Desert Conquest by A. M. Chisholm (famous ebook reader .TXT) 📕

was perspiring from unaccustomed exertion. "'Pon my soul, though, I feel the same. To think of me messing away my life in a tenth-story office worrying about other people's business and quarrels! What do you keep in this air, Casey? Old Ponce de Leon's Fountain of Youth?"

"I keep some very fair Scotch in a cupboard at the house," Casey responded. "The water is all right now. Suppose we adjourn."

"I'll go you once," said Wade.

"Where do I come in?" Clyde asked. "I'm thirsty, too."

"Feng shall produce Chakchak fizzes for both of us."

They trooped into the house, thirsty, hungry, and laughing, and Kitty Wade exclaimed at Clyde's dress.

"Thank Heaven I didn't go!" she cried. "Mr. Dunne, you should get a commission from her dressmaker."

"Oh, this will wash. And I'm so beautifully hungry and thirsty."

"Thirsty! With all that water?" said Kitty Wade.

"What's water got to do with real thirst?" her husband demanded. "Come on, Casey; don't muzzle the ox, you know. Produce that Wonderful Remedy from the Land o' Cakes. It was oats we were irrigating, wasn't it? Very appropriate. Here's to Oats—oatmeal, rolled oats, wild oats, and Titus Oates. 'Tak' a wee bit drappie——'"

"Whatever has got into you?" his wife demanded.

"I feel like a pup off a chain," Wade admitted.

After dinner Clyde went to her room to prepare for the drive to Talapus. She inspected her limited wardrobe thoughtfully, finally selecting the plainest and most unpretentious attire in her possession; so that when she took a last look in the mirror she saw a girl wearing a panama hat, a white shirtwaist, and a tweed golf skirt. Kitty Wade, rather more elaborately costumed, eyed her critically.

"Oh, bother!" she said. "This isn't fair. You make me feel all dressed up, but it's too much trouble to change."

"I looked at it the other way—it was too much trouble to dress up," Clyde replied. "I don't suppose one needs to, out here. I'm going to be comfy, anyway."

Kitty Wade forebore comment, but she smiled wisely to herself. Inwardly she reflected that simplicity of dress was Clyde's long suit. With her hair, complexion, and figure the less fussiness there was to distract the eye the better. And Mrs. Wade was inclined to attribute to the fortunate owner of these things a perfect knowledge of this fact.

Mrs. Wade had the front seat, beside Casey, while Clyde sat with Wade. Clyde experienced a distinct feeling of disappointment. Wade was a good companion and a good friend, but—and the "but" was a big one.

She found herself listening to Casey's voice, watching the set of his shoulders, noting the deep, living bronze of his skin. From time to time he turned, including them in the conversation, pointing out things of interest to Wade. But nevertheless she did not enjoy the drive.

"I sent word that we were coming," said Casey, as they sighted the ranch. "That was in the interests of the ladies mostly."

"Of course," Wade agreed. "Women always like people to find them all togged up, as if they never did a day's work in their lives. I catch it from Kitty if I bring any one home with me without due notice. If women only knew how much better they look in ordinary clothes!"

Kitty Wade, turning her head to retort, surprised a quiet, enigmatic smile on Clyde's face. Their eyes met, and keen question and defiant answer leaped across the glance. Kitty Wade let the retort remain unspoken, and contemplated the nigh chestnut's ears, for her husband's last words had given her a clew.

"Oh, Clyde Burnaby, Clyde Burnaby!" she said to herself with a little shake of the head. "Now I know. What a deep finesse! You think that this McCrae girl will put on her best country-maid—or country-made—finery; and you, in your studied simplicity, will show the better by contrast—to the masculine eye, at least. I give you full credit, my dear. Not one woman in a thousand would have thought of it. I shouldn't, and I know men better than you do. But why did you do it? Are you jealous of a girl you've never seen? And does that mean you care—seriously care—for our pleasant but likely impecunious Mr. Dunne?"

She was still puzzling over this problem when they drove up to the house. Donald McCrae and his wife welcomed them, and he and Casey took the team to the stable. But as the others reached the welcome shade of the veranda Sheila emerged from the house and came forward. At sight of her Kitty Wade smiled to herself.

For Sheila had not donned finery. She was clad in simple white, unrelieved by any touch of colour. Not a ring adorned her slim, brown hands. Her masses of glistening, brown hair were dressed low on her head, giving an effect almost girlish, softening the keenness of her face. She was as composed, as dignified, as essentially ladylike as Clyde herself.

Clyde thanked her gracefully for the arrangement of their rooms. It was very good of her to take such trouble for strangers.

"Oh, but I'm afraid I did that for Casey, and not for the strangers," laughed Sheila. "I hope old Feng didn't undo my work. He thought I was butting in. Anyway, Casey would have seen that you were comfortable, though some of his ideas of domestic arrangements are masculine, to say the least of them." She told the story of the hen, and set them laughing.

Later Casey, having stabled the horses, came up with McCrae. "Well, Sheila, what's the good word?" he asked. "What yarns have you been telling Miss Burnaby?"

"I was telling her of your poultry system."

"Miss McCrae has been suggesting all sorts of things for our amusement," said Clyde; "from a dance to riding lessons."

"I didn't say a word about lessons," Sheila protested.

"But I need them," Clyde admitted. "I never pretend to know what I don't know."

"Sheila can give most men lessons," said Casey. "The only objection I have is that I intended to instruct you myself."

Clyde laughed. "Which offer shall I accept?"

"Casey's," said Sheila promptly. "I won't be selfish. Besides, educational statistics prove that we women imbibe knowledge faster from men than from each other."

Clyde darted a swift glance at her. But Sheila's face told nothing. If the words were intended to bear an added meaning she did not show it.

"Statistics are good for something, at last," said Casey.

"Give her Dolly," said Sheila. "Don't let her coax you into letting her try that old brute, Shiner. He's almost an outlaw."

"Love me, love my horse!"

The quotation seemed careless. Sheila's face told Clyde nothing.

"'Like master, like horse' is more appropriate," said Sheila.

"Oh, I'm not an outlaw—yet," he said, with just the slightest pause before the word.

Slight though it was, Clyde noticed it; noticed, too, the instant shadow on Sheila's face, the quick contraction of her dark brows, the momentary silence, transient but utter. It was as if the chill and gloom of night had suddenly struck the summer's noonday.

But in a moment the conversation was resumed, and became general. Sandy McCrae joined them, silent as usual, but evidently attracted by Clyde. Presently Sheila took Casey to diagnose the case of a favourite, sick collie.

"My heavens, Casey, did you see the kid?" she asked. "I never knew him to look twice at a girl before."

"Every boy has to start some time," he laughed. "She's well worth looking at."

"That's so. Yes, she's very pretty, Casey."

"I'm glad you like her."

It was on the tip of her tongue to disclaim, but she checked herself. "She's different from what I expected. No airs. And she looks sensible. Is she?"

"I think so."

"Yes, I think so, too. She dresses very simply. I was prepared to be reduced to a condition of helpless feminine envy by her clothes. As it is, I feel quite of the same clay."

"You don't need to envy anybody's clothes. That white dress looks good to me. I never saw you looking better."

The rich blood crept up under her tanned cheeks. Such compliments were rare in her life. Casey himself seldom paid them. Frank friendship was very well; but now and then, womanlike, she longed for such current coin of courtesy.

"Really, Casey?"

"Of course," he assured her. "You know how to wear clothes. And you know you look particularly well in white. I've told you so before."

"Once."

"Half a dozen times."

"No—once. I remember it very well, because you don't often notice what I have on. Perhaps that's lucky, too."

"If it's you in the clothes, that's good enough."

"That's just the trouble. You accept me as part of the everyday scenery. I might wear a blanket, for all you'd care."

"I've seen some mighty becoming blanket costumes."

"I'm not a klootch," she flashed. "I'm a white woman, and when I wear a becoming dress I like somebody to tell me so."

"And didn't I just tell you?"

"So you did—and I'll put a ring around the date. It's the first time you've condescended to pay me a compliment in a year. You men are the limit. You take it as a matter of course that a girl should be neat and spick and span. If she wasn't you'd notice it soon enough. It's easy for a girl like this Miss Burnaby. I don't suppose she ever did a day's work or anything useful in her life. She orders her clothes from the best places, and gets them fitted and sent home, and that's all there is to it. But how about me? I've got a hundred things to attend to every day. I've got to make my own clothes, or take a long chance on a mail-order house. That's why, when I do get anything that looks passable, I like it to be noticed."

"That's so," he admitted. "That's natural. I never thought of it, Sheila, and that's the truth. Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Oh, heavens! Casey, I'm sorry I did now. Why do men have to be told? I don't get taken this way often. Women and dogs have to be thankful for small mercies. Only a dog can shove a cold, wet nose into his master's hand and get a pat and a kind word; but a woman——"

She broke off, colouring furiously. The red tide surged over cheeks and brow to the roots of her hair. For the first time, with him, she was afraid of being misunderstood.

But Casey's perceptions, fairly acute where men and affairs were concerned, quite failed to grasp the situation. He saw only that Sheila, ordinarily sensible and dependable, had flown off the handle over something, and he metaphorically threw up his hands helplessly at the vagaries of women.

"Well, well, now, never mind," he said, in blundering consolation. "You look well in anything. I've often noticed, but I didn't think you cared for compliments. Anyway"—he grasped eagerly at something safe—"anyway, you can't beat that white dress."

She turned to him again, once more the everyday Sheila.

"All right, old boy, we'll let it go at that. Forget it. And now I'll tell you something: I wore this white dress—absolutely the plainest thing I have—because I didn't want to come into a finery contest with Miss Burnaby. And now let's look at the old dog. I'm afraid he'll have to be shot."

Farwell put in an appearance after supper. It was plain that the big engineer had not expected to find other guests; also that their presence embarrassed him. Quite unused to dissembling his feelings, he took no pains to hide his dislike for Dunne. Casey, on the other hand, was polite, suave, quiet, wearing the mocking smile that invariably exasperated the engineer.

"You and Mr. Farwell are not friends," Clyde ventured on the way home.

"He doesn't think much of me," Casey admitted. "I rub him the wrong way."

"As you were doing to-night."

"Was I?"

"You know you were. Is there a private quarrel between you, apart from the water matter?"

"Not exactly. But it would come to that if we saw much of each other."

"Then I hope you won't. It's embarrassing to others."

"I'm awfully sorry. It was very bad form, of course. But somehow I couldn't help it."

"Never mind. The