Title: The Spirit of Sweetwater
Author: Garland, Hamlin, 1860-1940
Language: English
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LADIES' HOME JOURNAL
LIBRARY OF FICTION

THE SPIRIT OF
SWEETWATER

BY

HAMLIN GARLAND

AUTHOR OF
WAYSIDE COURTSHIPS
MAIN-TRAVELED ROADS
PRAIRIE SONGS, ETC.

PHILADELPHIA
CURTIS PUBLISHING
COMPANY

NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY &
McCLURE CO.

Copyright, 1898, by
HAMLIN GARLAND



TO
JESSIE VIOLA
AND
HARRIET EDITH GARLAND

[Illustration: Hamlin Garland]



_THE MYSTERY OF MOUNTAINS_


       _As the sun sinks
    And the cañons deepening in color
      Add mystery to silence
    Then the lone traveller lying out-stretched
    Beneath the silent pines on some high range
    Watches and listens in ecstasy of fear
      And timorous admiration._

   _In the roar of the stream he catches
    The reminiscent echo of colossal cataracts;
      In the cry of the cliff-bird
    He thinks he hears the eagle's scream
    Or yowl of far-off mountain-lion;
      In the fall of a loose rock
    He fancies the menacing footfall of the grizzly bear;
    And in the black deeps of the lower cañon
      His dreaming eyes detect once more
    Prodigious lines of buffalo crawling snake-wise
        Athwart the stream,
    Winding downward to the distant plain,
      Where camp-fires gleam like stars._



Part I



The Spirit of Sweetwater

CHAPTER I


One spring day a young man of good mental furnishing and very slender
purse walked over the shoulder of Mount Mogallon and down the trail to
Gold Creek. He walked because the stage fare seemed too high.

Two years and four months later he was pointed out to strangers by the
people of Sweetwater Springs. "That is Richard Clement, the sole owner
of 'The Witch,' a mine valued at three millions of dollars." This in
itself was truly an epic.

Sweetwater Springs was a village in a cañon, out of which rose two
wonderful springs of water whose virtues were known throughout the
land. The village was wedged in the cañon which ran to the mighty
breast of Mogallon like a fold in a king's robe.

The village and its life centered around the pavilion which roofed the
spring, and Clement spent his evenings there in order to see the
people, at least, as they joyously thronged about the music-stand and
sipped the beautiful water which the Utes long, long ago called "sweet
water," and visited with reverence and hope of returning health.

Since the coming of his great wealth Clement had not allowed himself a
day's vacation, and he had grown ten years older in that time. There
were untimely signs of age in his hair and in the troubled lines of
his face. He was a young man, but he looked a strong and stern and
careworn man to those whose attention was called to him. He was a
conscientious man, and the possession of great wealth was not without
its gravities.

For the first time he felt it safe to leave his mine in other hands.
He had a longing to mix with his kind once more, and in his heart was
the secret hope that somewhere among the women of the Springs he might
find a girl to take to wife. He arranged his vacation for July, not
because it was ever hot at the Creek, but because he knew the Springs
swarmed at that time with girls from the States. It would have
troubled him had any one put these ideas into words and accused him of
really seeking a bride.

He was a self-unconscious man naturally, and he hardly realized yet
how widely his name had gone as the possessor of millions. He supposed
himself an unnoticed atom as he stood at the spring on the second
night of his stay in the village. Of a certainty many did not know
him, but they saw him, for he was a striking figure--a handsome
figure--though that had never concerned him. He was, in fact, feeling
his own insignificance.

He was standing there in shadow looking out somberly upon the streams
of people as they came to take their evening draught at the wonderful
water of the effervescing spring. The sun had gone behind the high
peaks to the west, and a delicious, dry coolness was in the cañon.

It seemed to Clement to be a very fashionable and leisurely throng--so
long had he been absent from people either modish or easeful. He felt
himself to be hopelessly outside all this youth and brilliancy and
merriment, and he looked upon it all with a certain wistfulness.

He perceived at length that the strollers were not all of the same
conditions. There were rough, brown cow-boys from La Junta and Cajon,
and miners in rough dress down from the gulches for a night, but
mainly the promenaders appealed to him with elegance of dress and
manner.

Many of the ladies came without hats, which added to the charm of
their eyes and hair. Some of them looked twice at the tall man with
the big mustache and broad hat, who seemed to be watching for some
tardy friend.

As he studied them his memory freshened and he came to understand them
better. He analyzed them into familiar types. This was a banker and
his wife from some small town--the wife fussy and consequential, the
husband coldly dignified. This group was composed of a doctor and his
daughters. Behind them came a merchant from some Nebraska town--he
rough of exterior, his children dainty of dress and very pretty.
Occasionally a group of college-bred girls came up without
escort--alert, self-helpful and serene. They saw Clement at once, and
studied him carefully as they drank their beauty cup at the circular
bench before the spring. All good-looking men had interest to them.

All classes came, a varied stream, yet they were Western, and of the
well-to-do condition for the larger part.

The deft boy swung the glasses of water on his tripartite dipper with
ceaseless splash and clink. There was a pleasant murmur of talk in
which an Eastern listener would have heard the "r" sound
well-defined. There were many couples seated about the pavilion on the
benches and railings. It was all busy yet tranquil. Each loiterer had
fed, had taken his draught of healing water--and this was the hour of
pleasant gossip and repose. Clement fell at last to analyzing the
action of the boy who supplied the water at the pool. He slammed the
glasses into the pool, and set them on the bench with a click as
regular as a pump. Occasionally, however, he was indifferent. With
some of his customers he handled the glasses as if they contained
nectar, thus indicating his generous patrons. Once he stopped and
dipped the glass into the pool with his own hand--a doubtful
action--and extended it with a bow to a young lady who said "thank
you" so sweetly that he blushed and stammered in reply.

All this fixed Clement's attention, and as the young girl lifted the
glass in her slim hand he wondered how she had escaped his notice for
a single moment. A woman at his side said sighfully, "There is that
consumptive girl again, she hasn't long to stay." She was as pale, as
fragile, and as lovely as the mountain columbine. Her face was thin,
and her head shapely, but her eyes! They burned like rarest
topaz--deep, dark and sad. Clement shivered as he felt them fixed upon
him, and yet he could not turn away as he should have done.

He gazed at her with a sudden feeling which was not awe, nor
compassion, nor love, but was all of these. He felt in his soul the
subtlest sadness in all the world--the sadness of a strong man who
looks upon a beautiful young girl who is dying.

Extremest languor was in every movement. She was dressed in dark, soft
garments--very simple and graceful in effect, and her bearing was that
of one accustomed to willing service from others. Her smile was as sad
as her eyes which had in them the death-shadow.

Clement's action, the unwavering self-forgetful intentness of his
look, arrested her attention, and she returned his gaze for an
instant, and then turned away and took the arm of an elderly gentleman
who stood beside her. She moved slowly, as an invalid walks when for
the first time she is permitted a short walk in the outdoor air,
leaning heavily on her companion.

The big miner roused himself and stood straight and tall, hesitating
whether to follow or not--a sudden singular pain in his heart, as if
he were losing something very close to his life.

He obeyed the impulse to follow, and moved down the path, just out of
reach of observation, he fancied. As he made way through the crowd he
grew aware again of his heavy limbs, of his great height, of his
swinging, useless hands. It had been so long since he had mingled with
a holiday company, he appeared as self-conscious as a boy.

Once the fair invalid turned and looked back, but she was too far away
for him to discern the expression of her face. He was not possessed
of self-esteem enough to believe she had turned to look for him.

He followed them in their slow pace till they turned in at the doorway
of the principal hotel of the village. They entered at the ladies'
door while he kept on to the main entrance and rotunda. There was no
elevator in the house, and the invalid paused a moment before
attempting the stairway. It was pitiful to see her effort to make
light of it all to her companion, who was quite evidently her father.
She smiled at him even while she pressed one slim hand against her
bosom.

Clement longed to take her in his arms and carry her up the
stairway--it seemed the thing most worth doing in all the world--but
he could only lean against the desk and see them go slowly stair by
stair out of sight.

"Who are they?" he asked of the clerk whom he detected also watching
them with almost the same breathless interest.

"Chicago merchant, G. B. Ross. That's his daughter. She's pretty far
gone--consumption, I reckon. It looks tough to see a girl like that go
off. You'd think now----"

Clement did not remain to hear the clerk moralize further; he went
immediately to his own hotel, paid his bill, and ordered his baggage
sent to the other house. He wondered at himself for this overpowering
interest in a sick girl, and at his plan to see her again.

He reasoned that he would be able to see her at breakfast time,
provided she came down to breakfast, and provided he hit upon the same
hour of eating. He began to calculate upon the probable hour when she
would come down. It was astounding how completely she occupied his
thought already.

He struck off up the cañon where no sound was, other than the roar of
the wild little stream which seemed to lift its voice in wilder clamor
as the night fell. Its presence helped him to think out his situation.
He had grown self-analytical during his life in the camp, where he
was alone so far as his finer feelings were concerned, and he had come
to believe in many strange things which he said nothing about to any
friend he had.

He had come to believe in fate and also in intuition. A powerful
impulse to do he counted higher than reason. That is to say, if he had
a powerful impulse to run a shaft in a certain direction he would so
act, no matter if his reason declared dead against it. The hidden and
uncontrollable processes of his mind had given him the secret of "The
Witch's" gold, had led him right in his shafting and in his selection
of friends and assistants--and had made him a millionaire at
thirty-seven years of age. He was prone to over-value the intuitional
side of his nature, probably--an error common among practical men.

Fate was, with him, luck raised to a higher power. What was to be
would be; the unexpected happened; the expected, hoped for, labored
for, did not always happen. All around him men stumbled upon mines,
while other men, more skilful, more observant, failed. The luck was
against them.

It was quite in harmony with his nature that he should be absorbed in
the singular and powerful impulse he had to seek an acquaintance with
that poor dying girl.

Dying! At that word he rebelled. God would not take so beautiful a
creature away from earth; men needed her to teach them gentleness and
submission. More than this, he had an almost uncontrollable impulse to
go to her, and putting aside doctors say to her:

"I am the one to heal you."

He had never had an impulse to heal before, but the fact that it was
unaccountable and powerful and definite, fitted in with his successes.
He gave it careful thought. It must mean something because it had
never come to him before, and because it rose out of the mysterious
depths of his brain.

She must not die! The wind, the mountains, the clear air, the good,
sweet water, the fragrant pines, the splendid sun--these things must
help her. "And I, perhaps I, too, can help her?"

Back in the glare of the hotel rotunda, with its rows of bored men
sitting stolidly smoking, idly talking, his impulse and his resolution
seemed very unmanly and preposterous. It is so easy to lose faith in
the elemental in the midst of the superficial and ephemeral of daily
habit.



CHAPTER II


Clement was an early riser, and, notwithstanding his restless night,
was astir at six. The whole world had changed for him. It was no
longer a question of ore and amalgams, it was a question of when he
should see again that sad, slender woman with the hopeless smile.

He had now a great fear that she would not be able to come down to
breakfast at all, but as her coming was his only hope of seeing her he
clung to it. Eight o'clock seemed to him to be the latest hour that
any one not absolutely bedridden would think of breakfasting, and at
four minutes past the hour he entered the dining-room.

The negro waiter tried to seat him near the door, but he pushed on
down the hall toward a little group near one of the sunny windows,
which he took to be the sick girl and her father, and so it proved.

His seat at a table next to theirs brought her profile between him
and the window, and the light around her head seemed to glorify her
till she shone like a figure in a church window. She seemed not
concerned with earth. He was more deeply moved than ever before in his
life, but he concealed it--the only sign of emotion was in the tremor
of his hands.

He studied the sick girl as closely as he could without seeming to
stare. She was even more lovely than he had thought. His eyes,
accustomed only to rough women, found in her beauty that which was
flower-like, seraphic.

Her face was very thin, and her neck too slender to uphold the heavy
masses of her brown hair. Her hands were only less expressive of
suffering than her face. The father was as bluff and portly and
irascible as she was patient and gentle. He bullied the waiter because
he did not know how else to express his anxiety.

"Waiter, this steak is burned--it's hard as sole leather. Take it back
and bring me----"

"Please don't, father; the trouble is with me. I have no desire for
food." She smiled at the waiter so sweetly that he nodded as if to
say, "I don't mind him, miss."

The father turned his attention to the country.

"Yes, there is another fraud. I was told it would help your appetite,
and here you are with less than when you left Hot Springs. If I'd had
my way----"

She laid a hand on his arm, and when he turned toward her his eyes
were dim with tears. He blew his nose and coughed, and looked away
after the manner of men, and suffered in silence.

Once she turned and looked at Clement, and her eyes had a mystical,
impersonal look, as though she saw him afar off, not as an individual
but as a type of some admirable elemental creature. He could not
fathom her attitude toward him, but he thought he saw in her every
action the expression of a soul that had relinquished its hold on
things of the earth. Her desire to live was no longer personal. She
did all that she did for her father and her friends wholly to please
them.

The desire to aid her came upon Clement again--so powerful it carried
with it an unwavering belief that he could help her.

What was his newly-acquired wealth good for if he could not aid her?
Wealth? Yes--his blood! He looked at his great brown hand and at his
big veins full of blood. Why should she die when he had so much life?

Meanwhile his common sense had not entirely fled him. He perceived
that they were not poor, and he reflected that they had probably tried
all climates and all the resources of medical science; also that the
father had quite as much red blood in his veins as any other man; and
these considerations gave him thought as he watched them rise and go
out upon the little veranda.

Clement was not a markedly humble person under ordinary conditions.
He had a fashion of pushing rather heedlessly straight to his
purpose--which now was to speak to her, to meet her face to face, to
touch her hand and to offer his aid. Naturally he sought the father's
acquaintance first. This was not difficult, for the waiters in the
dining-room had been pointing him out to the guests as "Mr. Clement,
the meyonaire minah." The newspaper correspondents had made his name a
familiar one to the whole United States as "one of the sudden
multi-millionaires of Gold Creek."

The porter had "passed the word" to the head waiter, and the head
waiter had whispered it to one or two others. It was almost as
exciting as having a Presidential candidate enter the room. Clement
was too new in his riches, however, to realize the extent of all this
bustle about him.

When he rose to go one waiter removed his chair, another helped him
lay his napkin down, a third brushed his coat, and the head usher
kindly showed him where the door opened into the hallway. It was
wonderful to Clement, but he laid it to the management of the hotel.

There were limits to his insanity, and he did not follow the girl out
on the veranda, but when Mr. Ross came down a few minutes later to get
a cigar Clement plucked the proprietor of the hotel by the arm.

"Introduce me to Mr. Ross, won't you?"

The landlord beamed. "Certainly, Mr. Clement." He took Mr. Ross by the
lapel familiarly. "Ah, good-morning, Mr. Ross. Mr. Ross, let me
introduce my friend, Mr. Clement; Mr. Clement you may have heard of as
the owner of 'The Witch' and the 'Old Wisconse.'"

Mr. Ross shook hands. He was not exactly uncivil, but he was
cool--very cool. "I have heard of Mr. Clement," he said. He softened a
little as he got a good look at the powerful, clear-eyed young fellow.

The landlord expanded like one who has accomplished a good deed. "I
thought so, I thought so. Mr. Clement, let me say, is a square
business man. Whatever he offers you is worth the price!" He winked at
Clement as he turned away.

Clement began, "I beg your pardon, Mr. Ross, for taking this liberty,
but I wanted to know you and took the first chance that offered. I
have no mine to sell--I want to know you--that's all. I wanted to meet
somebody outside the mining interest. I saw you and your daughter at
the pavilion last night. She seems to be not--very strong." He
hesitated in his attempt to describe his impression of her.

The father's theme was touched upon now. "No, poor girl, she is in bad
condition, but I think she's better. The air seems not to have made
her worse, at any rate. I haven't much faith in climate, but I believe
she has improved since we left Kansas City and began to rise."

He had a marvelous listener in Clement, and they consumed three
cigars apiece while he told of the doctors he had tried and of the
different kinds of air and water they had sought.

His eyes were wet and his voice was tremulous.

"The fact is, Mr. Clement, she don't seem to care about living--that's
what scares me. She's just as sweet and lovely as an angel. She
responds to any suggestion, 'Very well, papa,' but I can see she does
it for me. She herself has lost all hope. It ain't even that--she has
lost care about it. She is indifferent. She is going away from me just
because I can't rouse her----"

He frankly broke down and stopped, and Clement felt his throat swell
too tight for speech at the moment.

They sat for a time in silence; at last Clement said:

"Mr. Ross, you don't know me except as a lucky man--but I have a favor
to ask: it is to meet your daughter."

There was something very winning in the young man's voice and manner,
and Mr. Ross could see no objection to it, and it might interest
Ellice to meet this man who had stumbled upon a gold mine. "Very well,
suppose we go up now," he said, almost without hesitation.

The girl was alone, seated in an easy-chair in the sun--her head only
in shadow. The father spoke in a low and very tender voice, "Ellice, I
want to present Mr. Clement. Mr. Clement, my daughter Ellice."

The impossible had come to pass! As Clement bent down and took her
hand and looked into her eyes his heart seemed to stop death-still for
a few seconds--then something new and inexplicable took possession of
him, and he stood before her calm and clear-eyed. "Don't move," he
commanded, "I will draw a chair near you."

Mr. Ross said they had been having a long talk, and she listened,
smiling the while that hopeless smile. Then the father rose and said:
"Where is Aunt Sarah? I want to go down to the telegraph office."

The girl spoke in the quiet, tranquil voice of one to whom such things
have no importance. "I don't know, papa. A moment ago she was saying
something to me, and now she is gone. That is all I know. Never mind;
she'll be here in a moment."

"I'll be back in ten minutes."

"I am all right, papa. If I need anything Mr. Clement can call Aunt."

There was a pause after Mr. Ross went. Then she added in the same
gentle, emotionless way: "Poor papa! He is a martyr to me. He thinks
he must sit by me always. I think he fears I may die while he is
gone."

Clement leaned forward till his eyes were on a level with those of the
girl, and his voice was very calm and penetrating as he said:

"What can I do for you, Miss Ross? I have the profoundest conviction
that I can do you good."

A startled look came into the big brown eyes. She looked at him as a
babe might, striving to comprehend.

He went on, "Here I am a millionaire, a strong young man--what can I
do for you?"

"I think I understand you," she said slowly. "It's very good of you,
but you can do nothing."

"It is impossible," he broke forth in answer, and his voice gave her a
perceptible shock. "There must be something I can do. If it will help
you there is my arm--its blood is yours." He stammered a little. "It
isn't right that one so young and beautiful should die. We won't let
you die. There must be something I can do. This wind and sun--and the
good water will work with us to do you good."

His voice moved her, and she smiled with the tears on her lashes. "It
does me good just to look at you. You are so big and brown. I saw you
at the spring last night. Perhaps I have come at last----" She
coughed--a weak, flat sound which made him shudder.

She tried to reassure him. "Really, I have coughed less than at any
time during the last five months."

He faced her again. "Miss Ross, I felt last night a sudden desire to
help you. I believed I had the power to help you--I don't know
why--I'm not a healer." He smiled for the first time. "But I felt
perfectly sure I could do you good. I feel that way now. I never had
such a feeling toward any person before. It is just as strange to me
as it is to you."

She was looking at him now with musing eyes.

"That is the curious part of it," she said. "It doesn't seem strange
at all. It seems as if I had been wanting to hear your voice--as if I
had known of you all my life----" She tried to suppress her coughing,
and he was in agony during the paroxysm. The nurse came hurrying out,
and while he waited at one side Clement felt that if he could have
taken her by the hands he could have prevented it. It was a singular
conviction, but it was most definite, and had a peculiar air of
actuality.

When she lay quiet he approached again and said: "I'll go now. I must
not tire you. But remember, I'm going to come and see you, and I'm
going to do you good. Every time I see you I am going to will to you
some of my vitality--my love of life. For I love life--it is beautiful
to live."

She gave him her hand, and he bowed and left her.

She lay quietly after he went away and smiled, a little, wan smile,
which made her pallor the more pitiful. It was all so romantic and
wonderful--this big man's coming. He was so unspoiled and so direct of
manner. She had the hope he would come again, and it seemed not
impossible that he might help her, his voice was so stirring and his
hands so big and strong.

Yet she was beyond the reach of even the conjectures of passion. She
had come to a certain exterior resignation to her fate. The world had
lost its poignant interest--it was now a pageant upon which she was
looking for the last time, yet she was too tired, too indifferent to
lift her hand to stay it in its course even had it been within her
power.

At times, however, she rebelled at her fate. There were hours, even
yet, when she lay alone in her bed hearing her father's regular
stertorous breathing till a great wave of longing to live swept upon
her, and she was forced to turn her face to her pillow to stifle her
mingled coughing and sobbing.

"Oh, Father, let me live! I want to live like other women. Oh, dear
Father, grant me a little life!"

These waves of passionate rebellion left her weaker, sadder, more
indifferent than ever, and as coldly pallid almost as if death had
already claimed her.

On the night following Clement's talk with her she fell asleep while
musing upon one mind's influence upon another. Perhaps if she could
only believe she might be helped; perhaps he was sent to help her. It
had been long since such a personality had stood before her--indeed,
no such man had ever touched her hand or looked into her eyes.

He came down out of the mountain heights with the elemental vigor of
wind and sun and soil about him like an aura. A man of great natural
refinement, he had grown strong and simple and masterful in his close
contact with Nature. The clay that might have brutalized another
nature had made him a mystic.

There was something mysterious in his eyes, in the clasp of his hand.
The world was all inexplicable to her anyhow. Perhaps God had sent him
to help her just as He sends healing water down from the mountain
peaks.

In thinking these things she fell asleep, and it seemed at once that
she was well again, and that she was dressing for a walk. Clement had
called for her to climb the mountains with him, and she was making
preparation to go, working swiftly and unhesitatingly--and it seemed
deliciously sweet to be swift and active once more. She had put on a
short walking-skirt and leggins and was nearly ready. She stood before
the glass to put on her cap, and as she saw how round and pink her
cheeks were she hardly recognized herself.

She seemed to hear his impatient feet outside on the veranda, and she
smiled to think how typical it all was of husbands and wives--and at
that thought her face grew pinker and she turned away--she didn't want
her own eyes to see how she flushed.

But suddenly all warmth--all flushing--left her. She turned cold with
a familiar creep and weakness. She could not proceed. Her glove was
half on, but her strength was not sufficient to pull it further. She
could not lift her feet.

His steady, strong tramp up and down the veranda continued, but she
was in the grasp of her old enemy. A terrible fear and an agony of
desire seized her. She wanted to go out into the bright sunlight with
him, but she could neither move nor whisper. All her resolution, her
hope, fell away, and her heart was heavy and cold. It was all over. He
would wait for a while and then go away, and she would stand there
desolate, helpless, inert as clay, with life dark and empty before
her.

"Oh, if he would only call me!" was her last breath of resolution.

Once, twice the feet went up and down the veranda. Then they paused
before her door.

"Are you ready?" his voice called.

She struggled to speak, but could only whisper, "Yes."

The door swung quickly open and he stood there in the streaming
sunlight of the morning--so tall he was he seemed to fill the
doorway--and he smiled and extended his hands.

"Come," he said, "the sturdy old mountains are wonderfully grand this
morning."

His hand closed over hers, and the sunlight fell upon her, warming her
to the heart, but before she could lift her eyes to the shining peaks
she awoke and found that the morning sun had stolen its way through a
half-opened shutter and lay upon her hand.

At first she was ready to weep with sadness and despair, but as she
thought upon it she came to see in the dream a good omen. It had been
long since she had dreamed a vision of perfect health with no touch of
impotence at its close. There was something of hope in this vision; a
man's hand had broken the spell of weakness.



Part II



_APRIL DAYS_


    _Days of witchery subtly sweet,
    When every hill and tree finds heart,
    When winter and spring like lovers meet
    In the mist of noon and part--
        In the April days._

    _Nights when the wood-frogs faintly peep--
    Tr-eep, tr-eep--and then are still,
    And the woodpeckers' martial voices sweep
    Like bugle-blasts, from hill to hill,
        Through the breathless haze._

    _Days when the soil is warm with rain,
    And through the wood the shy wind steals,
    Rich with the pine and the poplar smell,--
    And the joyous soul like a dancer, reels
        Through the broadening days._

               _--From "Prairie Songs."_



CHAPTER I


This dream gave to Clement, in Ellice's eyes, a glamour of mystery and
power--beyond the subtlety of words, and she met him in a spirit of
awe and wonder, such as a child might feel to find one of its
dream-heroes actually beside the fireside in the full sunlight of the
morning. The fear and agony and joy of the night's vision gave a
singular charm to the meeting.

It startled her to find she still retained the capability of being
moved by the sound of a man's voice. It seemed like a wave of
returning life.

Her heart quickened as she saw him enter the dining-room and look
around for her--and when his eyes fell upon her a light filled his
face which was akin to the morning. She did not attempt to analyze
the emotion thus revealed, but she could not help seeing that he
looked the embodiment of health and happiness.

He wore a suit of light brown corduroy with laced miner's boots, and
they became him very well.

He smiled down at her as he drew near.

"You are better this morning, I can see that."

It was exactly as if he knew of her dream, and that the walk had been
actual, and a flush of pink crept into her face--so faint it was no
one noticed it--while it seemed to her that her cheeks were scarlet.
What magic was this which made her flush--she whom Death had claimed
as his own?

Mr. Ross invited Clement to sit with them, as she hoped he would.
Clement had, indeed, intended to force the invitation. "I'm going for
a gallop this morning," he said in explanation of his dress. "I wish
you could go too," he added, addressing Ellice.

Mr. Ross introduced him to the elderly woman: "Mr. Clement, let me
present you to my sister, Miss Ross."

Miss Ross was plump like her brother, and a handsome woman, but
irritable like him. She complained, also, of the altitude and of the
chill shadows. Neither father nor aunt formed a suitable companion for
the sick girl.

Clement was the antidote. His whole manner of treatment was of the
hopeful, buoyant sort. He spoke of the magnificent weather, of the
mountains, of the purity of the water.

"After I get back from my ride I wish you'd let me come and talk with
you. Perhaps," he added, "you'll be able to walk a little way with
me."

He made the breakfast almost cheerful by his presence, and went away
saying:

"I'll be back by ten o'clock and I shall expect to find you ready for
a walk."

Miss Ross was astonished both at his assurance and at Ellice's
singular interest and apparent acquiescence.

"Well, that is a most extraordinary man. I wonder if that's the
Western way."

"I wish I were able to do as he says," the girl said quietly. The old
people looked up in astonishment.

"Aunt Sarah, I want you to help me dress. I'm going to try to walk a
little."

"Not with that man?" the aunt inquired in protest.

"Yes, Aunt." Her voice was vibrant with fixed purpose.

"But think how you would look leaning on his arm."

"Auntie, dear, I have gone long past that point. It doesn't matter how
it looks. I cannot live merely to please the world. He has asked me,
and if I can I will go."

Mr. Ross broke in, "Why, of course, what harm can it do? I'd let her
lean on the arm of 'Cherokee Bill' if she wanted to." They all smiled
at this, and he added, "The trouble has been she didn't want to do
anything at all, and now she shall do what she likes."

It all seemed very coarse and common now, and she could not tell them
the secret of the dream that had so impressed her, and of her growing
faith that this strong man could help her back to health and life. She
only smiled in her slow, faint way, and made preparation to go with
him who meant so much to her.

He met her on the veranda in a handsome Prince Albert suit of gray
with a broad-brimmed gray hat to match. He looked like some of the
pictures of Western Congressmen she had seen, only more refined and
gentle. He wore his coat unbuttoned, and it had the effect of draping
his tall, erect frame, and the hat suited well with the large lines of
his nose and chin. It seemed to her she had never seen a more striking
and picturesque figure.

"I'll carry you down the stairs if you'll say the word," he said as
they paused a moment at the topmost step.

"Oh, no. I can walk if you will give me time."

"Time! Time is money. I can't afford it." He stooped and lifted her in
his right arm, and before she could protest he was half way down the
stairway. He laughed at the horrified face of the aunt. He was
following impulses now. As they walked side by side slowly--she, not
without considerable effort--up toward the spring, he said abruptly,
but tenderly:

"You must think you're better--that's half the battle. See that
stream? Some day I'm going to show you where it starts. Do you know if
you drink of that water up at its source above timber-line it will
cure you?"

She saw his intent and said, "I'm afraid I'll be cured before I get to
the spring."

"I'm going to make it my aim in life to see you drink at that pool."
His directness and simplicity stimulated her like some mediæval
elixir. He made her forget her pain. They did not talk much until they
were seated on one of the benches near the fountain.

"Sit in the sun," he commanded. "Don't be afraid of the sun. You hear
people talk about the sun's rays breeding disease. The sun never does
that. It gives life. Beware of the shadow," he added, and she knew he
meant her mental indifference. They had a long talk on the bench. He
told her of his family, of himself.

"You see," he said, "father had only a small business, though he
managed to educate me, and, later, my brother. But when he died it had
less value, for I couldn't hold the trade he had and times were
harder. I kept brother at college during his last two years, and when
he came out I gave the business to him and got out. He was about to
marry, and the business wouldn't support us both. I was always
inclined to adventure anyway. Gold Creek was in everybody's mouth, so
I came here.

"Oh, that was a wonderful time; the walk across the mountains was like
a story to me. I liked the newness of everything in the camp. It was
glorious to hear the hammers ringing, and see the new pine buildings
going up--and the tent and shanties. It was rough here then, but I had
little to do with that. I staked out my claim and went to digging. I
knew very little about mining, but they were striking it all around
me, and so I kept on. Besides"--here he looked at her in a curiously
shy way--"I've always had a superstition that just when things were
worst with me they were soonest to turn to the best, so I dug away. My
tunnel went into the hill on a slight upraise, and I could do the work
alone. You see I had so little money I didn't want to waste a cent.

"But it all went at last for powder and the sharpening of picks, and
for assaying--till one morning in August I found myself without money
and without food."

He paused there, and his face grew dark with remembered despair, and
she shuddered.

"It must be terrible to be without food and money."

"No one knows what it means till he experiences it. I worked all day
without food. It seemed as if I must strike it then. Besides, I took a
sort of morbid pleasure in abusing myself--as if I were to blame. I
had been living on canned beans, and flapjacks, and coffee without
milk or sugar, and I was weak and sick--but it all had to end. About
four o'clock I dropped my pick and staggered out to the light. It was
impossible to do anything more."

There were tears in her eyes now, for his voice unconsciously took on
the anguish of that despair.

"I sat there looking out toward the mountains and down on the camp.
The blasts were booming from all hills--the men were going home with
their dinner-pails flashing red in the setting sun's light. It was
terrible to think of them going home to supper. It seemed impossible
that I should be sitting there starving, and the grass so green, the
sunset so beautiful. I can see it all now as it looked then, the old
Sangre de Christo range! It was like a wall of glistening marble that
night.

"Well, I sat there till my hunger gnawed me into action. Then I
staggered down the trail. I saw how foolish I had been to go on day
after day hoping, hoping until the last cent was gone. I hadn't money
enough to pay the extra postage on a letter which was at the office.
The clerk gave me the letter and paid the shortage himself. The letter
was from my sister, telling me how peaceful and plentiful life was at
home, and it made me crazy. She asked me how many nuggets I had found.
You can judge how that hurt me. I reeled down the street, for I must
eat or die, I knew that."

"Oh, how horrible!" the girl said softly.

"There was one eating-house at which I always took my supper. It was
kept by an Irish woman, a big, hearty woman whose husband was a
prospector--or had been. 'Biddy Kelly's' was famous for its 'home
cooking.' I went by the door twice, for I couldn't bring myself to go
in and ask for a meal. You don't know how hard that is--it's very
queer, if a man has money he can ask for credit or a meal, but if he
is broke he'll starve first. I could see Biddy waiting on the
tables--the smell that came out was the most delicious, yet
tantalizing, odor of beef-stew--it made me faint with hunger."

His voice grew weak and his throat dry as he spoke.

"When I did enter, Dan looked up and said respectfully, 'Good-evenin',
Mr. Clement,' and I felt so ashamed of my errand I turned to run.
Everything whirled then--and when I got my bearings again Dan had me
on one arm and Biddy was holding a bowl of soup to my lips."

The girl sighed. "Oh, she was good, wasn't she?"

"They fed me, for they could see I was starving, and I told them
about the mine--and, well, some way I got them to 'grub-stake' me that
night."

"What is that?"

"That is, they agreed to furnish me food and money for tools and share
in profits. Dan went to work with me, and do you know, it ended in
ruining them both. We organized a company called the 'Biddy Mining
Company.' I was president, and Dan was vice-president, and Biddy was
treasurer. Biddy kept us going by her eating-house, but eventually we
wanted machinery, and we mortgaged the eating-house, and the money
went into that hole in the ground. But I knew we would succeed. I
could hear voices call me, 'Come, come!'--whenever I was alone I could
hear them plainly."

His eyes, turned upon her, were full of mystery.

"I have always felt the stir of life around me in the dark, and there
in that mine--after we struck the spring of water--I thought I heard
voices all the time in the plash of the water. I suppose it seemed
like insanity, for I ruined Dan and Biddy without mercy. I couldn't
stop. I was sure if we could only hold out a little while we would
reach it. But we didn't. Biddy had to go to work as a cook, and Dan
and I went out to try to borrow some money. I couldn't bear to let in
somebody else after all the heat and toil Dan and Biddy and I had
endured, but it had to be done. We took in a fellow from Iowa by the
name of Eldred and went to work again.

"One day after our blast I was the first to enter, and the moment that
I saw the heap of rock I knew we had opened the vein. My wildest
dreams were realized!"

"And then your troubles ended," the girl said tenderly.

"No--for now a strange thing happened. The assayer tried our ore again
and again and found it very rich, but when we shipped to the mills we
got almost no returns. We tried every process, but the gold seemed to
slip away from us. Finally I took a carload and went with it to see
what was the matter. I followed it till it came out on the
plates--that is where they catch the gold by the use of quicksilver
spread on copper plates--and it seemed all right. I scraped some of it
up and put it into a small vial to take home with me. When I got home
the company assembled to hear my report, and when I took out the
amalgam to show it to them it had turned to a queer yellow-green
liquid. I was astounded, but Dan and Biddy crossed themselves. 'It's
witch's gold,' Biddy said. 'Dan, have no more to do with it.' And
witch's gold it was. They gave up right there and went back to work in
the camp. Eldred cursed me for getting him into it, and so they left
me to fight it out alone. I was like a monomaniac--I never thought of
giving up. I begged a little money from my brother and bought in all
the stock of the 'Biddy Mining Company,' and went to work to solve the
mystery of the amalgam. I was a good pupil in chemistry at college,
and I put my whole life and brain into that mystery and I solved it. I
found a way to treat it so all the gold was saved. That made me rich.
I called the mine 'The Witch,' and it has made me what you see."

"It is like a fairy tale! What became of your faithful friends, Dan
and Biddy?"

"I made Dan my foreman of the mine, and I built an eating-house and
hotel for Biddy. They are with me yet. Eldred I bought out on the same
terms as the rest."

He had a sudden sensation of heat in his face as he passed the chasm
between the withdrawal of Dan and Biddy from the firm and his solution
of the amalgam. He did not care to dwell upon that, because Eldred had
sued him to recover his stock, claiming that it was bought in under
false pretenses. Neither did he care to enter into the stormy time
which followed the sudden leap of "The Witch" from a haunted hole in
the ground to a cave of diamonds. He hurried on to the end while she
listened in absorbed interest like a child to a wonder story.

She sighed in the world-old manner of women and said:

"And I--I have done nothing worth telling. I ruined my health by
careless living at school, and here I am, a cumberer of the earth."

Some men would have hastened to be complimentary, but Clement remained
silent. He was trying to understand her mood that he might meet it in
a helpful way.

"But if I am permitted to live I shall be different. I will do
something."

"First of all, get well," he said, and his words had the force of a
command. "Give me your hand."

She complied, and he took it in a firm clasp. "Now I want you to
promise me you'll turn your mind from darkness to the light, from the
cañons to the peaks--that you will determine to live. Do you
promise?"

"I promise."

"Very well. I shall see that you keep that promise."



CHAPTER II


It was rather curious to see that as she grew in strength Clement lost
in assertiveness--in his feeling of command. He began to comprehend
that with returning health the girl was not altogether pitiable. She
had culture, social position and wealth.

The distinction of his readily-acquired millions grew to be a very
poor possession in his own mind--in fact, he came at last to such
self-confessed utter poverty of mind and body that he wondered at her
continued toleration. He ceased to plead any special worthiness on his
own part and began to throw himself on her mercy.

As the time came on when she no longer needed his arm for support he
found it hard to offer it as an act of gallantry. In fact, in that
small act was typified the change which he came ultimately to assume.
At first she had seemed to him like an angelic child. Death's shadows
had made him bold--but now he could not deceive himself: he was coming
to love her in a very human and definite fashion. He dared not refer
to the past in any way, and his visits grew more and more formal and
carefully accounted for.

She thought she understood all this, and was serenely untroubled by
it. She brooded over the problem with dreamful lips and half-shut
eyes. She was drifting back to life on a current of mountain air
companioned by splendid clouds, and her content was like to the
lotus-eater's languor--it held no thought of time or tide.

That she idealized him was true, but he grew richly in grace. All the
small amenities of conduct which he once possessed came back to him.
He studied to please her, and succeeded in that as in his other
ventures. He did not exactly abandon his business, but he came to
superintend his superintendents.

However, he attached a telephone to his mine in order to be able to
direct his business from the Springs. He still roomed at the hotel,
though Ellice was living in a private house farther up the cañon. His
rooms were becoming filled with books and magazines, and he was
struggling hard to "catch up" with the latest literature.

If Ellice referred to any book, even in the most casual way, he made
mental note of it, and if he had read it he re-read it, and if he had
not read it he secured it at once.

"I know something of chemistry and mineralogy, and geology and milling
processes, but of art and literature very little," he said to her
once. "But give me time."

The highest peaks were white with September snows before she felt able
to mount a horse. Each day she had been able to go a little farther
and climb a little higher. Her gain was slow, very slow, but it was
almost perceptible from day to day.

Mr. Ross had been to Chicago, and was once more at the Springs. He
had brought a couple of nieces, very lively young creatures, who
annoyed Clement exceedingly by their impertinence--at least, that is
what he called their excessive interest in his affairs. Without the
co-operation of Ellice he would have found little chance to see her
alone, but she had a quiet way of letting them know when she found
them a burden, which they respected.

One day he said to her, "Have you forgotten what I said to you about
the spring up there?"

"No, I have not forgotten. Do you think I can go now? Am I really well
enough to go?"

"The time has come."

"What would the doctor say?"

"The doctor--do you still heed what he says?"

"Must I walk?"

"Yes, to have the water heal you. But I will lead old Wisconse for you
to ride down."

"After I am healed?"

"One can be cured and yet be tired."

They set off in such spirits as children have, old Wisconse leading
soberly behind.

Clement was obliged to check the girl.

"Now don't go too fast. It is a long way up there. I warn you it is
almost at timber-line."

But she paid small heed to his warning. She felt so light, so active,
it seemed she could not tire.

For a time they followed the wide road which climbed steadily, but at
last he stopped.

"Now here we strike the trail," he said. "You must go ahead, for I am
to lead the horse."

"Not far ahead," she exclaimed, a little bit alarmed.

"Only two steps." He was a little amused at her. "Just so I will not
tread on your heels."

"You needn't laugh. I know they hunt bears up here."

They climbed for some time in comparative silence.

"Oh, how much greener it is up here!" she exclaimed at last, looking
around, her eyes bright with excitement.

He smiled indulgently. "You tourists think you know Colorado when
you've crossed it once on the railway. This is the Colorado which you
seldom see."

She was in rapture over the glory of color, the waving grasses of
smooth hillsides, and the radiant dapple of light and shadow beneath
the groves of vivid yellow aspens. The cactus and Spanish dagger, and
the ever-present sage bush of the lower levels, had disappeared,
crow's-foot and blue-joint grasses swung in the wind. The bright flame
of the painted cup and the purple of the asters still lighted up the
aisles of the pines in sheltered places.

"There are many more in August," he explained. "The frost has swept
them all away."

"Is this our stream?" she asked.

"Yes, we cross it many times."

"How small it is."

"Are you tired?"

"Not at all."

He came close to her to listen to her breathing. "You must not do too
much. If you find yourself out of breath stop and ride."

"I want to be cured."

He laughed. "By the way you lead up this trail I don't think you need
medicine. I never finish wondering whether you are the same girl I met
first----"

She flashed a glance back at him. "I'm not. I'm another person."

"That shows what three months of this climate will do."

"Climate did not do it."

"What did?"

"You did." She kept marching steadily forward, her head held very
straight indeed.

"I wish you would wait a moment," he pleaded.

"I am very thirsty--I want to reach the spring."

"But, dear girl, you can't keep this up."

"Can't I? Watch me and see."

She seemed possessed of some miraculous staff, for she mounted the
steep trail as lightly as a fawn. Clement was in an agony of
apprehension lest she should overdo and fall fainting in the path.
This ecstasy of activity was most dangerously persistent.

It was past noon when they came out of the aspens and pines into the
little smooth slope of meadow which lay between the low peaks which
were already crusted with snow. In the midst of the orange and purple
and red of the grasses lay a deep, dark pool of water--as beautiful as
her eyes, it seemed to him.

"Here is the spring," Clement called to the girl.

"I knew it," she said.

"Wait," he called again. "I must drink with you."

He hastened up and dipped a cup into the water and handed it to her.

"Now drink confusion to disease."

"Confusion!" She drank. "Oh, isn't it sweet? I never knew before how
good water was. But here, drink. You are dying of thirst, too." She
handed him the cup.

"I want to drink to some purpose also," he said, and there was no need
of further words, but he went on, his full heart giving eloquence to
his lips, "I want to pledge my life to your service--my life and all I
am."

She grew a little pale. This intensity of emotion awed her as the
majestic in Nature affects great souls. "I don't think you ought. I
don't think I am quite worthy."

"Let me be judge of that." He spoke quickly and almost sharply. "Shall
I drink?"

She had walked on while Clement was speaking, and stood leaning
against the browsing horse. After a little hesitation she answered,
"If you are thirsty."

[Illustration]

The words were light, but he understood her. He drank and then came
straight toward her.

She shrank from him in sudden timidity and said a little hurriedly,
"Help me into the saddle. I shall need to ride back."



_WESTWARD VISTA_


        _The half-sunk sun
    Burns through the dusty-crimson sky;
    Streamers of gold and green soar
    In radiating splendor, like the spokes
    Of God's unmeasurable chariot-wheels
    Half-hid and vanishing.
    Around me is coolness, ripeness and repose;
    The smell of gathered grain and fruits,
    And the musky breath of melons fills the air.
    The very dust is fruity, and the click
    Of locusts' wings is like the close
    Of gates upon great stores of wheat.
    The gathered barley bleaches in shock,
    The corn breathes on me from the west,
    And the sky-line widens on and on
    Until I see the waves of yellow-green
    Break on the hills that face the snow and lilac peaks
    Of Colorado's mountains._



CHAPTER I


At first Clement's happiness had no further base of uneasiness than
the lover's fear of loss. It all seemed too good to be true, and he
had a hidden fear that something might happen to set him back where he
was before she came. It was quite like his feeling about his mine--it
took him a certain length of time before he ceased to dream of its
sudden loss, and now it seemed (when absent from her) that it would be
easy for something to rob him of this love which was his life.

This feeling was mixed, too, with a feeling of his unworthiness, which
deepened the more closely he studied her. She was so free from all
bruise and stain of life's battle. There were no questionable places
in her life. Could he say as much?

Whenever he asked himself the question his dealings with the
stockholders of "The Biddy" came into his mind. Could he afford to
tell his bride all the facts in the case? This feeling of
dissatisfaction with himself led him to do many extravagant things. He
presented her with beautiful and costly jewels for which she had
little taste.

"Why, Richard. What made you think of that?" she said once after he
had slipped away to the city to buy her something.

"Is it so very pretty?"

"It is beautiful! But can we afford such things?"

"We can afford anything that will make you happy."

He made a similar answer when she drew back a little startled at the
cost of the house he had contracted for.

"Why, it is a palace!"

"The best is scarcely good enough for you." After a moment he added,
"You see, I know you can never live East again, and I want you to
have all the comforts of a palace out here. And so long as 'The Witch'
holds out you shall have your heart's desire."

Mr. Ross had come to have a profound respect for his future
son-in-law. "I can't say that he don't make as much of a fool of
himself as any prospective bridegroom, but he is a business man at the
same time. He don't lose his head, by any means." He was telling his
son about Clement. "He is devoted to your sister, but I went over to
his mine with him the other day and it is perfectly certain that he
understands his business. He is only reckless when buying things for
Ellice. He'll take care of her and the mine, too."

Clement felt a certain incongruity every time he put on his miner's
dress and went through the mine. "I'm too rough for her, too old," he
kept thinking--trying to conceal the real cause of his growing fear.

He was not honest with himself. He fought round the real point of
danger. He gave a generous sum to the library, aided a hospital, and
did other things which should ease a bad conscience, and yet do not.
He hastened the house forward, and passed to and fro between his mine,
the Springs and the city in ceaseless activity.

The marriage was set for July, just a year from the time he first saw
her, and the winter passed quickly, so busied was he in building and
planning the home. He grew less and less buoyant and more careworn as
spring wore on, and Ellice could not understand the change. He was
moody and changeable even in her presence. This troubled her, and she
often asked:

"What is the matter, Richard? Is your business going wrong?"

"No, oh no. Business is all right. Nothing is the matter." And ended
by convincing her that something was very much wrong indeed. And she
grieved in silence, not daring to question him further.

The self-revealing touch came to him in a curious way only a few days
before their wedding day. He was in camp on a final inspection of his
mine, and was walking the streets at night, silent, self-absorbed and
gloomy. He had grown morbid and unwholesome in his thought, and the
wreck of his happiness seemed already complete. He spent a great deal
of time in long and lonely walks.

The street swarmed with rough, noisy miners. A band of evangelists,
with drums and tambourines, occupied the central corner. A low,
continuous hum of talk could be heard at the base of all other noises.

Being in no mood for companionship Clement stood aside from it all,
thinking how far above all this life his beautiful bride was.

There had been in the camp for some weeks a certain sensational
evangelist--a man of some power, but of unhappy disposition
apparently. At any rate he had been in much trouble with the city
authorities. He had been called a "hypocrite and fake" in the public
press, and had been prosecuted for disturbance of the peace. But he
seemed to thrive on such treatment.

Clement had paid very little attention to the man and his troubles,
but as he looked down the street at the crowd around the speakers on
the corner it occurred to him to wonder if they were the fighting
evangelists.

He was about to move that way when he observed near him in the dark
middle of the street a man and a woman.

"This will do as well as anywhere," the man said, putting down a small
box. He wore a broad cowboy hat, and a long coat which hung unbuttoned
down his powerful figure. The woman was tall and slender, and neatly
dressed in gray. Clement understood that these were the persecuted
ones.

The man mounted the box, and in a powerful but not very musical voice
began to sing a hymn full of cowboy slang. His singing had a quality
not usual in street singers, and a crowd quickly gathered about him.
His song was long and not without a rude poetry. He began his address
at last by issuing a defiance to his enemies. This would mean little
in an Eastern village, perhaps, but in a mining camp, even a
degenerate mining camp, it might mean a great deal--life or death, in
fact.

"Now, gentlemen, I want to say something as a preface in order to know
just where we stand. Some citizens of the town have vilified me in
private and in the public press--over an assumed name, however. It
wouldn't be healthy for any man to do it openly. The man is a
liar--but I don't care about myself. It is a little difference of
opinion among men, but some miscreant has reflected upon the good name
of my wife. Now let me say that the man that says my wife is not a
lady and a woman of the highest character, insults the mother of my
children and will answer to me for every word he utters."

A little thrill of interest and awe ran through the crowd. The man's
voice meant battle, and battle to the hilt of the bowie. It was so
easy to prove a mark for desperate men, but there was no fear in the
attitude of the speaker. He had come up through a wild life, and knew
his audience, his accuser and himself.

His voice took a sudden change--it grew tender and reverent. "I am
here to preach the gospel of Christ and Him crucified. I may not do it
in the best way always, but I do it as well as I know how." Here his
tone grew severely earnest and savage again, as he added: "But I shall
defend the honor of my wife with my life."

His voice and pose were magnificent--lion-like.

His manner changed again with dramatic suddenness. He took the whole
street into his confidence.

"I love my wife, gentlemen. She has borne three children to me. She is
a good woman. A mighty sight smarter and better than I am, but she
can't defend herself against sneaks and reptilious liars. I can.
That's part of my business. I tell you, boys," he added in a low voice
very sincere and winning, "they ain't no man good enough to marry a
good woman; it's just her good, pure, kind heart gives him any show at
all."

A sudden lump rose in Clement's throat. The man's deep humility and
loyalty and apparent sincerity had gone straight to his own heart and
touched him in a very sensitive place. He turned away and sought the
deeper shadow with his head bowed in black despair.

He thought of the eyes of his bride with a shudder almost of fear.
Could he ever face her again?

"Oh, God! How pure and dainty and unspotted she is, and I--I am
unclean."

He saw as clearly as if a light had been turned in upon his secret
thought, that the ownership of "The Witch" was in question. He had not
been candid with her--he had been dishonest. He had not dared to let
her know how he had secured control of that stock.

All the way back to the Springs he wrestled with himself about it. He
ended by reasserting the justice of his position, and resolved to tell
her at once the whole story and let her judge. He had in his pocket
the deed to the house and lot, which he determined now to give her at
once, and to make explanations at the same time.

This he did. He called to see her the following afternoon and found
her surrounded with women and gowns and flowers. The women fled when
he approached, but the gowns and flowers remained, and there was talk
upon them till at last, in sheer desperation, Clement said:

"Ellice, here is something that I want to give you now. It is my
wedding gift."

He placed in her hand the deed. She looked at it.

"Oh, there's so much fine print. I can't read it now. What is it?"

"It is the deed to the new home."

Her eyes misted with quick emotion.

"How good you are to me, Richard."

"No, it's precaution," he replied as lightly as he could. "We will
have a home always if you don't lose it in some wild speculation."

She put her arms about his neck, an infrequent caress with her.

"How rich we are. God is good to us. And is it not good to think that
our wealth does not come from anybody's misery? It comes out of the
earth like a spring--like the spring that made me well."

As he looked down into her face it seemed lit from within by some
Heavenly light, and her voice made his head grow dizzy. He could not
tell her his story then.

He sat down and listened to her talk. She wanted to know what troubled
him, and he was forced to lie.

"Oh, nothing. I'm a little worried about a--new piece of machinery."
This gave him a thought. "I must be away this evening. I can't take
dinner with you."

She was not one of those who worry with expostulations or
complainings. She had a mind of her own, and she granted the same
decision to others.

"Very well," she said, and she flashed a sudden roguish look at him.
"Don't forget to breakfast with me."

He had the grace to return her smile as he said:

"Oh, I'll not forget. I've charged my mind with it."

His going was like a flight. His inner cry was this:

"My God! I am absolutely unworthy of her. I am big, coarse and
dishonest--unfit to touch her hand."

His gloomy face and bent head was a subject of joke for the
acquaintances he met on the street.

"Saddle Susanna," he called sharply to his Mexican hostler. He had
made up his mind to radical measures.

As he sat in his room with his face buried in his hands shutting out
the light of the splendid sunset, he saw her as she sat among her soft
silks and dainty flowers. Her lovely eyes and the exquisite texture of
her skin grew more and more wonderful to him. The touch of his lips to
hers came to seem an act of pollution, almost of envenoming, as he
brooded on his unworthiness.

He wrote a note to her on the impulse of the moment. The missive read:

     "I am not fit to see you, to touch you. I am going away
     across the divide to make restitution for a great wrong I
     have done. If I do not I can never face you again. When I
     see you again I will be an honest man, or I--if you think me
     worthy of forgiveness I will see you and ask it to-morrow.
                                                  RICHARD."

He added as a postscript:

     "I am well. I am not crazy, but I am not an honest man. I
     can't kiss you again till I am."

Upon reading this note he saw it would frighten her, and keep her in
agony of suspense, therefore he tore it up, and rushing out of the
house leaped into the saddle.

The spirited little broncho was fresh and mettlesome, and went off in
a series of sheeplike bounds which her rider seemed not to notice.

He drew rein at the telegraph office, and there sent three telegrams.
They were all alike:

     "Meet me at the office at midnight. Important."

As he turned Susanna's head up the trail the mountains stood deep
purple silhouettes against the cloudlessness of the sky. The wind blew
from the heights cool and fragrant, and the little horse set nostril
to it as if she anticipated and welcomed the hard ride.

The way lay over forbidding mountain passes ten thousand feet above
the sea, and her rider was a heavy man. But Susanna was of broncho
strain with a blooded sire, which makes the hardiest and swiftest
mountain horse in the world.

Clement's mind cleared as he began the ascent--cleared but did not
rest. Over and over the problem came, each time clearer and more
difficult. He must that night give away a hundred and thirty-five
thousand dollars--terrible ordeal! Ninety thousand dollars to go to an
old Irishman and his wife--both ignorant, careless.

What would they do with it? It might drive them crazy. As they now
lived they were comfortable. He had made Dan sub-superintendent of the
mine, and he had rebuilt the eating-house for Biddy. Could they take
care of the big fortune he was about to give them?

Ought he not to give them a few thousands--such sum as they could
comprehend and take care of? Would it not be better for them?

Then there was forty-five thousand dollars to be given to a cheap
little man--that was hardest of all, for he had come to hate the sight
of the sleek black head of Arthur Eldred. Yes, but he had saved the
day. He had put in six hundred dollars when every dollar was a ducat.
True, but the reward was too great. A hundred thousand dollars for six
hundred.

Oh, this was familiar ground! He had gone over it in a sort of
sub-conscious way a hundred times, each time apparently the final one.
It had been quite settled when this slender little woman first lifted
her face to him, and now nothing was settled.

It was very still and cold. There was no stream to sing up through the
pines, and no wind in the pines to answer should the stream call.
Nothing seemed to be stirring save the pensive man and his faithful
pony.

Reaching the upper levels he spurred on at a gallop, finding some
relief in the pounding action of the saddle and in the rush of air
past his ears. The moon was late, but when it came it seemed to help
him, lightening his mood as it lightened the trail. The big ledges and
lowering, lesser peaks lifted into the dark sky weirdly translucent,
and their upper edges seemed smooth and graceful as the rims of
bubbles. Solid rock seemed melted and transfused with light and air.
It was all miraculously beautiful, and the sore-hearted man lifted his
eyes to the heights seeing the face of a girl in every moonlit rock
and in every wayside pool.

As he entered the office he found them all waiting for him--Dan and
Biddy in their best dress, and Eldred with a supercilious half-grin,
half-scowl on his face.

Clement nodded at him, but said "Hello" to Dan and "Good-evening" to
Biddy. Conly, his trusted, discreet cashier, was at his desk, and the
office was dimly lit with a single electric bulb.

Dan and Biddy greeted him cautiously, for Eldred had filled their
simple souls with suspicion. "He wants to compromise. He's afraid of
our suit against him."

As a matter of fact Dan would never put a dollar into the plan for a
suit, and it had never gone beyond Eldred's talk--and yet he had made
them suspicious. Dan was forced to confess that Clement was becoming
an "a-ristocrat." And Biddy acknowledged that he "sildom dairkened her
dure these days." They had always felt his superiority and refinement,
and they rose as he entered.

He wasted no time in preliminaries. "Sit down," he said imperiously,
and his face, when he turned to the light, was knotted with trouble.
He sat for a moment with bent head while he strengthened his heart to
a bitter and humiliating task. He began abruptly:

"Dan, you remember the time I brought the amalgam home in a vial and
it had turned green?"

"I do. Yis."

"You remember that you gave it up right then."

"I did. I said it's 'witch's gould.'"

"Sure such it looked like that day," said Biddy.

"All the same, the thing which scared you put a happy thought into my
head, and I felt then I could solve it." He lifted his head and looked
around defiantly. "In short, when I bought your stock in at ten cents
on the dollar I knew it was worth par, for I had solved the process."

There was a silence very awesome following the defiant ring of the
voice.

Eldred was the first to comprehend what it meant. His eyes glittered
like those of an awakened rat.

"Do you mean that? If that's true you robbed us, you thief, robbed us
cold and clean." He sprang up. "I knew you'd do something----"

"Sit down," interrupted Clement harshly. "I'm not going to have any
words with you. If I had seen fit not to tell you of this how much
would you have known of it? Sit down and keep your tongue between your
teeth." He turned to Dan and his voice was softer. "Dan, when I was
hungry you took me in and fed me. For that I've given you a good
position. Is that debt paid?"

"Sure, Clement, me boy, it was only a sup of p'taties an' bacon,
annyway."

"Biddy, I turned over two thousand dollars to you, and rebuilt your
eating-house. You thought that paid the debt I owed you?"

Biddy was slower to answer. "For all the grub an' the loikes o' that,
indade yis, Mr. Clement--but sure we wor pardners----"

Clement interrupted. "I know. I'm coming to that. Now answer me. If it
hadn't been for me wouldn't you have thrown up the sponge long before
you did?"

The silence of the little group answered him.

"Would any of you ever have worked out the mystery of that ore?
Weren't you all anxious to sell for anything you could get?"

They were all silent as before.

"I made the mine worth money. I discovered the secret, it was my
invention. I paid you four times what you had put into it. The mine
was worthless until I invented a process for saving the gold. I
claimed it as an invention like any man claims a patent right. I
believed I had a right to it--to all of it, and so I bought in your
stock after I had solved the problem of the reduction. I say I
believed I was right--to-night I believe I was wrong--it don't matter
how I came to the conclusion, but I've changed my mind. I have come
to-night to make restitution. I am ready to pay you ninety cents more
on every dollar of stock you sold me at that time."

Biddy gasped: "Howly Saints!"

Dan leaped up with a wild hurrah. "Listen to that now!" he cried, with
other incoherences. He shook Clement's hand and kissed Biddy. He
praised Clement.

"Ye're the whitest man that iver stepped green turf."

Clement sat coldly impassive and unsmiling.

"Then you're satisfied?"

"Satisfied!" shouted Dan. "Satisfied is it, man? Indade I am."

"And you, Biddy?"

Biddy was weeping and muttering wild Irish prayers. "Dan, dear, do ye
understand, it's forty-five thousand dollars apiece to the two of us.
Oh, the blessed old Ireland! I'll go back sure. Oh, it's too good to
be true--we must be dramin'."

Clement looked at the distracted woman with a flush of
self-righteousness. He had been right in his fears. It seemed like to
ruin the simple souls. He turned to Eldred, who sat in silence.

"What have you to say?"

Eldred sneered. "I say you can't fool me. These shares are worth
seventeen dollars and eighty cents each. I want their market value,
not their par value. I want one-quarter the present value of 'The
Witch.'"

Clement's brow darkened and his eyes burned with a fierce steady
light.

"Is that all you want? If I served you right I'd kick you out of the
door and let you do your worst. I know if you sue that you can't
recover one dollar from me. But I have my reasons for putting up with
your insolence. I will pay you forty-five thousand dollars and not one
cent more. The market value of 'The Witch' to-day I have made by my
management. I have gone on improving the mine day by day. As it stands
it is a new property. You were a quarter owner in 'The Biddy.' We
capitalized 'The Biddy' at your own suggestion at two hundred thousand
dollars, because we wanted it big enough to cover all values. When I
render you your share of that I am doing you justice. John, make out
three checks for forty-five thousand dollars each."

Dan and Biddy turned upon Eldred and talked him into silence, but he
was unconvinced.

Clement refused to touch the checks, and the clerk said: "Here is
yours, Biddy."

Biddy went up and took the slip in her hands. "Is that little slip o'
white paper really worth so much?"

"Call at the bank and get your money when you want it," said the
imperturbable cashier.

Dan studied his check, his face foolish with joy.

Eldred took his, saying, "This puts into my hands the means to fight."

Clement merely nodded. "You know my address." Eldred went out without
further word.

When the door closed on him Clement's face lost its sternness, and he
became sad and tender.

His struggle was not yet done. His mind was clear about the man who
came in at the eleventh hour, but it was not clear with regard to
these true-hearted old friends who had been with him from the first.
He recalled the time when Dan's big arm had helped him to a chair, and
Biddy had put the steaming soup before him--food worth all the gold in
the world at that moment. He recalled her broad, kindly face, hot and
shining from the stove; he remembered their struggles, their
sacrifices.

"Wait a moment, Biddy," he said, as they called out "Good-night," and
started to leave.

"Sit down a moment, and you, too, Dan. I want to talk over old times a
while."

They sat down in stupefaction.

"Biddy, do you remember the money you squandered on the lottery
ticket?"

A slow smile broadened her face. "I do, Mister Clement--and I remember
I won the prize sure!"

"You did, and saved all our lives. Dan, do you remember the day we
lost our last five-dollar gold piece in the grass?"

Dan slapped his knee. "Do I? I wore me hands raw as beef combin' the
grass that day."

"Ah, those were great days. We had days when forty-five cents would
have made us joyous, and here you are with ninety thousand dollars,
and wishin' for more."

Dan laughed again. "Sure, that's no lie."

"It is, Dan Kelly," said Biddy. "I have enough--too much. My heart
misgives me now. I'm afraid of it, sure. I'm scared to carry it away
wid me."

"You're safe, Biddy; nobody will steal that check." A sudden impulse
seized him. "Dan, you believed in me in those days--give me that
check." Dan slowly handed to him the check. Clement took it and
turned. "Biddy, you fed me when I was starving, and you pawned
everything you had to 'grub-stake' me--give me your check." She handed
it to him without hesitation. He tore them into small pieces.

"Dan, you are mining boss, and I make you both quarter owners in 'The
Witch' with all I have, and share and share alike, as we did when we
hadn't a dime. Now hurrah for 'The Witch.'"

Nobody shouted but the cashier. Dan sat in a stupor, and Biddy was
weeping, with one arm flung around Dan's neck. Dan was turning his hat
around on his fingers and staring at Clement's face for some solution
to the situation. It was beyond his imagination.

Clement did not speak again for some moments. When he did his voice
was husky and tremulous with emotion. "You notice I say quarter
interest--that's because there is a new member in the firm now. She
comes in to-morrow. I want you to see how she looks." He extended a
picture of Ellice to Biddy. She made a marvelous dramatic shift of
features, and a smile of admiration broke through the red of her broad
countenance.

"Oh, the swate, blessed angel. Sure, she's beautiful as one of the
saints in the church. Luk at her, Dan."

"I'm lukin'. She's none too good for him."

"Don't say that, Dan!" Clement protested in an earnest tone. "All you
have to-night you owe to her. All the best thoughts in me to-day I owe
to her."



CHAPTER II


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





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