There remained to him now all the joy of riding back to tell her of
his purification of soul. His heart was so joyous it kept time to
every happy song in the world.
The gloom and doubt of himself had passed away, but the wonder and
mystery of woman's love for man remained. He felt himself to be an
honest man, but a man big, crude and coarse compared to her beauty and
delicacy. He marveled at her bravery and her magnanimity. Leaving
Susanna he leaped upon a fresh horse and set off, riding fast toward
the divide. The wind had risen and was blowing from the dim domes of
the highest mountains--a cold wind, and he would have said a sad wind
had his heart not been so light. As it was, he lifted his bared
forehead to it exultantly.
He put behind him, so far as in his power lay, all thought of the
great wealth he had given away. He was eager to pour out the whole
story to her, and hear her say, "Well done, Richard."
Over and over again his thought ran: "Now I am an honest man. I am not
worthy of her, but at least my heart is clean."
Henceforth she was to be his altar of sacrifice. All he did would be
for her approval. All there was of his money, his inventive skill, his
command of men, should be hers. She should regulate every hour of his
coming and going, and share all the plans and purposes of his life.
"Oh, I must live right, and deal justly," he thought. "I must be a
better man from this time forth."
In the east the pale lances of the coming sun pierced the breasts of
the soaring gray clouds, and, behold, they grew to be the most
splendid orange and red and purple. The stars began to pale, and as he
came to the eastern slope where the plain stretched to dim splendor,
like a motionless sea of russet and purple, the sun was rising.
The plain seemed lonely and desolate of life, so far below was it. All
action was lost in the mist of immensity--men's stature that of the
most minute insects. And down there in the pathway of the morning was
the little woman of all the world waiting for him!
As he rode down the slope to the river level into the town the sun was
swinging, big and red, high above the horizon. His long ride had made
him look wan and pale, but he ordered coffee and a biscuit, and was
glad to find it helped him to look less wan and sorrowful. He dressed
with great care, then sat down to wait. At 7:30 o'clock he sent a note
to her:
"I have not forgotten. When do you breakfast?"
She replied:
"Good-morning, dearest. Breakfast is ready; come as soon as
you can."
He entered the room with the heart of a boy, the presence of an
athlete. He was at his prime of robust manhood, and his physical pride
was unconscious.
She was proud of him, and met him more than half way in his greeting.
Her face was still slender and delicate of color, but in her eyes was
a serene brightness, and her lips were tremulous with happiness.
She led him to the little table. "Now you mustn't call this
breakfast," she explained. "This is a private cup of coffee to sustain
us through the ordeal. We all breakfast immediately after the
ceremony."
"I've had one breakfast this morning."
She looked dismayed.
"At least a roll and a cup of coffee," he hastened to explain.
"However, I think I could eat all there is here and not be
inconvenienced."
They sat down and looked at each other in silence. She spoke first.
"Just think, this is the last time you will ever sit down with Miss
Ross."
"You seem to be sad about it."
"I am--and yet I am very happy. I don't suppose you men can
understand, but a woman wants to marry the man she loves--and yet she
is sad at leaving girlhood behind. Now let me see, you take two lumps,
don't you? I must not forget that. It makes the waiter stare when a
wife can't remember how many lumps of sugar her husband takes."
He felt his courage oozing away, and so began abruptly:
"Ellice, I have a story to tell and a confession to make to you."
She looked a little startled. "That sounds ominous, Richard--like the
villain in the play, only he makes his confession after marriage."
He was very sober indeed now. "That's the reason I make mine now. I
want you to know just what I am before you marry me."
She leaned her chin on her clasped hands and looked at him. "Tell me
all about it."
He did. He began at the beginning, and while it would not be true to
say he did not spare himself, he told the story as it actually
happened. He concealed no essential.
"I rode there and back last night simply because I couldn't kiss you
again until I had made myself an honest man."
She reached out and clutched the hand which lay on the table near
her--a sudden convulsive embrace.
"Last night?"
"Yes, I've been to the camp since I left you last night. I couldn't
stand with you--there--before all our friends, till I could say I had
no other man's money in my pockets."
She took his hand in both of her own and bent her head and touched her
cheek to his fingers. She was very deeply moved.
And he--though his voice choked--faltered through:
"I gave it all back, dear--I mean I gave over to Biddy and Dan their
full share--they are equal owners with you and me in 'The Witch.' I
tried to withhold some of it; it was hard to give it all back; but I
did it because I believed you would approve of it. And now, if you
will let me, I can call you my wife with a clear conscience."
For answer she rose and came to his side, and put her arms about his
neck and laid a kiss on his upturned face. Words were of no avail. In
his heart the man was still afraid of one so good and loving.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Spirit of Sweetwater, by Hamlin Garland