THE PLUNGE

Stella went over that queer debate a good many times in the ten days that followed. It revealed Jack Fyfe to her in a new, inexplicable light, at odd variance with her former conception of the man. She could not have visualized him standing with one foot on the stove front speaking calmly of love and marriage if she had not seen him with her own eyes, heard him with somewhat incredulous ears. She had continued to endow him with the attributes of unrestrained passion, of headlong leaping to the goal of his desires, of brushing aside obstacles and opposition with sheer brute force; and he had shown unreckoned qualities of restraint, of understanding. She was not quite sure if this were guile or sensible consideration. He had put his case logically, persuasively even. She was very sure that if he had adopted emotional methods, she would have been repelled. If he had laid siege to her hand and heart in the orthodox fashion, she would have raised that siege in short order. As it stood, in spite of her words to him, there was in her own mind a lack of finality. As she went about her daily tasks, that prospect of trying a fresh fling at the world as Jack Fyfe’s wife tantalized her with certain desirable features.

Was it worth while to play the game as she must play it for some time to come, drudge away at mean, sordid work and amid the dreariest sort of environment? At best, she could only get away from Charlie’s camp and begin along new lines that might perhaps be little better, that must inevitably lie among strangers in a strange land. To what end? What did she want of life, anyway? She had to admit that she could not say fully and explicitly what she wanted. When she left out her material wants, there was nothing but a nebulous craving for what? Love, she assumed. And she could not define love, except as some incomprehensible transport of emotion which irresistibly drew a man and a woman together, a divine fire kindled in two hearts. It was not a thing she could vouch for by personal experience. It might never touch and warm her, that divine fire. Instinct did now and then warn her that some time it would wrap her like a flame. But in the meantime Life had her in midstream of its remorseless, drab current, sweeping her along. A foothold offered. Half a loaf, a single slice of bread even, is better than none.

Jack Fyfe did not happen in again for nearly two weeks and then only to pay a brief call, but he stole an opportunity, when Katy John was not looking, to whisper in Stella’s ear:

“Have you been thinking about that bungalow of ours?”

She shook her head, and he went out quietly, without another word. He neither pleaded nor urged, and perhaps that was wisest, for in spite of herself Stella thought of him continually. He loomed always before her, a persistent, compelling factor.

She knew at last, beyond any gainsaying, that the venture tempted, largely perhaps because it contained so great an element of the unknown. To get away from this soul-dwarfing round meant much. She felt herself reasoning desperately that the frying pan could not be worse than the fire, and held at least the merit of greater dignity and freedom from the twin evils of poverty and thankless domestic slavery.

While she considered this, pro and con, shrinking from such a step one hour, considering it soberly the next, the days dragged past in wearisome sequence. The great depth of snow endured, was added to by spasmodic flurries. The frosts held. The camp seethed with the restlessness of the men. In default of the daily work that consumed their superfluous energy, the loggers argued and fought, drank and gambled, made “rough house” in their sleeping quarters till sometimes Stella’s cheeks blanched and she expected murder to be done. Twice the Chickamin came back from Roaring Springs with whisky aboard, and a protracted debauch ensued. Once a drunken logger shouldered his way into the kitchen to leer unpleasantly at Stella, and, himself inflamed by liquor and the affront, Charlie Benton beat the man until his face was a mass of bloody bruises. That was only one of a dozen brutal incidents. All the routine discipline of the woods seemed to have slipped out of Benton’s hands. When the second whisky consignment struck the camp, Stella stayed in her room, refusing to cook until order reigned again. Benton grumblingly took up the burden himself. With Katy’s help and that of sundry loggers, he fed the roistering crew, but for his sister it was a two-day period of protesting disgust.

That mood, like so many of her moods, relapsed into dogged endurance. She took up the work again when Charlie promised that no more whisky should be allowed in the camp.

“Though it’s ten to one I won’t have a corporal’s guard left when I want to start work again,” he grumbled. “I’m well within my rights if I put my foot down hard on any jinks when there’s work, but I have no license to set myself up as guardian of a logger’s morals and pocketbook when I have nothing for him to do. These fellows are paying their board. So long as they don’t make themselves obnoxious to you, I don’t see that it’s our funeral whether they’re drunk or sober. They’d tell me so quick enough.”

To this pronouncement of expediency Stella made no rejoinder. She no longer expected anything much of Charlie, in the way of consideration. So far as she could see, she, his sister, was little more to him than one of his loggers; a little less important than, say, his donkey engineer. In so far as she conduced to the well-being of the camp and effected a saving to his credit in the matter of preparing food, he valued her and was willing to concede a minor point to satisfy her. Beyond that Stella felt that he did not go. Five years in totally different environments had dug a great gulf between them. He felt an arbitrary sense of duty toward her, she knew, but in its manifestations it never lapped over the bounds of his own immediate self-interest.

And so when she blundered upon knowledge of a state of affairs which must have existed under her very nose for some time, there were few remnants of sisterly affection to bid her seek extenuating circumstances.

Katy John proved the final straw. Just by what means Stella grew to suspect any such moral lapse on Benton’s part is wholly irrelevant. Once the unpleasant likelihood came to her notice, she took measures to verify her suspicion, and when convinced she taxed her brother with it, to his utter confusion.

“What kind of a man are you?” she cried at last in shamed anger. “Is there nothing too low for you to dabble in? Haven’t you any respect for anything or anybody, yourself included?”

“Oh, don’t talk like a damned Puritan,” Benton growled, though his tanned face was burning. “This is what comes of having women around the camp. I’ll send the girl away.”

“You you beast!” she flared and ran out of the kitchen to seek refuge in her own room and cry into her pillow some of the dumb protest that surged up within her. For her knowledge of passion and the workings of passion as they bore upon the relations of a man and a woman were at once vague and tinctured with inflexible tenets of morality, the steel-hard conception of virtue which is the bulwark of middle-class theory for its wives and daughters and sisters with an eye consistently blind to the concealed lapses of its men.

Stella Benton passed that morning through successive stages of shocked amazement, of pity, and disgust. As between her brother and the Siwash girl, she saw little to choose. From her virtuous pinnacle she abhorred both. If she had to continue intimate living with them, she felt that she would be utterly defiled, degraded to their level. That was her first definite conclusion.

After a time she heard Benton come into their living room and light a fire in the heater. She dried her eyes and went out to face him.

“Charlie,” she declared desperately, “I can’t stay here any longer. It’s simply impossible.”

“Don’t start that song again. We’ve had it often enough,” he answered stubbornly. “You’re not going not till spring. I’m not going to let you go in the frame of mind you’re in right now, anyhow. You’ll get over that. Hang it, I’m not the first man whose foot slipped. It isn’t your funeral, anyway. Forget it.”

The grumbling coarseness of this retort left her speechless. Benton got the fire going and went out. She saw him cross to the kitchen, and later she saw Katy John leave the camp with all her belongings in a bundle over her shoulder, trudging away to the camp of her people around the point.

Kipling’s pregnant line shot across her mind:

“For the colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under their skins.”

“I wonder,” she mused. “I wonder if we are? I wonder if that poor, little, brown-skinned fool isn’t after all as much a victim as I am. She doesn’t know better, maybe; but Charlie does, and he doesn’t seem to care. It merely embarrasses him to be found out, that’s all. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair, or decent, or anything. We’re just for him to to use.”

She looked out along the shores piled high with broken ice and snow, through a misty air to distant mountains that lifted themselves imperiously aloof, white spires against the sky, over a forest all draped in winter robes; shore, mountains, and forest alike were chill and hushed and desolate. The lake spread its forty-odd miles in a boomerang curve from Roaring Springs to Fort Douglas, a cold, lifeless gray. She sat a long time looking at that, and a dead weight seemed to settle upon her heart. For the second time that day she broke down. Not the shamed, indignant weeping of an hour earlier, but with the essence of all things forlorn and desolate in her choked sobs.

She did not hear Jack Fyfe come in. She did not dream he was there, until she felt his hand gently on her shoulder and looked up. And so deep was her despondency, so keen the unassuaged craving for some human sympathy, some measure of understanding, that she made no effort to remove his hand. She was in too deep a spiritual quagmire to refuse any sort of aid, too deeply moved to indulge in analytical self-fathoming. She had a dim sense of being oddly comforted by his presence, as if she, afloat on uncharted seas, saw suddenly near at hand a safe anchorage and welcoming hands. Afterward she recalled that. As it was, she looked up at Fyfe and hid her wet face in her hands again. He stood silent a few seconds. When he did speak there was a peculiar hesitation in his voice.

“What is it?” he said softly. “What’s the trouble now?”

Briefly she told him, the barriers of her habitual reserve swept aside before the essentially human need to share a burden that has grown too great to bear alone.

“Oh, hell,” Fyfe grunted, when she had finished. “This isn’t any place for you at all.”

He slid his arm across her shoulders and tilted her face with his other hand so that her eyes met his. And she felt no desire to draw away or any of that old instinct to be on her guard against him. For all she knew indeed, by all she had been told Jack Fyfe was tarred with the same stick as her brother, but she had no thought of resisting him, no feeling of repulsion.

“Will you marry me, Stella?” he asked evenly. “I can free you from this sort of thing forever.”

“How can I?” she returned. “I don’t want to marry anybody. I don’t love you. I’m not even sure I like you. I’m too miserable to think, even. I’m afraid to take a step like that. I should think you would be too.”

He shook his head.

“I’ve thought a lot about it lately,” he said. “It hasn’t occurred to me to be afraid of how it may turn out. Why borrow trouble when there’s plenty at hand? I don’t care whether you love me or not, right now. You couldn’t possibly be any worse off as my wife, could you?”

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t see how I could.”

“Take a chance then,” he urged. “I’ll make a fair bargain with you. I’ll make life as pleasant for you as I can. You’ll live pretty much as you’ve been brought up to live, so far as money goes. The rest we’ll have to work out for ourselves. I won’t ask you to pretend anything you don’t feel. You’ll play fair, because that’s the way you’re made, unless I’ve sized you up wrong. It’ll simply be a case of our adjusting ourselves, just as mating couples have been doing since the year one. You’ve everything to gain and nothing to lose.”

“In some ways,” she murmured.

“Every way,” he insisted. “You aren’t handicapped by caring for any other man.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Just a hunch,” Fyfe smiled. “If you did, he’d have beaten me to the rescue long ago if he were the sort of man you could care for.”

“No,” she admitted. “There isn’t any other man, but there might be. Think how terrible it would be if it happened afterward.”

Fyfe shrugged his shoulders.

“Sufficient unto the day,” he said. “There is no string on either of us just now. We start even. That’s good enough. Will you?”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” she whispered. “You offer me a lot that I want, everything but a feeling I’ve somehow always believed ought to exist, ought to be mutual. Part of me wants to shut my eyes and jump. Part of me wants to hang back. I can’t stand this thing I’ve got into and see no way of getting out of. Yet I dread starting a new train of wretchedness. I’m afraid whichever way I turn.”

Fyfe considered this a moment.

“Well,” he said finally, “that’s a rather unfortunate attitude. But I’m going into it with my eyes open. I know what I want. You’ll be making a sort of experiment. Still, I advise you to make it. I think you’ll be the better for making it. Come on. Say yes.”

Stella looked up at him, then out over the banked snow, and all the dreary discomforts, the mean drudgery, the sordid shifts she had been put to for months rose up in disheartening phalanx. For that moment Jack Fyfe loomed like a tower of refuge. She trusted him now. She had a feeling that even if she grew to dislike him, she would still trust him. He would play fair. If he said he would do this or that, she could bank on it absolutely.

She turned and looked at him searchingly a long half-minute, wondering what really lay behind the blue eyes that met her own so steadfastly. He stood waiting patiently, outwardly impassive. But she could feel through the thin stuff of her dress a quiver in the fingers that rested on her shoulder, and that repressed sign of the man’s pent-up feeling gave her an odd thrill, moved her strangely, swung the pendulum of her impulse.

“Yes,” she said.

Fyfe bent a little lower.

“Listen,” he said in characteristically blunt fashion. “You want to get away from here. There is no sense in our fussing or hesitating about what we’re going to do, is there?”

“No, I suppose not,” she agreed.

“I’ll send the Panther down to the Springs for Lefty Howe’s wife,” he outlined his plans unhesitatingly. “She’ll get up here this evening. To-morrow we will go down and take the train to Vancouver and be married. You have plenty of good clothes, good enough for Vancouver. I know,” with a whimsical smile, “because you had no chance to wear them out. Then we’ll go somewhere, California, Florida, and come back to Roaring Lake in the spring. You’ll have all the bad taste of this out of your mouth by that time.”

Stella nodded acquiescence. Better to make the plunge boldly, since she had elected to make it.

“All right. I’m going to tell Benton,” Fyfe said. “Good-by till to-morrow.”

She stood up. He looked at her a long time earnestly, searchingly, one of her hands imprisoned tight between his two big palms. Then, before she was quite aware of his intention, he kissed her gently on the mouth, and was gone.

This turn of events left Benton dumbfounded, to use a trite but expressive phrase. He came in, apparently to look at Stella in amazed curiosity, for at first he had nothing to say. He sat down beside his makeshift desk and pawed over some papers, running the fingers of one hand through his thick brown hair.

“Well, Sis,” he blurted out at last. “I suppose you know what you’re doing?”

“I think so,” Stella returned composedly.

“But why all this mad haste?” he asked. “If you’re going to get married, why didn’t you let me know, so I could give you some sort of decent send-off.”

“Oh, thanks,” she returned dryly. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Not at this stage of the game, as you occasionally remark.”

He ruminated upon this a minute, flushing slightly.

“Well, I wish you luck,” he said sincerely enough. “Though I can hardly realize this sudden move. You and Jack Fyfe may get on all right. He’s a good sort in his way.”

“His way suits me,” she said, spurred to the defensive by what she deemed a note of disparagement in his utterance. “If you have any objections or criticisms, you can save your breath or address them direct to Mr. Fyfe.”

“No, thank you,” he grinned. “I don’t care to get into any argument with him, especially as he’s going to be my brother-in-law. Fyfe’s all right. I didn’t imagine he was the sort of man you’d fancy, that’s all.”

Stella refrained from any comment on this. She had no intention of admitting to Charlie that marriage with Jack Fyfe commended itself to her chiefly as an avenue of escape from a well-nigh intolerable condition which he himself had inflicted upon her. Her pride rose in arms against any such belittling admission. She admitted it frankly to herself, and to Fyfe, because Fyfe understood and was content with that understanding. She desired to forget that phase of the transaction. She told herself that she meant honestly to make the best of it.

Benton turned again to his papers. He did not broach the subject again until in the distance the squat hull of the Panther began to show on her return from the Springs. Then he came to where Stella was putting the last of her things into her trunk. He had some banknotes in one hand, and a check.

“Here’s that ninety I borrowed, Stell,” he said. “And a check for your back pay. Things have been sort of lean around here, maybe, but I still think it’s a pity you couldn’t have stuck it out till it came smoother. I hate to see you going away with a chronic grouch against me. I suppose I wouldn’t even be a welcome guest at the wedding?”

“No,” she said unforgivingly. “Some things are a little too too recent.”

“Oh,” he replied casually enough, pausing in the doorway a second on his way out, “you’ll get over that. You’ll find that ordinary, everyday living isn’t any kid-glove affair.”

She sat on the closed lid of her trunk, looking at the check and money. Three hundred and sixty dollars, all told. A month ago that would have spelled freedom, a chance to try her luck in less desolate fields. Well, she tried to consider the thing philosophically; it was no use to bewail what might have been. In her hands now lay the sinews of a war she had forgone all need of waging. It did not occur to her to repudiate her bargain with Jack Fyfe. She had given her promise, and she considered she was bound, irrevocably. Indeed, for the moment, she was glad of that. She was worn out, all weary with unaccustomed stress of body and mind. To her, just then, rest seemed the sweetest boon in the world. Any port in a storm, expressed her mood. What came after was to be met as it came. She was too tired to anticipate.

It was a pale, weary-eyed young woman, dressed in the same plain tailored suit she had worn into the country, who was cuddled to Mrs. Howe’s plump bosom when she went aboard the Panther for the first stage of her journey.

A slaty bank of cloud spread a somber film across the sky. When the Panther laid her ice-sheathed guard-rail against the Hot Springs wharf the sun was down. The lake spread gray and lifeless under a gray sky, and Stella Benton’s spirits were steeped in that same dour color.