The fact that Van had been at Queenie"s side at her death became town property at once. It came in all promptness to Beth.
With a feeling of sickness pervading all her being, she was glad to have Bostwick take her home.
It was late when at last the street was clear, and Van could finally make his escape from danger and returning friends. Dave by then had found himself; that is, he made his way, thus tardily, to the horseman"s side--and the two went at length to their dinner.
At half-past eight, with the moon well up, Dave and Van were ready for departure. Their horses were saddled. One extra animal was packed with needed provisions for the crew on the "Laughing Water" claim. Van had ordered all he could for Queenie"s final journey--the camp"s best possible funeral, which he could not remain to attend. There was nothing to do but to mount and ride away, but--Beth was down at Mrs.
d.i.c.k"s.
Resistance was useless. Bidding Dave wait with the horses at the yard.
Van made his way around through the shadows of the houses, and coming out upon a rocky hill, a little removed from the boarding place, was startled to see Beth abruptly rise before him.
The house had oppressed her--and the moon had called. Bostwick, in alarm concerning possible disaster to the plans he had made with McCoppet, now that Culver was dead, had gone to seek the gambler out and ascertain the status of affairs.
CHAPTER XXII
TWO MEETINGS AFTER DARK
For a moment neither Beth nor Van could speak. The girl, like a startled moon-sprite, wide-eyed and grave, had taken on a mood of beauty such as the man had never seen. She seemed to him strangely fragile, a trifle pale, but wholly exquisite, enchanting.
No signs were on her face, but she had wept--hot, angry tears, within the hour. And here was the cause of them all! She had wished he would come--and feared he would come, as conflicting emotions possessed her.
Now that he stood here, with moonlight on half of his face, her thoughts were all unmarshaled.
Van presently spoke.
"I"m a kid, after all. I couldn"t go away without--this."
"I wish you had! I wish you had!" she answered, at his smile. "I wish I had never seen you in the world!"
His heart was sore for jesting, but he would not change his way.
"If not in the world, where _would_ you have wished to see me, then?"
"I never wished to see you at all!" she replied. "Your joke has gone too far. You have utterly mistaken my sense of grat.i.tude."
"Guess not," he said. "I haven"t looked for grat.i.tude--nor wanted it, either."
"You had no right!" she continued. "You have said things--done things--you have taken shameful advantage--you have treated me like--I suppose like--that other--that other---- You dared!"
Van"s face took on an expression of hardness, to mask the hurt of his heart.
"Who says so?" he demanded quietly. "You know better."
"It"s true!" she answered hotly. "You had no right! It was mere brute strength! You cannot deny what you have been--to that miserable woman!" Tears of anger sped from her eyes, and she dashed them hotly away.
Van stepped a little closer.
"Beth," he said, suddenly taking her hand, "none of this is true, and you know it. You"re angry with that woman, not with me."
She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away.
"You shan"t!" she said. "Don"t you dare to touch me again. I hate you--hate you for what you have done! You"ve been a brute probably to her as well as to me!"
"To you? When?" he demanded
"All the time! To-day!--Now!--when you say I"m angry at a--woman who is dead!--a woman who died for you!"
It hit him.
"Poor Queenie," he said, "poor child."
"Yes--poor Queenie!" Her eyes blazed in the moonlight. "To think that you dared to treat me like----"
"Beth!" he interrupted, "I won"t permit it. I told you to-day I loved you. That makes things right. You love me, and that makes them sacred. I"d do all I"ve done over again--_all_ of it--Queenie and the rest! I"m not ashamed, nor sorry for anything I"ve done. I love you--I say--I love you. That"s what I"ve never done before--and never said I did--and that"s what makes things right!"
Beth was confused by what he said--confused in her judgment, her emotions. Weakly she clung to her argument.
"You haven"t any right--it isn"t true when you say I love you. I don"t! I won"t! You can"t deny that woman died of a broken heart for you!"
"I don"t deny anything about her," he said. "I tried to be her friend.
G.o.d knows she needed friends. She was only a child, a pretty child.
I"m sorry. I"ve always been sorry. She knew I was only a friend."
She felt he was honest. She knew he was wrung--suffering, but not in his conscience. Yet what was she to think? She had heard it all--all of Queenie"s story.
"You kissed her," she said, and red flamed up in her cheeks.
"It was all she asked," he answered simply. "She was dying."
"And you"re paying for her funeral."
"I said I was her friend."
"Oh, the shamelessness of it!" she exclaimed as before, "--the way it looks! And to think of what you dared to do to me!"
"Yes, I kissed you without your asking," he confessed. "I expect to kiss you a hundred thousand times. I expect to make you my wife--for a love like ours is rare. Whatever else you think you want to say, Beth--now--don"t say it--unless it"s just good-night."
With a sudden move forward he took her two shoulders in his powerful hands and gave her a rough little shake. Then his palms went swiftly to her face, he kissed her on the lips, and let her go.
"You!--Oh!" she cried, and turning she ran down the slope of the hill as hard as she could travel.
He watched her going in the moonlight. Even her shadow was beautiful, he thought, but all his joy was grave.
She disappeared within the house, without once turning to see what he had done. He could not know that from one of the darkened windows she presently peered forth and watched him depart from the hill. He was not so a.s.sured as he had tried to make her think, and soberness dwelt within his breast.
Half an hour later he and old Dave were riding up the mountain in the moonlight. The night from the eminence was glorious, now that the town was left behind. Goldite lay far below in the old dead theatre of past activities, dotting the barren immensity with its softened lights like the little thing it was. How remote it seemed already, with its vices, woes, and joys, its comedy and tragedy, its fevers, strifes, and toil, disturbing nothing of the vast serenity of the planet, ever rolling on its way. How coldly the moon seemed looking on the scene. And yet it had cast a shadow of a girl to set a man aflame.