He hesitated a moment, and then started to follow her. She stopped short and, facing him, cried out: “Don't follow me! I do not want to hear another word. Stop! I can see by your eyes that you are ashamed,—you want to apologize. I do not want to hear it. I am hurt,—terribly hurt. Nothing you can say will help matters now, Mr. Landover.”
“Just a second, Ruth,” he cried, now thoroughly dismayed. “Give me a chance to explain. It was my mad, unreasoning love that—”
But, with an exclamation of sheer disgust, she put her fingers to her ears and sped rapidly down the walk. He stood still, watching her until she entered the cabin door and closed it behind her. Then he completed the broken sentence, but not in the voice of humility nor with the words that he had intended to utter.
CHAPTER XI.
Shay, coming up the walk, distinctly heard what he said.
“What's the matter, Bill?” he inquired, pausing. “Did she throw the hooks into you?”
Landover glared at him balefully. “You go to hell, damn you,” he snarled, and walked away.
“Soapy” rubbed his chin dubiously as he watched the retreating figure. Pursing his thin lips, he turned his attention to an unoffending stump six or eight feet away and scowled at it vindictively. He was turning something over in his mind, and he was manifestly in a state of indecision. Ruminating, he spoke aloud, perhaps for the benefit of a Portuguese farm-hand who happened to be approaching from the opposite direction, but who still had some rods to cover before he was within hearing distance.
“Gee, he's getting to be as decent and democratic as any of us. Shows what association will do for a man. Two months ago he would have been too high and mighty to tell me to go to hell. If he keeps on at this rate, he'll be worth payin' attention to in a couple of months more. Won't he, Bill?” This to the farmhand, who obligingly halted.