The president of the Trust turned, and, followed by his lieutenant, left the room without another word.

CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH A SCORE IS SETTLED

Cherry Malotte, coming down to the cannery on her daily visit, saw Willis Marsh and Mr. Wayland leaving it. Wondering, she hurried into the main building in search of Boyd. The place was as busy as when she had left it on the afternoon before, and she saw that the men had been at work all night; many of them were sprawled in corners, where they had sunk from weariness, s.n.a.t.c.hing a moment's rest before the boss kicked them back to their posts. The Chinese hands were stoically performing their tasks, their yellow faces haggard with the strain; at the butchering-tables yesterday's crew was still slitting, slashing, hacking at the pile of fish that never seemed to grow less. Some of them were giving up, staggering away to their bunks, while others with more vitality had stood so long in the slime and salt drip that their feet had swelled, and it had become necessary to cut off their shoes.

Boyd was standing in the door of the office. In a few words he told her of Mr. Wayland's threat.

"Do you think he can injure the company?" she inquired, anxiously.

"I haven't a doubt of it. He can work very serious harm, at least."

"Tell me--why did he turn against you so suddenly? What made Miss Wayland angry with you?"

"I--I would rather not"

"Why? I'm your partner, and I ought to be told, You and George and I will have to work together closer than ever now. Don't let's begin by concealing anything."

"Well, perhaps you had better know the whole thing," said Boyd, slowly.

"Mildred does not like you; her father's mind has been poisoned by Marsh.

It seems they resent our friendship; they believe--all sorts of things."

"So I am the cause of your trouble, after all."

"They blame me equally--more than you. It seems that Marsh made an inquiry into your--well, your life history--and he babbled all the gossip he heard to them. Of course they believed it, not knowing you as I do, and they misunderstood our friendship. But I can explain, and I shall, to Mildred.

Then I shall prove Marsh a liar. Perhaps I can show Mr. Wayland that he was in the wrong. It's our only hope."

"What did Marsh say about me?" asked the girl.

She was pale to the lips.

"He said a lot of things that at any other time I would have made him swallow on the spot. But it's only a pleasure deferred. With your help, I'll do it in their presence. I don't like to tell you this, but the truth is vital to us all, and I want to arm myself."

Cherry was silent.

"You may leave it to me," he said, gently. "I will see that Marsh sets you right."

"There is nothing to set right," said the girl, wearily. "Marsh told the truth, I dare say."

"The truth! My G.o.d! You don't know what you're saying!"

"Yes, I do." She returned his look of shocked horror with half-hearted defiance. "You must have known who I am. Fraser knew, and he must have told you. You knew I had followed the mining camps, you knew I had lived by my wits. You must have known what people thought of me. I cast my lot in with the people of this country, and I had to match my wits with those of every man I met. Sometimes I won, sometimes I did not. You know the North."

"I didn't know," he said, slowly. "I never thought--I wouldn't allow myself to think--"

"Why not? It is nothing to you. You have lived, and so have I. I made mistakes--what girl doesn't who has to fight her way alone? But my past is my own; it concerns n.o.body but me." She saw the change in his face, and her reckless spirit rose. "Oh, I've shocked you! You think all women should be like Miss Wayland. Have you ever stopped to think that even you are not the same man you were when you came fresh from college? You know the world now; you have tasted its wickedness. Would you change your knowledge for your earlier innocence? You know you would not, and you have no right to judge me by a separate code. What difference does it make who I am or what I have done? I didn't ask your record when I gave you the chance to win Miss Wayland, and neither you nor she have any right to challenge mine."

"I agree with you in that."

"I came away from the mining camps because of wagging tongues--because I was forever misjudged. Whatever I may have been, I have at least played fair with that girl; it hurts me now to be accused by her. I saw your love for her, and I never tried to rob her. Oh, don't look as if I couldn't have done differently if I had tried. I could have injured her very easily if I had been the sort she thinks me. But I helped you in every way I could. I made sacrifices, I did things she would never have done."

She stopped on the verge of tears. Boyd felt the justice of her words. He could not forget the unselfish devotion and loyalty she had shown throughout his long struggle. For the hundredth time there came to him the memory of her services in the matter of Hilliard's loan, and the thought caused him unspeakable distress.

"Why--did you do all this?" he asked.

"Don't you know?" Cherry gazed at him with a faint smile.

Then, for the first time, the whole truth burst upon him. The surprise of it almost deprived him of speech, and he stammered:

"No, I--I--" Then he fell silent.

"What little I did, I did because I love you," said the girl, in a tired voice. "You may as well know, for it makes no difference now."

"I--I am sorry," he said, gripped by a strong emotion that made him go hot and cold. "I have been a fool."

"No, you were merely wrapped up in your own affairs. You see, I had been living my own life, and was fairly contented till you came; then everything changed. For a long time I hoped you might grow to love me as I loved you, but I found it was no use. When I saw you so honest and unselfish in your devotion to that other girl, I thought it was my chance to do something unselfish in my turn. It was hard--but I did my best. I think I must love you in the same way you love her, Boyd, for there is nothing in all the world I would not do to make you happy. That's all there is to the poor little story, and it won't make any difference now, except that you and I can't go on as we have done; I shall never have the courage to come back after this. You will win Miss Wayland yet, and attain your heart's desire. I am only sorry that I have made it harder for you-- that I cannot help you any further. But I cannot. There is but one thing more I can do--"

"I want no more sacrifice!" he cried, roughly. "I've been blind. I've taken too much from you already."

The girl stood for a moment with her eyes turned toward the river. Then she said:

"I must think. I--I want to go away. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," he returned, and stood watching her as she hurried away, half suspecting the tears that were trembling amid her lashes.

It was not until supper-time that Boyd saw "Fingerless" Fraser, and questioned him about his quest for an heiress.

"Nothing doing in the heiress business," replied the adventurer. "I couldn't stand the exposure."

"They were cold, eh?"

"Yep! They weathered me out."

"Did you really meet any of those people?"

"Sure! I met 'em all, but I didn't catch their names. I 'made' one before I'd gone a mile--tall, slim party, with cracked ice in her voice."

Boyd looked up quickly. "Did you introduce yourself?"

"As Chancy De Benville, that's all. How is that for a drawing-room monaker? She fell for the name all right, but there must have been something phony about the clothes. That's the trouble with this park harness; if I'd wore my 'soup and fish' and my two-gallon hat, I'd have pa.s.sed for a gentleman sure. I'm strong for those evening togs. I see another one later; a little Maduro colored skirt with a fat nose."