"Timber"/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV
The anger which had been in Marcia's face died long before she crossed Seven Mile Creek. She became a trifle pale, a little drawn of feature, as though she had been through an ordeal, as if she had bid high on a long chance and lost. But her eyes, though fast on the road, showed a degree of speculation that does not come often to the blue eyes of a golden-haired girl; they were not hopeless or dismayed, and when she reached the place where she had been stalled she did not turn into the road that would take her back to Windigo Lodge, but kept right on to Pancake, stopped her car at the Commercial House where she registered and was given a room, and from there she telephoned to Mrs. Mason, at Windigo.
"This is Marcia," she said gaily. "John won't let me come back tonight, so I'm going to stay over—yes, he's awfully busy—yes, I'm with Miss Foraker—delightful—see you all tomorrow—"
She hung up the receiver and stepped out of the booth, her mouth set.
"What time is the train from the south due?" she asked Henry.
"Nine-ten," he replied.
"That is the only one today?"
"Only one since noon."
The early June moon hung over Pancake as the night train slid to a stop, glorifying the ugly little town, softening the bad lines of its flimsy buildings, toning down the colors with which they were painted, mellowing the nakedness of others. The night was very still and warm, and sweet with the purity of distances.
The river murmured to the village as it slid by and people sitting on their stoops talked back and forth, their voices carrying well in the night air. Philip Rowe came across the street beside Henry who had gone to the train to guide stray travelers to his shelter, and Marcia, from the hotel verandah, watched him come, rocking gently in the rickety chair, her cool smile hidden by the shadows.
She remained there while he registered and went to his room, waiting patiently, because the rooms were stuffy and she knew he would return. He came out of the door and stopped to light a cigar. She could see his frown in the glare of the match; she saw, too, the look of amazement when she spoke. He stared toward her incredulously and did not move until the match burned out. Then she laughed.
He came with quick steps and leaned over her chair. "Marcia Murray!"
"Why so dramatic?" She laughed as she let her hand rest in his.
"Of all places to find you!"
"You knew I was at Dick Mason's."
"But that's a long way from here!"
"Love," she said mockingly, "laughs at locksmiths and bad roads."
His hand tightened on hers till she winced.
"Oh, not that, Phil! You're so eager and impulsive—and such an optimist. I had no idea you were coming, though I believe John did mention it."
He dropped her hand and leaned against the railing.
"You were over here to see him," he said flatly.
Her clear laugh came again. "Of course, who else would I come to see? Though naturally, I'm glad that you are here tonight. I had planned a lonely evening. John doesn't know that I got off the road and missed my way until late. I was with him all day and he thinks I'm safe at Windigo. I would only worry him if I let him know."
Rowe pulled at his cigar.
"He's so busy! You'll hardly know him, Phil; he's quite changed."
"I expect so," drily. Pause.
"Why don't we walk?" Rowe asked. "I've ridden all—"
"Fine! Such a night!"
They went together, slowly, out along the board sidewalk to where it became but two planks laid side by side in the sand, and finally off that into the road itself.
"Don't you think John is doing wonderfully," Marcia asked.
Rowe shrugged and threw away his cigar rather impetuously, as though it had not pleased his taste. "He's doing something, yes, but the old man can't trust him. He's a kid in business; been lucky, but he has a deal on and Luke won't trust him to go it alone; that's why I am here."
Marcia lowered her face and he would have been startled had he seen its intentness. "But I thought his father was greatly pleased with what he had done?"
"Oh, in a way," grudgingly. "He doesn't trust him like he does me." There was something like a childish boast in the last.
"Then he hasn't overcome his father's prejudice?"
"No!" explosively.
"But if he should show big things?"
"He has to do that yet!"
"Don't you think this new idealism he's developing will appeal to his father? Or—mightn't he like it?"
Rowe glanced sideways at her; her face was still in the shadow.
"Just what do you mean—idealism?"
"Why his putting ideals above money. He came up here to make money and he has done that, has proven that he is capable of making it. He's seemed to outgrow that ambition, though I think it's splendid the way he wants to help Miss Foraker."
Rowe's fingers touched his chin speculatively.
"That's news to me," he said. "I came up to find out about this pine deal and what backing he wants."
Marcia looked up in a good counterfeit of surprise.
"Am I betraying a secret? I didn't mean to, really!"
"No secret. I'll know in the morning."
He urged gently for more information, but Marcia held it back long enough to whet his curiosity.
"Why, it's simply a matter of ideals," she finally said. "His father, you see, made his fortune by cutting pine. Now John has been convinced by Miss Foraker that timber can be grown as a crop. He wants to see some of that fortune made out of old pine devoted to growing young pine—and undo some of the damage his father did to this country. He thinks his father owes something to—to the country; only, of course, he won't put it that way to Mr. Taylor. It's a conservation hobby—reforestation."
After a moment Rowe laughed: "Growing trees to look at, eh?"
"Well, for a time. He isn't sure that it will pay—it isn't profit he is after, anyhow."
Rowe was silent.
"A big idea isn't it?" she asked.
"Not for profit, eh?"
"Really Phil, I don't know detail. It's all very big and splendid. It dates away ahead for future generations. I tell him I don't think his father will take to the idea very readily. Do you? John, though, is all enthusiasm for it—"
Another period of silence; then from Rowe: "Are you sure of this?"
"Sure? Of course! He talked it all the afternoon."
His hand sought her arm and rested there none too lightly.
"And what do you think?" he asked. "What do you think Luke Taylor would say to putting his money into something for—coming generations—paying for what he's broke?"
"It doesn't sound much like him, does it?"
Rowe laughed harshly.
"I guess not! I guess not! He's had me jumping for months switching his investments so they're as good as cash! A bird in hand is worth a half dozen in the bush to him—"
He stopped and swung her about so that her face was toward the moon.
"Don't you know what this means? Don't you know what Luke will say?"
"Why—what, Phil?" breathlessly.
"You're right that John has caught the old man's interest. He has made a showing that tickled the old dog, but I knew that he wouldn't go far! I knew he'd make some fool break and have to be satisfied with being a rich man's son in the flesh—and not before the courts—when Luke dies."
"Phil!"
"Listen, Marcia! A new will is ready to be drawn. John is cut off with an annuity—about enough to keep a teamster and his wife in want. I'm to be named as administrator. I'm to control the Luke Taylor millions! It's a big job; it'll be a fat job!"
He had both her arms in his hands then, gripping their firm flesh. She drew back, alarm in her face—all but the eyes, which were steady and cool and calculating
"I used to think he was simply shiftless. I never imagined he was a nut! Do you want to marry a man and live on ideals? Do you want to tie yourself to a worthless kid or an improvident dreamer? Do you want to do that?"
"Phil, what are you saying—"
"I'm saying this," he muttered fiercely, bending close to her. "I'm saying that is it Phil Rowe and not John Taylor who will be able to give you the things you want? Oh, don't deny it! I know you, Marcia, your impulses, your desires! I know that a man must bid high for your love. I know you want not comfort but luxury, not position but independence.
"Until now I haven't figured with you much. Until now I've been Luke Taylor's bookkeeper, but I've been a good bookkeeper—I've gotten closer to him than his son ever did, than his son ever can now. I'll have a chunk of the estate for my—loyalty," with fine irony. "That means that it's the bookkeeper, not the son, who can make you contented and happy!"
"Phil, you're trying to buy me!"
"Buy you? Yes!" as he dragged her to him and slid one arm about her shoulders. She struggled—very briefly—and then stood quiet, stilling the quaking of her limbs, as he talked into her hair, mingling kisses with words. "All women who are worth while are bought! Do you think I'd want you if you were cheap? Do you think I'd want a woman who would be content to grub and slave?
"Luke will explode when he hears what's brought me here! Paying for what he broke! That's good! John will be cut off—I'll be as good as the old man's heir. And that means—that means you—for me!"
She struggled again when his hand pried her chin upward, but she did not struggle when his burning lips lay on her mouth—and after a moment hers responded to that caress. And then she was free, panting, smoothing her hair.
"What are you saying? What are you doing? Why should I let you?" But her eyes reflected no question and a wicked little flare of triumph ran across her features.
"Because I love you! Because you will love me!" he cried.
"Don't be too sure, Phil," but her voice was without the power of dissuasion. "We must go back now—don't Phil—you're hurting me!"
At the door of her room he stopped. A lonesome soiled incandescent burned in the red carpeted hall, but it was enough to show him the fire in her eyes, to reveal the tempting curve of her lips as she smiled—tempting to distraction. Her hand was on the knob, the door was opening. He lurched forward, all assurance and desire—
She put up her hand quickly and laughed brittily.
"Marcia!" There was determination with the pleading in that word.
"No, Phil—tonight, I only—admire you—just that, Phil Rowe. No more—tonight—"
The door closed between them.
Out in the men's shanty in Foraker's Folly a man lay flat on his back, staring up into the darkness.
John Taylor had been wrong so many times. He had been wrong in everything these last weeks—from saw logs to Marcia Murray! He stirred restlessly. He had thought he understood women, as he had thought he understood himself; had believed that Marcia was sweet and kind and gentle. Today he had seen her claws, had felt them tearing at his pride. He had humbled himself before her because he had been wrong and had believed it the honorable way—but his mistake had been two-fold. He had loved her, but love had not brought her into his arms. The impelling influence was the hope of possessions, the lure of his father's fortune, not the call of his own young heart.
"Mistakes! Mistakes!" His lips formed the soundless words. Well, there would be no more mistakes he promised himself, and stirred again. He was free from clouded thinking, his eyes were open. He had been deceived by his own inconsequential self, by life, by a girl, but from now on—
Of such is the resilient assurance of youth!
And at a window in the big house Helen Foraker sat on the floor looking into the summer night, ears closed to the music of the river and the talk of her pine trees. Words echoed in those ears, the words of that other girl, spoken that afternoon.
"I am going—to make way for you, Miss Foraker!" Bitter, stinging words, but they did not sting the memory. They stirred some remote thing in her heart, touched some hope, some impulse of which she had never until today been aware.
He had come as a little boy, he had changed, had grown up, and now another woman had made way for her. She raised her hands and looked at them in the dim light as though they were strange objects. They were strong and splendidly proportioned, but they were a bit rough, a bit red.
"Hers," she whispered, "were so small—so white—" She looked up quickly, lips parted, as though her words and what they indicated had frightened her.