During the next few days Power passed imperceptibly through many phases of thought and emotion. When his judgment regained its natural equipoise after the first bitter-sweet intoxication of finding his old sweetheart desirous as ever of his companionship, he appeared to subside into a state of placid acceptance of such restricted blessings as the gods could offer. Nancy made good her promise, and Newport society threw wide its doors to the good-looking and well-mannered visitor. No doubts were raised concerning his financial or social status. A word from the horse-fancying judge made it clear that the Westerner could not be a poor man, seeing that he had already bought at stiff prices a magnificent hunter and the best-matched pair of hackneys in the States, and was in treaty for another round dozen of valuable animals; while Mrs. Hugh Marten’s manifest approval was sufficient to introduce any similarly favored young man to the most exclusive circle in the island.

Seeing that certain things were essential, Power spent money freely, supplying himself with a dog-cart, a groom, a valet, and the rest of the equipment which any man needed who would mix in that fashionable crowd without attracting attention by lack of it. Each morning he and Nancy, sometimes unaccompanied, but more often mingling with a lively party, rode about the island, following rough tracks which are smooth roads nowadays, and visiting every favorite stretch of cliff and open country time and again. When the weather moderated its torrid rigor, and sports became possible in the grounds of the Casino or within the Polo Club’s inclosure, he bore his full share. In all that pertained to horsemanship he was the equal of any man in Newport, and Nancy had not lost that perfect confidence in the saddle which life on a ranch demands. Someone gave prizes for a drag hunt, a hunting crop for the first man and a silver cup for the first woman in at the finish of a ten-miles’ trail, and the two came in side by side, a furlong ahead of their closest follower. Luncheons, yachting parties, dinners, musicales, and dances crowded each day and often went far into the night. The heat-wave had put forward the almanac, and the Newport season was in full swing nearly a month in advance of its usual date.

Power retained his rooms at the Ocean House; but saw little of other inmates of the hotel unless they happened to mix in the same set. His friends of the dinner-table, except Dacre, had gone, and the Englishman, like Power, was made an honorary member of the Casino Club; so they kept up and developed an acquaintance which had begun so pleasantly.

The close intimacy between Mrs. Marten and the stranger from Colorado attracted slight comment. No breath of scandal fluttered the dovecotes of Newport. The behavior of the pair was exemplary, and, beyond the accepted fact that, if any hostess desired the presence of one she must invite the other, gossip about them was noticeable by its absence. Their mutual use of Christian names from the outset established a tacit cousinship, and the only growl uttered behind their backs was an occasional complaint from some anxious mother who found her attractive daughters completely eclipsed, in the eyes of at least one eligible young man, by the millionaire’s wife.

Once, and once only, before the crash came, did Nancy allude to the purloined letters. She and Power were riding along the Cliff Walk before breakfast, when she broached the subject quite unexpectedly.

“Derry, I want to ask you something,” she said seriously. “Did my father and you ever quarrel without my knowledge – before I left Bison, I mean?”

“No,” he said.

“Don’t be stupid! I hate answers in monosyllables. When you say no like that, one suspects that it may really be a kind of yes.”

“Then let me make it the most definite sort of negative. Remember, you fixed a period. The last time I spoke to Mr. Willard before I was – before I went to Sacramento – I had supper at the ranch.”

He carried reminiscence no farther. She stole a look at him; but his eyes were fixed on a faint blur of smoke rising over the azure plain of the Atlantic from an invisible steamship. On that unforgetable night of three and a half years ago, a starlit night of spring, she had walked with him to the mouth of the Gulch, and in bidding each other farewell they had exchanged their first and last kiss.

“Father was certainly not an enemy of yours then,” she went on, in a singularly even tone. Indeed, she might have been debating a matter of utmost triviality. “It seemed to me that he always welcomed you at the ranch. Why did he become so bitterly opposed to you afterward?”

He could have fenced with her, but deemed it preferable to speak freely. “I think he was annoyed by my rapid success,” he said. “He had made a failure of things generally, and I candidly admit it must have been exasperating to see a youngster like me, and a steady-going fossil like Mac, step in and secure a fortune out of a place where he had met with nothing but ill-luck. Those who get rich quick often incur animosity in that way.”

For a brief space there was silence. They seemed to be listening to the slumberous plash of the breakers on the rocks far below, which, with the pleasant creaking of saddlery, and the hoofbeats and deep breathing of eager horses held in restraint, were the only sounds audible in that wondrous solitude. They were passing a part of the cliff known as the Forty Steps, a euphonious name describing a series of railed staircases, cut in the solid rock, which afforded an irregular if safe passage to the beach. Ochre Point, with its millionaire residences, lay a mile, or less, in front, and on their left was the illimitable ocean. After a bath and breakfast they had promised to join a large party on a steam yacht bound for Narragansett Pier, when luncheon and a picnic at a lighthouse would fill the afternoon. This day was precisely similar to any other day of a whole fortnight in its round of amusements. The weather was nearly perfection, and distinctly unsuited for a heart-searching discussion; but Nancy seemed to be in a mood that either invited self-torture or wished to witness the writhings of her companion, because she would not leave a difficult subject alone.

“Supposing, Derry,” she continued, “supposing I hadn’t got married when I did, do you think you would have discovered the mine just the same?”

Now he was compelled to go off at a tangent. “You resemble the majority of your sex in your desire to raise non-existent bogies for the mere pleasure of slaying them,” he began.

“Which is the bogy – my supposition or the mine?” she broke in.

“How can I imagine what would have happened in circumstances which did not take place? The discovery, or rediscovery, of the mine was one of those extraordinary bits of good luck which Fortune sometimes thrusts upon her favorites. It might have occurred if you had never left Bison; but, on the other hand, it might not.”

She nodded her complete agreement. By not answering he had answered fully.

“Yes, the goddess was certainly kind to you,” she said. “The cowboys did not often ride through the Gulch firing their revolvers. In fact, the only time I can recall any such riotous proceeding was on the day of my wedding. That must have been your lucky day.”

She watched him closely; but his face showed no sign of emotion. Yet she was sure that his eyes narrowed somewhat as they continued to search the horizon, and his lips were set with a dourness hardly warranted by an enjoyable ride on a carefree morning.

Then she smiled, very slightly, as though she was well pleased. She was not cruel; but any woman who wants to assure herself that a man loves her will understand why Nancy Marten was putting Power on the rack, and even tightening the cords almost beyond endurance.

“I’m sorry if I have worried you, Derry,” she said, with a tender caress in her voice that in no wise helped to mitigate his suffering. “One more question, and I have done. Have you told your mother that I am here?”

There was no help for it. He lied boldly.

“Yes,” he said.

“What did she say?”

“I am expecting her reply any hour.”

“And Mac? Did you give him my love?”

“I haven’t written to Mac since I came to Newport; but I shall not omit a word of your message when I see him, or write, whichever comes first… Have you any idea what time it is?”

“Time these lazy gees were stirring themselves. Come, Hector!”

She shook the reins on her horse’s neck, and the big hunter jumped off in a fast canter. Power raced alongside, and the two struck into a byroad leading to Bellevue Avenue. Power was busying his brain to formulate some colorless phrase which would supply a natural-sounding comment by his mother on the fact that he had encountered an old friend in Newport. He knew well that he dared not tell her; for the tidings would distress her immeasurably. But he need not have troubled himself. Nancy never mentioned the matter again, for the very convincing reason that she did not believe him. Her allusion to Mrs. Power was one last turn of the screw. She was as certain that he could no more explain her presence to his mother than she could explain his to her father. Twice had she written his name in letters to Denver, and twice had she destroyed the letter. On the night she met Power she had dashed off a hot and impetuous note asking Willard why Derry’s letters had been withheld; but, in calmer mood, this dangerous query was given to the flames. On a second occasion, about a week later, Power’s name crept inadvertently into a description of some incident at the Casino, and the warm blood rushed to her face and neck when she found how near she was to committing the letter to the post without having read it.

All that day Power was puzzled by a new serenity shining in Nancy’s eyes. He could not guess that, more candidly analytical than he, she had looked fearlessly into the future and had discounted its agonies. She felt now that she had been tricked into a loveless marriage; that Marten had purchased her with exactly the same cold calculation of values which he would have applied to a business undertaking. Willard had proved as potter’s clay in his hands, and every turn and twist of the project was clear to her vision as though her husband, yielding to sardonic impulse, had set forth the unsavory story in black and white. But it was one thing to recognize how she had been duped, and another to strike out boldly for instant freedom. And in that respect the woman was braver than the man. Power was content to live in the golden present, to stifle the longings and plaints of silent hours; while the woman who loved him thought only of the end she now held firmly in view and recked little of the means whereby that end might be achieved.

Their unhappy plight was intensified by the fact that their characters had deepened and broadened alike during the years of separation. The boy and girl attachment of those heedless days in Colorado might not have withstood the strain of being thrown together again constantly after so long an interval, if the woman’s nature had not advanced step by step with the man’s. Experience of life, and the educative influences of foreign travel and good society, had done for Nancy what quiet study and seclusion from his fellow-men had done for Power. By such widely different paths they had reached a common standard of earnest purpose and high resolve, and Nancy, at any rate, was passionately determined not to sacrifice the remainder of her youth because of the unhallowed compact which sold her to gilded misery and robbed her of her one true mate in all the world.

As she did not blink the consequences, there remained but to carry through her desperate scheme as speedily and quietly as was compatible with no risk of failure. Her one difficulty lay with Power himself. She had first to break down his sense of honor, a task which could be accomplished only by making him see clearly that her life’s happiness was at stake. And she knew him, oh, so well – far better than he knew himself! Let Derry once find tears in her eyes, tears which he alone could dispel, and the seeming fortress of his self-control would crumble into dust. Let her once twine her arms around him, and what man-made laws would wrench them apart? For, by her reasoning, the solemn ordinances which govern frail human nature were wholly on her side. If marriage were, indeed, a divine institution, its very essence was profaned when Hugh Marten laid his sorry plan and made it effective by sheer force of money. She, the woman, would be called on to pay for her liberty in the coin minted of ill-repute, that base metal for whose currency her sex was mainly responsible. But those friends whom she valued would hear the truth, and they would rally round her, never fear! Why, in this delightful island, where pain and anguish seemed to be banished by the imperious ukase of deities presiding over the revels of the rich, people recognized as leaders of society had passed already through a furnace of scandal and scathing exposure such as she and her lover would never be called upon to face.

And that was why Power was at once bewildered and raised to the seventh heaven by her confident, contented smile when they met among the crowd of merrymakers on the yacht, or exchanged a few commonplace words when doing the round of Narragansett Bay and at dinner that evening in one of Newport’s summer palaces.

As his dog-cart was in waiting, he had no excuse to escort her home, but, in saying goodnight, she contrived again to perplex and delight him by a whispered request.

“Derry,” she murmured, “make no outside engagement for tomorrow evening. If you are already booked up, cry off. I want to dine with you in some quiet place – I suppose there is some hotel or café in Newport where none of our friends go. Find out, and send me a note, telling me the time and place. I shall come in a hired carriage, and quietly dressed – not in dinner clothes, I mean – and you must do the same. I must have a long talk with you, wholly independent of our servants, you understand.”

“I shall obey, at any rate,” he said, with a smile that failed to conceal the unbounded surprise in his eyes. “May I put a question?”

“No, not now. Full details later, as people say in telegrams.”

They parted, and he was so plagued by foreboding that he would have driven past the Ocean House had not the horse turned in at the gateway of its own accord. If Nancy’s manner during the day had shown the least trace of worry or annoyance, he would have attributed her strange request to a desire to take him into her confidence. It was possible, for instance, that some busybody had warned her that a too marked preference for the society of one man among the many in Newport would probably reach her husband’s ears; but, in that event, her outraged pride could never have been veiled by such a mask of unsullied cheerfulness. If any more drastic explanation of the next day’s meeting suggested itself to his troubled mind, he crushed it resolutely. In his present mood, the slightest hint of scandal associated with Nancy’s winsome personality due to their friendship was anathema. He would have endured any loss, fortune, even life itself, to save her name from besmirchment.

When he alighted from the dog-cart he knew it was useless to try and sleep; so he lit a cigar, and sat in a remote corner of the veranda. Then he began seriously to analyze her words. They were to meet in clandestine fashion; not actually in the garments of disguise, but at a rendezvous so remote from the frequenters of the Casino as to run small risk of being identified. She would drive thither in a “hired carriage,” and he was to leave his dog-cart and groom at home. Moreover, she inferred that he would not see her until the evening, since the locality of this diner à deux was to be written; though they had hardly been separated by longer intervals than a couple of hours between seven o’clock in the morning and nearly midnight during each day of a fortnight. What did it all portend? Was this to be their last meeting? At that thought a fierce pain gripped him, and he was sorely tempted to call the gods to witness that he would not return to a lifetime of wandering in the wilderness. Yet, said a still, small voice within, was it not better so? She was another man’s wife. He must remember that, remember it even when his pent-up passions stormed the citadel of his conscience, remember it when the sheer fragrance of her maddened his senses, remember it when the taste of Dead Sea fruit was bitterest in his mouth. Of what worth was he if, for her dear sake, he was not strong in knightly resolve? And how could he ever again dare to receive his mother’s kiss if he betrayed the trust which she, at least, reposed in him?

A mournful and depressing reverie was disturbed by the arrival of a carriage at the porch. Four young people alighted – two honeymoon couples they were supposed to be – and their lively voices seemed to ring the knell of his wrecked existence. He listened, only half hearing, while they chattered like magpies.

They had been to a dance at the Casino, and their broken comments told of a jolly evening, a capital band, the best floor that ever was laid, some wonderful dresses, and an unexcelled supper. Similar young people were telling each other exactly the same inane commonplaces all over the eastern part of America at that hour, and similar cackle would girdle the earth till the crack of doom. Probably the men were wise as he, and the women might be deemed by their swains pretty as Nancy; yet some malign despot among the powers which control poor humanity had decreed that he alone should never know these frivolous moments, never be granted these breathing-spaces of mild abandonment. And so, wroth with himself, and vexed with the sorry scheme of things, he went to his rooms.

Next morning, to make sure, he rode to Nancy’s house. No; Mrs. Marten had not ordered her horse; in fact, she had not appeared as yet, and the pleasant-spoken butler, showing the requisite confidence in the discretion of a recognized friend, added that his mistress would not be “at home” to anyone before luncheon.

Then, the weather being glorious and the air like champagne, Power whistled care to the devil, and cantered into the town to review the ground for the night’s fixture.

Newport today boasts of almost uncountable hotels and boarding-houses, nor was the area of choice limited in that respect nearly a generation ago. After careful scrutiny of various buildings in the business quarter, Power selected a café run by a certain Giovanni Pestalozzi as the most promising. It looked clean and bright, and an Italian might be trusted to be discreet.

Getting a man to hold his horse, he interviewed Giovanni, and was assured that Delmonico’s itself could not produce a better meal if the signor invited comparison. The signor wanted nothing elaborate, however. He admitted he was not well versed in either menus or wines, but demanded the best, and, after inspecting a well-furnished room overlooking the street, lodged a ten-dollar bill as earnest money, with a promise of ample largess if he were pleased. Then he rode away to the Ocean House, sent a note to Nancy, and received a reply which deepened his mystified dismay.

For she wrote:

“Dear Derry, I shall be there at seven-thirty. Meanwhile, go to the Casino, and tell everybody that you are summoned to New York on business, and mean to leave either tonight by the Fall River steamer or by first train tomorrow. You are traveling by the train to oblige me; so I am not asking you to indulge in polite fiction.

“Yours ever,
“NANCY.”

He carried out instructions to the letter, and was chaffed mildly for deserting the place just as his friends were getting to like him. It was easy to promise a speedy return, if possible; though he felt, somehow, that he would never see Newport again. The conclusion of his horse-dealing transactions took up a good deal of the afternoon, and, to his regret, Dacre was out with a yachting party; so he left a hurriedly written message about his pending departure.

Then he strolled out, went downtown by street car, and met Nancy when she alighted from a rickety cab at the door of Pestalozzi’s café. She wore a cream-tinted dress, and her piquant features were daintily framed in a big Leghorn hat. It pleased him to find that she had not even deigned to veil her face, and her cheerful cry of recognition showed no conscience-stricken sense of guilt because of a meeting which, if known, must have excited the suspicions of her intimates.

“Ah, there you are, Derry!” she said. “Was there ever a more punctual person? Am I late? I had such a load of things to do that I left dressing till the last moment. Is this where we dine? What a jolly little café! It is just like hundreds of such establishments in Rome and Naples. I suppose these Italian restaurateurs employ their fellow-countrymen as builders and decorators; so they carry their architecture and fittings with them.”

“They change their skies, but not their soups,” said Power, falling in with her mood, and the driver of Nancy’s cab recognized the adaptation of Horace’s tag, and was pleased to grin, being himself a broken-down graduate of Harvard.

Ushered to the dining-room, they tackled the hors d’œuvres at once, and Nancy chatted about current events with the tranquil self-possession she would have displayed at Mrs. Van Ralten’s dinner-table. The meal, excellently cooked and deftly served, marched to its end without a word from her as to its particular purpose. She delighted Pestalozzi by taking minute instructions for the preparation of an exquisite spaghetti, and even noted the brands of Italian wines which should be tabled with each course. At half-past eight, when coffee appeared, she rose:

“Pay the bill now, Derry,” she said. “We must be off in five minutes, and I am sure you want to smoke at least one cigarette in peace. Perhaps Signor Pestalozzi will be good enough to order a cab?”

Signor Pestalozzi was charmed, and decidedly puzzled. He believed for many a year that those two had dined at his café for a wager. If any doubter scoffed, he would say, with appropriate gesture:

“Sango la Madonna! I tella you he no squeeze-a de gell, not-ta one time; so, if dey no make-a de bet, what-a for he give ’er dat pranzo superbo?”

Really, from Giovanni’s point of view, there was no answer.

“Tell the man to drive us to the Easton’s Beach end of the Cliff Walk,” she said nonchalantly, when the cab was in evidence, and away they went.

“There is no moon; but these summer nights are never quite dark,” she began, by way of polite conversation. “It ought to be restful tonight down there by the Atlantic. It is a horrid thing to confess, but the memories of Venice which are most vivid in my mind are not connected with St. Mark’s or the Doge’s Palace, but center round just such a night as this on the Lido. Coming back in the gondola, I almost wanted to slip over the side into the still waters, and drift away to the unknown.”

“Do we swim tonight, then?” he asked.

It was a relief to hear his own voice in some such apparently light-hearted quip. The cab was narrow, and hung on indifferent springs, and its lurching across the roadway to avoid other vehicles often threw him against Nancy’s supple body. He could never touch her without feeling the thrill of contact, and, fight as he would against it, the desire to clasp her in his arms and stifle her protests with hot kisses would come on him at such moments with an almost overwhelming ecstasy.

“If I led, would you follow, Derry?” she whispered.

Heaven help him, it seemed as though she was nestling close deliberately; yet he refused to believe, and strove to answer with a jest.

“I have a picture of you and me striking out across the bay for Narragansett, like a pair of dolphins,” he said.

“I thought of you that night on the Lido,” she went on, unheeding. “I imagined then that when you skipped off to Sacramento you had forgotten the little girl of the Dolores ranch. At any rate, such was my every-day common-sense sort of belief; but tucked away in some cute little nerve center of intuition was another notion, which told me that we had been driven apart by wicked and deceitful contriving. And now, thank my stars, I know that my subconscious feeling was right! Oh, Derry! How you must have despised me! What if we had not met for many a year, and you had schooled yourself into real forgetfulness, and some other girl had crept into a corner of your heart, thrusting out poor little me forever?”

The gathering gloom without had now made the cab’s interior so dark that she could not see the rigid lines in his face, nor could she make out by any convulsive movement that his hands were clenched, and that beads of perspiration stood on his forehead. But she knew, yes, she knew, and timid fingers caught his arm.

“You are not to think me mad or cruel to speak in this way,” she cooed. “I have looked into my very soul, Dear, and a great peace has come from my self-communing. You have wearied your clever brain with guesses as to my motive in meeting you tonight, and I giggled like a schoolgirl today at the thought of your absolute amazement when you read my note bidding you prepare to leave Newport. But it is all part and parcel of my plan, Derry, which rests on your reply to one small question. Do you want to go away from me? Are you ready to face a world in which there will be no Nancy, never, no more?”

“Ah, you are trying me beyond endurance!” he almost sobbed.

“But you must tell me that, Derry. I have gone a long way daringly. It is my privilege, my right. If you love me, you must expect it of me, because, as things are, I am forced to take the first step. But a woman must be sure that she is loved, and her lover alone can still her doubts.”

An impulse stronger than his own strength of will brought strange, wild words to his dry lips.

“Nancy,” he said, with the calm accents of despair, “I have never loved any woman but you, and, God willing, I never shall!”

“That is all that really matters,” she sighed, with a contented note in her voice that rang in his ears like a chord of sweet music heard from afar in the depths of a forest.

After that they sat in silence, she seemingly wrapped in dreams, and he wandering in a maze wherein impassable walls showed no gateway of escape; though the guarded path was alluring, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers.

The cab stopped, and they alighted; for Nancy, demurely self-controlled, announced that she meant to take him for a stroll along the Cliff Walk. Power, deaf and blind to externals, would have accompanied her straightway; but she laughingly called him back from the clouds.

“Tell the cabman to wait,” she said, “and give him some money, or the poor fellow will think that we have come this long way from town purposely, and mean to go off without payment.”

He handed the driver a subsidy which caused the man to avow his willingness to wait till morning if necessary. Once away from the main road, and with no other company than the stars and the sea, Nancy took her escort’s arm, and kept step with him.

“Now,” she said, “I’m perversely disinclined to discuss personal affairs until we reach a certain rock at the foot of the Forty Steps. I mean to sit on that rock, and you will curl up on the shingle at my feet, and light a nice-smelling cigar, and listen while I explain the method in my madness of the last twenty-four hours. But I cannot arrange my thoughts in sequence till we are settled there comfortably. In the meantime, I’ll make you acquainted with my best friend, the Duchesse de Brasnes, whom you will meet some day in Paris, I hope, and then you will see for yourself some of her delightful eccentricities which I’ll recount to you now, and you will laugh quietly and say, ‘What an observant little person that Nancy is! Now, who’d have thought she could quiz and con a great lady of the Faubourg so accurately?’ But you’re not to misunderstand my joking; for the duchess is a dear, and I’m very fond of her.”

To this day Power has never recalled a single syllable of Nancy’s utterances concerning one of the leaders of Parisian society. All that he knew, or cared to know, was that the voice of his beloved was murmuring words which were curiously soothing to his tingling nerves. By this time he had cast scruples to the winds. His mind was armored with triple steel against any other consideration than that Nancy was by his side, that her hand rested confidently on his wrist, that he could feel her slender arm warm and soft near his heart.

And the supreme moment was rushing upon him with the wings of love on a summer’s night, than which no flight of bird is so swift and noiseless. They reached the top of the rocky staircase, and began to descend. A fairy radiance from off the dark-blue mirror of the Atlantic made plain each downward step; but Nancy wore the high-heeled shoes which women affected then more generally than is the fashion today, and Power held her hand lest she slipped and fell. Thus they made their way to the beach, until they had almost negotiated the last short flight. Power, indeed, was standing on the shingle, and the girl – for, married woman though she was, her years were still those of a girl – was poised gracefully on the lowermost slab.

There she hesitated perceptibly. His eyes met hers in a subtle underlook, and he saw that her face was deathly white. Yet there was neither fear nor indecision in her steadfast glance. Even while he asked dumbly why she waited, her lips parted, she held out her hands with a gesture of pleading, and she murmured:

“Oh, Derry, my own dear love, it is not the first but the last step which counts now!”

Then he took her in his arms, and their lips met – and for her there was no uncertainty ever more.