Burned Bridges
Page 30But this--this subtle, mysterious emanation from a smiling girl at his
elbow singed him like a flame. If he had been asleep he was now in a
moment breathlessly, confusedly awake.
The commotion was all inward, mental. Outwardly he kept his composure,
and the only sign of that turmoil was a tinge of color that rose in his
face. And as if there was some mysterious mode of communication
established between them a faint blush deepened the delicate tint of
Sophie Carr's cheeks. Thompson rose. So did Tommy Ashe with some haste
when he perceived her there.
"No, no," she protested. "Keep your chairs, please."
"Mr. Thompson," Carr's keen old eyes flickered between the two men and
the girl. "My daughter. Mr. Thompson is the latest leader of the
forlorn hope at Lone Moose, Sophie."
disturbed without knowing why he was so disturbed, and rather fearful of
showing this incomprehensible state. The girl's manner put him a little
at his ease. She gave him her hand, soft warm fingers that he had a mad
impulse to press. He wondered why he felt like that. He wondered why
even the tones of her voice gave him a thrill of pleasure.
"So you are the newest missionary to Lone Moose?" she said. "I wish you
luck."
Although her voice was full, throaty like a meadow lark's, her tone
carried the same sardonic inflection he had noticed in her father's
comment on his mission. It pained Thompson. He had no available weapon
against that sort of attack. But the girl did not pursue the matter. She
said to her father: "Crooked Tree's oldest son is in the kitchen and wants to speak to you,
Carr rose. So did Thompson. He wanted to get away, to think, to fortify
himself somehow against this siren call in his blood. He was sadly
perplexed. Measured by his own standards, even to harbor such thoughts
as welled up in his mind was a sinful weakness of the flesh. He was in
as much anxiety to get away from Carr's as he had been to find a welcome
there.
"I think I shall be moving along," he said to Carr. "I'll say good-day,
sir."
Carr thrust out a brown sinewy hand with the first trace of heartiness
he had shown.
"Come again when you feel like it," he invited. "When you have time and
inclination we'll match our theories of the human problem, maybe. Of
you've heard."
He strode off. Sophie bowed to Thompson, nodded to Tommy Ashe, and
followed her father. Ashe got up, stretched his sturdy young arms above
his fair, curly head. He was perhaps a year or two older than Thompson,
a little thicker through the chest, and not quite so tall. One imagined
rightly that he was very strong, that he could be swift and purposeful
in his movements, despite an apparent deliberation. His face was
boyishly expressive. He had a way of smiling at trifles. And one did not
have to puzzle over his nationality. He was English. His accent and
certain intonations established that.