“How could I bring about what you ask?”
he interrupted.
“I don’t know. You are a man.
I believed you could plan a way, but I see now how
foolish I have been. It is impossible.”
Her hand reached slowly for the knob of the door.
“Yes, you are foolish,” he agreed, and
his voice was softer. “Don’t let
such thoughts overcome you, Miss Standish. Go
back to your cabin and get a night’s sleep.
Don’t let Rossland worry you. If you want
me to settle with that man—”
“Good night, Mr. Holt.”
She was opening the door. And as she went out
she turned a little and looked at him, and now she
was smiling, and there were tears in her eyes.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
The door closed behind her. He heard her retreating
footsteps. In half a minute he would have called
her back. But it was too late.
For half an hour Alan sat smoking his cigar.
Mentally he was not at ease. Mary Standish had
come to him like a soldier, and she had left him like
a soldier. But in that last glimpse of her face
he had caught for an instant something which she had
not betrayed in his cabin—a stab of what
he thought was pain in her tear-wet eyes as she smiled,
a proud regret, possibly a shadow of humiliation at
last—or it may have been a pity for him.
He was not sure. But it was not despair.
Not once had she whimpered in look or word, even when
the tears were in her eyes, and the thought was beginning
to impress itself upon him that it was he—and
not Mary Standish—who had shown a yellow
streak this night. A half shame fell upon him
as he smoked. For it was clear he had not come
up to her judgment of him, or else he was not so big
a fool as she had hoped he might be. In his own
mind, for a time, he was at a loss to decide.
It was possibly the first time he had ever deeply
absorbed himself in the analysis of a woman.
It was outside his business. But, born and bred
of the open country, it was as natural for him to recognize
courage as it was for him to breathe. And the
girl’s courage was unusual, now that he had
time to think about it. It was this thought of
her coolness and her calm refusal to impose her case
upon him with greater warmth that comforted him after
a little. A young and beautiful woman who was
actually facing death would have urged her necessity
with more enthusiasm, it seemed to him. Her threat,
when he debated it intelligently, was merely thrown
in, possibly on the spur of the moment, to give impetus
to his decision. She had not meant it. The
idea of a girl like Mary Standish committing suicide
was stupendously impossible. Her quiet and wonderful
eyes, her beauty and the exquisite care which she
gave to herself emphasized the absurdity of such a
supposition. She had come to him bravely.
There was no doubt of that. She had merely exaggerated
the importance of her visit.
