Winston could never afterward recall having heard any report, yet as he stepped across the threshold a sharp flare of red fire cleft the blackness to his left. As though this was a signal he leaped recklessly forward, running blindly along the narrow path toward the ore-dump. Some trick of memory led him to remember a peculiar swerve in the trail just beneath the upper rim of the canyon. It must have been about there that he saw the flash, and he plunged over the edge, both hands outstretched in protection of his eyes from injury should he collide with any obstacle in the darkness. The deep shadows blinded him, but there was no hesitancy, some instinct causing him to feel the urgent need of haste. Once he stumbled and fell headlong, but was as instantly up again, bruised yet not seriously hurt. His revolver was jerked loose from his belt, but the man never paused to search for it. Even as he regained his feet, his mind bewildered by the shock, his ears distinguished clearly the cry of a woman, the sound of heavy feet crushing through underbrush. It was to his right, and he hurled himself directly into the thick chaparral in the direction from whence the sound came.
He knew not what new terror awaited him, what peril lurked in the path. At that moment he cared nothing. Bareheaded, pushing desperately aside the obstructing branches, his heart throbbing, his clothing torn, his face white with determination, he struggled madly forward, stumbling, creeping, fighting a passage, until he finally emerged, breathless but resolute, into a little cove extending back into the rock wall. From exertion and excitement he trembled from head to foot, the perspiration dripping from his face.
He stopped. The sight which met him for the moment paralyzed both speech and motion. Halfway across the open space, only dimly revealed in the star-light, her long hair dislodged and flying wildly about her shoulders, the gleam of the weapon in her hand, apparently stopped in the very act of flight, her eyes filled with terror staring back toward him, stood Beth Norvell. In that first instant he saw nothing else, thought only of her; of the intense peril that had so changed the girl. With hands outstretched he took a quick step toward her, marvelling why she crouched and shrank back before him as if in speechless fright. Then he saw. There between them, at his very feet, the face upturned and ghastly, the hands yet clinched as if in struggle, lay the lifeless body of Biff Farnham. As though fascinated by the sight, Winston stared at it, involuntarily drawing away as the full measure of this awful horror dawned upon him: she had killed him. Driven to the deed by desperation, goaded to it by insult and injury, tried beyond all power of human endurance, she had taken the man's life. This fact was all he could grasp, all he could comprehend. It shut down about him like a great blackness. In the keen agony of that moment of comprehension Winston recalled how she had once confessed temptation to commit the deed; how she had even openly threatened it in a tempest of sudden passion, if this man should ever seek her again. He had done so, and she had redeemed her pledge. He had dared, and she had struck. Under God, no one could justly blame her; yet the man's heart sank, leaving him faint and weak, reeling like a drunken man, as he realized what this must mean—to her, to him, to all the world. Right or wrong, justified or unjustified, the verdict of law spelled murder; the verdict of society, ostracism. It seemed to him that he must stifle; his brain was whirling dizzily. He saw it all as in a flash of lightning—the arrest, the pointing fingers, the bitterness of exposure, the cruel torture of the court, the broken-hearted woman cowering before her judges. Oh, God! it was too much! Yet what could he do? How might he protect, shield her from the consequences of this awful act? The law! What cared he for the law, knowing the story of her life, knowing still that he loved her? For a moment the man utterly forgot himself in the intensity of his agony for her. This must inevitably separate them more widely than ever before; yet he would not think of that—only of what he could do now to aid her. He tore open his shirt, that he might have air, his dull gaze uplifting piteously from the face of the dead to the place where she stood, her hands pressed against her head, her great eyes staring at him as though she confronted a ghost. Her very posture shocked him, it was so filled with speechless horror, so wild with undisguised terror. Suddenly she gave utterance to a sharp cry, that was half a sob, breaking in her throat.
"Oh, my God! my God!—you!"
The very sound of her voice, unnatural, unhuman as it was, served to bring him to himself.
"Yes, Beth, yes," he exclaimed hoarsely through dry lips, stepping across the body toward her. "You need not fear me."
She drew hastily back from before him, holding forth her hands as though pressing him away, upon her face that same look of unutterable horror.
"You! You! Oh, my God!" she kept repeating. "See! see there!—he is dead, dead, dead! I—I found him there; I—I found him there. Oh, my God!—that face so white in the starlight! I—I heard the words, and—and the shot." She pressed both hands across her eyes as though seeking to blot it out. "I swear I heard it! I—I do not know why I came here, but I—I found him there dead, dead! I—I was all alone in the dark. I—I had to touch him to make sure, and—and then it was you."
"Yes, yes," he said, realizing she was blindly endeavoring to clear herself, yet thinking only how he might soothe her, inexpressibly shocked by both words and manner. "I know, I understand—you found him there in the dark, and it has terrified you."
He approached closer, holding forth his own hands, believing she would come to him. But instead she shrank away as a child might, expecting punishment, her arms uplifted, shielding her face.
"No, no; do not touch me; do not touch me," she moaned. "I am not afraid of you, only I could not bear it."
"Beth!" He compelled his voice to sternness, confident now that this hysteria could be controlled only through the exercise of his own will. "You must listen to me, and be guided by my judgment. You must, you shall, do as I say. This is a most terrible happening, but it is now too late to remedy. We cannot restore life once taken. We must face the fact and do the very best we can for the future. This man is dead. How he died can make no difference to us now. You must go away from here; you must go away from here at once."
"And—and leave him alone?"
The whispered words stung him, his distressed mind placing wrong construction on the utterance.
"Has he been so much to you that now you must sacrifice yourself needlessly for him?" he questioned quickly.
"No, not that—not that," a shudder ran through her body, "but he—he was my husband. You forget."
"I do not forget. God knows it has been burden enough for me. But you have no further duty here, none to him. You have to yourself and to me."
"To—to you?"
"Yes, to me. I will put it that way, if it will only stir you to action. I can not, will not, leave you here alone to suffer for this. If you stay, I stay. In Heaven's name, Beth, I plead with you to go; I beg you to be guided in this by me."
"You—you will go with me?" her voice trembling, yet for the first time exhibiting a trace of interest. "If I go, you will go?"
"Yes, yes; can you suppose I would ever permit you to go alone? Do you give me your promise?"
She still held her head pressed between the palms of her hands, her dishevelled hair hanging far below the waist, her dark eyes, wild and filled with terror, roving about as though seeking to pierce the surrounding darkness.
"Oh, my God! I don't know!" she cried in a breathless sob. "I don't know! Why won't you go? Why won't you go, and leave me here with him, until some one else comes? I cannot understand; my brain is on fire. But that would be better—yes, yes! Do that. I—I am not afraid of him."
He caught her outflung hand firmly within his own grasp. She shuddered, as if the contact were painful, yet made no effort to escape, her eyes widening as she looked at him.
"No, I will not go one step without you." He held her helpless, his face grown stern, seeing in this his only hope of influencing her action. "Can it be you believe me such a cur? Beth, we both comprehend the wrong this man has done, the evil of his life the provocation given for such an act as this. He deserved it all. This is no time for blame. If we desired to aid him, our remaining here now would accomplish nothing. Others will discover the body and give it proper care. But, oh, God! do you realize what it will inevitably mean for us to be discovered here?—the disgrace, the stigma, the probability of arrest and conviction, the ruthless exposure of everything? I plead with you to think of all this, and no longer hesitate. We have no time for that. Leave here with me before it becomes too late. I believe I know a way out, and there is opportunity if we move quickly. But the slightest delay may close every avenue for escape. Beth, Beth, blot out all else, and tell me you will go!"
The intense agony apparent in his voice seemed to break her down utterly. The tears sprang blinding to her dry eyes, her head bent forward.
"And," she asked, as if the thought had not yet reached her understanding, "you will not go without—without me?"
"No; whatever the result, no."
She lifted her face, white, haggard, and looked at him through the mist obscuring her eyes, no longer wide opened in wildness.
"Then I must go; I must go," she exclaimed, a shudder shaking her from head to foot; "God help me, I must go!"
A moment she gazed blankly back toward the motionless body on the ground, the ghastly countenance upturned to the stars, her own face as white as the dead, one hand pressing back her dark hair. She reeled from sudden faintness, yet, before he could touch her in support, she had sunk upon her knees, with head bowed low, the long tresses trailing upon the ground.
"Beth! Beth!" he cried in an agony of fear.
She looked up at him, her expression that of earnest pleading.
"Yes, yes, I will go," she said, the words trembling; "but—but let me pray first."
He stood motionless above her, his heart throbbing, his own eyes lowered upon the ground. He was conscious of the movement of her lips, yet could never afterward recall even a broken sentence of that prayer. Possibly it was too sacred even for his ears, only to be measured by the infinite love of God. She ceased to speak at last, the low voice sinking into an inarticulate whisper, yet she remained kneeling there motionless, no sound audible excepting her repressed sobbing. Driven by the requirements of haste, Winston touched her gently upon the shoulder.
"Come, my girl," he said, the sight of her suffering almost more than he could bear. "You have done all you can here now."
She arose to her feet slowly, never looking toward him, never appearing to heed his presence. He noticed the swelling of her throat as though the effort to breathe choked her, the quick spasmodic heaving of her bosom, and set his teeth, struggling against the strain upon his own nerves.
"You will go with me now?"
She glanced about at him, her eyes dull, unseeing.
"Oh, yes—now," she answered, as if the words were spoken automatically. He led her away, ignoring the constant efforts she made, as they climbed the bank, to gaze back across his shoulder. Finally the intervening branches completely hid that white, dead face below, and, as if with it had vanished all remaining strength of will, or power of body, the girl drooped her head against him, swaying blindly as she walked. Without a word he drew her close within his arm, her hair blowing across his face, her hand gripping his shoulder. It was thus they came forth amid the clearer starlight upon the ridge summit. Again and again as they moved slowly he strove to speak, to utter some word of comfort, of sympathy. But he could not—the very expression of her partially revealed face, as he caught glimpses of it, held him speechless. Deep within his heart he knew her trouble was beyond the ministration of words. Some one was standing out in front of the cabin. His eyes perceived the figure as they approached, and he could not bring himself to speak of this thing of horror in her presence.
"Beth," he said gently, but had to touch her to attract attention, "I want you to sit here and wait while I arrange for our journey. You are not afraid?"
"No," her voice utterly devoid of emotion, "I am not afraid."
"You will remain here?"
She looked at him, her face expressionless, as though she failed to understand. Yet when he pointed to the stone she sat down.
"Yes," she answered, speaking those common words hesitatingly as if they were from some unfamiliar foreign tongue, "I am to do what you say."
She bent wearily down, her head buried within her hands. For a moment Winston stood hesitating, scarcely daring to leave her. But she did not move, and finally he turned away, walking directly toward that indistinct figure standing beside the cabin door. As he drew closer he recognized the old miner, his rifle half-raised in suspicion of his visitor. It must be done, and the engineer went at his task directly.
"Has Brown come back?"
"Shore; he 's in thar now," and Hicks peered cautiously into the face of his questioner, even while pointing back into the dark cabin. "He come in a while ago; never said no word ter me, but just pushed past in thar ter the bed, an' kneeled down with his face in the bed-clothes. He ain't moved ner spoke since. I went in onct, an' tried ter talk ter him, but he never so much as stirred, er looked at me. I tell yer, Mr. Winston, it just don't seem nat'ral; 't ain't a bit like Stutter fer ter act in that way. I just could n't stand it no longer, an' had ter git out yere into the open air. Damn, but it makes me sick."
"This has been a terrible night," the younger man said gravely, laying his hand upon the other's shoulder. "I hope never to pass through such another. But we are not done with it yet. Hicks, Farnham has been killed—shot. His body lies over yonder in that little cove, just beyond the trail. You will have to attend to it, for I am going to get his wife away from here at once."
"You are what?"
"I am going to take Miss Norvell away—now, to-night. I am going to take her across to Daggett Station, to catch the east-bound train."
Hicks stared at him open-eyed, the full meaning of all this coming to his mind by degrees.
"Good God! Do yer think she did it?" he questioned incredulously.
Winston shook him, his teeth grinding together savagely.
"Damn you! it makes no difference what I think!" he exclaimed fiercely, his nerves throbbing. "All you need to know is that she is going; going to-night; going to Daggett Station, to Denver, to wherever she will be beyond danger of ever being found. You understand that? She 's going with me, and you are going to help us, and you are going to do your part without asking any more fool questions."
"What is it you want?"
"Your horse, and the pony Mercedes was riding."
Hicks uttered a rasping oath, that seemed to catch, growling, in his lean throat.
"But, see yere, Winston," he protested warmly. "Just look at the shape your goin' now will leave us in yere at the 'Little Yankee.' We need yer testimony, an' need it bad."
Winston struck his hand against the log, as slight vent to his feelings.
"Hicks, I never supposed you were a fool. You know better than that, if you will only stop and think. This claim matter is settled already. The whole trouble originated with Farnham, and he is dead. Tomorrow you 'll bury him. The sheriff is here, and he's already beginning to understand this affair. He stands to help you. Now, all you 've got to do is to swear out warrants for Farnham's partners, and show up in evidence that tunnel running along your lead. It's simple as A B C, now that you know it's there. They can't beat you, and you don't require a word of testimony from me. But that poor girl needs me,—she's almost crazed by this thing,—and I 'm going with her, if I have to fight my way out from here with a rifle. That's the whole of it—either you give me those horses, or I 'll take them."
Old Hicks looked into the grim face fronting him so threateningly, the complete situation slowly revealing itself to his mind.
"Great Guns!" he said at last, almost apologetically. "Yer need n't do nothin' like that. Lord, no! I like yer first rate, an' I like the girl. Yer bet I do, an' I 'm damn glad that Farnham 's knocked out. Shore, I 'll help the both o' yer. I reckon Stutter 'd be no good as a guide ter-night, but I kin show yer the way down the ravine. The rest is just ridin'. Yer kin leave them hosses with the section-boss at Daggett till I come fer 'em."
Never in the after years could Winston clearly recall the incidents of that night's ride across the sand waste. The haze which shrouded his brain would never wholly lift. Except for a few detached details the surroundings of that journey remained vague, clouded, indistinct. He remembered the great, burning desert; the stars gleaming down above them like many eyes; the ponderous, ragged edge of cloud in the west; the irregular, castellated range of hills at their back; the dull expanse of plain ever stretching away in front, with no boundary other than that southern sky. The weird, ghostly shadows of cactus and Spanish bayonet were everywhere; strange, eerie noises were borne to them out of the void—the distant cries of prowling wolves, the mournful sough of the night wind, the lonely hoot of some far-off owl. Nothing greeted the roving eyes but desolation,—a desolation utter and complete, a mere waste of tumbled sand, by daylight whitened here and there by irregular patches of alkali, but under the brooding night shadows lying brown, dull, forlorn beyond all expression, a trackless, deserted ocean of mystery, oppressive in its drear sombreness.
He rode straight south, seeking no trail, but guiding their course by the stars, his right hand firmly grasping the pony's bit, and continually urging his own mount to faster pace. The one thought dominating his mind was the urgent necessity for haste—a savage determination to intercept that early train eastward. Beyond this single idea his brain seemed in hopeless turmoil, seemed failing him. Any delay meant danger, discovery, the placing of her very life in peril. He could grasp that; he could plan, guide, act in every way the part of a man under its inspiration, but all else appeared chaos. The future?—there was no future; there never again could be. The chasm of a thousand years had suddenly yawned between him and this woman. It made his head reel merely to gaze down into those awful depths. It could not be bridged; no sacrifice, no compensation might ever undo that fatal death-shot. He did not blame her, he did not question her justification, but he understood—together they faced the inevitable. There was no escape, no clearing of the record. There was nothing left him to do except this, this riding through the night—absolutely nothing. Once he had guided her into safety all was done,—done forever; there remained to him no other hope, ambition, purpose, in all this world. The desert about them typified that forthcoming existence—barren, devoid of life, dull, and dead. He set his teeth savagely to keep back the moan of despair that rose to his lips, half lifting himself in the stirrups to glance back toward her.
If she perceived anything there was not the slightest reflection of it within her eyes. Lustreless, undeviating, they were staring directly ahead into the gloom, her face white and almost devoid of expression. The sight of it turned him cold and sick, his unoccupied hand gripping the saddle-pommel as though he would crush the leather. Yet he did not speak, for there was nothing to say. Between these two was a fact, grim, awful, unchangeable. Fronting it, words were meaningless, pitiable.
He had never before known that she could ride, but he knew it now. His eye noted the security of her seat in the saddle, the easy swaying of her slender form to the motion of the pony, in apparent unconsciousness of the hard travelling or the rapidity of their progress. She had drawn back the long tresses of her hair and fastened them in place by some process of mystery, so that now her face was revealed unshadowed, clearly defined in the starlight. Dazed, expressionless, as it appeared, looking strangely deathlike in that faint radiance, he loved it, his moistened eyes fondly tracing every exposed lineament. God! but this fair woman was all the world to him! In spite of everything, his heart went forth to her unchanged. It was Fate, not lack of love or loyalty, that now set them apart, that had made of their future a path of bitterness. In his groping mind he rebelled against it, vainly searching for some way out, urging blindly that love could even blot out this thing in time, could erase the crime, leaving them as though it had never been. Yet he knew better. Once she spoke out of the haunting silence, her voice sounding strange, her eyes still fixed in that same vacant stare ahead into the gloom.
"Isn't this Mercedes' pony? I—I thought she rode away on him herself?"
With the words the recollection recurred to him that she did not yet know about that other tragedy. It was a hard task, but he met it bravely. Quietly as he might, he told the sad story in so far as he understood it—the love, the sacrifice, the suffering. As she listened her head drooped ever lower, and he saw the glitter of tears falling unchecked. He was glad she could cry; it was better than that dull, dead stare. As he made an end, picturing the sorrowing Stutter kneeling in his silent watch at the bedside, she looked gravely across to him, the moisture clinging to the long lashes.
"It was better so—far better. I know how she felt, for she has told me. God was merciful to her;" the soft voice broke into a sob; "for me, there is no mercy."
"Beth, don't say that! Little woman, don't say that! The future is long; it may yet lead to happiness. A true love can outlast even the memory of this night."
She shook her head wearily, sinking back into the saddle.
"Yes," she said soberly, "love may, and I believe will, outlast all. It is immortal. But even love cannot change the deed; nothing ever can, nothing—no power of God or man."
He did not attempt to answer, knowing in the depths of his own heart that her words were true. For an instant she continued gazing at him, as though trustful he might speak, might chance to utter some word of hope that had not come to her. Then the uplifted head drooped wearily, the searching eyes turning away to stare once again straight ahead. His very silence was acknowledgment of the truth, the utter hopelessness of the future. Although living, there lay between them the gulf of death.
Gray, misty, and silent came the dawn, stealing across the wide desolation like some ghostly presence—the dawn of a day which held for these two nothing except despair. They greeted its slow coming with dulled, wearied eyes, unwelcoming. Drearier amid that weird twilight than in the concealing darkness stretched the desolate waste of encircling sand, its hideous loneliness rendered more apparent, its scars of alkali disfiguring the distance, its gaunt cacti looking deformed and merciless. The horses moved forward beneath the constant urging of the spur, worn from fatigue, their heads drooping, their flanks wet, their dragging hoofs ploughing the sand. The woman never changed her posture, never seemed to realize the approach of dawn; but Winston roused up, lifting his head to gaze wearily forward. Beneath the gray, out-spreading curtain of light he saw before them the dingy red of a small section-house, with a huge, rusty water-tank outlined against the sky. Lower down a little section of vividly green grass seemed fenced about by a narrow stream of running water. At first glimpse he deemed it a mirage, and rubbed his half-blinded eyes to make sure. Then he knew they had ridden straight through the night, and that this was Daggett Station.
He helped her down from the saddle without a word, without the exchange of a glance, steadying her gently as she stood trembling, and finally half carried her in his arms across the little platform to the rest of a rude bench. The horses he turned loose to seek their own pasturage and water, and then came back, uncertain, filled with vague misgiving, to where she sat, staring wide-eyed out into the desolation of sand. He brought with him a tin cup filled with water, and placed it in her hand. She drank it down thirstily.
"Thank you," she said, her voice sounding more natural.
"Is there nothing else, Beth? Could you eat anything?"
"No, nothing. I am just tired—oh, so tired in both body and brain. Let me sit here in quiet until the train comes. Will that be long?"
He pointed far off toward the westward, along those parallel rails now beginning to gleam in the rays of the sun. On the outer rim of the desert a black spiral of smoke was curling into the horizon.
"It is coming now; we had but little time to spare."
"Is that a fast train? Are you certain it will stop here?"
"To both questions, yes," he replied, relieved to see her exhibit some returning interest. "They all stop here for water; it is a long run from this place to Bolton Junction."
She said nothing in reply, her gaze far down the track where those spirals of smoke were constantly becoming more plainly visible. In the increasing light of the morning he could observe how the long night had marked her face with new lines of weariness, had brought to it new shadows of care. It was not alone the dulled, lustreless eyes, but also those hollows under them, and the drawn lips, all combining to tell the story of physical fatigue, and a heart-sickness well-nigh unendurable. Unable to bear the sight, Winston turned away, walking to the end of the short platform, staring off objectless into the grim desert, fighting manfully in an effort to conquer himself. This was a struggle, a remorseless struggle, for both of them; he must do nothing, say nothing, which should weaken her, or add an ounce to her burden. He came back again, his lips firmly closed in repression.
"Our train is nearly here," he said in lack of something better with which to break the constrained silence.
She glanced about doubtfully, first toward the yet distant train, then up into his face.
"When is the local east due here? Do you know?"
"Probably an hour later than the express. At least, I judge so from the time of its arrival at Bolton," he responded, surprised at the question. "Why do you ask?"
She did not smile, or stir, except to lean slightly forward, her eyes falling from his face to the platform.
"Would—would it be too much if I were to ask you to permit me to take this first train alone?" she asked, her voice faltering, her hands trembling where they were clasped in her lap.
His first bewildered surprise precluded speech; he could only look at her in stupefied amazement. Then something within her lowered face touched him with pity.
"Beth," he exclaimed, hardly aware of the words used, "do you mean that? Is it your wish that we part here?
"Oh, no, not that!" and she rose hastily, holding to the back of the bench with one hand, and extending the other. "Do not put it in that way. Such an act would be cruel, unwarranted. But I am so tired, so completely broken down. It has seemed all night long as though my brain were on fire; every step of the horse has been torture. Oh, I want so to be alone—alone! I want to think this out; I want to face it all by myself. Merciful God! it seems to me I shall be driven insane unless I can be alone, unless I can find a way into some peace of soul. Do not blame me; do not look at me like that, but be merciful—if you still love me, let me be alone."
He grasped the extended hand, bending low over it, unwilling in that instant that she should look upon his face. Again and again he pressed his dry lips upon the soft flesh.
"I do love you, Beth," he said at last, chokingly, "love you always, in spite of everything. I will do now as you say. Your train is already here. You know my address in Denver. Don't make this forever, Beth—don't do that."
She did not answer him; her lips quivered, her eyes meeting his for a single instant. In their depths he believed he read the answer of her heart, and endeavored to be content. As the great overland train paused for a moment to quench its thirst, the porter of the Pullman, who, to his surprise, had been called to place his carpeted step on the platform of this desert station, gazed in undisguised amazement at those two figures before him—a man bareheaded, his clothing tattered and disreputable, half supporting a woman who was hatless, white-faced, and trembling like a frightened child.
"Yas, sah; whole section vacant, sah, Numbah Five. Denvah; yas, sah, suttinly. Oh, I'll look after de lady all right. You ain't a-goin' 'long wid us, den, dis trip? Oh, yas; thank ye, sah. Sure, I'll see dat she gits dere, don't you worry none 'bout dat."
Winston walked restlessly down the platform, gazing up at the car-windows, every ounce of his mustered resolve necessary to hold him outwardly calm. The curtains were many of them closed, but at last he distinguished her, leaning against the glass, that same dull, listless look in her eyes as she stared out blindly across the waste of sand. As the train started he touched the window, and she turned and saw him. There was a single moment when life came flashing back into her eyes, when he believed her lips even smiled at him. Then he was alone, gazing down the track after the fast disappearing train.
There followed three years of silence, three years of waiting for that message which never came. As though she had dropped into an ocean of oblivion, Beth Norvell disappeared. Winston had no longer the slightest hope that a word from her would ever come, and there were times when he wondered if it was not better so—if, after all, she had not chosen rightly. Love untarnished lived in his heart; yet, as she had told him out in the desert, love could never change the deed. That remained—black, grim, unblotted, the unalterable death stain. Why, then, should they meet? Why seek even to know of each other? Close together, or far apart, there yawned a bottomless gulf between. Silence was better; silence, and the mercy of partial forgetfulness.
Winston had toiled hard during those years, partly from a natural liking, partly to forget his heartaches. Feverishly he had taken up the tasks confronting him, sinking self in the thought of other things. Such work had conquered success, for he did his part in subjecting nature to man, thus winning a reputation already ranking him high among the mining experts of the West. His had become a name to conjure with in the mountains and mining camps. During the long months he had hoped fiercely. Yet he had made no endeavor to seek her out, or to uncover her secret. Deep within his heart lay a respect for her choice, and he would have held it almost a crime to invade the privacy that her continued silence had created. So he resolutely locked the secret within his own soul, becoming more quiet in manner, more reserved in speech, with every long month of waiting, constantly striving to forget the past amid a multitude of business and professional cares.
It was at the close of a winter's day in Chicago. Snow clouds were scurrying in from over the dun-colored waters of the lake, bringing with them an early twilight. Already myriads of lights were twinkling in the high office buildings, and showing brilliant above the smooth asphalt of Michigan Avenue. The endless stream of vehicles homeward bound began to thicken, the broad highway became a scene of continuous motion and display. After hastily consulting the ponderous pages of a city directory in an adjacent drug store, a young man, attired in dark business suit, his broad shoulders those of an athlete, his face strongly marked and full of character, and bronzed even at this season by out-of-door living, hurried across the street and entered the busy doorway of the Railway Exchange Building. On the seventh floor he unceremoniously flung open a door bearing the number sought, and stepped within to confront the office boy, who as instantly frowned his disapproval.
"Office hours over," the latter announced shortly. "Just shuttin' up."
"I am not here on business, my lad," was the good-natured reply, "but in the hope of catching Mr. Craig before he got away."
The boy, still somewhat doubtful, jerked his hand back across his shoulder toward an inner apartment.
"Well, his nibs is in there, but he 's just a-goin'."
The visitor swung aside the gate and entered. The man within, engaged in closing down his roll-top desk for the day, wheeled about in his chair, quite evidently annoyed by so late a caller. An instant he looked at the face, partially shadowed in the dim light, then sprang to his feet, both hands cordially extended.
"Ned Winston, by all the gods!" he exclaimed, his voice full of heartiness. "Say, but I 'm glad to see you, old man. Supposed it was some bore wanting to talk business, and this happens to be my busy night. By Jove, thought I never was going to break away from this confounded desk—always like that when a fellow has a date. How are you, anyhow? Looking fine as a fiddle. In shape to kick the pigskin at this minute, I 'll bet a hundred. Denver yet, I suppose? Must be a great climate out there, if you 're a specimen. Must like it, anyhow; why, you 've simply buried yourself in the mountains. Some of the old fellows were in here talking about it the other day. Have n't been East before for a couple of years, have you, Ned?"
"Considerably over three, Bob, and only on urgent business now. Have been hard at it all day, but thought I would take a chance at finding you in, even at this hour. Knew your natural inclination to grind, you know. I take a train for the West at midnight."
"Well, I rather guess not," and Craig picked up his hat from the top of the desk. "Do you imagine I 'll let go of you that easily, now that you are here? Well, hardly. You 've got to give up that excursion for one night at least, even if I 'm compelled to get you jugged in order to hold you safe. I can do it, too; I have a pull with the police department. My automobile fines are making them rich."
"But you just mentioned having an engagement, or rather a date, which I suppose means the same thing."
Craig smiled indulgently, his dark eyes filled with humor.
"That's exactly the ticket. Glad to see you keep up with the slang of the day; proof you live in the real world, possess a normal mind, and feel an interest in current events. Altogether most commendable. That engagement of mine happens to be the very thing I want you for. Most glorious event in our family history, at least within my remembrance. My birth probably transcended even this in importance, but the details are not clear. You will addéclatto the occasion. By Jove, it will be immense; paterfamilias and mater-ditto will welcome you with open arms. They often speak of you; 'pon my word they do, and I don't know of another fellow anywhere they 'd rather have join in our little family celebration. Oh, this is a great night for Old Ireland. Stay? Why, confound it, of course you 'll stay!"
"But see here, Bob, at least give me the straight of all this. What 's happening? What is it you are stacking me up against?"
"Box party at the Grand. Here, have a cigar. Just a family affair, you know. First night; certain to be a swell crowd there; everything sold out in advance. Supper afterwards, private dining-room at the Annex—just ourselves; no guests, except only the Star and her manager."
"The Star? I never heard that you people went in for theatricals?"
"Lord! they never did; but they 've experienced a change of heart. You see, Lizzie took to it like a duck to water—she was the baby, the kid, you know—and, by thunder, the little girl made good. She 's got 'em coming and going, and the pater is so proud of her he wears a smile on him that won't come off. It 's simply great just to see him beau her around downtown, shedding real money at every step. Nothing is too good for Lizzie just now."
"And she is the Star?"
"Sure, and the lassie is going to have an ovation, unless all signs fail. Society has got a hunch, and that means a gorgeous turnout. The horse-show will be a back number. Lord, man, you can't afford to miss it! Why, you 'd never see anything like it in Denver in a thousand years."
Winston laughed, unable to resist entirely the contagious enthusiasm of his friend.
"You certainly make a strong bid, Bob; but really if I did remain overnight I 'd much prefer putting in the hours talking over old times. With all due respect to your sister, old boy, I confess I have n't very much heart for the stage. I 've grown away from it; have n't even looked into a playhouse for years."
"Thought as much; clear over the head in business. Big mistake at your age. A night such as Lizzie can give you will be a revelation. Say, Ned, that girl is an actress. I don't say it because she 's my sister, but she actually is; they 're all raving over her, even the critics. That's one reason why I want you to stay. I 'm blame proud of my little sister."
"But I have n't my evening dress within a thousand miles of here."
"What of that? I have no time now to run out to the house and get into mine. I 'm no lightning change artist. Lizzie won't care; she 's got good sense, and the others can go hang. Come on, Ned; we 'll run over to the Chicago Club and have a bite, then a smoke and chat about Alma Mater; after that, the Grand."
The great opera house was densely crowded from pit to dome, the boxes and parquet brilliant with color and fashion, the numberless tiers of seats rising above, black with packed, expectant humanity. Before eight o'clock late comers had been confronted in the lobby with the "Standing Room Only" announcement; and now even this had been turned to the wall, while the man at the ticket window shook his head to disappointed inquirers. And that was an audience to be remembered, to be held notable, to be editorially commented upon by the press the next morning.
There was reason for it. A child of Chicago, daughter in a family of standing and exclusiveness, after winning notable successes in San Francisco, in London, in New York, had, at last, consented to return home, and appear for the first time in her native city. Endowed with rare gifts of interpretation, earnest, sincere, forceful, loving her work fervently, possessing an attractive presence and natural capacity for study, she had long since won the appreciation of the critics and the warm admiration of those who care for the highest in dramatic art. The reward was assured. Already her home-coming had been heralded broadcast as an event of consequence to the great city. Her name was upon the lips of the multitude, and upon the hearts of those who really care for such things, the devotees of art, of high endeavor, of a stage worthy the traditions of its past. And in her case, in addition to all these helpful elements, Society grew suddenly interested and enthralled. The actress became a fashion, a fad, about which revolved the courtier and the butterfly. Once, it was remembered, she had been one of them, one of their own set, and out of the depths of their little pool they rose clamorously to the surface, imagining, as ever, that they were the rightful leaders of it all. Thus it came about, that first night—the stage brilliant, the house a dense mass of mad enthusiasts, jewelled heads nodding from boxes to parquet in recognition of friends, opera glasses insolently staring, voices humming in ceaseless conversation, and, over all, the frantic efforts of the orchestra to attract attention to itself amid the glitter and display.
Utterly indifferent to all of it, Ned Winston leaned his elbow on the brass rail of the first box, and gazed idly about over that sea of unknown faces. He would have much preferred not being there. To him, the theatre served merely as a stimulant to unpleasant memory. It was in this atmosphere that the ghost walked, and those hidden things of life came back to mock him. He might forget, sometimes, bending above his desk, or struggling against the perplexing problems of his profession in the field, but not here; not in the glare of the footlights, amid the hum of the crowd. He crushed the unread programme within his hand, striving to converse carelessly with the lady sitting next to him, whom he was expected to entertain. But his thoughts were afar off, his eyes seeing a gray, misty, silent expanse of desert, growing constantly clearer in its hideous desolation before the advancing dawn.
The vast steel curtain arose with apparent reluctance to the top of the proscenium arch, the chatter of voices ceased, somewhat permitting the struggling orchestra to make itself felt and heard. Winston shut his teeth, and waited uneasily, the hand upon the rail clenched. Even more than he had ever expected, awakened memory tortured. He would have gone out into the solitude of the street, except for the certainty of disturbing others. The accompanying music became faster as the inner curtain slowly rose, revealing the great stage set for the first act. He looked at it carelessly, indifferently, his thoughts elsewhere, yet dimly conscious of the sudden hush all about him, the leaning forward of figures intent upon catching the opening words. The scene portrayed was that of a picturesque Swiss mountain village. It was brilliant in coloring, and superbly staged. For a moment the scenery; with great snow-capped peaks for background, caught his attention. If was realistic, beautifully faithful to nature, and he felt his heart throb with sudden longing to be home, to be once more in the shadow of the Rockies. But the actors did not interest him, and his thoughts again drifted far afield.
The act was nearly half finished before the Star made her appearance. Suddenly the door of the chalet opened, and a young woman emerged, attired in peasant costume, carelessly swinging a hat in her hand, her bright face smiling, her slender figure perfectly poised. She advanced to the very centre of the wide stage. The myriad of lights rippled over her, revealing the deep brown of her abundant hair, the dark, earnest eyes, the sweet winsomeness of expression. This was the moment for which that vast audience had been waiting. Like an instantaneous explosion of artillery came the thunder of applause. Her first attempted speech lost in that outburst of acclaim, the actress stood before them bowing and smiling, the red blood surging into her unrouged cheeks, her dark eyes flashing like two diamonds. Again and again the house rose to her, the noise of greeting was deafening, and a perfect avalanche of flowers covered the stage. From boxes, from parquet, from crowded balcony, from top-most gallery the enthusiastic outburst came, spontaneous, ever growing in volume of sound, apparently never ending. She looked out upon them almost appealingly, her hands outstretched in greeting, her eyes filling with tears. Slowly, as if drawn toward them by some impulse of gratitude, she came down to the footlights, and stood there bowing to left and right, the deep swelling of her bosom evidencing her agitation.
As though some sudden remembrance had occurred to her in the midst of that turmoil, of what all this must mean to others, to those of her own blood, she turned to glance lovingly toward that box in which they sat. Instantly she went white, her hands pressing her breast, her round throat swelling as though the effort of breathing choked her. Possibly out in front they thought it acting, perhaps a sudden nervous collapse, for as she half reeled backward to the support of a bench, the clamor died away into dull murmur. Almost with the ceasing of tumult she was upon her feet again, her lips still white, her face drawn as if in pain. Before the startled audience could awaken and realize the truth, she had commenced the speaking of her lines, forcing them into silence, into a hushed and breathless expectancy.
Winston sat leaning forward, his hand gripping the rail, staring at her. But for that one slender figure the entire stage before him was a blank. Suddenly he caught Craig by the arm.
"Who is that?" he questioned, sharply. "The one in the costume of a peasant girl?"
"Who is it? Are you crazy? Why, that 's Lizzie; read your programme, man. She must have had a faint spell just now. By Jove, I thought for a moment she was going to flop. You 're looking pretty white about the lips yourself, ain't sick, are you?"
He shook his head, sinking back into his seat. Hastily he opened the pages of the crushed programme, his hand shaking so he was scarcely able to decipher the printed lines. Ah! there it was in black-faced type: "Renee la Roux—Miss Beth Norvell."