I did not have the heart to get dinner, but ate what cold stuff I could find, then went to the seat under the tall pine, and thought. I was not scared. Fright did not enter into my feelings in the smallest way, although, when I reviewed the incident, I was confident Buck would have worsted me had it not been for the unexpected and startling intervention. He was unquestionably the stronger man, and had I defeated him, it would have been due to my skill in fisticuffs. I was not a stranger to the science of the ring, while abhorring prize-fighting. I believe it every man's duty to himself and those he loves to equip himself physically for life's battles. So I had trained, and kept myself in training. But the smith had been transformed into a raging demon of a man; his great natural power had been doubled, quadrupled, and had his clutching hands once found me I would have fared as Carver Doone fared at the hands of John Ridd.
I was sick at heart because of what these things which had just transpired foretold. Would Buck voice his hellish belief in my poltroonery to Lessie? A shiver shook me at the thought; it seemed as if a thousand-legged worm with feet of ice was laid along my spine. Then my neck and face burned, and my throat grew tight, so that my breath came hard. What ailed me? Never before had such a sensation possessed me. Why did it matter so very greatly what Buck told? I knew that I was entirely innocent of any wrong—what else mattered? I know the good opinion of our fellow creatures is worth striving for and maintaining, but why should I be so concerned as to what these hill people thought of me? A few months more and I would be gone, would never see them again in all my life. Why—then suddenly, in the midst of my reflections the Dryad's face swam before my mind, and I saw it as it would look when Buck, crudely but earnestly, told her what he believed to be true. I saw the expression on her face when she heard the hateful words; the swift, responsive blood bathing her cheeks into red peonies—the terror and shame in her eyes—the anguish of betrayed faith—and in that moment I knew that I cared more for what Buck should say to Lessie than for anything else in all the world. I got up, breathing fast, and looked out over the great valley of billowing trees. In former days this sight had a magical effect; it brought a sweet calm and content. This afternoon I did not feel the response to which I was accustomed. Instead, I knew that war was in my breast, and that every passing moment loosened a lurking devil with a shape of fear. Peace cannot come from without when there is strife within. Had Buck already told her? I found myself wondering. Had he gone direct to her after he recovered, and poured out the poisoned tale? He would do it, I felt assured. His passion had reached a stage which not only suggested, but declared this course, and he, rough, untrained, with no restraining leash of civilization and refinement to hold him back, would make instant capital of his supposed discovery to further his wooing. If I could see her first—
Down my hill of refuge I tore, bareheaded, coatless. Along the familiar route I ran, to Dyrad's Glade, to the creek which flowed south, to the tree spanning the creek. Midway across the tree sat the object of my quest, fishing. A pool of some depth spread out beneath her, and here her hook was cast. Her rod was a slender hickory pole, while a rusty tin can at her side held her bait—the fishing-worms of our boyhood. As I appeared she drew up and at once became engaged in impaling a fat bait on the hook. With the greatest nonchalance she drew the wriggling thing over the barb, and sighted me just as the operation was concluded. She smiled, and the relief wave which swept over me threatened to inundate me root and branch. By this I knew I had reached her first. Then, as I climbed eagerly up, she deliberately pursed her lips and spat on that worm!
"Hello!" she said, and cast her line.
I did not say hello, nor anything else for a time—for an appreciable time. I felt foolish; light-headed, light-footed, light all over. Something inside my breast seemed spreading and spreading, and I wanted to sing—to shout insanely. This most candid confession will probably arouse grave suspicions in the mind of the reader, but that is so much in favor of a narrative which always sticks closely to the truth. Had I intended to practice any deception, just here is where I would have begun, for I realize, after writing the above, that I am laying myself liable to almost any charge one would care to bring along the line of general idiocy. Just why the ordinary sight of a girl on a log fishing—a back country girl at that—should make a man of the world who has long since left the adolescent stage behind feel like singing and dancing and yelling, is beyond my ability to explain. Let him who reads draw his own conclusions.
"You did that for luck, didn't you?" I asked, when I was seated tailor fashion beside her. It had been a boyhood belief of mine; I had simply outgrown it. She was still primitive.
She nodded, and put a finger on her lips, turning to me wide eyes of warning. She evidently harbored the other belief that fish won't bite if you talk. I turned to her cork—an old bottle stopper—and saw that it was bobbing; short little ducks sideways which suggested a minnow to me. But the Dryad was all engrossed with the prospects, and watched the stopper's movements intently. Presently it went under in a slanting sweep, and the pole came up promptly and vigorously. A sun perch the size of a small leaf glinted and leaped at the end of the line. Dexterously the girl swung her prize within reach, skilfully removed the hook from its hold in a gill, and dropped her catch in a tin milk bucket at her other side.
"I tol' you!" she said, triumphantly, referring to her treatment of the worm before committing it to the stream.
At once her tapering fingers began burrowing in the dirt which half filled the can, in search of more bait.
"Hold on, Dryad!" I whispered. "Let up on fishing a few minutes, unless you'll allow me to talk, too. I've something to tell you. Don't you know it seems an age since I saw you last?"