Part 3 (2/2)

”No, not till eight o'clock,” Gilbert's pa.s.sionless manner was maddening.

”Eight o'clock to-night?” his uncle cried, and leaned so far out of his chair that he was in danger of falling to the floor.

”Yes,” Gilbert said, calmly.

”You're crazy! Don't you know yet that courts don't stay open at night?” He swung about in his frenzy and disgust.

”This court does. Somebody told the judge where he could get a bottle of liquor for eighteen dollars,” Gilbert added, and smiled.

”So if we don't get ten thousand dollars there by eight o'clock to-night, we're set out on the bricks without no more home than a prairie dog--not as much!” almost screamed Uncle Henry. ”An' yet you say why talk about it?”

”But it isn't getting us anywhere--just to sit around and complain,” his nephew tried to pacify him, rising, and starting toward him again; but Uncle Henry didn't want to be so near him, knowing what he was going to say next. Therefore he switched adroitly to the door, and let out, ”No, it ain't gettin' us anywhere; but it would if you'd marry Angela Hardy, like I want you to!” He was a little frightened now that he had uttered the words, and he looked anxiously at Gilbert to see their effect. The latter remained as calm as ever. ”But I don't love her,” was all he said.

Uncle Henry was exasperated now. ”What's that got to do with it?” he yelled. ”Her father's rich, an' not even he, mean as he is, would foreclose on his own son-in-law. Mebbe he'd even lend you somethin' besides,” he added, slyly. He had great faith in these neighbors down the valley.

”I can't do it,” Gilbert stated, as if he were discussing going to the nearest town.

”Won't, you mean.”

”No. I mean can't--just what I said. It wouldn't be fair to her. I can't pretend to love her when I don't.”

”You don't have to,” his uncle urged. ”She's so crazy about you, she'd marry you anyway.” Triumphant knowledge was in his tone.

”What makes you think so?” Gilbert asked, coming close to the old man.

”She told me she would.” He got it out bravely.

Young Jones was nearly bowled over. ”She told you!” he repeated; and as he said it, pa.s.sion for the first time came into his voice. There was the sound of hoof beats down the road. But neither of them paid any attention.

”Absolutely,” the old man affirmed.

”Absolutely?”

”Absogoshdarnlutely!” Uncle Henry relieved the tension by saying.

Gilbert came over and peered into his uncle's face. ”You don't mean you spoke to her about it?” he said.

”Why not?” rather impudently. ”Somebody had to do it.” And he chuckled. ”I know what would become of Hypocricy if a few of you youngsters would be as brave as us old boys!”

”Good Lord!” was all young Jones could say, and he put his hand to his head.

”John Alden spoke for Miles Standish, an' they wasn't even related,” Uncle Henry tried to placate the other.

The horse on the road, unknown to the men, had reached the adobe. Lucia Pell, radiant as a prairie flower, appeared at the door. She wore a riding-habit that fit her to perfection, and her hair, tumbled a bit by the soft breeze, fell around her face in a cascade of golden loveliness. Her eyes sparkled. She was the picture of glorious health and youth--a woman born for love and loving. She brought fragrance into the room.

”h.e.l.lo, Gil!” she said, beating her riding-crop on her boot, and smiling that entrancing smile of hers. She was glad to see her handsome host again after her brisk ride.

”Good morning, Lucia,” Gilbert said, hardly daring to look at her.

Uncle Henry didn't mean to be overlooked. ”Good afternoon, Mrs. Pell,” he said, meaningly.

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