Dan scowled and set his features in a brave show of moral courage. "She's mine, and he can't take her away," he vowed, "so— I don't care what happens. But I'd just as soon slap a baby in the face." He left the house like a man under sentence.
When he returned, a half-hour later, Eliza was awaiting him on the porch. She had been standing there with chattering teeth and limbs shaking from the cold while the minutes dragged.
"What did he say?" she asked, breathlessly.
"It went off finely. Thank Heaven, he was out at the front, so I could break it to him over the 'phone!"
"Did he—curse you?"
"No; I opened right up by saying I had bad news for him—"
"Oh, Dan!"
"Yes! I dare say I wasn't very tactful, now that I think it over, but, you see, I was rattled. I spilled out the whole story at once. 'Bad news?' said he. 'My dear boy, I'm delighted. God bless you both.' Then he made me tell him how it all happened, and listened without a word. I thought I'd faint. He pulled some gag about Daniel and the lion; then his voice got far away and the blamed wire began to buzz, so I hung up and beat it back here. I'm glad it's over."
"He'll probably send you a solid-silver dinner-set or raise your pay. That's the kind of man he is." Eliza's voice broke. "Oh, Danny," she cried, "he's the dearest, sweetest thing—" She turned away, and he kissed her sympathetically before going inside to the waiting Natalie.
Instead of following, Eliza remained on the porch, gazing down at the lights of the little city. An engine with its row of empty flats rolled into the yard, panting from its exertions; the notes of a piano came to her faintly from the street below. The lights of an incoming steamer showed far down the sound. O'Neil had made all this, she reflected: the busy town, the hopeful thousands who came and went daily owed their prosperity to him. He had made the wilderness fruitful, but what of his own life? She suspected that it was as bleak and barren as the mountain slopes above Omar. He, too, looked down upon this thriving intimate little community, but from a distance. Beneath his unfailing cheerfulness she felt sure there lurked a hunger which the mere affection of his 'boys' could never satisfy. And now the thought that Dan had come between him and his heart's desire filled her with pity. He seemed suddenly a very lonely figure of a man, despite his material success. When his enemies were doing, had already done, so much to defeat him, it seemed unfair that his trusted friend should step between him and the fulfilment of his dearest ambition—that ambition common to all men, failure in which brings a sense of failure to a man's whole life, no matter what other ends are achieved. Of course, he would smile and swallow his bitterness—that was his nature—but she would know the truth.