As Hugh was getting ready to bid his host good night, the major said: "Stanton, I am exceedingly glad you came to-night; I feel ennobled,--feel that it is good to live and that my days have been lengthened. The true epicurean of rationalism teaches us that the good and bad in man are engaged in a constant combat, and even the bad can better enjoy occasional indulgence by permitting the good to rule most of the time." It struck Hugh as being an odd remark for the major to make.
After bidding them good night, he walked hurriedly along the street toward the hotel in a thoughtful mood. When he reached his room, he sat down by the open window, determined to reach a decision in regard to Ethel Horton.
He had now been in Meade a little over a year. His inheritance of fifty thousand dollars from his father's estate had been swept away by the hot winds, and the securities which he held, bearing a high rate of interest, were practically worthless. The cattlemen were the only people who had not suffered by the cancerous breath that had swept over the country.
Ethel had trusted him to decide a momentous question. If he decided one way, Ethel Horton would become his wife. A voice whispered to him from the night wind, "Do this, and you need not care for the fortune you have lost. Ethel is the only child and heiress to millions."
"No," shouted Hugh, vehemently, starting up as if combating with the tempter, "no, that is a contemptible, cowardly thought. It is true that to-day poverty with her sable robe envelops me, and that a fortune is mine if I will only reach out and take it--a fortune that will make me a Croesus, while a resigned and heart-broken woman is ready to lift up her fair white arms to me as her savior, if I--I, Hugh Stanton--am willing to place upon her lips the kiss of a Judas. Shall I do it?" Conscience pricked him to a decision, and he fairly shouted, "Never, never, so long as my soul is in partnership with God Almighty." His clenched fist struck the table. His victory was complete.
Seating himself at his desk, he hastily wrote the following letter:
"My dear Jack:--About a year ago I called on you and said good-bye. Forgive me for not writing before. Jack, this letter must determine whether I ever again address you as a friend. I have met Ethel Horton, and have learned--God knows the price of the wisdom--that her heart is wholly yours. Why have you trampled upon it? If you are an honorable man, as I have ever believed you to be, answer her letter, or, better still, come to me at once. I regard her as one of the noblest girls in the wide, wide world. If the love which you whispered to her at Lake Geneva was not sincere, then I am no longer your friend, but shall ever remain your enemy.