CHAPTER XII
THE OLD MILLS
When Dave reached the construction camp the work was in full swing. Themen, clad in oilskins, paid little heed to the rain. Ahead was the gangspreading the heavy stone gravel bed, behind it came those laying andtrimming ties. Following close upon their heels came others engaged insetting and bolting the rails, while hard in the rear followed a gangleveling, checking gauge, and ballasting. It was very rough railroadconstruction, but the result was sufficient for the requirements. Itwas rapid, and lacked the careful precision of a "permanent way," butthe men were working at high pressure against time.
Dave saw that all was well here. He exchanged a few words with theforeman, and gave his orders. Then he passed on, intending to return tothe mill for his buckboard. Crossing the bridge to take a short cut, heencountered Betty driving home from her school in her uncle's buggy.She drew up at once.
"Whither away, Dave?" she cried. Then she hastily turned the dozy oldmare aside, so as to open the wheels to let the man climb in. "Comealong; don't stand there in the rain. Isn't it awful? The river'll beflooding to-morrow if it doesn't stop soon. Back to the mills?"
Dave clambered into the buggy and divested himself of his drippingoilskins. The vehicle was a covered one, and comparatively rain-proof,even in such a downpour.
"Well, I guess so," he said. "I'm just going back to get my buckboard.Then I'm going up to get a look at Jim Truscott's old mill. He's sentword this morning to say he'll sell it me."
The girl chirruped at the old mare, but offered no comment. The simpleprocess of driving over a road nothing could have induced the parson'sfaithful beast to leave seemed to demand all her attention.
"Did he send, or--have you seen him?" she asked him presently. And itwas plain that the matter was of unusual interest to her.
"I said he sent. He wrote to me--and mailed the letter."
"Was there anything--else in the letter?"
The girl's tone was cold enough. Dave, watching her, was struck by thedecision in her expression. He wanted to hear what she thought of theletter. He was anxious to see its effect on her. He handed it to her,and quietly took the reins out of her hands.
"You can read it," he said. And Betty eagerly unfolded the paper.
The mare plodded on, splashing solemnly and indifferently through thetorrential streams flooding the trail, and they were nearly through thevillage by the time she handed the letter back and resumed the reins.
"Curious. I--I don't think I understand him at all," she said gravely.
"It's an apology," said Dave, anxious for her to continue.
"Yes, I suppose it is." She paused. "But why to you?" Then a whimsicalsmile spread over her round face. "I thought you two were nearlysquare. Now, if the apology had come to me----"
"Yes, I hadn't thought of that."
Both sat thinking for some time. They arrived at the point where thetrail turned up to Tom Chepstow's house. Betty ignored the turning andkept on.
"Is that mill worth all that money?" she asked suddenly.
Dave shook his head.
"You've come too far," he said, pointing at her uncle's house. And thegirl smiled.
"I want to have a look at the mill. Why are you buying it at thatprice, Dave?"
"Because there's no time to haggle, and--I want it."
Betty nodded. She was looking straight ahead, and the man failed to seethe tender light his words had conjured in her eyes. She knew that Davewould never have paid that money to anybody else, no matter how much hewanted the mill. He was doing it for Jim. However unworthy the man was,it made no difference to his large-hearted nature.
The tenderness still lingered in her eyes when she turned to him again.
"Is Jim hard up?" she inquired.
The frigidity of her tone was wholly at variance with her expression.But it told plainly of her feelings for the subject of her inquiry.Dave shook his head.
"From all I've heard, and from his own talk, I'd guess not."
Betty suddenly became very angry. She wanted to shake somebody, evenDave, since he was the only person near enough to be shaken.
"He says in his letter, 'as the mill is no further use to me,'" shecried indignantly. "Dave, your Christian spirit carries you beyond allbounds. You have no right to give all that money for it. It isn't worthit anyway. You are--and he--he--oh, I've simply no words for him!"
"But your uncle, with due regard for his cloth, has," Dave put inquickly.
Betty's indignation was gone in an instant, lost in the laugh whichresponded to his dry tone.
He had no intention of making her laugh, but he was glad she did so. Ittold him so much. It reassured him of something on which he had neededreassurance. Her parting with Jim, giving up as it did the habit andbelief of years, had troubled him. Then in some measure he had felthimself responsible, although he knew perfectly well that no word ofhis had ever encouraged her on the course she had elected. He wasconvinced now. Her regard for Jim was utterly dead, had been dead farlonger than probably even she realized.
With this conviction a sudden wild hope leapt within him; but, likesummer lightning, its very brilliancy left the night seemingly darker.No, it could never be now. Betty liked him, liked him only too well.Her frank friendliness was too outspoken, and then--ah, yes, he knewhimself. Did he ever get the chance of forgetting? Did not his mirrorremind him every morning? Did not his hair brushes, even, force it uponhim as they loyally struggled to arrange some order in his obstinatewiry hair? Did not every chair, even his very bed, cry out at the awfulburden they were called upon to support? Somehow his thoughts made himrebellious. Why should he be so barred? Why should he be denied thehappiness all men are created for? But in a man like Dave suchrebellion was not likely to find vent in words, or even mood.
In the midst of his thought the drone of his own distant mills came tohim through the steady hiss of the rain. The sound held him, and heexperienced a strange comfort. It was like an answer to his muteappeal. It reminded him that his work lay before him. It was a call towhich he was wedded, bound; it claimed his every nerve; it demanded hisevery thought like the most exacting mistress; and, for the moment, itgripped him with all the old force.
"Say," he cried, holding up a warning finger, untidy with years oflabor, "isn't she booming? Hark at the saws," he went on, his eyesglowing with pride and enthusiasm. "They're singing to beat the band.It's real music."
They listened.
"Hark!" he went on presently, and Betty's eyes watched him with atender smile in their brown depths. "Hear the rise and fall of it asthe breeze carries it. Hear the 'boom' of the 'ninety-footers' as theydrop into the shoots. Isn't it great? Isn't it elegant music?"
Betty nodded. Her sympathy was with him if she smiled at his words.
"A lumbering symphony," she said.
Dave's face suddenly fell.
"Ah," he said apologetically, "you weren't brought up on a diet ofbuzz-saw trimmings."
Betty shook her head.
"No," she said gently, "patent food."
Dave's enthusiasm dropped from him, and his face, unlit by it, hadfallen back into its stern set. At the sight of the almost tragicchange Betty's heart smote her, and she hastened to make amends,fearful lest he should fail to realize the sympathy she had for him.
"Ah, no, Dave," she cried. "I know. I understand. I, too, love thosemills for what they mean to you, to us, to Malkern. They are yourworld. They are our world. You have slowly, laboriously built them up.You have made us--Malkern. Your prosperity means happiness andprosperity to hundreds in our beloved valley. You do not love thosemills for the fortune they are piling up for you, but for the sake ofthose others who share in your great profits and whose lives you havebeen able to gladden. I know you, Dave. And I understand the real musicyou hear."
The man shook his head, but his voice rang with deep feeling. He knewthat he did not deserve all this girl's words conveyed, but, comingfrom her, it was very sweet.
"Little Betty," he s
aid, "you kind of run away with things. There's afellow called 'Dave' I think about a heap. I think about him such aheap I'm most always thinking of him. He's got ambition bad--so bad hethinks of precious little else. Then he's most terrible human. You'dmarvel if you knew just how human he was. Now you'd think, maybe, he'dnot want anything he hasn't got, wouldn't you? You'd think he was happyand content to see everything he undertakes prospering, and other folkshappy. Well, he just isn't, and that's a fact. He's mighty thankful formercies received, but there's a heap of other mercies he grumblesbecause he hasn't got."
There was so much sincerity in the man's voice that Betty turned andstared at him.
"And aren't you happy, Dave?" she asked, hardly knowing what she said,but, woman-like, fixing on the one point that appealed to her deepestsympathy.
He evaded the direct question.
"I'm as happy as a third child in playtime," he said; and then, beforeshe could fully grasp his meaning, "Ah, here's the mill. Guess we'llpull up right here."
The old mare came to a standstill, and Dave sprang out before Bettycould answer him. And as soon as she had alighted he led the horse to ashed out of the rain.
Then together they explored the mill, and their talk at once becamepurely technical. The man became the practical lumberman, and,note-book in hand, he led the way from room to room and floor to floor,observing every detail of the conditions prevailing. And all the timethey talked, Betty displaying such an exhaustive knowledge of the man'scraft that at times she quite staggered him. It was a revelation, asource of constant wonder, and it added a zest to the work which madehim love every moment spent in carrying it out.
It was over an hour before the inspection was finished, and to Dave itscarcely seemed more than a matter of minutes. Then there was yet thedrive home with Betty at his side. As they drove away the culminatingpoint in the man's brief happiness was reached when the girl, withinterest such as his own might have been, pointed out the value of hispurchase.
"It will take you exactly a week to outfit that mill, I should say,"she said. "Its capacity for big stuff is so small you shouldn't pay acent over ten thousand dollars for it."
Dave smiled. Sometimes Betty's keenness of perception in his ownbusiness made him feel very small. Several times already that morningshe had put things so incisively before him that he found himselfwondering whether he had considered them from the right point of view.He was about to answer her, but finally contented himself with awondering exclamation.
"For Heaven's sake, Betty, where did you learn it all?"
It was a delighted laugh that answered him.
"Where? Where do you think? Why, from the one man competent to teachme. You forget that I came to you for instruction five years ago."
The girl's eyes were dancing with pleasure. Somehow the desire for thisman's praise and approval had unconsciously become part of her wholeoutlook. Her simple honesty would not let her deny it--showed her noreason for denying it. She sometimes told herself it was just hervanity; it was the desire of a pupil for a master's praise. She, asyet, could see no other reason for it, and would have laughed at theidea that any warmer feeling could possibly underlie it.
Dave's pleasure in her acknowledgment was very evident.
"I haven't forgotten, Betty," he said. "But I never taught you allthat. It's your own clever little head. You could give Joel Dawson astart and beat him."
"You don't understand," the girl declared quickly. "It was you who gaveme the ground-work, and then I thought and thought. You see, I--Iwanted to help Jim when he came back."
Dave had no reply to make. The girl's plain statement had damped hisenthusiasm. He had forgotten Jim. She had done this for love of theother man.
"I want you to do me a great favor," she went on presently. "I want itvery--very much. You think I've learned a lot. Well, I want to learnmore. I don't know quite why--I s'pose it's because I'm interested. Iwant to see the big lumber being trimmed. I want to see your own millin full work, and have what I don't understand explained to me. Willyou do it? Some night. I'd like to see it all in its most inspiringlight. Will you, Dave?"
She laid a coaxing hand on his great arm, and looked eagerly into hiseyes. At that moment the lumberman would have promised her the world.And he would have striven with every nerve in his body to fulfil hispromise.
"Sure," he said simply. "Name your own time."
And for once the girl didn't thank him in her usual frank way. Shesimply drew her hand away and chirruped at the old mare.
For the rest of the drive home she remained silent. It was as thoughDave's ready, eager promise had suddenly affected her in somedisturbing way. Her brown eyes looked straight ahead along the trail,and they were curiously serious.
They reached the man's home. He alighted, and she drove on to her owndestination with a feeling of relief not unmixed with regret.
Dave's mother had been long waiting dinner for her boy. She had seenthe buggy and guessed who was in it, and as he came up she greeted himwith pride and affection shining in her old eyes.
"That was Betty?" she inquired, moving across to the dinner-table,while the man removed his slicker.
"Yes, ma," he said coolly. He had no desire to discuss Betty with anyone just then, not even with his mother.
"Driving with her, dear?" she asked, with smiling, searching eyes uponhis averted face.
"She gave me a lift," Dave replied, coming over and sitting down at thetable.
His mother, instead of helping him to his food, suddenly came round tohis side and laid one affectionate hand upon his great shoulder. Thecontrast in these two had something almost ridiculous in it. He was sohuge, and she was so small. Perhaps the only things they possessed incommon, outside of their mutual adoration, were the courage andstrength which shone in their gray eyes, and the abounding kindlinessof heart for all humanity. But whereas these things in the mother werealways second to her love for her boy, the boy's first thought and carewas for the great work his own hands had created.
"Dave," she said very gently, "when am I going to have a daughter? I'mgetting very, very old, and I don't want to leave you alone in theworld."
The man propped his elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand.His eyes were almost gloomy.
"I don't want to lose you, ma," he said. "It would break me up ter'ble.Life's mostly lonesome anyhow." Then he looked keenly up into her face,and his glance was one of concern. "You--you aren't ailing any?"
The old woman shook her head, and her eyes smiled back at him.
"No, boy, I'm not ailing. But I worry some at times. You see, I likeBetty very, very much. In a different way, I'm almost as fond of her asyou are----"
Dave started and was about to break in, but his mother shook her head,and her hand caressed his cheek with infinite tenderness.
"Why don't you marry her, now--now that the other is broken off----"
But Dave turned to her, and, swept by an almost fierce emotion, wouldnot be denied.
"Why, ma? Why?" he cried, with all the pent-up bitterness of years inthe depth of his tone. "Look at me! Look at me! And you ask me why." Heheld out his two hands as though to let her see him as he was. "Wouldany woman think of me--look at me with thoughts of love? She couldn't.What am I? A mountain of muscle, brawn, bone, whatever you will, with aface and figure even a farmer would hate to set up over a corn patch atharvest time." He laughed bitterly. "No--no, ma," he went on, his tonesoftening, and taking her worn hand tenderly in his. "There are folksmade for marriage, and folks that aren't. And when folks that aren'tget marrying they're doing a mean thing on the girl. I'm not going tothink a mean thing for Betty--let alone do one."
His mother moved away to her seat.
"Well, boy, I'll say no more, but I'm thinking a time'll come whenyou'll be doing a mean thing by Betty if you don't, and she'll be theone that'll think it----"
"Ma!"
"The dinner's near cold."