The Hunted Woman | Page 5

devoted to trade. She noticed signs which advertised soft drinks and cigars--always "soft drinks," which sometimes came into camp marked as "dynamite," "salt pork," and "flour." She was conscious that every one stared at them as they passed. She heard clearly the expressions of wonder and curiosity of two women and a girl who were spreading out blankets in front of a rooming-tent. She looked at the man at her side. She appreciated his courtesy in not attempting to force an acquaintanceship. In her eyes was a ripple of amusement.
"This is all strange and new to me--and not at all uninteresting," she said. "I came expecting--everything. And I am finding it. Why do they stare at me so? Am I a curiosity?"
"You are," he answered bluntly. "You are the most beautiful woman they have ever seen."
His eyes encountered hers as he spoke. He had answered her question fairly. There was nothing that was audacious in his manner or his look. She had asked for information, and he had given it. In spite of herself the girl's lips trembled. Her colour deepened. She smiled.
"Pardon me," she entreated. "I seldom feel like laughing, but I almost do now. I have encountered so many curious people and have heard so many curious things during the past twenty-four hours. You don't believe in concealing your thoughts out here in the wilderness, do you?"
"I haven't expressed my thoughts," he corrected. "I was telling you what they think."
"Oh-h-h--I beg your pardon again!"
"Not at all," he answered lightly, and now his eyes were laughing frankly into her own. "I don't mind informing you," he went on, "that I am the biggest curiosity you will meet between this side of the mountains and the sea. I am not accustomed to championing women. I allow them to pursue their own course without personal interference on my part. But--I suppose it will give you some satisfaction if I confess it--I followed you into Bill's place because you were more than ordinarily beautiful, and because I wanted to see fair play. I knew you were making a mistake. I knew what would happen."
They had passed the end of the street, and entered a little green plain that was soft as velvet underfoot. On the farther side of this, sheltered among the trees, were two or three tents. The man led the way toward these.
"Now, I suppose I've spoiled it all," he went on, a touch of irony in his voice. "It was really quite heroic of me to follow you into Bill's place, don't you think? You probably want to tell me so, but don't quite dare. And I should play up to my part, shouldn't I? But I cannot--not satisfactorily. I'm really a bit disgusted with myself for having taken as much interest in you as I have. I write books for a living. My name is John Aldous."
With a little cry of amazement, his companion stopped. Without knowing it, her hand had gripped his arm.
"You are John Aldous--who wrote 'Fair Play,' and 'Women!'" she gasped.
"Yes," he said, amusement in his face.
"I have read those books--and I have read your plays," she breathed, a mysterious tremble in her voice. "You despise women!"
"Devoutly."
She drew a deep breath. Her hand dropped from his arm.
"This is very, very funny," she mused, gazing off to the sun-capped peaks of the mountains. "You have flayed women alive. You have made them want to mob you. And yet----"
"Millions of them read my books," he chuckled.
"Yes--all of them read your books," she replied, looking straight into his face. "And I guess--in many ways--you have pointed out things that are true."
It was his turn to show surprise.
"You believe that?"
"I do. More than that--I have always thought that I knew your secret--the big, hidden thing under your work, the thing which you do not reveal because you know the world would laugh at you. And so--you despise me!"
"Not you."
"I am a woman."
He laughed. The tan in his cheeks burned a deeper red.
"We are wasting time," he warned her. "In Bill's place I heard you say you were going to leave on the Tête Jaune train. I am going to take you to a real dinner. And now--I should let those good people know your name."
A moment--unflinching and steady--she looked into his face.
"It is Joanne, the name you have made famous as the dreadfulest woman in fiction. Joanne Gray."
"I am sorry," he said, and bowed low. "Come. If I am not mistaken I smell new-baked bread."
As they moved on he suddenly touched her arm. She felt for a moment the firm clasp of his fingers. There was a new light in his eyes, a glow of enthusiasm.
"I have it!" he cried. "You have brought it to me--the idea. I have been wanting a name for her--the woman in my new