IV
The tiny room was exquisite in its orderly neatness. The furniture was of the plainest, but bore an air of individuality. On one side was a case of books, and the mantel above the fireplace was decorated with quaint curios and beautiful shells.
A shadow fell across the floor.
“A nearer view might the better satisfy your curiosity, madam,” said a voice from behind Ethel.
Ethel turned sharply to find herself face to face with a man in the rough garb of a miner. The man’s eyes looked straight into hers without flinching.
“I said that a nearer view might the better satisfy your curiosity in regard to my poor possessions,” he repeated.
“Yours?” she stammered, a look of repulsion coming into her eyes.
The look and the shrinking gesture were not lost on Hustler Joe. His eyes darkened. His broad shoulders bent in a mocking bow and his right hand made a sweeping flourish.
“Mine, madam; but consider them yours until the storm is over. I’ll not intrude”—and he was gone.
A flare of lightning and a deafening report made his exit wonderfully dramatic to Dorothy. The rain was falling in torrents, too—a fact which suddenly occurred to Ethel. For a moment she hesitated; then she sped through the door, overtook and confronted the miner.
“Go back instantly!” she commanded. “If—if you don’t, I shall start for home in all this rain!”
The words were scarcely spoken before the man had turned and was hurrying her back to the house. Once inside there was an uncomfortable silence. Dorothy came to the rescue.
“I’m afraid you thought we were unpardonably rude,” she began pleasantly. “You see we were caught by the shower and my friend thought no one was living here; otherwise, we would not have so unceremoniously taken possession.”
“No, of course not,” murmured Miss Barrington constrainedly, going over to the window and looking out at the swaying trees.
Hustler Joe made a dissenting gesture.
“Say no more: you are quite welcome,” he replied, going over to the fireplace and touching a match to the light wood ready placed for a fire. “It will take the dampness out of the air, and—of your garments,” he added, with a furtive glance at the tall figure in the window.
“Thank you, you are very kind,” said Dorothy, drawing nearer. The movement brought her close to the mantel, and she picked up one of the shells. “Did you gather these yourself?” she asked, wondering at the light that leaped into his eyes at the question.
Ethel, turning round a minute later, found them talking like old friends together. She even caught herself listening breathlessly to a story he was telling of an Indian arrow he held in his hand. A sudden glance in her direction from the man’s dark eyes sent her back to her old position with an abruptness that surprised as well as displeased her.
The storm was not a long one. The clouds were already lifting in the west and the rain was less flood-like in its descent. Finally the sun peeped out and flashed for a moment in Ethel’s eyes.
Dorothy and their host were over at the bookcase deep in a discussion of the respective merits of Scott and Dickens, when Ethel crossed the room and came toward them.
“I think,” she said, with the slightest of inclinations in Hustler Joe’s direction, “that the storm is over. We can go now.”
“So it is,” said Dorothy; then turning to the man at her side she held out a cordial hand. “Thank you very much. You have been very kind.”
“Yes, very kind—thank you,” murmured Ethel, bowing slightly and turning toward the door. “We shall have to go home by the road,” she announced regretfully a moment later, as she stood outside looking longingly at the hillside path where the wet grass sparkled in the sun.
For a time the two girls walked on in silence, then Dorothy murmured softly:
“Not a word of English—not a word!”
Ethel gave a sidelong look from her lowered lids.
“Well, I didn’t suppose they could!” she said petulantly.
“I wouldn’t trust my life near one of them,” continued Dorothy in the same low voice.
Ethel shrugged her shoulders and a faint pink showed on her forehead.
“Don’t!” she protested. “How could you talk with him so?—what dreadful boots he wore!”
Dorothy laughed outright.
“My dear, his boots do not cover his head. Would you have a man dig coal in patent-leathers?”
Ethel made a wry face and was silent.
“Seriously, dear,” Dorothy went on, “he was very interesting to me. His knowledge of books was most amazing. What he is doing here I can’t imagine—he’s no common miner!”
“Oh, of course not,” laughed Ethel mockingly. “No doubt he’s a college president in disguise! But really, I’m not in the least interested. Let’s talk of something else.” And she changed the subject.
And yet it was Ethel who, at dinner that night, turned to Mr. Barrington with the abrupt question:
“Father, who is living in the old shanty just beyond the Deerfield woods?”
“I’m sure I haven’t the least idea, my daughter,” replied the man, mildly indifferent.
“Perhaps I can assist Miss Barrington in the matter,” interposed the smooth voice of Mark Hemenway. “It has lately been taken in hand by a curious creature known as ‘Hustler Joe.’”
“‘Hustler Joe’?” murmured John Barrington.
“Yes, sir, one of the men. A queer, silent sort—the kind that no good comes of. I’m keeping my eye on him, however.”
“Indeed,” observed Ethel calmly, “I thought him quite the gentleman.”
The effect of her words was like that of an electric shock around the table; in fact, Ethel herself felt it to some extent, for her remark was almost as much of a surprise to herself as to the others.
“Why, my daughter!” murmured Mrs. Barrington faintly, and even Dorothy started. There was an ugly narrowing of Mark Hemenway’s eyes, but it was John Barrington who spoke.
“Well, you seem to have the advantage,” he drawled. “Would you mind telling where the rest of us could meet—this gentleman?”
His daughter laughed and lapsed into her old bantering tone.