CHAPTER XXXIV
THE LOSS OF PARADISE
Silently we made our way toward the edge of the thicket where it facedupon the open valley. All about me I could hear the tinkling andcrashing of fairy crystal walls, the ruins of that vision house I hadbuilded in my soul. At the edge of the thicket we crouched low, waitingand looking out over the valley, two savages, laired, suspicious.
Almost as we paused I saw coming forward the stooping figure of anIndian trailer, half naked, beleggined, moccasined, following our freshtracks at a trot. I covered him with the little silver bead, minded toend his quest. But before I could estimate his errand, or prepare toreceive him, closely in case he proved an enemy, I saw approachingaround a little point of timber other men, white men, a half dozen ofthem, one a tall man in dusty garments, with boots, and hat, and gloves.
And then I saw her, my promised wife, leave my side, and limp andstagger forward, her arms outstretched. I saw the yoke of submission,the covenant of society, once more accepted.
"Father!" she cried.
They gathered about us. I saw him look down at her with half horror onhis face. Then I noticed that she was, clad in fringed skins, that herhead covering was a bit of hide, that her hair was burned yellow at theends, that her foot coverings were uncouth, that her hands and arms werebrown, where not stained red by the blood in which they had dabbled. Ilooked down also at myself, and saw then that I was tall, brown, gaunt,bearded, ragged, my clothing of wool well-nigh gone, my limbs wound inputtee bands of hide, my hands large, horny, blackened, rough. I reekedwith grime. I was a savage new drawn from my cave. I dragged behind methe great grizzled hide of the dead bear, clutched in one hairy hand.And somber and sullen as any savage, brutal and silent in resentment atbeing disturbed, I stared at them.
"Who are you?" demanded the tall man of me sternly; but still I did notanswer. The girl's hands tugged at his shoulders. "It is my friend," shesaid. "He saved me. It is Mr. John Cowles, father, of the VirginiaCowles family. He has come to see you--" But he did not hear her, orshow that he heard. His arm about her, supporting her as she limped, heturned back down the valley, and we others followed slowly.
Presently he came to the rude shelter which had been our home. Withoutspeaking he walked about the camp, pushed open the door of the littleragged tepee and looked within. The floor was very narrow. There was onemeager bed of hides. There was one fire.
"Come with me," he said at length to me. And so I followed him apart,where a little thicket gave us more privacy.
His was a strong face, keen under heavy gray brows, with hair that rosestiff and gray over a high forehead, so that he seemed like some Osagechief, taller by a third than most men, and naturally a commander amongothers.
"You are John Cowles, sir, then?" he said to me at length, quietly."Lieutenant Belknap told me something of this when he came in with hismen from the East." I nodded and waited.
"Are you aware, sir, of the seriousness of what you have done?" he brokeout. "Why did you not come on to the settlements? What reason was therefor you not coming back at once to the valley of the Platte--here youare, a hundred miles out of your way, where a man of any intelligence,it seems to me, would naturally have turned back to the great trail.Hundreds of wagons pass there every day. There is a stage line withdaily coaches, stations, houses. A telegraph line runs from one end ofthe valley to the other. You could not have missed all this had youstruck south. A fool would have known that. But you took my girl--" hechoked up, and pointed to me, ragged and uncouth.
"Good God! Colonel Meriwether," I cried out at length, "you are notregretting that I brought her through?"
"Almost, sir," he said, setting his lips together. "Almost!"
"Do you regret then that she brought me through--that I owe my life toher?"
"Almost, sir," he repeated. "I almost regret it."
"Then go back--leave us--report us dead!" I broke out, savagely. It wasmoments before I could accept this old life again offered me.
"She is a splendid girl, a noble being," I said to him, slowly, at last."She saved me when I was sick and unable to travel. There is nothing Icould do that would pay the debt I owe to her. She is a noble woman, aprincess among women, body and soul."
"She is like her mother," said he, quietly. "She was too good for this.Sir, you have done my family a grievous wrong. You have ruined mydaughter's life."
Now at last I could talk. I struck my hand hard on his shoulder andlooked him full in the eye. "Colonel Meriwether," I said to him, "I amashamed of you."
"What do you mean?" He frowned sternly and shook off my hand.
"I brought her through," I said, "and if it would do any good, I wouldlie down here and die for her. If what I say is not true, draw up yourmen for a firing squad and let us end it. I don't care to go back toLaramie."
"What good would that do?" said he. "It's the girl's _name_ that'scompromised, man! Why, the news of this is all over the country--thewires have carried it both sides of the mountains; the papers are fullof it in the East. You have been gone nearly three months together, andall the world knows it. Don't you suppose all the world will _talk_? DidI not see--" he motioned his hand toward our encampment.
He babbled of such things, small, unimportant, to me, late from largethings in life. I interrupted long enough to tell him briefly of ourjourney, of our hardships, of what we had gone through, of how mysickness had rendered it impossible for us to return at once, of how wehad wandered, with what little judgment remained to us, how we had livedin the meantime.
He shook his head. "I know men," said he.
"Yes," said I, "I would have been no man worth the name had I not lovedyour daughter. And I admit to you that I shall never love another woman,not in all my life."
In answer he flung down on the ground in front of me something that hecarried--the scroll of our covenant, signed by my name and in part byhers.
"What does this mean?" he asked.
"It means," said I, "what it says; that here or anywhere, in sickness orin health, in adversity or prosperity, until I lie down to die and shebeside me in her time, we two are in the eye of God married; and in theeye of man would have been, here or wherever else we might be."
I saw his face pale; but a somber flame came into his eyes. "And you saythis--you, _after all I know regarding you_!"
Again I felt that old chill of terror and self-reproach strike to myheart. I saw my guilt once more, horrible as though an actual presence.I remembered what Ellen Meriwether had said to me regarding any other orearlier covenant. I recalled my troth, plighted earlier, before I hadever seen her,--my faith, pledged in another world. So, seeing myselfutterly ruined in my own sight and his and hers, I turned to him atlength, with no pride in my bearing.
"So I presume Gordon Orme has told you," I said to him. "You know ofGrace Sheraton, back there?"
His lips but closed the tighter. "Have you told her--have you told thisto my girl?" he asked, finally.
"Draw up your file!" I cried, springing to my feet. "Execute me! Ideserve it. No, I have not told her. I planned to do so--I should neverhave allowed her to sign her name there before I had told hereverything--been fair to her as I could. But her accident left herweak--I could not tell her--a thousand things delayed it. Yes, it was myfault."
He looked me over with contempt. "You are not fit to touch the shoe onmy girl's foot," he said slowly. "But now, since this thing has begun,since you have thus involved her and compromised her, and as I imaginein some foul way have engaged her affections--now, I say, it must go on.When we get to Laramie, by God! sir, you shall marry that girl. And thenout you go, and never see her face again. She is too good for you, butwhere you can be of use to her, for this reason, you shall be used."
I seated myself, my head in my hands, and pondered. He was commanding meto do that which was my dearest wish in life. But he was commanding meto complete my own folly. "Colonel Meriwether," said I to him, finally,"if it would do her any good I would give up my life for her. But her
father can neither tell me how nor when my marriage ceremony runs; norcan he tell me when to leave the side of the woman who is my wife. I amsubject to the orders of no man in the world."
"You refuse to do what you have planned to do? Sir, that shows you asyou are. You proposed to--to live with her here, but not be bound to herelsewhere!"
"It is not true!" I said to him in somber anger. "I proposed to putbefore her the fact of my own weakness, of my own self-deception, whichalso was deception of her. I propose to do that now."
"If you did, she would refuse to look at you again."
"I know it, but it must be done. I must take my chances."
"And your chances mean this alternative--either that my girl'sreputation shall be ruined all over the country--all through the Army,where she is known and loved--or else that her heart must be broken.This is what it means, Mr. Cowles. This is what you have brought to myfamily."
"Yes," I said to him, slowly, "this is what I have brought."
"Then which do you choose, sir?" he demanded of me.
"I choose to break her heart!" I answered. "Because that is the truth,and that is right. I only know one way to ride, and that is straight."
He smiled at me coldly in his frosty beard. "That sounds well from you!"he said bitterly. "Ellen!" he raised his voice. "Ellen, I say, come hereat once!"
It was my ear which first heard the rustling of her footsteps at theedge of the thicket as she approached. She came before us slowly,halting, leaning on her crutch. A soft flush shone through the brownupon her cheeks.
I shall not forget in all my life the picture of her as she stood.Neither shall I forget the change which came across her face as she sawus sitting there silent, cold, staring at her. Then, lovable in herrags, beautiful in her savagery, the gentleness of generations ofculture in all her mien in spite of her rude surroundings, she steppedup and laid her hand upon her father's shoulder, one finger halfpointing at the ragged scroll of hide which lay upon the ground beforeus. I loved her--ah, how I loved her then!
"I signed that, father," she said gently. "I was going to sign it,little by little, a letter each week. We were engaged--nothing more. Buthere or anywhere, some time, I intend to marry Mr. Cowles. This I havepromised of my own free will. He has been both man and gentleman,father. I love him."
I heard the groan which came from his throat. She sprang back. "What isit?" she said. The old fire of her disposition again broke out.
"What!" she cried. "You object? Listen, I will sign my name now--I willfinish it--give me--give me--" She sought about on the ground forsomething which would leave a mark. "I say I have not been his, but willbe, father--as I like, when I like--now, this very night if Ichoose--forever! He has done everything for me--I trust him--I know heis a man of honor, that he--" Her voice broke as she looked at my face.
"But what--what _is_ it?" she demanded, brokenly, in her own eyessomething of the horror which sat in mine. I say I see her picture now,tall, straight, sweet, her hands on her lifting bosom, eagerness andanxiety fighting on her face.
"Ellen, child, Mr. Cowles has something to tell you."
Then some one, in a voice which sounded like mine, but was not mine,told her--told her the truth, which sounded so like a lie. Some one,myself, yet not myself, went on, cruelly, blackening all the sweet bluesky for her. Some one--I suppose it was myself, late free--felt the dampof an iron yoke upon his neck.
I saw her knees sink beneath her, but she shrank back when I would havereached out an arm as of old.
"I hate that woman!" she blazed. "Suppose she does love you--do I notlove you more? Let her lose--some one must lose!" But at the next momenther anger had changed to doubt, to horror. I saw her face change, sawher hand drop to her side.
"It is not that you loved another girl," she whispered, "but that youhave deceived _me_--here, when I was in your power. Oh, it was notright! How could you! Oh, how could you!"
Then once more she changed. The flame of her thoroughbred soul came backto her. Her courage saved her from shame. Her face flushed, she stoodstraight. "I hate _you!_" she cried to me. "Go! I will never see you anymore."
Still the bright sun shone on. A little bird trilled in the thicketnear.
The Way of a Man Page 34