CHAPTER XI
LOVE'S AVOWAL
A distinct path, in places almost a beaten road, connected the Box R andthe Baker ranches. Along it a tall slim youth was riding a buckskinpony. He was clean-shaven and clean-shirted; but the shirt was of roughbrown flannel. His leather trousers were creased and baggy at the knees.At his hip protruded the butt of a big revolver. Upon his head,seemingly a load in itself, was a broad sombrero; and surrounding it,beneath a band which at one time had been very gaudy but was now soberedby sun and rain, were stuck a score or more of matches. Despite themotion of the horse the youth was steadily smoking a stubby bull-dogpipe.
The time was morning, early morning; it was Winter, and the sun wasstill but a little way up in the sky. The day, although the month wasDecember, was as warm as September. There had not even been a frost theprevious night. Mother Nature was indulging in one of her many whims,and seemed smiling broadly at the incongruity.
Though the rider was out thus early, his departure had been by no meanssurreptitious. "I'm going over to Baker's, and may not be back beforenight," he had said at the breakfast table; and, impassive as usual, theolder man had made no comment, but simply nodded and went about hiswork. Likewise there was no subterfuge when the youth arrived at hisdestination. "I came to see Florence," he announced to Scotty in thefront yard; then, as he tied the pony, he added: "I spoke to Grannis,and he said he'd come over and help you. Do you know exactly when you'llwant him?"
"Yes, day after to-morrow. This weather is too good to waste."
Ben turned toward the house. "All right. I'll see that he's over herebright and early."
The visitor found the interior of the Baker home looking like a cornerin a storage warehouse. Florence, in a big checked apron reaching to herchin, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, was busily engaged in stillfurther dismantling the once cosey parlor. Amidst the confusion, andapparently a part of it, Mrs. Baker wandered aimlessly about. The frontdoor was wide open, letting in a stream of sunlight.
"Good-morning," said Ben, appearing in the doorway.
Mrs. Baker stopped long enough to nod, and Florence looked up from herwork.
"Good-morning," she replied. A deliberate glance took in the new-comer'sdress from head to foot, and lingered on the exposed revolver hilt. "Areyou hunting Indians or bear?"
Ben Blair returned the look, even more deliberately.
"Bear, I judge from the question. I came in search of you."
There was no answer, and the man came in and sat down on the corner ofa box. "You seem to be very busy," he said.
The girl went on with her packing. "Yes, rather busy," she saidindifferently.
Ben dangled one long leg over the side of the box.
"Are you too busy to take a ride with me? I want to talk with you."
"I'm pretty busy," non-committally.
"Suppose I should ask it as a favor?"
"Suppose I should decline?"
The long leg stopped its swinging. "You wouldn't, though."
The girl's brown eyes flashed. "How do you know I wouldn't?"
Ben stood up and folded his arms. "Because it would be the first favor Iever asked of you, and you wouldn't refuse that."
They eyed each other a moment.
"Where do you want to go?" temporized Florence.
"Anywhere, so it's with you."
"You don't want to stay long?"
"I'll come back whenever you say."
Florence rolled down her sleeves and sighed with assumed regret. "Iought to stay here and work."
"I'll help you when we come back, if you like."
"Very well." She said it hesitatingly.
"All right. I'll get your horse ready for you."
Scotty watched them peculiarly, Molly doubtfully, as they rode out ofthe ranch yard; but neither made any comment, and they moved away insilence.
"That's an odd looking pony you've got there," remarked the girlcritically, when they had turned into the half-beaten trail which ledsouth. "How does it happen you're on him instead of the other?"
Ben patted the smooth neck before him, and the pony twitched his earsappreciatively.
"Buckskin and I had the misfortune not to meet until lately. We just gotacquainted a few days ago."
The girl glanced at her companion quickly and caught the look upon hisface.
"I believe you're fonder of your horses and cattle and things than youare of people," she flashed.
The man's hand continued patting the pony's yellow neck.
"More fond than I am of some people, maybe you meant to say."
"Perhaps so," she conceded.
"Yes, I think I am," he admitted. "They're more worthy. They never abusea kindness, and never come down to the insult of class distinctions.They're the same to-day, to-morrow, a year from now. They'll workthemselves to death for you, instead of sacrificing you to theirpersonal gain. Yes, they make better friends than some people."
Florence smiled as she glanced at her companion.
"Is that what you want to tell me? If it is, seeing I've just made mychoice and decided to return to civilization and mingle with humanbeings of whom you have such a poor opinion, I think we may as well goback. Mamma and I have been racking our brains for two days to find aplace for the china, and I've just thought of one."
Blair was silent a moment; then he said, "I promised to return wheneveryou wished, but I've not said what I wanted to say yet."
Florence looked at the speaker with feigned surprise. "Is that so? I'mvery curious to hear!"
Ben returned the look deliberately. "You'd like to hear now what I haveto say?"
The girl's breath came more quickly, but she persisted in her banter. "Ican scarcely wait!"
The line of the youth's big jaw tightened, "I won't keep you in suspenseany longer then. First of all, I want to relate a little personalhistory. I was eight years old, as you know, when I was taken into theBox R ranch. In those eight years, as far as I can remember, not oneperson except Mr. Rankin ever called at my mother's home."
Again the girl felt a thrill of anticipation, but the brown eyes openedarchly. "You must have kept a big fierce dog, or--or something."
"No, that was not the reason."
"I can't imagine what it could be, then."
"The explanation is simple. My mother and Tom Blair were never married."
Swiftly the color mounted into Florence's cheeks, and she drew up herhorse with a jerk.
"So that is what you brought me out here to tell me!" she blazed.
Ben drew up likewise, and wheeled his pony facing hers.
"I beg your pardon, but I'm not to blame for the way I told you--ofmyself. You forced it. For once in my life at least, Florence, I'm indead earnest to-day."
The girl hesitated. Tears of anger, or of something else, came into hereyes. "I'm going home," she announced briefly, and turned back the waythey had come.
The man silently wheeled his buckskin and for five minutes, ten minutes,they rode toward home together.
"Florence," said the youth steadily, "I had something more I wished tosay to you; will you listen?"
No answer--only the sound of the solid steps of the thoroughbred and thedaintier tread of the mustang.
"Florence," he repeated, "I asked you a question."
The girl's face was turned away. "Oh, you are cruel!" she said.
Ben touched his pony, advanced, caught the bridle of the girl's horse,and brought both to a standstill. The girl did not turn her head to lookat him, but she did not resist. Deliberately the man dismounted, loosedthe rolled blanket he carried back of his saddle, spread it upon theground, then looked fairly up into her brown eyes.
"Florence," he said, as he held out his hand to assist her to dismount,"I've something I wish very much to say to you. Won't you listen?"
Florence Baker looked steadily down into the clear blue eyes. Why shedid not refuse she could not have told, could never tell. As well as sheknew her own name she realized what was coming-
-what it was the manwished to say to her; but she did not refuse to listen.
"Florence," he said gently, "I'm waiting," and as in a dream shestepped into the proffered hand, felt herself lowered to the ground,followed the young man over to the blanket, and sat down. The sun, nowhigh above them, shone down warmly and approvingly. Scarcely a breath ofair was stirring. Not a sound came from over the prairies. As completelyas though they were the only two people on the earth, they were alone.
The man stretched himself at his companion's feet, where he could lookinto her face and catch its every expression.
"Florence Baker," his voice came to her ears like the sound of onespeaking afar off, "Florence Baker, I love you. In all that I'm going tosay, bear this in mind; don't forget it for a moment. To me you willalways be the one woman on earth. Why I haven't told you this before,why I waited until you were passing from my life before I said it, Idon't know; but now I'm as sure as that I'm looking at you that it isso." The blue eyes never shifted. Presently one big strong hand reachedover and enfolded within its grasp another tiny resistless hand, whichlay there passive.
"You're getting ready to go away, Florence," he went on, "leaving thiscountry where you've spent almost your life, changing it for anuncertainty. Don't do it--not for my sake, but for your own. You knownothing of the city, its pleasures, its rush, its excitement, itsambitions. Granted that you've been there, that we've both been there;but we were only children then and couldn't see beneath the thinnestsurface. Yet there must be something beneath the glitter, somethingyou've never thought of and cannot realize; something which makes thelife hateful to those who have felt and known it. I don't know what itis, you don't; but it must be there. If it weren't so, why would menlike your father, like Mr. Rankin, college men, men of wealth, men whohave seen the world, leave the city and come here to stay? They wereborn in cities, raised in cities. The city was a part of their life; butthey left it, and are glad." The man clasped the little hand moretightly, shook it gently. "Florence, are you listening?"
"Yes, I'm listening."
"I repeat then, don't go. You belong here. This life is your life.Everything that is best for your happiness you will find here. You spokethe other day of your birthright--to love and to be loved--as thoughthis could only be realized in a city. Do you think I don't care for youas much as though my home were in a town?"
Passive, motionless, Florence listened, feeling the subtle sympathywhich ever existed between her and this boy-man drawing them closertogether. His strong magnetism, never before so potent, gripped heralmost like a physical force. His personality, original, masterful,convincing, fascinated her. For the time the tacit consent of herposition never occurred to her. It seemed but natural and fitting thathe should hold her hand. She had no desire to speak or move, merely tolisten.
"Florence," the voice was very near now, and very low. "Florence, I loveyou. I can't have you go away, can't have you pass out of my life. I'lldo anything for you,--live for you, die for you, fight for you, slavefor you,--anything but give you up." Of a sudden his arms were abouther, his lips touched her cheek. "Can't you love me in return? Speak tome, tell me--for I love you, Florence!"
The girl started, and drew away involuntarily. "Oh, don't, don't! pleasedon't!" she pleaded. The dream faded, and she awoke to the reality ofher position. The brown head bowed, dropped into her hands. Her wholebody 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 sideby side, though separate now. Warmly and brightly as before, the sunshone down upon them. A breath of breeze, born of the heated earth,wandered gently over the land. The big thoroughbred shifted on its feetand whinnied suggestively.
Gradually the girl's hysterical weeping grew quieter. The sobs came lessfrequently, and at last ceased. Ben Blair slowly arose, folded his arms,and waited. Another minute passed. Florence Baker, the storm over,glanced up at her companion--at first hesitatingly, then openly andsoberly. She stood up, almost at his side; but he did not turn. Awe,contrition, strange feelings and emotions flooded her anew. She reachedout her hand and touched him on the arm; at first hesitatingly, thenboldly, she leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Ben," she pleaded, "Ben, forgive me. I've hurt you terribly; but Ididn't mean to. I am as I am; I can't help it. I can't promise to dowhat you ask--can't say I love you now, or promise to love you in thefuture." She looked up into his face. "Won't you forgive me?"
Still the man did not turn. "There's nothing to forgive, Florence," hesaid sadly. "I misunderstood it all."
"But there is something for me to say," she went on swiftly. "I knewfrom the first what you were going to tell me, and knew I couldn't giveyou 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 ofthe rough flannel shirt. "I should have stopped you, and told you myreasons; but they seemed so weak, and somehow I couldn't help listeningto you." There was a hesitating pause. "Would you like to hear myreasons now?"
"Just as you please." There was no unkindness in the voice--onlyresignation and acceptance of the hard fact she had already made knownto him.
Florence hesitated. A catch came into her throat, and she dropped herhead to the broad shoulder as before.
"Ben, Ben!" she almost sobbed, "I can't tell you, after all. It'll onlyhurt you again."
He was looking out over the prairies, watching the heat-waves that arosein fantastic circles, as in Spring. "You can't hurt me again," he saidwearily.
The vague feeling of irreparable loss gripped the girl anew; but thistime she rushed on desperately, in spite of it. "Oh, why couldn't I havemet you somewhere else, under different circumstances?" she wailed. "Whycouldn't your mother have been--different?" She paused, the brown headraised, 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. Iwant them all--the things of civilization. I want them all," shefinished 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 thehorse to the girl's side. "Can I help you up?"
His companion nodded. The youth held down his hand, and upon it Florencemounted to the saddle as she had done many times before. The thoughtcame to her that it might be the last time.
Not a word did Ben speak as they rode back to the ranch-house; not oncedid 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 whereScotty was working. "Good-bye," he repeated. "We'll probably not meetagain before you go." The expression upon the Englishman's face caughthis 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 hermother were still standing in the doorway watching him, and he liftedhis big sombrero; but he did not glance at them, nor turn his head inpassing.
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