Charlie looked into the earnest, good-natured face with eyes that read deep down into the open heart beneath. A great regret lay behind them, a regret which made him hate and despise himself in a way he had never felt before. He was thinking whither his own follies had driven him; he was thinking of his own utter failure as a man, a strong, big-principled man. He was wondering, too, what this kindly soul would think and feel when he realized how little he was changed from the contemptible creature his father had turned out of doors, and when he finally learned of the horrors of degradation his life really concealed.

He had no alternative but to acquiesce before the strong determination of his brother, and though his words were cordial, his fears, his qualms of conscience underlying them, were none the less.

So they came back to the house, and finally foregathered on two uncomfortable, rawhide-seated, home-made chairs, while Bill enlarged upon his plans. It was not until these were completely exhausted that their talk drifted to more personal matters. Then it was that Charlie himself opened up the way, with a bitter reference to the reasons that saved him from completely going under when their father shipped him out to this forlorn spot to regenerate.

He talked earnestly, leaning forward in his chair. His delicate hands were tightly clasped, as his eyes gazed out across the valley at a spot where Kate Seton's house stood beyond the river.

Bill sat listening. He wanted Charlie to talk. He wanted to learn all those little things, sometimes even very big things, which can only be read between the lines when the tongue runs on unguardedly. He knew his brother's many weaknesses, and it was his ardent desire to discover those signs of betterment and strengthening he fondly hoped had taken place in the pa.s.sing of years.

He lolled back with the luxury of an utterly saddle-weary man. His heavy bent pipe hung loosely from the corner of his mouth. His big blue eyes were steady and earnest.

"Yes," Charlie went on, after a moment's thought, "I'm glad, mighty glad, I came here when I did." He gave a short mirthless laugh. "I doubt if my satisfaction is inspired by any moral scruple," he added hastily, as the other nodded. "Say, can you understand how I feel when I say I believe all moral scruple has somehow decayed, rotted, died in me? I don't mean that I don't want to be decent. I do; but that's because decency appeals to me from some sort of artistic feelings which have survived the wreck I made of life years ago. No, moral scruples were killed stone dead when I was chasing through Europe hunting Art, searching for it with eyes too young to gaze upon anything more beautiful than a harsh life of strict discipline.

"Now I have to follow inclinations that have somehow got the better of all the best qualities in me. That's how I'm fixed now. And, queer as it may seem, that's been my salvation--if you can call it salvation.

When I first came here I was ready to drift any old way. I did drift into every muck-hole that appealed to me. I didn't care. As I said, moral scruples were dead in me. Then this same self-indulgence did me a good turn. The only good turn it's ever done me."

The eyes gazing across the valley grew very soft.

"Say, Bill," he began again, after a brief, reflective pause, "I came here, and--and found a woman. The greatest, the best woman G.o.d ever created. She was strong, big-spirited, beautiful. She'd come out here to earn a living with her sister. She'd left the East for no better reason than her big spirit of independence, and a desire to live beyond the narrow confines of convention. Say, I think I went crazy about that woman."

The man was smiling very softly. All Bill's senses were alert. His slow brain was groping for the subtle comprehension which he felt was needed for a full understanding.

"That woman came near to saving me--from myself," Charlie went on, with a tenderness he was unaware of. "And it was through that very weakness of self-indulgence. I love her that bad it's bigger than anything else in my life. Say, I'd rather have her good opinion, and--and liking--than anything in life. It's more to me than any of those desires that have always claimed me. But there are times when even her influence isn't quite big enough. There are times when even she can't hold me up. There are things back of my head I can't beat--even through her--at times. That's why I say she's come near saving me. Not quite--but near.

"Bill, guess you can't understand. Guess no one can. I fight, fight, fight. She fights, too. She fights without knowing it, too, because always in my mind is a picture of her handsome face, and eyes of disapproval. That picture wins most times--but not always. Wait till you see Kate, Bill, then you'll understand. I just love her to death--and that's all there is to it. She only likes me. She'll never feel for me same as I do for her. How can she?--I'm--but I guess you know what I am. Everybody who knows me knows that I'm a hopeless drunkard."

The man's final admission came without any self-pity or bitterness. It is doubtful if there was any shame in him at the acknowledgment. Bill marveled. He could not understand. He tried to picture himself making such an admission, and to estimate his feelings at it. Shame, unutterable shame, was all he could think of, and his good-natured face flushed with shame for his brother, who had somehow so squandered all his better feelings.

Charlie saw the flush, and the tenderness died out of his eyes. He shook his head.

"Don't feel that way about it," he cried bitterly. "I'm not worth it.

Besides, I can't stand it from--you. Only--from Kate. I know what you're thinking. You're bound to think that way. You were born with a man's body--a big, strong man's body. I was born weak and puny. I was born all wrong. I don't say it in excuse. I merely state a fact. Look at me beside you, both children of the same parents. I'm like a woman, I can't even grow the hair of a man on my face. My mother reveled in what she regarded as the artistic beauty of my features, my hands"--he held out his thin hands with their long tapering fingers--"and my love for all those softer things of life that should only be found in female nature. She gloried in those things and fostered them. She did her best, all unknowingly, bless her, to kill the last vestige of manhood in me. And all the time it was crying out, crying out bitterly. It was growing stronger and stronger, as my physique remained undeveloped. Finally it became too great to withstand. Then, when it turned loose, I was without power to check it. My moral strength was not equal to the tide, and all my pa.s.sions swayed me whithersoever they chose. Again I say this is no excuse; it is merely fact as I see it. I was powerless to resist temptation. The woman who once looses her hold on her moral nature can never recover herself.

That is nature--her nature--and, by the curse of fate, it is also mine."

For the moment Bill had no answer. He sat with his eyes averted. All his affection for his erring brother was uppermost, all his sympathy and pity. But he dared not display them. All that Charlie had said was true. His whole appearance was effeminate. He was a man without the physical support belonging to his s.e.x. As he said, he was left powerless by nature and upbringing to fight a man's battle on the plains of moral integrity. His fall had been drink, with its accompanying vices, and Bill realized now, after five years' absence, how hopeless his brother's reformation had become. If his love for this woman could not save him, then surely nothing on earth could. For Bill, in his simple fashion, believed that such an appeal was above all in its claims upon any real man.

He groped for something to say, for something that might show Charlie that his affection remained utterly unaltered, but he had no great cleverness, and the right thing refused to come to his aid. As the silence lengthened between them his groping thoughts took their own course, which led him to the name, "Kate," which the other had used.

He remembered he had heard it that day once before.

"Kate?" he inquired lamely. "Kate--who?"

"Kate Seton."

In an instant Bill's whole att.i.tude underwent a change. He sat up, and, removing his pipe, dashed the charred ashes from its bowl.

"Why, that's the sister of--Helen Seton."

Charlie nodded, his eyes lighting with a sharp question.

"Sure. But--you don't know--Helen?"

Bill's face beamed.

"Met her on the trail," he cried triumphantly. "No end of a pretty girl. Gray eyes and fair hair. Might have been walking on Broadway, New York--from her style. Fyles told me about her."

"Fyles?"

Charlie's eyes suddenly darkened with resentment. He rose abruptly from his chair, and began to pace the veranda. Then he halted, and looked coldly down into his brother's eyes.

"What did he say?" he demanded shortly.

Bill's eyes answered him with question for question.

"Just told me who Helen was. Said she had a sister--Kate. Said they were farmers--of a sort. Said they'd been here five years. Why?"

Charlie ignored the question.

"That's all?" he demanded.

"Sure." Bill nodded.

Then the hardness died out of Charlie's eyes to be replaced once more by his usual gentle smile.

"I'm glad. You see, I don't want him--around Kate. Say----" he hesitated. Then he moved toward the door of the house. "Guess I'll get supper. I forgot, you must be starving."

Kate Seton had spent the whole morning at home. The work of her little farm had claimed her. She had been out with her two disreputable boys around the grain, now rapidly turning from its fresh green to that delicate tint of yellow so welcome to the farmer. It was a comparatively anxious time, for the cattle grazing at large upon the prairie loved the sweet flavor of the growing grain, and had no scruples at breaking their way through the carelessly constructed barbed wire fencing, and wrecking all that came within their reach.

The fences needed "top railing," and Kate could not trust the work to her two men without supervision. So she spent the morning in their company.

After the mid-day meal, as soon as Helen had left the house on a journey to Billy Unguin's drapery store, she sat herself down at a small bureau in their kitchen-parlor and drew a couple of books, suspiciously like account books, from one of its locked drawers, and settled herself for an hour's work upon them.

The room, though not large, was comfortable. It was full of odd, feminine knick-knacks contrived by Helen's busy hands. The walls were dotted with a number of unframed water colors, also the work of the younger of the two women. There were three comfortable rockers, so dear to the heart of the women of the country. Besides these, there was a biggish dining table, and, in one corner of the room, beside a china and store cupboard, a square iron cook stove stood out, on which a tin kettle of water was pleasantly simmering.

It was a homely room which had been gradually furnished into its present atmosphere of comfort by two pairs of busy hands, and both Kate and Helen loved it far more, in consequence, than if it had borne the hall-mark of lavish expenditure.

But Kate, as she sat before her bureau, had no thought of these things just now. She was anxious to complete her work before Helen returned.

It was always impossible to deal with figures while her sister was in the room. And her figures now needed careful attention.

She opened her books, and soon her busy pen was at work. From a pocket in her underskirt she drew a number of papers, and these she carefully sorted out.

Having arranged them to her satisfaction the task of entering figures in her book was resumed. Finally she performed the operation of many sums, the accurate working out of which took considerable time and pains. Then, from the same pocket, she drew a bundle of notes which she carefully counted and checked by the figures in the books.

This work completed she sat back idly in her chair with a thoughtful, ironical smile in her dark eyes, and the holder of her pen poised in the grip of her even white teeth.

She was thinking pleasantly, with a half humorous vein running through her thought. She was dreaming, day-dreaming, of many things dear to her woman's heart. Now and again her look changed. Now a quick flash leaped into her slumberous eyes, only to die out almost immediately, hidden under that softer gleam which had so much humor in it. At another time a grave look replaced all other expression; then, again, a quick frown would occasionally mar the fair, smooth brow. But always the dominating note of humorous thoughtfulness would return, as if this were her chief characteristic.

Her day-dreaming did not last long, however. It was abruptly dispelled, as such moods generally are. The sound of hurrying feet brought a quick look that was one almost of anxiety into her usually confident eyes. With one comprehensive movement she scrambled her books and papers together and heaped them into the still open drawer.