He opened his lips and tried to keep his teeth from chattering. “My name—” he began, steadily enough, “my name—” and then confusion and chaos descended upon him. He might have been back in the hospital in England, fighting for memory through black clouds. “‘My name is Norval—’” he said, rapidly, and broke off gasping, horrified.
The woman stared at him for the fraction of a second, her eyes widening; then they narrowed and warmed and fine little lines came round the corners of them and she laughed aloud, delightedly. “Well,” she said, “aren’t you a long way from the Grampian hills? Come in! Do come in—I was just having to drink my tea all alone!”
CHAPTER X
HE stumbled over the threshold and found himself in an amazing room. He was to observe, later on, that two partitions had been knocked out to make three cubby-holes into a living room of pleasant dimensions, that the floor sagged and that the walls slanted, that the raftered ceiling was rough: at the moment he was aware only of a leaping, crackling fire on the hearth, of a Chinese wicker tea table drawn up before it with a wicker armchair on each side, and—beyond these joyful things—shelves of books, books, books, running along one entire end of the place; the gleam of good brass in the firelight; good prints on the walls.
“You are Mr. Wolcott, of course,” the woman said. “And I am Margaret Golinda—but you know that! We have been hoping you would come to see us. Sit down, and pull your chair closer to the fire—you must be fog-chilled to your marrow! Tea is just ready and piping hot—I just lifted the kettle off as you knocked! You see, I always pull up another chair for tea, on the hope that Mateo may come in and join me—and he does, once in a blue moon!” Fine little lines of mirth framed her eyes again. “He does like it, when he can spare the half hour, but I dare say it’s a slothful habit for ranchers!”
“It’s a heavenly habit,” said Dean Wolcott, fervently. He leaned toward the fire, holding his stiff fingers in the stinging, scorching heat. “I must ask your pardon, Mrs. Golinda, for what must have seemed my clumsy facetiousness, just now. I will tell you how I came to say—”
“Ah, but you mustn’t tell me anything until you’ve had your first cup,” she said quickly, giving him a keen glance. She handed him his tea in pale green china, with a thin old silver spoon, and watched him, smiling. “You are an easterner, I have heard, and you haven’t realized what our summers can be in Monterey County! Many mooded, they are. One can shiver—and perspire—in two hours!” She talked on in her very low, very clear voice, and there was no chance for him to speak until he had drained his cup. “Now—the second cup, and toast, this time, with it, and some of our wild sage honey—we brag about our honey, Mr. Wolcott.” She filled his cup again, and this time she gave him an oblong wicker tray to hold on his knees, with a pale green plate of toast and a small fat pot of amber honey, and she kept on talking. He knew that she was talking so that he would not have to talk.
“You must have another cup—all really sincere tea drinkers take three!” He took it docilely. “I can see that you’re rather surprised at my little house; tea tables and brass and prints amaze you—here? And everything came here on the back of a mule, over that trail, for there is no road beyond the Gomez ranch, as you know. There were eighty loads!” She shook her sleek head, sighing a little at the memory. “But I lost only two cups and one saucer! Now, I wonder if you’ll pardon my leaving you for a few moments? There’s something rather urgent in the oven!” She went swiftly out of the room and closed the door behind her, and for a moment or two he heard sounds of activity in the kitchen—an oven door opened and closed again, a faucet turned on and off. Then he stopped listening and settled limply and luxuriously down into his armchair. There was a cushion on the back which fitted into his neck as if it had been measured for him, and he yielded body and brain to a delicious drowsiness; he would hear her step, and rouse himself before she opened the door. An old banjo clock on the wall stated that it was twenty minutes past five ... she would doubtless be back in five minutes and then he would chat a few moments, and be on his way again....
He heard her step, just as he had known he would, and roused himself, and looked at the clock to see if it had been more than five minutes, but he could not see the clock very clearly.... He must be half blind with sleep.... He got up out of his chair and went close to it, and saw that it was twenty minutes before seven, and the room was soft with dusk.
“I’ve been gone a fearful time,” said Mrs. Golinda, regretfully. “My wicked little horse elected not to be caught and put in the barn, and we’ve been holding a sort of field day all over the home ranch!” She stirred the fire to brightness and threw on fresh wood. “I hope you helped yourself to tea and toast and found something to read—or did you just rest and get warmed through again?”