A REPRIEVE
It was with a heavy heart that Geoffrey Thurston turned over the papers
Thomas Savine spread out before him in the Vancouver offices.
"I'm almost scared to do any more figuring," said Savine. "Money is
going to be uncommonly tight with us, and, to make things worse, I can
neither realize nor borrow. My brother's investments are way below par
now, and the first sign of any weakness would raise up an opposition
that would finish us. I can't stay here forever, and poor Julius is
steadily getting worse instead of better. Are you still certain you
can get the work done before the winter's through?"
"Yes," asserted Geoffrey. "If I can get the machinery and sufficient
men--which means money. There's a moderate fortune waiting us once we
can run the water out of the valley, and it's worth a desperate effort
to secure it."
"We have made a good many daring moves since my brother gave me his
power of attorney, and I have sunk more of my own money than my
partners, who have backed me pluckily, care about. Still, I can't see
how I'm going to meet your estimate, nohow."
"You have just got to do it," Geoffrey insisted. "It is the part you
chose. At my end, I'll stop for nothing short of manslaughter. We
simply can't afford to be beaten, and we're not going to be."
"I hope not," and Thomas Savine sighed dubiously. "Your assurance is
refreshing, Geoffrey, but I own up I can't see--well, we've done enough
for one day. Come round and spend the evening with me. Mrs. Savine is
anxious to see you."
Geoffrey hesitated for a few seconds, and Thomas Savine smiled at
something which faintly amused him. Remembering Helen's freezing look
and his occupation when she last saw him, Geoffrey felt that it might
not be pleasant to meet her so soon. Then, because he was a proud man,
he endeavored to accept the invitation with cordiality.
"I am glad you will come," said Thomas Savine, with a trace of the dry
humor which occasionally characterized him.
Geoffrey, who felt that in this instance the pleasure was hardly
mutual, and that Helen might not share it with her uncle, said nothing
further on that subject, until Mrs. Savine met him in the hotel
corridor. A friendship had grown up between them since the day
Geoffrey endured the elixir, after mending the bicycle, and there was a
mischievous amusement in the lady's eyes as she said; "My compliments,
Geoffrey. You are a brave man."
"I don't deserve them, madam. Wherein lies the bravery? Being at
present in perfect health, I have no cause to fear you."
Mrs. Savine laughed good-naturedly, then laid her hand upon his arm
with a friendly gesture. "Sober earnest, I am glad you came. I
believe in you, Geoffrey, and like to see a man show the grit that's in
him."
"I am honored," returned Geoffrey, with a little bow. There was a
grateful look in his brown eyes, which did not quail in the slightest
under the lady's scrutiny.
In spite of her good-will, he, however, derived little pleasure from
that evening of relaxation. Helen showed no open displeasure, but he
was painfully conscious that what she had seen had been a shock to her.
It was impossible for him to volunteer an explanation. He was glad to
retire with Savine and a cigar-box to the veranda, and trying to
console himself with the reflection that he had at least shown no
weakness--he took his leave early. Helen was not present when he bade
Mrs. Savine farewell, but she saw him stride away over the gravel.
Though she would not ask herself why, she felt gratified that he had
not stayed away.
It was some time later when, one day of early winter, he sat in his
wooden shanty, which at that season replaced the tent above the canyon.
Close by English Jim was busy writing, and Geoffrey, gnawing an
unlighted pipe, glanced alternately through the open door at his
hurrying workmen and at the letter from Thomas Savine which he held in
his hand.
The letter expressed a fear that a financial crisis was imminent.
"Tell him he must settle all local bills up to the minute," said
Thurston, throwing it across to his amanuensis. "I daresay the English
makers will wait a little for payment due on machinery. Did you find
that the amount I mentioned would cover the wages through the winter?"
"Only just," was the answer. "That is, unless you could cut some of
them a little."
"Not a cent," Geoffrey replied. "The poor devils who risk their lives
daily fully earn their money."
"Do you know their wages equal the figure the strikers demanded and you
refused to pay? Summers told me about that dispute, sir," ventured
English Jim.
"The strikers were not prepared to earn higher pay--and that one word,
'demanded,' makes a big difference. Hello! who is the stranger?"
Mattawa Tom was directing a horseman towards the shanty, and Geoffrey,
who watched the newcomer with growing interest, found something
familiar in his face and figure, until he rose up in astonishment when
the man rode nearer.
"Halliday, by all that's wonderful!" he cried. "Uncommonly glad to see
you; but whatever brought you back to this far-off land again?"
"Several things," was the answer, as Halliday, shaking the snow from
his furs, dismounted stiffly. "Strain of overwork necessitated a
change, my doctor told me. Trust estate I'm winding up comprised
doubtful British Columbian mining interests, and last, but not least,
to see you, Geoffrey."
The man's fur coat was open now, and Geoffrey, who glanced at the black
coat beneath it, said:
"I'm glad you wanted to see me, anyway, but come in. Here, Jake, take
the horse to the stable. Are my sympathies needed, Halliday--any of my
new friends over yonder dead?"
Halliday stared at him blankly. "Haven't you read the letter I sent
you? Do you get no English papers?" he questioned.
"No, to both. I fancy very few people over yonder trouble themselves
as to whether I'm living. How did you address your letter?"
"Orchard City, or was it Orchardville? Mrs. Leslie told me the name of
the postoffice, and I looked it up on a map."
Geoffrey thrust his guest into a chair.
"That explains it. This is Orchard Valley; the other place is away
across the province, a forlorn hamlet, and some ox-driving postmaster
has no doubt returned your letter. Do you bring bad news? Don't keep
me in suspense."
"Anthony Thurston's dead. Died in your old place, partly the result of
a gun accident," answered Halliday, and Geoffrey sat silent for a
moment.
"I'm sorry--yes, sincerely," he said at last. "I can say it freely,
because, as I daresay you know, I disappointed him, and can in no way
benefit by his death. In fact, he had the power to refuse me what was
morally my right, and no doubt he exercised it. Still, now it's too
late, I feel ashamed that I never tried to patch up the quarrel. Poor
old Anthony!"
Halliday smiled. "You are a better fellow than you often lead folks to
suppose, Geoffrey--and I quite believe you. Such regrets are, however,
generally useless, are they not? In this case especially so, for
Anthony Thurston forgot the quarrel before he died, and sent you his
very good wishes. I see I have a surprise in store. You are a
beneficiary. He has bequeathed you considerably more than your moral
share in the property."
Thurston strode up and down the shanty before he halted.
"I'm glad that, though perhaps I deserved it, he didn't carry the
bitterness into the grave with him," he declared with earnestness. "We
were too much like each other to get on well, but there was a time when
he was a good friend to me. It's no use pretending I'm not pleased at
what you tell me--it means a great deal to me. But you must be tired
and hungry, and I want to talk by the hour to you."
Halliday did full justice to the meal which the camp cook produced, and
afterwards the two men sat talking until the short winter afternoon had
drawn to a close and the first stars were blinking down on untrodden
snows. Answering a question Halliday said:
"Your share--I'll show you a complete list when I unpack my
things--will, if left invested, provide you with a moderate income for
a single man. Indeed, with your Spartan tastes, you might live in what
you would consider luxury. As usual, however, in such cases, the
securities are not readily marketable, and your interest in some
ventures could hardly be summarily realized at any sacrifice. The
whole is left to you unconditionally, but my advice is decidedly that
you hold on."
"I am sorry," Geoffrey replied, "because even at a sacrifice I intend
to sell. If you're not too tired to listen a little longer, I'll try
to explain why."
Halliday listened gravely. Then he commented:
"As Anthony Thurston said, it is characteristic of you, and it's
possible that he would have approved of what on the surface looks like
folly. He stated that he hoped the bequest would help you to confound
your enemies. But you must act as a business man. You say that, if
you go deeper, your firm might still wind up just solvent; then why not
abandon the apparently hopeless project, and withdraw? Follow your
profession if you must work, or live upon your income. This drainage
scheme looks tolerably desperate on your own showing, and if, selling
at a sacrifice you sink all your new possessions in it, you may be left
utterly cleaned out, a beggar. You have no other relatives likely to
leave you another competence, Geoffrey."
"It can't be helped--or rather I don't want to help it. I've pledged
my word and honor to see this undertaking through, and I mean to redeem
it if it ruins me. Now what were you telling me about Mrs. Leslie?"
Halliday explained for some minutes before he said:
"You are on the spot, and it's your duty to join us. Anthony Thurston
was always eccentric, and has left us a very troublesome charge. Her
husband is not to get at the money, and this discrimination between man
and wife is going to be confoundedly awkward. However, as I'm going to
stay some little time, and if possible shoot a mountain sheep, we can
discuss it at leisure."
Thomas Savine, who came up in a day or two, speedily became good
friends with Halliday. Geoffrey had his work to superintend, and was
suspicious that Halliday seized the opportunity his absence afforded to
explain what appeared to him a sacrifice of Anthony Thurston's legacy.
One evening when Halliday was down in the canyon watching the workmen
toiling in the river, under the lurid blaze of the lucigen, Thomas
Savine said:
"I'm going to talk straight, Geoffrey. Your friend told me the whole
thing, and I agree with his opinion. See here, you are safe for life
if you hold fast to what you have got now--and the Lord knows whether
we will ever be successful in the canyon. Of course the money would
help us, but it isn't sufficient to make victory dead certain, and it
would be a drop in the bucket if we came down with a bang, as we may
very well do. Even considering what's at stake, I couldn't let you
make the plunge without protesting."
"If I had ten times as much, or ten times as little, it would all go
after the rest," replied Geoffrey. "I appreciate your good intentions,
but you can't, and never will, convince me, so there's no use talking.
You will, in the meantime, say not a word to Miss Savine on the
subject."
Next morning Geoffrey said to his guest:
"I want you to write out a telegram to your partner in England.
Yonder's a mounted messenger waiting for it. He's to sell everything
bequeathed to me at the best price he can. You have done your best,
Halliday, and I suppose I ought to be more grateful than I am, but you
see I'm rather fond than otherwise of a big risk. We'll ride over with
Mr. Savine and call upon my partner to-day."
It was late in the afternoon when the two arrived at the ranch which
Savine had rented. It was the nearest dwelling to the camp that could
be rendered comfortable, but lay some distance from it, over a very bad
trail. Helen was not cordial towards Geoffrey, who left her to
entertain Halliday, and slipped away to the room looking down the
valley, where his partner sat with a fur robe wrapped about his bent
shoulders. Savine's face had grown very hollow and his eyes were
curiously dim.
"It was good of you to come, Geoffrey," he said; "How are you getting
on in the canyon?"
"Famously, sir. We are certainly going to beat the river," was the
prompt answer, and remembering the accession of capital, Geoffrey's
cheerfulness was real. "I'm hoping to ask Miss Savine to fire the
final shot some time before the snows melt."
Savine looked at him with a trace of his old keenness, and appeared
satisfied that the speaker believed in his own prediction. Then he
smiled as he answered:
"You do me good, Geoffrey. Good news is better than gallons of
medicine, and when you make such a promise I feel I can trust you. I'm
grateful, but it's mighty trying to lie here helpless while another man
plays out my last and boldest game for me. Lord! what wouldn't I give
for just three months of my old vigor! Still, I'll never be fit again,
and as I must lean on somebody, I'm glad it should be you."
"Lean on me! You have given me the chance of my life, sir. You don't
look quite comfortable there. Let me settle that rug for you," said
Geoffrey, and as with clumsy gentleness he rearranged the sick man's
wrappings, Helen came unobserved into the room. She read the pity
beneath the smile on the younger man's bronze face and noticed how
willingly his hard fingers did their unaccustomed work. Her heart grew
soft towards Geoffrey as she heard her father's sigh of content. The
sight touched, though, for a reason she was ashamed of, it also
troubled her. Unwilling to disturb them, she merely smiled when
Thurston saw her, and found herself a seat in a corner.
"My brain's not so clear as it used to be. No use hiding things.
Why," began Savine, and Geoffrey, who surmised that he had not seen his
daughter, knocked over a medicine bottle with his elbow and spent some
time noisily groping under the table for it. The action might have
deceived one of his own sex, but Helen, who wondered what his motive
was, grew piqued as well as curious.
"I've been worrying over things lately," continued Savine. "There was
one of the rancher's hired men in and he told our folks a mixed story
about a sluice gate bursting. You never mentioned it to me. Now I
have a hazy notion that I made a drawing for a gate one day, when I
was--sick, we'll say. I looked for it afterwards and couldn't find it.
I've been thinking over it considerable lately."
"Then you are very foolish, sir," declared Geoffrey. "Of course, we
have had one or two minor breakages, but nothing we were unable to
remedy. Just now everything is going ahead in the most satisfactory
manner."
Helen, who watched the speaker, decided that he was concealing
something, and also fancied her father did not seem quite satisfied.
"I've been wondering whether it was that gate which burst. See here,
Geoffrey, I feel you have had bad trouble; isn't it a little mean not
to tell me? You will remember I'm still Julius Savine--and only a
little while ago there was no man in the province who dared to try to
fool me."
A measure of the speaker's former spirit revealed itself in a clearer
vibration of his voice, and, raising himself in his chair, Savine
became for a moment almost the man he had been.
Thurston had determined to hold his fallen leader's credit safe, not
only before the eyes of others but even in his own, and was doing it to
the best of his ability.
"Of course, we have had trouble--lots of it, but nothing we could not
overcome," he repeated. "If everything went smoothly it would grow
monotonous. Still, you can rest perfectly contented, sir, and assist
us with your judgment in the difficult cases. For instance, would you
let me know what you think of these specifications?"
Savine, who seemed to find a childish pleasure in being consulted,
forgot his former anxiety, and Geoffrey, leaving him contented, slipped
out of the ranch, and, finding a sheltered path among the redwoods,
paced to and fro. He was presently surprised to see Helen move out
from among the trees. She had a fur about her shoulders which set off
the finely-chiselled face above it. Nevertheless, for once at least,
he was by no means pleased to see her.
"I wish to ask you a question," she said. "Of course, I have heard
there was an inquiry into the breaking of the sluice, but neither you
nor my uncle thought fit to give me any definite information on the
subject. Unfortunately, my father heard distorted rumors of the
accident, and has been fretting ever since. As you know, this is most
detrimental to his failing health, and, so that I may be the better
able to soothe him I want you to tell me all that happened."
"There is absolutely no cause for uneasiness. As I said, we had one or
two difficulties which may have been vanquished. Your uncle will bear
me out in this," answered Geoffrey, who would have spoken more freely
had he not feared the girl's keenness. Helen's face, which was at
first scornful, grew anxious as she responded:
"I have no doubt he would! In fact, when I asked him he explained with
such readiness that I cannot help concluding you have both conspired to
keep me in the dark. Can you not see that, situated as I am in caring
for an invalid who will not let his mind rest, uncertainty is almost
worse than the knowledge of disaster to me. Will you not tell me
frankly what you fear?"
"I would do anything to drive your fears away." Geoffrey, who felt
helpless beneath the listener's searching eyes, spoke with sympathy in
his voice. "But I can only say again there is very slight cause for
anxiety."
Helen turned half from him, angrily, then she faced round again. "You
are not a good dissembler. If quick at making statements you are not
prepared to substantiate them," she declared. "You would do anything
to dispel my fears--but the one most necessary thing I ask. You have
passed through, or are now facing, a crisis, and though some knowledge
of it would be of great help to me you do not consider me worthy of
your confidence."
"Heaven forbid that I should think so. There is no one more
worthy--but----" Helen checked him with a gesture.
"I desire the simple truth and not indifferent compliments," she said.
"You will not tell it to me, and I will plead with you no further, even
for my father's sake. When will you men learn that a woman's
discretion is at least equal to your own?" With a flash in her eyes,
she added: "How dare you once offer what you did to a woman you had no
trust in?"
"You are almost cruel," Geoffrey answered, clenching his hand as he
mastered his own anger. "Some day, perhaps, you will yet believe I
tried to do what was best. Meantime, since I dare not presume to
resent it, I must try to bear your displeasure patiently."
He might have said more, but that Helen left him abruptly.
"It is confoundedly hard. Once strike a certain vein of bad luck and
you can neither get around nor under it, but there's no use
groaning--and what on earth could I have done?" he said to the
whispering firs.
He went back presently to the ranch, and found Helen, who apparently
did not notice his return, chatting with Halliday. When the two men
bade their host farewell, Halliday, who lingered a few minutes,
observed to Thomas Savine:
"I always knew my friend was reckless, but when I spoke as I did I
failed to comprehend what was at once his incentive and justification.
I must thank you for your attempt to aid me, but even against the
dictates of my judgment I can't help sympathizing with him now. If you
don't mind my saying so--because I see you know--I think what he hopes
to win is very well worth the risk."
"I certainly know, and perhaps I am prejudiced in favor of my niece,
but I feel tempted to agree with you," answered Savine. "There are few
better women in the Dominion, but she is wayward, and whether Geoffrey
will ever win her only Heaven knows. Meantime, though we depend so
much upon him, I am often ashamed to let him take his chances with us.
Believe me, I have endeavored to dissuade him."
Halliday smiled. "I am a kinsman of his and know him well," he said.
"It is quite in keeping with traditions that he should be perfectly
willing to ruin himself for a woman, and I am at least thankful that
the woman proves worthy. In this case, however, I venture to hope the
end may be the achievement of prosperity. I generally speak my mind
and hope I have not offended you."