The Man Thou Gavest | Page 5

try to
breathe life into it, now that he himself was living. Lynda had said,
when last they had discussed his work, "It's beautiful, Con; you shall
not belittle it. It is beautiful like a cold, stone thing with rough edges.
Sometime you must smooth it and polish it, and then you must pray
over it and believe in it, and I really think it will repay you. It may not
mean anything but a sure guide to your goal, but you'd be grateful for
that, wouldn't you?" Of course he would be grateful for that! It would
mean life to him--life, not mere existence. He began to hope that Jim
White would stay away a month; what with study, and the play, and the
doing for himself, the time ahead was provided for already!

Stalking noiselessly forward, Truedale came into the clearing, passed
White's shack, and approached his own with a fixed determination.
Then he stopped short. He was positive that he had closed windows and
doors--the caution of the city still clung to him--but now both doors and
windows were set wide to the brilliant autumn day and a curl of smoke
from a lately replenished fire cheerfully rose in the clear, dry air.
"Well, I'll be--!" and then Truedale quietly slipped to the rear of the
cabin and to a low, sliding window through which he could peer,
unobserved. One glance transfixed him.
CHAPTER II
The furnishing of the room was bare and plain--a deal table, a couple of
wooden chairs, a broad comfortable couch, a cupboard with some
nondescript crockery, and a good-sized mirror in the space between the
front door and the window. Before this glass a strange figure was
walking to and fro, enjoying hugely its own remarkable reflection.
Truedale's bedraggled bath robe hung like a mantle from the shoulders
of the intruder--they were very straight, slim young shoulders; an old
ridiculous fez--an abomination of his freshman year, kept for
sentimental reasons--adorned the head of the small stranger and only
partly held in check the mass of shadowy hair that rippled from it and
around a mischievous face.
Surprise, then wonder, swayed Truedale. When he reached the wonder
stage, thought deserted him. He simply looked and kept on wondering.
Through this confusion, words presently reached him. The masquerader
within was bowing and scraping comically, and in a low, musical voice
said:
"How-de, Mister Outlander, sir! How-de? I saw your smoke a-curling
way back from home, sir, and I've come a-visiting 'long o' you, Mister
Outlander."
Another sweeping curtsey reduced Truedale to helpless mirth and he
fairly shouted, doubling up as he did so.

The effect of his outburst upon the young person within was
tremendous. She seemed turned to stone. She stared at the face in the
window; she turned red and white--the absurd fez dangling over her left
ear. Then she emitted what seemed to be one word, so lingeringly
sweet was the drawl.
"Godda'mighty!"
Seeing that there was going to be no other concession, Truedale pulled
himself together, went around to the front door and knocked,
ceremoniously. The girl turned, as if on a pivot, but spoke no word.
She had the most wonderful eyes--innocent and pleading; she was a
mere child and, although she looked awed now, was evidently a
forward young native who deserved a good lesson. Truedale
determined to give her one!
"If you don't mind," he said, "I'll come in and sit down."
This he did while the big, solemn eyes followed him alertly.
"And now will you be kind enough to tell me what you mean
by--wearing my clothes?"
Still the silence and the blank stare.
"You must answer my questions!" Truedale's voice sounded stern. "I
suppose you didn't expect me back so soon?"
The deep eyes confirmed this by the drooping of the lids.
"And you broke in--what for?"
No answer.
"Who are you?"
Really the situation was becoming unbearable, so Truedale changed his
tactics. He would play with the poor little thing and reassure her.

"Now that I look at you I see what you are. You're not a human at all.
You're a spirit of something or other--probably of one of those perky
mountains over yonder. The White Maid, I bet! You had to don my
clothes in order to materialize before my eyes and you had to use that
word of the hills--so that I could understand you. It's quite plain now
and you are welcome to my--my bath robe; I dare say that, underneath
it, you are decked out in filmy clouds and vapours and mists. Oh! come
now--" The strange eyes were filling--but not overflowing!
"I was only joking. Forgive me. Why--"
The wretched fez fell from the soft hair--the bedraggled robe from the
rigid shoulders--and there, garbed in a rough home-spun gown, a