"Timber"/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
An hour passed. John sat at the table in his room, paper before him, pen idle in his hand. The room was heated by a grating in the floor which gave into the room below where the girl sat, and from time to time the creak of her chair or the rustle of papers came up to him. Beyond those sounds and the talk of the pines outside, there was no break in his solitude. Then a car came, stopping in front of the house, and a rap sounded on the door.
Helen Foraker rose to open it. A tall man with a thin red nose, a stoop, a celluloid collar and small greedy eyes stood on the step, a package under his arm.
"What do you want, Sim Burns?" she asked, but did not move to bid him enter.
"Evenin'," and his eyes shifted to the interior, swinging back to her face when he saw that the room was empty. "I want to talk to you."
She did not reply at once, but her eyes which were in shadow held on his; she saw the bronze of his face deepen, but he did not go on with his errand; not even when she said impatiently: "Yes?"
"It's nothin' I can say in a minute. I'd rather come in."
She stepped back and let him enter, closing the door behind her and watching the man as he unbuttoned his overcoat and shook the water from it.
"You don't need to stand by the door, Miss Foraker. I ain't goin' to hurt you."
"I'm sure of that. Sit down."
"Th' last time I was here, you didn't ask me to sit down."
"You remember very well."
"Yeah. If you thought I was goin' to forget, you was fooled. Remember? I'll say I do!" He laughed shortly and licked his lips; his glittering eyes were steady on her face and most unpleasant. "That's why I'm here tonight, because I remember and want you to remember.—I told you that day I wouldn't forget, that you'd see th' time when you'd wish you'd gone a little slower."
A flush whipped across the girl's face but she did not speak; only settled her lips in a tighter line and watched him expectantly.
"I give you all the show there was," he went on bitterly; "I come here like an honest man would; I offered you a good home an' a respected name, an' when you wouldn't have any of me you wasn't satisfied to turn me down, but had to set your damned dog on me an' spread th' story to th' country."
He swallowed vehemently.
"You may recall," she said evenly, "that it was necessary to turn Pauguk on you to avoid—ugly things."
"Yeah. That's what you think. I wouldn't touched you, wouldn't hurt a hair of your head. Didn't I come here to ask you to marry me?"
"I gathered that. You were drunk."
He fidgeted a moment before her scorn, then burst out: "That ain't what I come for, to go over all that again. I just wanted to remind you that I said then you'd live to regret it. Well, you have. "
He hitched the package under his arm closer against his side and tapped it.
"That's th' poll books of Lincoln township. I'm takin' 'em to Pancake tonight so they can canvass th' vote in today's election. Know what they'll find? They'll find that Sim Burns is supervisor."
"I expected so. You were unopposed."
"Unopposed! An' I'd 've won anyhow; I'd 've won if it was th' last thing I ever done, because ever since that time when th' story about you an' your dog an' me got around I've lived just to pay you back." His voice mounted as he moved closer to her, head on one side, arm extended in an accusing point. "By bein' supervisor, I'm tax officer of this town; by bein' tax officer I hold you an' your forest in my power! Like that! Now, do you understand?" He opened his long bony fingers to their limit and closed them slowly as though they strangled a hated life.
One of Helen Foraker's hands, which had hung limp at her side, moved ever so slightly, some of the color went from her face and in place of her scorn appeared a flicker of misgiving.
Burns remained tense a moment, then relaxed suddenly and laughed again.
"I guess you get me," nodding slowly. "You seen fit to run me off your place. Now I'll see fit to tax you out of th' county!
"There's only one reason your old man an' you got by this far. Your father was laughin' stock for th' old county officers. They'd told him so often that he was a fool and couldn't grow pine that they got to believing it. They rode him so hard that they couldn't believe any other way an' save their faces. So naturally they couldn't run up his taxes, 'cause if they did, they'd admit that they was wrong, an' men don't like to do that—specially after they've made so much noise about bein' right.
"None of 'em was any more down on you than Tom Burns, my own uncle. None of 'em ridiculed any harder than he did. He'd been supervisor from Lincoln township since I can remember. Now he's dead, an' I'm in his place an' I aint afraid to step out an' tell the world an' Blueberry County that these old men have been wrong; that you can grow timber, that you have grown timber, an' that now, by God, you're goin' to pay for the privilege of growin' it in this county!"
His voice had risen to a thin cry and his eyes blazed churlish triumph.
"Yes, it is likely you can do that, if you want to," she said, measuring each word, thinking desperately. "It has been done before. The last stick of hardwood in the county was taken off last winter because you men taxed the owner to the point of financial failure. All over the country logging camps are slaughtering timber to keep ahead of taxation. You may start that with me if you see fit; you may not get very far, but—"
"Oh, I know Humphrey Bryant's behind you! I know he's tryin' to turn the timber taxation upside down at Lansing. Let me tell you, girl, I'll snap my fingers in Hump' Bryant's face. He's got to get elected to th' Senate again before he can help you an' he ain't so much a fox as he thinks he is. I'll have your assessment on th' rolls in a week; I'll have you whipped before th' first of th' year because you drove me off, with your wolf bitch!"
He forced the last words through set teeth. The girl, backed against the door, breathed rapidly as he advanced.
"Unless you'll listen to reason," voice lowering to a whine. "Unless you'll make a new start with me. Unless you—"
"Sim Burns, you—"
"Forget it!" His hand whipped out to grasp her wrist as anger leaped into her eyes. She struggled against his clutch.
"Let go!"
"Let go, hell! Choose now! It's one or the other: me an' your forest—or neither!"
He had not heard the step on the stair. He was so centered on his strategy that he did not detect her relief and neglect to struggle.
"I think this will do."
It was John Taylor's voice close behind Burns and the man looked over his shoulder sharply, hand still clutching Helen's wrist. For a second his amassed eyes clung to Taylor's confident smile and he made no move.
"Miss Foraker has asked you to let go her arm—You will do it now."
There was a snap to the last and John dropped a firm hand on Burns' shoulder.
Sim whirled to face him.
"What's this to you," he panted, rage returning to cover his start.
"Not much, except that you are going to go away now—unless Miss Foraker wants to say more to you."
He turned to the girl, who moved away from the door slowly, as though not just certain of the strength of her limbs. She did not look at the men, but shook her head in a disgusted reply to Taylor's words.
Burns straightened and put on his hat, buttoning his overcoat haughtily.
"Don't think you're driving me out," he sneered. "I've said what I had to say 'nd am ready to go."
"Which is fortunate for you, but not so fortunate for me. I'd welcome a chance to throw you out!"
John's voice trembled on that, as a burst of dislike ran through him. He opened the door and with a quick gesture indicated the way out.
"Don't be in such a rush, young feller. I ain't quite—"
He had paused to fasten the last button of his coat, but John grasped his arm and with a yank impelled him to the threshold. Sim struggled and stopped and half turned to protest, but the door swung swiftly shut and he stepped into the rain to avoid being struck by it.
Taylor stood by the door until the car moved away. Helen had gone to her desk, seating herself weakly, supporting her head on one hand. He could see her profile, softened by the yellow glow of the lamp. She was very lovely, this beauty in distress, and he let the pride of being her defender come to full life. His chagrin at her repulses was even stronger now, for he felt that he held the upper hand. He had no genuine concern for her, no sympathy for her fright and depression. No longer would she patronize him! She would eat out of his hand, now! He moved to the desk and stood looking down at her. Helen lifted her face and met the amusement in his eyes.
"I thank you," she said. "It is lucky for me you were here."
He laughed depreciatingly and settled his weight to the corner of her desk, swinging the one leg, big hands clasped on his thigh.
"And it is lucky for me," he said, "that I was here. Helping you gave me a real thrill."
His voice was low and gentle; too low; too gentle; he leaned forward toward her and smiled and one of his hands dropped to the blotter, very close to hers, resting there lightly, as though it would move forward and cover that other hand. His smile, his tone, his manner indicated that he felt himself completely the master, and was very certain that his advance would not be repulsed this time.
The fright went from Helen Foraker's eyes. They studied his face a moment, almost abstractedly, looking down at his hand and then back to meet his gaze.
"Please don't," she said abruptly. "There is no one here to throw you out, Mr. Taylor—Besides, I didn't think you were quite that sort."
He straightened, flushing, feeling cut and whipped, like an impudent little boy who has met dignified rebuke. He had no retort, had no resources with which to bolster his poise. He tried to smile but the effort died. He cleared his throat to speak—he knew not what, then felt welcome relief as the telephone bell whirred and the girl rose to answer it.