Bridget came into the kitchen. Betty’s announcement was both a decision and an appeal. “Mr. Hollister’s been hurt—shot—up in the hills. I’m going up to Justin to make him take me to him.”
“Is he hur-rt bad?” asked the buxom housekeeper.
“Yes. I don’t know. Billy thinks so. If I hurry I can get there before night.”
Bridget hesitated. “I was thinkin’ it might be better for me to go, dearie. You know how folks talk.”
“Oh, talk!” Betty was explosively impatient. She always was when anybody interfered with one of her enthusiasms. “Of course, if you could go. But you’d never get in through the snow. And what could they say—except that I went to save a man’s life if I could?”
“Mr. Merrick might not like it.”
“Of course he’d like it.” The girl was nobly indignant for her fiancé. “Why wouldn’t he like it? It’s just what he’d want me to do.” Under the brown bloom of her cheeks was the peach glow of excitement.
Bridget had traveled some distance on the journey of life, and she had her own opinion about that. Merrick, if she guessed him at all correctly, was a possessive man. He could appreciate Betty’s valiant eagerness when it went out to him, but he would be likely to resent her generous giving of herself to another. He did not belong to the type of lover that recognizes the right of a sweetheart or a wife to express herself in her own way. She was pledged to him. Her vocation and avocation in life were to be his wife.
But Bridget was wise in her generation. She knew that Betty was of the temperament that had to learn from experience. She asked how they would travel to the dam.
“On horseback—if we can get through. The road’s not broken yet probably after yesterday’s storm. We’ll start right away. I can’t get Justin on the ’phone. The wire must be down.”