“Did you hear about—about—” she began in an uncertain voice, and then stopped, unable to go on.
“Yes, dear,” returned Mrs. Archer simply. “Bud told me. It’s a—a terrible thing, of course, but I think—” She paused, choosing her words. “You mustn’t spoil your life, my dear, by taking it—too seriously.”
Mary turned suddenly and stared at her, surprise battling with the misery in her face.
“Too seriously!” she cried. “How can I possibly help taking it seriously? It’s too dreadful and—and horrible, almost, to think of.”
“It’s dreadful, I admit,” returned the old lady composedly. “But after all, it’s your father’s doings. You are not to blame.”
The girl made a swift, dissenting gesture with both hands. “Perhaps not, in the way you mean. I didn’t do the—stealing.” Her voice was bitter. “I didn’t even know about it. But I—profited. Oh, how could Dad ever have done such an awful thing? When I think of his—his deliberately robbing this man who—who had given his life bravely for his country, I could die of shame!”
Her lips quivered and she buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Archer reached out and patted her shoulder consolingly.
“But he didn’t die for his country,” she reminded her niece practically. “He’s very much alive, and here. He’s got his ranch back, with the addition of valuable oil deposits, or whatever you call them, which, Bud tells me, might not have been discovered for years but for this.” She paused, her eyes fixed intently on the girl. “Do you—love him, Mary?” she asked abruptly.
The girl looked up at her, a slow flush creeping into her face. “What difference does that make?” she protested. “I could never make up to him for—for what—father did.”
“It makes every difference in the world,” retorted Mrs. Archer positively. “As for making up— Why, don’t you know that you’re more to him than ranches, or oil wells, or—anything on earth? You must realize that in your heart.”
Placing her handkerchief on the window-ledge, she rose briskly.
“I really must go and change my shoes,” she said in quite a different tone. “These slippers seem to—er—pinch a bit.”
If they really did pinch, there was no sign of it as she crossed the room and disappeared through a door at the farther end. Mary stared after her, puzzled and a little hurt at the apparent lack of sympathy in one to whom she had always turned for comfort and understanding. Then her mind flashed back to her aunt’s farewell words, and her brow wrinkled thoughtfully.
A knock at the door made her start nervously, and for a long moment she hesitated before replying. At the sight of Buck Stratton standing on the threshold, she flushed painfully and sprang to her feet.
“Good morning,” he said gently, as he came quickly over to her. “I hope you’re feeling a lot better.”
“Oh, yes,” she answered briefly. “I’m really quite all right now.”
He had taken her hand and still held it, and somehow the mere pressure of his fingers embarrassed her oddly and seemed to weaken her resolution.
“You don’t quite look it,” he commented. “I reckon it’ll take some time to get rid of those—those shadows and hollows and all.”
He was looking down at her with that same tender, whimsical smile that quirked the corners of his mouth unevenly, and the expression in his eyes set Mary’s heart to fluttering. She could not bear it, somehow! To give him up was even harder than she had expected, and suddenly her lids drooped defensively to hide the bright glitter that smarted in her eyes.
Suddenly he broke the brief silence. “When are you going to marry me, dear?” he asked quietly.
Her lids flew up and she stared at him through a blurring haze of tears. “Oh!” she cried unsteadily. “I can’t! I—can’t. You—you don’t know how I feel. It’s all too—dreadful! It doesn’t seem as if I could ever—look you in the face again.”
Swiftly his arms slid about her, and she was drawn gently but irresistibly to him.
“Don’t try just now, dear, if you’d rather not,” he murmured, smiling down into her tear-streaked face. “You’ll have a long time to get used to it, you know.”
Instinctively she tried to struggle. Then all at once a wave of incredible happiness swept over her. Abruptly nothing seemed to matter—nothing on earth save this one thing. With a little sigh like that of a tired child, her arm stole up about his neck, her head fell gently back against his shoulder.
* * *
“Oh!” Mary said abruptly, struck by a sudden recollection. It was an hour later, and they sat together on the sofa. “I had a letter from Stella to-day.” A faintly mischievous light sparkled in her eyes. “She sent her love—to you.”
Buck flushed a little under his tan. “Some little kidder, isn’t she, on short acquaintance?” he commented.
“Short!” Mary’s eyes widened. “Why, she knew you before I did!”
“Maybe so, but I didn’t know her.”
Buck had rather dreaded the moment when he would have to tell her of that beastly, vanished year, but somehow he did not find it hard.
“As long as you don’t ever let it happen again, I sha’n’t mind,” she smiled, when he had finished. “I simply couldn’t bear it, though, if you should lose your memory—now.”
“No danger,” he assured her, with a look that deepened the color in her radiant face.
For a moment she did not speak. Then all at once her smile faded and she turned quickly to him.
“The—the ranch, dear,” she said abruptly. “There’s something, isn’t there, I should do about—about turning it over—to you?”
He drew her head down against his shoulder. “No use bothering about that now,” he shrugged. “We’re going to be made one so soon that— How about riding to Perilla to-morrow and—”
“Oh, Buck!” she protested. “I—I couldn’t.”
His arm tightened about her. “Well, say the day after,” he suggested. “I’m afraid we’ll have to spend our honeymoon right here getting things to rights, so you won’t have to get a lot of new clothes and all that. There’s nothing unlucky about Thursday, is there?”
She hid her face against his coat. “No-o; but I don’t see how—I can—so soon. Well, maybe—perhaps—”
* * *
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Shoe-Bar Stratton Page 24
