The postmaster's curt "nothing" was like a judge's sentence to Essie
Tisdale, for it meant to her the end of things. And now the marriage
ceremony was over. She looked at the gold band upon her finger with a
heavy, sinking heart. She must wear it always, she was thinking, to
remind her that she had sold herself for a place to lay her head and
thirty thousand sheep.
The jocose congratulations of the burly Justice of the Peace went
unanswered and her eyes swept the smirking, curious faces of the
bystanders without recognition. She heard Dubois's guttural voice
saying--
"Go there to ze hotel, my dear, and get your clothes. Ze wagon is at ze
shop for repairs and there you meet me. I've got to get back to ze sheep
for awhile. You will haf good rest in ze hills."
The lonely hills with Dubois for company! A shiver like a chill passed
over her. Returning to the hotel she found that the news had preceded
her, for Mrs. Terriberry rushed down upon her with outstretched arms.
"Why didn't you tell me last night, Essie?"
The girl withdrew herself from the plump embrace.
"I didn't know it last night."
"I declare, if this isn't romantic!" Mrs. Terriberry fanned herself
vigorously with her apron. "You'll be the richest woman around here when
Dubois dies." She added irrelevantly, "And I've been like a mother to
you, Ess."
"Why don't you and Dubois stay in town a few days and make us a visit?"
Mr. Terriberry's voice rang with cordial hospitality.
The girl looked at him with embarrassing steadiness. The thirty thousand
sheep were doing their work well.
"We are going to the camp to-day," she answered and turned upstairs.
When her few belongings were folded in a canvas "telescope" she looked
about her with the panic-stricken feeling of one about to take a
desperate, final plunge. The tiny, cheaply furnished room had been her
home, her refuge, and she was leaving it, for she knew not what.
Every scratch upon the rickety washstand was familiar to her and she
knew exactly how to dodge the waves in the mirror which distorted her
reflection ludicrously. She was leaving behind her the shabby kid
slippers in which she had danced so happily--was it centuries ago? And
the pink frock hung limp and abandoned on its nail.
She walked to the window where she had sat so often planning new
pleasures, happy because she was young and merry, and her heart brimmed
with warmth and affection for all whom she knew, and she looked at the
purple hills which shut out that wonderful East of which she had dreamed
of seeing some time with somebody that she loved. She turned from the
window with a lump in her aching throat and looked at the flat pillow
which had been so often damp of late with her tears.
"It's over," she whispered brokenly as she picked up the awkward
telescope, "everything is ended that I planned and hoped for. There's no
happiness or love or laughter in the long, hot alkali road ahead of me.
Just endurance--only duty."
She closed the door behind her, the door that always had to be slammed
to make it fasten, and, drooping beneath the weight of the heavy bag
trudged down the street toward the blacksmith shop.
It was less than an hour after the sheep-wagon had rumbled out of town
with Dubois slapping the reins loosely upon the backs of the shambling
grays that the telegraph operator, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves, bumped
into Dr. Harpe as she was leaving the hotel.
"Have they gone?"
"Who?"--but her eyes looked frightened.
"Essie and old Dubois."
"Ages ago."
"I'm sorry, I hoped I'd catch her; perhaps I've something she ought to
have."
Dr. Harpe looked at the telegram. Perhaps it was something she ought to
have also.
"Look here, I've got a call to make over in the direction of Dubois's
sheep camp and I'll take the message."
"Will you, Doc?" he said in relief. "That's good of you." He looked at
the telegram and hesitated. "I didn't stop for an envelope."
"Oh, I won't read it."
"I know that, Doc," he assured her. "But----"
She was already hastening away for the purpose.
"Whew!" Dr. Harpe threw open her coat in sudden warmth. "I'm glad she
didn't get _that_!"