CHAPTER XVII
Again the wide room in the Detroit House, with its windows giving on the formal garden, the group of white pines and the river. Luke Taylor sat there, his eyes fixed on the pines, listening to the deliberate, finely detailed report which his private secretary gave him. For an hour Rowe had talked, making no obvious effort to stress any one point, but watching the eyes that did not watch him, seeing the enthusiasm which had been in them give way to a cold light, watching that light grow hot, seeing the old lips work now and then; and prodding, when he knew that he had struck to the quick.
He finished and dropped the memoranda he had used to the table beside him. For an interval the old man did not move and when his position did change it was only a turn of the head to set his hard gaze on the other's face.
"You're sure of this, Rowe?"
"I've qualified everything I wasn't sure of."
"And he said that, did he? That he wanted to use my money for this—this damn moonshine?"
"Just as I've told you, sir."
"And that this was his reason: so no man could ever force her to cut until she gets good and ready?"
"Those were his words, as I remember them, sir. He said, too, that he'd rather lose his right arm than see her pine logged off."
Luke stirred and his palms tapped the arms smartly while he licked his lips. "So he's commenced to worry about other generations, has he? So he's got to be one of the old women in pants! I s'pose he thinks I'm a devastator, that I was little better than a crook when I took off my pine! So he wants me to use my money to wash away my sins, does he?"
He half rose from his chair and a purple rage swept into his face, making his hard eyes watery, making his lips tremble. "So he's one—"
A maid rapped and entered with a package and Luke broke short. But perhaps he had no words, anyhow, to relieve the seethe of passion that was in his heart.
"For you, Mr. Rowe," the girl said.
"These are photographs I took yesterday," he said, breaking the string. "I had the finishing rushed—I knew—"
"Eh? What's this? Pictures?" Luke's anger was neutralized for the moment by his interest. "Pictures of the pine, Rowe?"
"Yes, sir—see—"
He spread the damp prints on the table before him and Luke with unsteady hands adjusted his spectacles and leaned forward to see. For a lengthy interval he scanned the dozen photographs, going from one to the other, dropping back to study some feature that caught special attention, scarcely breathing; gradually his hands shut down closer on the chair arms and a snapping light appeared in his blue eyes, a hungry light, a glad light, fierce in its hunger and in its joy.
"Pine!" he muttered, almost reverently. "Michigan White Pine, Rowe! Baby pine! Good God—it's small—but thick as hair on a dog!"
He snatched off his spectacles and snapped: "Tolman was there?"
"Got in last night."
"And when 'll he report?"
"Tomorrow night, anyhow."
Luke leaned back weakly and breathed rapidly. He drew out his great gold watch and eyed it.
"Twelve o'clock," he whispered. "That means—thirty-six hours. " His lips shut as decisively as the case of the watch: with the same sort of definite snap. "Thirty-six hours," he repeated petulantly. "But then—we can't rush this thing! We've got to be sure, Rowe! Don't you go gettin' my hopes up without reason! Hopes of camps for the fall! God, with camps of my own in Michigan Pine they could throw that damn Floridy into the gulf! I wouldn't need their pesky sunshine to take the chill of Michigan rivers out of my bones then, Rowe!
"An' he said, did he, that he'd rather lose a leg than see that stuff cut?"
"It was an arm, sir—"
"Don't be so damned accurate, Rowe! Arm, eh? He's likely to get one whole side torn off!"
At dusk that evening old man Tolman unpacked his turkey which he had cached on the bank of a small creek that ran across the plains and into Foraker's Folly. He spread his blankets, built a very small fire, made coffee and fried bacon. He worked deftly, with the precision of a man who has lived well on little, scoured his dishes with sand, dropped a pair of green sticks on the coals and sat down in the smoke to defy the mosquitoes. He lighted his pipe there and puffed slowly, but after several moments his eyes went to the ragged banners of the solid pine beyond him, blue-black against the fading rose of the sky, and his puffing became more rapid, almost fevered and continued so until a sputter from the pipe bowl indicated that nothing remained but an expiring coal.
He rapped it against the heel of his boot and drew out a package of Peerless. He shook his head and sighed and almost smiled.
"I'll be blistered!" he muttered. "I'll be blistered! Pine—in a stand like that! Old Luke 'll go wild—clean, plumb, hog wild!"
And while Tolman watched the last glory of the dying day, Helen Foraker held her canoe against the rushes on the inside of a sharp bend in the river, while John Taylor in the bow shot his fly out across the swift current to where it milled against the far bank.
The water above them was old rose, like the sky, and a faintly violet mist hung over the stream, blending with the bottle-green of pine trees. The air was cool and damp and sweet, and from the water back in the rushes, from the midst of the current itself, May flies were hatching, coming to the surface like bubbles, spreading their new, damp wings, struggling a moment and then rising into the air to mingle with millions of their kind, to find mates, to function and pass on in their brief cycle, weakened by their hour of life, dropping back to the water which had given them life and into which they had put the life of their kind.
All about the surface was broken as fish rose to feed on the insects, but the girl's eyes were fixed on the deep pool across from them, and Taylor's eyes were there as well, and the fly went there again and again as a fish broke the white-flecked velvet blue of deep water rising from his lair to fall back with mighty splashes.
For twenty minutes Taylor sent his fly in, picked it up, dried it by false casts, drove it forward and let it rush over the pool; and the trout kept feeding all about that lure, selecting from the myriads of flies that swept over him only those which meant life—not death.
Rhythmatically, like a machine, the man cast, and finally the girl's eyes left the fish to watch him in silhouette against the sky, which had become pale orange. His hat was off and his profile was cleanly cut. She could see the ripple of arm and shoulder muscles beneath his shirt, could watch the good poise and co-ordination of trunk with limb as his whole splendid body went into the cast. And then the fish struck!
With an expulsion of breath like a glad, muffled cry, Taylor's right arm whipped back, above and behind his head. The bamboo bent in a stiff arc. His left arm tooled the line carefully as he gave out, as he took in, and the line itself where it disappeared into the current, laid back fin after fin of silvered water as the trout plowed here and there in his depths in frantic effort to be free. Upstream, downstream, across and back; sulking, moving slowly, rushing mightily; coming to the surface and showing his dorsal fin as he dived again; roving the bottom for snags or rocks that would cut the leader; for ten minutes the fish fought with the nobility which only the speckled trout puts into his will to live, and then he came gasping to net, looking like a dying flame with the crimson of his fins, the rich coloring of his belly.
"Good work!" Helen cried and dropped her paddle. "A beauty! He'll go two pounds. And you did it well!" Her eyes danced, her red lips parted in a glad smile and there was an excitement in her face, which Taylor had never seen there before, the enthusiasm for play, and as he looked at her, leaning forward, one arm stretched out to touch the trout, he saw a new part of her to dove-tail with her capability at her work, her tenderness with children: she was at that moment, a laughing, spontaneous young animal, lost in admiration of the fish he had caught, and in admiration of him. He knew this last; he could see it in her eyes.
They went downstream under the stars, Helen in the bow, singing in her clear voice the chant of the old French boatmen, picked up when she was a little girl from some woodsman.
They dragged the canoe out together, and their hands touched. It was the first time their flesh had met and a queer thrill ran through Taylor's body. He took his catch and walked with Helen to the door. She bade him good-night and went within very quietly. He watched her and moved on to the men's shanty, heedless of Pauguk who whined at her chain's length as he passed.
Jim Harris was inside, talking to Goddard. His speech was a bit louder than usual, he was a trifle eager, it seemed to John, to have it known that he had come to inquire after teams that would soon be finished with the hardwood logs; a few men and horses were needed at the lower dam, he said.
Beauchamp, the cook, and Harris and another gathered about Taylor and commented on his catch. Goddard did not leave his bunk where he sat, elbows on knees, glowering at John. Black Joe, who was sewing a button on his shirt, looked up and grunted in disdain as Taylor proudly held up the big trout. The cook took the fish to the kitchen. Harris sat down beside Goddard and talked. Two men remained with Black Joe who, as he drew thread clumsily through the flannel, resumed the talk that Taylor had interrupted.
"Now how about this here gold mine of Paul's, Joe?" one of them asked.
The old fellow puffed on his short pipe a moment and then began to talk, lowly, haltingly, and those with him listened eagerly, set smiles on their faces.
It was another Paul Bunion story, Taylor knew, and watched and tried to overhear, but could not. Ever since coming into this country he had heard references to Paul Bunion. "Who is he?" he had once asked Helen and she had laughed: "The Munchausen of the forests, my father used to say. He also said that Paul would be in living literature when the Baron was forgotten."
That explained little, but Taylor gathered that Joe was an authority on the great Paul. Night after night he would sit with a few of those who were beyond his scorn listening while he ambled on. He was jealous of his tales, though, reserving them only for those who stood in his favor. Taylor had tried to join the group, but each attempt had caused Joe to drop into sullen silence, broken only when John withdrew.
As he fussed aimlessly about his bunk, Taylor watched Harris and Goddard. Jim talked confidentially, easily, and Goddard listened, smoking a cigar, evidently flattered by the attention. But that attention was not wholly for Goddard because Harris' eyes went from time to time to Black Joe and when the two who listened to the story of the gold mine laughed heartily Harris stopped talking altogether and smiled and a certain restlessness showed in his eyes.
Beauchamp came in and prepared to shave. Harris rose and walked toward Joe's bunk.
"Joe, have a cigar," he said.
The woodsman stopped talking. He eyed Harris slowly as he had at first eyed John Taylor. He removed his pipe and spat and said:
"Who? Me? I promised my mother I'd never smoke 'em!"
Harris rumbled a laugh, but flushed slightly, for the contempt in Joe's manner was unmistakable.
"All right then, I'll keep 'em for the wicked, Joe. Go on with your story," sitting down.
"Story? What story?" Joe asked, black eyes blazing and turned away and put the gnawed pipe stem between his teeth and smoked in confusing silence.
Harris attempted to recover his poise, but he did not urge a resumption of the tale, and soon was gone, followed as far as his waiting car by Goddard.
Beauchamp was laughing as he lathered his face and winked at John.
"Py gosh, Jim Harris she don' nefer get Joe to tell heem 'bout Paul Bunion." He lifted two fingers of the hand which held the razor. "For two year, now, he come here for Joe to tell heem 'bout Paul. Wan taam, before she go dry, he make Joe drunk an' try, but Joe—" shaking his head, "she don' gife wan damn for Jim Harris. She nefer say wan word 'bout Paul when he's 'roun'.
"I tell heem, Joe you wan beeg fool. Jim Harris pay you money for to tell 'bout Paul—but Joe she don' care 'bout money. Py gosh, I can' maak moch from dat man, Joe—
"An' Jim Harris—py damn, dat's all he wan' dat he don' git: Joe, for to tell heem 'bout Paul Bunion! Eferybody in Pancake, she know what Harris wan' an' what he can' get!" He shrugged and lifted the razor to his cheek.
Jim had driven away and Goddard stood alone. He glanced within the men's shanty and saw Taylor talking to the cook. One of the great hands at his side closed slowly and he walked away toward the big house where Helen sat at her desk, turning idly the pages of a lumber trade journal.
"Did you have a good time—fishing?" he asked.
She had looked up at his entrance; at his tone she dropped her eyes.
"Yes, Milt. We made a nice catch."
He laughed shortly. "I notice you haven't took time to fish with me this spring."
"No, we've both been very busy."
"Yeah—both of us. But you ain't too busy to go out with Taylor."
A quick flush appeared in her cheeks. "That's entirely uncalled for Milt. You do a lot lately to make it unpleasant for me. I don't think it's fair in you and I don't like it because—you haven't the right."
The hand at his side closed tightly again. "No right," he growled. "Maybe not. Before he come up here, though, you used to think enough of me."
"I thought of you then as I do now: as a good friend, as a loyal friend, as a man who has done more for me in the actual work than any one else." Her manner was very positive.
"Nothing else?" he demanded.
She looked down and shook her head. "Nothing else, Milt. You should know that. You have tried to persuade me to think—differently of you. It—it has made it very hard for me, because I don't want to hurt you,—and I can't—"
"And yet you'll run around with this—this—" gesturing toward the men's shanty.
"Which is my own affair," she said simply. "I'm sorry, but there must be a limit to what I let you say."
"Maybe that's what interests me," he said sharply, narrowing his eyes and leaning over the desk. "Maybe I'm interested because it's your own affair, and what happens to you—means a lot to me," voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't want you to make any mistakes that you will be sorry for."
His heart was racing, hot words of jealousy clamored to be out, but he repressed them, and searching wildly for some device which would grip her interest and give him different standing in her eyes, he threw out that empty threat.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
His baseless innuendo had struck the mark! She believed that it was backed by something other than his helpless jealousy. He flushed hotly and stood erect.
"Never mind what I mean," he said. "Maybe I can't tell you—just tonight. I don't want to say anything against anybody until I'm sure."
"But you make hints!" insistently.
"Yes, I'd do a lot to help you, Helen."
She rose and moved about the desk toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He dropped his gaze and plucked at a paper.
"I know that, Milt," she said. "I know you'd do anything for me. There is—there's nothing between Mr. Taylor and me. Please believe that." Her color had mounted.
"I know there ain't—much—yet—" he mumbled. "I don't want there to be, because—"
"I'm waiting," when he did not finish.
He looked up at her and was again assured when he saw the sober query in her face.
"So am I—waitin' to be sure. But I'd take a chance at being wrong, at being unfair to anybody for you—unfair to anybody, let alone him!"
An hour later the lights were out and in the men's shanty snores were heavy, but Goddard lay awake, flushed with helpless anger. It was little satisfaction to know that his groundless warning had troubled Helen. The time might come when he would be called to explain and he was seized with an agony of helplessness.
There in the lamplight, she had looked so lovely, so wonderful! She was not his kind, she was finer, gentler, of different stuff, but for five years he had served her loyally, had worked night and day, had fought for her on occasion; and through these years he had come to covet her, come to picture without good reason her life united with his. There had been no opposition, no competition except the gulf between them until this Taylor came. From the first he had sensed the fact that the city man was nearer Helen than he ever could come, and he loved as he had never loved before—and he hated as he did not know he could hate.
He clutched the blankets in his great hands and twisted them. There was so little he could do! But he did not know that over by a quiet stream old man Tolman lay awake, staring up at the stars, marvelling at what he had seen that day; or that Luke Taylor muttered and cocked his head to hear the breeze sounding in the white pines that stood in his garden and recalled those photographs he had seen that day, or that Philip Rowe sat in his room smoking, thin lips drawn in a strange smile of triumph.
These he could not know, and he did not know that in another bunk in that same building another man lay sleepless, hearing again the bitter words of Marcia Murray, quailing from them, suffering, and feeling that pain and humiliation absolved by the touch of Helen Foraker's hand on his, beside the Blueberry that evening.