Part 26

"I wish I'd known it sooner," muttered the Deputy.

"I like to listen to the rapids, and catch glimpses of the water slipping away blindly in the dark," said Mary. "It helps one not to think," she added with a faint catch in her voice.

"Why should you not want to think, Mary?" protested Blackstock.

"How dreadfully dry everything is," replied Mary irrelevantly, as if heading Blackstock off. "What if there should be a fire at the mill? Wouldn't the whole village go, like a box of matches? People might get caught asleep in their beds. Oughtn't there to be more than one night watchman in such dry weather as this? I've so often heard of mills catching fire--though I don't see why they should, any more than houses."

"Mills most generally git set afire," answered the Deputy grimly. "Think what it would mean to Harner's Bend if these mills should git burnt down now! It would mean thousands and thousands to them. But you're dead right, Mary, about the danger to the village. Only it depends on the wind. This time o' year, an' as long as it keeps dry, what wind there is blows mostly away from the houses, so sparks and brands would just be carried out over the river. But if the wind should shift to the south'ard or thereabouts, yes, there'd be more watchmen needed. I s'pose you're thinkin' about your shop while ye're away?"

"I was thinking about Woolly Billy," said Mary gravely. "What do I care about the old shop? It's insured, anyway."

"I'll look out for Woolly Billy," answered Blackstock. "And I'll look out for the shop, whether you care about it or not. It's yours, and your name's on the door, and anything of yours, anything you've touched, an' wherever you've put your little foot, that's something for me to care about. I ain't no hand at making pretty speeches, Mary, or paying compliments, but I tell you these here old sawdust roads are just wonderful to me now, because your little feet have walked on 'em. Ef only I could think that you could care--that I had anything, was anything, Mary, worth offering you----"

He had taken her hand, and she had yielded it to him. He had put his great arm around her shoulders and drawn her to him,--and for a moment, with a little shiver, she had leant against him, almost cowered against him, with the air of a frightened child craving protection. But as he spoke on, in his quiet, strong voice, she suddenly tore herself away, sprang off to the other end of the pile of deals, and began to sob violently.

He followed her at once. But she thrust out both hands.

"Go away. Please don't come near me," she appealed, somewhat wildly. "You don't understand--anything."

Tug Blackstock looked puzzled. He seated himself at a distance of several inches, and clasped his hands resolutely in his lap.

"Of course, I won't tech you, Mary," said he, "if you don't want me to. I don't want to do anything you don't want me to--never, Mary. But I sure don't understand what you're crying for. Please don't. I'm so sorry I teched you, dear. But if you knew how I love you, how I would give my life for you, I think you'd forgive me, Mary."

Mary gave a bitter little laugh, and choked her sobs.

"It isn't that, oh no, it isn't that!" she said. "I--I liked it. There!" she panted. Then she sprang to her feet and faced him. And in the gloom he could see her eyes flaming with some intense excitement, from a face ghost-white.

"But--I won't let you make me love you, Tug Blackstock. I won't!--I won't! I won't let you change all my plans, all my ambitions. I won't give up all I've worked for and schemed for and sold my very soul for, just because at last I've met a real man. Oh, I'd soon spoil your life, no matter how much you love me. You'd soon find how cruel, and hard, and selfish I am. An' I'd ruin my own life, too. Do you think I could settle down to spend my life in the backwoods? Do you think I have no dreams beyond the spruce woods of Nipsiwaska County? Do you think you could imprison me in Brine's Rip? I'd either kill your brave, clean soul, Tug Blackstock, or I'd kill myself!"

Utterly bewildered at this incomprehensible outburst, Blackstock could only stammer lamely:

"But--I thought--ye kind o' liked Brine's Rip."

"Like it!" The uttermost of scorn was in her voice. "I hate, hate, hate it! I just live to get out into the great world, where I feel that I belong. But I must have money first. And I'm going to study, and I'm going to make myself somebody. I wasn't born for this." And she waved her hand with a sweep that took in all the backwoods world. "I'm getting out of it. It would drive me mad. Oh, I sometimes think it has already driven me half mad."

Her tense voice trailed off wearily, and she sat down again--this time further away.

Blackstock sat quite still for a time. At last he said gently:

"I do understand ye now, Mary."

"You don't," interrupted Mary.

"I felt, all along, I was somehow not good enough for you."

"You're a million miles too good for me," she interrupted again, energetically.

"But," he went on without heeding the protest, "I hoped, somehow, that I might be able to make you happy. An' that's what I want, more'n anything else in the world. All I have is at your feet, Mary, an' I could make' it more in time. But I'm not a big enough man for you. I'm all yours--an' always will be--but I can't make myself no more than I am."

"Yes, you could, Tug Blackstock," she cried. "Real men are scarce, in the great world and everywhere. You could make yourself a master anywhere--if only you would tear yourself loose from here."

He sprang up, and his arms went out as if to seize her. But, with an effort, he checked himself, and dropped them stiffly to his side.

"I'm too old to change my spots, Mary," said he. "I'm stamped for good an' all. I am some good here. I'd be no good there. An' I won't never resk bein' a drag on yer plans."