Marie Ducharme was expecting Michael Moran. He had sent word he would
see her that evening, and she, her heart numbed by the blow it had
received, was inclined to welcome him. Her mood was one of recklessness,
bred and nurtured by days and nights of brooding over the injustice of
which she was the victim. She had spent her night of agony and struggle;
had come down from the moonlit knoll strengthened, lifted up by a
surrender to love, exalted by victory won over sordid temptations. She
had come down with soul renewed, purified, with fresh aspirations, with
tender hopes, with a sort of pitiful pride. The gates of her heart had
not been opened to the love that gained admittance. She had heard it
clamoring without, had striven to exclude it; but it had won past her
barriers. Once within, she had fought with it, opposed it with all the
strength of her will. When her capitulation came it was complete. And
Jim Ashe’s cruel accusation had been its reward.
Her moment of hysteria in the garden passed, gave place to sullenness,
to dull, throbbing pain, to revolt. At first there had been amazed
grief, terror, unbelief in the possibility of such a thing. It would not
be true. Such a thing could not happen to her. Realization followed.
That it had happened was past denial. In her supreme moment, her moment
of confession to Jim, he had rejected her love, responded to it with
scorn. She had laid low her pride for his sake, and he had trampled on
it. There were moments when she fancied she hated him. These moments
recurred more frequently. Grief gave way to anger. He had prated of
love, of the trust, the beauty of love, and at the first shadow his love
had not been trustful. He had denied her a hearing, condemned her before
she could make defense; and as she had come to understand love, defenses
were abhorrent to it. His heart, his instinct, should have held him
steadfast in his faith. It had failed, so his love had failed. Then love
was not what she had come to believe.
She had told Jim her love would be a fiery thing, jealous, demanding.
She had seen it so; but now she knew love was not of that warp and woof.
The joy of love was in service, in surrender. It lay not in compelling
service of its object, but in rendering service to him. In that spirit
she had gone to Jim; and how had he received her?
So she believed she hated him. Also, as she tried to peer ahead, she saw
a future without peace, troubled, dark. If it were to be so, what was
the use of further struggle? In the old days she had contemplated
without abhorrence a deliberate choice of the lower course. Now she
fondled the suggestion. If that way had pleasure, life, joys, no matter
how spurious, why should she not take them? Life owed her something.
Hitherto it had withheld; latterly it had ruthlessly heaped woe upon
her. Why not reach out and seize whatever the world had to give? It
would entail pain, perhaps. But would that be harder to bear than what
lay ahead if she held steadfast in the course she had chosen? Love had
come—and gone. It would not renew its coming. Such was her judgment.
Moran came, sat beside her. He was agitated, not wholly by his feeling
for her, but by rage, jealousy, vindictiveness which he burned to vent
on Jim Ashe. When he spoke, that gentler note which he had used in
talking to her on former occasions was absent from his voice; it was
harsh, strained. Marie sat numb, silent, shivering a trifle. She was
conscious of a physical repulsion for the man; conscious she would be
compelled to pay a price exorbitant for the toys she hoped to buy.
“Marie,” said Moran, “you’ve dallied with me. You’ve held me off. You’ve
pretended not to understand me when I knew you understood, when it was
plain you did understand. And I’ve been patient—because a man must be a
fool when he deals with women. You’re no child. You know what you want.
You know I can give it to you. When are you going to make up your mind?”
“When I am ready to make up my mind. When I know what I want.”
“You know now. It’s just the infernal woman in you that wants to toy
with a man. I’m no man to be toyed with—past a safe point. I’d have
been contented to play your game a little longer if it hadn’t been for
old Frame’s meddling.”
“Judge Frame? What meddling?”
Moran shrugged his shoulders angrily.
“Don’t talk as if you thought I was an imbecile. What meddling? Don’t
you suppose I knew why old Frame sent that man Ashe here?” At mention of
Jim’s name Marie winced.
“Why did Judge Frame—”
“To marry you,” said Moran, his tone brutal as a blow. “And you knew it.
You’ve been playing Ashe against me—to see which of us you could get
the most from. You’ve landed Ashe high and dry—anybody can see that.
It’s my business to see Ashe doesn’t land you.”
Jealousy showed there. Marie flinched as though Moran touched an exposed
nerve.
“I hate him! I hate him!” she cried.
“Hate him or love him, it don’t matter. He sha’n’t have you. I’ve fixed
that. After to-night—to-morrow—you won’t want him if you want him now.
Maybe you hate him. I’m not fool enough to believe it because you say
so. It don’t matter. I don’t care who you love or hate, so long as I
have you. I’d have smashed him, anyhow. That was business. But he’s
shoved in between you and me, and I’ll smash him and stamp on him. It’s
as good as done. And Frame—he’ll be disposed of to-morrow.” His voice
was rising, becoming shrill as he fanned his passion.
Marie felt the stirring of some emotion within her. It was apprehension,
fear. Even in that moment she could scrutinize it as something outside
herself, wonder at it. Why was she apprehensive? She was not afraid for
herself. For whom was she afraid? She must be afraid for Jim Ashe, for
he was the threatened man. It was unbelievable. She told herself she did
not, could not, care what befell Jim Ashe. She hated him, despised him.
“You may as well cast Ashe out of your reckoning,” Moran went on.
“There’ll be nothing to reckon on. I know what you want—money. Money to
buy excitement, movement, money to throw away, money to buy for you
everything Diversity can’t give. I know. Well, Ashe will have trouble
giving you a decent meal in another twenty-four hours.”
“I do hate him!” Marie said, aloud, but to herself. “I do! I do!”
“Then you’ll be glad to hear his stay in Diversity is coming to a sudden
end.”
Here was a threat which it seemed to her touched Jim’s own person, his
safety. Marie uttered a scarce audible gasp. “Jim?” she whispered.
“No.... No.... Not that. Not Jim.” In that instant she knew her fear was
for Jim, a living, chilling fear. If fear lived, then love must live,
too. She did not hate him; she had lied to herself, deceived herself. No
matter how he had wronged her, no matter how he had judged her, she
loved him. And she was glad, glad, for it rekindled her faith in human
love. Love should forgive all, suffer all. And she loved with such a
love. It was good.
“I’m through waiting for your whims,” Moran said. “What I want I take.
I’ve put him out of the way. I’ve made it necessary for you to come to
me. To-morrow you’ll be told you aren’t needed here any more.”
“What?” said Marie.
“You’ll teach no more school in Diversity. You’ve hated it. Well, I saw
to that.”
She did not know if what he said were fact or threat.
It did not matter. Moran had made his big mistake, for hers was not a
will to brook threat. If more was needed to array her actively against
him, he had contributed what was needed.
In the gloom of the porch he could not see the transformation that took
place in her; could not see that a different woman sat opposite him—a
woman alert, full of the wiles that from time immemorial have been the
weapon of women, a woman to fear. The numbness that had clung to her,
oppressed her—a heavy fog obscuring the world—was wafted away in an
instant, as a fog on her own Lake Michigan dissipated, disappeared
before morning breeze and morning sun. She sat there, not Marie Ducharme
crushed, ready for any fate that promised a measure of kindliness, but
Marie Ducharme with youth and love in her heart—youth and love, and
fear for the man she loved.
And there was something else. There was the will to fight for the love
that was hers; the will to win again what she had lost. It was not
right, fair, that she should lose. It was error. She did not even blame
Jim now. She was given to see that the words he had spoken to her
lacerated his own heart more than they lacerated hers. Opposite Michael
Moran sat Marie Ducharme, fighting with all the force and the gifts that
were in her for the man she loved.
She moved forward in her chair, leaned a little toward Moran.
“You—you have a will,” she said.
Moran saw her weakening. It had been a perfect thing, not too apparent,
convincing.
“You’re through backing and filling,” he said, stating it as a fact, not
asking it as a question.
“And you’re sure—sure you can do what you say, to him?”
He glanced at her quickly, astonished at the vindictiveness that cut
through her words.
“What’s he been doing to you?” he asked, jocularly.
“Enough. No matter. He—he can’t avoid it? You know you can do as you
say—crush him?”
“I wouldn’t care to have you get a spite against me, young lady. Yes,
I’ve got him—so.” He closed his hand tightly. “It’s a matter of
business, with you added to make it more interesting. I’m here to make
money, and I’m going to make some of it out of Ashe—so much, in fact,
that he won’t have any left. And that’s interesting to you, isn’t it?
From now on he’s going to learn something about business.”
“But,” she said, “he’s had the best of you, hasn’t he?”
“He bragged of that, eh? I’ll admit he had more gumption than I figured
on, but he’s gone his limit. I’m taking personal charge now. He’s in
deep water, Marie. He’s up against a hard fight in his own line, bucking
a combination. They’ve put prices down to where he loses money on every
clothespin he makes.
“He’s in deep—borrowed money all over the shop, and no way to pay it.
To-night will end his thrashing round. Can’t run without logs.”
“Yes,” Marie said, setting a thorn into Moran’s skin, “but he’s getting
logs. Didn’t he take your logging-road away from you?”
“But he won’t run it any longer. You know where Crab Creek Trestle is?
Well, the logs are all on the other side of it. And they’re going to
stay there. The Diversity Hardwood Company is going to have the
misfortune to lose its trestle by fire to-night. He’ll have to shut
down. Then creditors will get worried. They’ll be down on him, but I’ll
be there a little ahead.”
“How?” said Marie, breathlessly.
“I’m a director of the Diversity Bank,” he chuckled. “Ashe borrowed
thirty thousand dollars of us, and gave a demand-note. You know what
that is?”
“Yes.”
“To-morrow the note will be presented. He’ll have to raise that amount
of money inside of three days—and he can’t do it. Oh, it won’t be long
before a man named Michael Moran will be manufacturing clothespins with
Ashe’s machinery.”
“But if you should fail about the trestle, if it shouldn’t burn, would
he be able to beat you and keep his mill?”
Moran shrugged his shoulders.
“Possibly, but there’s no use thinking about that, The trestle is as
good as gone.”
“Oh!” said Marie, and sank back in her chair.
It was so complete, so perfect. Jim was beaten. He had worked so hard,
so faithfully; had builded such high hopes—to go down in ruin! Jim! And
nothing she could do or say would stay the disaster, would postpone it
an instant. She shivered, coughed.
“It’s cold. A moment while I get my shawl.”
She stepped into the house. Moran waited, warmed by a feeling of
complete satisfaction. She was his; at last she had surrendered. And
Ashe was in the hollow of his hand. Zaanan Frame, too, was beaten.
From first to last the thing had been handled efficiently, as an able
business man should handle it. He leaned back and lighted a cigar.
For a few moments he puffed contentedly. Marie did not return. Presently
he grew impatient. Another few minutes, and he leaped up to tramp the
length of the porch.
Still she did not come. He stepped to the door and called:
“Marie! Marie! What’s keeping you all this time?”
There was no answer. He called again, went inside. Marie was not
down-stairs. He called Mrs. Stickney. The widow answered from above.
“Is Marie up there?” Moran called.
“Hain’t seen her,” said the widow.
“Didn’t she just come up there?”
“Not unless she’s quieter’n a spook. Nobody’s passed my door.”
“Where is she, then?” He was in a rage now. “Where’s she gone to?”
“I hain’t no idee,” said the widow, sharply, “but if she’s where you
don’t know where she is I calc’late I’m satisfied.”
Her door slammed. Moran stood an instant. The suspicion that had been
germinating within him became certainty. The girl had played him like a
fish. She was gone to warn Ashe.
He pulled his hat on furiously and ran—ran toward the hotel to
intercept Marie.