Ewing's Lady Part 36

She sickened as they walked on in silence, fearing to question him, and when they reached the camp she ran to throw herself on the bed in her tent, covering her eyes with her hands, pressing the lids down, but making no sound.

As they sat about their camp fire that evening Ewing was struck by a certain view he caught of her. She sat in shadow on a stool at the foot of a towering hemlock, and once when he rose to stir the waning fire a flame shot up from a half-burned log, with a volley of sparks that fell back in a golden rain. He glanced over to be sure that she escaped these, and saw her sharply revealed in the sudden light, unconscious of it, unaroused by the crackling explosion. She was staring fixedly into the darkness, her body relaxed, her hands half clasped, her head, the profile toward him, leaning wearily against the tree. Before this background she seemed frail again, her face pallid under the dark of her hair and against the rough, ruddy brown of the tree bole, her whole body contrasting in its fragile lines with the tree's strength--human weakness showing starkly against the vigor of the woods.

To dull the sudden wanting of his heart for her he walked off alone over the path that bordered the lake, to reduce the amazing actuality of things, if he could, to proportions seemly with normal life. But the lake was a mirror of enchantment, the booming of an owl was a magic portent, the shadowed wall of granite was a turreted castle of mysteries, vague in the starlight, and the very stars themselves huddled down on him excitingly. He was in a world of the unreal, and must do an unreal thing. He stumbled blindly back to camp. He was surprised to find Mrs. Laithe as he had left her, still drooping against the rough-barked tree, weak, submissive, overborne. He touched her arm gently to recall her from some troubled distance. She looked at him with eyes unseeing at first.

"Isn't it bedtime?" he suggested.

She smiled and stood up to shrug away the spell of her dreaming. She spoke with such clear strength of tone that he was at once rea.s.sured of her vigor.

"Yes, it's sleeping time--in a moment. I haven't said much to you, but there's really little to say. You feel that you must go?"

"How could I stay here--after that?"

She repressed a sudden spasm of wild, weeping laughter that threatened to overcome her.

"And you'll not come back?" She waited breathless.

"There isn't much chance of it."

"You dear, dear fool!" was on her lips, but she held back the words and said very quietly:

"Go out, then, and live as you must. Only don't let life cow you. Don't ever fear that living is intricate or hard or tragic--a thing to be gone about warily. The wary people make the same mistakes as the careless ones, and feel them ten times more. Don't be afraid to dream--afraid to believe. I'm glad I've dreamed every dream of mine--false or true. Never be afraid to want." She turned half away as if to go, but halted, and he thought she had grown suddenly weak.

"You're going----"

"To-morrow, I'd thought--the sooner the better."

"Ah, but that's so soon. Can't we have one more day here? One more day to think of it?"

"I've thought of it all winter, days and nights as well; but I'd like another day--" He watched her longingly as she went beyond the firelight.

"Not a day to think about it," he called softly--"a day to forget."

They made it a day of forgetting, as he had said. In the morning they planned to ride, and their spirits were such as they rode off that Ben was moved to regard them knowingly, as one who had taken a fling at life in his time.

The day long they rode or rambled, talking of all but obvious things--making it, indeed, a day of forgetting and a day to remember.

Deep in the woman's heart stirred an instinct of primal coquetry, an impulse to wield her charm upon him, to make the woman prevail over the man, beating all reason down, blindly, madly. And she yielded to this, watching its effect on him, divining the power of her freshened beauty each time she compelled his eyes. Instinctively she would have had him say, "I give up. I can't go. Let me stay--stay by you!" The natural woman in her fought for that. But reason reigned above the conflict. She knew he would not surrender and knew she would not have him surrender.

Still she could not resist that impulse to enchain him, and exulted each time she made him tremble at their nearness.

Not until night had come did the imminence of his going seem to lie upon them. But then it lay with a weight. Together they left the camp and felt a way over the darkened trail to the cabin. Ewing had spoken of packing he must do, of matters in which she might help him.

But when they were in the studio, and he had started a great blaze in the fireplace he sat before it with her, silent. She spoke at length of the packing.

"There's none to do," he answered. "I'm taking scarcely anything--only what I can carry back of the saddle."

Her blood leaped with a quick hope.

"Then you're not going for long--you _will_ come back--" But he only shook his head.

"I can't expect to come back." He looked at her with a sudden lighting of his eyes. "Come near to me this once." He moved a stool in front of him. "Sit here, this once."

She sat on the low stool at his feet and felt herself drawn slowly forward until her arms rested on his knees. She laid her head on them, shaken to the heart. Then she felt him bending over her, hovering, sheltering her, and at last, with a long sigh, come to rest, his face buried in her hair. They remained so, immovable, without further speech.

The absurdity of the thing between them had never seemed so egregious to her. The words rang in her mind, burning behind her closed eyes--"It's all a mistake, that. How could you believe it, even you, unused to the world though you are?" But she knew the questions this would bring from him, the doubt that would stay with him; knew she could never satisfy him with less than the truth. For a moment she heard herself telling him this truth, gently, delicately, tenderly. But he spoke, even while she was thinking this.

"I wanted to be here to-night with you, and with her." He raised his head at last, to look at the portrait of his mother. "She understands, I'm sure. And she would have me go--she would have me do as I am doing."

She knew finally, then, that she could never tell him. She ceased all vain considering of that. He was going away from her because of the lie he believed. The truth might come to him some day, but it must never come from her. The certainty brought her a kind of rest. She could fall back on laughter and tears for the thing.

A long time they sat there, speaking little, her head still cradled on his knees. But when the fire died they knew it must be late and rose to go. Ewing looked long at the portrait, then turned to her.

"I'm doing what I would do for her," he said, "and I'm glad I had you both with me this last time. You'll always keep that for me, won't you?"

He raised a hand toward the portrait.

"If you wish it," she said.

When they came in sight of the camp fire they stopped and turned to each other. He caught her by the shoulders.

"Good night and good-by!" he whispered.

She tried to speak, but could not for the trembling of her lips. She turned to go, and took a few faltering steps, then flew back, and with a wild gesture, drew him down and pressed his head against her heart.

Ben came sleepily from the cabin next morning as Ewing was about to mount his horse. He had felt at ease about this journey, because of the slender equipment with which Ewing was setting out. An early return was to be inferred.

Ewing held out his hand, and Ben, observing that it was scarce daylight, and that the act could in no way be considered a public scandal, grasped it cordially.

"So long, Kid--and good luck, whatever you're goin' to do!"

"There's a man down in New York needs killing, Ben."

"Now, look a here, Kid, you better look out"--but the practical aspects of the affair at once seized his mind, and he broke off with, "Got your gun?"

"No--a gun's too good for him."

Ben considered this, and became again solicitous.

"Well, look a here, now, you be darned careful. If it's needed, why, do it. But you jest want to remember that New York ain't Hinsdale County.

You want to be mighty careful you don't git into some trouble over it."

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE HARDEST THING

The zest had gone from camp life with Ewing's departure, and the cabin was again occupied. Mrs. Laithe filled the days with a sort of blind waiting. It could not end so, she felt, despite the eyes of Kitty Teevan, so watchful of her, and so certain that it had ended. Something must happen. That was the burden of her hope--as vague as a child's hope. She would set no time, nor would she name the thing. But come it must, and she could wait.