Roxie Kester had ridden up here this evening sitting behind Bud and
holding to the man’s big shoulders to keep from falling. Bud had kept
the mare to a walk and they had journeyed in silence. She had not
been afraid. This was not altogether because of her reliance on the
long-bladed kitchen knife which she had slipped from her bundle and
hidden in her bosom, although this had helped to steady her. But the
deeper reason was that even on that long wild ride she had thought less
of herself than of some one else. She had eliminated herself--as far as
her future was concerned--the moment she left the house and joined this
other. She had made her decision. She had made her sacrifice. Twice her
Prince had risked his life for her and now she was risking her own for
him. She was doing even more. There was a certainty here. A man may
clash with another man--may clash even with a chestnut-oak--and escape.
He is risking only his life. But a woman may not place herself in such
a position as she was now in and avoid the consequences. However she
protected herself until morning, it made the next step inevitable.
Not to marry Bud the next day would be to stand disgraced. The only
explanation she could give that would justify her conduct, she must
not give. The toothless old gossips would roll the story around their
tongues like snuff. A girl does not spend the night in a mountain shack
unless she chooses.
Yet Roxie was neither afraid nor depressed. She was in a state of
exaltation paralleled only by religious ecstasy. Love--such romantic
love as hers--is heroic. Heroism is nothing but complete and utter
unselfishness. Her joy came in giving, not in asking. If she could not
give herself to him she would give herself for him.
The wonder is not that the young are inspired to such idealistic
heights; the wonder comes to the old and sophisticated. Men and women
are born poets--women more often than men. And poets are a simple
people living outside themselves, in touch with the singing stars. Only
as they turn wise and think of themselves do they grow blunt and blind
and are forced to grope their way on the surface of the earth.
Roxie could allow her thoughts to wander at will on that ride up the
mountain-side. She could permit them to take flight where they would.
She had given all that she had to give and so was entitled to take all
that remained for her to take. There was no need of repressions. She
had won the complete freedom that only love can give.
So she thought of Allston as she chose--calling him Ned as in her very
secret heart she had long called him. Aye, she could kiss his hair now
and his white forehead and his lips. Throwing back her head, the rain
beat down upon her face and each drop was like a kiss back from him.
There were thousands of them, but not too many. How her heart leaped at
the thought! How it sang! A thousand, ten thousand were not enough to
satisfy her hungry heart.
A man may carry a lady off on horseback without carrying her heart at
all. A man may take a lady into the black forest and have none of the
best of her. A man may shut a lady up in the fastness of his shack and
wonder what has become of her.
Bud dimly realized that much an hour later. It did not discourage him,
but it puzzled him. He had looked for protest and outcry and he was
met by an uncanny silence. Once, when he tried to take her hand, he
was warned off, but even then so quietly that he was dazed. At the end
of another hour he was staring at her with a new eagerness and growing
passion that might have made him dangerous--when the back door had
swung open admitting the tempest.
The presence of Ned Allston was in reality fraught with more tragic
consequences to Roxie than to Childers. The latter had been thrown and
tied, and that was the end of him. But Roxie had been set free--and
that was not the end of her. She had been released from the end. She
was forced to face a new fight--a fight made more intense by the leeway
she had so recently given herself. It is one thing to stay within
bounds and another to move out of bounds and return again.
Allston in the last few hours had become more distinctly personal to
her than before. He had stepped into reality: so much so that when he
stood before her in the flesh she was half ashamed to face him. She
remembered the rain and her upturned mouth. It was because of that she
had allowed herself to speak of Wilmer.
He had not denied the story Bud had told of what he saw in the cove.
Then it was true. She was sitting on the floor, Turk fashion, and
Allston was still in his chair studying her with his puzzled blue eyes.
To herself she repeated over and over again the question she had asked
of him, “What fer had he come?”
All he was doing now was to take away her dreams--the one thing that
had saved her. He was not changing other conditions in the slightest.
He was making them even worse. Did he think she wanted to go back to
Miss Wilmer’s and watch him hold her hand?
She felt the venomous sting of a new emotion--of jealousy. The poison
works swiftly in such natures as hers.
In the meanwhile Allston had come to some realization of the problem
he faced. Another man might have been quicker, but another man would
not have been Allston. That the girl had her romantic moments he was
aware--every one, man or woman, has those; but that she had carried
them as far as this he had never suspected. His mind had been far too
occupied in another direction. Even on his way up here when, under the
stress of the struggle, he had sensed something of the significance of
her act and that in a way it involved him, he had not associated it
with love. Rather had it seemed like a magnificently impersonal poetic
idea. For two years, in France, he had been in touch often with just
this sort of thing. Again and again he had seen it govern the fine acts
of men and women--of young men and women. Under the spell of it he had
seen them make sacrifices that staggered the imagination. Sometimes it
was in the name of country; sometimes in the name of duty; sometimes in
the name of honor; sometimes in the name of gratitude--but always it
was utterly impersonal.
To him Roxie from the beginning had seemed of this type. She reminded
him in many ways of those extraordinary young peasant women with whom
he had come into such fleeting contact--the women with the liquid black
eyes so quick to respond to elemental emotions, but so steady withal
as one saw them in their mothers and grandmothers. Somehow Allston had
always understood them enough to respect them, which could not be said
of some of his fellow officers. He had glimpsed the finer stuff that
lay below the tempting smiles, and understood, too, something of the
abnormal conditions under which they were living.
Roxie had been just such another, though under no such tension. She
was as good to look upon as a mountain flower. She possessed much of
the same natural beauty and many of the same natural imperfections.
And she fitted well into her own surroundings, appearing best in the
woods, under sun or moon. She was at her best here to-night in this
mountain shack where the wind and the rain were more companions than
enemies. In the glow of the firelight her hair shone like spun gold,
and her skin, tanned and even freckled in places, was as beautiful as
the spotted ochre of a tiger lily. One did not ask here for peaches and
cream. And her eyes of light blue were as shallow and as deep as the
sky at noontime. Her nose and mouth, a trifle pinched, but wonderfully
alert--like the nose and mouth of little forest things dependent
for their lives on smell and taste--held him where more perfect
features had often left him indifferent. Her perfect little body, both
strong and light, had its own beauty. Rightly she should have been
barefooted. He had a notion she had as shapely a foot as Trilby’s.
Back of these physical attributes there was an undoubted personality,
and here again he was forced for comparison to the forest
creatures--the gentler ones like the doe and squirrel. Naïvely
wondering and trustful he saw her, ready to respond to affection,
quick to start at danger. It is flattering to any man to have such a
personality come to him without fear. As a result of it a man may feel
better than he is.
It is always dangerous to compare a woman with anything but a woman. It
is dangerous to compare them, anyway. Each one must be taken by herself
no matter how much like all others she turns out to be in the end.
Allston, in reviewing swiftly his few points of contact with Roxie,
could find nothing on his part that suggested indiscretion. He might
justly take a certain amount of satisfaction in that, but it did not
alter facts--if what he was beginning to suspect was a fact. He was by
no means sure of that even now. He meant to avoid being sure if that
were possible. The best way to accomplish this was to get Roxie out of
here at once and back to normal conditions.
Allston reached for his boots. They were still wet, but he forced them
on and laced them. Then he took his automatic and stepped out into the
hall to make sure Bud was safely tied. He found the man silent and
motionless, and without speaking to him returned to the sitting-room.
His plan was to notify one of the neighbors on his way down the
mountain road and have him come up and free the fellow.
Roxie had watched from the corners of her eyes every move Allston made.
And she realized that every step he took forced her that much nearer a
final decision. It was evident that he meant to go back and intended to
take her with him. But it was impossible for her to go back--impossible
for many reasons. And yet of them all she could not tell him one.
It was impossible because she could no longer remain in the same house
with him and Miss Wilmer--and yet to tell him why would be to tell him
all and she had told him too much already.
It was impossible because even if Miss Wilmer accepted her, the valley
folk would not. Yet, if she told him that, his next question would be
to ask why, then, had she come? To answer that would be to tell him
all.
It was impossible finally because it was utterly impossible. If ever
she left this house with him, Bud remaining behind alive, it would
mean his death more surely than as though she had not come at all.
She knew how Bud felt out there. She knew it with a keen realization
of the anguish he was suffering, which amounted at moments almost to
pity. Bud--he deserved it. He had brought it on himself. And yet it was
cruel hard. She did not enjoy seeing any one suffer. When she saw a
man kick a vicious dog, she was sorry for the dog. And Bud--he had his
bad points, but he was not a dog. Had Allston killed the man outright,
fighting for his own life as he had a right to do, she would have felt
no regret. Obliged to choose between the two men, she would not have
hesitated to choose for Allston. And she realized that all Allston had
done to Bud, after coming here, was necessary. Only he should not have
come.
That was the pity of it. His coming left her with no alternative--and
without her dreams. Bud could not be allowed to starve to death out
there. Some one would free him. Once free, he would kill. There would
be no hand left to stop him. It was doubtful if now even she could stop
him. But she must try.
To do that she must remain behind with him. She must give her
life--anything Bud asked for--to buy him off from his revenge. He would
ask all. There was no doubt about that. Perhaps in the end she might
not have enough. And yet if he wanted much she would have much to give.
The more he wanted, the more she would be able to give. So in the end
she must make him want--must whet his appetite. Here was a grim test
for a woman.
But that was all to come later. For the present she was concerned
alone with Allston. He must go and she must stay. The sooner this
happened, the better it would be for both. And this drove her quickly
and definitely to her final sacrifice. There was just one way in which
she could bring this about; one clear, logical way that would answer
for all time his every question and send him home safe and happy to
Wilmer. It came to her, as he reëntered the room with his jaws set so
firmly, that she was half afraid of him. As she thought of her plan,
she sprang to her feet and faced him with a nervous tremor. Most of the
color had gone from her cheeks on the instant.
“Roxie.”
He spoke sharply--incisively. She had never heard his voice like that.
“Yes, sir,” she answered.
“Put on your hat and coat.”
“What fer?”
“We’re going now.”
“Goin’ now? No, sir, I ain’t goin’ now.”
“Don’t delay,” he ordered. “And don’t be foolish.”
She braced herself--holding her feet a little apart as though steadying
for a blow.
“I ain’t goin’ now. I ain’t goin’ no time.”
Unconsciously she had fallen back into the vernacular both in words
and voice. There was a drawling softness to it that Allston noticed.
It made for tenderness. It was difficult for him to maintain his rigid
sternness in the face of it. Yet that was the only safe thing to do.
He seized her arm.
“Quick!” he commanded.
She shook herself free with a semblance of indignation. Most women are
born actresses, given the occasion. And Roxie had the occasion. Her
heart and soul were in the stand she was taking. Certainly the stake
was big enough--his life and nothing less. She was playing for a larger
salary than most real actresses receive.
“Don’ tech me!” she cried.
His brows came together.
“Good Lord--do you want me to throw you over my back?”
“Do I want ye ter throw me over your back?”
Her blue eyes flamed. Had it not been for the cost to him, that is
just what she would have liked. But the cost to him was what made it
impossible.
“Damn it, I’ll do it if you don’t come _now_,” he threatened.
(Out in the hall alone, Bud was clawing, clawing, clawing. He had been
clawing all this time. The tips of his fingers were bleeding, but the
rope was fuzzing deeper and deeper. Every now and then he stopped to
strain at it. Gawd A’mighty, if he should get free--!)
“Put on your hat and coat or I’ll do it for you,” insisted Allston.
The words she was trying to utter stuck in her throat. This acting
business was not so easy after all. Yet she found her voice when
Allston almost roughly seized her arm again. The touch of him gave the
inspiration she needed.
“I’m goin’ ter stay hyar. I’m goin’ ter stay with Bud,” she trembled.
“You what?”
“I come hyar with Bud. Ain’t I got a right?”
“But _why_ did you come?”
“I come because I wanted. He asked me ter marry him an’ I said I would.
Ain’t I got a right?”
“You mean you love him?”
Here was a direct question. It demanded a direct answer. She turned
her eyes around the shack like a frightened animal. The man before her
followed her gaze. She could not get away from him. So finally--
“Yes,” she answered.
“You came here of your own free will?”
“Yes.”
“And the note you wrote was simply to throw Miss Wilmer off the track?”
“I--I hed ter tell her somethin’,” she pleaded.
“Lord!” he broke out. “What a farce! What a farce!”
She did not know the meaning of his words, but she saw something like a
smile below his frown and she did not like that.
“If folks would only leave other folks alone!” she cried.
Allston started.
“There’s real philosophy in that,” he nodded. “If folks would only
leave other folks alone!”
(Bud was still clawing, clawing, clawing. It hurt. It hurt like the
devil now. He writhed under a new torture. He paused for breath as he
heard their voices in long-continued conversation. They gave him a new
incentive. He gathered himself together and throwing into the effort
every ounce of his strength he strained once again at the weakened
strands.)
Allston turned from the girl and paced the room once across and back.
The story she had just told came like a shock. It hurt, in a way,
his pride. It was a blow at his ideals. If at first it did not sound
plausible, it sounded upon second thought more plausible than the
original interpretation he had given. Natives, after all, were natives
in whatever part of the country they lived and however good to look
upon they were. It was perfectly normal for her to fall in love with
one of her own. And this man Bud, if no better than most of his fellows
hereabouts, was not much worse as far as his observation of the last
few weeks went. He was a little more autocratic and domineering than
some, but he liked him for that. Howe had spoken of him as “bad,” but
without much concrete evidence except for the story that he had once
killed a man. To Allston that did not sound as significant as it might
have done a few years back. He himself had killed his man. In battle,
to be sure, but so was Bud probably in a battle of his own.
Allston came back to his original position before Roxie. It was as
though she had grown older in the last few minutes. She did not stand
as straight. And so he suddenly saw her as fitting almost perfectly
into these surroundings.
“So that is it, Roxie,” he said more gently. “You came because you
wanted to come. And you’re here because you want to be here. But--you
aren’t married yet?”
The girl trembled at that.
“No, sir. I ain’t married yet. But Bud--he said to-morrer he’d marry
me.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes, sir, I believe him. Oh--I gotter believe him.”
“Then you ought to have waited until to-morrow.”
“But I didn’.”
“You were afraid Miss Wilmer might object?”
“Yes, I was ’fraid o’ Miss Wilmer.”
“I think most likely she _would_ have objected. And yet if you love the
man--”
Why did she cringe at that?
“And yet if you love him--why, there isn’t any answer. Love is
seldom--intelligent.”
“I dunno,” she answered vaguely.
She wished that he would not talk any more. She wished that he would
go. Every second he remained was making it more difficult for her.
“You know the man and what they say of him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And of course you believe he loves you or you wouldn’t have come. And
that is the important thing; if he loves you, little girl. You’ll have
him at your mercy--if he loves you as he ought to love you.”
In her bewildered brain that suggestion of his seemed to fasten. It was
being loved, he said, not loving that was important. “You will have him
at your mercy,” ran his phrase. If only that proved true, then Allston
was safe.
“Why don’t ye go now?” she questioned.
Suddenly the lamp flickered. The flame flared up, then down, then up
again, smoking the chimney as a gust of wind swept down the hall and
into the room. Allston’s hand flew back to his automatic. Clutching it
he ran out into the empty hall. At the same moment Roxie ran to the
table and extinguished the light.