It did not rain the next day. On the contrary, it was as bright and
blithe a day as ever dawned. There was no plausible reason why a person
who went into the woods almost every Sunday should not go to-day.
“It would be too rude, just to walk off, if he thinks I meant him to
come along,” thought Miss Selby. “But perhaps he won’t say anything more
about it.”
He did not appear in the dining room while she ate her breakfast.
“Probably he’s still asleep,” she thought, with that pardonable pride
every one feels at being up before some one else.
He was not asleep. On the contrary, he was looking at her that very
moment, as she sat down at her precious table, eating the Sunday morning
coffee ring. He had breakfasted early on purpose, hoping that by so
doing he would avoid her, for the more he meditated upon her behavior,
the more sternly did he disapprove of it, and he had come downstairs
this morning resolved to be merely polite.
He could not help sitting at her table; certainly he didn’t want to, and
she had no right to treat him as if he were an annoying intruder. But,
no matter what she did, he intended to be polite.
And, as he sat on the veranda railing and observed her through the
window, he thought that perhaps it would not be so very difficult to be
polite to her. She looked rather nice this morning, in her neat, dark
dress, with the sun touching her brown hair to a warm brightness, and a
sort of Sunday tranquillity about her. He felt a chivalrous readiness to
take a walk in the woods with her; she might even point out all the
flowers and tell him facts about them, if she liked.
She arose, and he turned his head and contemplated the landscape, so
that he would not be looking at her when she came out of the door. Only,
she didn’t come. Although he kept his head turned aside for a long time,
he heard no sound of a door opening or of footsteps, nothing but the
subdued voices of the four old ladies who sat on the veranda, enjoying
the sunshine.
He glanced toward the dining room. She was not there. Very well;
probably she had changed her mind, and he would not be called upon to be
chivalrous, after all. He would have the whole day to himself, the whole
immensely long, blank, solitary day.
Miss Selby, however, had simply gone upstairs to put on her hat. Or,
rather, she put on three hats, one after the other, two rather old ones,
and one quite new. She decided in favor of an old one, and felt somewhat
proud of herself for this, because didn’t it show how little she cared
about strangers? If it happened to be a singularly becoming hat, she
couldn’t help it.
She went downstairs and out on the veranda, and there he was, even
bigger, she thought, than he had been last evening; a tremendous
creature, fairly towering above all the old ladies, and looking most
alarmingly masculine and strange.
Something like panic seized her. He was so absolutely a stranger; she
knew nothing whatever about him; he might be the most undesirable
acquaintance that ever breathed.
But when he said “Good morning,” she had to answer, and, in answering,
had to look at him, and was obliged to admit that his face was not
exactly sinister.
“Off for a stroll?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I am.”
There was a silence, then chivalry required Mr. Anderson to speak.
“Well--” he said. “If you don’t mind--I mean--I’d be very pleased--”
“Oh! Certainly!” said Miss Selby.
So off they went, together. They went across the lawn and down the road,
and after the first moment of awkwardness, they got on very well.
Indeed, it was extraordinary to see upon how many topics they thought
alike. They both agreed that it was a beautiful morning; that the spring
was the best time of the year, that the smell of pine needles warm in
the sun was unique and delightful, and that Mrs. Brown’s coffee was
very, very bad.
Then, according to Miss Selby’s directions, they turned off the highway
and entered the wood. It was not a thick and somber wood, but a lovely
little glade where slim silver birches grew, among bigger and more
stalwart trees, standing well spaced, so that the sun came through the
budding branches, making a delicate arabesque of light and shadow.
And it was all so fresh, so verdant, so joyous, like one of those
half-enchanted forests through which knights used to ride, long ago,
when the world was younger. It was so serene, and yet so gay, that even
Mr. Anderson, the champion of cities, was captivated.
He walked through that wood with Miss Selby, he saw how she looked when
she found violets growing, saw her, so to speak, in her natural habitat,
where she belonged, and that seemed to him something not easily to be
forgotten. There was Miss Selby, down on her knees, picking violets;
Miss Selby looking up at him, with that lovely color in her cheeks, and
her clear, candid eyes, asking him if they weren’t the “prettiest
things?”
He answered: “No!” with considerable emphasis, but somehow she did not
trouble to ask him what he meant.
She fancied that Mr. Anderson appeared to better advantage in the woods.
Seen among the trees he didn’t seem too large; indeed, with his blond
crest, his mighty shoulders, his long, easy stride, he was not in the
least like a bull in a china shop, but a notably fine-looking young
fellow.
In short, when Miss Selby and Mr. Anderson returned to the boarding
house for the midday dinner, they no longer disliked each other.