A Breath of Prairie and other stories Part 16

"Did he so--inform you?" she questioned unadvisedly.

"It was not necessary. I have eyes."

Offended masculine dignity clumped noisily toward the door; instinctive feminine diplomacy sprang to the rescue.

"You are so wise, Hans!"

And Peace, sweet Peace, returned to the household of Becher.

Meanwhile the little man had secured a buggy, and was jogging out into the country. He drove very leisurely, looking about him curiously. Of a sudden he threw down his cigar, and sniffed at the air.

"Buffalo gra.s.s, I'll wager! I've heard of it," and in the instinctive action of every newcomer he sniffed again.

Camilla Maurice sat in front of her tiny house, the late morning sun warm about her; one hand supported a book, slanted carefully to avoid the light, the other held the crank of a barrel-churn. As she read, she turned steadily, the monotonous _chug!_ _chug!_ of the tumbling cream drowning all other sounds.

Suddenly the shadow of a horse pa.s.sed her and a rough livery buggy stopped at her side. She looked up. Instinctively her hand dropped the crank, and her face turned white; then equally involuntarily she returned to her work, and the _chug!_ _chug!_ continued.

"Does Ichabod Maurice," drawling emphasis on the name, "live here?"

asked a voice.

"He does." Camilla's chin was trembling; her answer halted abruptly.

The man looked down at her, genuine amus.e.m.e.nt depicted upon his face.

"Won't you please stop your work for a moment, Camilla?"

With the name, one hand made swift movement of deprecation. "Pardon if I mistake, but I take it you're Camilla Maurice?"

"Yes, I'm Camilla Maurice."

"Quite so! You see, Ichabod and I were old chums together in college--all that sort of thing; consequently I've always wanted to meet--"

The woman stood up. Her face still was very white, but her chin did not tremble now.

"Let's stop this farce," she insisted. "What is it you wish?"

The man in the buggy again made a motion of deprecation.

"I was just about to say, that happening to be in town, and incidentally hearing the name, I wondered if it were possible.... But, pardon, I haven't introduced myself. Allow me--" and he bowed elaborately. "Arnold, Asa Arnold.... You've heard Ichabod mention my name, perhaps?"

The woman held up her hand.

"Again I ask, what do you wish?"

"Since you insist, first of all I'd like to speak a moment with Ichabod." His face changed suddenly. "For Heaven's sake, Eleanor, if he must alter his name, why did he choose such a barbaric subst.i.tute as Ichabod?"

"Were he here"--evenly--"he'd doubtless explain that himself."

"He's not here, then?" No banter in the voice now.

"Never fear"--quickly--"he'll return."

A moment they looked into each other's eyes; challengingly, as they had looked unnumbered times before.

"As you suggest, Eleanor," said the man, slowly, "this farce has gone far enough. Where may I tie this horse? I wish to speak with you."

Camilla pointed to a post, and silently went toward the house. Soon the man followed her, stopping a moment to take a final puff at his cigar before throwing it away.

Within the tiny kitchen they sat opposite, a narrow band of warm spring suns.h.i.+ne creeping in at the open door separating them. The woman looked out over the broad prairie, her color a trifle higher than usual, the lids of her eyes a shade nearer together--that was all. The man crossed his legs and waited, looking so small that he seemed almost boyish. In the silence, the drone of feeding poultry came from the back-yard, and the sleepy breathing of the big collie on the steps sounded plainly through the room.

A minute pa.s.sed. Neither spoke. Then, with a shade of annoyance, the man s.h.i.+fted in his chair.

"I thought, perhaps, you'd have something you wished to say. If not, however--" He paused meaningly.

"You said a moment ago, you wished to speak to _me_."

"As usual, you make everything as difficult as possible." The shade of annoyance became positive. "Such being the case, we may as well come to the point. How soon do you contemplate bringing this--this incident to a close?"

"The answer to that question concerns me alone."

An ordinary man would have laughed; but Asa Arnold was not an ordinary man--not at this time.

"As your husband, I can't agree with you."

Camilla Maurice took up his words, quickly.

"You mistake. You're the husband of Eleanor Owen. I'm not she."

The man went on calmly, as though there had been no interruption.

"I don't want to be hard on you, Eleanor. I don't think I have been hard on you. A year has pa.s.sed, and I've known you were here from the first day. But this sort of thing can't go on indefinitely; there's a limit, even to good nature. I ask you again, when are you coming back?"

The woman looked at her companion, for the first time steadily. Even she, who knew him so well, felt a shade of wonder at the man who could adjust all the affairs of his life in the same voice with which he ordered his dinner. Before, she had always thought this att.i.tude of his pure affectation. Now she knew better, knew it mirrored the man himself. He had done this thing. Knowing her whereabouts all the time, he had allotted her the past year, as an employer would grant a holiday to an a.s.sistant. Now he asked her to return to the old life, as calmly as one returns in the fall to the city home after an outing!

Only one man in the world could have done that thing, and that man was before her--her husband by law--Asa Arnold!

The wonder of it all crept into her voice.

"I'm not coming back, can't you understand? I'm never coming back,"

she repeated.

The man arose and stood in the doorway.

"Don't say that," he said very quietly. "Not yet. I won't begin, now, after all these years to make protestations of love. The thing called Love we've discussed too often already, and without result. Anyway, that's not the point. We never pretended to be lovers, even when we were married. We were simply useful, very useful to each other."

Camilla started to interrupt him, but, preventing, he held up his hand.

"We talked over a certain possibility--one now a reality--before we were married." He caught the look upon her face. "I don't say it was ideal. It simply _was_," he digressed slowly in answer, then hurried on: "That was only five years ago, Eleanor, and we were far from young." He looked at her, searchingly. "You've not forgotten the contract we drew up, that stood above the marriage obligation, above everything, supreme law for you and me?" Instinctively his hand went to an inner pocket, where the rustle of a paper answered his touch.

"Remember; it's not a favor I ask of you, but the fulfilment of your own word. Think a moment before you say you'll never return."