IN DAVE'S OFFICE
It was the day after the bazaar. Betty had just returned home from her
school for midday dinner. She was sitting at the open window, waiting
while her aunt set the meal. The cool green of the wild-cucumbers
covering the veranda tempered the blistering summer heat which
oppressed the valley. The girl was looking out upon the village below
her, at the woodland slopes opposite, at the distant narrowing of the
mighty walls which bounded her world, but she saw none of these things.
She saw nothing of the beauty, the gracious foliage, the wonderful
sunlight she loved. Her gaze was introspective. She saw only the
pictures her thoughts conjured up.
They were not pleasant pictures either, but they were absorbing. She
knew that she had arrived at a crisis in her life. The scene she had
witnessed at the bazaar was still burning in her brain. The shame stung
and revolted her. The horror of it was sickening. Jim's disgrace was
complete; yet, in spite of it, she could not help remembering Dave's
appeal for him.
He had said that Jim needed her more than ever now, and the thought
made her uneasy, and her tender heart urged her in a direction she knew
she must not take. It was so easy for her to condemn, she who knew
nothing of temptation. And yet her position was so utterly impossible.
Jim had been in the village all this time and had not been near her,
that is except on this one occasion, when he was drunk. He was
evidently afraid to come near her. He was a coward, and she hated
cowards.
He had even persuaded Dave to intercede for him. She smiled as she
thought of it. But her smile was for Dave, and not at the other's
display of cowardice. It was not a smile of amusement either. She only
smiled at the absurdity of Dave pleading for one whom he knew to be
wholly unworthy. It was the man's large heart, she told herself. And
almost in the same breath she found herself resenting his kindly
interference, and wishing he would mind his own business. Why should he
be always thinking of others? Why should he not think sometimes of
himself?
Her dreaming now became of Dave alone, and she found herself reviewing
his life as she knew it. Her eyes grew tender, and she basked in the
sunlight of a world changed to pleasant thought. His ugliness no longer
troubled her--she no longer saw it. She saw only the spirit inside the
man, and somehow his roughnesses of voice, manner and appearance seemed
a wholly fitting accompaniment to it. Her thoughts of Jim had gone from
her entirely. The crisis which she was facing had receded into the
shadows. Dave became her dominant thought, and she started when her
uncle's voice suddenly broke in upon her reverie.
"Betty," he said, coming up behind her and laying one lean hand upon
her rounded shoulder, "I haven't had time to speak to you about it
since the bazaar, but now I want to tell you that you can have nothing
more to do with young Truscott. He is a thorough-paced young scoundrel
and----"
"You need say no more, uncle," the girl broke in bitterly. "You can
tell me nothing I do not already know of him."
"Then I trust you will send him about his business at once," added her
aunt, who had entered the room bearing the dinner joint on a tray, just
in time to hear Betty's reply.
Betty looked at her aunt's round, good-natured face. For once it was
cold and angry. From her she looked up at her uncle's, and the decision
she saw in his frank eyes left her no alternative but a direct reply.
"I intend to settle everything this afternoon," she said simply.
"In what way?" inquired her uncle sharply.
Betty rose from her seat and crossed the room to her aunt's side. The
latter, having set the dinner, was waiting beside her chair ready to
sit down as soon as the matter should be settled. Betty placed her arm
about her stout waist, and the elder woman's face promptly relaxed. She
could never long keep up even a pretense of severity where Betty was
concerned.
The girl promptly addressed herself to her uncle with all the frankness
of one assured of a sympathetic hearing.
"You have always taught me, uncle dear, that duty must be my first
consideration in life," she began steadily. "I have tried to live up to
that, and it has possibly made my conscience a little over keen." Her
face clouded, but the clouds broke immediately, chased away by a
plaintive smile. "When Jim asked me to marry him five years ago I
believed I loved him. At one time I'm sure I did, in a silly, girlish
fashion. But soon after he went away I realized that a girlish
infatuation is not real love. This knowledge I tried to hide even from
myself. I would not believe it, and for a long time I almost managed to
convince myself. That was until Jim's letters became fewer and colder.
With his change I no longer attempted to conceal from myself the real
state of my own feelings. But even then my conscience wouldn't let me
alone. I had promised to wait for him, and I made up my mind that, come
what might, unless he made it impossible I would marry him." She
sighed. "Well, you know the rest. He has now made it impossible. What
his real feelings are for me," she went on with a pathetic smile, "I
have not had an opportunity of gauging. As you know, he has not been
near me. I shall now make it my business to see him this afternoon and
settle everything. My conscience isn't by any means easy about it, but
I intend to give him up."
Her aunt squeezed her arm sympathetically, and her uncle nodded his
approval.
"Where are you going to see him?" the latter asked. "You mustn't see
him alone." Then he burst out wrathfully, "He's a blackguard, and----"
"No, no, uncle, don't say that," Betty interrupted him. "Surely he is
to be pitied. Remember him as he was. You cannot tell what temptations
have come his way."
The parson's face cleared at once. His angry outbursts were always
short-lived.
"I'm sorry, Betty," he said. "My dear, you shame me. I'm afraid that my
hasty temper is always leading to my undoing as a churchman." The
half-humorous smile which accompanied his words passed swiftly. "Where
are you going to see him?" he again demanded.
"Down at Dave's office," the girl replied, after a moment's thought.
"Eh?" Her uncle was startled; but Mary Chepstow smiled on her
encouragingly.
"Yes, you see," she went on, "Dave had a good deal to do with--our
engagement--in a way, and----"
"I'm glad Dave is going to help you through this business," said her
aunt, with a glance which effectually kept her husband silent. "He's a
dear fellow, and--let's have our dinner--it's nearly cold."
Aunt Mary was not brilliant, she was not meddlesome, but she had all a
woman's intuition. She felt that enough had been said. And for some
obscure reason she was glad that Dave was to have a hand in this
matter. Nor had her satisfaction anything to do with the man's ability
to protect her niece from possible insult.
That afternoon Dave received an unexpected visit. He was alone in his
office, clad for hard work, without coat, waistcoat, collar or tie. He
had no scruples in these matters. With all an American's love of
freedom he abandoned himself to all he undertook with a
whole-heartedness which could not tolerate even the restraint of what
he considered unnecessary clothing. And just now, in the terrific heat,
all these things were superfluous.
Betty looked particularly charming as she hurried across the
lumber-yard. She was dressed in a spotless white cotton frock, and,
under her large sun-hat, her brown hair shone in the sunlight like
burnished copper. Without the least hesitation she approached the
office and knocked peremptorily on the door.
The man inside grudgingly answered the summons. His books were
occupying all his attention, and his thoughts were filled with columns
of figures. But the moment he beheld the white, smiling vision the last
of his figures fled precipitately from his mind.
"Why, come right in, little Betty," he cried, hastily setting the only
available chair for her. Then he bethought himself of his attire. "Say,
you might have let me know. Just half a minute and I'll fix myself up."
But the girl instantly protested. "You'll do just as you are," she
exclaimed. "Now you look like a lumberman. And I like you best that
way."
Dave grinned and sat down a little self-consciously. But Betty had no
idea of letting any conventionalities interfere with the matter she had
in hand. She was always direct, always single-minded, when her decision
was taken. She gave him no time to speculate as to the object of her
visit.
"Dave," she began seriously, "I want you to do me a great favor." Then
she smiled. "As usual," she added. "I want you to send for Jim Truscott
and bring him here."
Dave was on his feet in an instant and crossed to the door. The next
moment his voice roared out to one of his foremen. It was a shout that
could have been heard across his own milling floor with every saw
shrieking on the top of its work.
He waited, and presently Simon Odd came hurrying across the yard. He
spoke to him outside, and then returned to the office.
"He'll be along in a few minutes," he said. "I've sent Odd with the
buckboard."
"Are you sure he'll come?"
Dave smiled confidently.
"I told Odd to bring him."
"I hope he'll come willingly," the girl said, after a thoughtful pause.
"So do I," observed Dave dryly. "Well, little girl?"
Betty understood the inquiry, and looked him fearlessly in the eyes.
"You sowed your wheat on barren soil, Dave," she said decidedly. "Your
appeal for Jim has borne no fruit."
The man shifted his position. It was the only sign he gave. But the
fires were stirred into a sudden blaze, and his blood ran fiercely
through his veins.
"That's not a heap like you, Betty," was all he said.
"Isn't it?" The girl turned to the window. The dirt on the glass made
it difficult for her to see out of it, but she gazed at it steadily.
"I suppose you'll think me a mean, heartless creature," she said
slowly. "You'll think little enough of my promises, and still less
of--of my loyalty." She paused. Then she raised her head and turned to
him again. "I cannot marry Jim. I cannot undertake his reformation. I
cannot give up my life to a man whom I now know I never really loved. I
know you will not understand. I know, only too well, your own lofty
spirit, your absolute unselfishness. I know that had you been in my
place you would have fulfilled your promise at any cost. But I can't. I
simply can't."
"No."
It was the man's only comment. But his mind was busy. He knew Betty so
well that he understood a great deal without asking questions.
"Aunt Mary and uncle know my decision," the girl went on. "They know I
am here, and that I am going to see Jim in your presence. You see, I
thought if I sent for him to come to our house he might refuse. He
might insult uncle again. I thought, somehow, it would be different
with you."
Dave nodded.
"I don't blame your uncle and aunt for making you give him up," he
said. "I'd have done it in their place."
"Yet you appealed for him?"
Betty's eyes questioned him.
"Sure, I promised to help him. That was before the bazaar."
Suddenly Betty held out her hands with a little appealing movement.
Dave wanted to seize them and crush them in his own, but he did not
stir.
"Tell me you don't think badly of me. Tell me you do not think me a
heartless, wretched woman. I have thought and thought, and prayed for
guidance. And now it seems to me I am a thoroughly wicked girl. But I
cannot--I must not marry him."
The man rose abruptly from his seat. He could no longer look into her
troubled eyes and keep his own secret. When he spoke it was with his
back to her, as he made a pretense of filling his pipe at the tobacco
jar on the table. His voice was deep with emotion.
"I thank God you've decided," he said. "You've done right by everybody.
And you've shown more courage refusing him than if you'd gone through
with your promise, because you've done it against your conscience. No,
little Betty," he went on, turning to her again with infinite kindness
in his steady eyes, "there's no one can call you heartless, or any
other cruel name--and--and they'd better not in my hearing," he
finished up clumsily.
A few minutes later the rattle of buckboard wheels sounded outside, and
before Betty could reply Dave took the opportunity of going to the
door. Jim Truscott was standing outside with the gigantic Simon Odd
close behind him, much in the manner of a warder watching his prisoner.
The flicker of a smile came and went in the lumberman's eyes at the
sight. Then his attention was held by the anger he saw in Jim's
dissipated face. He was not a pleasant sight. His eyes were heavy and
bloodshot, and the lines about them were accentuated by his general
unwashed appearance. Even at that distance, as they stood there facing
each other, he caught the reek of stale brandy the man exhaled. His
clothes, too, had the appearance of having been flung on hurriedly, and
the shirt and collar he wore were plainly filthy. Altogether he was an
object for pity, and at the same time it was not possible to feel
anything for him but a profound repugnance.
"He was abed," said the giant Odd, the moment Dave appeared. Then with
a complacent grin, "But he guessed he'd come right along when I told
him you was kind o' busy an' needed him important."
But Jim's angry face flamed.
"Nothing of the sort. This damned ruffian of yours dragged me out,
blast him."
"Cut it!" Dave warned him sharply. "There's a lady here to see you.
Come right in."
The warning had instant effect. Truscott stepped into the room and
stood face to face with Betty. Dave closed the door and stood aside.
For a few intense moments no word was spoken. The man stared stupidly
into the girl's unsmiling face; then he looked across at Dave. It was
Betty who finally broke the silence.
"Well, Jim," she said kindly, "at last we meet." She noted all the
signs of dissipation in the young face, which, but a few years ago, had
been so fresh and clean and good-looking. Now it was so different, and,
to her woman's eyes, there was more than the mere outward signs. There
was a spirit looking out of his bloodshot eyes that she did not
recognize. It was as though the soul of the man had changed; it had
degenerated to a lower grade. There was something unwholesome in his
expression, as though some latent brutality had been stirred into life,
and had obliterated every vestige of that clean, boyish spirit that had
once been his.
"And," she went on, as he remained silent, "you had to be cajoled into
coming to see me."
Still the man did not speak. Whether it was shame that held him silent
it was impossible to tell. Probably not, for there was a steadily
growing light in his eyes that suggested thoughts of anything but of a
moral tone. He was held by her beauty--he was held as a man is
sometimes held by some ravishing vision that appeals to his lower
senses. He lost no detail of her perfect woman's figure, the seductive
contours so wonderfully moulded. His eyes drank in the sight, and it
set his blood afire.
Dave never turned his eyes. He too was watching. And he understood, and
resented, the storm that was lashing through the man's veins.
"Have you nothing to say to me after these long years?" the girl asked
again, forced to break the desperate silence. Then the woman in her
found voice, "Oh! Jim, Jim! the pity of it. And I thought you so
strong."
Dave clenched his hands at his sides, but made no other movement. Then
Betty's manner suddenly changed. All the warmth died out of her voice,
and, mistress of herself again, she went straight to her object.
"Jim, it was I who sent for you. I asked Dave to do this for me."
"A word from you would have been enough," the man said, with a sudden
fire that lost nothing of its fierce passion in the hoarse tone in
which he spoke.
"A word from me?" There was unconscious irony in the girl's reply.
"Yes, a word. I know. You are thinking of when your uncle came to me;
you're thinking of our first meeting on the bridge; you're thinking of
yesterday. I was drunk. I admit it. But I'm not always drunk. I tell
you a word from you would have been enough."
The girl's eyes reproached him.
"A word from me, after five years' absence? It seems to me you should
not have needed a word from me. Jim, had you come to me, whatever your
state, poor or rich, it would have made no difference to me. I should
have met you as we parted, ready to fulfil my pledge."
"You mean----"
The man's bloodshot eyes were alight. A tremendous passion was urging
him to the limits of his restraining powers. He had almost forgotten
where he was. He had quite forgotten Dave. The sight of this woman with
her beautiful figure, her sweet face and serious eyes, almost maddened
him. He was from the wilds, where he had long since buried his
wholesome youthful ideals. The life he had lived had entirely deadened
all lofty thought. He only saw with a brain debased to the level of the
animal. He desired her. He madly desired her now that he had seen her
again, and he realized that his desire was about to be thwarted.
Betty drew back a step. The movement was unconscious. It was the
woman's instinct at the sight of something threatening which made her
draw away from the passion she saw blazing in his eyes. Dave silently
watched the man.
"I mean," said the girl solemnly, "that you have made our pledge
impossible. I mean," she went on, with quiet dignity, "that I cannot
marry you now, even if you wish it. No, no," as Jim made a sudden
movement to speak, "it is quite useless to discuss the matter further.
I insisted on this meeting to settle the matter beyond question. Dave
here witnessed our engagement, and I wished him to witness its
termination. You will be better free, and so shall I. There could have
been no happiness in a marriage between us----"
"But I won't give you up," the man suddenly broke out. He had passed
the narrow limits of his restraint. His face flushed and showed
blotched in the sudden scarlet. For a second, after that first fiery
outburst, no words came. Then the torrent flowed forth. "Is this what I
went away for? Is this what I have slaved for in the wilds of the
Yukon? Is this what I am to find now that I have made the money you
desired? No, no, you can't get rid of me like that; you don't mean it,
you can't mean it. Betty, I want you more than anything on earth," he
rushed on, his voice dropping to a persuasive note. "I want you, and
without you life is nothing to me. I must have you!" He took a step
forward. But it was only a step, for the girl's steady eyes held him,
and checked his further advance. And something in her attitude turned
his mood to one of fierce protest. "What is it that has come between
us? What is it that has changed you?"
Betty snatched at his pause.
"Such questions come well from you, Jim," she said, with some
bitterness. "You know the truth. You do not need me to tell you." Her
tone suddenly let the demon in the man loose. His passion-lit eyes
lowered, and a furtive, sinister light shone in them when he lifted
them again.
"I know. I understand," he cried. "This is an excuse, and it serves you
well." The coldness of his voice was in painful contrast to his recent
passion. "The old story, eh? You have found some one else. I never
thought much of a woman's promise, anyhow. I wonder who it is." Then
with a sudden vehemence. "But you shan't marry him. Do you hear? You
shan't while I am----"
"Quit it!"
Dave's great voice suddenly filled the room and cut the man's threats
short.
Jim turned on him in a flash; until that moment he had entirely
forgotten the lumberman. He eyed the giant for a second. Then he
laughed cynically.
"Oh, I'd forgotten you. Of course," he went on. "I see now. I never
thought of it before. I remember, you were on the bridge together when
I first----"
Dave had taken a couple of strides and now stood between the two. His
movement silenced the man, while he addressed himself to Betty.
"You're finished with him?" he inquired in a deep, harsh voice.
There was something so compelling about him that Betty simply nodded.
Instantly he swung round on the younger man.
"You'll vacate this place--quick," he said deliberately.
The two men eyed each other for some seconds. Truscott's look meant
mischief, Dave's was calmly determined. The latter finally stepped
aside and crossing to the door held it open.
"I said you'll--vacate," he said sharply.
Truscott turned and glanced at the open door. Then he glanced at Betty,
who had drawn farther away. Finally his frigid eyes turned upon Dave's
great figure standing at the door. For an instant a wicked smile played
round his lips, and he spoke in the same cynical tone.
"I never thought of you in the marriage market, Dave," he said, with a
vicious laugh. "I suppose it's only natural. Nobody ever associated you
with marriage. Somehow your manner and appearance don't suggest it. I
seem to see you handling lumber all your life, not dandling children on
your knee. But there, you're a good catch--a mighty good one. And I was
fool enough to trust you with my cause. Ye gods! Well, your weight of
money has done it, no doubt. I congratulate you. She has lied to me,
and no doubt she will lie----"
But the man, if he finished his remark at all, must have done so to the
stacks of lumber in the yards, and to the accompaniment of the shriek
of the saws. There was no fuss. Scarcely any struggle. Dave moved with
cat-like swiftness, which in a man of his size was quite miraculous,
and in a flash Jim Truscott was sprawling on the hard red ground on the
other side of the doorway.
And when Dave looked round at Betty the girl's face was covered with
her hands, and she was weeping. He stood for a second all contrition,
and clumsily fumbling for words. He believed she was distressed at his
brutal action.
"I'm sorry, little Betty," he blurted out at last. "I'm real sorry. But
I just couldn't help it."