CHAPTER XVI
BETSY’S GIFT
The Colonial Hotel that evening looked such a haven of rest to tired wanderers, that as soon as it was settled that they could get rooms Mrs. Nixon and Mrs. Bruce were able to smile on each other again.
The mountain lake lay calm in the waning light, and strings of fish being brought in caused excitement among the men.
“One thing you must do, Irving,” said Mrs. Bruce, looking graciously upon Helen, “is to take Miss Maynard to that place where you stand on shore and catch trout, and then whisk it right over into a boiling spring and cook it before you take it off the hook.”
“Miss Maynard has only to command me,” rejoined Irving.
“I am going fishing with Mr. Derwent,” said Helen. So subtle were the changes in the mental atmosphere of the last few days, so complete the step from subserviency to dominance, that any exhibition of coquetry with the two young men would have been considered legitimate by their natural guardians. It was the absence of all archness in the girl that concerned Mrs. Nixon, and the quiet declaration just made disturbed her.
She secured her son’s attention.
“You surely won’t oblige your uncle Henry to act as cavalier to a young girl,” she said.
“What?” asked Robert. “Oh, you mean the fishing.” He laughed with a mischievous flash of the eyes which brought color into his mother’s cheeks. “Afraid she’ll fish for him as well as with him, eh? Well, I think perhaps you have raison.”
“Robert, why are you such a tease? I wish you would choose a time when I am not so nervous and tired. I’ve never thought of such a thing, foolish boy!”
“I told you to count ten before you asked her to live with us.”
“Don’t you like her, dear?”
“Yes, I think she’s good stuff; but – you know what I told you. If she comes to live with us, she’ll run the ranch. You hear me. I don’t care to have anybody pull my wires. When I hop, I want it to be from my own pure lightness of heart.”
Mrs. Nixon looked thoughtful. “I intend to count ten, Robert. I told you that a month at the Fairport Inn would reveal a great deal.”
“I think it will,” agreed Robert dryly.
“Meanwhile,” continued Mrs. Nixon with some asperity, “you can either leave her entirely to Irving Bruce or you can do your part toward entertaining her.”
Robert threw an arm around his mother’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze which ruffled her dignity into a heap.
“You’re no wire-puller, honey,” he said. “Better leave it alone.”
Mrs. Nixon wriggled herself free.
“Mrs. Bruce is so conceited about her stepson,” she said warmly, “that I really have some feeling about it, Robert. I confess it frankly.”
“Well, mamma dear, they shouldn’t tease her! As I’ve spent the whole day with Miss Maynard, you should be satisfied with the proof of your son’s fascinations. She might have dived off the driver’s seat into Brute’s arms, and she didn’t do it. Be comforted.”
“I know Mrs. Bruce will make Irving take her to see the bears after supper. You watch! And you might just as well do it yourself.”
“Oh no,” Robert shook his head. “I’d rather be free to climb a tree. Speaking of supper, come; and talk loudly, please, while I take my first mouthful, so the guests won’t hear it fall.”
Mrs. Nixon sighed and went with him.
When the party rose from the table there was a general movement to the back of the hotel to view the bears.
Mrs. Bruce, quite restored by supper and the prospect of a night’s rest, held Betsy’s arm as a sign to Irving that he was at liberty.
He and Robert sauntered on together, talking of the morrow’s fishing, and the others followed.
Mr. Derwent was thoughtful. His sister leaned on his arm and Helen walked on his other side.
“So you were at school with Miss Vincent?” he said.
“Yes; a short time. It seems Mrs. Bruce gave her a short course.”
The girl’s tone was cool; but Mrs. Nixon noted, as she had done before, the cleverness with which she conveyed her distinct words, and the ease with which her brother understood.
“Didn’t you like her very much?”
“No, not especially. I had no occasion to know her well.”
“H’m! She seemed to me so appealing. Very modest and engaging.”
“I dare say she is,” returned Helen carelessly. “Oh, there! See? That black bear and her cubs!”
For the following fifteen minutes the party watched the bears. They heard the mother give the cubs warning under suspicion of a cinnamon bear’s approach, and saw the babies scamper fleetly up a tree, followed by mamma; then, presently reassured, the whole family came down and proceeded with their meal.
Wires were stretched to prevent the human guests from trespassing beyond certain limits, and soldiers were on duty, for it is difficult to believe that the animals are not tame, and the curious would approach them.
While the party watched, the cinnamon bear did appear, headed for the garbage-heap, and the house of black bear took to the woods in a body. Then came a grizzly, and the conquering cinnamon unostentatiously disappeared.
“It is very interesting,” wailed Mrs. Bruce, “but why don’t the management provide clothespins for the guests’ noses?”
Robert had gravitated to Helen’s side.
“When we get across the Styx,” he murmured, “I’m going to follow that woman up. I’m as sure as if I’d seen it, that her halo won’t fit.”
“And Mr. Bruce is so nice to her!” said Helen.
There was gayety that night in the hotel office. An orchestra played, and there was dancing. Both the young men danced with Helen, then Irving wandered off to see about fishing-tackle, and Robert floated on with the girl, whose cheeks glowed.
“How well they dance together!” said Mrs. Nixon to Mrs. Bruce complacently.
“Yes,” returned the latter. “Mr. Nixon being shorter is a better height for her than Irving.”
“Robert is quite tall enough,” said Mrs. Nixon.
“Yes, for Miss Maynard,” returned Mrs. Bruce.
Neither of them had slept as yet, and their sitting together at all had a savor of reckless daring.
Betsy was deeply engaged at the counter where pictures and postal-cards were sold.
“I don’t know,” she thought, “as it would be anything out of the way if I should get that whole set o’ postal cards and send ’em to Hiram. Poor soul, he can’t travel any, and they’d sort o’ illustrate my talk if I ever told him anything about the trip.”
As she meditated thus, Betsy’s slow color rose, for her New England conscience remarked rather tartly that this plan for giving pleasure to her patient admirer was not without ulterior motives, and pretense was useless.
“Don’t I know,” she mused defensively, “that it would just make Hiram’s life over to have the child in his house? Old Mrs. Bachelder would like nothin’ better than to move all her traps over instead of comin’ by the day.”
All of which goes to show that Clever Betsy’s wits were still busy with Rosalie’s problem, and that she desired to settle it without committing herself to a surrender to the able seaman.
“As for postal cards, I guess I wouldn’t have grudged Hiram that much pleasure if Rosalie Vincent had never come to the Yellowstone; and he and I – I mean he and Rosalie can enjoy lookin’ at ’em evenin’s.”
Upon which, with conscious innocence and a withering disregard of the presumptuous inner voice, Betsy put down her money and took the set of cards in its neat case.
As she did so, Mr. Derwent sauntered up to the stand; the smile which always rested more in his eyes than on his lips was evident as he noticed Betsy’s concentrated interest.
“Finding some pretty things?” he asked.
She nodded vigorously. Mr. Derwent would have been surprised to know how constantly his image had held possession of this woman’s thoughts since yesterday afternoon.
Hiram Salter was a bird in the bush, and no matter how wary, Betsy felt that she could lure him – yes, upstart conscience, even without the aid of postal cards! – to come to her and eat out of her hand; but Mr. Derwent was the bird already in that hand so far as physical neighborhood was concerned. She had wondered through many hours how she could compass a conversation with the deaf gentleman which others should not overhear.
Betsy looked wildly around for a likely spot for a vociferous tête-à-tête. There was a corridor which ran out of the large office in each direction, and from which opened the first-floor bedrooms.
Would the elegant Mr. Derwent think she was quite mad if she endeavored to lead him down one of these, and was there a chance of her accomplishing the move without the observation of the two tabby-cats? Yes, as a truthful biographer I must admit that this was the title bestowed by Rosalie’s champion upon two complacent ladies since the playing of the Riverside Geyser yesterday afternoon.
Mr. Derwent’s voice interrupted her swift thoughts.
“What have you been finding that is pretty? Is there anything here I ought to get?”
Betsy repeated her vigorous nodding and addressed the saleswoman.
“Let me see that water-color of the canyon again, please.”
“A water-color, eh?” said Mr. Derwent; then as Betsy looked at him in surprise, he smiled again.
“These capricious ears of mine like a racket,” he said. “The more the orchestra and the clatter of voices and feet deafen you, the more they make me hear. That’s pretty, that’s very pretty.”
The clerk had produced the picture, and Mr. Derwent gazed upon the waterfall, the spray dashing up its golden cliffs; and Betsy gazed eagerly at him. He could hear her. That was more exciting than the prospect of seeing on the morrow this climax of beauty in the great Park.
“We ought not to have looked at this until after we had visited the canyon,” suggested Mr. Derwent. “Paint is cheap, and disappointments are bitter.”
“The picture’s just beautiful, though,” said Betsy.
“And not a bit too bright,” declared the clerk. “There couldn’t any picture do justice to it.”
“You like it, do you, Miss Foster? Did you buy one?”
“No, sir. I’ve got a postal of it, though, in this set of cards.”
“I will take this,” said Mr. Derwent to the clerk, passing her the water-color.
While the picture was being put into its envelope, and the clerk was making the change, Betsy’s wits were working fast. How, how to make the most of this golden opportunity! She shrank from the appearance of begging even for the winning girl she had left behind her. It did not help matters nor lessen her embarrassment to have her companion hand her the envelope containing the water-color.
“With my compliments, Miss Foster,” he said with a bow.
“For me!” burst forth Betsy, flushing under her mingled emotions.
“A souvenir,” he returned. “It is really pretty.”
“Oh, it’s a gem, and I do thank you!” exclaimed Betsy. “Oh dear, how can I now!” was her mental moan. “It’s exactly like sayin’ one good turn deserves another. I hate to be those kind o’ folks that give ’em an inch and they’ll take an ell.”
While she hesitated, fearing every moment that the prize would turn and saunter back to his people, Mr. Derwent lingered.
“I have been very glad,” he said, regarding Betsy’s narrow, excited face, “of your kindness to the little Miss Vincent.”
Now Rosalie was not little. She was an upstanding daughter of the gods, meriting their trite description; and the adjective warmed Betsy’s heart and filled her with courage. That, and the tone of the words, gave her a welcome cue. She looked wistfully into the kind eyes.
“It’s one o’ the hardest things I’ve ever done to leave Rosalie at that inn,” she said.
“I didn’t like it either,” responded her companion quietly. “Let us come over in this corner and talk a bit.”
Betsy followed, an inward pæan of thanksgiving going up from her good heart.
Irving was still talking fishing-tackle at a desk at the opposite end of the office. Miss Maynard was frisking in a two-step with Robert, and the two mothers chaperoned her gravely and with increasing sleepiness, while the orchestra rang its rhythmic changes. Betsy, standing a little at one side of the crowd, told again the story of Rosalie’s life to an attentive listener, who in his turn recounted to her certain circumstances of the Vincent losses.
“And it has come to this, has it,” said Mr. Derwent, “that this young girl hasn’t a friend in the world except you and me?”
“That’s it,” responded Betsy promptly. “That is – ” she added hurriedly – “we’re the only safe ones she’s got.”
“How is that?” Mr. Derwent smiled leniently. “A lover? I shouldn’t wonder at that.”
“Oh, no, not a lover. I should hope not! Good gracious!”
Betsy’s manner and precipitate speech made Mr. Derwent smile again.
“You don’t mean that big boy in our stage with two mothers, neither of whom owns him?”
Betsy’s wandering eyes looked so desperately embarrassed that the speaker could not forbear pressing her a little.
“Two mothers; one of whom he loves and one who loves him.”
Miss Foster started. “Oh, Mr. Derwent,” she gasped, and now her eyes met his in fright.
“Very well,” he said, “whoever it is, I think we shall be equal to the case without his help. They tell me you’re called Clever Betsy. Now let’s see whether you’re well-named. Let’s talk ways and means a little.”
And Betsy did talk: talk as she had seldom done since Irving’s mother went to sleep one night in her arms.
She told Mr. Derwent of a friend of her childhood, one Hiram Salter, and laid bare her designs on that mariner’s hearth and home.
Mr. Derwent listened, nodding sometimes, and when she had finished, he spoke.
“And this talent of Rosalie’s, – this elocutionary business? Would there be any field for her perhaps in Fairport, as a teacher?”
Betsy looked dubious. “Maybe. It’s a pretty well-to-do village all times o’ year; but that could come afterward. If I just once knew she was safe in a home! She could likely get into a school somewhere later.”
“Well-to-do, you say,” repeated Mr. Derwent thoughtfully. “Do the people there entertain? Parlor entertainments pay pretty well.”
“No,” replied Betsy slowly, fixing her interlocutor with a gaze which little by little seemed to see beyond him. “Folks there wouldn’t think they could – spend money – that way – ”
Her voice trailed off and there was a silent space, while Mr. Derwent wondered at her altered expression. Suddenly her gaze focused on him again and her hard hands clasped the water-color against her breast. “Mr. Derwent, I’ve got an idea!” she said in a changed tone.
“Of course you have,” he replied encouragingly. “It’s a peculiarity of clever people.”
“Let me tell you what I’ve thought;” and Betsy proceeded to do so with eagerness.
“I believe it would work,” returned Mr. Derwent thoughtfully, when she had finished. “Follow that up, Betsy. May I call you Betsy?”
“Of course, Mr. Derwent. I ain’t anything else; and if you knew how I felt towards you for befriendin’ Rosalie, you’d know that you might call me anything.” Bright tears glistened in the good gray eyes.
“The first thing to do, then, is to write Rosalie a letter. Come, we’ll do it now,” he answered. “I must talk with her. We will have her come to the canyon.”
CHAPTER XVII
SUNRISE
On the following morning there was a reaction of good spirits in all the party.
The men went out early on the lake, and the ladies were enthusiastic over the trout they ate for breakfast in consequence. Harmless jests passed between the mothers; Helen Maynard lost somewhat of her reserve, and as for Betsy, her narrow face beamed upon everything and everybody indiscriminately as the party journeyed onward to the Canyon Hotel.
After luncheon they all drove to Inspiration Point, and looked upon the Grand Canyon, the sight of whose beauty is an epoch-making experience in the life of the most blasé.
The Grand Canyon in Arizona is larger, grander than perhaps any of the world’s physical wonders; but it is too colossal to be grasped. Its very distances are so vast that a bluish veil seems hung before its battlements and minarets, while its river, a mile below, might as well be cotton wool lying stationary in the depths. One sees without believing, and gasps without grasping. There is as much of awe as of joy in beholding the Arizona wonder.
But in the Yellowstone lies a revelation of beauty which bathes the soul in a dream of loveliness, so surpassing, so overwhelming, that it is inconceivable that one could receive more into the ecstatic consciousness. Majesty it has and impressive vastness; but not more than can rejoice the eye and thrill the heart.
When finally the party were returning to the hotel for dinner, Irving turned a grave face upon Betsy’s glowing countenance.
“You don’t seem to have anything on your mind,” he said.
“Not a thing,” she rejoined promptly.
“I wish I could wash my hands of the affair as easily,” he said crushingly.
“Mr. Irving,” a smile rippled over Betsy’s thin lips, “I haven’t had a chance to tell you that I talked with Mr. Derwent last night.”
“You did, eh?” The young man’s face changed to alert attention.
“He feels just the way we do. It’s goin’ to be all right.”
“Jubilate!” ejaculated Irving. “How?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you now. You go right on trustin’ me – or rather you’d better begin!”
“You’re a good soul, Clever Betsy! When does she stop?”
“As soon as it’s right.”
Irving uttered an exclamation of impatience.
“Don’t show your ignorance o’ business methods,” said Betsy smiling. “You go on with your fishin’. Everything’s goin’ to be all right, and I’ll tell you about it later.”
Thus reassured, Irving obeyed. He went on fishing; he tramped to Artist’s Point with Miss Maynard, Nixie, and Mr. Derwent, and at night went to his rest without having cross-examined Betsy further.
He knew every shade of expression in her good, immobile face, and satisfaction was too clearly writ upon it for him to doubt that all was well. Let her have her little mystery, if she derived enjoyment from it. Of course all Irving cared for was to know that Rosalie was properly looked after, – the details were really immaterial.
Toward the following morning he found himself on the shore of the Firehole River, again waiting for the Riverside Geyser to play. As the water began to spout, he suddenly noticed that Rosalie Vincent was in a canoe in the middle of the river, just in the path of the irresistible liquid catapult. He flung off his coat preparatory to jumping into the water, and at the same time shouted her name repeatedly.
A mixture of sheepishness and relief greeted his sudden view of the ceiling of his bedroom. His own voice rang in his ears. He glanced at the window. Streaks of light were showing in the sky. An idea occurred to him.
“I shall never have such another chance,” he thought. In fifteen minutes more he was dressed and stealing like a burglar down the corridor and out the door of the hotel.
The sky was brightening fast, and he started on a jog-trot in the direction of the canyon.
The stillness, the loveliness of that morning, – the only sounds those of Nature undisturbed and uninterrupted! What fine exhilaration was in the air! Had no reward followed that run over the mountain road, Irving Bruce would have remembered it all his days as unique in rare enjoyment; but when at last he passed out from the shadows and stood upon a vantage-point commanding the superb gorge, what words can describe the grandeur of the pageant, as the rising sun brightened the flaming walls of the canyon, and whitened the tempestuous water which paused on an awful brink before thundering into the deeps below, – a compact mass of shimmering silver foam!
A strange ecstasy forced moisture into the watcher’s eyes; but suddenly as his glance swept down the cliff his heart seemed to stop beating. On a jutting rock below him a woman was standing. She wore a white gown and was bareheaded. While he looked she seemed to become terror-stricken, and retreating, her back to the falls, clung to the hoary rock like a frightened dove.
As in his dream Irving shouted, “Rosalie! Rosalie!” but the mad roar of water fortunately drowned his voice as he plunged down the path that led to the jutting rock.
If the girl should faint or fall, there was nothing to prevent her slipping over the edge and rolling into the awful chasm, and it seemed to the man an eternity before he scrambled to a foothold beside her and seized the white gown. She lifted dilated eyes to his face, then gave a smile of heavenly relief and sank into the arms that clasped her.
He scowled down while he held her close.
“Are you crazy?” he demanded.
“Oh!” was all she could breathe.
“Don’t you faint!” he exclaimed again, as ferociously as before.
“No – I won’t,” she murmured. She was very white as she pushed herself from him.
He clasped her hand tightly.
“Don’t look down. Put your foot there.” He indicated a spot with his own foot and stepped ahead of her.
Thus, little by little, he led her upon the steep trail, and they climbed to the upper ground.
“That was a crazy thing to do!” repeated the man when they stood in safety.
“The water – drew me,” she answered faintly.
She was more than ever like a nymph, her eyes appealing in her white face under the gold of her hair.
“Aren’t you cold? Where are your wraps?” viewing her white dress.
She looked about helplessly. “I had a sweater. I must have dropped it somewhere. No, oh no, Mr. Bruce;” for Irving was taking off his coat.
“Nonsense! Of course I shall. How many layers do you suppose I need? See my sweater-vest?” He put her arms in his coat-sleeves and buttoned it close to her throat. “I’m glowing. I ran all the way.”
“How wonderful that you came!” She said it very quietly, apparently still under the spell of her moment of panic.
He kept his eyes upon her. “I dreamed about you. I dreamed that you were in danger.”
She looked at him curiously. “Is that why you came?”
“Perhaps. Who can tell?” His face had cleared, and he looked into hers, so still and lovely above the rough coat. “I am very angry with you, Rosalie.”
“Oh no, you can’t be. It looked very easy. See.”
From where they stood, the jutting rock below did look ample and tempting.
“But I’m sorry I frightened you,” she added, and looked up at him with an enchanting smile.
The new day had begun. The solemn pines towered above them. On a crag below clung an eagle’s nest, and the parent birds circled and soared above the emerald-green river, returning to the young with food.
“It seems,” said the man slowly, “as if we were alone in this stupendously beautiful world.”
“My head went round and round,” she returned dreamily. “I wonder how long I could have held there.”
He shuddered. “Did life suddenly seem well worth living?” he asked.
“Yes indeed,” she returned. “It seemed that, yesterday. A wonderful thing has happened to me. I’m not a heaver any more.”
“Tell me all about it. When did you come? What does it mean to find you here at dawn as if you had rained from the skies?”
“Mr. Derwent doesn’t want me to stay in the Park. He thinks there is other work I can do. He cared a great deal for my father, and for his sake he will take care of me and guide me, he says, if I will be obedient.” The speaker lifted her eyes again to those which studied her. “It’s easy to be obedient to pleasant orders, isn’t it? He wants to send me right back to Boston.”
She paused, and Irving nodded with satisfaction.
“I quite understand,” she went on quietly, “why he wishes me to go a little ahead of your party.” Irving frowned.
“It’s all right. I have felt very much humiliated – ” she went on.
“Absurd, ridiculous,” interjected Irving hotly; but she finished her sentence as if he had not spoken.
“Betsy says I am a vine, and wish too much to cling, and haven’t backbone enough; but Mr. Derwent’s interest puts backbone into me. I feel that surely there is a place for me somewhere – ”
“Where,” interrupted her companion, “where in Boston are you going?”
“He will take care of it all, he says. Isn’t it wonderful? I don’t wonder that he loved my father.” The girl’s eyes shone. “He says that they were very close at one time, and that old friends can never be replaced. It makes me think of what Holmes said: —
“‘There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days,
No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise:
Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold;
But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold!’”
The girlish voice was like music above the smothered roar of many waters. As Irving listened and looked, he understood the warmth of Mrs. Bruce’s brief enthusiasm.
There was a pause, and the two feasted their eyes upon the glories before them.
“It is absurd that you shouldn’t go back to Boston with us,” said Irving at last.
“I’d much rather not, Mr. Bruce. I fear if Mr. Derwent had insisted on that, I should have rebelled. You are kind to take an interest – ”
“An interest!” burst forth Irving, and arrested himself. He smiled. “Didn’t I pick you off that cliff a few minutes ago?”
She looked at him with an expression which nearly banished his self-control.
“We don’t hear much about man-angels,” she said, “but you looked like one to me at that moment – one of Botticelli’s – you know how ready they always look to scowl?”
She laughed softly.
“I was furious with you,” said Irving. “So remember I have part interest in you after this. Mr. Derwent is all very well, but —
“‘There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days.’
These are our morning days, Rosalie.”
“Yes, and the morning hours of them,” she agreed. “Since I knew I was to leave to-day I felt I could not waste the time in sleeping. I wanted – oh! how I wanted – how I have dreamed of seeing the sun rise in this canyon! Perhaps,” she looked at him wistfully, “perhaps it would have been my last sunrise but for you.”
Irving’s heart beat faster, and his jaw set. He could feel again the yielding form that had clung to him.
“No one would have known,” she went on in a dreamy tone. “Even Mr. Derwent would have thought I had disappeared purposely and would have marveled at my ingratitude; but – ” her voice changed and she looked up into Irving’s eyes, smiling, – “they might all have talked about me and said critical things, yet Betsy would have believed in me, – believed and suffered. Dear Betsy!”
“How about me? How about the friend of your morning days?” asked Irving.
“Oh, you only began to be that this morning. You would never have given the matter a thought; and even Helen Maynard knows me too slightly to have defended me.”
“Miss Maynard has found a gold-mine in the Yellowstone. Did Mr. Derwent tell you?”
“No, indeed. What do you mean?”
“She turns out to be an heiress, and only discovered it here.”
“How beautiful!” Rosalie’s eyes looked away pensively. “Any fortunate discovery becomes glorified by being made here. How happy she must be! It is so fine to have time to work at what you love to do!”
“Yes,” answered Irving. “That is the Eldorado for each of us.
“‘And only the Master shall praise us,
And only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money,
And no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working;
And each in his separate star
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It
For the God of Things as They Are!’”
Rosalie’s eyes were bright as she met his.
“And I think Mr. Derwent means to let me work in my star. It’s such a little star, but I feel it in me to succeed, and if the day should come when I vindicate myself to – to people that are disappointed in me now and don’t understand, I shall be happy, happy.”
“Happiness is largely a matter of – of friendship, as you said a few minutes ago,” said Irving. “I want you to remember that you may always call upon me; that I am at your service. I swear you shall never be disappointed.”
Rosalie returned his earnest regard with serious eyes.
“You saved my life,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” he returned. “You would have stooped in a minute and crept to a place of safety on the trail.”
“Then why were you so savage with me?” she asked. “It would have been necessary for me to stand up on that rock, and to take a short step across to terra firma. It seems as if I never could have done it.”
“Oh, yes. The giddiness would have passed in a minute, and you would have done it. Self-preservation is the first law of life.”
Rosalie shook her head slowly. “Then you have a bad temper. You were frightfully cross.”
“That was merely discipline. You should never go to a place like that unless I am with you.”
“You!”
The girl’s tone of extreme wonder brought the color to her companion’s face. He replied, however, with sang-froid. “Yes. I’ll take you down there now if you’d like to try it again.”
She shook her head slowly.
“No.”
He laughed. “Discreet second thought, eh?”
“No, I’m not afraid, with you,” she replied quietly. “But I don’t care to go again.” A pause, then she continued: “I must go back to the hotel. I leave to-day.”
“And we to-morrow. It is a shame. I wish you’d let me – ”
“No, Mr. Bruce, not for anything,” she returned earnestly. “Let Mr. Derwent take care of it, and – if we meet again here, will you kindly not talk to me?”
“Just as you say. I will go back to the hotel with you now; but this is our good-by. Give me both your hands, Rosalie.”
She obeyed. Their eyes met. She colored richly, looking like an embodiment of the morning as she stood against the sombre green of the stately pines. Freedom was before her: freedom to live, and to work, with the knowledge that she was no longer alone in the world. That was cause enough for the happiness that shone in her eyes; but that was not filling her thoughts to overflowing while Irving clasped her rough little hands close. It was the remembrance of the pounding terror of his heart in the moment when they had clung together on the dizzy rock.
“Don’t forget, Rosalie. I am your ally.”
She stood silent, her starry gaze not dropping before his.
“Friendship is going to mean a great deal to us,” he went on. “I feel it. Remember; for —
“‘Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.’”