The Valley of the Giants

by Peter B. Kyne

Presently another thought came to Shirley. She knew Bryce Cardigan was far from being indifferent to her; she had given him his opportunity to be friendly with her again, and he had chosen to ignore her though sorely against his will. For weeks Shirley had pondered this mysterious action, and now she thought she caught a glimpse of the reason underlying it all. In Sequoia, Bryce Cardigan was regarded as the heir to the throne of Humboldt's first timber-king, but Shirley knew now that as a timber-king, Bryce Cardigan bade fair to wear a tinsel crown. Was it this knowledge that had led him to avoid her?

“I wonder,” she mused. “He's proud. Perhaps the realization that he will soon be penniless and shorn of his high estate has made him chary of acquiring new friends in his old circle. Perhaps if he were secure in his business affairs—Ah, yes! Poor boy! He was desperate for fifty thousand dollars!” Her heart swelled. “Oh, Bryce, Bryce,” she murmured, “I think I'm beginning to understand some of your fury that day in the woods. It's all a great mystery, but I'm sure you didn't intend to be so—so terrible. Oh, my dear, if we had only continued to be the good friends we started out to be, perhaps you'd let me help you now. For what good is money if one cannot help one's dear friends in distress. Still, I know you wouldn't let me help you, for men of your stamp cannot borrow from a woman, no matter how desperate their need. And yet—you only need a paltry fifty thousand dollars!”

Shirley carried to bed with her that night the woes of the Cardigans, and in the morning she telephoned Moira McTavish and invited the latter to lunch with her at home that noon. It was in her mind to question Moira with a view to acquiring additional information. When Moira came, Shirley saw that she had been weeping.

“My poor Moira!” she said, putting her arms around her visitor. “What has happened to distress you? Has your father come back to Sequoia? Forgive me for asking. You never mentioned him, but I have heard—There, there, dear! Tell me all about it.”

Moira laid her head on Shirley's shoulder and sobbed for several minutes. Then, “It's Mr. Bryce,” she wailed. “He's so unhappy. Something's happened; they're going to sell Cardigan's Redwoods; and they—don't want to. Old Mr. Cardigan is home—ill; and just before I left the office, Mr. Bryce came in—and stood a moment looking—at me—so tragically I—I asked him what had happened. Then he patted my cheek—oh, I know I'm just one of his responsibilities—and said 'Poor Moira! Never any luck!' and went into his—private office. I waited a little, and then I went in too; and—oh, Miss Sumner, he had his head down on his desk, and when I touched his head, he reached up and took my hand and held it—and laid his cheek against it a little while—and oh, his cheek was wet. It's cruel of God—to make him—unhappy, He's good—too good. And—oh, I love him so, Miss Shirley, I love him so—and he'll never, never know. I'm just one of his—responsibilities, you know; and I shouldn't presume. But nobody—has ever been kind to me but Mr. Bryce—and you. And I can't help loving people who are kind—and gentle to nobodies.”

The hysterical outburst over, Shirley led the girl to her cozy sitting-room upstairs and prevailed upon the girl to put on one of her own beautiful negligees. Moira's story—her confession of love, so tragic because so hopeless—had stirred Shirley deeply. She seated herself in front of Moira and cupped her chin in her palm.

“Of course, dear,” she said, “you couldn't possibly see anybody you loved suffer so and not feel dreadfully about it. And when a man like Bryce Cardigan is struck down, he's apt to present rather a tragic and helpless figure. He wanted sympathy, Moira—woman's sympathy, and it was dear of you to give it to him.”

“I'd gladly die for him,” Moira answered simply. “Oh, Miss Shirley, you don't know him the way we who work for him do. If you did, you'd love him, too. You couldn't help it, Miss Shirley.”

“Perhaps he loves you, too, Moira.” The words came with difficulty.

Moira shook her head hopelessly. “No, Miss Shirley. I'm only one of his many human problems, and he just won't go back on me, for old sake's sake. We played together ten years ago, when he used to spend his vacations at our house in Cardigan's woods, when my father was woods-boss. He's Bryce Cardigan—and I—I used to work in the kitchen of his logging-camp.”