A VISITOR FROM THE PLAINS
"Papa," said Florence, next morning, as they two sat alone at breakfast, her mother having reported a headache and failed to appear, "let's go somewhere, away from folks, for a week or so."
"Why this sudden change of front?" her father queried. "Not being of the enemy I'm entitled to the plan of campaign, you know."
Florence observed him steadily, and the father could not but notice how much more mature she seemed than the prairie girl of a few months ago.
"There is no change of front or plan of campaign as far as I know," she replied. "I simply want to get away a bit, that's all." She returned to her neglected breakfast. "There's such a thing as mental dyspepsia, you know, and I feel a twinge of it now and then. I think this new life is being fed to me in doses too large for my digestion."
Mr. Baker eventually acquiesced, as anyone who knew him could have foretold he would do. His wife, also, when the plan was broached to her, hesitatingly agreed, but at the last moment balked and declined to go; so they left without her.
The small town to which they went had ample grass and trees, and a small lake convenient. A farmer's family reluctantly consented to board and lodge them; also to give them the use of a bony horse and a disreputable one-seated wagon. After their arrival they promptly proceeded to segregate themselves from their fellow-boarders. The first day they fished a little, talked, read, slept, meditated, and smoked—that is, Mr. Baker did, enough for two; and Florence assisted by rolling cigarettes when the bowl of the meerschaum grew uncomfortably hot. The next day they repeated the programme, and also the next, and the next.
"I think I could stay here always," said Mr. Baker.
"I rather like it myself," Florence admitted.
Nevertheless, they returned promptly on schedule-time. Mrs. Baker was awaiting them, her stiff manner indicating that she had not been doing much else while they were away. Without finesse, one member of the two delinquents was informed that a certain man of considerable social prominence, Clarence Sidwell by name, had called daily, and, Mrs. Baker fancied, with increasing dissatisfaction at their absence. Florence found in her mail a short note, which after some consideration she handed without comment to her father.
He read—and read again. "When was this mailed?" he asked.
"Over a week ago," answered Florence. "It has been here for several days."
It was therefore no surprise to the Englishman when that very evening, as he sat on the front veranda, his heels on the railing, watching the passage of equipages swift and slow, he saw a tall young man, at whom passers-by stared more than was polite, coming leisurely up the sidewalk, inspecting the numbers on the houses. As he came closer, Mr. Baker took in the details of the long free stride, of the broad chest, the square uplifted chin, with something akin to admiration. Vitality and power were in every motion of the supple body; health—a life free as the air and sunshine—was written in the brown of the hands, the tan of the face. Even his clothes, though not the conventional costume of city streets, seemed a part of their wearer, and had a freedom all their own. The broad-brimmed felt hat was obviously for comfort and protection, not for show. The light-brown flannel shirt was the color of the sinewy throat. The trousers, of darker wool, rolled up at the bottom, exposed the high-heeled riding-boots. About the whole man—for he was very near now—there was that immaculate cleanliness which the world prizes more than godliness.
Scotty dropped his feet from the railing and advanced to the steps. "Hello, Ben Blair!" he said.
The visitor paused and smiled. "How do you do, Mr. Baker?" he answered. "I thought I'd find you along here somewhere." He swung up the short walk, and, mounting the steps, grasped the Englishman's extended hand. For a moment the two said nothing. Then Scotty motioned to a chair. "Sit down, won't you?" he invited.
Ben stood as he was. The smile left his face. "Would you really—like me to?" he asked directly.
"I really would, or I wouldn't have asked you," Scotty returned, with equal directness.
Ben took the proffered chair, and crossed his legs comfortably. The two sat for a moment in silent companionship.
"Tell me about Rankin," suggested Scotty at last.
Ben did so. It did not take long, for he scarcely mentioned himself, and quite omitted that last incident of which Grannis had been witness.
"And—the man who shot him?" Scotty found it a bit difficult to put the query into words.
"They swung him a few days later. Things move rather fast out there when they move at all."
"Were 'they' the cowboys?"
"No, the sheriff and the rest. It was all regular—scarcely any spectators, even, I heard."
"And now about yourself. Shall you be in the city long?"
"I hardly know. I came partly on business—but that won't take me long." He looked at his host significantly. "I also had another purpose in coming."
Scotty moved uncomfortably in his seat. "Ben," he said at last, "I'd like to ask you to stay with us if I could, but—" he paused, looking cautiously in at the open door—"but Mollie, you know—It would mean the dickens' own time with her."
Ben showed neither surprise nor resentment. "Thank you," he replied. "I understand. I couldn't have accepted had you invited me. Let's not consider it."
Again the seat which usually fitted the Englishman so well grew uncomfortable. He was conscious that through the curtains of the library window some one was watching him and the new-comer. He had a mortal dread of a scene, and one seemed inevitable.
"How's the old ranch?" he asked evasively.
"It's just as you left it. I haven't got the heart somehow to change anything. We use up a good many horses one way and another during a year, and when I get squared around I'm going to start a herd there with one of the boys to look after it. It was Rankin's idea too."
"You expect to keep on ranching, then?"
"Why not?"
"I thought, perhaps, now that you had plenty to do with—You're young, you know."
Ben looked out across the narrow plat of turf deliberately.
"Am I—young? Really, I'd never thought of it in that way."
The Englishman's feet again mounted the railing in an attempt at nonchalance.
"Well, usually a man at your age—" He laughed. "If it were an old fellow like me—"
"Mr. Baker, I thought you said you really wished me to sit down and chat awhile?"
Scotty colored. "Why, certainly. What makes you think—"
"Let's be natural then."
Scotty stiffened. His feet returned to the floor.
"Blair, you forget—" But somehow the sentence, bravely begun, halted. Few people in real life acted a part with Benjamin Blair's blue eyes upon them. "Ben," he said instead, "I'm an ass, and I beg your pardon. I'll call Florence."
But the visitor's hand restrained him.
"Don't, please. She knows I am here. I saw her a bit ago. Let her do as she wishes." He drew himself up in the cane rocker. "You asked me a question. As far as I know I shall ranch it always. It suits me, and it's the thing I can do best. Besides, I like being with live things. The only trouble I have," he smiled frankly, "is in selling stock after I raise them. I want to keep them as long as they live, and put them in greener pastures when they get old. It's the off season, but I brought a couple of car-loads along with me to Chicago, to the stock-yards. I'll never do it again. It has to be done, I know; people have to be fed; but I've watched those steers grow from calves."
Scotty searched his brain for something relevant and impersonal, but nothing suggested itself. "Ben Blair," he ventured, "I like you."
"Thank you," said Ben.
They were silent for a long time. Pedestrians, singly and in pairs, sauntered past on the walk. Vehicle after vehicle scurried by in the street. At last a team of brown thoroughbreds, with one man driving, drew up in front of the house. The man alighted, tied the horses to the stone hitching-post, and came up the walk. Simultaneously Ben saw the curtains at the library window sway as though in a sudden breeze.
"Splendid horses, those," he commented.
"Yes," answered Scotty, wishing he were somewhere else just then. "Yes," he repeated, absently.
"Good-evening, Mr. Baker!" said the smiling driver of the thoroughbreds.
"Good-evening," echoed Scotty. Then, with a gesture, he indicated the passive Benjamin. "My friend Mr. Blair, Mr. Sidwell."
Sidwell mounted the steps. Ben arose. The library curtains trembled again. The two men looked each other fairly in the eyes and then shook hands.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blair," said Sidwell.
"Thank you," responded Ben, evenly.
Down in the depths of his consciousness, Scotty was glad this frontier youth had seen fit to come to town. Taking off his big glasses he polished them industriously.
"Won't you sit down?" he invited the new-comer.
Sidwell moved toward the door. "No, thank you. With your permission I'll go inside. I presume Miss Baker—"
But the Englishman was ahead of him. "Yes," he said, "she's at home. I'll call her," and he disappeared.
Watching the retreating figure, Sidwell's black eyes tightened, but he returned and took the place Scotty had vacated. He gave his companion a glance which, swift as a flash of light upon a sensitized plate, took in every detail of the figure, the bizarre dress, the striking face.
"You are from the West, I judge, Mr. Blair?" he interrogated.
"Dakota," said Ben, laconically.
Sidwell's gaze centred on the sombrero. "Cattle raising, perhaps?" he ventured.
Ben nodded. "Yes, I have a few head east of the river." He returned the other's look, and Sidwell had the impression that a searchlight was suddenly shifted upon him. "Ever been out there?"
The city man indicated an affirmative. "Yes, twice: the last time about four years ago. I went out on purpose to see a steer-roping contest, on the ranch of a man by the name of Gilbert, I remember. A cowboy they called Pete carried off the honors; had his 'critter' down and tied in forty-two seconds. They told me that was slow time, but I thought it lightning itself."
"The trick can be done in thirty-five with the wildest," commented Ben.
Sidwell looked out on the narrow street meditatively. "I think that cowboy exhibition," he went on slowly, "was the most typically American scene I have ever witnessed. The recklessness, the dash, the splendid animal activity—there's never been anything like it in the world." His eyes returned to Ben's face. "Ever hear of Gilbert, did you?"
"I live within twenty-three miles of him."
Sidwell looked interested. "What ranch, if I may ask?"
"The Right Angle Triangle we call it."
"Oh, yes," Sidwell nodded in recollection. "Rankin is the proprietor—a big man with a grandfather's-shay buckboard. I saw him while I was there."
Involuntarily one of Ben's long legs swung over the other. "That's the place! You have a good memory."
Sidwell smiled. "I couldn't help having in this case. He reminded me of the satraps of ancient Persia. He was monarch of all he surveyed."
Ben said nothing.
"He's still the big man of the country, I presume?"
"He is dead."
"Dead?"
"I said so."
The light of understanding came to the city man. "I see," he observed. "He is gone, and you—"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Sidwell," interrupted the other, "but suppose we change the subject?"
Sidwell colored, then he laughed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Blair. No offence was intended, I assure you. Mr. Rankin interested me, that was all."
Again Ben said nothing, and the conversation lapsed.
Meanwhile within doors another drama had been taking place. A very discomposed young lady had met Scotty just out of hearing.
"What made you stop Mr. Sidwell, papa?" she asked indignantly. "Why didn't you let him come in?"
"Because I didn't choose to," explained Scotty, bluntly.
"But I wanted him to," she said imperiously. "I don't care to see Ben to-night."
Her father looked at her steadily. "And I wish you to see him," he insisted. "You must be hypnotized to behave the way you're doing! You forget yourself completely!"
The brown eyes of the girl flashed. "And you forget yourself! I'm no longer a child! I won't see him to-night unless I wish to!"
Easy-going Scotty was aroused. His weak chin set stubbornly.
"Very well. You will see neither of them, then. I won't have a man insulted without cause in my own house. I'll tell them both you're sick."
"If you do," flamed Florence, "I'll never forgive you! You're—horrid, if you are my father. I—" She took refuge in tears. "Oh, you ought to be ashamed to treat your daughter so!"
The Englishman flicked a speck of ash off his lounging coat. "I am ashamed," he admitted; "but not of what you suggest." He turned toward the door.
"Daddy," said a pleading voice, "don't you—care for me any more?"
An expression the daughter had never seen before, but one that ever after haunted her, flashed over the father's face.
"Care for you?" he exclaimed. "Care for you? That is just the trouble! I care for you—have always cared for you—too much. I have sacrificed my self-respect to humor you, and it's all been a mistake. I see it now too late."
For a moment the two looked at each other; then the girl brushed past him. "Very well," she said calmly, "if I must see them both, at least permit me to see them by myself."
The men on the porch arose as Florence appeared. Their manner of doing so was characteristic of each. Sidwell got to his feet languidly, a bit stiffly. He had not forgotten the past week. Ben Blair arose respectfully, almost reverently, unconscious that he was following a mere social form. Six months had passed since he had seen this little woman, and his soul was in his eyes as he looked at her.
Just without the door the girl halted, her color like the sunset. It was the city man she greeted first.
"I'm very glad to see you again," she said, and a dainty hand went out to meet his own.
Sidwell was human. He smiled, and his hand detained hers longer than was really necessary.
"And I'm happy indeed to have you back," he responded. "I missed you."
The girl turned to the impassive but observing Benjamin.
"I am glad to see you, too, Mr. Blair," she said, but the voice was as formal as the handshake. "Papa introduced you to Mr. Sidwell, I suppose?"
Her reserve was quite unnecessary. Outwardly, Ben was as coldly polite as she. He placed a chair for her deferentially and took another himself, while Sidwell watched the scene with interest. Somewhere, some time, if he lived, that moment would be reproduced on a printed page.
"Yes," responded Ben, "Mr. Sidwell and I have met." He turned his chair so that he and the girl faced each other. "You like the city, your new life, as well as you expected, I trust?"
They chatted a few minutes as impersonally as two chance acquaintances meeting by accident; then again Ben arose. "I judge you were going driving," he said simply. "I'll not detain you longer."
Florence melted. Such delicate consideration was unexpected.
"You must call again while you are in town," she said.
"Thank you, I shall," Ben responded.
Sidwell felt that he too could afford to be generous.
"If there's anything in the way of amusement or otherwise that I can do for you, Mr. Blair, let me know," he said, proffering his address. "I am at your service at any time."
Ben had reached the walk, but he turned. For a moment wherein Florence held her breath he looked steadily at the city man.
"We Western men, Mr. Sidwell," he said at last slowly, "are more or less solitaries. We take our recreation as we do our work, alone. In all probability I shall not have occasion to accept your kindness. But I may call on you before I leave." He bowed to both, and replaced his hat. A "good-night" and he was gone.
Watching the tall figure as it disappeared down the street, Sidwell smiled peculiarly. "Rather a positive person, your friend," he remarked.
Like an echo, Florence took up the word. "Positive!" The small hands pressed tightly together in the speaker's lap. "Positive! You didn't get even a suggestion of him by that. I saw a big prairie fire once. It swept over the country for miles and miles, taking everything clean; and the men fighting it might have been so many children in arms. I always think of it when I think of Ben Blair. They are very much alike."
The smile left Sidwell's face. "One can start a back-fire on the prairie," he said reflectively. "I fancy the same process might work successfully with Blair also."
"Perhaps," admitted Florence. The time came when both she and Sidwell remembered that suggestion.
But the subject was too large to be dropped immediately.
"Something tells me," Sidwell added, after a moment, "that you are a bit fearful of this Blair. Did the gentleman ever attempt to kidnap you—or anything?"
Florence did not smile. "No," she answered.
"What was it, then? Were you in love, and he cold—or the reverse?"
Florence dropped her chin into her hands. "To be frank with you, it was—the reverse; but I would rather not speak of it." She was silent for a moment. "You are right, though," she continued, rather recklessly, "when you say I'm afraid of him. I don't dare think of him, even. I want to forget he was ever a part of my life. He overwhelms me like sleep when I'm tired. I am helpless."
Unconsciously Sidwell had stumbled upon the closet which held the skeleton. "And I—" he queried, "are you afraid of me?"
The girl's great brown eyes peered out above her hands steadily.
"No; with us it is not of you I'm afraid—it's of myself." She arose slowly. "I'm ready to go driving if you wish," she said.