A GREAT UNDERTAKING
Except for the wail of a wet breeze from the Pacific and the moaning of
the pines outside, there was unusual quietness in the wood-built villa
looking down upon the valley of the Hundred Springs on the night that
the American specialist came up to consult with Savine's doctor from
Vancouver. The master of High Maples had been brought home
unconscious, some days earlier, and had lain for hours apparently on
the point of death. During this time it was Thurston who took control
of the panic-stricken household. It was he who telegraphed Thomas
Savine to bring his wife. He had sent for the famous American
physician and had allayed Helen's fears. When the girl's aunt arrived
he had prevented that lady from undertaking the cure of the patient by
her own prescription. Geoffrey's temper was never very patient, but he
held it well in hand for Helen's sake.
On the night in question, Geoffrey anxiously awaited the physician's
verdict. He was in the library with Thomas Savine, and had made
spasmodic attempts to divert the attention of the kindly, gray-haired
gentleman from the illness of his brother. At last, when the tension
grew almost unbearable, Thomas Savine said:
"They cannot be much longer, and we'll hear their verdict soon. I'm
trying to hope for the best, Thurston, knowing it can't be good all the
time. This has been a blow to me. You see we were a one-man family,
and it was Julius who started off all the rest of us. He must have
been mighty sick of us several times after he married, but he never
showed a sign of impatience. What a man he was--tireless,
indefatigable, nothing too big for him--until his wife died. Then all
the grit seemed to melt right out of him, and during the last few years
I knew, what mighty few people besides yourself know now, that Julius
was just a shadow of what he had been. He held all the wires in his
own hands too long, and, as he hadn't an understudy with the grit to
act by himself, I was glad when he took hold of you."
"He has always been a generous and considerate employer," interposed
Geoffrey. "But I had better leave you. I hear the doctors coming."
Savine laid a detaining grasp upon his arm with the words: "I want you
right here. It's your concern as well as mine."
The two doctors entered, and the one from Vancouver said:
"I will let my colleague express his opinion, and may say that our
patient admitted to him a complicating weakness which I had suspected.
I wish we had better news to give you, but while it was your brother's
wish that Mr. Thurston should know, I should almost prefer first to
communicate with his own family."
"You can both speak right out; only be quick about it," Thomas Savine
told him.
"It is tolerably simple, and while I sympathize with you, I must not
disguise the truth," said the keen-eyed, lean-faced American. "Though
Mr. Savine will partly recover from this attack, his career as an
active man is closed. His heart may hold out a few years longer, if
you follow my instructions, or it may at any time fail him--if he
worries over anything, it certainly will. In any case, he will never
be strong again. Mental powers and physical vigor have been reduced to
the lowest level by over-work and excessive, if intermittent,
indulgence in what I may call a very devilish drug--a particular
Chinese preparation of opium, not generally known even on this
opium-consuming coast. Under its influence he may still be capable of
spasmodic fits of energy, but while each dose will assist towards his
dissolution, I dare not--at this stage--recommend complete deprivation.
I have arranged with your own adviser as to the best treatment known to
modern science, but fear it cannot prove very efficacious. That's
about all I can tell you in general terms, gentlemen."
"It is worse than I feared," said Thomas Savine, leaning forward in his
chair, with his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands. Before
the two doctors withdrew, the Canadian said:
"He is anxious to see Mr. Thurston, and in an hour or so it could do no
harm. I will rejoin you shortly, Mr. Savine."
The door closed behind them, and Thomas Savine looked straight at
Thurston as he observed: "I know little about his business, but shall
have to look into it for his daughter's sake. You will help me?"
"Yes," replied Geoffrey. "It seems out of place now, but I cannot
honestly co-operate with you without mentioning a conditional promise
your brother made to me. Perhaps you can guess it."
"I can," said Savine, stretching out his hand. "I won't say that I
hadn't thought Helen might have chosen among the highest in the
Dominion just because it wouldn't be true, but you'll have my good
wishes if you will see my poor brother through his immediate
difficulties at least. You had Mrs. Savine's approval long ago."
After a pause, he added, "There is one part of Julius's trouble Helen
must never know."
The two men's fingers met in a grip that was more eloquent than many
protestations, and Geoffrey went out into the moaning wind and,
bareheaded, paced to and fro until he was summoned to the sick man's
room. The few days that had passed since he had seen his employer had
set their mark upon Savine. The sick man lay in his plainly-furnished
room. With bloodless lips, drawn face, and curiously-glazed eyes, he
was strangely different from his usual self, but he looked up with an
attempt at his characteristic smile as Geoffrey approached. At a
signal, the nurse slipped away.
"I asked them to tell you, so you might know the kind of man I am,"
said Savine. "You have got to exercise that partnership option one way
or another right now. It is not too late to back out, and I wouldn't
blame you."
"I should blame myself to my last day if I did, sir," answered
Geoffrey, trying to hide the shock he felt, and Savine beckoned him
nearer.
"It's a big thing you are going into, but you'll do it with both eyes
wide open," he declared. "For the past few years Julius Savine has
been a shadow, and an empty name, and his affairs are mixed
considerably. Reckless contracts taken with a muddled brain and
speculation to make up the losses, have, between them, resulted in
chaos. I'm too sick to value what I own, and no accountant can. I ran
things myself too long, and no one was fit to take hold when I
slackened my grip. But there's still the business, and there's still
the name, and the one man in this province I can trust them to is you.
I should have let go before, but I was greedy--greedy for my daughter's
sake."
"It is comprehensible." Geoffrey spoke with conviction. "So far as I
can serve you, you can command me."
"I know it," was the answer. "What's more, I feel it in me that you
will not lose by it. Lord, how hard it is, but there's no use whining
when brought up sharp by one's own folly. But see here, Geoffrey
Thurston, if Helen will take you willingly I can trust her to you; but
if, when I go under, she looks beyond you, and you attempt to trade
upon her gratitude or her aunt's favor, my curse will follow you.
Besides, if I know Helen Savine, she will be able to repay you full
measure should you win her so."
For just a moment the old flame of quick anger burned in Geoffrey's
eyes. Then he responded.
"I regret you even imagine I could take an dishonorable advantage of
your daughter. God forbid that I should ever bring sorrow upon Miss
Savine. All I ask is a fair field and the right to help her according
to her need."
"Forgive me!" returned Savine. "Of late I have grown scared about her
future. I believe you, Thurston; I can't say more. I felt the more
sure of you when you told me straight out about what was born in you.
Lord, how I envied you! The man who can stand those devils off can do
most anything. It was when my wife died they got their claws on me. I
was trying to forget my troubles by doing three men's work, but you
can't fool with nature, and I'd done it too long already. Anyway, when
I couldn't eat or sleep, they had their opportunity. At first they
made my brain work quicker, but soon after I fell in with you I knew
that, unless he had a good man beside him, Savine's game was over. But
I wouldn't be beaten. I was holding on for Helen's sake to leave her a
fortune and a name.
"All this is getting monotonous to you but let me finish when I can."
Savine waited a moment to regain his breath. "I cheated the nurse and
doctor to-day, and I'll be very like a dead man to-morrow. You must go
down to my offices and overhaul everything; then come right back and
we'll see if we can make a deal. I'll have my proposition fixed up
straight and square, but this is the gist of it. While doing your best
for your own advantage, hold Julius Savine's name clean before the
world, win the most possible for Helen out of the wreck, and rush
through the reclamation scheme--which is the key to all."
"As you said--it's a big undertaking, but I'll do my best," began
Geoffrey, but Savine checked him.
"Go down and see what you make of things. Maybe the sight of them will
choke you off. I'll take no other answer. Send Tom to me," he
commanded.
It was the next day when Geoffrey had an interview with Helen, who sent
for him. She was standing beside a window when he came in. She looked
tall in a long somber-tinted dress which emphasized the whiteness of
her full round throat and the pallor of her face. The faint, olive
coloring of her skin had faded; there were shadows about her eyes. At
the first glance Geoffrey's heart went out towards her. It was evident
the verdict of the physicians had been a heavy shock, but he fancied
that she was ready to meet the inevitable with undiminished courage.
Still, her fingers were cold when, for a moment, they touched his own.
"Sit down, Geoffrey. I have a great deal to say to you, and don't know
how to begin," she said. "But first I am sincerely grateful for all
you have done."
"We will not mention that. Neither, I hope, need I say that Miss
Savine of all people could never be indebted to me. You must know it
already."
Helen thanked him with her eyes as she sank into the chair he wheeled
out so that the light left her face in shadow. Geoffrey stood near the
window framing and he did not look directly towards her. Helen
appreciated the consideration which prompted the action and the respect
implied by his attitude.
"I am going to ask a great deal of you, and remind you of a promise you
once made." There was a little tremor in her voice. "You will not
think it ungracious if I say there is no one else who can do what seems
so necessary, and ask you if you do not consider that you owe something
to my father. It is hard for me, not because I doubt you, but
because----"
Geoffrey checked her with a half-raised hand. "Please don't, Miss
Savine--I can understand. You find it difficult to receive, when, as
yet, you have, you think, but little to give. Would that make any
difference? The little--just to know that I had helped you--would be
so much to me."
Again Helen was grateful. The look of anxiety and distress returned as
she went on.
"I dare spare no effort for my father's sake. He has always been
kindness itself to me, and it is only now that I know how much I love
him. Hitherto I have taken life too easily, forgetting that sorrow and
tragedy could overtake me. I have heard the physician's verdict, and
know my father cannot be spared very long to me. I also know how his
mind is set upon the completion of his last great scheme. That is why,
and because of your promise, I have dared ask help of--you."
"Will it make it easier if I say that, quite apart from his daughter's
wishes, I am bound in honor to protect the interests of Julius Savine
so far as I can?" interposed Geoffrey. "Your father found me much as
you did, a struggling adventurer, and with unusual kindness helped me
on the way to prosperity. All I have I owe to him, and perhaps, the
more so because we have cunning enemies, my own mind is bent on the
completion of the scheme. I believe that we shall triumph, Miss
Savine, and I use the word advisedly, still expecting much from your
father's skill."
Helen gravely shook her head. "I recognize your kind intentions, but
you must expect nothing. It is a hard thing for me to say, but the
truth is always best, and again it is no small favor I ask from
you,--to do the work for the credit of another's name--taking his task
upon your shoulders, to make a broken man's last days easier. I want
you to sign the new partnership agreement, and am glad you recognize
that my father was a good friend to you."
The girl's courage nearly deserted her, for Helen was young still, and
had been severely tried. While Geoffrey, who felt that he would give
his life for the right to comfort her, could only discreetly turn his
face away.
"I will do it all, Miss Savine," he said gravely. "I had already
determined on as much, but you must try to believe that the future is
not so hopeless as it looks. You will consider that I have given you a
solemn pledge."
"Then I can only say God speed you, for my thanks would be inadequate,"
Helen's voice trembled as she spoke. "But I must also ask your
forgiveness for my presumption in judging you that day. I now know how
far I was mistaken."
Geoffrey knew to what she referred. The day had been a memorable one
for him, and, with pulses throbbing, he moved forward a pace, his eyes
fixed upon the speaker's face. For a moment, forgetting everything,
his resolutions were flung to the winds, and he trembled with passion
and hope. Then he remembered his promise to the sick man, and Helen's
own warning, and recovered a partial mastery of himself. It was a mere
sense of justice which prompted the girl's words, his reason warned
him, but he felt, instinctively, that they implied more than this,
though he did not know how much. He stood irresolute until Helen
looked up, and, if it had ever existed, the time for speech was past.
"I fear I have kept you too long, but there is still a question I must
ask. You have seen my father in many of his moods, and there is
something in the state of limp apathy he occasionally falls into which
puzzles me. I cannot help thinking there is another danger of which I
do not know. Can you not enlighten me?"
Helen leaned forward, a strange fear stamped upon her face. Fresh from
the previous struggle, Geoffrey, whose heart yearned to comfort her,
felt his powers of resistance strained to the utmost. Still, it was a
question that he could not answer. Remembering Savine's injunction--to
hold her father's name clean--he said quickly: "There is nothing I can
tell you. You must remember only that the physician admitted a
cheering possibility."
"I will try to believe in it." The trouble deepened in Helen's face,
while her voice expressed bitter disappointment. "You have been very
kind and I must not tax you too heavily."
Geoffrey turned away, distressed, for her and inwardly anathematized
his evil fortune in being asked that particular question. He had, he
felt, faltered when almost within sight of victory, neglecting to press
home an advantage which might have won success. "It is, perhaps, the
first time I have willfully thrown away my chances--the man who wins is
the one who sees nothing but the prize," he told himself. "But I could
not have taken advantage of her anxiety for her father and gratitude to
me, while, if I had, and won, there would be always between us the
knowledge that I had not played the game fairly."
Thomas Savine came into the room. "I was looking for you, and want to
know when you'll go down to Vancouver with me to puzzle through
everything before finally deciding just what you're going to do," he
said. They talked a few moments. After the older man left him,
Geoffrey found himself confronted by Mrs. Savine.
"I have been worried about you," she asserted. "You're carrying too
heavy a load, and it's wearing you thin. You look a very sick man
to-day, and ought to remember that the main way to preserve one's
health is to take life easily."
"I have no doubt of it, madam," Thurston fidgeted, fearing what might
follow; "but, unfortunately, one cannot always do so."
Mrs. Savine held out a little phial as she explained: "A simple
restorative is the next best thing, and you will find yourself braced
in mind and body by a few doses of this. It is what I desired to fix
up my poor brother-in-law with when you prevented me."
"Then the least I can do is to take it myself," said Geoffrey, smiling
to hide his uneasiness. "I presume you do not wish me to swallow it
immediately?"
Mrs. Savine beamed upon him. "You might hold out an hour or two
longer, but delays are dangerous," she warned him. "Kindness! Well,
there's a tolerable reason why we should be good to you, and, for I
guess you're not a clever man all round, Geoffrey Thurston, you have
piled up a considerable obligation in your favor in one direction."
"May I ask you to speak more plainly, Mrs. Savine?" Geoffrey requested
and she answered:
"You may, but I can't do it. Still, what you did, because you thought
it the fair thing, won't be lost to you. Now, don't ask any more fool
questions, but go right away, take ten drops of the elixir, and don't
worry. It will all come right some day."
The speaker's meaning was discernible, and Geoffrey, having a higher
opinion than many people of Mrs. Savine's sagacity, went out into the
sunlight, satisfied. He held up the phial and was about to hurl it
among the firs, but, either grateful for the donor's words, or softened
by what he had heard and seen, he actually drank a little of it
instead. Then came a revulsion from the strain of the last few days,
and he burst into a laugh.
"It would have been mean, and I dare say I haven't absorbed sufficient
of the stuff to quite poison me," he said.