The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains by Owen Wister (children's ebooks online .txt) đź“•
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- Author: Owen Wister
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“It had to come,” said he. “And to-day I see my thoughts straighter than I've been up to managing since—since my haid got clear. And now I must say these thoughts—if I can, if I can!” He stopped. His eyes were intent upon her; one hand was gripping the arm of his chair.
“You promised—” trembled Molly.
“I promised you should love me,” he sternly interrupted. “Promised that to myself. I have broken that word.”
She shut DAVID COPPERFIELD mechanically, and grew white.
“Your letter has come to me hyeh,” he continued, gentle again.
“My—” She had forgotten it.
“The letter you wrote to tell me good-by. You wrote it a little while ago—not a month yet, but it's away and away long gone for me.”
“I have never let you know—” began Molly.
“The doctor,” he interrupted once more, but very gently now, “he gave awdehs I must be kept quiet. I reckon yu' thought tellin' me might—”
“Forgive me!” cried the girl. “Indeed I ought to have told you sooner! Indeed I had no excuse!”
“Why, should yu' tell me if yu' preferred not? You had written. And you speak” (he lifted the letter) “of never being able to repay kindness; but you have turned the tables. I can never repay you by anything! by anything! So I had figured I would just jog back to Sunk Creek and let you get away, if you did not want to say that kind of good-by. For I saw the boxes. Mrs. Taylor is too nice a woman to know the trick of lyin', and she could not deceive me. I have knowed yu' were going away for good ever since I saw those boxes. But now hyeh comes your letter, and it seems no way but I must speak. I have thought a deal, lyin' in this room. And—to-day—I can say what I have thought. I could not make you happy.” He stopped, but she did not answer. His voice had grown softer than whispering, but yet was not a whisper. From its quiet syllables she turned away, blinded with sudden tears.
“Once, I thought love must surely be enough,” he continued. “And I thought if I could make you love me, you could learn me to be less—less—more your kind. And I think I could give you a pretty good sort of love. But that don't help the little mean pesky things of day by day that make roughness or smoothness for folks tied together so awful close. Mrs. Taylor hyeh—she don't know anything better than Taylor does. She don't want anything he can't give her. Her friends will do for him and his for her. And when I dreamed of you in my home—” he closed his eyes and drew a long breath. At last he looked at her again. “This is no country for a lady. Will yu' forget and forgive the bothering I have done?”
“Oh!” cried Molly. “Oh!” And she put her hands to her eyes. She had risen and stood with her face covered.
“I surely had to tell you this all out, didn't I?” said the cow-puncher, faintly, in his chair.
“Oh!” said Molly again.
“I have put it clear how it is,” he pursued. “I ought to have seen from the start I was not the sort to keep you happy.”
“But,” said Molly—“but I—you ought—please try to keep me happy!” And sinking by his chair, she hid her face on his knees.
Speechless, he bent down and folded her round, putting his hands on the hair that had been always his delight. Presently he whispered:— “You have beat me; how can I fight this?”
She answered nothing. The Navajo's scarlet and black folds fell over both. Not with words, not even with meeting eyes, did the two plight their troth in this first new hour. So they remained long, the fair head nesting in the great arms, and the black head laid against it, while over the silent room presided the little Grandmother Stark in her frame, rosy, blue, and flaxen, not quite familiar, not quite smiling.
XXVIII. NO DREAM TO WAKE FROM
For a long while after she had left him, he lay still, stretched in his chair. His eyes were fixed steadily upon the open window and the sunshine outside. There he watched the movement of the leaves upon the green cottonwoods. What had she said to him when she went? She had said, “Now I know how unhappy I have been.” These sweet words he repeated to himself over and over, fearing in some way that he might lose them. They almost slipped from him at times; but with a jump of his mind he caught them again and held them,—and then—“I'm not all strong yet,” he murmured. “I must have been very sick.” And, weak from his bullet wound and fever, he closed his eyes without knowing it. There were the cottonwoods again, waving, waving; and he felt the cool, pleasant air from the window. He saw the light draught stir the ashes in the great stone fireplace. “I have been asleep,” he said. “But she was cert'nly here herself. Oh, yes. Surely. She always has to go away every day because the doctor says—why, she was readin'!” he broke off, aloud. “DAVID COPPERFIELD.” There it was on the floor. “Aha! nailed you anyway!” he said. “But how scared I am of myself!—You're a fool. Of course it's so. No fever business could make yu' feel like this.”
His eye dwelt awhile on the fireplace, next on the deer horns, and next it travelled toward the shelf where her books were; but it stopped before reaching them.
“Better say off the names before I look,” said he. “I've had a heap o' misreading visions. And—and supposin'—if this was just my sickness fooling me some more—I'd want to die. I would die! Now we'll see. If COPPERFIELD is on the floor” (he looked stealthily to be sure that it was), “then she was readin' to me when everything happened, and then there should be a hole in the book row, top, left. Top, left,” he repeated, and warily brought his glance to the place. “Proved!” he cried. “It's all so!”
He now noticed the miniature of Grandmother Stark. “You are awful like her,” he whispered. “You're cert'nly awful like her. May I kiss you too, ma'am?”
Then, tottering, he rose from his sick-chair. The Navajo blanket fell from his shoulders, and gradually, experimentally, he stood upright.
Helping himself with his hand slowly along the wall of the room, and round to the opposite wall with many a pause, he reached the picture, and very gently touched the forehead of the ancestral dame with his lips. “I promise to make your little girl happy,” he whispered.
He almost fell in stooping to the portrait, but caught himself and stood carefully quiet, trembling, and speaking to himself. “Where is your strength?” he demanded. “I reckon it is joy that has unsteadied your laigs.”
The door opened. It was she, come back with his dinner.
“My Heavens!” she said; and setting the tray down, she rushed to
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