Part 17 (1/2)

”Are you afraid to ride behind that horse?” asked he.

”I don't think so,” she replied simply, and her uncle helped her in, while Franklin steadied the team. Yet how Franklin hated the wild black horse now! All the way across the prairie during the short drive to the shanty the beast gave him plenty to do to keep it inside the harness, and he had no time for a single word. The girl sat silent at his side, looking straight ahead. Franklin felt her arm brush his at the jolting of the vehicle now and then. Her hand, brown and shapely, lay in her lap. As Franklin gathered the slack of the reins, his own hand approaching hers, it seemed to him that an actual emanation, a subtle warmth, stole from her hand to his, an unspoken appeal from some vital source. A vague, delicious sense of happiness came over him. He too fell quite silent. He guided the horses as though he saw neither them nor aught else between him and some far-off horizon. At the shanty he helped her down. Ignorant, he saw not the tale of a bosom heaving, nor read correctly the story of the pink in the cheek. He believed rather the import of a face turned away, and of features set in a mask of repose. There had as yet been no word.

The claim shanty was indeed in some need of repair. One corner of the roof had fallen in, carrying with it a portion of the sod wall that made the inclosure, and spilling a quant.i.ty of earth in the bed customarily occupied by Aunt Lucy when she ”resided” here in company with her mistress in their innocent process of acquiring one hundred and sixty acres of land apiece by means of a double dwelling place.

Upon the opposite side, protected by a screen, Franklin caught sight of a corner of the other bed. There were also upon that side of the shack a little table, a chair, and a dainty looking-gla.s.s, with a few other such feminine appurtenances. Two wash-stands, with basins, went far toward completing the remaining furniture. It must be admitted that there was dust upon the table and in the basins. The housekeeper in Mary Ellen apologized as she began to clean them. ”We don't sleep here very often,” she said.

”And aren't you afraid?” said Franklin.

”Not now. We used to be afraid of the coyotes, though, of course, they can't hurt us. Once uncle killed a rattlesnake in the shanty. It had crawled in at the door. I don't think, though, that you could get Lucy to sleep here alone overnight for all the land out of doors.”

In order to make the needed repairs to the roof, it was necessary to lay up again a part of the broken wall, then to hoist the fallen rafters into place prior to covering the whole again with a deep layer of earth. Franklin, standing upon a chair, put his shoulders under the sagging beams and lifted them and their load of disarranged earth up to the proper level on the top of the wall, while Buford built under them with sods. It was no small weight that he upheld. As he stood he caught an upturned telltale glance, a look of sheer feminine admiration for strength, but of this he could not be sure, for it pa.s.sed fleetly as it came. He saw only the look of unconcern and heard only the conventional word of thanks.

”Now, then, captain,” said Buford, ”I reckon we can call this shack as good as new again. It ought to last out what little time it will be needed. We might go back to the house now. Mightily obliged to you, sir, for the help.”

As Mary Ellen stepped into the buggy for the return home her face had lost its pink. One of the mysterious revulsions of femininity had set in. Suddenly, it seemed to her, she had caught herself upon the brink of disaster. It seemed to her that all her will was going, that in spite of herself she was tottering on toward some fascinating thing which meant her harm. This tall and manly man, she must not yield to this impulse to listen to him! She must not succ.u.mb to this wild temptation to put her head upon a broad shoulder and to let it lie there while she wept and rested. To her the temptation meant a personal shame. She resisted it with all her strength. The struggle left her pale and very calm. At last the way of duty was clear. This day should settle it once for all. There must be no renewal of this man's suit. He must go.

It was Mary Ellen's wish to be driven quickly to the house, but she reckoned without the man. With a sudden crunching of the wheels the buggy turned and spun swiftly on, headed directly away from home.

”I'll just take you a turn around the hill,” said Franklin, ”and then we'll go in.”

The ”hill” was merely a swell of land, broken on its farther side by a series of _coulees_ that headed up to the edge of the eminence. These deep wash-cuts dropped off toward the level of the little depression known as the Sinks of the White Woman River, offering a sharp drop, cut up by alternate knifelike ridges and deep gullies.

”It isn't the way home,” said Mary Ellen.

”I can't help it,” said Franklin. ”You are my prisoner. I am going to take you--to the end of the world.”

”It's very n.o.ble of you to take me this way!” said the girl with scorn.

”What will my people think?”

”Let them think!” exclaimed Franklin desperately. ”It's my only chance. Let them think I am offering you myself once more--my love--all of me, and that I mean it now a thousand times more than I ever did before. I can't do without you! It's right for us both. You deserve a better life than this. You, a Beauchamp, of the old Virginia Beauchamps--good G.o.d! It breaks my heart!”

”You have answered yourself, sir,” said Mary Ellen, her voice not steady as she wished.

”You mean--”

”I am a Beauchamp, of the old Virginia Beauchamps. I live out here on the prairies, far from home, but I am a Beauchamp of old Virginia.”

”And then?”

”And the Beauchamps kept their promises, women and men--they always kept them. They always will. While there is one of them left alive, man or woman, that one will keep the Beauchamp promise, whatever that has been.”

”I know,” said Franklin gently, ”I would rely on your word forever. I would risk my life and my honour in your hands. I would believe in you all my life. Can't you do as much for me? There is no stain on my name. I will love you till the end of the world. Child--you don't know--”

”I know this, and you have heard me say it before, Mr. Franklin; my promise was given long ago. You tell me that you can never love any one else.”

”How could I, having seen you? I will never degrade your memory by loving any one else. You may at least rely on that.”

”Would you expect me ever to love any one else if I had promised to love you?”

”You would not. You would keep your promise. I should trust you with my life.”