Hope Hathaway Part 30

I don't see how you've ever stood it, Hope! The attraction must be very strong. Come, own up, is it this _Mister_ Livingston? Why, I believe you are blus.h.i.+ng. You're so black, though, I can't be certain. But it's a good name--Livingston. Come on; I'm ready to see this _Mister Edward Livingston_!"

The three pa.s.sed out of the room and through the large living room beyond, on out of doors. The men had eaten their supper and gone out to the stables, where they congregated in numerous groups--quiet groups, that any other time would have seemed suspicious to Hope.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer was led safely past the pigs and dogs without accident, but at the corner of the house she drew back, filled with surprise, and forgetful of all danger.

"Hope, I do believe that _is_ Lord Livingston," she whispered. "I knew he was out in this country somewhere. Yes, I'm sure it is he. His wife lives in New York now," she rattled on; "but I don't know her except by sight. She goes in kind of a swift set, anyway, but he belongs to one of the best families in England. Isn't it surprising to run across him like this? I'll go up to him and say--why, how do you do, Lord----"

"Come on," said Hope, interrupting and taking her by the arm. "Lord or no lord, you'll never get any supper if you don't hurry up!" Her face had gone from red to white. She took Clarice by the arm and led her up to the buggy. "This is Mrs. Van Rensselaer, Mr. Livingston," she said quickly, before that lady could speak, then turned abruptly about and went to the stable for the saddle-horses.

Livingston helped Mrs. Van Rensselaer into the buggy, while Louisa ran after Hope, quickly overtaking her.

"She says he ha.s.s a vife. I don't belief her!" she exclaimed indignantly, linking her arm through Hope's. "Don't you belief her eider!"

"I must believe it, little Louisa, because it is true!" said Hope. "But if it were _not_ true, if it were _not_ true, I think I should be mad with happiness at this moment!"

CHAPTER XXV

In a short time the horses were saddled and the two girls dashed past the stable buildings and the rough a.s.sortment of men who stood silently about, past their watchful, alert eyes, on after the buggy, which had now become a mere speck high up on the mountain road. As they raced by the house and tepees the boy, Ned, cautiously raised his small body from behind a pile of logs which edged the road and beckoned to them frantically. Hope's quick eye saw him, but only as the flash of a moving picture across her mind, leaving no impression and instantly forgotten.

But later, when she had entered the cook-tent at Sydney's camp and seated herself among the small company, the memory of the pa.s.sing vision came back, annoying, troubling her. She scented danger more than she felt it. A sense of uneasiness possessed her. She condemned herself roundly for the wild thoughts that had carried her away from herself, and would have given much at that moment to have known what the breed boy had wanted to commune to her.

Clarice was chatting volubly to Livingston. Sydney leaned upon the table, listening attentively. Outside, old Jim McCullen was staking out the saddle-horses, while about the stove and mess-box William, the cook, flitted in great importance. Sydney jumped up from the table when the two girls entered and arranged some extra seats for them, then took one himself beside Louisa, who flushed prettily at his attentions.

"We beat you by fifteen minutes!" exclaimed Mrs. Van Rensselaer, breaking off from her conversation abruptly. "But we just came along spinning. And I must tell you that I'm perfectly happy now, and don't regret coming one bit! Just think, isn't this luck--Mr. Livingston has promised to take me back to the ranch to-morrow, or whenever I decide to return! And you should see what a splendid dinner we are going to have!

After all, I'm coming out the best in the deal--in spite of Jim's 'didn't I tell you,' and Hope's 'what made you come.' This is a regular taste of the real West--wild and rugged! You don't get it at the ranch--luxurious quarters, Chinese servants everywhere, even the people especially imported. You might as well be in New York for everything except the climate. This is great--this little gulch here and these fresh, sweet tents; but horrors, that place back there! Isn't there any way to go around it when we go back to the ranch, Mr. Livingston? I don't want even to catch sight of it. I never saw such a lot of looking men in all my life!"

They all laughed at the look of abject horror which she put upon her face--all with the exception of Hope, who sat silently in the shadow of Louisa and Sydney.

"We've been to supper," said Sydney, turning around to his cousin, "so this is an extra one for the special benefit of our guests. You'd better appreciate it, for it's going to be a jim-dandy one. Livingston's been to supper, too, so this is just for the ladies."

"You're a good boy," murmured the girl, taking off her hat and pus.h.i.+ng back the ma.s.s of dark hair from her forehead. "We'll soon show you our appreciation."

"I guess we'd better light up, it's getting dark a little earlier nowadays," he said, leaving Louisa's side to light the lanterns, which soon flooded the tent with soft radiance.

"I like the twilight," said Clarice to Livingston. "But then I like lots of light, too. Some people can talk best in the dark, but I have to see to talk."

"It's only eight o'clock," continued Sydney, from where he had left off.

"Last month it was daylight at ten. It beats all how time flies, anyway!" He hung an extra lantern, lighted for the momentous occasion, right where the rays fell full upon Hope's face. From the far end of the tent Livingston watched her. He sought her eyes as usual. They were everywhere, anywhere, but did not meet his. Lately a new star had risen for him--a star of hope. O'Hara had told him, quite unsolicited, that there was no attachment between Hope and her cousin, much less an engagement, and suddenly a new world had opened for him.

"I don't see why you are lighting the lanterns now. It isn't dark at all," said the girl, rising suddenly from her seat. "From the top of the ridge out there you can see the sunset, I know."

"Did you ever see a sunset as beautiful as the sunrise?" asked Livingston.

She stopped and pondered an instant, then glanced at him quickly, and as quickly away.

"No, I have not," she replied. "A sunrise is a baptism. It is like being born into a new world. There is nothing so beautiful, so grand, so promising, as the vision of a new day's sun. And to stand in the cool morning air with the dew beneath your feet and _feel_ all the promise of that vast, golden glory--to feel it----" She stopped suddenly, lifting her eyes to his for one brief instant. "There is no moment in life when one is so near to G.o.d."

"Admitting the sublimity and grandeur of the time," said Clarice. "Yet who ever heard of an enamored swain offering his heart at the feet of his fair lady at such an unearthly hour? It's preposterous!"

"In such a case he'd probably be sitting up too late the night before,"

said Carter. "But it's a pretty idea, just the same," he declared, looking at Louisa.

"I think a sunset is prettier," insisted Clarice. "I've never been able to rub the sleep out of my eyes to appreciate the sunrise as Hope describes it. But I think she is an exception."

"Would there were more then," said Livingston fervently.

His earnestness seemed to amuse Clarice, for she turned to him and laughed. Hope swung about quickly, stung for the instant.

"It is sacred," she cried softly, then opening the tent-flap with a quick movement she stepped out into the evening.

Jim McCullen was putting up a new tent down near the edge of the stream for the accommodation of the ladies. The girl went over to where he was at work and a.s.sisted him by steadying one pole while he fastened the canvas in position.

"How's the ranch, Jim?" she asked. "Mrs. Van Rensselaer hasn't had time to tell me yet."

"Well, it's about the same as ever," replied McCullen slowly. "I reckon your father's gettin' pretty lonesome without you. Feels like a lost horse by now. That there little Rosebush--Rosehill, he and them Cresmonds have gone back East to get ready fer the great weddin' they're talkin' about. Them folks seem to think it's a mighty fine thing to catch a lord er an earl. But it always seemed to me that the Almighty left out a whole pile in order to give some o' them fellers a t.i.tle.

Forgot Rosehill's brains entirely, an' he ain't no bigger'n a minute, neither."

"I guess you're right, about him," said Hope, kneeling beside McCullen as he fas.h.i.+oned a stake pin more to his liking. "I hope that outfit won't come out here another year; I don't like them very well. It's nice and sweet out here on the gra.s.s, isn't it? I don't mind staying here at all to-night. I don't see what makes me feel so sleepy and drowsy though, but I do--sort of tired, as though I wanted to get away and go to bed. I haven't ridden far to-day either--only a few miles after school. Jim, I wish I were back to-night at the ranch--I wish I could go and say good-night to my father, and go away to my own room."

McCullen looked up from the peg he was driving, and remarked: "I'll warrent you'll have as good a night's sleep out here in this tent as you would at home on the ranch. Plenty o' fresh air an' no misquitoes to bother. But I reckon your father'd like to see you just the same to-night."

"But he doesn't want me to go home until I've finished this school up here. I'm earning fifty dollars a month. How much are you?"

"A hundred," replied McCullen. "But, look a-here, your father _said_ that, but he'd be mighty glad to have you drop in on him one o' these times. He's the sorriest father you ever seen!"

"But I shall stay, Jim, just as long as there is school here," said Hope decidedly. "So don't _you_ try to get me to go home. Everyone else is.

Sydney all the time, then Larry O'Hara. I'm glad he's gone over to camp with the soldiers. They're farther away than I thought. Louisa and I rode over in that direction after school, but only got to the top of the tall b.u.t.te over there. We could see them where they were camped on Fox Creek, but it was too far to go, so we went back to Harris'. Larry was all the time urging me to go home while he was here--and now Clarice has come. But I won't go, Jim, until the school ends."

"Well, you just make the best of it," replied McCullen. "I like your grit. I'm a-goin' to stay right here so's to be near you whatever happens."

"Jim," said the girl suddenly, "were you ever nervous?"

"I reckon I've been, a few times," replied McCullen. "Why, you ain't _nervous_, be you, Hopie? There ain't nothin' goin' to bother you out here to-night. Mebby you ain't feelin' well."

She smiled at his consternation. "No, I don't think I'm nervous, Jim; just a little restless, that's all."

"I expect that woman's comin' has sort o' upset you. I didn't want to bring her, but she managed to overrule all o' my objections."

He finished driving the last peg, which made the tent secure against the strongest wind, then straightened himself up with his hands upon the small of his back as though the movement was a difficult one.

"Well, I reckon I'll bring in the beddin', an' you can fix it up to suit yourself," he said, looking down at the girl, who had seated herself on the gra.s.s before the tent.

"Listen," she whispered, holding up a warning hand, "I hear horsebackers."

"Sure enough," he replied after a moment's silence. "I reckon it's them breed boys o' yourn. Hungriest outfit I ever seen!"