“Not a word!” Greyson waved his hand in a princely way—this gesture was an heirloom from his ancestry. “I understand your feelings—I’ve seen what has been going on—but naturally I want my daughter to marry one worthy of her. You shall have my Marg when you have proven yourself! I’ve misjudged you, Jed, but this will wipe away old scores.”
With a sickening sense of being absorbed, Jed sank into black silence. If Marg wanted him and old Greyson was helping her, there was no hope! Blood and desire would conquer every time; every mountaineer recognized that!
And so things were seething under a surface of deadly calm, when Truedale, believing that he had himself well in control, packed his gunny sack and started forth for a long tramp. He had no particular destination in mind—in fact, the soft, dreamy autumn day lulled him to mental inertia—he simply went along, but he went as directly toward the rhododendron slick as though he had long planned his actions. However, it was late afternoon before he came upon Nella-Rose.
On the instant he realized that he had been searching for her all day. His stern standards crumbled and became dry dust. One might as well apply standards to flickering sunlight or to swirling trifles of mountain mist as to Nella-Rose. She came upon him gaily; the dogs had discovered her on one of their ventures and were now quietly accompanying her.
“I—I’ve been looking for you—all day!” Truedale admitted, with truth but indiscretion. And then he noted, as he had before, the strange impression the girl gave of having been blown upon the scene. The pretty, soft hair resting on the cheek in a bewildering curve; the large, dreamy eyes and black lashes; the close clinging of her shabby costume, as if wrapped about her slim body by the playful gale that had wafted her along; all held part in the illusion.
“I had to—to lead Marg to Devil-may-come Hollow. She’s hunting there now!” Nella-Rose’s white teeth showed in a mischievous smile. “We’re right safe with Marg down there, scurrying around. Come, I know a sunny place—I want to tell you about Marg.”
Her childish appropriation of him completed Truedale’s surrender. The absolute lack of self-consciousness drove the last remnant of caution away. They found the sunny spot—it was like a dimple in a hill that had caught the warmth and brightness and held them always to the exclusion of shadows. It almost seemed that night could never conquer the nook.
And while they rested there, Nella-Rose told him of the belief of the natives that he was the refugee Lawson.
“And Marg would give you up like—er—this” (Nella-Rose puffed an imaginary trifle away with her pretty pursed lips). “She trailed after me all day—she lost me in a place where hiding’s good—and there I left her! She’ll tell Jed Martin this evening when she gets back. Marg is scenting Burke for Jed and his kind to catch—that’s her way and Jed’s!” Stinging contempt rang in the girl’s voice.
“But not your way I bet, Nella-Rose.” The fun, not the danger, of the situation struck Truedale.