Hillyer was waiting for her at the barn when she came at last, with a smile that eased his anxiety, if only in an inconsiderable degree. But he saw, as he took her handbag and bundle, and placed them in the automobile, that she had been crying. This gladdened while it angered him, and he was lost among the many interpretations that might be put upon those signs of distress. Had she come to the end of her infatuation? Had she been subjected to insults as the reward of her service? He dared not ask her such questions––not yet; but he was resolved (and there were material reasons, too, for that decision) to have his own case settled, one way or another, at once.

Neither of them spoke more than a conventional word or two until Hillyer, after full speed down Haig’s road to the junction, slowed up on the main highway along the Brightwater. It was the serenest of summer evenings, very still and fragrant, with a touch of autumn in the air. The eastern sky was filled with pale golds and pinks, and the foothills were warm with purples. Marion’s face was averted from Hillyer, and her eyes were fixed, not on the soft alternations of color in the sky, but on Thunder Mountain, where the only clouds to be seen in all the expanse of blue lay low upon its uncompromising head.

“Marion!” said Hillyer, at length.

She did not miss the note in his voice that exposed his intention, but long preparation for this moment enabled her to face him calmly.

“Yes, I know, Robert,” she said. “You have much to say to me.”

“I’m going to-morrow,” he began abruptly. “Will you go with me?”

“To-morrow? Go with you?” she repeated, with a little start of surprise.

“Yes. Will you go with me?”

“But I don’t understand, Robert.”

“I must be in Denver the day after to-morrow.”

“I––I didn’t know your time was so short. I’m afraid––I’ve spoiled your visit.”

“That doesn’t matter, Marion, if you’ll go back with me.”

“But I can’t––just yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not ready. I haven’t half finished my visit with Claire.”

She was, after all, somewhat confused, for she had not expected him to approach the subject in just this way.

“But the summer is almost gone. It’s near the end of August,” persisted Hillyer.

“There’s another month of good weather. And September, Claire says, is the most beautiful of all.”

“That may be, unless Huntington’s right. He told me only yesterday that it’s going to be an early winter. There’s come a chill in the air even since I’ve been here.”

“Nonsense!” she replied, recovering her composure. “I’ll go out with the last stage.”

“And get caught in an avalanche or something!”

“I suppose Seth does want to get rid of me!” she said, with a faint laugh.

“That’s not it at all.”

“Well, I’m not afraid.”

“But suppose you stay too late, and get caught. You’d have to remain here all winter. The Park, Huntington says, is as tight as a jail after the snows come.”

“Claire stays here through the winter sometimes.”

He felt a fresh alarm, and showed it. It would be just like her! he thought.

“See here, Marion!” he said, plunging at last. “I’ve obeyed your order not to say anything about––the future. I meant not to say anything until the time was up. But you must see I can’t keep silent now, after––what’s happened. You must know I can’t go away and leave you without knowing what––it all means. You said you’d tell me as soon as you’d finished nursing––him. No, wait, please! Let me say it at once. You know I love you. I want you to marry me. I need you, Marion. There’s never been an hour, a minute that I haven’t thought of you. I can’t work––I can’t do anything without you. I love you more than––”

“Stop, Robert!” she cried. “You’re making it harder for both of us.”

“Harder––for––both of us?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

There was a moment’s silence. Hillyer, while he 179 spoke, had half-consciously stopped the automobile, which stood now, humming softly, in the middle of the road that stretched white and empty ahead of them and behind them. The night breeze had risen, blowing cold from the snows, and the shadows were creeping down into the valley, as if they came from dark caverns in the hills.

“Robert,” she said sadly. “It’s no use. I must tell you. I––I can’t marry you.”

“Why?”

“You make me say it!” she cried. “Well, Robert, I––I don’t love you.”

“I’m not asking you to love me!” he rejoined, almost savagely. “I only ask you––”

“Listen!” she interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “That’s not all.”

“You mean––”

She stopped him with a pressure on his arm.

“Once, not knowing, I almost consented,” she went on. “But something checked me––held me back. You remember how restless I was––how troubled. You would have laughed at me if I had told you. But something seemed to be calling me––a voice from a long distance. I laughed at myself for a foolish girl––at first. I said it was nerves, and I fought against it. And it was then that I came nearest to saying yes to you, thinking that I was indeed foolish in holding back. I liked you. I’ve always liked you, Robert. You’d been such a splendid friend, and I was grateful. I wanted to repay you––”

She stopped suddenly, and a flush mounted swiftly into her pale cheeks. Repay! The word recalled 180 sharply to her, acutely and painfully, all that Haig had said about paying her. Were they, then, in the same dreadful situation, she and Haig, with debts they could never pay? For the first time some sense of the terrible finality of his decision struck in upon her secret hopes.

“Don’t talk of that!” Robert was saying, seizing the moment of silence. “I never––”

“But always, when I was about to yield––I couldn’t. I didn’t know why then. But now I do.”

“You mean––Haig?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes.”

“You don’t––” He could not bring himself to speak the word.

“Yes, Robert. I love him.”

It took all the courage she possessed. But she owed it to him and to herself.

“I don’t believe it!” he blurted out. “I won’t believe it! You are not yourself, Marion. You are worn out. You have been fascinated. He’s strange––different––new to you. It’s your imagination, not your heart, that’s been––won. He’s led you on by––”

“No!” she broke in. “You’re quite wrong. It’s not his fault at all. He doesn’t love me.”

“Of course not. I know that kind of fellow. You didn’t need to leave New York to find plenty like him. He only wants to––”

“Robert!” she cried warningly.

“Then what––”

“He hates me, I think,” she replied sadly.

“Then why in the world do you––” He was floundering. “What do you know about him, anyhow? Who is he? Where did he come from?”

That sounded so much like Seth Huntington that she smiled, thinking of the picture that he must have drawn for Hillyer.

“I know very little about him,” she replied quietly. “But I know that Cousin Seth is mistaken.”

“But how do you know he hates you?”

“He made that clear in the beginning––not me alone, but all women. He shunned me. He told me twice that I must not speak to him again. And this afternoon, while you waited for me––” Her voice broke, with a laugh that was half a sob. “He––finished it.”

“He was rude to you!” he cried. “I’ll make him––”

She put her hand quickly on his arm.

“No. He was very gentle––and kind.”

“What did he say?” Hillyer demanded, almost imperatively.

“He said that––he couldn’t leave the ranch just now, so I’d better go back to New York––at once.”

“He did, did he?” cried Hillyer angrily, his chivalry for the moment dominant. But then he saw suddenly another meaning, for him, in the brutal ultimatum; and his face brightened. “That settles it, doesn’t it?” he exclaimed eagerly.

“Settles what?”

“Why, you’ll go with me!”

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you I’m not ready yet.”

There was a silence while Hillyer, buoyed up with new hope, made some hurried calculations.

“Then listen, Marion!” he said. “I’ll go to Denver, and come back in a week or ten days. I’ll arrange things so that I can stay here until––”

“Oh, Robert! You won’t understand.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You’re making it so hard for me!” she cried pathetically. “I’ve told you already that I cannot marry you.”

“But why! Why!” he persisted.

“Because I haven’t myself––I’ve nothing to give.”

“But how can you love him after he has––”

“Told me he does not love me?” she said, taking the words from him. “Then how can you love me when I have said the same thing to you?”

He struggled desperately, in deep water.

“It’s different, Marion. You don’t hate me––I think. You say you like me. That’s enough now––to start with. It’s all I ask. I’ll try to make you happy, and I’ll wait for love. You shall have all the things in the world you want. I’m making scads of money. Everything I touch just rolls up into bank notes. I want you to come and spend all that money for me. Remember, Marion, your father wished it. If he were here now––”

“Yes!” she put in with sudden fire. “If he were here now do you know what he would say to me?”

He felt that he had blundered, and made no reply.

“He would say to me––Oh, I can hear him now! He would say: ‘Follow your heart, daughter. Love’s the only thing in the world that really counts.’”

She smiled triumphantly, but wistfully. And Hillyer was still silent.

“Daddy wasn’t very good at quoting Scripture,” she went on musingly, “but he used to say: ‘Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.’”

“But there isn’t any hatred therewith!” cried Hillyer desperately. “I love you, Marion, and if you don’t love me––you don’t hate me. So there’s more than half of it, and––can’t we trust the future a little bit?”

“No.”

“But what are you going to do?” he asked, shifting his line of attack.

“I don’t know,” she replied, with a helpless gesture.

“You can’t go back to New York without money enough to take your proper place in the world. Of course, if you’ll let me, I’ll––”

“Robert!” she interrupted sharply.

“Well, I mean it just the same!” he replied stoutly. “I’ve got to take care of you, and if you won’t––See here, Marion! I simply refuse to be turned down this way. I’ll not take your stubborn, whimsy little ‘no’ for my answer. You’re on my hands, thank God! whether you like it or not. Maybe you won’t love me. Maybe you won’t marry me. We’ll see about that! But I’m going to look after you––I’m going to take care of you, just the same––and you can just stop tightening those lips––they’re not as red as they ought to be––and you can make up your mind that you can boss me so far and no farther.”

Marion smiled at him indulgently, but gratefully, and even a little proudly; for she had been very proud of him in the days when only friendship was spoken of. 184 She did not in the least resent his speech; but neither did she answer him.

“It’s getting late, Robert,” she said, shivering a little.

“So it is,” he replied. “And you’ve no warm wrap for the night air.”

He drew the lap-robe around her, and started the automobile. Through the gathering night they drove, almost without speaking, to Huntington’s, where the best supper that Claire could contrive from the limited stores at her disposal awaited the prodigal. There was naturally some constraint at table. Huntington had made his peace with Hillyer, having apologized humbly, and expatiated on the cause of his wrath. But he did not know how he stood with Marion, who had been a long time in the camp of the enemy, and who doubtless knew too of his speech about her trunks. He had not dared to ask Hillyer whether he had related that incident to her, and he felt the need of extreme discretion until he should discover what kind of a rod she had in pickle for him, or, at any rate, until the time should be propitious to tell her that he was sorry for his conduct. Marion was tired, and disinclined to talk, while Hillyer, on his side, had his mind fully occupied, between his deal in mines and his deal in love, in both of which he had encountered unexpected difficulties. Only Claire was gay and untroubled, and she accepted eagerly the task of saving the party from awkward silences. For once in many moons she was allowed to talk unchecked, and she made the most of her opportunity.

After supper, Marion announced her purpose to go to bed at once. She was sure, she declared, that she could sleep “around the clock.”

“I’ll be off before you’re up, then,” said Hillyer.

“You must go to-morrow?” asked Claire.

“Absolutely. It means thousands.”

“Then we’ll sit on the veranda a few minutes,” said Marion. “Not long, though. I’m dreadfully sleepy.”

It was not long. They found they had little to say to each other, since the one subject of which both were thinking, each from a different point of view, was tacitly barred. And Hillyer soon saw that Marion was sorely in need of rest.

“Go to bed now, dear girl!” he said presently. “And please take good care of yourself. I want to see the color back in your cheeks when I return.”

“I will, Robert,” she answered. “I’ll be quite all right in a day or two.”

“And you––don’t really think of staying here all winter?” he ventured to ask diffidently.

“No,” she replied. “That’s hardly possible.”

“Then good-by––until you hear my horn in the road down yonder.”

“Good-by, Robert, and good luck!”

She gave him both her hands, for a moment, with a tenderness that lingered with him far on his way.