“And the wilderness shall blossom like the rose,” murmured Haidee. “Thank you, Mr. Fixing Man.”
I rode home happier than I had been in many a long day. When I told Joey of the proposed improvements at Hidden Lake he shouted with glee, and a few moments later I heard him tooting on his neglected flute that had lain strangely mute since the day when Haidee had sung “Bell Brandon” to its accompaniment, and we had seen the smile die from her curling lips and the light of joy go out in her sparkling eyes.
After this my days were trances. Through the glowing flame-like hours I worked to transform the sordid little cabin into a fitting habitation for my wonder woman. Together we planned the rustic porch at the rear of the kitchen, and when the foundation was laid I dug up wild honeysuckle roots and we planted them with a lavish hand, bending shoulder to shoulder above the sweet, moist earth, our hands meeting, Haidee’s breath on my face, her unsteady laughter in my ear, the charm of her rare, compelling personality stirring my senses to ecstasy.
I labored each day till the sun was well down behind Nigger Head; and then came a half hour of blissful idleness on the front porch with Haidee behind a tea tray facing me, Wanza handing around cheese cakes and sandwiches, and master Joey sitting on a three-legged stool, the picture of smug, well-fed complacency.
Wanza’s conduct puzzled me sorely during these days. At times she jested with me in her old bright rollicking way, but oftener her mood was fitful, and she was hot-tempered, difficult and distrait.
One evening I rode to the village with her in her cart on a special errand for Haidee. It was a mellow, moonlight evening. The air was ripe with a frosted sweetness, a tang that only autumn evenings hold. I was in boisterous spirits; and as Wanza drove I relapsed into my old way of alternately bantering and teasing and flattering my companion.
“When you no longer line your umbrella with pink, Wanza,” I said, “I will know that vanity and you have parted company.”
The blonde head turned restlessly.
“I ain’t half as vain as I used to be.”
“Oh, that’s bad, Wanza—very bad! A pretty girl is naturally vain. And as for the pink lining—it’s as natural for a fair, pale girl like you to line her umbrella with pink as it is for a fruit dealer to stretch pink gauze over his sallow fruit.”