XII
CAVANAGH’S LAST VIGIL BEGINS
On his solitary ride upward and homeward the ranger searched his heart and found it bitter and disloyal. Love had interfered with duty, and pride had checked and defeated love. His path, no longer clear and definite, looped away aimlessly, lost in vague, obscure meanderings. His world had suddenly grown gray.
The magnificent plan of the Chief Forester (to which he had pledged such buoyant allegiance) was now a thing apart, a campaign in which he was to be merely an onlooker. It had once offered something congenial, helpful, inspiring; now it seemed fantastic and futile without the man who shaped it. “I am nearing forty,” he said; “Eleanor is right. I am wasting my time here in these hills; but what else can I do?”
He had no trade, no business, no special skill, save in the ways of the mountaineer, and to return to his ancestral home at the moment seemed a woful confession of failure.
But the cause of his deepest dismay and doubt was the revelation to himself of the essential lawlessness of his love, a force within him which now made his duties as a law-enforcer sadly ironic. After all, was not the man who presumed upon a maiden’s passion and weakness a greater malefactor than he who steals a pearl or strangles a man for his gold? To betray a soul, to poison a young life, is this not the unforgivable crime?
“Here am I, a son of the law, complaining of the lawlessness of the West—fighting it, conquering it—and yet at the same time I permit myself to descend to the level of Neill Ballard, to think as the barbaric man thinks.”
He burned hot with contempt of himself, and his teeth set hard in the resolution to put himself beyond the reach of temptation. “Furthermore, I am concealing a criminal, cloaking a convict, when I should be arresting him,” he pursued, referring back to Wetherford. “And why? Because of a girl’s romantic notion of her father, a notion which can be preserved only by keeping his secret, by aiding him to escape.” And even this motive, he was obliged to confess, had not all been on the highest plane. It was all a part of his almost involuntary campaign to win Virginia’s love. The impulse had been lawless, lawless as the old-time West, and the admission cut deep into his self-respect.
It was again dusk as he rode up to his own hitching-pole and slipped from the saddle.
Wetherford came out, indicating by his manner that he had recovered his confidence once more. “How did you find things in the valley?” he inquired, as they walked away toward the corral.