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 prairie seemed to
have found a place for itself. The whole interminable region attached
itself to the shack and became a front and backyard; the landscape was
situated and set right, knowing its right hand from its left. Four
walls, a roof, and a door--all the things necessary to make a
threshold, that magic line across which woman faces the world with the
courage of divine right. At the end of a lonesome, laborious day she
saw it; and she hurried to it with a sort of homing instinct. Opening
the door, she gave a start and stepped back. Another's "things" were
in it. Now what should she do? It was a question with half a dozen
answers; and they all said, Go.
Just outside the door was a box with a hinged lid. It contained
kitchenware and supplies. There was the coffee-pot--and coffee. As
there was no one in sight (rolling ground is very deceptive), she
decided that, tired as she was and with the journey still before her,
this opportunity of rest and a comfortable supper, with plenty of
strong hot coffee, ought to be taken advantage of. Then, as soon as
supper was over, she would retire from the scene and consider what was
best to do. She would sit down and try her courage in the dark.
Possibly, under cover of night, she would come in closer to his
camp-fire and sit there on her slicker. Or maybe there would be two
men! But at present it was all undecidable, almost unthinkable; she
must take this little respite from being lost and try to make the most
of things.
The twigs of half-dried mesquite did not kindle readily. With fanning
and blowing the fire consumed a great deal of time and matches; but at
last it got itself into the spirit of burning. In the midst of these
preparations she heard the bark of a dog and a medley of _baas_, and
looking round the corner of the shack she saw that it was too late.
When Mr. Brown had recovered from his surprise and excused himself, she
became very industrious indeed, flitting about on the little space of
ground like a bird in a cage. Despite her confusion, her mother wit
was still with her, prompting her to cover her agitation with the
appearance of housewifely activity; so every time that she beat against
the bars of her situation she carried a fork or a spoon or the lid of
something. She set his place, fed the fire, put on more coffee. He
continued to work about the corral. Though the sight of him was not
quieting, she glanced up often enough to keep track of him. He seemed
to take his time.
Janet, partially blinded by too much attention to the fire, looked up
through the dusk as he went to the edge of the little gully and
descended. He was a "full fathom of a man," and as he sank from sight
his length seemed to go right down through the surface of things, like
Hamlet's father retiring to the lower regions. When, finally, his head
had disappeared, she dropped her pretense of being cheerfully occupied
and turned her attention in another direction. She looked hard at the
shack--its door half open and the two bunks showing. Her brows drew
closer together, with the enigma between them. That little Home, to
which she had hurried with such a feeling of relief, had taken on a
different guise. It was now the place she must get away from. At the
same time black night was coming on as if to drive her into it. The
sun was sinking. In the east the vanguard of darkness was already
advancing. She gripped her chin tensely and tried to think, her
forefinger pressed deep into the dimple. On the upper bunk was a faded
blue blanket; the lower one was red.
Which way should she turn, or how conduct herself? Dreading to go and
afraid to stay, she was confronted with a problem the terms of which
seemed only able to repeat themselves. With the terrors of the night
before her, she dared not venture away from this man; her very nature
courted his presence. His strength and fearlessness she found herself
clinging to as if he belonged to her--and yet he was a menace! Of
course there might be nothing to fear if---- But If was the dove that
found no rest for the sole of its foot.
The problem presented difficulty on every hand, as if things were on
his side. The darkness and the shack worked together to prevent
escape; they seemed to have her completely surrounded.
What sort of man was he?
Repeatedly she had taken note of his features, but only to feel more
deeply how little can be told in that way. Her inability to decide
what impression he _should_ have made on her was tantalizing--the
aching question still remained. The face is but a likeness; you should
know the original. And yet his countenance, so strongly painted on her
mind, seemed always on the point of answering her profoundest query.
It was as if she knew him. She now contemplated her mental image more
deeply, feeling that she could get behind that countenance and have
absolute knowledge. But it was a delusion. The soul is invisible.
In utter homelessness she gazed down at that little space of ground
allotted to him and her. And the supper which united them. In nature
there seemed to be no barrier between man and woman; their paths led
toward each other. The flat ground seemed paved with gradual
ingratiating approach; and no defense but outcry--too terrible and too
late. Surely too late, for he was in the position of her protector,
and she would have to assume that he was a gentleman; and how is a girl
by that prairie camp-fire going to say just how much room her person
shall occupy? Then how shall she set safe bounds? With the darkness
closing in around her she felt trapped.
Her wits hard-pressed by this paradoxical plight, she looked with new
longing at the shack. She felt that if she were on the other side of
that threshold, and it were hers by right, she could stand behind it
with some assurance of power against him, some dependence in forces not
her own. For a door-sill is definite, and on it rises a formal
spectre; but the way to a woman's heart is not so. Out here there were
no set bounds; nothing to give pause at a distance showing the first
and fatal step: no line in nature which becomes evident before it has
been passed. Without it the moral dead-line was too close. Oh! if
that shack were only hers--the rights of its lockless door.
But it was not hers. Thus Janet's imagination battered at the doors of
Home, scarcely knowing what she thought, but taking mental action,
nevertheless, in the face of circumstance and the quick speech of
things. It seemed to her--afterwards--that never till that moment had
she seen the full nature of Home. That she could see any of its
features, even for a moment, in a shack so frail that a boot could
break it, did not seem reasonable, even to her; but the strength of a
house is not all in locks and bars. She had caught the depth of the
man's first charmed look at her. Even a shack can excuse one from the
scene, extinguish the light of beauty, and then say with the voice of
Society--keep out. Thus things do not so easily and gradually come to
an issue. But before her was only the prospect of her open presence,
without screen or barrier or warning sign. And she, on her part, had
not failed to note that, besides his straightness and look of strength,
there was something of virile charm. What a terrible thing to be a
woman! So, having turned instinctively to the shack, and recoiled from
it, and then, with nothing else in sight, returned to it with the
imagination of despair, there was nothing left but to turn about and
stand with equal bafflement before the closed secrets of his soul.
As if by a deeper instinct, rewarding her efforts, she saw in him
certain abilities for evil--deep, deliberate, and daring. He had quite
deliberately left her; then he had, as deliberately, and without saying
a word, gone down into that place. The little gully was as steep,
almost, as a grave, deep, long, and narrow. Her eyes turned toward its
gloomy shape. What could he be doing down there? What thinking? She
could hear her watch tick. A meaningless _baa_ broke out in the corral
and went round in changing tones among the sheep. While she is so
standing, let us take a look at affairs in the gully.
Mr. Brown, upon arriving at the bottom, proceeded to cast a burden from
his breast--first, a stone which he had been saving for an opossum, a
rawhide thong, a newspaper which had done duty over and over, and which
he kept in hope that it might yield up some further bit of news, and
finally, the rabbit, all of which he dropped on the ground beside his
hat; and then, getting down on his knees, he washed his face. Having
spluttered vigorously into double-handfuls of water from the little
stream and put the towel back on its bush, he turned his attention to
his twelve-dollar boots--for in the country of boots and saddles the
leatherwork is the soul of appearances. He removed the mud with his
knife and brushed off the dust with the rabbit. Finding that this
latter operation promised finer results, he damped the boots with the
tips of his fingers, and taking hold of the long ears and hind legs he
worked the rabbit back and forth so industriously that a fair polish
came forth. With a careless twirl he threw the rabbit away. It was
probably as well for Janet that she had no knowledge of what he was
doing down there; she would have been terrified by these too evident
indications of his intentions. Having combed his hair and brushed his
clothes with the palms of his hands, he felt generally renovated and
pulled together; he took his hat in hand and straightened up in
readiness to make his appearance. Then he sat down.
Before him was the spring with night already in its depths. The little
stream murmured of its flowing in the overhanging grass, and caught the
color of the sunset as it ran out into the open. A little farther on
it emptied its reflections into a pool of gold. Steve Brown, having in
his mind's eye a vision lovelier than this, and much more interesting,
rested his gaze on a dark spot which was the spring. At first, her
presence at his firehole had seemed unreal; and yet perfectly natural.
It was very much as if she had just stepped down out of the sky and
said, "Your wish has come true." At least, he had been wishing that he
had something fit to eat, having become dissatisfied with himself as a
cook. His period of due consideration did not take long; he again
picked up his hat, and after a momentary pause in this vestry or
anteroom of the scene he made his entrance.
Janet, having done the last possible thing to the supper, stood her
ground bravely as he issued from the trench and marched upon her camp;
for so it seemed to her, so conscious she was of swinging thighs and
formidable front as he advanced. He hung his sombrero on a nail at the
corner of the shack, apologized for his delay, and stood with his arms
folded, awaiting her orders.
"Sit right down, Mr. Brown," she said, indicating his place and smiling
as best she could. She seated herself on the grass opposite.
"It is very fine weather we are having, Mr. Brown," she remarked.
"Yes; it was a fine day. Nice and bright; but a little chilly."
"It looks as if it might stay this way," she added.
"Yes--I think it will. Hope it will anyway. But you can't tell."
The last remark had the effect of bringing their beginning to an
end--as if this pliable subject had broken off in too strong hands.
While she poured the coffee, he served the meat, which she had put at
his place; and when he saw her take up his well-filled cup he lifted
her plate at the same moment and passed it to her, giving and receiving
together. In the midst of this exchange, Janet (probably owing to the
ceremonious way in which he did it) suddenly saw into the little
formality as if a strange new light had been shed upon it; and
instantly she felt that if she had it to do again she would not set the
table in this husband-and-wife way. She was smitten with
self-consciousness; and thinking it over it seemed strange that she,
who was so anxious to avoid all suggestion of intimacy, could have
arranged such a token between them and not have been aware of it. In
that all-silent place the act was like words--as if mere Things had
spoken out loud.
"That is a pretty bouquet you have," he remarked.
The reference was to some spring flowers which she had plucked upon
arriving and used to fill up her cup of joy, the said cup being one of
Mr. Brown's.
"Yes; I thought they were very sweet. In looks, I mean. Especially
that blue kind." Then suddenly, as the thought struck her, "But you
see so _many_ of them!"
For a moment he looked disconcerted, like a man accused of something.
Inquiringly he looked at the flowers, first at the ones which belonged
to her, then at the thousands just like them all around.
"But so did _you_ see a great many of them." This was his defense.
"Oh, yes---- Well--but what I meant"--the fact being that she did not
know what she meant any more than he knew what he meant--"was---- Of
course _you_ would n't pick them for a bouquet, though, would you?"
Instantly she felt that matters had been made worse. It was like
offering final proof that he had not admired her flowers, really; and
what was his defense?
"Oh, no--I suppose I would n't. That is, not for myself."
It was the first step of his approach!
"Some people do not care for flowers so much as others do," she
answered hurriedly. "I have even heard of persons to whom the perfume
was offensive; especially in damp, warm weather. Odors are always
strongest in damp weather, you know."
It was a relief to feel that she had been able to lead away from it.
This put them on the weather again; then ensued a conversation
perfectly inconsequential, and yet remarkable, to Janet at least, for
the amount of guidance it needed. She felt, as if her fate depended on
it, that there must be nothing of intimacy, not even suggestion. So
much might come from the drift of the conversation. She kept it as
inconsequential as she could--a sort of chat hardly worth setting down
except great art had been shown in it. Had Janet been a more
experienced woman, and one with the firm sure touch of the
conversational pilot, there might be some interest in charting out her
secret course, showing all the quick invisible moves that were made,
and how she steered through swift hidden dangers and grazed imminent
perils unscathed, chatting inconsequentially all the while. But Janet
was not that. She was little more than a girl.
She did the best she could. Meanwhile the flowers flaunted their
colors in the firelight, seeming now a danger signal to remind her of
her bungling start. The flowers! She wished she had not plucked them
or put them there. Those preferred posies, standing there apart from
the crowd just like them, looked perfectly foolish. She did not
understand what she had done it for. The moment she had made that
remark she saw the only reason why he admired them: it was simply
because they were _hers_. And she had almost pushed the matter to this
admission, so thoughtless she was.
While they talked, she took fuller observation of him, hoping to find
an answer to her great question. He wore a white shirt--this had
flashed upon her first of all. Further scrutiny told her that he had
better clothes than his calling would seem to allow, and in better
condition. His suit was gray, and though somewhat worn and
unfurbished, was evidently of fine quality. There was little about his
attire which would have attracted attention in a Northern city except,
possibly, the wide-brimmed hat and the boots with high heels. He was
about thirty years of age. In the shack shone a polished spur--there
seemed to be nothing else of cowboy accoutrement. She could not make
him out. He seemed taciturn at times and eyed her strangely.
Conversation can take such quick turns. Words, even mere things, can
pop up with such unlooked-for allusions. They had drifted into some
remarks upon sheep-herding, a trying occupation. Mr. Brown attested
its monotonous and wearing nature.
"Yes," she said, "it must be so. No doubt you are always glad enough,
Mr. Brown, when the time comes to get back home again."
"Yes--I prefer town to this. But I can't exactly say that it is like
going home nowadays. I have a house just outside of town on the
county-seat road. But a house is n't home."
"Oh, no, indeed. But a house is a very good thing to have--even in
this mild climate." She paused a moment. "But Texans," she added,
"keep the windows open so much, night and day, that one might just as
well sleep out of doors. There is no difference really."
Considered in all its bearings, this answer seemed an improvement; it
encouraged her for the moment. But it seemed impossible for them to
sit out there and talk in a man-to-man relation; they were Society.
The very phrases of society,--even the flowers, the supper, the yawning
shack,--everything, it seemed to her, was against it. It is in the
nature of things; and the Devil is on the man's side. They were Man
and Woman, sitting out there in that little circle of fire. It seemed
to her at times as if some terrible light were being thrown upon them
with a burning focus.
One precaution she tried to keep constantly before her. She must not
tell him her affairs--nothing of her situation in the world. It did
not seem advisable even to tell him the nature of her errand to the
county-seat; too much might be reasoned from it, of her helplessness.
Her great danger lay in being questioned: this must be avoided.
But strangely--and its strangeness grew upon her--he did not ask such
questions. He did not seem to have the least interest in her family,
her history, or the object of her journey. He asked where she was
going, a conventional question, perfunctorily put. His remarks all
seemed somewhat conventional. Even these she had sometimes to evade
and direct into other channels; and naturally a conversation, conducted
solely with the idea of concealing her affairs, did not prosper. He
began to say less. Finally he did not talk at all. He simply
listened. His quiet way of waiting for her to continue bore in upon
her as if it were some new quality of silence.
To meet the situation she returned to the subject of her adventure; she
recounted that day's travels with endless inconsequential comment and
explanation. If she paused, he made some obvious observation and
waited. Janet, rather than face awkward pauses, silences which she
could hardly support, would take up her travels again. She talked on
because there seemed no way to stop. His way of waiting for her to
continue seemed quite in keeping with that deliberateness which she had
already noted. What to make of it she did not know. It might be that
he was simply satisfied with the sound of her voice. Or possibly he
had not the least care as to her past or future. Simply disinterest!
This latter feeling--despite the state of affairs was so
desirable--touched her in some deep part of her being.
She told herself he was full of studious design; but whenever he looked
straight at her and repeated her words in his quiet, well-modulated
tones, she found her better judgment softly set aside, and all put in
obeyance [Transcriber's note: abeyance?]. At such times a pleasant
feeling passed over her; all her speculations and apprehensions were
sunk in the atmosphere of his presence. It was a soothing effect, a
personal influence which extended about him and pervaded her part of
the air. As she talked on and on, and he gave her attention, she felt
it more and more, as if she were sitting, not merely in his presence
but within the circle of his being. It was as if, with her eyes shut,
she could have entered his company and felt its atmosphere like
entering a room.
She had not been able to see any way of getting the immediate future
into her own hands. Whenever she thought of bringing the story to an
end, her mind confronted her with the question, What next? Something
certainly would be next. With all her talking, she confined herself to
the details of that one day's experience. It seemed capable of
indefinite expansion; there would never be any end unless she made it.
Having supported herself in conversational flight so long, she began to
feel that anything was better than suspense. She must do something.
With this in mind she ceased and looked out into the night. The stars,
a vast audience, had all taken their places. She leaned forward and
began removing the dishes from her napkins.
[Illustration: The stars, a vast audience, had all taken their places]
"It is time for me to be going," she said.
He sat up straight--as suddenly erect as if he had been caught sleeping
in the saddle.
"Going! Going where?"
"I'm going--on my way."
"Why, town is seventeen miles from here!"
"Oh, I can walk if--if I only knew the way."
"And hear the coyotes? And no light!"
Getting his small heels directly under him, he rose to six feet and
looked directly down on her. It was as if he had ascended to the top
of his stature to get a full view of such a proposition. "Pshaw!" he
said. "Stay right here. I 'll fix you up all right."
Without pausing for further parley, or even looking to her for assent,
he turned and went into the shack. From the inside of this
sleeping-place there came sounds of energetic house-cleaning: pieces of
property came tumbling out of the door--an old saddle-blanket, a yellow
slicker, a pair of boots, a tin bucket. Finally a branding-iron
bounded back from the heap and fell rattling on the door-sill; then
there was a sound of wiping and dusting out. Janet sat silent, her
hands in her lap. In a little while he came crawling backwards out of
the door and brushed the accumulated dirt off the door-sill with a
light blue shirt. He went in again, and after a moment appeared with
the red blanket, which he shook so that it made loud reports on the air
and then carried to the fire for inspection, and to find the long and
short of it.
"I guess there is n't any head or foot to this, is there?" He smiled
dryly as if this comment pleased him; and without expecting an answer
he went into the shack with it and busied himself again.
"There, now!" he remarked as he came out. "You can fix up the little
things to suit yourself. And if there's anything else, just let me
know and I 'll do it for you."
"I am very much obliged to you," she said, rising.
"Oh, that's all right--no trouble at all. And now, if you will just
excuse me, I 'll go and finish up around the place. If you want to go
to bed before I get through, you will find a candle in the top bunk. I
have n't got an extra lantern."
So saying he took his leave. He put three of the coyote lanterns on
their poles at the corners of the pen, unwrapped the red cloth from the
fourth and used it to light his way over to the shed. He came back,
wrapped the red around it again, and hoisted it to its place at the top
of the pole. A watchful ram _baaed_ awesomely as it rose.
Janet's shoe had been hurting her unmercifully. She had not been able
to compose herself in any way without in some degree sitting on her
foot; and it had kept up a throbbing pain. As she stood up, it seemed
to reach new heights of aching and burning. She decided that she had
better take possession of the shack at once; so she got the candle and
lit it at the fire. The first thing she did upon entering was to
remove her shoes. The relief was a luxury. The door had no means of
locking; the wooden latch lifted from the outside. Having latched it,
she sat down on the edge of the bunk.
Her shack! But after a little this inward exclamation began to take
the form of a question. Suddenly she rose and looked at the top bunk.
The blue blanket was still there. She was very tired. After sitting a
while in thought, she put the corner of the red blanket over her feet
and lay down, letting the candle burn. She was sleepy as well as
tired; but she kept her eyes upon the door. It was really his place,
not hers. And that made it all so different--after all.
Of all our protectors, there is none whose rumorous presence is more
potent than the Spirit of the Threshold. His speech is a whisper, and
before his airy finger even the desperado quails. Thus doors are
stronger than they seem, and a house, if there is no other need of it,
is an excellent formality. The accusing Spirit stands aside only for
the owner.
Janet kept her eyes half open, watching that ancient mark between Mine
and Thine.