[V]
WOMAN AND MAN
There were no voices in the woods that night, or if there were any the girl in the lean-to did not hear them. The sun had already found its way past the protecting flap of her shack before she awoke. The first thing she discovered was that at some time during the night he had put his coat over her again. She held it for a moment in her fingers thinking, before she rose; then got up quickly and peered out. The morning was chill, but the fire showed signs of recent attention and on the saucepan which had been placed near the fire a piece of birch-bark was lying. She picked it up curiously to read a hastily pencilled scrawl:
“I’m off up country. I must go far, so don’t be frightened if I’m not back for supper. Be careful with your foot—and keep the fire going. There are fish and firewood enough to last. Nothing can harm you. With luck I’ll bring my guide and duffel-bag.”
She glanced quickly over her shoulder into the depths of the pine-woods in the direction he must have taken as though she hoped to see him walking there; then, the birch-bark still in her hands, sat down on the log, read the message over again, smiling. She had begun to understand this tall young man, with the grim, unshaven face and somber, peering eyes. Those eyes had frightened her at first; and even now the memory of them haunted her until she recalled just what they did when he smiled, and then remembered that she was not to be frightened any more.
He had been gone for several hours. She knew this by the condition of the fire, but wondered why he had not spoken more definitely about his plans the night before. Possibly he had been afraid that she would not have slept. She had slept, soundly, dreamlessly, and she found herself wondering how she could have done so. The last thing she could recall was looking out through sleepy eyes at his profile as he sat motionless by the fire staring into the shadows. She knew then that fear of him had passed and that had she slept under a city roof she could not have been more contented to sleep securely.
He would be gone all day, of course, and she must depend upon her own exertions. First she filled the little saucepan with water and put it between the two flat stones that served for its hearth, and then took from the creel two fish that he had cleaned the night before. Half way to the fire she paused, her crutch in mid-air, balancing herself safely without its aid. She peered to right and left among the branches and then put the fish back into the creel in quick decision.
A bath! She had been longing for it for two days! Her resolution made, she took up her crutch and hobbled down the stream, turning her head back over her shoulder in the direction of the camp as if she still feared she might have misread the birch-bark message. Warm with expectancy and the delight of the venture, she found a sheltered pool beneath the dense foliage and bathed her lithe young body in the icy water. Gasping for breath she splashed across the sandy pool and back again with half uttered cries of delight; and the Naiads and Oreads flitted fearfully among the trees whispering and peering cautiously at the slim white creature which had intruded so fearlessly upon their secret preserves. The water was cold! Oh, so cold! With one last plunge which set her teeth chattering, the bather clambered up the bank into the sunlight chilled to the bone, but glowing suddenly with the swift rush of new blood along her rosy limbs. Upright upon the bank she moved vigorously back and forth, and releasing her hair, let it clothe and warm her, while she stood drying, her face toward the sun. Apollo looked with favor on this Clytië and sent his warmest rays that she might not have gazed at him in vain.
A miracle had happened to her ankle, too, for she moved quite without pain. Dressing and making her way back to the fire, using her crutch only as a staff, she gathered cedar by the way, for her morning tea. Her mentor had made some of it for her the night before and her lips twisted at the thought of drinking it again; but the essence of the woods, their balsam, their fragrance, their elixir had permeated her and even this bitter physic seemed palatable now. She remembered his couplet last night:
A quart of arbor-vitæ
To make you big and mighty.
At the fire she spitted her fish, leaning back against the log, her hair drying in the sun and wind, the warm fire bringing a warm glow throughout her body. She ate and then stretched her arms toward the kindly trees. It was good to be strong and young, with life just ripening. At that moment it did not matter just what was to become of her. She was sure that she no longer felt any uneasiness as to the end of her adventure. Her guardian had gone to find a way out. He would come back to-night. In time she would go back to camp. She didn’t care when—the present seemed sufficient.