars again.
To-night, it was all sorrow. Down there, under the rocks, lay Estrada.
Tripped to his end by the prophecy of the general, the son the
corner-stone of his undertaking! In the river of his plan the best of
them lay sleeping!
Who can measure the influence upon youth the legends of its country,
the effect of its brave early history? Would any of those coming later
fail to find the thrill in the story of the man who had visioned the
idea, the son whose eager service to a comrade had consecrated it?
A short span:--and a little joy, perhaps! Her eyes sought the light
from Rickard’s window. A little joy,--and then the stars--again!
Slowly, the universe cradled her. She was in her first deep sleep when
a step passed her. A hand fumbled uncertainly over the surface of the
door; knocked gently. A heavy bundle dropped to the threshold. Again
the figure passed the occupied cot, and paused, going on again, more
softly.
No quickened pulse told MacLean, Jr., that it was Innes Hardin sleeping
in her brother’s cot.