9 WESTERNS: The Law of the Land, The Way of a Man, Heart's Desire, The Covered Wagon, 54-40 or Fight, The Man Next Door, The Magnificent Adventure, The Sagebrusher and more. Emerson Hough
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for all the land out of doors."
In order to make the needed repairs to the roof, it was necessary to lay up again a part of the broken wall, then to hoist the fallen rafters into place prior to covering the whole again with a deep layer of earth. Franklin, standing upon a chair, put his shoulders under the sagging beams and lifted them and their load of disarranged earth up to the proper level on the top of the wall, while Buford built under them with sods. It was no small weight that he upheld. As he stood he caught an upturned telltale glance, a look of sheer feminine admiration for strength, but of this he could not be sure, for it passed fleetly as it came. He saw only the look of unconcern and heard only the conventional word of thanks.
"Now, then, captain," said Buford, "I reckon we can call this shack as good as new again. It ought to last out what little time it will be needed. We might go back to the house now. Mightily obliged to you, sir, for the help."
As Mary Ellen stepped into the buggy for the return home her face had lost its pink. One of the mysterious revulsions of femininity had set in. Suddenly, it seemed to her, she had caught herself upon the brink of disaster. It seemed to her that all her will was going, that in spite of herself she was tottering on toward some fascinating thing which meant her harm. This tall and manly man, she must not yield to this impulse to listen to him! She must not succumb to this wild temptation to put her head upon a broad shoulder and to let it lie there while she wept and rested. To her the temptation meant a personal shame. She resisted it with all her strength. The struggle left her pale and very calm. At last the way of duty was clear. This day should settle it once for all. There must be no renewal of this man's suit. He must go.
It was Mary Ellen's wish to be driven quickly to the house, but she reckoned without the man. With a sudden crunching of the wheels the buggy turned and spun swiftly on, headed directly away from home. "I'll just take you a turn around the hill," said Franklin, "and then we'll go in."
The "hill" was merely a swell of land, broken on its farther side by a series of coulees that headed up to the edge of the eminence. These deep wash-cuts dropped off toward the level of the little depression known as the Sinks of the White Woman River, offering a sharp drop, cut up by alternate knifelike ridges and deep gullies.
"It isn't the way home," said Mary Ellen.
"I can't help it," said Franklin. "You are my prisoner. I am going to take you — to the end of the world."
"It's very noble of you to take me this way!" said the girl with scorn.
"What will my people think?"
"Let them think!" exclaimed Franklin desperately. "It's my only chance. Let them think I am offering you myself once more — my love — all of me, and that I mean it now a thousand times more than I ever did before. I can't do without you! It's right for us both. You deserve a better life than this. You, a Beauchamp, of the old Virginia Beauchamps — good God! It breaks my heart!"
"You have answered yourself, sir," said Mary Ellen, her voice not steady as she wished.
"You mean — "
"I am a Beauchamp, of the old Virginia Beauchamps. I live out here on the prairies, far from home, but I am a Beauchamp of old Virginia."
"And then?"
"And the Beauchamps kept their promises, women and men — they always kept them. They always will. While there is one of them left alive, man or woman, that one will keep the Beauchamp promise, whatever that has been."
"I know," said Franklin gently, "I would rely on your word forever. I would risk my life and my honour in your hands. I would believe in you all my life. Can't you do as much for me? There is no stain on my name. I will love you till the end of the world. Child — you don't know — "
"I know this, and you have heard me say it before, Mr. Franklin; my promise was given long ago. You tell me that you can never love any one else."
"How could I, having seen you? I will never degrade your memory by loving any one else. You may at least rely on that."
"Would you expect me ever to love any one else if I had promised to love you?"
"You would not. You would keep your promise. I should trust you with my life."
"Ah, then, you have your answer! You expect me to keep my promises to you, but to no one else. Is that the honourable thing? Now, listen to me, Mr. Franklin. I shall keep my promise as a Beauchamp should — as a Beauchamp shall. I have told you long ago what that promise was. I promised to love, to marry him — Mr. Henry Fairfax — years ago. I promised never to love any one else so long as I lived. He — he's keeping his promise now — back there — in old Virginia, now. How would I be keeping mine — how am I keeping mine, now, even listening to you so long? Take me back; take me home. I'm going to — going to keep my promise, sir! I'm going to keep it!"
Franklin's heart stood cold. "You're going to keep your promise," he said slowly and coldly. "You're going to keep a girl's promise, from which death released you years ago — released you honourably. You were too young then to know what you were doing — -you didn't know what love could mean — yet you are released from that promise. And now, for the sake of a mere sentiment, you are going to ruin my life for me, and you're going to ruin your own life, throw it away, all alone out here, with nothing about you such as you ought to have. And you call that honour?"
"Well, then, call it choice!" said Mary Ellen, with what she took to be a noble lie upon her lips. "It is ended!"
Franklin sat cold and dumb at this, all the world seeming to him to have gone quite blank. He could not at first grasp this sentence in its full effect, it meant so much to him. He shivered, and a sigh broke from him as from one hurt deep and knowing that his hurt is fatal. Yet, after his fashion, he fought mute, struggling for some time before he dared trust his voice or his emotions.
"Very well," he said. "I'll not crawl — not for any woman on earth!
It's over. I'm sorry. Dear little woman, I wanted to be your friend.
I wanted to take care of you. I wanted to love you and to see if I
couldn't make a future for us both."
"My future is done. Leave me. Find some one else to love."
"Thank you. You do indeed value me very high!" he replied, setting his jaws hard together.
"They tell me men love the nearest woman always. I was the only one — "
"Yes, you were the only one," said Franklin slowly, "and you always will be the only one. Good-bye."
It seemed to him he heard a breath, a whisper, a soft word that said "good-bye." It had a tenderness that set a lump in his throat, but it was followed almost at once with a calmer commonplace.
"We must go back," said Mary Ellen. "It is growing dark."
Franklin wheeled the team sharply about toward the house, which was indeed becoming indistinct in the falling twilight. As the vehicle turned about, the crunching of the wheels started a great gray prairie owl, which rose almost beneath the horses' noses and flapped slowly off. The apparition set the wild black horse into a sudden simulation of terror, as though he had never before seen an owl upon the prairies. Rearing and plunging, he tore loose the hook of one of the single-trees, and in a flash stood half free, at right angles now to the vehicle instead of at its front, and struggling to break loose from the neck-yoke. At the moment they were crossing just along the head of one of the coulees, and the struggles of the horse, which was upon the side next to the gully, rapidly dragged his mate down also. In a flash Franklin saw that he could not get the team back upon the rim, and knew that he was confronted with an ugly accident. He chose the only possible course, but handled the situation in the best possible way. With a sharp cut of the whip he drove the attached horse down upon the one that was half free, and started the two off at a wild race down the steep coulee, into what seemed sheer blackness and immediate disaster. The light vehicle bounded up and down and from side to side as the wheels caught the successive inequalities of the rude descent, and at every instant it seemed it must surely be overthrown. Yet the weight of the buggy thrust