The Everlasting Whisper | Page 7

when the other allows love of women to occupy a higher place
than friendship.
He made his camp at eight o'clock in a sheltered spot among the firs.
He built a fire, made a mat of boughs, wrapped himself up in his canvas,
and went promptly to sleep. He awoke cold, got his blood running by
stamping about, put on fresh fuel and went to sleep again, his feet
toward the blaze. Half a dozen times he was up during the night; before
dawn he had his coffee boiling; before the sun was up he was well on

his way again, driving the cramped chill out of him by walking
vigorously. And at nine o'clock that morning he stood on the bench of a
timbered slope whence, looking downward through the trees, he got his
first glimpse of Lake Gloria and of the rambling log house which Ben
Gaynor had been prevailed on to build here in the wild, a dozen miles
from the Lake Tahoe road.
He noted, as he came nearer, swinging along down the slope and seeing
the little valley with its green meadow and azure lake, how Ben had
had a log dam thrown across the pond's lower end, backing up the
water and making it widen out; he saw a couple of graceful canoes
resting tranquilly on their own reflections; a pretty bathing-house
already green with lusty hop-vines. Ben Gaynor had been spending
money, a good deal of money. And no one knew better than Mark King
that Ben had been close-hauled these latter years. He shrugged, telling
himself to pull up short, and not find fault with his friend, or what his
friend did, or with those whom his friend loved.
An hour later he came to the grove of sugar-pines back of the house.
Here he paused a moment, though he was all eagerness for his meeting
with Gaynor. He had seen a number of persons coming out of the house,
a dozen or more, pouring out brightly, as gay as butterflies, men and
women. Their laughter floated out to him through the still sunny
morning, the deeper notes of men, a cluster of rippling notes from a girl.
He wanted to see Gaynor, not a lot of Gaynor's San Francisco guests.
No, not Gaynor's; rather the friends of Gaynor's womenfolk. It was
King's hope that they were going down toward the lake; thus he would
avoid meeting them. He'd come in at the back, have his talk with Ben,
and be on his way without the bore of shaking a lot of flabby hands and
listening to a lot of gushing exclamations.
He stood very still where he was, unseen as he leaned against a
light-and-shadow-dappled pine. A girl broke away from the knot of
summer-clad figures, ran a few steps down the path toward the lake,
poised gracefully, executed a stagy little pose with head back and arms
outflung as though in an ecstasy of delight that the world was so fair.
She was a bright spot of colour with her pink dress and white shoes and

stockings, and lacy parasol and brown hair, and for a little his eyes
went after her quite as they would have followed the flight of a brilliant
bird. Then, as in sheer youth, as one who during a night of refreshing
sleep has been steeped body and soul in the elixir that is youth's own,
she yielded her young body up to an extravagant dance, whirling away
as light as thistledown across the meadow. Hands clapped after her;
voices, men's voices, filled her ears with a clamour of praise as
extravagant as her own dancing; the guests went trooping gaily after
her. King seized his chance and went swiftly toward the house. As he
went he noted that the girl alone was watching him; she was facing him,
while the others had turned their backs upon the house. She had
abandoned her dance and was standing very still, obviously interested
in the rough-clad, booted figure which had seemed so abruptly to
materialize from the forest land.
Ben Gaynor had seen him through a window and met him at the door.
Their hands met in the way of old friendship, gripping hard. Further,
Ben beat the dust out of his shoulders with a hard-falling open palm as
he led the way inside.
"My wife has been saying for years that you're a myth," said Gaynor,
the gleam in his eyes as youthful as it had ever been; "that you are no
more flesh and blood than the unicorn or the dodo bird. To-day I'll
show her. They were up half the night dancing and fussing around; she
will be down in two shakes, though."
"In the meantime we can talk," said King. "I've got something to tell