The Oakdale Affair [56]
home I wish you'd tell me why you did this thing. I think you'd rather tell me before we see Mrs. P."
"It was Sam Benham, Daddy," whispered the girl. "I couldn't marry him. I'd rather die, and so I ran away. I was going to be a tramp; but I had no idea a tramp's existence was so adventurous. You won't make me marry him, Daddy, will you? I wouldn't be happy, Daddy."
"I should say not, Gail; you can be an old maid all your life if you want to."
"But I don't want to--I only want to choose my own husband," replied Abigail.
Mrs. Prim met them all in the living-room. At sight of Abigail in the ill-fitting man's clothing she raised her hands in holy horror; but she couldn't see Bridge at all, until Burton found an opportunity to draw her to one side and whisper something in her ear, after which she was graciousness personified to the dusky Bridge, in- sisting that he spend a fortnight with them to recuper- ate.
Between them, Burton and Jonas Prim fitted Bridge out as he had not been dressed in years, and with the feel of fresh linen and pressed clothing, even if ill fitting, a sensation of comfort and ease pervaded him which the man would not have thought possible from such a source an hour before.
He smiled ruefully as Burton looked him over. "I ven- ture to say," he drawled, "that there are other things in the world besides the open road."
Burton smiled.
It was midnight when the Prims and their guests arose from the table. Hettie Penning was with them, and ev- eryone present had been sworn to secrecy about her share in the tragedy of the previous night. On the mor- row she would return to Payson and no one there the wiser; but first she had Burton send to the jail for Giova, who was being held as a witness, and Giova promised to come and work for the Pennings.
At last Bridge stole a few minutes alone with Abi- gail, or, to be more strictly a truthful historian, Abigail outgeneraled the others of the company and drew Bridge out upon the veranda.
"Tell me," demanded the girl, "why you were so kind to me when you thought me a worthless little scamp of a boy who had robbed some one's home."
"I couldn't have told you a few hours ago," said Bridge. "I used to wonder myself why I should feel toward a boy as I felt toward you,--it was inexplicable,--and then when I knew that you were a girl, I understood, for I knew that I loved you and had loved you from the mo- ment that we met there in the dark and the rain be- side the Road to Anywhere."
"Isn't it wonderful?" murmured the girl, and she had other things in her heart to murmur; but a man's lips smothered hers as Bridge gathered her into his arms and strained her to him.
End
"It was Sam Benham, Daddy," whispered the girl. "I couldn't marry him. I'd rather die, and so I ran away. I was going to be a tramp; but I had no idea a tramp's existence was so adventurous. You won't make me marry him, Daddy, will you? I wouldn't be happy, Daddy."
"I should say not, Gail; you can be an old maid all your life if you want to."
"But I don't want to--I only want to choose my own husband," replied Abigail.
Mrs. Prim met them all in the living-room. At sight of Abigail in the ill-fitting man's clothing she raised her hands in holy horror; but she couldn't see Bridge at all, until Burton found an opportunity to draw her to one side and whisper something in her ear, after which she was graciousness personified to the dusky Bridge, in- sisting that he spend a fortnight with them to recuper- ate.
Between them, Burton and Jonas Prim fitted Bridge out as he had not been dressed in years, and with the feel of fresh linen and pressed clothing, even if ill fitting, a sensation of comfort and ease pervaded him which the man would not have thought possible from such a source an hour before.
He smiled ruefully as Burton looked him over. "I ven- ture to say," he drawled, "that there are other things in the world besides the open road."
Burton smiled.
It was midnight when the Prims and their guests arose from the table. Hettie Penning was with them, and ev- eryone present had been sworn to secrecy about her share in the tragedy of the previous night. On the mor- row she would return to Payson and no one there the wiser; but first she had Burton send to the jail for Giova, who was being held as a witness, and Giova promised to come and work for the Pennings.
At last Bridge stole a few minutes alone with Abi- gail, or, to be more strictly a truthful historian, Abigail outgeneraled the others of the company and drew Bridge out upon the veranda.
"Tell me," demanded the girl, "why you were so kind to me when you thought me a worthless little scamp of a boy who had robbed some one's home."
"I couldn't have told you a few hours ago," said Bridge. "I used to wonder myself why I should feel toward a boy as I felt toward you,--it was inexplicable,--and then when I knew that you were a girl, I understood, for I knew that I loved you and had loved you from the mo- ment that we met there in the dark and the rain be- side the Road to Anywhere."
"Isn't it wonderful?" murmured the girl, and she had other things in her heart to murmur; but a man's lips smothered hers as Bridge gathered her into his arms and strained her to him.
End