Rose of Dutcher's Coolly Part 53

"You do? good! We'll put the matter in movement at once."

"The dew is still on the gra.s.s," she said warningly.

"So it is. I thank you for remembering my growing infirmities. Well, let's go out and see the pigs. As I told you, I hate cattle and swine, they act out so frankly the secret vices of man--but, never mind, I'll go out and have it out with your father."

The moment he began in that tone she was helpless.

They moved out into the barnyard, but John was not in sight.

"I guess he's with his bees," Rose said. "He likes to sit out there and watch them when he is resting."

They peered over the fence, and their eyes took in a picture they will never forget while they live. John Dutcher sat before his bees in the bloom of the clover, his head bowed in his hands. He was crying for his lost daughter.

There came a gripping pain in the girl's throat, the hot tears rushed to her eyes, and she cried in a voice of remorseful agony:

"Father--pappa John!"

He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes dim with tears, his lips quivering.

The girl rushed through the gate, and Mason turned and walked away like a man discovered thieving from an altar.

CONCLUSION

THE WIND IN THE TREETOPS

Mason freshened magically under her sweet and self-contained companionship. She did not coddle him, nor bore him by attentions, but seemed to do the right thing instinctively. She a.s.sumed command over him in certain ways--that is, she insisted on his taking long walks and drives with her--though he st.u.r.dily refused to climb hills. "Bring me to them gradually," he said, "for I am from Egypt."

One Sunday afternoon he consented to try an easy one and they started out--she in radiant, laughing exultation, he in pretended dark foreboding of the outcome.

She led the way with swift, steady swing of skirts, her smiling face a challenge to him when he fell too far behind. He never ceased to admire her powerful, decisive movement and her radiant color, though he said nothing about it to her.

She stopped at a spring which came silently to light beneath an overhanging sandstone. There was no dipper, and Rose, with a new daring, dropped on her knees and dipped some of the cool, sweet water in her palm.

"Do you thirst, Sir Guy?"

He kneeled beside her with a comical groan, and drank from her hand.

"Thanks, a sweeter draught from fairer hand was never quaffed."

Rose was highly elated at the success of her trick. She dipped another palm full. He shook his head.

"With your permission I'll use my hat brim."

"I'll show you how to do it," she said. She rose and leaped the little stream, and flung herself down full length on the ground, and resting her palms on two flat stones, she drank from the pool, like an Indian.

"There!" she cried triumphantly. "That's the way to drink. All my life I've done this way at this spring--when there wasn't anyone to see."

Mason felt a wild charm in this. Most other women would have tumbled to pieces doing such a thing, while she sprang up a little flushed, but with no other sign of exertion.

There was something primeval, elemental, in being thus led by a beautiful woman through coverts of ferns and hazel. Every shadow seemed to wash away some stain or scar of the city's strife. He grew younger.

"I almost like this sort of thing," he said.

They came at last to the smooth slope of the peak where gra.s.s stood tall in bunches on a gravelly soil, and wild flowers of unusual kinds grew.

As they mounted now, the landscape broke over the tree tops, and the valleys curved away into silent blue mist.

On every side low wooded ridges lay, with farms spread like rugs half-way up their deep green clearings. On the further slope a pasture came nearly to the summit, and the tinkle of a bell among the bushes sounded a pastoral note. A field of timothy farther on to the left glowed with a beautiful pink-purple bloom.

"Isn't it beautiful," asked Rose.

Mason dropped full length on the gra.s.s before replying.

"Yes, it is lovely--perfectly pastoral. Worthy a poem."

"I've written three, right on this spot," she said a little shyly.

He seemed interested.

"Have you? Haven't one with you?"

"No."

"Always go armed. Now here's a golden opportunity gone to waste."

She smiled shyly.

"I can repeat one though."

"Can you? Better yet! Recite one."

She sat down near him, but not too near, and began in a soft hesitant voice to repeat a poem which was full of feminine sadness and wistfulness. As she went on Mason turned his face toward her, and her eyes fell and her voice faltered.

"That's glorious!" he said. "Go on."

The wind swept up the slope and through the leaning white bodies of the birches with a sadness like the poem. The wild barley bowed and streamed in the wind like an old man's beard; the poem struck deep into secret moods, incommunicable in words--and music came to carry the words. The girl's eyes were sweet and serious and the lovely lines of her lips shifted and wavered.

Mason suddenly reached out and took the girl's right hand. Her voice died out and her eyes met his. He drew her hand toward him and laid his lips upon it.

"You're a poet," he said. "You have found your voice, and I--I love you because you are a poet and because you are a beautiful woman."

The touch of his bearded lips upon her hand was the event of her life, and the whole world reshaped itself. His praise of her poem, her victory over him as a critic was great, but his final words drowned in fierce light the flame of her art's enthusiasm.

Once more a man's voice came to her, filled with entreaty and command, but in this case she had no reservations. It was well, it was inevitable, and it was glorious to set her face toward wifehood and fame with such a man as companion, friend and lover.

A couple of weeks later, Mason came down from his room with a grim look on his face. He stepped out on the porch and stood there feeling the change in the air. The summer was over.