The blue line of tremulous mountain was scrolled along a horizon that flamed crimson in the setting sun. A flock of twilight clouds—flamingos of the sky—floated toward the sunset as if going to roost. Beyond was the great river, its bosom as wan, where it lay in the shadow of the mountain, as Richard Travis's own cheek; but where the sunset fell on it the reflected light turned it to pink which to him looked like Helen's.
The wind came down cool from the frost-tinctured mountain side, and the fine sweet odor of life everlasting floated in it—frost-bitten—and bringing a wave of youth and rabbit hunts and of a life of dreams and the sweet unclouded far-off hope of things beautiful and immortal. And the flow of it hurt Richard Travis—hurt him with a tenderness that bled.
The girl stopped and drank in the beauty of it all, and he stood looking at her, “the picture for the frame”—as he said to himself.
It had rained and the clouds were scattered, yet so full that they caught entirely the sunset rays and held them as he would that moment have loved to hold her. Something in her—something about her thrilled him strangely, as he had often been thrilled when looking at the great pictures in the galleries of the old world. He repeated softly to her, as she stood looking forward—to him—into the future:
“What thou art we know not,
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.”
She turned and held out her hand.
“I must bid you good-bye now and I wish you all happiness—so much more than you have ever had in all your life.”
He took it, but he could not speak. Something shook him strangely. He knew nothing to say. Had he spoken, he knew he had stammered and blundered.
Never had the Richard Travis of old done such a thing.
“Helen—Helen—if—if—you know once I asked you to go with me—once—in the old, awful life. Now, in the new—the new life which you can make sweet—”