AND SO THEY WERE MARRIED

Spring had waved her transforming wand over the lake region before the Fyfes came home again. All the low ground, the creeks and hollows and banks, were bright green with new-leaved birch and alder and maple. The air was full of those aromatic exudations the forest throws off when it is in the full tide of the growing time. Shores that Stella had last seen dismal and forlorn in the frost-fog, sheathed in ice, banked with deep snow, lay sparkling now in warm sunshine, under an unflecked arch of blue. All that was left of winter was the white cap on Mount Douglas, snow-filled chasms on distant, rocky peaks. Stella stood on the Hot Springs wharf looking out across the emerald deep of the lake, thinking soberly of the contrast.

Something, she reflected, some part of that desolate winter, must have seeped to the very roots of her being to produce the state of mind in which she embarked upon that matrimonial voyage. A little of it clung to her still. She could look back at those months of loneliness, of immeasurable toil and numberless indignities, without any qualms. There would be no repetition of that. The world at large would say she had done well. She herself in her most cynical moments could not deny that she had done well. Materially, life promised to be generous. She was married to a man who quietly but inexorably got what he wanted, and it was her good fortune that he wanted her to have the best of everything.

She saw him now coming from the hotel, and she regarded him thoughtfully, a powerful figure swinging along with light, effortless steps. He was back on his own ground, openly glad to be back. Yet she could not recall that he had ever shown himself at a disadvantage anywhere they had been together. He wore evening clothes when occasion required as unconcernedly as he wore mackinaws and calked boots among his loggers. She had not yet determined whether his equable poise arose from an unequivocal democracy of spirit, or from sheer egotism. At any rate, where she had set out with subtle misgivings, she had to admit that socially, at least, Jack Fyfe could play his hand at any turn of the game. Where or how he came by this faculty, she did not know. In fact, so far as Jack Fyfe’s breeding and antecedents were concerned, she knew little more than before their marriage. He was not given to reminiscence. His people distant relatives lived in her own native state of Pennsylvania. He had an only sister who was now in South America with her husband, a civil engineer. Beyond that Fyfe did not go, and Stella made no attempt to pry up the lid of his past. She was not particularly curious.

Her clearest judgment of him was at first hand. He was a big, virile type of man, generous, considerate, so sure of himself that he could be tolerant of others. She could easily understand why Roaring Lake considered Jack Fyfe “square.” The other tales of him that circulated there she doubted now. The fighting type he certainly was, aggressive in a clash, but if there were any downright coarseness in him, it had never manifested itself to her. She was not sorry she had married him. If they had not set out blind in a fog of sentiment, as he had once put it, nevertheless they got on. She did not love him, not as she defined that magic word, but she liked him, was mildly proud of him. When he kissed her, if there were no mad thrill in it, there was at least a passive contentment in having inspired that affection. For he left her in no doubt as to where he stood, not by what he said, but wholly by his actions.

He joined her now. The Panther, glossy black as a crow’s wing with fresh paint, lay at the pier-end with their trunks aboard. Stella surveyed those marked with her initials, looking them over with a critical eye, when they reached the deck.

“How in the world did I ever manage to accumulate so much stuff, Jack?” she asked quizzically. “I didn’t realize it. We might have been doing Europe with souvenir collecting our principal aim, by the amount of our baggage.”

Fyfe smiled, without commenting. They sat on a trunk and watched Roaring Springs fall astern, dwindle to a line of white dots against the great green base of the mountain that rose behind it.

“It’s good to get back here,” he said at last. “To me, anyway. How about it, Stella? You haven’t got so much of a grievance with the world in general as you had when we left, eh?”

“No, thank goodness,” she responded fervently.

“You don’t look as if you had,” he observed, his eyes admiringly upon her.

Nor had she. There was a bloom on the soft contour of her cheek, a luminous gleam in her wide, gray eyes. All the ill wrought by months of drudging work and mental revolt had vanished. She was undeniably good to look at, a woman in full flower, round-bodied, deep-breasted, aglow with the unquenched fires of youth. She was aware that Jack Fyfe found her so and tolerably glad that he did so find her. She had revised a good many of her first groping estimates of him that winter. And when she looked over the port bow and saw in behind Halfway Point the huddled shacks of her brother’s camp where so much had overtaken her, she experienced a swift rush of thankfulness that she was as she was. She slid her gloved hand impulsively into Jack Fyfe’s, and his strong fingers shut down on hers closely.

They sat silent until the camp lay abeam. About it there was every sign of activity. A chunky stern-wheeler, with blow-off valve hissing, stood by a boom of logs in the bay, and men were moving back and forth across the swifters, making all ready for a tow. Stella marked a new bunkhouse. Away back on the logging ground in a greater clearing she saw the separate smoke of two donkey engines. Another, a big roader, Fyfe explained, puffed at the water’s edge. She could see a string of logs tearing down the skid-road.

“He’s going pretty strong, that brother of yours,” Fyfe remarked. “If he holds his gait, he’ll be a big timberman before you know it.”

“He’ll make money, I imagine,” Stella admitted, “but I don’t know what good that will do him. He’ll only want more. What is there about money-making that warps some men so, makes them so grossly self-centered? I’d pity any girl who married Charlie. He used to be rather wild at home, but I never dreamed any man could change so.”

“You use the conventional measuring-stick on him,” her husband answered, with that tolerance which so often surprised her. “Maybe his ways are pretty crude. But he’s feverishly hewing a competence which is what we’re all after out of pretty crude material. And he’s just a kid, after all, with a kid’s tendency to go to extremes now and then. I kinda like the beggar’s ambition and energy.”

“But he hasn’t the least consideration for anybody or anything,” Stella protested. “He rides rough-shod over every one. That isn’t either right or decent.”

“It’s the only way some men can get to the top,” Fyfe answered quietly. “They concentrate on the object to be attained. That’s all that counts until they’re in a secure position. Then, when they stop to draw their breath, sometimes they find they’ve done lots of things they wouldn’t do again. You watch. By and by Charlie Benton will cease to have those violent reactions that offend you so. As it is he’s a youngster, bucking a big game. Life, when you have your own way to hew through it, with little besides your hands and brain for capital, is no silk-lined affair.”

She fell into thought over this reply. Fyfe had echoed almost her brother’s last words to her. And she wondered if Jack Fyfe had attained that degree of economic power which enabled him to spend several thousand dollars on a winter’s pleasuring with her by the exercise of a strong man’s prerogative of overriding the weak, bending them to his own inflexible purposes, ruthlessly turning everything to his own advantage? If women came under the same head! She recalled Katy John, and her face burned. Perhaps. But she could not put Jack Fyfe in her brother’s category. He didn’t fit. Deep in her heart there still lurked an abiding resentment against Charlie Benton for the restraint he had put upon her and the license he had arrogated to himself. She could not convince herself that the lapses of that winter were not part and parcel of her brother’s philosophy of life, a coarse and material philosophy.

Presently they were drawing in to Cougar Point, with the weather-bleached buildings of Fyfe’s camp showing now among the upspringing second-growth scrub. Fyfe went forward and spoke to the man at the wheel. The Panther swung offshore.

“Why are we going out again?” Stella asked.

“Oh, just for fun,” Fyfe smiled.

He sat down beside her and slipped one arm around her waist. In a few minutes they cleared the point. Stella was looking away across the lake, at the deep cleft where Silver Creek split a mountain range in twain.

“Look around,” said he, “and tell me what you think of the House of Fyfe.”

There it stood, snow-white, broad-porched, a new house reared upon the old stone foundation she remembered. The noon sun struck flashing on the windows. About it spread the living green of the grassy square, behind that towered the massive, darker-hued background of the forest.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “What wizard of construction did the work. That was why you fussed so long over those plans in Los Angeles. I thought it was to be this summer or maybe next winter. I never dreamed you were having it built right away.”

“Well, isn’t it rather nice to come home to?” he observed.

“It’s dear. A homey looking place,” she answered. “A beautiful site, and the house fits, that white and the red tiles. Is the big stone fireplace in the living room, Jack?”

“Yes, and one in pretty nearly every other room besides,” he nodded. “Wood fires are cheerful.”

The Panther turned her nose shoreward at Fyfe’s word.

“I wondered about that foundation the first time I saw it,” Stella confessed, “whether you built it, and why it was never finished. There was moss over the stones in places. And that lawn wasn’t made in a single season. I know, because dad had a country place once, and he was raging around two or three summers because the land was so hard to get well-grassed.”

“No, I didn’t build the foundation or make the lawn,” Fyfe told her. “I merely kept it in shape. A man named Hale owned the land that takes in the bay and the point when I first came to the lake. He was going to be married. I knew him pretty well. But it was tough going those days. He was in the hole on some of his timber, and he and his girl kept waiting. Meantime he cleared and graded that little hill, sowed it to grass, and laid the foundation. He was about to start building when he was killed. A falling tree caught him. I bought in his land and the timber limits that lie back of it. That’s how the foundation came there.”

“It’s a wonder it didn’t grow up wild,” Stella mused. “How long ago was that?”

“About five years,” Fyfe said. “I kept the grass trimmed. It didn’t seem right to let the brush overrun it after the poor devil put that labor of love on it. It always seemed to me that it should be kept smooth and green, and that there should be a big, roomy bungalow there. You see my hunch was correct, too.”

She looked up at him in some wonder. She hadn’t accustomed herself to associating Jack Fyfe with actions based on pure sentiment. He was too intensely masculine, solid, practical, impassive. He did not seem to realize even that sentiment had influenced him in this. He discussed it too matter-of-factly for that. She wondered what became of the bride-to-be. But that Fyfe could not tell her.

“Hale showed me her picture once,” he said, “but I never saw her. Oh, I suppose she’s married some other fellow long ago. Hale was a good sort. He was out-lucked, that’s all.”

The Panther slid in to the float. Jack and Stella went ashore. Lefty Howe came down to meet them. Thirty-five or forty men were stringing away from the camp, back to their work in the woods. Some waved greeting to Jack Fyfe, and he waved back in the hail-fellow fashion of the camps.

“How’s the frau, Lefty?” he inquired, after they had shaken hands.

“Fine. Down to Vancouver. Sister’s sick,” Howe answered laconically. “House’s all shipshape. Wanta eat here, or up there?”

“Here at the camp, until we get straightened around,” Fyfe responded. “Tell Pollock to have something for us in about half an hour. We’ll go up and take a look.”

Howe went in to convey this message, and the two set off up the path. A sudden spirit of impishness made Jack Fyfe sprint. Stella gathered up her skirt and raced after him, but a sudden shortness of breath overtook her, and she came panting to where Fyfe had stopped to wait.

“You’ll have to climb hills and row and swim so you’ll get some wind,” Fyfe chuckled. “Too much easy living, lady.”

She smiled without making any reply to this sally, and they entered the house the House of Fyfe, that was to be her home.

If the exterior had pleased her, she went from room to room inside with growing amazement. Fyfe had finished it from basement to attic without a word to her that he had any such undertaking in hand. Yet there was scarcely a room in which she could not find the visible result of some expressed wish or desire. Often during the winter they had talked over the matter of furnishings, and she recalled how unconsciously she had been led to make suggestions which he had stored up and acted upon. For the rest she found her husband’s taste beyond criticism. There were drapes and rugs and prints and odds and ends that any woman might be proud to have in her home.

“You’re an amazing sort of a man, Jack,” she said thoughtfully. “Is there anything you’re not up to? Even a Chinese servant in the kitchen. It’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “I hoped you would.”

“Who wouldn’t?” she cried impulsively. “I love pretty things. Wait till I get done rearranging.”

They introduced themselves to the immobile-featured Celestial when they had jointly and severally inspected the house from top to bottom. Sam Foo gazed at them, listened to their account of themselves, and disappeared. He re-entered the room presently, bearing a package.

“Mist’ Chol’ Bentlee him leave foh yo’.”

Stella looked at it. On the outer wrapping was written:

From C.A. Benton to Mrs. John Henderson Fyfe
A Belated Wedding Gift

She cut the string, and delved into the cardboard box, and gasped. Out of a swathing of tissue paper her hands bared sundry small articles. A little cap and jacket of knitted silk its double in fine, fleecy yarn a long silk coat a bonnet to match, both daintily embroidered. Other things a shoal of them baby things. A grin struggled for lodgment on Fyfe’s freckled countenance. His blue eyes twinkled.

“I suppose,” he growled, “that’s Charlie’s idea of a joke, huh?”

Stella turned away from the tiny garments, one little, hood crumpled tight in her hand. She laid her hot face against his breast and her shoulders quivered. She was crying.

“Stella, Stella, what’s the matter?” he whispered.

“It’s no joke,” she sobbed. “It’s a it’s a reality.”