The suns rays grew brighter, there was still no sign of Helen. Tired in mind and body Geoffrey sat still, lost in a reverie. He had left the camp in a state of nervous suspense, but overtaxed nature had conquered, and now he waited not less anxious than he had been, but with a physical languidness due to the reaction.
When Helen Savine finally came out softly through a long window Geoffrey did not at first see her, and she had time to cast more than a passing glance at him as he sat with head resting gratefully on the back of the basket chair. His face, deeply tanned by the snow, had grown once more worn and thin. There were lines upon the forehead and wrinkles about his eyes; one bronzed hand lay above the other on his knee, as the complement of a pose that suggested the exhaustion of over-fatigue. The sight roused her pity, and she felt unusually sympathetic towards the tired man.
Then Geoffrey started and rose quickly. Helen noticed how he seemed to fling off his weariness as he came towards her, hat in hand.
"I have made a hurried journey to see you, Miss Savine," he said. "I have something to tell you, something concerning which I cannot keep silence any longer. If I am abrupt you will forgive me, but will you listen a few moments, and then answer me a question?"
The man's tone was humble if his eyes were eager, and Helen, who was sensible of a tremor of emotion, leaned against the rails of the veranda. The winter sunlight shone full upon her, and either that or the cold breeze that she had met on the headland accounted for the color in her cheeks. She made a dainty picture in her fur cap and close-fitting jacket, whose rich fur trimming set off the curves of a shapely figure. The man's longing must have shown itself in his eyes, for Helen suddenly turned her glance away from him. Again she felt a curious thrill, almost of pleasure, and wondered at it. If she had guessed his meaning correctly she would have felt merely sorry for him, and yet there was no mistaking an indefinite sense of satisfaction.
"Do you remember what I once told you at Graham's ranch?" he asked. "I was a needy adventurer then, and guilty of horrible presumption, but though the words came without my definite will I meant every one of them. I knew there could be only one woman in the world for me, and I solemnly determined to win her. It seemed madness—I was a poor, unknown man—but the thought of you drove me resistlessly on until at last the gulf between us has been narrowed, and may be narrower still. That is, I have striven to lessen it in the one way I can—in all others without your help it must remain impassable. Heaven knows how far I am beneath you, and the daring hope has but one excuse—I love you, and shall always do so. Is what I hope for quite impossible?"
While Helen would have told herself ten minutes earlier that she almost disliked the pleader, she was conscious of a new emotion. She had regarded other suitors with something like contempt, but it was not so with Thurston. Even if he occasionally repelled her, it was impossible to despise him.
"I am sorry," she said slowly. "Sorry that you should have told me this, because I can only answer that it is impossible."
Geoffrey evinced no great surprise. His face became stern instead of expectant; his toil-hardened frame was more erect, as he answered with unusual gentleness:
"I have endeavored to prepare myself for your reply. How could I hope to win you—as it were for the asking—easily? Still, though I am painfully conscious of many possible reasons, may I venture to ask why it is impossible, Miss Savine?"