He moved toward the door, his left fist beating into the palm of his right hand. He must protect her, against himself--and against her innocent affection for him.
She fluttered past him, barring the way. Her cheeks were flaming with shame.
"You despise me. Why did I let you?" A sob swelled up into her soft round throat.
"You blessed lamb," he groaned.
"You're going to leave me. You--you don't want me for a friend any longer."Her lips trembled--the red little lips that always reminded him of a baby's with its Cupid's bow. She was on the verge of breaking down. Jeff could not stand that. He held out his hands, intending to take hers andexplain that he was not angry or disappointed at her. But somehow he found her in his arms instead, supple and warm, vital youth flowing in the soft cheeks' rich coloring and in the eyes quick and passionate with the tender abandon of her sex.
He set his teeth against the rush of desire that flooded him as her soft body clung to his. The emotional climax he had vaguely feared had leaped upon them like an uncaged tiger. He fought to stamp down the fires that blazed up in him. Time to think--he must have time to think.
"You don't despise me then," she cried softly, a little catch in her breath.
"No," he protested, and again "No." "But you think I've done wrong.""No. I've been to blame. You're a dear girl--and I've abused your kindness. I must go away--now.""Then you--you do hate me," she accused with a quivering lip. "No . . . no. I'm very fond of you.""But you're going to leave me. It's because I've done wrong.""Don't blame yourself, dear. It has been all my fault. I ought to have known."Her hands fell from him. The life seemed to die out of her whole figure. "You do despise me."Desire of her throbbed through him, but he spoke very quietly. "Listen, dear. There is nobody I respect more . . . and none I like so much. I can't tell you how. . . fond of you I am. But I must go now. You don't understand."She bit her lip to repress the sobs that would come and turned away to hide her shame. Jeff caught her in his arms, kissed her passionately on the lips, the eyes, the soft round throat.
"You do . . . like me," she purred happily.
Abruptly he pushed her from him. Where were they drifting? He must get his anchors down before it was too late.
Somehow he broke away, leaving her there hurt and bewildered at his apparent fickleness, at the stiffness with which he had beaten back the sweet delight inviting them.
Jeff went to his rooms, his mind in a blind chaotic surge. He sat before the table for hours, fighting grimly to persuade himself he need not put away this joy that had come to him. Surely friendship was a good thing . . . and love. A man ought not to turn his back on them.
It was long past midnight when he rose, took his father's sword from the wall where it hung, and unsheathed it. A vision of an open fireplace in a log house rose before him, his father in the foreground looking like a picture of Stonewall Jackson. The kind brave eyes that were the soul of honor gazed at him.
"You damned scoundrel! You damned scoundrel!" Jeff accused himself in a low voice.
He knew his little friend was good and innocent, but he knew too she had inherited a temperament that made her very innocence a anger to her. Every instinct of chivalry called upon him to protect her from the weakness she did not even guess. She had given him her kindness and her friendship, the dear child! It was up to him to be worthy of them. If he failed her he would be a creature forever lost to decency.
There was a sob in his throat as Jeff pushed the blade back into the worn scabbard and rehung the sword upon the wall. But the eyes in his lifted face were very bright. He too would keep his sword unstained and the flag of honor flying.
All through the next day and the next his resolution held. He took pains not to see her alone, though there was not an hour of the day when he could get away from the thought of her. The uneasy consciousness was with him that the issue was after all only postponed, that decisions of this kind must be made again and again so long as opportunity and desire go together. And there were moments of reaction when his will was like a rope of sand, when the longing for her swept over him like a great wave.
As Jeff slipped quietly into the hall the door of her room opened. Their eyes met, and presently hers fell. She was troubled and ashamed at what she had done, but plainly eager in her innocence to be forgiven.
Jeff spoke gently. "Nellie."
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Aren't we ever going to be friends again?"Through the open door he could see the fire glowing in the grate and the chocolate set on the little table. He knew she had prepared for his coming and how greatly she would be hurt if he rejected her advances.
"Of course we're friends."
"Then you'll come in, just for a few minutes." He hesitated.
"Please," she whispered. "Or I'll know you don't like me any more." Jeff followed her into the room and closed the door behind him.
PART 2
Two days before the election Big Tim's detective wired from Shelby, Tennessee, the outline of a story that got two front page columns in both the _Advocate_ and the _Herald._ Jefferson Davis Farnum was the son of a thief, of a rebel soldier who had spent seven years in the penitentiary for looting the bank of which he was cashier. In addition to featuring the news story both papers handled the subject at length in their editorial columns. They wanted to know whether the people of this beautiful state were willing to hand over the Commonwealth to be plundered by the reckless gang of which this son of a criminal was the head.
