“True,” he said at length, with a smile that tortured her, “this is not my side of the Ridge. I am the trespasser, even though this is public domain. You have as much right here as I––more, since I said the Ridge was the dividing line. So––”
He stepped quickly to her horse’s side, pressed the great bunch of pale-blue flowers into her limp but obedient hands, lifted his battered hat, turned on his heel, walked directly to the trap, leaped into the seat, and drove swiftly away. She watched him dully until he was out of sight behind a bend in the road, among the trees; watched the spot where he had disappeared until it became a blur to her aching eyes. Then she looked slowly down at the flowers in her hands. Columbines! Frail, lovely things, the fairest product, she had thought, of nature’s laboratory, reflecting the infinite, ineffable blue of God’s skies, delicate as the flower that had bloomed with such wonderful, unexpected beauty in her own heart! How she could have treasured them, wept over them, hugged them to her breast, if he had given them to her in another way. Slowly her fingers relaxed. The flowers fell into the dust of the road. She stared down, at them a moment; and then, with a cry, leaped 129 from her horse, picked them up eagerly, clasped them to her breast, buried her face in them, and watered them with her tears.
Seth said he guessed he would ride down to the post-office before supper; yesterday was mail day; might be something. Marion was glad of his departure, and to avoid Claire was not difficult, considering what baths, and changing of linen, and brushing of hair they required after their outing. Refreshed and rested, they had scarcely met before the new-lighted fire at twilight when Seth returned, stamping vigorously into the room.
“You’re the lucky one, Marion,” he said.
He fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced a letter. She took it, glanced at it, and let it fall into her lap. A great stillness seemed to have come upon the world. She appeared to be looking at Seth and Claire across great distances. She could hear her heart pounding in her bosom, like something that hammered for freedom. Ages seemed to have passed before she was able to rise slowly, to smile, to beg to be excused a moment. In her room she stood quite still, mechanically tore open the envelope, and read:
Dear Marion: You told me not to write, and I have obeyed till now. Don’t scold, please! You see I am in Denver. It’s business. Honest! A mining deal, just for a flyer. It may mean millions or nothing. I am here for several days, possibly weeks. Won’t you please let me run up to see you? Don’t say no, Marion. I promise to be good. I have an auto here, and they tell me the roads are O. K. at this season. I’ll come away the minute you tell me to. If I can see you only for an hour it will make me very happy.
Yours always,
Robert.
She read it twice, while the color slowly returned to her cheeks. Then the letter faded from her sight, and she saw a face that wore a cruel smile, and heard a voice that bade her begone. And suddenly a wave of resentment, of anger, swept over her. To have been scorned, flouted, humiliated by one to whom––And here was a man who wanted her as he wanted nothing else in the world, who would toil for her, die for her, who would treasure every word and smile she should consent to give him, whose one desire was to make her happy. What madness had come over her that she––she the Viking’s daughter––Her eyes were drawn, she knew not how, to the columbines that she had carefully, tenderly arranged in a bowl on her dressing table. In a passion she rushed upon them, snatched them up dripping, bore them to the open window, and flung them with all her strength out upon the lawn. A moment she stood looking at them, her hands clutched upon her heaving breast, her whole body quivering with the storm that raged within her. Then she whirled around, flung herself down at her little writing table, and wrote:
Dear Robert: Yes, come. Marion.