The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains by Owen Wister (best books to read for young adults .TXT) 📖

had hit. She thought he referred to those babies about whom last night she had shown such superfluous solicitude. Her conscience was guilty. This was all that he had wished to make sure of before he began operations.

“Why, I mean,” said he, easily, sitting down near the door, “that it's Sunday. School don't hinder yu' from enjoyin' a ride to-day. You'll teach the kids all the better for it to-morro', ma'am. Maybe it's your duty.” And he smiled at her.

“My duty! It's quite novel to have strangers—”

“Am I a stranger?” he cut in, firing his first broadside. “I was introduced, ma'am,” he continued, noting how she had flushed again. “And I would not be oversteppin' for the world. I'll go away if yu' want.” And hereupon he quietly rose, and stood, hat in hand.

Molly was flustered. She did not at all want him to go. No one of her admirers had ever been like this creature. The fringed leathern chaparreros, the cartridge belt, the flannel shirt, the knotted scarf at the neck, these things were now an old story to her. Since her arrival she had seen young men and old in plenty dressed thus. But worn by this man now standing by her door, they seemed to radiate romance. She did not want him to go—and she wished to win her battle. And now in her agitation she became suddenly severe, as she had done at Hoosic Junction. He should have a punishment to remember!

“You call yourself a man, I suppose,” she said.

But he did not tremble in the least. Her fierceness filled him with delight, and the tender desire of ownership flooded through him.

“A grown-up, responsible man,” she repeated.

“Yes, ma'am. I think so.” He now sat down again.

“And you let them think that—that Mr. McLean—You dare not look me in the face and say that Mr. McLean did that last night!”

“I reckon I dassent.”

“There! I knew it! I said so from the first!”

“And me a stranger to you!” he murmured.

It was his second broadside. It left her badly crippled. She was silent.

“Who did yu' mention it to, ma'am?”

She hoped she had him. “Why, are you afraid?” And she laughed lightly.

“I told 'em myself. And their astonishment seemed so genu-wine I'd just hate to think they had fooled me that thorough when they knowed it all along from you seeing me.”

“I did not see you. I knew it must—of course I did not tell any one. When I said I said so from the first, I meant—you can understand perfectly what I meant.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Poor Molly was near stamping her foot. “And what sort of a trick,” she rushed on, “was that to play? Do you call it a manly thing to frighten and distress women because you—for no reason at all? I should never have imagined it could be the act of a person who wears a big pistol and rides a big horse. I should be afraid to go riding with such an immature protector.”

“Yes; that was awful childish. Your words do cut a little; for maybe there's been times when I have acted pretty near like a man. But I cert'nly forgot to be introduced before I spoke to yu' last night. Because why? You've found me out dead in one thing. Won't you take a guess at this too?”

“I cannot sit guessing why people do not behave themselves—who seem to know better.”

“Well, ma'am, I've played square and owned up to yu'. And that's not what you're doin' by me. I ask your pardon if I say what I have a right to say in language not as good as I'd like to talk to yu' with. But at South Fork Crossin' who did any introducin'? Did yu' complain I was a stranger then?”

“I—no!” she flashed out; then, quite sweetly, “The driver told me it wasn't REALLY so dangerous there, you know.”

“That's not the point I'm makin'. You are a grown-up woman, a responsible woman. You've come ever so far, and all alone, to a rough country to instruct young children that play games,—tag, and hide-and-seek, and fooleries they'll have to quit when they get old. Don't you think pretendin' yu' don't know a man,—his name's nothin', but him,—a man whom you were glad enough to let assist yu' when somebody was needed,—don't you think that's mighty close to hide-and-seek them children plays? I ain't so sure but what there's a pair of us children in this hyeh room.”

Molly Wood was regarding him saucily. “I don't think I like you,” said she.

“That's all square enough. You're goin' to love me before we get through. I wish yu'd come a-ridin, ma'am.”

“Dear, dear, dear! So I'm going to love you? How will you do it? I know men think that they only need to sit and look strong and make chests at a girl—”

“Goodness gracious! I ain't makin' any chests at yu'!” Laughter overcame him for a moment, and Miss Wood liked his laugh very much. “Please come a-ridin',” he urged. “It's the prettiest kind of a day.”

She looked at him frankly, and there was a pause. “I will take back two things that I said to you,” she then answered him. “I believe that I do like you. And I know that if I went riding with you, I should not have an immature protector.” And then, with a final gesture of acknowledgment, she held out her hand to him. “And I have always wanted,” she said, “to thank you for what you did at the river.”

He took her hand, and his heart bounded. “You're a gentleman!” he exclaimed.

It was now her turn to be overcome with merriment. “I've always wanted to be a man,” she said.

“I am mighty glad you ain't,” said he, looking at her.

But Molly had already received enough broadsides for one day. She could allow no more of them, and she took herself capably in hand. “Where did you learn to make such pretty speeches?” she asked. “Well, never mind that. One sees that you have had plenty of practice for one so young.”

“I am twenty-seven,” blurted the Virginian, and knew instantly that he had spoken like a fool.

“Who would have dreamed it!” said Molly, with well-measured mockery. She knew that she had scored at last, and that this day was hers. “Don't be too sure you are glad I'm not a man,” she now told him. There was something like a challenge in her voice.

“I risk it,” he remarked.

“For I am almost twenty-three myself,” she concluded. And she gave him a look on her own account.

“And you'll not come a-ridin'?” he persisted.

“No,” she answered him; “no.” And he knew that he could