Heart's Desire Part 41

The two conspirators crossed the _arroyo_ and paused at the path which led up to Dan Anderson's little cabin. They saw Mr. Ellsworth and Constance leave the buckboard and stop uncertainly at the door. They saw him knock and step half within, then withdraw and gently push his daughter ahead of him. Then he stood outside, his hat in hand, violently mopping his brow. As he caught sight of the two laggards he beckoned them peremptorily.

"O Lord!" moaned Tom Osby; "now here's what that sheepherder done to us, with his missive and his signet ring."

Constance Ellsworth had grown deadly pale as she approached the dwelling. The open door let in upon a darkened interior. There was no light, no ray of hope to comfort her. There, as it seemed to her, in that tomblike abode, lay the end of all her happiness. In her heart was only the prayer that she might find him able, still to recognize her.

At her father's gesture she stepped to the door--and stopped. The blood went first to her heart, and then flamed back into her face. Her cheeks tingled. Her hand fell lax from the door jamb, and she half staggered against it for support, limp and helpless.

There before her, and busily engaged in writing--so busy that he had merely called out a careless invitation to enter when he heard the knock of what he presumed to be a chance caller--there, perhaps a trifle pale, but certainly well, and very much himself, sat Dan Anderson!

"He's alive!" whispered Constance to her heart.

"He's going to live!"

The future delegate from the Territory had slunk away from the noisy street to pen some line of acknowledgment to his friend the sheriff of Blanco. He had succeeded, so he reasoned with himself insistently; and yet a strange apathy, a sadness rather than exultation, enveloped him.

The world lay dull and gray around him. The price of his success had been the sight of a face worth more to him than all else in the world.

He had won something, but had lost everything. His hand stopped, his pencil fell upon the paper. He looked up--to see _her_ standing at his door!

Dumb, unbelieving, he gazed and gazed. She turned from red to pale, before his eyes, and still he could not speak. He knew that in an instant the vision would fade away.

"Oh, why, h.e.l.lo!" said he at last, weakly.

"How--that is, how do you do?" Constance said, flushing adorably again.

"I didn't expect--I didn't know you were coming," stammered Dan Anderson.

She chilled at this, but went on wonderingly. "I got your letter--" she began.

"Letter? My letter--_what_ letter?"

Constance looked at him fairly now, agitation sufficiently gone to enable her to notice details. She saw that Dan Anderson's left arm was supported upon the table, but apparently not seriously injured. And he had been writing--with his _right_ hand--at this very moment! She almost sank to the ground. There had been some cruel misunderstanding!

Was she always to be repudiated, shamed? She stood faltering, and would have turned away.

But by this time Dan Anderson's own numbed faculties came back to him with a rush. With a bound he was at her side, his right arm about her, holding her close, strong.

"Constance!" he cried. "Constance! You! You!" He babbled many things, his cheek pressed against hers. She could not speak.

"You see--you see--" exclaimed Dan Anderson, at length, half freeing her to look the more directly into her eyes, and to a.s.sure himself once more that it all was true--"I didn't understand at first. Of _course_, I sent the letter. I wrote it. I couldn't wait--I couldn't endure it any longer. Darling, I couldn't _live_ without you--and so I wrote, I wrote! And you've come!"

"But your handwriting--" she murmured.

"Of course! of course!" said Dan Anderson. He was lying beautifully now. "But of course you know I'm left-handed, and my left arm got hurt a while ago, so I couldn't use that hand. I don't suppose my handwriting did look quite natural to you."

Her eyes were solemn but contented as she looked into his face, and saw that in spite of his words he was as much mystified as herself. Slowly she presented to him the letter which he had never seen. His face grew grave and tender as he read it line for line.

"It is mine!" he said. "I wrote it. I sent it. I've sent it a thousand times to you before now, across the mountains."

"Is it signed with your heart, Dan?" she whispered.

"With my heart--yes, yes!"

"It is beautiful," said she, simply. And so they dropped between them the letter to the queen. Hand in hand they stepped to the door, the room too small now to contain their happiness.

Two stumbling figures fleeing, pigeon-toed and sharp-heeled, on the further side of the _arroyo_ meant much to Dan Anderson. A laugh choked in his throat as he caught her once more in his arms.

"It looks like Willie had made good!" said Tom Osby to Curly, as he took a swift glance back over his shoulder.

But Constance and her lover had forgotten all the world, as they stepped out now into the glory of the twilight of Heart's Desire.

"You remember," said he--"up there--the other time?" He nodded toward the head of the _arroyo_, where lay the garden of the Littlest Girl.

"You broke my heart," she murmured. "I loved you, Dan. What could I do?"

"Don't!" he begged as he tightened his arm about her. "I loved _you_, Constance--what could _I_ do? We've been through the fire together.

It has all come right. It's all so beautiful."

They stood together at the little garden spot. Two brave red roses now blossomed there, and he plucked them both, pinning them at her throat with hands that trembled. They turned and looked out over the little valley, and to them it seemed a golden cup overrunning with joy.

"Heart's Desire," he murmured, and once more his cheek rested against hers.

"Yes," she whispered vaguely, "all, all--your Heart's Desire, I hope--and mine--_mine_."

"It's the world," he murmured. "It is the Beginning. We are the very first. Oh, Eve! Eve!"