“I’m ’shamed. I love you most! But she’s mothery—Wanza is, that’s it!”
Mothery—Wanza of the wind’s will—mothery!
I keep a picture still in my mind of that last day on which I rode through the forest with Haidee to Hidden Lake. Rain had drenched the earth the previous night, and though the sun smiled from a cloudless sky, the roads were heavy and our horses’ progress slow. There was a languid drowsiness in the air, enhanced by the low, incessant singing of cat-bird, robin and lark, and the overpowering scent of syringa and rose. We chose a shadowy trail, and our heads were brushed by white-armed flowery hawthorns, while honeysuckle threw fragrant tendrils across our way. The woods glowed emerald-green, and dappled gray, gemmed here and there with dogwood; great plumes of spirea rose like pink clouds in the purple vistas. Small hollows held crystal-clear water, and up from these hollows floated swarms of azure butterflies. We crossed a swift-running stream; and before us, between smooth, mossy banks fern-topped, lay a cup-like dell, shut in by shrubs and vines. I drew rein, and dismounted, and Haidee with a swift glance at my face drew in her mare.
I went to her side.
She held some purple flowers in the bend of her arm, flowers that Joey had given her, she fingered the petals with a caressing touch. Her head drooped slightly, but her eyes met mine questioningly. The pallor of her face but made it more exquisite. Her gown was gray. Its folds rippled about her slight form. She seemed like some grave-eyed spirit. Her hair was in braids, outlining the ivory of her face. A scarf of white muslin left her warm throat bare.
I strove for words. But I could only whisper:
“I am your friend. Never forget. If danger ever threatens you—”
“If danger ever threatened me, I believe that you would intervene—you are a brave man, David Dale. But I shall live safely—going on with my even life—in my little cabin, with good Wanza for a companion. I have had a shock, Mr. Dale,” her voice quivered, her lips whitened with the words, “oh, such a shock! It is better not to speak of it. Not at least unless I tell you all there is to tell, and I am not ready as yet to do that.” She struggled with herself. She drew a deep breath. “But I came here to work! I shall work as I have planned until autumn, then—well, I do not know what then. You heard much yesterday—you know my attitude toward the man who is my husband. I dare say you are shocked, and shaken in your chivalrous estimate of me. I cannot help that. I do not feel that I can explain—it goes too deep. It is not to be laid bare before—forgive me—a stranger.”
She smiled at me sadly as if to soften the last words. But hurt and amazed, I cried:
“A stranger! Am I that?”