As summer wore on into autumn the dry weather turned to a veritable
drought, and all the streams ran lower and lower. Word came early that
the mills at Harner’s Bend, over in the next valley, had been compelled
to shut down for lack of logs. But Brine’s Rip exulted unkindly. The
Ottanoonsis, fed by a group of cold spring lakes, maintained a steady
flow; there were plenty of logs, and the mills had every prospect of
working full time all through the autumn. Presently they began to gather
in big orders which would have gone otherwise to Harner’s Bend. Brine’s
Rip not only exulted, but took into itself merit. It felt that it must,
on general principles, have deserved well of Providence, for Providence
so obviously to take sides with it.
As August drew to a dusty, choking end, Mary Farrell began to collect
her accounts. Her tact and sympathy made this easy for her, and women
paid up civilly enough who had never been known to do such a thing
before, unless at the point of a summons. Mary said she was going to the
States, perhaps as far as New York itself, to renew her stock and study
up the latest fashions.
Every one was much interested. Woolly Billy’s eyes brimmed over at the
prospect of her absence, but he was consoled by the promise of her
speedy return _with_ an air-gun and also a toy steam-engine that would
really go. As for Jim, his feathery black tail drooped in premonition of
a loss, but he could not gather exactly what was afoot. He was further
troubled by an unusual depression on the part of Tug Blackstock. The
Deputy Sheriff seemed to have lost his zest in tracking down evil-doers.
It was nearing ten o’clock on a hot and starless night. Tug Blackstock,
too restless to sleep, wandered down to the silent mill with Jim at his
heels. As he approached, Jim suddenly went bounding on ahead with a yelp
of greeting. He fawned upon a small, shadowy figure which was seated on
a pile of deals close to the water’s edge. Tug Blackstock hurried up.
“You here, Mary, all alone, at this time o’ night!” he exclaimed.
“I come here often,” answered Mary, making room for him to sit beside
her.
“I wish I’d known it sooner,” muttered the Deputy.
“I like to listen to the rapids, and catch glimpses of the water
slipping away blindly in the dark,” said Mary. “It helps one not to
think,” she added with a faint catch in her voice.
“Why should _you_ not want to think, Mary?” protested Blackstock.
“How dreadfully dry everything is,” replied Mary irrelevantly, as if
heading Blackstock off. “What if there should be a fire at the mill?
Wouldn’t the whole village go, like a box of matches? People might get
caught asleep in their beds. Oughtn’t there to be more than one night
watchman in such dry weather as this? I’ve so often heard of mills
catching fire—though I don’t see why they should, any more than houses.”
“Mills most generally git _set_ afire,” answered the Deputy grimly.
“Think what it would mean to Harner’s Bend if these mills should git
burnt down now! It would mean thousands and thousands to them. But
you’re dead right, Mary, about the danger to the village. Only it
depends on the wind. This time o’ year, an’ as long as it keeps dry,
what wind there is blows mostly _away_ from the houses, so sparks and
brands would just be carried out over the river. But if the wind should
shift to the south’ard, or thereabouts, yes, there’d be more watchmen
needed. I s’pose you’re thinkin’ about your shop while ye’re away?”
“I was thinking about Woolly Billy,” said Mary gravely. “What do I care
about the old shop? It’s insured, anyway.”
“I’ll look out for Woolly Billy,” answered Blackstock. “And I’ll look
out for the shop, whether _you_ care about it or not. It’s yours, and
your name’s on the door, and anything of yours, anything you’ve touched,
an’ wherever you’ve put your little foot, that’s something for me to
care about. I ain’t no hand at making pretty speeches, Mary, or paying
compliments, but I tell you these here old sawdust roads are just
wonderful to me now, because your little feet have walked on ’em. Ef
only I could think that _you_ could care—that I had anything, _was_
anything, Mary, worth offering you—”
He had taken her hand, and she had yielded it to him. He had put his
great arm around her shoulders and drawn her to him,—and for a moment,
with a little shiver, she had leant against him, almost cowered against
him, with the air of a frightened child craving protection. But as he
spoke on, in his quiet, strong voice, she suddenly tore herself away,
sprang off to the other end of the pile of deals, and began to sob
violently.
He followed her at once. But she thrust out both hands.
“Go away. _Please_ don’t come near me,” she appealed, somewhat wildly.
“You don’t understand—_anything_.”
Tug Blackstock looked puzzled. He seated himself at a distance of
several inches, and clasped his hands resolutely in his lap.
“Of course, I won’t tech you, Mary,” said he, “if you don’t want me to.
I don’t want to do _anything_ you don’t want me to—_never_, Mary. But I
sure don’t understand what you’re crying for. _Please_ don’t. I’m so
sorry I teched you, dear. But if you knew how I love you, how I would
give my life for you, I think you’d forgive me, Mary.”
Mary gave a bitter little laugh, and choked her sobs.
“It isn’t that, oh no, it isn’t _that_!” she said. “I—I _liked_ it.
There!” she panted. Then she sprang to her feet and faced him. And in
the gloom he could see her eyes flaming with some intense excitement,
from a face ghost-white.
“But—I won’t let you make me love you, Tug Blackstock. I won’t!—I won’t!
I won’t let you change all my plans, all my ambitions. I won’t give up
all I’ve worked for and schemed for and sold my very soul for, just
because at last I’ve met a real man. Oh, I’d soon spoil your life, no
matter how much you love me. You’d soon find how cruel, and hard, and
selfish I am. An’ I’d ruin my own life, too. Do you think I could settle
down to spend my life in the backwoods? Do you think I have no dreams
beyond the spruce woods of Nipsiwaska County? Do you think you could
imprison _me_ in Brine’s Rip? I’d either kill your brave, clean soul,
Tug Blackstock, or I’d kill myself!”
Utterly bewildered at this incomprehensible outburst, Blackstock could
only stammer lamely:
“But—I thought—ye kind o’ liked Brine’s Rip.”
“_Like_ it!” The uttermost of scorn was in her voice. “I hate, hate,
hate it! I just live to get out into the great world, where I feel that
I belong. But I must have money first. And I’m going to study, and I’m
going to make myself somebody. I wasn’t born for this.” And she waved
her hand with a sweep that took in all the backwoods world. “I’m getting
out of it. It would drive me mad. Oh, I sometimes think it has already
driven me half mad.”
Her tense voice trailed off wearily, and she sat down again—this time
further away.
Blackstock sat quite still for a time. At last he said gently:
“I do understand ye now, Mary.”
“You _don’t_,” interrupted Mary.
“I felt, all along, I was somehow not good enough for you.”
“You’re a million miles _too_ good for me,” she interrupted again,
energetically.
“But,” he went on without heeding the protest, “I hoped, somehow, that I
might be able to make you happy. An’ that’s what I want, more’n anything
else in the world. All I have is at your feet, Mary, an’ I could make it
more in time. But I’m not a big enough man for you. I’m all yours—an’
always will be—but I can’t make myself no more than I am.”
“Yes, you could, Tug Blackstock,” she cried. “Real men are scarce, in
the great world and everywhere. You could make yourself a master
anywhere—if only you would tear yourself loose from here.”
He sprang up, and his arms went out as if to seize her. But, with an
effort, he checked himself, and dropped them stiffly to his side.
“I’m too old to change my spots, Mary,” said he. “I’m stamped for good
an’ all. I _am_ some good here. I’d be no good there. An’ I won’t never
resk bein’ a drag on yer plans.”
“You could—you could!” urged Mary almost desperately.
But he turned away, with his lips set hard, not daring to look at her.
“Ef ever ye git tired of it all out there, an’ yer own kind calls ye
back—as it will, bein’ in yer blood—I’ll be waitin’ for ye, Mary,
whatever happens.”
He strode off quickly up the shore. The girl stared after him till he
was quite out of sight, then buried her face in the fur of Jim, who had
willingly obeyed a sign from his master and remained at her side.
“Oh, my dear, if only you could have dared,” she murmured. At last she
jumped up, with an air of resolve, and wandered off, apparently
aimlessly, into the recesses of the mill, with one hand resting firmly
on Jim’s collar.