THE PARTING
She took the news like a Spartan. Her gentle pity was simply expressed,
and then she held her peace. He must go. He must leave her. She knew that
the train would carry him to his mother's bedside quicker than a horse
could go. She felt by the look in his eyes and the set of his mouth that
he had already decided that. Of course he must go. And the lady was there
too! His mother and the lady! The lady would be sorry by this time, and
would love him. Well, it was all right. He had been good to her. He had
been a strong, bright angel God had sent to help her out of the
wilderness; and now that she was safe the angel must return to his heaven.
This was what she thought.
He had gone into the station to inquire about the train. It was an hour
late. He had one short hour in which to do a great deal. He had very
little money with him. Naturally men do not carry a fortune when they go
out into the wilderness for a day's shooting. Fortunately he had his
railroad return ticket to Philadelphia. That would carry him safely. But
the girl. She of course had no money. And where was she going? He realized
that he had failed to ask her many important questions. He hurried out,
and explained to her.
"The train is an hour late. We must sell our horses, and try to get money
enough to take us East. It is the only way. Where do you intend going?"
But the girl stiffened in her seat. She knew it was her opportunity to
show that she was worthy of his honor and respect.
"I cannot go with you," she said very quietly.
"But you must," said he impatiently. "Don't you see there is no other way?
I must take this train and get to my mother as soon as possible. She may
not be living when I reach her if I don't." Something caught in his throat
as he uttered the horrible thought that kept coming to his mind.
"I know," said the girl quietly. "You must go, but I must ride on."
"And why? I should like to know. Don't you see that I cannot leave you
here alone? Those villains may be upon us at any minute. In fact, it is a
good thing for us to board the train and get out of their miserable
country as fast as steam can carry us. I am sorry you must part with your
horse, for I know you are attached to it; but perhaps we can arrange to
sell it to some one who will let us redeem it when we send the money out.
You see I have not money enough with me to buy you a ticket. I couldn't
get home myself if I hadn't my return ticket with me in my pocket. But
surely the sale of both horses will bring enough to pay your way."
"You are very kind, but I must not go." The red lips were firm, and the
girl was sitting very erect. She looked as she had done after she had shot
the bird.
"But why?"
"I cannot travel alone with you. It is not your custom where you come
from. The woman on the ranch told me. She said you knew girls did not do
that, and that you did not respect me for going alone with you. She said
it was not right, and that you knew it."
He looked at her impatient, angry, half ashamed that she should face him
with these words.
"Nonsense!" said he. "This is a case of necessity. You are to be taken
care of, and I am the one to do it."
"But it is not the custom among people where you live, is it?"
The clear eyes faced him down, and he had to admit that it was not.
"Then I can't go," she said decidedly.
"But you must. If you don't, I won't go."
"But you must," said the girl, "and I mustn't. If you talk that way, I'll
run away from you. I've run away from one man, and I guess I can from
another. Besides, you're forgetting the lady."
"What lady?"
"Your lady. The lady who rides in a carriage without horses."
"Hang the lady!" he said inelegantly. "Do you know that the train will be
along here in less than an hour, and we have a great deal to do before we
can get on board? There's no use stopping to talk about this matter. We
haven't time. If you will just trust things to me, I'll attend to them
all, and I'll answer your questions when we get safely on the train. Every
instant is precious. Those men might come around that corner ever there
any minute. That's all bosh about respect. I respect you more than any
woman I ever met. And it's my business to take care of you."
"No, it's not your business," said the girl bravely, "and I can't let you.
I'm nothing to you, you know."
"You're every--that is--why, you surely know you're a great deal to me.
Why, you saved my life, you know!"
"Yes, and you saved mine. That was beautiful, but that's all."
"Isn't that enough? What are you made of, anyway, to sit there when
there's so much to be done, and those villains on our track, and insist
that you won't be saved?' Respect you! Why, a lion in the wilderness would
have to respect you. You're made of iron and steel and precious stones.
You've the courage of a--a--I was going to say a man but I mean an angel.
You're pure as snow, and true as the heavenly blue, and firm as a rock;
and, if I had never respected you before, I would have to now. I respect,
I honor, I--I--I--pray for you!" he finished fiercely.
He turned his back to hide his emotion.
She lifted her eyes to his when he turned again, and her own were full of
tears.
"Thank you!" She said it very simply. "That makes me--very--glad! But I
cannot go with you."
"Do you mean that?" he asked her desperately.
"Yes," steadily.
"Then I shall have to stay too."
"But you can't! You must go to your mother. I won't be stayed with. And
what would she think? Mothers are--everything!" she finished. "You must go
quick and get ready. What can I do to help?"
He gave her a look which she remembered long years afterward. It seemed to
burn and sear its way into her soul. How was it that a stranger had the
power to scorch her with anguish this way? And she him?
He turned, still with that desperate, half-frantic look in his face, and
accosted two men who stood at the other end of the platform. They were not
in particular need of a horse at present; but they were always ready to
look at a bargain, and they walked speculatively down the uneven boards
of the platform with him to where his horse stood, and inspected it.
The girl watched the whole proceeding with eyes that saw not but into the
future. She put in a word about the worth of the saddle once when she saw
it was going lower than it should. Three other men gathered about before
the bargain was concluded, and the horse and its equipments sold for about
half its value.
That done, the man turned toward the girl and motioned to her to lead her
horse away to a more quiet place, and set him down to plead steadily
against her decision. But the talk and the horse-selling had taken more
time than he realized. The girl was more decided than ever in her
determination not to go with him. She spoke of the lady again. She spoke
of his mother, and mothers in general, and finished by reminding him that
God would take care of her, and of him, too.
Then they heard the whistle of the train, and saw it growing from a speck
to a large black object across the plain. To the girl the sight of this
strange machine, that seemed more like a creature rushing toward her to
snatch all beauty and hope and safety from her, sent a thrill of horror.
To the man it seemed like a dreaded fate that was tearing him asunder. He
had barely time to divest himself of his powder-horn, and a few little
things that might be helpful to the girl in her journey, before the train
was halting at the station. Then he took from his pocket the money that
had been paid him for his horse; and, selecting a five-dollar bill for
himself, he wrapped the rest in an envelope bearing his own name and
address. The envelope was one addressed by the lady at home. It had
contained some gracefully worded refusal of a request. But he did not
notice now what envelope he gave her.
"Take this," he said. "It will help a little. Yes, you must! I cannot
leave you--I _will_ not--unless you do," when he saw that she hesitated
and looked doubtful. "I owe you all and more for saving my life. I can
never repay you. Take it. You may return it sometime when you get plenty
more of your own, if it hurts your pride to keep it. Take it, please. Yes,
I have plenty for myself. You will need it, and you must stop at nice
places overnight. You will be very careful, won't you? My name is on that
envelope. You must write to me and let me know that you are safe."
"Some one is calling you, and that thing is beginning to move again," said
the girl, an awesome wonder in her face. "You will be left behind! O,
hurry! Quick! Your mother!"
He half turned toward the train, and then came back.
"You haven't told me your name!" he gasped. "Tell me quick!"
She caught her breath.
"Elizabeth!" she answered, and waved him from her.
The conductor of the train was shouting to him, and two men shoved him
toward the platform. He swung himself aboard with the accustomed ease of a
man who has travelled; but he stood on the platform, and shouted, "Where
are you going?" as the train swung noisily off.
She did not hear him, but waved her hand, and gave him a bright smile that
was brimming with unshed tears. It seemed like instant, daring suicide in
him to stand on that swaying, clattering house as it moved off
irresponsibly down the plane of vision. She watched him till he was out of
sight, a mere speck on the horizon of the prairie; and then she turned
her horse slowly into the road, and went her way into the world alone.
The man stood on the platform, and watched her as he whirled away--a
little brown girl on a little brown horse, so stanch and firm and stubborn
and good. Her eyes were dear, and her lips as she smiled; and her hand was
beautiful as it waved him good-by. She was dear, dear, dear! Why had he
not known it? Why had he left her? Yet how could he stay? His mother was
dying perhaps. He must not fail her in what might be her last summons.
Life and death were pulling at his heart, tearing him asunder.
The vision of the little brown girl and the little brown horse blurred and
faded. He tried to look, but could not see. He brought his eyes to nearer
vision to fix their focus for another look, and straight before him
whirled a shackly old saloon, rough and tumble, its character apparent
from the men who were grouped about its doorway and from the barrels and
kegs in profusion outside. From the doorway issued four men, wiping their
mouths and shouting hilariously. Four horses stood tied to a fence near
by. They were so instantly passed, and so vaguely seen, that he could not
be sure in the least, but those four men reminded him strongly of the four
who had passed the schoolhouse on Sunday.
He shuddered, and looked back. The little brown horse and the little brown
girl were one with the little brown station so far away, and presently the
saloon and men were blotted out in one blur of green and brown and yellow.
He looked to the ground in his despair. He _must_ go back. He could not
leave her in such peril. She was his to care for by all the rights of
manhood and womanhood. She had been put in his way. It was his duty.
But the ground whirled by under his madness, and showed him plainly that
to jump off would be instant death. Then the thought of his mother came
again, and the girl's words, "I am nothing to you, you know."
The train whirled its way between two mountains and the valley, and the
green and brown and yellow blur were gone from sight. He felt as if he had
just seen the coffin close over the girl's sweet face, and he had done it.
By and by he crawled into the car, pulled his slouch hat down over his
eyes, and settled down in a seat; but all the time he was trying to see
over again that old saloon and those four men, and to make out their
passing identity. Sometimes the agony of thinking it all over, and trying
to make out whether those men had been the pursuers, made him feel
frantic; and it seemed as if he must pull the bell-cord, and make the
train stop, and get off to walk back. Then the utter hopelessness of ever
finding her would come over him, and he would settle back in his seat
again and try to sleep. But the least drowsiness would bring a vision of
the girl galloping alone over the prairie with the four men in full
pursuit behind. "Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!" the car-wheels seemed
to say.
Elizabeth--that was all he had of her. He did not know the rest of her
name, nor where she was going. He did not even know where she had come
from, just "Elizabeth" and "Montana." If anything happened lo her, he
would never know. Oh! why had he left her? Why had he not _made_ her go
with him? In a case like that a man should assert his authority. But,
then, it was true he had none, and she had said she would run away. She
would have done it too. O, if it had been anything but sickness and
possible death at the other end--and his mother, his own little mother!
Nothing else would have kept him from staying to protect Elizabeth.
What a fool he had been! There were questions he might have asked, and
plans they might have made, all those beautiful days and those
moon-silvered nights. If any other man had done the same, he would have
thought him lacking mentally. But here he had maundered on, and never
found out the all-important things about her. Yet how did he know then how
important they were to be? It had seemed as if they had all the world
before them in the brilliant sunlight. How could he know that modern
improvements were to seize him in the midst of a prairie waste, and whirl
him off from her when he had just begun to know what she was, and to prize
her company as a most precious gift dropped down from heaven at his feet?
By degrees he came out of his hysterical frenzy, and returned to a
somewhat normal state of mind. He reasoned himself several times into the
belief that those men were not in the least like the men he had seen
Sunday. He knew that one could not recognize one's own brother at that
distance and that rate of passing speed. He tried to think that Elizabeth
would be cared for. She had come through many a danger, and was it likely
that the God in whom she trusted, who had guarded her so many times in her
great peril, would desert her now in her dire need? Would He not raise up
help for her somewhere? Perhaps another man as good as he, and as
trustworthy as he had tried to be, would find her and help her.
But that thought was not pleasant. He put it away impatiently. It cut him.
Why had she talked so much about the lady? The lady! Ah! How was it the
lady came no more into his thoughts? The memory of her haughty face no
more quickened his heart-beats. Was he fickle that he could lose what he
had supposed was a lifelong passion in a few days?
The darkness was creeping on. Where was Elizabeth? Had she found a refuge
for the night? Or was she wandering on an unknown trail, hearing voices
and oaths through the darkness, and seeing the gleaming of wild eyes low
in the bushes ahead? How could he have left her? How could he? He must go
back even yet. He must, he must, _he must_!
And so it went on through the long night.
The train stopped at several places to take on water; but there seemed to
be no human habitation near, or else his eyes were dim with his trouble.
Once, when they stopped longer than the other times, he got up and walked
the length of the car and down the steps to the ground. He even stood
there, and let the train start jerkily on till his car had passed him, and
the steps were just sliding by, and tried to think whether he would not
stay, and go back in some way to find her. Then the impossibility of the
search, and of his getting back in time to do any good, helped him to
spring on board just before it was too late. He walked back to his seat
saying to himself, "Fool! Fool!"
It was not till morning that he remembered his baggage and went in search
of it. There he found a letter from his cousin, with other letters and
telegrams explaining the state of affairs at home. He came back to his
seat laden with a large leather grip and a suitcase. He sat down to read
his letters, and these took his mind away from his troubled thoughts for a
little while. There was a letter from his mother, sweet, graceful, half
wistfully offering her sympathy. He saw she guessed the reason why he had
left her and gone to this far place. Dear little mother! What would she
say if she knew his trouble now? And then would return his heart-frenzy
over Elizabeth's peril. O to know that she was protected, hidden!
Fumbling in his pocket, he came upon a slip of paper, the slip the girl
had given Elizabeth in the schoolhouse on Sunday afternoon. "For in the
time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his
tabernacle shall he hide me."
Ah! God had hidden her then. Why not again? And what was that he had said
to her himself, when searching for a word to cover his emotion? "I pray
for you!" Why could he not pray? She had made him pray in the wilderness.
Should he not pray for her who was in peril now? He leaned back in the
hot, uncomfortable car-seat, pulling his hat down closer over his eyes,
and prayed as he had never prayed before. "Our Father" he stumbled through
as far as he could remember, and tried to think how her sweet voice had
filled in the places where he had not known it the other time. Then, when
he was done, he waited and prayed, "Our Father, care for Elizabeth," and
added, "For Jesus' sake. Amen." Thereafter through the rest of his
journey, and for days and weeks stretching ahead, he prayed that prayer,
and sometimes found in it his only solace from the terrible fear that
possessed him lest some harm had come to the girl, whom it seemed to him
now he had deserted in cold blood.