not a woman amongst them? How could I keep you here?
“No one would know that I was a woman,” she pleaded piteously. “I would never go outside the door, if you like.”
“They’d soon find out. They’d want to know why you didn’t work, and what was the meaning of those pretty hands and feet,” he said indulgently. “No, we couldn’t keep the secret if you stayed, Myra. They’re a rough lot down there, too, I can tell you. Besides, what on earth would you wear?” he added, with masculine irrelevance.
She glanced down at the rents in her rough attire, and blushed.
“You have a needle and thread here,” she said. “I could patch these things up somehow. I—I brought a gown with me in my bundle there, but I suppose I mustn’t wear that?”
He shook his head and glanced towards the bundle, which was lying upon the floor half-open. Something he saw seemed to him familiar. He touched it with his foot and leaned forward.
“What dress did you bring?” he asked.
Her eyes sought his appealingly, and the deep colour stained her cheeks. A little tremulous smile parted the corners of her lips.
“It is—the blue serge one, the one you liked. I had put it away until you came back. Kind of silly to bring it, wasn’t it?”
He looked at her for a moment, and his own eyes grew misty. The pathos of the whole thing, as he alone could understand it, was irresistibly borne in upon him. Like a swift vision he seemed to see her struggling across that great rocky plain, day after day, night after night, fighting against the horrible loneliness, braving dangers and enduring privations which might have daunted many a man, and all the while clinging to her poor little bundle, never parting with it even in those last dreadful hours of exhaustion and despair. Poor child! He remembered the gown well. It was one which he had bought for her himself, the straight tailor-made folds pleasing his English eye. He remembered, too, how proud she had been when he had admired it, and how she had worn it on every possible occasion. There it lay before him, carefully folded and rolled up, and carried for more than five hundred miles in the hope that to see her in it might awaken some of that old tenderness which with him, alas! was almost a thing of the past. He looked into her strained, plaintive face, and did what, as yet, of his own accord he had not done or desired to do. He kissed her.
* * * * *
She laughed softly, and glanced up at him from his shoulder, pointing to her clothes.
“Do these things look very awful?”
He affected not to notice the look which pleaded for some consoling speech, and gently detaching himself from her embrace, he stooped down and drew from underneath the plank bed a long white linen coat which he had bought in San Francisco, but had found far too small for him. He shook it, and held it out to her.
“They want stitching, then they’d be all right,” he declared. “You’d better put this on for a bit, and try to go to sleep. You’ve talked more than enough now, and you look deadly tired. Good night.”
She sat up and looked at him for a moment, but he kept his head turned resolutely away.
“Where are you—going to sleep?” she asked quietly.
“Outside. I generally do. We are too high up here for the dews to hurt, you know. Call out if you are frightened, or if you want anything. I shall hear you.”
“Thank you. Good night, Bryan.”
A little break in her voice smote his heart. He thought of the long lonely nights of terror through which she had passed, and he was troubled. He felt a brute. For a moment he hesitated. Then he took one swift step across to her side, and kissed her tenderly.
“Good night, Myra,” he said. “God bless you!”
She laughed a little. Blessings sounded oddly in her ears, but the kiss was more like old times. So she did her best to console herself with it, slipping off her soiled clothes and curling herself up on the bed. In a few moments she was asleep.
It was the end of her pilgrimage. She had risked her life, had faced a loneliness as awful as the loneliness of death, and had cheerfully borne the most terrible hardships to bring him the letter—and herself; and now that her task was at an end she lay stretched upon his hard plank bed, dreaming as peacefully of the happiness of being once more with the man she loved, as though the bed were of down, and the hut a palace. And outside, within a few yards of her, the Englishman lay face downwards upon the short dry turf, cursing alike his past folly and his present weakness. His letter lay unopened by his side; for the moment he had even forgotten it. Whilst he had been with her he had striven hard to hide his feelings; but now that he was alone in the darkness he looked this thing in the face, and the longer he looked the less he liked it. It seemed only the other day that he had made his escape; that he had willingly, nay, eagerly, turned over that short chapter of his life, and with intense relief had told himself that it was a past dream of folly, over and done with for ever. It was one of fate’s grim jests, an everyday affair. But it seemed a little hard upon her.
* * * * *
After a while he sat up, lit a pipe, and tore open the envelope of his letter. The moonlight was just strong enough to enable him to decipher it slowly.
“18, MARLOWE COURT, STRAND, LONDON, W. C.
“August 17th.
“DEAR SIR,
“After considerable trouble and some expense, we have become acquainted with some further details concerning the man, Maurice Huntly, who visited you at Denton on the first of last month. We find that his real name is Marriot, and that seven years ago a warrant was issued for his arrest on a charge of forgery. The warrant was never executed, as he fled the country, but, on his recent visit to England, the police obtained some clue as to his identity, and were on his track. It was to escape from them, and not to avoid completing his disclosures to you, that he quitted England so abruptly. We trust that this will enable you to come across him in the States, as he certainly has no object in keeping out of your way. We believe that he took another name in New York, but that you will doubtless have ascertained for yourself. Our information further goes to show that he was the son of a clergyman, and started life with every advantage. Should anything further transpire we will let you know. In the meantime we remain,
“Your obedient Servants,
“MASON AND WILLIAMS.
“P.S.—It is never our desire to extract from our clients an unwilling confidence, but at the same time, we cannot refrain from submitting to you that we should be in a far better position to work on your behalf, if we possessed sonic information as to the nature of the disclosures so important to yourself, referred to by the man Marriot during his brief visit to you at Denton.”
He read it through twice, and remained for some time afterwards deep in thought. Then, with an effort to conquer his restlessness, he lay down, pulled a rug over him, and tried to sleep. Through half-closed eyes he watched the fireflies gleaming in the valley below, and listened to the faint, lulling music from the pine forest away overhead. Gradually he grew drowsy. He was almost dozing, when a sound close at hand disturbed him. The door of the shanty was softly opened, and Myra came out.
She walked noiselessly towards him, with bare feet, and wrapped in the long white garment which he had given her, and which certainly
