CHAPTER II
They passed down an aisle through the tall trees, on each side of whichfaced the vari-coloured and many-shaped architecture of the little town. Itwas chiefly of canvas. Now and then a structure of logs added an appearanceof solidity to the whole. The girl did not look too closely. She knew thatthey passed places in which there were long rows of cots, and that otherswere devoted to trade. She noticed signs which advertised soft drinks andcigars--always "soft drinks," which sometimes came into camp marked as"dynamite," "salt pork," and "flour." She was conscious that every onestared at them as they passed. She heard clearly the expressions of wonderand curiosity of two women and a girl who were spreading out blankets infront of a rooming-tent. She looked at the man at her side. She appreciatedhis courtesy in not attempting to force an acquaintanceship. In her eyeswas a ripple of amusement.
"This is all strange and new to me--and not at all uninteresting," shesaid. "I came expecting--everything. And I am finding it. Why do they stareat me so? Am I a curiosity?"
"You are," he answered bluntly. "You are the most beautiful woman they haveever seen."
His eyes encountered hers as he spoke. He had answered her question fairly.There was nothing that was audacious in his manner or his look. She hadasked for information, and he had given it. In spite of herself the girl'slips trembled. Her colour deepened. She smiled.
"Pardon me," she entreated. "I seldom feel like laughing, but I almost donow. I have encountered so many curious people and have heard so manycurious things during the past twenty-four hours. You don't believe inconcealing your thoughts out here in the wilderness, do you?"
"I haven't expressed _my_ thoughts," he corrected. "I was telling you what_they_ think."
"Oh-h-h--I beg your pardon again!"
"Not at all," he answered lightly, and now his eyes were laughing franklyinto her own. "I don't mind informing you," he went on, "that I am thebiggest curiosity you will meet between this side of the mountains and thesea. I am not accustomed to championing women. I allow them to pursue theirown course without personal interference on my part. But--I suppose it willgive you some satisfaction if I confess it--I followed you into Bill'splace because you were more than ordinarily beautiful, and because I wantedto see fair play. I knew you were making a mistake. I knew what wouldhappen."
They had passed the end of the street, and entered a little green plainthat was soft as velvet underfoot. On the farther side of this, shelteredamong the trees, were two or three tents. The man led the way toward these.
"Now, I suppose I've spoiled it all," he went on, a touch of irony in hisvoice. "It was really quite heroic of me to follow you into Bill's place,don't you think? You probably want to tell me so, but don't quite dare.And I should play up to my part, shouldn't I? But I cannot--notsatisfactorily. I'm really a bit disgusted with myself for having taken asmuch interest in you as I have. I write books for a living. My name is JohnAldous."
With a little cry of amazement, his companion stopped. Without knowing it,her hand had gripped his arm.
"You are John Aldous--who wrote 'Fair Play,' and 'Women!'" she gasped.
"Yes," he said, amusement in his face.
"I have read those books--and I have read your plays," she breathed, amysterious tremble in her voice. "You despise women!"
"Devoutly."
She drew a deep breath. Her hand dropped from his arm.
"This is very, very funny," she mused, gazing off to the sun-capped peaksof the mountains. "You have flayed women alive. You have made them want tomob you. And yet----"
"Millions of them read my books," he chuckled.
"Yes--all of them read your books," she replied, looking straight into hisface. "And I guess--in many ways--you have pointed out things that aretrue."
It was his turn to show surprise.
"You believe that?"
"I do. More than that--I have always thought that I knew your secret--thebig, hidden thing under your work, the thing which you do not revealbecause you know the world would laugh at you. And so--_you despise me!_"
"Not you."
"I am a woman."
He laughed. The tan in his cheeks burned a deeper red.
"We are wasting time," he warned her. "In Bill's place I heard you say youwere going to leave on the Tete Jaune train. I am going to take you to areal dinner. And now--I should let those good people know your name."
A moment--unflinching and steady--she looked into his face.
"It is Joanne, the name you have made famous as the dreadfulest woman infiction. Joanne Gray."
"I am sorry," he said, and bowed low. "Come. If I am not mistaken I smellnew-baked bread."
As they moved on he suddenly touched her arm. She felt for a moment thefirm clasp of his fingers. There was a new light in his eyes, a glow ofenthusiasm.
"I have it!" he cried. "You have brought it to me--the idea. I have beenwanting a name for _her_--the woman in my new book. She is to be atremendous surprise. I haven't found a name, until now--one that fits. Ishall call her Ladygray!"
He felt the girl flinch. He was surprised at the sudden startled look thatshot into her eyes, the swift ebbing of the colour from her cheeks. He drewaway his hand at the strange change in her. He noticed how quickly she wasbreathing--that the fingers of her white hands were clasped tensely.
"You object," he said.
"Not enough to keep you from using it," she replied in a low voice. "I oweyou a great deal." He noted, too, how quickly she had recovered herself.Her head was a little higher. She looked toward the tents. "You were notmistaken," she added. "I smell new-made bread!"
"And I shall emphasize the first half of it--_Lady_gray," said John Aldous,as if speaking to himself. "That diminutizes it, you might say--gives itthe touch of sentiment I want. You can imagine a lover saying 'Dear little_Lady_gray, are you warm and comfy?' He wouldn't say Ladygray as if shewore a coronet, would he?"
"Smell-o'-bread--fresh bread!" sniffed Joanne Gray, as if she had not heardhim. "It's making me hungry. Will you please hurry me to it, John Aldous?"
They were approaching the first of the three tent-houses, over which was acrudely painted sign which read "Otto Brothers, Guides and Outfitters." Itwas a large, square tent, with weather-faded red and blue stripes, and fromit came the cheerful sound of a woman's laughter. Half a dozentrampish-looking Airedale terriers roused themselves languidly as they drewnearer. One of them stood up and snarled.
"They won't hurt you," assured Aldous. "They belong to Jack Bruce andClossen Otto--the finest bunch of grizzly dogs in the Rockies." Anothermoment, and a woman had appeared in the door. "And that is Mrs. Jack Otto,"he added under his breath. "If all women were like her I wouldn't havewritten the things you have read!"
He might have added that she was Scotch. But this was not necessary. Thelaughter was still in her good-humoured face. Aldous looked at hiscompanion, and he found her smiling back. The eyes of the two women hadalready met.
Briefly Aldous explained what had happened at Quade's, and that the youngwoman was leaving on the Tete Jaune train. The good-humoured smile leftMrs. Otto's face when he mentioned Quade.
"I've told Jack I'd like to poison that man some day," she cried. "You poordear, come in, I'll get you a cup of tea."
"Which always means dinner in the Otto camp," added Aldous.
"I'm not so hungry, but I'm tired--so tired," he heard the girl say as shewent in with Mrs. Otto, and there was a new and strangely pathetic note inher voice. "I want to rest--until the train goes."
He followed them in, and stood for a moment near the door.
"There's a room in there, my dear," said the woman, drawing back a curtain."Make yourself at home, and lie down on the bed until I have the teaready."
When the curtain had closed behind her, John Aldous spoke in a low voice tothe woman.
"Will you see her safely to the train, Mrs. Otto?" he asked. "It leaves ata quarter after two. I must be going."
He felt that he had sufficiently perform
ed his duty. He left the tent, andpaused for a moment outside to touzle affectionately the trampish heads ofthe bear dogs. Then he turned away, whistling. He had gone a dozen stepswhen a low voice stopped him. He turned. Joanne had come from the door.
For one moment he stared as if something more wonderful than anything hehad ever seen had risen before him. The girl was bareheaded, and she stoodin a sun mellowed by a film of cloud. Her head was piled with lustrouscoils of gold-brown hair that her hat and veil had hidden. Never had helooked upon such wonderful hair, crushed and crumpled back from her smoothforehead; nor such marvellous whiteness of skin and pure blue depths ofeyes! In her he saw now everything that was strong and splendid in woman.She was not girlishly sweet. She was not a girl. She was a woman--gloriousto look at, a soul glowing out of her eyes, a strength that thrilled him inthe quiet and beautiful mystery of her face.
"You were going without saying good-bye," she said. "Won't you let me thankyou--a last time?"
Her voice brought him to himself again. A moment he bent over her hand. Amoment he felt its warm, firm pressure in his own. The smile that flashedto his lips was hidden from her as he bowed his blond-gray head.
"Pardon me for the omission," he apologized. "Good-bye--and may good luckgo with you!"
Their eyes met once more. With another bow he had turned, and wascontinuing his way. At the door Joanne Gray looked back. He was whistlingagain. His careless, easy stride was filled with a freedom that seemed tocome to her in the breath of the mountains. And then she, too, smiledstrangely as she reentered the tent.
The Hunted Woman Page 2
