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Page 90
Charley, the sheep herder! Then the thunderbolt of his words burst upon
her, and she collapsed to the cold stones. She lay quivering from head to
toe. She dug her fingers into the moss and lichen. "Oh, God, to think--
after all--it happened!" she moaned. There had been a rending within her
breast, as of physical violence, from which she now suffered anguish. There
were a thousand stinging nerves. There was a mortal sickness of horror, of
insupportable heartbreaking loss. She could not endure it. She could not
live under it.
She lay there until energy supplanted shock. Then she rose to rush into the
darkest shadows of the cedars, to grope here and there, hanging her head,
wringing her hands, beating her breast. "It can't be true," she cried. "Not
after my struggle--my victory--not now!" But there had been no victory. And
now it was too late. She was betrayed, ruined, lost. That wonderful love
had wrought transformation in her--and now havoc. Once she fell against the
branches of a thick cedar that upheld her. The fragrance which had been
sweet was now bitter. Life that had been bliss was now hateful! She could
not keep still for a single moment.
Black night, cedars, brush, rocks, washes, seemed not to obstruct her. In a
frenzy she rushed on, tearing her dress, her hands, her hair. Violence of
some kind was imperative. All at once a pale gleaming open space,
shimmering under the stars, lay before her. It was water. Deep Lake! And
instantly a hideous terrible longing to destroy herself obsessed her. She
had no fear. She could have welcomed the cold, slimy depths that meant
oblivion. But could they really bring oblivion? A year ago she would have
believed so, and would no longer have endured such agony. She had changed.
A cursed strength had come to her, and it was this strength that now
augmented her torture. She flung wide her arms to the pitiless white stars
and looked up at them. "My hope, my faith, my love have failed me," she
whispered. "They have been a lie. I went through hell for them. And now
I've nothing to live for.... Oh, let me end it all!"
If she prayed to the stars for mercy, it was denied her. Passionlessly they
blazed on. But she could not kill herself. In that hour death would have
been the only relief and peace left to her. Stricken by the cruelty of her
fate, she fell back against the stones and gave up to grief. Nothing was
left but fierce pain. The youth and vitality and intensity of her then
locked arms with anguish and torment and a cheated, unsatisfied love.
Strength of mind and body involuntarily resisted the ravages of this
catastrophe. Will power seemed nothing, but the flesh of her, that medium
of exquisite sensation, so full of life, so prone to joy, refused to
surrender. The part of her that felt fought terribly for its heritage.
All night long Carley lay there. The crescent moon went down, the stars
moved on their course, the coyotes ceased to wail, the wind died away, the
lapping of the waves along the lake shore wore to gentle splash, the
whispering of the insects stopped as the cold of dawn approached. The
darkest hour fell--hour of silence, solitude, and melancholy, when the
desert lay tranced, cold, waiting, mournful without light of moon or stars
or sun.
In the gray dawn Carley dragged her bruised and aching body back to her
tent, and, fastening the door, she threw off wet clothes and boots and fell
upon her bed. Slumber of exhaustion came to her.
When she awoke the tent was light and the moving shadows of cedar boughs on
the white canvas told that the sun was straight above. Carley ached as
never before. A deep pang seemed invested in every bone. Her heart felt
swollen out of proportion to its space in her breast. Her breathing came
slow and it hurt. Her blood was sluggish. Suddenly she shut her eyes. She
loathed the light of day. What was it that had happened?
Then the brutal truth flashed over her again, in aspect new, with all the
old bitterness. For an instant she experienced a suffocating sensation as
if the canvas had sagged under the burden of heavy air and was crushing her
breast and heart. Then wave after wave of emotion swept over her. The storm
winds of grief and passion were loosened again. And she writhed in her
misery.
Some one knocked on her door. The Mexican woman called anxiously. Carley
awoke to the fact that her presence was not solitary on the physical earth,
even if her soul seemed stricken to eternal loneliness. Even in the desert
there was a world to consider. Vanity that had bled to death, pride that
had been crushed, availed her not here. But something else came to her
support. The lesson of the West had been to endure, not to shirk--to face
an issue, not to hide. Carley got up, bathed, dressed, brushed and arranged
her dishevelled hair. The face she saw in the mirror excited her amaze and
pity. Then she went out in answer to the call for dinner. But she could not
eat. The ordinary functions of life appeared to be deadened.
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