CHAPTER XII
THE GARDEN IN THE DESERT
The sun was well up over the canyon rim when the tired visitors awokefrom their dreams. Kitty Bonnair was the first to open her eyes andpeep forth upon the fairy world which promised so much of mystery anddelight. The iron bars of their window, deep set in the adobe walls,suggested the dungeon of some strong prison where Spanish maidenslanguished for sight of their lovers; a rifle in the corner,overlooked in the hurried moving, spoke eloquently of the armedbrutality of the times; the hewn logs which supported the lintelscompleted the picture of primitive life; and a soft breeze, breathingin through the unglazed sills, whispered of dark canyons and the wild,free out-of-doors.
As she lay there drinking it all in a murmur of voices came to herears; and, peering out, she saw Creede and Rufus Hardy squatting by afire out by the giant mesquite tree which stood near the bank of thecreek. Creede was stirring the contents of a frying-pan with a hugeiron spoon, and Rufus was cooking strips of meat on a stick which heturned above a bed of coals. There was no sign of hurry or anxietyabout their preparations; they seemed to be conversing amiably ofother things. Presently Hardy picked up a hooked stick, lifted thecover from the Dutch oven, and dumped a pile of white biscuits upon agreasy cloth. Then, still deep in their talk, they filled their platesfrom the fry-pan, helped themselves to meat, wrapped the rest of thebread in the cloth, and sat comfortably back on their heels, eatingwith their fingers and knives.
It was all very simple and natural, but somehow she had never thoughtof men in that light before. They were so free, so untrammelled andself-sufficient; yes, and so barbarous, too. Rufus Hardy, the poet,she had known--quiet, soft-spoken, gentle, with dreamy eyes and adoglike eagerness to please--but, lo! here was another Rufus, stillgentle, but with a stern look in his eyes which left her almostafraid--and those two lost years lay between. How he must have changedin all that time! The early morning was Kitty's time for meditationand good resolutions, and she resolved then and there to be nice toRufus, for he was a man and could not understand.
As the sound of voices came from the house Jefferson Creede rose upfrom his place and stalked across the open, rolling and swaying in hishigh-heeled boots like a huge, woolly bear.
"Well, Judge," he said, after throwing a mountain of wood on the fireas a preliminary to cooking breakfast for his guests, "I suppose nowyou're here you'd like to ride around a little and take stock of whatyou've got. The boys will begin comin' in for the _roder_ to-day, andafter to-morrow I'll be pretty busy; but if you say so I'll jest ketchup a gentle horse, and show you the upper range before the workbegins."
"Oh, won't you take me, too?" cried Kitty, skipping in eagerly. "I'vegot the nicest saddle--and I bet I can ride any horse you've got."
She assumed a cowboy-like strut as she made this assertion, shakingher head in a bronco gesture which dashed the dark hair from her eyesand made her look like an unbroken thoroughbred. Never in all hislife, even in the magazine pictures of stage beauties which form aconspicuous mural decoration in those parts, had Creede seen a womanhalf so charming, but even in his love blindness he was modest.
"We'll have to leave that to the judge," he said deferentially, "butthey's horses for everybody." He glanced inquiringly at Lucy, who wasbusily unpacking her sketching kit; but she only smiled, and shook herhead.
"The home is going to be my sphere for some time," she remarked,glancing about at the half-cleaned room, "and then," she added, withdecision, "I'm going to make some of the loveliest water colors in theworld. I think that big giant cactus standing on that red-and-graycliff over there is simply wonderful."
"Um, pretty good," observed Creede judicially. "But you jest ought tosee 'em in the gorge where Hidden Water comes out! Are ye goin' along,Rufe?" he inquired, bending his eyes upon Hardy with a knowingtwinkle. "No? Well, _you_ can show her where it is! Didn't you neverhear why they call this Hidden Water?" he asked, gazing benignly uponthe young ladies. "Well, listen.
"They's a big spring of water right up here, not half a mile. It's anold landmark--the Mexicans call it Agua Escondida--but I bet neitherone of you can find it and I'll take you right by the gulch where itcomes out. They can't nobody find it, unless they're wise enough tofollow cow tracks--and of course, we don't expect that of strangers.But if you ever git lost and you're within ten miles of home jest takethe first cow trail you see and follow it downhill and you'll go intoone end or the other of Hidden Water canyon. Sure, it's what you mightcall the Hello-Central of the whole Four Peaks country, with cow pathsinstead of wires. The only thing lackin' is the girls, to talk back,and call you down for your ungentlemanly language, and--well, thiscountry is comin' up every day!"
He grinned broadly, wiping his floury hands on his overalls indefiance of Miss Kitty's most rudimentary principles; and yet evenshe, for all her hygiene, was compelled to laugh. There was somethingabout Creede that invited confidence and feminine badgering, he was solike a big, good-natured boy. The entire meal was enlivened by herefforts, in the person of a hello girl, to expurgate his language, andshe ended by trying to get him to swear--politely.
But in this the noble cowboy was inexorable. "No, ma'am," he said,with an excess of moral conviction. "I never swear except forcause--and then I always regret it. But if you want to git some of thereal thing to put in your phonygraft jest come down to the pastureto-morrow when the boys are breakin' horses. Your hair's kind of wavy,I notice, but it will put crimps in it to hear Bill Lightfoot or someof them Sunflower stiffs when they git bucked onto a rock pile. Andsay, if you call yourself a rider I can give you a snake for to-day."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Creede," answered Miss Kitty, bowing low as sheleft the table. "Its tail, if it chanced to be a rattler, would bemost acceptable, I am sure, and I might make a belt out of its skin.But for riding purposes I prefer a real, gentle little horse. Nowhurry up, and I'll be dressed in half an hour."
Ten minutes later Creede rode up to the house, leading a sober grayfor the judge, but for Kitty Bonnair he had the prettiest littlecalico-horse in the bunch, a pony painted up with red and yellow andwhite until he looked like a three-color chromo. Even his eye wasvariegated, being of a mild, pet-rabbit blue, with a white circlearound the orbit; and his name, of course, was Pinto. To be sure, hisface was a little dished in and he showed other signs of his scrubIndian blood, but after Creede had cinched on the new stamped-leathersaddle and adjusted the ornate hackamore and martingale, Pinto was thesportiest-looking horse outside of a Wild West show.
There was a long wait then, while Diana completed her preparationsfor the hunt; but when Kitty Bonnair, fully apparelled, finallystepped through the door Creede reeled in the saddle, and even RufusHardy gasped. There was nothing immodest about her garb--in fact, itwas very correct and proper--but not since the Winship girls rodeforth in overalls had Hidden Water seen its like. Looking very trimand boyish in her khaki riding breeches, Kitty strode forthunabashed, rejoicing in her freedom. A little scream of delightescaped her as she caught sight of the calico-pony; she patted hisnose a moment, inquired his name, and then, scorning all assistance,swung lightly up into the saddle. No prettier picture had ever beenoffered to the eye; so young, so supple and strong, with such awealth of dark, wavy hair, and, withal, so modest and honestly happy.But, somehow, Jefferson Creede took the lead and rode with hiseyes cast down, lest they should be dazzled by the vision. Besides,Jeff had been raised old-fashioned, and Golden Gate Park is a long,long ways, chronologically, from Hidden Water.
As the procession passed away up the canyon, with Creede in soberconverse with the judge and Kitty scampering about like an Indian onher pinto horse, Hardy and Lucy Ware glanced at each other, andlaughed.
"Did you ever see any one like her?" exclaimed Lucy, and Hardyadmitted with a sigh that he never had.
"And I am afraid," observed Miss Lucy frankly, "you were notaltogether pleased to see her--at first. But really, Rufus, what canany one hope to do with Kitty? When she has set her heart on anythingshe _will have
it_, and from the very moment she read your firstletter she was determined to come down here. Of course father thinkshe came down to look into this matter of the sheep, and _I_ think thatI came down to look after him, but in reality I have no doubt we areboth here because Kitty Bonnair so wills it."
"Very likely," replied Hardy, with a doubtful smile. "But since youare in her counsels perhaps you can tell what her intentions aretoward me. I used to be one of her gentlemen-in-waiting, you know, andthis visit looks rather ominous for me."
"Well, just exactly what are you talking about, Rufus?"
"I guess you know, all right," replied Hardy. "Have I got to ride abucking bronco, or kill a sheep-herder or two--or is it just anothercase of 'move on'?"
He paused and smiled bitterly to himself, but Lucy was not in a moodto humor him in his misanthropy.
"I must confess," she said, "that you may be called upon to do afew chivalrous feats of horsemanship, but as for the sheep-herderpart of it, I hope you will try to please me by leaving them alone. Itworries me, Rufus," she continued soberly, "to see you becoming sostrong-willed and silent. There was a whole year, when none of usheard a word from you--and then it was quite by accident. Andfather thinks you stopped writing to him with the deliberate intentionof driving the sheep away by violence."
"Well, I'm glad he understands so well," replied Hardy naively. "Ofcourse I wouldn't embarrass him by asking for orders, but--"
"Oh, Rufus!" exclaimed Miss Lucy impatiently, "do try to be naturalagain and take your mind off those sheep. Do you know what I amthinking of doing?" she demanded seriously. "I am thinking of askingfather to give me this ranch--he said he would if I wanted it--andthen I'll discharge you! You shall not be such a brutal, ugly man! Butcome, now, I want you to help clear the table, and then we will go upto Hidden Water and read your poems. But tell me, have you had anytrouble with the sheepmen?"
"Why, no!" answered Hardy innocently. "What made you ask?"
"Well, you wrote father you expected trouble--and--and you had thatbig, long pistol when you came in yesterday. Now you can't denythat!"
"I'm afraid you've had some Western ideas implanted in your bosom byKitty, Miss Lucy," protested Hardy. "We never shoot each other downhere. I carry that pistol for the moral effect--and it's necessary,too, to protect these sheepmen against their own baser natures. Yousee they're all armed, and if I should ride into their camp without agun and ask them to move they might be tempted to do something overt.But as it is now, when Jeff and I begin to talk reason with them theyunderstand. No, _we're_ all right; it's the sheep-herders that haveall the trouble."
"Rufus Hardy," cried Miss Lucy indignantly, "if you mention thosesheep again until you are asked about them, I'll have you attended to.Do you realize how far I have come to see your poems and hear you talkthe way you used to talk? And then to hear you go on in this way! Ithought at first that Mr. Creede was a nice man, but I am beginning tochange my opinion of him. But you have just got to be nice to me andKitty while we are here. I had so many things to tell you about yourfather, and Tupper Browne, and The Circle, but you just sit around sokind of close-mouthed and silent and never ask a question! Wouldn'tyou like to know how your father is?" she asked.
"Why, yes," responded Hardy meekly. "Have you seen him lately?"
"I saw him just before we came away. He is dreadfully lonely, I know,but he wouldn't send any message. He never says _anything_ when I tellhim what you are doing, just sits and twists his mustache and listens;but I could tell by the way he said good-bye that he was glad I wascoming. I am sorry you can't agree--isn't there something you could doto make him happier?"
Hardy looked up from his dish-washing with a slow smile.
"Which do you think is more important?" he asked, "for a man to pleasehis father or his best friend?"
Lucy suspected a trap and she made no reply.
"Did you ever quote any of my poetry to father?" inquired Hardycasually. "No? Then please don't. But I'll bet if you told him I wascatching wild horses, or talking reason to these Mexican herders,you'd have the old man coming. He's a fighter, my father, and if youwant to make him happy when you go back, tell him his son has justabout given up literature and is the champion bronco-twister of theFour Peaks range."
"But Rufus--would that be the truth?"
Hardy laughed. "Well, pretty near it--but I'm trying to please my bestfriend now."
"Oh," said Lucy, blushing. "Will--will that make much difference?" sheasked.
"All the difference in the world," declared Hardy warmly. "You want meto become a poet--he wants me to become a fighter. Well now, since Ihaven't been able to please him, I'm going to try to please you for awhile."
"Oh, Rufus," cried Lucy, "am I really--your best friend?"
"Why sure! Didn't you know that?" He spoke the words with a bluffgood-fellowship which pleased her, in a way, but at the same time lefther silent. And he, too, realized that there was a false note, a riftsuch as often creeps in between friends and if not perceived andchecked widens into a breach.
"You know," he said, quietly making his amends, "when I was a boy myfather always told me I talked too much; and after mother diedI--well, I didn't talk so much. I was intended for a soldier, youknow, and good officers have to keep their own counsel. But--well, Iguess the habit struck in--so if I don't always thank you, or tell youthings, you will understand, won't you? I wasn't raised to pleasefolks, you know, but just to fight Indians, and all that. How wouldyou like to be a soldier's wife?"
"Not very well, I am afraid," she said. "All the fear and anxiety,and--well, I'm afraid I couldn't love my husband if he killedanybody." She paused and glanced up at him, but he was deep inthought.
"My mother was a soldier's wife," he said, at last; and Lucy, seeingwhere his thoughts had strayed, respected his silence. It wassomething she had learned long before, for while Rufus would sometimesmention his mother he would never talk about her, even to Lucy Ware.So they finished their housework, deep in their own thoughts. But whenat last they stepped out into the sunshine Lucy touched him on thearm.
"Wouldn't you like to bring your poems with you?" she suggested. "Wecan read them when we have found the spring. Is it very beautiful upthere?"
"Yes," answered Hardy, "I often go there to write, when nobody isaround. You know Jeff and all these cowboys around here don't knowthat I write verse. They just think I'm a little fellow from somewhereup in California that can ride horses pretty good. But if I had handedit out to them that I was a poet, or even a college man, they wouldhave gone to tucking snakes into my blankets and dropping _chilibravos_ into my beans until they got a rise out of me, sure. I learnedthat much before I ever came up here. But I've got a little place Icall my garden--up in the canyon, above Hidden Water--and sometimes Isneak off up there, and write. Would you like to see a poem I wrote upthere? All right, you can have the rest some other time." He steppedinto the storeroom, extracted a little bundle from his war bag, andthen they passed on up the valley together.
The canyon of the Alamo is like most Arizona stream beds, a strait-jacketof rocky walls, opening out at intervals into pocket-like valleys,such as the broad and fertile flat which lay below Hidden Water. Oneither side of the stream the banks rise in benches, each a littlehigher and broader and more heavily covered: the first pure sand, laidon by the last freshet; the next grown over with grass and weeds; thenext bushed up with baby willows and arrow weed; and then, the highbench, studded with mesquite and _palo verdes_; and at the base ofthe solid rim perhaps a higher level, strewn with the rocks which timeand the elements have hurled down from the cliff, and crested withancient trees. Upon such a high bench stood the Dos S ranch house,with trails leading off up and down the flat or plunging down the bank,the striated cliff behind it and the water-torn valley below.
Up the canyon a deep-worn path led along the base of the bluff; and asthe two best friends followed along its windings Hardy pointed out themysteries of the land: strange trees and shrubs, bristling withthorns; cactus in it
s myriad forms; the birds which flashed past themor sang in the wild gladness of springtime; lizards, slipping about inthe sands or pouring from cracks in the rocks--all the curious thingswhich his eyes had seen and his mind taken note of in the long days ofsolitary riding, and which his poet's soul now interpreted into ahigher meaning for the woman who could understand. So intent were theyupon the wonders of that great display that Lucy hardly noticed wherethey were, until the trail swung abruptly in toward the cliff and theyseemed to be entering a cleft in the solid rock.
"Where do we go now?" she asked, and Hardy laughed at her confusion.
"This is the gate to Hidden Water," he said, lowering his voice to itsold-time poetic cadence. "And strait is the way thereof," he added, ashe led her through the narrow pass, "but within are tall trees andrunning water, and the eagle nests undisturbed among the crags."
"What _are_ you quoting?" exclaimed Miss Lucy, and for an answer Rufusbeckoned her in and pointed with his hand. Before them stood the talltrees with running water at their feet, and a great nest of sticksamong the crags.
"Hidden Water!" he said, and smiled again mysteriously.
Then he led the way along the side of the stream, which slipped softlyover the water-worn bowlders, dimpling in pool after pool, until atthe very gate of the valley it sank into the sand and was lost. Higherand higher mounted the path; and then, at the foot of a smooth ledgewhich rose like a bulwark across the gorge, it ended suddenly by theside of a cattle-tracked pool.
"This is the wall to my garden," said Hardy, pointing to the hugegranite dyke, "beyond which only the elect may pass." He paused, andglanced over at her quizzically. "The path was not made for ladies, Iam afraid," he added, pointing to a series of foot holes which ran upthe face of the ledge. "Do you think you can climb it?"
Lucy Ware studied his face for a moment; then, turning to the Indianstairway, she measured it with a practised eye.
"You go up first," she suggested, and when he had scaled the slipperyheight and turned he found her close behind, following carefully inhis steps.
"Well, you _are_ a climber!" he cried admiringly. "Here, give me yourhand." And when he had helped her up he still held it--or perhaps sheclung to his.
Before them lay a little glade, shut in by painted rocks, upon whoseblack sides were engraved many curious pictures, the mystic symbols ofthe Indians; and as they stood gazing at it an eagle with pointedwings wheeled slowly above them, gazing with clear eyes down into thesunlit vale. From her round nest in the crotch of a sycamore a greathorned owl plunged out at their approach and glided noiselessly away;and in the stillness the zooning of bees among the rocks came to theirears like distant music. Beneath their feet the grass grew long andmatted, shot here and there with the blue and gold of flowers, likethe rich meadows of the East; and clustering along the hillsides,great bunches of grama grass waved their plumes proudly, the lastremnant of all that world of feed which had clothed the land like agarment before the days of the sheep. For here, at least, there cameno nibbling wethers, nor starving cattle; and the mountain sheep whichhad browsed there in the old days were now hiding on the topmost cragsof the Superstitions to escape the rifles of the destroyers. All theworld without was laid waste and trampled by hurrying feet, but thegarden of Hidden Water was still kept inviolate, a secret shrineconsecrated to Nature and Nature's God.
As she stood in the presence of all its beauty a mist came into Lucy'seyes and she turned away.
"Oh, Rufus," she cried, "why don't you live up here always instead ofwasting your life in that awful struggle with the sheep? Youcould--why, you could do anything up here!"
"Yes," assented Hardy, "it is a beautiful spot--I often come up herewhen I am weary with it all--but a man must do a man's work, you know;and my work is with the sheep. When I first came to Hidden Water Iknew nothing of the sheep. I thought the little lambs were pretty; theewes were mothers, the herders human beings. I tried to be friendswith them, to keep the peace and abide by the law; but now that I'vecome to know them I agree with Jeff, who has been fighting them fortwenty years. There is something about the smell of sheep which robsmen of their humanity; they become greedy and avaricious; the morethey make the more they want. Of all the sheepmen that I know thereisn't one who would go around me out of friendship or pity--and I havedone favors for them all. But they're no friends of mine now," headded ominously. "I have to respect my friends, and I can't respect aman who is all hog. There's no pretence on either side now,though--they're trying to sheep us out and we are trying to fight themoff, and if it ever comes to a show-down--well--"
He paused, and his eyes glowed with a strange light.
"You know I haven't very much to live for, Miss Lucy," he saidearnestly, "but if I had all that God could give me I'd stand by Jeffagainst the sheep. It's all right to be a poet or an artist, a loverof truth and beauty, and all that, but if a man won't stand up for hisfriends when they're in trouble he's a kind of closet philosopher thatshrinks from all the realities of life--a poor, puny creature, at thebest."
He stood up very straight as he poured out this torrent of words,gazing at her intently, but with his eyes set, as if he beheld somevision. Yet whether it was of himself and Jeff, fighting theirhopeless battle against the sheep, or of his life as it might havebeen if Kitty had been as gentle with him as this woman by his side,there was no telling. His old habit of reticence fell back upon him assuddenly as it had been cast aside, and he led the way up the littlestream in silence. As he walked, the ardor of his passion cooled, andhe began to point out things with his eloquent hands--the minnows,wheeling around in the middle of a glassy pool; a striped bullfrog,squatting within the spray of a waterfall; huge combs of honey,hanging from shelving caverns along the cliff where the wild bees hadstored their plunder for years. At last, as they stood before adrooping elder whose creamy blossoms swayed beneath the weight ofbees, he halted and motioned to a shady seat against the canyon wall.
"There are gardens in every desert," he said, as she sank down uponthe grassy bank, "but this is ours."
They sat for a while, gazing contentedly at the clusters of elderblossoms which hung above them, filling the air with a rich fragrancewhich was spiced by the tang of sage. A ruby-throated humming-birdflashed suddenly past them and was gone; a red-shafted woodpecker,still more gorgeous in his scarlet plumage, descended in unevenflights from the _sahuaros_ that clung against the cliff and,fastening upon a hollow tree, set up a mysterious rapping.
"He is hunting for grubs," explained Hardy. "Does that inspire you?"
"Why, no," answered Lucy, puzzled.
"The Mexicans call him _pajaro corazon_--_pah-hah-ro cor-ah-sone_,"continued the poet. "Does that appeal to your soul?"
"Why, no. What does it mean--woodpecker?"
Hardy smiled. "No," he said, "a woodpecker with them is called_carpintero_--carpenter, you understand--because he hammers on trees;but my friend up on the stump yonder is _Pajaro Corazon_--bird of theheart. I have a poem dedicated to him." Then, as if to excuse himselffrom the reading, he hastened on: "Of course, no true poet wouldcommit such a breach--he would write a sonnet to his lady's eyebrow, apoem in memory of a broken dream, or some sad lament for Love, whichhas died simultaneously with his own blasted hopes. But a sense of myown unimportance has saved me--or the world, at any rate--from suchlaments. _Pajaro Corazon_ and _Chupa Rosa_, a little humming-bird wholives in that elder tree, have been my only friends and companions inthe muse, until you came. I wouldn't abuse _Chupa Rosa's_ confidenceby reading my poem to her. Her lover has turned out a worthless fellowand left her--that was him you saw flying past just now, going up thecanyon to sport around with the other hummers--but here is my poem to_Pajaro Corazon_."
He drew forth his bundle of papers and in a shamefaced way handed oneof them to Lucy. It was a slip of yellow note paper, checked along themargin with groups of rhyming words and scansion marks, and in themiddle this single verse.
"Pajaro Corazon! Bird of the Heart! Some knig
ht of honor in those bygone days Of dreams and gold and quests through desert lands, Seeing thy blood-red heart flash in the rays Of setting sun--which lured him far from Spain-- Lifted his face and, reading there a sign From his dear lady, crossed himself and spake Then first, the name which still is thine."
Lucy folded the paper and gazed across at him rapturously.
"Oh, Rufus," she cried, "why didn't you send it to me?"
"Is it good?" asked Hardy, forgetting his pose; and when she noddedsolemnly he said:
"There is another verse--look on the other side."
Lucy turned the paper over quickly and read again:
"Pajaro Corazon! Bird of the Heart! Some Padre, wayworn, stooping towards his grave, Whom God by devious ways had sent so far, So far from Spain--still pressing on to save The souls He loved, now, raising up his eyes And seeing on thy breast the bleeding heart Of Jesus, cast his robes aside and spake Thy name--and set that place apart."
As she followed the lines Hardy watched her face with eyes that grewstrangely soft and gentle. It was Lucy Ware of all the world whounderstood him. Others laughed, or pitied, or overdid it, or remainedunmoved, but Lucy with her trusting blue eyes and broad poet's brow--abrow which always made him think of Mrs. Browning who was a poetindeed, she always read his heart, in her he could safely trust. Andnow, when those dear eyes filled up with tears he could have taken herhand, yes, he could have kissed her--if he had not been afraid.
"Rufus," she said at last, "you are a poet." And then she dried hereyes and smiled.
"Let me read some more," she pleaded; but Hardy held the bundleresolutely away.
"No," he said gently, "it is enough to have pleased you once. You knowpoetry is like music; it is an expression of thoughts which are morethan thoughts. They come up out of the great sea of our inner soullike the breath of flowers from a hidden garden, like the sound ofbreakers from the ocean cliffs; but not every one can scent theirfragrance, and some ears are too dull to hear music in the rush ofwaters. And when one has caught the music of another's song then itis best to stop before--before some discord comes. Lucy," he began, ashis soul within him rose up and clamored for it knew not what,"Lucy--"
He paused, and the woman hung upon his lips to catch the words.
"Yes?" she said, but the thought had suddenly left him. It was a greatlonging--that he knew--a great desire, unsensed because unknown--butdeep, deep.
"Yes--Rufus?" she breathed, leaning over; but the light had gone outof his eyes and he gazed at her strangely.
"It is nothing," he murmured, "nothing. I--I have forgotten what I wasgoing to say." He sighed, and looked moodily at his feet. "Thethoughts of a would-be poet," he mused, cynically. "How valuable theyare--how the world must long for them--when he even forgets themhimself! I guess I'd better keep still and let you talk a while," heended, absently. But Lucy Ware sat gazing before her in silence.
"Isn't it time we returned?" she asked, after a while. "You know Ihave a great deal to do."
"Oh, that's all right," said Hardy, easily, "I'll help you. What doyou want to do--clean house?"
Lucy could have cried at her hero's sudden lapse--from Parnassus tothe scullery, from love to the commonplaces of living; but she hadschooled herself to bear with him, since patience is a woman's part.Yet her honest blue eyes were not adapted to concealment and,furtively taking note of her distress, Hardy fell into the role of apenitent.
"Is my garden such a poor place," he inquired gravely, "that you mustleave it the moment we have come? You have not even seen _ChupaRosa_."
"Well, show me _Chupa Rosa_--and then we will go."
She spoke the words reluctantly, rising slowly to her feet; and Hardyknew that in some hidden way he had hurt her, yet in what regard hecould not tell. A vague uneasiness came over him and he triedawkwardly to make amends for his fault, but good intentions never yetcrossed a river or healed a breach.
"Here is her nest," he said, "almost above our seat. Look, Lucy, it ismade out of willow down and spider webs, bound round and round thetwig. Don't you want to see the eggs? Look!" He bent the limb untilthe dainty white treasures, half buried in the fluffy down, wererevealed--but still she did not smile.
"Oh, stop, Rufus!" she cried, "what will the mother-bird think? Shemight be frightened at us and leave her nest. Come, let's hurry awaybefore she sees us!"
She turned and walked quickly down the valley, never pausing to lookback, even when Rufus stopped to pluck a flower from among the rocks.
"Here," he said, after he had helped her down the Indian stairway; andwhen she held up her hand, passively, he dropped a forget-me-not intoit.
"Oh!" she cried, carried away for a moment, "do they grow down here?"
"Yes," he said, soberly, "even here. And they--sometimes you find themwhere you wouldn't expect--in rough places, you know, and among thestones. I--I hope you will keep it," he said, simply. And Lucy divinedwhat was in his heart, better perhaps than he himself; but when atlast she was alone she buried her face in the pillow, and for a longtime the house was very still.
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