A Yankee from the West Part 15

"And you mean that you will leave me there as you did the other night?"

"You are quick to guess."

"Is it because you don't want to be seen with me?"

"Yes. Those women talk."

"But haven't they--haven't they any faith in their kind?"

"Not much," she said frankly.

"But why should you care what they say?"

She looked back at him. "I mean that you are so far above them," he added. "You are worth all of them put together."

"It is very kind of you to say so. But I am not."

"I would swear it on a stack of Bibles."

"Your oath would not be taken. But let us not talk about it. You do not know what you say when you praise me. I don't place myself above them. I know myself." She halted, turned about and held forth her hand. "See, I have worked in the potato field. I have been a laborer."

"I am a laborer now," he said as they walked on. "There's no disgrace in work."

"Not for a man, not for a woman, but in a field with rough men--" she shrugged her shoulders.

"But the rough men--they had no effect on you," he said, almost pleadingly. "What effect could they have?"

"I was very young. Even at school I had not forgotten their oaths. My uncle sent me to school. He was a poor man, but he sent me."

"Didn't he run a hotel at one time?" he asked.

"Yes, out in Dakota. I worked for him between terms. There were many Norwegians about, and I learned English slowly. But this is of no interest to you."

"Yes, it is--the keenest sort of interest. I mean I like to hear it.

What became of your uncle?"

"He is a gripman on a cable train in the city. One of these days I am going to pay him back. And I am going to pay Mrs. Goodwin, too. I will be her companion as long as it pleases her, and then I must find work. I think I can teach drawing in the country. I could do nothing at it in town. Now, you see, I must be careful not to have any talk. I can take care of myself anywhere, in a potato field or in the woods, but I must not distress Mrs. Goodwin. This is the road."

"Wait a moment. I feel more at liberty to talk to you."

"Now that you find out that I have been a laborer? I do not like that. I wish you had not said it."

"Wait. No, not that, but because we are more of a kind in a way--we both have an object. I am going to pay a man. That's the reason I dig in the hot sun."

"Are you so honest?"

"No, I'm worse than a thief. Don't go--just one moment, please. Sometime I may tell you. They think I like to work, but I hate it. In my thoughts I have committed a thousand murders with my hoe. Let me ask you a question, one laborer of another. Do you like me?"

"Very much," she answered, looking at him steadily.

"I thank the Lord for that much. We might help each other to--"

"No, our battles are apart."

"Oh, I didn't mean that. I mean we can help each other spiritually.

Don't you think so?"

"We can all help one another spiritually," she said. "May I go now?" she asked, smiling.

"I wish I could keep you from going. Wait. I can't understand that you have labored in a field. You are the most graceful woman I ever saw--the most perfect lady couldn't discount you. You've got good blood. I believe in blood."

"I am of a good family," she said. "My father was once a man of some importance. But the world turned against him. Blood is all that saved me."

"I've got one more word to say, now that we are better acquainted. I jumped on a horse once and galloped away from you--out at the little town on the prairie. You don't remember me, but I do you."

"Galloped away from me!" she said in surprise. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I didn't want to get tangled up. Did you ever see a bigger fool? And when I saw you out here I started off again, but I stopped and said, 'I'll be d.a.m.ned if I do.' Once is enough. May I tell you more?"

"No," she said, stepping back. "I have heard enough. And what you tell me may not be true--about galloping away. I don't mean to offend you.

But I have been taught to believe--"

"That all men are liars," he suggested. She nodded. "They taught you about right," he went on. "Yes, they did. But sometimes the biggest liar may tell the truest truth. They took you out of the field and taught you politeness. I went from a college out into the wilds and there I forgot learning and learned deviltry. Do you know what they used to call me?

h.e.l.l-in-the-Mud. That was my nickname. h.e.l.l-in-the-Mud, think of it! And what saved me, if I am saved? An old woman living on a hillside in Connecticut--my mother--prayed for me and died. It's a fact. I don't know whether there's a G.o.d or not, that is, for the average run of us, but there's one for her. Prayed for h.e.l.l-in-the-Mud, and her prayer was printed in the village paper, and I got hold of it. Then I said I would pay him--a man. But go on, I'm telling you too much."

She turned away without saying another word and almost ran along the road. He stood watching her, hoping that she would look back at him, but she did not. He went to the house. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the cards from the table and tore them into bits. "I hate the sight of them," he said. The clock struck five. He was reminded of his engagement at the Professor's, and he hastened to fill it. He had dreaded to meet the woman who had scared him out of her dooryard. His nerve had been lead. Now it was iron.

CHAPTER XI.

A MAN

As Milford hastened over the road that led to the Professor's house, a picture thrust itself into his mind, to shorten his stride, to make him slow. He saw the girl's hand held out to him, and he wondered why he had not dared to touch it. Surely, there was no labor mark upon it, pink and soft-looking, a hand for the pressure of love and not for work in a field. She had said that she liked him. But any one might have said that. She had said it with a frankness which showed that she had not told more than the truth. But why should she have told more than the truth? Why have had more than truth to tell? He put it all aside and strode onward toward the Professor's house. A light gleamed feebly through the mist.

He unwound the chain from about the gate-post. A dog barked. The door opened and the Professor stepped out, gowned and slippered. He seized his visitor warmly by the hand and led him into the sitting-room, dim with faded furnishings. His fingers were ink-stained, and his red hair was awry as if he had raked his head for thought. Mrs. Dolihide came into the room.

"My dear," said the Professor, "permit me to present to you, and to the humble hospitality of our home, our neighbor and my friend, Mr. Milford, the so-called mysterious, but, indeed, the plain and straightforward.

Mrs. Dolihide, Mr. Milford."

She smiled pleasantly, drew back with a bow, stepped forward and held out her hand. She said that she was delighted to meet him. She had heard her husband speak of him so often. Milford breathed a new atmosphere. He saw that there was to be no allusion to the dust that was kicked up in front of the house. From the dining-room there came a stimulating sniff of coffee. A cat came in with a limber walk and stiffened herself to rub against Milford's chair.

"A fine cat," he said, stroking her.

"A marvelous animal," replied the Professor. "We have had her now going on--how long have we had her, my dear?"