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.