Steele backed to the door, and I slipped out before him.
“Mr. Steele—wait!” called Miss Sampson as he stepped out. He uttered a little sound like a hiss or a gasp or an intake of breath, I did not know what; and then the incomprehensible fellow bestowed a kick upon me that I thought about broke my leg. But I understood and gamely endured the pain. Then we were looking at Diane Sampson. She was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door, close to Steele. She did not see me; she cared nothing for my presence. All the world would not have mattered to her then.
“I have wronged you!” she said impulsively.
Looking on, I seemed to see or feel some slow, mighty force gathering in Steele to meet this ordeal. Then he appeared as always—yet, to me, how different!
“Miss Sampson, how can you say that?” he returned.
“I believed what my father and George Wright said about you—that bloody, despicable record! Now I do
“You make me very glad when you tell me this. It was hard to have you think so ill of me. But, Miss Sampson, please don't speak of wronging me. I am a Ranger, and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on others— sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.”
“I did wrong you. In thought—in word. I ordered you from my home as if you were indeed what they called you. But I was deceived. I see my error. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I—”
“Please—please don't, Miss Sampson,” interrupted poor Steele. I could see the gray beneath his bronze and something that was like gold deep in his eyes.
“But, sir, my conscience flays me,” she went on. There was no other sound like her voice. If I was all distraught with emotion, what must Steele have been? “I make amends. Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?” She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast.
Steele took the proffered hand and held it, and did not release it. What else could he have done? But he could not speak. Then it seemed to dawn upon Steele there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just making amends for a fancied or real wrong. For myself, I thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then. And there was resistance; I felt it; she must have felt it. It was poor Steele's hard fate to fight the charm and eloquence and sweetness of this woman when, for some reason unknown to him, and only guessed at by me, she was burning with all the fire and passion of her soul.
“Mr. Steele, I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman,” she said, and now her speech came swiftly. “When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Hoden isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how I may soon need a friend!
“Vaughn Steele, the man whom I need most to be my friend—want most to lean upon—is the one whose duty is to stab me to the heart, to ruin me. You! Will you be my friend? If you knew Diane Sampson you would know she would never ask you to be false to your duty. Be true to us both! I'm so alone—no one but Sally loves me. I'll need a friend soon—soon.
“Oh, I know—I know what you'll find out sooner or later. I know
Her voice failed. She was swaying toward Steele. I expected to see his arms spread wide and enfold her in their embrace.
“Diane Sampson, I love you!” whispered Steele hoarsely, white now to his lips. “I must be true to my duty. But if I can't be true to you, then by God, I want no more of life!” He kissed her hand and rushed away.
She stood a moment as if blindly watching the place where he had vanished, and then as a sister might have turned to a brother, she reached for me.
Chapter 8. THE EAVESDROPPER
We silently rode home in the gathering dusk. Miss Sampson dismounted at the porch, but Sally went on with me to the corrals. I felt heavy and somber, as if a catastrophe was near at hand.
“Help me down,” said Sally. Her voice was low and tremulous.
“Sally, did you hear what Miss Sampson said to Steele?” I asked.
“A little, here and there. I heard Steele tell her he loved her. Isn't this a terrible mix?”
“It sure is. Did you hear—do you understand why she appealed to Steele, asked him to be her friend?”
“Did she? No, I didn't hear that. I heard her say she had wronged him. Then I tried not to hear any more. Tell me.”
“No Sally; it's not my secret. I wish I could do something—help them somehow. Yes, it's sure a terrible mix. I don't care so much about myself.”
“Nor me,” Sally retorted.
“You! Oh, you're only a shallow spoiled child! You'd cease to love anything the moment you won it. And I— well, I'm no good, you say. But their love! My God, what a tragedy! You've no idea, Sally. They've hardly spoken to each other, yet are ready to be overwhelmed.”
Sally sat so still and silent that I thought I had angered or offended her. But I did not care much, one way or another. Her coquettish fancy for me and my own trouble had sunk into insignificance. I did not look up at her, though she was so close I could feel her little, restless foot touching me. The horses in the corrals were trooping up to the bars. Dusk had about given place to night, although in the west a broad flare of golden sky showed bright behind dark mountains.
“So I say you're no good?” asked Sally after a long silence. Then her voice and the way her hand stole to my shoulder should have been warning for me. But it was not, or I did not care.
“Yes, you said that, didn't you?” I replied absently.
“I can change my mind, can't I? Maybe you're only wild and reckless when you drink. Mrs. Hoden said such nice things about you. They made me feel so good.”
