Now Gertrude was crushed and humbled. She had cheapened herself, as she thought of it, to this rancher, only to find that he preferred another. Her punishment was severe, but she felt that it was deserved, and her ripening passion had turned to something very much like hate. Whether he had really had any hand in her brother’s death was a point she would not calmly reason out, though she had a half-conscious feeling that he could not be charged with this. She wanted to think him base: to believe in his guilt would be an excuse for making him suffer.
While she walked, she cast quick glances across the waste of grass, looking for a mounted figure that did not appear, until at last she turned with a start at the sound of footsteps as Muriel came up.
“I saw you alone and thought I would join you,” Muriel said.
“It’s a relief to be by oneself now and then,” Gertrude answered with curt ungraciousness.
“One can understand that. I tried to give Harry a hint that our visit might be an intrusion, when he talked of joining your father; but he thought it would be some comfort for you to have your friends about you.”
“He was some time in putting his idea into practise.”
“We started as soon as we heard of your trouble,” said Muriel. “We were in Mexico then, and as we had moved about a good deal there was some delay in our letters. Has your father decided to stay with the Leslies?”
“Yes, for a while. It was, of course, impossible for us to remain with Mr. Prescott.”
“Why could you not?” Muriel asked with sparkling eyes.
“Isn’t it obvious, after what you heard the man admit?”