The Bondage of Ballinger | Page 8

a great sacrifice," he went on, falling
into the speech she loved, "but if thee only knew how I have suffered
here, thee would not blame me, Hannah."
"Suffered, Thomas?"
"Yes, suffered, dear heart. Has thee not seen how bitterly I have been
disappointed, and how all my expectations have been deceived?"
She looked up at him wonderingly. "Thee has been disappointed? Am I
not as much to thee?"
At this he laughed again. "Thee is and has been everything to me,
foolish child, and without thee I should have died of desperation, but
the truth is..."
"Well, Thomas?"
"The truth is," he went on, forcing out the words, "there is not a decent
book-store in the county, or for that matter, in the country."
The tired look crept back into the patient eyes, and a sigh came up from
the anxious heart as little Hannah clung a little closer to her husband.
"Let us go where thee will, dear." Westward they went, on through the
pleasant Southland, with its wealth of foliage and blossoms, its waving
palms and bewildering masses of flowers, ever beckoning to them and
inviting them to stay. And Hannah would have remained, for she loved
the gentle climate and the profusion of nature, and the kindly people of
soft speech and gracious manner, but the restlessness of a feverish spirit
was in Thomas, and he loitered only until he had acquired the means of

further travel. And so they wandered until they came to the great river
which divides the continent. And lingering a space as emergency
demanded they journeyed on where the mountains rise thousands of
feet above the plains and wear eternal snow on their peaks. And then
across the desert of sand to where the mountains rise again, and so
down the slope into the golden country of warmth and sunshine. The
months had crept into years; the lines had deepened in Thomas's face,
and the silvery threads were shining in Hannah's brown hair, but no
word of complaint came from her lips and no feeling of reproach was in
her heart. The living had been precarious, the wanderings had been
long, and the halts many, but the two grown-up children held to each
other the one because he had learned in his vacillation and weakness to
lean on a better and braver spirit, the other because she loved and was
strong.
Standing on the cliff that looked over the western ocean, Thomas, in a
wave of remorse that periodically overwhelmed him, and mindful of
his failings and his failures, said ruefully:
"Your father was right, Hannah. You took me for poorer and for worse.
I have done nothing that I should have done, everything that I should
not have done. You have followed me faithfully and loyally, but
fruitlessly, from ocean to ocean. I wonder why you have loved me and
stood by me all these years."
Then Hannah, her maiden dreams dispelled and her hopes dimmed, but
her faith and courage strong and high, replied:
"We do not always know why we love, Thomas, or why we are
constant. It is not given to a woman to argue such things or to explain
them by any exact rule of science. In truth, I would not wish to ask
myself why I love thee, or what thee has done either to hold or to
forfeit my love. It is enough for me to know that I love, and that I have
always loved since we were children far off yonder."
The memory of those days rushed back and she choked in her speech.
But Thomas had already forgotten her, for a great ship had passed out
of the golden gate and was spreading its wings for the eager flight. "See,

Hannah," he cried, "what a glorious thing it would be," and he stopped
suddenly, for his thoughts were on the speeding vessel and the waters
and the distant shores beyond.
Hannah smiled and laid her hand upon his arm. "I know what is in thy
heart, Thomas, and how gladly thee would go with me across the
water."
"Think of the new world that would open up to us, Hannah. Think of
the treasures that we should see and that might be ours. In a few weeks,
or months at the latest, I shall be able to save the money for our passage
and we shall go into new lands and realize all our dreams."
Then Hannah smiled again, but sadly. "I have no dreams to realize,
dear. Is it not sufficient that we are growing old in our wandering, and
that we have come to our country's end? Must our wedding journey go
on for ever?"
When Thomas reddened at this thrust she repented in the delicacy of
her nature, and said