The Law of the Land, Emerson Hough [best beach reads of all time TXT] 📗

brings me to you!” He would have caught her hand in his own feverish one, but again she drew away, looking at him with startled eyes.

“Dearest,” he went on, “listen. I can’t do without you. I have loved you ever since first I saw you. Come, tell me—”

Even the icy silence of the girl scarce served to check him. There was, indeed, evident on his face the existence of an emotion as genuine as could be conceived in a soul like his. It was, moreover, the very devil’s instant for approaching this poor girl, hopeless, outcast, overstrung, altogether and piteously in need of comfort. At that time Miss Lady could count upon no friend in all the world. She had no confidante, no counselor. That, of all possible moments, was the most fortunate time for a man like Henry Decherd, even had the sweet beauty and helplessness of this girl not wrung from him respect as well as an unrestrained and passionate regard. What was it, then, which at that moment intervened between these two? What was the hidden guidance that came to Miss Lady at that time? She herself could not explain. She could not have told what caused her to tremble as though of an ague—could not have told why, though she sought to see clearly the face of this man who came to her with the words of a lover, there seemed to fall between them some interposing veil, rendering his features uncertain, indistinct. Craving and needing a friend at this hour of her life, none the less she saw not now that friend.

“No,” she called out, frightened. “No! Do not!” And that was all that she could think, as all that she could do was to move yet farther away.

He would not accept repulse, but followed on with eager and impassioned words. “I love you!” he whispered. “Come, what is this place to you? There’s a big world full of things to see and do! We’ll be married, we’ll travel, we shall see the world. You shall know what love can mean—what life really is! Miss Lady, dearest—”

After all, by the will of the immortal gods, who sometimes have in care the welfare of the Miss Ladys of this earth, Henry Decherd erred in these very proofs of a passion sincere as he was capable of feeling. A too hasty ardor failed where a calmer friendship had gone further toward winning a heart-sore, helpless girl. The balance of the issue, for a moment trembling in his favor, was, within the instant, quite destroyed.

“Sir,” said Miss Lady, and he paused as she freed her hand and stepped back from him, strangely cold and calm, “I have given you no possible right—”

“But you don’t understand. Listen, I tell you,” he began again.

“I can not listen; it is not right for me to listen. I am too troubled with many things to listen to you now. You don’t know who I am. I do not know, myself, who I am. You’ve been deceived by her—you don’t know. I have no mother, as I thought I had. I am going away from here tomorrow. I don’t know where I shall go, but I know I shall not stay here. It’s wrong for me to stay. It’s wrong for me to listen to yon. I can’t tell you all I’ve heard.” Miss Lady’s lip trembled.

“Did she tell you? Has Mrs. Ellison—” cried Decherd, suddenly flushing. But Miss Lady was too much disturbed to notice his speech or his changed expression. She could only reiterate, “I am going away.”

“Oh, come now,” said he, his voice again gaining confidence and his face showing relief as he glanced about him. “Come, you are only tired. I ought not to have troubled you this way, this evening, but I could not help it—I could not wait. I was afraid—but then tomorrow—I’ll see you tomorrow. Think, Miss Lady, think—”

“I have thought,” said Miss Lady, with sudden decision. “I have thought; and as for tomorrow, there’ll be none for me at this place. I’m going away at once. I must begin life all over again. It has been wrong for me to live here at all. Why did you ask us to come here? We would have been better off where we were, even if we were poor and helpless.”

“It’s been heaven here since you came.”

“Oh, it was kind of you to get mamma and me a home here. It has been home. It has been so sweet. I love it—I shall always love it. It is big and free here for everybody. One can live here—one could live here if it were right. Colonel Blount is a splendid man, a grand man—

“

 

“Yes?”

“Yes, yes, a splendid man.”

“But you’ll not stay here?” There was well-nigh as much eagerness as regret in his tone. She did not note it.

“No, I can not,” she replied. “I can’t tell you everything—I don’t want to tell you everything. No one is to blame, I suppose. It’s all because I have just grown up, and find I’m in the wrong place. I have been living along here just—just like one of the blacks out there in the fields—without—without taking thought. If it were honest, if I could do anything, if I belonged to any one and could feel that in some way I earned the right to—to—not take thought, then it would be different.”

“That’s what I say! That’s as I want to have it,” he began; but she would not listen.

“But it isn’t right,” she went on. “I can’t tell you everything. I can’t even tell you about Mrs. Ellison. Perhaps you have been deceived. Ask her. Go ask Colonel Blount, and he may tell you what he likes. But for me, just forget me. I couldn’t love you—I couldn’t love any one now. I am cold, all through.”

The plaintiveness of her speech touched even this man. He held out his arms. “No, no,” she cried, as she drew back. “I tell you, the world has gone to pieces. I must find a new one. I am not myself, I am lost; I don’t know what I am.” Again for a half-instant, touched as he was, Decherd went near to forgetting the lover. There was almost exultation on his face as he saw how fortune was now favoring him in his plans. There was nothing he wished so much as that Miss Lady might leave the Big House at once and for ever.

“I can’t tell who I am!” the girl repeated, as though in an agony of entreaty. “I’m some one else! It’s so strange. I must go—”

“But where would you go?” said he.

“I do not know; somewhere.”

“But then? Why, what could you do, alone? Think—here am I offering you all you need, a home in some other place, comfort, safety, some one to care for you—why, perhaps it might mean riches before long—I will tell you—you’ll find it hard enough alone.”

“Yes, it will be new and hard,” said Miss Lady, with a wan smile. “I have never thought very much for myself. Some one has always seemed ready to do things for me. I can’t do very much. But then, you know, sometimes the things you can’t do show you the way to things that you can.”

“You are obstinate,” cried Decherd, angry now, as only a weak man would have been. “I’ll follow you, wherever you go! The time will come when you will be glad enough to see me.”

“Mr. Decherd,” said Miss Lady, straightening into a quick aloofness, “you said you loved me. That sounds to me as if in some way you were threatening me.”

“Well, I will,” he reiterated sullenly. “You’d better think.”

Miss Lady shook her head slowly from side to side. “I am frightened,” she said. “Perhaps some girls would not be. But, in some way, though I am easy to frighten, I don’t seem easy to frighten from things that I think I ought to do.”

Knowing now that he had found obstacle in this girl’s will not thus to be overcome, Decherd allowed his anger to get the better of him.

“Go, then!” he cried brutally.

“Sir,” said Miss Lady, “you yourself may go now, if you please;” and she stood so unagitated, so composed and certain of herself, certain as well of his obedience, that Decherd knew here was a woman different from any with whom he had hitherto had to do. Flinging out his hands in anger at his own mistake, his own folly, he turned and strode away. Miss Lady, sinking into the chair, gazed out at a world now grown indistinct and shadowy, full of the terrors of uncertainty.

Decherd knew himself beaten for the time, when he left her. But though he promised it to himself, he did not follow Miss Lady at that time; for before another moon had lit the mysterious realm of the forest beyond which lay an unknown world, Miss Lady was indeed gone. Carrying with her not even a clear knowledge of her own past, doubting her own parentage, doubting almost her own identity; helpless, unprepared, and all too ignorant of the world from which such as she should for ever be shielded and protected, she had left the only spot on earth she knew as home, the only place where she could claim a friend, and fared out into the unknown! It was as if some evil harpy of the air had swooped down and borne her into the pathless sky, as though the earth or the waters had closed over her and left no trace. The simple and the sincere, those most direct and frank, ofttimes are most difficult to follow in their actions when they take counsel wholly of themselves. Miss Lady had no involved motive, none but the one direct and imperative, no means except the one immediately at hand. Hence, so impelled, so guided, she disappeared completely, impossible as that might have seemed. Not even in the piteous little note which Colonel Calvin Blount later crushed in his hand, did she give any clue to her destination.

Henry Decherd did not take the down train on that day. Had he taken Miss Lady’s declarations seriously, and suspected a deliberate intention on her part, he might have watched the only avenue of escape possible for her. But this he did not do.

In truth the plans of Henry Decherd himself, quasi guest at the Big House, guest tolerated, guest under suspicion, were at that time of a nature singularly intricate, and demanding all his skill and resources. It was certain that Decherd did not disappear with Miss Lady—so much was left to comfort Colonel Calvin Blount. It was certain also that he said no adieus to his long-time host, nor gave any hint as to his own departure. Yet it was clearly proved by many of the servants about the Big House that Decherd was seen mounted and riding to the westward at an early hour of the same morning in which Miss Lady was thought to have left the place.

This fact, indeed Decherd himself, was well-nigh forgotten in the grief which now came to the master of the Big House. Troubled as Colonel Calvin Blount was, there was born, and there remained, in his mind the unshakable belief that Miss Lady had not of her own will gone with Henry Decherd.