THE RUSTIC ROAD.
Miss Flora Sturtevant was walking slowly along a lovely forest-road.
It was near sunset, and the rays of light shot long bars of dusky
gold between the tree-trunks. The robin, the thrush, and the oriole,
still delaying through the warm autumnal weather, sang by starts amid
the branches. The bright knots of ribbon upon Flora's dress, and the
scarlet poppies in her hat, were touched and lighted by the glow,
making all the hundred lights and gleams of the wood seem to centre
about her figure. She carried in her hand a bunch of ferns and grasses,
mingled with a few bright leaves; and she sauntered with the careless
air of having come out merely for enjoyment.
The road had once been the county turnpike, but had long ago fallen
into disuse. Now the trees met overhead, the grass and ferns had
obliterated the marks of wheels, and, except for hunters or loitering
pleasure-seekers, the way remained untrodden.
But Miss Sturtevant, idle and leisurely as was her mien, was not simply
sauntering to enjoy the pleasure of nature. She was upon a diplomatic
errand. Frank Breck had conducted her hither, and had turned back,
that she might be alone to encounter a man who Breck knew was soon to
pass this way. The lady was perfectly cool and collected. The idea of
meeting in the forest a man to whom she had never spoken, and whose
character she knew to be bad, seemed not to give her the slightest
concern. Perhaps she expected Breck to remain within call; possibly her
strong self-reliance made her insensible to fear.
At length the barking of a dog rang through the woods, and soon sounds
of some one approaching were heard. Miss Sturtevant's lips closed with
an expression of firmness, over which, however, instantly spread the
veil of a smile. Shading her eyes with her hand, and half-turning where
she stood, she looked off through the leafy spaces towards the setting
sun, conscious that the first glimpse the new-comer caught of her would
give him her figure at its best. So absorbed was she in gazing at the
sunset, that she apparently did not hear the approaching stranger until
he was within half a dozen feet of her. Then she turned suddenly, just
as the dog ran up to her. She uttered a little exclamation of surprise.
"How you startled me!" she said, stooping to caress the dog, a handsome
pointer. "What a lovely dog you are!"
"He is a kind o' handsome pup," the hunter said, replying to the
remark addressed to his dog,--"handsome for a pup, that is," he added
guardedly.
"Oh!" cried Flora, catching sight of the game which the man carried.
"Oh, how perfectly lovely the necks of those birds are! What are they?
What a fine shot you must be!"
"Well, middlin'," he answered, evidently flattered. "Them partridges
was terrible shy."
"I've wanted a heron all summer," remarked she, still admiring the
glossy necks of the birds. "The feathers, I mean; but I didn't know
anybody who could shoot one."
"Herons ain't none too plenty round here," he said, "and it's all-fired
hard to get a shot at one."
"Haven't I seen you before?" asked Flora, letting her trimly-gloved
hand rest upon the dog's head. "Did you ever live in Boston?"
"I guess I did!" he returned. "I lived with Breck there for most seven
years."
"Oh! then, you are Mr. Mixon. It is wonderful that I happened to meet
you here. I've wanted to see you for a long time. Do you know who I am?"
"You must be Miss Sturtevant, ain't you?--the one who was so deused
smart about the Branch stock."
"Did you hear of that?" she asked, laughing. "I suppose I am the one;
but I didn't know I was so smart."
"All-fired smart is what I say," Mixon affirmed with emphasis. "What
did you want of me?"
"You may think it strange," she said reflectively; "yes, I'm sure you
will think it very strange that I know any thing about it; but you have
some papers that I want to see."
Mixon's face instantly assumed an expression of intensest cunning. He
leaned upon his gun, bending his head towards his companion. The dog
stood between the strangely-matched pair, turning his intelligent face
from one to the other. Flora pushed her hat back from her face as if
for coolness, but in reality because she knew it was more becoming so.
Her blue eyes shot persuasive glances upon the man before her; while
her fingers toyed with the long silken ears of the pointer.
"Papers!" Mixon said. "What sort of papers?"
"Papers that old Mr. Mullen"--She left her sentence unfinished, not
wishing to risk displaying her ignorance of the real nature of the
documents in question. Mixon regarded her sharply.
"Do you know Frank Breck?" he asked. "Maybe, now, he might ha'
mentioned this to you."
"I know a great many people besides Frank Breck," she returned,
smiling. "I didn't need to go to him for information."
"It's mighty strange," Peter said in a deliberative way, "how many
folks thinks I have papers they want. There's Breck; he's always at me.
And Miss Mullen--she's sent for me a sight more times than I've been.
And then Hannah Clemens, she thought I might have something would put
her into her rights. Then there was Tabitha Mullen's lawyer"--
"Mr. Wentworth?" questioned Flora eagerly.
"Yes, that's him. He mittened on to me the other day."
"But I didn't know he had been here."
"He only came down one train," said Peter; "an' he went back on the
next. Miss Mullen sent after me to see him. And now you take it up, and
want some valuable papers. I wish I could supply you all; but I can't."
"But you can at least let me see"--Flora began. But Mixon interrupted.
"I can't let you see what I hain't got, can I? Somebody must ha' lost
an awful precious dociment to make all this stir.--Come, Trip."
"Honestly," Miss Sturtevant said, in her fear that he would escape her,
going so far as to lay her fingers upon his arm,--"honestly, haven't
you those papers?"
"Naturally I wouldn't want to speak too positively," he returned
coolly, "not knowing what you want. But I guess it's safe enough to say
no.--Come, Trip."
"Wait," said Flora, retaining the hold she had taken upon Mixon's
coat-sleeve. "I didn't mean to put you to trouble without paying you
for it."
"Well, that's business. How much, now, should you say was a fair sum,
if I had the papers, and would let you see 'em?"
"You might make your own terms," she said quickly, more and more
convinced of the value of the mysterious papers. "You'd be the best
judge of what it was worth."
"Well, that's generous, almost too all-fired generous. I'm sorry I
can't accommodate you; but I can't. Good-night, marm."
And, followed by Trip, Mixon strode off down the rustic way, already
dusky in the fast deepening twilight.