PAGE 18
A Branch Road
by
Will straightened up. "Bear it?" He paused. "Yes,
I s’pose so. If you hadn’t married Ed Kinney! Anybody but him. How did you do it?"
"Oh’ I don’t know," she answered, wearily brushing her hair back from her eyes. "It seemed best when I did it–and it can’t be helped now. " There was infinite, dull despair and resignation in her voice.
Will went over to the window. He thought how bright and handsome Ed used to be, and he felt after all that it was no wonder that she married him. Life pushes us into such things. Suddenly he turned, something resolute and imperious in his eyes and voice.
"It can be helped, Aggie," he said. "Now just listen to me. We’ve made an awful mistake. We’ve lost seven years o’ life, but that’s no reason why we should waste the rest of it. Now hold on; don’t interrupt me just yet. I come back thinking just as much of you as ever. I ain’t going to say a word more about Ed; let the past stay past. I’m going to talk about the future. "
She looked at him in a daze of wonder as he went on. "Now I’ve got some money, I’ve got a third interest in a ranch, and I’ve got a standing offer to go back on the Sante Fee road as conductor. There is a team standing out there. I’d like to make another trip to Cedarville–with you–"
"Oh, Will, don’t!" she cried; "for pity’s sake don’t talk–"
"Wait!" he said imperiously. "Now look at it Here you are in hell! Caged up with two old crows picking the life out of you. They’ll kill you–I can see it; you’re being killed by inches. You can’t go anywhere, you can’t have anything. Life is just torture for you–"
She gave a little moan of anguish and despair and turned her face to her chairback. Her shoulders shook with weeping, but she listened. He went to her and stood with his hand on the chairback.
His voice trembled and broke. "There’s just one way to get out of this, Agnes. Come with me. He don’t care for you; his whole idea of women is that they are created for his pleasure and to keep house. Your whole life is agony. Come! Don’t cry. There’s a chance for life yet. "
She didn’t speak, but her sobs were less violent; his voice growing stronger reassured her.
"I’m going East, maybe to Europe; and the woman who goes with me will have nothing to do but get strong and well again. I’ve made you suffer so, I ought to spend the rest of my life making you happy. Come! My wife will sit with me on the deck of the steamer and see the moon rise, and walk with me by the sea, till she gets strong and happy again–till the dimples get back into her cheeks. I never will rest till I see her eyes laugh again.
She rose flushed, wide-eyed, breathing hard with the emotion his vibrant voice called up, but she could not speak. He put his hand gently upon her shoulder, and she sank down again. And he went on with his appeal. There was something hypnotic, dominating in his voice and eyes.
On his part there was no passion of an ignoble sort, only a passion of pity and remorse, and a sweet, tender, reminiscent love. He did not love the woman before him so much as the girl whose ghost she was–the woman whose promise she was. He held himself responsible for it all, and he throbbed with desire to repair the ravage he had indirectly caused. There was nothing equivocal in his position–nothing to disown. How others might look at it he did not consider and did not care. His impetuous soul was carried to a point where nothing came in to mar or divert.
"And then after you’re well, after our trip, we’ll come back to Houston, and I’ll build my wife a house that’Il make her eyes shine. My cattle and my salary will give us a good living, and she can have a piano and books, and go to the theater and concerts. Come, what do you think of that?"