Frank Merriwell's Son Part 14

"Yes."

"You thought----"

"I knew it would shock you beyond words. I knew the effect it must have upon you. I could not bring myself to meet you, well knowing that you would shudder and shrink from me."

He lifted his hand.

"No, no, never!" he declared. "You were wrong, Bessie. You were frightfully mistaken. The trouble was that you did not understand me--you did not know me."

"It cannot be that you----"

"I should have pitied you, and I should have loved you all the more, even as I do now," he a.s.serted. "Why not? It was not your fault that your father was a criminal. Of course you had to keep his secret. It was a cruel fate that placed you in such a position."

"Wait a little longer," she urged. "You must know the truth, every bit of it. I admired my father. I loved the danger and the thrill of that wild life. Not only did I know what he did, but more than once, in the darkness of night, I aided him and his men in their work. I was dressed as a boy, and only Injun Jack and my father knew I was not a boy. Now you know what sort of girl you have fancied you loved. I mingled with those men, those desperadoes, who were profane as pirates--who were, in a sense, the pirates of the great plains. A fine life for an innocent girl! Have you forgotten that my hands are stained with human blood?

Have you forgotten it was my bullet that killed Injun Jack?"

"That was one of the bravest deeds of your life. Only for that, Frank Merriwell would be dead. Only for your nerve and bravery in shooting that ruffian, one of G.o.d's grandest men would have been murdered in cold blood. Since my college days I have loved and admired him above all other men. When you saved his life by taking another worthless life you did a n.o.ble deed. Had you not fled, I would have married you at the earliest possible moment. I am ready now, Bessie."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE PLEDGE OF FAITH.

Still it seemed impossible for her to believe. She put out her hand toward the near-by wall of the house, as if seeking support. When he offered to give her that support, she continued to hold him at bay.

"You're a n.o.ble boy, Berlin," she whispered. "You will make a n.o.ble husband for some girl."

"For you."

"No, not for me."

"Then you do not love me! You never loved me!" he panted. "You were toying with me! You were deceiving me! It was a part of your amus.e.m.e.nt!

You knew you had fascinated me and bewitched me, and it gave you pleasure to toy with me! Ah, this hurts more than everything else!"

"I did care for you," she a.s.serted faintly.

"You did care--in a way, perhaps."

"You never told me that you loved me."

"Because you would not give me a chance. I never told you in words, but my eyes told you so a hundred times."

"I've seen others who talked with their eyes and kept silent with their lips."

"And you thought me like them?"

"Well--no. You were different; I acknowledge that."

"But you thought me fit only to flirt with. That was it. You took delight in arousing the fire in my heart that you might see it glowing from my eyes. You're like them all. They love to play with fire. They love to lead a man on and then throw him down. But I didn't think you just like every other girl. I thought you different."

"You have learned that I was different, but in a way you did not suspect."

"Then you confess you were toying with me, deceiving me?" he bitterly exclaimed.

A little while before she had sought to turn him against her by telling all the truth. When that effort failed and he suddenly accused her in this manner, she had fancied she saw the way to accomplish her purpose with a falsehood. But now that she was face to face with it she faltered and could not lie.

"I tell you I did care for you--I cared for you more than words may express. My fear in those days--and it was the only fear I had ever known--was that you would learn the truth about me and despise me. Do you remember the day that you brought Frank Merriwell to the Flying Dollars? Do you remember that you were left alone in the little library and in a book you found some verse I had written? I used to write poetry in those days. Those verses were ent.i.tled 'My Secret.' I was angry when I found you had read them, and I tore them up. I can quote the first stanza."

In a low musical voice she repeated the following lines:

"When he comes riding up the valley I watch from my window nook; My cheeks burn hot, my heart is throbbing For a single word or look To tell me that he loves me truly, But fear his lips will not be Unsealed to whisper low the story That means so much to me.

"It's poor poetry, Berlin--poor poetry; but it expressed the longing of my heart. And your lips remained sealed!"

Now he would have seized her and crushed her to his heart, but with astonis.h.i.+ng strength she clutched his wrists and held him back.

"My lips are unsealed now!" he panted.

"It's too late!" she cried, in a weak, heartbroken tone; "too late!"

"Why is it too late? How can that be?"

"One thing you have forgotten. You found me here playing a part. Do you think I'm pretending to be a French nurse merely as a whim--merely as an amus.e.m.e.nt?"

"I can't understand that," he confessed. "Why is it?"

She forced a laugh that was wholly without merriment.

"Perhaps this is only one of many parts I have played. You called me an actress. I am--an actress on the stage of life. I intended that no one should ever again recognize me as the daughter of Colonel King. I found it necessary to work--to make my living somehow. Had I appeared here as Bessie King, do you think Frank Merriwell would have trusted me? Do you think I would be an inmate of his home? Oh, no, Berlin. I had to disguise myself to deceive him, and it was necessary to play my part well. Even when I did my best I realized he knew he had seen me before some time, somewhere. Once he questioned me. Once he asked me if I had a brother. He was very, very near discovering the truth then. Do you think I can have any feeling of friendliness for this man Merriwell? Do you think I can forget that it was through him my father met his fate? Only for Frank Merriwell the real truth might have remained a secret. In time the cattle stealing would have ceased. My father would have sold the Flying Dollars, and we would have gone elsewhere. But Merriwell came, and his discovery brought the sheriff and his posse. Sometimes when I have thought of this I've longed to kill Frank Merriwell. More than once I have said to myself, 'His life is yours, for you saved it once.'"

"You should put aside such thoughts and feelings, Bessie. You cannot blame Frank. He was my friend. I brought him to the Big Sandy. Our cattle were being stolen. As my friend, he did his best to aid me."

"Oh, I suppose it's wrong, but a person brought up as I have been finds it hard to distinguish right from wrong. Many of the things people recognize as right seem wholly wrong to me. Would you have a wife with such a distorted conscience, Berlin Carson?"

"Let me be your guide," he pleaded. "Let me teach you the right."

"I tell you it is too late!"

Words seemed useless, and he stood there gazing at her helplessly, almost hopelessly. A sudden thought struck him like a blow, and he almost reeled.

"There is another!" he hoa.r.s.ely whispered. "Ah, ha, that's it! I've struck the truth at last! It's that man--the man you met to-night! Speak up, Bessie! Tell me who he is! By Heaven, you shall tell me!"

"I will--in time," she promised. "Wait, Berlin--please wait!"

"I've waited too long already. Have I waited simply to find another man in my place?"