A GLIMPSE OF THE UNKNOWN
It was very late, so late that the sun entering at the south windows of
the room shone glaringly upon the white counterpane of his bed when
Craig awoke the next morning. Breakfast had long been over, but
throughout the unplastered ranch house the suggestion of coffee and the
tang of bacon still lingered. At home those odours would have aroused
slight sensations of pleasure in the man, even at this time of day; but
now and here they were distinctly welcome, distinctly inviting. With the
aid of a tin pail of water and a cracked queensware bowl, he made a
hasty toilet, soliloquised an opinion of a dressing-room without a
mirror, and descended the creaking stairs to the level below.
The main floor of the ranch house contained but three rooms. Of these,
it was the living-room which he entered. No one was about. The pipe
which he had smoked with his uncle before retiring the night before
remained exactly as he had put it down. His cap and gloves were still
beside it. Obviously there was no possibility of breakfast here, and he
moved toward the adjoining room. On his way he passed a hook where upon
arrival he had hung his riding blouse. Telltale with its litter of dust
and grass stems, it hung there now; and unconsciously he scowled at the
recollection it suggested.
Opening the door, he was face to face with a little fast-ticking cheaply
ornate clock. Its hands indicated eleven, and the man grimaced
tolerantly. As in the living-room, no human was present, but here the
indications for material sustenance were more hopeful. It was the
dining-room, and, although in the main the table had been cleared, at
one end a clean plate, flanked by a bone-handled knife and fork and an
old-fashioned castor, still remained. Moreover, from the third room, the
kitchen, he could now hear sounds of life. The fire in a cook-stove was
crackling cheerily. Above it, distinct through the thin partition, came
the sound of a girlish voice singing. There was no apparent effort at
time or at tune; it was uncultivated as the grass land all about; yet in
its freshness and unconsciousness it was withal distinctly pleasing. It
was a happy voice, a contented voice. Instinctively it bore a suggestion
of home and of quiet and of peace; like a kitten with drowsy eyes
purring to itself in the sunshine. A moment the visitor stood silent,
listening; then, his heavy shoes clumping on the uncarpeted floor, he
moved toward it. Instantly the song ceased, but he kept on, pushed open
the door gently, stepped inside.
"Good-morning!" he began, and then halted in an uncertainty he seldom
felt among women folk. He had met no one but his uncle the previous
night. Inevitably the preceding incident with his guide had produced a
mental picture. It was with the expectation of having this conception
personified that he had entered, to it he had spoken; then had come the
revelation, the halt.
"Good-morning!" answered a voice, one neither abnormally high nor
repressedly low, the kind of voice the man seldom heard in the society
to which he was accustomed--one natural, unaffected, frankly interested.
The owner thereof came forward, held out her hand. Two friendly brown
eyes smiled up at him from the level of his shoulder. "I know without
your introducing yourself that you're Mr. Craig," she welcomed. "Uncle
Landor told me before he left what to expect. He and Aunt Mary had to go
to town this morning. Meanwhile I'm the cook, and at your service," and
she smiled again.
For far longer than civility actually required, to the extreme limit of
courtesy and a shade beyond, in, fact, until it unmistakably sought to
be free, Clayton Craig retained that proffered hand. Against all the
canons of good breeding he stared. Answering, a trace of colour,
appearing at the brown throat, mounted higher and higher, reached the
soft oval cheeks, journeyed on.
"I beg your pardon," apologised the man. He met the accusing eyes
fairly, with a return of his old confidence. "You had the advantage of
me, you know. I was not forewarned what to expect."
It was the breaking of the ice, and they laughed together. The girl had
been working with arms bare to the elbow, and as now of a sudden she
rolled the sleeves down Craig laughed again; and in unconscious echo a
second later she joined. Almost before they knew it, there alone in the
little whitewashed kitchen with the crackling cook-stove and the
sunshine streaming in through the tiny-paned windows, they were friends.
All the while the girl went about the task of preparing a belated
breakfast they laughed and chatted--and drew nearer and nearer. Again
while Craig ate and at his command the girl sat opposite to entertain
him, they laughed and chatted. Still later, the slowly eaten meal
finished, while Elizabeth Landor washed the dishes and put everything
tidy and Craig from his seat on the bottom of an inverted basket
reversed the position of entertainer, they laughed and chatted. And
through it all, openly when possible, surreptitiously when it were wise,
the man gave his companion inspection. And therein he at first but
followed an instinct. Very, very human was Clayton Craig of Boston,
Suffolk County, Massachusetts, and very, very good to look upon was
brown-eyed, brown-skinned, brown-haired Elizabeth Landor. Neither had
thought of evil, had other thought than the innocent pleasure of the
moment that first morning while the tiny clock on the wall measured off
the swift-moving minutes. Good it is to be alive in sun-blessed South
Dakota on a frosty warm October day, doubly good when one is young; and
these two, the man and the girl, were both young. Months it takes, years
sometimes, in civilisation, with barriers of out on the prairie, alone,
with the pulse of nature throbbing, throbbing, insistently all about,
the process is very swift, so swift that an hour can suffice. No, not
that first hour wherein unconsciously they became friends, did the angel
with the big book record evil opposite the name of Clayton Craig; not
until later, not until he had had time to think, not until--.
But again we anticipate.
"I'm so glad you've come," the girl had ejaculated, "now when you have."
At last the work was over, and in unconscious comradery they sat side by
side on the broad south doorstep; the sun shining down full upon their
uncovered heads--smiling an unconscious blessing more potent than
formula of clergy. She was looking out as she spoke, out over the level
earth dazzling with its dancing heat waves, mysterious in its suggestion
of unfathomable silence, of limitless distance. "It's such a little time
now before I am going away, and Uncle Landor has talked of you so much,
particularly of late." A pause, a hesitating pause. "I suppose you'll
laugh at me, but I hope you'll stay here, for a time, anyway, after I'm
gone."
Clayton Craig, the listener, was not gazing out over the prairie. The
object at which he was looking was very near; so near that he had leaned
a trifle back the better to see, to watch. He shifted now until his
weight rested on his elbow, his face on his hand.
"You are going away, you say?" he echoed.
"Yes. I supposed you knew--that Uncle had told you." Despite an effort,
the tiny ears were reddening. She was very human also, was Elizabeth
Landor. "I am to be married soon."
"Married?" A long pause. "And to whom, please?" The voice was very low.
Redder than before burned the tiny ears. No more than she could keep
from breathing could she prevent telling her secret, her happiness, this
prairie girl; no more than she could prevent that accompanying telltale
scarlet flood.
"You didn't know it, but you've met him already," she confided. "You met
him last night." To her at this time there was no need of antecedent.
There was but one to whom the pronoun might refer. "It was he who showed
you here--How Landor."
For a long time--for he was thinking now, was Clayton Craig, and did not
answer--there was silence. Likewise the girl, her confession voiced,
said no more; but her colour came and went expectantly, tantalisingly,
and the eyes that still looked into the distance were unconscious of
what they saw. From his place the man watched the transparent pantomime,
read its meaning, stored the picture in his memory; but he did not
speak. A minute had already passed; but still he did not speak. He was
thinking of the night before, was the man, of that first look he had
received--and of what had followed. His eyes were upon the girl, but it
was of this he was thinking. Another minute passed. A big shaggy-haired
collie, guardian of the dooryard, paused in his aimless wandering about
the place to thrust a friendly muzzle into the stranger's hand; but even
then he did not respond. For almost the first time in his irresolute
life a definite purpose was taking form in the mind of Clayton Craig,
and little things passed him by. A third minute passed. The colour had
ceased playing on the face he watched now. The silence had performed its
mission. It was the moment for which he was waiting, and he was
prepared. Then it was the angel of the great book opened the volume and
made an entry; for then it was the watcher spoke.
"I met him last, night, you say?" It was the hesitating voice of one
whose memory is treacherous, "I have been trying to recall--Certainly
you must be mistaken. I saw no one last night except Uncle Landor and an
Indian cow-puncher with a comic opera name." He met the brown eyes that
were of a sudden turned upon him, frankly, innocently. "You must be
mistaken," he repeated.
Searchingly, at first suspiciously, then hesitatingly, with a return of
the colour that came as easily as a prairie wind stirs the down of a
milk-weed plant, Elizabeth Landor returned his look. It was an instinct
that at last caused her eyes to drop.
"No, I was not mistaken," she voiced. "How Landor is an Indian. It is he
I meant."
For a carefully timed pause, the space in which one recovers from
hearing the unbelievable, Craig was silent; then swiftly, contritely he
roused. "I beg a thousand pardons," he apologised. "I meant no
disrespect. I never dreamed--Forgive me." He had drawn very near. "I
wouldn't hurt you for the world. I--Please forgive me." He was silent.
"There's nothing to forgive." The girl's colour was normal again and she
met his eyes frankly, gravely.
"But there is," protested the man humbly. "Because he happened to be
minus a collar and had a red skin--I was an ass; an egregious,
blundering ass."
"Don't talk that way," hurriedly. "You merely did not know him, was all.
If you had been acquainted all your life as I have--" Against her will
she was lapsing into a defence, and she halted abruptly. "You were not
at fault."
Again for a carefully timed pause the man was silent. Then abruptly,
obviously, he changed the subject.
"You said you were going away," he recalled. "Is it to be a wedding
journey?"
"Yes," tensely.
"Tell me of it, please; I wish to hear."
"You would not be interested."
"Elizabeth--" syllabalised, reproachfully. "Am I not your cousin?"
No answer.
"Haven't you forgiven me yet?" The voice was very low. Its owner was
again very near.
"You'd laugh at me if I told you," repressedly. "You wouldn't
understand."
Slowly, meaningly, Clayton Craig drew away--resumed the former position;
the place from which, unobserved, he could himself watch.
"We're going away out there," complied the girl suddenly, reluctantly.
Her hand indicated the trackless waste to the right. "Just the two of us
are going: How and I. We'll take a pack horse and a tent and How's camp
kit and stay out there alone until winter comes." Against her will she
was warming to the subject, was unconsciously painting a picture to
please the solitary listener. "We'll have our ponies and ammunition and
plenty to read. The cowboys laugh at How because ordinarily he never
carries a gun; but he's a wonderful shot. We'll have game whenever we
want it. We'll camp when we please and move on when we please." Again
unconsciously she glanced at the listener to see the effect of her art.
"We'll be together, How and I, and free--free as sunshine. There'll be
nothing but winter, and that's a long way off, to bring us back. It's
what I've always wanted to do, from the time I can remember. How goes
away every year, and he's promised this once to take me along."
Suddenly, almost challengingly, she turned, facing the man her
companion. "Won't it be fine?" she queried abruptly.
"Yes," answered a voice politely, a voice with a shade of listlessness
in its depths, "fine indeed. And if you want anything at any time you
can go to the nearest ranch house. One always does forget something you
know."
"That's just what we can't do," refuted the girl swiftly. "That's the
best of it all. The Buffalo Butte is the last ranch that way, to the
west, until you get to the Hills. We probably won't see another human
being while we're gone. We'll be as much alone as though we were the
only two people in the world."
Craig hesitated; then he shrugged self-tolerantly.
"I'm hopelessly civilised myself," he commented smilingly. "I was
thinking that some morning I might want toast and eggs for breakfast.
And my clean laundry might not be delivered promptly if I were changing
my residence so frequently." He lifted from his elbow. "Pardon me again,
though," he added contritely. "I always do see the prosaic side of
things." The smile vanished, and for the first time he looked away,
absently, dreamily. As he looked his face altered, softened almost
unbelievably. "It would be wonderful," he voiced slowly, tensely, "to be
alone, absolutely alone, out there with the single person one cared for
most, the single person who always had the same likes and dislikes, the
same hopes and ambitions. I had never thought of such a thing before; it
would be wonderful, wonderful!"
No answer; but the warm colour had returned to the girl's face and her
eyes were bright.
"I think I envy you a little, your happiness," said Craig. Warmer and
warmer tinged the brown cheeks, but still the girl was silent.
"Yes, I'm sure I envy you," reiterated the man. "We always envy other
people the things we haven't ourselves; and I--" He checked himself
abruptly.
"Don't talk so," pleaded the girl. "It hurts me."
"But it's true."
Just a child of nature was Elizabeth Landor; passionate, sympathetic,
unsophisticated product of this sun-kissed land. Just this she was; and
another, this man with her, her cousin by courtesy, was sad. Inevitably
she responded, as a flower responds to the light, as a parent bird
responds to the call of a fledgling in distress.
"Maybe it's true now--you think it is," she halted; "but there'll be a
time--"
"No, I think not. I'm as the Lord made me." Craig laughed shortly,
unmusically. "It's merely my lot."
The girl hesitated, uncertain, at a loss for words. Distinctly for her
as though the brightness of the day had faded under a real shadow, it
altered now under the cloud of another's unhappiness. But one suggestion
presented itself; and innocently, instinctively as a mother comforts her
child, she drew nearer to the other in mute human sympathy.
The man did not move. Apparently he had not noticed.
"The time was," he went on monotonously, "when I thought differently,
when I fancied that some time, somewhere, I would meet a girl I
understood, who could understand me. But I never do. No matter how well
I become acquainted with women, we never vitally touch, never become
necessary to each other. It seems somehow that I'm the only one of my
kind, that I must go through life so--alone."
Nearer and nearer crept the girl; not as maid to man, but as one child
presses closer to another in the darkness. One of her companion's hands
lay listless on his knee, and instinctively, compellingly, she placed
her own upon it, pressed it softly.
"I am so selfish," she voiced contritely, "to tell you of my own love,
my own happiness. I didn't mean to hurt you. I simply couldn't help it,
it's such a big thing in my own life. I'm so sorry."
Just perceptibly Craig stirred; but still he did not look at her. When
he spoke again there was the throb of repression in his voice; but that
was all.
"I'm lonely at times," he went on dully, evasively, "you don't know how
lonely. Now and then someone, as you unconsciously did a bit ago, shows
me the other side of life, the happy side; and I wish I were dead." A
mist came into his eyes, a real mist. "The future looks so blank, so
hopeless that it becomes a nightmare to me. Anything else would be
preferable, anything. It's so to-day, now." He halted and of a sudden
turned away so that his face was concealed. "God forgive me, but I wish
it were over with, that I were dead!"
"No, no! You mustn't say that! You mustn't!" Forgetful entirely, the
girl arose, stood facing him. Tears that she could not prevent were in
the brown eyes and her lip twitched. "It's so good to be alive. You
can't mean it. You can't."
"But I do. It's true." Craig did not stir, did not glance up. "What's
the use of living, of doing anything, when no one else cares, ever will
care. What's the use--"
"But somebody does care," interrupted the girl swiftly, "all of us here
care. Don't say that again, please don't. I can't bear to hear you." She
halted, swallowed hard at a lump which rose hinderingly in her throat.
"I feel somehow as though I was to blame, as though if you should mean
what you said, should--should--" Again she halted; the soft brown eyes
glistening, the dainty oval chin trembling uncontrollably, her fingers
locked tight. A moment she stood so, uncertain, helpless; then of a
sudden the full horror of the possibility the other had suggested came
over her, swept away the last barrier of reserve. Not the faintest
suspicion of the man's sincerity, of his honesty, occurred to her, not
the remotest doubt. In all her life no one had ever lied to her; she had
never consciously lied to another. The world of subterfuge was an unread
book. This man had intimated he would do this terrible thing. He meant
it. He would do it, unless--unless--
"Don't," she pleaded in abandon. "Don't!" The hand was still lying idle
on the man's knee, and reaching down she lifted it, held it prisoner
between her own. It was not a suggestion she was combating now. It was a
certainty. "Promise me you won't do this thing." She shook the hand
insistently; at first gently, then, as there was no response, almost
roughly. "Tell me you won't do it. Promise me; please, please!"
"But I can't promise," said the man dully. "I'm useless absolutely; I
never realised before how useless. You didn't intend to do it, but
you've made me see it all to-day. I don't blame you, but I can't
promise. I can't."
Silence fell upon them; silence complete as upon the top of a mountain,
as in the depths of a mine, the absolute silence of the prairie. For
seconds it remained with them, for long-drawn-out, distorted seconds;
then, interrupting, something happened. There was not a cloud in the
sky, nor the vestige of a cloud. The sun still shone bright as before;
yet distinctly, undeniably, the man felt a great wet spattering drop
fall from above upon his hand--and a moment later another. He glanced
up, hesitated; sprang to his feet, his big body towering above that of
the little woman already standing.
"Elizabeth!" he said tensely. "Cousin Bess! I can't believe it." He took
her by the shoulders compellingly, held her at arm's length; and the
angel who watched halted with pen in air, indecisive. "We've known each
other such a ludicrously short time--but a few hours. Can it be possible
that you really meant that, that at least to someone it does really
matter?" It was his turn to question, to wait breathlessly when no
answer came. "Would you really care, you, if I were dead? Tell me, Bess,
tell me, as though you were saying a prayer." One hand still retained
its grip on her shoulder, but its mate loosened, instinctively sought
that averted, trembling chin, as hundreds of men, his ancestors, had
done to similar chins in their day, lifted it until their eyes met. Had
he been facing his Maker that moment and the confession his last,
Clayton Craig could not have told whether it were passion or art, that
action. "Tell me, Bess girl, is it mere pity, or do you really care?"
Face to face they stood there, eye to eye as two strangers, meeting by
chance in darkness and storm, read each the other's mind in the glitter
of a lightning flash. It was all so swift, so fantastic, so unexpected
that for a moment the girl did not realise, did not understand. For an
instant she stood so, perfectly still, her great eyes opening wider and
wider, opening wonderingly, dazedly, as though the other had done what
she feared--and of a sudden returned again to life; then in mocking,
ironic reaction came tardy comprehension, and with the strength of a
captured wild thing she drew back, broke free. A second longer she stood
there, not her chin alone, but her whole body trembling; then without a
word she turned, mounted the single step, fumbled at the knob of the
door. "Bess," said the man softly, "Cousin Bess!" But she did not
glance back nor speak, and, listening, his ear to the panel, Craig heard
her slowly climb the creaking stairs to her own room and the door close
behind her.