by Zane Grey
XII. THE REVELATION
The following afternoon cowboys and horse-wranglers, keen-eyed asIndians for tracks and trails, began to arrive in the quiet valley towhich the Mormon women had been returned.
Under every cedar clump there were hobbled horses, packs, and rolledbedding in tarpaulins. Shefford and Joe Lake had pitched camp in the oldsite near the spring. The other men of Joe's escort went to the homes ofthe women; and that afternoon, as the curious visitors began to arrive,these homes became barred and dark and quiet, as if they had been closedand deserted for the winter. Not a woman showed herself.
Shefford and Joe, by reason of the location of their camp and theiralertness, met all the new-comers. The ride from Stonebridge was a longand hard one, calculated to wear off the effects of the whiskyimbibed by the adventure-seekers. This fact alone saved the situation.Nevertheless, Joe expected trouble. Most of the visitors were decent,good-natured fellows, merely curious, and simple enough to believe thatthis really was what the Mormons had claimed--a village of free women.But there were those among them who were coarse, evil-minded, anddangerous.
By supper-time there were two dozen or more of these men in the valley,camped along the west wall. Fires were lighted, smoke curled up over thecedars, gay songs disturbed the usual serenity of the place. Later inthe early twilight the curious visitors, by twos and threes, walkedabout the village, peering at the dark cabins and jesting amongthemselves. Joe had informed Shefford that all the women had been put ina limited number of cabins, so that they could be protected. So far asShefford saw or heard there was no unpleasant incident in the village;however, as the sauntering visitors returned toward their camps theyloitered at the spring, and here developments threatened.
In spite of the fact that the majority of these cowboys and theircomrades were decent-minded and beginning to see the real relationof things, they were not disposed to be civil to Shefford. They werecertainly not Mormons. And his position, apparently as a Gentile, amongthese Mormons was one open to criticism. They might have been jealous,too; at any rate, remarks were passed in his hearing, meant for hisears, that made it exceedingly trying for him not to resent. Moreover,Joe Lake's increasing impatience rendered the situation more difficult.Shefford welcomed the arrival of Nas Ta Bega. The Indian listened to theloud talk of several loungers round the camp-fire; and thereafter he waslike Shefford's shadow, silent, somber, watchful.
Nevertheless, it did not happen to be one of the friendly and sarcasticcowboys that precipitated the crisis. A horse-wrangler named Hurley, aman of bad repute, as much outlaw as anything, took up the bantering.
"Say, Shefford, what in the hell's your job here, anyway?" he queriedas he kicked a cedar branch into the camp-fire. The brightening blazeshowed him swarthy, unshaven, a large-featured, ugly man.
"I've been doing odd jobs for Withers," replied Shefford. "Expect todrive pack-trains in here for a while."
"You must stand strong with these Mormons. Must be a Mormon yerself?"
"No," replied Shefford, briefly.
"Wal, I'm stuck on your job. Do you need a packer? I can throw adiamond-hitch better 'n any feller in this country."
"I don't need help."
"Mebbe you'll take me over to see the ladies," he went on, with a coarselaugh.
Shefford did not show that he had heard. Hurley waited, leering aslooked from the keen listeners to Shefford.
"Want to have them all yerself, eh?" he jeered.
Shefford struck him--sent him tumbling heavily, like a log. Hurley,cursing as he half rose, jerked his gun out. Nas Ta Bega, swift aslight, kicked the gun out of his hand. And Joe Lake picked it up.
Deliberately the Mormon cocked the weapon and stood over Hurley.
"Get up!" he ordered, and Shefford heard the ruthless Mormon in himthen.
Hurley rose slowly. Then Joe prodded him in the middle with the cockedgun. Shefford startled, expected the gun to go off. So did the others,especially Hurley, who shrank in panic from the dark Mormon.
"Rustle!" said Joe, and gave the man a harder prod. Assuredly the gundid not have a hair-trigger.
"Joe, mebbe it's loaded!" protested one of the cowboys.
Hurley shrank back, and turned to hurry away, with Joe close after him.They disappeared in the darkness. A constrained silence was maintainedaround the camp-fire for a while. Presently some of the men walked offand others began to converse. Everybody heard the sound of hoofs passingdown the trail. The patter ceased, and in a few moments Lake returned.He still carried Hurley's gun.
The crowd dispersed then. There was no indication of further trouble.However, Shefford and Joe and Nas Ta Bega divided the night in watches,so that some one would be wide awake.
Early next morning there was an exodus from the village of the betterelement among the visitors. "No fun hangin' round hyar," one of themexpressed it, and as good-naturedly as they had come they rode away. Sixor seven of the desperado class remained behind, bent on mischief; andthey were reinforced by more arrivals from Stonebridge. They avoided thecamp by the spring, and when Shefford and Lake attempted to go to themthey gave them a wide berth. This caused Joe to assert that they wereup to some dirty work. All morning they lounged around under the cedars,keeping out of sight, and evidently the reinforcement from Stonebridgehad brought liquor. When they gathered together at their camp, halfdrunk, all noisy, some wanting to swagger off into the village andothers trying to hold them back, Joe Lake said, grimly, that somebodywas going to get shot. Indeed, Shefford saw that there was everylikelihood of bloodshed.
"Reckon we'd better take to one of the cabins," said Joe.
Thereupon the three repaired to the nearest cabin, and, entering, keptwatch from the windows. During a couple of hours, however, they did notsee or hear anything of the ruffians. Then came a shot from over inthe village, a single yell, and, after that, a scattering volley. Thesilence and suspense which followed were finally broken by hoof-beats.Nas Ta Bega called Joe and Shefford to the window he had been stationedat. From here they saw the unwelcome visitors ride down the trail, todisappear in the cedars toward the outlet of the valley. Joe, who hadnumbered them, said that all but one of them had gone.
"Reckon he got it," added Joe.
So indeed it turned out; one of the men, a well-known rustler namedHarker, had been killed, by whom no one seemed to know. He had brazenlytried to force his way into one of the houses, and the act had cost himhis life. Naturally Shefford, never free from his civilized habit ofthought, remarked apprehensively that he hoped this affair would notcause the poor women to be arrested again and haled before some rudecourt.
"Law!" grunted Joe. "There ain't any. The nearest sheriff is in Durango.That's Colorado. And he'd give us a medal for killing Harker. It was agood job, for it'll teach these rowdies a lesson."
Next day the old order of life was resumed in the village. And thearrival of a heavily laden pack-train, under the guidance of Withers,attested to the fact that the Mormons meant not only to continue to livein the valley, but also to build and plant and enlarge. This was goodnews to Shefford. At least the village could be made less lonely.And there was plenty of work to give him excuse for staying there.Furthermore, Withers brought a message form Bishop Kane to the effectthat the young man was offered a place as teacher in the school, inco-operation with the Mormon teachers. Shefford experienced no twinge ofconscience when he accepted.
It was the fourth evening after the never-to-be-forgotten moonlight rideto the valley that Shefford passed under the dark pinyon-trees on hisway to Fay Larkin's cottage. He paused in the gloom and memory besethim. The six months were annihilated, and it was the night he had fled.But now all was silent. He seemed to be trying to drag himself back.A beginning must be made. Only how to meet her--what to say--what toconceal!
He tapped on the door and she came out. After all, it was a meetingvastly different from what his feeling made him imagine it might havebeen. She was nervous, frightened, as were all the other women, forthat matter. She was alone in t
he cottage. He made haste to reassure herabout the improbability of any further trouble such as had befallenthe last week. As he had always done on those former visits to her,he talked rapidly, using all his wit, and here his emotion made himeloquent; he avoided personalities, except to tell about his prospectsof work in the village, and he sought above all to lead her mind fromthought of herself and her condition. Before he left her he had thegladness of knowing he had succeeded.
When he said good night he felt the strange falsity of his position. Hedid not expect to be able to keep up the deception for long. That rousedhim, and half the night he lay awake, thinking. Next day he was the lifeof the work and study and play in that village. Kindness and good-willdid not need inspiration, but it was keen, deep passion that made him aplotter for influence and friendship. Was there a woman in the villagewhom he might trust, in case he needed one? And his instinct guided himto her whom he had liked well--Ruth. Ruth Jones she had called herselfat the trial, and when Shefford used the name she laughed mockingly.Ruth was not very religious, and sometimes she was bitter and hard.She wanted life, and here she was a prisoner in a lonely valley. Shewelcomed Shefford's visits. He imagined that she had slightly changed,and whether it was the added six months with its trouble and pain ora growing revolt he could not tell. After a time he divined that theinevitable retrogression had set in: she had not enough faith to upholdthe burden she had accepted, nor the courage to cast it off. She wasready to love him. That did not frighten Shefford, and if she did lovehim he was not so sure it would not be an anchor for her. He saw herdanger, and then he became what he had never really been in all the daysof his ministry--the real helper. Unselfishly, for her sake, he foundpower to influence her; and selfishly, for the sake of Fay Larkin, hebegan slowly to win her to a possible need.
The days passed swiftly. Mormons came and went, though in the open day,as laborers; new cabins went up, and a store, and other improvements.Some part of every evening Shefford spent with Fay, and these visitswere no longer unknown to the village. Women gossiped, in a friendly wayabout Shefford, but with jealous tongues about the girl. Joe Lake toldShefford the run of the village talk. Anything concerning the Sago Lilythe droll Mormon took to heart. He had been hard hit, and admitted it.Sometimes he went with Shefford to call upon her, but he talked littleand never remained long. Shefford had anticipated antagonism on the partof Joe; however, he did not find it.
Shefford really lived through the busy day for that hour with Fay in thetwilight. And every evening seemed the same. He would find her in thedark, alone, silent, brooding, hopeless. Her mood did not puzzle him,but how to keep from plunging her deeper into despair baffled him. Heexhausted all his powers trying to do for her what he had been able todo for Ruth. Yet he failed. Something had blunted her. The shadow ofthat baneful trial hovered over her, and he came to sense a strangeterror in her. It was mostly always present. Was she thinking of JaneWithersteen and Lassiter, left dead or imprisoned in the valley fromwhich she had been brought so mysteriously? Shefford wearied his brainrevolving these questions. The fate of her friends, and the cross shebore--of these was tragedy born, but the terror--that Shefford divinedcame of waiting for the visit of the Mormon whose face she had neverseen. Shefford prayed that he might never meet this man. Finally he grewdesperate. When he first arrived at the girl's home she would speak, sheshowed gladness, relief, and then straightway she dropped back into theshadow of her gloom. When he got up to go then there was a wistfulness,an unspoken need, an unconscious reliance, in her reluctant good night.
Then the hour came when he reached his limit. He must begin hisrevelation.
"You never ask me anything--let alone about myself," he said.
"I'd like to hear," she replied, timidly.
"Do I strike you as an unhappy man?"
"No, indeed."
"Well, how DO I strike you?"
This was an entirely new tack he had veered to.
"Very good and kind to us women," she said.
"I don't know about that. If I am so, it doesn't bring me happiness.... Do you remember what I told you once, about my being apreacher--disgrace, ruin, and all that--and my rainbow-chasing dream outhere after a--a lost girl?"
"I--remember all--you said," she replied, very low.
"Listen." His voice was a little husky, but behind it there seemed atide of resistless utterance. "Loss of faith and name did not send me tothis wilderness. But I had love--love for that lost girl, Fay Larkin. Idreamed about her till I loved her. I dreamed that I would find her--mytreasure--at the foot of a rainbow. Dreams!... When you told me she wasdead I accepted that. There was truth in your voice. I respected yourreticence. But something died in me then. I lost myself, the best of me,the good that might have uplifted me. I went away, down upon the barrendesert, and there I rode and slept and grew into another and a harderman. Yet, strange to say, I never forgot her, though my dreams weredone. As I toiled and suffered and changed I loved her--if not her,the thought of her--more and more. Now I have come back to these walledvalleys--to the smell of pinyon, to the flowers in the nooks, to thewind on the heights, to the silence and loneliness and beauty. And herethe dreams come back and SHE is WITH me always. Her spirit is all thatkeeps me kind and good, as you say I am. But I suffer, I long for heralive. If I love her dead, how could I love her living! Always I torturemyself with the vain dream that--that she MIGHT not be dead. I havenever been anything but a dreamer. And here I go about my work by dayand lie awake at night with that lost girl in my mind.... I love her.Does that seem strange to you? But it would not if you understood.Think. I had lost faith, hope. I set myself a great work--to find FayLarkin. And by the fire and the iron and the blood that I felt itwould cost to save her some faith must come to me again.... My workis undone--I've never saved her. But listen, how strange it is tofeel--now--as I let myself go--that just the loving her and the livinghere in the wildness that holds her somewhere have brought me hopeagain. Some faith must come, too. It was through her that I met thisIndian, Nas Ta Bega. He has saved my life--taught me much. What would Iever have learned of the naked and vast earth, of the sublimity of thewild uplands, of the storm and night and sun, if I had not followed agleam she inspired? In my hunt for a lost girl perhaps I wandered intoa place where I shall find a God and my salvation. Do you marvel that Ilove Fay Larkin--that she is not dead to me? Do you marvel that I loveher, when I KNOW, were she alive, chained in a canyon, or bound, or lostin any way, my destiny would lead me to her, and she should be saved?"
Shefford ended, overcome with emotion. In the dusk he could not see thegirl's face, but the white form that had drooped so listlesslyseemed now charged by some vitalizing current. He knew he had spokenirrationally; still he held it no dishonor to have told her he lovedher as one dead. If she took that love to the secret heart of living FayLarkin, then perhaps a spirit might light in her darkened soul. He hadno thought yet that Fay Larkin might ever belong to him. He divined acrime--he had seen her agony. And this avowal of his was only one steptoward her deliverance.
Softly she rose, retreating into the shadow.
"Forgive me if I--I disturb you, distress you," he said. "I wanted totell you. She was--somehow known to you. I am not happy. And are YOUhappy?... Let her memory be a bond between us.... Good night."
"Good night."
Faintly as the faintest whisper breathed her reply, and, though it camefrom a child forced into womanhood, it whispered of girlhood not dead,of sweet incredulity, of amazed tumult, of a wondering, frantic desireto run and hide, of the bewilderment incident to a first hint of love.
Shefford walked away into the darkness. The whisper filled his soul. Hada word of love ever been spoken to that girl? Never--not the love whichhad been on his lips. Fay Larkin's lonely life spoke clearly in herwhisper.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Next morning as the sun gilded the looming peaks and shafts of goldslanted into the valley she came swiftly down the path to the spring.
Shefford paused in his task
of chopping wood. Joe Lake, on his knees,with his big hands in a pan of dough, lifted his head to stare. Shehad left off the somber black hood, and, although that made a vastdifference in her, still it was not enough to account for what struckboth men.
"Good morning," she called, brightly.
They both answered, but not spontaneously. She stopped at the spring andwith one sweep of her strong arm filled the bucket and lifted it. Thenshe started back down the path and, pausing opposite the camp, set thebucket down.
"Joe, do you still pride yourself on your sour dough?" she asked.
"Reckon I do," replied Joe, with a grin.
"I've heard your boasts, but never tasted your bread," she went on.
"I'll ask you to eat with us some day."
"Don't forget," she replied.
And then shyly she looked at Shefford. She was like the fresh dawn, andthe gold of the sun shone on her head.
"Have you chopped all that wood--so early?" she asked.
"Sure," replied Shefford, laughing. "I have to get up early to keep Joefrom doing all the camp chores."
She smiled, and then to Shefford she seemed to gleam, to be radiant.
"It'd be a lovely morning to climb--'way high."
"Why--yes--it would," replied Shefford, awkwardly. "I wish I didn't havemy work."
"Joe, will YOU climb with me some day?"
"I should smile I will," declared Joe.
"But I can run right up the walls."
"I reckon. Mary, it wouldn't surprise me to see you fly."
"Do you mean I'm like a canyon swallow or an angel?"
Then, as Joe stared speechlessly, she said good-by and, taking up thebucket, went on with her swift, graceful step.
"She's perked up," said the Mormon, staring after her. "Never heard hersay more 'n yes or no till now."
"She did seem--bright," replied Shefford.
He was stunned. What had happened to her? To-day this girl had not beenMary, the sealed wife, or the Sago Lily, alien among Mormon women. Thenit flashed upon him--she was Fay Larkin. She who had regarded herselfas dead had come back to life. In one short night what had transformedher--what had taken place in her heart? Shefford dared not accept, norallow lodgment in his mind, a thrilling idea that he had made her forgether misery.
"Shefford, did you ever see her like that?" asked Joe.
"Never."
"Haven't you--something to do with it?"
"Maybe I have. I--I hope so."
"Reckon you've seen how she's faded--since the trial?"
"No," replied Shefford, swiftly. "But I've not seen her face in daylightsince then."
"Well, take my hunch," said Joe, soberly. "She's begun to fade like thecanyon lily when it's broken. And she's going to die unless--"
"Why man!" ejaculated Shefford. "Didn't you see--"
"Sure I see," interrupted the Mormon. "I see a lot you don't. She's sowhite you can look through her. She's grown thin, all in a week. Shedoesn't eat. Oh, I know, because I've made it my business to find out.It's no news to the women. But they'd like to see her die. And she willdie unless--"
"My God!" exclaimed Shefford, huskily. "I never noticed--I neverthought.... Joe, hasn't she any friends?"
"Sure. You and Ruth--and me. Maybe Nas Ta Bega, too. He watches her agood deal."
"We can do so little, when she needs so much."
"Nobody can help her, unless it's you," went on the Mormon. "That'splain talk. She seemed different this morning. Why, she was alive--shetalked--she smiled.... Shefford, if you cheer her up I'll go to hell foryou!"
The big Mormon, on his knees, with his hands in a pan of dough, and hisshirt all covered with flour, presented an incongruous figure of a manactuated by pathos and passion. Yet the contrast made his emotion allthe simpler and stronger. Shefford grew closer to Joe in that moment.
"Why do you think _I_ can cheer her, help her?" queried Shefford.
"I don't know. But she's different with you. It's not that you're aGentile, though, for all the women are crazy about you. You talk to her.You have power over her, Shefford. I feel that. She's only a kid."
"Who is she, Joe? Where did she come from?" asked Shefford, very low,with his eyes cast down.
"I don't know. I can't find out. Nobody knows. It's a mystery--to allthe younger Mormons, anyway."
Shefford burned to ask questions about the Mormon whose sealed wife thegirl was, but he respected Joe too much to take advantage of him in apoignant moment like this. Besides, it was only jealousy that made himburn to know the Mormon's identity, and jealousy had become a creeping,insidious, growing fire. He would be wise not to add fuel to it. Herejected many things before he thought of one that he could voice to hisfriend.
"Joe, it's only her body that belongs to--to.... Her soul is lost to--"
"John Shefford, let that go. My mind's tired. I've been taught so andso, and I'm not bright.... But, after all, men are much alike. The thingwith you and me is this--we don't want to see HER grave!"
Love spoke there. The Mormon had seized upon the single elemental pointthat concerned him and his friend in their relation to this unfortunategirl. His simple, powerful statement united them; it gave the lie to hishint of denseness; it stripped the truth naked. It was such a wonderfulthought-provoking statement that Shefford needed time to ponder howdeep the Mormon was. To what limit would he go? Did he mean that here,between two men who loved the same girl, class, duty, honor, creed werenothing if they stood in the way of her deliverance and her life?
"Joe Lake, you Mormons are impossible," said Shefford, deliberately."You don't want to see her grave. So long as she lives--remains on theearth--white and gold like the flower you call her, that's enough foryou. It's her body you think of. And that's the great and horrible errorin your religion.... But death of the soul is infinitely worse thandeath of the body. I have been thinking of her soul.... So here westand, you and I. You to save her life--I to save her soul! What willyou do?"
"Why, John, I'd turn Gentile," he said, with terrible softness. It wasa softness that scorned Shefford for asking, and likewise it flungdefiance at his creed and into the face of hell.
Shefford felt the sting and the exaltation.
"And I'd be a Mormon," he said.
"All right. We understand each other. Reckon there won't be any call forsuch extremes. I haven't an idea what you mean--what can be done. But Isay, go slow, so we won't all find graves. First cheer her up somehow.Make her want to live. But go slow, John. AND DON'T BE WITH HER LATE!"
. . . . . . . . . . .
That night Shefford found her waiting for him in the moonlight--a girlwho was as transparent as crystal-clear water, who had left off thesomber gloom with the black hood, who tremulously embraced happinesswithout knowing it, who was one moment timid and wild like ahalf-frightened fawn, and the next, exquisitely half-conscious ofwhat it meant to be thought dead, but to be alive, to be awakening,wondering, palpitating, and to be loved.
Shefford lived the hour as a dream and went back to the quiet darknessunder the cedars to lie wide-eyed, trying to recall all that she hadsaid. For she had talked as if utterance had long been dammed behind abarrier of silence.
There followed other hours like that one, indescribable hours, so sweetthey stung, and in which, keeping pace with his love, was the noblerstride of a spirit that more every day lightened her burden.
The thing he had to do, sooner or later, was to tell her he knew she wasFay Larkin, not dead, but alive, and that, not love nor religion, butsacrifice, nailed her down to her martyrdom. Many and many a time hehad tried to force himself to tell her, only to fail. He hated to riskending this sweet, strange, thoughtless, girlish mood of hers. It mightnot be soon won back--perhaps never. How could he tell what chains boundher? And so as he vacillated between Joe's cautious advice to go slowand his own pity the days and weeks slipped by.
One haunting fear kept him sleepless half the nights and sick even inhis dreams, and it was that the Mormon whose sealed wife she was migh
tcome, surely would come, some night. Shefford could bear it. But whatwould that visit do to Fay Larkin? Shefford instinctively feared theawakening in the girl of womanhood, of deeper insight, of a spiritualrealization of what she was, of a physical dawn.
He might have spared himself needless torture. One day Joe Lake eyed himwith penetrating glance.
"Reckon you don't have to sleep right on that Stonebridge trail," saidthe Mormon, significantly.
Shefford felt the blood burn his neck and face. He had pulled histarpaulin closer to the trail, and his motive was as an open page to thekeen Mormon.
"Why?" asked Shefford.
"There won't be any Mormons riding in here soon--by night--to visitthe women," replied Joe, bluntly. "Haven't you figured there might begovernment spies watching the trails?"
"No, I haven't."
"Well, take a hunch, then," added the Mormon, gruffly, and Shefforddivined, as well as if he had been told, that warning word had gone toStonebridge. Gone despite the fact that Nas Ta Bega had reportedevery trail free of watchers! There was no sign of any spies, cowboys,outlaws, or Indians in the vicinity of the valley. A passionategratitude to the Mormon overcame Shefford; and the unreasonableness ofit, the nature of it, perturbed him greatly. But, something hammeredinto his brain, if he loved one of these sealed wives, how could he helpbeing jealous?
The result of Joe's hint was that Shefford put off the hour ofrevelation, lived in his dream, helped the girl grow farther and fartheraway from her trouble, until that inevitable hour arrived when he wasdriven by accumulated emotion as much as the exigency of the case.
He had not often walked with her beyond the dark shade of the pinyonsround the cottage, but this night, when he knew he must tell her, he ledher away down the path, through the cedar grove to the west end of thevalley where it was wild and lonely and sad and silent.
The moon was full and the great peaks were crowned as with snow. Acoyote uttered his cutting cry. There were a few melancholy notes froma night bird of the stone walls. The air was clear and cold, with atang of frost in it. Shefford gazed about him at the vast, uplifted,insulating walls, and that feeling of his which was more than a sensetold him how walls like these and the silence and shadow and mystery hadbeen nearly all of Fay Larkin's life. He felt them all in her.
He stopped out in the open, near the line where dark shadow of the wallmet the silver moonlight on the grass, and here, by a huge flat stonewhere he had come often alone and sometimes with Ruth, he faced FayLarkin in the spirit to tell her gently that he knew her, and sternly toforce her secret from her.
"Am I your friend?" he began.
"Ah!--my only friend," she said.
"Do you trust me, believe I mean well by you, want to help you?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Well, then, let me speak of you. You know one topic we've never touchedupon. You!"
She was silent, and looked wonderingly, a little fearfully, at him, asif vague, disturbing thoughts were entering the fringe of her mind.
"Our friendship is a strange one, is it not?" he went on.
"How do I know? I never had any other friendship. What do you mean bystrange?"
"Well, I'm a young man. You're a--a married woman. We are together agood deal--and like to be."
"Why is that strange?" she asked.
Suddenly Shefford realized that there was nothing strange in what wasnatural. A remnant of sophistication clung to him and that had spoken.He needed to speak to her in a way which in her simplicity she wouldunderstand.
"Never mind strange. Say that I am interested in you, and, as you're nothappy, I want to help you. And say that your neighbors are curious andoppose my idea. Why do they?"
"They're jealous and want you themselves," she replied, with sweetdirectness. "They've said things I don't understand. But I feltthey--they hated in me what would be all right in themselves."
Here to simplicity she added truth and wisdom, as an Indian might haveexpressed them. But shame was unknown to her, and she had as yet onlyvague perceptions of love and passion. Shefford began to realize thequickness of her mind, that she was indeed awakening.
"They are jealous--were jealous before I ever came here. That's onlyhuman nature. I was trying to get to a point. Your neighbors arecurious. They oppose me. They hate you. It's all bound up in the--thefact of your difference from them, your youth, beauty, that you're nota Mormon, that you nearly betrayed their secret at the trial inStonebridge."
"Please--please don't--speak of that!" she faltered.
"But I must," he replied, swiftly. "That trial was a torture to you. Itrevealed so much to me.... I know you are a sealed wife. I know therehas been a crime. I know you've sacrificed yourself. I know that loveand religion have nothing to do with--what you are.... Now, is not allthat true?"
"I must not tell," she whispered.
"But I shall MAKE you tell," he replied, and his voice rang.
"Oh no, you cannot," she said.
"I can--with just one word!"
Her eyes were great, starry, shadowy gulfs, dark in the white beauty ofher face. She was calm now. She had strength. She invited him to speakthe word, and the wistful, tremulous quiver of her lips was for hisearnest thought of her.
"Wait--a--little," said Shefford, unsteadily. "I'll come to thatpresently. Tell me this--have you ever thought of being free?"
"Free!" she echoed, and there was singular depth and richness in hervoice. That was the first spark of fire he had struck from her. "Longago, the minute I was unwatched, I'd have leaped from a wall had Idared. Oh, I wasn't afraid. I'd love to die that way. But I neverdared."
"Why?" queried Shefford, piercingly.
She was silent then.
"Suppose I offered to give you freedom that meant life?"
"I--couldn't--take it."
"Why?"
"Oh, my friend, don't ask me any more."
"I know, I can see--you want to tell me--you need to tell."
"But I daren't."
"Won't you trust me?"
"I do--I do."
"Then tell me."
"No--no--oh no!"
The moment had come. How sad, tragic, yet glorious for him! It would belike a magic touch upon this lovely, cold, white ghost of Fay Larkin,transforming her into a living, breathing girl. He held his love as athing aloof, and, as such, intangible because of the living death shebelieved she lived, it had no warmth and intimacy for them. What mightit not become with a lightning flash of revelation? He dreaded, yet hewas driven to speak. He waited, swallowing hard, fighting the tumultuousstorm of emotion, and his eyes dimmed.
"What did I come to this country for?" he asked, suddenly, in ringing,powerful voice.
"To find a girl," she whispered.
"I've found her!"
She began to shake. He saw a white hand go to her breast.
"Where is Surprise Valley?... How were you taken from Jane Withersteenand Lassiter?... I know they're alive. But where?"
She seemed to turn to stone.
"Fay!--FAY LARKIN!... I KNOW YOU!" he cried, brokenly.
She slipped off the stone to her knees, swayed forward blindly with herhands reaching out, her head falling back to let the moon fall full uponthe beautiful, snow-white, tragically convulsed face.