There were
mesquites on the ridge, and I sought the shade beneath them. It was the
noon hour, with hot, glary sun and no wind. Here I had to have out my
fight. If ever in my varied life of exciting adventure I strove to
think, to understand myself, to see through difficulties, I assuredly
strove then. I was utterly unlike myself; I could not bring the old self
back; I was not the same man I once had been. But I could understand
why. It was because of Sally Langdon, the gay and roguish girl who had
bewitched me, the girl whom love had made a woman--the kind of woman
meant to make life beautiful for me.
I saw her changing through all those weeks, holding many of the old
traits and graces, acquiring new character of mind and body, to become
what I had just fled from--a woman sweet, fair, loyal, loving,
passionate.
Temptation assailed me. To have her to-morrow--my wife! She had said it.
Just twenty-four little hours, and she would be mine--the only woman I
had ever really coveted, the only one who had ever found the good in me.
The thought was alluring. I followed it out, a long, happy stage-ride
back to Austin, and then by train to her home where, as she had said,
the oranges grew and the trees waved with streamers of gray moss and the
mocking-birds made melody.
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