Bred of the Desert: A Horse and a Romance Page 11

  CHAPTER XI

  LOVE REJECTED

  Pat had just been clipped. And never was there a horse nearerperfection! Shorn of all hair, his splendid physique, now in fullestmaturity, stood out clean-cut and fascinating.

  In weight he might have tipped the scales at ten hundred pounds. Incolor his skin, which now showed clearly, was a shade darker than thatof the elephant, but it showed the richness of velvet. His body throughthe trunk was round and symmetrical; his haunches were wide withoutprojection of the hip-bones; and his limbs, the stifle and lower thigh,were long and strong and fully developed. Added to these, he was high inthe withers, the line of back and neck curving perfectly; his shoulderswere deep and oblique; and his long, thick fore arm, knotty with bulgingsinews, told of powerful muscles. And finally, his knees across the panwere wide, the cannon-bone below thin and short, the pasterns long andsloping, and the hoofs round and dark and neatly set on. While overall--over the small, bony head, beautiful neck and shoulders--over theentire body, clear down to the hoofs--ran a network of veins like thoseon the back of a leaf, only more irregular--veins which stood out asthough the skin were but thin parchment through which the blood mightburst. A rare horse, rare in any country, doubly rare in this land ofthe small Spanish product, was the rating given to Pat by men trained tojudge value at sight. And so widespread did this appraisal become, alongtrail, beside camp-fire, in bunk-house, that it was known throughout thelength and breadth of the Territory, and beyond the Territory, thatJudge Richards was the owner of a horse the like of which never had beenseen south of the Pecos.

  For several days after the clipping, Helen did not choose to ride. SoPat was permitted the doubtful pleasure of loafing about in theinclosure. Then one morning, when the winter day was unusually warm, heawoke to a great clatter of hoofs outside the corral. Directly he saw aparty of young people, men and girls under the chaperonage of a comelymatron, dismounting in high spirits. As the party swung down he saw hismistress appear from the house, attired in her riding-habit, and,understanding the object of all this, since these parties had becomefrequent in the past two months, he pressed close to the fence, anxiousto be off. The Mexican bridled and saddled him; his mistress and theothers mounted; soon all clattered out upon the river-trail.

  The day was beautiful, and Helen, riding, as usual, beside Stephen, bothin the rear, enjoyed the morning keenly. Overhead, out of a shimmeringazure sky, the sun beamed mildly down, penetrating the chill of themorning, yet leaving enough tang to bring a bloom to their cheeks. Ontheir left the river, high with melted snows from the north, moved inslow eddies near the shore, quicker eddies away from the shore, steadyand swift flow in the middle--a changing, fascinating panorama. Therefell a long silence before she turned to the young man beside her.

  "Well, Mr. Native," she began, smiling, "I hope you don't mean to buryyourself this morning! For more than a month you have had very little tosay to me. I don't like it, because I can't understand it, and so Iwon't have it!" Then she became serious. "Whatever is the matter,Stephen?"

  Pat, walking slowly beside the unfriendly horse, was attentive. He heardhis mistress's voice, and somehow knew she was troubled. Then directlyhe had positive proof of this, for she suddenly began to stroke his neckand shoulders. Always she did this when thoughtful, but though hestrained his ears for further sounds of her voice, he did not hear her.What he did hear presently was the voice of the young man, and havinglearned long before to discriminate between different shades of thehuman voice, he knew from its low and tense quality that the topic was avital one. He listened sharply, heedful of any least change ofintonation that might be interpreted as a climax. But instead he wasrelieved presently to hear the voice of his mistress again, breaking inupon the low, constrained tones of the young man.

  Pat held his ears steadily back. He noted that her voice was well undercontrol, and she appeared to be answering the young man. Also, it wasquite evident that she was not accepting his argument, whatever it was.Yet her voice took on many delicate changes. Sometimes he heard a noteof pleading; again, mild exasperation; and once a falling inflectionwhich hinted at sadness. So it continued, his mistress talking as he hadnever heard her talk before, until the group ahead drew rein andwheeled, indicating their intention of returning. Then once more thevoice of his mistress changed suddenly and became light, even gay,leaving Pat, as he himself was turned around, a very much mystifiedhorse.

  Yet this gaiety did not last. When they were well on their way backtoward the ranch, with the sun higher and brighter in the heavens, andthe trail correspondingly whiter and more dazzling to the eye, he foundhimself listening to grave tones again--the voice of the young man. Hetalked steadily now, his flow of words always tense, though occasionallyinterrupted by the other with a quiet rejoinder. Then suddenly he ceasedaltogether, and Pat, acutely conscious of the silence which descendedupon them, was relieved when it was broken by sounds of laughter ahead.Still the pair above him did not speak. Each appeared to be adrift on asea of thought the like of which he had never known. And it continued,this ominous silence, and became heavier, until he saw the ranch loom upahead. Then he felt his mistress urge him into a canter that she mightjoin the others for the parting. But when the party broke up, as it didwith much good feeling, and he found himself turned loose to one side,with his mistress and the young man walking into the shade of acottonwood, he found himself forced, since he now was out of range oftheir voices, to forego any further listening, keenly against hisdesires. So he gave it all up as a bad job.

  "Stephen," began Helen, seating herself upon a hummock of earth, "I amsorry--sorry beyond words--that it has turned out this way! I must admitthat I like you--like you very much! But--but I am afraid it is not thesort of liking you ask."

  He was seated beside her, reclining upon one elbow, absently thrustingthe tip of his riding-whip into a tuft of grass. And now again, asbefore that morning, he told her of his very great love for her, hisdeep voice vibrant with emotion, grimly acknowledging himself asunworthy of her, yet asking with rare simplicity that she take himanyway, take him in spite of his unworthiness, declaring it as hisbelief she would find him in time worthy--that he would try to makehimself worthy--_would_ make himself worthy--would overcome thosefaults which evidently--though she had not as yet told him what theywere--made him impossible in her eyes. Then suddenly he asked her totell him precisely what these faults were. He knew that he had many andcould only blame himself for them. But which of them did she findchiefly objectionable? He was pitiable in his pleading.

  But Helen shook her head. "I--I can't tell you, Stephen," she declared,her voice breaking. "It--it is too much to ask of--of any girl."

  He rose, turning toward the distant mountains, bright and smiling intheir noonday splendor. As his eyes dwelt upon them in brooding silence,Helen gained her feet. And, aware of her great part in thiswretchedness, she took his hand very gently in her own. Subtly consciousof the touch, realizing the tumult in his soul, she found herselfsuddenly alive to a feeling within her deeper than mere pity andsympathy. It was the anguish preceding tears. Quickly withdrawing herhand, she turned and fled to the house. Inside, she slowly approached awindow. He was leading Pat into the corral; and, watching him unsaddleand unbridle her horse, her treasure, she awoke to something else withinher, a strange swelling of her heart, different from anything she hadever known. It was like ownership; it was a something as of maternalpride, a something new to her which she could not fathom. She turnedaway. When she looked out again, her eyes dry and burning, he was ridingslowly along the trail toward town.

  It was the beginning of the end. Winter passed, with horses abandonedfor the delights, swift-following, of dinner and dance and house party.These affairs made deep inroads upon Helen's time, and so Pat was leftpretty much to his own reflections.

  Yet he managed to fill the days to his satisfaction. Standing in thestable, he loved to watch the snow-capped mountains, and the tiny whiteclouds scudding around them, and the mellow radiance of golden sunligh
tstreaming over them. Also, gazing out of the little square window, hespent long periods in viewing the hard brown of the nearer mesaland--thedips and dunes and thread-like arroyos, with an occasional horsemancrawling between. Or else, when he found himself yearning for hismistress, he would turn eyes upon the house, and with lazy speculationregard its sun-flecked windows, tightly shut doors, and smokingchimneys, in the hope that she might step forth. Then came more mildweather when he would spend long hours outside the stable, in his cornerin the corral, there to renew his silent vigil over nature and the housefrom this vantage. Thus he filled his days, and found them not so longas formerly in his babyhood, when each hour was fraught with so manylittle things that demanded his closest interest and attention.

  Nights found him early at rest. But not all nights. Nights there werewhen the house would be lighted from cellar to garret, when spectralforms would move in and out of doors, and when shadows would flickeracross drawn shades. Such nights were always his nights, for he wouldhear sounds of merriment, and voices lifted in song, and above thevoices, tinkling toward him on the crisp air, the music of a piano. Suchnights were his nights, for he knew that his mistress was happy, and hewould force open the stable door, step out under the cold stars, andtake up his stand in his corner, there to rest his head upon the topmostboard and turn steady eyes upon the scene of merriment until the lastguest had departed.

  Always on these nights, with wintry chills coursing down his legs orrollicking along his spine, he found himself wanting to be a part ofthis gaiety, wanting to enter the house, where he instinctively knew itwas warm and comfortable, where he might nuzzle the whole gathering forsugar and apples. But this he could not do. He could only turn longingeyes upon the cottage and stand there until, all too soon, sounds ofdoors opening and closing, together with voices in cheery farewell, toldhim that the party was at an end. Then he would see mysterious formsflitting across to the trail, and lights in the house whisking out oneby one, until the cottage gradually became engulfed in darkness. Then,but not till then, would he turn away from his corner, walk back slowlyinto the stable, and, because of the open door, which he could open butnever close, suffer intensely from the cold throughout the long night.

  One such occasion, when the round moon hung poised in the blue-blackdome of heaven, and he was standing as usual in his corner, with eyesupon the brilliantly lighted house, he became suddenly aware of twopeople descending the rear porch and making slowly toward him. At firsthe did not recognize his own mistress and the young man who had been heralmost constant companion since that memorable fright on the mesa eightmonths before. But as they drew closer, and he came to know the slenderform in white, he sounded a soft whinny of greeting and pressed eagerlyclose to the fence. The pair came near, very near; but neither of thempaid the least attention to him--a fact which troubled him deeply. Anddirectly his mistress spoke, but, as she was addressing herself to theyoung man, this troubled him even more. But he could listen, and listenhe did.

  "Stephen," she was saying, "you _must_ accept my answer as final.For you must know, Stephen," she went on, quietly, "that I have notchanged toward you. My answer to-night, and my answer to-morrow night,and my answer for ever, in so far as I can see, will be what it was lastautumn. I am more than sorry that this is so. But it is so,nevertheless." She was firm, though Pat, knowing her well, knew that itrequired all the force of her trembling soul to give firmness to herwords.

  Stephen felt something of this as he stood beside her in grim meekness.With his hungry eyes upon her, he felt the despair of one sunk to utterdepths, of a man mentally and physically broken. For he loved this girl.And it was this love, God-given, that made him persist. In the spell ofthis love he realized that he was but a weak agent, uttering demandsgiven him to utter, and unable, through a force as mighty as Natureherself, to do otherwise. Yet though he was utterly torn apart, he wasable, despite this mighty demand within him, to understand herviewpoint. He had understood it from the first. But the craving withinwould not let him accept it.

  "I suppose," he rejoined, "that the one decent course for me would be todrop all this. But somehow I can't. I love you that way, Helen! Don'tyou understand? I cannot let go! I seem to be forced repeatedly tomake--make a boor of myself!" There was a moment's silence. "Yet I haveresisted it," he went on. "I have fought it--fought it with all thepower I have! But I--I somehow--cannot let go!"

  Helen said nothing. She herself was coming to realize fully the depthsof this man's passion. She knew--knew as few women have known--that herewas a man who wanted her; but she knew also, and she was sorry to knowit, that she could not conscientiously give herself to him. Sheregretted it not alone for his sake, but for her own as well. She likedhim, liked him better than any other man she had ever known. But sheknew that she could not marry him, and believed in her heart that herreasons for refusing him were just reasons. But she remained silent,true to her decision.

  When Stephen spoke again it was not to plead with her; he seemed at lastto have accepted her refusal for all time. But he asked her reason forabsolutely refusing him--not that it mattered much now, since he facedthe inevitable, but thought the knowledge might in future guide andstrengthen him. He talked rapidly, hinting at beliefs and idolatries,comparing West with East, and East with West, while he stood motionless,one hand upon the fence--earnest, sincere, strong in his request. Whenhe had uttered his last sad word, Helen found herself, as she searchedhis drawn profile pityingly, no more able to deny him an answer than atthe time of their first chance meeting she could have controlled thefate which had brought it about.

  "Stephen," she burst out, "I will tell you--though I don't want to tellyou--remember! And if in the telling," she hurried on, "I prove rathertoo candid--please stop me! You will, won't you?"

  He nodded listlessly.

  "To begin with," she began, quietly, dreading her task, "we as a peopleare selfish. We are isolated here--are far from the center ofthings--but only certain things. We are quite our own center in certainother ways. But we are selfish as regards advancement, and being selfishin this way--being what we are and where we are--we live solely for thatadvancement--for the privilege of doing what we will, and of knowing! Itis the first law of the country down here--of my people! We have aimsand aspirations and courage all peculiar to ourselves. And when we meetyour type, as I met you, we come--(Now, stop me when I get toosevere!)--we come to know our own values a little better--to respectourselves, perhaps--though perhaps, too, I shouldn't say it--a littlemore. Not that you lack virtues, you Easterners, but they differ fromours--and probably only in kind. And exactly what your type is youyourself have made plain to me during our many little trips together inthe saddle. And--and now I fear I must become even more personal," shebroke off. "And I am very sorry that I must. Though I know you willforgive me. You will, won't you?" And she looked up at him wistfully."You thought it might benefit you to know. This is only my opinion.Others may not see it this way. But I am giving it for what it is, and Iam giving it only because you asked it and have asked it repeatedly."

  He roused himself. "Go on," he said, with evident forced lightness. "Isee your viewpoint perfectly."

  "Well," she resumed, hurriedly, "you lack ambition--a real ambition. Youhave ridden horses, played tennis, idled about clubs. You were a coddledand petted child, a pampered and spoiled youth. You attended a dozenschools, and, to use your own language, were 'canned' out of all ofthem. Which about sums up your activities. You have idled your timeaway, and you give every promise of continuing. I regret that I must saythat, but I regret more deeply that it is true. You have many admirablequalities. You have the greatest of all qualities--power for sincerelove. But in the qualities which make one acceptable down here--Wait!I'll change that. In the qualities which would make one acceptable to meyou are lacking to a very considerable degree. And it is just there thatyou fill me with the greatest doubt--doubt so grave, indeed, that Icannot--and I use the verb advisedly--cannot permit myself to like youin the way you want me to like you
."

  Again he bestirred himself. "What is that, please? What is thatquality?"

  "I have tried to tell you," she rejoined, patiently. "It is a reallyworth-while ambition. You lack the desire to do something, the desire tobe something--a desire that ought to have been yours, should have beenyours, years ago--the thing part and parcel of our blood down here. Itmay take shape in any one of a hundred different things--businessventures; personal prospectings; pursuit of art, science; raisingcattle--anything, Stephen! But something, something which will develop areal value, both to yourself and to your fellow-man. We have it. We haveinherited it. We got it from our grandfathers--our great-grandfathers,in a few cases--men who wanted to know--to learn--to learn by doing. Itis a powerful force. It must be a powerful force, it must have beenstrong within them, for it dragged them out of the comforts ofcivilization and led them into the desert. But they found what theysought; and in finding what they sought they found themselves also. Andwhat they found--"

  "Was something which, having drawn them forward to the frontier, filledthem with dislike for those who remained behind?"

  "If you wish to put it that way--yes." Her answer was straight andclean-cut.

  "But what of those who remained behind?" asked Stephen, alert now."Surely the quality was there! It must be there yet! Those of theold-timers who remained behind must have stayed simply because ofcircumstances. Good men often curb the adventurous spirit out of sheerconscientious regard for others who--"

  "It is you, Stephen!" interrupted Helen, quietly. "It is you, yourself.All Easterners are not like you, I well know. Yet you and your type arefound in all parts of the East."

  Stephen stood for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the mystic skyline.Then he turned to her as if about to speak. But there was only thesilent message of his longing eyes. Finally he turned away and, as ifunconsciously, fell to stroking the horse.

  He had nothing to say, and he knew it. The girl was right, and he knewthat. She had pointed out to him only what others at different times hadmildly tried to make him see. He was a rich young man, or would be aftera death or two in his family. But that in itself was no excuse for hisinertia. Many had told him that. But he had never taken it seriously. Ithad remained for the little woman beside him to make him fully realizeit. She alone had driven it home so that it hurt. Yet between this girland the others who had taken him mildly to task there was the differencebetween day and darkness. For he loved this girl, and if she would notmarry him for reasons which he knew he could remedy, then it was up tohim to accept her criticism, which was perhaps a challenge, and go forthand do something and be something, and reveal his love to her throughthat effort. What it would be he did not know. He did know he must getout of the town--get out of the Territory, if needs be--but he must gosomewhere in this country of worthy aspiration and live as he knew shewould have him live, do something, be something, something that for itsvery worth to her as well as to all mankind would awaken her readyresponse. Such a move he realized, as he stood beside her, would be asdecent in him as she in her criticism had been eloquently truthful. Thevigor, the relentless certainty, with which she had pointed out hisweakness--no one before had had the courage to deal with him like this.And reviewing it all, and then casting grimly forward into his future,he suddenly awoke, as he gently stroked this mettled horse, to a strangelikeness between the spirit of horse and mistress. He turned to Helen.

  "You are very much alike," he declared--"you and your horse." Then hepaused as if in thought. "The spirit of the desert," he went on,absently, "shows itself through all the phases of its life."

  Helen brightened "I am glad you think that of us, Stephen," sheanswered, as if relieved by this unexpected turn. "Pat is truly of thedesert. He was born and bred in this land of _amole_ and cactus."

  "And you?" he asked.

  "I also," she replied, gravely. "I too was born and bred in this land of_amole_ and cactus." Suddenly she turned her head. "I am afraidthey are looking for us."

  They returned to the house. Helen's guests were preparing to depart.There was much high humor, and when the last but one was gone, and thisone, Stephen, standing on the porch with hat in hand, Helen found thatfor the moment she had forgotten her distress. At sight of him, however,it all returned to her, and she faced him with earnest solicitude.

  "Tell me, Stephen," she burst out, "that you forgive me my unkind words,and that you will try to forget them. But whether you succeed in that ornot, Stephen," she hastily added, her voice breaking, "tell me that youwill continue to be friendly. We want you, all of us--I want you! I haveenjoyed our rides together so much! They have meant much to me, and Ihope they have been enjoyable to you. So let us go on, on this acceptedbasis, and be friends. Tell me you will, Stephen!"

  He was silent a long time. Then he told her of his hastily made plans.He was going away from town, of course. He could not remain, under thecircumstances. Yet where he was going he didn't know. He would gofarther West, probably--go somewhere and try to make good--try to dosomething worth while, to be something worth while. Saying which, hethen thanked her fervently for everything--for her society, for herfrank criticism, for having awakened him to an understanding of himself.

  Helen stood speechless. She had not anticipated this, that he would goaway, that he would leave her. A deep-surging bitterness gripped her,and for a moment she almost relented. But only for a moment. The spellpassed, and she looked at him with frank, level eyes.

  "I am sorry to hear that, Stephen," she declared, quietly. "We want youwith us--all of us. But--but tell me," she concluded, finding the wordscoming with difficulty--"tell me that you feel no--no antagonism towardme, Stephen, because I can't--can't love you as you want me to love you,and that you understand that--that in deciding as I have I--I onlywanted to be true--true to both of us!"

  For answer he seized both her hands in his. He gazed straight down intoher eyes. "I love you, Helen," he murmured, and then slowly released herfingers.

  He left her so quietly that she hardly knew that he was gone. A step onthe trail aroused her, and, lifting her eyes, she saw him striding awaywith shoulders back and head erect, as if awakened to a new manhood. Andwatching him go, as she felt, for the last time, she could no morecontrol a sob than he at the moment could turn back. For a while shefollowed him with wistful eyes, then, finding sudden need forconsolation, she hurried off the porch and across to the corral. Pat wasthere to receive her, and she flung her arms around his neck and gaveway to sudden tears.

  "Pat," she sobbed, "I--perhaps I do love him! Perhaps I have done wrong!I--I--" She interrupted herself. "What shall I do, Pat?" she burst out,bitterly. "Oh, what shall I do?"

  Pat could not advise her. But he remained very still, supporting herweight with dumb patience, until she turned away, going slowly back intothe house. Then he pressed close into his corner and sounded a shrill,protracted nicker.

  That was all.

  He saw the door close. He waited, pursuing his old habit, for all thelights to go out. And directly they began to disappear, one by one,first in the lower half of the house, then in the upper half, until allsave one were extinguished. This one, as he knew from long experience,was in the room of his mistress. But though he waited and watched tillthe moon slanted behind the western hills, and the stars to the eastdimmed and faded, and the gray of dawn stole across the sky above themountains--though he waited and watched till his legs ached from longstanding, and his eyes smarted from their steady vigil, and the Mexicanappeared yawning from the depths of the stable, and from over towardtown rose sounds of worldly activity--yet the light in her room burnedon. Then the Mexican drove him into the stable. But not even now did heabandon his vigil. He entered his box-stall, with its tiny squarewindow, and fixed his troubled gaze again upon the house. The sky wasbright with coming day. From somewhere arose the crow of a rooster. Outon the river trail a team plodded slowly to market.

  But the light in the room was still burning.