A Breath of Prairie and other storiesLillibridge, Will
General
A Breath of Prairie and other stories
Lillibridge, Will
Short stories, American
The sobs became more violent.
"Go away, Guy," pleaded a tearful, muffled voice between the breaks.
"Please go away, please--"
The man knelt swiftly down on the grass; irresistibly his arm spread
over the dainty, trembling, little woman. Then as suddenly he drew
back with a face white as moonlight, and a sound in his throat that
was almost a groan.
He knelt a moment so, then touched her shoulder gently--as he would
have touched earth's most sacred thing.
"Faith--" he repeated uncertainly.
The girl buried her head more deeply.
"I won't, I tell you," she cried chokingly, "I won't--" she could say
no more. There were no words in her meagre vocabulary to voice her
bitterness of heart.
The man got to his feet almost roughly, face and hands set like a
lock. He stood a second looking passionately down at her.
"Good-bye, Faith," he said, and his trembling voice was the gentlest
of caresses. He started swiftly away down the path.
The girl listened a moment to the retreating steps, then raised a
tear-stained face above her arms.
"Guy!" she called chokingly, "Guy!"
The man quickened his steps at the sound, but did not turn.
The girl sprang to her feet.
"Oh, Guy! Guy!" pleadingly, desperately. "Guy!"
The man had reached the open. With a motion that was almost insane, he
clapped his hands over his ears, and ran blindly down the dusty path
until he was tired, then dropped hopelessly by the roadside.
Overhead the big cottonwoods whispered softly in the starlight, and a
solitary catbird sang its lonely night song.
The man flung his arms around the big, friendly tree, and sobbed
wildly--as the girl had sobbed.
"Oh, Faith!" he groaned.
IV
A month had passed by, bringing to Guy Landers a new Heaven and a new
earth. Already the prosy old university town had begun to assume an
atmosphere of home. The well-clipped campus, with its huge oaks and
its limestone walks, had taken on the familiar possessive plural "our
campus," and the solitary red squirrel which sported fearlessly in its
midst had likewise become "our squirrel." The imposing, dignified
college buildings had ceased to elicit open-mouthed observance, and
among the student-body surnames had yielded precedence to Christian
names--oftener, though, to some outlandish sobriquet which satirized
an idiosyncrasy of temperament or outward aspect.
Meantime the farmer had learned many things. Prominent among these was
a conception of the preponderant amount he had yet to learn. Another
matter of illumination involved the relation of clothes to man. He had
been reared in the delusion that the person who gave thought to that
which he wore, must necessarily think of nothing else. Very confusing,
therefore, was the experience of having representatives of this same
class immeasurably outdistance him in the quiz room.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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