"Timber"/Chapter 18
CHAPTER XVIII
So passed Tuesday. And Wednesday passed, fair and clear and peaceful overhead and in the forest. The last of the rafts were coming down the river without trouble or delay; the band-saw in the mill ate steadily through the good logs, the piles of lumber beside the track grew. There was no hint of trouble and the shaking that John Taylor's very soul had undergone in his scene with Marcia steadily subsided under three influences: the first was the fact that he had made peace with himself; the second, that he had won his father's trust and interest in his plan, so in a matter of days he would be able to tell Helen Foraker that the threat which Sim Burns held over her could be met with a laugh; and the third influence was the girl of the forest herself, whose charm and consequence grew hourly, bringing a strange combination of peace and restlessness.
But Wednesday evening Jim Harris' car rolled out toward Foraker's Folly again and picked up Tolman who, his turkey packed, stood beside the unused road waiting. Two hours later, the old cruiser sat in the telephone booth in the Commercial House, pouring his information over the wire into the ear of Luke Taylor, who clutched the receiver and strained forward, whose eyes glittered avidly as he listened and whose responses were short, profane and joyful.
Thursday afternoon John was in Pancake, billing out another shipment of his lumber, arranging for more cars. He finished his errand and stood in the small ticket office making some necessary notes when the telegraph key set up an insistent clamor. The agent cut in and answered, slipped blanks into the typewriter and began to take.
John started out.
"Wait—this 's for you," the man said.
Taylor closed the door and stood beside the operator's chair, reading his name and address as it went down, letter by letter.
And then came this, a letter, a syllable, a word at a time:
"Rowe says you would rather lose right arm than see pine you brought to my attention cut. If you want to help me in logging this place I will use you. If not, get away from the wheels. They are going to go round and you will regret reckless offer of anatomy in name of moonshine.—L. Taylor."
He took the yellow sheet and stared blankly at the typed message. He heard the operator say, "Sign this," in a voice that came from a great distance. He walked out of the station and stood on the platform, reading the warning again, numb and bewildered.
Luke Taylor wanted Foraker's Folly! His father, who had experienced his highest moments when his men were taking pine forests from the Michigan valleys, who had grumbled since John could remember that there was no joy in living, who had dreamed aloud of Michigan pine, who had wistfully, irately voiced the futile wish that he might finish his years as he began his ascendency to fortune, harvesting more of the pine which had made him a power! His father saw happiness at last in Helen Foraker's pine! His father wanted to do that which John had wanted to make forever impossible! His father, greedy, stubborn, powerful even in his wornout body, wanted to possess and cut that timber, making of the forest lumber and blackened slashing!
He stopped on the walk and read the message again, and thrust his hands into his pockets and stared blankly across the street. He did not see the office of the Banner or the poolroom or any of the flimsy, familiar buildings. He saw his father's face, saw the ruthless light in his eyes, saw the thin lips stretch in a greedy smile, and heard his hard voice saying the things that had come to him by telegraph.
"Oh, God," he muttered. "I wanted to help—and I brought this on her!"
He went into the bank to make a deposit. He heard Ezam Grainger say to a farmer:
"No, she isn't so well today—yes, I've sold and am going to take her right out of here," and clear his throat and blink rapidly to keep the mist of worry from his eyes.
Taylor gave no heed, no more did he know what Jim Harris said when they met on the bank steps, or what Henry Wales said when he entered the Commercial House to call Detroit by telephone.
It seemed hours before the connection was made. He walked the office floor and read and re-read that telegram; the paper grew wet from the nervous moisture of his fingers and finally the letters themselves blurred before his eyes as the import of what he had done revealed its awful possibilities. Better anything than this: Luke Taylor the destroyer, with his will and fortune, set against Helen Foraker, who played a lone hand for an intangible thing like an ideal.
The telephone bell whirred.
"Yes, Taylor?"
It was Rowe's voice.
"I was calling father, Phil."
"He understands that. He wants me to talk for him."
"Isn't he there?"
"Right here beside me."
"Then let me talk to him, please!"
Pause. He heard Rowe's voice, much fainter. "He insists on talking to you, sir." Another voice, but he could not distinguish the words; then:
"Your father still wants to know if you think more of that pine forest than you do of your right arm?"
"I—I haven't changed my mind since you were here."
A wait, hollow, indistinct voices. "I will be up again Sunday—your father says if you change your mind you may talk it over with me then. I have authority to deal for him."
His voice was very even, impersonal, but somehow it stung John as though it had been a crow of triumph. He waited a moment, breathing rapidly.
"Very well, Rowe," he said finally. "I will talk to you Sunday. Good-bye."
He walked from the hotel and Humphrey Bryant appeared in the doorway of his office rather excitedly.
"Going back soon?"
"As quick as I fill up with gas."
"Stop in, will you? I've a note for Helen."
He turned back into the office, drawing his spectacles down from his forehead, thin white hair standing high above his pink scalp. He seemed hurried and flustered and when Taylor returned for the message he thought the bright blue eyes looked at him almost with hostility. Surely, trouble was in them, and the old editor was curt in his manner.
All the way home Taylor drove doggedly. A part of him wanted to turn back, to go away, to leave this mess which he had brought down upon Foraker's Folly. Oh, he had wanted to help, and he had brought the ideal which was represented in the pine forest face to face with a hungry power which was its worst enemy! He had wanted to help and had done the worst he could have done by conscious planning. He had wanted to lighten the burden on Helen's shoulders and had increased it to a crushing weight—so he wanted to run—to run.
That was the mean part of him, that was the impulse which was out of the question. There was but one thing for him to do: Tell her, face the fact, stand beside her and fight his father—with his inexperience and bare hands.
A sudden emptiness came about his middle, as though strength had drained from his vitals.
Helen was not at home when he entered, prepared to blurt out his confession. He left the note from Bryant on her desk and went out, so absorbed in his problem that he even forgot Pauguk and went too close and had to leap beyond her reach as she rushed at him, snarling wickedly.
He could not eat that night, and Beauchamp made much of his bad appetite, complaining half in fun as he brought food to the table.
"Ah well," the Frenchman said finally, nodding his head. "I unnerstan', M'sieur Taylor. Eet iss spring. All de bird, she buil' nest; all de animal, she maak lofe. An' a yo'ng man, she feel her 'eart turn ofer, too. Eh?"
He laughed and others laughed and John flushed. He was conscious of Goddard's eyes on him with glowering ill temper.
Helen did not return till after dusk. Taylor had been walking the river bank, miserable and at once impatient and filled with dread. He saw her standing beside her desk, scanning intently a single sheet of paper. He ran forward. His rap was most perfunctory; he opened the screen and stepped in.
She turned and faced him and he saw fright in her face that chilled his heart. Just for that instant, and then she turned and went unsteadily across the room saying:
"I can't talk to you—Mr. Taylor—tonight."
Did she know? Was she aware of what he had done? He managed to say:
"Wait, Helen!" There was that in his husky tone which checked her against the far door. Breath clogged in his throat, but he heard himself saying: "Tell me why you can't talk to me."
He crossed the room toward her, bound to hold her there if necessary, to tell his wretched story quickly, to save himself not at all, and to offer all he had to offer as help.
He was decisive, showing a strength she had not seen before, a power which held her there. He stopped within arm's length of the girl and looked into her face. He saw no anger, no resentment; just misery. She was unpoised, she was shaken, like a little girl who has been badly frightened.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Why can't you talk to me. I must know—because I have something to say to you."
He spoke swiftly, with desperate assurance, but the desperation did not carry to her: only the assurance. He seemed strong, big and so much in earnest, with no humility, no deference. She held the paper she had been reading toward him with a gesture that was almost timid.
"That explains," she said, and stood there, fingers spread on her breast while he moved nearer the light to read.
It was the note he had brought from Humphrey Bryant, written on a sheet of news print.
"Dear Helen:—I can't trust the telephones and must stay on the job to do what I can, so this news must go to you by note. Gird yourself for fighting and trouble.
"A special meeting of the supervisors is called for Saturday, set ahead two weeks, I understand, solely because I have been trying to head it off. They will take action to submit the bonds for roads and a new court house at a July election. If this goes through, it will be hard to stop their pillaging, for we have not been mistaken in the property which they expect will pay the bill.
"To make matters worse, Harris got wind of my activities against the proposal and has invited the entire board to a fishing party at the lower dam. They are having a high time, well guarded. I daren't leave town to see you for fear of missing a chance to get at them when he is not there.
"Troubles never come singly. Pontiac Power has bought Grainger out. Your mortgage is due this month and I am trying to get him to renew it himself before he leaves town with his wife, who is sick.
"There is no use playing ostrich because a storm is coming. Keep a stiff upper lip and get mad! If we keep mad enough, we can weather this crisis and we know nothing worse can happen.—Yours to the last ditch, H. B."
Taylor looked up, brows gathered, eyes reflecting the bewilderment that had come over him.
"—nothing worse can happen," he quoted, looking again at the page.
She began to speak, but he could not hear her.
Nothing worse could happen! Ah, the chincanery of Jim Harris, the scheming of these backwoods politicians, the misfortune of having her mortgage in unsympathetic hands were inconsequential details compared to what he had to tell her.
Her words swam into his consciousness:
"—so I've thought all along it was something to meet—later. I might have known that they wouldn't delay, that it would come now, not next month, not next year—but somehow," spreading her hands "I haven't had the courage to bring it close and tell myself that the danger was here—and real. I've grown a little tired like my father grew tired; I've had a lot to meet—and now this comes—"
Her eyes were very wide as she looked into his and shook her head slowly; her chin trembled.
"And this other—if I can't renew that mortgage—" with a helpless lift of one hand. "Twenty thousand dollars! I couldn't raise a thousand! And my father's work—our hopes—oh, I feel so much alone!"
Her arms were half extended as she stopped. She averted her face, and for a moment Taylor stood there stunned. She was broken by what Bryant had written her—and if he should tell what he had come to tell? That would be cruelty now, he told himself; it would be sheer heartlessness not to spare her further suffering for a few hours at least—and while he waited, helpless to help her, he saw her clutch her fists and a low moan escaped her lips.
The sound was like the bite of a lash and he stepped forward, reached out his hands, checked the gesture and left them hovering over her shoulders. For an instant he was so and then drew back, afraid to touch her, lost, knowing no word to say, no move to make; but a ragged breath caught in her throat and he found his palms on her arms, gripping roughly, turning her about, and the feel of her flesh under his fingers clarified everything.
"Helen!" he cried. "Helen! you're not alone! I'm here, with you. I'm going to stay. I'm going to help you!"
She looked up in wonder at the manner of his voice. He had spoken no boast, no empty promise; there was a modesty, a simplicity about him which indicated strength, ability, earnestness, and she read those qualities in his face. For the first time she saw maturity there, for the first time she was almost in awe of him.
She felt his hands gripping her arms. She felt herself drawn forward, close and closer to him, and put out her hands, not to hold her body away, but to place them against his breast, pressing her finger tips into his flesh. Her lips were parted, breath light and quick. She felt his arms go about her almost roughly, saw his face darken and heard his voice, thick and husked with passion:
"I won't let them harm you!" he said tensely. "I'll stand by you. I don't know much—yet; I'm young, but I'm strong and with you to fight for—I can do anything!"
He trembled. She was there in his arms, submissive, her hands were against his body in a strange caress and he felt her limbs touching his, warm and firm. He closed his eyes and shook his head as though fearful that this would not endure a moment of sightlessness; but she was there when he opened them. This was real; this was no vagary of his distressed mind—and he laughed.
That laugh roused Helen and she drew back, breaking his embrace slowly, staring at him as though this that he had done frightened her.
"John!" she said under her breath. "John? What is—this?"
She backed away.
"Don't you know?" he muttered. She did not speak, and he advanced slowly until he was looking down into her uplifted face. "Don't you know?" She did not answer and he took one of her wrists in his hand savagely. "Helen! Don't you know—now!"
Her breath was driven from her lungs as he wrapped his arms about her fiercely, and that breath, escaping through lips and nostrils, was hot on his cheek as it lowered to hers—as hot as his lips on her mouth.
She closed her eyes and let her head fall back.
"Yes—I know—now," she whispered.
Her eyes opened and looked into his; for a long moment their gazes clung, and in that look was an understanding which made words both inadequate and unnecessary. But words followed. In low voices, in broken sentences, rising in tone and with fewer pauses.
"And you came—when I needed you so!" she said in a thin, strained voice. "I need you, John. I'm going—to depend on you—so much—so much." He tried to hold her even closer, but she took her arms from about his neck and drew away, backing toward the door. "I need you so badly—and I've needed you for so long—I guess—that I can't have you near me tonight John—not tonight—not this night."
He followed impulsively to the door, but it closed in his face.
"Please! Please!" he heard her say through it. He made no move. The sound of her steps died away. He stood alone in the room, hands at his side opening and closing slowly.
And in the darkness outside, Milt Goddard who had spied and seen all, fingered the bit of the axe he had taken from the woodpile.
Taylor started across the room to the door and Goddard crouched and crept forward—and stopped. John opened the screen.
The axe dropped from the other's hands, he moved away, putting the great trunk of Watch Pine between himself and Taylor. Then he turned and stumbled into the night, muttering:
"I ain't got the nerve—I ain't got th' nerve to kill him!"