GEOFFREY STANDS FIRM
Geoffrey Thurston possessed a fine constitution, and, in spite of Mrs.
Savine's treatment and her husband's predictions, rose refreshed and
vigorous on the morning that followed his struggle with the bicycle.
It was a glorious morning, and when breakfast was over he enjoyed the
unusual luxury of lounging under the shadow of a cedar on the lawn,
where he breathed in the cool breeze which rippled the sparkling
straits. Hitherto, he had risen with the sun to begin a day of toil
and anxiety and this brief glimpse of a life of ease, with the
pleasures of congenial companionship, was as an oasis in the desert to
him.
"A few days will be as much as is good for me," he told himself with a
sigh. "In the meantime hard work and short commons are considerably
more appropriate, but I shall win the right to all these things some
day, if my strength holds out."
His forehead wrinkled, his eyes contracted, and he stared straight
before him, seeing neither the luminous green of the maples nor the
whispering cedars, but far off in the misty future a golden
possibility, which, if well worth winning, must be painfully earned.
His reverie was broken suddenly.
"Are your thoughts very serious this morning, Mr. Thurston?" a clear
voice inquired, and the most alluring of the visions he had conjured up
stood before him, losing nothing by the translation into material
flesh. Helen Savine had halted under the cedar. In soft clinging
draperies of white and cream, she was a charming reality.
"I'm afraid they were," Geoffrey answered, and Helen laughed musically.
"One would fancy that you took life too much in earnest," she said.
"It is fortunately impossible either to work or to pile up money
forever, and a holiday is good for everybody. I am going down to White
Rock Cove to see if my marine garden is as beautiful as it used to be.
Would you care to inspect it and carry this basket for me?"
Thurston showed his pleasure almost too openly. They chatted lightly
on many subjects as they walked together, knee-deep, at times, among
scarlet wine-berries, and the delicate green and ebony of maidenhair
fern. The scents and essence of summer hung heavy in the air. Shafts
of golden sunlight, piercing the somber canopy of the forest isles,
touched, and, it seemed to Geoffrey, etherealized, his companion. The
completeness of his enjoyment troubled the man, and presently he lapsed
into silence. All this appeared too good, too pleasant, he feared, to
last.
"Do you know that you have not answered my last question, nor spoken a
word for the last ten minutes?" inquired Helen with a smile, at length.
"Have these woods no charm for you, or are you regretting the cigarbox
beneath the cedar?"
Geoffrey turned towards her, and there was a momentary flash in his
eyes as he answered:
"You must forgive me. Keen enjoyment often blunts the edge of speech,
and I was wishing that this walk through the cool, green stillness
might last forever."
Afraid that he might have said too much, he ceased speaking abruptly,
and then, after the fashion of one unskilled in tricks of speech,
proceeded to remedy one blunder by committing another.
"It reminds me of the evenings at Graham's ranch. There can surely be
no sunsets in the world to equal those that flame along the snows of
British Columbia, and you will remember how, together, we watched them
burn and fade."
It was an unfortunate reference, for now and then Helen had recalled
that period with misgivings. Cut off from all association with persons
of congenial tastes, she had not only found the man's society
interesting, but she had allowed herself to sink into an indefinite
state of companionship with him. In the mountain solitude, such
camaraderie had seemed perfectly natural, but it was impossible under
different circumstances. It was only on the last occasion that he had
ever hinted at a continuance of this intimacy, but she had not
forgotten the rash speech. Had the recollections been all upon her own
side she might have permitted a partial renewal of the companionship,
but she became forbidding at once when Geoffrey ventured to remind her
of it.
"Yes," she said reflectively. "The sunsets were often impressive, but
we are all of us unstable, and what pleases us at one time may well
prove tiresome at another. If that experience were repeated I should
very possibly grow sadly discontented at Graham's ranch."
Geoffrey was not only shrewd enough to comprehend that, if Miss Savine
unbent during a summer holiday in the wilderness, it did not follow
that she would always do so, but he felt that he deserved the rebuke.
He had, however, learned patience in Canada, and was content to bide
his time, so he answered good-humoredly that such a result might well
be possible. They were silent until they halted where the hillside
fell sharply to the verge of a cliff. Far down below Thurston could
see the white pebbles shine through translucent water, and with
professional instincts aroused, he dubiously surveyed the slope to the
head of the crag.
Julius Savine, or somebody under his orders, had constructed a zig-zag
pathway which wound down between small maples and clusters of
wine-berries shimmering like blood-drops among their glossy leaves. In
places the pathway was underpinned with timber against the side of an
almost sheer descent, and he noticed that one could have dropped a
vertical line from the fish-hawk, which hung poised a few feet outside
one angle, into the water. They descended cautiously to the first
sharp bend, and here Geoffrey turned around in advance of his
companion. "Do you mind telling me how long it is since you or anybody
else has used this path, Miss Savine?" he inquired.
"I came up this way last autumn, and think hardly any other person has
used it since. But why do you ask?" was the reply.
"I fancied so!" Geoffrey lapsed instinctively into his brusque,
professional style of comment. "Poor system of underpinning, badly
fixed yonder. I am afraid you must find some other way down to the
beach this morning."
It was long since Helen had heard anybody apply the word "must" to
herself. As Julius Savine's only daughter, most of her wishes had been
immediately gratified, while the men she met vied with one another in
paying her homage. In addition to this, her father, in whose
mechanical abilities she had supreme faith, had constructed that
pathway especially for her pleasure. So for several reasons her pride
took fire, and she answered coldly: "The path is perfectly safe. My
father himself watched the greater portion of its building."
"It was safe once, no doubt," answered Geoffrey, slightly puzzled as to
how he had offended her, but still resolute. "The rains of last
winter, however, have washed out much of the surface soil, leaving bare
parts of the rock beneath, and the next angle yonder is positively
dangerous. Can we not go around?"
"Only by the head of the valley, two miles away at least," Helen's tone
remained the reverse of cordial. "I have climbed both in the Selkirks
and the Coast Range, and to anyone with a clear head, even in the most
slippery places, there cannot be any real danger!"
"I regret that I cannot agree with you. I devoutly wish I could," said
Geoffrey, uneasily. "No! you must please go no further, Miss Savine."
The girl's eyes glittered resentfully. A flush crept into the center
of either cheek as she walked towards him. Though he did not intend
it, there was perhaps too strong a suggestion of command in his
attitude, and when Helen came abreast of him, he laid a hand
restrainingly upon her arm. She shook it off, not with ill-humored
petulance, for Helen was never ungraceful nor undignified, but with a
disdain that hurt the man far more than anger. Nevertheless, knowing
that he was right, he was determined that she should run no risk.
Letting his hand swing at his side, he walked a few paces before her,
and then turned in a narrow portion of the path where two people could
not pass abreast.
"Please listen to me, Miss Savine," he began. "I am an engineer, and I
can see that the bend yonder is dangerous. I cannot, therefore,
consent to allow you to venture upon it. How should I face your father
if anything unfortunate happened?"
"My father saw the path built," repeated Helen. "He also is an
engineer, and is said to be one of the most skillful in the Dominion.
I am not used to being thwarted for inadequate reasons. Let me pass."
Geoffrey stood erect and immovable. "I am very sorry, Miss Savine,
that, in this one instance, I cannot obey you," he said.
There was an awkward silence, and while they looked at each other,
Helen felt her breath come faster. Retreating a few paces she seated
herself upon a boulder, thus leaving the task of terminating an
unpleasant position to Geoffrey, who was puzzled for a time. Finally,
an inspiration dawned upon Thurston, who said:
"Perhaps you would feel the disappointment less if I convinced you by
ocular demonstration."
Walking cautiously forward to the dangerous angle, he grasped a broken
edge of the rock outcrop about which the path twisted, and pressed hard
with both feet upon the edge of the narrow causeway. It was a
hazardous experiment, and the result of it startling, for there was a
crash and a rattle, and Geoffrey remained clinging to the rock, with
one foot in a cranny, while a mass of earth and timber slid down the
steep-pitched slope and disappeared over the face of the crag. A
hollow splashing rose suggestively from far beneath the rock. Helen,
who had been too angry to notice the consideration for herself implied
in the man's last speech, turned her eyes upon the ground and did not
raise them until, after swinging himself carefully onto firmer soil,
Geoffrey approached her. "I hope, after what you have seen, you will
forgive me for preventing your descent," he said.
"You used considerable violence, and I am still unconvinced," Helen
declared, rising as she spoke. "In any case, you have at least made
further progress impossible, and we may as well retrace our steps. No;
I do not wish to hear any more upon the subject. It is really not
worth further discussion."
They turned back together. When the ascent grew steeper, Geoffrey held
out his hand. Instead of accepting the proffered assistance as she had
done when they descended, Helen apparently failed to notice the hand,
and the homeward journey was not pleasant to either of them. Helen did
not parade her displeasure, but Geoffrey was sensible of it, and, never
being a fluent speaker upon casual subjects, he was not successful in
his conversational efforts. When at last they reached the villa, he
shook his shoulders disgustedly as he recalled some of his inane
remarks.
"It was hardly a wonder she was silent. Heavens, what prompted me to
drivel in that style?" he reflected. "It was cruelly unfortunate, but
I could not let her risk her precious safety over that confounded path!"
At luncheon it happened that Mrs. Savine said: "I saw you going towards
the White Rock Cove, Helen. Very interesting place, isn't it, Mr.
Thurston? But you brought none of that lovely weed back with you."
"Did you notice how I had the path graded as you went down?" asked
Savine, and Thurston saw that Helen's eyes were fixed upon him. The
expression of the eyes aroused his indignation because the glance was
not a challenge, but a warning that whatever his answer might be, the
result would be indifferent to her. He was hurt that she should
suppose for a moment that he would profit by this opportunity.
"We were not able to descend the whole way," he replied. "Last
winter's rains have loosened the surface soil, and one angle of the
path slipped bodily away. Very fortunately I was some distance in
advance of Miss Savine, and there was not the slightest danger. Might
I suggest socketed timbers? The occurrence reminds me of a curious
accident to the railroad track in the Rockies."
Helen did not glance at the speaker again, for Savine asked no awkward
questions. But Thurston saw no more of her during the afternoon. That
evening he sought Savine in his study.
"You have all been very kind to me," he said. "In fact, so much so
that I feel, if I stay any longer among you, I shall never be content
to rough it when I go back to the bush. This is only too pleasant,
but, being a poor man with a living to earn, it would be more
consistent if I recommenced my work. Which of the operations should I
undertake first?"
Savine smiled on him whimsically, and answered with Western directness:
"I don't know whether the Roads Surveyor was right or wrong when he
said that you were not always over-civil. See here, Thurston, leaving
all personal amenities out of the question, I'm inclined to figure that
you will be of use to me, aid the connection also will help you
considerably. My paid representatives are not always so energetic as
they might be. So if you are tired of High Maples you can start in
with the rock-cutting on the new wagon road. It is only a detail, but
I want it finished, and, as the cars would bring you down in two hours'
time, I'll expect you to put in the week-end here, talking over more
important things with me."
Thurston left the house next morning. He did not see Helen to say
good-by to her, for she had ridden out into the forest before he
departed from High Maples. Helen admitted to herself that she was
interested in Thurston, the more so because he alone, of all the men
whom she had met, had successfully resisted her will. But she shrank
from him, and though convinced that his action in preventing her from
going down the pathway had been justified, she could not quite forgive
him.