Mountain Storms (19 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SIX

F
OR THE
H
APPINESS
OF
G
LORIA

It was no easy thing to manage, but eventually the crowd was cleared from the sheriff's office, and Tom was brought in. He stood, tall and silent, in one corner, his quiet, keen eyes fixed upon the face of the millionaire.

“Tom,” said the sheriff, laying his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his prisoner, “I'm mighty glad to tell you that we've brought you into town just to turn you loose and set you free again. I was afraid for a while that it wouldn't come out just that way. But Mister Themis, here . . . I guess you've met before”—here the sheriff grinned, but Tom's face retained its gravity—“Mister Themis, as I was saying, has made out a check for a thousand dollars to pay off the only gent that's going to press a charge against you. Well, Tom, I guess you don't know much about what money means. But after you've worked for some of it you will. You'll see that a thousand iron men come slow when a gent tries to save 'em. It's a pretty fine thing that Mister Themis has done. I'm going to leave you in here to talk with him because he wants you to. Afterward, you can walk out of this jail just when you please. If you got no better place to go tonight, I got a bed at my house that ain't working, and I'd sure be honored if you come and put up with us. My wife would make you plumb to home.”

It was quite a speech for the sheriff. Moreover, it was a speech that obviously came from the heart. Themis watched with a keen curiosity to see what Tom would say.

“You are a kind man,” he said to the sheriff, “but tonight Jerry is wandering back in the hills. He is waiting for me. Peter and I must go to find him. But when I come up to Turnbull again, I shall come to you first . . . to thank you again.”

It was neatly turned, Themis felt. The sheriff flushed with pleasure and good will and went, whistling, through the door. As soon as it was closed behind him, the man of the mountains faced Themis again. The latter noted that no word of thanks had passed his lips.

The explanation came at once.

“You have paid me a thousand dollars,” said Tom Parks. “What am I to pay you, Mister Themis?”

The latter started. He had not expected this quiet thrust. Plainly the big man was nobody's fool. And Themis flushed a little.

“You are exactly right,” he said. “Parks, I shall expect a return.”

“I shall make it if I can,” said Tom. “What is it that you wish?”

“To keep you from my daughter,” said Themis, with a sudden feeling that he must be nothing but utterly honest while he faced those shrewd, sharp eyes, so trained to the following of obscure trails on the mountain and equally keen, perhaps, to look into the minds of men. “What I wish, Tom, is to keep you from my daughter.”

Tom Parks paused, and Themis saw that the big fellow was carefully restraining himself and waiting until his emotion should pass over.

Then he said as quietly as ever: “If you were to offer me money for Peter, I should laugh at you. If you were to offer me money for Jerry, I should laugh again. But when you offer me money to keep away from Gloria, to sit where she is sitting, to watch her, to see her and know that she is beautiful . . . if you offer me money in place of that, I cannot even laugh, Mister Themis.”

“Tom Parks,” said the rich man, more and more amazed by the talk of the big man, “where did you gain an education? What books have you read?”

“Only two,” said Tom Parks.

“And what were they?”

“The Bible and the
Morte d'Arthur
.”

“That's enough,” said the other. “I can't tell you what a difference it makes to me to learn that you know those two books. But I shall go on developing my idea to you. You see that I am at least frank, Tom.”

The other nodded.

“Before you can understand me fully, or I you, we must come to an agreement. We agree, in short, that what we are both interested in is the greatest happiness for Gloria?”

“Yes.”

“Then let us slip out the rear of the jail where the crowd can't see us and follow you. I want to take you to the house where we are staying.”

It was done. They went through the rear of the jail. Behind the houses they circled back through the dark of the night and entered the house that Themis had rented. There they went directly to the room of Gloria. In that room Themis opened a closet door. The shadowy recess was filled with the glimmer of silks.

“If you stay in this part of the country,” said Themis, “do you know what you will make each month as a cowpuncher . . . I mean, what you will make in money?”

Tom Parks shook his head.

“Forty dollars,” said Themis. “And if you save it all, it makes six hundred dollars a year. Now look at these clothes. There's hardly a dress here that costs less than fifty. Most of them cost more. Yet this is the simplest part of Gloria's wardrobe. She brought this along to rough it in the mountains, as she expressed it. And here are the shoes, Tom. You see this whole rack of 'em?”

Tom Parks took out a dainty slipper. It was lost in the brown expanse of his palm, and he wondered with a faint exclamation at the delicate workmanship.

“And here are hats,” said the father, pointing to a shelf piled with them. “After all,” he continued, as he opened a great wardrobe trunk filled with other articles of wearing apparel, “this, as I said before, is only a small section of Gloria's clothes. And I wish you to remember, Tom, that a woman's husband is expected to provide for her. Can you give her these things?”

Tom had grown pale. Then he answered slowly: “When a man's stomach is full,” he said, “and there is no work to do, the mountains are most beautiful. But even when his belly is flat and he is following a long trail, they are still beautiful.”

Themis wrinkled his brows—then nodded. “I understand you,” he said. “She has been happy in one way when she had all these things. She will be happy in quite another way if she marries you. I shall admit even more. Gloria is not a girl who needs the finest silks. She could get on with much less. But there is a minimum of that to which a woman is accustomed, which she must have in order for her happiness to be possible. But even that minimum, I'm afraid, you cannot give her. Mind you, Tom, I am showing you these clothes simply to indicate other things. Clothes are a small part of a modern woman's environment. But every other thing that costs money is dear to Gloria. She has never had to consider cost. She has formed a thousand tastes. Consider only music and the theater. They are not small things in her eyes. There are her friends, Tom, just as dear to her as your Peter and Jerry are to you. If she came out here with you, she would lose all this. And remember again that we are both considering one thing first before all else . . . what will make for the greatest happiness of Gloria?”

The head of Tom lowered. He passed a hand across his forehead.

Themis saw that his face was corrugated with misery. “Now,” he went on smoothly, “suppose we pass to my proposal in full. You see that I oppose you now. I wish to keep you from Gloria. She is an emotional girl, full of enthusiasm, easily swept off her feet. If you come near her now, it will be like bringing fire near dried stubble. You see that I am telling you even more than you knew about her. I oppose you now because I cannot tell you what you will be after you've mixed with men and tried to make a place for yourself. Mind you, I don't demand that you make a fortune. All I ask is that you become capable of making a moderately good living. That will be enough. In fact, I have no right to make any demands. It is only that I advance any proposals for the welfare of Gloria.”

“Go on,” said Tom in a husky voice. “Finish what you have to say.”

“Very well. My suggestion is that you go to the East just as Gloria has come to the West. If you will do that, I shall be willing to furnish you with a letter of introduction to a friend of mine who will make a place for you in his business. In return, I ask that for a solid year you do not speak to Gloria or in any way attempt to communicate with her. I send you to the East. I furnish you with enough money to live decently and pay your railroad fare. You, in return, do your best to fit yourself to make a living. At the end of a year, perhaps Gloria will have changed. Perhaps not. Perhaps you will have found a place for yourself. Perhaps not. At any rate, we would both be taking a chance. Does that sound fair to you?”

“Perhaps,” said Tom, with the sweat pouring out on his forehead, “she would have forgotten me.”

“Perhaps,” Themis said honestly, “she would.”

Tom walked across the room, came back to the window, and stared into the black night. “To leave Peter and Jerry . . . ,” he said.

“If she stayed here,” said Themis, “how much more would she be giving up.” His heart beat high with hope. There was sympathy, too, in the glance with which he watched the young fellow struggle with his conscience, for he saw that he was dealing with an honest man and a brave man, who did not flinch from the infliction of pain on himself. Themis himself was honest as the day is long. He did not press his point, but waited.

“And you,” said Tom suddenly, facing Themis, “are her father. You have a right on her.”

“Only to work for her happiness, Tom, my boy, just as you would if you could.”

“To leave them both,” said Tom slowly. “It is very hard.”

“I can manage another thing for you,” Themis announced, full of sympathy. “I can ship the horse East for you. As for Jerry, you will bid him goodbye for a year.”

“But you will send me the horse?” Tom asked sadly.

“Yes.”

“Then . . . I accept.”

Themis drew a great breath and collapsed in a chair. He did not know before how great had been the strain under which he labored. He had gained a year! A year in the life of a girl is an eternity. He would sweep her off to Europe. He would give her a whirl through Paris. He would surround her with fine young fellows of her own age, her own position. If the year did not bring about results, he could say that he did not know human nature.

“Take my hand,” Themis said, and offered it.

That hand was almost crushed by a tremendous pressure.

“We shall neither of us forget,” said Themis. “Go back to Jerry and tell him good-bye. Then come to me tomorrow. No, better still, I shall meet you . . . behind the Jeffries place, let us say.”

“I shall be there at noon,” said Tom. He turned to the door. He did not go on, however. A door banged. Light steps came running down the hall. Tom turned to Themis with a face of agony. “It is her step,” he said.

“You have given me your word,” Themis said anxiously. He rose from the chair. “Not a syllable to her, Tom, or the compact is broken.”

The door of the room was dashed open. Gloria stood before them, flushed, radiant, worthy of her name.

“Dad . . . Tom . . . oh,” she cried, “I've heard! It can't be true! It's too wonderfully good to be true! And both of you here. . . .”

She fell suddenly silent, staring into the stony face of Tom Parks. She recoiled as he walked past her without a word, passed through the door, closed it behind him, and disappeared with a soundless step.

Then she turned on Themis. “Dad!” she whispered. “What has happened?”

“My dear,” he said, “are you going to ask me to explain the psychology of a wild man?”

She looked helplessly, despairingly at him. “I'll follow!” she cried. “I'll find out!” She ran to the door, paused, turned away. “Not a step,” she said. “I'll not follow him a step.” But she dropped into a chair and sat with clasped hands, watching the face of Themis for an explanation.

But Themis was looking past her and into the future. He was wondering, after all, if he had been right. He carried at least one certainty: Tom Parks was a fighter. He had battled all his life. The winning of Gloria might prove only one battle more that he would win, although perhaps the greatest battle of all.

He looked sadly at the girl's face. Great tears were running slowly down her cheeks. And Themis resigned himself to destiny.