Part 7 (1/2)

That was the introduction, an embarra.s.sment that fed the old woman's notion of fun. Milford stammered, and the young woman blushed.

”I did not say I did not want to meet you,” she said, with a slight accent, her unidiomatic English learned at school. ”I would not say such a thing. Mrs. Stuvic is full of jokes. She makes me laugh.” And she did laugh, strange echo from North Sea cliffs, the glow of the midnight in her eyes, a thought that shot through the cowboy's mind as he gazed upon her. Mrs. Stuvic went back, laughing, to the dining-room, having flushed the young woman and turned the dark man red.

”She is a very funny woman,” said the ”peach,” looking far across the meadow toward the lake, her long lashes slowly rising and falling. She was not beautiful; her features were not regular, but there was a marvelous light in her countenance, and her bronze-tinted hair was as rank in growth as the yellowing oats where the soil is rich and damp.

She looked to be just ripe, but was too lithe to be luscious. Mrs.

Blakemore said that her nose was slightly tipped up, a remark more slanderous than true, and when taken to task by an oldish woman who had no cause to be jealous, declared that it was not a matter of taste but a question of observation. At any rate, she had come as a yellow flash, and must soon fade.

Milford continued to gaze at her, wanting to say something, but not knowing what to say. He heard the gruff laughter of the men in the dining-room, joking with Mrs. Stuvic, and the romping of the children coming out.

”I guess that's the best rabbit dog anywhere around here,” he said, as a flea-bitten cur trotted past. He had never seen the dog hunt rabbits. He knew nothing about him except that he had been ordered to shoot him for howling, the dreary night when old Lewson died.

”He does not look that he could run very fast,” she replied, turning her eyes upon the dog.

”Oh, yes, he runs like a streak. He outran a pack of wolves up in the Wisconsin woods.”

”Wolves!” she said, looking at him.

He knew that he was a liar, but he said ”wolves.” He asked if she had ever seen any wolves. She had seen packs of coyotes on the prairie. ”I went to my uncle when I came to this country,” she said. ”He lived away in the West. I stayed there two years, and then I came with him to Chicago. I did not like it so far off. The wind was always blowing lonesome in the night, and I thought of my old home where the gra.s.s fringed the edge of the cliff.”

”Did you speak English before you came to this country?”

”I could read it, and I did read much--old tales of fierce fights on the sea.”

”How long do you expect to stay out here?”

”I am with Mrs. Goodwin, and when she says go, I go. She is very kind to me.”

Mrs. Goodwin came out, calling ”Gunhild.” She was tall, with grayish hair, and on the stage might have played the part of a d.u.c.h.ess. Her husband's affairs were prosperous, and she devoted herself to the discovery of genius. She had found a young girl with a marvelous voice, and had educated her into a common-rate singer, put her in opera, and the critics scorched her. The discoverer swallowed a lump of disappointment, and turned about to find another genius. In an obscure corner of a newspaper, she found a gem in verse, the soul-spurt of a young man. She sought him out, and paid for the printing of a volume of verses. The critics scoffed him, and she swallowed another lump. One of her a.s.sistant discoverers brought to her a pencil sketch of a buffalo, and this led to the finding of Gunhild Strand. The girl was modest. She disclaimed genius, but she was sent to the Art Inst.i.tute; she would climb the mountain. But she got no higher than the foot-hills. ”I did not have any confidence in myself,” the girl declared. ”And now I must work for you to pay you for what has been spent.” This was surely a proof that she had no genius, but it was an evidence of grat.i.tude, a rarer quality, and Mrs. Goodwin was pleased. ”You shall be my companion,” she said, ”Your society will more than repay me. You must not refuse. I set my heart upon it.”

Milford was introduced, and the stately woman threw her searchlight upon him. Here might be another genius.

”They tell me, Mr. Milford, that you are a man of great industry.”

”They might have told you, madam, that I am a great fool.”

Ha! a gleam of true light. She warmed toward him. She thought of Burns plowing up a mouse. But she was skeptical of poets. They have a contempt for their patrons if their wares do not sell.

”You credit them with too shrewd a discovery,” she replied.

”I simply give them credit for ordinary eyesight, madam.”

”You prove the contrary.” She smiled upon him. ”They tell me that you came like a mist, out of the mysterious woods.”

”A fog from the marsh,” he replied, laughing; and the ”peach” laughed, too--more music from the North Sea. He saw the pink of her arm through the gauze of her sleeve. Mrs. Goodwin thought that he knew nothing about women, and she was right, but, as a rule, if rule can be applied, a woman thinks this of a man when, indeed, he has mastered innocent hearts to make wantons of them.

”Where is your field?” the discoverer inquired.

”Over yonder, where the sun is hottest.”

”And your house?”

”Over on the hill, yonder, where the wind will blow coldest in winter.”