Poor Man's Rock Part 37

Gower smiled.

"Well, no. I can't say I am. That first night you came to the cottage to ask for the _Arrow_ I got a good look at you, and you struck me as a fine, clean sort of boy, and I said to myself, 'Old Donald has never told him anything and he has no grudge against me, and wouldn't it be a sort of compensation if those two should fall naturally and simply in love with each other?' Yes, it may seem sentimental, but that idea occurred to me. Of course, it was just an idea. Betty would marry whoever she wanted to marry. I knew that. Nothing but her own judgment would influence her in a matter of that sort. I know. I've watched her grow up. Maybe it's a good quality or maybe it's a bad one, but she has always had a bull-dog sort of persistence about anything that strikes her as really important.

"And of course I had no way of knowing whether she would take a fancy to you or you to her. So I just watched. And maybe I boosted the game a little, because I'm a pretty wise old fish in my own way. I took a few whacks at you, now and then, and she flew the storm signals without knowing it."

Gower smiled reminiscently, stroking his chin with his hand.

"I had to fight you, after a fashion, to find out what sort of stuff you were, for my own satisfaction," he continued. "I saw that you had your Scotch up and were after my scalp, and I knew it couldn't be anything but that old mess. That was natural. But I thought I could square that if I could ever get close enough to you. Only I couldn't manage that naturally. And this scramble for the salmon got me in deep before I realized where I was. I used to feel sorry for you and Betty. I could see it coming. You both talk with your eyes. I have seen you both when you didn't know I was near.

"So when I saw that you would fight me till you broke us both, and also that if I kept on I would not only be broke but so deep in the hole that I could never get out, I shut the d.a.m.ned cannery up and let everything slide. I knew as soon as you were in shape you would try to get this place back. That was natural. And you would have to come and talk to me about it. I was sure I could convince you that I was partly human. So you see this is no surprise to me. Lord, no! Why, I've been playing chess for two years--old Donald MacRae's knight against my queen."

He laughed and thumped MacRae on the flat of his st.u.r.dy back.

"It might have been a stalemate, at that," MacRae said.

"But it wasn't," Gower declared. "Well, I'll get something out of living, after all. I've often thought I'd like to see a big, roomy house somewhere along these cliffs, and kids playing around. You and Betty may have your troubles, but you're starting right. You ought to get a lot out of life. I didn't. I made money. That's all. Poured it into a rat hole. Bessie is sitting over on Maple Point in a big drafty house with two maids and a butler, a two-thousand-acre estate, and her pockets full of Victory Bonds. She isn't happy, and she never can be. She never cared for anybody but herself, not even her children, and n.o.body cares for her, I'm all but broke, and I'm better off than she is. I hate to think I ever fought for her. She wasn't worth it, MacRae. That's a h.e.l.l of a thing for a man to say about a woman he lived with for over thirty years. But it's true. It took me a good many miserable years to admit that to myself.

"I suppose she'll cling to her money and go on playing the _grande dame_. And if she can get any satisfaction out of that I'm willing. I've never known as much real peace and satisfaction as I've got now. All I need is a place to sleep and a comfortable chair to sit in. I don't want to chase dollars any more. All I want is to row around the Rock and catch a few salmon now and then and sit here and look at the sea when I'm tired. You're young, and you have all your life before you--you and Betty. If you need money, you are pretty well able to get it for yourself. But I'm old, and I don't want to bother."

He rambled on until Betty came down with plates and other things. The fat clams were opening their sh.e.l.ls on the hot rock. They put b.u.t.ter and seasoning on the tender meat and ate, talking of this and that. And when the last clam had vanished, Gower stuffed his pipe and lit it with a coal. He gathered up the plates and forks and rose to his feet.

"Good night," he said benevolently. "I'm going to the house and to bed.

Don't sit out here dreaming all night, you two."

He stumped away up the path. MacRae piled driftwood on the fire. Then he sat down with his back against the log, and Betty snuggled beside him, in the crook of his arm. Beyond the Point the booming of the surf rose like far thunder. The tide was on the ebb. Poor Man's Rock bared its kelp-thatched head. The racing swells covered it with spray that shone in the moonlight.

They did not talk. Speech had become nonessential. It was enough to be together.

So they sat, side by side, their backs to the cedar log and their feet to the fire, talking little, dreaming much, until the fluffy clouds scudding across the face of the moon came thicker and faster and lost their snowy whiteness, until the radiance of the night was dimmed.

Across the low summit of Point Old a new sound was carried to them.

Where the moonlight touched the Gulf in patches, far out, whitecaps showed.

"Listen," MacRae murmured.

The wind struck them with a puff that sent sparks flying. It rose and fell and rose again until it whistled across the Point in a steady drone,--the chill breath of the storm-G.o.d.

MacRae turned up Betty's wrist and looked at her watch.

"Look at the time, Betty mine," he said. "And it's getting cold.

There'll be another day."

He walked with her to the house. When she vanished within, blowing him a kiss from her finger tips, MacRae cut across the Point. He laid hold of the _Blanco's_ dinghy and drew it high to absolute safety, then stood a minute gazing seaward, looking down on the Rock. Clouds obscured the moon now. A chill darkness hid distant sh.o.r.e lines and mountain ranges which had stood plain in the moon-glow, a darkness full of rushing, roaring wind and thundering seas. Poor Man's Rock was a vague bulk in the gloom, forlorn and lonely, hidden under great bursts of spray as each wave leaped and broke with a hiss and a roar.

MacRae braced himself against the southeaster. It ruffled his hair, clawed at him with strong, invisible fingers. It shrieked its fury among the firs, stunted and leaning all awry from the buffeting of many storms.

He took a last look behind him. The lights in Gower's house were out and the white-walled cottage stood dim against the darkened hillside. Then MacRae, smiling to himself in the dark, set out along the path that led to Squitty Cove.

THE END

By the author of "Big Timber"

NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE

By BERTRAND W. SINCLAIR

Ill.u.s.trated. 12mo. Cloth.

He has created the atmosphere of the frozen North with wonderful realism.--_Boston Globe_.

Mr. Sinclair's two characters are exceptionally well-drawn and sympathetic. His style is robust and vigorous. His pictures of Canadian life stimulating.--_New York Nation_.

Mr. Sinclair sketches with bold strokes as befits a subject set amid limitless surroundings. The book is readable and shows consistent progress in the art of novel writing.--_St. Louis Globe-Democrat_.

An unusually good story of the conflict between a man and a woman. It is a readable, well written book showing much observation and good sense.

The hero is a fine fellow and manages to have his fling at a good many conventions without being tedious.--_New York Sun_.

The story is well written. It is rich in strong situation, romance and heart-stirring scenes, both of the emotional and courage-stirring order.

It ranks with the best of its type.--_Springfield Republican_.

LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers

34 Beacon St., Boston.