finished the sentence for her.
She nodded. Then, to change the subject:
“You do speak cowboy talk one minute – and all booky, polite and proper the next, you know. Why?”
“Bad associations,” said Bransford ambiguously. “Also for ’tis my nature to, as little dogs they do delight to bark and bite. That beef sure tastes like more.”
“And now you may smoke while I pack up,” announced the girl when dessert was over, at long last. “And please, there is something I want to ask you about. Will you tell me truly?”
“Um – you sing?”
“Yes – a little.”
“If you will sing for me afterward?”
“Certainly. With pleasure.”
“All right, then. What’s the story about?”
Ellinor gave him her eyes. “Did you rob the post-office at Escondido – really?”
Now it might well be embarrassing to be asked if you had committed a felony; but there was that behind the words of this naïve query – in look, in tone, in mental attitude – an unflinching and implicit faith that, since he had seen fit to do this thing, it must needs have been the right and wise thing to do, which stirred the felon’s pulses to a pleasant flutter and caused a certain tough and powerful muscle to thump foolishly at his ribs. The delicious intimacy, the baseless faith, was sweet to him.
“Sure, I did!” he answered lightly. “Lake is one talkative little man, isn’t he? Fie, fie! But, shucks! What can you expect? ‘The beast will do after his kind.’”
“And you’ll tell me about it?”
“After I smoke. Got to study up some plausible excuses, you know.”
She studied him as she packed. It was a good face – lined, strong, expressive, vivid; gay, resolute, confident, alert – reckless, perhaps. There were lines of it disused, fallen to abeyance. What was well with the man had prospered; what was ill with him had faded and dimmed. He was not a young man – thirty-seven, thirty-eight – (she was twenty-four) – but there was an unquenchable boyishness about him, despite the few frosty hairs at his temples. He bore his hard years jauntily: youth danced in his eyes. The explorer nodded to herself, well pleased. He was interesting – different.
The tale suffered from Bransford’s telling, as any tale will suffer when marred by the inevitable, barbarous modesty of its hero. It was a long story, cozily confidential; and there were interruptions. The sun was low ere it was done.
“Now the song,” said Jeff, “and then – ” He did not complete the sentence; his face clouded.
“What shall I sing?”
“How can I tell? What you will. What can I know about good songs – or anything else?” responded Bransford in sudden moodiness and dejection – for, after the song, the end of everything! He flinched at the premonition of irrevocable loss.
The girl made no answer. This is what she sang. No; you shall not be told of her voice. Perhaps there is a voice that you remember, that echoes to you through the dusty years. How would you like to describe that?
“Oh, Sandy has monie and Sandy has land,
And Sandy has housen, sae fine and sae grand —
But I’d rather hae Jamie, wi’ nocht in his hand,
Than Sandy, wi’ all of his housen and land.
“My father looks sulky; my mither looks soor;
They gloom upon Jamie because he is poor.
I lo’e them baith dearly, as a docther should do;
But I lo’e them not half sae weel, dear Jamie, as you!
“I sit at my cribbie, I spin at my wheel;
I think o’ the laddie that lo’es me sae weel.
Oh, he had but a saxpence, he brak it in twa,
And he gied me the half o’t ere he gaed awa’!
“He said: ‘Lo’e me lang, lassie, though I gang awa’!’
He said: ‘Lo’e me lang, lassie, though I gang awa’!’
Bland simmer is cooming; cauld winter’s awa’,
And I’ll wed wi’ Jamie in spite o’ them a’!”
Jeff’s back was to a tree, his hat over his eyes. He pushed it up.
“Thank you,” he said; and then, quite directly: “Are you rich?”
“Not – very,” said Ellinor, a little breathless at the blunt query.
“I’m going to be rich,” said Jeff steadily.
“‘I’m going to be a horse,’ quoth the little eohippus.” The girl retorted saucily, though secretly alarmed at the import of this examination.
“Ex-actly. So that’s settled. What is your name?”
“Hoffman.”
“Where do you live, Hoffman?”
“Ellinor,” supplemented the girl.
“Ellinor, then. Where do you live, Ellinor?”
“In New York – just now. Not in town. Upstate. On a farm. You see, grandfather’s growing old – and he wanted father to come back.”
“New York’s not far,” said Jeff.
A sudden panic seized the girl. What next? In swift, instinctive self-defense she rose and tripped to the tree where lay her neglected sketch-book, bent over – and started back with a little cry of alarm. With a spring and a rush, Jeff was at her side, caught her up and glared watchfully at bush and shrub and tufted grass.
“Mr. Bransford! Put me down!”
“What was it? A rattlesnake?”
“A snake? What an idea! I just noticed how late it was. I must go.”
Crestfallen, sheepishly, Mr. Bransford put her down, thrust his hands into his pockets, tilted his chin and whistled an aggravating little trill from the Rye twostep.
“Mr. Bransford!” said Ellinor haughtily.
Mr. Bransford’s face expressed patient attention.
“Are you lame?”
Mr. Bransford’s eye estimated the distance covered during the recent snake episode, and then gave to Miss Hoffman a look of profound respect. His shoulders humped up slightly; his head bowed to the stroke: he stood upon one foot and traced the Rainbow brand in the dust with the other.
“I told you all along I wasn’t hurt,” he said aggrieved. “Didn’t I, now?”
“Are you lame?” she repeated severely, ignoring his truthful saying.
“‘Not – very.’” The quotation marks were clearly audible.
“Are you lame at all?”
