"Perhaps. He's said nothing--to me--"

"But it's you I care about. Only you. I told you that and I mean it. I don't want you to be sore--I'd go back and bury myself in the old office for life if I thought it would make it different with you."

"Would you, Bertram?"

He leaned close to her; she could feel his compelling eyes burning into her averted face. With one part of her, she was conscious that here was a crisis too great for her fully to feel; with the other part, she was aware that an ant, dragging a ridiculously heavy straw, was toiling up her rock.

Now he had her hand, which lay inert in his; now his arm was about her shoulder; and now he was speaking again:

"Can't you? Can't you stop looking down on me and believe I'm going to be good enough for you?"

She found power of speech.

"I never--I don't think that I'm too good for you!" Her Rubicon was crossed. It was a strangely long time before he kissed her, but the silent interval after the kiss was stranger and longer still.

"Tell me what you plan for our future, Bertram, for I am afraid!" she whispered at length.

"It's got to be a wait--that's the risk you take with a comer. I'll go on twice as fast for you. What do you want--shall we tell about it, girlikins?"

"As you wish, Bertram."

"I guess we'd better not, then--not until the old Judge gets his back down. Let's have it just between me and my little girl.

"Say!" he added, the sentiment blowing out of his tone, "what was the matter, anyhow, that night on the restaurant balcony? Why did you turn me down then, and what made you so sore? I've never quite got to your thoughts, you know. But I'm going to!" He drew her closer. "Every one of them!"

She dropped her face on his shoulder.

"Ah, we've so many things to talk about, Bertram, and there's so much time! I've been a girl that didn't know her mind. Shan't we let that rest now? Shan't we be contented with what to-day has brought you and me?"

A film clouded his face.

"Yes--if you want it that way."

"Hoo-ooo-ooo!" Clear and high, but quavering, a masculine voice was calling across the ridge. Eleanor sprang up.

"That's Uncle Edward--it's dinner-time--do you want him to find you--you'd better go!"

He stood as though considering.

"All right. When are you going back?"

"We catch the seven train to-morrow afternoon at Santa Eliza."

"Darn! I'd engaged to take on the five-ten at Las Olivas. I've half a notion to change and join you and see what the old man says--"

"No, Bertram, it's better not. We'll find a way. Go now!"

"You bet we will--good bye, girlikins!" He made no move to kiss her again; he turned and crashed down the trail.

Eleanor sped up the trail. Safe on the summit of the ridge, her secret hidden behind her, she answered the call. Then she dared look back at the figure vanishing in deep shadow below. Her expression and att.i.tude, soft-eyed and drooping though they were, showed other emotions than unmixed happiness.

CHAPTER XIV

Judge Tiffany turned from a consideration of the hillside to a closer consideration of Eleanor, who rode beside him in the Goodyear trap.

She sat very straight, her hands folded in her lap, her grave, grey eyes staring not at hillsides nor spring skies, but into the far horizons.

Since he recovered from that purely human rage against this youth who had betrayed him to his dearest enemy, the Judge had been watching, with all his old interest, the surface indications of Eleanor's moods.

Last night, it had been a kind of gaiety; to-day the mood was quiet, but not at all despondent; there was life in it. Judge Tiffany held his own views on the relations between his niece and Bertram Chester, and on the right or convenience of interfering. Twice he had been on the point of telling her that his feeling toward Bertram Chester should not color hers; that his house was still open to the young man. But the curiosity of philosophical age to see how things will turn out had prevented him.

It was just as well. They were on the eve of their summer flight to the ranch, where she would have other things to think about than young men. That was his half-expressed theme when he spoke:

"Well, girl, will you be glad to get back to work again? You missed last summer."

Eleanor started as out of sleep.

"I think I am glad of everything!" she said cryptically. As though to turn the subject, she indicated a buckboard which was coming down an intersecting by-road at crazy speed.

"Why are they driving so fast?"

The Goodyear driver turned with the familiarity of a country henchman.

"That's the doctor's rig from Las Olivas," he said, "and he's sure going some!" Followed a monologue on the doctor and his habits.

About the next bend of the road, a little boy rushed from a wayside camp which looked strangely deserted for supper-time of Sunday afternoon. He waved both arms before his face.

"Hey, mister, take me to the wreck!"

"What wreck, kid?"

"The five-ten is over the trestle, and they went off and left me!"

Judge Tiffany took the information calmly, even selfishly. "I wonder if we'd better turn back and give it up to-night, or go on?"

Eleanor spoke with a catch of the breath, a drawn-in tone.

"Go on! Oh, tell him to go on!"

The Judge peered at her. She was pale, but, as always in her crises, the curtain of inscrutability made her face a mask. "Oh, do go on!"

she repeated. Then, as though it all needed explanation, she added:

"We might be able to help!"

"Drive on, then--fast!"

Absolutely pa.s.sive, Eleanor swayed a little with the trap, but made no motion of her own. Indeed, there was little motion within. The train had gone over the trestle, that was all. Bertram Chester was on that train. She must not try to think it out--must only hold tight to herself until she found how G.o.d had decided for her. Once it did occur that she had fretted her heart away over shadowy ills, toy troubles, while Bertram walked the earth free and healthy. How trivial those troubles seemed beside this real apprehension! Once again, she wondered how she had been cruel enough to hold him at arm's length so long. Was this to be the punishment for her folly?