Diversity chattered and gesticulated, surmised and prophesied. It did
not know exactly what had happened, but was able to relate much more
than had happened. The one protruding fact was that Michael Moran had
the worst of the affair. The Ashe Clothespin Company was sawing logs
which Moran had intended they should not saw, and young Jim Ashe bounded
to local fame—not altogether admirable. The character assigned him was
a patchwork of daredevil, Machiavelli, business genius, general,
pugilist, bandit, patriot. It depended on whom you talked with which
attribute was set foremost.
By night some credit had been subtracted from Jim to be piled up before
Zaanan Frame’s door as censure. The idea had been circulated subtlely. A
reign of lawlessness was to be inaugurated. Zaanan Frame, the county’s
dictator, winked at it, even lent his aid to it. He had debauched the
courts themselves, so that, instead of giving their protection to Moran,
assailed in his sacred rights of property, they actually issued
injunctions forbidding him to interfere with men who, to all intents,
were stealing his timber.
Peleg Goodwin made a speech about it from the steps of the hotel, and
many good citizens believed him. Jim discovered suddenly he had become
an important part of the political issue.
When supper-time came he walked down the road, hesitated in front of the
hotel, half of a mind to eat there, for he did not want to meet Marie
Ducharme yet. In his office he had been thinking of her, had been trying
to argue himself into a belief in her fidelity; but it had been futile.
The evidence seemed proof incontrovertible to him. He believed she had
betrayed his confidence to Michael Moran.
His hesitation was brief. With a shrug of his shoulders he went on to
the widow’s. As well have the meeting now as any time, he thought. He
was young; he had given his heart, his faith wholly, and his spirit was
sick with the shock of disillusionment. Where he loved he had been
betrayed—wantonly, it seemed to him. So he went grimly to the widow’s
table. His face might have borne a far different expression could he
have known Marie Ducharme had not closed her eyes through the night, nor
till mid-morning brought assurances of his safety. Tenderness and pity
might have mingled in his heart could he have known of her struggle on
the little hilltop under the moon. But he did not know.
“H’m!” said the widow, as he entered. “Fine carryin’s-on! I’ve had
boarders and boarders, but I don’t call to mind none been as like to get
hauled out from under my roof by the sheriff as you. What you mean by
it, anyhow?”
“I don’t think the sheriff will interfere with me,” said Jim,
humorlessly, forgetting or neglecting to greet Marie with even a nod of
the head.
“Them that lives by the sword shall die by the sword,” the widow said,
seeking the support of the Scriptures.
“And those who live by logs must have logs,” said Jim.
“Folks is sayin’ Zaanan Frame was back of this caper of yours. ’Tain’t
so, is it?”
“No.”
“Knew he wouldn’t be lendin’ his countenance to murderin’ and killin’
and maimin’ and injurin’.”
“There would have been no fighting,” said Jim, his eyes on the
tablecloth, “if my plans hadn’t been betrayed to Moran.”
“Who done that, I’d like to know?” said the widow, quick to change her
front. “Who’d ’a’ done such a miserable, sneakin’, low-down thing as
that? You ought to ketch him and teach him sich a lesson he wouldn’t
forgit it in a hurry.”
“I can’t,” said Jim, dully. “You see, it wasn’t a man.”
“H’m! Serves you right, then, for lettin’ a woman find out what you was
goin’ to do.”
Jim made no reply, did not lift his eyes, so he was unconscious of the
look Marie bent upon him. Her eyes were startled, dark with
apprehension. His manner toward her, what did it mean? Did he suspect
her? She bit her lip and pretended to eat. Presently she excused herself
and left the room with lagging steps.
Jim finished his meal silently. He, too, went out, his feet heavy as his
heart as he descended the steps and walked along the bricked path to the
gate. Marie was waiting for him.
“Jim,” she said, “what did you mean? You acted so—what you said—”
“I meant,” said Jim, dully, “that within an hour from the time I told
you what I was going to do, Moran was warned.”
“You believe that I warned him?”
He was silent.
“No!” she cried. “No! I didn’t see Moran last night, Jim. I didn’t see
him. I didn’t tell him.”
“You only make it worse,” he said. “Moran was here. I saw him turn in
the gate.”
“I wasn’t here, Jim. I didn’t see him. I ran away from him because I was
afraid. You don’t know how afraid of him I am, Jim. I begged you to stay
home last night—but you couldn’t; so I ran away. He comes, Jim, and
shows me the world—out there. He offers it to me—and I want it, I want
it! He doesn’t put things into words; but I—I understand him. I—I hate
him! But the longing; this awful place—You said you loved me, Jim, and
I wouldn’t accept your love. You didn’t love me, you couldn’t love me,
or you wouldn’t believe—”
“I loved you and I trusted you. I would have trusted you with everything
a man can trust a woman with. And you—you hardly waited till I was out
of sight before you told him.”
She looked at him with agony in her eyes.
“I’ll tell you. Yes, I’ll tell you, and then you must believe. I—I did
love you, Jim, even when I refused you. It is true. You make me tell
you. And last night—out there on that knoll—I found I couldn’t go on
without you. I saw things clearly. I understood what love meant. And my
fear of him went away, because I was going to let you know, and then I
would be safe—safe with you. Oh, Jim, I was not with him one second. I
was out there, sending my heart after you. Now you believe me, don’t
you, Jim?” Her voice was pitiful.
Each word Jim uttered seemed a bit torn grimly from his heart. He did
not believe her. Now that his trust in her was gone, his unbelief grew
and multiplied.
“I am a new-comer in your life,” he said. “Moran has been there for
years. You—he saw you attracted me. That became useful to him. Last
night shows how useful. Why do you say these things to me about love?
Love is not a thing to lie about. I know what love is, because you—some
one I thought was you—had made it live in me. I don’t believe you now.
I shall never believe you again. The thing you have just said is not
true. I believe you have said it—in obedience to him. So he might have
an eye which would look into my very soul.”
He stopped. She stood silent, pale, her lips parted as in horror. One
hand crept upward flutteringly, stopped at her breast, moved outward
toward Jim.
“Jim!” she whispered. “Jim! You didn’t say that. Tell me I didn’t hear
that. Tell me! Tell me! You don’t know what you’re saying, what you’re
doing. I had won. I had struggled and won. Don’t send me back to him.”
Suddenly she gave way and threw herself on a bench beside the path, her
hands over her ears as though to shut out some dreadful sound. “It’s a
lie!” she panted. “A lie! A lie! A lie!”
Jim felt himself near the breaking-point. He turned and hurried, almost
ran, out of the widow’s garden, but even as far as the gate he could
hear her voice repeating: “A lie! A lie! A lie!”