That Girl Montana
fancied you might have cared for some one else--some one before you met
me."
"No, I cared for no one before I met you," she answered, slowly. "But I
could not be happy in the social life of your people here. They are
charming, but I am not suited to their life. And--and I can't go back to
the hills. So, in a month, I am going to Italy."
"You have it all decided, then?"
"All--don't be angry, Max. You will thank me for it some day, though I
know our friends will think badly of me just now."
"No, they shall not; you are breaking no promises. You took me only on
trial, and it seems I don't suit," he said, with a grimace. "I will see
that you are not blamed. And so long as you do not leave America, I should
like you to remain here. Don't let anything be changed in our friendship,
'Tana."
She turned to him with tears in her eyes, and held out her hand.
"You are too good to me, Max," she said, brokenly, "God knows what will
become of me when I leave you all and go among foreign faces, among whom I
shall not have a friend. I hope to work and--be contented; but I shall
never meet a friend like you again."
He drew her to him quickly.
"Don't go!" he whispered, pleadingly. "I can't let you go out into the
world alone like that! I will love you--care for you--"
"Hush!" and she put her hand on his face to push it away; "it is no use,
and don't do that--try to kiss me; you must not. No man has ever kissed
me, and you--"
"And I sha'n't be the first," he added, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, I
confess I hoped to be, and you are a greater temptation than you know,
Miss Montana. And you ought to pardon me the attempt."
Her face was flushed and shamed. "I could pardon a great deal in you,
Max," she answered; "but don't speak of it again. Talk to me of other
things."
"Other things? Well, I haven't many other things in my mind just now.
Still, I did see some one down town this morning whom you rather liked,
and who asked after you. It was Mr. Harvey, the writer, whom we met first
at Bonner's Ferry, up in the Kootenai land. Do you remember him?"
"Certainly. We met him afterward at one of the art galleries, and I have
seen him several times at Roden's studio. They are great friends. He
looked surprised to find me there, but, after I spoke to him, he talked to
me a great deal. You know, Max, I always imagine he heard that suspicion
of me up at the camp. Do you think so?"
"He never intimated it to me," answered Max; "though Haydon nearly went
into spasms of fear lest he would put it all in some paper."
"I remember. He would scarcely allow me breathing space for fear the
stranger would get near enough to speak to me again. I remember all that
journey, because when I reached the end of it, the past seemed like a
troubled dream, for this life of fineness and beauty and leisure was all
so different."
"And yet you are not contented?"
"Oh, don't talk of that--of me!" she begged. "I am tired of myself. I just
remembered another one on the train that journey--the little variety
actress who had her dresses made to look cute and babyish--the one with
bleached hair, and they called her Goldie. She looked scared to death when
he--Overton--stopped at the window to say good-by. I often wondered why."
"Oh, you know Dan was a sort of sheriff, or law-and-order man, up there.
He might have known her unfavorably, and she was afraid of being
identified by him, or something of that sort. She belonged to the rougher
element, no doubt."
"Max, it makes me homesick to think of that country," she confessed. "Ever
since the grass has commenced to be green, and the buds to swell, it seems
to me all the woods are calling me. All the sluggish water I see here in
the parks and the rivers makes me dream of the rush of the clear Kootenai,
and long for a canoe and paddle. Contrive something to make me forget
it, won't you? Make up a party to go somewhere--anywhere. I will be
cavalier to your lovely little aunt, and leave you to Margaret."
"I asked you before why you speak of Margaret and me in that tone?" he
said. "Are you going to tell me? You have no reason but your own fancy."
"Haven't I? Well, this isn't fancy, Max--that I would like to see my
cousin--you see, I claim them for this once--happy in her own way, instead
of unhappy in the life her ambitious family are trying to arrange for her.
And I promise to trade some surplus dust for a wedding present just as
soon as you conclude to spoil their plans, and make yourself and that
little girl and your aunt all happy by a few easily spoken words."
"But I have just told you I love you."
"You will know better some day," she said, and turned away. "Now go and
pacify your aunt, won't you? She seemed so troubled about the
modeling--bless her dear heart! I didn't want to trouble her, but the
work--some work--was a necessity to me. I was growing so homesick for the
woods."
After she was left alone, she drew a letter from her pocket, one she had
got in the morning mail, and read over again the irregular lines sent by
Mrs. Huzzard.
"I got Lavina to write you the letter at Christmas, because I was so
tickled with all the things you sent me that I couldn't write a
straight line to save me; and you know the rheumatiz in my finger
makes it hard work for me sometimes. But maybe hard work and me is
about done with each other, 'Tana; though I'll tell you more of that
next time.
"I must tell you Mr. Harris has got better--can talk some and walk
around; can't move his left arm any yet. But Mr. Dan sent for two
fine doctors, and they tried to help him with electricity. And I was
scared for fear lightning might strike camp after that; but it
didn't. Lavina is here still, and likely to stay. She's a heap of
company; and she and Captain Leek are better friends than they was.
"There is a new man in camp now; he found a silver mine down near
Bonner's Ferry, and sold it out well. He was a farmer back in
Indiana, and has been on a visit to our camp twice. Mr. Dan says it's
my cooking fetches him. Everything is different here now. Mr. Dan got
sawed lumber, and put me up a nice little house; and up above the
bluff he has laid out a place where he is going to build a stone
house, just as if he intends to live and die here. He doesn't ever
seem to think that he has enough made now to rest all his days.
Sometimes I think he ain't well. Sometimes, 'Tana, I think it would
cheer him up if you would just write him a few lines from time to
time. He always says, 'Is she well?' when I get a letter from you;
and about the time I'm looking for your letters he's mighty regular
about getting the mail here.
"That old Akkomi went south when winter set in, and we reckon he'll
be back when the leaves get green. His whole village was drunk for
days on the money you had Mr. Seldon give him, and he wore pink
feathers from some millinery store the last time I saw him. But Mr.
Dan is always patient with him whether he is drunk or sober.
"I guess that's all the news. Lavina sends her respects. And I must
tell you that on Christmas they got some whisky, and all the boys
drank your health--and drank it so often Mr. Dan had to give them a
talking to. They think a heap of you. Yours with affection,
"LORENA JANE HUZZARD.
"P. S.--William McCoy is the name of the stranger I spoke of. The
boys call him Bill."
CHAPTER XXVI.
OVERTON'S WIFE.
A few hours later, 'Tana sat in a box at the theater; for the party she
had suggested had been arranged, and pretty Miss Margaret was radiant over
the evening planned for her, and 'Tana began to enjoy her role of
matchmaker. She had even managed to tell Margaret, in a casual manner,
that Miss Seldon's idea of a decided engagement between herself and Max
had never a very solid foundation, and now had none at all. He was her
good friend--that was all, and she was to leave for Italy in a month.
And Margaret went up to her and kissed her, looking at her with puzzled,
admiring eyes.
"They tried at home to make me think very differently," she said. "But you
are a queer girl, Miss Montana. You have told me this on purpose, and--"
"And I want to hear over in Italy that you are going to make a boy I like
very happy some of these days. Remember, Margaret, you are--or will be--a
millionairess, while he has not more than a comfortable income; and
boys--even when they are in love--can be proud. Will you think of that?"
Margaret only blushed and turned away, but the answer was quite satisfying
to 'Tana, and she felt freer because her determination had been put into
words, and the last bond connecting her with the old life was to be
broken. Ever since the snows had gone, some cord of her heart-string had
been drawing all her thoughts to those Northern hills, and she felt the
only safety was to put the ocean between them and her.
The home Mr. Seldon had offered her with his sister was a very lovely one,
but to it there came each week letters about the mines and the people
there. Mr. Seldon had already gone out, and would be gone all summer. As
he was an enthusiast over the beauties and the returns of the country, his
letters were full of material that she heard discussed each day.
Therefore, the only safety for herself lay in flight; and if she did not
go across the ocean to the East, she would surely grow weaker and more
homesick until she would have to turn coward entirely and cross the
mountains to her West.
Realizing it all, she sat in her dainty array of evening dress and watched
with thoughts far away the mimic scene of love triumphant on the stage
before her. When, on the painted canvas, a far-off snow-crowned mountain
rose to their view, her heart seemed to creep to her throat and choke her,
and when the orchestra breathed softly of the winds, music, and the
twittering of birds, the tears rose to her eyes and a great longing in her
heart for all the wild beauty of her Kootenai land.
Then, just as the curtain went down on the second act, some one entered
their box.
"You, Harvey?" said Max, with genuine pleasure. "Good of you to look me
up. Let me introduce you to my aunt and Miss Haydon. You and Miss Rivers
are old acquaintances."
"Yes; and that fact alone has brought me here just now," he managed to say
to Lyster. "To confess the truth, I have been to see Miss Rivers at her
home this evening, having got her address from Roden, and then had the
assurance to follow her here. You may be sure I would not have spoiled
your evening for any trivial thing, but I come because of a woman who is
dying."
"A woman who is dying?" repeated 'Tana, in wonder. "And why do you come to
me?"
"She wants to see you. I think--to tell you something."
"But who is it?" asked Lyster. "Some beggar?"
"She is a beggar now at least," agreed Mr. Harvey--"a poor woman dying.
She said only to tell Miss Rivers, and here is a line she sent."
He gave her a slip of paper, and on it was written:
"Come and take some word to Dan Overton for me. I am dying.
OVERTON'S WIFE."
She arose, and Margaret exclaimed at the whiteness of her face.
"Oh, my dear," sighed Miss Seldon, "you know how I warned you not to give
your charities individually among the beggars of a city. It is really a
mistake. They have no consideration, and will send for you at all hours if
you will go. It is so much better to distribute charity through some
organization."
But 'Tana was tying her opera cloak, and moving toward the entrance.
"I am going," she said. "Don't worry. Is it far, Mr. Harvey? If not,
perhaps I can be back to go home with you when the curtain goes down."