“Two,” interpolated Dosia.
“It’s seventeen months and three days—but that’s nothing to do with it. It’s no use your trying the grandmother act—I could marry you, just the same, if I am younger. Mrs. Stanford is two years older than her husband, and Mrs. Taylor is five years older than hers. Lots of people do it—but that’s not the point now. I’m miles older than you in everything but years. I’ve had experience of the world, and you haven’t.” His belligerent tone softened, and he looked at her tenderly as he towered above her, his blue eyes alight. “You need somebody to take care of you. I don’t care whether you believe it or not, I know what I’m talking about. I wish you’d drop that fellow.”
“Why?” asked Dosia, with dangerous calm.
“Why? Because—you ought to know. He isn’t a gentleman; he’s no good. He isn’t fit. If he was, don’t you think he’d look out for you, and not take advantage the way he does? If he had a decent spark in him, he’d never let you be seen with him; he knows it, if you don’t. Why, there have been times I’ve seen him when you wouldn’t pick him up off the road with a pair of tongs.”
“Mr. Barr, will you fasten this cloak around me?” said Dosia, in a clear voice.
She turned with her back to William and leaned a little closer to Lawson, after he had helped her arrange the garment. Lawson had made every resolution to take no advantage of his position, but he was not proof against this alluring moment; his warm hand with its long, tapering fingers sought hers under cover of the lap-robe, and held it while he still talked with apparent unconcern to his matronly vis-à-vis. Once he looked around at Dosia with those teasing eyes full of laughter, and yet of something more. She could not drag her hand away without betraying the struggle, as his closed more tightly over it, though her riotous heart beat so that she feared it must get into her voice, and there was an odd feeling as if she were doing some one a wrong. Her fluttering was intoxication to Lawson.
They drove for five miles with the early spring moonlight shining silverly through the last rosy haze of the sunset, the air sweet with the scent of green grass and dewy blossomings.
Lawson did not look at Dosia as he helped her out of the wagon, nor did he come in to listen to the lecture, through which she sat pulsating at the thought of the drive home, desiring yet fearing it. Would he be near her then? Her question was answered. He helped to put everyone else in the wagon, and they two came last. This time their opposite neighbors were a young couple engrossed in each other. Dosia’s quick eye took in the situation at once. She was determined not to speak first, and they rode for a while in silence; then he moved nearer, and asked in a low tone:
“Why did you—hold my hand?” She spoke in a whisper that he had to bend his head to hear.