USA > California > Sonoma County > Casa Grande : a California pastoral > Part 14
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When the master of Casa Grande returned next day he found his other guests ready to depart. It was the middle of the forenoon, and Wash had his wagon in the courtyard, nearly loaded with the family belongings that, little by little, had been trans- ferred from their cabin during the months of the wounded girl's stay. Mrs. Clark rode on the wagon, and Buck, saddled and bridled, stood ready for his mistress.
The old lady was sincerely grateful for many kindnesses in the big house, where, with all her care and worry, she had never known a more restful time. There could be no doubt of her regret at leaving, yet it was equally plain that she would re- joice to be again in her own home. She had done her duty steadfastly. If sometimes she had fal- tered at the irksome confinement of the sick-room, nevertheless Miller recognised as hers many traits that bloomed more vigorously in her daughter.
Belle; had given the last touch to the load and was watching it drive away. She was calm and
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self-contained this morning, yet a different girl from the Belle who had been wounded the night of the fire, and her dress to-day expressed the change. Mrs. Payne, after all, had failed to make her more conventional; the personality was too pronounced for that. What had been done, however, was to emphasise her individualities, to strengthen the ad- mirable traits and make them more noticeable.
Miller approvingly scanned her trim figure as she stood ready to mount, and, to his surprise, when he offered to help her, she put up her foot and permitted him to lift her to the saddle. She had on the accus- tomed grey sombrero, but a crimson kerchief wound about the crown gave the touch that made it femi- nine. She still wore a navy-blue riding shirt, but tied carelessly about her perfect throat was a scarf the colour of her hatband. She had on the same full buckskin trousers, but from the knees down they were hidden by a glossy pair of top-boots, and about her waist was a crimson sash, the tasselled ends falling over her hip. She revelled in warm colours, and yet they appeared not inap- propriate.
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Under the man's steadfast gaze, the tint deepened in her cheeks and a light glowed in her eyes. She sat lightly erect in her saddle, her body swaying gracefully to every motion of the horse. The time for parting had come, and with it a strange embar- rassment rose between them. With downcast eyes and painfully throbbing hearts, they stood in the shadow of a nameless longing.
The girl's mount was impatient to follow the con- veyance drawn by two of his fellows, that had dis- appeared through the gate; and, though she reined him firmly, he would not stand. Miller took him by the bit and held him quiet. The action broke the constraint.
"Wait, Buck." He spoke soothingly, and rubbed the animal's nose. "I'm not near so anxious to see you leave as you are to go. I haven't said good-bye yet to your mistress."
"Say it now, before Buck feels lost." She spoke very low, with a faint attempt to smile, and laid an ungloved hand in his.
It was a shapely hand, in spite of the toil it had done-a white hand, now, after long idleness-and
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his fingers closed with a grip of ownership over the softness of it.
"I suppose the word must be said," he regretfully replied, and walked beside her through the gate. She tried feebly to withdraw her fingers, but he clung only the tighter. "It has been blessedness to have you here," he continued; "even the agony has been blessed."
She leaned lightly to him and gazed into his clear, brown eyes. Her lips were drawn to hide their quiver and her breath was short. Words came at last. "I wish I could thank you, Mr. Miller, for all you have done, but I-can't." Her voice failed, and she turned away her face, her hand still clasped by his.
"Don't try, Belle." He reassuringly pressed her fingers. "I know without telling."
"You can't know. It isn't the comforts, the nurs- ing, the doctoring. It's the brightness and sweet- ness of living; something besides forever working and saving." A new motive, like a guiding star, was climbing above her horizon, and she must point it out.
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"I'm very glad you found them all. Everything here seemed hard and rough, and I've regretted that I could do no more."
There was the caressing note in his voice that had thrilled her the night he learned she did not set fire to the barn; it was thrilling her now. She drew away from him, tearing her fingers from his clasp lest he should feel their trembling. What was this exquisite terror that gripped her to suffocation? She turned to him again, and something in his bearing, a mixture of supplication and command, forced her to him, and she felt a wild impulse to fling herself into his arms. A swift movement caused Buck to spring away homeward; when she brought him back, she was calm again. But she must end the interview before she betrayed herself.
"Good-bye," she said. "Don't come any farther." He had walked with her halfway up the hill. never can forget you. If you think the life here hard and rough, it is luxury compared to ours. If my father had been like your father, I might be like you." She gravely studied him, then dropped a
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hand on his shoulder, unconscious of familiarity. "I want to be like you-like Mrs. Payne."
He reached up and clasped her hand; but she, re- membering her resolution, drew away.
"That's why I want a home," she continued. "That's why it has been so hard to forgive you for taking ours. But I-"
"Belle!" he protested. "Haven't I -? "
"I must hurt you. I'll not do so again. I've wanted many times to tell you; let me go on. I have forgiven, but it took all these months! Our land must have been such a little thing to you; it was our world-eight years of our lives !"
"But remember," he said, again reaching for her hand, "you scarcely had spoken to me then."
She had forgotten that. It suddenly came to her what a difference the intimacy of the past four months had made; she realised her power to make him suffer, and it gave joy rather than pain. She leaned tenderly to him and said :
"You thought you were right; I know it now. I'm sorry if I have hurt. I've suffered, too; even death-the night I was wounded, and the time I
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was paralysed. But you've been sweet and patient and helpful; Mrs. Payne herself was not so gentle; and I thank you, Mr. Miller, I thank you for show- ing me how strong and tender a good man can be; I forgive all." Once more she offered him her hand.
He held to her fingers while he earnestly studied her shining face. "You've left out one word, Belle -loving; strong and tender and loving. Haven't you seen that, too, dear ?"
"No, no!" she gasped, trying to free her hand. "You mustn't ! Please let me go."
"Why?" He spoke gently, but there was a note of command in his tone.
"Please let me go," she repeated. "No, John, don't take me in your arms ; I'm very weak. If you knew how I've fought against this-I'm not worthy !"
"There, there," he soothingly said, and stepped back. "I didn't know it would be such a terrible - thing-loving me, sweetheart. I hoped it would bring you joy and peace."
"No, no; I mustn't !"
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"But you do." He was smiling and confident again. "I can read it in your tell-tale eyes."
She quickly turned away her face and gathered her reins. Her body swayed as if she might fall, and he apprehensively put up his hands again to catch her.
"Don't touch me," she protested, resolutely straightening in her saddle; but she brushed her hand across her eyes with the gesture of one that does not see clearly.
"Now go, dear," he said, with a pang of remorse. "I'll come to-morrow. : I should have waited-after all the harm I've done you."
"What harm?" She was brightening again.
"Something that has lain heavily on my mind ever since the fire." He looked on the ground, his sombrero hiding his face.
"Well?" she lightly asked, and tried to raise his hat-brim.
"I shot you." He almost whispered the words.
She freed her hand, laid it on his shoulder, and, with a smile in her glance, answered: "I don't be- lieve you,"
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His face remained averted and hidden.
"How do you know?" she quietly demanded.
"The bullet-it's too small for any other re- volver." As he answered, he felt the hand resting on him tremble, then withdraw. Still he would not look at her.
She settled herself in the saddle, her heart bound- ing at the sudden revelation of how. profound was his love. There could no longer be a doubt of his sincerity ; the acuteness of his suffering for wound- ing her laid bare his long-restrained emotions. But a latent feminine perversity ; the realisation of what he was offering her; Mrs. Payne's warning-all combined to arouse the coquetry never yet allowed full swing, which for months had been held down by a sense of wrong, of inequality, of inopportunity ; · and the desire to tease her lover, to make him pursue her, rose above all other impulses. She wheeled her mount, which broke away at a gallop; as she rode off, Miller glanced up, and never before had she known how swiftly a face can go haggard. She pulled hard on the lines, her quick sympathy impel- ling her to assure him that he misunderstood; but
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the eager horse could not be held back by ordinary force, and she gave him his head. The pang her lover's suffering had caused was quickly forgotten in a new-found happiness and the conviction that he would follow her.
Miller vaguely gazed after Belle speeding over the hill, and disappearing without turning back, and he wondered how she could be so cruel. That she acted from intention he could not believe; yet he did not know what else her going implied. The elemental impulse of her sex to be pursued in love, particularly dominant in the half-wild girl, was yet a mystery to him, and he must suffer for his dense- ness. He stood for a while baffled by his emotions, then went unsteadily down the rise.
Across the afternoon sky a rain-cloud was fling- ing black shadows. and the freshening wind whistled in short gusts.
CHAPTER XXIV
TELL ME
S OON after the breaking up at Casa Grande, Bailey met Wash in Santa Rosa and learned that Belle was miserable. Her brother did not know the trouble, but the symptoms most clearly impressed on him were sleeplessness, indifference to meals, and long stretches of silence and solitary wandering; the family was greatly worried lest she should be ill again.
On Sunday following, the sheriff went to Casa Grande. He had brooded over Belle's condition, and had decided that Miller was responsible for her un- happiness. The only conclusion he could accept was that the master of Aguas Frias had won the girl's love and had failed to respond. Of course, it was unintentional; and yet, during her convalescence, Miller must have been somewhat diverted by her growing affection, and, when he found that it might
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be his for the taking, had tired of it, and cast it from his regard as he would any novel sensation after it no longer amused him.
Miller should be admonished for his treatment of Belle, should have his attention called to the suffer- ing he was causing her. The master of the range was too generous to persist in any action that wounded another, and a word would be sufficient to end his attentions-would probably induce him to avoid her in future. No one was better qualified for this duty than the sheriff, who had set out eagerly and without resentment, although not quite conscious of the self-interest underlying his other motives. As he rode into the courtyard, the va- queros were leaving, and Miller was comfortably stretched in the shade, reading.
"Put up your horse, Bailey," was the ranchero's cordial greeting.
"No; I shan't stay long," the rider answered, as he dismounted and walked over to Miller.
"Nothing wrong, I trust," genially remarked the host.
Bailey replied that nothing was intentionally
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wrong; yet he would like to talk about Belle and her condition. The visitor showed no embarrass- ment in thus broaching the object of his call.
"Sit down," said Miller, making room beside him- self on the settee. "You've come to the right place, old man. Fire away."
The ranchero's manner expressed no suspicion of his guest's purpose, and the sheriff felt cordiality in tone and act. The reception made him hesitate, and he began more indirectly than he had intended. "Have you seen Belle lately?" he asked.
"No," Miller answered; "not since the lady left here."
"Why not?" Bailey rather sharply demanded. "It's only a week or ten days."
"They're afraid she's going to be sick again. Do you think you've treated her square?"
"When did you see her?" asked Miller, ignoring the last question.
"Wash told me."
"I tried to keep them longer; I was afraid Belle was hardly strong enough for outdoor life."
Bailey closely scrutinised his host; the man was
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too evasive to suit the sheriff, who came in a mood for finding fault. "Do you think her wound is the trouble ?"
"What did Wash say?"
"Wash is a boy," somewhat contemptuously ob- served Bailey. "He don't know."
"Do you ?"
"I can guess-and you ought to," sourly answered Bailey.
"No, Sam, I can't. If you know what will help her, tell me."
"There's no use beating round the bush," impa- tiently declared the sheriff. "You haven't been treat- ing her right; I was afraid of it when I saw how she was growing to feel toward you. Don't you know you're making her suffer?"
Miller shook his head. He knew she had made him suffer, and it would not lessen his misery to learn that she, too, suffered, if for the same cause. He quietly answered : "No, Sam; I am unconscious of having done anything to distress her."
"There's the trouble. You're unconscious of it. It means nothing to you, but everything to her."
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"How do you know?"
"Know! Can't I see? I've warned you before, and I was right. Now you've done it."
Miller, in the light of recent experiences, could not help feeling amused. "What would you have me do?" he asked.
"You know best. You've knocked about more than I."
"Then why question my motives ?"
"Because you've treated the girl as an equal, with- out feeling that she is."
Miller quietly laughed ; a sudden apprehension im- pelled him to ask: "Does Belle know of the protest you are entering ?"
"No; I'm acting on my own judgment. She's had no experience. I love her, and you've made her un- happy. That's reason enough !"
"Yes, Bailey. But, remember, a girl like Belle always can protect herself from a man like me."
"Evidently she hasn't," remarked the sheriff, lying back indolently. "You must admit that I have some cause to protest, as you call it."
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"You are not protesting, but intertering," drily replied Miller.
Bailey looked up in surprise, and did not imme- diately answer. "I didn't intend to interfere. I can't drive you. I just want to explain-to let you know how my heart aches for her."
Miller did not reply.
"I'd stand aside in a minute," Bailey continued, "if I thought you would marry her and make her happy."
"It seems to me, Bailey, not quite fair to Belle, this discussing of what we would or could do with her." Miller spoke abruptly.
"It seems to me," answered Bailey, quite at ease, * that this is just the time for discussion."
"Do you think gentlemen should discuss a woman's confidence ?"
"No, no," quickly responded Bailey. "I wouldn't think of abusing any woman's trust, and Belle's least of all. I only want to save her from pain."
"A worthy purpose; although you go about it with a touch of hysteria, I fear."
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"But I have to sledge-hammer you, Miller. You won't see !"
"I trust," replied Miller, "that you'll not attempt to discipline other men the same way; it might put Belle in a questionable position."
The sheriff rose and demanded an explanation.
"What right," asked Miller, "has any man not a blood relative or an accepted lover to champion a woman's cause?"
Bailey backed up against a post supporting the porch and stood dejectedly eyeing the floor, his hands in his pockets. He soon reasoned out a justification, and said :
"It's different between you and me; you know I love her, and I know you're making her suffer."
"Yes, Sam, I understand your motive; but, just the same, our intimacy doesn't alter the right of championship."
Another reason flashed into the sheriff's mind. "I may not be a blood relative, nor an accepted lover, but I've done so much more than you for her and hers that I have a right to protect her from her own innocence."
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Miller leaned comfortably back and listened.
"What have you done?" demanded the sheriff. "You put them out of their home-refused them a poor little hundred and sixty acres from your thou- sands. That's one of the things you've done."
Miller uneasily changed his position.
"You put them all in jail," Bailey pursued. "Then, when your conscience troubled you, you helped me get bail for them."
The ranchero did not look at his accuser.
"Oh, yes. You did put up a new cabin for them. But, after that, what happened? Tom left the coun- ty, driven out by a fear that if he stayed he might kill you. And Belle was shot within a hundred yards of your door!" The sheriff's voice had dropped to a whisper, and he stood sombrely above the man crouching on the settee. "How do you know," he went on, "that you didn't do it? What proof is there that your bullet didn't lay her out?"
The ranchero looked up helplessly and moistened his lips with his tongue. Hehad done all these things, had suffered, and had tried to atone for them. "Do
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you think it fair," he asked, "to remind me of mat- ters I gladly would forget? What good will it do?"
"This much good : It'll show you that I have a right to protest against your further wronging Belle; that I have the right to ask you to give up seeing her-keep away from her."
Miller lazily straightened himself and indulgently regarded his guest. To keep him away from Belle; · that was the burden of the sheriff's purpose. It was very evident. Her champion harped on her suffer- ing, not because she suffered, but because it furnished a reason to separate her from his rival. It was a harmless enough purpose, and the rival had listened patiently.
"Suppose," he said, at last, "that I do give her up-keep away from her?"
Bailey's face lighted. "That's all I ask, old man; just stay away. Give her time to see that she must not go out of her own class."
"You think I'm the cause of her straying?"
"I think you've put wrong ideas in her head, ex- cited longings that can't be gratified. She comes
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from plain people, whose women have been content to be mothers and homekeepers."
"If I remember correctly," remarked Miller, "you, too, came from plain people."
"Oh, yes," was the annoyed answer. "I can be plain without being an obscure drudge. I want to own a ranch and be master. Then you'll find me as simple in my home as my grandfather."
Miller leaned back and softly laughed.
"Anything wrong in my reasoning?"
"Your reasoning is the quintessence of logic," Miller answered, as he rose. "It's the purpose be- hind the reasoning that amuses me. You want a clear field; mind you, a clear field, not a fair field."
"No, sir, I don't. Why, I've loved her for years. I'm their tried friend. I helped bury their father, and ever since I've stood ready to do what I could for them. I saved them, as far as possible, the hu- miliation of being in jail. I tried to save their home for them-you know that. I'm ready to give my life for her; I've proved it," he declared, touching the arm Belle had broken.
"There's no doubt of your sincerity, Bailey. But
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have you considered what you can expect in return ? Would you take her unless she loves you as you love her ?"
"I'll take her any way. Once my wife, she'll find me not a bad fellow."
Miller watched the goldfish sporting in the foun- tain, and contrasted the sheriff's ideal of loving with his own, which would give everything, yet demanded as much in return. Belle had not proved herself capable of yielding what he required, and he con- sidered that Bailey and he were scarcely rivals.
The sheriff had reached his limit, and felt that the last word had been spoken. He walked to his horse, adjusted the blanket under the saddle, and, as he was about to mount, turned to Miller with the remark :
"You've not said if you'll keep away."
"No. Instead, I'll tell you what I should do if I were in your place. I never would give up till she sent me away."
"Good-bye." The caller bounded into his saddle. "I'll take your advice."
Bailey did not ride away with the same feeling of
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vague uneasiness that he had ridden in with. He had discovered but little of Miller's motives, yet intuition told him that the relations between Belle and the ranchero were not as intimate as they had been. When he passed out the gate, stars were twinkling and a touch of frost was in the air. At the fork of the road he cheerily turned toward Dry Creek.
CHAPTER XXV
THAT THOU WERT AS MY BROTHER
1 T was quite dark when Bailey reached the Clarks' door-yard, and Belle was not in the cabin, her mother being alone in the kitchen. The caller put up his horse and made himself at home in the room where the widow was finishing the housework. They spoke of the family life at Casa Grande, its probable effect on Belle, and the mother complained of the girl's disturbing symptoms.
Belle softly entered while they were discussing her, and before Bailey knew it she was standing near him, more a spirit than a living being; for the moment, he felt a touch of weariness in her coming. Her greeting was neither distant nor cordial; she had a quiet reserve that roused in him a sudden pas- sion of resentment, quickly dispelled when he saw her face in the dim light of the candle. The features were far too expressive to hide the suffering that
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had been torturing her soul, and his resentment gave way to pity.
He attempted the usual flow of banter, and lost no opportunity to thrust at Miller and Mrs. Payne. His efforts fell unresponsively, however, and the evening closed sombrely about them. As Belle left to prepare the guest's bed, he quietly asked her to wait after the others had retired.
A log blazed in the wide chimney, and when they were at last alone he moved two chairs before the warmth. Belle reluctantly took the seat offered; she was in no condition to undergo the coming ordeal, but felt it a duty, and silently fortified herself.
Bailey could not keep his eyes from her face. Un- usual pallor and a slight wasting of the body inten- sified the appearance of refinement he had noticed in the sick-room, and the gentle submission of her attitude strongly affected him. He was studying quite another individual than the girl he had known, yet with enough of her old familiarity to keep him from feeling utterly estranged. The rough com- radeship of yesterday was gone, and in its place
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were quiet confidence, gentle seriousness, that told of a new and mysterious inner life, to be disclosed only to a kindred soul.
He rose with a movement of impatience and turned his back to the fire. That inner life of hers might be beyond him ; what difference need it make? She could live it alone : all were more or less alone in this world. His insistent impression was her sweetness, and he coveted her more than ever. Whether or not his affection could satisfy the crav- ing of her soul never entered his speculations ; in his understanding, affection meant only domestic com- fort and sympathy, and he felt able to supply both abundantly.
The way to approach the subject clamouring for expression disquieted him, however. Her manner reflected Miller's influence, and he wondered at the sudden change. If she were only more respon- sive, a little less passive, he would know how to begin.
:
"Your stay at the big house hasn't done you much good," he at last ventured.
She gazed absently into the blaze, and dreamed of
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the other fireplace that had been hers many months -of the other voice that sounded ever in her mem- ory, soothing, caressing, thrilling. She was too far away to reply.
"I've just come from Casa Grande," he continued. "We were talking of you. It's no use, Belle; you're not suited to him."
A dangerous gleam came into her eyes, unob- served, however, by the visitor.
"I told him he had no right to fool you the way he had been ; that he was making you unhappy-"
"How dare you, Sam Bailey!" she cried, spring- ing up; "how dare you!" The quiver of her voice and the tumult of her breast showed how keenly he had offended.
"He surely don't care, Belle. He looks on you-all as so much white trash, to be kicked out when he tires of you."
The expression on her face turned to amusement, and she sat down.
"That's what I told him," continued Bailey, "and he couldn't deny it. He said he hadn't been to see you since you left there."
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