They stood together in the dawn, the blue dawn of Montana. Silver stars
were winking dimly in the silver sky, clear save above the glittering
peaks of the distant range, which reflected the blue of a bank of
clouds above. And all the vast and snowy expanse was blue; and the snow
on the pine trees of the forest.
No one stirred in the two camps, not abroad at least; and even the
shacks and larger buildings built with as little regard for beauty were
transformed and glorified by the white splendour of winter. On the
crest of Perch of the Devil was a long gracefully built bungalow, also
heavily laden with snow, and between the posts of its verandah hung
icicles, iridescent blue in the dawn.
A small lawn had been cultivated, and they leaned over the gate of the
fence that surrounded it, not wrapped in one buffalo robe, but in heavy
automobile coats, their heads protected from the intense cold by fur
caps. But they stood close together, and even a passing stranger would
have known that there was harmony between them. Both were looking at
the cold loveliness of the dawn and admiring it subconsciously, and
both were thinking of other things. Gregory was visualising a ranch he
had bought not long since near those mountains, and the wire gold but
a few feet below the surface, found a fortnight ago while ditching. He
had his gold mine at last, but it merely would hasten his grooming for
the millionaire brotherhood, and had given him none of the exultant
ecstasy he had dreamed of in the days before he had opened Perch of
the Devil. The gold mine was not in his hill! Only the sharp, cool,
calculating business wing of his brain appreciated it. The mine beneath
his feet was still the object of his deep affections.
And sometimes, down in the depths of that mine (never above ground), he
sat alone for a few moments and thought of Ora. He had forced her out
of his mind when she went out of his life, but nothing could dislodge
her from his ivory tower, although in time to come she might gather
dust for years on end. For months after she married Valdobia she seemed
to have taken his memory to Rome with her; but she brought it back in
time.
In those rare moments when he peered through the windows of that inner
temple, he, too, sometimes asked, “Why?” What had it all meant? It
had been perfect love--yet so lamentably imperfect; not only because
they were torn apart, but because they would not have found permanent
happiness together. Between some subtle essence of their beings there
was an indissoluble bond, but their minds were not in accord, and
neither would have been adaptable save during that fluid period when
even strong egos lose their bearings and float on that inevitable sea
of many tides called Love; knowing that when it casts them on the shore
whence they came, once more will they be as malleable as rock crystal.
But what had it all meant?
And his wife made him very happy. He found her increasingly desirable
as a life companion. She adapted herself to every angle of his
character while losing none of her own picturesque individuality; made
no impossible exactions either on his soul or his time; was always
beautiful to look at; and the most level-headed of his friends.
Even men of less complicated egos have been able to love two women at
once and survive.
And Ida? She at least had what she wanted, she was a philosopher, and
therefore as happy as may be. By constant manœuvring she saw more of
her busy husband than falls to the lot of most American wives married
to too successful men. She had made herself so necessary to him that he
returned from his many absences almost as eager to see her as his mine.
On these hurried trips she never accompanied him, not only because it
was wise to let him miss her, and to think of her always in the home
setting, but because they gave her the opportunity to retain her hold
on Butte; to enjoy her beautiful house there and her many friends.
Suddenly Gregory raised his head. Then he lifted the ear flap of his
fur cap. High above there was a loud humming, as of the wind along
telegraph wires, or the droning of many bees, or the strumming of an
aerial harp. The month was March and the weather forty degrees below
zero. The very sky, whose silver was growing dim, looked frosted, but a
moment later Gregory felt a warm puff of air on his cheek.
“The Chinook!” he said softly.
Another puff touched them both lightly, then a long wave of warm air
swept down and about them.
“It’s chinooking, certainly,” said Ida, opening her fur coat and
pushing back her cap. “I hope that means we’ve had the last of winter.”
Again there was a long diving wave, almost hot in its contrast to the
cold air rising from the ground, and still accompanied by that humming
orchestra above. But in a few moments the hum had deepened into a roar
down in the tree tops and about the corners of the buildings on the
hill. The icicles fell from the eaves and lay shattered and dissolving
on the porch, the snow was blown up in frosty clouds and melted as it
fell.
“It’s the last of winter, I guess,” said Gregory. “We’re not likely to
have another long spell of cold. Spring has come. And so has daylight.
Let’s go in, old girl.”
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Pronounced Bute.
[B] Plato dates the submergence of the last of Atlantis (the island of
Poseidonis) about 9,000 years before the priests of Sais told its story
to Solon, who lived 600 B.C. The Troano MSS. in the British Museum,
written by the Mayas of Yucatan about 3500 B.C., assert that it took
place 11560 B.C. The archaic records of India give the date of the
fourth and final catastrophe that overwhelmed the remnant of the once
vast continent (which Darwin and other naturalists claim must have
extended from the American to the European continent to account for the
migration of plants found in Miocene strata) as 9564 B.C.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
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Superscripted text is preceded by a carat character: XV^{me}.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.