She had so far forgotten herself in yielding to the spell of the place,and in the revelation of her naked soul and inner nature,that it was with something of the instinct of outraged modesty that she seemed to shrink before this apparition of the outer world and outer worldliness.In an instant the nearer past returned;she remembered where she was,how she had come there,from whom she had come,and to whom she was returning.She could see that she had not only aimlessly wandered from the world but from the road;and for that instant she hated this man who had reminded her of it,even while she knew she must ask his assistance.It relieved her slightly to observe that he seemed as disturbed and impatient as herself,and as he took a pencil from between his lips and returned it to his pocket he scarcely looked at her.
But with her return to the world of convenances came its repression,and with a gentlewoman's ease and modulated voice she leaned over her mustang's neck and said:"I have strayed from my party and am afraid I have lost my way.We were going to the hotel at San Mateo.
Would you be kind enough to direct me there,or show me how I can regain the road by which I came?"Her voice and manner were quite enough to arrest him where he stood with a pleased surprise in his fresh and ingenuous face.She looked at him more closely.He was,in spite of his long silken mustache,so absurdly young;he might,in spite of that youth,be so absurdly man-like!What was he doing there?Was he a farmer's son,an artist,a surveyor,or a city clerk out for a holiday?Was there perhaps a youthful female of his species somewhere for whom he was waiting and upon whose tryst she was now breaking?Was he--terrible thought!--the outlying picket of some family picnic?His dress,neat,******,free from ostentatious ornament,betrayed nothing.She waited for his voice.
"Oh,you have left San Mateo miles away to the right,"he said with quick youthful sympathy,"at least five miles!Where did you leave your party?"His voice was winning,and even refined,she thought.She answered it quite spontaneously:"At a fork of two roads.I see now I took the wrong turning.""Yes,you took the road to Crystal Spring.It's just down there in the valley,not more than a mile.You'd have been there now if you hadn't turned off at the woods.""I couldn't help it,it was so beautiful.""Isn't it?"
"Perfect."
"And such shadows,and such intensity of color.""Wonderful!--and all along the ridge,looking down that defile!""Yes,and that point where it seems as if you had only to stretch out your hand to pick a manzanita berry from the other side of the canyon,half a mile across!""Yes,and that first glimpse of the valley through the Gothic gateway of rocks!""And the color of those rocks,--cinnamon and bronze with the light green of the Yerba buena vine splashing over them.""Yes,but for color DID you notice that hillside of yellow poppies pouring down into the valley like a golden Niagara?""Certainly,--and the perfect clearness of everything.""And yet such complete silence and repose!""Oh,yes!"
"Ah,yes!"
They were both gravely nodding and shaking their heads with sparkling eyes and brightened color,looking not at each other but at the far landscape vignetted through a lozenge-shaped wind opening in the trees.Suddenly Mrs.Ashwood straightened herself in the saddle,looked grave,lifted the reins and apparently the ten years with them that had dropped from her.But she said in her easiest well-bred tones,and a half sigh,"Then I must take the road back again to where it forks?""Oh,no!you can go by Crystal Spring.It's no further,and I'll show you the way.But you'd better stop and rest yourself and your horse for a little while at the Springs Hotel.It's a very nice place.Many people ride there from San Francisco to luncheon and return.I wonder that your party didn't prefer it;and if they are looking for you,--as they surely must be,"he said,as if with a sudden conception of her importance,"they'll come there when they find you're not at San Mateo."This seemed reasonable,although the process of being "fetched"and taking the five miles ride,which she had enjoyed so much alone,in company was not attractive."Couldn't I go on at once?"she said impulsively.
"You would meet them sooner,"he said thoughtfully.
This was quite enough for Mrs.Ashwood."I think I'll rest this poor horse,who is really tired,"she,said with charming hypocrisy,"and stop at the hotel."She saw his face brighten.Perhaps he was the son of the hotel proprietor,or a youthful partner himself."I suppose you live here?"she suggested gently."You seem to know the place so well.""No,"he returned quickly;"I only run down here from San Francisco when I can get a day off."A day off!He was in some regular employment.But he continued:
"And I used to go to boarding-school near here,and know all these woods well."He must be a native!How odd!She had not conceived that there might be any other population here than the immigrants;perhaps that was what made him so interesting and different from the others."Then your father and mother live here?"she said.
His frank face,incapable of disguise,changed suddenly."No,"he said simply,but without any trace of awkwardness.Then after a slight pause he laid his hand--she noticed it was white and well kept--on her mustang's neck,and said,"If--if you care to trust yourself to me,I could lead you and your horse down a trail into the valley that is at least a third of the distance shorter.It would save you going back to the regular road,and there are one or two lovely views that I could show you.I should be so pleased,if it would not trouble you.There's a steep place or two--but Ithink there's no danger."
"I shall not be afraid."