The Golden Woman Part 14

"Sleepin'-soot?" A pair of round, wondering eyes stared out through the old woman's gla.s.ses.

The girl pointed at the silk trousers and jacket lying just inside the nearest trunk, and the farm-wife picked them up gingerly, letting them unfold as she did so. Just for one moment she inspected them, then she hurriedly let them drop back into the trunk as though they were some dangerous reptile, and, folding her arms, glared into the girl's smiling face in comical reproach.

"You sure don't wear them pants, miss--at night? Not reely?" she exclaimed in horrified tones.

The girl's smile hardened.

"Why, yes. Lots of girls wear sleeping-suits nowadays."

"You don't say!"

The old woman pursed up her lips in strong disapproval. Then, with a disdainful sniff, she went on--

"Wot gals ain't comin' to I don't know, I'm sure. Wot with silk next their skin an' them draughty stockin's, as you might say, things is gettin' to a pretty pa.s.s. Say, I wouldn't put myself into them pants, no, not if the President o' the United States was to stand over me an'

wouldn't let me put on nuthin' else."

The girl refrained from reply, but the obvious impossibility of the feat appealed to her sense of humor. However, the solution of her riddle was of prevailing interest, so she returned again to her questioning.

"Did he say how he found me?" she demanded. "Did he tell you any--any particulars of what happened to the cart, and--and the teamster?"

"No, ma'm--miss, beggin' your pardin,--that he didn't. I never see sech a fresh feller outside a noospaper office. An' him the owner of this farm that was, but isn't, as you might say. You take my word for it he'll come to a bad end, he sure will. Wot with them wicked eyes of his, an' that black, Dago-lookin' hair. I never did see a feller who looked more like a scallawag than him. Makes me shiver to think of him a-carryin' you in his two arms. Wher' from sez I--_an' why_?"

"Because I couldn't walk, I expect," the girl replied easily.

The farm-wife shook a fat, warning finger at her.

"Oh, ma'm--miss--that's wot he says! You jest wait till you've got more experience o' scallawags like him an' you'll sure know. Wot I sez is men's that full o' tricks wher' females is to be deceived it 'ud take 'em a summer vacation sortin' 'emselves out. Men is shockin'

scallawags," she finished up, flinging the shoes pell-mell into the open trunk.

A further rescue of her property was necessary and the girl protested.

"Please don't bother any more with those clothes," she cried hurriedly. "I'll see to them myself." Then, as the woman proceeded to mop her perspiring brow with a pair of silk stockings, she sprang up and thrust a hand-towel toward her. "Use this; you'll find it more absorbent than--er--silk."

The old woman thanked her profusely, and made the exchange. And when the operation was completed the relieved girl returned to her seat and went on with her examination.

"What did you say his name was?"

"I didn't say. An' he didn't tell me, neither. Fellers like him ain't never ready with their names. Maybe he calls himself Moreton Kenyon.

Y' see he was the same as handed the farm over, an' you tol' me, back ther' in Leeson b.u.t.te, you'd bo't Moreton Kenyon's farm. 'Moreton Kenyon!' Sort o' high-soundin' name for such a scallawag. I don't never trust high-soundin' names. They're most like whitewash. You allus set that sort o' stuff on hog-pens an' sech, as you might say."

"Perhaps he's not as bad as you suspect," the girl suggested kindly.

"Lots of good people start by making a bad impression."

"I don't know what that means," cried the other promptly. "But I do know what a scallawag is, an' that's him."

It was useless to seek further information from such a source, so the girl abandoned the attempt, and dismissed the pig-headed housekeeper to her work, work which she felt she was far better suited to than such a delicate operation as the straightening out a wardrobe.

When Mrs. Ransford had taken her unwilling departure, not without several well-meaning protests, the girl bent her own energies to restoring order to her wardrobe. Nor was it an easy task. The masculine manner of the bedroom left much to be desired in those little depositories and cupboards, without which no woman can live in comfort. And during the process of disposing her belongings many mental notes were made for future alterations in the furnishings of her new abode.

It was not a bad room, however. The simplicity and cleanliness of it struck wholesomely upon her. Yes, in spite of what her lieutenant had said about him, Mr. Moreton Kenyon was certainly a man of some refinement. She had never heard that such neatness and cleanliness was the habit amongst small bachelor farmers in the outlands of the West.

And this was the man who had carried her--where from?

Again she sat down in the rocker and gave herself up to the puzzlement of those hours of her unconsciousness. The last event that was clear in her mind was the struggle of the teamster to keep his horses head-on for the bank of the flooded river. She remembered the surging waters, she remembered that the bottom of the cart was awash, and that she sat with her feet lifted and resting on the side of the vehicle.

She remembered that the horses were swimming before the driver's flogging whip and blasphemous shoutings. All this was plain enough still. Then came the man's order to herself. He warned her to get ready to jump, and she had been quick to realize the necessity. In spite of the horses' wildest struggles the cart was being washed down-stream. Then had come his final shout. And she had jumped on the instant.

At this point of her recollections things became confused. She had a hazy memory of floundering in the water, also she remembered a heavy blow on the shoulder. Then some one seemed to seize hold of her. It must have been the teamster, though she did not remember seeing him in the water. How she got out was a mystery to her. Again it must have been the teamster. Then what of him? Mrs. Ransford had not spoken of him. Had he, too, escaped? or had he--she shuddered. For some moments her thoughts depressed her. The thought of a brave man's life sacrificed for her was too terrible.

But after a while she continued in a lighter strain. It was at this point that the blank began. True, she seemed to have some dim recollection of a rough hut. It seemed to be made of logs. Then, too, she had a dreamy sort of cognizance of a number of men's voices talking. Then--no, there was nothing more after that. Nothing until she awoke and found herself in bed, with a strange doctor standing over her.

It was all very puzzling, but--she turned toward the window as the afternoon sun fell athwart it and lit the plain interior of her new bedroom, searching the corners and the simple furnishings of the carpetless room.

From where she sat she could see the barns and corrals, and beyond them the heavy-hued pine woods. Then, away out far, far in the distance, the endless white snowcaps of the purpling hills. What a scene to her unaccustomed eyes. The breadth of it. The immensity.

She drew a deep breath and sat up.

She was dressed in a simple white shirt-waist and blue serge skirt, and her ma.s.ses of red-gold hair were loosely coiled about her well-shaped head. The eager light of interest in her violet eyes lit her beautiful young face, lending it an animation which added a wonderful vitality to her natural beauty. The firm, rich lips were parted eagerly. The wide-open eyes, so deeply intelligent, shone with a l.u.s.tre of delight there was no mistaking. Her rounded bosom rose and fell rapidly as the glad thought flew through her brain that this--this was her new home, where she was to forget the past and shut out all recollection of that evil shadow which had so long pursued her.

Yes, this was the beginning of her new life. Joan Stanmore was dead, and out of the ashes had arisen Joan Rest, ready to face the world in a spirit of well-doing bachelorhood. Here, here in the wild mountain world, where men were few and apart from her old life, she could face the future with perfect confidence.

She breathed a deep sigh of contentment and lolled back in the rocker, dropping her eyes from the snow-crowned hills to the precious little farm that was all hers. Then, in an instant, she sat up again as the tall figure of a young man appeared round the corner of the barn.

For some moments she followed his movements wonderingly. He walked straight over to the hay corral with long, easy strides. There was none of the slouch of a man idling about him. His whole att.i.tude was full of distinct purpose. She saw him enter the corral and mount the half-cut haystack, and proceed to cut deeper into it. A moment later he pitched the loose hay to the ground, and himself slid down on to it. Then, stooping, he gathered it in his arms and left the corral.

Now she saw his face for the first time. It was dark. Nor could she be certain that his coloring was due to sunburn. His eyes were dark, too, and his hair. He was a good-looking man, she decided, and quite young.

But how tall. And what shoulders. She wondered who he was, and what he was doing on her farm.

Then, of a sudden, she remembered she had spoken of a hired man to Mrs. Ransford. Had she----?

Her reflections were cut short by the sudden appearance of the farm-wife from the house. The old woman trotted hastily across the yard toward the barn, her fat sides shaking as she waddled, and her short, stout arms violently gesticulating. Joan needed nothing more than the good woman's back view to tell her that the dame was very angry, and that it was the stranger who had inspired her wrath. She waited, smiling, for the _denouement_.

It came quickly. It came with the reappearance of the stranger round the corner of the barn. What a splendid specimen of a man, she thought, as she watched the expression of unruffled calm on his strong features. His shirt sleeves were rolled well up above his elbows, and even at that distance she could see the deep furrows in his arms where the rope-like muscles stood out beneath the thin, almost delicate skin.

But her attention was quickly diverted by the clacking of the farm-wife's tongue. She could hear it where she sat with the window tight shut. And though she could not hear the words it was plain enough from the violence of her gesticulations that she was rating the patient man soundly. So patent was it, so dreadful, that even in her keenest interest Joan found herself wondering if Mr. Ransford were dead, and hoping that, if he were, his decease had occurred in early youth.

Nor had the man made any attempt at response. She was sure of it, because she had watched his firm lips, and they had not moved. Perhaps he had found retort impossible. It was quite possible, for the other had not paused a moment in her tirade. What a flow. It was colossal, stupendous. Joan felt sorry for the man.

What a patience he had. Nor had his expression once altered. He merely displayed the thoughtful attention that one might bestow, listening to a brilliant conversationalist or an interesting story. It was too ridiculous, and Joan began to laugh.

Then the end came abruptly and without warning. Mrs. Ransford just swung about and trotted furiously back to the house. Her face was flaming, and her fat arms, flourishing like unlimber flails, were pointing every verbal threat she hurled over her shoulder at the spot where the man had stood. Yes, he had vanished again round the corner of the barn, and the poor woman's best efforts were quite lost upon the warm summer air.

But her purpose was obvious, and Joan prepared herself for a whirlwind visitation. Nor had she long to wait. There was a shuffling of feet out in the pa.s.sage, and, the next moment, the door of her room was unceremoniously flung open and the indignant woman staggered in.

"Well, of all the impidence, of all the sa.s.s, of all the ignorant b.u.ms that ever I----!" She exploded, and stood panting under the strain of her furious emotions.

But Joan felt she really must a.s.sert herself. This sort of reign of terror must not go on.

"Don't fl.u.s.ter yourself, Mrs. Ransford," she said calmly. "I'll see to the matter myself."