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SYNOPSIS.
Enid Maitland, a frank, free and.un
spoiled young Phailadelphia girl, is taken
to the Colorado mountains by her uncle,
Robert Maitland. James Armstrong,
Maitland's protege, falls in love with her
His persistent wooing thrills the girl, but
she hesitates, and Armstrong goes east
on business without a definite answe.
Enid hears the story of a mining enM
neer, Newbold, whose wife fell off.a diff
and was so seriously hurt that he was
compelled to shoot her to prevent her be
ing eaten by wolves while he went tor
he%. Kirkby, the old guide who tellsi the
story, gives Enid a package o letters
which he says were found on the dead
woman's body. She reads the otters
at Kirkby's request keeps them. While
bathing in mountain stream Enid is at
tacked by a bear, which is mysteriously
shot. A storm adds to the girlls tc .
A sudden deluge transforms brook nto
' raging torrent, which sweeps Enid into
gorge, where she is rescued by a moun
tain hermit after a thrilling ®2
Campers in great confusion upon discov
of^eglrl. Enid discovers.that
her ankle is sprained and that she is un
able to walk. Her mysterious rescuer
carries her to his camp. En J 3°“
sleep in the strange man's bunk. Miner
cooks breakfast for Enid, afterwhlch
they go on tour of inspection. The ner
mit tells Enid of his unsucces HL^/mtt^
to find the Maitland campers. He admits
that he is also from Philadelphia The
hermit falls in love with Enid. The_man
comes to a realization of his love f° r ' “«r
--but naturally in that strange solitude the
relations of the girl and her rescuer be
. come unnatural and strained.
CHAPTER XV—(Continued).
He., did not know that. Women
have learned through centuries of
weakness that fine art of concealment
which man has never mastered. She
never let him see what she thought of
him. Yet he was not without sus
picion; if that suspicion grew to cer
tainty, would he control himself then?
At first he had sought to keep out
of her way, but she had compelled
him to come in. The room that was
kitchen and bed room and store room
for him was cheerless and somewhat
cold. Save at night or when he was
busy with other tasks outside they
lived togethed in the great room. It
was always warm, it was always
bright, it was always cheerful, there.
The little piles of manuscript she
had noted were books that he had
written. He made no effort to con
ceal such things from her. He talked
frankly enough about his life in the
hills, indeed there was no possibil
ity of avoiding the discussion of such
topics. On but two subjects was he
Inexorably silent One was the pres
ent state of his affections and the
other was the why and wherefore of
his lonely life. She knew beyond per
adventure that he loved her, but she
had no faint suspicion even as to the
reason why he had become a recluse!
He had never given her the slightest
clew to his past save that admission
that he had known Kirkby which was
in itself nothing definitive and which
she never connected with that pack
age of letters which she still kept
with her.
The man’s mind was too active and
fertile to be satisfied with manual
labor alone, the books that he had
written were scientific treatises in the
main. One was a learned discussion
of the fauna and flora of the moun
tains. Another was an exhaustive ac
count of the mineral resources and
geological formations of the range.
He had only to allow a whisper, a
suspicion of his discovery of gold and
Silver in the mountains to escape him,
and the canons and crests alike would
be filled with eager prospectors. Still
a third work was a scientific analysis
of the water powers in the canons.
He had willingly allowed her to
read them all. Much of them she
found technical and, aside from the
fact that he had written them, unin
teresting. But there was one book
remaining in which he simply dis
cussed the mountains in the various
seasons of the year; when the snows
covered them, when the grass and the
moss came again, when the flowers
bloomed, when autumn touched the
trees. There was the soul of the
man, poetry expressed in prose, man
like but none the less poetry for that.
This book pored over, she questioned
him about it; they discussed it as they
discussed Keats and the other poets.
Those were happy evenings. She
on one side of the fire sewing, her
finger wound with cloth to hold his
giant thimble, fashioning for herself
some winter garments out of a gay
colored, red, white and black ancient
and exquisitely woven Navajo blank
et, soft and pliable almost as an old
fashioned piece of satin —priceless if
she had but known it —which he put
at her disposal; While on the other
side of the same homely blaze he
made for her out of the skins of some
of the animals that he had killed, a
shapeless foot covering, half mocca
sin and wholly leggin, which she
could wear over her shoes in her
short excursions around the plateau
and which would keep her feet warm
and comfortable.
By her permission he smoked as he
worked, enjoying the hour, putting
aside the past and the future and for
a few moments blissfully content
Sometimes he laid aside his pipe and
whatever work he was engaged upon
and read to her from some immor
tal noble number. Sometimes the en
tertainment fell to her and she sang
to him in her glorious contralto voice
music that made him sad. Once he
could stand it no longer. At the end
of a burst of song which filled the lit
tle room —he had risen to his feet
while she sang, compelled to the erect
position by the magnificent melody—
as the last notes died away and she
smiled at him triumphant and expec
tant of his praise and his approval, he
hurled himself out of the room and
into the night, wrestling for hours
with the storm which after all was
but a trifle to that which raged in his
bosom. While she, left alone and de
serted, quailed within the silent room
till she heard him come back.
Often and often when she slept
quietly on one side the thin partition,
he lay awake on the other, and some
times his passion drove him forth to
cool the fever, the fire in his soul in
the icy, wintry air. The struggle
within him preyed upon him, the keen
loving eye of the woman searched his
face, scrutinized him, looked into his
heart, saw what was there.
She determined to end it, deciding
that he must confess his affections.
She had no premonition of the truth
and no consideration of any evil con
sequences held her back. She could
give free range to her love and her
devotion. She had the ordering of
their lives and she had the power to
end the situation growing more and
more impossible. She fancied the
matter easily terminable. She thought
she had only to let him see her heart
in such ways as a maiden may, to
bring joy to his own to make him
speak. She did not dream of the re
ality.
One night, therefore, a month or
more after she had come, she re
solved to end the uncertainty. She
believed the easiest and the quickest
way would be to get him to tell her
why he was there. She naturally sur
mised that the woman of the picture,
which she had never seen since the
first day of her arrival, was in some
measure the cause of it; and the only
pain she had in the situation was the
keen jealousy that would obtrude
itself at the thought of that woman.
aw
t J
O'
Oil
H
pl
He Stood—Entranced.
She remembered everything that he
had said to her, and she recalled that
he had once made the remark that
he would treat her as he would have
his wife treated if he had one, there
fore whoever and whatever the pic
ture of this woman was, she was not
his wife. She might have been some
one he had loved, but who had not
loved him. She might have died. She
was jealous of her, but she did not
fear her.
After a long and painful effort the
woman had completed the winter suit
she had made for herself. Ke bad ad-
vised her and had helped her. It was
a belted tunic that fell to her knees;
the red and black stripes ran around 1
it, edged the broad collar, cuffed the
warm sleeves and marked the grace
ful waist line. It was excessively, be
coming to her. He had been down in
to the valley, or the pocket, for a final
inspection of the burros before the
night, which promised to be severe,
fell, and she had taken advantage of
the opportunity to put it on.
She knew that she was beautiful; ।
her determination to make this even
ing count had brought an unusual
color to her cheeks, an unwonted
sparkle to her eye. She stood up as '
she heard him enter the other room, i
she was standing erect as he came
through the door and faced her. He
had only seen her in the now some
what shabby blue of her ordinary ■
camp dress before, and her beauty I
fairly smote him in his face. He 1
stood before her, wrapped in his fur '
great coat, snow and ice clinging to 1
it, entranced. The woman smiled at ■
the effect she produced.
“Take off your coat,” she said gent- !
ly approaching him. “Here, let me 1
hefp you. Do you realize that I have
been here over a month now? I want 1
to have a little talk with you, I want 1
you to tell me something.
CHAPTER XVI. 1
The Kiss on the Hand.
“Did it ever occur to you,” began ।
Enid Maitland gravely enough, for she
quite realized the serious nature of 1
the impending conversation, "did it 1
ever occur to you that you know prac- 1
tically all about me, while I know 1
practically nothing about you?”
The man bowed his head.
“You may have fancied that I was I
not aware of it, but in one way or
another you have possessed yourself '
of pretty all of my short and, until
I met you, most uneventful life,” she :
continued.
Newbold might have answered that
there was one subject which had been ;
casually introduced by her upon one ■
occasion and to which she had never I
again referred, but which was to him
the most important of ail subjects con- 1
nected with her; and that was the na
ture of her relationship to one James ‘
Armstrong whose name, -''although
he had heard it but once, he had not
forgotten. The girl had been frank
ness itself in following his deft leads
when he talked with her about her
self, but she had shown the same re
ticence in recurring to Armstrong
that he had displayed in questioning
her about him. The statement she
had just made as to his acquaintance
with her history was therefore suffi
ciently near the truth to pass un
challenged, and once again he gravely
bowed in acquiescence.
"I have withheld nothing from you,”
went on the girl, "whatever you want-
ed to know, I have told you. I had
nothing to conceal, as you have found
out. Why you wanted to know about
me, I am not quite sure.”
“It was because —” burst out the
man impetuously, and then he stopped
abruptly and just in time.
Enid Maitland smiled at him in a
way that indicated she knew what
was behind the sudden check be had
imposed upon himself.
“Whatever your reason, your curi
osity—”
“Don't call it that, please.”
“Your desire then has been grat
ified. Now it is my turn. I am not
even sure about your name. I have
seen it in these books and naturaljy
I have imagined that it is yours.”
“It is mine.”
“Well, that is really all that I know
about you. And now I shall be quite
frank. I want to know more. You
evidently have something to conceal
or you would not be livfhg here in
this way. I have never asked you
about yourself, or manifested the
least curiosity to solve the problem
you present, to find the solution of the
mystery of your life.”
“Perhaps,” said the man, “you
didn’t care enough about it to take
the trouble to inquire.”
“You know,” answered the girl,
“that is not true. I have been con
sumed with desire to know.”
“A woman’s curiosity?”
"Not that,” was the soft answer
that turned away his wrath.
She was indeed frank. There was
that in her way of uttering those two
simple words that set his pulses
bounding. He was not altogether and
absolutely blind.
“Come.” said the girl, extending her
hand to him, “we are alone here to
gether. We must help each other.
You have helped me, you have been
of the greatest service to me. I can’t
begin to count all that you have done
for me; my gratitude—”
“Only that?”
“But that is all that you have ever
asked or expected,” answered the
young woman in a low voice whose
gentle tones did not at all accord
with the boldness and courage of the
speech.
“You mean?” asked the man, star
ing at her, his face aflame.
“I mean,” answered the girl swift
ly, wilfully misinterpreting and turn
ing his half spoken question another
way, "I mean that I am sure that
trouble has brought you here. I do
not wish to force your confidence, I
have no right to do so, yet I should
like to enjoy it; can’t you give it to
me? a want to help you, I want to
do my best to make some return for
what you have been to me and have
done for me.”
“I ask but one thing,” he said quick
ly.
"And what is that?”
But again he checked himself.
“No,” he said, “I am not free to ask
anything of you.”
And that answer to Enid Maitland
was like a knife thrust in the heart.
The two had been standing confront
ing each other. Her heart grew
faint within her. She stretched out
her hand vaguely as if for support.
He stepped toward her, but before he
reached her, she caught the back of
the chair and sank down weakly.
That he should be bound and not free
had never once occurred to her; she
had quite misinterpreted the meaning
of his remark.
The man did not help her, he could
not help her. He just stood and
looked at her. She fought valiantly
for self-control a moment or two and
then, utterly oblivious to the betrayal
of her feelings involved in the ques
tion —the moments were too great for
consideration of such trivial matters
—she faltered.
"You mean there is some other wo
man ?”
He shook his head in negation.
"I don’t understand. There was
some other woman?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she now?”
“Dead.”
“But you said you were not free.”
He nodded.
“Did you care so much for her that
now—that now—”
"Enid,” he cried desperately. “Be
lieve me, I never knew what love
was until I met you.”
The secret was out now; it had
been known to her long since, but
now it was publicly proclaimed.
Even a man as blind, as obsessed, as
he could not mistake the joy that il
luminated her face at this announce
ment. That very joy and satisfaction
produced upon him, however, a very
different effect than might have been
anticipated. Had he been free, in
deed, he would have swept her to his
breast and covered her sweet face
with kisses broken by whispered
words of passionate endearment. In
stead of that he shrank back from her
and it was she who was forced to
take up the burden of the conversa
tlOß.
“You say that she is d^ad,” she be
gan in sweet appealing bewilderment,
"and that you care so much for me
and yet you—”
“I am a murderer,” he broke out
harshly. "There is blood upon my
hands, the blood of a woman who
loved me and whom, boy as I was, I
thought that I loved. She was my
wife, I killed her.”
“Great God,” cried the girl amazed
beyond measure or expectation by
this sudden avowal which she had
once suspected, and her hand instinct
ively went to the bosom of her dress
where she kept that soiled, water
stained packet of letters, “are you
that man?”
"I am the man that did that thing,
J I /
1 1 k
She Seized His Hand and Kissed It.
but what do you know?” he asked
quickly, amazed in his turn.
“Old Kirkby, my uncle Robert Mait
land, told me your story; they said
that you had disappeared from the
haunts of men —”
“And they were right. What else
was there for me to do? Although in
nocent of crime, I was blood guilty.
I was mad. No punishment could be
visited upon me like that imposed by
the stern, awful, appalling fact. I
swore to prison myself, to have noth
ing more forever to do with mankind
or womankind with whom I w’as un
worthy to so associate, to live alone
until God took me. To cherish my
memories, to make such expiation as
I could, to pray daily for forgiveness,
I came here to the wildest, the most
inaccessible, the loneliest, spot in the
range. No one ever would come here
I fancied, no one ever did come but
you. I was happy after a fashion, or
at least content. I had chosen the
■ better part. I had work, 1 could read,
write, remember and dream. But you
came and since that time life has
been heaven and hell. Heaven be
cause I love you, hell because to love
you means disloyalty to the past, to
a woman who loved me. Heaven be
cause you are here; 1 can hear your
voice, I can see you, your soul is
spread out before me in its sweetness,
; in its purity; hell because I am false
to my determination, to my vow, to
• the love of the past.”
> "And did you love her so much,
then?” asked the girl, now fiercely
I jealous and forgetful of other things
: for the moment.
“It’s not that,” said the man. "I
i was not much more than a boy, a year
■ or two out of college. I had been in
. the mountains a year, this woman
i lived in a mining camp, she was a
- fresh, clean healthy girl, her father
i died and the whole camp fathered her,
- looked after her, and all the young
i men in the range for miles on either
> side were in love with her. I sup-
I posed that I was too and —well, I won
- her from tie rest. We had been mar
• ried but a few months and a part of ;
> I the time my business as a mining en- ;
-1 gineer had called me away from her.
j i can remember the day before we |
-for me. I don’t deserve it, and It
, started on the last journey. I was
■ going alone again, but she was so un
happy over my departure; she clung
; to me, pleaded with me, implored me
• to take her with me, insisted on go
i ing wherever I went, would not be
[ left behind. She couldn’t bear me out
• of her sight, it seemed. I don’t know
what there was in me to have in-
I spired such devotion, but I must
■ speak the truth, however it may
I sound. She seemed wild, crazy about
■ me. I didn’t understand it, frankly I
i didn’t know what such love was —then
—but I took her along. Shall I not be
i honest with you? In spite of the at
traction physical, I had begun to feel
, even then that she was not the mate
shames me to say it of course, but I
wanted a better mind, a higher soul.
That made it harder —what I had to
do,, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
"The oniy thing I could do
when I came to my senses was
to sacrifice myself to her. mem
ory because she had loved me so; as
it was she gave up her life for me;
I could do no less than be true and
loyal to the remembrance. It wasn’t
a sacrifice either until ^ou came, but
as soon as you opened your eyes and
looked into mine in the rain and the
storm upon the rock to which I had
carried you after I had fought for you,
I knew that I loved you. 1 knew that
the love that had come into my heart
was the love of which I bad dreamed,
that everything that had gone before
was nothing, that I had found the one
woman whose soul should mate With
mine.”
“And this before I had said a word
to you?” ,
“What are words? The heart
speaks to the heart, the soul whis
pers to the soul. And so it was with
us. I had fought for you, you were
mine, mine. My heart sang it as I
panted and struggled over the rocks
carrying you. It said the words again
and again as I laid you down here in
this cabin. It repeated them over and
over; mine, mine! It says-that every
day and hour. And yet honor and
fidelity bid me stay. I am free, yet
bound; free to love you, but pot to
take you. My heart says yes, my con
science no. I should despise myself
if I. were false to the iove which
my wife bore me, and how could I
offer you a blood stained hand!”
He had drawn very near her while
he spoke; she had risen again and the
two confronted each other. He
stretched out his hand as he ask^d
that last question, almost as if he had
offered it to her. She made the best
answer possible to his demand, for be
fore he could divine what she would
be at. she had seized his hand and
kissed it and this time it was the man
j whcse knees gave way. He sank
1 down in the chair and buried his face
I in his hands.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
/