"Timber"/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII
Philip Rowe's interview with Helen may be divided into two parts. The first is unimportant to this narrative. Keenly planned, adroitly manœuvered, he brought the talk up to the point of values and put his request for an option.
The man had aroused the girl's distrust from the beginning; he came unannounced, he was so low spoken, so sure; his eyes were so steady. She listened to what he had to say carefully, talking little, telling herself that he was trying to draw her out, while he appeared to be telling of himself and his wants.
"The forest isn't for sale," she said simply, when he stopped.
"So we have understood. But circumstances, I thought, might have changed your mind. We have all respect for your ability, but we realize that the load is becoming too much for one of limited resources to carry."
His oily assurance nettled her.
"I think I am the best judge of that."
He shrugged. "For instance, there is the matter of taxes."
"That is serious, of course, but state legislation is pending to remove that obstacle."
"One can never be certain, Miss Foraker, of the promises of politicians." She started to interrupt and said: "Our senator, Humphrey Bryant—" But he went on, looking hard into her eyes, "or the tenure of office of— statesmen Besides, you are in debt; your obligations are coming due and money is very hard to get on timber now." His tone was becoming ironical.
Helen sat back in her chair, feeling weak and dizzy. His manner pierced her assurance, his knowledge of her affairs shook her self-confidence.
"You know a great deal about my troubles," she said evenly.
He bowed his sleek head. "Business men no longer do business in the dark, Miss Foraker."
"But, when I tell you that the property isn't for sale—"
"It is not convincing." Beneath his suavity was something terrible, hard and brutal; he no longer smiled, but leaned forward intently.
"You're a young woman standing alone under a terrible burden. You have proven your point, that timber can be grown as a crop. That should satisfy you and you should let go. Your whole life is before you. It isn't proper that you should slave on here, headed straight for ruin. Besides," drily, "a man of powerful interests wants what you have created, is willing to pay you a good price, but he wants it. That is what counts with him, that is what should count with you, if you are—wise."
He lowered his voice on the last word and in its flatness was a suggested threat.
"I am sorry to disappoint him."
"He does not know what disappointment is." When her eyes widened at his statement he smiled for the first time. "He knows only triumph. He knows only how to win!"
Her color mounted. "Are you threatening me?"
He spread his hands in a gesture of humility. "Only trying to help you! Asking you to name your figure."
"And threatening me if I refuse!" Her voice was sharp and brittle and brought slow color to Rowe's face.
"You are too hasty, Miss Foraker."
"Too tardy, I should say. I don't care to sell, Mr. Rowe, and I have work to do."
She rose.
The man leaned back in his chair and smiled. "You have the courage to refuse a man who has all he wants but happiness and sees happiness in the possession of your forest?"
"I haven't the courage to give you what you want."
He looked narrowly at her then. She was beyond his experience, neither a grasping old maid, an empty-headed girl or the type of business woman he had ever encountered; young in years, old in experience and her manner carried a front that quite baffled him.
"I don't wholly understand you," he said, as though that did not matter, or as though it might flatter her, "and perhaps you don't understand me quite thoroughly.
"There are other factors involved. You've been doing a courageous but unwise thing by meddling in politics."
"Politics?"
"The story is coming out about Saturday's affair in the court house—oh, yes, I know about that too! Strangely, people throughout the county do not seem to think as you think that their supervisors are all scoundrels. They believe that there was black work from the other side, from you, Miss Foraker. They believe they have lost their chance at improvements through the efforts of Senator Bryant on your behalf. Their temper is not pleasant."
Helen smiled. "My work is still waiting. All this is interesting, but there's no use talking any more. I'm sure."
She moved toward the door with the poise and finality that sent a wave of anger through Rowe.
"Miss Foraker—"
"Please! Please, don't try to talk or argue. I don't like your half threats, Mr. Rowe. You don't frighten me—but it is unpleasant. As far as your coming here, I have told you that it is useless. I will not sell."
There was challenge in her gesture as she opened the screen door. He could not know that her legs were unsteady, her heart racing. He moved toward the step, hat in his hands, and stood beside her.
"I will leave you now," he said. "But I am coming again. Had your work been a little less—er—pressing, I might have told you more of what you face; but you're not interested anyhow, even though your back is to the wall."
He went out and did not look back.
The girl moved to the center of the room and stood there, hands at her sides, shoulders a bit slack, looking up at her father's picture above the bowl of wild roses on the mantel.
"Father?" weakly. "Father, I'm frightened! And he said I couldn't keep on and almost makes me—believe it!"