You let
me see the truth, that my proposal to you was almost an insult. You made
me understand that your very friendship for me was such a friendship as
you might have with an amusing and irresponsible boy, or a spoiled
child. You could not even consider my love for you seriously, as a woman
like you must consider the love of a strong man. And you were right,
Helen. But, dear, it was for me a bitter, bitter lesson. I went from
you, ashamed to look men in the face. I felt myself guilty--a pitifully
weak and cowardly thing, with no right to exist. In my humiliation, I
ran from all who knew me--I came out here to escape from the life that
had made me what I was--that had robbed me of my manhood. And here, by
chance, in the contests at the celebration in Prescott, I saw a man--a
cowboy--who possessed everything that I lacked, and for the lack of
which you had laughed at me. And then alone one night I faced myself and
fought it out. I knew that you were right, Helen, but it was not easy to
give up the habits and luxury to which all my life I had been
accustomed. It was not easy, I say, but my love for you made it a
glorious thing to do; and I hoped and believed that if I proved myself a
man, I could go back to you, in the strength of my manhood, and you
would listen to me.
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