SAVINE'S CONFIDENCE
Despite his employer's invitation Thurston did not return to High
Maples at the end of the week. The rock-cutting engrossed all his
attention, and he was conscious that it might be desirable to allow
Miss Savine's indignation to cool. He had thought of her often since
the day that she gave him the dollar, and, at first still smarting
under the memory of another woman's treachery, had tried to analyze his
feelings regarding her. The result was not very definite, though he
decided that he had never really loved Millicent, and was very certain
now that she had wasted little affection upon him. One evening at
Graham's ranch when they had stood silently together under the early
stars, he had become suddenly conscious of the all-important fact, that
his life would be empty without Helen Savine, and that of all the women
whom he had met she alone could guide and raise him towards a higher
plane.
It was characteristic of Geoffrey Thurston that the determination to
win her in spite of every barrier of wealth and rank came with the
revelation, and that, at the same time counting the cost, he realized
that he must first bid boldly for a name and station, and with all
patience bide his time. A more cold-blooded man might have abandoned
the quest as hopeless at the first, and one more impulsive might have
ruined his chances by rashness, but Geoffrey united the characteristics
of the reckless Thurstons with his mother's cool North Country
canniness.
It therefore happened that Savine, irritated by a journalistic
reference to the tardiness of that season's road-making, went down to
see how the work entrusted to Geoffrey was progressing. He was
accompanied by his daughter, who desired to visit the wife of a
prosperous rancher. It was towards noon of a hot day when they
alighted from their horses in the mouth of a gorge that wound inland
from the margin of a lake. No breath of wind ruffled the steely
surface of the lake. White boulder and somber fir branch slept
motionless, reflected in the crystal depths of the water, and lines of
great black cedars, that kept watch from the ridge above, stood mute
beneath the sun.
As they picked their path carefully through the debris littering an
ugly rent in the rock, where perspiring men were toiling hard with pick
and drill, they came upon Thurston before he was aware of them.
Geoffrey stood with a heavy hammer in his hand critically surveying a
somewhat seedy man who was just then offering his services. Savine,
who had a sense of humor, was interested in the scene, and said to his
daughter: "Thurston's busy. We'll just wait until he's through with
that fellow."
Geoffrey, being ignorant of their presence, decided that the applicant,
who said that he was an Englishman, and used to estimating quantities,
would be of little service; but he seldom refused to assist a stranger
in distress.
"I do all the draughting and figuring work myself," he said. "However,
if you are hard up you can earn two dollars a day wheeling broken rock
until you find something better."
The man turned away, apparently not delighted at the prospect of
wheeling rock, and Geoffrey faced about to greet the spectators.
"I don't fancy you'll get much work out of that fellow," observed
Savine.
"I did not expect to see you so soon, and am pleasantly surprised,"
said Geoffrey, who, warned by something in Helen's face, restrained the
answer he was about to make. "You will be tired after your rough ride,
and it is very hot out here. If you will come into my office tent I
can offer you some slight refreshment."
Helen noticed every appointment of the double tent which was singularly
neat and trim. Its flooring of packed twigs gave out a pleasant
aromatic odor. The instruments scattered among the papers on the maple
desk were silver-mounted. The tall, dusty man in toil-stained jean
produced thin glasses, into which he poured mineral waters and
California wine. A tin of English biscuits was passed with the cooling
drinks. Thurston was a curious combination, she fancied, for, having
seen him covered with the grime of hard toil she now beheld him in a
new _role_--that of host.
They chatted for half-an-hour, and then there was an interruption, for
the young Englishman, who had grown tired of wheeling the barrow, stood
outside the tent demanding to see his employer. Geoffrey strode out
into the sunshine.
The stranger said that he had a backache, besides blisters on his
hands, and that wheeling a heavy barrow did not agree with him. He
added, with an easy assurance that drew a frown to the contractor's
face, "It's a considerable come-down for me to have to work hard at
all, and I was told you were generally good to a distressed countryman.
Can't you really give me anything easier?"
"I try to be helpful to my countrymen when they're worth it," answered
Geoffrey, dryly. "Would you care to hold a rock drill, or swing a
sledge instead?"
"I hardly think so," he returned dubiously. "You see, I haven't been
trained to manual labor, and I'm not so strong as you might think by
looking at me." Geoffrey lost his temper.
"The drill might blister your fingers, I dare say," he admitted. "I'm
afraid you are too good for this rude country, and I have no use for
you. I could afford to be decent? Perhaps so, but I earn my money
with considerably more effort than you seem willing to make. The cook
will give you dinner with the other men to-day; then you can resume
your search for an easy billet. We have no room in this camp for
idlers."
Savine chuckled, but Helen, who had a weakness for philanthropy, and
small practical experience of its economic aspect, flushed with
indignation, pitying the stranger and resenting what she considered
Thurston's brutality. Her father rose, when the contractor came in, to
say that he wanted to look around the workings. He suggested that
Helen should remain somewhere in the shade. When Thurston had placed a
canvas lounge for her, outside the tent, the girl turned towards him a
look of severe disapproval. "Why did you speak to that poor man so
cruelly?" she asked. "Perhaps I am transgressing, but it seems to me
that one living here in comfort, even comparative luxury, might be a
little more considerate towards those less fortunate."
"Please remember that I was once what you term 'less fortunate'
myself," Geoffrey reminded Helen, who answered quickly, "One would
almost fancy it was you who had forgotten."
"On the contrary, I am not likely to forget how hard it was for me to
earn my first fee here in this new country," he declared, looking
straight at her. "I was glad to work up to my waist in ice-water to
make, at first, scarcely a dollar and a half a day. One must exercise
discretion, Miss Savine, and that man, so far as I could see, had no
desire to work."
It was a pity that Geoffrey did not explain that he meant Bransome's
payment by the words "my first fee," for Helen had never forgotten how
she had failed in the attempt to double the amount for which he had
bargained. She had considered him destitute of all the gentler graces,
but now she was surprised that he should apparently attempt to wound
her.
"Is it right to judge so hastily?" she inquired, mastering her
indignation with difficulty. "The poor man may not be fit for hard
work--I think he said so--and I cannot help growing wrathful at times
when I hear the stories which reach me of commercial avarice and
tyranny."
Geoffrey blew a silver whistle, which summoned the foreman to whom he
gave an order.
"Your _protege_ shall have an opportunity of proving his willingness to
be useful by helping the cook," Thurston said with a smile at Helen.
"Why did you do that--now?" she asked, uncertain whether to be
gratified or angry, and Geoffrey answered, "Because I fancied it would
meet with your approval."
"Then," declared Helen looking past him, "if that was your only motive,
you were mistaken."
The conversation dragged after that, and they were glad when Savine
returned to escort his daughter part of the way to the ranch. When he
rode back into camp alone an hour later, he dismounted with difficulty,
and his face was gray as he reeled into the tent.
"Give me some wine, Thurston--brandy if you have it, and don't ask
questions. I shall be better in five minutes--I hope," he gasped.
Geoffrey had no brandy, but he broke the neck off a bottle of his best
substitute, and Savine lay very still on a canvas lounge, gripping one
of its rails hard for long, anxious minutes before he said, "It is
over, and I am myself again. Hope I didn't scare you!"
"I was uneasy," Thurston replied. "Dare I ask, sir, what the trouble
was?" Savine, who evidently had not quite recovered, looked steadily
at the speaker. "I'll tell you in confidence, but neither my daughter
nor my rivals must hear of this," he said at length. "It is part of
the price I paid for success. I have an affection of the heart, which
may snuff me out at any moment, or leave me years of carefully-guarded
life."
"I don't quite understand you, but perhaps I ought to suggest that you
sit still and keep quiet for a time," Geoffrey replied and Savine
answered, "No. Save for a slight faintness I am as well as--I usually
am. When one gets more than his due share of this world's good things,
he must generally pay for it--see? If you don't, remember as an axiom
that one can buy success too dearly. Meantime, and to come back to
this question's every-day aspect, I want your promise to say nothing of
what you have seen. Helen must be spared anxiety, and I must still
pose as a man without a weakness, whatever it costs me."
"You have my word, sir!" said Geoffrey, and Savine, who nodded,
appeared satisfied.
"As I said before, I can trust you, Thurston, and though I've many
interested friends I'm a somewhat lonely man. I don't know why I
should tell you this, it isn't quite like me, but the seizure shook me,
and I just feel that way. Besides, in return for your promise, I owe
you the confidence. Give me some more wine, and I'll try to tell you
how I spent my strength in gaining what is called success."
"I won by hard work; started life as a bridge carpenter, and starved
myself to buy the best text-books," Savine began presently. "Bid
always for something better than what I had, and generally got it; ran
through a big bridge-building contract at twenty-five, and fell in love
with my daughter's mother when I'd finished it. I had risen at a bound
from working foreman--she was the daughter of one of the proudest
poverty-stricken Frenchmen in old Quebec. Well, it would make a long
story, but I married her, and she taught me much worth knowing, besides
helping me on until, when I had all my savings locked up in apparently
profitless schemes, I tried for a great bridge contract. I also got
it, but there was political jobbery, and the opposition, learning from
my rival how I was fixed, required a big deposit before the agreement
was signed."
Savine paused a full minute, and helped himself to more wine before he
proceeded. "The deposit was to be paid in fourteen days from the time
I got the notice, or the tender would be advertised for again, and I
hadn't half the amount handy. I couldn't realize on my possessions
without an appalling loss, but I swore I would hold on to that
contract, and I did it. It was always my way to pick up any odd
information I could, and I learned that a certain mining shaft was
likely to strike high-pay ore. I got the information from a workman
who left the mine to serve me, so I caught the first train, made a long
journey, and rode over a bad pass to reach the shaft. How I dealt with
the manager doesn't greatly matter, but though I neither bribed nor
threatened him he showed me what I wanted to see. I rode back over
pass and down moraine through blinding snow, went on without rest or
sleep to the city, borrowed what I could--I wasn't so well known then,
and it was mighty little--and bought up as much of that mine's stock on
margins as the money would cover. The news was being held back, but
other men were buying quietly. Still--well, they had to sleep and get
their dinners, and I, who could do without either, came out ahead of
them. Market went mad in a day or two over the news of the crushing.
I sold out at a tremendous premium, and started to pay my deposit. I
did it in person, came back with the sealed contract--hadn't eaten
decently or slept more than a few hours in two anxious weeks--went home
triumphant, and collapsed--as I did not long ago--while I told my wife."
There was silence for several minutes inside the tent. Then Geoffrey
said, "I thank you for your confidence, sir, and will respect it, but
even yet I am not quite certain why, considering that you held my
unconditional promise, you gave it me."
"As I said before, I felt like it," answered Savine. "Still, there's
generally a common-sense reason somewhere for what I do, and it may
help you to understand me. I heard of you at your first beginning. I
figured that you were taking hold as I had done before you and thought
I might have some use for a man like you. Perhaps I'll tell you more,
if we both live long enough, some day."
It was in the cool of the evening that Savine and his daughter, who had
been waiting at a house far down the trail, rode back towards the
railroad, leaving Geoffrey puzzled at the uncertain ways of women.
"What do you think of my new assistant, Helen?" asked Savine. "You
generally have a quick judgment, and you haven't told me yet."
"I hardly know," was the answer. "He is certainly a man of strong
character, but there is something about him which repels one--something
harsh, almost sinister, though this would, of course, in no way affect
his business relations with you. For instance, you saw how he lives,
and yet he turned away a countryman who appeared destitute and hungry."
Savine laughed. "You did not see how he lived. The good things in his
tent were part of his business property, handy when some mining
manager, who may want work done, comes along--or perhaps brought in by
mounted messenger for Miss Savine's special benefit. Thurston lives on
pork and potatoes, and eats them with his men. The fellow you pitied
was a lazy tramp. It mayn't greatly matter to you or me, but Thurston
will do great things some day."
"It is perhaps possible," assented Helen. "The men who are hard and
cruel are usually successful. You have rather a weakness, father, for
growing enthusiastic over what you call a live assistant. You have
sometimes been mistaken, remember."