CHAPTER XXXVIII
That trying interview with her uncle had wrenched Shirley's soul toa degree that left her faint and weak. She at once set out on a longdrive, in the hope that before she turned homeward again she mightregain something of her customary composure.
Presently the asphaltum-paved street gave way to a dirt road andterminated abruptly at the boundaries of a field that sloped gentlyupward--a field studded with huge black redwood stumps showing dismallythrough coronets of young redwoods that grew riotously around thebase of the departed parent trees. From the fringe of the thicket thusformed, the terminus of an old skid-road showed and a signboard, freshlypainted, pointed the way to the Valley of the Giants.
Shirley had not intended to come here, but now that she had arrived, itoccurred to her that it was here she wanted to come. Parking her car bythe side of the road, she alighted and proceeded up the old skid, nownewly planked and with the encroaching forestration cut away so that thedaylight might enter from above. On over the gentle divide she went anddown toward the amphitheatre where the primeval giants grew. And as sheapproached it, the sound that is silence in the redwoods--thethunderous diapason of the centuries--wove its spell upon her; quickly,imperceptibly there faded from her mind the memory of that grovellingThing she had left behind in the mill-office, and in its place therecame a subtle peace, a feeling of awe, of wonder--such a feeling,indeed, as must come to one in the realization that man is distant butGod is near.
A cluster of wild orchids pendent from the great fungus-covered rootsof a giant challenged her attention. She gathered them. Farther on, ina spot where a shaft of sunlight fell, she plucked an armful of goldenCalifornia poppies and flaming rhododendron, and with her delicateburden she came at length to the giant-guarded clearing where the haloof sunlight fell upon the grave of Bryce Cardigan's mother. There werered roses on it--a couple of dozen, at least, and these she rearrangedin order to make room for her own offering.
"Poor dear!" she murmured audibly. "God didn't spare you for muchhappiness, did He?"
A voice, deep, resonant, kindly, spoke a few feet away. "Who is it?"
Shirley, startled, turned swiftly. Seated across the little amphitheatrein a lumberjack's easy-chair fashioned from an old barrel, John Cardigansat, his sightless gaze bent upon her. "Who is it?" he repeated.
"Shirley Sumner," she answered. "You do not know me, Mr. Cardigan."
"No," replied he, "I do not. That is a name I have heard, however. Youare Seth Pennington's niece. Is someone with you?"
"I am quite alone, Mr. Cardigan."
"And why did you come here alone?" he queried.
"I--I wanted to think."
"You mean you wanted to think clearly, my dear. Ah, yes, this is theplace for thoughts." He was silent a moment. Then: "You were thinkingaloud, Miss Shirley Sumner. I heard you. You said: 'Poor dear, Goddidn't spare you for much happiness, did He?' And I think you rearrangedmy roses. Didn't I have them on her grave?"
"Yes, Mr. Cardigan. I was merely making room for some wild flowers I hadgathered."
"Indeed. Then you knew--about her being here."
"Yes, sir. Some ten years ago, when I was a very little girl, I met yourson Bryce. He gave me a ride on his Indian pony, and we came here. So Iremember."
"Well, I declare! Ten years ago, eh? You've met, eh? You've met Brycesince his return to Sequoia, I believe. He's quite a fellow now."
"He is indeed."
John Cardigan nodded sagely. "So that's why you thought aloud," heremarked impersonally. "Bryce told you about her. You are right, MissShirley Sumner. God didn't give her much time for happiness--just threeyears; but oh, such wonderful years! Such wonderful years!
"It was mighty fine of you to bring flowers," he announced presently."I appreciate that. I wish I could see you. You must be a dear, nice,thoughtful girl. Won't you sit down and talk to me?"
"I should be glad to," she answered, and seated herself on the browncarpet of redwood twigs close to his chair.
"So you came up here to do a little clear thinking," he continued in hisdeliberate, amiable tones. "Do you come here often?"
"This is the third time in ten years," she answered. "I feel that I haveno business to intrude here. This is your shrine, and strangers shouldnot profane it."
"I think I should have resented the presence of any other person, MissSumner. I resented you--until you spoke."
"I'm glad you said that, Mr. Cardigan. It sets me at ease."
"I hadn't been up here for nearly two years until recently. You see I--Idon't own the Valley of the Giants any more."
"Indeed. To whom have you sold it?"
"I do not know, Miss Sumner. I had to sell; there was no other way outof the jam Bryce and I were in; so I sacrificed my sentiment for my boy.However, the new owner has been wonderfully kind and thoughtful. Shereorganized that old skid-road so even an old blind duffer like mecan find his way in and out without getting lost--and she had thiseasy-chair made for me. I have told Judge Moore, who represents theunknown owner, to extend my thanks to his client. But words are soempty, Shirley Sumner. If that new owner could only understand how trulygrateful I am--how profoundly her courtesy touches me--"
"HER courtesy?" Shirley echoed. "Did a woman buy the Giants?"
He smiled down at her. "Why, certainly. Who but a woman--and a dear,kind, thoughtful woman--would have thought to have this chair made andbrought up here for me?"
Fell a long silence between them; then John Cardigan's trembling handwent groping out toward the girl's. "Why, how stupid of me not to haveguessed it immediately!" he said. "You are the new owner. My dearchild, if the silent prayers of a very unhappy old man will bring God'sblessing on you--there, there, girl! I didn't intend to make you weep.What a tender heart it is, to be sure!"
She took his great toil-worn hand, and her hot tears fell on it, for hisgentleness, his benignancy, had touched her deeply. "Oh, you must nottell anybody! You mustn't," she cried.
He put his hand on her shoulder as she knelt before him. "Good landof love, girl, what made you do it? Why should a girl like you givea hundred thousand dollars for my Valley of the Giants? Wereyou"--hesitatingly--"your uncle's agent?"
"No, I bought it myself--with my own money. My uncle doesn't know I amthe new owner. You see, he wanted it--for nothing."
"Ah, yes. I suspected as much a long time ago. Your uncle is the moderntype of business man. Not very much of an idealist, I'm afraid. But tellme why you decided to thwart the plans of your relative."
"I knew it hurt you terribly to sell your Giants; they were dear toyou for sentimental reasons. I understood, also, why you were forced tosell; so I--well, I decided the Giants would be safer in my possessionthan in my uncle's. In all probability he would have logged this valleyfor the sake of the clear seventy-two-inch boards he could get fromthese trees."
"That does not explain satisfactorily, to me, why you took sides with astranger against your own kin," John Cardigan persisted. "There must bea deeper and more potent reason, Miss Shirley Sumner."
"Well," Shirley made answer, glad that he could not see the flush ofconfusion and embarrassment that crimsoned her cheek, "when I came toSequoia last May, your son and I met, quite accidentally. The stage toSequoia had already gone, and he was gracious enough to invite me tomake the journey in his car. Then we recalled having met as children,and presently I gathered from his conversation that he and hisJohn-partner, as he called you, were very dear to each other. I waswitness to your meeting that night--I saw him take you in his big armsand hold you tight because you'd--gone blind while he was away having agood time. And you hadn't told him! I thought that was brave of you;and later, when Bryce and Moira McTavish told me about you--how kindyou were, how you felt your responsibility toward your employees and thecommunity--well, I just couldn't help a leaning toward John-partner andJohn-partner's boy, because the boy was so fine and true to his father'sideals."
"Ah, he's a man. He is indeed," old John Cardigan murmured proudly. "I
dare say you'll never get to know him intimately, but if you should--"
"I know him intimately," she corrected him. "He saved my life the daythe log-train ran away. And that was another reason. I owed him a debt,and so did my uncle; but Uncle wouldn't pay his share, and I had to payfor him."
"Wonderful," murmured John Cardigan, "wonderful! But still you haven'ttold me why you paid a hundred thousand dollars for the Giants when youcould have bought them for fifty thousand. You had a woman's reason,I dare say, and women always reason from the heart, never the head.However, if you do not care to tell me, I shall not insist. Perhaps Ihave appeared, unduly inquisitive."
"I would rather not tell you," she answered.
A gentle, prescient smile fringed his old mouth; he wagged his leoninehead as if to say: "Why should I ask, when I know?" Fell again a restfulsilence. Then:
"Am I allowed one guess, Miss Shirley Sumner?"
"Yes, but you would never guess the reason."
"I am a very wise old man. When one sits in the dark, one sees much thatwas hidden from him in the full glare of the light. My son is proud,manly, independent, and the soul of honour. He needed a hundred thousanddollars; you knew it. Probably your uncle informed you. You wanted toloan him some money, but--you couldn't. You feared to offend him byproffering it; had you proffered it, he would have declined it. So youbought my Valley of the Giants at a preposterous price and kept youraction a secret." And he patted her hand gently, as if to silenceany denial, while far down the skid-road a voice--a half-trainedbaritone--floated faintly to them through the forest. Somebody wassinging--or rather chanting--a singularly tuneless refrain, wild andbarbaric.
"What is that?" Shirley cried.
"That is my son, coming to fetch his old daddy home," replied JohnCardigan. "That thing he's howling is an Indian war-song or paean oftriumph--something his nurse taught him when he wore pinafores. Ifyou'll excuse me, Miss Shirley Sumner, I'll leave you now. I generallycontrive to meet him on the trail."
He bade her good-bye and started down the trail, his stick tappingagainst the old logging-cable stretched from tree to tree beside thetrail and marking it.
Shirley was tremendously relieved. She did not wish to meet BryceCardigan to-day, and she was distinctly grateful to John Cardigan forhis nice consideration in sparing her an interview. She seated herselfin the lumberjack's easy-chair so lately vacated, and chin in handgave herself up to meditation on this extraordinary old man and hisextraordinary son.
A couple of hundred yards down the trail Bryce met his father. "Hello,John Cardigan!" he called. "What do you mean by skallyhooting throughthese woods without a pilot? Eh? Explain your reckless conduct."
"You great overgrown duffer," his father retorted affectionately,"I thought you'd never come." He reached into his pocket for ahandkerchief, but failed to find it and searched through another pocketand still another. "By gravy, son," he remarked presently, "I dobelieve I left my silk handkerchief--the one Moira gave me for my lastbirthday--up yonder. I wouldn't lose that handkerchief for a farm. Skipalong and find it for me, son. I'll wait for you here. Don't hurry."
"I'll be back in a pig's whisper," his son replied, and started brisklyup the trail, while his father leaned against a madrone tree and smiledhis prescient little smile.
Bryce's brisk step on the thick carpet of withered brown twigs arousedShirley from her reverie. When she looked up, he was standing in thecentre of the little amphitheatre gazing at her.
"You--you!" she stammered, and rose as if to flee from him.
"The governor sent me back to look for his handkerchief, Shirley," heexplained. "He didn't tell me you were here. Guess he didn't hear you."He advanced smilingly toward her. "I'm tremendously glad to see youto-day, Shirley," he said, and paused beside her. "Fate has beensingularly kind to me. Indeed, I've been pondering all day as to justhow I was to arrange a private and confidential little chat with you,without calling upon you at your uncle's house."
"I don't feel like chatting to-day," she answered a little drearily--andthen he noted her wet lashes. Instantly he was on one knee beside her;with the amazing confidence that had always distinguished him in hereyes, his big left arm went around her, and when her hands went to herface, he drew them gently away.
"I've waited too long, sweetheart," he murmured. "Thank God, I can tellyou at last all the things that have been accumulating in my heart.I love you, Shirley. I've loved you from that first day we met at thestation, and all these months of strife and repression have merelyserved to make me love you the more. Perhaps you have been all thedearer to me because you seemed so hopelessly unattainable."
He drew her head down on his breast; his great hand patted her hotcheek; his honest brown eyes gazed earnestly, wistfully into hers. "Ilove you," he whispered. "All that I have--all that I am--all that Ihope to be--I offer to you, Shirley Sumner; and in the shrine ofmy heart I shall hold you sacred while life shall last. You are notindifferent to me, dear. I know you're not; but tell me--answer me--"
Her violet eyes were uplifted to his, and in them he read the answer tohis cry. "Ah, may I?" he murmured, and kissed her.
"Oh, my dear, impulsive, gentle big sweetheart," she whispered--and thenher arms went around his neck, and the fullness of her happiness foundvent in tears he did not seek to have her repress. In the safe haven ofhis arms she rested; and there, quite without effort or distress, shemanaged to convey to him something more than an inkling of the thoughtsthat were wont to come to her whenever they met.
"Oh, my love!" he cried happily, "I hadn't dared dream of such happinessuntil to-day. You were so unattainable--the obstacles between us were somany and so great--"
"Why to-day, Bryce?" she interrupted him.
He took her adorable little nose in his great thumb and forefinger andtweaked it gently. "The light began to dawn yesterday, my dear littleenemy, following an interesting half-hour which I put in with His Honourthe Mayor. Acting upon suspicion only, I told Poundstone I was preparedto send him to the rock-pile if he didn't behave himself in the matterof my permanent franchise for the N.C.O.--and the oily old invertebratewept and promised me anything if I wouldn't disgrace him. So I promisedI wouldn't do anything until the franchise matter should be definitelysettled--after which I returned to my office, to find awaiting me thereno less a person than the right-of-way man for the Northwestern Pacific.He was a perfectly delightful young fellow, and he had a proposition tounfold. It seems the Northwestern Pacific has decided to build up fromWillits, and all that powwow and publicity of Buck Ogilvy's aboutthe N.C.O. was in all probability the very thing that spurred them toaction. They figured the C.M. & St.P. was back of the N.C.O.--thatit was to be the first link of a chain of coast roads to be connectedultimately with the terminus of the C.M. & St.P. on Gray's Harbour,Washington, and if the N.C.O. should be built, it meant that a rivalroad would get the edge on them in the matter of every stick of Humboldtand Del Norte redwood--and they'd be left holding the sack."
"Why did they think that, dear?"
"That amazing rascal Buck Ogilvy used to be a C. M. me that the moneyhad been deposited in escrow there awaiting formal deed. That money putsthe Cardigan Redwood Lumber Company in the clear--no receivership forus now, my dear one. And I'm going right ahead with the building of theN.C.O.--while our holdings down on the San Hedrin double in value, forthe reason that within three years they will be accessible and can belogged over the rails of the Northwestern Pacific!"
"Bryce," Shirley declared, "haven't I always told you I'd never permityou to build the N.C.O.?"
"Of course," he replied, "but surely you're going to withdraw yourobjections now."
"I am not. You must choose between the N.C.O. and me." And she met hissurprised gaze unflinchingly.
"Shirley! You don't mean it?"
"I do mean it. I have always meant it. I love you, dear, but for allthat, you must not build that road."
He stood up and towered above her sternly. "I must build it, Shirley.I've contracted to do it, a
nd I must keep faith with Gregory of theTrinidad Timber Company. He's putting up the money, and I'm to do thework and operate the line. I can't go back on him now."
"Not for my sake?" she pleaded. He shook his head. "I must go on," hereiterated.
"Do you realize what that resolution means to us?" The girl's tones weregrave, her glance graver.
"I realize what it means to me!"
She came closer to him. Suddenly the blaze in her violet eyes gaveway to one of mirth. "Oh, you dear big booby!" she cried. "I was justtesting you." And she clung to him, laughing. "You always beat medown--you always win. Bryce, dear, I'm the Laguna Grande LumberCompany--at least, I will be to-morrow, and I repeat for the last timethat you shall NOT build the N.C.O.--because I'm going to--oh, dear, Ishall die laughing at you--because I'm going to merge with the CardiganRedwood Lumber Company, and then my railroad shall be your railroad,and we'll extend it and haul Gregory's logs to tidewater for him also.And--silly, didn't I tell you you'd never build the N.C.O.?"
"God bless my mildewed soul!" he murmured, and drew her to him.
In the gathering dusk they walked down the trail. Beside the madronetree John Cardigan waited patiently.
"Well," he queried when they joined him, "did you find my handkerchieffor me, son?"
"I didn't find your handkerchief, John Cardigan," Bryce answered, "butI did find what I suspect you sent me back for--and that is a perfectlywonderful daughter-in-law for you."
John Cardigan smiled and held out his arms for her. "This," he said, "isthe happiest day that I have known since my boy was born."