“Of course, you know,” she said, throwing into her words an intensity which burned like acid, “that he did not die for you, Mary.  He died to save his soul alive.  He died to find himself—­and me.  Just that much I have to have you know.”

At that Kate forced her to go into the Pullman, and seated her by the window where the rising wind, bringing its tale of eternal solitude, eternal barrenness, could fan her cheek.  A gentleman who had been pacing the platform alone approached Mary and seemed to offer her assistance with anxious solicitude.  She drooped upon his arm, and as she passed beneath the window the odor of her perfumes stole to Honora’s nostrils.

“How dare she walk beneath my window?” Honora demanded of Kate.  “Isn’t she afraid I may kill her?”

“No, I don’t think she is, Honora.  Why should she suspect anything ignoble of you?”

Silence fell.  A dull golden star blossomed in the West.

“All aboard!  All aboard!” called the conductors.  The people began straggling toward their trains, laughing their farewells.

“Hope I’ll meet you again sometime!”

“East or West, home’s the best.”

“You’re sure you’re not going on my train?”

“Me for God’s country!  You’ll find nothing but fleas and flubdub on the Coast.”

“You’ll be back again next year, just the same.  Everybody comes back.”

“All aboard!  All aboard!”

“God willing,” said Honora, “I shall never see her again.”

Suddenly she ceased to be primitive and became a civilized woman with a trained conscience and artificial solicitude.

“How do you suppose she’s going to live, Kate?  She had no money.  Will David have made any arrangement for her?  Oughtn’t I to see to that?”

“You are neither to kill nor pension her,” said Kate angrily.  “Keep still, Honora.”

The fiery worms became active, and threshed their way across the fast-chilling and silent plain.  On the eastbound one two women sat in heavy reverie.  On the westbound one a group of solicitous ladies and gentlemen gathered about a golden-haired daughter of California offering her sal volatile, claret, brandy-and-water.  She chose the claret and sipped it tremblingly.  Its deep hue answered the glow in the great ruby in her ring.  By a chance her eye caught it and she turned the jewel toward her palm.

“A superb stone,” commented one of the kindly group.  “You purchased it abroad?” The inquiry was meant to distract her thoughts.  It did not quite succeed.  She put the wine from her and covered her face with her hands, for suddenly she was assailed by a memory of the burning kisses with which that gem had been placed upon her finger by lips now many fathoms beneath the surface of the sun-warmed world.

XXXIV