Children of the Desert. Louis Dodge

      “I hadn’t thought,” she answered.

      She went to the window and looked out; but the gray sands, pallid under the night sky, did not afford a soothing picture. She turned to Harboro almost as if she were a stranger to him. “Have you many friends?” she asked.

      “Oh, no!—not enough to get in my way, you know. I’ve never had much of a chance for friendships—not for a good many years. But I ought to have a better chance now. I’ve thought you’d be able to help me in that way.”

      She did not linger in the room, and Harboro got the idea that she did not like to think of their sharing their home with outsiders. He understood that, too. “Of course we’re going to be by ourselves for a long time to come. There shall not be any guests until you feel you’d like to have them.” Then, as her eyes still harbored a shadow, he exclaimed gaily: “We’ll pretend that we haven’t any guest-chamber at all!” And taking a bunch of keys from his pocket he locked the door with a decisive movement.

      On the way down the hall they passed their bedroom. “This room you’ve seen,” he said, “our room. But you have not seen the balcony yet.”

      He was plainly confident that the balcony would make a pleasant impression upon her. He opened yet another door, and they stepped out under the night sky.

      The thing had been planned with certain poetic or romantic values in mind. Standing on the balcony you were looking toward the Rio Grande—and Mexico. And you seemed pretty high. There was the dull silver of the river, and the line of lights along the bridge, and beyond the huddled, dark structures of Piedras Negras. You might have imagined yourself on the deck of a Mediterranean steamer, looking at a town in Algeria or Tunis. And beyond, under the low-hanging stars, was the Mexican desert—a blank page, with only here and there the obscurity of a garden, or a hacienda, or a mere speck which would be a lonely casa built of earth.

      “Do you like it?” he asked. He had seated himself with a sigh of contentment. His outstretched arms lay along the back of the settee, and he was looking at her eagerly.

      Yes, she said, it was nice. … “It is strange that he should be thinking of the view just now,” she was saying to herself. A painful turmoil raged within her; but outwardly she was so calm that Harboro was puzzled. To him, too, that view became a negative thing for the moment. “I suspect that house down under the mesquite-tree was a bit shabby,” he was thinking. “She’s oppressed by so many new things.” He gave her time to find her bearings. That was a thing she would do better by being left alone.

      And out of the chaos in Sylvia’s mind there came the clear realization that Harboro was not living for the moment, but that he was looking forward, planning for a lifetime, and not for a swift, passing storm of passion. There was something static in his nature; there was a stability in the house he had provided and furnished. Her experiences with him were not to be like a flame: sanctioned, yet in all other respects like other experiences she had had in the past.

      The silence between them had become uncomfortable—inappropriate; and Harboro put a gentle arm about her and drew her closer to him. “Sit down by me,” he said.

      He was dismayed by the result of that persuasive movement. The hand he had taken into his trembled, and she would not yield to the pressure of his arm. She hung her head as if desolate memories were crowding between him and her, and he saw that moisture glistened in her eyes.

      “Eh?” he inquired huskily, “you’re not afraid of me?”

      She allowed him to draw her closer, and he felt the negative movement of her head as it lay on his shoulder; but he knew that she was afraid, though he did not gauge the quality of her fear. “You mustn’t be afraid, you know.” He continued the pressure of his arm until she seemed to relax wholly against him. He felt a delicious sense of conquest over her by sympathy and gentleness. He was eager for that moment to pass, though he held it precious and knew that it would never return again. Then he felt her body tremble as it lay against his.

      “That won’t do!” he chided gently. “Look!” He stood her on her feet before him, and took her arms at the elbows, pinioning them carefully to her sides. Then he slowly lifted her above him, so that he had to raise his face to look into hers. The act was performed as if it were a rite.

      “You mean … I am helpless?” She checked the manifestation of grief as abruptly as a child does when its mind has been swiftly diverted.

      “God bless me, no! I mean anything but that. That’s just what I don’t mean. I mean that you’re to have all the help you want—that you’re to look to me for your strength, that you are to put your burdens on me.” He placed her on the seat beside him and took one of her hands in both his. “There, now, we’ll talk. You see, we’re one, you and I. That isn’t just a saying of the preachers. It’s a fact. I couldn’t harm you without harming myself. Don’t you see that? Nobody could harm you without harming me, too.”

      He did not notice that her hand stiffened in his at those words.

      “When we’ve been together awhile we’ll both realize in wonderful ways what it means really to be united. When you’ve laid your head on my shoulder a great many times, or against my heart, the very blood in my veins will be the blood in your veins. I can’t explain it. It goes beyond physiology. We’ll belong to each other so completely that wherever you go I shall be with you, and when I go to work I shall have only to put my hand on my breast to touch you. I’ll get my strength from you, and it shall be yours again in return. There, those are things which will come to us little by little. But you must never be afraid.”

      I would rather not even try to surmise what was in Sylvia’s mind when, following those words of his, she swiftly took his face in her hands with unsuspected strength and hungrily kissed him. But Harboro read no dark meaning into the caress. It seemed to him the natural thing for her to do.