Lonesome Land by B. M. Bower (reading strategies book .TXT) 📖

“I don't think it matters, any more. Yesterday afternoon Fred De Garmo and Polycarp Jenks came into the coulee with a bunch of cattle, and turned all the calves out of the river field with them; and, after a little, they drove the whole lot of them away somewhere—over that way.” She waved a slim hand to the west. “They let out the calves in the corral, too. I saw them from the window, but I didn't ask them any questions. I really didn't need to, did I?” She grazed him with a glance. “I thought perhaps you had failed to find that calf; I'm glad you did, though—so it wasn't that started them hunting around here—Polycarp and Fred I mean.”

Kent looked at her queerly. Her voice was without any emotion whatever, as if the subject held no personal interest for her. He finished his cigarette and threw the stub out into the yard before either of them spoke another word. He closed the door again, stood there for a minute making up his mind, and went slowly over to where she was sitting listlessly in a chair, her hands folded loosely in her lap. He gripped with one hand the chairback and stared down at her high-piled, yellow hair.

“How long do you think I'm going to stand around and let you be dragged into trouble like this?” he began abruptly. “You know what I told you the other day—I could say the same thing over again, and a lot more; and I'd mean more than I could find words for. Maybe you can stand this sort of thing—I can't. I'm not going to try. If you're bound to stick to that—that gentleman, I'm going to get outa the country where I can't see you killed by inches. Every time I come, you're a little bit whiter, and a little bigger-eyed—I can't stand it, I tell you!

“You weren't made for a hell like you're living. You were meant to be happy—and I was meant to make you happy. Every morning when I open my eyes—do you know what I think? I think it's another day we oughta be happy in, you and me.” He took her suddenly by the shoulder and brought her up, facing him, where he could look into her eyes.

“We've only got just one life to live, Val!” he pleaded. “And we could be happy together—I'd stake my life on that. I can't go on forever just being friends, and eating my heart out for you, and seeing you abused—and what for? Just because a preacher mumbled some words over you two! Only for that, you wouldn't stay with him over-night, and you know it! Is that what ought to tie two human beings together—without love, or even friendship? You hate him; you can't look me in the eyes and say you don't. And he's tired of you. Some other woman would please him better. And I could make you happy!”

Val broke away from his grasp, and retreated until the table was between them. Her listlessness was a thing forgotten. She was panting with the quick beating of her heart.

“Kent—don't, pal! You mustn't say those things—it's wicked.”

“It's true,” he cried hotly. “Can you look at me and say it ain't the truth?”

“You've spoiled our friendship, Kent!” she accused, while she evaded his question. “It meant so much to me—just your dear, good friendship.”

“My love could mean a whole lot more,” he declared sturdily.

“But you mustn't say those things—you mustn't feel that way, Kent!”

“Oh!” He laughed grimly. “Mustn't I? How are you going to stop me?” He stared hard at her, his face growing slowly rigid. “There's just one way to stop me from saying such wicked things,” he told her. “You can tell me you don't care anything about me, and never could, not even if that down-east conscience of yours didn't butt into the game. You can tell me that, and swear it's the truth, and I'll leave the country. I'll go so far you'll newer see me again, so I'll never bother you any more. I can't promise I'll stop loving you—but for my own sake I'll sure try hard enough.” He set his teeth hard together and stood quiet, watching her.

Val tied to answer him. Evidently she could not manage her voice, for he saw her begin softly beating her lips with her fist, fighting to get back her self-control. Once or twice he had seen her do that, when, womanlike, the tears would come in spite of her.

“I don't want you to go a-away,” she articulated at last, with a hint of stubbornness.

“Well, what do you want? I can't stay, unless—” He did not attempt to finish the sentence. He knew there was no need; she understood well enough the alternative.

For long minutes she did not speak, because she could not. Like many women, she fought desperately against the tears which seemed a badge of her femininity. She sat down in a chair, dropped her face upon her folded arms, and bit her lips until they were sore. Kent took a step toward her, reconsidered, and went over to the window, where he stood staring moodily out until she began speaking. Even then, he did not turn immediately toward her.

“You needn't go, Kent,” she said with some semblance of calm. “Because I'm going. I didn't tell you—but I'm going home. I'm going to get free, by the same law that tied me to him. You are right—I have a 'down-east' conscience. I think I was born with it. It demands that I get my freedom honestly; I can't steal it—pal. I couldn't be happy if I did that, no matter how hard I might try—or you.”

He turned eagerly toward her then, but she stopped him with a gesture.

“No—stay where you are. I want to solve my problem and—and leave you out of it; you're a complication, pal—when you talk like—like you've just been talking. It makes my conscience wonder whether I'm honest with myself. I've got to leave you out, don't you see? And so, leaving you out, I don't feel that any woman should be expected to go on like I'm doing. You don't know—I couldn't tell you just how—impossible—this marriage of mine has become. The day after—well, yesterday—no, the day before yesterday—he came home and found out—what I'd done. He—I couldn't stay here, after that, so—”

“What did he do?” Kent demanded sharply. “He didn't dare to lay his hands on you—did he? By—”

“Don't swear, Kent—I hear so much of that from him!” Val smiled curiously. “He—he swore at me. I couldn't stay with him, after that—could I, dear?” Whether she really meant to speak that last word or not, it set Kent's blood dancing so that he forgot to urge his question farther. He took two eager steps toward her, and she retreated again behind the table.

“Kent, don't! How can I tell you anything, if you won't be good?” She waited until he was standing rather sulkily by the window again. “Anyway, it doesn't matter now what he has done. I am going to leave him. I'm going to get a divorce. Not even the strictest 'down-east' conscience could demand that I stay. I'm perfectly at ease upon that point. About this last trouble—with the calves—if I could help him, I would, of course. But all I could say would only make matters worse—and I'm a wretched failure at lying. I can help him more, I think, by going away. I feel certain there's going to be trouble over those calves. Fred De Garmo never would have come down here and driven them