The Highgrader

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "And you'll sit down with me now if I ask you, neighbor," he laughed.

  She did not wait to be asked, but sat down, tailor fashion, and looked expectantly up with a humorous little twist of the eyebrows. Flakes of dappled sunlight played on her through the moving leaves and accented the youthful bloom of her.

  With a sigh of content he stretched himself on the sun-warmed loam. His glance swept up the gulch, a sword cleft in the hills, passed over the grove of young pines through which he had recently descended, and came back to the slim Irish girl sitting erectly on the turf.

  "It's sometimes a mighty good world, neighbor," he said.

  "I'm thinking that myself," she admitted, laughter welling softly out of her.

  The sun lit the tips of the pines, so that they looked like burnished lances in battle array, poured its beams over the scarred hillside, and bathed the little valley in effulgent glory.

  "You can always find it somewhere," he said with deep content, leaning on an elbow indolently.

  She asked for no antecedent to his pronoun. What he meant was not ambiguous to her.

  "If one knows where to look for it," she added softly.

  "That's the trouble. We get so busy with our little everyday troubles that we forget to look. But the joy of life is always there if we'll forget our grouch and see it."

  "Yes—if having eyes we see."

  "I'm comforted a heap to know that you believe in me—even if I'm not Captain Kilmeny," he assured her with his slow rippling laugh.

  Had he been looking at her he would have seen the telltale color tide her cheeks. "If that is a comfort you are welcome to it. I might have known the idea of connecting you with such a thing was folly."

  He glanced whimsically at her. "Don't be too sure of me, neighbor. I'm likely to disappoint you. What one person thinks is right another knows is wrong. You'd have to make a heap of allowances for me if I were your friend."

  "Isn't that what friendship is for—to make allowances?"

  "You've found that out already, have you?"

  The long-lashed lids fell to her cheeks in self-defense. Not for worlds would she have had him guess the swift message ready to leap out toward him. He seemed to be drawing her soul to his unconsciously. Tingling in every nerve, athrob with an emotion new and inexplicable, she drew a long slow breath and turned her head away. A hot shame ran like quicksilver through her veins. She whipped herself with her own scorn. Was she the kind of girl that gave her love to a man who did not want it?

  His next words brought to her the shock she needed, the effect of a plunge into icy water on a warm day.

  "What about your friends—what about Miss Seldon—did she believe me guilty too?" He could not quite keep the self-consciousness out of his voice.

  "Hadn't you better ask her that?" she suggested.

  In spite of his interest in their talk, Kilmeny's alert eyes had swept again and again the trail leading up the gulch. He did not intend to be caught napping by the officers. Now he rose and offered her a hand up.

  "Your friends are coming."

  Swiftly Moya came to earth from her emotions. In another moment she was standing beside the fugitive, her gaze on the advancing group. Captain Kilmeny was in the lead and was the first to recognize her companion. If he was surprised, his voice failed to show it.

  "No, no, Verinder. I had him hooked all right," he was saying. "Dashed poor generalship lost him. He went into the rushes like a shot. I persuaded him out—had him in the open water. Looked to me like a two to one shot, hang it. Mr. Trout develops a bad break to the off and heads under a big log. Instead of moving down the bank I'm ass enough to reel from where I hooked him. Leader snaps, and Mr. Trout has the laugh on me."

  To the sound of that high cheerful voice Moya roused at once. The rapt expression died from her face.

  "How many?" called India, holding up her string.

  "I haven't been fishing," Moya answered; then gave herself away. "It surely isn't time for luncheon already."

  She took a step toward her friends, so that for the first time Jack Kilmeny stood plainly revealed. India's pretty piquant face set to a red-lipped soundless whistle. Joyce stared in frank amusement. Verinder, rutted in caste and respectability as only a social climber dubious of his position can be, ejaculated a "God bless my soul!" and collapsed beyond further articulation. Captain Kilmeny nodded to the Westerner without embarrassment.

  "Mornin', Mr. Crumbs."

  "Good-morning. But you have the name wrong, sir."

  "Beg pardon." The captain's eyebrows lifted in inquiry.

  "Kilmeny," the American corrected.

  Nonchalantly the captain came to time. "Same name as ours. Wonder if by any chance we're of the same family. Happen to be any relation of Archibald Kilmeny, who died in Colorado fifteen years ago?"

  Jack looked at him quietly. "A son."

  "Makes us cousins. He was my father's brother."

  The Westerner nodded coolly, not in the least impressed. "Yes."

  It would have been easy to read hostility in his bearing, but India sailed past her brother with hand extended. "Glad to meet you, Cousin Jack. 'Member me? Last time you saw me I was a squalling five-year-old."

  The American warmed a trifle. "I remember you, all right. Never saw a kid before so fond of currant jam."

  "Still am. You've improved in your personal appearance. Last time I saw your eye it had been beautifully blacked, kindness of Ned."

  "Fortune of war. My lip was swollen for a week," her brother laughed as he extended his hand.

  "Ned got caned for fighting with a guest. Served him jolly well right," Miss Kilmeny said.

  Joyce sailed forward into the picture gracefully. Her radiant beauty took the Westerner's breath.

  "You'll stay with us for luncheon," she said with soft animation. "For, of course, this is an occasion. Long-lost cousins do not meet every day."

  Verinder, making speechless sounds of protest at this indiscretion, grew very red in the face. Would he have to sit down to eat with a criminal at large?

  Jack hesitated scarcely a second. He could not take his gaze from this superb young creature, whose every motion charmed, whose deep eyes glowed with such a divine warmth of molten gold.

  "Thanks awf'lly, but I really can't stay."

  He bowed to one and another, turned upon Joyce that look of dumb worship she had seen on the faces of many men, and swung off into the pines, as elastic-heeled, confident, and competent a youth as any of them had seen in many a day.

  India's eyes danced. She was Irish enough to enjoy a situation so unusual. "Snubbed, Joyce, by a highwayman," she laughed.

  But Joyce merely smiled. She knew what she knew.

  "If you ask me, he's got the deuce of a cheek, you know," Verinder fumed.

  Miss Kilmeny pounced instantly upon him. "Referring to our cousin, Mr. Verinder?" she demanded sweetly.

  "But—er—you said yourself——"

  "That was all in the family," she informed him promptly.

  Joyce came to the assistance of Verinder with one confidential glance of her incredibly deep eyes of velvet. "Of course he's cheeky. How could he be India's cousin and not be that?" she asked with a rippling little laugh. "Come and help me spread the tablecloth, Mr. Verinder."

  Deeply grateful, the millionaire flew to assist.

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI

  LORD FARQUHAR GIVES MOYA A HINT

  Verinder's man, Biggs, who had been a fascinated spectator of the Wild West sports at Gunnison, was describing them to Fisher, maid to Lady Farquhar and general buttoner-up-the-back to the entire feminine contingent of the party.

  "What do you mean when you say a horse bucks?" she wanted to know.

  "'E throws down 'is 'ead and 'e throws up 'is 'eels and you cawn't remain," he explained, without entire originality.

  "Fancy now!"

  "Consequence is the rider lands himpromptu on terra firma, so to hexpress it."

  "Dear me. But does
n't it make him dusty, Mr. Biggs?"

  "A bit."

  "Couldn't Captain Kilmeny ride one of the bronchos?"

  "I've 'eard that the captain is a crack rider, none better in the harmy, Miss Fisher. 'E could ride the blawsted brute if it wouldn't 'ide its bloomin' 'ead between its legs."

  Moya, patrolling the willow walk in front of the Lodge, took this in with a chuckle.

  It was a still night, save only for the rushing waters of the river. The lamps of the sky had all been lit and were gleaming coldly millions of miles away. The shadowed moonlight in the trees offered a stage set to lowered lights.

  The thoughts of the girl had drifted to speculation about the transplanted countryman of hers whose personality had come to interest her so greatly. He had challenged her trust in him and she had responded with a pledge. He had not explained a single one of the suspicious circumstances against him. He had not taken her into his confidence, nor had he in so many words declared his innocence. She was glad he had told her nothing, had demanded her faith as a matter of course. It was part of her pride in him that she could believe without evidence. All the world would know he was not guilty after he had shown his proofs. It would be no test of friendship to stand by him then.

  A step sounded on the gravel behind her and an arm opened to let her hand slip round the elbow.

  "May I stroll out this dance with you, Miss Dwight?" Lord Farquhar asked formally, dropping into step with her.

  Moya and her guardian were kindred spirits. They never needed to explain themselves to each other. Both knew how to make-believe.

  "If you're not afraid of a scandal at being alone with me so far from a chaperone," the girl answered lightly.

  He burlesqued a sigh. "I'm only afraid there won't be any. It's the penalty of age, my dear. I can claim all sorts of privileges without making Verinder jealous."

  "Oh, Verinder," she scoffed.

  "Should I have said Kilmeny?" he asked.

  "I'll tell you a secret, guardy," whispered Moya gayly. "You're a hundred years younger than either of them."

  "I wish my glass told me so."

  "Fiddlesticks! Youth is in the heart. Mr. Verinder has never been young and Captain Kilmeny has forgotten how to be."

  "I fancy Ned would be willing to learn how again if he had the proper teacher."

  She gave his arm a little squeeze. "You dear old matchmaker."

  "Heaven forbid! I'm merely inquiring, my dear."

  "Oh, I see—your in-loco-parentis duty."

  "Exactly. So it isn't going to be Ned?"

  She looked across the turbid moonlit river before she answered. "I don't think so."

  "Nor Verinder?"

  "Goodness, no!" A little ripple of laughter flowed from her lips before she added: "He's changed his mind. It's Joyce he wants now."

  Farquhar selected a cigar from the case. "Hm! Sure you didn't change it for him?"

  A dimple flashed into her cheeks. "I may have helped a little, but not half as much as Joyce."

  "That young woman is a born flirt," Lord Farquhar announced, his beard and the lower part of his face in the sudden glow of the lighted match. "Upon my word, I saw her making eyes at your highwayman the night we had him here."

  There was a moment's silence before she answered. "Anybody could see that he was interested in her."

  "It doesn't matter to me who interests him, but I can't have any of my wards being romantic over a Dick Turpin," he replied lightly.

  She was standing in the shadow, so that he could not see the dye sweep into her cheeks.

  "I'm afraid he is going to disappoint you. He's not a highwayman at all."

  "Did he tell you so?"

  "No. But I know it."

  "Looks to me as if he might make a good one. The fellow is cool as a cucumber and afraid of nothing on two legs or four."

  "You forget he is India's cousin."

  "No, I'm remembering that. His father had a devil of a temper and his mother was as wild as an unbroken colt when I met her."

  "They weren't thieves, were they?" she flashed.

  He gave her his frank smile. "You like this young man, Moya?"

  "Yes. Why shouldn't I?"

  "Why not—if you don't like him too well?"

  "So that's why you came out here—sent by Lady Farquhar to scold me—and I thought you had come because you like to be with me."

  "One reason doesn't preclude the other."

  "I've known for several days she had it on her mind—ever since we saw Mr. Kilmeny on Sunbeam Creek."

  "Come; let us reason together," he invited cheerfully. "We'll sit on the end of the wharf and dangle our legs while your guardian finishes his cigar and does his duty by you."

  They compromised on a wire-woven seat under a cottonwood. Across the river two fishermen could be seen working down stream close to the opposite shore. The two were Verinder and Captain Kilmeny, though at that distance they were not recognizable.

  Lord Farquhar seemed in no hurry to begin, nor did Moya attempt to hasten him. His cigar glowed and ashed and glowed again before he spoke.

  "Odd how things work out, my dear. There across the river are two men who would like to marry you. Both are good matches. One is by way of being a bit of a bounder perhaps, but the other is as fine a fellow as any girl could look for—not brilliant, but no fool either, and as steady as a clock."

  A breath of wind lifted the edge of her white skirt. She followed the woman's instinct to tuck it safely under her before making demure answer. "Captain Kilmeny is his own certificate of merit. Any praise is surplusage."

  He shrugged. "That's the perversity of it. You see all his merits and they don't touch you."

  With a vivacious little turn that was wholly charming she turned merrily upon him. "Are you by any chance proposing for him, Lord Farquhar?"

  "Hasn't he proposed for himself?" her guardian asked bluntly.

  "I believe he has."

  "And you—didn't see it?"

  "I couldn't."

  "Sorry." He looked at the tip of his cigar and brushed away the ash. "Because he's a no end good sort."

  "You don't know that any better than I do. Don't think I can't see all the advantages of it. I do. I want to say 'Yes,' but—well, I can't. That's all."

  "On account of the other man?" he questioned gently.

  "I haven't mentioned any other man," she cried, her face in a flame.

  "No, I mentioned him. Devilish impudent of me, if you want to take it that way, Moya. But, then, as you've said, I'm in loco. Got to grub around and find out how you feel."

  "Lady Jim has been poking you up and telling you it's your duty," she told him in derision.

  "I daresay. I'm a lazy beggar. Always shirking when I can."

  "Lady Jim isn't lazy."

  "Di does her duty even when it isn't pleasant. Pity more of us don't."

  "Meaning that it is my unpleasant duty to marry Mr. Verinder's money?"

  "Hang Verinder and his money. I'm no end glad you can't stand him. Fact is, we didn't quite know how bad he was when we asked him to join us."

  "What then?"

  "Well, sure your money isn't on the wrong horse, Moya? Mind, I don't say it is. I ask."

  "If you mean Mr. Kilmeny, there hasn't been a word between us you couldn't have heard yourself," the girl told him stiffly.

  "If my memory serves it didn't use to be so much a matter of words. What about your feelings? Di fancies——"

  "Of course she does. She's always fancying. That's the business of a chaperone. It's perfectly absurd," Moya flung back hotly.

  "Glad you see it that way. It wouldn't do, of course."

  She looked directly at him, a challenge in her stormy eyes. "The whole thing is ridiculous. The man hasn't given me a second thought. If you're going to warn anyone, it ought to be Joyce."

  Lord Farquhar looked straight at her. "Joyce has her eyes wide open. She can look out for herself."

  "And I can't?"

  "No, yo
u can't—not when your feelings are involved. You're too impulsive, too generous."

  "It's all a storm in a teacup. I've only met him three times to talk with. He's been friendly—no more. But if he and I wanted to—not that there's the ghost of a chance of it, but if we did—I don't see why it wouldn't do."

  "Any number of reasons why it wouldn't. Marriage nowadays isn't entirely a matter of sentiment. You're an Englishwoman. He's an American, and will be to the end of the chapter."

  "I'm not English; I'm Irish—and the Irish make the best Americans," she told him sturdily.

  Farquhar ignored her protest. "His ways of thinking are foreign to yours, so are his habits of life. You're a delightful rebel, my dear, but you've got to come to heel in the end. All girls do. It's a rule of the game, and you'll have to accept it. No matter how captivating your highwayman may be—and upon my word I admire him tremendously—he is not your kind. He makes his own laws, and yours are made for you."

  "You're making one for me now, aren't you?" she demanded rebelliously.

  "Let's not put it so strong as that. I'm trying to persuade you to something of which you are fully persuaded already."

  "I'm not—not in the least. It's absurd to talk about it because the man hasn't the least idea of making love to me. But suppose he wanted to. Why shouldn't I listen to him? You tell me he doesn't have the same little conventions as we do. Thank heaven he hasn't. His mind is free. If that condemns him——"

  She broke off from sheer passionate inadequacy to express herself.

  "Those conventions are a part of your life, little girl. Can you imagine yourself sitting opposite him at breakfast for the rest of your natural days?"

  "You mean because he is a workingman, I suppose."

  "If you like. You would miss all the things to which you were used. Love in a cottage isn't practicable for young women brought up as you have been."

  "Then I've been brought up wrong. If I were fond enough of the man—but that's absurd. We're discussing an impossible case. I'll just say this, though. I've never met a man who would be as little likely to bore one."