A REVELATION
Two persons were strangely affected and stirred to unexpected action by
the news of Thurston's injury, and the first of these was Julius
Savine. It was late next night when his brother's messenger arrived at
the ranch, for Thomas had thought of nothing but the sufferer's welfare
at first, and Savine lay, a very frail, wasted figure, dozing by the
stove. His sister-in-law sat busy over some netting close at hand.
Both were startled when a man, who held out a soiled envelope, came in
abruptly. Savine read the message and tossed the paper across to Mrs.
Savine before he rose shakily to his feet.
"I would sooner have heard anything than that Geoffrey was badly hurt,"
he exclaimed with a quaver in his voice. To the Chinaman, who brought
the stranger in, he gave the order, "Get him some supper and tell
Fontaine I want him at once."
"Poor Geoffrey! We must hope it is not serious," cried Mrs. Savine
with visible distress. "But sit down. You can't help him, and may
bring on a seizure by exciting yourself, Julius."
Savine, who did not answer her, remained standing until the hired hand
whom he had summoned, entered. "Ride your hardest to the camp and tell
Foreman Tom I'm coming over to take charge until Mr. Thurston, who has
met with an accident, recovers," he said. "He's to send a spare horse
and a couple of men to help the sleigh over the washed-out trail. Come
back at your best pace. I must reach the canyon before morning."
"Are you mad, Julius?" asked his sister-in-law when the men retired.
"It's even chances the excitement or the journey will kill you."
"Then I must take the chances," declared Savine. "While there was a
man I could trust to handle things, I let this weakness master me. Now
the poor fellow's helpless, somebody must take hold before chaos
ensues, and I haven't quite forgotten everything. You'll have to nurse
Geoffrey, and it's no use trying to scare me. Fill my big flask with
the old brandy and get my furs out."
Mrs. Savine saw further remonstrance would be useless. She considered
her brother-in-law more fit for his grave than to complete a great
undertaking, but he was clearly bent on having his way. When she
hinted something of her thoughts, he answered that even so he would
rather die at work in the canyon than tamely in his bed. So shivering
under a load of furs he departed in the sleigh, and after several
narrow escapes of an upset, reached the camp in the dusk of a nipping
morning.
"Help me out. Mr. Thurston, I am sorry to say, has met with a bad
accident, and you and I have got to finish this work without him," he
said to the anxious foreman. "From what he told me I can count upon
your doing the best that's in you, Tom."
"I won't go back on nothing Mr. Thurston said," was the quiet answer;
but when Tom from Mattawa left Savine, whose nerveless fingers spilled
half the contents of the silver cup he strove to fill, gasping beside
the stove in Thurston's quarters, he gravely shook his head.
Several days elapsed after Helen's departure for Vancouver before Mrs.
Savine, who had gone at once to the scene of the accident, considered
it judicious to inform her of Geoffrey's condition, and so it happened
that one evening Helen accompanied her hostess to witness the
performance of a Western dramatic company. Despite second-rate acting
the play was a pretty one, and each time the curtain went down Helen
found the combination of bright light, pretty dresses, laughter and
merry voices strangely pleasant after her isolation. At times her
thoughts would wander back to the ice-bound canyon and the man who had
pitted himself against the thundering river in its gloomy depths.
Perhaps the very contrast between this scene of brightness and luxury
and the savage wilderness emphasized the self-abnegation he had shown.
She knew now that he had toiled beyond most men's strength, when he
might have rested, and casting away what would have insured him a life
of ease, had voluntarily chosen an almost hopeless struggle for her
sake. Few women had been wooed so, she reflected, and then she
endeavored to confine her attention to the play, for as yet, though
both proud and grateful, she could not admit that she had been won.
Presently the son of her hostess, who joined the party between the
acts, handed her a note. "I am sorry I could not get here before, but
found this waiting, and thought I'd better bring it along. I hope it's
not a summons of recall," he said.
Helen opened the envelope, and the hurriedly-written lines grew blurred
before her eyes as she read, "I am grieved to say that Geoffrey has
been seriously injured by an accident. The doctor has, however, some
hopes of his recovery, though he won't speak definitely yet. If you
can find an intelligent woman in Vancouver you could trust to help me
nurse him, send her along. Didn't write before because----"
"What is it? No bad news of your father, I hope," her hostess asked,
and the son, a fine type of the young Western citizen, noticed the
dismay in Helen's face as she answered:
"Nothing has happened to my father. His partner has been badly hurt.
I must return to-morrow, and, as it is a tiresome journey, if you will
excuse me, I would rather not sit out the play."
The young man noticed that Helen seemed to shiver, while her voice was
strained. He discreetly turned away his head, though he had seen
sufficient to show him that certain lately-renewed hopes were vain.
"Miss Savine has not been used to gayety of late, and I warned her she
must take it quietly, especially with that ride through the ranges
before her. This place is unsufferably hot, and you can trust me to
see her safe home, mother," he said.
Helen's grateful, "Thank you!" was reward enough, but it was in an
unenviable humor that the young man returned to the theater when she
sought refuge in her own room.
Solitude appeared a vital necessity, for at last Helen understood.
Ever since Thurston first limped, footsore and hungry, into her life
she had been alternately attracted and repelled by him. His steadfast
patience and generosity had almost melted her at times, but from the
beginning, circumstances had seemed to conspire against the man,
shadowing him with suspicion, and forcing him into opposition to her
will. Mrs. Savine's story had made his unswerving loyalty plain, and
Helen had begun to see that she would with all confidence trust her
life to him; but she was proud, and knowing how she had misjudged him,
hesitated still. As long as a word or a smile could bring him to her
feet she could postpone the day of reckoning at least until his task
was finished, and thus allow him to prove his devotion to the uttermost
test.
Now, however, fate had intervened, tearing away all disguise, and her
eyes were opened. She knew that without him the future would be empty,
and the revelation stirred every fiber of her being. Growing suddenly
cold with a shock of fear she remembered that she had perhaps already
lost him forever. It might be that another more solemn summons had
preceded her own, and that she might call and Geoffrey Thurston would
not hear! He had won his right to rest by work well done, but she--it
now seemed that a lifetime would be too short to mourn him. Helen
shivered at the thought, then she felt as if she were suffocating.
Turning the light low, she flung the long window open. Beyond the
electric glare of the city, with its shapeless pile of roofs and
towering poles, the mountains rose, serenely majestic, in robes of
awful purity. They were beckoning her she felt. The man whom she had
learned to love too late lay among them, perhaps with the strong hands
that had toiled for her folded in peace at last, and, living or dead,
she must go to him. She remembered that the message said,--"Hire a
capable woman in Vancouver," and it brought her a ray of comfort. If
the time was not already past she would ask nothing better than to wait
on him herself. Presently, when there was a hum of voices below,
Helen, white of face but steady in nerves, descended to meet her
hostess.
"I must go back to-morrow, and as it is a fatiguing journey you will
not mind my retiring early," she said to excuse her absence from the
supper party that was assembled after the play.
On reaching the railroad settlement Helen found the doctor in charge of
Thurston willing to avail himself of her assistance. The physician had
barely held his own in several encounters with her aunt, whom he
suspected of endeavoring to administer unauthorized preparations to his
patient, while on her part Mrs. Savine freely admitted that at her age
she could not sit up all night forever. So Helen was installed, and it
was midnight when she commenced her first watch.
"You will call me at once if the patient wakes complaining of any
pain," said the surgeon. "Do I think he is out of danger? Well, he is
very weak yet, my dear young lady, but if you will carry out my orders,
I fancy we may hope for the best. But you must remember that a nurse's
chief qualifications are presence of mind and a perfect serenity."
"I will not fail you," promised Helen, choking back a sob of relief;
and, trusting that the doctor did not see her quivering face, she added
softly, "Heaven is merciful!"
She had been prepared for a change, but she was startled at the sight
of Thurston. He lay with blanched patches in the paling bronze on his
face, which had grown hollow and lined by pain. Still he was sleeping
soundly, and did not move when she bent over him. She stooped further
and touched his forehead with her lips, rose with the hot blood pulsing
upwards from her neck, and stood trembling, while, either dreaming or
stirred by some influence beyond man's knowledge, the sleeper smiled,
murmuring, "Helen!"
It was daylight when Thurston awakened, and stared as if doubtful of
his senses at his new nurse, until, approaching the frame of canvas
whereon he lay, Helen, with a gentle touch, caressingly brushed the
hair from his forehead.
"I have come to help you to get better. We cannot spare you,
Geoffrey," she said simply.
The sick man asked no question nor betrayed further astonishment. He
looked up gratefully into the eyes which met his own for a moment and
grew downcast again. "Then I shall certainly cheat the doctors yet,"
he declared.
Under the circumstances his words were distinctly commonplace, but
speech is not the sole means of communion between mind and mind, and
for the present both were satisfied. Helen laughed and blushed happily
when, as by an after thought, Geoffrey added, "It is really very kind
of you."
"You must not talk," she admonished with a half-shy assumption of
authority, strangely at variance with her former demeanor. "I shall
call in my aunt with the elixir if you do."
Geoffrey smiled, but the brightness of his countenance was not
accounted for by his answer: "I believe she has treated me with it once
or twice already, and I still survive. In fact, I am inclined to think
the doctor caught her red-handed on one occasion, and there was
trouble."
After that Geoffrey recovered vigor rapidly, and the days passed
quickly for Helen as she watched over him in the dilapidated frame
house to which he had been removed after the accident. No word of love
passed between them, nor was any word necessary. The man, still weak
and languid, appeared blissfully contented to enjoy the present, and
Helen, who was glad to see him do so, abided her time.
Meanwhile, supported by sheer force of will and a nervous exaltation,
that would vanish utterly when the need for it ceased, Julius Savine,
leaning on his foreman's arm, or sitting propped up in a rude jumper
sleigh, directed operations in the canyon. He knew he was consuming the
vitality that might purchase another few years' life in as many weeks
of effort, but he desired only to see the work finished, and was
satisfied to pay the price. He slept little and scarcely ate, holding
on to his work with desperate purpose and living on cordials. Though
progress was much slower than it would have been under Geoffrey's
direction, he accomplished that purpose.
One afternoon Thomas Savine entered the sick man's room in a state of
complacent satisfaction.
"Glad to see you getting ahead so fast, and you must hurry, for we'll
want you soon," he said. "The great charge is to be fired the day
after to-morrow. Shackleby, who was at the bottom of the whole
opposition, has cleared out with considerable expedition. Sold all his
stock in the Company, and if his colleagues knew much about his doings,
which is quite possible, they emphatically disown them. As a result
I've made one or two good provisional deals with them, and expect no
more trouble. In short, everything points to a great success."
When Savine went out Geoffrey beckoned Helen to him.
"I am getting so well that you must leave me to your aunt to-morrow,"
he said. "You remember your promise to fire the decisive charge for
me, and I hope when you see it you will approve of the electric firing
key. Tell your father I owe more to him than the doctor, for I should
have worried myself beyond the reach of physic if he had not been there
to take charge instead of me--that is to say, before you came to cure
me."
"I will go," agreed Helen, with signs of suppressed agitation that
puzzled Geoffrey. She knew that after that charge had been fired their
present relations, pleasant as they were, could not continue. It
appeared to her the climax to which all he had dared and suffered, and
with a humility that was yet akin to pride she had determined, in
reparation, voluntarily to offer him that which, whether victorious or
defeated otherwise, he had with infinite patience and loyal service won.
It was early one clear cold morning when Helen Savine stood on a little
plank platform perched high in a hollow of the rock walls overhanging
the river opposite Thurston's camp. Each detail of the scene burned
itself into her memory as she gazed about her under a tense
expectancy--the rift of blue sky between the filigree of dark pines
high above, the rush of white-streaked water thundering down the gorge
below and frothing high about the massive boulders, and one huge fang
of promontory which a touch of her finger would, if all went well,
reduce to chaotic debris. Groups of workmen waited on the opposite
side of the flood, all staring towards her expectantly, and Thomas
Savine stood close by holding an insignificant box with wires attached
to it, in a hand that was not quite steady. Tom from Mattawa sat
perched upon a spire of rock holding up a furled flag, and her father
leaned heavily upon the rails of the staging. No one spoke or stirred,
and in spite of the roar of hurrying water a deep oppressive silence
seemed to brood over canyon and camp.
"This is the key," said Thomas Savine. "It is some notion of
Geoffrey's, and he had it made especially in Toronto. You fit it in
here."
Helen glanced at the diminutive object before she took the box. The
finger grip had been fashioned out of a dollar cut clean across bearing
two dates engraved upon it. The first, it flashed upon her, was the
one on which she had given the worn-out man that very coin, while the
other had evidently been added more recently, with less skill, by some
camp artificer.
"It's to-day," said Thomas Savine following her eyes, and Helen noticed
that his voice was strained. "Geoffrey told me to get it done. Quaint
idea; don't know what it means. But put us out of suspense. We're all
waiting."
Helen knew what the dates meant, and appreciated the delicate
compliment. It was she who had started the daring contractor on his
career who was to complete his triumph, and she drew a deep breath as
she looked down into the thundering gorge realizing it was a great
fight he had won. Human courage and dogged endurance, inspired by him,
had mocked at the might of the river, and, blasting a new pathway for
it through the adamantine heart of the hills, would roll back the
barren waters from a good land that the stout of heart and arm might
enter in. Swamps would give place to wheat fields, orchards blossom
where willow swale had been, herds of cattle fatten on the levels of
the lake, and the smoke of prosperous homesteads drift across dark
forests where, for centuries, the wolf and deer had roamed undisturbed.
That was one aspect only, but she knew the man who loved her had won a
greater triumph over his own nature and others' passions and
infirmities.
It was with a thrill of pride that the girl realized all that he had
done for her, and yet for a few seconds she almost shrank from the
responsibility as high above the waiting men the stood with slender
fingers tightening upon the key. The issues of what must follow its
turning would be momentous, for it flashed upon her that the tiny
combination of copper and silver might, with equal chance, open the way
to a golden future or let in overwhelming disaster upon all she loved.
Then the doubt appeared an injustice to Geoffrey Thurston and those who
had followed him through frost and flood and whirling snow, and, with a
color on her forehead, and a light in her eyes, she pressed home the
key.
Then there was bustle and hurry. Julius Savine raised his hand, and
Tom from Mattawa whirled high the unfurled flag. Somebody beat upon an
iron sheet invisible below and the strip of beach in the depths of the
canyon became alive with running men. Next followed a deep stillness
intensified by the clamor of the river which would never raise the same
wild harmonies again, for the slender hand of a woman had bound it fast
henceforward under man's dominion. The hush was ended suddenly. For a
second the great hollow seemed filled with tongues of flame; then,
while thick smoke quenched them and crag and boulder crumbled to
fragments, a stunning detonation rang from rock to rock and rolled
upwards into the frozen silence of untrodden hills. Huge masses which
eddied and whirled, filling the gorge with the crash of their descent
leaped out of the vapor; there was a ceaseless shock and patter of
smaller fragments, and then, while long reverberations rolled among the
hills, the roar of the tortured river drowned the mingled din. Rising,
tremendous in its last revolt, its majestic diapason was deepened by
the boom of grinding rock and the detonation of boulders reduced to
powder. The draught caused by the water's passage fanned the smoke
away, and the blue vapor, curling higher, drifted past the staging, so
that Helen could only dimly see a great muddy wave foam down the canyon,
bursting here and there into gigantic upheavals of spray. She watched
it, held silent, awe-stricken, by the sound and sight.
At last Mattawa Tom appeared again, and his voice was faintly audible
through the dying clamors as he waved his hands: "Juss gorgeous. Gone
way better than the best we hoped," he hailed.
His comrades heard and answered. They were not mere hirelings toiling
for a daily wage, but men who had a stake in that region's future, and
would share its prosperity, and, had it been otherwise, they were human
still. Toiling long with stubborn patience, often in imminent peril of
life and limb; winning ground as it were by inches, and sometimes
barely holding what they had won; fulfilling their race's destiny to
subdue and people the waste places of the earth with the faith which,
when aided by modern science, is greater than the mountains'
immobility, they too rejoiced fervently over the consummation of the
struggle. Twice a roar that was scarcely articulate filled the canyon,
and then, growing into the expression of definite thought, it flung
upward their leader's name.
Helen listened, breathless, intoxicated as by wine. Julius Savine
stood upright with no trace of weakness in his attitude. Then suddenly
he seemed to shrink together, and, with the power gone out of him,
caught at the rails as he turned to his daughter.
"We have won! It is Geoffrey's doing, and my last task is done," he
spoke in a voice that sounded faint and far-away. "Fast horses and
bold riders I can trust you, too, are waiting. Tell him!"
Helen noticed a strange wistfulness in her father's glance, but she
asked no question and turned to Thomas Savine. "I leave him in your
charge. I will go," she said.
That afternoon passed very slowly for Geoffrey. He lay near a window,
which he insisted should be opened, glancing alternately at his watch
and the trail that wound down the hillside as the minutes crept by. He
was hardly civil to the doctor, and almost abrupt with Mrs. Savine,
who, knowing his anxiety, straightway forgave him.
"You tell me I must avoid excitement and await the news with composure.
For heaven's sake, man, be reasonable. You might as well recommend
your next moribund victim to get up and take exercise," he grumbled to
the physician.
But the longest afternoon passes at length, and when the sunset glories
flamed in the western sky, and the great peaks put on fading splendors
of saffron and crimson, three black moving objects became visible on a
hill-crest bare of the climbing firs. Geoffrey watched them with
straining eyes, and it was a wonderful picture that he looked
upon--black gorge, darkening forest, drifting haze in the hollows, and
unearthly splendors above; but he regarded it only as a fit setting for
the slight figure in the foreground that swayed to the stride of a
galloping horse. He was not surprised--it seemed perfectly appropriate
that Helen should bring him the news--though his fingers trembled and
his lips twitched.
"We shall know the best or worst in five minutes. You have done your
utmost, doctor, but I'll get up and annihilate you with your own
bottles if you give me good advice now," he said, and the surgeon,
seeing protests were useless, laughed.
Mrs. Savine said nothing. She was in a state of nervous tension, too,
and merely laid her hand on the patient, restrainingly, as he strove
with small success to raise himself a little. Meantime the horse came
nearer, its bridle dripping with flakes of spume. Its rider was
sprinkled with snow and her skirt was besmeared with lather, but she
came on at a gallop until she reined in the panting horse beneath the
window, and flinging one arm aloft sat in the saddle with her flushed
face turned towards the watchers. No bearer of good tidings ever
appeared more beautiful to an anxious man.
"It is triumph!" she cried.
"Thank God!" answered Mrs. Savine, who slipped quietly from the room.
Little time elapsed before Helen entered the room where Geoffrey
impatiently waited for her, but brief as it was, there was no sign of
hurried travel about her. Her apparel was fresh and dainty, and there
was even a flower from Mexico at her belt. She went straight to
Geoffrey and bent over him.
"All has gone well--better, I understand, than you even hoped for, and
you have done a great thing, Geoffrey," she said. "You have saved me
my inheritance--which is of small importance--and--I know all now--my
father's honor. You have repaid him tenfold, and gratified his heart's
desire."
"Then I am thankful," answered Geoffrey very quietly. He lay still a
moment looking at her with a great longing in his eyes. Helen was very
beautiful, more beautiful even than usual, it seemed to him. He did
not guess that she had an offering to make, and for the sake of the man
at whose feet she would lay it, would not even so far as trifles went,
depreciate the gift, hence her careful attire.
Helen's eyes fell beneath his gaze. She discerned what he was
thinking, and, though the words "heart's desire" were accidental, there
was no mistaking the suggestion. She said slowly:
"I have been unjust, proud and willful--and I am going to do full
penance. You have surely the gift of prophecy. Do you remember your
last bold prediction?"
Geoffrey's lip twitched. He strove to raise himself that he might see
the speaker more clearly, and, still almost helpless in his bandages,
slipped back again. Helen slipped her hand into his.
"I have come to beg you not to go away."
"There is one thing that would prevent me." Geoffrey, bewildered,
seemed to lose his usual crispness of speech, but Helen checked him.
"Therefore," and Helen's voice was very low, while surging upwards from
her neck a swift wave of color flushed cheek and brow. "I have come of
my own will to say what you asked of me. You have loved and served me
faithfully, and it is not gratitude--only--which prompts me now."
There was a space in which Helen caught her breath. Then she lifted
her head, and said proudly:
"Geoffrey Thurston--I love you."
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St. Elmo. By Augusta J. Evans.
Silver Blade, The. By Charles E. Walk.
Spirit in Prison, A. By Robert Hichens.
Strawberry Handkerchief, The. By Amelia E. Barr.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles. By Thomas Hardy.
Uncle William. By Jennette Lee.
Way of a Man, The. By Emerson Hough.
Whirl, The. By Foxcroft Davis.
With Juliet in England. By Grace S. Richmond.
Yellow Circle, The. By Charles E. Walk.
End of Project Gutenberg's Thurston of Orchard Valley, by Harold Bindloss