She was tempted to refuse just to see what he
would do, but she reconsidered that. Without any logical foundation for
the feeling, she was shy of pitting her will against Jack Fyfe's.
Hitherto quite sure of herself, schooled in self-possession, it was a
new and disturbing experience to come in contact with that subtle,
analysis-defying quality which carries the possessor thereof straight to
his or her goal over all opposition, which indeed many times stifles all
opposition. Force of character, overmastering personality, emanation of
sheer will, she could not say in what terms it should be described.
Whatever it was, Jack Fyfe had it. It existed, a factor to be reckoned
with when one dealt with him. For within twenty minutes she had packed a
suitcase full of clothes and was embarked in his rowboat.
He sent the lightly built craft easily through the water with regular,
effortless strokes. Stella sat in the stern, facing him. Out past the
north horn of the bay, she broke the silence that had fallen between
them.
"Why did you make a point of coming for me?" she asked bluntly.
Fyfe rested on his oars a moment, looking at her in his direct,
unembarrassed way.
"I wintered once on the Stickine," he said. "My partner pulled out
before Christmas and never came back. It was the first time I'd ever
been alone in my life. I wasn't a much older hand in the country than
you are. Four months without hearing the sound of a human voice. Stark
alone. I got so I talked to myself out loud before spring.
Pages:
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108