He carried reminiscence no farther. She stole a look at him; but his eyes were fixed on a faint blur of smoke rising over the azure plain of the Atlantic from an invisible steamship. On that unforgetable night of three and a half years ago, a starlit night of spring, she had walked with him to the mouth of the Gulch, and in bidding each other farewell they had exchanged their first and last kiss.
“Father was certainly not an enemy of yours then,” she went on, in a singularly even tone. Indeed, she might have been debating a matter of utmost triviality. “It seemed to me that he always welcomed you at the ranch. Why did he become so bitterly opposed to you afterward?”
He could have fenced with her, but deemed it preferable to speak freely. “I think he was annoyed by my rapid success,” he said. “He had made a failure of things generally, and I candidly admit it must have been exasperating to see a youngster like me, and a steady-going fossil like Mac, step in and secure a fortune out of a place where he had met with nothing but ill-luck. Those who get rich quick often incur animosity in that way.”
For a brief space there was silence. They seemed to be listening to the slumberous plash of the breakers on the rocks far below, which, with the pleasant creaking of saddlery, and the hoofbeats and deep breathing of eager horses held in restraint, were the only sounds audible in that wondrous solitude. They were passing a part of the cliff known as the Forty Steps, a euphonious name describing a series of railed staircases, cut in the solid rock, which afforded an irregular if safe passage to the beach. Ochre Point, with its millionaire residences, lay a mile, or less, in front, and on their left was the illimitable ocean. After a bath and breakfast they had promised to join a large party on a steam yacht bound for Narragansett Pier, when luncheon and a picnic at a lighthouse would fill the afternoon. This day was precisely similar to any other day of a whole fortnight in its round of amusements. The weather was nearly perfection, and distinctly unsuited for a heart-searching discussion; but Nancy seemed to be in a mood that either invited self-torture or wished to witness the writhings of her companion, because she would not leave a difficult subject alone.
“Supposing, Derry,” she continued, “supposing I hadn’t got married when I did, do you think you would have discovered the mine just the same?”
Now he was compelled to go off at a tangent. “You resemble the majority of your sex in your desire to raise non-existent bogies for the mere pleasure of slaying them,” he began.
“Which is the bogy—my supposition or the mine?” she broke in.
“How can I imagine what would have happened in circumstances which did not take place? The discovery, or rediscovery, of the mine was one of those extraordinary bits of good luck which Fortune sometimes thrusts upon her favorites. It might have occurred if you had never left Bison; but, on the other hand, it might not.”
She nodded her complete agreement. By not answering he had answered fully.
“Yes, the goddess was certainly kind to you,” she said. “The cowboys did not often ride through the Gulch firing their revolvers. In fact, the only time I can recall any such riotous proceeding was on the day of my wedding. That must have been your lucky day.”