A Yankee from the West Part 14

"No, and I don't expect to change it. I don't know how long I'll be here." He strode up and down the room. "But I'll stick it out," he added, talking to himself. "It's got to be done, no matter what comes."

"Yes, stick it out," said the hired man. "You've got too good a hold to turn loose now. The fellers around have begun to praise you. They say you are goin' to make a go of it."

"A go of what?"

"I don't know, but that's what they said."

"Bob, do you remember my telling you not long ago that I once jumped on a horse and galloped away from a girl."

"Yes, and I thought of how different your case was from mine. Girl galloped away from me. But what about it?"

"That woman is over at Mrs. Stuvic's now."

"You don't mean the same woman?"

"Yes, I do; the very same woman--a Norwegian."

"Did she say she was the same?"

"She hasn't said anything about it and neither have I. But I know she's the same. She wasn't quite grown when I saw her in a little town out West. She was at a hotel--I think her uncle ran the place. I don't believe she ever noticed me. But I noticed her, and I made up my mind that I wasn't going to be tangled up with her, so I rode away, whistling over the prairie. Yes, sir, the same woman. I never could forget that face, not so beautiful, but a face that takes hold and never turns loose."

"Well, that is strange," said the hired man, looking at an ace of clubs and slowly placing it on the table. "Believe I'm going to fluke on this thing. Smart woman, Bill?"

"I don't know; I can't tell."

"But you've heard her talk, haven't you?"

"Yes," said Milford, standing at the window, looking out at the mist, now trailing low over the fields. "I've heard her talk, but when a man has galloped away from a woman he's not much of a judge of her mind."

"This ten sp.e.c.k.e.r wants to go right here. Now let me see. I guess you're right, Bill. But what are you goin' to do about it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, that's perfectly natural. Six goes here. You better not let the old woman find it out. She'll devil you to death."

"She already knows there's something up. It didn't take but a moment for me to satisfy myself that this was the same girl; and I struck out again, intending to go away; but I stopped at the gate and went back."

"But what makes you run away from 'em? I run after 'em. Built that way.

Ca.n.a.l cook goes here," he said, referring to a queen. "Is she skittish, Bill?"

"No," said Milford, turning from the window and walking up and down the room. "She's modest, but not skittish."

"And you don't remember whether she's got good sense or not?"

"Of course she has. What the devil are you talking about?"

"All right. But you said you didn't know. I simply want to get at the merits of the case. I know a good deal about women as women go, and they go. Been married once and slipped up three times. Can she talk without smilin' all the time?"

"Yes. She's very earnest at times."

Mitch.e.l.l raked the cards together, shuffled them and threw the pack on the table. "A woman that smiles all the time wants you to think she's better than she is. I married a smile."

"A frown trailing the skirts of a smile," said Milford, and then with a laugh, he added: "I must have caught that from the Professor."

"I don't know, Bill. But a man that'll sit up and read poetry is apt to say most anythin'. I once heard a fellow say that men read poetry because they like it and women because they think they do."

"That fellow was a fool and a liar."

"Well, it's easy enough to be both. That sort of double harness is always handy. I don't know much about your case, as I haven't seen her, but if I was in your place I don't believe I'd rush things. A man that starts in by being badly stuck generally has to win the woman--not often that they are stuck alike. I'd stay away and make her get lonesome to see me."

"But how can I tell whether or not she's lonesome to see me?"

"By her tryin' not to seem glad when she sees you again."

"But that leaves the case open for a trip-up. How can I tell that she's trying not to seem glad?"

"Well, your horse-sense will have to tell you that. But I thought you didn't want any woman on the place."

"I don't. In looking at it I haven't strained my eye as far as marriage."

"Then what's the use of lovin' her? It's a waste of raw material."

"There's something I must do before I could permit myself to think of marrying, and I'm going to do it if it takes a leg. But I'll tell you what's a fact, I'd rather have that woman's love than anything on the earth. Sometimes I think that if I knew she loved me I'd be willing to die. There's somebody out there on the veranda."

A boy came with a note from the Professor's wife, inviting Milford to supper that evening. There was no allusion to the cause that led to his kicking up the dust in front of her gate. It would give her husband, her daughter and herself great pleasure to have him come, and it was hoped that he would not disappoint them. The boy had not waited for an answer.

The courtesy fell as an obligation. There was no easy way to dodge it.

He would go.

The afternoon was long. Mitch.e.l.l rigged himself in his best, bought of a peddler after much haggling, and went forth to woo the freckled woman.

Milford strolled out into the woods. It was a pleasure to stand in the mist, the trees shadowy about him. It was dreamy to fancy the fog a torn fragment of night, floating through the day. It was easy to imagine the lake a boundless sea. Over the rushes a loon flew, a gaunt and feathered loneliness, looking for a place to light. Milford strolled along a pathway, over high ground, once the brow of the receding lake; and here the growth was heavy, with great trees leaning toward the marsh and hawthorn thickets standing in rounded groups. He came to an open s.p.a.ce.

In the midst of it stood a sapling. A grape vine had spread over its branches, neatly tr.i.m.m.i.n.g its outer edges, a hoisted umbrella of leaves.

He stopped short. On a boulder beneath this canopy, with her back toward him, almost hidden, sat a woman. She was wrapped in a cloak. But there was no mistaking her hair. She heard his footstep and looked round. She did not appear much surprised. She arose with a smile.

"I have been sitting here in Norway," she said. "See the cliffs?" she added, pointing to a mountain range of mist.

"But you must have got wet."

"No. But it would make no difference. I do not mind it. I love such a day. It is an etching. Do you go this way? I have stayed long enough."

She walked along the path in front of him, bending to avoid the low boughs, laughing when a wet leaf slapped her cheek.

"Let me go in front to clear the way," he said.

"Oh, no, I like this."

She leaped across a gulley. A briar pulled at her skirts. She turned about with the merest tint of a blush. He was not enough of an idealist to etherealize her. He felt her spirit, but acknowledged her a flesh and blood woman, belonging to the earth, but as the flower does, with a perfume. Her lips bespoke pa.s.sion; her eyes control. He was glad that he saw her so clearly.

"We shall soon be to the road," she said.