For long weeks, and even months, thought of Andy McFardell had preoccupied her. There had been times when she had had no realisation of how deep was the appeal he made to her. Then there had been other times when she knew, and the youthful blood had swiftly swept to her head, and a sort of delirium of longing had left her a little horrified and ashamed.
There had been moments of doubt, when she had longed for the father who was dead. But all these emotions had been passing, lost in her healthy-mindedness. But now it seemed to her as if the whole combined strength and weakness of those past moments had descended upon her in an overwhelming rush. A passionate love for Andy McFardell was sweeping through her. And she knew and understood the wonderful thing that had befallen.
She knew none of the old earlier shame now. The woman in her had suddenly become dominant. In a wondrous revelation, all the innocence of childhood had been swept away like some obscuring mist, yielding in its place that splendid spectacle of a golden love wherein every emotion, every hope, every purpose in life, becomes definitely focused upon one single glorified human creature.
Molly gazed out upon this vision while her pinto drank. A deep emotion held her. Her unseeing gaze was upon the water-race. Her ears were deaf to everything, but the rush of happy thought passing headlong through her brain. She was ecstatically absorbed in her love for the man, with his warm, dark eyes, his splendid courage in adversity, and she longed for him. There were no reservations. In Molly there could be none. At that moment no less could satisfy her than to yield everything to him—everything that was hers, everything she herself might be.
The clatter of hoofs upon the boulders behind her left her wholly unaware of any approach, and it was not till her mare flung up her head that she awoke to realities. Rachel had quenched her thirst, and the girl reluctantly turned her about to regain the bank.
Molly sat like a statue on her unmoving mare. Her dream had tumbled headlong. She was alert and searching as she gazed upon the white-haired figure of a horseman in the act of watering his horse a few yards away.
She took the man in from head to foot, even to the last detail of the splendid, coal-black horse he was riding. And the man returned her stare with smiling interest. His wide-brimmed prairie hat cast a shadow over his eyes, and so hid something of the strength that looked out of them. Molly beheld the broad pattern of his tweed jacket, and the cord riding-breeches which terminated in his soft-topped boots. She noted that he was wearing a waistcoat; and, curiously enough, this was the thing that perhaps attracted her most. Right across it stretched the yellow links of a gold watch-chain.
Just for an instant a flutter of very natural apprehension disturbed her. She was alone. She was still miles from her home in the heart of the hills. Then she remembered. After all, these hills were her home. She had been born and bred to them. A stranger, clad in garments such as she associated with a city, need only excite her interest. Besides, there was something very pleasant looking out of his eyes.
Jim Pryse had seen Molly as he approached the water on his way from Dan Quinlan’s; but he had failed to recognise her sex until she turned her pinto to return to the river bank. For a moment he had hesitated, doubtful of the wisdom of revealing himself. Then he had dismissed the thought. His horse must be watered, and this was the only suitable place along the whole of the densely wooded river. So he had passed on down to the ford.