“Oh! yes, I am—stronger than I look. Besides, that will mend every day. I don’t intend to say goodbye to Westly or any one, because I hate to have people try to dissuade me from a thing when my mind is made up. I only came to say good-bye to you, because I wish you to tell Fred and your father that I am grateful for all their kindness to me, and that it will be useless to follow me. Perhaps we may meet again, Betty,” he added, still in the forced tone of lightness, while he gently took the girl’s hand in his and shook it; “but the dangers of the wilderness are numerous, and, as you have once or twice told me, we ‘know not what a day or an hour may bring forth.’” (His tone had deepened suddenly to that of intense earnestness)—“God bless you, Betty; farewell.”
He dropped her hand, turned sharply on his heel, and walked swiftly away, never once casting a look behind.
Poor Tom! It was a severe wrench, but he had fought the battle manfully and gained the victory. In his new-born sense of personal unworthiness and strict Justice, he had come to the conclusion that he had forfeited the right to offer heart or hand to the Rose of Oregon. Whether he was right or wrong in his opinion we do not pretend to judge, but this does not alter the fact that a hard battle with self had been fought by him, and a great victory won.
But Tom neither felt nor looked very much like a conqueror. His heart seemed to be made of lead, and the strength of which he had so recently boasted seemed to have deserted him altogether after he had walked a few miles, insomuch that he was obliged to sit down on a bank to rest. Fear lest Fred or Paul should follow up his trail, however, infused new strength into his limbs, and he rose and pushed steadily on, for he was deeply impressed with the duty that lay upon him—namely, to get quickly, and as far as possible, away from the girl whom he could no longer hope to wed.
Thus, advancing at times with great animation, sitting down occasionally for short rests, and then resuming the march with renewed vigour, he travelled over the mountains without any definite end in view, beyond that to which we have already referred.
For some time after he was gone Betty stood gazing at the place in the thicket where he had disappeared, as if she half expected to see him return; then, heaving a deep sigh, and with a mingled expression of surprise, disappointment, and anxiety on her fair face, she hurried away to search for her father.
She found him returning to their tent with a load of firewood, and at once told him what had occurred.
“He’ll soon come back, Betty,” said Paul, with a significant smile. “When a young feller is fond of a lass, he’s as sure to return to her as water is sure to find its way as fast as it can to the bottom of a hill.”
Fred Westly thought the same, when Paul afterwards told him about the meeting, though he did not feel quite so sure about the return being immediate; but Mahoghany Drake differed from them entirely.
“Depend on’t,” he said to his friend Paul, when, in the privacy of a retired spot on the mountain-side, they discussed the matter—“depend on’t, that young feller ain’t made o’ butter. What he says he will do he’ll stick to, if I’m any judge o’ human natur. Of course it ain’t for me to guess why he should fling off in this fashion. Are ye sure he’s fond o’ your lass?”