Part 18 (1/2)

”Florence,” the voice was very near now, and very low. ”Florence, I love you. I can't have you go away, can't have you pa.s.s out of my life. I'll do anything for you,--live for you, die for you, fight for you, slave for you,--anything but give you up.” Of a sudden his arms were about her, his lips touched her cheek. ”Can't you love me in return? Speak to me, tell me--for I love you, Florence!”

The girl started, and drew away involuntarily. ”Oh, don't, don't! please don't!” she pleaded. The dream faded, and she awoke to the reality of her position. The brown head bowed, dropped into her hands. Her whole body shook. ”Oh, what have I done!” she sobbed. ”Oh, what have I done!

Oh--oh--oh--”

For a time, neither of them realized nor cared how long, they sat side by side, though separate now. Warmly and brightly as before, the sun shone down upon them. A breath of breeze, born of the heated earth, wandered gently over the land. The big thoroughbred s.h.i.+fted on its feet and whinnied suggestively.

Gradually the girl's hysterical weeping grew quieter. The sobs came less frequently, and at last ceased. Ben Blair slowly arose, folded his arms, and waited. Another minute pa.s.sed. Florence Baker, the storm over, glanced up at her companion--at first hesitatingly, then openly and soberly. She stood up, almost at his side; but he did not turn. Awe, contrition, strange feelings and emotions flooded her anew. She reached out her hand and touched him on the arm; at first hesitatingly, then boldly, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

”Ben,” she pleaded, ”Ben, forgive me. I've hurt you terribly; but I didn't mean to. I am as I am; I can't help it. I can't promise to do what you ask--can't say I love you now, or promise to love you in the future.” She looked up into his face. ”Won't you forgive me?”

Still the man did not turn. ”There's nothing to forgive, Florence,” he said sadly. ”I misunderstood it all.”

”But there is something for me to say,” she went on swiftly. ”I knew from the first what you were going to tell me, and knew I couldn't give you what you asked; yet I let you think differently. It's all my fault, Ben, and I'm so sorry!” She gently and timidly stroked the shoulder of the rough flannel s.h.i.+rt. ”I should have stopped you, and told you my reasons; but they seemed so weak, and somehow I couldn't help listening to you.” There was a hesitating pause. ”Would you like to hear my reasons now?”

”Just as you please.” There was no unkindness in the voice--only resignation and acceptance of the hard fact she had already made known to him.

Florence hesitated. A catch came into her throat, and she dropped her head to the broad shoulder as before.

”Ben, Ben!” she almost sobbed, ”I can't tell you, after all. It'll only hurt you again.”

He was looking out over the prairies, watching the heat-waves that arose in fantastic circles, as in Spring. ”You can't hurt me again,” he said wearily.

The vague feeling of irreparable loss gripped the girl anew; but this time she rushed on desperately, in spite of it. ”Oh, why couldn't I have met you somewhere else, under different circ.u.mstances?” she wailed. ”Why couldn't your mother have been--different?” She paused, the brown head raised, the loosened hair tossed back in abandon. ”Maybe, as you say, it's a rainbow I'm seeking. Maybe I'll be sorry; but I can't help it. I want them all--the things of civilization. I want them all,” she finished abruptly.

Gently the man disengaged himself. ”Is that all you wished to say?”

”Yes,” hesitatingly, ”I guess that's all.”

Ben picked up the blanket and returned it to his saddle; then he led the horse to the girl's side. ”Can I help you up?”

His companion nodded. The youth held down his hand, and upon it Florence mounted to the saddle as she had done many times before. The thought came to her that it might be the last time.

Not a word did Ben speak as they rode back to the ranch-house; not once did he look at his companion. At the door he held out his hand.

”Good-bye,” he said simply.

”Good-bye,” she echoed feebly.

Ben made his adieu to Mrs. Baker, and then rode out to the barn where Scotty was working. ”Good-bye,” he repeated. ”We'll probably not meet again before you go.” The expression upon the Englishman's face caught his eye. ”Don't,” he said. ”I'd rather not talk now.”

Scotty gripped the extended hand and shook it heartily.

”Good-bye,” he said, with misty eyes.

The youth wheeled the buckskin and headed for home. Florence and her mother were still standing in the doorway watching him, and he lifted his big sombrero; but he did not glance at them, nor turn his head in pa.s.sing.

CHAPTER XII

A DEFERRED RECKONING

Time had dealt kindly with the saloon of Mick Kennedy. A hundred electric storms had left it unscathed. Prairie fires had pa.s.sed it by.