They talked about many things that morning as they rode happily
toward Hawk Valley. Holt felt no anxiety, now, about reaching there
by night, for he knew exactly where he was and how to get there. He
had bargained with one of the men for fire-arms, and he could now
shoot enough to keep them from hunger even if they were delated. He
had matches in his pocket and an old cow-boy hat on his head, and he
felt rested and fit for the journey. For the first half of the way,
at least, he could give himself up to the bliss of a companionship
such as he had never known in the whole of his young life.
Reverence, awe, adoration were in his glance as he looked at the
girl, and a great, wistful sadness grew as the day lingered toward
evening.
They rode first straight down to the telegraph station which was
about fifteen miles from the settler's cabin, and sent reassuring
telegrams from the forlorn little office set out alone in the middle
of the prairie; one to Jean's father and mother back in the eastern
home, and one to her sister, Eleanor Harrington, in Hawk Valley.
"Don't worry about accident. Am safe and well and shall reach Hawk
Valley to-night.--Jean" said the first message. The second Holt
worded for himself, for he had left the girl outside the station on
her horse. She had asked him to be sure and tell her sister that he
was with her so she would not worry, but the message he sent was:
"Safe and well, and on my way to you with a friend who will look out
for me. Expect to reach Hawk Valley to-night.--Jean."
Enquiry concerning the accident brought little information. The
wreck had been on the "other road" and the agent "hadn't heard much."
He "didn't know whether many lives were lost or not," and he "guessed
it was the engineer's fault, any how,--it usually was."
They rode on their way in happy converse. Jean was led to tell of
her home life. Not that Holt questioned her, but she seemed to love
to talk of home, and picture her family, her friends, the church
where her father preached, the companions of her girlhood, the
serious school life and church work to which she had been devoting
herself; and, above all, he saw and wondered over the sweet
confidence that existed between this girl and her parents. A wistful
look came into his eyes as he thought what might have been his life
if someone had cared for him and trusted in him that way; or if he
had had a sister like this girl.
Suddenly, in the middle of the afternoon the girl looked up and
asked: "Will your mother worry? Did you send her a telegram, too?"
He looked at her half startled.
"My mother?" he said in a strange, cold voice, "My mother never
worries about me. She isn't that kind. I doubt if she even knows
where I am these days. I've been west for a long time. Father died
and mother married again since I left home. I don't suppose she
would even hear of the accident. There's no one to care where I am."
There was a bitterness in the young voice and a hardness on the
handsome features that cast a pall over the beauty of the afternoon
for Jean.
"Oh," she said, looking at him earnestly. "Oh, don't say that! I'm
sure some one cares."
There were tears in her eyes. He looked so noble and good to her,
and her heart went out to him utterly in his loneliness. In that
moment she knew that she cared with all her heart; that she would
always care. It was strange and wonderful, but she felt she would
always _care_!
He looked at her with wonder again and a yearning that he could not
hide.
"I believe _you_ would care!" he exclaimed.
She smiled through a sudden mist of tears.
"Yes, I should care, I couldn't help it," she said, "You have done so
much for me you know, and I--_know_ you so well----" she hesitated,
"I don't see how anybody who belonged to you could help caring." Her
cheeks were rosy with the effort to say what she meant without
seeming unmaidenly.
His brow darkened.
"Belonged!" he said bitterly. "Belonged! Yes, that's it. I don't
belong! I don't belong anywhere!"
His voice was so different and so harsh that it almost frightened
her. She watched him, half afraid as he brought his horse to a
sudden stop and looked about him. Then he changed the subject
abruptly:
"This is a good place to camp for supper and rest," he said, as if he
had quite forgotten what they had been saying.
He swung down from the saddle, hobbled his horse, and came around to
her side to help her alight; but stood a moment looking earnestly,
tenderly into her eyes, and she looked back at him trustingly,
wonderingly with the worshipful homage a woman's eyes can hold for
the man who has won her tenderest thoughts. She did not know she was
looking that way, bless you, no! She would have been filled with
confusion if she had known it. It was unconscious and the man knew
so and treasured her look the more for that.
"I believe you do care, now," he said in a voice filled with a sort
of holy awe that made the girl's heart leap up and the color flame
into her cheeks.
Then before she could answer or think to be embarrassed, he lifted
her reverently from the saddle and put her on the ground.
He hobbled her horse, unstrapped the pack of provisions and went off
to gather up firewood, but when he returned she was sitting where he
put her under the tree, her face buried in her hands, her slender
form motionless.
He stood for a moment and watched her, then came over and knelt down
beside her, and taking her hands gently from her face, looked into
the dewy depths of her sweet eyes and spoke:
"Don't!" he pleaded gently. "Let's have supper now, and then we'll
talk it all out. Will you come and help me make a fire?"
There was something in his strong, tender glance that helped her to
rise to his call. A lovely smile grew in her eyes. She let him help
her to her feet, and casting aside the reserved shyness that had
fallen over her like a misty veil, she ran here and there, gathering
sticks and helping to make the fire blaze; talking merrily about the
supper they were preparing just as she had done all day; but her
heart was in a tumult of wonder.
Holt shot a couple of rabbits and put them to roast before the fire.
Jean set herself to toast the soggy corn bread and make it more
palatable. Their merry laughter rang out again and again as they
prepared their simple meal. They were like two children playing
house. No one looking on would have seen any difference in their
demeanor from what it had been all day. It was only when Holt was
out in the open, shooting rabbits, that he allowed the sadness and
gloom to settle down upon his young face. It was only when he was
away gathering more wood that Jean, left to watch the sputtering
rabbits, let the corn bread burn, while her face grew thoughtful, and
her eyes sweet with a tender light.
It was when the supper was eaten and the fire flickering low in the
dying light of sunset that Holt came and sat down beside the girl,
and again a great silence fell between them.
Holt had planned their home-coming to be in the dark. For the girl's
sake he would not have witnesses to their arrival. This
thoughtfulness sprang from finer feelings than the people of Hawk
Valley dreamed that he possessed. There remained but a little over
an hour's ride now to reach Hawk Valley, and Holt did not mean they
should get there before nine o'clock at the earliest.
He sat gravely quiet, his strong hands folded across his raised
knees, his back against a tree, looking bravely, wistfully, off into
the distance. He seemed a great deal older, now, with that grave,
sad expression. Jean stole a glance at him now and then, as she
plucked at the vegetation about her, and wondered why this appalling
silence, which she seemed powerless to break, had so suddenly fallen
upon them.
Then the man's voice broke the stillness in a low tense tone.
"There's something I must tell you."
The very air seemed waiting to hear what he would say. The girl
scarcely breathed.
"It wouldn't have been the square thing for me to tell you that I
loved you if I had been the only one that cared; but we've been
through all this together, and it's as if we had known each other for
years--and--_you care too_! I can see it in your eyes. I'm not
worthy of it--but you care--and it's up to me to help you stop it.
It would be an easier job, perhaps, if I were used to being trusted,
but it's an honest fact that you're the first respectable person that
has really trusted me since I can remember, and it comes hard----"
His voice broke as if an alien sob had wandered into his bronzed
throat. A sob swelled in the girl's throat, too, and her little
briar-scratched hand stole out and just touched his arm reassuringly
with a feather glance of pressure, and withdrew as if to say: "I will
bear my part of this trouble, whatever it is--please don't suffer
more than your own part."
He turned at that and the cloud on his face cleared and brightened
into a smile that seemed to enfold her in his glance of tenderness,
yet he lifted not a finger to touch her.
"I love you! _How_ I love you!" he said, in a low, lingering tone,
as if the speaking of the words were exquisite joy that he knew was
fleeting and must be treasured.
"I never knew there was a girl like you. I loved you at once as soon
as I saw you in the train--but I knew, of course, you were not for
me. I'm not fit for you--I'm not in your class at all--and I
wouldn't have dreamed of anything but worshipping you, even after
these days together--only you _care_! You trust me! That broke me
all up! I'd give anything in this world if I could keep that and
take it to the end and die with it--to remember that look in your
eyes when you said you trusted me--and thought I was good--and all.
If you weren't going right where they know all about me and will tell
you, I'd never have opened my lips, I'd have stolen this one little
bit of trust and kept it for my own; for down in my heart I know it
isn't wrong, I know you may trust me. I'd give my life to keep that
trust----"
He was looking straight into her clear eyes as he talked and his own
eyes were clear and good, showing his strong, true spirit at its
best. The appeal in his voice suddenly went to the girl's heart.
With a growing uneasiness she had listened to his words, and she felt
that she could bear no more. The tears rushed to her eyes and she
put up her hands to cover her face.
"Please. Tell me quick!" she breathed softly.
Puzzled, thrilled with the wonder of her tears, and longing
inexpressibly to comfort her, he put out his hand awkwardly and laid
it on her bowed head bending over her as he might have done to a
child in trouble.
"There's nothing for you to feel bad about." he said in a voice of
wonderful tenderness. "I'm bearing this circumstance. I just wanted
to be the one to tell you myself that I'm not what you think me. I'm
not bad, really, the way I might be, but I've not been good, and I'm
not a gentleman, not the kind you're used to. Nobody thinks I'm
worth anything at all. Your people hate me, and would think it a
good thing if somebody would kill me, I know. You see how it is that
I can't be like other men who love you. I cannot ask you to marry
me; for after you've heard what your family will say about me you
won't look at me yourself--and I don't blame you. It's all my own
fault, I suppose. I can see it now, though I never thought so till I
looked in your eyes on the train. If I had known a girl like you was
coming my way I'd have made things different--I'd have been
ready--but I didn't know. Nobody ever told me! And now it's too
late. I'm not worthy of you."
He took his hand from her head and dropped back against the tree
again, a bitter expression on his face.
"Oh, don't," she pleaded softly, quick to see his changing mood,
"Please don't look like that. Won't you tell me what you have done
that makes them all feel so about you?"
There was silence for a moment between them while the twilight grew
luminous with the coming of a pale, young moon battling with the
dying ruby of the sun. So, in the holy of the evening he came to his
confession, face to face with his sins before the pure eyes of the
girl he loved.