T was one of those soft, dull, dim days when the grey sky seems to melt by imperceptible gradations into a grey and toneless earth. November in the mountains.
The afternoon was at hand when Garvin would seek his answer, and Frances was far from her cabin. Ever since she had left Herries she had wandered on up the trails through mists, alone in a great, unreal world. It was as if the vast and solitary mountains demanded seclusion for some high communion, and before exhibiting themselves in the clear sunlight of self-revelation, withdrew for a period of mysterious meditation. The dimmed distances were blue, a smoke-like and blurred blue; the leafless branches interlaced their fine criss-cross of twigs against this unsubstantial background, the pines were strong, green masses, the green acquiring new depth and vividness from the mist-sea on which they floated.
A fine rain fell; but Frances ignored it, and walked on until she reached a level plateau known to her, and covered with low, twisted, wind-bent pines. There she stopped suddenly, for sitting on a great, wet rock was the Black Pearl.
Unconscious of Frances's approach, she sat gazing down at the clouds which lay between her and the valley. Her gown was open at the throat as if she had pulled it apart for more air; her burnt-umber hair was almost slipping down her back; there were sagging pouches of loose skin under her eyes and her firm, rounded chin.
She remained oblivious of the Missionary's approach until Frances touched her lightly on the arm. Then she turned with a quick frown, "Oh," with dull petulance; "it's you, Missioner."
"Yes." Frances sat down on the rock beside her and passed her hand over the Pearl's hair and shoulders: "Why, Mrs. O'Brien, how long have you been sitting here? Your hair is soaking wet and so is your dress."
"Oh, yes—it's been wet, I suppose," impatiently. "What's the difference? Say, Missioner," clasping her hands around her knees and drawing her feet further up on the rocks. "It's an awful thing to think, ain't it? I ain't never had any education except what I picked up from the boys, and I don't suppose I know much; but I always been a-thinkin' an' a-studyin' about things. Now take the ladies down there in Zenith. They're content managin' their own affairs and other people's. They don't care for anything that don't concern their eatin' and drinkin', their kids an' their husbands; but if you once get to studyin' about life, Missioner, you can't stop. You got to go on thinkin', an' it haunts you night an' day. You can't get away from it; it's like a great wheel that's always a-turnin', an' you see the awful misery, jus' sufferin', sufferin' everywhere. An' people talk an' tell you the Lord loves 'em's the reason he's torturin' their souls an' bodies. An' you know it's lies, lies. God, Missioner! I feel every minute like I got to fling myself off these rocks."
In her little cabin, Garvin was waiting for her answer, even now. This was the one swift thought that flashed across Frances Benson's mind. This was the day of which she had dreamed, the birthday of her life, a day of vast and sunlighted spaces, of peacock thrones and gold and purple decorations; down the hill, love, home, companionship awaited her, and her whole spent being longed for them; but the natural impulse to help, enforced and strengthened by years of training, asserted itself imperatively. She did not think of setting another season for the Pearl's consolation. The peacock thrones, the birthday celebration must wait. The softness faded from her eyes, the weary lines from her face. Her figure involuntarily straightened itself. She was a soldier on guard now, and this was the firing line.
Without conscious thought, but by mere intuitive perception of the only way to meet the situation, she threw herself into the other woman's mood.
"Pearl, it's a wheel, as you say, a great wheel that's always turning and crushing the lives of men and women and little children. And it's crueler than death and the grave, unless you see it right. I can't see it right, either, just now, Pearl," the cry came from her soul; "but,"—the old mystic glow in her eyes, "I know it, even if I can't see it. It's all love and beauty."