CHAPTER VI
The side of the telephone conversation which Taylor overheard through his confusion indicated surprise and regret. Finished, the girl turned and looked for a moment squarely at him and he flinched inwardly, for he expected that elaborate denunciation would follow, but when she spoke, she said:
"I am going to ask you to go with me on an errand of mercy. A woman is very sick a few miles away. The telephone line between them and town is down, and they have sent for me to come. I can help there perhaps, but we may need some one to send into Pancake after the doctor. There is no one here who can drive a car except you. Will you go with me?"
"Why, of course," he stammered, at once relieved and mortified to think that she should ask a favor of him in that moment.
"There isn't much time."
He hurried to his room for coat and hat and then followed Helen out of the house to a shed where her car was sheltered. It was a one-seated Ford with a box body behind in which shovels and other tools clanked and thumped as they drove through the rain. Little was said, the girl was occupied with the difficult driving, for rain streaked the windshield, and Taylor was busy with an attempt to re-establish his own assurance. He had overstepped himself, had been brought up sharply, but instead of finding the expected resentment in this girl she had called on him for help. Strange, surely!
They left the forest behind, passed the mill with its group of shacks and skipped on along the plains road. Water which had gathered in the ruts was shot across the glare of the lights in a brief arc, the car lurched and wriggled in the twisted road and black brush lacquered by the rain reeled past. With scarcely an exchange of words they covered the distance to the Harris settlement, turned from the main road and stopped before a house.
A door opened and a man stood silhouetted in the light.
"She asked for you," he said cautiously as Helen, followed by Taylor, approached the steps. "She's just dropped to sleep."
"Could you get the doctor?"
"Sim Burns was going by," the man replied, "and I sent word by him."
Helen entered, drawing off her gloves.
"If he doesn't come in an hour, Mr. Taylor had better drive in for him. Mr. Parker, this is Mr. Taylor."
Parker closed the door and shook hands silently with John who recognized him as the man who had waved at Lucius that afternoon. His unshaven face was very white and his black eyes seemed abnormally large against its pallor.
"Doctor was here this morning," he said huskily. "He said—" He swallowed and shook his head. "He said a day or two would tell."
"Is she—Does she suffer?" Helen asked.
Tears came into the man's eyes and he looked at her helplessly.
"It's awful! I thought yesterday she was better, but in the night she lost her head. She's—just given up."
Helen looked about the small room. It was well ordered and with a minimum of material it had been given an air of comfort, of stability.
"What can I do?" she asked.
"Nothin' unless she—"
From behind a closed door came a stirring and a weak, muffled voice:
"Thad?"
He moved quickly. "Yes, Jenny," opening the door.
"Who's there?"
"Miss Foraker."
"Oh—I'm so glad."
Helen stepped to the door. Parker took the oil lamp from its bracket and went into the bedroom where a very slight, very pale girl lay under the patch-work quilt. She was very young, and the pain, the pallor, the weakness reflected in her face could not cover completely her girlhood. When her blue eyes rested on Helen's face she tried to smile, but the result was feeble. One of the thin white hands on the cover stirred.
"I'm so glad," she whispered, "so glad you've come. I've thought about you so much—I wanted to send for you; I think you, maybe, can understand about us better than any one else."
Helen sat down beside the bed. Parker placed the lamp on the table and stood looking down at the two women, lips loose and hands limp at his sides. In the other room Taylor sat quietly near the roaring cook stove, in the shaft of light which came from the bed chamber.
"I didn't know you were so sick or I'd have been here before," Helen said very gently. The other tried to smile again and moved the hand. Helen took it between hers and the sick girl closed her eyes peacefully. "I heard about—about the beginning, of course; I didn't know you'd had such a hard time. Perhaps the worst is behind, though; that is something to be thankful for."
Her voice was very gentle, as gentle a voice as Taylor had ever heard. He could see her stroking the hand she held and her manner was in such contrast to her former brusqueness and indifference to others that he leaned forward to watch.
The head on the pillow moved weakly in denial of the suggestion.
"It's all over," the thin voice said. "I know. The doctor knows, but he won't say it. Thad knows, but he won't give up hoping." Her husband's hand twitched, but he made no remonstrance. "He has more strength to hope than I had—I haven't any at all—now."
"Oh, that can't be—"
"It's sweet of you to try to be cheery," the thin voice interrupted, "But please don't. I haven't much strength to talk and I want to talk, because it will make me feel easier in my heart."
Color had come into her cheeks and a tell-tale brightness in her eyes. Her legs stirred restlessly.
"Ever since we came here two years ago I've wanted to know you. Ever since I found out what you are doing and what Jim Harris is doing—But I've been a little afraid—You're so busy—you have such a big job—" She coughed and waited for breath. "You're the first woman I heard about. They told me you were crazy, that your father was crazy, and at first I believed it because everybody I knew said so—Then I found out—You're doing something with this land that no one else has the courage or the patience to do—This land which means so much and so little."
She stirred again and was silent a moment, staring at the ceiling.
"I suppose every one thinks their troubles are worse than anybody else's, so there's never been anybody to listen to ours. The people who might be friendly are in trouble themselves; the others don't care—much. I've had it bottled up in me so long and it's taken so much of my strength—the trouble, I mean—that I'll have to talk of it now if—if I'm ever going to talk."
She moved her head so she might look into Helen's face.
"You've been here long enough to know what goes on. I just want you to know that we—Thad and I—know you're right—now. Maybe there are some others who know that, too, but they won't take the trouble to say it—perhaps. We've been only nodding acquaintances, you and I, yet we've had so much in common."
In the pause the girl seemed to be thinking carefully, planning what she would say next.
"I'll have to go to the beginning—You see, this was to have been our home; our cottage, our vine and our fig tree. Thad and I worked in the same office in Chicago—we hated it, both of us, hated the city, hated the grind that didn't seem to get people anywhere but to wealth—a very few. We'd never known the country, but we used to spend our Sundays walking and we got the idea that when we married we'd like to go back to the land—"
A sound, like the shadow of a laugh, came from her troubled chest.
"Our interest made us good prospects for the sharks," the vaguest hint of bitterness creeping into the feeble tone. "Several of them came and talked and explained and worked our hopes up. Then Harris' man came. He was the most—the most competent of any of them. He had pictures of headquarters here, and pictures of prosperous farms—taken in another county, we found out afterward. They offered to pay our expenses up here to look the property over. It all sounded so good that we signed the option—"
She closed her eyes a moment and breathed quickly, gathering strength. Her husband sat down on the bed and rested a hand on one of her covered knees.
"It wasn't any option—We found that out when we got here. It was an iron-clad contract. They had our word and some of our money. We didn't know what we were getting in for, because we were only city people—who wanted to get onto the land—we gave them more money to save what we had already put in. We left our jobs and came here to live.
"At first it didn't seem so bad. It wasn't what we had expected, but we still had plenty of hope left. The land was cheap, we thought, we believed we were pioneers and were quite proud to stand the racket for the first few months. But we saw other families leaving and some staying here and starving and our land didn't yield, and the more we learned about it the less we could hope that it ever would grow crops—Little as it cost, it was very expensive—
"We were suckers, you see; suckers for the land sharks! They took our money, and we put our hope in behind the money—and it wasn't possible to get either out."
She swallowed with an effort.
"Then—when we knew a baby was coming, we didn't care so much about this failure. We thought we could get enough to eat, anyhow, and with the baby we could be happy! We planned to give it one more summer's trial and then in the fall, when I was strong enough, we'd go back to the towns where Thad could get a job, and we could begin all over again if we had to—we were young then, you see—"
Helen leaned over and stroked her brow soothingly. "And, you're still young."
The head beneath her hand moved in denial.
"Old," the woman whispered, "very old—very old, Helen. You don't mind my calling you that, do you? I've been your friend so long without knowing you.
"We had planned for the baby so! I had sewed, we had decided on the name even. We knew they couldn't put us out without months of delay; we had fire wood and a roof, and a cow, and Thad could get food somehow. Clothes didn't matter. We were going to be happy in in spite of the failure.
"And then the baby—" She swallowed again and paused. "That is what made me old, Helen. If he had lived, it might have been different—But when he didn't even cry—not once—something broke inside me—and when the doctor told me I couldn't ever have another baby—you see, the last hope I had went out—"
She closed her eyes and did not open them as she said: "I lost him because I worried so much over our mistake; I'd worried beneath the surface; I grew weak with it and thought I wasn't worrying. I lost everything with that worry, even the desire to live, finally—I—That's what this place is: A graveyard for hopes!" Her voice was suddenly stronger. "That's what Jim Harris and all his kind are: murderers of hope! Worse than that, he killed my baby! Jim Harris," struggling to sit up. "If there ever was a man without heart or scruple, it's Jim Harris!" She sank back weakly and her fingers plucked at the quilt while she panted from the effort.
The color had gone from Helen Foraker's face then, and her brows were gathered in suffering. Her lips were set; she made no effort to speak. But once more she took the girl's hand and the cold fingers clutched hers desperately.
"We went to him when we saw the trick that had been played. He wouldn't give us back a cent—He was hard—He can be hard—He would listen, but he had so many answers, so many reasons—Legal reasons—He is so good-natured, seems to be so friendly! That is why he has this—awful success!
"Back to the land," she muttered after a pause. "Ah, such land! and if we had known, we could have gone north, just a few miles, into the hardwood cutover and made a go of it. We'd have had our cottage, our vine, our apple tree. We'd have had our baby, Thad and me—and we'd have had our hopes—our youth—And there's so much land for the land hungry; so much good land that weary city people might have if they only knew more—So much—I can't—I—"
She drew a hand across her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper.
"And even this land is good for those who have vision, for men like your father must have been, for women like you, Helen. Timber! Timber as a crop! They all said you were a fool, and I believed them, until I saw—You have grown such a beautiful forest on this land which won't grow anything else—You've gone ahead and paid no attention to their jeers: you had the dream and a wealth of hope—They say yet—you can never pay out—But I don't believe them—They are so ignorant. I hope it all comes right for Foraker's Folly—I hope they see the wisdom in it.
"Oh, this graveyard! this graveyard of hopes! a cottage—and peace—and enough—It wasn't wealth we wanted—only peace—peace—"
For an interval the others waited, watching the rise and fall of her chest. "Peace," she whispered again and her lips formed other soundless words and then were still. "Asleep," whispered Helen and Thad nodded, brushing his eyes.
Carefully she laid the hand she held back on the covers, rose and stepped from the room. Parker remained there, taking the chair Helen had left, bending over his wife, hands clasped on his knees so tightly that the knuckle bones seemed to threaten the skin.
In the kitchen Taylor rose when Helen tiptoed across the bare floor. She motioned him back to his seat and took a rocker which was near the stove, where the firelight playing through the cracks fell upon her face. Her lips were still set, brows drawn, but with the sympathy and pain in her eyes was something else, a light, a determination which John Taylor had never before beheld in the face of a woman. It was something tremendous, something beyond his experience; he was not equipped to analyze it, though three hours before he had thought he knew women—Now he could only sense the power of this girl!
He found that his palms were damp with sweat and that his heart was beating rapidly. He felt useless, out of place; he was glad that none there gave him attention; he would have fled into the rain were it possible to escape unnoticed. For the first time John Taylor was looking life squarely in the face, with death leering over his shoulder. He had not wanted to grub for his money; he had come to Blueberry after an easy start toward fortune. And these people, no older than he, had been willing to grub just for peace—and had failed because Jim Harris made easy money.
For half an hour no sound came from the bedroom. Then the girl whispered her husband's name.
"Yes, Jenny?" He slipped to his knees and leaned across the bed.
"Hold me close," she whispered. "Closer!—And Thad?—Thad?—Thad?"
He looked about and shoved the door closed with one foot to exclude those others who had come to help and could not. They heard a creaking as though he drew the girl closer into his arms; they heard his voice murmuring and heard hers. Rain rattled on the roof and the thin shell of the house; wind yelped at the cornices. The steel windmill, out of gear, creaked dolefully as it moved in the blow. A distant dog barked and a cow bawled. The clock struck rapidly and ticked on. Helen filled the stove box with wood and sat down again.
"If the doctor isn't here in a few minutes," she said, "you had better go on."
"I'll be glad to. Can't I go now?"
He was eager to escape.
"No, he may be on the way, and you may be needed here."
The brisk clock and the fire made the only sounds within for no noise came from the other room, now. Headlights of a car appeared far off. Helen rose and went to the window and as she moved across the room they heard Parker stirring behind the closed door. He came out walking very slowly, stiffly, carrying the lamp. He put it in its bracket and opened the damper in the stove, moving mechanically, like a sleep walker.
"Here comes the doctor," said Helen.
Thad started as though her presence surprised him.
"Doctor?" he asked, in a croak, that made her look at him sharply.
"Oh, Jesus!" he said. "Oh, Jesus Christ—he's too late!" His legs gave under him. He sank to his knees and his weight sagged back upon his heels. His head was bowed, with clasped hands pressed against his lips. "Too late," he whispered unsteadily—"She stopped worrying—in my arms."
It was not yet midnight when Helen Foraker and John Taylor drew up before the house in the forest. They had not spoken a word on the way back, but after they entered the great warm room, Taylor lighted a cigarette and spread his hands before the fire and said dully:
"Lord, that's terrible!" And then added that which was in his mind and had been since he had heard Jennie Parker's talk. "I met Harris in Pancake this morning. I'd hate to—" He did not finish.
The girl commented dryly: "Jim Harris is one of those who don't care about waiting very long for returns on an investment."
Taylor recalled the comment he had made on her own forest at the table that night and her words were like a lash across his face.
And at that hour, under live oaks bearded with moss, Marcia Murray sat with crossed knees under the steering wheel of her runabout. Beside her Philip Rowe lounged, a smile on his thin lips, toying with a magnolia blossom.
"Like a flake of moonlight," he said softly, holding it up against the shadows. "As white as your throat, Marcia!" He dropped the blossom and leaned toward her, arm sliding along the back of the seat.
The girl drew away. "Be cautious," she murmured.
"With you, I know no caution—"
"You did when John was here."
He frowned. "Discretion," he corrected and his glowing eyes twinkled. "I envied him."
"He has everything you want, hasn't he, Phil?"
"He has you, it seems."
"And his father's fortune?"
One of Rowe's hands ran over his chin. "Not yet," he said, and in the casual words was a degree of triumph.
The girl looked up quickly. "Old Luke does like you, doesn't he?"
"He likes any one who persists—and persists—and persists—With Luke as with others, persistence wins."
He leaned further toward her with that, and the smile was gone from his eyes; gone from the girl's face too, and she betrayed a flash of bewilderment, of wild guessing; the composure came back though, and when he reached for her hand again, she let her cool fingers nestle in his palm. But she did not permit him to hold her close—very close—not that night.