Francisco. You can go to Cooper’s store if you like, and be fleeced, and catch a fever, and get drunk on poison at a dollar a glass! It’s no business of mine, but if you take my advice, you’ll stop where you are and go to bed early for once! There’s enough blackguardism going on down there, without your being mixed up in it.”
Mr. Hamilton turned his back on them with an oath, and disappeared. The Englishman and his partner scrambled up the opposite side of the gorge, to the platform where they had built their shanties about a hundred yards apart. Arrived at the top, Pete Morrison thoughtfully hitched up his trousers, and spitting out a tobacco plug, laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder.
“Mate!” he said deliberately. “I seed that stranger.”
The Englishman turned quickly round.
“Well, what if you did?
“Not much! It ain’t a female, is it?”
The Englishman was beginning to lose his temper. He answered testily, even angrily.
“What the devil does it matter to you or to any one else, who my visitor is! I suppose I may have whom I like in my own shanty.”
Pete was quite unmoved, although his face had grown a shade more serious. He took off his cap, and began flicking away a few stray mosquitoes.
“No offence, pard. But ain’t you heard what Dan Cooper and his lot have give out?”
“No.”
“Well, they allow they’re going to run these diggin’s on a new tack. Dan was at the Black Creek lot, and I guess you know what a hell that place was turned into. Well, they allow that the first woman who shows here, out she goes and him as brought her, claim or no claim. That’s what they say down yonder,” he added, jerking his thumb downwards in the direction of the camp. “That’s what Dan Cooper and his chaps do say, and I reckon they’re strong enough to run this section.”
“That’s so!” the Englishman answered, frowning. “Thanks, Pete! I’ll take care! Better be mum about my visitor, anyway.”
He walked away up the little green path, and pushed open the door of the hut. He scarcely knew the place. It had been cleaned and swept, and his evening meal was prepared. Myra was sitting in a corner, mending some old garment of his.
He greeted her kindly, but without going over to her side.
“Well, Myra! been lonesome, eh?” he asked.
She flashed a single look up at him from her brilliant eyes, and bent again over her task.
“Sorter lonesome,” she assented. “I’ve been busy fixing up things too!”
“Looks like it,” he answered, glancing around. “Let’s have supper! We’ve had a nailing hard day’s work!”
She got up without a word, and seating herself opposite to him, poured out the tea from a tin pot. He ate and drank with characteristic appetite, and she made a show of following his example. When he had finished, she cleared away, and then came and sat down by his side.
“Have you fixed up when I am to go?” she asked quietly.
She turned a pale, anxious face towards him, and sat patiently waiting for his answer. It was long in coming. He had begun dimly to see what the end of it must be; but even at that last moment he felt a curious reluctance to re-entering into the bondage of her love for him. He leaned back on the bench, and looked at her, wondering at the peculiar inappropriateness of her rude and ill-shaped clothes with that strange, delicate beauty which was so essentially dainty and feminine. His heart beat a little faster as he looked into her soft dark eyes with their silky eyelashes, and noted, with some return of his old admiration of her, the quivering sensitive mouth, the great coils of waving glossy hair, and the perfectly graceful curve of her throat and neck, gleaming as white as marble in contrast with the low black shirt she wore. The power of her beauty had always been great over him, and he was beginning to feel a sudden and altogether undesired revival of the curious fascination which once before she had possessed for him.
“I have been inquiring about the expressman,” he answered. “Seems I was out in my reckoning. They say he’s not due for three weeks or so.”
She lifted her eyes, and watched him covertly. He had not seemed in any way disappointed or disturbed at the prospect which was before them. Perhaps, after all, he was not so very sorry. He was only human, and the fierce solitude of the long nights, with their almost brutal relaxations of cards and raw spirits, had filled him with a great intolerable weariness. In the day-time when work was possible, the life was, at any rate, bearable. But the darkness came early, and the evenings were long. He had no books, nor any inclination to read them. The man’s nature was too large for him to keep himself aloof from those others, his fellow-workers, and besides, he had not the capacity for solitude. He was one with his fellows; a man with all the instincts of a common and gregarious humanity.
Through the long day and in the intervals of his toil, he had been thinking of these things. What had been gall and weariness in the city presented itself here, and under these conditions, in altogether a different aspect. He might truthfully say, if ever his conscience should reproach him in the years to come, that he had done his best to rid himself of this girl’s presence. He had failed! It was fate! She had drifted to him again, a flotsam on the broad river of humanity, herself controlling the current which bore her into his arms. After all, he was but passive in the matter. Even had he desired it, escape would not be easy, and in his heart he was not at all sure that he did desire it. In San Francisco he had found life with this girl in curious antipathy to all his crude notions of what was seemly and honest. A strong and never conquered dislike to their mode of living chafed him from the first. He had not a particle of religion, nor any conscious love of morality. He went into his bondage perfectly untrammelled by any scruples other than instinctive ones. But in a week he was conscious of but one desire: to free himself from a connection which was utterly distasteful to him as speedily as possible; and it was in a measure the reaction from the enervating period of his brief liaison which had led him to throw in his lot with a handful of men bound for the gold region. In the shadow of the great mountains, face to face with Nature in all her primitive grandeur, he had become himself again. The hard physical toil had been a luxury to him. He had already learned to think kindly, almost with regret, of the girl who had so suddenly returned into his life. What a difference her presence seemed to make in the miserable little shanty! He was forced to admit it. His day’s reflections had all been favourable to her. Even had he desired it, escape now would not be easy.
Perhaps she guessed by his face and his tone, that he was relenting in his demeanour towards her. Womanlike, she took advantage of the opportunity. She glided across the room, and fell upon her knees before him.
“Don’t send me away, Bryan!” she begged. “Don’t! Don’t!”
She was sobbing hysterically at his feet, crouching there, her hair and dress disordered, with all the sinuous grace and elegance of some beautiful wild animal. Then he took her hand, and hesitated for the last time. Slowly he stooped down, and wound his arms around her, raising her towards him. With a little soft cry she twined her fingers around his neck, and buried her face upon his shoulder. Then he drew her lips to his and kissed her.
They were silent for a few moments, gazing out into the rich, soft darkness, which spread itself like a mantle below them. Down in the camp they could hear the mingled sounds of revelry at Cooper’s store, and the steady hammering of some new arrivals marking out their claim and setting up tents. It was early for the
