with it came a sudden uproar from the distant crowd, and the next
instant they saw that the ice-barrier was giving way. The pressure had
become irresistible. As the Salmon had risen the ice had risen also,
and now the narrow throat was belching its contents forth. The chaos of
up-ended bergs was being torn apart; over it and through it burst a
deluge which filled the valley with the roar of a mighty cataract.
Clouds of spray were in the air; broken masses were leaping and
somersaulting; high up on the shore were stranded floes and fragments,
left in the wake of the moving body. Onward it coursed, clashing and
grinding along the brittle face of the glacier; over the alder tops
beyond the bend they could see it moving faster and faster, like the
crest of a tidal wave. The surface of the river lowered swiftly beneath
the bridge; the huge white pans ground and milled, shouldered aside by
the iron-sheathed pillars of concrete.
"See! It's gone already. Once it clears a passageway we'll have no more
gorges, for the freshets are coming. The bridge didn't even
tremble--there wasn't a tremor, not a scratch!" Eliza looked up to find
O'Neil regarding her with an expression that set her heart throbbing
and her thoughts scattering. She clasped a huge, cold bolt-head and
clung to it desperately, for the upheaval in her soul rivaled that
which had just passed before her eyes. The bridge, the river, the
valley itself were gyrating slowly, dizzily.
"Eliza!" She did not answer. "Child!" O'Neil's voice was shaking. "Why
did you come to me? Why did you do this mad thing? I saw something in
your face that I can't believe--that I--can't think possible. It--it
gives me courage. If I don't speak quickly I'll never dare. Is
it--true? Dear girl, can it be? I'm so old--such a poor thing--you
couldn't possibly care, and yet, WHY DID YOU COME?" The words were torn
from him; he was gripped and shaken by a powerful emotion.
She tried to answer, but her lips were soundless. She closed her eyes,
and Murray saw that she was whiter than the foam far beneath. He stared
into the colorless face upturned to his until her eyelids fluttered
open and she managed to voice the words that clung in her throat.
"I've always--loved you like this."
He gave a cry, like that of a starving man; she felt herself drawn
against him. But now he, too, was speechless; he could only press her
close while his mind went groping for words to express that joy which
was as yet unbelievable and stunning.
"Couldn't you see?" she asked, breathlessly.
He shook his head. "I'm such a dreamer. I'm afraid it--can't be true.
I'm afraid you'll go away and--leave me. You won't ever--will you,
Eliza? I couldn't stand that." Then fresh realization of the truth
swept over him; they clung to each other, drunk with ecstasy, senseless
of their surroundings.
"I thought you cared for Natalie," she said, softly, after a while.
"It was always you."
"Always?"
"Always!"
She turned her lips to his, and lifted her entwining arms.
The breakfast-gong had called the men away before the two figures far
out upon the bridge picked their way slowly to the shore. The Salmon
was still flooded with hurrying masses of ice, as it would continue to
be for several days, but it was running free; the channel in front of
the glacier was open.
Blaine was the first to shake O'Neil's hand, for the members of
Murray's crew held aloof in some embarrassment.
"It's a perfect piece of work," said he. "I congratulate you."
The others echoed his sentiments faintly, hesitatingly, for they were
abashed at what they saw in their chief's face and realized that words
were weak and meaningless.
Dan dared not trust himself to speak. He had many things to say to his
sister, but his throat ached miserably. Natalie restrained herself only
by the greatest effort.
It was Tom Slater who ended the awkward pause by grumbling,
sarcastically:
"If all the young lovers are safely ashore, maybe us old men who built
the bridge can go and get something to eat."
Murray smiled at the girl beside him.
"I'm afraid they've guessed our secret, dear."
"Secret!" Slater rolled his eyes. "There ain't over a couple thousand
people beside us that saw you pop the question. I s'pose she was out of
breath and couldn't say no."
Eliza gasped and fled to her brother's arms.
"Sis! Poor--little Sis!" Dan cried, and two tears stole down his brown
cheeks. "Isn't this--just great?" Then the others burst into a noisy
expression of their gladness.
"Happy Tom" regarded them all pessimistically. "I feel bound to warn
you," he said at length, "that marriage is an awful gamble. It ain't
what it seems."
"It is!" Natalie declared. "It's better, and you know it."
"It turned out all right for me," Tom acknowledged, "because I got the
best woman in the world. But"--he eyed his chief accusingly--"I went
about it in a modest way; I didn't humiliate her in public."
He turned impatiently upon his companions, still pouring out their
babble of congratulations.
"Come along, can't you," he cried, "and leave 'em alone. I'm a
dyspeptic old married man, but I used to be young and affectionate,
like Murray. After breakfast I'm going to cable Mrs. Slater to come and
bring the kids with her and watch her bed-ridden, invalid husband build
the rest of this railroad. I'm getting chuck full of romance."
"It has been a miraculous morning for me," said Murray, after a time,
"and the greatest miracle is--you, dear."
"This is just the way the story ended in my book," Eliza told him
happily--"our book."
He pressed her closer. "Yes! Our book--our bridge--our everything,
Eliza."
She hid her blushing face against his shoulder, then with thumb and
finger drew his ear down to her lips. Summoning her courage, she
whispered:
"Murray dear, won't you call me--Violet?"
THE END