PART III
PART III
THEY stood together in the dawn, the blue dawn of Montana. Silver stars were winking dimly in the silver sky, clear save above the glittering peaks of the distant range, which reflected the blue of a bank of clouds above. And all the vast and snowy expanse was blue; and the snow on the pine trees of the forest.
No one stirred in the two camps, not abroad at least; and even the shacks and larger buildings built with as little regard for beauty were transformed and glorified by the white splendour of winter. On the crest of Perch of the Devil was a long gracefully built bungalow, also heavily laden with snow, and between the posts of its verandah hung icicles, iridescent blue in the dawn.
A small lawn had been cultivated, and they leaned over the gate of the fence that surrounded it, not wrapped in one buffalo robe, but in heavy automobile coats, their heads protected from the intense cold by fur caps. But they stood close together, and even a passing stranger would have known that there was harmony between them. Both were looking at the cold loveliness of the dawn and admiring it subconsciously, and both were thinking of other things. Gregory was visualising a ranch he had bought not long since near those mountains, and the wire gold but a few feet below the surface, found a fortnight ago while ditching. He had his gold mine at last, but it merely would hasten his grooming for the millionaire brotherhood, and had given him none of the exultant ecstasy he had dreamed of in the days before he had opened Perch of the Devil. The gold mine was not in his hill! Only the sharp, cool, calculating business wing of his brain appreciated it. The mine beneath his feet was still the object of his deep affections.
And sometimes, down in the depths of that mine (never above ground), he sat alone for a few moments and thought of Ora. He had forced her out of his mind when she wentout of his life, but nothing could dislodge her from his ivory tower, although in time to come she might gather dust for years on end. For months after she married Valdobia she seemed to have taken his memory to Rome with her; but she brought it back in time.
In those rare moments when he peered through the windows of that inner temple, he, too, sometimes asked, “Why?†What had it all meant? It had been perfect love—yet so lamentably imperfect; not only because they were torn apart, but because they would not have found permanent happiness together. Between some subtle essence of their beings there was an indissoluble bond, but their minds were not in accord, and neither would have been adaptable save during that fluid period when even strong egos lose their bearings and float on that inevitable sea of many tides called Love; knowing that when it casts them on the shore whence they came, once more will they be as malleable as rock crystal. But what had it all meant?
And his wife made him very happy. He found her increasingly desirable as a life companion. She adapted herself to every angle of his character while losing none of her own picturesque individuality; made no impossible exactions either on his soul or his time; was always beautiful to look at; and the most level-headed of his friends.
Even men of less complicated egos have been able to love two women at once and survive.
And Ida? She at least had what she wanted, she was a philosopher, and therefore as happy as may be. By constant manœuvring she saw more of her busy husband than falls to the lot of most American wives married to too successful men. She had made herself so necessary to him that he returned from his many absences almost as eager to see her as his mine. On these hurried trips she never accompanied him, not only because it was wise to let him miss her, and to think of her always in the home setting, but because they gave her the opportunity to retain her hold on Butte; to enjoy her beautiful house there and her many friends.
Suddenly Gregory raised his head. Then he lifted the ear flap of his fur cap. High above there was a loud humming, as of the wind along telegraph wires, or the droning of many bees, or the strumming of an aerial harp. The month was March and the weather forty degrees belowzero. The very sky, whose silver was growing dim, looked frosted, but a moment later Gregory felt a warm puff of air on his cheek.
“The Chinook!†he said softly.
Another puff touched them both lightly, then a long wave of warm air swept down and about them.
“It’s chinooking, certainly,†said Ida, opening her fur coat and pushing back her cap. “I hope that means we’ve had the last of winter.â€
Again there was a long diving wave, almost hot in its contrast to the cold air rising from the ground, and still accompanied by that humming orchestra above. But in a few moments the hum had deepened into a roar down in the tree tops and about the corners of the buildings on the hill. The icicles fell from the eaves and lay shattered and dissolving on the porch, the snow was blown up in frosty clouds and melted as it fell.
“It’s the last of winter, I guess,†said Gregory. “We’re not likely to have another long spell of cold. Spring has come. And so has daylight. Let’s go in, old girl.â€
THE END