It is the way of a maid with a man,
Nature's way--but a perilous way for such a time and such a situation.
That night we sat about the tiny camp-fire and talked. She told me of
her life in Kentucky, of her grief at the loss of her sister, of many
simple things; and I told her of my farm--a mile square--of my plans,
of my life on the canal--which seemed to impress her as it had Rowena
Fewkes as a very adventurous career. I was sure she was beginning to
like me; but of one thing I did not tell her. I did not mention my long
unavailing search for my mother, nor the worn shoe and the sad farewell
letter in the little iron-bound trunk in the wagon. I searched for tales
which would make of me a man; but when it grew dark I put out the fire.
I was not afraid of Buck Gowdy's finding us; but I did not want any one
to discover us. And that night I drew out the loads of chicken shot from
my gun and reloaded it with buckshot. I could not sleep. After Virginia
had lain down in the wagon, I walked about silently so as not to rouse
her, prowling like a wolf. I crept to the side of the wagon and listened
for her breathing; and when I heard it my hands trembled, and my heart
pounded in my breast. All the things through which I had lived without
partaking of them came back into my mind. I thought of what I heard
every day on the canal--that all women were alike; that they existed
only for that sort of companionship with men with which my eyes were so
ignorantly familiar; that all their protestations and refusals were for
effect only; that a man need only to be a man, to know what he wanted,
and conquer it.
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