“I didn’t mean to be inquisitive,” he said quickly.
“But you were—” she insisted.
“Yes,” he admitted, “I’m afraid I was.”
“Names don’t matter—here, do they? The woods are impersonal. Can’t you and I be impersonal, too?”
“I suppose so, but my curiosity is rather natural—under the circumstances.”
“I don’t intend to gratify it.”
“Why not? My name–”
“Because—I prefer not,” she said firmly. And then: “These fish are delicious. Some more tea, please!”
He looked at her while she drank and then took the cup from her hand without replying. Her chin he discovered could fall very quickly into lines of determination. Her attitude amused him. She was, it seemed, a person in the habit of having things her own way and it even flattered him that she had discerned that he must acquiesce.
“You shall have your own way,” he laughed amusedly, “but if I call you ‘Hey, there,’ don’t be surprised.”
“I won’t,” she smiled.
When they had finished the last of the tea he got up, washed the two dishes at the stream, and relit the ashes of last night’s pipe.
“The Committee of Ways and Means will now go into executive session,” he began. “I haven’t the least idea where we are. I may have traveled ten miles yesterday or twenty. I’ve lost my bearings, that’s sure, and so have you. There are two things to do—one of them is to find our way out by ourselves and the other is to let somebody find it for us. The first plan isn’t feasible until you are able to walk–”
“I could manage with my crutch.”
“No, I’m afraid that won’t do. There’s no use starting off until we know where we’re going.”
“But you said you thought you could–”
“I still think so,” he put in quickly, noting the sudden anxious query in her eyes. “I’ll find my back-trail, but it may take time. Meanwhile you’ve got to eat, and keep dry.”
“It isn’t going to rain.”
“Not now, but it may any time. I’ll get you comfortable here and then I’ll take to the woods–”
“And leave me alone?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to. We have four fish remaining—little ones. Judging by my appetite they’re not quite enough for lunch—and we must have more for supper.”
“I’ll catch them.”
“No, you must rest to-day. I have my automatic, too,” he went on. “I’m not a bad shot. Perhaps, I may bring some meat.”
“But I can’t stay here and—do nothing.”
“You can help fix the shack. I’ll get the birch now.”
He was moving off into the brush when she called him back.
“I hope you didn’t think me discourteous awhile ago. I really didn’t mean to be. You—you’ve been very good. I don’t think I realized that we might have to be here long. You understand—under the circumstances, I thought I’d rather not—have you know anything about me. It doesn’t matter, really, I suppose.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” politely, and he went into the underbrush, leaving her sitting at the fire. When he came back with his first armful of canoe birches, she was still sitting there; but he went on gathering birch and firewood, whistling cheerfully the while. She watched him for a moment and then silently got up with the aid of her crutch and reached for her rod and creel. She had hobbled past him before he realized her intention.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he protested.
“I must do my share–”
“You’d do it better by saving your foot.”
“I won’t hurt my foot. I can use it a little now.”
“If you slipped, things might go badly with you.”
“I won’t fall. I’m going down stream to get the fish for lunch.”
She adjusted her crutch and moved on. Her voice was even gay, but there was no denying the quality of her resolution. He shrugged his shoulders lightly and watched her until she had disappeared in the bushes, and when he had finished his tasks, he took up rod and creel and followed the stream in the opposite direction.
Of course, she had every right to keep her identity a secret, if she chose, but it annoyed him a little to think that he had laid himself open even to so slight a rebuff. Morning seemed to have made a difference in the relations, a difference he was as yet at some pains to define. Last night he had been merely a chance protector, upon whose hospitality she had been forced against her will and he had done only what common humanity demanded of him. The belief that her predicament was only temporary, had for the time given her the assurance the situation required; but with the morning, which had failed to bring aid she had expected from her people, her obligations to him were increasing with the hours. If, as he had indicated, it might be several days or even more before she could find her way to camp, she must indeed expect to find herself completely upon his mercies. Gallatin smiled as he cast his line. With its other compensations daylight had not brought him or his companion the pleasure of an introduction! Silly little fool! Of what value were introductions in the heart of the ancient wood—or elsewhere for that matter! No mere spoken words could purge his heart—or any man’s! Vain conventions! The hoary earth was mocking at them.
A swirl in the brown pool below him, a flash of light! Gallatin swore softly. Two pounds and a half at least! And he had lost him!
This wouldn’t do. He was fishing for his dinner now—their dinner. He couldn’t afford to make many more mistakes like that—not with another mouth to fill. Why should he care who or what she was! The Gallatins had never been of a curious disposition and he wondered that he should care anything about the identity of this chance female thrown upon his protection. She was not in any way unusual. He was quite sure that any morning in New York he would have passed a hundred like her on the street without a second glance. She had come with the falling evening, wrapped in mystery and had shaken his rather somber philosophy out of its bearings. Night had not diminished the illusion; and once, when the spell of the woods had held them for a moment in its thrall, he had been on the point of taking her in his arms. Did she know how near she had been to that jeopardy? He fancied so. That was why things were different to-day. It was the sanity of nine o’clock in the morning, when there was no firelight to throw shadows among the trees and the voyageurs no longer sang among the rapids. In an unguarded moment she had shown him a shadowed corner of her spirit and was now resenting it. A woman’s chief business in life, he realized, was the hiding of her own frailties, the sources of impulse and the repression of unusual emotions. She had violated these canons of her sex and justly feared that he might misinterpret her. What could she know of him, what expect—of a casual stranger into whose arms her helpless plight had literally thrown her? He was forced to admit, at the last, that to a modest woman the situation was trying.
He fished moodily, impatiently and unsuccessfully, losing another fish in the pool above. Things were getting serious. His mind now intent, he cast again farther up, dropping the fly skillfully just above a tiny rapid. There he was rewarded; for a fish struck viciously, not so large a one as the first, but large enough for one meal for his companion at least. His spirits rose. He was at peace again with the world, in the elysium of the true fisher who has landed the first fish of the day.
A moment ago he had thought her commonplace. He admitted now that he had been mistaken. A moment ago he had been trying to localize her by the token of some treacherous trick of speech or intonation and had almost been ready to assign her to that limbo of all superior indigenous New Yorkers—“the West”; now he was even willing to admit that she was to all intents and purposes a cosmopolitan. The sanity of nine o’clock in the morning had