LOVE'S SURRENDER Scotty Baker was not an adept at concealing his emotions, and he stared in unqualified surprise at the long figure in brown which of a sudden intruded into his range of vision. The morning paper upon his knees fluttered unnoticed to the floor of the porch. "Ben Blair, by all that's good and proper!" he exclaimed to the man who, without a look to either side, turned up the short walk. "Where in heaven's name did you come from? I supposed you'd gone home a week ago." Blair stopped at the steps, and deliberately wiped the perspiration from his face. "You were misinformed about my going," he explained. "I changed hotels, that was all." Scotty stared harder than before. "But why?" he groped. "I inquired of the clerk, and he said you had gone by an afternoon train. I don't see--" Ben mounted the steps and took a chair opposite the Englishman. "If you will excuse me," he said, "I would rather not go into details. The fact's enough--I am still here. Besides--pardon me--I did not call to be questioned, but to question. You remember the last time I saw you?" Scotty nodded an affirmative. He had a premonition that the unexpected was about to happen. "Yes," he said. Ben lit a cigar. "You remember, then, that you made me a certain promise?" Scotty threw one leg over the other restlessly. "Yes, I remember," he repeated. The visitor eyed him keenly. "I would like to know if you kept it," he said. Scotty felt the seat of his chair growing even more uncomfortable than before, and he cast about for an avenue of escape. One presented itself. "Is that what you stayed to find out?" he questioned in his turn. Ben blew out a cloud of smoke, and then another. "No, not the main reason. But that has nothing to do with the subject. I have a right to ask the question. Did you or did you not keep your promise?" The Englishman's first impulse was to refuse point-blank to answer; then, on second thought, he decided that such a course would be unwise. The other really did have a right to ask. "I--" he hesitated, "decided--" But interrupting, Ben raised his hand, palm outward. "Don't dodge the question. Yes or no?" Scotty hesitated again, and his face grew red. "No," he said. The visitor's hand, fingers outspread, returned to his knee. "Thank you. I have one more question to ask. Do you intend, without trying to prevent it, to let your daughter throw away her every chance of future happiness? Are you, Florence's father, going to let her marry Sidwell?" With one motion Scotty was on his feet. The eyes behind the thick lenses fairly flashed. "You are insulting, sir," he blazed. "I can stand much from you, Ben Blair, but this interference in my family affairs I cannot overlook. I request you to leave my premises!" Blair did not stir. His face remained as impassive as before. "Your pardon again," he said steadily, "but I refuse. I did not come to quarrel with you, and I won't; but we will have an understanding--now. Sit down, please." The Englishman stared, almost with open mouth. Had any one told him he would be coerced in this way within his own home he would have called that person mad; nevertheless, the first flash of anger over, he said no more. "Sit down, please," repeated Ben; and this time, without a word or a protest, he was obeyed. Ben straightened in his seat, then leaned forward. "Mr. Baker," he said, "you do not doubt that I love Florence--that I wish nothing but her good?" Scotty nodded a reluctant assent. "No; I don't doubt you, Ben," he said. The thin face of the younger man leaned forward and grew more intense. "You know what Sidwell is--what the result will be if Florence marries him?" Scotty's head dropped into his hands. He knew what was coming. "Yes, I know," he admitted. Ben paused, and had the other been looking he would have seen that his ordinarily passive face was working in a way which no one would have thought possible. "In heaven's name, then," he said, slowly, "why do you allow it? Have you forgotten that it is only three days until the date set? God! man, you must be sleeping! It is ghastly--even the thought of it!" Surprised out of himself, Scotty looked up. The intensity of the appeal was a thing to put life into a figure of clay. For an instant he felt the stimulant, felt his blood quicken at the suggestion of action; then his impotence returned. "I have tried, Ben," he explained weakly, "but I can do nothing. If I attempted to interfere it would only make matters worse. Florence is as completely out of my control as--" he paused for a simile--"as the sunshine. I missed my opportunity with her when she was young. She has always had her own way, and she will have it now. It is the same as when she decided to come to town. She controls me, not I her." Blair settled back in his chair. The mask of impassivity dropped back over his face, not again to lift. He was again in command of himself. "You expect to do nothing more, then?" he asked finally. Scotty did not look up. "No," he responded. "I can do nothing more. She will have to find out her mistake for herself." Ben regarded the older man steadily. It would have been difficult to express that look in words. "You'd be willing to help, would you," he suggested, "if you saw a way?" The Englishman's eyes lifted. Even the incredible took on an air of possibility in the hands of this strong-willed ranchman. "Yes," he repeated. "I will gladly do anything I can." For half a minute Ben Blair did not speak. Not a nerve twitched or a muscle stirred in his long body; then he stood up, the broad sinewy shoulders squared, the masterful chin lifted. "Very well," he said. "Call a carriage, and be ready to leave town in half an hour." Scotty blinked helplessly. The necessity of sudden action always threw him into confusion. His mind needed not minutes but days to adjust itself to the unpremeditated. "Why?" he queried. "What do you intend doing?" But Ben did not stop to explain. Already he was at the door of the vestibule. "Don't ask me now. Do as I say, and you'll see!" And he stepped inside. Within the entrance, he paused for a moment. He had never been in any room of the house except the library adjoining; and after a few seconds, walking over, he tapped twice on the door. There was no answer, and he stepped inside. The place was empty, but, listening from the dining-room on the left he heard the low intermittent murmur of voices in conversation and the occasional click of china. Sliding doors connected the rooms, and again for an instant he hesitated. Then, pulling them apart, he stood fairly in the aperture. As he had expected, Florence and her mother were at breakfast. The doors had slid noiselessly, and for an instant neither observed him. Florence was nearest, half-facing him, and she was the first to glance up. As she did so, the coffee-cup in her hand shook spasmodically and a great brown blotch spread over the white tablecloth. Simultaneously her eyes widened, her cheeks blanched, and she stared as at a ghost. Her mother, too, turned at the spectacle, and her color shifted to an ashen gray. For some seconds not one of the three spoke or stirred. It was Mrs. Baker who first arose and advanced toward the intruder, as threateningly as it was possible for her to do. "Who, if I might ask, invited you to come this way?" she challenged. Ben took one step inside the room and folded his arms. "I came without being asked," he explained evenly. Mollie's weak oval face stiffened. She felt instinctively that her chiefest desires were in supreme menace. But one defense suggested itself--to be rid of the intruder at once. "I trust, then, you are enough of a gentleman to return the way you came," she said icily. Ben did not even glance at her. He was looking at the dainty little figure still motionless at the table. "If that is the mark of a gentleman, I am not one," he answered. The mother's face flamed. Like Scotty, her brain moved slowly, and on the spur of the moment inadequate insult alone answered her call. "I might have expected such a remark from a cowman!" she burst forth. Instantly Florence was upon her feet; but Ben Blair gave no indication that he had heard. His arms still folded, he took two steps nearer the girl, then stopped. "Florence," he said steadily, "I have just seen your father. We three--he, you, and I--are going back home, back to the prairies. Our train leaves at eleven o'clock. The carriage will be here in half an hour. You have plenty of time if you hurry." Again there was silence. Once more it was the mother who spoke first. "You must be mad, both of you!" she cried. "Florence is to be married in three days, and it would take two to go each way. You must be mad!" It was the girl's turn to grow pale. She began to understand. "You say you and papa evolved this programme?" she said sarcastically. "What part, pray, did he take?" Blair was as impassive as before. "I suggested it, and your father acquiesced." "And the third party, myself--" The girl's eyes were very bright. "I undertook the task of having you ready when the carriage comes." One of Florence's brown hands grasped the back of the chair before her. "I trust you did not underestimate the difficulty," she commented ironically. "Otherwise you might be disappointed." Ben said nothing. He did not even stir. Another group of seconds were gathered into the past. The inactivity tugged at the girl's nerves. "By the way," she asked, "where are we going to stay when we arrive, and for how long?" "You are to be my guests," answered Blair. "As to the length of time, nothing has been arranged." Florence made one more effort to consider the affair lightly. "You speak with a good deal of assurance," she commented. "Did it never occur to you that at this particular time I might decide not to go?" Ben returned her look. "No," he said. Beneath the trim brown figure one foot was nervously tapping the floor. "In other words, you expect to take me against my will,--by physical force?" "No." Ben again spoke deliberately. "You will come of your own choice." "And leave Mr. Sidwell?" "Yes." "Without an explanation?" "None will be necessary, I think. The fact itself will be enough." "And never--marry him?" "And never marry him." "You think he would not follow?" "I know he would not!" There was a pause in the swift passage of words. The girl's breath was coming with difficulty. The spell of this indomitable rancher was settling upon her. "You really imagine I will do such an unheard-of thing?" she asked slowly. "I imagine nothing," he answered quickly. "I know." It was the crisis, and into it Mollie intruded with clumsy tread. "Florence," she urged, "Florence, don't listen to him any longer. He must be intoxicated. Come with me!" and she started to drag the girl away. Without a word, Ben Blair walked across to the door leading into the room beyond, and stood with his hand on the knob. "Mrs. Baker," he said slowly, "I thought I would not speak an unkind word to-day, no matter what was said to me; but you have offended too often." His glance took in the indolently shapeless figure from head to toe, and back again until he met her eye to eye. "You are the personification of cowardice, of selfishness and snobbery, that makes one despise his kind. For mere personal vanity you would sacrifice your own daughter--your own flesh and blood. Probably we shall never meet again; but if we should, do not dare to speak to me. Do not speak to me now!" He swung open the door, and indicated the passage with a nod of his head. "Go," he said, "and if you are a Christian, pray for a better heart--for forgiveness!" The woman hesitated; her lips moved, but she was dumb. She wanted to refuse, but the irresistible power in those relentless blue eyes compelled her to obey. Without a word she left the room and closed the door behind her. Ben Blair came back. The girl had not moved. "Florence," he said, "there are but twenty minutes left. I ask you again to get ready." The girl's color rose anew; her blood flowed tumultuously, until she could feel the beating of the pulses at her wrists. "Ben Blair," she challenged, "you are trying to prevent my marrying another man! Is it not so?" The rancher folded his arms again. "I am preventing it," he said. Florence's brown eyes blazed. She clasped her hands together until the fingers were white. "You admit it, then!" she cried, looking at her companion steadily, a world of scorn in her face. "I never thought such a thing possible--that you would let your jealousy get the better of you like this!" She paused, and hurled the taunt she knew would hurt him most. "You are the last person on earth I would have selected to become a dog in the manger!" Ben did not stir, although the brown of his sun-tanned face went white. "I looked for that," he said simply. Florence's brown eyes widened in wonder--and in something more--something she did not understand. Her heart was beating more wildly than before. She felt her self-control slipping from her grasp, like a rope through her hands. "There seems nothing more to be said, then," she said, "except that I will not go." Even yet Blair did not move. "You will go. The carriage comes in ten minutes," he reiterated calmly. The small figure stiffened, the dainty chin tilted in the air. "I defy you to tell me how you can force me to go!" It was the supreme moment, but Benjamin Blair showed no trace of excitement or of passion. His folded arms remained passive across his chest. "Florence Baker, did I ever lie to you?" The girl's lip trembled. She knew now what to expect. "No," she said. "You are quite sure?" "Yes, I am quite sure." "Did I ever say I would do anything that I did not do?" The girl had an all but irrepressible desire to cry out, to cover her face like a child. A flash of anger at her inability to maintain her self-control swept over her. "No," she admitted. "I never knew you to break your word." "Very well, then," still no haste, no anger,--only the relentless calm which was infinitely more terrible than either. "I will tell you why of your own choice you will go with me. It is because you value the life of Clarence Sidwell; because, as surely as I have not lied to you or to any human being in the past, there is no power on earth that can otherwise keep me away from him an hour longer." Realization came instantaneously to Florence Baker and blotted out self-consciousness. The nervous tension vanished as fog before the sun. "You would not do it," she said, very steadily. "You could not do it!" Ben Blair said not a word. "You could not," repeated the girl swiftly; "could not, because you--love me!" One of the man's hands loosened in an unconscious gesture. "Don't repeat that, please, or trust in it," he answered. "You misled me once, but you can't mislead me again. It is because I love you that I will do what I said." There was but one weapon in the arsenal adequate to meet the emergency. With a sudden motion, the girl came close to him. "Ben, Ben Blair," her arms flashed around the man's neck, the brown eyes--moist, sparkling--were turned to his face, "promise me you will not do it." The dainty throat swelled and receded with her short quick breaths. "Promise me! Please promise me!" For a second the rancher did not stir; then, very gently, he freed himself and moved a step backward. "Florence," he said slowly, "you do not know me even yet." He drew out his big old-fashioned silver watch, once Rankin's. "You still have four minutes to get ready--no more, no less." Silence like that of a death-chamber fell over the bright little dining-room. From the outside came the sound of Mollie's step as she moved back and forth, back and forth, but dared not enter. A boy was clipping the lawn, and the muffled purr of the mower, accompanied by the bit of popular ragtime he was whistling, stole into the room. Suddenly a carriage drove up in front of the house, and leaping from his seat the driver stood waiting. The door of the vestibule opened, and Scotty himself stepped uncertainly within. At the library entrance he halted, but the odor of the black cigar he was smoking was wafted in. Through it all, neither of the two in that room had stirred. It would have been impossible to tell what Ben Blair was thinking. His eyes never left the watch in his hand. During the first minute the girl had not looked at her companion. Unappeasable anger seemed personified in her. For half of the next minute she still stood impassive; then she glanced up almost surreptitiously. For the long third minute the eyes held where they had lifted, and slowly over the soft brown face, taking the place of the former expression, came a look that was not of anger or of hatred, not even of dislike, but of something the reverse, something all but unbelievable. Her dark eyes softened. A choking lump came into her throat; and still, in seeming paradox, she was of a sudden happier than at any time she could remember. Before the last minute was up, before Ben Blair had replaced the watch, she was in the adjoining room saying good-bye to Mollie hurriedly; saying something more,--a thing that fairly took the mother's breath. "Florence Baker!" she gasped, "you shall not do it! If you do, I will disown you! I will never forgive you--never! never!" But, unheeding, the girl was already back, and looking into Ben's face. Her eyes were very bright, and there was about her a suppressed excitement that the other did not clearly understand. "I am ready," she said, "on one condition." Blair's blue eyes looked a question. In any other mood he would have recognized Florence, but this strange person he hardly seemed to know. "I am listening," he said. The girl hesitated, the rosy color mounting to her cheeks. Decision of action was far easier than expression. "I will go with you," she faltered, "but alone." A suggestion of the flame on the other's face sprang to the man's also. "I think, under the circumstances," he stammered, "it would be better to have your father go too." The dainty brown figure stiffened. "Very well, then--I will not go!" The man stood for a moment immovable, with unshifting eyes, like a figure in clay; then, turning, without a word, he started to leave the room. He had almost reached the door, when he heard a voice behind him. "Ben Blair," it said insistently, "Ben Blair!" He paused, glanced back, and could scarcely believe his eyes. The girl was coming toward him; but it was a Florence he had not previously known. Her face was rosier than before, red to her very ears and to the waves of her hair. Her chin was held high, and beneath the thin brown skin of the throat the veins were athrob. "Ben Blair," she repeated intensely, "Ben Blair, can't you understand what I meant? Must I put it into words?" The soft brown eyes were looking at him frankly. "Oh, you are blind, blind!" For a second, like the lull before the thunderclap, the man did not move; then of a sudden he grasped the girl by the shoulders, and held her at arm's length. "Florence," he cried, "are you playing with me?" She spoke no word, but her gaze held his unfalteringly. Minutes passed, but still the man could not believe the testimony of his eyes. The confession was too unexpected, too incredible. Unconsciously the grip of his hands tightened. "Am I--mad?" he gasped. "You care for me--you are willing to go--because you love me?" Even yet the girl did not answer; but no human being could longer question the expression on her face. Ben Blair could not doubt it, and the reflection of love glowing in the tear-wet eyes flashed into his own. The past, with all that it had held, vanished like the memory of an unpleasant dream. The present, the vital throbbing present, alone remained. Suddenly the tense arms relaxed. Another second, and the brown head was upon his shoulder. "Florence," he cried passionately, "Florence, Florence!" He could say no more, only repeat over and over her dear name. "Ben," sobbed the girl, "Ben! Ben!" An interrupting memory drew her to him closer and closer. "I loved you all the time!--loved you!--and yet I so nearly--can you ever forgive me?" Wondering at the prolonged silence, Scotty came hesitatingly into the library, peered in at the open doorway, and stood transfixed.