Neither the guests of the Rio Vista nor the inhabitants of Ysleta were
as much disturbed over Uncle Sid's illiterate speech as was his sister.
None of these knew what Mrs. MacGregor knew, that a lifetime spent
before the mast and on the quarter deck is apt to counteract, in forms
of speech at least, even a careful early education. Not all Mrs.
MacGregor's polished manners and studied words could move a human heart
to a single throb, nor could Uncle Sid's uncouth motions and clipped
speech chill the loyalty of his many friends. His quaint humor that
touched lightly, though unerringly, upon the foibles of humanity,
blinded no one to the shrewd eyes that looked with no uncertain light
upon the line that divided right from wrong. In short, Uncle Sid was
sought after and welcomed where his polished sister was shunned,
avoided, and heartily disliked.
Thus it happened that when Helen had named a date for the long talked of
trip to the dam a goodly number of Uncle Sid's admirers were ready to go
with them. Winston had been duly notified and was ready for their
entertainment.
Helen was nearly if not quite as popular as Uncle Sid, though on
different grounds. Her air of reserve was wholly apart from the spirit
of camaraderie that welcomed Uncle Sid, but there was yet a kindly and
humane atmosphere surrounding her that was good to breathe. Her reserve,
instead of repelling, attracted and inspired a confidence and loyalty
that needed but an occasion to arouse it to open manifestation. Contrary
to her fears, had every secret which she was trying to bury in the
chambers of her heart been published, this loyalty would have stood
forth in fierce array between her and condemnation.
Early on the morning of the appointed day a jolly party formed in line
at the doors of the Rio Vista, and, reinforced by carriages from the
town, streamed out into the desert, along the banks of the Sangre de
Cristo, and paused where the last aqueduct of the great canal was nearly
completed. Here all was bustle and hurry, but confusion was absent.
Unshaped timbers came to men with squares and saws, ready hands took
them, and when squares and saws had done their work, passed them to
other hands that raised them on squeaking derricks; the groaning ropes
delivered their burdens to trestles where they were swung and fastened
in position. There were no misfits. This had been provided against by
keen-eyed, eager-faced youths with blue prints and transits, who
directed the squares and saws and plumbed the groaning trestles.
There were exclamations of surprise, of admiration, of approval from the
visitors. Helen was profoundly moved. Winston's name was on every
tongue, while Elijah was hardly mentioned. Back of the blue prints where
the cut of every timber had been clearly drawn, where the position of
every spike and bolt had been accurately defined, back of every
spider-line in transits that unerringly fixed every placed timber, back
of every motion of busy hands that moved out and in with no collision,
Helen saw the engineer who had traced the drawings and had organized the
work. Back of the engineer, she saw the man who had made this possible.
Helen was standing apart from the visitors. She was dumbly conscious
that among these, like was gathering to like, even as she, though alone,
was gathered to herself and apart from them all. One cluster, linked
together by the common hope that this great work would even yet redeem
their fallen fortunes; a second group, building other castles of cards
from their former ruin; still another, unthinking, uncaring, unseeing,
dancing, chattering, alive to the sunlight, alive to the bustle, alive
to the enveloping spirit like particles of iron in the presence of a
magnet, and as little conscious of the influences that were playing upon
them. Every clink of hammer, every rasp of saw, every voice, exuberant
or subdued, was speaking of the triumph of one man, the possible
disgrace of another.
The clusters broke and, led by Uncle Sid, regathered about Helen.
"Look here, Miss Lonsdale," said one, "if you will allow a suggestion,
just fold your arms and hump your shoulders and the picture will be
complete--Napoleon before the pyramids of Egypt."
"I didn't suppose that basking in reflected glory made one a subject for
cartooning; if it does, we'll all pose together."
"Don't be too modest, young woman," Uncle Sid broke in reprovingly, "a
fog bank may hide the sun but it gets its back blistered doin' it."
"Shall we start on?" suggested Helen; "it's a long way yet to the dam."
The road followed along the line of the canal, affording a complete
inspection of the work. Only the canal was level, cutting through rolls,
bridging arroyos, and boring through rocky hills too deep for cuts. The
country grew too rough for wagons as it neared the foot hills of the San
Bernardinos, and here the road turned into the bed of the canal. There
were occasional stretches where the bed was sandy; these were cemented
to prevent loss of water by seepage. On the sides of deep gulches, the
canal was cut in the steep banks, walled above and below to hold the
stream in place. The work was inspiriting, exhilarating. It was the
conquest of Nature, or was it the higher Nature asserting itself,
selecting and assimilating that which had hitherto been uncalled into
active existence? Perhaps no one of the party asked himself the
question, yet each felt that it was a great work, a great idea, a daring
one.
At the mouth of the canyon, the canal ended. Across the canyon was built a
deflecting dam of solid masonry. Where the canal led into the dam,
massive gates were placed by means of which the water from the great
reservoir in the mountains could be turned into the canal or cut off
from it at will. Apparently there was not a contingency but had been
foreseen and provided for.
On a level spot of ground near the gates, a messenger from Winston
awaited the party to say that he was unavoidably detained, but that he
would expect them the following day. Tents and food were waiting, and
the night was pleasantly spent. Only the master of it all was absent.
Early in the morning the camp was astir and breakfast disposed of,
horses were saddled and the party under way. Winston was better than his
word, for he met them part way down the trail. His welcome was an
ovation. Men and women crowded around, each eager to take his hand and
pour congratulations into his reluctant ears.
"I accept, by proxy, for the real man," was his reply.
Uncle Sid awaited his turn. His loyal old heart was bursting with pride
over all he had seen. There was a suspicious brightness in the old man's
eyes as, with Winston's hand clasped in both his own, he looked into his
eyes.
"Ralph, my boy," he said, "I have no child of my own, but if I had, an'
he'd done what you have, I'd want my heart steel-hooped to keep it from
burstin'."
Winston's grip tightened on the knotty fingers.
"Thank you, Uncle Sid." Then withdrawing his hand, he slipped it through
the old man's arm.
Uncle Sid stopped abruptly and thrust the hand aside, giving Winston an
initial push.
"Now you go along where you're wanted. These folks are just burstin'
full o' worship. It will do 'em good to let it out at a tin god, if they
don't know any better. It's good for folks to worship somethin' besides
themselves."
Through the long day that followed--it seemed long to Winston--Helen
skilfully avoided him. Without seeming effort, she managed to be
surrounded with others, giving Winston no word alone. Outwardly, she was
her old buoyant self. Only to the keen eyes of Winston was her manner
forced.
Towards night, Winston saw Helen and Uncle Sid standing together on one
of the abutments of the dam. Without undue haste he joined them.
"Well, Helen, are you satisfied with the handiwork of your servant?"
"If you are my servant, why do you come into my presence without being
bidden?"
"I asked my question first, and you haven't answered it."
"It strikes me that you are either presumptuous or hypocritical. Don't
you think so, Uncle Sid?" She flashed her eyes toward Uncle Sid. There
was a shade of annoyance in the look that she turned to Winston. "I
believe you and Uncle Sid are fellow conspirators."
"Then I am not mistaken. You have avoided me today?"
"Suppose I have," she replied evasively.
"It's too late for that, Helen. You have given me rights and I claim
them." Winston's voice was decided.
"You are harking back to barefoot rights. You perhaps remember that
Uncle Sid said that these were only letters of introduction to shoes and
stockings."
"Yes. And I humbly present them." Winston replied in the forced humor of
Helen's words.
"But," protested Helen, "I have put away childish things, bare feet and
all. See!" She thrust out a booted foot from beneath her skirt.
"That's only a boot, and I'm not in it."
"You're getting childish, Ralph, so you will have to go with the rest."
"I am willing, so long as I go with the foot."
Helen was walking slowly up the steep bank and through a thicket of
scrubby pine. Uncle Sid had disappeared from sight. Winston laid a
detaining hand on her arm.
"Wait, Helen, I have a great many things to say to you."
"This is a pleasure trip, Ralph. You can say things at the office." She
turned and took a step forward, but only a step. Winston's hand was
gentle but firm. Helen seated herself on a mat of pine needles. Her face
was flushed with resentment. Was it resentment?
Winston noticed the heightened color. Its cause was a question with a
doubtful answer, but he did not hesitate on that account.
"It's no use trying to deceive me, Helen. There is something troubling
you, and seriously, too--"
"Suppose there is, may I not keep my troubles to myself if I choose?"
She tried to speak firmly and finally.
Winston continued with no resentment and with no vacillation.
"If you are troubled about any affairs of the company, I ought to know;
you should not keep it from me. If it is personal, I have no intention
of forcing your confidence. I only want to ask you one thing. Don't you
believe that I am your sincere friend?"
Helen strove to conceal her agitation. She longed with all her heart to
meet half way the open loyalty that was offered her. She longed to show
him that she appreciated it, but--how could she be frank with him
without disloyalty to Elijah? Elijah had forfeited her respect, but was
he wholly to blame? He had absolved her from the obligations of
friendship, but there were other obligations that she could not put
aside. Together they had assumed business responsibilities, together
they must meet them. She longed for Winston's advice, assistance, but
how could she accept either without baring the secret shame that was
festering in her heart? Strive as she would, she could not wholly
control her voice.
"You have always been my friend, Ralph. Please try to believe that I
appreciate it. You can't know what it means to me and I can't tell you.
Won't you trust me a little longer?" She tried to steady the deep black
eyes that she raised to him.
Winston caught the hand that trembled on the matted needles.
"Always, Helen, always."
She gently withdrew her hand, rising to go.
"Thank you. You may not know what you are promising." There was a
pathetic smile hovering over the trembling lips. "Let's stop where we
are."
"No." Winston was standing beside her. "I know more than you think I do,
Helen. Elijah Berl is a thief. You know it and I know it. He has
involved you, in appearance at least. You are too honest, too loyal to
leave him as he deserves to be left."
Helen rose to Elijah's defense.
"Not intentionally a thief, Ralph."
Winston's eyes flamed with indignation.
"He isn't an open, manly thief who steals and stands up to his act. He
is a sneak who steals and unloads his punishment on others."
Winston's words smote hard. In no essential did they differ from those
she had spoken to Elijah.
Winston waited for a moment, watching Helen's face.
"I know what you mean. He took the money from Mellin and appropriated it
to his own use. He got you involved in the Pico deal. That isn't an open
crime. It is a sneaking, cowardly crime, in that he is forcing you to
bear a part of the odium."
Helen's voice faltered, but her eyes did not leave Winston's.
"That Pico business was begun before the Pacific failed. You are wrong
there."
"I am not wrong," Winston burst in hotly. His indignation waxed against
Elijah. "He is crooked from the crown of his head to the soles of his
feet. So long as it was between himself and me I could stand it, but
when it comes to you, I will endure it no longer. He will quit or I will
break him. I can and I will."
"You don't know all, Ralph, or you wouldn't say that." Helen's voice was
firmer.
"I do know all. Don't I know that he has given the company his note, or
pretended to, and secured it by his stock?"
Helen's eyes were on Winston.
"Do you know this?" She was honestly in doubt. Perhaps Elijah had
confided in Winston after all.
"I have not seen the papers, but I know Elijah Berl. He has stilled his
conscience without surrendering, one iota, his purpose. This note and
security are in his own hands. When it comes to the point, he will find
a new way to quiet what he calls his conscience."
"You do not know all, Ralph. You are unjust. This has gone far
enough--too far." Helen spoke coldly. She felt compelled to, against the
pleadings of her heart. She turned and began to move away.
Winston's hand was again on her arm, restraining her. She tried to free
herself, but try as she would, she could not make the action final.
Winston's hand slipped down her arm till her hand rested in his.
"Helen, I would say all of this for the sake of friendship alone--"
She strove to draw her hand from his.
"Stop, Ralph, stop right there."
"I will not." Winston's grasp tightened, he was drawing her towards him
in spite of herself. "There is more than friendship, Helen. There is
love. I cannot tell you how much; you will have to let me teach you."
His arm was around her now, his eyes striving to look into her own. The
pulse of his words, the light of his eyes, the touch of his hand, there
was in all these the clear, strong definition between mine and thine.
Mine to desire, mine to ask, mine to plead for my desires; thine to give
or to withhold that which is all and more than all to me. My heart, my
life, my love; thy acceptance of my offering. No selfish pleading, no
imperative demand, only a right to ask in undoubting confidence that
which it was hers to give or to withhold. She felt his breath on her
cheek, the warm glow of his lips nearer and nearer. She could not put
them away; her heart cried out against it. Her will to resist, to act as
her conscience dictated, was weakening. Only to be at rest, as she was
resting now, at peace, no doubts, no fears; she longed for what in
strength of mind and purity of heart he was offering her.
His clasp grew closer. Why should she not accept? Her senses were
reeling in an ecstasy of surrender that gives all and gains all in the
giving. As in a delicious yet terrifying dream, she shrank closer to the
protecting arms that would shield her forever.
"Tell me, Helen, that you love me, not as I love you, that is too much
to ask, but tell me that you love me."
Her lips trembled in voiceless reply. How she longed to speak the words
he desired her to utter. Why could she not? Then her eyes opened wide.
Here was a clean heart and a pure life at her feet, strong, throbbing
words pleading with her to accept the offering. What had she to give in
return? What was she about to give? A stained heart; how deeply stained
she did not, could not know, but stained, in exchange for a pure white
soul.
She tore herself from his arms and stood before him, her hands
outstretched against him. Her great black eyes were wide, and deep, and
unfathomable. Only from their depths, a glow of longing love shone
forth; of longing, sorrowing love, of sorrow for herself and of love for
the man before her; yet love controlled by a will as strong as the
strength of right could make it.
There was an answering light in the eyes that met her own. In them was
pain and pleading, but no doubt. His hands reached out to hers that had
put him away, but they dropped before they touched.
"Helen, your eyes have answered me." There was a deep throb of
exultation in his voice. "But let me hear you speak."
She stood with pale face and laboring breath. Her voice shook with the
intensity of her emotion.
"I love you, Ralph. More than I can tell you in a lifetime, I love you."
She spoke in obedience to a power beyond her will to control.
Winston sprang toward her, but her hand rested on his breast. She could
feel the strong, even throb of his heart and this strengthened her will
to resist.
"Listen, Ralph!" Her voice was intense but low; every word pierced like
pencils of light in deep waters. "I have been cruel, mercilessly,
selfishly cruel. I longed to hear you say what you have said. All my
life I shall remember it as a penance for the wrong I have done you."
"I will not listen to such words." He clasped the hand that rested on
his breast, but she tore it away.
"Don't tempt me further, Ralph."
He was again close beside her.
"Tell me all, Helen. You have given me the right to know."
"I have not, I cannot. If I should tell you, you would despise me. If I
granted your wish, all my life I should loathe myself."
Ralph stood with eyes undoubting, unconvinced, but he could go no
farther.
"Is it forever, Helen, hopelessly forever?"
"Don't ask me, Ralph, but forgive me." Her eyes were shining with unshed
tears. "I am afraid it is. Will you, can you forgive me?"
Winston's lips set. There was a determination in his eyes that was yet
softened by a great love.
"I have nothing to forgive. I love you and I shall always love you.
Nothing you have said or can say will change it or weaken it. You do not
see clearly now. Some time you will. Then I shall claim you and you will
come to me."
Helen could trust herself no further, nor could she still the throb of
hope his words had kindled. Was she mistaken after all? Was her sin as
she saw it, but a gigantic empty shadow resting on a vanishing cloud
which the clear light of reason would melt away? There had been
conviction in his words, "Sometime you will see clearly, then you will
come to me."
She was to outward appearances her old self as she mingled once more
with the visitors on the way back to Ysleta. The enthusiastic crowd
declared that they would see to it that the completion of the great dam
was duly celebrated, and with one accord they voted that Helen was to
swing the last stone into place. Helen objected, but to no purpose. She
was told that it had all been arranged between them and Winston.