She threw out her hands in a hopeless gesture. The Harvester drew forth a roll of bills and tossed them into her lap.
"For the love of mercy take what you need and pay it," he said. "Then get a floor under your feet, and try, I beg of you, try to force yourself to have confidence in me, until I do something that gives you the least reason for distrusting me."
She picked up the money and gave it a contemptuous whirl that landed it at his feet.
"What greater cause of distrust could I have by any possibility than just that?" she asked.
The Harvester arose hastily, and taking several steps, he stood with folded arms, his back turned. The Girl sat watching him with wide eyes, the dull blue plain in their dusky depths. When he did not speak, she grew restless. At last she slowly arose and circling him looked into his face. It was convulsed with a struggle in which love and patience fought for supremacy over honest anger. As he saw her so close, his lips drew apart, and his breath came deeply, but he did not speak. He merely stood and looked at her, and looked; and she gazed at him as if fascinated, but uncomprehending.
"Ruth!"
The call came roaring up the hill. The Girl shivered and became paler.
"Is that your uncle?" asked the Harvester.
She nodded.
"Will you come to-morrow for your drawing materials?"
"Yes."
"Will you try to believe that there is absolutely nothing, either underfoot or overhead, that will harm you?"
"Yes."
"Will you try to think that I am not a menace to public safety, and that I would do much to help you, merely because I would be glad to be of service?"
"Yes."
"Will you try to cultivate the idea that there is nothing in all this world that would hurt you purposely?"
"Ruth!" came a splitting scream in gruff man-tones, keyed in deep anger.
"That SOUNDS like it!" said the Girl, and catching up her skirts she ran through the woods, taking a different route toward the house.
The Harvester sat on the log and tried to think; but there are times when the numbed brain refuses to work, so he really sat and suffered. Belshazzar whimpered and licked his hands, and at last the man arose and went with the dog to the wagon. As they came through Onabasha, Betsy turned at the hospital corner, but the Harvester pulled her around and drove toward the country. Not until they crossed the railroad did he lift his head and then he drew a deep breath as if starved for pure air and spoke. "Not to-day Betsy! I can't face my friends just now. Someway I am ****** an awful fist of things. Everything I do is wrong. She no more trusts me than you would a rattlesnake, Belshazzar; and from all appearance she takes me to be almost as deadly. What must have been her experiences in life to ingrain fear and distrust in her soul at that rate? I always knew I was not handsome, but I never before regarded my appearance as alarming. And I`fixed up,' too!"
The Harvester grinned a queer little twist of a grin that pulled and distorted his strained face. "Might as well have gone with a week's beard, a soiled shirt, and a leer! And I've always been as decent as I knew!
What's the reward for clean living anyway, if the girl you love strikes you like that?"
Belshazzar reached across and kissed him. The Harvester put his arm around the dog. In the man's disappointment and heart hunger he leaned his head against the beast and said, "I've always got you to love and protect me, anyway, Belshazzar. Maybe the man who said a dog was a man's best friend was right. You always trusted me, didn't you Bel? And you never regretted it but once, and that wasn't my fault. Inever did it! If I did, I'm getting good and well paid for it. I'd rather be kicked until all the ribs of one side are broken, Bel, than to swallow the dose she just handed me. I tell you it was bitter, lad! What am I going to do? Can't you help me, Bel?"
Belshazzar quivered in anxiety to offer the comfort he could not speak.
"Of course you are right! You always are, Bel!" said the Harvester. "I know what you are trying to tell me. Sure enough, she didn't have any dream.
I am afraid she had the bitterest reality. She hasn't been loving a vision of me, working and searching for me, and I don't mean to her what she does to me. Of course I see that I must be patient and bide my time.
If there is anything in `like begetting like' she is bound to care for me some day, for I love her past all expression, and for all she feels I might as well save my breath.
But she has got to awake some day, Bel. She can make up her mind to that. She can't see `why.' Over and over! I wonder what she would think if I'd up and tell her `why' with no frills. She will drive me to it some day, then probably the shock will finish her. I wonder if Doc was only fooling or if he really would do what he said. It might wake her up, anyway, but I'm dubious as to the result. How Uncle Henry can roar! He sounded like a fog horn. I'd love to try my muscle on a man like that. No wonder she is afraid of him, if she is of me. Afraid! Well of all things I ever did expect, Belshazzar, that is the limit."
