The Wrong Woman (5 page)

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 hersthe 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
herafterwardsthat 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 Societykeep 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 evildeep, 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
breastfirst, 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 bootsfor 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.

"YesI think it will. Hope it will anyway. But you can't tell."

The last remark had the effect of bringing their beginning to an endas 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 wordsas 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 Wellbut 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, noI 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 coulda 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 shirtthis 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 spurthere 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."

"YesI 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 haveeven 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 affairsnothing 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 strangelyand its strangeness grew upon herhe 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 feelingdespite the state of affairs was so desirabletouched 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.