Part 2 (1/2)
Every time Seth Stevens hauled off to hit, schoolmaster was thar first.
It war bully!--That's all. An' I seed everythin'. You kin bet your life on that! An' then Richards and the rest come to him an' said as how Seth Stevens was faintin', an' schoolmaster he ran to the crick an' brought water and put over him. An' then I runned to tell you--schoolmaster's strong, I guess, stronger nor pappa. I seed him put on his vest, an'
Seth Stevens he was settin' up, all blood and water on his face, streaky like; he did look bad. But, Loo--say, Loo! Why didn't schoolmaster when he got him down the first time, jest stomp on his face with his heels?--he had his boots on--an' that's how Seth Stevens broke Tom Cooper's jaw when _they_ fit.”
The girl was white, and trembling from head to foot as the boy ended his narrative, and looked inquiringly into her face. She could not answer.
Indeed, she had hardly heard the question. The thought of what might have happened to her lover appalled her, and terror and remorse held her heart as in a vice. But oh!--and the hot tears came into her eyes--she'd tell him when they met how sorry she was for it all, and how bad she had been, and how she hated herself. She had acted foolish, very; but she hadn't meant it She'd be more careful in future, much more careful. How brave he was and kind! How like him it was to get the water! Oh! if he'd only come.
All this while Jake looked at her curiously; at length he said, ”Say, Loo, s'pose he'd had his eye plugged out.”
”Go away--do!” she exclaimed angrily. ”I believe you boys jest love fightin' like dogs.”
Jake disappeared to tell and retell the tale to any one who cared to listen.
Half an hour later Loo, who had climbed the bluff to command the view, heard the sound of Jack's feet on the wooden bridge. A moment or two more and the buggy drew up beside her; the schoolmaster bent forward and spoke, without a trace of emotion in his voice:
”Won't you get in and let me drive you home, Miss Loo?” His victory had put him in a good humour, without, however, altering his critical estimate of the girl. The quiet, controlled tone of his voice chilled and pained her, but her emotions were too recent and too acute to be restrained.
”Oh, George!” she said, leaning forward against the buggy, and scanning his face intently. ”How can you speak so? You ain't hurt, are you?”
”No!” he answered lightly. ”You didn't expect I should be, did you?” The tone was cold, a little sarcastic even.
Again she felt hurt; she scarcely knew why; the sneer was too far-fetched for her to understand it.
”Go and put the horse up, and then come back. I'll wait right here for you.”
He did as he was told, and in ten minutes was by her side again. After a long pause, she began, with quivering lips:
”George, I'm sorry--so sorry. 'Twas all my fault! But I didn't know ”--and she choked down a sob--”I didn't think.
”I want you to tell me how your sisters act and--an' what they wear and do. I'll try to act like them. Then I'd be good, shouldn't I?
”They play the pianner, don't they?” He was forced to confess that one of them did.
”An' they talk like you?”
”Yes.”
”An' they're good always? Oh, George, I'm jest too sorry for anythin', an' now--now I'm too glad!” and she burst into tears. He kissed and consoled her as in duty bound. He understood this mood as little as he had understood her challenge to love. He was not in sympathy with her; she had no ideal of conduct, no notion of dignity. Some suspicion of this estrangement must have dawned upon the girl, or else she was irritated by his acquiescence in her various phases of self-humiliation.
All at once she dashed the tears from her eyes, and winding herself out of his arms, exclaimed:
”See here, George Bancroft! I'll jest learn all they know--pianner and all. I ken, and I will. I'll begin right now. You'll see!” And her blue eyes flashed with the glitter of steel, while her chin was thrown up in defiant vanity and self-a.s.sertion.
He watched her with indifferent curiosity; the abrupt changes of mood repelled him. His depreciatory thoughts of her, his resolution not to be led away again by her beauty influencing him, he noticed the keen hardness of the look, and felt, perhaps out of a spirit of antagonism, that he disliked it.
After a few quieting phrases, which, though they sprang rather from the head than the heart, seemed to achieve their aim, he changed the subject, by pointing across the creek and asking:
”Whose corn is that?”
”Father's, I guess!”