CHAPTER XXVI
THE DRAUGHT OF JOY
The great library was the prettiest room in Robert Maitland'smagnificent mansion in Denver's most favored residence section. It was along, low studded room with a heavy beamed ceiling. The low book cases,about five feet high, ran between all the windows and doors on all sidesof the room. At one end there was a huge open fireplace built of roughstone, and as it was winter a cheerful fire of logs blazed on thehearth. It was a man's room preeminently. The drawing room across thehall was Mrs. Maitland's domain, but the library reflected her husband'spicturesque if somewhat erratic taste. On the walls there were picturesof the west by Remington, Marchand, Dunton, Dixon and others, and to setthem off finely mounted heads of bear and deer and buffalo. Swords andother arms stood here and there. The writing table was massive and thechairs easy, comfortable and inviting. The floor was strewn with robesand rugs. From the windows facing westward, since the house was set ona high hill, one could see the great rampart of the range.
There were three men in the room on that brilliant morning early inJanuary something like a month after these adventures in the mountainswhich have been so veraciously set forth. Two of them were the brothersMaitland, the third was Newbold.
The shock produced upon Enid Maitland by the death of Armstrong,together with the tremendous episodes that had preceded it, had utterlyprostrated her. They had spent the night at the hut in the mountains andhad decided that the woman must be taken back to the settlements in someway at all hazards.
The wit of old Kirkby had effected a solution of the problem. Using ameans certainly as old as Napoleon and the passage of his cannon overthe Great St. Bernard--and perhaps as old as Hannibal!--they had made arude sled from the trunk of a pine which they hollowed out and providedwith a back and runners. There was no lack of fur robes and blankets forher comfort.
Wherever it was practicable the three men hitched themselves to the sledwith ropes and dragged it and Enid over the snow. Of course for milesdown the canyon it was impossible to use the sled. When the way wascomparatively easy the woman supported by the two men, Newbold andMaitland, made shift to get along afoot. When it became too difficultfor her, Newbold picked her up as he had done before and assisted byMaitland carried her bodily to the next resting place. At these timesKirkby looked after the sled.
They had managed to reach the temporary hut in the old camp the firstnight and rested there. They gathered up their sleeping bags and tentsand resumed their journey in the morning. They were strong men, and,save for old Kirkby, young. It was a desperate endeavor but they carriedit through.
When they hit the open trails the sledding was easy and they made greatprogress. After a week of terrific going they struck the railroad andthe next day found them all safe in Maitland's house in Denver.
To Mr. Stephen Maitland his daughter was as one who had risen from thedead. And indeed when he first saw her she looked like death itself. Noone had known how terrible that journey had been to the woman. Her threefaithful attendants had surmised something, but in spite of all eventhey did not realize that in these last days she had been sustained onlyby the most violent effort of her will. She had no sooner reached thehouse, greeted her father, her aunt and the children than she collapsedutterly.
The wonder was, said the physician, not that she did it then but thatshe had not done it before. For a short time it appeared as if herillness might be serious, but youth, vigor, a strong body and a goodconstitution, a heart now free from care and apprehension and a greatdesire to live and love and be loved, worked wonders.
Newbold had enjoyed no opportunity for private conversation with thewoman he loved, which was perhaps just as well. He had the task ofreadjusting himself to changed conditions; not only to a differentenvironment, but to strange and unusual departures from his longcherished view points.
He could no longer doubt Armstrong's final testimony to the purity ofhis wife, although he had burned the letters unread, and by the sametoken he could no longer cherish the dream that she had loved him andhim alone. Those words that had preceded that pistol shot had made itpossible for him to take Enid Maitland as his wife without doingviolence to his sense of honor or his self-respect. Armstrong had madethat much reparation. And Newbold could not doubt that the other hadknown what would be the result of his speech and had chosen his wordsdeliberately. Score that last action to his credit. He was a sensitiveman, however; he realized the brutal and beastlike part he and Armstronghad both played before this woman they both loved, how they had battledlike savage animals and how but for a lucky interposition he would haveadded murder to his other disabilities.
He was honest enough to say to himself that he would have done the samething over under the same circumstances, but that did not absolve hisconscience. He did not know how the woman looked at the transaction orlooked at him, for he had not enjoyed one moment alone with her toenable him to find out.
They had buried Armstrong in the snow, Robert Maitland saying over him abrief but fervent petition in which even Newbold joined. Enid Maitlandherself had repeated eloquently to her Uncle and old Kirkby that nightbefore the fire the story of her rescue from the flood by this man, howhe had carried her in the storm to the hut and how he had treated hersince, and Maitland had afterwards repeated her account to his brotherin Denver.
Maitland had insisted that Newbold share his hospitality, but that youngman had refused. Kirkby had a little place not far from Denver andeasily accessible to it and the old man had gladly taken the youngerone with him. Newbold had been in a fever of anxiety over EnidMaitland's illness, but his alarm had soon been dispelled by thephysician's assurance and there was nothing now left for him but to waituntil she could see him. He inquired for her morning and evening at thegreat house on the hill, he kept her room a bower of beauty withpriceless blossoms, but he had sent no word.
Robert Maitland had promised to let him know, however, so soon as Enidcould see him and it was in pursuance of a telephone message that he wasin the library that morning.
He had not yet become accustomed to the world, he had lived so longalone that he had grown somewhat shy and retiring, the habits andcustoms of years were not to be lightly thrown aside in a week or amonth. He had sought no interview with Enid's father heretofore, indeedhad rather avoided it, but on this morning he had asked for it, and whenRobert Maitland would have withdrawn he begged him to remain.
"Mr. Maitland," Newbold began, "I presume that you know my unfortunatehistory."
"I have heard the general outlines of it, sir, from my brother andothers," answered the other kindly.
"I need not dwell upon it further then. Although my hair is tinged withgray and doubtless I look much older, I was only twenty-eight on my lastbirthday. I was not born in this section of the country, my home was inBaltimore."
"Do you by any chance belong to the Maryland Newbolds, sir?"
"Yes, sir."
"They are distantly related to a most excellent family of the same namein Philadelphia, I believe?"
"I have always understood that to be the truth."
"Ah, a very satisfactory connection indeed," said Stephen Maitland withno little satisfaction. "Proceed, sir."
"There is nothing much else to say about myself, except that I love yourdaughter and with your permission I want her for my wife."
Mr. Stephen Maitland had thought long and seriously over the state ofaffairs. He had proposed in his desperation to give Enid's hand toArmstrong if he found her. It had been impossible to keep secret thestory of her adventure, her rescue and the death of Armstrong. It wasnatural and inevitable that gossip should have busied itself with hername. It would therefore have been somewhat difficult for Mr. Maitlandto have withheld his consent to her marriage to almost any reputableman who had been thrown so intimately with her, but when the man was sounexceptionably born and bred as Newbold, what had appeared as a more orless disagreeable duty, almost an imperative imposition, became apleasure!
Mr. Maitland was no bad ju
dge of men when his prejudices were notrampant and he looked with much satisfaction on the fine, clean limbed,clear eyed, vigorous man who was at present suing for his daughter'shand. Newbold had shaved his beard and had cropped close his mustache,he was dressed in the habits of civilization and he was almostmetamorphosed. His shyness wore away as he talked and his inherited easeof manner and his birthright of good breeding came back to him and sateasily upon him.
Under the circumstances the very best thing that could happen would be amarriage between the two; indeed, to be quite honest, Mr. StephenMaitland would have felt that perhaps under any circumstances hisdaughter could do no better than commit herself to a man like this.
"I shall never attempt," he said at last, "to constrain my daughter. Ithink I have learned something by my touch with this life here, perhapswe of Philadelphia need a little broadening in airs more free. I am surethat she would never give her hand without her heart, and therefore,she must decide this matter herself. From her own lips you shall haveyour answer."
"But you, sir; I confess that I should feel easier and happier if I hadyour sanction and approval."
"Steve," said Mr. Robert Maitland, as the other hesitated, not becausehe intended to refuse but because he was loath to say the word that sofar as he was concerned would give his daughter into another man'skeeping, "I think you can trust Newbold. There are men here who knew himyears ago; there is abundant evidence and testimony as to his qualities;I vouch for him."
"Robert," answered his brother, "I need no such testimony; the way inwhich he saved Enid, the way he comported himself during that period ofisolation with her, his present bearing--in short, sir, if a father isever glad to give away his daughter, I might say that I should be gladto entrust her to you. I believe you to be a man of honor and agentleman, your family is almost as old as my own, as for the disparityin our fortunes, I can easily remedy that."
Newbold smiled at Enid's father, but it was a pleasant smile, albeitwith a trace of mockery and a trace of triumph in it.
"Mr. Maitland I am more grateful to you than I can say for your consentand approval which I shall do my best to merit. I think I may claim tohave won your daughter's heart, to have added to that your sanctioncompletes my happiness. As for the disparity in our fortunes, while yourgenerosity touches me profoundly, I hardly think that you need be underany uneasiness as to our material welfare."
"What do you mean?"
"I am a mining engineer, sir; I didn't live five years alone in themountains of Colorado for nothing."
"Pray explain yourself, sir."
"Did you find gold in the hills?" asked Robert Maitland, quicker tounderstand.
"The richest veins on the continent," answered Newbold.
"And nobody knows anything about it?"
"Not a soul."
"Have you located the claims?"
"Only one."
"We'll go back as soon as the snow melts," said the younger Maitland,"and take them up. You are sure?"
"Absolutely."
"But I don't quite understand?" queried Mr. Stephen Maitland.
"He means," said his brother, "that he has discovered gold."
"And silver too," interposed Newbold.
"In unlimited quantities," continued the other Maitland.
"Your daughter will have more money than she knows what to do with,sir," smiled Newbold.
"God bless me!" exclaimed the Philadelphian.
"And that, whether she marries me or not, for the richest claim of allis to be taken out in her name," added her lover.
Mr. Stephen Maitland shook the other by the hand vigorously.
"I congratulate you," he said, "you have beaten me on all points. I musttherefore regard you as the most eligible of suitors. Gold in thesemountains, well, well!"
"And may I see your daughter and plead my cause in person, sir?" askedNewbold.
"Certainly, certainly. Robert, will you oblige me--"
In compliance with his brother's gesture, Robert Maitland touched thebell and bade the answering servant ask Miss Maitland to come down tothe library.
"Now," said Mr. Stephen Maitland as the servant closed the door, "youand I would best leave the young people alone, eh, Robert?"
"By all means," answered the younger and opening the door again the twoolder men went out leaving Newbold alone.
He heard a soft step on the stair in the hall without, the gentle swishof a dress as somebody descended from the floor above. A vision appearedin the doorway. Without a movement in opposition, without a word ofremonstrance, without a throb of hesitation on her part, he took her inhis arms. From the drawing room opposite, Mr. Robert Maitland softlytiptoed across the hall and closed the library door, neither of thelovers being aware of his action.
Often and often they had longed for each other on the opposite side of adoor and now at last the woman was in the man's arms and no door rosebetween them, no barrier kept them apart any longer. There was noobligation of loyalty or honor, real or imagined, to separate them now.They had drunk deep of the chalice of courage, they had drained the cupto the very bottom, they had shown each other that though love was thegreatest of passions, honor and loyalty were the most powerful of forcesand now they reaped the reward of their abnegation and devotion.
At last the woman gave herself up to him in complete and entireabandonment without fear and without reproach; and at last the man tookwhat was his own without the shadow of a reservation. She shrank from nopressure of his arms, she turned her face away from no touch of hislips. They two had proved their right to surrender by their ability toconquer.
Speech was hardly necessary between them and it was not for a long timethat coherent words came. Little murmurs of endearment, littlepassionate whispers of a beloved name--these were enough then.
When he could find strength to deny himself a little and to hold her atarm's length and look at her, he found her paler, thinner and moredelicate than when he had seen her in the mountains. She had on somewitching creation of pale blue and silver, he didn't know what it was,he didn't care, it made her only more like an angel to him than ever.She found him, too, greatly changed and highly approved the alterationsin his appearance.
"Why, Will," she said at last, "I never realized what a handsome man youwere."
He laughed at her.
"I always knew you were the most beautiful woman on earth."
"Oh, yes, doubtless when I was the only one."
"And if there were millions you would still be the only one. But itisn't for your beauty alone that I love you. You knew all the time thatmy fight against loving you was based upon a misinterpretation, amistake; you didn't tell me because you were thoughtful of a poor deadwoman."
"Should I have told you?"
"No. I have thought it all out: I was loyal through a mistake but youwouldn't betray a dead sister, you would save her reputation in the mindof the one being that remembered her, at the expense of your ownhappiness. And if there were nothing else I could love you for that."
"And is there anything else?" asked she who would fain be loved forother qualities.
"Everything," he answered rapturously, drawing her once more to hisheart.
"I knew that there would be some way," answered the satisfied womansoftly after a little space. "Love like ours is not born to fall shortof the completest happiness. Oh, how fortunate for me was that idleimpulse that turned me up the canyon instead of down, for if it had notbeen for that there would have been no meeting--"
She stopped suddenly, her face aflame at the thought of the conditionsof that meeting, she must needs hide her face on his shoulder.
He laughed gayly.
"My little spirit of the fountain, my love, my wife that is to be! Didyou know that your father has done me the honor to give me your hand,subject to the condition that your heart goes with it?"
"You took that first," answered the woman looking up at him again.
There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for permission it wasopened;
this time three men entered, for old Kirkby had joined thegroup. The blushing Enid made an impulsive movement to tear herself awayfrom Newbold's arms, but he shamelessly held her close. The three menlooked at the two lovers solemnly for a moment and then broke intolaughter. It was Kirkby who spoke first.
"I hear as how you found gold in them mountains, Mr. Newbold."
"I found something far more valuable than all the gold in Colorado inthese mountains," answered the other.
"And what was that?" asked the old frontiersman curiously andinnocently.
"This!" answered Newbold as he kissed the girl again.
THE END
The Chalice Of Courage: A Romance of Colorado Page 30