Elder Conklin - Frank Harris (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) š
- Author: Frank Harris
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Of a sudden she paused. She remembered how, more than a year before, she had been invited to Eureka for a ball. She had stayed with her friend Miss Jennie Blood; by whose advice and with whose help she had worn for the first time a low-necked dress. She had been uncomfortable in it at first, very uncomfortable, but the men liked it, all of them. She had seen their admiration in their eyes; as Jennie had said, it fetched them. If only George could see her in a low-necked dressāshe flushed as she thought of itāperhaps heād admire her, and then sheād be quite happy. But there were never any balls or parties in this dead-and-alive township! How could she manage it?
The solution came to her with a shock of half-frightened excitement. It was warm still, very warm, in the middle of the day; why shouldnāt she dress as for a dance, somethinā like it anyway, and go into Georgeās room to put it straight just before he came home from school? Her heart beat quickly as she reflected. After all, what harm was there in it? She recollected hearing that in the South all the girls wore low dresses in summer, and she loved George, and she was sure he loved her. Any one would do it, and no one would know. She resolved to try on the dress, just to see how it suited her. There was no harm in that. She took off her thin cotton gown quickly, and put on the ball-dress. But when she had dragged the chest of drawers before the window and had propped up the little glass on it to have a good look at herself, she grew hot. She couldnāt wear that, not in daylight; it looked, oh, it lookedāand she blushed crimson. Besides, the tulle was all frayed and faded. No, she couldnāt wear it! Oh!āand her eyes filled with tears of envy and vexation. If only she were rich, like lots of other girls, she could have all sorts of dresses. āTwas unfair, so it was. She became desperate with disappointment, and set her wits to work again. She had plenty of time still. George wouldnāt be back before twelve. She must choose a dress he had never seen; then he wouldnāt know but what she often wore it so. Nervously, hurriedly, she selected a cotton frock, and before the tiny glass pinned and arranged it over her shoulders and bust, higher than the ball-dress, but still, lower than she had ever worn in the daytime. She fashioned the garment with an instinctive sense of form that a Parisian couturiļæ½re might have envied, and went to work. Her nimble fingers soon cut and sewed it to the style she had intended, and then she tried it on. As she looked at herself in the mirror the vision of her loveliness surprised and charmed her. She had drawn a blue ribband that she happened to possess, round the arms of the dress and round the bodice of it, and when she saw how this little thread of colour set off the full outlines of her bust and the white roundness of her arms, she could have kissed her image in the glass. She was lovely, prettier than any girl in the section. George would see that; he loved beautiful things. Hadnāt he talked of the scenery for half an hour? Heād be pleased.
She thought again seriously whether her looks could not be improved. After rummaging a little while in vain, she went downstairs and borrowed a light woollen shawl from her mother on the pretext that she liked the feel of it. Hastening up to her own room, she put it over her shoulders, and practised a long time before the dim glass just to see how best she could throw it back or draw it round her at will.
At last, with a sigh of content, she felt herself fully equipped for the struggle; she was looking her best. If George didnāt care for her soā and she viewed herself again approvingly from all sidesāwhy, she couldnāt help it. She had done all she could, but if he did, and he mustāwhy, then, heād tell her, and theyād be happy. At the bottom of her heart she felt afraid. George was strange; not a bit like other men. He might be cold, and at the thought she felt inclined to cry out. Pride, however, came to her aid. If he didnāt like her, it would be his fault. She had just done her best, and that she reckoned, with a flush of pardonable conceit, was good enough for any man.
An hour later Bancroft went up to his room. As he opened the door Loo turned towards him from the centre-table with a low cry of surprise, drawing at the same time the ends of the fleecy woollen wrap tight across her breast.
āOh, George, how you scared me! I was jest fixinā up your things.ā And the girl crimsoned, while her eyes sought to read his face.
āThank you,ā he rejoined carelessly, and then, held by something of expectation in her manner, he looked at her intently, and added: āWhy, Loo, how well you look! I like that dress; it suits you.ā And he stepped towards her.
She held out both hands as if to meet his, but by the gesture the woollen scarf was thrown back, and her form unveiled. Once again her mere beauty stung the young man to desire, but something of a conscious look in her face gave him thought, and, scrutinizing her coldly, he said:
āI suppose that dress was put on for Mr. Barkmanās benefit.ā
āOh, George!ā she cried, in utter dismay, āhe haināt been here to-day.ā And then, as the hard expression did not leave his face, she added hurriedly: āI put it on for you, George. Do believe me.ā
Still his face did not alter. Suddenly she understood that she had betrayed her secret. She burst into bitter tears.
He took her in his arms and spoke perfunctory words of consolation; her body yielded to his touch, and in a few moments he was soothing her in earnest. Her grief was uncontrollable. āIāve jest done everythinā, everythinā and itās all no use,ā she sobbed aloud. When he found that he could not check the tears, he grew irritated; he divined her little stratagem, and his lip curled. How unmaidenly! In a flash, she stood before him, her shallow, childish vanity unmasked. The pity of it did not strike him; he was too young for that; he felt only contempt for her, and at once drew his arms away. With a long, choking sob she moved to the door and disappeared. She went blindly along the passage to her room, and, flinging herself on the bed, cried as if her heart would break. Then followed a period of utter abject misery. She had lost everythinā; George didnāt care for her; sheād have to live all her life without him, and again slow, scalding tears fell.
The thought of going downstairs to supper and meeting him was intolerable. The sense of what she had confessed to him swept over her in a hot flood of shame. No, she couldnāt go down; she couldnāt face his eyes again. Sheād sit right there, and her motherād come up, and sheād tell her she had a headache. To meet him was impossible; she just hated him. He was hard and cruel; sheād never see him again; he had degraded her. The whole place became unbearable as she relived the past; she must get away from him, from it all, at any cost, as soon as she could. Theyād be sorry when she was gone. And she cried again a little, but these tears relieved her, did her good.
She tried to look at the whole position steadily. Barkman would take her away to New York. Marry him?āshe didnāt want to, but she wouldnāt make up her mind now; sheād go away with him if heād be a real friend to her. Only he mustnāt put his arm round her again; she didnāt like him to do that. If he wished to be a friend to her, sheād let him; if not, sheād go by herself. He must understand that. Once in New York, sheād meet kind people, live as she wanted to live, and never think of this horrid time.
She was all alone; no one in the world to talk to about her troubleāno one. No one cared for her. Her mother loved Jake best; and besides, if she told her anythinā, sheād only set down anā cry. Sheād write and say she was comfortable; and her father?āheād get over it. He was kind always, but he never felt much anywayāleastwise, he never showed anythinā. When they got her letter ātwould be all right. That was what sheād doāand so, with her little hands clenched and feverish face, she sat and thought, letting her imagination work.
A few mornings later Bancroft came down early. He had slept badly, had been nervous and disturbed by jealous forebodings, and had not won easily to self-control. He had only been in the sitting-room a minute or two when the Elder entered, and stopping in front of him asked sharply:
āHev you seen Loo yet?ā
āNo. Is she down?ā
āI reckoned youād know ef she had made out anythinā partikler to do to-day.ā
āNo,ā he repeated seriously, the Elderās manner impressing him. āNo! she told me nothing, but perhaps she hasnāt got up yet.ā
āShe aināt in her room.ā
āWhat do you mean?ā
āYou didnāt hear buggy-wheels last nightāalong towards two oāclock?ā
āNo, butāyou donāt mean to say? Lawyer Barkman!ā And Bancroft started up with horror in his look.
The Elder stared at him, with rigid face and wild eyes, but as he gradually took in the sincerity of the young manās excitement, he turned, and left the room.
To his bedroom he went, and there, after closing the door, fell on his knees. For a long time no word came; with clasped hands and bowed head the old man knelt in silence. Sobs shook his frame, but no tears fell. At length broken sentences dropped heavily from his half-conscious lips:
āLord, Lord! āTaināt right to punish her. She knowed nothinā. Sheās so young. I did wrong, but I kaināt bear her to be punished.
āPārāaps Youāve laid this on me jesā to show Iām foolish and weak. Thatās so, O Lord! Iām in the hollow of Your hand. But Youāll save her, O Lord! for Jesusā sake.
āIām all broke up. I kaināt pray. Iām skeered. Lord Christ, help her; stanā by her; be with her. O Lord, forgive!ā
JUNE AND JULY, 1891.
*
THE SHERIFF AND HIS PARTNER.
One afternoon in July, 1869, I was seated at my desk in Locockās law-office in the town of Kiota, Kansas. I had landed in New York from Liverpool nearly a year before, and had drifted westwards seeking in vain for some steady employment. Lawyer Locock, however, had promised to let me study law with him, and to give me a few dollars a month besides, for my services as a clerk. I was fairly satisfied with the prospect, and the little town interested me. An outpost of civilization, it was situated on the border of the great plains, which were still looked upon as the natural possession of the nomadic Indian tribes. It owed its importance to the fact that it lay on the cattle-trail which led from the prairies of Texas through this no manās land to the railway system, and that it was the first place where the cowboys coming north could find a bed to sleep in, a bar to drink at, and a table to gamble on. For some years
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