CHAPTER XX
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!”