Anita came to the door, looked out and nodded with an imperturbable gravity that always disconcerted Rawley. He asked for Peter and Nevada. Peter was at work, Gladys told him vaguely. And the clicking of a typewriter in the rock dugout told him where Nevada might be found.
Rawley was amazed, almost appalled at the agitation with which he faced her. In the press of his work, of meeting strange people and seeing strange places, he had thought the image of Nevada was blurred; a charming personality dimmed by distance and the urge of other thoughts, other interests. But when he held her hand, looked up into her eyes as she stood on the step of the porch, he had a curious sensation of having been poignantly hungry for her all this while. He found himself fighting a desire to take her in his arms and kiss her red mouth that was smiling down at him. He had to remind himself that he hadn’t the right to do that; that Nevada had never given him the faintest excuse to believe that he would ever be privileged to kiss her.
He sat in the homemade chair on the porch and, because looking at Nevada disturbed him unaccountably, he stared down at the river while they talked. He wondered if Nevada really felt as unconcerned over his coming as she sounded and looked. She was friendly, frankly pleased to see him,—and he resented the fact that she could speak so openly of her pleasure. She could have said to any acquaintance the things she said to him, he told himself savagely; she was like all her letters, friendly, unconstrained, impersonal. It amazed him now to remember that he had been delighted with her letters. If at first he had wished them more diffident, as if she felt the sweet possibilities of their friendship, he had come to thank the good Lord for one sensible girl in the world. Nevada had no nonsense, he frequently reminded himself. She didn’t expect the mushy love-making flavor in their correspondence. He could feel sure of Nevada.
Now it maddened him to feel so sure of her; so sure of her composed friendliness that left no little cranny for love to creep in. She liked him,—in the same way that she liked Peter. He could even believe that she liked him almost as well as she liked Peter; that he stood second in her affections before all the world. Covertly he studied her whenever the conversation made a glance into her eyes quite natural and expected. She met each glance with smiling unconcern,—the most disheartening manner a lover can face.
“You’ve grown, Cousin Rawley,” she said. “Yes, I’ve got your home name on my tongue—from Johnny Buffalo, I suppose. Well, you have grown. I don’t mean your body alone, though you have filled out and your shoulders look broader and stronger, somehow, even though you may not weigh a pound more. But you’ve grown mentally. There’s a strength in your face—an added strength. And your eyes are so much different. You keep me wondering, in between our talk, what is in your mind—back of those eyes. That’s a sure sign that a great, strong soul is looking out. It’s been an awful two years, hasn’t it?”
“It has,” Rawley answered quietly, his mind reverting swiftly to several close squeaks from the enemy at home.
“Two years ago you’d have said ‘You bet!’ just like that. ‘It has’ wouldn’t have seemed expressive enough. That’s what I’m driving at. Now you can just say ‘It has’, and something back of your eyes and your voice gives the punch. Cousin Rawley, you can cut out all exclamatory phrases from now on, if you like. The punch is there. I’ve seen other men back from service. One or two had that same reserve power. The others were merely full of talk about how they won the war. It’s funny.”
Rawley did not think it was funny. She had lifted his heart to his throat with her flattering analysis and had dropped it as a child drops a toy for some fresher interest. He was all this and all that,—and she had seen other men return with the same look. Right there Rawley silently indulged himself in his strongest exclamatory phrase in his vocabulary.
Nevada had turned her head to call something in Indian, replying to her grandmother’s shrill voice. She did not see what lay back of Rawley’s eyes at that moment,—worse luck.
“Well, I wanted to get in and help. Gladys and Grandmother knitted sweaters and socks, and so did I. I wanted to be a Red Cross nurse—was there a girl in America who didn’t?—but Uncle Peter wouldn’t let me go. He said I was needed here, to help hold things together. But I’ll tell you what I did do. I went into the old diggings and mined. I found a stringer or two they hadn’t bothered with, and I mined for dear life and sent every last color to the Red Cross. Uncle Peter was helping, too—I mean giving all he could—but I wanted to do something my own self. And do you know, Cousin Rawley, Grandmother got right in with me and shoveled gravel to beat the cars! I didn’t write you about it—it seemed so little to do. And besides, I didn’t realize then the importance of living up to you. But with that—that Sphinxlike strength you’ve acquired, I’ll just inform you that your Injuns were on the job.”