THE GREAT HAPPINESS
THE town was of detail, for the were more and more and were into in the dusk, and the yellow lights were more in the windows.
Helen moved about the dining-room in setting the table and she had just fresh flowers in the vase, when she stopped and listened. Faintly to her ears came the of a on the well-packed street, nearer with speed. It not be Miss Ritchie, for there was a the lazy of her and the pulse-stirring which she now heard. The passed the without pace, and up the street, stopping in of the house with a which she had long since 393learned to to cowboys. She still, to go to the door, with a fear–something terrible must have happened, to The Orphan. The ran up the path, his sharply, to the porch, and the door was open to him her, in hand, his from his left wrist. He was and tired, but the on his her, her speechless.
“Helen!” he hoarsely, her into her by his voice. “Helen!” She trembled, and he a of and toward her, the door him. He just the room, erect, his meeting hers in the of emotion. Breathlessly she as he advanced, as if her of what he had to tell her, until the table was them; and a of pain across his as he noticed it, him hard and again, but in his was a look of despair, a which her and her toward him while she him.
394The and at last she it no longer. “What is it?” she breathed, tensely. “What have you to tell me?”
His from her face, in of what he must read there, much as he it, and he answered her from set lips, much as a man would his own death sentence. “I have my word,” he said, harshly.
“Broken your word–to me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Her and was by a child-like wonder, for she in a degree, and she moved nearer to him. “What is it–what have you done?”
He her without the in her and his reply was as and as his statement, by no of extenuation. “I have killed a man,” he said.
A passed over her and her closed for a moment. The great choice was at hand now, and in her a fierce, raged; on one was her early training, all her teachings, all for the ideas of law 395and order which she had in the East, where life was as the necessity; and on the other was the Unwritten Law of the range as by The Orphan. Blood, and blood, was precious, and her early against this of direct justice, so into her mind by his bold, cold admission. And then, he had in this way again after he had promised her not to do so. The last her and she opened her and looked at him hopefully.
“Perhaps,” she said, eagerly, “perhaps you not avoid it–perhaps you were to do it.”
“No.”
“Oh!” she cried. “You did not–you did not shoot him without warning! I know you didn’t!”
“No, not that,” he said slowly. “And, besides, this was his third offense. Twice I have him his life, and I would have done so again but for what I after I him.” He paused for a moment and then continued, with more in his voice, a ring of victory and an 396elation. “I that he was the man for I have been looking for fifteen years, and I had to kill. He killed my father, killed him like a dog and without a for life, him to a tree on his own land. And when I learned that, when he had to me, I the new game, I but the watch in my hand slowly away his life, the time I had him to make his peace with God–and I the slow seconds, I him every movement of the hands. Then I him, and I was glad, so glad–but oh, dear! If you–if you––”
His voice and and he to his her with as she came slowly toward him and the of her in hands, it passionately, his in its like a boy at his mother’s knee.
Her were with and they her as she looked on the man at her feet. Bending, she touched him and then her hands on his head, the in forgiveness.
“Dear, dear boy,” she softly. 397“Don’t, dear heart. Don’t, you must not–oh, you must not! Please–come with me; up, dear, and with me over here in the corner; then you shall tell me all about it. I am sure you have not done wrong–and if you have–don’t you know I love you, boy? Don’t you know I love you?”
He slightly, as if from a sleep, and slowly his and looked at her with in his eyes, for it was so much like a dream–perhaps it was one. But he saw a light on her face, a light which a man sees only on the of one woman and which him against all other lights forever. Then it was true, all true–he had aright! “Helen!” he cried, “Helen!” and the ring in his voice new to her eyes. He to his feet, tense, eager, all his nerves tingling, and his through the air and a defiance, a to the world as he her to him. “I knew, I knew!” he passionately. “In my I you were a thoroughbred!”
He her back, but she laughed low with and him, leading him to a chair, the chair he had on the occasion 398of his visit, and then a low, him and seated herself at his feet, her on his and her in her hands. He looked into the and then about the room and to her again. She against his and waited for his story.
He and touched her and then told her all of the of Tex Williard, from the very to the very end, from the time he had Tex over one of his father’s to the last in the thicket. When he had finished, Helen took his her hands, pressing it as she to that she understood. He looked into her and then his until his touched her ear: “Helen, darling,” he whispered, “how long must I wait?”
“Why, you scamp!” she exclaimed, teasingly, to away from him. “You haven’t told me that you love me!”
He pressed her hands and laughed aloud, joyously, with an elated, which over him in of delight: “Haven’t I? Oh, but you know better, dear. 399Many and many times I have told you that, and in many ways, and you it and understood. You it, and I hope,” he added seriously, “that you will.”
“I will, dear.”
They did not Grace Ritchie in the kitchen, did not her step as it the and stopped, and then to the door and around the house to the street, and it to where Mrs. Shields and Mary were walking toward the house. They did not know that an hour had passed since the of the step and the three women, and that the supper was ruined. They nothing–and Everything: they had learned the Great Happiness.
THE END
