Chapter 2

“Did you see the Elder?”

“Yes,” he replied. “He went to the barn. I thought of accompanying him, but was afraid he wouldn't like it.”

“I guess he's worrying about that corn,” Mrs. Conklin explained. “When he broke that land I told him 'twould bring trouble, but he never minds what any one says to him. He should listen to his wife, though, sometimes, shouldn't he? But bein' a man p'r'aps you'll take his part. Anyway, it has all happened as I knew it would. And what'll he do now? that's what I'd like to know. All that corn lost and the fences—he jest worked himself to death on those logs—all lost now. We shall be bare poor again. It's too bad. I've never had any money since I left home.” And here Mrs. Conklin's face puckered itself up as if she were about to cry, but the impulse of vanity being stronger, she burst out angrily: “I think it's real wicked of the Elder. I told him so. If he'd ask that young man to let him cut the corn, I'm sure he wouldn't refuse. But he'll never take my advice, or even answer me. It's too aggravatin' when I know I'm right.”

He looked at her in astonishment She had evidently no inkling of what might occur, no vivid understanding of her husband's character. Preferring to leave her in ignorance, he said lightly, “I hope it'll be all right,” and, in order to change the subject, added, “I've not seen Miss Loo, and Jake wasn't in school this morning.”

“Oh, Mr. Bancroft, if anythin' has happened to Jake!” and Mrs. Conklin sank weakly into the nearest chair; “but thar ain't no swimmin' nor skatin' now. When he comes in I'll frighten him; I'll threaten to tell the Elder. He mustn't miss his schooling for he's real bright, ain't he?—Loo? Her father sent her to the Morrises, about some-thin'—I don't know what.”

When Bancroft came downstairs, taking with him a small revolver, his only weapon, he could not find the Elder either in the outbuildings or in the stable. Remembering, however, that the soldiers could only get to the threatened cornfield by crossing the bridge, which lay a few hundred yards higher up the creek, he made his way thither with all speed. When he reached the descent, he saw the Elder in the inevitable, long, whitey-brown holland coat, walking over the bridge. In a minute or two he had overtaken him. As the Elder did not speak, he began:

“I thought I'd come with you, Elder. I don't know that I'm much good, but I sympathize with you, and I'd like to help you if I could.”

“Yes,” replied the Elder, acknowledging thereby the proffered aid. “But I guess you kain't I guess not,” he repeated by way of emphasis.

In silence the pair went on to the broad field of maize. At the corner of the fence, the Elder stopped and said, as if speaking to himself:

“It runs, I reckon, seventy-five bushel to the acre, and there are two hundred acres.” After a lengthened pause he continued: “That makes nigh on three thousand dollars. I must hev spent two hundred dollars this year in hired labour on that ground, and the half ain't cut yet. Thar's a pile of money and work on that quarter-section.”

A few minutes more passed in silence. Bancroft did not know what to say, for the calm seriousness of the Elder repelled sympathy. As he looked about him there showed on the rise across the creek a knot of United States cavalry, the young lieutenant riding in front with a civilian, probably the surveyor, by his side. Bancroft turned and found that the Elder had disappeared in the corn. He followed quickly, but as he swung himself on to the fence the Elder came from behind a stook with a burnished shot-gun in his right hand, and said decisively:

“Don't come in hyar. 'Tain't your corn and you've no cause to mix yourself in this fuss.”

Bancroft obeyed involuntarily. The next moment he began to resent the authority conveyed in the prohibition; he ought to have protested, to have insisted—'but now it was too late. As the soldiers rode up the lieutenant dismounted and threw his reins to a trooper. He stepped towards the fence, and touching his cap carelessly, remarked:

“Well, Mr. Conklin, here we are.” The earnestness of the Elder appeared to have its effect, too, upon him, for he went on more respectfully: “I regret that I've orders to pull down your fences and destroy the crop. But there's nothing else to be done.”

“Yes,” said the Elder gravely, “I guess you know your orders. But you mustn't pull down my fence,” and as he spoke he drew his shot-gun in front of him, and rested his hands upon the muzzle, “nor destroy this crop.” And the long upper lip came down over the lower, giving an expression of obstinate resolve to the hard, tanned face.

“You don't seem to understand,” replied the lieutenant a little impatiently; “this land belongs to the Indians; it has been secured to them by the United States Government, and you've no business either to fence it in or plant it.”

“That's all right,” answered Conklin, in the same steady, quiet, reasonable tone. “That may all be jes' so, but them Indians warn't usin' the land; they did no good with it. I broke this prairie ten years ago, and it took eight hosses to do it, and I've sowed it ever sence till the crops hev grown good, and now you come and tell me you're goin' to tromple down the corn and pull up the fences. No sir, you ain't—that ain't right.”

“Right or wrong,” the officer retorted, “I have to carry out my orders, not reason about them. Here, sergeant, let three man hold the horses and get to work on this fence.”

As the sergeant advanced and put his hand on the top layer of the heavy snake-fence, the Elder levelled his shot-gun and said:

“Ef you pull down that bar I'll shoot.”

The sergeant took his hand from the bar quickly, and turned to his commander as if awaiting further instructions.

“Mr. Conklin,” exclaimed the lieutenant, moving forward, “this is pure foolishness; we're twelve to one, and we're only soldiers and have to obey orders. I'm sorry, but I must do my duty.”

“That's so,” said the Elder, lowering his gun deliberately. “That's so, I guess. You hev your duty—p'r'aps I hev mine. 'Tain't my business to teach you yours.”

For a moment the lieutenant seemed to be undecided; then he spoke:

“Half-a-dozen of you advance and cover him with your rifles. Now, Mr. Conklin, if you resist you must take the consequences. Rebellion against the United States Government don't generally turn out well—for the rebel. Sergeant, down with the bar.”

The Elder stood as if he had not heard what had been said to him, but when the sergeant laid hold of the bar, the shot-gun went up again to the old man's shoulder, and he said:

“Ef you throw down that bar I'll shootyou.” Again the sergeant paused, and looked at his officer.

At this juncture Bancroft could not help interfering. The Elder's attitude had excited in him more than mere admiration; wonder, reverence thrilled him, and his blood boiled at the thought that the old man might possibly be shot down. He stepped forward and said:

“Sir, you must not order your men to fire. You will raise the whole country against you if you do. This is surely a law case, and not to be decided by violence. Such a decision is not to be taken without reflection and distinct instructions.”

“Those instructions I have,” replied the lieutenant, “and I've got to follow them out—more's the pity,” he added between his teeth, while turning to his troopers to give the decisive command. At this moment down from the bluff and over the wooden bridge came clattering a crowd of armed farmers, the younger ones whirling their rifles or revolvers as they rode. Foremost among them were Morris and Seth Stevens, and between these two young Jake Conklin on Jack. As they reached the corner of the fence the crowd pulled up and Morris cried out:

“Elder, we're on time, I reckon.” Addressing the lieutenant he added violently: “We don't pay United States soldiers to pull down our fences and destroy our crops. That's got to stop right here, and right now!”

“My orders are imperative,” the officer declared, “and if you resist you must take the consequences.” But while he spoke the hopelessness of his position became clear to him, for reinforcements of farmers were still pouring over the bridge, and already the soldiers were outnumbered two to one. Just as Seth Stevens began with “Damn the consequences,” the Elder interrupted him:

“Young man,” he said to the lieutenant, “you'd better go back to Wichita. I guess General Custer didn't send you to fight the hull township.” Turning to Stevens, he added, “Thar ain't no need fer any cussin'.” Amid complete silence he uncocked his shot-gun, climbed over the fence, and went on in the same voice:

“Jake, take that horse to the stable an' wipe him dry. Tell your mother I'm coming right up to eat.”

Without another word he moved off homewards. His intervention had put an end to the difficulty. Even the lieutenant understood that there was nothing more to be done for the moment. Five minutes later the troopers recrossed the bridge. Morris and a few of the older men held a brief consultation. It was agreed that they should be on the same spot at six o'clock on the morrow, and some of the younger spirits volunteered to act as scouts in the direction of Wichita and keep the others informed of what took place in that quarter.

When Bancroft reached the house with Morris—neither Stevens nor any of the others felt inclined to trespass on the Elder's hospitality without an express invitation—he found dinner waiting. Loo had not returned; had, indeed, arranged, as Morris informed them, to spend the day with his wife; but Jake was present and irrepressible; he wanted to tell all he had done to secure the victory. But he had scarcely commenced when his father shut him up by bidding him eat, for he'd have to go right back to school.

There was no feeling of triumph in the Elder. He scarcely spoke, and when Morris described the protective measures that had been adopted, he merely nodded. In fact, one would have inferred from his manner that he had had nothing whatever to do with the contest, and took no interest in it. The only thing that appeared to trouble him was Loo's absence and the fear lest she should have been “fussed;” but when Morris declared that neither his wife nor Loo knew what was going on, and Bancroft announced his intention of driving over to fetch her, he seemed to be satisfied.

“Jack, I reckon, has had enough,” he said to his boarder. “You'd better take the white mare; she's quiet.”

On their way home in the buggy, Bancroft told Loo how her father had defied the United States troops, and with what unconcern he had taken his victory:

“I think he's a great man, a hero. And if he had lived in another time, or in another country, poets would have sung his courage.”

“Really,” she observed. Her tone was anything but enthusiastic, though hope stirred in her at his unusual warmth. “Perhaps he cares for me after all,” she thought.

“What are you thinking about, Loo?” he asked, surprised at her silence.

“I was just wonderin',” she answered, casting off her fit of momentary abstraction, “how father made you like him. It appears as if I couldn't, George,” and she turned towards him while she spoke her wistful eyes seeking to read his face.

There was a suggestion of tears in her voice, and her manner showed a submission and humility which touched Bancroft deeply. All his good impulses had been called into active life by his admiration of the Elder. He put his disengaged arm round her and drew her to him as he replied:

“Kiss me, Loo dear, and let us try to get on better together in future. There's no reason why we shouldn't,” he added, trying to convince himself. The girl's vain and facile temperament required but little encouragement to abandon itself in utter confidence. In her heart of hearts she was sure that every man must admire her, and as her companion's manner and words gave her hope, she chattered away in the highest spirits till the homestead was reached. Her good-humour and self-satisfaction made the evening pass merrily. Everything she said or did delighted the Elder, Bancroft saw that clearly now. Whether she laughed or talked, teased Jake, or mimicked the matronly airs of Mrs. Morris, her father's eyes followed her with manifest pleasure and admiration. On rising to go to bed the Elder said simply:

“It has been a good day—a good day,” he repeated impressively, while he held his daughter in his arms and kissed her.

The next morning Bancroft was early afoot. Shortly after sunrise he went down to the famous cornfield and found a couple of youths on watch. They had been there for more than an hour, they said, and Seth Stevens and Richards had gone scouting towards Wichita. “Conklin's corner's all right,” was the phrase which sent the schoolmaster to breakfast with a light heart. When the meal was over he returned to the centre of excitement. The Elder had gone about his work; Mrs. Conklin seemed as helplessly indifferent as usual; Loo was complacently careless; but Bancroft, having had time for reflection, felt sure that all this was Western-presumption; General Custer could not accept defeat so easily. At the “corner” he found a couple of hundred youths and men assembled. They were all armed, but the general opinion was that Custer would do nothing. One old farmer summed up the situation in the phrase, “Thar ain't nothin' for him to do, but set still.”

About eight o'clock, however, Richards raced up, with his horse in a lather, and announced that Custer, with three hundred men, had started from Wichita before six.

“He'll be hyar in half an hour,” he concluded.

Hurried counsel was taken; fifty men sought cover behind the stooks of corn, the rest lined the skirting woods. When all was in order, Bancroft was deputed to go and fetch the Elder, whom he eventually discovered at the wood pile, sawing and splitting logs for firewood.

“Make haste, Elder,” he cried, “Morris has sent me for you, and there's no time to be lost. Custer, with three hundred men, left Wichita at six o'clock this morning, and they'll be here very soon.”

The Elder paused unwillingly, and resting on his axe asked: “Is Morris alone?”

“No!” replied Bancroft, amazed to think the Elder could have forgotten the arrangements he had heard described the evening before. “There are two hundred men down there in the corner and in the woods,” and he rapidly sketched the position.

“It's all right then, I guess,” the Elder decided. “They'll get along without me. Tell Morris I'm at my chores.” Beginning his work again, he added, “I've something todohyar.”

From the old man's manner Bancroft was convinced that solicitation would be a waste of time. He returned to the corner, where he found Morris standing inside the fence.

“I guessed so,” was Morris's comment upon the Elder's attitude; “we'll hev to do without him, I reckon. You and me'll stay hyar in the open; we don't want to shoot ef we kin avoid it; there ain't no reason to as I kin see.”

Ten minutes afterwards the cavalry crossed the bridge two deep, and wound snake-like towards the corner. With the first files came General Custer, accompanied by half-a-dozen officers, among whom Bancroft recognized the young lieutenant. Singling Morris out, the General rode up to the fence and addressed him with formal politeness:

“Mr. Conklin?”

“No,” replied Morris, “but I'm hyar fer him, I guess—an' about two hundred more ef I'm not enough,” he added drily, waving his hand towards the woods.

With a half-turn in his saddle and a glance at the line of trees on his flank, General Custer took in the situation. Clearly there was nothing to do but to retreat, with some show of dignity.

“Where shall I find Mr. Conklin? I wish to speak to him.”

“I'll guide you,” was Morris's answer, “ef you'll come alone; he mightn't fancy so many visitors to onc't.”

As Morris and Bancroft climbed over the fence and led the way towards the homestead, some of the armed farmers strolled from behind the stooks into the open, and others showed themselves carelessly among the trees on the bank of the creek. When the Elder was informed that General Custer was at the front door, he laid down his axe, and in his shirtsleeves went to meet him.

“Mr. Conklin, I believe?”

“That's my name, General.”

“You've resisted United States troops with arms, and now, it seems, you've got up a rebellion.”

“I guess not, General; I guess not I was Union all through the war; I came hyar as an Abolitionist I only want to keep my fences up as long as they'll stand, an' cut my corn in peace.”

“Well,” General Custer resumed, after a pause, “I must send to Washington for instructions and state the facts as I know them, but if the Federal authorities tell me to carry out the law, as I've no doubt they will, I shall be compelled to do so, and resistance on your part can only cause useless bloodshed.”

“That's so,” was the quiet reply; but what the phrase meant was not very clear save to Bancroft, who understood that the Elder was unable or unwilling to discuss a mere hypothesis.

With a curt motion of his hand to his cap General Custer cantered off to rejoin his men, who shortly afterwards filed again across the bridge on their way back to camp.

When the coast was clear of soldiers some of the older settlers went up to Conklin's to take counsel together. It was agreed to collect from all the farmers interested two dollars a head for law expenses, and to send at once for Lawyer Barkman of Wichita, in order to have his opinion on the case. Morris offered to bring Barkman next day about noon to Conklin's, and this proposal was accepted. If any other place had been fixed upon, it would have been manifestly impossible to secure the Elder's presence, for his refusal again to leave the wood pile had converted his back-stoop into the council-chamber. Without more ado the insurgents dispersed, every man to his house.

On returning home to dinner next day Bancroft noticed a fine buggy drawn up outside the stable, and a negro busily engaged in grooming two strange horses. When he entered the parlour he was not surprised to find that Morris had already arrived with the lawyer. Barkman was about forty years of age; above the medium height and very stout, but active. His face was heavy; its outlines obscured by fat; the nose, however, was thin and cocked inquisitively, and the eyes, though small, were restless and intelligent. He was over-dressed; his black frock-coat was brand new; the diamond stud which shone in the centre of a vast expanse of shirt-front, was nearly the size of a five-cent piece—his appearance filled Bancroft with contempt. Nevertheless he seemed to know his business. As soon as he had heard the story he told them that an action against the Elder would lie in the Federal Courts, and that the damages would certainly be heavy. Still, something might be done; the act of rebellion, he thought, would be difficult to prove; in fine, they must wait on events.

At this moment Mrs. Conklin accompanied by Loo came in to announce that dinner was ready. It was manifest that the girl's beauty made a deep impression on Barkman. Before seeing her he had professed to regard the position as hopeless, or nearly so; now he was ready to reconsider his first opinion, or rather to modify it. His quick intelligence appeared to have grown keener as he suddenly changed his line of argument, and began to set forth the importance of getting the case fully and fairly discussed in Washington.

“I must get clear affidavits from all the settlers,” he said, “and then, I guess, we'll show the authorities in Washington that this isn't a question in which they should interfere. But if I save you,” he went on, with a laugh intended to simulate frank good-nature, “I s'pose I may reckon on your votes when I run for Congress.”

It was understood at once that he had pitched upon the best possible method of defence. Morris seemed to speak for all when he said:

“Ef you'll take the trouble now, I guess we'll ensure your election.”

“Never mind the election, that was only a jest,” replied the lawyer good-humouredly; “and the trouble's not worth talkin' about. If Miss Conklin,” and here he turned respectfully towards her, “would take a seat in my buggy and show me the chief settlers' houses, I reckon I could fix up the case in three or four days.”

The eyes of all were directed upon Loo. Was it Bancroft's jealousy that made him smile contemptuously as he, too, glanced at her? If so, the disdain was ill-timed. Flushing slightly, she answered, “I guess I'll be pleased to do what I can,” and she met the schoolmaster's eyes defiantly as she spoke.

With the advent of Barkman upon the scene a succession of new experiences began for Bancroft. He was still determined not to be seduced into making Loo his wife. But now the jealousy that is born of desire and vanity tormented him, and the mere thought that Barkman might marry and live with her irritated him intensely. She was worthy of better things than marriage with such a man. She was vain, no doubt, and lacking in the finer sensibilities, the tremulous moral instincts which are the crown and glory of womanhood; but it was not her fault that her education had been faulty, her associates coarse—and after all she was very beautiful.

On returning home one afternoon he saw Barkman walking with her in the peach orchard. As they turned round the girl called to him, and came at once to meet him; but his jealousy would not be appeased. Her flower-like face, framed, so to speak, by the autumn foliage, only increased his anger. He could not bear toseeher flirting. Were she out of his sight, he felt for the first time, he would not care what she did.

“You were goin' in without speakin',” she said reproachfully.

“You have a man with you whose trade is talk. I'm not needed,” was his curt reply.

Half-incensed, half-gratified by his passionate exclamation, she drew back, while Barkman, advancing, said:

“Good day, Mr. Bancroft, good day. I was just tryin' to persuade Miss Conklin to come for another drive this evenin' in order to get this business of ours settled as soon as possible.”

“Another drive.” Bancroft repeated the words to himself, and then steadying his voice answered coolly: “You'll have no difficulty, lawyer. I was just telling Miss Conklin that you talked splendidly—the result of constant practice, I presume.”

“That's it, sir,” replied the lawyer seriously; “it's chiefly a matter of practice added to gift—natural gift,” but here Barkman's conceit died out as he caught an uneasy, impatient movement of Miss Conklin, and he went on quietly with the knowledge of life and the adaptability gained by long experience: “But anyway, I'm glad you agree with me, for Miss Conklin may take your advice after rejectin' mine.”

Bancroft saw the trap, but could not restrain himself. With a contemptuous smile he said:

“I'm sure no advice of mine is needed; Miss Conklin has already made up her mind to gratify you. She likes to show the country to strangers,” he added bitterly.

The girl flushed at the sarcasm, but her spirit was not subdued.

“Wall, Mr. Barkman,” she retorted, with a smiling glance at the lawyer, “I guess I must give in; if Mr. Bancroft thinks I ought ter, there's no more to be said. I'm willin'.”

An evening or two later, Barkman having gone into Wichita, Bancroft asked Loo to go out with him upon the stoop. For several minutes he stood in silence admiring the moonlit landscape; then he spoke as if to himself:

“Not a cloud in the purple depths, no breath of air, no sound nor stir of life—peace absolute that mocks at man's cares and restlessness. Look, Loo, how the ivory light bathes the prairie and shimmers on the sea of corn, and makes of the little creek a ribband of silver....

“Yet you seem to prefer a great diamond gleaming in a white shirt-front, and a coarse, common face, and vulgar talk.

“You,” and he turned to her, “whose beauty is like the beauty of nature itself, perfect and ineffable. When I think of you and that coarse brute together, I shall always remember this moonlight and the hateful zig-zagging snake-fence there that disfigures and defiles its beauty.”

The girl looked up at him, only half understanding his rhapsody, but glowing with the hope called to life by his extravagant praise of her. “Why, George,” she said shyly, because wholly won, “I don't think no more of Lawyer Barkman than the moon thinks of the fence—an' I guess that's not much,” she added, with a little laugh of complete content.

The common phrases of uneducated speech and the vulgar accent of what he thought her attempt at smart rejoinder offended him. Misunderstanding her literalness of mind, he moved away, and shortly afterwards re-entered the house.

Of course Loo was dissatisfied with such incidents as these. When she saw Bancroft trying to draw Barkman out and throw contempt upon him, she never dreamed of objecting. But when he attacked her, she flew to her weapons. What had she done, what was she doing, to deserve his sneers? She only wished him to love her, and she felt indignantly that every time she teased him by going with Barkman, he was merciless, and whenever she abandoned herself to him, he drew back. She couldn't bear that; it was cruel of him. She loved him, yes; no one, she knew, would ever make him so good a wife as she would. No one ever could. Why, there was nothin' she wouldn't do for him willingly. She'd see after his comforts an' everythin'. She'd tidy all his papers an' fix up his things. And if he ever got ill, she'd jest wait on him day and night—so she would. She'd be the best wife to him that ever was.

Oh, why couldn't he be good to her always? That was all she wanted, to feel he loved her; then she'd show him how she loved him. He'd be happy, as happy as the day was long. How foolish men were! they saw nothin' that was under their noses.

“P'r'aps he does love me,” she said to herself; “he talked the other evenin' beautiful; I guess he don't talk like that to every one, and yet he won't give in to me an' jest be content—once for all. It's their pride makes 'em like that; their silly, stupid pride. Nothin' else. Men air foolish things. I've no pride at all when I think of him, except I know that no one else could make him as happy as I could. Oh my!” and she sighed with a sense of the mysterious unnecessary suffering in life.

“An' he goes on bein' mad with Lawyer Bark-man. Fancy, that fat old man. He warn't jealous of Seth Stevens or the officer, no; but of him. Why, it's silly. Barkman don't count anyway. He talks well, yes, an' he's always pleasant, always; but he's jest not in it Men air foolish anyway.” She was beginning to acknowledge that all her efforts to gain her end might prove unsuccessful.

Barkman, with his varied experience and the cooler blood of forty, saw more of the game than either Bancroft or Loo. He had learnt that compliments and attention count for much with women, and having studied Miss Conklin he was sure that persistent flattery would go a long way towards winning her. “I've gained harder cases by studying the jury,” he thought, “and I'll get her because I know her. That schoolmaster irritates her; I won't. He says unpleasant things to her; I'll say pleasant things and she'll turn to me. She likes to be admired; I guess that means dresses and diamonds. Well, she shall have them, have all she wants.... The mother ain't a factor, that's plain, and the father's sittin' on the fence; he'll just do anythin' for the girl, and if he ain't well off—what does that matter? I don't want money;” and his chest expanded with a proud sense of disinterestedness.

“Why does the schoolmaster run after her? what would he do with such a woman? He couldn't even keep her properly if he got her. It's a duty to save the girl from throwin' herself away on a young, untried man like that.” He felt again that his virtue ought to help him to succeed.

“What a handsome figure she has! Her arms are perfect, firm as marble; and her neck—round, too, and not a line on it, and how she walks! She's the woman I want—so lovely I'll always be proud of her. What a wife she'll make! My first wife was pretty, but not to be compared to her. Who'd ever have dreamt of finding such a beauty in this place? How lucky I am after all. Yes, lucky because I know just what I want, and go for it right from the start That's all. That's what luck means.

“Women are won little by little,” he concluded. “Whoever knows them and humours them right along, flattering their weak points, is sure to succeed some time or other. And I can wait.”

He got his opportunity by waiting. As Loo took her seat in the buggy one afternoon he saw that she was nervous and irritable. “The schoolmaster's been goin' for her—the derned fool,” he said to himself, and at once began to soothe her. The task was not an easy one. She was cold to him at first and even spiteful; she laughed at what he said and promised, and made fun of his pretensions. His kindly temper stood him in good stead. He was quietly persistent; with the emollient of good-nature he wooed her in his own fashion, and before they reached the first settler's house he had half won her to kindliness. Here he made his victory complete. At every question he appealed to her deferentially for counsel and decision; he reckoned Miss Conklin would know, he relied on her for the facts, and when she spoke he guessed that just settled the matter; her opinion was good enough for him, and so forth.

Wounded to the soul by Bancroft's persistent, undeserved contempt, the girl felt that now at last she had met some one who appreciated her, and she gave herself up to the charm of dexterous flattery.

From her expression and manner while they drove homewards, Barkman believed that the game was his own. He went on talking to her with the reverence which he had already found to be so effective. There was no one like her. What a lawyer she'd have made! How she got round the wife and induced the husband to sign the petition—'twas wonderful! He had never imagined a woman could be so tactful and winning. He had never met a man who was her equal in persuading people.

The girl drank in the praise as a dry land drinks the rain. He meant it all; that was clear. He had shown it in his words and acts—there, before the Croftons. She had always believed she could do such things; she didn't care much about books, and couldn't talk fine about moonlight, but the men an' women she knew, she understood. She was sure of that. But still, 'twas pleasant to hear it. He must love her or he never could appreciate her as he did. She reckoned he was very clever; the best lawyer in the State. Every one knew that. And he had said no man was equal to her. Oh, if only the other, if only George had told her so; but he was too much wrapped up in himself, and after all what was he anyway? Yet, if he had—

At this point of her musings the lawyer, seeing the flushed cheeks and softened glance, believed his moment had come, and resolved to use it. His passion made him forget that it was possible to go too fast.

“Miss Conklin,” he began seriously, “if you'd join with me there's nothin' we two couldn't do, nothin'! They call me the first lawyer in the State, and I guess I'll get to Washington soon; but with you to help me I'd be there before this year's out. As the wife of a Member of Congress, you would show them all the way. I'm rich already; that is, I can do whatever you want, and it's a shame for such genius as yours, and such talent, to be hidden here among people who don't know how to value you properly. In New York or in Washington you'd shine; become a social power,” and as the words “New York” caused the girl to look at him with eager attention, he added, overcome by the foretaste of approaching triumph: “Miss Loo, I love you; you've seen that, for you notice everythin'. I know I'm not young, but I can be kinder and more faithful than any young man, and,” here he slipped his arm round her waist, “I guess all women want to be loved, don't they? Will you let me love you, Loo, as my wife?”

The girl shrank away from him nervously. Perhaps the fact of being in a buggy recalled her rides with George; or the caress brought home to her the difference between the two men. However that may be, when she answered, it was with full self-possession:

“I guess what you say's about right, and I like you. But I don't want to marry—anyway not yet. Of course I'd like to help you, and I'd like to live in New York; but—I can't make up my mind all at once. You must wait. If you really care for me, that can't be hard.”

“Yes, it's hard,” Barkman replied, “very hard to feel uncertain of winning the only woman I can ever love. But I don't want to press you,” he added, after a pause, “I rely on you; you know best, and I'll do just what you wish.”

“Well, then,” she resumed, mollified by his humility, “you'll go back to Wichita this evenin', as you said you would, and when you return, the day after to-morrow, I'll tell you Yes or No. Will that do?” and she smiled up in his face.

“Yes, that's more than I had a right to expect,” he acknowledged. “Hope from you is better than certainty from any other woman.” In this mood they reached the homestead. Loo alighted at the gate; she wouldn't allow Barkman even to get down; he was to go right off at once, but when he returned she'd meet him. With a grave respectful bow he lifted his hat, and drove away. On the whole, he had reason to be proud of his diplomacy; reason, too, for saying to himself that at last he had got on “the inside track.” Still, all the factors in the problem were not seen even by his keen eyes.

The next morning, Loo began to reflect upon what she should do. It did not occur to her that she had somewhat compromised herself with the lawyer by giving him leave, and, in fact, encouragement to expect a favourable answer. She was so used to looking at all affairs from the point of view of her own self-interest and satisfaction, that such an idea did not even enter her head. She simply wanted to decide on what was best for herself. She considered the matter as it seemed to her, from all sides, without arriving at any decision. Barkman was kind, and good to her; but she didn't care for him, and she loved George still. Oh, why wasn't he like the other, always sympathetic and admiring? She sat and thought. In the depths of her nature she felt that she couldn't give George up, couldn't make up her mind to lose him; and why should she, since they loved each other? What could she do?

Of a sudden she paused. She remembered how, more than a year before, she had been invited to Eureka for a ball. She had stayed with her friend Miss Jennie Blood; by whose advice and with whose help she had worn for the first time a low-necked dress. She had been uncomfortable in it at first, very uncomfortable, but the men liked it, all of them. She had seen their admiration in their eyes; as Jennie had said, it fetched them. If only George could see her in a low-necked dress—she flushed as she thought of it—perhaps he'd admire her, and then she'd be quite happy. But there were never any balls or parties in this dead-and-alive township! How could she manage it?

The solution came to her with a shock of half-frightened excitement. It was warm still, very warm, in the middle of the day; why shouldn't she dress as for a dance, somethin' like it anyway, and go into George's room to put it straight just before he came home from school? Her heart beat quickly as she reflected. After all, what harm was there in it? She recollected hearing that in the South all the girls wore low dresses in summer, and she loved George, and she was sure he loved her. Any one would do it, and no one would know. She resolved to try on the dress, just to see how it suited her. There was no harm in that. She took off her thin cotton gown quickly, and put on the ball-dress. But when she had dragged the chest of drawers before the window and had propped up the little glass on it to have a good look at herself, she grew hot. She couldn't wear that, not in daylight; it looked, oh, it looked—and she blushed crimson. Besides, the tulle was all frayed and faded. No, she couldn't wear it! Oh!—and her eyes filled with tears of envy and vexation. If only she were rich, like lots of other girls, she could have all sorts of dresses. 'Twas unfair, so it was. She became desperate with disappointment, and set her wits to work again. She had plenty of time still. George wouldn't be back before twelve. She must choose a dress he had never seen; then he wouldn't know but what she often wore it so. Nervously, hurriedly, she selected a cotton frock, and before the tiny glass pinned and arranged it over her shoulders and bust, higher than the ball-dress, but still, lower than she had ever worn in the daytime. She fashioned the garment with an instinctive sense of form that a Parisiancouturièremight have envied, and went to work. Her nimble fingers soon cut and sewed it to the style she had intended, and then she tried it on. As she looked at herself in the mirror the vision of her loveliness surprised and charmed her. She had drawn a blue ribband that she happened to possess, round the arms of the dress and round the bodice of it, and when she saw how this little thread of colour set off the full outlines of her bust and the white roundness of her arms, she could have kissed her image in the glass. She was lovely, prettier than any girl in the section. George would see that; he loved beautiful things. Hadn't he talked of the scenery for half an hour? He'd be pleased.

She thought again seriously whether her looks could not be improved. After rummaging a little while in vain, she went downstairs and borrowed a light woollen shawl from her mother on the pretext that she liked the feel of it. Hastening up to her own room, she put it over her shoulders, and practised a long time before the dim glass just to see how best she could throw it back or draw it round her at will.

At last, with a sigh of content, she felt herself fully equipped for the struggle; she was looking her best. If George didn't care for her so—and she viewed herself again approvingly from all sides—why, she couldn't help it. She had done all she could, but if he did, and he must—why, then, he'd tell her, and they'd be happy. At the bottom of her heart she felt afraid. George was strange; not a bit like other men. He might be cold, and at the thought she felt inclined to cry out. Pride, however, came to her aid. If he didn't like her, it would be his fault. She had just done her best, and that she reckoned, with a flush of pardonable conceit, was good enough for anyman.

An hour later Bancroft went up to his room. As he opened the door Loo turned towards him from the centre-table with a low cry of surprise, drawing at the same time the ends of the fleecy woollen wrap tight across her breast.

“Oh, George, how you scared me! I was jest fixin' up your things.” And the girl crimsoned, while her eyes sought to read his face.

“Thank you,” he rejoined carelessly, and then, held by something of expectation in her manner, he looked at her intently, and added: “Why, Loo, how well you look! I like that dress; it suits you.” And he stepped towards her.

She held out both hands as if to meet his, but by the gesture the woollen scarf was thrown back, and her form unveiled. Once again her mere beauty stung the young man to desire, but something of a conscious look in her face gave him thought, and, scrutinizing her coldly, he said:

“I suppose that dress was put on for Mr. Barkman's benefit.”

“Oh, George!” she cried, in utter dismay, “he hain't been here to-day.” And then, as the hard expression did not leave his face, she added hurriedly: “I put it on for you, George. Do believe me.”

Still his face did not alter. Suddenly she understood that she had betrayed her secret. She burst into bitter tears.

He took her in his arms and spoke perfunctory words of consolation; her body yielded to his touch, and in a few moments he was soothing her in earnest. Her grief was uncontrollable. “I've jest done everythin', everythin', and it's all no use,” she sobbed aloud. When he found that he could not check the tears, he grew irritated; he divined her little stratagem, and his lip curled. How unmaidenly!

In a flash, she stood before him, her shallow, childish vanity unmasked. The pity of it did not strike him; he was too young for that; he felt only contempt for her, and at once drew his arms away. With a long, choking sob she moved to the door and disappeared. She went blindly along the passage to her room, and, flinging herself on the bed, cried as if her heart would break. Then followed a period of utter abject misery. She had lost everything George didn't care for her; she'd have to live all her life without him, and again slow, scalding tears fell.

The thought of going downstairs to supper and meeting him was intolerable. The sense of what she had confessed to him swept over her in a hot flood of shame. No, she couldn't go down; she couldn't face his eyes again. She'd sit right there, and her mother'd come up, and she'd tell her she had a headache. To meet him was impossible; she just hated him. He was hard and cruel; she'd never see him again; he had degraded her. The whole place became unbearable as she relived the past; she must get away from him, from it all, at any cost, as soon as she could. They'd be sorry when she was gone. And she cried again a little, but these tears relieved her, did her good.

She tried to look at the whole position steadily. Barkman would take her away to New York. Marry him?—she didn't want to, but she wouldn't make up her mind now; she'd go away with him if he'd be a real friend to her. Only he mustn't put his arm round her again; she didn't like him to do that. If he wished to be a friend to her, she'd let him; if not, she'd go by herself. He must understand that. Once in New York, she'd meet kind people, live as she wanted to live, and never think of this horrid time.

She was all alone; no one in the world to talk to about her trouble—no one. No one cared for her. Her mother loved Jake best; and besides, if she told her anythin', she'd only set down an' cry. She'd write and say she was comfortable; and her father?—he'd get over it. He was kind always, but he never felt much anyway—leastwise, he never showed anythin'. When they got her letter 'twould be all right. That was what she'd do—and so, with her little hands clenched and feverish face, she sat and thought, letting her imagination work.

A few mornings later Bancroft came down early. He had slept badly, had been nervous and disturbed by jealous forebodings, and had not won easily to self-control. He had only been in the sitting-room a minute or two when the Elder entered, and stopping in front of him asked sharply:

“Hev you seen Loo yet?”

“No. Is she down?”

“I reckoned you'd know ef she had made out anythin' partikler to do to-day.”

“No,” he repeated seriously, the Elder's manner impressing him. “No! she told me nothing, but perhaps she hasn't got up yet.”

“She ain't in her room.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn't hear buggy-wheels last night—along towards two o'clock?”

“No, but—you don't mean to say? Lawyer Barkman!” And Bancroft started up with horror in his look.

The Elder stared at him, with rigid face and wild eyes, but as he gradually took in the sincerity of the young man's excitement, he turned, and left the room.

To his bedroom he went, and there, after closing the door, fell on his knees. For a long time no word came; with clasped hands and bowed head the old man knelt in silence. Sobs shook his frame, but no tears fell. At length broken sentences dropped heavily from his half-conscious lips:

“Lord, Lord! 'Tain't right to punish her. She knowed nothin'. She's so young. I did wrong, but I kain't bear her to be punished.

“P'r'aps You've laid this on me jes' to show I'm foolish and weak. That's so, O Lord! I'm in the hollow of Your hand. But You'll save her, O Lord! for Jesus' sake.

“I'm all broke up. I kain't pray. I'm skeered. Lord Christ, help her; stan' by her; be with her. O Lord, forgive!”

June and July, 1891.

Back to IndexNext