A GIRL, A DOG, AND A MAN.
When Miss Elizabeth Wiggin settled herself comfortably in the shade
of the spreading oak in Libby’s pasture, she looked forward eagerly
to a pleasant and quiet hour with her book, “Wooed, Won, and
Wedded.” As may be surmised from the title of the book, Miss Wiggin
was romantic. She was likewise just eighteen years of age, and the
daughter of Judge Nathan P. Wiggin, of Greenbush, the village that
could be seen nestling in the valley something like a mile distant
from that hillside oak.
Miss Wiggin lived in Greenbush, but on pleasant afternoons she had a
habit of wandering away, accompanied only by an aged shepherd dog,
in search of some spot where she could read without fear of
interruption. For her grim old father objected to trashy love
stories, and her ascetic spinster aunt, who had acted as the judge’s
housekeeper since the death of Mrs. Wiggin, held all such fiction in
abhorrence.
Indeed, the animus of Aunt Sally Wiggin against stories depicting
the ravages wrought by the little god of the bow and arrow was so
extreme that, by consigning such terrible tales to the flames
whenever she found them about the house, she conscientiously did her
best to prevent them from turning the head of her niece. She even
forbade the village news dealer to sell Bessie any more books of
that type.
In these days, however, it is no easy matter to deprive any one of
the mental pabulum that is desired, and Aunt Sally had set herself a
task that she could not accomplish. Lemuel Dodd, Judge Wiggin’s
hostler and man of all work, red-headed, freckled, and homely as a
slump fence, undeterred by the discouraging fact that his persistent
efforts to make love to Bessie seemed merely to arouse her
amusement, became her secret and faithful ally. Twice a week, at
least, he spent twenty-five cents of his wages for a paper-covered
novel to be smuggled into her possession, and invariably he chose
the ones whose titles seemed to promise that their contents would
come up to Elizabeth’s requirements.
“There ain’t many single fellers left round this town,” Lemuel told
himself, “and mebbe if she reads enough of them yarns she’ll git so
desprit she’ll have to grab what’s handy. And when she gits the
notion to grab, I’m going to take keer that I’m the handiest thing
in reach.”
And so, on this sunny September afternoon, Bessie Wiggin was seeking
the shade of the oak in Libby’s pasture, presumably afar from
interruption, and prepared thoroughly to enjoy Lemuel’s latest
contribution. Her face was almost hidden by one of Aunt Sally’s
extremely old-fashioned sunbonnets, which she had hastily taken when
she slipped out of the house with the book. Shep, the old dog,
stretched himself in the short grass at her feet and prepared to go
to sleep comfortably.
The view from this spot, at a considerable distance from the brown
road that wound, ribbonlike, down into the village, was pleasant to
the eye, but the judge’s daughter lost no time in admiring the
scenery. She was soon absorbed in the pages of her novel.
So absorbed did she become that she failed to hear the approaching
steps of a somewhat dusty and soiled, but decidedly good-looking,
young man in a brown Norfolk suit, knee-length leather leggings, and
a motoring cap. He was within a few yards of her when he saw her and
stopped.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, looking down upon the obscuring
sunbonnet.
She uttered a little startled scream, and looked up, her blue eyes
wide, her red lips parted. A glimpse of the pretty and youthful face
which the sunbonnet had concealed caused the stranger to catch his
breath.
“Reginald!” exclaimed Miss Wiggin, beholding before her the living
incarnation of the hero of her book just as her fancy had pictured
him.
“Daphne!” said the young man, thinking of the mythological wood
nymph.
“Woof!” barked the old dog, awaking and springing up as quickly as
age and rheumatism would allow.
The stranger backed round to the opposite side of the tree. “Keep
that beast away from me, please,” he begged, in evident
apprehension.
With a swift sweep of one slender hand, Miss Wiggin thrust back the
sunbonnet, which, held by the loosely knotted ribbons, hung
suspended on her shoulders, exposing a mass of wavy, golden-brown
hair. At the same moment, with remarkable agility and grace, she
half rose and half turned. On her knees, her right hand clasping the
book, the fingers of her left hand lightly touching the ground, her
gaze followed the shrinking young man, who was now fearfully
watching the ominously growling dog. Surely this was unexpected and
disappointing behavior for Reginald, the brave, who—in her
novel—had unhesitatingly faced the most frightful perils for his
lady fair.
Made suspicious by the actions of the stranger, Shep advanced,
bristling and snapping. As if contemplating instant flight, the
young man gave one hasty look around. The nearest fence was some six
or eight rods away, and it did not promise to stop a ferocious and
angry dog in pursuit of a fleeing fugitive, and there was no other
refuge in sight.
“Keep that creature away, won’t you?” again entreated the agitated
man, placing the trunk of the tree between himself and the animal.
“I detest dogs!”
“Oh, Reginald!” sighed Bessie Wiggin in bitter disappointment!
“Oh, hang it!” exploded the stranger, with shocking violence. “If I
had a gun——”
Shep charged, barking violently. He meant to stop out of reach of
the man’s feet in case he showed a disposition to kick. But, making
a great leap, the stranger clutched a stout lower limb of the tree,
and swung himself up out of the reach of harm with the most amazing
celerity, the dog snapping at his heels as they receded skyward.
Perched astride the limb, with his feet drawn up, the refugee shook
his fist at the raging animal, which, inflamed by success, made
another great jump into the air and fell back on the ground, his
age-enfeebled legs collapsing beneath him.
Still kneeling, the girl burst into a peal of laughter.