"Oh, yes," he said. "I've felt it--but it's a long time ago. I'm glad
it is, too. A very little of it satisfies. Nowadays my real thing
is--well, what you called a while ago, New York, though that's only a
manner of speaking, you know."
"Yes, I know. We've talked back in a circle! I am still wondering why
you like it as you do!"
They had crossed their last hummock, and had come to the place not far
from the brown house where Matt now spread rugs and cushions every
morning; but no one was there to greet them. Far down the long slope
of white they could see Eleanor and Tim, moving slowly over the crust;
Yetta was already at home on snowshoes, and her crimson-clad figure was
skimming over the snow-covered fields. Apparently she was playing a
game of ball with Pendleton--something they had invented for
themselves; Ogilvie, also on snowshoes, was with them.
Rosamund sent a clear Valkyrie call down to them. They all looked up,
and waved. Ogilvie moved closer to Pendleton's side, and the game of
ball went on.
Rosamund threw herself down on one of the blankets, and Flood took his
place beside her. She still wore her snowshoes, and sat with her knees
drawn up, her arms clasped about them, boy fashion. She was watching
the others at their game down below, but Flood looked no farther than
her face.
Suddenly she became intensely aware of the man beside her; she could
not tell how the change came, or whether there were a change at all,
except in her intense consciousness of him. She did not turn to look
at him; she did not so much as tremble from her position; but slowly,
as if the blood were retreating to her heart, her face grew white.
Flood saw the change in her face, and knew that he was the cause of it.
His heart beat triumphantly faster.
"Why did you say that you wonder at my liking--New York?" he asked.
She tried, vainly, to speak.
"You know what it represents, to me. It's something better than I ever
had before. It's friends, it's music, and art, and the whirl on the
Avenue. It is 'up and on'--and--Rosamund, don't you know what it is
above all else? It is you."
He had meant to say a great deal, when this moment should have arrived;
he had often wondered just how it would come, when he should find
courage where they two should be. He had tried to teach himself the
words he thought would be most sure to move her, words that would best
disclose the fullness of his faith and his desire; yet now that the
moment for speaking was upon him he reverted to the man that was his
inmost self, forgetting his practiced phrases, not speaking the words
he had rehearsed, but telling his longing in short, rushing sentences
of pleading, voicing to her silence the cry of the strong soul to its
chosen mate, the appeal, even the demand, of the man who had won a high
place to the woman who could lead him up to even greater altitudes of
the spirit. He pleaded as a man who has much to offer, but who is yet
begging for the crowning gift. Unconsciously he disclosed his own
greatness of soul, while making her understand that he held her
supreme, beyond all that was beautiful, above all that was high.
Before he was done speaking, her head had bent itself until her face
was on her knees. Never had she felt herself so unworthy; never had
her humility been so great. Yet when he paused, she did not answer;
even for his last strong appeal she had no word. He had shown her the
depths of his heart, and hers was shaken to its own depths. But yield
she could not, turn to him she could not. It was as if two great
elemental forces met, and clashed, and refused to combine. She could
not altogether repudiate his appeal, yet she must be true to the
stronger one which held possession of her heart.
As he watched her in a silence that seemed still to vibrate with the
strength of his words, she raised her head to look at the figures now
coming toward them up the long slope. Suddenly she saw that Ogilvie
stopped short, and, apparently at some word from Pendleton, looked up
toward herself and Flood. He took a hesitating step or two, came on at
a wave from Pendleton; then he turned away, leaving the others to
return without him.
Some silent message had come up the mountain to her; Rosamund had found
her answer to poor Flood. The others were out of sight for the moment
behind a low growth of pine; only Ogilvie was visible as he made his
way along the other ridge, taking his steps heavily, seeming suddenly
to have become weary.
Rosamund watched him for a moment; then she turned her white face,
pitiful with the knowledge of the hurt that she must give him, toward
Flood. He must have read something there, for, startled, he bent a
little closer; then, following her look, he glanced from her to
Ogilvie, and back again. Her eyes did not waver from him, and when
they had to answer the question in his, the paleness left her face, and
a great wave of color flooded it. He held his breath, and his unspoken
question must have become imperative; for she nodded, her parted lips
refusing to form words. Then, withdrawing her look, she hid her face
in her arms.
Neither of them ever realized that she spoke no word at all. Her reply
had been too well-defined to need speech. Flood understood.