The Wrong Woman. Charles D. Stewart
the cover on the stew-pan, straightened up, and spoke.
"Good-evening," she said. This in a tone of positive welcome (possibly a little overdone).
"How do you do," he replied.
"I have just been making use of your fire-hole. And your coffee-pot. You see I was—I was—"
"Oh, that's all right. That's all right. Just make yourself right at home. Are the men folks gone somewhere?" He cast his eyes about.
"There are no—no men folks. You see I was just coming along by myself—alone—without anybody—any men folks." These words nearly choked her. But immediately she added, with the most brightening smile, "I was so frightened by your dog. He scared me so."
Having said this, she dropped her eyes to the stew-pan, the contents of which seemed to need attention just at that moment.
"Oh, he won't bite. Anyway, he won't bite you. He knows ladies."
"I am so afraid of them," she said, her eyes still occupied.
She needed a moment to recover her courage, thinking rapidly. And as for the man, he thought nothing whatever; he just looked. She was bright-eyed and fair and wholly perfect. She was dressed in plain black, with deep white cuffs which turned back upon the sleeves, and a white turnover collar, as neat as a nun. Offsetting, somehow, the severity of this, was the boyish side-sweep of her hair, and the watch-chain looped to a crocheted pocket on her breast. And on the ground lay the soldierly three-cornered hat.
To a man who had been expecting to come home to doughy hot bread and fried rabbit and solitude, this was a surprise. It was somewhat as if Providence had taken note of his case and sent out a Sister of Charity; and one who had the charming advantage of being also a dimpled Daughter of the Regiment. Once his eye had taken in the regular contour of her nose and rested on that dimple, his gaze did not wander. He did not even wink—it would have been a complete loss of looking. When she removed the lid from the saucepan a spicy aroma spread itself abroad. Dog and herder sniffed the evening air, sampling the new odor. It was a whiff of Araby the Blest.
"As I was just going to explain," she said, straightening up again, "I had an accident with my horse. I came in here to find a water-hole and he ran away and threw me off. Then I found I was lost"; and she went on to relate the details of her adventure up to the time of her arrival at the shack.
As she spoke, she felt as if she had been thrust out into the middle of a big empty stage to make a speech to that momentous audience of one man—a speech upon which everything depended. However panic-stricken she might be, she must not show it. For that would give him an opening for assurances, for allusions which would have to be recognized, for asseverations which would have to be formally confided in—intimacy. And that must not be. The least betrayal of fear by her would bring it about. There must not be even the suggestion of a situation. It had been a godsend that, upon the first failure of her courage, the dog had offered himself as a reason. The dog had made an excellent cover for her trepidation. And now it was a support to feel that the dog was walking about—an object upon which to saddle her nervous apprehension at any moment when she lost control.
She delivered her speech with a naturalness and ease which surprised her. She even added a little high-handed touch or two, referring to the aggravation of being thrown by one's horse and thus delayed in one's business; not to speak of being made such an intruder.
The man stood and listened to the music of her voice. As she began to speak with so much ease, he was smitten with a consciousness of his personal appearance, with the four awkward legs dangling down in front of him. In hope of making a more manly figure before her, he set the lamb down, feasting his eyes meanwhile upon the dainty repast and the two white napkins spread upon the ground. And when he stood up again, no one knew less than he whether he had set the lamb on its legs or its back or stood it on its head. It now occurred to him that he had not removed his hat. He did so immediately.
"And as I was coming across the range," she continued, "I saw your place. I had been so tired and hungry that I had lost my appetite. A person does, you know. But I was just dying for a cup of hot coffee. So I decided to use your conveniences. And I intended to leave your fire-hole burning for you—"
"Oh, that's all right. I 'm glad you did."
She gave a sudden little scream. This was so unexpected that the man, whose nerves were not easily touched, drew himself up straighter and stared at her in amazement.
"Oo-o-o-o-o!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together and fixing her gaze upon the supper.
It was the lamb again. It was standing right in the middle of the feast, its legs spread as usual and one foot deep in the sugar-bowl. The lamb was waiting. It was waiting till the spirit should move it to the next idiotic thing to do; and it would no doubt have achieved it had not the man taken quick action. He seized upon the lamb precipitately and snatched it away; then he stood with one hand around its middle and its long legs hanging down, with the four hoofs together.
"Oh, is n't that a sw-e-e-et little lamb!" she exclaimed, delightedly. "Oh, is n't he a darling!"
"Well—yes," said the man, holding it out and regarding it critically. "It was certainly trying to be a sweet little lamb."
She blushed. She had not seen the lamb all by himself, before; and these were the first free and natural words she had spoken. After this spontaneous outburst she proceeded more guardedly.
"And after the coffee was on," she continued, "I thought it would be such a shame for a man to have to get his own supper after I had left, with so much to eat. So I intended to leave your supper for you. That is in case you did n't come along when I—I—You see I did n't expect you home so early." To which she quickly added, "You know, when I first came along, I thought the place might possibly be vacant. Of course, I had to go in and see; and then, as long as I had already made so free, I thought I might as well use your coffee-pot and things. And your coffee, too."
"Oh, that's all right—perfectly all right. This place does n't all belong to me. There's plenty of room for everybody."
He delivered this with a sweep of his arm that seemed to give her everything inside the horizon, and possibly lap over the edges.
"So I did take your coffee—and sugar. And I hope you 'll like what I have."
"Judging by the looks, it's mighty good. Perfectly grand. But I 'll go now and put this lamb where he won't be scaring us again Miss—— Excuse me, but I haven't asked your name."
"My name is Smith. Janet Smith."
"My name is Brown. Stephen Brown. Glad to meet you, Miss Smith."
He put his hat to his head in order to take it off. She acknowledged the formality with a slight bow.
"I 'll go and fix this lamb," he resumed. "I intended to do some repairing before sundown; that's why I came home a little early. But it's rather late now to do much. There's other work I have to 'tend to, though. I hope it won't take very long."
So saying, he started away. When he had gone a little distance, and observed that the dog was remaining behind, an interested spectator, he called back: "Don't mind him if he watches you. His name is Shep. He likes ladies."
Janet finished setting Mr. Brown's table, which consisted of a place where the grass was worn short. When he was working among the sheep with his back turned, she patted the dog on the head with the greatest familiarity. Janet "loved" dogs. When next she looked up to see what had become of her guest, or host, he was disappearing in the deep little gully.
CHAPTER III
When the shack rose upon her vision, Janet's spirits gave a leap. A mere box it was, in the image of a house; but yet, from the moment its countenance appeared on the scene, that lost and lorn