out of his pocket, where he had placed them that morning half
intending to tell Helen Illingworth the truth at last.
"What are these?" the Colonel asked, staring at Shurtliff, who stood
erect before them, sustained more by his will than anything else, for
his knees were shaking and his body quivering; yet he was glad after
all, more happy than he had thought he could be, in making the
revelation, in vindicating the innocent, in giving that satisfaction
to Helen Illingworth, tardy, even too late, though it might be.
"Letters, sir. You will find there a blueprint of the design of the
compression members," answered Shurtliff monotonously as if he had
forced his mind to a certain action and it was working automatically.
"With it is a letter from Bertram Meade to his father suggesting that
the lacings were too light and calling attention to the empiric
formulæ of Schmidt-Chemnitz in proof of his argument. On the back of
that letter Mr. Bertram Meade, Senior, made an indorsement--you know
his handwriting and can identify it--'_Hold until bridge is finished
and then give back to the boy. We'll show him that even
Schmidt-Chemnitz doesn't know everything_.'"
Colonel Illingworth turned the paper over. There was the indorsement.
"Well, by heaven!" he began.
"There's another paper in an envelope addressed to the editor of _The
New York Gazette_. Will you read it aloud, sir?"
Almost as if he had been hypnotized Colonel Illingworth took from the
envelope the brief note. He read it:
"_I alone am responsible for the error in the design of the
International Bridge, which has resulted in this terrible disaster.
I know that my son, in an effort to shield me, will assume the
responsibility. As a matter of fact, he had previously pointed out
what he believed to be a structural weakness, but I refused to heed
his representations and overbore his objections. The fault is
entirely chargeable to me. There is no possible expiation for my
blunder. The least I can do is to assume all the responsibility.
The blame is mine._
"BERTRAM MEADE."
He laid it down with the other papers.
"The demonstration is complete and absolute," he began spontaneously,
amid a breathless silence. "The proofs are adequate. They would
establish young Meade's innocence in any court in the land. Where is
he? I have done him an injustice. I am ready to make amends,"
continued the Colonel.
"And while you are talking," said Helen Illingworth, who had been
standing in the doorway too absorbed by the dramatic recital to
interrupt it, "he's dying."
"Dying! Where?"
"He was battered to pieces by the last dynamite explosion. We
brought him here."
"Were you there?"
"We saw it from the top of the mesa. Oh, don't talk any longer."
"Severence," said Illingworth, with prompt decision, "you haven't
forgotten all your old medical skill. This is your job. One of you
jump on the engine and bring a physician up and----"
"I'm going," said Rodney. "Who's the best doctor in town?"
"Dr. Fraser. He's a young man, but very skillful," answered one of
the local bridge men.
"Bring our own Dr. Bailey up here from our hospital with him, and
tell that engine driver to get down to the town and back just as
quickly as he can go. Cheer up, Helen," said the Colonel. "I know
that a man is not going to rehabilitate himself by such an action and
have the evidence of his innocence brought out at such a moment just
to die."
"Will you give me those papers, Colonel?" said Rodney. "You'll want
this written up and----"
"Take them," said the Colonel.
"Will you come along with me, Mr. Shurtliff? After I see the doctors
I'll want your affidavit."
"Yes, sir, anything," said Shurtliff.
"It was fine of you, Shurtliff," said Winters, "to try to shield your
employer and the man you loved, but, thank God, you spoke out before
it was too late. I'm sorry I pulled that gun on you; you're a man,
all right, even if you don't look it," he added to himself as
Shurtliff bowed and followed Rodney.
Winters stood at the door of the passageway leading to the stateroom
while Helen Illingworth and Severence, who had been educated as a
physician, and the old Colonel, who knew a great deal about wounds
and accidents from his war experience, entered the stateroom. A new
spirit had come into the relations between father and daughter and
both were glad. There was no question now about the future. There
would be no opposition from Colonel Illingworth. Within an hour the
papers would have the story of how one man had saved a great dam, the
viaduct, the town, and its people, and they would have at the same
time the story of who was responsible for the fall of the
International Bridge. They would have the story of the attempted
self-sacrifice of the son to save the father. They would have the
story of the old man's splendid and magnanimous avowal of
responsibility before he died. The United States, the world, would
ring with the dramatic tale.
It was as much to tell that story in his own way as to summon medical
aid that Rodney had gone for the doctor. And so the father held the
daughter clasped to his side while both bent over the still
unconscious man, whom Dr. Severence quickly and carefully and with
wonderful skill, considering his long withdrawal from practice,
examined.
"What is it?" asked the Colonel as the vice-president looked up
presently. "My daughter is engaged to be married to him"--and he was
rewarded by the thrill and quiver that shot through his daughter's
being which he felt as he pressed her to his side--"we can't let him
die now."
"He's in God's hands," answered Severence gravely. "He's been
terribly pounded everywhere. His breastbone is shattered, some of
his ribs are broken. I don't know."
"That awful cut on his forehead?"
"That's nothing."
"And the other bruises?"
"They count but little, but the blow on the chest"--he shook his gray
head sadly, ominously.
"Do you think anything has penetrated his lungs?" asked Helen
Illingworth, as she pointed to her lover's lips, to a little bloody
froth that came therefrom.
The old man nodded.
"Perhaps," he said.
"Oh, he can't die, he can't, he can't!" wailed the woman, sinking
down on her knees by the bed.
"Not if any power on earth can keep him from it, my dear child," said
the old Colonel tenderly, bending over her.
"Send me the porter of the car," said Severence, "and take Miss
Illingworth away. I want to get him undressed and----"
"You will call me back the minute I can come?"
"Certainly, my dear girl," said the vice-president, who had known the
young woman from childhood.
XXXI
AT LAST TO THE STARS
All the men except Curtiss and Winters had discreetly withdrawn from
the car and had gone over to the mesa to look at the lake and the
outlet. Indeed the water was roaring down beneath the steel arch
bridge, filling for the first time in generations the channel of the
Kicking Horse. Fortunately it could flow that way without danger to
the town or the viaduct below.
The Colonel led his daughter to a chair and then turned to Winters.
"You were there?" he began. "Tell me about it."
Graphically the big cattle rancher told the story of Meade's mad rush
over the rocks with his two companions, of the desperate assault on
the hog-back, of the success that had met their efforts to open the
improvised spill-way, and then the final disaster. The recital lost
nothing in his graphic relation.
"It was fine, it was magnificent," said the Colonel, patting his
daughter's shoulder. "Where are the two who went with him?"
"They're outside there," said Winters.
The old Colonel went to the door of the car and called the two men
into the car.
"In the bank down in Coronado there's a thousand dollars of mine for
each of you," he said promptly.
"We didn't do it for money, sor," said the big Irishman, "although
'twill be welcome enough, but how is Mr. Roberts?"
"You mean the man who blew up the hog-back?"
"Si, signore, a greata man he ees," said the little Italian.
"I wish I could say he was all right, but there's a doctor with him
and we have sent for the best physicians in town. He's horribly
hurt."
"But, plaise God, he may pull through, sor. The Holy Virgin an' the
Saints presarve him," said the Irishman, making the sign of the cross.
And in his own language little Funaro breathed a similar prayer and
with his grimy, toil-stained hand he made the same gesture.
"Murphy," shouted a voice from the pines on the side of the hill
between the car and the mesa.
"That'll be Mr. Vandeventer, the resident engineer," said Murphy.
Colonel Illingworth turned to the door again.
"Where's Roberts?" cried Vandeventer, stumbling down the hill. He
was haggard and worn and weary to the point of exhaustion, but as
soon as he had been assured of the safety of the dam--and before he
left the water was visibly receding--he had started out to seek the
engineer whom he had, in his mind in the excitement of the moment,
accused of desertion.
"He's here in my car, sir," said Colonel Illingworth.
"And who are you, may I ask?" said Vandeventer, crossing the track
and swinging himself upon the platform of the car.
"I am Colonel Illingworth, president of the Martlet Bridge Company."
"But Roberts?"
"His name is not Roberts. It's Meade."
"What? The International man?"
"Yes."
"I knew he was an engineer. Well, he's made up for his failure
there."
"He did not fail there any more than he failed here," said the
Colonel.
"Where is he?"
"It's a long story."
"It can wait," said Vandeventer brusquely. "I want to thank him for
saving the dam and the lives of the men on it, and the town, and the
railroad, and the bridge."
"I don't know whether you can thank him or not," said the Colonel.
"You don't mean----"
"He was terribly hurt by the last explosion and they brought him
here."
"Can I see him?"
For answer Colonel Illingworth pointed to the door.
"This is my daughter. Your name is Vandeventer, is it not? Helen,
this is the engineer who is building the dam. He has come to ask
after his man."
"I've done everything I can for him," said Severence, coming out of
the stateroom, followed by the porter, as Vandeventer shook hands
with the girl. "He's still unconscious, but seems to breathe a
little easier."
Into the little room the woman and the four men crowded.
Vandeventer, accompanied by Murphy and Funaro, followed the Colonel.
Neither of the workmen would be left out. There lay the engineer,
his face as white as the linen of the pillow or the bandage which had
been deftly tied around his head. One hand, still grimy and
mud-stained, lay on the sheet. Helen Illingworth knelt down and
kissed it and laid her head on the bed.
"He is to be my husband if he lives," she said simply.
"A man and an engineer he is," whispered Vandeventer.
"I misjudged you, Meade," said the Colonel softly, speaking as if the
unconscious man could hear. "I condemned you. I wish to heaven you
could hear me make amends now."
"Begob," whispered Murphy, "you'd ought to seen him run wid the
dinnamite."
The voice of the Italian murmured words which they knew were prayers
and though they came from humble lips they brought relief to all.
They entered deeply into Helen Illingworth's heart and mingled with
her own petitions, frantic, fervent, imperative, although she offered
them to Almighty God as from a woman broken. Presently they all
filed out of the room, leaving Helen Illingworth alone with what was
left of life in the crushed body of the man she had never loved so
much before.
In the observation room Vandeventer told them of the fight for the
dam and how they had reached their maximum power of resistance and
more, and that the relief came in the very nick of time. Meanwhile
the engine driver had burned up the track going and coming and in
less than an hour he was back with two surgeons and a trained nurse.
Was it their skill and care and watchfulness that finally brought
Meade back to consciousness, or was it the passionate, consuming
intensity of will and purpose of the woman who loved him, who could
scarcely be driven from his side? Well, whatever the reason, after
many days he passed from death into life and came back again.
He was conscious of Helen's presence and lay quietly enveloped in her
love long before he could talk coherently or question. Indeed, with
Rodney and Winters, and old Shurtliff, who swore to himself that he
would never forgive himself if Meade did not recover, and the
Colonel, and Vandeventer, and all the men of the force, who used to
stroll over after hours and just sit on the side of the track and
stare at the car where the man who had saved them was fighting for
his life as desperately as they had fought to save the dam, Meade was
surrounded by such an atmosphere of admiration and devotion as might
have stayed the hand of death itself. There came a day when the
physician said he could talk a little.
"I saw you," Helen whispered. "I was standing on the high hill
watching, looking down upon you just before----"
"But I shall look up to you all the rest of my life," said the man,
as the woman knelt, as was her wont, by the side of the bed. She
kissed his hand, thin, wasted, but white and clean now.
"No, I to you," she murmured, as she pressed her lips to his fingers.
"Look up a little higher, then," whispered Meade with some of the old
humor.
"You mean?"
The voiceless movement of his lips told her the story. She raised
herself and kissed them lightly.
"I haven't dared to ask that before," said the man, closing his eyes.
"I wasn't strong enough to stand that."
"But you're going to get strong; you must. I'd like to kiss you
forever," said the woman with pitying tenderness and great joy.
"It's heavenly now, but I shall have to go away again when I am able
and----"
"We are never going to be parted again."
"I cannot let you marry a discredited man, a failure."
"Don't you know," said the woman, rising, "that the whole United
States rings with your exploit, that the splendid saving of the dam
has caught the fancy of the people as it deserves and you are a hero
everywhere and to everybody?"
"But the International Bridge and its failure?"
Unbeknown to the two the Colonel had stopped in the doorway.
"We know the truth now, my boy," said the old man, coming into the
room. "It was your father's fault, not yours."
It was characteristic of Meade's temper and temperament that his
white lips closed in a straight line at this.
"Where's Shurtliff?" he asked, after a little silent communing with
himself.
The old man had come in and out of the room like a ghost during his
slow recovery. Colonel Illingworth turned away and summoned the
secretary. Rodney and Winters came, too.
"Shurtliff," said Meade faintly but firmly, "tell them again who is
responsible for the failure of the International."
"Forgive me, Mr. Meade," said Shurtliff, "but it was your brave old
father's fault."
"You see," said the Colonel.
"We knew it all the time," said Rodney.
"But Mr. Shurtliff bravely gave us the final proof," said Winters.
"Those papers?" said Meade.
Shurtliff nodded.
"And your father's own letter that he wrote the papers before his
heart broke," said Rodney; "I'll read it to you presently."
"Why did you do it, Shurtliff?"
"To right a great wrong, sir. I saw that we were mistaken to try to
spare the dead at the expense of the living, to wreck your life and
the future, and the happiness of Miss Illingworth. God bless her for
her kindness to a lonely old man. And so when you were brought here
dead I told them the truth and gave them the papers."
"Gentlemen," said Meade, making a last try, "it is useless to deny it
now, but for the sake of my father's fame you won't let anyone know?"
"Old man," said Rodney, "it was on the wires an hour afterward and
the whole United States knows it now. Your father made the mistake;
his letter admitted it bravely. The world honors him, it honors you."
"Rodney," said Meade, "I wish you hadn't done it."
"It was for Miss Illingworth's happiness and yours that I did it,"
said Rodney. "And how much that cost me," he added, the confession
being wrung from him, "no one can ever know."
He turned and left the room. Winters followed him full of sympathy
and comprehension.
"Let me go out alone, old man," said Rodney. "I'll be back
presently. This is the last fight I've got to make."
Winters watched him from the steps of the car as he disappeared in
the pine trees _en route_ to the mesa to fight it out under the open
sky alone. The others left the room also, last of all Shurtliff.
"You forgive me, Mr. Meade. I've been through hell itself," said the
old man, "in these last six months."
"Freely," said Meade.
And Shurtliff went away with a lighter heart than he had borne for
many a long day.
The two lovers were alone again.
"You see," said Helen, "there's nothing can keep us apart now."
"Nothing, thank God," whispered the man. "But I am sorry that it all
came out this way. I'm sorry not only because of your suffering, but
for other reasons--Rodney for one. He--it's too bad! It was not
necessary for you to get yourself almost killed to win me, I mean,
for wherever and whenever I found you I was resolved to marry you,
willy-nilly."
"And is it true that poor old Rod had grown to care?" he asked,
putting by the academic discussion.
The woman nodded.
"I'm very sorry. I can't help it. We were always together, talking
about you," she said.
"And he couldn't help it, either," said Meade. "Somehow I believe he
was the better man for you to have taken."
But he looked at her wistfully and anxiously as he spoke.
"I won't argue with you," said the girl, bending close to him. "I'll
only say that I know I have the best man in all the world, but if he
were the worst, I would rejoice to have him just the same."
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
[Transcriber's note: illustration captions in brackets
were added by the transcriber.]