“But, sir, my conscience flays me,” she went on. There was no other sound like her voice. “Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?”
She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast. Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do.
Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making amends for a fancied or real wrong. Duane thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then.
“I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,” she said, and now her speech came swiftly. “When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how I may soon need a friend! Will you be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm terribly worried. I fear—I fear—Oh, surely I'll need a friend soon—soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. I want to help you. Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone—all alone? Will you—will you be—” Her voice failed.
It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun to suspect—that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers they pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more! Her appeal to Duane shook him deeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything. And with the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there came realization of a dangerous situation.
“I must be true to my duty,” he said, hoarsely.
“If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it.”
“Well, then—I'll do anything for you.”
“Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied—he lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me to go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, I know something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you if—if—Will you help me?”
“Yes,” replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face.