The Forfeit Part 38

For a moment a strange feeling of weakness came over the girl. But she resolutely thrust it aside.

"It's not me, Jeff," she disclaimed. "You know it's not me. And you'll--promise?"

He nodded.

"I'll go back to her, because--of you."

A curious look of fear crept into the girl's eyes.

"You'll go back, because--of her," she persisted.

The man shook his head.

"Anyway--I'll go back."

The words were roughly spoken. But Nan accepted them. It was all she could hope for. And--well, she had done her best.

She sighed deeply. She glanced about her. For a moment they dwelt upon the man who was denied her. The man in whom she saw all that could ever make life worth while.

"Good-night, Jeff."

Her voice was very low and soft.

"Good-night, Nan." Then with a sudden outburst, as forceful as it was spontaneous: "G.o.d, if the world were only made up of women like you!"

But the door had closed. And as Nan crept to her bedroom, unrestrained tears coursed down her soft cheeks. The full force of the irony of it all was too great for her. He was going back to Elvine, and--she had sent him.

CHAPTER XXI

THE BARRIER

Jeff was abroad at daylight. Even Bud, whose habit was sunrise, had not yet wakened from his heavy slumbers. But Nan was stirring. She heard Jeff moving, and she saw him beyond her window. She saw him bring his horse from the barn, saddled and bridled. In a moment he had mounted and ridden away. Then she dressed, and, for the rest, wondered at the possible outcome of it all. Half an hour later the sun rose and the day's work began.

When Jeff reached his home it was still wrapped in the habit of night.

There was no one and nothing stirring, for, as yet, only the golden glow of the eastern sky promised the coming of day.

His mood was bitter. But his purpose was calculated and deliberate. He had given his promise in answer to Nan's irresistible pleading. But otherwise the man was completely unchanged. He moved away down to the corrals, and leaned against the great lateral rails which closed the entrance. The beasts within were chewing the cud, and still picking at the remains of their overnight feed.

They were a goodly sight to eyes that understood the meaning of such things. It was only one of a number of corrals similarly crowded with beasts, that were, for various reasons, herded in shelter at night.

These were a few, a very few of the vast numbers which bore the familiar "O----" brand. There were the outlying stations which harbored their hundreds. There were the pastures with their complement of breeding cows. Then there were the herds of two- and three-year-olds roaming the plains at their will, fattening for the buyers who came at intervals.

Thoughts of these things compelled Jeff now. And he saw what Nan had saved him from. Wreck had been threatening in the course he had marked out for himself at first. How could prosperity have maintained under the conditions he would have imposed? Even now, under the modification which Nan had appealed for, he failed to see the continuation of that success he had striven so hard for. The incentive was no longer in him, he told himself. Where lay the use, the purpose in it all? The future? That dream future which had come to him could never mature now. It was no longer a dream. It was nightmare.

He wondered why he had yielded to Nan's entreaty. It all seemed so purposeless now in the broad light of day. He could force himself to live with his wife--under the same roof. Perhaps in time he could even meet her in daily intercourse. She might even become a factor in the great work of the Obar. But the joy of achievement had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from him. All that he had foreseen might be achieved in the work, even.

But the process would have been completely robbed of its inspiration, and was therefore not to be counted worth while.

The thought of the woman's regard for him left him cold. He dwelt upon it. Suddenly he wondered. Two days ago he could not have thought of it without a thrill. Now it meant--nothing. He remembered Nan's appeal.

Why--why had it affected him last night? It had not been because of--Evie.

Nan had talked of justice--duty. He could see no appeal in either now.

Why should he be forced to observance of the laws of justice, or--duty toward a woman who----?

He stirred restlessly. His attention was drawn to his horse. He moved over to it and off-saddled. Then he returned to his place at the corral.

The sun was just breaking the horizon. He heard sounds of life coming from the bunkhouse.

Nan's appeal no longer convinced him--now that he was away from her.

But--he had pledged his word. He could not break his word to Nan, although he longed--madly longed to resaddle his horse and ride away, and leave behind him forever this place which had suddenly become so full of bitter memories. No--he had pledged his word.

Soon he must once more confront his wife. He reviewed the possibilities.

The night long he had spent in considering the position he intended to place before her. Would she accept it? And--what then? The long days of work, unlit by any hope of the future. The process of building, building, which all men desire, without that spark of delight which inspires the desire. Just the drudgery of it. The resulting wealth and commercial power of it maybe, but not one moment of the joy with which only two days before he had regarded the broad vista of the future.

Now the smell of cooking reached him from the bunkhouse. Several men were moving down toward the corrals. He pa.s.sed on toward the house. A moment or so later he stood on the veranda gazing out at the streaming cattle as they moved toward the wide home pastures, under the practised hands of the ranchmen. It was a sight to inspire any cattleman, and, for a moment, the brooding eyes of the master of it all lit with a flash of their former appreciation. But the change was fleeting. The blue depths clouded again. The question once more flashed through his brain--what--what was the use of it all?

None, none at all. Every dream had been swept from his waking thoughts.

Every enchanting emotion was completely dead. The woman who had inspired the rose-tinted gla.s.ses through which he had gazed upon the future no longer had power so to inspire him. By her own action she had taken herself out of his life. She could never again become a part of it. He would live on with her, under the same roof, a mockery of the life which their marriage imposed upon them. He had pledged that to Nan, and he would not break his word to--Nan. But love? His love was gone. It was dead. And he knew that the ashes of that once pa.s.sionate fire could never be stirred into being again.

There was a rustle of skirts behind him. He heard, but did not turn. A fierce pa.s.sion was rising to his brain, and he dared not turn until he had forced it under restraint.

"You have come back, Jeff?"

The voice was low and soft. There was something tragically humble in its tone.

The man turned.

"Yes, Evie." Then he added: "I told you I would."

His voice was gentler than he knew. The harshness of their previous meeting had gone out of it. Nor was he aware of the change, nor of the reason, although in his mind was the memory of his promise to Nan.

"And you'll tell me your decision--now?"

The humility was heart-breaking. Nor was the man unaffected by it. He looked into the beautiful face, for the dark eyes were averted. Then his gaze dropped to the charming figure daintily clad in a simple morning frock of subtle attraction. But his eyes came back to the face with its crowning of beautiful dark hair, nor was there any change in their expression as a result of their survey.

"As well now as later."

"What is it?"

For the first time Jeff found himself gazing into the wide dark eyes.

There was pain in them. Apprehension. There were the signs about them of long sleepless nights. He shut the sight of these things out by the process of turning away to observe the general movement going on in the near distance.

"Guess there's no use to say a deal," he said, a curiously moody note taking possession of his voice. "If I did, why, I'd likely say a whole heap more than a man may say to his wife. Guess the right an' wrong of things had best lie in our hearts. You know just what you did, and why you did it. I know what you did, an' can only guess why you did it. I don't figger any talk could convince either of us different to how we think and feel. Maybe there's Someone knows the rights of this thing better than either of us. That being so, I allow He'll ultimately fix things as He intends. Meanwhile it's for us to do as we feel, just so far as our personal earthly concerns go."

The coldness in his voice had grown, and it left Evie with a complete sense of hopelessness that was harder to bear than any fears which violence of language might have inspired.

His pause was prolonged. She made no effort to break it, she dared not break it. For the man, he was gathering the threads of what he had to say so as to deliver it concretely. He feared to prolong this interview.

In view of his decision he must not risk any violent outbreak such as his feelings were even now striving to force upon him.