CHAPTER XVI

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

Hillyer was waiting for her at the barn when she came at last, with a smile that eased his anxiety, if only in an inconsiderable degree. But he saw, as he took her handbag and bundle, and placed them in the automobile, that she had been crying. This gladdened while it angered him, and he was lost among the many interpretations that might be put upon those signs of distress. Had she come to the end of her infatuation? Had she been subjected to insults as the reward of her service? He dared not ask her such questions--not yet; but he was resolved (and there were material reasons, too, for that decision) to have his own case settled, one way or another, at once.

Neither of them spoke more than a conventional word or two until Hillyer, after full speed down Haig's road to the junction, slowed up on the main highway along the Bright.w.a.ter. It was the serenest of summer evenings, very still and fragrant, with a touch of autumn in the air. The eastern sky was filled with pale golds and pinks, and the foothills were warm with purples. Marion's face was averted from Hillyer, and her eyes were fixed, not on the soft alternations of color in the sky, but on Thunder Mountain, where the only clouds to be seen in all the expanse of blue lay low upon its uncompromising head.

"Marion!" said Hillyer, at length.

She did not miss the note in his voice that exposed his intention, but long preparation for this moment enabled her to face him calmly.

"Yes, I know, Robert," she said. "You have much to say to me."

"I'm going to-morrow," he began abruptly. "Will you go with me?"

"To-morrow? Go with you?" she repeated, with a little start of surprise.

"Yes. Will you go with me?"

"But I don't understand, Robert."

"I must be in Denver the day after to-morrow."

"I--I didn't know your time was so short. I'm afraid--I've spoiled your visit."

"That doesn't matter, Marion, if you'll go back with me."

"But I can't--just yet."

"Why not?"

"I'm not ready. I haven't half finished my visit with Claire."

She was, after all, somewhat confused, for she had not expected him to approach the subject in just this way.

"But the summer is almost gone. It's near the end of August,"

persisted Hillyer.

"There's another month of good weather. And September, Claire says, is the most beautiful of all."

"That may be, unless Huntington's right. He told me only yesterday that it's going to be an early winter. There's come a chill in the air even since I've been here."

"Nonsense!" she replied, recovering her composure. "I'll go out with the last stage."

"And get caught in an avalanche or something!"

"I suppose Seth does want to get rid of me!" she said, with a faint laugh.

"That's not it at all."

"Well, I'm not afraid."

"But suppose you stay too late, and get caught. You'd have to remain here all winter. The Park, Huntington says, is as tight as a jail after the snows come."

"Claire stays here through the winter sometimes."

He felt a fresh alarm, and showed it. It would be just like her! he thought.

"See here, Marion!" he said, plunging at last. "I've obeyed your order not to say anything about--the future. I meant not to say anything until the time was up. But you must see I can't keep silent now, after--what's happened. You must know I can't go away and leave you without knowing what--it all means. You said you'd tell me as soon as you'd finished nursing--him. No, wait, please! Let me say it at once.

You know I love you. I want you to marry me. I need you, Marion.

There's never been an hour, a minute that I haven't thought of you. I can't work--I can't do anything without you. I love you more than--"

"Stop, Robert!" she cried. "You're making it harder for both of us."

"Harder--for--both of us?" he repeated slowly.

"Yes."

There was a moment's silence. Hillyer, while he spoke, had half-consciously stopped the automobile, which stood now, humming softly, in the middle of the road that stretched white and empty ahead of them and behind them. The night breeze had risen, blowing cold from the snows, and the shadows were creeping down into the valley, as if they came from dark caverns in the hills.

"Robert," she said sadly. "It's no use. I must tell you. I--I can't marry you."

"Why?"

"You make me say it!" she cried. "Well, Robert, I--I don't love you."

"I'm not asking you to love me!" he rejoined, almost savagely. "I only ask you--"

"Listen!" she interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. "That's not all."

"You mean--"

She stopped him with a pressure on his arm.

"Once, not knowing, I almost consented," she went on. "But something checked me--held me back. You remember how restless I was--how troubled. You would have laughed at me if I had told you. But something seemed to be calling me--a voice from a long distance. I laughed at myself for a foolish girl--at first. I said it was nerves, and I fought against it. And it was then that I came nearest to saying yes to you, thinking that I was indeed foolish in holding back. I liked you. I've always liked you, Robert. You'd been such a splendid friend, and I was grateful. I wanted to repay you--"

She stopped suddenly, and a flush mounted swiftly into her pale cheeks. Repay! The word recalled sharply to her, acutely and painfully, all that Haig had said about paying her. Were they, then, in the same dreadful situation, she and Haig, with debts they could never pay? For the first time some sense of the terrible finality of his decision struck in upon her secret hopes.

"Don't talk of that!" Robert was saying, seizing the moment of silence. "I never--"

"But always, when I was about to yield--I couldn't. I didn't know why then. But now I do."

"You mean--Haig?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yes."