GEOFFREY TESTS HIS FATE
It was a lowering afternoon in the Fall, when Thurston and Julius
Savine stood talking together upon a spray-drenched ledge in the depths
of a British Columbian canyon. On the crest of the smooth-scarped
hillside, which stretched back from the sheer face of rock far
overhead, stood what looked like a tiny fretwork in ebony, and
consisted of two-hundred-foot conifers. Here and there a clamorous
torrent had worn out a gully, and, with Thurston's assistance, Savine
had accomplished the descent of one of the less precipitous. Elsewhere
the rocks had been rubbed into smooth walls, between which the river
had fretted out its channel during countless ages. The water was
coming down in a mad green flood, for the higher snows had melted fast
under the autumn sun, and the clay beneath the glaciers had stained it.
Foam licked the ledges, a roaring white wake streamed behind each
boulder's ugly head, and the whole gloomy canyon rang with the thunder
of a rapid, whose filmy stream whirled in the chilly breeze.
Savine gazed at the rapid and the whirlpool that fed it, distinguishing
the roar of scoring gravel and grind of broken rock from its vibratory
booming, and though he was a daring man, his heart almost failed him.
"It looks ugly, horribly ugly, and I doubt if another man in the
Dominion would have suggested tackling the river here, but you are
right," he admitted. "Human judgment has its limits, and the constant
bursts have proved that no dykes which wouldn't ruin me in the building
could stand high-water pressure long. If you don't mind, Thurston,
we'll move farther from the edge. I've been a little shaky since that
last attack."
"The climb down was awkward, but you have looked better lately,"
declared Geoffrey and Savine sighed.
"I guess my best days are done, and that is one reason why I wish to
end up with a big success," he said. "I got a plain warning from the
Vancouver doctor you brought me in that morning. You managed it
smartly."
"I was lucky," said Thurston, laughing. "At first, I expected to be
ignominiously locked up after the engineer and fireman had torn my
clothes off me. But we did not climb down here to talk of that."
"No!" and Savine looked straight at his companion. "This is a great
scheme, Thurston, the biggest I have ever undertaken. There will be
room for scores of ranches, herds of cattle, wheat fields and orchards,
if we can put it through--and we have just got to put it through.
Those confounded dykes have drained me heavily, and they'll keep right
on costing money. Still, even to me, it looks almost beyond the power
of mortal man to deepen the channel here. The risk will figure high in
money, but higher in human life. You feel quite certain you can do it?"
"Yes!" asserted Geoffrey. "I believe I can--in winter, when the frost
binds the glaciers and the waters shrink. Once it is done, and the
only hard rock barrier that holds the water up removed, the river will
scour its own way through the alluvial deposits. I have asked a long
price, but the work will be difficult."
Savine nodded. He knew that it would be a task almost fit for
demi-gods or giants to cut down the bed of what was a furious torrent,
thick with grinding debris and scoring ice, and that only very strong
bold men could grapple with the angry waters, amid blinding snow or
under the bitter frost of the inland ranges in winter time.
"The price is not too heavy, but I don't accept your terms," Savine
said. "Hold on until I have finished and then begin your talking.
I'll offer you a minor partnership in my business instead. Take time,
and keep your answer until I explain things in my offices, in case you
find the terms onerous; but there are many men in this country who
would be glad of the chance you're getting."
Geoffrey stood up, his lean brown face twitching. He walked twice
along the slippery ledge, and then halted before Savine. "I will
accept them whatever they are on one condition, which I hardly dare
hope you will approve," he replied. "That is, regarding the
partnership, for in any case, holding to my first suggestion, you can
count on my best help down here. I don't forget that I owe you a heavy
debt of gratitude, sir, though, as you know, I have had several good
offers latterly."
Savine, who had been abstractedly watching the mad rush of the stream,
looked up as he inquired:
"What is the condition? You seem unusually diffident to-day, Thurston."
"It is a great thing I am going to ask." Geoffrey, standing on the
treacherous ledge above the thundering river, scarcely looked like a
suppliant as he put his fate to the test. "It is your permission to
ask Miss Savine to marry me when the time seems opportune. It would
not be surprising if you laughed at me, but even then I should only
wait the more patiently. This is not a new ambition, for one day when
I first came, a poor man, into this country I set my heart upon it, and
working ever since to realize it, I have, so far at least as worldly
prospects go, lessened the distance between us."
Savine, who betrayed no surprise, was silent for a little while. Then
he answered quietly:
"I am, according to popular opinion, anything but a poor man, and
though those dykes have bled me, such a match would, as you suggest, be
unequal from a financial point of view, unless Helen marries against my
wishes. Then she should marry without a dollar. Does that influence
you?"
Thurston spread out his hands with a contemptuous gesture, which his
quiet earnestness redeemed from being theatrical.
"For my own sake I should prefer it so. Dollars! How far would anyone
count dollars in comparison with Miss Savine? But I do not fear being
able to earn all she needs. When the time seems opportune the
inequality may be less."
"It is possible," continued Savine. "One notices that the man who
knows exactly what he wants and doesn't fool his time away over other
things not infrequently gets it. You have not really surprised me.
Now--and I want a straight answer--why did you leave the Old Country?"
"For several reasons. I lost my money mining. The lady whom I should
have married, according to arrangements made for us, tired of me. It
is a somewhat painful story, but I was bound up in the mine, and there
were, no doubt, ample excuses for her. We were both of us almost too
young to know our own minds when we fell in with our relatives' wishes,
and, though I hardly care to say so, it was perhaps well we found out
our mistake in time."
"All!" said Savine. "Were there no openings for a live man in the Old
Country, and have you told me all?"
"I could not find any place for a man in my position," Geoffrey let the
words fall slowly. "I come of a reckless, hard-living family, and I
feared that some of their failings might repeat themselves in me. I
had my warnings. Had I stayed over there, a disappointed man, they
might have mastered me, and so, when there was nothing to keep me, I
turned my back--and ran. Out here any man who hungers for it can find
quite sufficient healthful excitement for his needs, and excitement is
as wine to me. These, I know, seem very curious qualifications for a
son-in-law, but it seemed just to tell you. Need I explain further?"
"No," answered Savine, whose face had grown serious. "Thanks for your
honesty. I guess I know the weaknesses you mean--the greatest of them
is whiskey. I've had scores of brilliant men it has driven out from
Europe to shovel dirt for me. It's not good news, Thurston. How long
have you made head against your inherited failings?"
"Since I could understand things clearly," was the steady answer. "I
feared only what might happen, and would never have spoken had I not
felt that this country had helped me to break the entail, and set me
free. You know all, sir, and to my disadvantage I have put it before
you tersely, but there is another aspect."
Thurston's tone carried conviction with it, but Savine cut him short.
"It is the practical aspect that appeals to me," he said. He stared
down at the river for several minutes before he asked:
"Have you any reason to believe that Helen reciprocates the attachment?"
"No." Geoffrey's face fell. "Once or twice I ventured almost to hope
so; more often I feared the opposite. All I ask is the right to wait
until the time seems ripe, and know that I shall have your good will if
it ever does. I could accept no further benefits from your hands until
I had told you."
"You have it now," Savine declared very gravely. "As you know, my life
is uncertain, and I believe you faithful and strong enough to take care
of Helen. After all, what more could I look for? Still, if she does
not like you, there will be an end of the matter. It may be many would
blame me for yielding, but I believe I could trust you, Thurston--and
there are things they do not know."
Savine sighed after the last words. His face clouded. Then he added
abruptly: "Speak when it suits you, Thurston, and good luck to you.
There are reasons besides the fact that I'm an old man why I should
envy you."
Had Geoffrey been less exultant he might have noticed something curious
in Savine's expression, but he was too full of his heart's desire to be
conscious of more than the one all-important fact that Helen's father
wished him well. It was in a mood of high hopefulness he assisted Mr.
Savine during the arduous scramble up out of the canyon. Later his
elation was diminished by the recollection that he had yet to win the
good will of Miss Savine.
* * * * *
Some time had passed after the interview in the canyon, when one
afternoon Geoffrey walked out on the veranda at High Maples in search
of Helen Savine. It was winter time, but the climate near the
southwestern coast is mild. High Maples was sheltered, and the sun was
faintly warm. There were a few hardy flowers in the borders fringing
the smooth green lawn, a striking contrast to the snow-sheeted pines of
the ice-bound wilderness in which Thurston toiled. Helen was not on
the veranda, and not knowing where to search further, the young man
sank somewhat heavily into a chair. Geoffrey had ridden all night
through powdery snow-drifts which rose at times to the stirrup, and at
others so high that his horse could scarcely flounder through them. He
had made out lists of necessary stores as the jolting train sped on to
Vancouver, and had been busy every moment until it was time to start
for High Maples. Though he would have had it otherwise, he dare not
neglect one item when time was very precious. He had not spared
himself much leisure for either food or sleep of late, for by the short
northern daylight, and flame of the roaring lucigen, through the long
black nights, he and his company of carefully picked men had fought
stubbornly with the icy river.
The suns rays grew brighter, there was still no sign of Helen. Tired
in mind and body Geoffrey sat still, lost in a reverie. He had left
the camp in a state of nervous suspense, but overtaxed nature had
conquered, and now he waited not less anxious than he had been, but
with a physical languidness due to the reaction.
When Helen Savine finally came out softly through a long window
Geoffrey did not at first see her, and she had time to cast more than a
passing glance at him as he sat with head resting gratefully on the
back of the basket chair. His face, deeply tanned by the snow, had
grown once more worn and thin. There were lines upon the forehead and
wrinkles about his eyes; one bronzed hand lay above the other on his
knee, as the complement of a pose that suggested the exhaustion of
over-fatigue. The sight roused her pity, and she felt unusually
sympathetic towards the tired man.
Then Geoffrey started and rose quickly. Helen noticed how he seemed to
fling off his weariness as he came towards her, hat in hand.
"I have made a hurried journey to see you, Miss Savine," he said. "I
have something to tell you, something concerning which I cannot keep
silence any longer. If I am abrupt you will forgive me, but will you
listen a few moments, and then answer me a question?"
The man's tone was humble if his eyes were eager, and Helen, who was
sensible of a tremor of emotion, leaned against the rails of the
veranda. The winter sunlight shone full upon her, and either that or
the cold breeze that she had met on the headland accounted for the
color in her cheeks. She made a dainty picture in her fur cap and
close-fitting jacket, whose rich fur trimming set off the curves of a
shapely figure. The man's longing must have shown itself in his eyes,
for Helen suddenly turned her glance away from him. Again she felt a
curious thrill, almost of pleasure, and wondered at it. If she had
guessed his meaning correctly she would have felt merely sorry for him,
and yet there was no mistaking an indefinite sense of satisfaction.
"Do you remember what I once told you at Graham's ranch?" he asked. "I
was a needy adventurer then, and guilty of horrible presumption, but
though the words came without my definite will I meant every one of
them. I knew there could be only one woman in the world for me, and I
solemnly determined to win her. It seemed madness--I was a poor,
unknown man--but the thought of you drove me resistlessly on until at
last the gulf between us has been narrowed, and may be narrower still.
That is, I have striven to lessen it in the one way I can--in all
others without your help it must remain impassable. Heaven knows how
far I am beneath you, and the daring hope has but one excuse--I love
you, and shall always do so. Is what I hope for quite impossible?"
While Helen would have told herself ten minutes earlier that she almost
disliked the pleader, she was conscious of a new emotion. She had
regarded other suitors with something like contempt, but it was not so
with Thurston. Even if he occasionally repelled her, it was impossible
to despise him.
"I am sorry," she said slowly. "Sorry that you should have told me
this, because I can only answer that it is impossible."
Geoffrey evinced no great surprise. His face became stern instead of
expectant; his toil-hardened frame was more erect, as he answered with
unusual gentleness:
"I have endeavored to prepare myself for your reply. How could I hope
to win you--as it were for the asking--easily? Still, though I am
painfully conscious of many possible reasons, may I venture to ask why
it is impossible, Miss Savine?"
Helen answered: "I am sorry it is so--but why should I pain you? Can
you not take my answer without the reasons?"
"No; not if you will give them," persisted Geoffrey. "I have grown
accustomed to unpleasant things, and it is to be hoped there is truth
in the belief that they are good for one. The truth from your lips
would hurt me less. Will you not tell me?"
"I will try if you demand it." Helen, who could not help noticing how
unflinchingly he had received what was really a needlessly cold rebuff,
hoped she was lucid as she began:
"I have a respect for you, Mr. Thurston, but--how shall I express
it?--also a shrinking. You--please remember, you insisted--seem so
hard and overbearing, and while power is a desirable attribute in a
man---- But will you force me to go on?"
"I beg you to go on," said Geoffrey, with a certain grimness.
"In spite of a popular fallacy, I could not esteem a--a husband I was
afraid of. A man should be gentle, pitiful and considerate to all
women. Without mutual forbearance there could be no true
companionship--and----"
"You are right." Geoffrey's voice was humble without bitterness. "I
have lived a hard life, and perhaps it has made me, compared with your
standard, brutal. Still, I would ask again, are these all your
reasons? Is the other difference between us too great--the distance
dividing the man you gave the dollar to from the daughter of Julius
Savine?"
"No," answered Helen. "That difference is, after all, imaginary. We
do not think over here quite as you do in England, and if we did, are
you not a Thurston of Crosbie? But please believe that I am sorry,
and--you insisted on the explanation--forgive me if I have said too
much. There is a long future before you--and men change their minds."
Geoffrey's face darkened, and Helen, who regretted the last hasty words
which escaped her without reflection, watched him intently until he
said:
"Musker must have told you about something in my life. But I was not
inconstant though the fault was doubtless mine. That is a story which
cannot be mentioned again, Miss Savine."
"I had never meant to refer to it," Helen apologized with some
confusion, "but since you have mistaken me, I must add that another
friend of yours--a lady--gave me a version that bore truth stamped upon
the face of it. One could imagine that you would not take kindly to
the fate others arranged for you. But how do you know you are not
repeating the same mistake? The fancy which deceived you then may do
the same again."
"How do I know?" Geoffrey's voice rang convincingly as he turned upon
the questioner, stretched out an arm towards her, and then dropped it
swiftly. "I know what love is now, because you have taught me.
Listen, Miss Savine, I am as the Almighty made me, a plain--and
sometimes an ill-tempered man, who would gladly lay down his life to
save you sorrow; but if what you say divides us is all there is, then,
as long as you remain Helen Savine, I shall cling fast to my purpose
and strive to prove myself worthy. Again, you were right--how could
you be otherwise?--but I shall yet convince you that you need not
shrink from me."
"It would be wiser to take a definite 'no' for answer," said Helen.
"Why should this fancy spoil your life for you?"
"You cannot take all hope from me," Geoffrey declared. "Would you
suspect me of exaggerated sentiment, if I said my life has been yours
for a long time and is yours now, for it is true. I will go back to
the work that is best for me, merely adding that, if ever there is
either trouble or adversity in which I can aid you--though God forbid,
for your sake, that should ever be so--you have only to send for me."
"I can at least sincerely wish you success in your great undertaking."
Helen offered him her hand, and was conscious of a faint
disappointment, when, barely touching it, he turned hurriedly away.
She watched him cross the lawn towards the stables, and then waited
until a rapid thud of hoofs broke the silence of the woods.
"Gone, and I let him carry that hope away!" she said, still looking
towards the forest with troubled eyes. "Yesterday I could never have
done so, but yesterday he was gone, and now----"
Helen did not finish her sentence, but as the beat of hoofs died away,
glanced at the hand which for a moment had rested in Geoffrey's. "What
has happened to me, and is he learning quickly or growing strangely
timid?" she asked herself.
Thurston almost rode over Julius Savine near the railroad depot, and
reined in his horse to say:
"I have my answer, sir, but do not feel beaten yet. Some unholy luck
insists that all my affairs must be mixed with my daily business, and,
because of what was said in the canyon, I must ask you, now of all
times, to let me hold the option of that partnership or acceptance of
the offer I made you until we vanquish the river."
He went off at a gallop as the cars rolled in, leaving Savine smiling
dryly as he looked after him.