The Forester's Daughter

by Garland, Hamlin

  “I suppose Mrs. Belden filled him with distrust of Berrie. He was already jealous, and when he came up with them and found them lunching together, he lost his head and rushed at Wayland like a wild beast. Of course he couldn’t stand against a big man like Cliff, and his head struck on a stone; and if Berrie hadn’t throttled the brute he would have murdered the poor boy right there before her eyes.”

  “Good God! I never suspected a word of this. I didn’t think he’d do that.”

  The Supervisor was now very grave. These domestic matters at once threw his work as forester into the region of vague and unimportant abstractions. He began to understand the danger into which Berea had fallen, and step by step he took up the trails which had brought them all to this pass.

  He fixed another penetrating look upon her face, and his voice was vibrant with anxiety as he said: “You don’t think there’s anything—wrong?”

  “No, nothing wrong; but she’s profoundly in love with him. I never have seen her so wrapped up in any one. She thinks of nothing else. It scares me to see it, for I’ve studied him closely and I can’t believe he feels the same toward her. His world is so different from ours. I don’t know what to do or say. I fear she is in for a period of great unhappiness.”

  She was at the beginning of tears, and he sought to comfort her. “Don’t worry, honey, she’s got too much horse sense to do anything foolish. She’s grown up. I suppose it’s his being so different from the other boys that catches her. We’ve always been good chums—let me talk with her. She mustn’t make a mistake.”

  The return of the crew from the corral cut short this conference, and when McFarlane went in Berrie greeted him with such frank and joyous expression that all his fears vanished.

  “Did you come over the high trail?” she asked.

  “No, I came your way. I didn’t want to take any chances on getting mired. It’s still raining up there,” he answered, then turned to Wayland: “Here’s your mail, Norcross, a whole hatful of it—and one telegram in the bunch. Hope it isn’t serious.”

  Wayland took the bundle of letters and retired to his room, glad to escape the persistent stare of the cow-hands. The despatch was from his father, and was curt and specific as a command: “Shall be in Denver on the 23d, meet me at the Palmer House. Am on my way to California. Come prepared to join me on the trip.”

  With the letters unopened in his lap he sat in silent thought, profoundly troubled by the instant decision which this message demanded of him. At first glance nothing was simpler than to pack up and go. He was only a tourist in the valley with no intention of staying; but there was Berea! To go meant a violent end of their pleasant romance. To think of flight saddened him, and yet his better judgment was clearly on the side of going. “Much as I like her, much as I admire her, I cannot marry her. The simplest way is to frankly tell her so and go. It seems cowardly, but in the end she will be happier.”

  His letters carried him back into his own world. One was from Will Halliday, who was going with Professor Holsman on an exploring trip up the Nile. “You must join us. Holsman has promised to take you on.” Another classmate wrote to know if he did not want to go into a land deal on the Gulf of Mexico. A girl asked: “Are you to be in New York this winter? I am. I’ve decided to go into this Suffrage Movement.” And so, one by one, the threads which bound him to Eastern city life re-spun their filaments. After all, this Colorado outing, even though it should last two years, would only be a vacation—his real life was in the cities of the East. Charming as Berea was, potent as she seemed, she was after all a fixed part of the mountain land, and not to be taken from it. At the moment marriage with her appeared absurd.

  A knock at his door and the Supervisor’s voice gave him a keen shock. “Come in,” he called, springing to his feet with a thrill of dread, of alarm.

  McFarlane entered slowly and shut the door behind him. His manner was serious, and his voice gravely gentle as he said: “I hope that telegram does not call you away?”

  “It is from my father, asking me to meet him in Denver,” answered Norcross, with faltering breath. “He’s on his way to California. Won’t you sit down?”

  The older man took a seat with quiet dignity. “Seems like a mighty fine chance, don’t it? I’ve always wanted to see the Coast. When do you plan for to pull out?”

  Wayland was not deceived by the Supervisor’s casual tone; there was something ominously calm in his manner, something which expressed an almost dangerous interest in the subject.

  “I haven’t decided to go at all. I’m still dazed by the suddenness of it. I didn’t know my father was planning this trip.”

  “I see. Well, before you decide to go I’d like to have a little talk with you. My daughter has told me part of what happened to you on the trail. I want to know all of it. You’re young, but you’ve been out in the world, and you know what people can say about you and my girl.” His voice became level and menacing, as he added: “And I don’t intend to have her put in wrong on account of you.”

  Norcross was quick to reply. “Nobody will dare accuse her of wrongdoing. She’s a noble girl. No one will dare to criticize her for what she could not prevent.”

  “You don’t know the Beldens. My girl’s character will be on trial in every house in the county to-morrow. The Belden side of it will appear in the city papers. Sympathy will be with Clifford. Berrie will be made an issue by my enemies. They’ll get me through her.”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Norcross, in sudden realization of the gravity of the case. “What beasts they are!”

  “Moore’s gang will seize upon it and work it hard,” McFarlane went on, with calm insistence. “They want to bring the district forester down on me. This is a fine chance to badger me. They will make a great deal of my putting you on the roll. Our little camping trip is likely to prove a serious matter to us all.”

  “Surely you don’t consider me at fault?”

  Worried as he was, the father was just. “No, you’re not to blame—no one is to blame. It all dates back to the horses quitting camp; but you’ve got to stand pat now—for Berrie’s sake.”

  “But what can I do? I’m at your service. What rôle shall I play? Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

  McFarlane was staggered, but he answered: “You can at least stay on the ground and help fight. This is no time to stampede.”

  “You’re right. I’ll stay, and I’ll make any statement you see fit. I’ll do anything that will protect Berrie.”

  McFarlane again looked him squarely in the eyes. “Is there a—an agreement between you?”

  “Nothing formal—that is—I mean I admire her, and I told her—” He stopped, feeling himself on the verge of the irrevocable. “She’s a splendid girl,” he went on. “I like her exceedingly, but I’ve known her only a few weeks.”

  McFarlane interrupted. “Girls are flighty critters,” he said, sadly. “I don’t know why she’s taken to you so terrible strong; but she has. She don’t seem to care what people say so long as they do not blame you; but if you should pull out you might just as well cut her heart to pieces—” His voice broke, and it was a long time before he could finish. “You’re not at fault, I know that, but if you can stay on a little while and make it an ounce or two easier for her and for her mother, I wish you’d do it.”

  Wayland extended his hand impulsively. “Of course I’ll stay. I never really thought of leaving.” In the grip of McFarlane’s hand was something warm and tender.

  He rose. “I’m terribly obliged,” he said; “but we mustn’t let her suspect for a minute that we’ve been discussing her. She hates being pitied or helped.”

  “She shall not experience a moment’s uneasiness that I can prevent,” replied the youth; and at the moment he meant it.

  Berrie could not be entirely deceived. She read in her father’s face a subtle change of line which she related to something Wayland had said. “Did he tell you what was in the telegram? Has he got to go away?” she asked, anxious
ly.

  “Yes, he said it was from his father.”

  “What does his father want of him?”

  “He’s on his way to California and wants Wayland to go with him; but Wayland says he’s not going.”

  A pang shot through Berrie’s heart. “He mustn’t go—he isn’t able to go,” she exclaimed, and her pain, her fear, came out in her sharpened, constricted tone. “I won’t let him go—till he’s well.”

  Mrs. McFarlane gently interposed. “He’ll have to go, honey, if his father needs him.”

  “Let his father come here.” She rose, and, going to his door, decisively knocked. “May I come in?” she demanded, rather than asked, before her mother could protest. “I must see you.”

  Wayland opened the door, and she entered, leaving her parents facing each other in mute helplessness.

  Mrs. McFarlane turned toward her husband with a face of despair. “She’s ours no longer, Joe. Our time of bereavement has come.”

  He took her in his arms. “There, there, mother. Don’t cry. It can’t be helped. You cut loose from your parents and came to me in just the same way. Our daughter’s a grown woman, and must have her own life. All we can do is to defend her against the coyotes who are busy with her name.”

  “But what of him, Joe; he don’t care for her as she does for him—can’t you see that?”

  “He’ll do the right thing, mother; he told me he would. He knows how much depends on his staying here now, and he intends to do it.”

  “But in the end, Joe, after this scandal is lived down, can he—will he—marry her? And if he marries her can they live together and be happy? His way of life is so different. He can’t content himself here, and she can’t fit in where he belongs. It all seems hopeless to me. Wouldn’t it be better for her to suffer for a little while now than to make a mistake that may last a lifetime?”

  “Mebbe it would, mother, but the decision is not ours. She’s too strong for us to control. She’s of age, and if she comes to a full understanding of the situation, she can decide the question a whole lot better than either of us.”

  “That’s true,” she sighed. “In some ways she’s bigger and stronger than both of us. Sometimes I wish she were not so self-reliant.”

  “Well, that’s the way life is, sometimes, and I reckon there’s nothin’ left for you an’ me but to draw closer together and try to fill up the empty place she’s going to leave between us.”

  * * *

  XIV

  THE SUMMONS

  When Wayland caught the startled look on Berrie’s face he knew that she had learned from her father the contents of his telegram, and that she would require an explanation.

  “Are you going away?” she asked.

  “Yes. At least, I must go down to Denver to see my father. I shall be gone only over night.”

  “And will you tell him about our trip?” she pursued, with unflinching directness. “And about—me?”

  He gave her a chair, and took a seat himself before replying. “Yes, I shall tell him all about it, and about you and your father and mother. He shall know how kind you’ve all been to me.”

  He said this bravely, and at the moment he meant it; but as his father’s big, impassive face and cold, keen eyes came back to him his courage sank, and in spite of his firm resolution some part of his secret anxiety communicated itself to the girl, who asked many questions, with intent to find out more particularly what kind of man the elder Norcross was.

  Wayland’s replies did not entirely reassure her. He admitted that his father was harsh and domineering in character, and that he was ambitious to have his son take up and carry forward his work. “He was willing enough to have me go to college till he found I was specializing on wrong lines. Then I had to fight in order to keep my place. He’s glad I’m out here, for he thinks I’m regaining my strength. But just as soon as I’m well enough he expects me to go to Chicago and take charge of the Western office. Of course, I don’t want to do that. I’d rather work out some problem in chemistry that interests me; but I may have to give in, for a time at least.”

  “Will your mother and sisters be with your father?”

  “No, indeed! You couldn’t get any one of them west of the Hudson River with a log-chain. My sisters were both born in Michigan, but they want to forget it—they pretend they have forgotten it. They both have New-Yorkitis. Nothing but the Plaza will do them now.”

  “I suppose they think we’re all ‘Injuns’ out here?”

  “Oh no, not so bad as that; but they wouldn’t comprehend anything about you except your muscle. That would catch ’em. They’d worship your splendid health, just as I do. It’s pitiful the way they both try to put on weight. They’re always testing some new food, some new tonic—they’ll do anything except exercise regularly and go to bed at ten o’clock.”

  All that he said of his family deepened her dismay. Their interests were so alien to her own.

  “I’m afraid to have you go even for a day,” she admitted, with simple honesty, which moved him deeply. “I don’t know what I should do if you went away. I think of nothing but you now.”

  Her face was pitiful, and he put his arm about her neck as if she were a child. “You mustn’t do that. You must go on with your life just as if I’d never been. Think of your father’s job—of the forest and the ranch.”

  “I can’t do it. I’ve lost interest in the service. I never want to go into the high country again, and I don’t want you to go, either. It’s too savage and cruel.”

  “That is only a mood,” he said, confidently. “It is splendid up there. I shall certainly go back some time.”

  He could not divine, and she could not tell him, how poignantly she had sensed the menace of the cold and darkness during his illness. For the first time in her life she had realized to the full the unrelenting enmity of the clouds, the wind, the night; and during that interminable ride toward home, when she saw him bending lower and lower over his saddle-bow, her allegiance to the trail, her devotion to the stirrup was broken. His weariness and pain had changed the universe for her. Never again would she look upon the range with the eyes of the care-free girl. The other, the civilized, the domestic, side of her was now dominant. A new desire, a bigger aspiration, had taken possession of her.

  Little by little he realized this change in her, and was touched with the wonder of it. He had never had any great self-love either as man or scholar, and the thought of this fine, self-sufficient womanly soul centering all its interests on him was humbling. Each moment his responsibility deepened, and he heard her voice but dimly as she went on.

  “Of course we are not rich; but we are not poor, and my mother’s family is one of the oldest in Kentucky.” She uttered this with a touch of her mother’s quiet dignity. “Your father need not despise us.”

  “So far as my father is concerned, family don’t count, and neither does money. But he confidently expects me to take up his business in Chicago, and I suppose it is my duty to do so. If he finds me looking fit he may order me into the ranks at once.”

  “I’ll go there—I’ll do anything you want me to do,” she urged. “You can tell your father that I’ll help you in the office. I can learn. I’m ready to use a typewriter—anything.”

  He was silent in the face of her naïve expression of self-sacrificing love, and after a moment she added, hesitatingly: “I wish I could meet your father. Perhaps he’d come up here if you asked him to do so?”

  He seized upon the suggestion. “By George! I believe he would. I don’t want to go to town. I just believe I’ll wire him that I’m laid up here and can’t come.” Then a shade of new trouble came over his face. How would the stern, methodical old business man regard this slovenly ranch and its primitive ways? She felt the question in his face.

  “You’re afraid to have him come,” she said, with the same disconcerting penetration which had marked every moment of her interview thus far. “You’re afraid he wouldn’t like me?”

  With almost
equal frankness he replied: “No. I think he’d like you, but this town and the people up here would gall him. Order is a religion with him. Then he’s got a vicious slant against all this conservation business—calls it tommy-rot. He and your father might lock horns first crack out of the box. But I’ll risk it. I’ll wire him at once.”

  A knock at the door interrupted him, and Mrs. McFarlane’s voice, filled with new excitement, called out: “Berrie, the District office is on the wire.”

  Berrie opened the door and confronted her mother, who said: “Mr. Evingham ’phones that the afternoon papers contain an account of a fight at Coal City between Settle and one of Alec Belden’s men, and that the District Forester is coming down to investigate it.”

  “Let him come,” answered Berrie, defiantly. “He can’t do us any harm. What was the row about?”

  “I didn’t hear much of it. Your father was at the ’phone.”

  McFarlane, with the receiver to his ear, was saying: “Don’t know a thing about it, Mr. Evingham. Settle was at the station when I left. I didn’t know he was going down to Coal City. No, that’s a mistake. My daughter was never engaged to Alec Belden. Alec Belden is the older of the brothers, and is married. I can’t go into that just now. If you come down I’ll explain fully.”

  He hung up the receiver and slowly turned toward his wife and daughter. “This sure is our day of trouble,” he said, with dejected countenance.

  “What is it all about?” asked Berrie.

  “Why, it seems that after I left yesterday Settle rode down the valley with Belden’s outfit, and they all got to drinking, ending in a row, and Tony beat one of Belden’s men almost to death. The sheriff has gone over to get Tony, and the Beldens declare they’re going to railroad him. That means we’ll all be brought into it. Belden has seized the moment to prefer charges against me for keeping Settle in the service and for putting a non-resident on the roll as guard. The whelp will dig up everything he can to queer me with the office. All that kept him from doing it before was Cliff’s interest in you.”