Part 36

She set herself in idle motion down the slope, swinging the hat at the end of its veil, pausing to look or listen, humming a little melody between her closed lips, throwing her head back to breathe deep the warm air, revelling in the woods sounds and woods odours and woods life with entire self-abandonment. Orde followed her in silence. She seemed to be quite without responsibility in regard to him; and yet an occasional random remark thrown in his direction proved that he was not forgotten. Finally they emerged from the beach woods.

They faced an open rolling country. As far as the eye could reach were the old stumps of pine trees. Sometimes they stood in place, burned and scarred, but attesting mutely the abiding place of a spirit long since passed away. Sometimes they had been uprooted and dragged to mark the boundaries of fields, where they raised an abatis of twisted roots to the sky.

The girl stopped short as she came face to face with this open country. The inner uplift, that had lent to her aspect the wide-eyed, careless joy of a child, faded. In its place came a new and serious gravity. She turned on him troubled eyes.

“You do this,” she accused him quite simply.

For answer he motioned to the left where below them lay a wide and cultivated countryside--farmhouses surrounded by elms; compact wood lots of hardwood; crops and orchards, all fair and pleasant across the bosom of a fertile nature.

“And this,” said he. “That valley was once nothing but a pine forest--and so was all the southern part of the State, the peach belt and the farms. And for that matter Indiana, too, and all the other forest States right out to the prairies. Where would we be now, if we HADN'T done that?” he pointed across at the stump-covered hills.

Mischief had driven out the gravity from the girl's eyes. She had lowered her head slightly sidewise as though to conceal their expression from him.

“I was beginning to be afraid you'd say 'yes-indeed,'” said she.

Orde looked bewildered, then remembered the Incubus, and laughed.

“I haven't been very conversational,” he acknowledged.

“Certainly NOT!” she said severely. “That would have been very disappointing. There has been nothing to say.” She turned and waved her hat at the beech woods falling sombre against the lowering sun.

“Good-bye,” she said gravely, “and pleasant dreams to you. I hope those very saucy little birds won't keep you awake.” She looked up at Orde. “He was rather nice to us this afternoon,” she explained, “and it's always well to be polite to them anyway.” She gazed steadily at Orde for signs of amusement. He resolutely held his face sympathetic.

“Now I think we'll go home,” said she.

They made their way between the stumps to the edge of the sand-hill overlooking the village. With one accord they stopped. The low-slanting sun cast across the vista a sleepy light of evening.

“How would you like to live in a place like that all your life?” asked Orde.

“I don't know.” She weighed her words carefully. “It would depend. The place isn't of so much importance, it seems to me. It's the life one is called to. It's whether one finds her soul's realm or not that a place is liveable or not. I can imagine entering my kingdom at a railway water-tank,” she said quaintly, “or missing it entirely in a big city.”

Orde looked out over the raw little village with a new interest.

“Of course I can see how a man's work can lie in a small place,” said he; “but a woman is different.”

“Why is a woman different?” she challenged. “What is her 'work,' as you call it; and why shouldn't it, as well as a man's, lie in a small place? What is work--outside of drudgery--unless it is correspondence of one's abilities to one's task?”

“But the compensations--” began Orde vaguely.

“Compensations?” she cried. “What do you mean? Here are the woods and fields, the river, the lake, the birds, and the breezes. We'll check them off against the theatre and balls. Books can be had here as well as anywhere. As to people: in a large city you meet a great many, and they're all busy, and unless you make an especial and particular effort--which you're not likely to--you'll see them only casually and once in a great while. In a small place you know fewer people; but you know them intimately.” She broke off with a half-laugh. “I'm from New York,” she stated humorously, “and you've magicked me into an eloquent defense of Podunk!” She laughed up at Orde quite frankly. “Giant Strides!” she challenged suddenly. She turned off the edge of the sand-hill, and began to plunge down its slope, leaning far back, her arms extended, increasing as much as possible the length of each step. Orde followed at full speed. When the bottom was reached, he steadied her to a halt. She shook herself, straightened her hat, and wound the veil around it. Her whole aspect seemed to have changed with the descent into the conventionality of the village street. The old, gentle though capable and self-contained reserve had returned. She moved beside Orde with dignity.

“I came down with Jane and Mrs. Hubbard to see Mr. Hubbard off on the boat for Milwaukee last night,” she told him. “Of course we had to wait over Sunday. Mrs. Hubbard and Jane had to see some relative or other; but I preferred to take a walk.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Orde.

“At the Bennetts'. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes,” replied Orde.

They said little more until the Bennetts' gate was reached. Orde declined to come in.

“Good-night,” she said. “I want to thank you. You did not once act as though you thought I was silly or crazy. And you didn't try, as all the rest of them would, to act silly too. You couldn't have done it; and you didn't try. Oh, you may have felt it--I know!” She smiled one of her quaint and quizzical smiles. “But men aren't built for foolishness. They have to leave that to us. You've been very nice this afternoon; and it's helped a lot. I'm good for quite a long stretch now. Good-night.”

She nodded to him and left him tongue-tied by the gate.