by Talbot Mundy
“I’d bore you if I told you that.”
“No you wouldn’t!” she answered, pleading with him and when Jacqueline was in that mood none less adamant than Donna Isabella could resist.
“You recall you asked me if I have a mother?”
She nodded. The dog came and fussed with her. She laid a hand on him to keep him still.
“Well, I have — or I had — I don’t know which to call it.” He was looking away again and his lips were set as if he hated to tell what was coming.
“I knew my mother until I was nine years old. She meant a lot to me. I loved her. So did dad. She left him — quit him and me. He divorced her. Now you know.”
“But — but why did she go away?”
“God knows. Dad says because she was a woman! She broke his heart all right, and he’s a man, mind you.”
“Because she was a woman?”
“Sure. Woman are the only creatures, except fish and alligators, that desert their young! That cat wouldn’t. She’d fight all-comers.”
“So — so you hate all women?”
“No. I’d find it easy if I did. But I’ve seen what happened to dad. And if she — my mother — acted that way, where are you going to draw the line?”
“You hate your mother?”
“No.”
Jacqueline let out a huge sigh of relief, that made him look at her again. The frown was busy but he could not doubt her eyes. He was conscious that he had not half-explained himself and went on, forcing out the words, but looking straight at her now.
“You see — when you love anybody that much — and — she deserts you — you don’t care to talk about it, but you can’t grin even when you think about it. Get me?” he ended savagely.
“Are you sure she — deserted you, as you call it?”
“She went away. She left us flat — and not a word of explanation.”
“Perhaps it was something she couldn’t explain.”
Sherry stared at her. There was a choke in Jacqueline’s voice as she went on:
“It has happened to women that they were forced into a position, in which no explanation was possible or would do any good — because they wouldn’t be believed. So they just ran away, and said nothing — and tried to forget.”
“She forgot me all right!”
“Are you sure!”
He nodded.
“Have you forgotten her?”
“You see I haven’t.”
“Then how do you know she’s forgotten you, Mr. Mansfield?”
He got up and began to walk about the floor, with his head down and his hands behind him.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said, flashing another of his swift penetrating glances at her.
“I feel quite sure your mother’s a darling,” she said with the all- challenging conviction of innocence and seventeen.
He stopped and stood in front of her again.
“All I know is, she made dad bitter — and he’s made me bitter — and it stays put. He did it thoroughly. Most women don’t make any difference. But I can’t talk to a woman I like real well, without the image of my mother cropping up, and coming in between. There’s nothing to it after that. I quit.”
He went to the door — sat down with his back against the frame — found a can of damp tobacco and his pipe — and, smoked in silence, staring out at the flood.
“Some one’ll come sometime,” he said at the end of ten minutes.
Then, at the end of twenty minutes more:
“Tell me when you want something to eat.”
Half an hour after that he again found his tongue:
“I’ll fix you a soft place in the hay whenever you feel like lying down. Say: look at that cat and dog!”
Cat, dog and kittens were all coiled up in a lump together, fast asleep.
CHAPTER 17.
“Who’d believe a word of it?”
Perhaps it was the dog and cats. Force of example is enormous. There was Brace and the spider, for instance. We are as easily moved by trifles into courses as a horse is by heel and rein.
It grew dark, and Sherry Mansfield opened more soup, arguing that they must eat while they could see to do it. Then he found a pitchfork, broke up the bale of hay, and arranged a comfortable bed for Jacqueline.
“Where are you going to sleep?” she demanded.
“Oh, anywhere. I’ll be all right.”
“I’m not going to take all the hay and leave you uncomfortable,” she answered.
“I’ll have to watch for rescue-parties. They’ll be coming with searchlights before long.”
“I’ll sit up, too.” She did not dare to lie down in darkness, for fear of the thoughts that might overtake her.
“I won’t let you sit up.”
She went over to the door and stood there watching the first pale stars appear. Sherry went on forking hay, piling it into a heap against the wall and spreading it. “There,” he said at last, “it’s all ready.”
“I told you, I don’t want to.”
He came over and stood beside her in the doorway, leaning on the pitchfork, smiling.
“I say, don’t let’s quarrel.”
She could not help smiling when he did.
“Make a bed for yourself,” she answered.
“There isn’t enough hay for two. We’d both be cold and comfortless instead of one of us. What’s the use? You’re the woman.”
“That’s not my fault, Mr. Mansfield.”
“But you are.”
Undoubtedly she was. She sat down in the doorway with her back against the frame and hands crossed over her knees.
“Look. The moon’s rising,” she answered. The moonlight was wan and lonely- looking but better than the darkness.
Sherry was totally uninterested in the moon. He walked back to the hay and prodded it in the dark. The dog yelped.
“Damn!” he grumbled. “The whole menagerie has gone and camped on your bed. Can you beat that? She’s toted all her kittens up here!”
“Did you hurt Nut?” she asked anxiously.
“No, nothing serious — just struck him sidewise with a prong. Get off that hay, you rascal!”
“No, let them all stay there. I’m not going to use it.”
He walked back to the doorway, and sat down facing her.
“Now listen, Miss Martinez, won’t you be reasonable?” he began. He could see her face quite clearly in the moonlight now, and she could see his. He looked delightfully worried, and that was satisfying, though she did not know why. Reason did not enter into it.
“Why don’t you lie down?” she suggested. “I’m not tired yet.”
There was a long pause. He found his pipe and began smoking.
“I believe you are afraid of me,” he said after a while.
Jacqueline was looking at the moonlight on the water, but she knew he had not once taken his eyes off her face.
“Not one little, tiny bit!” she answered, still not looking at him.
“You’re quite right, of course — and yet — I suppose — somehow, you ought to be,” he said awkwardly.
“Why?” she asked, meeting his eyes at last. She was not afraid of him, she would be terrified if he should go away and leave her. The frown began working overtime.
He did not answer, and there was another long silence, broken only by the lapping of water, and a rustling as the dog settled down more snugly into the hay.
“I’m damned if I see any sense in this!” he said, looking at her suddenly. “The dog and the cats are the only ones who are scoring!”
“I’m going to sit here just as long as you do!” she answered.
Jacqueline did not know just why she said that, except that it was interesting to oppose him and see him frown. She wondered at herself. She knew that if she could only contrive to let Consuelo know she was all right she would not feel downhearted in the least — only frightened of her own thoughts. She began to hope there was only an allowance of so much misery to eac
h individual, and she had used all hers.
“Why should you worry about me?” she asked him. He flashed another of his sharp glances at her.
“Don’t you women like us to worry about you?”
She had not grown used yet to being spoken of as a woman. But she confessed to herself that she felt like one; she had left the convent days, years behind, although only the day before yesterday —
She checked that thought. It hurt. She did not dare to look backward.
“Do you worry about your mother?” she asked him.
“Always. I can’t talk to dad about her, for he simply blows up. But I’m always wondering where she is, and what she’s doing — and whether she’d laugh if she knew I worried — and—”
“Oh, I know she wouldn’t!”
“How do you know? According to dad, you women are all alike, and you like nothing better than to have a man eating his heart out. He says the best of you are like that secretly, only some of you can keep up the pretense longer than others.”
“Do you believe him, Mr. Mansfield?” she asked; if he could have seen her frown he might have thought his father was quite right after all. But all he could see was her eyes. They were hurt — wondering.
“Sometimes,” he answered. “Dad’s dead wise about most things.”
“I think you’re both horrid!” she exploded.
She got up, and walked over to the hay, where she lay down presently between the animals and the wall, grateful for the cat’s luxurious purring because it made her feel less lonely, and watching Sherry’s silhouette against the stars in the doorway. She did not think he was horrid, but it made her angry that he should deceive himself with such thoughts. And then she began to worry because she knew that Consuelo would be worrying. Poor Consuelo would think she was drowned and would be crying.
Sherry sat frowning for a long while in the doorway, and at last relit his pipe. He supposed she was right; he was horrid — felt so, anyway. Well, he couldn’t help that. Dad had lectured him, and shown him God knew how many hundred examples in print, and had told him he must cut women out of his life until he was at least thirty — had even made that condition of advancement on the Tribune. He supposed a fellow must pay a price for everything, and it was best, no doubt, that this girl should think him a monster. He only wished he thought the same of her! He did not — damn it!
He was a fool not to swim away and leave her. Should he do that? Absolutely no! There was not one hint of a doubt in his mind on that score! He had never seen anything in all his life half so beautiful — and her eyes were incredible — haunted him — they seemed to hold torture hidden in their blue depths.
Bah! They were just eyes. One pair of eyes is the same as another, and the whole world is full of them! But what a strange thing that hers should be that fathomless blue when her mother’s, he remembered, were brown and quite ordinary. She did not resemble her mother in any way in fact. This girl, even in crumpled dress and disordered hair, seemed to have breeding in every inch of her; and she spoke deliciously — no other word for it — deliciously.
Damn! He would think about somebody else. For instance, Wahl. He wondered what Wahl was doing. Had the Limited got through? Or had the track been washed away, and was Wahl back again covering the flood-stuff after all? It made him smile to think of Wahl doing the story he despised so heartily.
Then — he heard her crying. It was unlike the outburst of the afternoon that had held the reaction of hysteria. It was stealthy — as if she were afraid he would hear — and pitiful and forlorn, broken now and then by sobs that brought back memories of a big room — solitude — and a child sobbing for his mother.
He crossed to her, cursing himself for a thoughtless brute, and knelt beside her.
“Oh, I say — Miss Martinez — don’t cry. Are you worried about your mother?”
The crying stopped. Jacqueline became still — he could sense the effort for control.
“Have I been rude again?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Would you like me to talk to you? Would that help any?”
A hand, tear-wet from being beneath her cheek, touched his. “Nobody can help me, Mr. Mansfield, and please don’t worry. You must be tired. There’s lots of room for you on the outside of the hay.”
He was dumb for nearly half a minute. Was his father right? Or was he right? He was willing to bet she was as innocent as her voice sounded. And he knew his own attitude. But would he be doing the right thing to accept the invitation? Suppose some one came and found them? Suppose Wahl found them!
“I can’t see you in the dark,” he said at last. “I might crowd you or roll over on the cats or something.”
“Be careful then!” she answered.
Well — that was a sensible answer. Maybe the most sensible thing to do was to take her at her word and lie down. He crawled on to the outside edge of the pile, and after he had done pulling hay out of his ears and neck, lay for a long time listening to her breathing, and to the occasional rustling of the menagerie that lay between them, and then at last his own weariness overcame him and he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was just beginning to be daylight. He felt something on his shoulder that touched his chin, and thought for a second it must be the dog who had wearied of the cats’ company. He was going to shake it off, when it occurred to him it could not be the dog — not heavy enough — not hairy. Hardly moving his head, he managed to look slantwise along his face. Jacqueline’s fingers were touching his chin. Her arm was on his shoulder.
He lay still and considered that for a few minutes — liked it decidedly, but wondered what to do. At last he turned over, inches at a time. She was lying face toward him, fast asleep, with a great lock of dark hair falling loose over her shoulder, and her head pillowed on his folded jacket. She looked as if she had been crying again, but that, he figured, was impossible — he would have heard her. The cats and dog were equally fast asleep in a glomeration near her knees. He managed to roll clear without waking her, and spent five minutes in mid-floor studying the situation.
“Who’d believe a word of it?” he asked himself. “Not Wahl, at any rate!”
“That girl’s good!” he muttered. “She’s O.K. I wish I knew what’s wrong!”
Then Nut woke up and yawned, and the cat followed suit; but Jacqueline went on sleeping. Sherry went to the door and stared out at the flood, but there was no relief in sight.
He tried to see around the barn, but failed, so stripped off everything except his underclothing and plunged in, Nut following. But although he swam around the barn he did not learn much, except that the flood-water was wider than he thought. They seemed to be about two miles away from the nearest shore.
Even Nut, barking and shaking himself, did not wake Jacqueline. That did not happen until the kittens started climbing all over her and she sat up, slipping them. But she buried her face in the folded coat again, at once. Sleep — why couldn’t she sleep forever? She felt she could not bear the load of returning consciousness. Memory made her brain ache and her heart numb. It was long, long minutes before she recalled who Sherry was, and that he had been kind to her the day before. She wished though, that he would not stand there looking at her.
“Don’t you wish we had some coffee?” asked Sherry.
He felt overwhelmingly sentimental all at once, and extravagant. He would like to give that girl not only coffee but coffee in a Dresden china cup, served on snow-white napery amid luxurious surroundings. She ought to be wearing wonderful clothes, and to have servants waiting on her. She ought to have everything her heart desired.
After breakfast he found some old nails, and with the aid of broken bits of wood contrived steps by which to climb on to the roof. She insisted on climbing up after him, and he was surprised by the thrill it gave him to put his arms under hers and lift her bodily up the last stage of the climb. He had danced with scores of girls, and lifted lots of them over awkward places; most of them had annoyed him — one, he recalled — had kisse
d him; and nine out of ten had expected to be kissed, or at least flirted with. He had never experienced this thrill before, or the feeling that he held something precious in his arms. It made him speechless.
They sat together on the roof, until the sun got too hot, watching for rescuers; but none came within hail, although they saw boats moving in the distance. There was no doubt they would be rescued before long, and he wondered vaguely why he did not welcome the thought. Several times, when he turned to look at her, he discovered she was looking at him, which embarrassed both of them, and they both pretended at once that they were looking at something else.
“You’ll get sunstroke if you sit here any longer,” he said at last. “I’ll help you down.”
“Thanks, I’m used to the sun.”
“Nonsense! You’ve no hat. Give me your hand, and I’ll lower you to the top step. Both hands!”
He was as masterful as if he owned her, and as considerate as if she owned him! He had to kneel, and her laughing blue eyes came close to his. He could have kissed her easily — would have loved to — she was adorable as she smiled up at him with parted lips. And he knew he would no more kiss her than let her fall.
When he reached the hay-loft he sat down in the doorway and began smoking — not that he wanted to smoke, or that tobacco tasted good, but because he felt the need of mastering himself and of studying the situation.
Damn! He would see straight or bu’st! Here was a girl — Gosh, what a girl! Prettier than blazes — breeding in every inch of her — and plucky — There he was again, looking at only one side of it!
Spike that — admit it if you like — who is she? How much did he know about her? Nothing! Funny old fat mother with hysterics and elastic- sided boots and cotton stockings. He smiled as he remembered the fat legs.
“What are you smiling at?” she asked.