The Flesh and the Spirit (Boyce)

by Neith Boyce

II — III — IV — V — VI — VII — VIII

 

The Flesh and the Spirit

 

By Neith Boyce

 

PHILIP, Hilda knew, took things quietly. It had been part of his hold on her imagination, since his calm and cool outlook on the world belonged not to weakness but to unusual strength of feeling. On the morning after his arrival she laid out the program for the three weeks to elapse before their marriage, and he listened to her with smiling, gently humorous acquiescence—a characteristic attitude which had sometimes irritated her, and more often pleased her.

“I'm glad you like the idea of the mountain trip. I don't want to stay here,” she said, frowning, “for there are endless people about, and they would bore you as much as me. I tried to think what would be the most complete change and rest for you, and I thought of this expedition. You may get a deer and you may not, but we'll have peace and quiet, anyway.”

“Good,” said Philip.

“You are sure you'd like it?”

“Quite sure. Anything you like.”

“But it is your likes I'm thinking about! At least, partly,” she added, with candor.

“Don't bother about them, Hilda. I shall like anything you want to do. As for change, you know this is a good deal like changing from hell to heaven, anyway.”

His eyes dwelt on her as he spoke, and he breathed deep, and blew out a cloud of smoke. They were on the veranda, after a late breakfast, and Philip was stretched out in a wicker steamer-chair, smoking. Near him sat Hilda, with her back to an opening in the green bamboo blinds, so that beyond her he saw the deep blue of sea and sky, with white-tipped waves tumbling gloriously in and tiny clouds sailing before a strong breeze. That background of morning blue made a wonderful setting for Hilda. She was dressed in crisp, white duck, with a broad, light felt hat set carelessly on her black hair, and she looked as strong and full of physical life as the sea itself.

“Just to look at you,” Philip softly added, “is like breathing in new life. What a gorgeous creature you are, Hilda! Only you make me feel rather like a ghost.”

“And you look rather like one, too, you poor boy! But I expected you to be tired out—your letters sounded so, somehow. And I thought that instead of this semicivilized place you'd like that little valley high in the mountains, where there are the big pine woods to wander in, and not a soul that we need see. And there's a nice primitive little inn where mother can stay, and she won't bother us. She's willing to go—I asked Adrian, too.”

“Adrian? Why Adrian?”

“Oh, I thought a fourth person would be convenient—you'll have enough of me later, you know. And then it is really Adrian's plan.”

“Oh, it is?”

“Yes, I was casting about for something to do, and he suggested this. Now, do you like it any less because he suggested it? I'm not bound to it, you know.”

“The suggestion's all right,” said Philip, smiling. “I confess at the moment I don't quite see the burning necessity of having Adrian along—but if you want him——”

“Oh!” Hilda moved restlessly and frowned. “I don't much care. Perhaps he won't want to go, now. Nothing has been said about it for several days, and Adrian is apt to change his mind about things. I dare say he won't go.”

“Well, either way it will be all right, Hilda, for me.”

“You're sure? Sure you don't mind being dragged off again, as soon as you've come? But really I do think you could rest better up there. It's so wonderful—the quiet, and the mountain air, and the pines——”

Hilda's gray eyes widened and lightened as she stared, not at Philip, but past him.

“Let it be settled that we go,” he said, watching her gravely.

There was silence for some moments. Hilda seemed not to know that she was watched, nor that they were silent. At last she moved suddenly and sighed.

“What shall we do this morning?” she asked. “The tide's high at twelve—shall we have a swim? Or there's tennis—or we might ride.”

“You set a pace, Hilda! Give me one day's grace, and to-morrow I'll try keeping up with you. To-day, if you don't mind, I'd like to sit here in this chair and talk to you—or look at you, if you don't want to talk.”

“Oh, I always want to talk. And, of course, there are infinite things to talk about. Only—I don't like sitting still—very long!”

She smiled charmingly, and her long fingers worked nervously round the arms of her chair.

“But you mustn't let me drag you about more than you like! You must take your ease—it's what I want you to do. You have had a time of it, poor dear.”

“Yes—pretty much ever since I saw you last, in April.”

Again they were silent, both thinking of what had happened at that time and since—the final break between Philip's father and mother, the divorce, his mother's re-marriage to a man much younger than herself.

“And your father?” Hilda asked finally. “How is he?”

Philip laughed ruefully.

“Oh, he's an old Roman!” he said. “Poor old fellow, it's bully the way he takes things—and rather pathetic, too. He tries to go on exactly as he used—keeps up the house just the same, goes through his ordinary routine, lives in military fashion by rule and regulation, as he always has. Only somehow a cog has slipped, you see—the machinery jars—he's often at a loss what to do with himself, though he won't admit it. He's a stoic, you know.”

“He's fond enough of you, though.”

“Oh, yes, he's fond of me. And of you, too, Hilda.”

“Of me? But he's just seen me.”

“Well, just seeing you goes a long way, you know. He admired you hugely. He has a keen eye for beauty, and he likes what he calls robustness—color, vitality. He likes your independence, too.”

And Philip laughed a little.

“Why do you laugh at that?” inquired Hilda. “Have you been making fun of me to him?”

“Oh, naturally. We are on confidential terms, and I couldn't entirely conceal my doubts and fears from him.”

“Well, really! Are you trying to make fun of me now?” She had actually flushed a little, and began to feel that her wits somehow were deserting her. “Have I frightened you? I didn't mean to.”

“Well, I couldn't make up my mind whether you meant to or not. That was the worst of it. Of course, if you'd been trying to——”

“You mean my ideas about things—life generally?”

“Yes, I mean your standard—what we called last night your modernity. You're so terribly consistent about it! I really am afraid, Hilda, that I'm too simple for you.”

“Well, my dear, you needn't have come across the continent to say that! You might have written it.”

“Oh, I'm not quite simple enough for that! You're committed to the experiment, you know, else I wouldn't dare even to say it to you.”

“Ah, now you're trying to frighten me, are you not?”

Hilda lifted her chin and stared coldly at him.

“If you could know what I am thinking at this moment, you wouldn't be quite so much amused with me,” she added.

“Well—suppose you tell me.”

“Perhaps I will—but not just this moment. Do come for a walk—down to the beach at least. You can sit in the sand, if you like.”

She sprang up, and Philip rather reluctantly left his steamer-chair and followed her out to the walk along the cliff.

This was Hilda as he remembered her—as he had first known her, fallen in love with her, wooed her. There could be no supine ease in her company—at least for the present! She had said she wanted him to take his ease—oh, yes, Hilda's creed was freedom, “live and let live,” and all that. But, as a matter of fact, where was there a deity with a more absolute will, even in trifles—a more passionate desire for her own way? This was Hilda, this was the girl who had enthralled him.

He watched her with keen pleasure of the eye, as they swung along together, and with a vague feeling of discomfort. He had to confess that so far, in these few hours since his arrival, they had not managed to hit it off very well. Hilda, oddly, seemed ill at ease. They had met, so far, on the basis of frank comradeship, which was Hilda's maiden ideal of marriage; but as Philip was very much in love, and had no idea of dissembling that fact, frankness and comradeship had their obvious limits—already obvious. He wondered if it were this that disturbed her; he began to wonder if there were not some change more significant behind her evident disturbance. And his feeling of discomfort grew. He had not expected an absolute path of ease with Hilda; he had expected a full quota of feminine moods, caprices, a certain amount of melodrama; but he had not conceived the idea that her feeling toward him was to change; was already changed. Nor did he now definitely think this; but some unformed hint of it was in his mind.

There could not be much talk while they were facing the wind along the cliff edge; it blew the breath from their mouths, and beat on them with a joyous fury, forcing deep into their lungs the fresh, strong breath of the sea. On the beach below, the great waves thundered. A legion of white gulls sailed and swooped and shrieked over the water. All was motion, noise, flashing light, and color.

They went down by a winding path along the face of the cliff, and reached the sand at some distance from the crowd of bathers and loungers.

“You must go and have your swim,” said Philip gently. “Let me stay here and watch you. You're used to this surf?”

“Oh, rather! I believe I will go in,” Hilda said. “I hate to miss a morning like this.”

They walked along the wet edge of the sand to the bath-houses.

“You don't mind being deserted? Sure you won't change your mind and come in? No, you'd rather bury yourself in the sand like a turtle? Good-by, then—I shall be in a better temper after my plunge!”

Philip dropped in the sand, pulled his hat low over his eyes to shut out the glare, and abandoned himself to agreeable physical sensations—the warmth of sun and sand; the cool freshness of the breeze; the smell of the great clumps of weed that the tide was tumbling in; the sight of so much pure ultramarine. Hilda called to him and nodded as she ran past in her black bathing-dress and scarlet head-kerchief; and he watched her plunge into the first breaker and fight her way ow through the surf. He followed the gleam of her bare white arms and red head-dress as she swam out to a raft moored some distance beyond the breakers. She pulled herself up on the raft and sat there, facing seaward.

Philip stretched himself out full length, and laid his head on his arms. He was tired and languid, glad of solitude. Hilda filled his mind and troubled him. For many months now she had been the main thing in his mind; the constant center of his life. And he was happy now to be near her, though not as radiantly happy as he had expected to be. Could she—could she have changed to him? She had had six months to do it in, with nothing but letters to keep him, his love, in her mind.

The month in the spring, that he had counted on to be with her, had been given up to his mother in her unhappiness; and this summer, when he might have snatched a few weeks, at least, he had bound himself down to hard work, to finish the book on “Corporation Law,” which was to serve his ambition, his career. Had he perhaps been too hard on himself; too hard—possibly—on Hilda? Had he sacrificed anything of his real interest and hers?

These questions came between sleeping and waking; mere hazy suggestions. “Absurd!” he said; and sat up suddenly, opening his dazzled eyes on a world that for bright, new-washed clearness seemed to have been created that morning. On the raft there were two figures now. A man sat there beside Hilda, and they were talking. After a little, Hilda stood up and dived off. The man followed her, and they came to shore together. Hilda came straight out of the water, but Philip's cousin, Adrian Nicoll—for his was that slim, graceful body and dark head—turned back and swam out again.

 

Adrian came to lunch; and Priscilla Owen, a married cousin of Hilda's, also. The two men met, for the first time in a number of years, without any pretense of warmth. They were of opposite types; as different in all other ways as they were in looks. Nothing could have contrasted more strikingly with Adrian's physical picturesqueness than Philip's conventionalized mold. Philip at first sight looked the typical city man of affairs; his face was worn and disciplined—keen, firm, and clear in line; the eyes characteristically cool, though friendly. Individuality was not rampant in him, as in Adrian; but it spoke definitely enough in his calm look of power.

The talk at lunch was mainly between Mrs. Owen and Philip. Hilda was pale from her sea-dip and quiet. She gazed out at the world with enigmatic eyes. She was not eating much; and Mrs. Lovell's glances fluttered about her with ill-concealed anxiety.

After the meal Hilda went up-stairs to lie down. She had not slept well the night before; and she did not sleep now, but lay on a couch in her room with the sea-wind blowing over her, and began to weep.

Her mother came tiptoeing in, softly closed the window, and brought a silk blanket. Then, discovering Hilda's tears, she became tremulously distracted.

“Hilda, you are tired out! You are ill! Hilda, what is the matter? You are worn out, my poor child; this is too much for you!”

“Then do let me alone, mother,” was the petulant and muffled response.

“Hilda! If anything is wrong, if anything is troubling you, we must set it right; we must——”

“Now, mother, please don't be silly. I just want to be let alone.”

Hilda moved one shoulder impatiently, and Mrs. Lovell had to go.

II.

Hilda wept herself into comparative calmness and indifference as to what might happen. She was coming to feel really reckless. In the course of the last two months' fascinating pastime of playing with fire, she realized now she had burned her fingers rather badly. There was no doubt that Adrian's attraction and their intimacy had thrown her off her balance and unsettled her feeling for Philip, and conviction that she wanted to marry him. She had begun it frankly enough; full of curiosity about a new and striking personality, and finding a charm in the unstable Adrian's intelligence and temperament which drew her on unheeding. She was not a cautious person; and her gospel of personal freedom made any attempt at caution with Adrian seem absurd to her. Even a fortnight earlier she would have laughed at the idea that Adrian could make any essential difference in her life. And now it had come to this, that his late passionate entreaty of her to break her engagement and marry him had swayed her almost to the point of consenting.

Almost. But Hilda had now set her will against him; though when she woke to the necessity of doing so, it was too late for anything but a divided will. So far in her life her will had been used to obtain what she wanted; now therefore that she was uncertain what she wanted, she was somewhat at a loss. So far as she could calmly judge the two men, she felt that to throw aside Philip for Adrian would be folly. But the mischief was that she could not be calm, and did not even want to be. At the same time she disliked the tumult of emotion that shook her; she resented it, and was angry because she was tormented and unhappy.

She knew that Adrian was waiting his chance to see her alone, and that it would be necessary to see him soon; and after she had been lying motionless for an hour or more, she was aware somehow that he was in the house. Presently Mrs. Lovell was hesitating noiselessly in the doorway. Hilda opened her eyes and said languidly: “Well?”

“I thought you were asleep. Mr. Nicoll is down-stairs, Hilda—here is a note.”

Mrs. Lovell presented the folded scrap of paper with her most neutral expression and manner—which meant that she strongly disapproved. She saw a great deal more of what was going on about her than Hilda supposed or took the trouble to imagine. She observed now that Hilda, after a glance at Adrian's scrawl, tore it up, and that Hilda's voice, as she said, “Very well, I'll come down,” had a menacing hardness. Above all, it was plain that she must still be left alone. Mrs. Lovell did not even venture to stay and help her dress, as she would naturally have done.

Hilda took a good deal of time to dress; and when she went down finally, in a sweeping, ivory-colored gown, with her black hair piled in a mass above her brow, she was overwhelmingly effective. She found Adrian in the library, and greeted him with a direct, unsmiling glance.

“I thought you were going out with Philip,” she said coldly.

“Oh, Priscilla took him in tow—I wasn't wanted. Besides, you know perfectly well that I had to see you.”

“I suppose so. Well, now you see me.”

She looked about the room, rang, and asked for a fire.

“The fog's coming in again,” she said, with a slight shiver.

“Yes—and you're ill, Hilda,” said Adrian abruptly. “You look——”

Hilda shot a sinister glance at him from under her black brows.

“No matter how I look.”

She stood in silence while the Japanese laid and lit the fire; then sat down in the great leather chair, which had been her father's favorite seat, before the hearth; and stared at the climbing flames with level eyes. Adrian stood leaning against the chimneypiece of rough stone, looking down at her.

“Well, Adrian?” she said finally.

He made no response; and she glanced up at him.

“What was it you had to see me for?”

Still no reply, but only that steady gaze at her.

Hilda made an impatient gesture.

“Don't be mysterious!” she said sharply. “I'm not in the mood for Byronics.”

“I'm not aware that I am either,” said Adrian. “Only it struck me that to answer those questions of yours would be rather superfluous.”

“Really? Then if it's superfluous to state what you want, I can't see much use in this interview.”

“Oh, I can state what I want,” murmured Adrian.

He dropped down on the rug at her feet, with the catlike grace that was native to him.

“I've taken passage for two on the next steamer that leaves Vancouver for Japan, and I want you to go with me.”

Hilda stared at him. “You're quite crazy,” she said.

“No, Hilda. On the contrary, I was never so much in my right mind. I never knew so well what I want.”

“But, Adrian, I can't see why it matters to me—what you want.”

“Only if it happens to be what you want, too.”

“But it doesn't, Adrian.”

“I rather think it does, Hilda. Else I should hardly be here.”

She shook her head, looking somberly at the fire.

“There's no use in your being here,” she said.

“Ah, yes, there is. You do care for me, Hilda.”

“Of course I do. But not to the extent that you seem to count on. Not to the extent of changing my whole plan of life for you.”

“Your plan of life! As though one could plan one's life!”

“Some people do. The best ones, I think—the most interesting ones.”

“People like Philip, perhaps. Gad, he's exactly what he used to be at college—blue Puritan! Gad, Hilda, he's as hard as nails!”

“Of course you'd dislike him.”

“Dislike him? I hate him—always did.”

“Therefore, of course, you're unjust to him. But I can't see that it matters particularly whether you hate him or not.”

“But that you—you—should ever have thought you cared for him—good heavens!”

“Ah, but I do. And what's more, I admire him. What you call his Puritanism is just discipline—self-control—will. And honestly, I think I admire that more than anything else—perhaps because I've seen so little of it in my own life.”

“Yes! You 'think' you admire it, because you don't know what it is. Exactly. It's a novelty. Wait till you've lived with it, and found out what it means—that Blue Law sort of thing!”

“Well, I suppose I shall find out,” said Hilda musingly.

“No! No, Hilda, you sha'n't marry him! You can take me or not, as you like, but I won't stand it to see you throw yourself away——”

“Oh, Adrian, it can't be helped. I mean what you call throwing myself away. I shall do it.”

“But why, Hilda, why?” He caught her hand roughly. “For the Lord's sake, give me one reason why!”

“Well—it wouldn't be a reason to you, I suppose, that I promised, and that he loves me. … The real reason is this, that I think it's what I really want to do. … I do care for him, in spite of anything you may think. And I trust him; and I like what he is. You can't deny his intelligence. And as for the things you dislike about him—what you call hardness and Puritanism and asceticism—truly, Adrian, I think that's a better way of living than our paganism.”

“Ours, Hilda? Yes, we're more alike, you and I.”

He put her hand to his lips; she drew it away abruptly.

“Yes, we are more alike,” she added slowly. “But I'm not so sure, Adrian, that I like the sort of thing we are. That I approve it, I mean. I've seen so much—so much of it! I've never had any control, you know, or discipline, any more than you have. And in my family—you know how my father's life was wrecked, and my mother, long before he died, made so unhappy—and by the same sort of thing—self-indulgence, the rule of 'chance desires,' the haphazard, happy-go-lucky, take no thought for the morrow sort of thing. That was his temperament; and he let it rule him—just as we do—only not on principle, as we do!”

Hilda got up and walked to the window. The fog was creeping in, and had covered the sun; the fog-horn sounded its melancholy, long-drawn note. She turned and looked round the dusky room. The firelight shimmered on her white dress and touched her hair and her shadowy, tragic gray eyes.

“It was here he died,” she said. “You know he drank himself to death. And for months before he died he scarcely stirred from here. He sat in that chair before the fire, or he walked up and down here, and he would quote poetry and some of the big speeches—Burke or Webster—to us by the hour. That is, when he was—himself. He was passionately fond of Shakespeare—I can hear his big voice rolling out even now!”

Hilda came slowly back to the fire. Adrian got to his feet, and she faced him, leaning on the back of the great chair.

“He sat here,” she said, “the night before he died. There was a fire of driftwood, just as there is now, and he sat looking at it with his great hollow eyes. And then he bowed his head, and, after a long time, he whispered: 'Shadows, shadows, shadows.' Those were the last words I heard him speak.”

The tears brimmed over Hilda's eyes.

“It was such a waste!” she cried. “Such a cruel thing, that he should go down like that, before our eyes. And after he was gone, my mother had no will nor spirit left, and I had to manage things; and manage myself, too. I've had to do it for eight years, and I'm tired of it, Adrian! I'm tired of seeing people drift along, living according to chance and without reason; thinking of nothing but pleasure or what indulgence they can get—I don't want to live that way! Sometimes I've felt like joining a sisterhood—really going in for the other sort of thing!”

Adrian laughed harshly at that.

“You'd be very picturesque in the garb,” he said. “And you'd have about as much joy of life as you'll get with Philip. Lord, Hilda, do you expect me to stand here calmly and talk about your marrying him?”

“No. It isn't to be talked about any more. I think we've talked enough.” Hilda closed her eyes wearily. “I think you must go now, Adrian,” she said.

But Adrian made no move.

“This thing is making you ill,” he said, with abrupt conviction. “I've never seen you look so played out. What idiocy, to try to force yourself like this, for the sake of keeping a promise that has lost all the reason it ever had! What infernal folly!”

“No, not folly,” said Hilda dully.

“And the last month is to go for nothing, then; and all I feel for you is to go for nothing? I am nothing at all—you've just amused yourself——”

“Amused myself! Yes, it began that way, I suppose—with you, too.”

“You've known a long time that I love you. I know you care more for me than you do for him—you've no love for him. Great Scott, Hilda! what do you think you want, anyway?”

“I don't want to be a weakling,” said Hilda passionately. “There's been too much of that. And now, Philip's mother—I despise that sort of thing—a woman of fifty!”

“Have you ever seen his father?—yes, you have, I know. Philip is exactly like him. You'll never be able to stand it, any more than she could. You'll come to me in the end.”

Hilda stood up, pale and frowning.

“This is the end, Adrian,” she said. “If you take my advice, you'll go away from this place now—or no, since we are going, it won't matter. But this is the end, for you and me.”

Adrian looked at her steadily.

“I'm going with you, unless you shut me out,” he said.

“I shall not shut you out. I am not afraid to see you. Come if you want to.”

“I do want to.”

“But I hope you'll understand, and—not worry me.”

“I don't think I shall worry you,” he said, with the same peculiar steadiness of look and tone.

Hilda looked at him earnestly, lingeringly. Her full lips were firmly set, her eyes showed the dimming touch of tears.

“Good-by, then,” she said, and went out of the room.

III.

All night the thunder had crashed and volleyed and reverberated through the valley—mere cleft as it was, high up on the mountainside. Fierce bursts of rain had swept through the pine-tops, and the wind in them was a continuous deep roar. Lying in bed Hilda could see from her windows the great trunks of the trees blotted against the glare of the lightning, so incessant that there seemed to be merely flashes of darkness between. The crests of the pines, spreading loftily far above the roof of the inn, were in wild motion; and she got up now and then to look at their writhing blackness. One window stood half-open; and the balsam breath of the forest poured in upon her like a flood. It was not cold, but wildly fresh and full of crushed wet sweetness. Hilda breathed it in; bathed herself in it as she lay or walked about, sleepless.

Once she went out into the narrow hall and opened her mother's door softly. Mrs. Lovell was sitting up in bed, huddled in a cloak.

“Hilda! Are you awake, too? What a night!” she moaned.

“I like it,” said Hilda exultantly. “But I wish you could sleep.”

“Sleep! I never heard such noise. It seems as though these trees must come down on the roof—and one of them would crush it like an egg-shell.”

“No, no, there's no danger.”

“And think of Philip and Adrian out in this weather!”

“Oh, they won't be 'out.' There's the lodge, you know—they'll be as cozy as possible.”

“Well, go back to bed, dear. There's no use in your catching cold, anyway.”

Hilda laughed, and went back to her room. She leaned against the rattling window, and wondered at each pale, flickering glow behind the tree-trunks if it were the dawn approaching. She had no idea what time it could be. She had not slept well for many nights; sleeplessness was getting to be the normal thing with her. She thought her brain must be getting accustomed to it, for she did not feel tired.

She thought of the two men who, with the guide, had started in the afternoon up the mountain. They meant to sleep that night in a log-shelter built for the deer-hunters' use, so as to be on the stalking-ground at dawn. She thought of them, together, and knew that she made a third; that she was with them; stood between them; was carried about in the consciousness of each, even as they both lived in her consciousness, tormenting her.

But they would not talk of her; they would not talk of what was in their minds. There, too, she stood between them. They must meet in the ordinary conventional fashion; and there could be no speech until she said the word.

She was by no means minded to say it, so long as it could be avoided. With all her liking for frankness, she had not been able as yet to be frank with Philip about the situation and her feeling. She meant to be, but she had kept putting it off. She knew that he saw and partly understood and was waiting for her to speak. And she had not spoken, partly, at least, because, tormenting as her present state was, she could not bear absolutely to put an end to it, absolutely to lose Adrian.

Of the two men, she thought most about Philip. He was now the unfamiliar, the unknown element. She had not realized till of late how absence and distance had weakened his hold on her interest; had dimmed his image. She could hardly make him seem real to herself; and for this very reason her imagination was fascinated by him. She wondered now what he was thinking, feeling; what he would do; what lay behind that terrible power of patience that he had. She knew of him already that he could wait, wait, wait indefinitely—not a passive waiting, but with an active perception that this was the thing to do in the circumstances. And this was what he was doing now—waiting for some expression from her.

She fully meant to tell him the truth, some time, about her feeling for Adrian. But, as she meant not to let that feeling make any practical difference, as she meant to go on and marry Philip in spite of it, she had tacitly put off the explanation till “afterward.” Now she began to feel with bitterness that she had made a mistake in not telling him at once. For even if it was to make no practical difference, it had already made an emotional difference between them, and that might have practical results. Philip might not want to marry her if he knew!

This idea occurred to her now for absolutely the first time. And at once she saw that she had been completely ignoring him in her calculations. She had looked at the situation simply and entirely from her own point of view.

He was a strong man, and she feared him. That was in her heart, too. She feared his power of will and of self-control—she feared the thing that had kept him so quiet during these past days. She knew that he loved her, and she felt that he could put her out of his life and go on without her.

It had been her wish, her intention, to be absolutely fair and frank to both these men. To deceive, to lie and sneak, was the one crime in her eyes. But she had thought that she could ignore the attraction that Adrian had had for her; that if she willed it to be of no account it would be so; that it could not be serious. And now it appeared to her that it had been serious in its effect on her, and that she had fallen away from her ideal of directness and fair dealing.

She wept as she thought these things, and walked restlessly about the room; and the night wore away in storm. Toward morning the lightning and thunder stopped, the rain settled into a quiet fall, and at dawn, when the sky cleared, Hilda was asleep.

The sun woke her, pouring through the unshaded windows an actual jubilance of light. She lost no time in getting out of doors. It was like a world new-made, and she, losing herself in the solitude of the forest, had for the first time in weeks a feeling of happiness. This was what she had wanted, instinctively, deeply—to be absolutely alone; and she had managed it with the practical cleverness—the art of managing other people—which was her special gift. Mrs. Lovell would be content indefinitely, sitting on the porch of the inn with her woolwork and a book. Beside their party there were three other people stopping there—two hunters, who had gone off before day-break, and a consumptive doctor from the East, who slept out of doors under a pine shelter, and whose intelligent and tragic face had interested Hilda at breakfast.

If this air could not cure him, she thought now, he must be already a dead man. To breathe it was to breathe in life. The undulating floor of the valley was covered with a deep, red-brown layer of pine-needles, already almost dry and glistening in the sun. Between were the clean, straight tree-trunks, free of underbrush and straggling branches. There were no paths.

Hilda wandered aimlessly on, careful only to keep in hearing the whir of a rough sawmill, which stood near the inn, and which blended at a distance with the tap-tapping of innumerable woodpeckers.

Her thoughts went back to the hunters, and she wondered how they had spent the night. She wondered if—together there, with no possibility of being at ease with so much unspoken between them—they might not speak out. If they did, the initiative would come from Adrian. Philip, she was sure, would come first to her. Adrian—there was no predicting what he would do. He might do impossible things.

She felt a certain indifference now as to what he might do, what might happen; it was partly fatigue, partly the physical stimulus of air and exercise. But she felt that life was good, no matter what happened. It was infinitely interesting, at least! Things could not be very bad, when one was young, strong, able! At the back of her mind was a resolution: “I will tell him when he comes back, and then it will all be straight.” And it seemed as simple as that. At any rate, why worry and distress one's self, in such a world of beauty and energy?

She smiled to herself, as she felt the glow of life in her body; that was hope and joy in itself! She was happy in that she was intensely alive; and this feeling, the strongest she had yet known, had been roused in her by Adrian. When she thought, she thought about Philip. When she dreamed, it was of a brief yielding to an impulse that she had rejected and denied.

IV.

Hilda knew, as soon as she saw her mother standing on the veranda, that something was wrong. Mrs. Lovell held her shawl tightly about her with one hand; with the other she shaded her eyes from the oblique sun—it was now long past midday—and peered through the trees, turning one way and another in nervous agitation.

“Hilda! Hilda!” she cried, beckoning. “Where have you been? They've been out looking for you—we thought you were lost.”

“Well, what is the matter?” demanded Hilda, as she came up on the porch.

Her mother's face frightened her. Mrs. Lovell was terribly pale, her eyes dilated. This was more than mere anxiety.

“Oh, Hilda——” She stopped, and put her arm about the girl's shoulder.

“Well, what is it? Why can't you say?”

“Oh, Hilda, Philip—Philip has been hurt—an accident——”

“Hurt how? Where is he?”

“He is up there—in the camp—he was shot.”

Hilda started, put her mother's arms away from her, and stood straight and still.

“How is he hurt? Badly? Tell me quick!”

“We don't know yet. The doctor is just starting with Adrian. Adrian is here.”

“Where is he?”

Hilda went through the house like a flash—straight through and out on the back porch, seeing no one by the way. There was Adrian, down on his knees, strapping hastily some blankets and linen into a long bundle. He was bare-headed, his hair rumpled, and she saw that his eyes, as he glanced up, were deeply bloodshot. He tugged fiercely at the straps and bit his lips as she questioned him; he stammered his answer.

“Yes, he is badly hurt—shot through the lungs—we can't move him—the guide is there.”

The doctor came out on the porch, hurriedly scribbling something on a leaf of paper. The hotel-keeper's wife was with him.

“You'll send a man down for these at once? We mustn't lose any chance. Is the horse ready?”

“In a minute, doctor. I must get the other things ready.”

The young woman looked terrified, half-distracted. As her eyes fell on Hilda, she uttered a cry. Hilda was studying the doctor's face. He was young; he seemed very ill. He was bent and emaciated. But now for the moment he stood erect, he appeared full of energy. His hollow eyes were lighted by a sudden glow of life. He spoke in a quick, curt, decided voice, and his look at Hilda was resolute and cool.

“I am going with you,” she said.

“How can you go? There's only one horse here, and I cannot walk so far.”

“But I can. I am very strong.”

“You will be in the way. There is only one small cabin—one room.”

“No matter; I am going.”

He looked at her an instant longer, shrugged his shoulders, and turned to Adrian.

“Do you think you can find the way back there?”

“Yes.”

Adrian spoke without looking up again, without heeding Hilda. His fingers trembled so that he could not buckle the straps of his bundle. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead, and his face was streaked with dirt. His rough blouse and knickerbockers looked as though he had been rolled on the wet earth. He seemed physically almost exhausted, yet strung to an intense nervous pitch. Hilda stood gazing at him with piercing eyes. The doctor had gone into the house. The hotel-keeper came up to the steps leading a bronco with a heavy Mexican saddle on its piebald back.

“Adrian, is he much hurt?”

At that low question he started and got to his feet.

“Hurt? Yes. I think he's going to die.”

“How? How did it——”

His look of terror and anguish struck her like a blow.

Mrs. Lovell appeared in the doorway, and Hilda instantly went in.

“Mother, I'm going up there with them. I must have something to eat. Come and help me.”

They went into the dining-room, and Hilda ate some bread and butter and cold meat, while Mrs. Lovell poured out distracted questions and entreaties and tears.

“Oh, Hilda, you can't go up there alone, and how am I to go with you? My poor child, what can I do?”

“Nothing, mother,” said Hilda, in a dry voice. “But I can't stay here—you see that, don't you? They say he's dying.”

“Hilda! How did it happen?”

Hilda shook her head and averted her eyes. As Mrs. Lovell approached her, she bent her body sharply away.

“Don't touch me, mother,” she said, in the same quiet, expressionless tone.

In a few moments she got up and went into her room.

“Bring me your brandy, mother, if you have any,” she called.

Mrs. Lovell brought her small flask, always carried for medicinal purposes, and Hilda put it into a satchel which she had filled with linen and now slung over her shoulder by a strap. She moved quickly, decisively, and in five minutes she was ready. Her short, tweed dress, heavy shoes, and gaiters needed no change. She looked equal to the task before her, in spite of her extreme pallor and the strained brightness of her eyes. There was at any rate not a shade of hesitation about her, nothing that could give Mrs. Lovell an excuse for detaining her.

“Hilda, how am I to hear? When will you come back?” she cried.

“I don't know, mother. I will send word if I can, if there is any one to send. Some one will be coming up from here to-morrow.”

“You will want me to come, too, Hilda? Surely I can help——”

“I don't know. I will send word. We know nothing yet.”

She went hastily out on the veranda. The doctor was already mounted, with various bundles strapped on the peaks of his saddle. He gave some last orders to the innkeeper, Donohoe, in a tone of military curtness, then with a glance at Hilda picked up his bridle, and the bronco moved off into the trail which led up the mountainside.

Adrian followed. He carried a heavy knapsack. As Hilda joined him he looked at her dully, without surprise, and drew a long breath.

“At last—I thought we'd never get off,” he said.

“When did you get here?” asked Hilda.

“I don't know—half an hour ago, I think. I lost my way coming down. I ran all the way—but I lost several hours.”

He looked up in a bewildered way at the sky through the pine-tops.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“I think it's about three,” said Hilda. “How long will it take us?”

“Three hours, at least, and if it gets dark——” he glanced about uneasily with restless eyes.

Since the first moment he had not met Hilda's look squarely. He looked half-distracted—furtive, frightened, completely off his balance. He took Hilda's coming as a matter of course, made no protest nor comment; in fact, he hardly noticed her. The one idea in his mind seemed to be the necessity for speed. He leaped up by the side of the trail, and with long strides overtook and passed the doctor on his horse, and so took the lead. Hilda found it hard to keep up with him.

“When did it happen?” she demanded ruthlessly.

“This morning—about noon, I think.”

“And you—Adrian—you——

“It was an accident!” he cried, with a sullen, defensive glance at her.

“You did it.”

“I tell you it was an accident. We were stalking—he was some distance away—I saw his gray coat—I was frightfully nervous, and I fired——”

He strode on still faster, as though he were trying to get away from her. And Hilda let him go. She stopped for a moment, with a sudden feeling of faintness. She was out of breath, for they had been climbing a steep grade; she leaned against a tree and waited for the doctor to come up with her. It all seemed strange, far away, unreal—the light through the trees, the feeling of haste, of distress, Adrian's terror—all belonged to something she could not realize.

In a kind of dull dream she waited the approach of the horse. It seemed ages long—that stumbling progress up the slippery slope. Finally it came abreast of her; the rider, shaken by a sudden fit of coughing, bent forward over the saddle-peak, pressing his handkerchief to his lips. His eyes were closed, and Hilda thought that in spite of his clutch on the saddle-peak, he was going to fall from the horse. She went on by his side, watching him anxiously. In a few moments the coughing ceased; he opened his eyes and looked at her. She saw in them deadly weariness, physical pain; then the waking of pride, the instinct of self-control, of self-obliteration.

“We are going—very slowly,” he gasped, and he shook the bridle and urged the bronco on.

“You ought not to go!” Hilda cried. “You can't do it!”

He looked at her coldly.

“Of course I can do it,” he said. “I can't let the man die, can I?”

Hilda followed behind the horse, and tears were in her eyes—tears for this man before her. The blow that had fallen on her personally was as yet too heavy to be realized—it benumbed her. But this she could see and feel—this spectacle of a dying man spending perhaps his last strength to try and save another, who might be dying, too.

V.

Higher up, the trail became more and more difficult; at last it was marked only by blazed trees. They lost it several times, and then Adrian and Hilda searched in different directions. As the light faded they all grew more anxious. At the end they got quite off the track, and went stumbling blindly down into the little hollow where the cabin stood, guided now only by the light from its unshaded windows.

Jordan, the guide, came to meet them. He had a pipe in his mouth, which he took out on seeing Hilda. He was a tall man, with a rough, unshaven face and keen eyes.

“He seems to be asleep now,” he said, in a subdued voice.

The doctor had to be lifted from his horse and supported as he walked into the cabin. Adrian and Hilda followed silently.

It was a large, low room, the floor raised a foot or so above the ground, the walls and roof of pine logs, and an enormous fireplace in which whole logs were burning. The room was bright with the firelight, and sweet with resinous odors from the burning wood, and the forest air that sifted in through crevices between the logs. On one of the bunks built against the wall Philip lay, covered with a gray blanket. One arm in a white sleeve lay outside the blanket, the hand turned upward, open and relaxed. His head was turned away and dropped slightly backward, straining the muscles in his bare neck.

Hilda caught her breath as she looked at him—he seemed so helpless, prostrate, crushed. And that dark head, that languid figure and open hand, had a curiously young look, too—a look almost of childishness, that touched her strangely. She effaced herself, standing back but watching intensely, while Ryerson, the doctor, went to the wounded man, drew down the blanket, and bent over him for a moment, touching his wrist, listening to his breathing.

Jordan stood near the foot of the bunk, following the doctor's movements with intelligent eyes. Ryerson now turned to him and said, in a whisper: “Bandages?”

Jordan nodded and went to the fire-place, moving—in spite of the awkward look of his shambling frame—absolutely noiselessly. Over the fire a kettle of water was boiling. At the side of the blazing logs there were two large stones, one on the other. He lifted the top one and set it down hastily on the hearth. Between the two flat surfaces there were folded pieces of linen, hurriedly torn.

“I baked 'em,” he said to the doctor.

“Good for you. You seem to know a thing or two. Those, too?” Ryerson nodded toward the bed, and the guide nodded in reply.

Ryerson sat down for a moment on a bench before the fire, coughing and trying to stifle the sound.

“Got any brandy?” he gasped.

Hilda had her flask out before either of the other men could move. As she gave it to him he looked up at her.

“Perhaps you'd better go out now,” he said. “It may upset you.”

She shook her head. “I'm not nervous, and you may need me,” she objected.

“No, this man can do all I need. Sit down, anyway, and rest.”

His tone was rather irritable, and Hilda at once said quickly:

“I will. Don't think of me. I won't be in the way.”

He took a mouthful of brandy and returned the flask to her. Then he got up, took off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and went to the bed. Hilda sat down on a bunk against the opposite wall. With tense muscles and nerves she sat motionless, unconscious of fatigue or any bodily feeling. Adrian was standing near the door. He had put down his bundle, and, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands and biting his lips, he watched the doctor. Hilda first glanced at him and looked away with a frown. She could not see the figure in the bed now; the doctor and Jordan were in the way. But suddenly she heard a murmur, an inarticulate complaint, then a strange voice faintly uttering broken words which she could not catch. Then the doctor's voice—how different from the tone he had used toward her or the others!—gentle, almost coaxing. Jordan went to and fro between the bed and the fireplace, or about the room, fetching and carrying things. With a brusk movement of the doctor's arm a roll of blood-stained linen was thrown out on the floor. Hilda saw a bare, white arm raised and supported as they turned the wounded man; she saw his head fall weakly on Jordan's shoulder, and she clenched her hands to keep from sobbing.

She saw that Ryerson was quick and deft in his motions, and that Jordan supplied the needed strength, raising and holding Philip in his long arms as though he were a child. And she waited, waited, for the verdict that could only come after all this process of examining and sponging and bandaging was over.

When at last they had laid him down in bed and drawn the blankets smoothly over him, and Jordan was rigging up a blanket to keep the light from his face, Ryerson turned and walked out of the cabin, saying to Adrian as he passed: “Where can I wash my hands?”

“Oh, tell me!” cried Hilda. She sprang out after him and fiercely seized him by the arm.

“Why, I can't tell yet,” Ryerson said coldly, freeing himself. “He is shot through the upper part of the chest, touching the right lung, and he has had a hemorrhage. If the wound isn't poisoned, he stands a fair chance—it will take three days to show that. We must keep the thing clean. By the way,” he demanded of Adrian, who hung at his elbow, “do you know if he bathed this morning before he went out?”

Adrian nodded. “In the brook,” he said, looking down the slope into darkness.

“That's lucky. And Bill Jordan had sense enough to sterilize his bandage. I suppose it isn't the first fool hunting expedition he's had charge of.” He openly sneered at Adrian as he ended, and bruskly repeated: “Where can I wash my hands?”

“The brook? Or do you want it hot?”

“Well, I don't want a chill. Will you see if there's any warm? And tell Jordan to keep the kettle boiling.”

Adrian went in, and Ryerson dropped down on the door-step, holding his bloody hands straight out before him; and his head sunk on his chest, which heaved with its dry little cough. Hilda, instinctively suppressing for the moment her questions, said:

“I'll get it—he isn't quick,” and followed Adrian.

He was looking round rather helplessly for some means of lifting the steaming kettle from the fire. Hilda snatched it off in a moment, seized a basin from the floor, and hurried out. Then she got a pail half-full of cold water, and towels and soap from her bag.

“Thank you,” said Ryerson dryly.

Then she ventured to say to him:

“I must stay here—you know I can't be down there, so far away. Now, tell me what I can do—how I can help.”

“I don't know,” he said wearily. “Just look round and see. Can you cook?”

“I—I can try.”

“I thought not. Well, Bill Jordan's a handy man, and that's lucky. We can keep that chap busy on the trail, fetching things—it's all he's good for.”

Even at that moment she had noticed his look of dislike—almost contempt—at Adrian. He bent over the basin, rubbing his hands and arms. She lingered, and asked in a low, choked voice:

“Then we shall just have to wait—for three days—you don't know yet—if he will live?”

Ryerson glanced aside at her, and now showed a first gleam of feeling.

“I don't know. We shall just have to wait,” he said quite gently.

She was terrified by this gentleness, and went away trembling. “He thinks he will die,” she said over and over to herself, almost mechanically. She went to the door and looked in; but now the bunk where Philip lay was shut off By a screen of blankets, and she could not see him. The door stood open because of the heat of the fire, though the night air was crisp and in motion. Bill Jordan was moving swiftly and quietly about, opening the bundles they had brought and putting the room in order. Hilda saw that she could help in this; but instead she went by herself round the corner of the cabin—into solitude. She could bear no more for the moment.

She sank down on the ground, conscious now of overpowering weariness. Near her in the darkness the brook came rushing down a steep slope and fell into a pool below. Scrubby trees stood thick about the cabin; the ground under them was mossy and a little damp. But the air that stirred them was the electric mountain air, dry, pure, and stimulating. Hilda felt more lonely than ever in her life before, and more frightened. Was it possible that Philip could die? The idea seemed absurd, not to be believed, and yet it gripped her in a hard, irresistible grasp.

“Oh, God, don't let him die, don't let him die!”

She threw herself full length on the ground, pressing her face against it, digging her fingers into the moss that clung thinly to angles and edges of rock. She wanted to feel some physical pain, to dull for a moment the agony of her fear and prayer. Why should he die, unless it were to make her suffer as much as possible, to inflict the worst blow of fate on her? Then she wondered if he was suffering, if he was conscious now. The glimpse she had had of him showed only complete languor, weakness. She wanted suddenly to see his face, to look at him, to do something for him, She got up and went into the house.

It was very quiet there. A fresh log had been put on the fire, and a myriad little flames were running over it, snapping in the knots of resin and scattering sparks over the hearth. Bill Jordan was cooking. He had buried potatoes in the cinders, and now he propped a frying-pan between two burning logs, and the smell of butter and meat rose hot and savory. Hilda became aware that she was hungry.

Ryerson was lying full length on one of the bunks. He did not move when Hilda came in. Adrian, who was sitting on a stool near the fire, got up and looked at her irresolutely.

“Some venison would taste good about now,” remarked Bill Jordan softly, to no one in particular, neatly turning the meat in the frying-pan with a knife. He wore his hat, a stained, soft felt, pulled down over his eyes. A sharp nose, a reddish complexion, a long, straw-colored mustache, and an unshaven chin, gave an impression—certainly not handsome, not picturesque—but somehow pleasant. He was amazingly tall and thin. His rough gray shirt seemed to hang on bony protuberances, and its low collar displayed a prominent Adam's apple. His feet, in long, heavy boots, looked enormous, and his hands were brown and leathery. But Bill Jordan was an effective man. He understood cooking, among other things, and now he was calm, quiet, devoting himself to the matter in hand, with an air of being equal to the situation, whatever it might be. Hilda's presence did not disturb him in the least. Both he and Ryerson took it as an ordinary matter, and gave her no special attention. Adrian alone seemed ill at ease with her. After a moment he moved forward a seat for her—a rough bench with a back and then seemed in doubt whether he ought not to take himself out of the way.

Hilda went softly round the blanket-screen and stood looking down at Philip, her hand on her breast, as though to still her heart's uneasy beating. She saw his pale face, his eyes half-closed, the lids flickering slightly, as though trying to lift, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, his lips a little parted, his rapid yet faint breathing moving the blanket over his chest.

“Water,” he murmured.

She thought that no one but herself could have heard this murmur, but though she turned quickly to get the water, Bill Jordan had forestalled her. His glance seemed to warn her not to let Philip see her, and she did not go back behind the blanket. Ryerson went, however; and she heard his gentle, calm voice, and then that pitiful voice of weakness, wandering in its half-inarticulate complaint. Could that be Philip? Jordan filled a glass from a bottle of milk that had been brought from the inn, and took it to him, and presently he was quiet again.

Then the others had supper at a table of small branches nailed together with the bark on, set as far as possible from the blanket-screen. The meal was strictly businesslike and brief. The fact that they should be eating at all, sitting there within a few feet of him, almost made Hilda weep. But she realized that there was no other place; that they—the four men and herself—were for the time being shut in together in this one room. It caused her no discomfort, on her own personal account. She looked indifferently at the two empty bunks, quite willing to lie down there or anywhere and sleep till she might be needed. Next day, she resolved, she would begin to be useful. They should have no excuse for sending her away.

“They” were of course the doctor and Bill Jordan. After the meal, these two retired out of doors for a consultation, the result of which was announced to Hilda by Ryerson.

“You'll have to sleep in one of those,” he said, indicating the bunks, “and I shall take the other. Of course, I have to be here, and it's not safe for you to sleep outside. There are mountain-cats about, and they've seen a bear or two up here lately.”

“Very well,” she said.

Jordan was rummaging cautiously in a corner where the guns were stacked and now came out with an ax and a hatchet. He approached Adrian, who stood staring into the fire—he had not spoken to Hilda during the few moments they were alone, nor she to him—and handed him the hatchet.

“Come along and help me,” he said.

“What?” said Adrian blankly.

“I'm goin' to build a shelter for you and me to sleep in—savvy? Come on, you can help.”

“Have you got any tobacco? I've lost mine.”

Adrian was holding an empty pipe in fingers that trembled. Jordan fished out a leather bag from his trousers pocket and tossed it over. Then he went out, and Adrian, after filling and lighting his pipe—the latter with some difficulty—took up the hatchet and followed him.

Hilda heard the blows of the ax at a little distance. Later, as she busied herself washing the dishes, she heard the two men come back, dragging their load of boughs; and they built the shelter against the wall of the cabin. It occurred to Hilda that it was necessary Jordan should be within the doctor's call. He came in again, and rigged up two blankets to screen her bunk. Adrian did not reappear that night.

VI.

The night went by in broken patches of uneasy sleep and waking. Toward morning Philip began to talk to himself.

“Hilda,” he said, in a louder voice. “Hilda!”

She sprang up—she was lying dressed and half-dozing on the hard bunk—and went to him, imagining that he was calling her. The doctor was standing at his head, and motioned her back. Philip went on talking.

“It's awfully far away,” he murmured. “And I'm so beastly tired of the whole thing. And the place is so hot. Don't leave me! Don't, now you've come—don't leave me—don't! How beautiful you are! You know you're more beautiful than you used to be, even.” He stopped for a moment with a quick-drawn breath, like a sigh, and then said, in a lower, more indistinct tone: “Waiting—waiting—waiting. How hot it is—open the windows.”

Hilda looked imploringly at Ryerson.

“He's delirious!” she whispered.

He shook his head and whispered in answer: “Talking in his sleep. Result of the shock. It doesn't mean anything bad.”

Philip's eyes were closed. He murmured something with soundless lips, and then said, with startling distinctness:

“Why don't you say so, then? Why don't you say so, if you don't love me? Don't torture me!”

“Oh!” cried Hilda.

Ryerson met her look, and said abruptly: “Don't be frightened—it's perfectly natural,” and walked away. He put another log on the fire, which was dying down, and then went to the door. But he could not, without leaving the cabin, get out of ear-shot of that pleading, protesting voice. And Hilda, sitting near Philip's bed, felt the tears running down her face as she listened, and knew that a stranger must perforce listen to those broken sentences that betrayed the unconscious man's mind. It was cruel that he should betray himself in his weakness, cruel that people should listen—even that she should hear him. And yet, she knew in her heart that there was nothing really hidden in his—nothing that she might not know—nothing that could hurt him with her, or with any one. She felt deeply that Philip was clear and honest to the depths of his soul. She was not afraid to hear him think aloud—and yet, she did fear, too, to see how deeply she had hurt him. And she trembled and shrank as he began again.

“Hilda, Hilda,” he repeated her name softly over and over.

It was all she could do to keep from going to him, speaking to him. It seemed that he must know she was in the room.

“Water!“ he said suddenly, in a fretful tone. “This heat is something awful—you might open the car windows—it's stifling——”

Hilda went to call Ryerson, who was lying on his bunk. When Philip had had his drink he fell asleep again, and this time he was quiet. It was dawn now, and the wind grew so cold that the door had to be shut. Hilda fell into a deep sleep. She was exhausted from many wakeful nights and the strain of the last day, and she slept till broad daylight.

It was a glorious light that she stepped out into, as she went down to the brook to wash.

Philip was conscious, but very weak, Ryerson reported, when she came back; there were no bad symptoms so far, and later in the day it was probable that she might see him. Bill Jordan cooked the breakfast over a fire in the open, and they ate it on a flat rock before the cabin door. Then the doctor went to sleep in the shelter; Jordan took the watch over the patient; and Hilda and Adrian found themselves alone together out of doors. Hilda was washing dishes in a pail of warm water, and Adrian tried to help her, laying down the pipe he had just lit.

“No, go on smoking,” said Hilda. “You can't do anything just now.”

Insensibly she had adopted the tone of Ryerson and Bill Jordan toward him. Adrian so far had suffered this tone in silence. Now he revolted.

“Look here, Hilda, you all treat me like a criminal!” he said fiercely. “I don't mind the others, but why should you be so beastly unkind? Don't you suppose I'm just as uncomfortable as that chap in there? Don't you suppose that if he did die—I don't believe he will, but if he should—wouldn't it be as hard on me as on him? Of course, I'm to blame, but not in the way you punish me for. It's a piece of cursed bad luck—for me as much as anybody.”

He poured out the words in a breath; evidently they had been piling up in his mind during his silence.

Hilda looked at him, the impression of the previous day still strong in her. He seemed to her somehow to have crumbled, disintegrated. His physical charm was certainly dimmed. He was tired, tremulous, unshaven. His grace and poise of freedom and self-command were gone. He went on vehemently, smarting under her cold gaze:

“I suppose I might have expected this injustice from you, too—from you especially, as you're a woman. Only I didn't expect it, and so it hurts all the more. You must admit that you are unjust.”

“Perhaps so,” said Hilda slowly. “Only I really don't see how you could be so—stupid. It is criminal, such stupidity!”

“It happens to a lot of people every year. And I was nervous—I wouldn't have done it ordinarily—but I was in a bad nervous state—and you know why.”

“Oh, then it's really my fault, is it? Is that what you mean?”

“Well, you know what I mean. I mean that I want you to treat me with some—humanity.”

Hilda went on with her work, and Adrian nervously knocked the tobacco out of his pipe, and filled it again.

“I think, perhaps, I have been hard on you,” she said gravely. “But I haven't been thinking of you, Adrian, that's the truth. I couldn't. How could we, any of us, think of anything but him? You know he's in danger.”

“I know—I feel it as much as you do—only don't make it harder for me, that's all.”

Adrian's tone did not indicate as much feeling as his words; it was sullen and petulant. But Hilda said more gently:

“Well, I won't, if I can help it. And you'll do anything you can to help, won't you?”

“Of course I shall.”

He spoke sharply, and began to walk up and down the open space before the cabin, his pipe clutched in his teeth; kicking at the bits of rock that cropped up through the thin soil, and murmuring to himself:

“Beastly luck!”

Hilda started to carry the pile of dishes indoors. He blocked her way.

“Don't go yet,” he begged. “I want to talk to you—I've such a lot to say to you.”

“Adrian, you mustn't hinder me; whatever I can do, I must do, first of all,” she said sharply.

“Hilda, I must talk to you. And I've got to start in a little while. I've got to go down to the inn for some things, as there doesn't seem to be anybody else to run errands. It's not decent of you to refuse to talk to me!”

“I don't refuse.” She hesitated, however. “Only I don't see what you can want to talk about, just now. It seems to me that all that concerns us just now is—Philip.”

“No, it's not all that concerns us! I have plenty to talk about. Come out here somewhere, away from the house.”

“We can't do that—something might be needed. Wait—I will see.”

She went into the cabin. Bill Jordan was sitting before the fire, with his hat on, and one cheek propped in his horny hand. He cast a dolorous look at her.

“Can I do anything else just now?” she asked, in a whisper.

He shook his head.

“No, ma'am, not at present, not that I know of.”

“How is he?”

“Asleep.”

Hilda went to look at Philip. He seemed to be sleeping soundly. His breathing was barely perceptible. There was a slight color in his cheeks; she observed it with alarm, and returned to Jordan.

Hilda reported that she thought Philip looked feverish, and asked if the doctor ought not to be called. With a mumbled apology, Bill went in to look at his patient.

“Disgusting beast!” said Adrian violently, who had come up to the door.

“Oh, he isn't disgusting.” Hilda waited anxiously at the door. In a moment Bill came back.

“I think he's all right, but we ain't takin' any chances,” he observed, and went to call Ryerson.

Then there was a further painful wait of a quarter of an hour, before the doctor pronounced that there was a slight rise of temperature, which did not necessarily indicate anything wrong. He looked grave, however, and did not go back to the shelter. And Hilda sat down on the flat rock near the cabin door, and looked at Adrian with large, unnaturally bright eyes.

“Do you want to talk to me now?” she asked absently.

“I suppose I ought to start down,” he said sullenly. “But before I go I wish——”

He was so long silent that she finally asked: “Well, what, Adrian?”

“Oh, well, can't you see what I want? I want you to be a little more human with me! I want you to think of me a little. You're thinking of nothing but him. And I need it more than he does. I'm—I'm awfully miserable, Hilda.”

He threw himself down beside the rock and hid his face on his arm. His hand touched her dress. Involuntarily she moved a little away.

How unlike Adrian this was, thought. How unlike what had charmed her in him! He did deserve pity. But he ought not to have appealed for it. He ought not to have appealed to her, now, at this moment.

“I know—I know you must be,” she said mechanically. “It must have been a fearful shock.”

“Oh, it was beastly—seeing him there, and the blood, and all.”

Hilda started slightly, and he looked up, and moved nearer to her.

“But that's not what's bothering me,” he said, with growing excitement. “I couldn't help it—I'm really not responsible—it might have happened to anybody. If Philip dies, they'll put me in jail and have an inquiry. But that's a farce, of course. And it's just as absurd to pretend that I am responsible, to blame me——”

“Nobody's blaming you,” said Hilda coldly.

“You are! By your manner if not in speech. You put me a million miles off. Why will you pretend that this thing has made no difference between you and me?”

“I don't say that,” said Hilda.

“No, I thought not! It has made a difference. And that's the thing that I'm worrying about. I don't care a rap—in comparison—about Philip. I don't want him to die. I'm particularly anxious that he shouldn't. I'm particularly anxious that he should live, and make it a square fight between us. As it is now, he's got the advantage of me. I don't know how real it is, what you seem to feel, but you've turned against me. I wish to Heaven he'd shot me!”

“How can you think about yourself and your own wants now, Adrian?” she asked, in a low voice. “Don't you know he may be dying?”

“I'm not a hypocrite. I do think about myself, or, rather, about you, whether he's dying or not. You've always been honest, Hilda. Now, honestly, honestly, does it make such a terrific difference to you, if he dies? After just the first shock, I mean? For you don't love him!”

He had seized her hand in a fierce grasp; and his face, his tone, and manner all expressed the intensity of his clutch upon her, as though he saw her slipping bodily from him.

“But I do,” said Hilda, a faint color coming into her face. Her physical beauty was dim in this morning light; she was pale, with reddened eyelids, and her hair was unbecomingly done. But she had a strange kind of emotional radiance that gave new depth to her eyes and set her mouth in a fuller curve.

“I don't believe it! It's pity, or something equally damnable! Hilda!”

He bent and kissed her hands. She sprang up, furious with his lack of control and with this deliberate appeal, as it seemed, to what had belonged to him in her divided feeling.

“I hate you, Adrian!” she said, with passion, and rushed into the house.

VII.

The day was one of great anxiety. Philip was partly conscious, but so weak that Hilda was not allowed to be near him when there was any chance of his recognizing her. His wandering talk was mainly of her, and almost his first conscious question was about her.

“Am I much hurt? Does she know?” he asked feebly.

Toward night he seemed rather less restless, and finally sank into a sound sleep. Hilda then sat down beside his bed, ready to fly, however, if he showed signs of waking, for Ryerson had warned her that any mental shock or disturbance would lessen Philip's chances. But he slept very peacefully, breathing softly and evenly, like a child.

She sat leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her strong chin propped in her hands, and gazed at him, motionless for a long time. She was tired and pale; her black hair escaped rather untidily from its knot she looked older than her years, much older than her buoyant self of two days ago. But her brooding grief and tenderness for the man before her, the spiritual passion of her look, made her more moving even to the sense than she had ever. been in the crude consciousness of her beauty.

She gazed, as though she could never have enough, at his face, and his dark hair, clipped short but yet making an effort to curl in little half-rings at the back of his neck and behind his ear. He had a strong, beautiful throat and broad shoulders. It was the strength of his body that made his present weakness so pathetic. It was power overthrown.

And he lay there, struck by a double blow. His spirit was wounded as deeply as his body. Hilda felt more and more every moment how much she had wounded him. She had really not taken him into account. She had been thinking only of herself and of the other man. She had not even thought enough about Philip to be honest with him. And it was this, apparently, that he felt almost more than anything else.

She wondered now how she could so have forgotten him, forgotten what he had meant to her when she had become engaged to him and for some time afterward—until the last month, in fact.

What was it that was drawing her back to him? Pity, as Adrian had said? No. She was feeling again what had in the first place drawn her to him—a deep spiritual charm of personality. Now she knew that she had always loved Philip's soul. It was not only that he was good, that he was deeply responsible, that he governed himself so as not to do harm—he might have been very upright without being charming. He might have been upright and cold, and he would never have charmed Hilda. But he had charmed her in the days when he had ardently courted her. And she had felt then not only the love of his soul, but the man's fire. And this she was feeling now, as she sat and looked at him.

Why, then, had she. ceased to feel it? His letters, his real letters (for he had written her every day, sometimes only a hurried note in the press of business,) had been full of it. He had not wavered nor fallen off in his love, his longing, for her. And even when he had temporarily sacrificed her to his mother's need of him, though she had been a little hurt, she had known that he was sacrificing himself much more. And she had really loved him the better for that. And yet—and yet—all this was not enough. The reenforcement of his actual physical presence was needed. She had wanted him, not his letters, not the prospect of seeing him some day, not the assurance that he loved her. She was that sort of woman.

She admitted it to herself, while the warmth of color that the idea had called up still lingered in her cheeks. Well, then, and Adrian? She was not going to deny the strength of his attraction for her. Why was it that this attraction had been stronger, in a way, than anything she had then felt for Philip? Was it perhaps for the very reason that she really disliked Adrian's character? Was it because it was forbidden? Was it because she had wanted love so much, increasingly, that she had snatched at Adrian's? She pondered, not sparing herself, trying to see things clearly.

Her thoughts were somber, tinged by the uncertainty of the situation, by fears for Philip. But that she could think at all showed a certain relaxation of the tension. She had felt this in Ryerson's manner, after Philip had fallen asleep. Ryerson had showed clearly that the strain was lessened for him. He had smiled, and gone to lie down himself, for he was forced to save his strength in every way possible.

Now he came to look at his patient. He stood in the way of the red sunlight that was shining in at the low windows. Hilda barely noticed him, as he stood there motionless, evidently satisfied with the state of affairs. But at last she did look up at him and found him gazing at her with peculiar fixity. He continued to gaze at her. It seemed that for the first time he really saw her. In their first meeting at the inn he had been struck by her beauty, she knew, but he had looked at her then indifferently, as a spectacle that did not concern him. After the accident, he had tolerated her as a mere troublesome female who must be borne with, but who would undoubtedly make things in general worse than they need be. Now the frank sadness of his eyes had a wistful note. Hilda was vaguely aware of this change as she looked up at him, but she was not thinking of Ryerson.

A slight movement drew her attention to Philip. His eves were open and fixed upon her. She rose and went quickly out past the screen. Ryerson took her place.

“Well, how are you now?” she heard him ask, in an easy manner.

“Oh, pretty bum, thanks,” Philip drawled.

“Feel as if you'd been pulled through a knot-hole, eh? Or knocked down, and walked over by a big stag—ever have that experience—or hugged by a grizzly? Well, I guess you're feeling better than you did.”

“Oh, yes. I'd like a drink, though.”

“What'll you take—high-ball or horse's neck? Or how would some chicken broth strike you for a change?”

Ryerson got up, when Philip said abruptly:

“I suppose I was dreaming just now, wasn't I? There's no one here?”

“Nobody but me and Bill Jordan and your interesting cousin.”

“What's the use of lying? I know I saw her.”

Ryerson came out to get the broth, and called: “Oh, Bill, come here, will you?”

Bill was not within hearing. Hilda understood, and went noiselessly toward the door. But Philip's weak voice stopped her.

“I tell you I saw her. I know she's here. What's the use of trying to fool me? Hilda!”

“Now, see here,” said Ryerson. “You're right, she is here. You behave yourself and keep quiet, and when we get you fixed up a bit you can see her.”

He nodded to Hilda, with a smile, and she went out, her heart beating fast with joy. He was much better—and to-morrow would be the third day!

Bill Jordan was constructing a log cabin in miniature on the slope above the house. He dropped his saw and came at Hilda's call, removing his pipe from his mouth to say, with a nod toward the unfinished work: “We thought you'd better have a little place to yourself. Safe enough in daytime.”

“How long will he have to stay here, do you think?” asked Hilda.

“Ten days, the doc said, if he gets on all right. It's pretty rough for you, ma'am.”

“Oh!” Hilda laughed.

It was partly for the sake of laughing, because her heart had been lightened. But the idea that she could mind the “roughness” of the place seemed to her strangely absurd. Up to this time she would not have minded in the least what her surroundings were. Now that she was able to notice them a little, she liked them.

She went up the slope, through the trees, to the little cabin that was being built for her. It was near sunset now—the sun sank early below this. mountain cleft. From where Hilda stood she could look through a clearing down the mountain slope. At a distance rose another peak, much higher than this one; its sides deep in purple shadow, its crest white with snow and still glittering in sunlight.

It all seemed utterly remote from the world, and this suited perfectly her mood. Since all was going well with Philip, what better place could there be?

She sat down on a log and looked at the cabin roof, the chimney from which sweet wood smoke rose, the lighted windows, across which shadows came and went. Vaguely she was aware that she heard the rhythmic sound of ax blows at a little distance in the wood. They ceased. Then a man came toward her, half-dragging, half-rolling a small tree, stripped of its branches. It was Adrian. With the collar of his flannel shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled above his elbows, his black hair roughened above his moist brow, he came upon her suddenly like a young wood god. Curiously his physical equilibrium had returned to him; she was more than ever aware, as she looked at him, of his beauty.

She had not seen him since the morning. He had gone down to the inn, with the bronco, and then had hired a man and established a regular channel of communication between the inn and the lodge. The man had returned with supplies and a note from Mrs. Lovell. She was no longer alone, it seemed. The news of the accident had spread fast, and Priscilla had rushed up to the valley and would come to Hilda, if permitted. Hilda had sent word by return of the messenger that things were well as they were.

Then, later in the afternoon, Adrian had come back, apparently rested and refreshed in body at least. As Hilda saw him now he seemed perfectly himself.

“He's awake,” she said at once gravely, “and much better. I'm to see him in a few minutes.”

“Good,” said Adrian abruptly. He sat down on the log and wiped his brow. “I suppose I'm almost as glad as you are,” he added.

Hilda looked at him, absorbed by an idea which suddenly struck her. Supposing it had been possible for Adrian to do that thing of purpose? She knew it was not. Adrian was not a violent man. He had none of the primeval emotions of the wood god. He might be morally willing to push a troublesome human being out of his path, but he would not shed that being's blood—warm, red, unpleasant blood—for any consideration. She smiled oddly as she thought this, and Adrian resented her smile.

“You mean I'm not as glad?” he said. 'You must think me a curious specimen. Do you think I wanted to murder the fellow?”

“No,” murmured Hilda.

“I'd give anything if this hadn't happened. Do you think I can't see what a difference it's made? But why, Hilda, why?”

He frowned, and the straight-knit brows gave an almost fierce intensity to his light-gray eyes.

“Why?” she repeated dreamily.

“You seem half asleep. Hilda, you must be tired out. This is no place for you. Now that he's out of danger, you'd better go back to the inn. You can see he's well taken care of—you're not needed.”

Hilda shook her head vaguely. She was feeling strangely happy and sad at the same moment, strangely tremulous and moved, near to tears. She began to realize that she was terribly tired.

Some one waved to her from the cabin door; she ran down the slope, without further word to Adrian. Ryerson met her on the threshold.

“Mind you, don't let him talk much or get excited,” he said, in a low voice.

Philip seemed to her all eyes, as she went and sat down beside him. She put her hand on his, and bent and kissed his cheek where the dark stubble was pricking through. He smiled.

“You shouldn't have come,” he said weakly.

“Shouldn't I?” she said.

She was conscious herself of the undue emotion that thrilled in her voice. She wanted to burst into tears, and did not dare speak till she could control herself; so she kissed him again. This seemed to please Philip as well. He looked at her in wistful delight; and yet with a strange humble protest in his eyes.

“I'm all right now,” he said, almost apologetically.

His eyes begged her not to pity him too much.

“Yes, I know,” she said tremulously. “You mustn't talk now, you know.”

She felt suddenly that she could not talk, either; and she bent and laid her cheek against his, hiding her eyes against his pillow, and there she began to weep a little. The tears rolled down against Philip's cheek, and he tried feebly to move.

“Hilda! Poor girl!” he cried. “It's all right now, you know!”

“Yes,” she gasped, furious with herself, trying desperately to control herself. And she turned her face and kissed him again.

“Hilda, dearest,” he whispered.

He seemed to be trying weakly to draw away from her.

“I'm such an unpleasant beggar just now,” he murmured deprecatingly.

For a moment longer she clung to him. But he was trying to draw away from her. She felt it, and sat up. His eyes, sad, tender, appealing, begged her not to pity him, not to let this unfortunate happening affect her too much. His haggard face warned her not to yield to her almost overmastering emotion, her desire to prove to him that all must be well between them. She crushed it down; dried her eyes and smiled tragically at him.

“You're a dear,” she assured him caressingly.

Philip smiled, too, quite gaily. “So Adrian thought,” he whispered.

VIII.

The prohibition of talk made that first interview very trying. They had so much to say! Hilda would fain have expressed herself in caresses, but she felt a painful barrier in Philip's manner.

She was not allowed to stay with him long, and she left him much disturbed. That night Philip talked incessantly in his sleep; and in the morning Ryerson was much out of humor. Hilda had begged to be allowed to help take care of Philip, but the doctor refused her bluntly, and asked her to stay out of the cabin till he sent for her. Philip, it appeared, insisted on talking to her without restrictions some time that day; and Ryerson appeared to think that yielding involved less wear and tear to his patient than refusing. He yielded grudgingly, but Philip had his way.

He was looking stronger, Hilda thought, when she was allowed to go to him; but he spoke in barely audible tones, as though he had a great deal to say, and must save himself. He was very pale; his eyes gleamed with suppressed feeling. She was rather frightened as she saw his excitement.

“Do you know what I've been thinking, Hilda?” he said at once. “I've thought of you all the time I've been lying here—all the time. And I've wished I could marry you at once—so that—if I died—there would be some one to look after you. My father could do it better then——”

She interrupted him.

“Yes, let it be so—let us be married now! Then I can take care of you; they can't send me away! But you're much better, you know, now——”

He moved his head with sad impatience.

“Yes—listen, Hilda. I said I had wished it, but I don't really. Listen, let me tell you why. If you married me now, and if I died, it might stand between you and Adrian. Do you see? And if I didn't die, I should stand between you. And that mustn't be. You must be perfectly free—you are now. You mustn't let this influence you. That's what I'm afraid of.”

She tried to speak, but he went on rapidly, with an imploring look:

“That frightens me, Hilda! I've seen it coming—and I couldn't bear that! I can bear anything else. I can bear to have him take you, if you love him—and I think you do. But you mustn't think of me—not in that way. I don't think I'm a weakling, Hilda. You mustn't treat me like one. You mustn't sacrifice yourself to me. That's what I've been wanting to say to you. This doesn't make any real difference, you know. I think I shall get well very quickly. I did think I was going to die at first, and I rather hoped I would—just for myself. But then I knew that would hurt you, poor girl! You mustn't pity me, Hilda! I shall get over this. You can see, can't you, that it would be only cruelty to let this make any difference? You must be honest, Hilda! You must be honest to both of us. And as soon as you know, tell me. I can bear anything, Hilda, except to think you aren't being honest with me; that you're trying to spare me—trying to love me, when you really love another man!”

He had tried to raise himself, and now sank back with a moan, quite exhausted.

Hilda put her hand on his arm, bending her beautiful, agitated face over him.

“Now listen, Philip!” she implored, in her turn. “I want to tell you everything. I've been wanting to tell you all the time, but I was uncertain. That's the reason I kept silent, but I can see now that I ought to have told you that. But you could see, without my telling you. And yet you couldn't understand me—my -feeling—you don't now. Of course you can't. I can see that. I didn't know myself—till just lately. But now I know! When I thought you were in danger——”

“Ah, is it that, then?” he sighed.

“Listen, listen! It was like a flash of light in the darkness; it showed me that I couldn't lose you; it showed me what I really cared for; and yet I knew it all the time, in a way; and it was that that made me so miserable.”

“You did love him, then,” said Philip faintly.

“Oh, I don't know. I did care for him, in a way. He had—he has—a strong attraction for me. He interests me. But that's all.”

“That's a good deal, Hilda. And he—he tried to take you.”

“Yes, he did try.”

“I don't blame him,” Philip said painfully. “I ought not to have left you alone.”

Hilda flushed deeply under Philip's eyes—deeply piercing as they were, though full of feeling, too.

“Am I so weak as that?” she whispered.

“I don't know that it is weakness. You are full of life, Hilda; full of desire for life. And you never were much in love with me. It's all natural enough.”

“Ah, don't speak so! Philip, I shall love you all the more for this!”

She leaned forward to kiss him, but the look in his eyes stopped her.

“Who knows, Hilda? You may regret. You owe nothing to duty, remember; nothing to convention, nothing to me. Your own feeling is all.”

“I know it. I didn't think of you, Philip, or the other things. Yes, I did, too, a little; but I knew that if I had really wanted to go with Adrian I would have gone. Even at the last minute, no matter who was hurt—I would have gone! But I didn't want to. You won't make me go, if I don't really want to, will you?”

“But you didn't want me. It was only that you didn't want him enough. And you said you still cared for him.”

“I do, I do want you! And it's not that I care for him. But he has a kind of attraction for me. It was that that I felt all along. But I didn't love him. I do love you, Philip.”

“But you didn't love me then—when he was making love to you—when I was away—I'm not reproaching you!” he added quickly. “It's my fault. I might have known that I'd have to work to keep you.”

“It's true,” she said, looking with a wide gaze at the brown wall beyond him. “It's true I didn't love you—for a time. It seemed to grow dim, to fade away. Why weren't you here?”

“Ah, why wasn't I?” he said, with a groan.

“Yes, I forgot you—for a time,” she went on, as though in reverie. “And yet you were writing me all the while. I knew you loved me. I can't explain it. But I know—I know that I love you all the more for this.”

Philip faintly shook his head.

“You like me,” he murmured. “But you don't care for me as you did—for him.”

For the first time she saw in his face, in his eyes, the flame of jealousy; of physical hate. It shocked her; moved her with a tremendous delight.

“Philip!” she whispered; and bowed her face against his shoulder. He was trembling.

“That's what I want, don't you know?” he gasped. “I want you to love me—not to give any one else any feeling that you can't give me—to give me all, and more than all. I shall never be satisfied with less than that; I know it now—and you must know it, too. If you can't love me so much, go away now, Hilda; don't try for it; don't doubt about it. If you're not sure now, go away, leave me—for I can't bear to see you again; I can't bear it any longer!

He was trembling violently.

“Philip, don't; be quiet!” she implored.

His free arm went round her shoulders, held her in a passionate embrace, and she kissed him on the mouth.

“If you come back now you'll never get away from me again,” he said fiercely.

Hilda could not speak; she had put all her meaning into that kiss. She hid her face again on his breast and clung to him, feeling the wild beating of his heart, knowing that she ought to tear herself away from him; knowing, above all, that she was happy.

It was Ryerson that sent her away. She walked out of the cabin with head erect, her face ablaze with color and light, her eyes full of joy, her lips half-parted and warm.

And she met Adrian just outside the door.

They stood and looked at one another. Rather, Adrian looked at Hilda. She barely saw him.

“He's much better,” she said joyously. “He seems quite—quite himself.”

Adrian said nothing. His eyes, intently observant, studied Hilda's face.

“Adrian! You are glad, aren't you?”

“Certainly I am,” he said coldly.

And now she looked at him, and saw the miles of distance she had traveled away from him. That look on his face—that cold repression, that almost sneering aloofness—that meant only that he felt it, too; the distance, her flight, her escape from him. And that look he must always wear for her; it flashed on her suddenly with a pang. There could be no half-measures with him, either. If she was not to be his, if she had turned from him, that was how he must look at her. She had wanted to be fair to them both. Perhaps she had really wanted them both to love her, impossible as it seemed. It was impossible to be fair to both. She was false now to the promise she had seemed to hold out to Adrian. And he was leaving her. In silence she met his gaze for a long moment, bent her head, and went on among the trees, deep now in shadow.

When she came back to the cabin, Adrian was gone.

Ryerson met her at the door, and asked her to stay outside, by the fire Bill Jordan had built beside the rock. Philip, he said, was going to have a bad night.

“I told you not to excite him!” he said irritably.

“Oh, is he worse? But I couldn't help it,” faltered Hilda. “Indeed I couldn't—he would talk!”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Ryerson glared at her implacably, and added, with conviction: “It's such women as you that kill men.”

Hilda, half-stunned by his words and manner, waited in suspense till he chose to come out, with his hat on and overcoat turned up about his ears, to eat a bit of supper beside the fire.

“He isn't much worse?” she begged miserably.

“Oh, he'll be delirious for awhile,” growled Ryerson.

She started up.

“Now sit down! You can't do anything. I suppose it couldn't be helped.”

“But—will it hurt him much? Oh, do tell me exactly!” she cried.

“He'll be weaker for it to-morrow. I suppose that's all.”

Ryerson seemed to concede this reluctantly. Then as she sat staring at him his manner suddenly changed.

“Don't look like that. It isn't so bad. I don't think it'll make any serious difference—just a day or so longer to keep him quiet,” he said. “I dare say you couldn't help it.”

Hilda's eyes filled with tears.

“Now, don't cry! I didn't mean to be rough. But—you know——” he hesitated; and his worn, hollow young face softened oddly as he looked at her. “I've really taken this thing very seriously. It would hit me hard if anything went wrong—if he didn't get on as well as possible.”

Hilda for a moment forgot her own feelings in the perception of his; the interest of this personal revelation.

“Why?” she asked, fascinated by the glow of his eyes as he leaned toward her in the firelight.

“Don't you see? It isn't so much for him, or for you. Can't you see why it's meant such a lot to me—this chance to do one more thing before I—go out?”

Hilda caught her breath. “I do see,” she said.

He drew back.

“That's it,” he said, almost indifferently. “So don't any of you try to thank me. You can see now that sort of thing would be superfluous.” He seemed quite his usual crusty self by now. And yet not quite. For before he went back into the cabin he said to Hilda abruptly:

“I told you a little while ago that you were the sort of woman that kills men. It's true. But also you're the sort that—makes us live.”

He left her with those words.

She sat a long time beside the fire. Bill Jordan brought her out some wraps, and gave her a cup of hot coffee. Later he announced that Philip was quieter, and that Ryerson had said she might come in now if she wanted sleep. She shook her head. Then he came out to say that Philip had finally fallen asleep. The tears rolled down her cheeks at that.

“Now, don't you worry,” he said earnestly. “That chap Ryerson likes to scare people, but your man's all right. You'll see in the morning. He got a bit shaken up by talking, but it ain't going to hurt him. Don't you worry!”

Hilda smiled and nodded. One homely phrase of Bill's had warmed her heart. “Your man”—she liked it! She said it over to herself as she sat by the fire; now looking into its wind-blown blaze, now into the black depths of the wood, now up at the sky—clear, deep, full of stars. Vaguely she felt the power of the night, the infinite suggestion of all the natural beauty about her. It tuned with the exaltation of her mood. She loved it all. And love burned in her like a fire—like the steady fire of the stars, and the red, flickering, wind-blown flame beside her!