"Mr. Moore asked him if he was any relation to W.W. Norcross, and he
said, 'Yes, a son.' You should have seen how that Moore girl changed her
tune the moment he admitted that. She'd been very free with him up to
that time; but when she found out he was a rich man's son she became as
quiet and innocent as a kitten. I hate her; she's a deceitful snip."
"Well, now, daughter, that being the case, it's all the more certain that
he don't belong to our world, and you mustn't fix your mind on keeping
him here."
"A girl can't help fixing her mind, daddy."
"Or changing it." He smiled a little. "You used to like Cliff. You liked
him well enough to promise to marry him."
"I know I did; but I despise him now."
"Poor Cliff! He isn't so much to blame after all. Any man is likely to
flare out when he finds another fellow cutting in ahead of him. Why, here
you are wanting to kill Siona Moore just for making up to your young
tourist."
"But that's different."
He laughed. "Of course it is. But the thing we've got to guard against is
old lady Belden's tongue. She and that Belden gang have it in for me, and
all that has kept them from open war has been Cliff's relationship to
you. They'll take a keen delight in making the worst of all this camping
business." McFarlane was now very grave. "I wish your mother was here
this minute. I guess we had better cut out this timber cruise and go
right back."
"No, you mustn't do that; that would only make more talk. Go on with your
plans. I'll stay here with you. It won't take you but a couple of days to
do the work, and Wayland needs the rest."
"But suppose Cliff hears of this business between you and Norcross and
comes galloping over the ridge?"
"Well, let him, he has no claim on me."
He rose uneasily. "It's all mighty risky business, and it's my fault. I
should never have permitted you to start on this trip."
"Don't you worry about me, daddy, I'll pull through somehow. Anybody that
knows me will understand how little there is in--in old lady Belden's
gab. I've had a beautiful trip, and I won't let her nor anybody else
spoil it for me."
McFarlane was not merely troubled. He was distracted. He was afraid to
meet the Beldens. He dreaded their questions, their innuendoes. He had
perfect faith in his daughter's purity and honesty, and he liked and
trusted Norcross, and yet he knew that should Belden find it to his
advantage to slander these young people, and to read into their action
the lawlessness of his own youth, Berea's reputation, high as it was,
would suffer, and her mother's heart be rent with anxiety. In his growing
pain and perplexity he decided to speak frankly to young Norcross
himself. "He's a gentleman, and knows the way of the world. Perhaps he'll
have some suggestion to offer." In his heart he hoped to learn that
Wayland loved his daughter and wished to marry her.
Wayland was down on the bridge leaning over the rail, listening to the
song of the water.
McFarlane approached gravely, but when he spoke it was in his usual soft
monotone. "Mr. Norcross," he began, with candid inflection, "I am very
sorry to say it; but I wish you and my daughter had never started on this
trip."
"I know what you mean, Supervisor, and I feel as you do about it. Of
course, none of us foresaw any such complication as this, but now that we
are snarled up in it we'll have to make the best of it. No one of us is
to blame. It was all accidental."
The youth's frank words and his sympathetic voice disarmed McFarlane
completely. Even the slight resentment he felt melted away. "It's no use
saying _if_," he remarked, at length. "What we've got to meet is Seth
Belden's report--Berrie has cut loose from Cliff, and he's red-headed
already. When he drops onto this story, when he learns that I had to
chase back after the horses, and that you and Berrie were alone together
for three days, he'll have a fine club to swing, and he'll swing it; and
Alec will help him. They're all waiting a chance to get me, and they're
mean enough to get me through my girl."
"What can I do?" asked Wayland.
McFarlane pondered. "I'll try to head off Marm Belden, and I'll have a
talk with Moore. He's a pretty reasonable chap."
"But you forget there's another tale-bearer. Moore's daughter is with
them."
"That's so. I'd forgotten her. Good Lord! we are in for it. There's no
use trying to cover anything up."
Here was the place for Norcross to speak up and say: "Never mind, I'm
going to ask Berrie to be my wife." But he couldn't do it. Something rose
in his throat which prevented speech. A strange repugnance, a kind of
sullen resentment at being forced into a declaration, kept him silent,
and McFarlane, disappointed, wondering and hurt, kept silence also.
Norcross was the first to speak. "Of course those who know your daughter
will not listen for an instant to the story of an unclean old thing like
Mrs. Belden."
"I'm not so sure about that," replied the father, gloomily. "People
always listen to such stories, and a girl always gets the worst of a
situation like this. Berrie's been brought up to take care of herself,
and she's kept clear of criticism so far; but with Cliff on edge and this
old rip snooping around--" His mind suddenly changed. "Your being the son
of a rich man won't help any. Why didn't you tell me who you were?"
"I didn't think it necessary. What difference does it make? I have
nothing to do with my father's business. His notions of forest
speculation are not mine."
"It would have made a difference with me, and it might have made a
difference with Berrie. She mightn't have been so free with you at the
start, if she'd known who you were. You looked sick and kind of lonesome,
and that worked on her sympathy."
"I _was_ sick and I was lonesome, and she has been very sweet and lovely
to me, and it breaks my heart to think that her kindness and your
friendship should bring all this trouble and suspicion upon her. Let's go
up to the Moore camp and have it out with them. I'll make any statement
you think best."
"I reckon the less said about it the better," responded the older man.
"I'm going up to the camp, but not to talk about my daughter."
"How can you help it? They'll force the topic."
"If they do, I'll force them to let it alone," retorted McFarlane; but he
went away disappointed and sorrowful. The young man's evident avoidance
of the subject of marriage hurt him. He did not perceive, as Norcross
did, that to make an announcement of his daughter's engagement at this
moment would be taken as a confession of shameful need. It is probable
that Berrie herself would not have seen this further complication.
Each hour added to Wayland's sense of helplessness and bitterness. "I am
in a trap. I can neither help Berrie nor help myself. Nothing remains for
me but flight, and flight will also be a confession of guilt."
Once again, and in far more definite terms, he perceived the injustice of
the world toward women. Here with Berrie, as in ages upon ages of other
times, the maiden must bear the burden of reproach. "In me it will be
considered a joke, a romantic episode, in her a degrading misdemeanor.
And yet what can I do?"
When he re-entered the cabin the Supervisor had returned from the camp,
and something in his manner, as well as in Berrie's, revealed the fact
that the situation had not improved.
"They forced me into a corner," McFarlane said to Wayland, peevishly. "I
lied out of one night; but they know that you were here last night. Of
course, they were respectful enough so long as I had an eye on them, but
their tongues are wagging now."
The rest of the evening was spent in talk on the forest, and in going
over the ranger's books, for the Supervisor continued to plan for
Wayland's stay at this station, and the young fellow thought it best not
to refuse at the moment.
As bedtime drew near Settle took a blanket and went to the corral, and
Berrie insisted that her father and Wayland occupy the bunk.
Norcross protested; but the Supervisor said: "Let her alone. She's better
able to sleep on the floor than either of us."
This was perfectly true; but, in spite of his bruised and aching body,
the youth would gladly have taken her place beside the stove. It seemed
pitifully unjust that she should have this physical hardship in addition
to her uneasiness of mind.
X