Next morning the guests of Casa Norte were assembled in the court
discussing Clive’s departure and waiting for the traps which would take
them for their accustomed drive, when Helena, dressed in her habit,
came out of her room and walked up to them.
“Mr. Clive has gone, I suppose?” she asked.
“He left a short time ago,” said Miss Lord. “I am so sorry he will not
return. Helena, how can you be so cruel?”
“You are a hypocrite and talking rubbish. I tried to get him away from
Mary Gordon, and I lost the game, and I don’t care in the least whether
you know it or not. I shall not drive with you this morning. I am going
for a ride by myself;” and she left the house.
“Home, heaven, and mother!” said Rollins with a gasp. “I didn’t think
even she would be as game as that. Well, I am sorry--sorry. Damn the
whole business of life, anyhow.”
Helena rode rapidly through the forest, taking a short cut by trail to
the fern grove above the cañon. She came upon it after an hour’s hard
riding. She noted that it was almost circular in form, irregularly
outlined by the redwoods. The stiff and feather tops were rustling in a
soft breeze and glinted with the younger shades of green. She thought
that she had never seen the sky so blue, the sun so golden. The trees
were singing high above. Occasionally one branch creaked upon another
discordantly.
She tethered her horse and went in among the ferns. When they closed
above her head, and the green twilight was about her, she felt
gratefully that she was beyond the eye of man, hidden even from the
redwoods, which, she had a fancy, were human and wise.
She sat down on the stone and cried. Tears did not come easily to her;
she was not a lightly emotional woman. To-day she abandoned herself to
a passion of grief which thrilled her nerves and cramped her fingers.
It was a passion which accumulated depth and strength instead of
dissipating itself, and it was an hour before she was exhausted. The
storm brought no relief, as April showers do to most women. She felt
heavy and blunt, and knew that the third stage would be the first. She
was conscious of one other thing only: that she understood Clive better
than she had ever done before, and that her sympathy was as strong for
him as for herself.
Suddenly she sprang to her feet and faced the point of the fern-wood
where she had made entrance. The tears dried under the rush of blood.
“Owin!” she cried. “Owin!”
She strained her head forward, then drew back slowly. There was not
a sound in the forest. Her lips fell apart. “Owin!” she gasped. She
shook from head to foot. He had a quick strong step. She heard it now
with a sub-consciousness of which she had never been cognizant before.
But it made no sound in her ears.
Then she sank back against the ferns, bending them with her weight,
closing her eyes. The spiritual part within her seemed to become
clearly defined. Something touched and passed it. There was a moment of
promise, rather than of ecstasy, then of peace.
She opened her eyes. “Owin,” she whispered. But she was alone.
She went out of the ferns and mounted her horse, and rode rapidly
homeward. As she turned the corner of Casa Norte she heard the
telephone bell ring violently. A groom met her and lifted her from the
horse. She walked down the garden toward the door. Her aunt entered the
office. Helena paused outside of the window to listen to the ridiculous
one-sided conversation of the telephone.
“Halloo!
“Speak louder, please.
“A what?
“Oh--how dreadful!
“What? The trestle? Are you sure? How awful! How high is it?
“Three hundred feet! Great heavens! Were any lives lost?
“Everybody? Oh, impossible--but of course--three hundred feet.
“Only a few passengers--well that is something.
“The cars are on fire, you say. Oh, merciful heaven!
“Oh, I am glad. That is one blessing, at least. Of course they were
killed instantly on those rocks.
“Who? What? My God! No! No! Why, he was here only this morning. It’s
impossible! Impossible!
“Oh!”
Mrs. Cartright staggered to her feet, her face appearing before the
open window. Her jaw was fallen, her skin the color of dough. She saw
Helena.
“Oh!” she gasped. “What--what do you think has happened?”
“What?”
“The train went over the trestle by Jo Bagley’s--three hundred
feet--burnt up. And Mr. Clive--isn’t it awful that I should have spoken
to him not three hours ago?--was on it. Jo Bagley says he spoke to
him when the train stopped. Oh, Helena Belmont, how can you look so
indifferent!”
Helena turned and went back into the forest.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded bu underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.