Ghastly mistakes! Some cynic has said the only mistake in life a man
can make is "to go broke." Bryant did not realize until afterward the
irony lurking in the penumbra of the talk with Menocal. He was broke,
unable to proceed, even while he listened to the banker's
commendation. The workmen were busy, it was true, and the horses were
pulling loaded fresnos, and plows were cutting the trench deeper; but
that was an expiring motion, a last falling gesture. Only a few
wretched dollars lay at the bottom of the money chest. A day more, and
Menocal would have won.
That evening Lee climbed in his car and drove away from camp. Carrigan
had said nothing, but he as well as Bryant knew the company's bank
account was drained; he would expect a settlement and when it was
made, discharge the crews, pull up stakes, and move his property to
Kennard. At Sarita Creek Bryant alighted.
"I wish to see Ruth," he told Imogene. "Is she away? Her cabin is dark
and I obtained no answer to my knock."
"She's gone to town."
"Well, I wanted to tell her I've failed. Work stops to-morrow. Out of
money. And less than two miles to build!"
Imogene's face became a picture of dismay.
"Oh, no, Lee! There must be some way to go on, some place to obtain
money," she cried.
"None. I've tried, but have reached the end of my rope. Only twenty
thousand more needed, or maybe twenty-five. Just enough to hammer
through during the next two weeks. But it might as well be a million.
I decided to inform Ruth at once; she might consider it important."
"She would," said she, positively.
"I haven't been to Sarita Creek before since you returned. You can
guess why."
"Yes."
"Does Ruth suspect that I've ceased to love her?" he asked, frowning.
"I think not. There was considerable talk on her part about being
bored with Kennard and how happy she would be when she was married,
but it was on the surface. She's really waiting for something I'm not
able to divine. I'm reminded when I observe her of a card-player
studying a hand before the cards begin to fall."
"Where is she to-night? With Charlie Menocal?"
"With Gretzinger."
"Gretzinger back?"
"Arrived in Kennard this morning. Two days ago Ruth received a letter
with a New York post-mark and became very animated. I'm sure she has
had none before. Then late this afternoon the man himself appeared
here, ate supper with us, and took Ruth off to a concert in town. He
said he had business in camp with you to-morrow."
"Ruth's spirits have revived and her retirement has ended," Lee
remarked, with sarcasm. "Well, don't say anything about this now to
either of them."
"Oh, I'll be long asleep when they return, and I'll not speak of it to
Ruth in the morning. She'll not rise before noon, I suspect, as it
will be one or two o'clock before they're home. Or she may stay with
one of the girls she's chummy with and come up with him to-morrow.
Probably that."
Lee made ready to go. He gave Imogene a sardonic smile.
"May the music she hears to-night strengthen her soul for the morrow's
smash," he said; and went out.
Where the trail from the cabins debouched upon the main mesa road he
slowed the car to a stop and sat for a time in thought, with the
engine humming softly and the freezing night air biting at his cheeks.
It seemed to make little difference where he went, or if he went at
all. Nothing worth while was at the end of any road. His inclination,
however, was working and at last he set out for the Graham ranch.
Since his Christmas visit he had made a number of calls there, a
rather large number, indeed, considering everything. He had schooled
his face and words on those occasions to a passivity he was far from
feeling, and had left Louise's presence each time with a greater
torment of mind. Now this was the end--of her as of everything so far
as he was concerned. To-morrow the project came down in wreckage. Then
he should go from Perro Creek, poorer in purse, poorer in spirit,
poorer in faith, sore, and bitterly disillusionized.
Louise Graham observed a shadow upon his countenance as she invited
him to a seat before the fireplace. Her father was absent and she had
been reading a book when Bryant's knock came. She had been wondering,
too, if the engineer might not choose this night to call again. How
much these calls of his now meant to her she did not dare consider.
"What's wrong, Lee?" she asked at once, anxiously. "I see something
has happened."
He moved round on the divan that he might fully face her.
"Everything so far as my affairs go," he replied. "Work stops on the
canal to-morrow. That will result, of course, in the water right
lapsing and in the ditch never being finished or used, except under
the circumstance of my handing over my interest gratis to Gretzinger
and the bondholders. If I did that even, I don't believe Gretzinger
could finish it on time, for neither Carrigan nor the men would exert
themselves for him as they have for me, and they would be sure of
their pay in any case. The trouble is, I've used up all the money and
can borrow no more. I'm through. And I can't bring myself to the point
of surrendering my interest in the company to the bondholders merely
to pull them out. They're trying to strangle me in order that they may
profit; they could put up the cash needed easily enough if they would;
but they count on my yielding. I shall not do so. And so the project
fails. Those New Yorkers will wait too long if ever they do put up the
funds; and I can do nothing myself. The uncompleted ditch will remain
simply a scar on the mesa."
"I never dreamed you were in this strait!"
"No, probably not. One always hopes to the last that somehow--by a
credulous belief in one's own letter of credit with Providence, I
presume--one will pull through. So I delayed telling you of what was
impending."
"If--perhaps father----"
"Your father? No. Above all persons, no. That's a suggestion I can't
consider for an instant."
"But what will you do?" she exclaimed, nervously.
Lee glanced at her, then compressed his lips.
"I'm going away; I couldn't stay here on the scene of this disaster.
It would be intolerable. Before long people will be describing the
unfinished project by the name of 'Bryant's Folly', or the like.
Haven't you seen old, windowless structures that were never completed,
or grass-grown railroad enbankments never ironed, or rusting mine
machinery never assembled? Men's failures, men's 'follies'."
"Lee, Lee! It never will be so!" she cried. "Nor will your project be
a failure to me who have known how you've striven and sacrificed."
Bryant looked past her and about the room, but his eyes in the end
came back to hers.
"You have always been generous in your thoughts of me," he said, in an
unsteady voice.
"No more than you deserved."
"Listen, Louise," he went on, after a pause. "This is the last time I
shall see you for a long time, possibly for all time, and it's of your
kindness I wish to speak--and of another matter. Of course, I
shouldn't be quite human if I hadn't complained a bit about this blow,
but my complaints are done now. I'll possibly do some grimacing to
myself hereafter, though. What I came to say is that wherever I go in
the future I'll always carry with me as a treasure the memory of your
goodness and of your face."
Louise's lips had parted, while the colour slowly receded from her
cheeks.
"But we shall see each other," she gasped. "We'll meet, we can keep in
touch." After a silence there came in a whisper, "Friends should."
Bryant began to tremble. He turned away from her in order to gaze into
the fire. Her low utterance had wrung the chords of his heart; he
dared not allow his eyes to continue to dwell upon her face.
"What good in that?" he asked. Then he gave a passionate shake of his
head. "The risk for me is too great. I shall seek an engineering
billet altogether out of the country, in South America, in Asia,
wherever one is open. A job without responsibility, preferably. No,
no; I can't remain and play with fire--any longer."
An intense stillness rested in the room after these words. He doubted
if Louise even breathed.
"Would it be that?" she asked, at last.
"Of course. Haven't you seen?"
"I--I----" Her voice failed her.
"I could no more help loving you, Louise, after I came to know you,
than can the earth its blooming under a summer sun. The thing was
inevitable." He was speaking now in a slow, fixed attempt at
restraint. "And this love coming when it did, after I was betrothed to
Ruth Gardner, is the capping madness of the whole nightmarish
situation in which I find myself. 'Nightmarish' isn't an exaggeration,
honestly. By all the empty, senseless conventions I ought to seal my
lips on my love and to go dumbly away, because I'm engaged to Ruth
Gardner." He turned abruptly to her. "Do you think I should?"
Her hands were locked together in a clasp that expelled the blood and
left them white. Her regard had the intentness of a stare.
"If you love me, if you're going away--" She suddenly became agitated.
"Oh, I am unhappy!" And with a quick movement she bent her head aside.
"Louise, forgive me for causing this distress," he exclaimed.
Without looking about she put out a hand, touched and pressed his. The
unexpected act filled Bryant with amazement. He sat gazing stupidly at
the hand until she withdrew it. Then he found an explanation.
"You feel compassion for me," he said. "You would." A sound, low,
inarticulate, reached him. "It's your kind nature to make some return
for my love even if it's not love you can give. Or ought to give! I'm
expecting nothing, can expect nothing. That is out of the question. If
I were entirely calm and rational, I should doubtless be asking myself
why I should speak of my passion instead of trying to tear it out of
my heart. But, of course, being in love I'm neither the one nor the
other. The only explanation for the impulse to pour out a confession
like this is overcharged nerves. Or, after all, is it just unconscious
egotism?" His composure had slipped off and his tone had grown savage.
"Don't, don't, Lee! Don't cut at yourself!"
"What was it I had started to say? Oh, yes. I had said I felt no
compunction in brushing aside the usual conventions of duty as
proscribed for an engaged man. Cobwebs in my case! Why pretend lies?
No honour is involved that I can discover. I don't love Ruth, and I
think she's incapable of loving me or any one else. She never felt
half the affection I did for her, and mine withered quickly, God
knows! A dash of passion on my part, and lonesomeness and the belief I
should have wealth on her side--there's the salad."
Louise leaned forward a little breathlessly.
"And if she believes you're ruined?" she asked.
"She'll hold me if she thinks she can't do better," Lee responded,
bitterly. "I at least beat homesteading."
"Lee!"
Louise had risen. The pallor of her face startled him. Her hands were
fast clenched.
"What is it?" he asked, fearfully.
"I can bear this. To have you love me--love me and go away! It will
break my heart. To stay here alone!"
The words struck his brain as if they were cast in a fierce glare of
light. The suddenness of the knowledge they gave, the revelation they
made, left him speechless. Louise loved him in return. The first
effect upon his mind was to produce a blank incredulity; he stared at
her as if to ascertain whether or not this was in truth she; for
though he well knew he possessed her friendship, he had never
conceived so fantastic a possibility as that of winning her love. Then
a swift exaltation succeeded. He swam in a kind of spiritual ether.
"Louise, Louise, my dear beloved!" he murmured.
He caught her hand, pressed it. She glanced at him without replying,
looked away, back again. Her bosom rose and fell with a slow and
tremulous movement, as though stirring with deep, soundless sighs. A
little smile hovered on her lips, tender, rapturous.
But at length she withdrew her hand, while the soft gladness passed
from her face.
"It cannot be; you must go, Lee," she said.
Bryant remembered--and felt the ice forming about his heart. He
shivered slightly. The full cruelty of the situation was reached. Ruth
Gardner not only held him, but he held her as well by a thread to
which she could cling for safety against the blandishments of
scoundrels, and her own desires, and the dark uncertainty of the
future. And much as he loved Louise Graham, he could not snap that
thread; much as he detested Ruth, he lacked the flintiness of heart to
let her slip into the abyss. Nor would Louise have it otherwise.
She was seeking his eyes, questioning them.
"Well, this hour is worth it all to me," he said, calmly. "All of the
unhappiness of the past, and all the loneliness of the future! I am
poor now; in that fact lies what hope I have."
A gentle inclination of her head answered him.
"I am happy to-night, anyway," said she.
"The only thing for me to do is to remain away from you," he answered.
"Heaven knows I shall be miserable enough then, but I should grow
desperate if I were near."
"I know. We mustn't see each other, Lee dear."
He walked to where his storm coat and cap lay on a chair by the door.
In silence he drew on and buttoned the former. She had accompanied
him to the spot and watched with moisture on her lashes his
preparation for departure. His eyes were lowered while his fingers
were engaged with the buttons.
"You should understand about this," he said, grimly. "That man
Gretzinger is after her. She has no money, no training to earn money,
is crazy for pleasure and attention and clothes. I ought in all
decency to break our engagement. She has given me grounds enough. But
it's keeping her straight. If I broke it"--his hand dropped to his
side and he stood for a moment quite still--"he drags her under." His
gaze rose to hers.
"I guessed it long ago," she said, in a choked voice. "And loved you
for it." Next instant she leaned forward, took his temples between her
hands, and lightly touched his brow with her lips. "Go, go!" she
exclaimed, with an accent of despair.
She herself turned and went quickly out of the room.