But I never thought--" he went on,
hurriedly, huskily. "That time--when you lay dying--you
prayed--you--somehow I got the idea you were bad."
"Bad?" she asked, with a little laugh.
She looked up with a faint smile of bewilderment and the absolute
unconsciousness of a child. Venters gasped in the gathering might
of the truth. She did not understand his meaning.
"Bess! Bess!" He clasped her in his arms, hiding her eyes against
his breast. She must not see his face in that moment. And he held
her while he looked out across the valley. In his dim and blinded
sight, in the blur of golden light and moving mist, he saw
Oldring. She was the rustler's nameless daughter. Oldring had
loved her. He had so guarded her, so kept her from women and men
and knowledge of life that her mind was as a child's. That was
part of the secret--part of the mystery. That was the wonderful
truth. Not only was she not bad, but good, pure, innocent above
all innocence in the world--the innocence of lonely girlhood.
He saw Oldring's magnificent eyes, inquisitive, searching,
softening. He saw them flare in amaze, in gladness, with love,
then suddenly strain in terrible effort of will. He heard Oldring
whisper and saw him sway like a log and fall. Then a million
bellowing, thundering voices--gunshots of conscience,
thunderbolts of remorse--dinned horribly in his ears. He had
killed Bess's father.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344