The Maid's Progress
From the great plateau of the Snake River, at a point that is far from anymain station, the stage-road sinks into a hollow which the winds might havescooped, so constantly do they pounce and delve and circle round the spot.Down in this pothole, where sand has drifted into the infrequent wheeltracks, there is a dead stillness while the perpetual land gale is roaringand troubling above.One noon at the latter end of summer a wagon carrying four persons, withcamp gear and provision for a self-subsisting trip, jolted down into thishollow, the horses sweating at a walk as they beat through the heavy sand.The teamster drew them up and looked hard at the singular, lonely place."I don't see any signs of that old corral, do you?" objected the man besidehim. He spoke low, as if to keep his doubts from their neighbors on theback seat. These, an old, delicate, reverend looking gentleman, and aveiled woman sitting very erect, were silent, awaiting some decision oftheir fellow travelers."There wouldn't be much of anything left of it," the teamster urged on thepoint in question; "only a few rails and wattles, maybe. Campers would havemade a clean-up of them.""You think this is the place, do you not, Mr. Thane? This is PilgrimStation?" The old gentleman spoke to the younger of the two men in front,who, turning, showed the three-quarter view of a tanned, immobile faceand the keen side glance of a pair of dense black eyes,--eyes that saweverything and told nothing."One of our landmarks seems to be missing. I was just asking Kinney aboutit," he said.Mr. Kinney was not, it appeared, as familiar as a guide should be with theroad, which had fallen from use before he came to that part of the country;but his knowledge of roads in general inclined him to take with allowancethe testimony of any one man of merely local information."That fool Mormon at the ferry hain't been past here, he said himself,since the stage was pulled off. What was here then wouldn't be herenow--not if it could be eat up or burnt up.""So you think this is the place?" the old gentleman repeated. His face wasquite pale; he looked about him shrinkingly, with a latent, apprehensiveexcitement strangely out of keeping with the void stillness of thehollow,--a spot which seemed to claim as little on the score of humaninterest or association as any they had passed on their long road hither."Well, it's just this way, Mr. Withers: here's the holler, and here's thestomped place where the sheep have camped, and the cattle trails getherin'from everywheres to the water, and the young rabbit brush that's sprung upsince the plains was burnt over. If this ain't Pilgrim Station, we're lostpilgrims ourselves, I guess. We hain't passed it; it's time we come to it,and there ain't no road but this. As I put it up, this here has got to bethe place.""I believe you, Mr. Kinney," the old man solemnly confirmed him. "Somethingtells me that this is the spot. I might almost say," he added in a lowertone to his companion, while a slight shiver passed over him in the hotsunlight, "that a voice cries to us from the ground!"Those in front had not heard him. After a pause Mr. Thane looked roundagain, smiled tentatively, and said, "Well?""Well, Daphne, my dear, hadn't we better get out?" Mr. Withers conjoined.She who answered to this pretty pagan name did so mutely by rising inher place. The wind had moulded her light-colored veil close to herhalf-defined features, to the outline of her cheeks and low-knotted hair;her form, which was youthful and slender, was swathed in a clingingraw-silk dust-cloak. As she stood, hesitating before summoning her crampedlimbs to her service, she might have suggested some half-evolved conceptionof doubting young womanhood emerging from the sculptor's clay. Personality,as yet, she had none; but all that could be seen of her was pure feminine.Thane reached the side of the wagon before the veiled young woman couldattempt to jump. She freed her skirts, stepped on the brake bar, andstooping, with his support made a successful spring to the ground. Mr.Withers climbed out more cautiously, keeping his hand on Thane's arm fora few steps through the heavy sand. Thane left his fellow pilgrims tothemselves apart, and returned to help the teamster take out the horses."It looks queer to me," Mr. Kinney remarked, "that folks should want tocome so far on purpose to harrer up their feelin's all over again. It ain'tas if the young man was buried here, nor as if they was goin' to mark thespot with one of them Catholic crosses like you see down in Mexico, whereblood's been spilt by the roadside. But just to set here and think aboutit, and chaw on a mis'able thing that happened two years and more ago!Lord! I wouldn't want to, and I ain't his father nor yet his girl. Wouldyou?""Hardly," said Thane. "Still, if you felt about it as Mr. Withers does,you'd put yourself in the place of the dead, not the living; and he has areason for coming, besides. I haven't spoken of it, because I doubt if thething is feasible. He wants to see whether the water, of the spring can bebrought into the hollow here--piped, to feed a permanent drinking troughand fountain. Good for evil, you see--the soft answer.""Well, that's business! That gits down where a man lives. His cattle kincome in on that, too. There's more in that, to my mind, than in a barewooden cross. Pity there won't be more teamin' on this road. Now the stagehas hauled off, I don't expect as many as three outfits a year will waterat that fountain, excusin' the sheep, and they'll walk over it and into it,and gorm up the whole place.""Well, the idea has been a great comfort to Mr. Withers, but it's notlikely anything more will ever come of it. From all we hear, the springwould have to run up hill to reach this hollow; but you won't speak of it,will you, till we know?""Gosh, no! But water might be struck higher up the gulch--might sink atrench and cut off the spring.""That would depend on the source," said Thane, "and on how much the oldgentleman is willing to stand; the fountain alone, by the time you haul thestone here, will foot up pretty well into the thousands. But we'll see.""Hadn't you better stay round here with them till I git back?" Kinneysuggested; for Thane had taken the empty canteens from the wagon, andwas preparing to go with him to the spring. "You kin do your prospectin'later.""They would rather be by themselves, I think," said Thane. But seeing Mr.Withers coming towards him, as if to speak, he turned back to meet him."You are going now to look for the spring, are you not?" the old gentlemanasked, in his courteous, dependent manner."Yes, Mr. Withers. Is there anything I can do for you first?""Nothing, I thank you." The old gentleman looked at him half expectantly,but Thane was not equal, in words, to the occasion. "This is the place, Mr.Thane," he cadenced, in his measured, clerical tones. "This is the spotthat last saw my dear boy alive,--that witnessed his agony and death."He extended a white, thin, and now shaking hand, which Thane grasped,uncovering his head. Mr. Withers raised his left hand; his pale eyesblinked in the sunlight; they were dim with tears."In memory of John Withers," he pronounced, "foully robbed of life in thislonely spot, we three are gathered here,--his friend, his father, and hisbride that should have been." Thane's eyes were on the ground, but hesilently renewed his grasp of the old man's hand. "May God be our Guideas we go hence to finish our separate journeys! May He help us to forgiveas we hope to be forgiven! May He teach us submission! But, O Lord! Thouknowest it is hard.""Mr. Withers is a parson, ain't he?" Kinney inquired, as he and Thane, eachleading one of the team horses, and with an empty canteen swinging by itsstrap from his shoulder, filed down the little stony gulch that puckers thefirst rising ground to riverward of the hollow. "Thought he seemed to bemakin' a prayer or askin' a blessin' or somethin', when he had holt of youthere by the flipper; kind of embarrassin', wa'n't it?""That's as one looks at it," said Thane. "Mr. Withers is a clergyman; hismanner may be partly professional, but he strikes one as always sincere.And he hasn't a particle of self-consciousness where his grief for hisson is concerned. I don't know that he has about anything. He calls onhis Maker just as naturally as you and I, perhaps, might take his name invain.""No, sir! I've quit that," Mr. Kinney objected. "I drawed the line theresome years ago, on account of my wife, the way she felt about it, and thechildren growin' up. I quit when I was workin' round home, and now I don'tseem to miss it none. I git along jest as well. Course I have to cussa little sometimes. But I liked the way you listened to the old man'swarblin'. Because talkin' is a man's trade, it ain't to say he hasn't gothis feelin's."As the hill cut off sounds of retreating voices and horseshoes clinkingon the stones, a stillness that was a distinct sensation brooded upon thehollow. Daphne sighed as if she were in pain. She had taken off her veil,and now she was peeling the gloves from her white wrists and warm, unsteadyhands. Her face, exposed, hardly sustained the promise of the veiledsuggestion; but no man was ever known to find fault with it so long as hehad hopes; afterwards--but even then it was a matter of temperament. Therewere those who remembered it all the more keenly for its daring deviationsand provoking shortcomings.It could not have been said of Daphne that her grief was withoutself-consciousness. Still, much of her constraint and unevenness of mannermight have been set down to the circumstances of her present position. Whyshe should have placed herself, or have allowed her friends to place her,in an attitude of such unhappy publicity Thane had asked himself manytimes, and the question angered him as often as it came up. He could onlyrefer it to the singularly unprogressive ideas of the Far West peculiar toFar Eastern people. Apparently they had thought that, barring a friend ortwo of Jack's, they would be as much alone with their tragic memories inthe capital city of Idaho as at this abandoned stage-station in the desertwhere their pilgrimage had ended. They had not found it quite the same.Daphne could, and probably did, read of herself in the "Silver Standard,"Sunday edition, which treats of social events, heralded among the prominentarrivals as "Jack Withers's maiden widow." This was a poetical flight ofthe city reporter. Thane had smiled at the phrase, but that was before hehad seen Daphne; since then, whenever he thought of it, he pined for asuitable occasion for punching the reporter's head. There had been more ofhis language; the paper had given liberally of its space to celebrate thisinteresting advent of the maiden widow with her uncle, "the Rev. Withers,"as the reporter styled him, "father of the lamented young man whoseshocking murder, two years ago, at Pilgrim Station, on the eve of hisreturn to home and happiness, cast such a gloom over our community, inwhich the victim of the barbarous deed had none but devoted friends andadmirers. It is to be hoped that the reverend gentleman and the bereavedyoung lady, his companion on this sad journey, will meet with every mark ofattention and respect which it is in the power of our citizens to bestow,during their stay among us."Now, in the dead, hot stillness, they two alone at last, Daphne sat besideher uncle in the place of their solemn tryst; and more than ever herexcitement and unrest were manifest, in contrast to his mild and chastenedmelancholy. She started violently as his voice broke the silence in ameasured, musing monotone:"'Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and prayFor the poor soul of Sibyl Grey,Who built this cross and well.'"These lines," he continued in his ordinary prose accent, "gave me my firstsuggestion of a cross and well at Pilgrim Station, aided, perhaps, by thename itself, so singularly appropriate; not at all consistent, Mr. Thanetells me, with the usual haphazard nomenclature of this region. However,this is the old Oregon emigrant trail, and in the early forties men ofeducation and Christian sentiment were pioneers on this road. But now thatI see the place and the country round it, I find the Middle Ages are notold enough to borrow from. We must go back, away back of chivalry andmonkish superstition, to the life-giving pools of that country where thestory of man began; where water, in the language of its people, was justlymade the symbol of their highest spiritual as well as physical needs andcravings. 'And David longed, and said, Oh, that one would give me drinkof the water of the well of Beth-lehem, that is at the gate!' It is a farcry here to any gate but the gate of sunset, which we have been travelingagainst from morning to evening since our journey began, yet neverapproaching any nearer. But this, nevertheless, is the country of David'swell,--a dry, elevated plain, surrounded by mountains strangely gashedand riven and written all over in Nature's characters, but except for thespeech of a wandering, unlettered people, dumb as to the deeds of man. Mr.Thane tells me that if the wells on this road were as many as the deathsby violence have been, we might be pasturing our horses in green fields atnight, instead of increasing their load with the weight of their food aswell as our own. Yes, it is a 'desolate land and lone;' and if we build ourfountain, according to my first intention, in the form of a cross, blessingand shadowing the water, it must be a rude and massive one, such as humbleshepherds or herdsmen might accidentally have fashioned in the dark daysbefore its power and significance were known. It will be all the moreenduring, and the text shall be"--"Uncle," cried Daphne in a smothered voice, "never mind the text! I amyour text! Listen to me! If your cross stood there now, here is the onewho should be in the dust before it!" She pressed her open hand upon herbreast.The gesture, her emphasis, the extreme figure of speech she had used, wererepellent to Mr. Withers over and above his amazement at her words. As hehad not been observing her, he was totally unprepared for such an outburst."Daphne, my dear! Do I understand you? I cannot conceive"--But Daphne could not wait for her meaning to sink in. "Uncle John," sheinterrupted, taking a quick breath of resolution, "I have read somewherethat if a woman is dishonest, deep down, deliberately a hypocrite, sheought to be gently and mercifully killed; a woman not honest had better notbe alive. Uncle, I have something to say to you about myself. Gently andmercifully listen to me, for it ought to kill me to say it!"Mr. Withers turned apprehensively, and was startled by the expression ofDaphne's face. She was undoubtedly in earnest. He grew quite pale. "Nothere, my dear," he entreated; "not now. Let our thoughts be single forthis one hour that we shall be alone together. Let it wait for a little,this woeful confession. I think you probably exaggerate your need ofit, as young souls are apt to who have not learned to bear the painof self-knowledge, or self-reproach without knowledge. Let us forgetourselves, and think of our beloved dead.""Uncle, it must be here and now. I cannot go away from this place a liar,as I came. Let me leave it here,--my cowardly, contemptible falsehood,--inthis place of your cross. I am longing, like David, for that water theyhave gone to find, but I will not drink at Pilgrim Station, except withclean lips that have confessed and told you all."Mr. Withers shrank from these unrestrained and to him indecorous statementsof feeling; they shocked him almost as much as would the spectacle ofDaphne mutilating her beautiful hair, casting dust upon her head, andrending her garments before him. He believed that her trouble of soul wasgenuine, but his Puritan reserve in matters of conscience, his scholarlytaste, his jealousy for the occasion which had brought them to that spot,all combined to make this unrestrained expression of it offensive to him.However, he no longer tried to repress her."Uncle, you don't believe me," she said; "but you must. I am quite myself.""Except for the prolonged nervous strain you have been suffering; and Iam afraid I have not known how to spare you as I might the fatigue, thealtitude perhaps, the long journey face to face with these cruel memories.But I will not press it, I will not press it," he concluded hastily, seeingthat his words distressed her."Press it all you can," she said. "I wish you could press it hard enoughfor me to feel it; but I feel nothing--I am a stone. At this moment," shereiterated, "I have no feeling of any kind but shame for myself that Ishould be here at all. Oh, if you only knew what I am!""It is not what you are, it is who you are, that brings you here, Daphne.""Yes, who I am! Who am I? What right had I to come here? I never loved him.I never was engaged to him, but I let you think so. When you wrote me thatsweet letter and called me your daughter, why didn't I tell you the truth?Because in that same letter you offered me his money--and--and I wanted themoney. I lied to you then, when you were in the first of your grief, toget his money! I have been trying to live up to that He ever since. It hasalmost killed me; it has killed every bit of truth and decent womanly pridein me. I want you to save me from it before I grow any worse. You must takeback the money. It did one good thing: it paid those selfish debts of mine,and it made mother well. What has been spent I will work for and pay backas I can. But I love you, uncle John; there has been no falsehood there.""This is the language of sheer insanity, Daphne, of mental excitement thatpasses reason." Mr. Withers spoke in a carefully controlled but quiveringvoice--as a man who has been struck an unexpected and staggering blow,but considering the quarter it came from, is prepared to treat it as anaccident. "The facts, John's own words in his last letter to me, cannot begainsaid. 'I am coming home to you, dad, and to whom else I need not say.You know that I have never changed, but she has changed, God bless her!How well He made them, to be our thorn, our spur, our punishment, ourprevention, and sometimes our cure! I am coming home to be cured,' he said.You have not forgotten the words of that letter, dear? I sent it to you,but first--I thought you would not mind--I copied those, his last words.They were words of such happiness; and they implied a thought, at least, ofhis Creator, if not that grounded faith"--"They were hopes, only hopes!" the girl remorsefully disclaimed. "I allowedhim to have them because I wanted time to make up my wretched, selfishmind. I had never made him a single promise, never said one word that couldgive me the right to pose as I did afterwards, to let myself be grievedover as if I had lost my last hope on earth. I had his money all safeenough.""Daphne, I forbid you to speak in that tone! There are bounds even toconfession. If you think well to degrade yourself by such allusions, do notdegrade me by forcing me to listen to you. This is a subject too sacred tobe discussed in its mercenary bearings; settle that question with yourselfas you will, but let me hear no more of it."Daphne was silenced; for the first time in her remembrance of him she hadseen her uncle driven to positive severity, to anger even, in opposition tothe truth which his heart refused to accept. When he was calmer he began toreason with her, to uphold her in the true faith, against her seeming self,in these profane and ruthless disclosures."You are morbid," he declared, "oversensitive, from dwelling too long onthis painful chapter of your life. No one knows better than myself whatdisorders of the imagination may result from a mood of the soul, a passingmood,--the pains of growth, perhaps. You are a woman now; but let thewoman not be too hard upon the girl that she was. After what you have beenthrough quite lately, and for two years past, I pronounce you mentallyunfit to cope with your own condition. Say that you did not promise him inwords; the promise was given no less in spirit. How else could he have beenso exaltedly sure? He never was before. You had never before, I think,given him any grounds for hope?""No; I was always honest before," said Daphne humbly. "When I first refusedhim, when we were both such children, and he went away, I promised toanswer his letters if he would let that subject rest. And so I did. Butevery now and then he would try me again, to see if I had changed, and thatletter I would not answer; and presently he would write again, in his usualway. As often as he brought up the old question, just so often I stoppedwriting; silence was always my answer, till that last winter, when I mademy final attempt to do something with my painting and failed so miserably.You don't know, uncle, how hard I have worked, or what it cost me tofail,--to have to own that all had been wasted: my three expensive wintersin Boston, my cutting loose from all the little home duties, in the hope ofdoing something great that would pay for all. And that last winter I didnot make my expenses, even. After borrowing every cent that mother couldspare (more than she ought to have spared; it was doing without a girlthat broke her down) and denying myself, or denying her, my home visit atChristmas; and setting up in a studio of my own, and taking pains to haveall the surroundings that are said to bring success,--and then, after all,to fail, and fail, and fail! And spring came, and mother looked so ill, andthe doctor said she must have rest, total rest and change; and he looked atme as if he would like to say, 'You did it!' Well, the 'rest' I brought herwas my debts and my failure and remorse; and I wasn't even in good health,I was so used up with my winter's struggle. It was then, in the midst ofall that trouble and shame and horror at myself, his sweet letter came. No,not sweet, but manly and generous,--utterly generous, as he always was. Iought to have loved him, uncle dear; I always knew it, and I did try veryhard! He did not feel his way this time, but just poured out his wholeheart once for all; I knew he would never ask me again. And then the fatalword; he said he had grown rich. He could give me the opportunities mynature demanded. You know how he would talk. He believed in me, if nobodyelse ever did; I could not have convinced him that I was a failure."It was very soothing to my wounds. I was absolutely shaken by thetemptation. It meant so much; such a refuge from self-contempt and povertyand blame, and such rest and comfort it would bring to mother! I hope thathad something to do with it. You see I am looking for a loophole to crawlout of; I haven't strength of mind to face it without some excuse. Well, Ianswered that letter; and I think the evil one himself must have helped me,for I wrote it, my first careful, deliberate piece of double-dealing, justas easily as if I had been practicing for it all my life. It was such aletter as any man would have thought meant everything; yet if I had wanted,I could have proved by the words themselves that it meant nothing thatcouldn't be taken back."I said to myself, If I can stand it, if I can hold out as I feel now, Iwill marry him; then let come what may. I knew that some things would come,some things that I wanted very much."Then came the strange delay, the silence, the wretched telegrams andletters back and forth. Ah, dear, do I make you cry? Don't cry for him; youhave not lost him. Cry for me, the girl you thought was good and pure andtrue! You know what I did then, when your dear letter came, giving me allhe had, calling me your daughter, all that was left you of John! I deceivedyou in your grief, hating myself and loving you all the time. And here Iam, in this place! Do you wonder I had to speak?""Your words are literally as blows to me, Daphne," Mr. Withers groaned,covering his face. After a while he said, "All I have in the world wouldhave been yours and your mother's had you come to me, or had I suspectedthe trouble you were in. I ought to have been more observant. Myprepossessions must be very strong; doubtless some of the readier facultieshave been left out in my mental constitution. I hear you say these words,but even now they are losing their meaning for me. I can see that yourdistress is genuine, and I must suppose that you have referred it to itsproper cause; but I cannot master the fact itself. You must give me time torealize it. This takes much out of life for me.""Not my love for you, uncle John; there has been no falsehood there.""You could not have spared yourself and me this confession?" the old manqueried. "But no, God forgive me! You must have suffered grievous things inyour young conscience, my dear; this was an ugly spot to hide. But now youhave fought your fight and won it, at the foot of the cross. To say thatI forgive you, that we both, the living and the dead, forgive you, is thevery least that can be said. Come here! Come and be my daughter as before!My daughter!" he repeated. And Daphne, on her knees, put her arms about hisneck and hid her face against him."Thank Heaven!" he murmured brokenly, "it cannot hurt him now. He has foundhis 'cure.' As a candle-flame in this broad sunlight, so all those earthlylongings"--The old gentleman could not finish his sentence, though asentence was dear to him almost as the truth from which, even in his loveof verbiage, his speech never deviated. "So we leave it here," he said atlast. "It is between us and our blessed dead. No one else need know whatyou have had the courage to tell me. Your confession concerns no otherliving soul, unless it be your mother, and I see no reason why her heartshould be perturbed. As for the money, what need have I for more thanmy present sufficiency, which is far beyond the measure of my effortsor deserts? I beg you never to recur to the subject, unless you wouldpurposely wish to wound me. This is a question of conscience purely, andyou have made yours clean. Are you satisfied?""Yes," said Daphne faintly."What is the residue? Or is it only the troubled waters still heaving?""Yes, perhaps so.""Well, the peace will come. Promise me, dear, that you will let it come. Donot give yourself the pain and humiliation of repeating to any other personthis miserable story of your fault.""It was more than a fault; you know that, uncle. Your conscience could nothave borne it for an hour.""Your sin, then. A habit of confession is debilitating and dangerous. Godhas heard you, and I, who alone in this world could have the right toreproach you, have said to you, Go in peace. Peace let it be, and silence,which is the safest seal of a true confession.""Do you mean that I am never to let myself be known as I am?" asked Daphne.Her face had changed; it wore a look of fright and resistance. "Why,that would mean that I am never to unmask; to go about all my life in mytrappings of false widowhood. You read what that paper called me! I cannotplay the part any longer.""Are you speaking with reference to these strangers? But this will soon beover, dear. We shall soon be at home, where no one thinks of us except asthey have known us all their lives. It will be painful for a little while,this conspicuousness; but these good people will soon pass out of ourlives, and we out of theirs. Idle speculation will have little to do withus, after this.""There will be always speculation," implored the girl. "It will follow mewherever I go, and all my life I shall be in bondage to this wretchedlie. Take back the money, uncle, and give me the price I paid for it,--myfreedom, myself as I was before I was tempted!""Ah, if that could be!" said the old gentleman. "Is it my poor boy's memorythat burdens you so? Is it that which you would be freed from?""From doing false homage to his memory," Daphne pleaded. "I could havegrieved for him, if I could have been honest; as it is, I am in dangeralmost of hating him. Forgive me, uncle, but I am! How do you suppose Ifeel when voices are lowered and eyes cast down, not to intrude upon my'peculiar, privileged grief? 'Here I and Sorrow sit!' Isn't it awful,uncle? Isn't it ghastly, indecent? I am afraid some day I shall break outand do some dreadful thing,--laugh or say something shocking, when they tryto spare my feelings. Feelings! when my heart is as hard, this moment, toeverything but myself, myself! I am so sick of myself! But how can I helpthinking about myself when I can never for one moment be myself?""This is something that goes deeper," said Mr. Withers. "I confess it isdifficult for me to follow you here; to understand how a love as meek asthat of the dead, who ask nothing, could lay such deadly weights upon ayoung girl's life.""Not his love--mine, mine! Is it truly in his grave? If it is not, why do Idare to profess daily that it is, to go on lying every day? I want backmy word, that I never gave to any man. Can't one repent and confess afalsehood? And do you call it confessing, when all but one person in theworld are still deceived?""It is not easy for me to advise you, Daphne," said Mr. Withers wearily."Your struggle has discovered to me a weakness of my own: verily, an oldman's fond jealousy for the memory of his son. Almost I could stoop toentreat you. I do entreat you! So long as we defraud no one else, so longas there is no living person who might justly claim to know your heart, whyrob my poor boy's grave of the grace your love bestows, even the semblancethat it was? Let it lie there like a mourning wreath, a purchased tribute,we will say," the father added, with a smile of sad irony; "but only a rudehand would rob him of his funereal honors. There seems to be an unnecessaryharshness in this effort to right yourself at the cost of the unresistingdead. Since you did not deny him living, must you repudiate him now? Flingaway even his memory, that casts so thin a shade upon your life, a faintmorning shadow that will shrink as your sun climbs higher. By degrees youwill be free. And, speaking less selfishly, would there not be a certainindelicacy in reopening now the question of your past relations to onewhose name is very seldom spoken? Others may not be thinking so muchof your loss--your supposed loss," the old gentleman conscientiouslysupplied--"as your sensitiveness leads you to imagine. But you will giveoccasion for thinking and for talking if you tear open now your girlhood'ssecrets. Whom does it concern, my dear, to know where or how your heart isbestowed?"Daphne's cheeks and brow were burning hot; even her little ears werescarlet. Her eyes filled and drooped. "It is only right," she owned. "It ismy natural punishment.""No, no; I would not punish nor judge you. I love you too well. But I knowbetter than you can what a safeguard this will be,--this disguise which isno longer a deception, since the one it was meant to deceive knows all andforgives it. It will rebuke the bold and hasty pretenders to a treasure youcannot safely part with, even by your own gift, as yet. You are still veryyoung in some ways, my dear.""I am old enough," said Daphne, "to have learned one fearful lesson.""Do I oppress you with my view? Do I insist too much?"Perhaps nothing could have lowered the girl in her own eyes more thanthis humility of the gentle old man in the face of his own self-exposedweakness, his pathetic jealousy for that self above self,---the childone can do no more than grieve for this side the grave. She had come toherself only to face the consciousness of a secret motive which robbedher confession of all moral value. Repentance, that would annul her basebargain now that the costs began to outweigh the advantages, was giltedged, was a luxury; she was ashamed to buy back her freedom on such terms."Let it be as you say," she assented; "but only because you ask it. It willnot be wrong, will it, if I do it for you?""I hope not," returned Mr. Withers. "The motive, in a silence of this kindthat can harm no one, must make a difference, I should say."So it was settled; and Daphne felt the weight of her promise, which theirony of justice had fastened upon her, as a millstone round her neckfor life; she was still young enough to think that whatever is mustlast forever. They sat in silence, but neither felt that the other wassatisfied. Mr. Withers knew that Daphne was not lightened of her trouble,nor was he in his heart content with the point he had gained. The unwontedtouch of self-assertion it had called for rested uneasily on him; and hecould not but own that he had made himself Daphne's apologist, which noconfessor ought to be, in this disguise by which he named the deception hewas now helping her to maintain.After a time, when Daphne had called his attention to the fact, he agreedthat it was indeed strange their companions did not return; they had beengone an hour or more to find a spring said to be not half a mile away.Daphne proposed to climb the grade and see if they were yet in sight, Mr.Withers consenting. Indeed, under the stress of his thoughts, her absencewas a sensible relief.From the hilltop looking down she could see the way they had gone; thecrooked gulch, a garment's crease in the great lap of the table-land,sinking to the river. She saw no one, heard no sound but the senselesshurry and bluster of the winds,--coming from no one knew where, going nonecared whither. It blew a gale in the bright sunlight, mocking her effortsto listen. She waved her hand to her uncle's lone figure in the hollow, tosignify that she was going down on the other side. He assented, supposingshe had seen their fellow travelers returning.She had been out of sight some moments, long enough for Mr. Withers to havelapsed into his habit of absent musing, when Thane came rattling down theslope of the opposite hill, surprised to see the old gentleman alone. Hislong, black eyes went searching everywhere while he reported a fruitlessquest for the spring. Kinney and he had followed the gulch, which showednowhere a vestige of water, save in the path of the spring freshets, untilthey had come in sight of the river; and Kinney had taken the horses ondown to drink, riding one and leading the other. It would be nearly threemiles to the river from where Thane had left him, but that was where allthe deceptive cattle trails were tending. Thane, returning, had made a loopof his track around the hollow, but had failed to round up any spring.Hence, as he informed Mr. Withers, this could not be Pilgrim Station. Hemade no attempt to express his chagrin at this cruel and unseemly blunder.The old gentleman accepted it with his usual uncomplaining deference tocircumstances; still, it was jarring to nerves overstrained and bruisedby the home thrust of Daphne's defection. He fell silent and drew withinhimself, not reproachfully, but sensitively. Thane rightly surmised thatno second invocation would be offered when they should come to the truePilgrim Station; the old gentleman would keep his threnodies to himselfafter this.It would have been noticeable to any less celestial-minded observer thanMr. Withers the diffidence with which Thane, in asking after Miss DaphneLewis, pronounced that young person's name. He did not wait for the oldgentleman to finish his explanation of her absence, but having learned theway she had gone, dropped himself at a great pace down the gulch and cameupon her unawares, where she had been sitting, overcome by nameless fearsand a creeping horror of the place. She started to her feet, for Thane'swas no furtive tread that crashed through the thorny greasewood and planteditself, a yard at a bound, amongst the stones. The horror vanished and aflush of life, a light of joy, returned to her speaking face. He had neverseen her so completely off her guard. He checked himself suddenly andcaught his hat from his head; and without thinking, before he replaced it,he drew the back of his soft leather glove across his dripping forehead.The unconventional action touched her keenly. She was sensitively subjectto outward impressions, and "the plastic" had long been her delight, herambition, and her despair."Oh, if I could only have done something simple like that!" the defeated,unsatisfied artist soul within her cried. "That free, arrested stride, howsplendid! and the hat crumpled in his hand, and his bare head and strongbrows in the sunlight, and the damp points of hair clinging to his temples!No, he is not bald,--that was only a tonsure of white light on the topof his head; still, he must be hard on forty. It is the end of summer withhim, too; and here he comes for water, thirsting, to satisfy himself wherewater was plentiful in spring, and he finds a dry bed of stones. Call itThe End of Summer; it is enough. Ah, if I could ever have thought out anaction as simple and direct as that--and drawn it! But how can one drawwhat one has never seen!"Not all this, but something else, something more that Daphne could not haveput into words, spoke in the look which Thane surprised. It was but a flashbetween long lashes that fell instantly and put it out; but no woman whoseheart was in the grave ever looked at a living man in that way, and theliving man could not help but know it. It took away his self-possession fora moment; he stood speechless, gazing into her face with a question in hiseyes which five minutes before he would have declared an insult to her.Daphne struggled to regain her mask, but the secret had escaped: shamelessNature had seized her opportunity."How did I miss you?" she asked with forced coolness, as they turned up thegulch together. For the moment she had forgotten about the spring.Thane briefly explained the mistake that had been made, adding, "You willhave to put up with another day of us, now,--perhaps two.""And where do you leave us, then?" asked Daphne stupidly."At the same place,--Decker's Ferry, you know." He smiled, indulgent to hercrass ignorance of roads and localities. "Only we shall be a day longergetting there. We are still on the south side of the river, you remember?""Oh, of course!" said Daphne, who remembered nothing of the kind."It was a brutal fake, our springing this place on you for PilgrimStation," he murmured."It has all been a mistake,--our coming, I mean; at least I think so."It was some comfort to Thane to hear her say it,--he had been so forciblyof that opinion himself all along; but he allowed the admission to pass."It must have been a hard journey for you," he exerted himself to say,speaking in a surface voice, while his thoughts were sinking test-pitsthrough layers of crusted consciousness into depths of fiery natureunderneath.She answered in the same perfunctory way: "You have been very kind; unclehas depended on you so much. Your advice and help have been everything tohim."He took her up with needless probity: "Whatever you do, don't thank me!It's bad enough to have Mr. Withers heaping coals of fire on my head. Hegives me the place always, in regard to his son, of an intimate friend;which I never was, and God knows I never claimed to be! He took it forgranted, somehow,--perhaps because of my letters at first, though any brutewould have done as much at a time like that! Afterwards I would have sethim right, but I was afraid of thrusting back the friendly imputation inhis face. He credits me with having been this and that of a godsend tohis son, when as a fact we parted, that last time, not even good friends.Perhaps you can forgive me for saying it? You see how I am placed!"This iron apology which some late scruple had ground out of Thane seemed tocommand Daphne's deepest attention. She gave it a moment's silence, thenshe said, "There is nothing that hurts one, I think, like being unable tofeel as people take for granted one must and ought to feel." But her homeapplication of it gave a slight deflection to Thane's meaning which hefirmly corrected."I felt all right; so did he, I dare say, but we never let each other knowhow we felt. Men don't, as a rule. Your uncle takes for granted that Iknew a lot about him,--his thoughts and feelings; that we were immenselysympathetic. Perhaps we were, but we didn't know it. We knew nothing ofeach other intimately. He never spoke to me of his private affairs butonce, the night before he started. It was at Wood River. Some of us gavehim a little supper. Afterwards we had some business to settle and I wasalone with him in his room. It was then I made my break; and--well, itended as I say: we quarreled. It has hurt me since, especially as I waswrong.""What can men quarrel about when they don't know each other well? Politics,perhaps?" Daphne endeavored to give her words a general application."It was not politics with us," Thane replied curtly. Changing the subject,he said, "I wish you could see the valley from that hogback over to thewest." He pointed towards the spine of the main divide, which they wouldcross on their next day's journey. "Will you come up there this evening andtake a look at the country? The wind will die down at sunset, I think."There was a studied commonplaceness in his manner; his eyes avoided hers."Thanks; I should like to," she answered in the same defensive tone.* * * * *"To go back to what we were saying," Daphne began, when they were seated,that evening, on the hilltop. All around them the view of the world roseto meet the sky, glowing in the west, purple in the east, while the paleplanets shone, and below them the river glassed and gleamed in its crookedbed. "I ask you seriously," she said. "What was the trouble between you?"Doubtless she had a reason for asking, but it was not the one that sheproceeded to give. "Had you--have you, perhaps--any claims in a businessway against him? Because, if you had, it would be most unfair to hisfather"--The words gave her difficulty; but her meaning, as forced meaningsare apt to be, was more than plain.Thane was not deceived: a woman who yields to curiosity, under howeverpious an excuse, is, to say the least, normal. Her thoughts are neither inthe heavens above nor in the grave beneath. His black eyes flashed with theprovocation of the moment. It was instinct that bade him not to spare her."We quarreled," he said, "in the orthodox way,--about a woman.""Indeed!" said Daphne. "Then you must pardon me.""And her name," he continued calmly."I did not ask you her name.""Still, since we have gone so far"--"There is no need of our going any farther.""We may as well,--a little farther. We quarreled, strangely enough, aboutyou,--the first time he ever spoke of you. He would not have spoken then, Ithink, but he was a little excited, as well he might have been. Excuse me?"He waited."Nothing!" said Daphne. She had made an involuntary protesting sound."He said he hoped to bring you back with him. I asked how long since he hadseen you; and when he told me five years, I remarked that he had better notbe too sure. 'But you don't know her,' he said; 'she is truth itself, andcourage. By as many times as she has refused to listen to me, I am sure ofher now.' I did not gather somehow that you were--engaged to him, else Ihope I should not have gone so far. As it was, I kept on persisting--likea cynic who has no one of his own to be sure of--that he had betternot be too sure! He might have seen, I thought then, that it was halfchaff and half envy with me; but it was a nervous time, and I was lessthan sympathetic, less than a friend to him. And now I am loaded withfriendship's honors, and you have come yourself to prove me in the wrong.You punish me by converting me to the truth.""What truth?" asked Daphne, so low that Thane had to guess her question."Have you not proved to me that some women do have memories?"Daphne could not meet his eyes; but she suspected him of somethinglike sarcasm. She could not be sure, for his tone was agitating in itstenderness."All things considered," she said slowly, "does it not strike you as rathera costly conversion?""I don't say I was worth it, nor do I see just how it benefits mepersonally to have learned my lesson."He rose, and stood where he could look at her,--an unfair advantage,for his dark face, strong in its immobility, was in silhouette againstthe flush of twilight which illumined hers, so transparent in itssensitiveness."Is it not a good thing to believe, on any terms?" she tried to answerlightly."For some persons, perhaps. But my hopes, if I had any, would lie in thedirection of disbelief.""Disbelief?" she repeated confusedly. His keen eyes beat hers down."In woman's memory, constancy,--her constancy in youth, say? I am nottalking of seasoned timber. I don't deserve to be happy, you see, and Ilook for no more than my deserts."If he were mocking her now, only to test her! And if she should answerwith a humble, blissful disclaimer? But she answered nothing, disclaimednothing; suffered his suspicion,--his contempt, perhaps, for she felt thathe read her through and through.A widow is well, and a maid is well; but a maiden widow who trembles andlooks down--in God's creation, what is she?* * * * *On the north side of the Snake, after climbing out of the canon at Decker'sFerry, the cross-roads branch as per sign-post: "Thirty miles to ShoshoneFalls, one mile to Decker's Ferry. Good road." This last assertion mustbe true, as we have it on no less authority than that of Decker himself.Nothing is said of the road to Bliss,--not even that there is such a Blissonly sixteen miles away. Being a station on the Oregon Short Line, Blisscan take care of itself.At these cross-roads, on a bright, windy September morning, our travelershad halted for reasons, the chief of which was to say good-by. They hadslept over night at the ferry, parted their baggage in the morning, and nowin separate wagons by divergent roads were setting forth on the last stageof their journey.Daphne had left some necessary of her toilet at the ferry, and the driverof Mr. Withers's team had gone back to ask the people at the ferry-houseto find it. This was the cause of their waiting at the cross-roads. Mr.Withers and Daphne were on their devoted way like conscientious tourists,though both were deadly weary, to prostrate themselves before thestupendous beauty of the great lone falls at Shoshone. Thane, with Kinney'steam, was prosaically bound down the river to examine and report on aplacer-mine. But before his business would be finished Mr. Withers and hisniece would have returned by railroad via Bliss to Boise, and have leftthat city for the East; so this was likely to be a long good-by.If anything could have come of Mr. Withers's project of a memorial fountainat Pilgrim Station, there might have been a future to the acquaintance, forThane was to have had charge of the execution of the design; but nature hadlightly frustrated that fond, beneficent dream.Mr. Kinney had offered the practical suggestion that the road should go tothe fountain, since the fountain could not come to the road. Its coursewas a mere accident of the way the first wagon-wheels had gone. The wheelswere few now, and with such an inducement might well afford to cross thegulch in a new place lower down. But Mr. Withers would have none of thisdislocation of the unities. There was but one place--the dismal hollowitself, the scene of his heart's tragedy--where his acknowledgment to Godshould stand; his mute "Thy will be done!"Perhaps the whole conception had lost something of its hold on his mindby contact with such harsh realities as Daphne's disavowals and his ownconsequent struggle with a father's weakness. He had not in his inmostconscience quite done with that question yet.Thane was touched by the meekness with which the old gentleman resignedhis dream. The journey, he suspected, had been a disappointment in otherways,--had failed in impressiveness, in personal significance; had fallenat times below the level of the occasion, at others had overpowered it andswept it out of sight. Thane could have told him that it must be so. Therewas room for too many mourners in that primeval waste. Whose small specialgrief could make itself heard in that vast arid silence, the voice of whichwas God? God in nature, awful, inscrutable, alone, had gained a new meaningfor Mr. Withers. Miles of desert, days of desert, like waves of bruteoblivion had swept over him. Never before had he felt the oppression ofpurely natural causes, the force of the physical in conflict with thespiritual law. And now he was to submit to a final illustration of it,perhaps the simplest and most natural one of all.Daphne was seated at a little distance on her camp-stool, making a drawingof the desert cross-roads with the twin sign-posts pointing separateways, as an appropriate finish to her Snake River sketch-book. The sunwas tremendous, the usual Snake River zephyr was blowing forty miles anhour, and the flinty ground refused to take the brass-shod point of herumbrella-staff. Mr. Kinney, therefore, sat beside her, gallantly steadyingher heavy sketching-umbrella against the wind.Mr. Withers, while awaiting the return of his own team from the ferry, hadaccepted a seat in Thane's wagon. (It was a bag containing a curling-iron,lamp, and other implements appertaining to "wimples and crisping-pins,"that Daphne had forgotten, but she had not described its contents. One bagis as innocent as another, on the outside; it might have held her PrayerBook.)Thane was metaphorically "kicking himself" because time was passing andhe could not find words delicate enough in which to clothe an indelicaterequest,--one outrageous in its present connection, yet from some points ofview, definitively his own, a most urgent and natural one."For one shall grasp, and one resign,And God shall make the balance good."To grasp is a simple act enough; but to do so delicately, reverently,without forcing one's preferences on those of another, may not always be sosimple. Thane was not a Goth nor a Vandal; by choice he would have soughtto preserve the amenities of life; but a meek man he was not, and the thinghe now desired was, he considered, well worth the sacrifice of such smallpretensions as his in the direction of unselfishness.The founding of a family in its earliest stages is essentially an egoisticand ungenerous proceeding. Even Mr. Withers must have been self-seekingonce or twice in his life, else had he never had a son to mourn. So, sincelife in this world is for the living, and his own life was likely to goon many years after Mr. Withers had been gathered to the reward of therighteous, Thane worked himself up to the grasping-point at last.He was never able to reflect with any pride on the way in which he did it,and perhaps it is hardly fair to report him in a conversation that wouldhave had its difficulties for almost any man; but his way of putting hiscase was something like the following,--Mr. Withers guilelessly opening theway by asking, "You will be coming East, I hope, before long, Mr. Thane?""Possibly," said Thane, "I may run on to New York next winter.""If you should, I trust you will find time to come a little further Eastand visit me? I could add my niece's invitation to my own, but she and hermother will probably have gone South for her mother's health. However, Iwill welcome you for us both,--I and my books, which are all my householdnow.""Thanks, sir, I should be very glad to come; though your books, I'm afraid,are the sort that would not have much to say to me.""Come and see, come and see," Mr. Withers pressed him warmly. "A ripefarewell should always hold the seeds of a future meeting.""That is very kindly said," Thane responded quickly; "and if you don'tmind, I will plant one of those seeds right now.""So do, so do," the old gentleman urged unsuspiciously."Your niece"--Thane began, but could see his way no further in thatdirection without too much precipitancy. Then he backed down on a line ofargument,--"I need not point out the fact," etc.,--and abandoned that asbeset with too many pitfalls of logic, for one of his limited powers ofanalysis. Fewest words and simplest would serve him best. "It is hardlylikely," then he said, "that your niece's present state of feeling will berespected as long as it lasts; there will be others with feelings of theirown. Her loss will hardly protect her all her life from--she will havesuitors, of course! Nature is a brute, and most men, young men, are naturalin that respect,--in regard to women, I mean. I don't want to be the firstfool who rushes in, but there will be a first. When he arrives, sir, willyou let me know? If any man is to be heard, I claim the right to speak toher myself; the right, you understand, of one who loves her, who will makeany sacrifice on earth to win her."Mr. Withers remained silent. He had a sense of suffocation, as of waves ofheat and darkness going over him. The wind sang in his ears, shouted andhooted at him. He was stunned. Presently he gasped, "Mr. Thane! you havenot surely profaned this solemn journey with such thoughts as these?""A man cannot always help his thoughts, Mr. Withers. I have not profaned mythoughts by putting them into words, till now. I cannot do them justice,but I have made them plain. This is not a question of taste or proprietywith me, or even decency. It is my life,--all of it I shall ever place atthe disposal of any woman. I am not a boy; I know what I want and how muchI want it. The secret of success is to be in the right place at the righttime: here is where I ask your help.""I do not question that you know what you want," said Mr. Withersmildly,--"it is quite a characteristic of the men of this region, Iinfer,--nor do I deny that you may know the way of success in getting it;but that I should open the door to you--be your--I might say accomplice,in this design upon the affections of my niece--why, I don't know how itstrikes you, but"--"It strikes me precisely as it does you,--my part of it," said Thaneimpatiently. "But her part is different, as I see it. If she were sick, youwould not put off the day of her recovery because neither you nor yourscould cure her? Whoever can make her forget this shipwreck of her youth,heal her unhappiness, let him do so. Isn't that right? Give him the chanceto try. A man's power in these things does not lie in his deserts. All Iask is, when other men come forward I want the same privilege. But I shallnot be on the ground. When that time comes, sir, will you remember me?"For once Mr. Withers seized the occasion for a retort; he advanced upon theenemy's exposed position. "Yes, Mr. Thane, I will remember you,--betterthan you remember your friends when they are gone."Thane accepted the reproach as meekly as if his friendship for John Withershad been of the indubitable stuff originally that Mr. Withers had creditedhim with. He rather welcomed than otherwise an unmerited rebuke from thatlong-suffering quarter.But though Thane was silenced as well as answered, there was conscience yetto deal with. Mr. Withers sat and meditated sorely, while the wind buffetedhis gray hairs. Conscience demanded that he give up the secret of Daphne'sfalse mourning, which he would have defended with his life. "A silence thatcan harm no one." "So long as we defraud no living person who might claima right to know your heart." The condition was plain; it provided for justsuch cases as the present. Then how could he hesitate? But he was human,and he did."I have gone too far, I see. Well, say no more about it," said Thane. "Yourgenerosity tempted me. From those who give easily much shall be asked.Forget it, sir, please. I will look out for myself, or lose her.""Stop a bit!" exclaimed Mr. Withers. He turned to Thane, placing his handabove his faded eyes to shade them from the glare, and looked his companionearnestly in the face. Thane sought for an umbrella, and raised it over theold gentleman's head; it was not an easy thing to hold it steady in thatwind."Thanks, thanks! Now I can look at you. Yes, I can look you in the eye, inmore senses than one. Listen to me, Mr. Thane, and don't mind if I am notvery lucid. In speaking of the affairs of another, and a young woman, I canonly deal in outlines. You will be able to surmise and hope the rest. Ifeel in duty bound to tell you that at the time of my son's death there wasa misunderstanding on my part which forced Miss Lewis into a false positionin respect to her relations to my son. Too much was assumed by me oninsufficient evidence,--a case where the wish, perhaps, was father to thethought. She hesitated at that sore time to rob me of an illusion which shesaw was precious to me; she allowed me to retain my erroneous belief thatmy son, had he lived, would have enjoyed the blessing of her affection. Asa fact, she had not given it to him,--could not have given it,--though sheowns that her mind, not her heart, was wavering. Had she married him, othermotives than love would have influenced her choice. So death has saved mydear boy from a cruel disappointment or a worse mistake, and her from agreat danger. Had he lived, he must have had many hours of wretchedness,either with or without that dearest wish of his heart fulfilled."This she confessed to me not many days ago, after a long period ofremorseful questioning; and I deem it my duty now, in view of what you havejust told me, to acquaint you with the truth. I am the only one who knowsthat she was not engaged to my son, and never really loved him. The factcut me so deeply, when I learned it first, that I persuaded her, mostselfishly, to continue in the disguise she had permitted, sustained solong,--to rest in it, that my boy's memory might be honored through thissacrifice of the truth. Weak, fond old man that I was, and worse! Butnow you have my confession. As soon as I can speak with her alone I willrelease her from that promise. She was fain to be free before all theworld,--our little part of it,--but I fastened it on her. I see now that Icould not have invented a crueler punishment; but it was never my purposeto punish her. I will also tell her that I have opened the true state ofthe case to you.""Would you not stop just short of that, Mr. Withers? To know she is free tolisten to him,--that is all any man could ask.""Perhaps you are right; yes, she need not know that I have possessed youwith her secret,--all of it that has any bearing on your hopes. I onlythought it might save you, in her mind, from any possible imputation of--ofwant of respect for her supposed condition, akin to widowhood; but no doubtyou will wait a suitable time.""I will wait till we meet in Boise.""In Boise!" the old gentleman cried, aghast."That will be three days from now," answered Thane innocently. Did Mr.Withers imagine that he would wait three years!"But what becomes of the--the placer-mine?""The placer-mine be--the placer-mine will keep! She is shutting up herbook; the sketch is finished. Will you hold the umbrella, sir, or shall Iput it down?"Mr. Withers took hold of the umbrella handle; the wind shook it and nearlytugged it out of his grasp. "Put it down, if you please," he murmuredresignedly. But by this time Thane was half across the road to whereDaphne, with penknife and finger-tips, was trying to strip the top layerof blackened sandpaper from her pencil-scrubber; turning her face aside,because, woman-like, she would insist on casting her pencil-dust towindward.Thane smiled, and took the scrubber out of her hands, threw away the soiledsheet, sealed up the pad in a clean stamped envelope, which bore acrossthe end the legend, "If not delivered within ten days, return to"--"RobertHenry Thane," he wrote, with his address, and gave her back her property.It was all very childish, yet his hand trembled as he wrote; and Daphnelooked on with the solemnity of a child learning a new game."May I see the sketch?" he asked.They bent together over her book, while Daphne endeavored to find theplace; the wind fluttered the leaves, and she was so long in finding itthat Mr. Kinney had time to pack up her stool and umbrella, and cross theroad to say good-by to Mr. Withers."Here it is," said Thane, catching sight of the drawing. He touched thebook-holder lightly on the arm, to turn her away from the sun. Her shadowfell across the open page; their backs were to the wagon. So they stooda full half-minute,--Thane seeing nothing, hearing his heart beatpreposterously in the silence."Why don't you praise my sign-posts?" asked Daphne nervously. "See mybeautiful distance,--one straight line!""I have changed my plans a little," said Thane. Daphne closed the book. "Ishall see you again in Boise. This is good-by--for three days. Take care ofyourself." He held out his hand. "I shall meet your train at Bliss.""Bliss! Where is Bliss?""You never could remember, could you?" he smiled. The tone of his voice wasa flagrant caress. The color flew to Daphne's face. "Bliss," said he, "iswhere I shall meet you again: remember that, will you?"Daphne drew down her veil. The man returning from the ferry was in sightat the top of the hill. Mr. Withers was alighting from Thane's wagon. Sheturned her gray mask towards him, through which he could discern the softoutline of her face, the color of her lips and cheeks, the darkness of hereyes; their expression he could not see."I shall meet you at Bliss," he repeated, his fingers closing upon hers.Daphne did not reply; she did not speak to him nor look at him again,though it was some moments before the wagon started.Kinney and Thane remained at the cross-roads, discussing with some heat thelatter's unexpected change of plan. Mr. Kinney had a small interest in theplacer-mine, himself, but it looked large to him just then. He put littlefaith in Thane's urgent business (that no one had heard of till thatmoment) calling him to Boise in three days. Of what use was it going downto the placers only to turn round and come back again? So Thane thought,and proposed they drive forward to Bliss."Bliss be hanged!" said Mr. Kinney; which shows how many ways there are oflooking at the same thing.Thane's way prevailed; they drove straight on to Bliss. And if theplacer-mine was ever reported on by Thane, it must have been at a latertime.
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