Thurston of Orchard Valley

They turned back together. When the ascent grew steeper, Geoffrey held out his hand. Instead of accepting the proffered assistance as she had done when they descended, Helen apparently failed to notice the hand, and the homeward journey was not pleasant to either of them. Helen did not parade her displeasure, but Geoffrey was sensible of it, and, never being a fluent speaker upon casual subjects, he was not successful in his conversational efforts. When at last they reached the villa, he shook his shoulders disgustedly as he recalled some of his inane remarks.

"It was hardly a wonder she was silent. Heavens, what prompted me to drivel in that style?" he reflected. "It was cruelly unfortunate, but I could not let her risk her precious safety over that confounded path!"

At luncheon it happened that Mrs. Savine said: "I saw you going towards the White Rock Cove, Helen. Very interesting place, isn't it, Mr. Thurston? But you brought none of that lovely weed back with you."

"Did you notice how I had the path graded as you went down?" asked Savine, and Thurston saw that Helen's eyes were fixed upon him. The expression of the eyes aroused his indignation because the glance was not a challenge, but a warning that whatever his answer might be, the result would be indifferent to her. He was hurt that she should suppose for a moment that he would profit by this opportunity.

"We were not able to descend the whole way," he replied. "Last winter's rains have loosened the surface soil, and one angle of the path slipped bodily away. Very fortunately I was some distance in advance of Miss Savine, and there was not the slightest danger. Might I suggest socketed timbers? The occurrence reminds me of a curious accident to the railroad track in the Rockies."

Helen did not glance at the speaker again, for Savine asked no awkward questions. But Thurston saw no more of her during the afternoon. That evening he sought Savine in his study.

"You have all been very kind to me," he said. "In fact, so much so that I feel, if I stay any longer among you, I shall never be content to rough it when I go back to the bush. This is only too pleasant, but, being a poor man with a living to earn, it would be more consistent if I recommenced my work. Which of the operations should I undertake first?"

Savine smiled on him whimsically, and answered with Western directness:

"I don't know whether the Roads Surveyor was right or wrong when he said that you were not always over-civil. See here, Thurston, leaving all personal amenities out of the question, I'm inclined to figure that you will be of use to me, aid the connection also will help you considerably. My paid representatives are not always so energetic as they might be. So if you are tired of High Maples you can start in with the rock-cutting on the new wagon road. It is only a detail, but I want it finished, and, as the cars would bring you down in two hours' time, I'll expect you to put in the week-end here, talking over more important things with me."

Thurston left the house next morning. He did not see Helen to say good-by to her, for she had ridden out into the forest before he departed from High Maples. Helen admitted to herself that she was interested in Thurston, the more so because he alone, of all the men whom she had met, had successfully resisted her will. But she shrank from him, and though convinced that his action in preventing her from going down the pathway had been justified, she could not quite forgive him.

CHAPTER X

SAVINE'S CONFIDENCE

Despite his employer's invitation Thurston did not return to High Maples at the end of the week. The rock-cutting engrossed all his attention, and he was conscious that it might be desirable to allow Miss Savine's indignation to cool. He had thought of her often since the day that she gave him the dollar, and, at first still smarting under the memory of another woman's treachery, had tried to analyze his feelings regarding her. The result was not very definite, though he decided that he had never really loved Millicent, and was very certain now that she had wasted little affection upon him. One evening at Graham's ranch when they had stood silently together under the early stars, he had become suddenly conscious of the all-important fact, that his life would be empty without Helen Savine, and that of all the women whom he had met she alone could guide and raise him towards a higher plane.

It was characteristic of Geoffrey Thurston that the determination to win her in spite of every barrier of wealth and rank came with the revelation, and that, at the same time counting the cost, he realized that he must first bid boldly for a name and station, and with all patience bide his time. A more cold-blooded man might have abandoned the quest as hopeless at the first, and one more impulsive might have ruined his chances by rashness, but Geoffrey united the characteristics of the reckless Thurstons with his mother's cool North Country canniness.

It therefore happened that Savine, irritated by a journalistic reference to the tardiness of that season's road-making, went down to see how the work entrusted to Geoffrey was progressing. He was accompanied by his daughter, who desired to visit the wife of a prosperous rancher. It was towards noon of a hot day when they alighted from their horses in the mouth of a gorge that wound inland from the margin of a lake. No breath of wind ruffled the steely surface of the lake. White boulder and somber fir branch slept motionless, reflected in the crystal depths of the water, and lines of great black cedars, that kept watch from the ridge above, stood mute beneath the sun.

As they picked their path carefully through the débris littering an ugly rent in the rock, where perspiring men were toiling hard with pick and drill, they came upon Thurston before he was aware of them. Geoffrey stood with a heavy hammer in his hand critically surveying a somewhat seedy man who was just then offering his services. Savine, who had a sense of humor, was interested in the scene, and said to his daughter: "Thurston's busy. We'll just wait until he's through with that fellow."

Geoffrey, being ignorant of their presence, decided that the applicant, who said that he was an Englishman, and used to estimating quantities, would be of little service; but he seldom refused to assist a stranger in distress.

"I do all the draughting and figuring work myself," he said. "However, if you are hard up you can earn two dollars a day wheeling broken rock until you find something better."

The man turned away, apparently not delighted at the prospect of wheeling rock, and Geoffrey faced about to greet the spectators.

"I don't fancy you'll get much work out of that fellow," observed Savine.

"I did not expect to see you so soon, and am pleasantly surprised," said Geoffrey, who, warned by something in Helen's face, restrained the answer he was about to make. "You will be tired after your rough ride, and it is very hot out here. If you will come into my office tent I can offer you some slight refreshment."

Helen noticed every appointment of the double tent which was singularly neat and trim. Its flooring of packed twigs gave out a pleasant aromatic odor. The instruments scattered among the papers on the maple desk were silver-mounted. The tall, dusty man in toil-stained jean produced thin glasses, into which he poured mineral waters and California wine. A tin of English biscuits was passed with the cooling drinks. Thurston was a curious combination, she fancied, for, having seen him covered with the grime of hard toil she now beheld him in a new rôle– that of host.

They chatted for half-an-hour, and then there was an interruption, for the young Englishman, who had grown tired of wheeling the barrow, stood outside the tent demanding to see his employer. Geoffrey strode out into the sunshine.

The stranger said that he had a backache, besides blisters on his hands, and that wheeling a heavy barrow did not agree with him. He added, with an easy assurance that drew a frown to the contractor's face, "It's a considerable come-down for me to have to work hard at all, and I was told you were generally good to a distressed countryman. Can't you really give me anything easier?"

"I try to be helpful to my countrymen when they're worth it," answered Geoffrey, dryly. "Would you care to hold a rock drill, or swing a sledge instead?"

"I hardly think so," he returned dubiously. "You see, I haven't been trained to manual labor, and I'm not so strong as you might think by looking at me." Geoffrey lost his temper.

"The drill might blister your fingers, I dare say," he admitted. "I'm afraid you are too good for this rude country, and I have no use for you. I could afford to be decent? Perhaps so, but I earn my money with considerably more effort than you seem willing to make. The cook will give you dinner with the other men to-day; then you can resume your search for an easy billet. We have no room in this camp for idlers."

Savine chuckled, but Helen, who had a weakness for philanthropy, and small practical experience of its economic aspect, flushed with indignation, pitying the stranger and resenting what she considered Thurston's brutality. Her father rose, when the contractor came in, to say that he wanted to look around the workings. He suggested that Helen should remain somewhere in the shade. When Thurston had placed a canvas lounge for her, outside the tent, the girl turned towards him a look of severe disapproval. "Why did you speak to that poor man so cruelly?" she asked. "Perhaps I am transgressing, but it seems to me that one living here in comfort, even comparative luxury, might be a little more considerate towards those less fortunate."

"Please remember that I was once what you term 'less fortunate' myself," Geoffrey reminded Helen, who answered quickly, "One would almost fancy it was you who had forgotten."

"On the contrary, I am not likely to forget how hard it was for me to earn my first fee here in this new country," he declared, looking straight at her. "I was glad to work up to my waist in ice-water to make, at first, scarcely a dollar and a half a day. One must exercise discretion, Miss Savine, and that man, so far as I could see, had no desire to work."

It was a pity that Geoffrey did not explain that he meant Bransome's payment by the words "my first fee," for Helen had never forgotten how she had failed in the attempt to double the amount for which he had bargained. She had considered him destitute of all the gentler graces, but now she was surprised that he should apparently attempt to wound her.

"Is it right to judge so hastily?" she inquired, mastering her indignation with difficulty. "The poor man may not be fit for hard work – I think he said so – and I cannot help growing wrathful at times when I hear the stories which reach me of commercial avarice and tyranny."

Geoffrey blew a silver whistle, which summoned the foreman to whom he gave an order.

"Your protégé shall have an opportunity of proving his willingness to be useful by helping the cook," Thurston said with a smile at Helen.

"Why did you do that – now?" she asked, uncertain whether to be gratified or angry, and Geoffrey answered, "Because I fancied it would meet with your approval."

"Then," declared Helen looking past him, "if that was your only motive, you were mistaken."

The conversation dragged after that, and they were glad when Savine returned to escort his daughter part of the way to the ranch. When he rode back into camp alone an hour later, he dismounted with difficulty, and his face was gray as he reeled into the tent.

"Give me some wine, Thurston – brandy if you have it, and don't ask questions. I shall be better in five minutes – I hope," he gasped.

Geoffrey had no brandy, but he broke the neck off a bottle of his best substitute, and Savine lay very still on a canvas lounge, gripping one of its rails hard for long, anxious minutes before he said, "It is over, and I am myself again. Hope I didn't scare you!"

"I was uneasy," Thurston replied. "Dare I ask, sir, what the trouble was?" Savine, who evidently had not quite recovered, looked steadily at the speaker. "I'll tell you in confidence, but neither my daughter nor my rivals must hear of this," he said at length. "It is part of the price I paid for success. I have an affection of the heart, which may snuff me out at any moment, or leave me years of carefully-guarded life."

"I don't quite understand you, but perhaps I ought to suggest that you sit still and keep quiet for a time," Geoffrey replied and Savine answered, "No. Save for a slight faintness I am as well as – I usually am. When one gets more than his due share of this world's good things, he must generally pay for it – see? If you don't, remember as an axiom that one can buy success too dearly. Meantime, and to come back to this question's every-day aspect, I want your promise to say nothing of what you have seen. Helen must be spared anxiety, and I must still pose as a man without a weakness, whatever it costs me."

"You have my word, sir!" said Geoffrey, and Savine, who nodded, appeared satisfied.

"As I said before, I can trust you, Thurston, and though I've many interested friends I'm a somewhat lonely man. I don't know why I should tell you this, it isn't quite like me, but the seizure shook me, and I just feel that way. Besides, in return for your promise, I owe you the confidence. Give me some more wine, and I'll try to tell you how I spent my strength in gaining what is called success."

"I won by hard work; started life as a bridge carpenter, and starved myself to buy the best text-books," Savine began presently. "Bid always for something better than what I had, and generally got it; ran through a big bridge-building contract at twenty-five, and fell in love with my daughter's mother when I'd finished it. I had risen at a bound from working foreman – she was the daughter of one of the proudest poverty-stricken Frenchmen in old Quebec. Well, it would make a long story, but I married her, and she taught me much worth knowing, besides helping me on until, when I had all my savings locked up in apparently profitless schemes, I tried for a great bridge contract. I also got it, but there was political jobbery, and the opposition, learning from my rival how I was fixed, required a big deposit before the agreement was signed."

Savine paused a full minute, and helped himself to more wine before he proceeded. "The deposit was to be paid in fourteen days from the time I got the notice, or the tender would be advertised for again, and I hadn't half the amount handy. I couldn't realize on my possessions without an appalling loss, but I swore I would hold on to that contract, and I did it. It was always my way to pick up any odd information I could, and I learned that a certain mining shaft was likely to strike high-pay ore. I got the information from a workman who left the mine to serve me, so I caught the first train, made a long journey, and rode over a bad pass to reach the shaft. How I dealt with the manager doesn't greatly matter, but though I neither bribed nor threatened him he showed me what I wanted to see. I rode back over pass and down moraine through blinding snow, went on without rest or sleep to the city, borrowed what I could – I wasn't so well known then, and it was mighty little – and bought up as much of that mine's stock on margins as the money would cover. The news was being held back, but other men were buying quietly. Still – well, they had to sleep and get their dinners, and I, who could do without either, came out ahead of them. Market went mad in a day or two over the news of the crushing. I sold out at a tremendous premium, and started to pay my deposit. I did it in person, came back with the sealed contract – hadn't eaten decently or slept more than a few hours in two anxious weeks – went home triumphant, and collapsed – as I did not long ago – while I told my wife."

There was silence for several minutes inside the tent. Then Geoffrey said, "I thank you for your confidence, sir, and will respect it, but even yet I am not quite certain why, considering that you held my unconditional promise, you gave it me."

"As I said before, I felt like it," answered Savine. "Still, there's generally a common-sense reason somewhere for what I do, and it may help you to understand me. I heard of you at your first beginning. I figured that you were taking hold as I had done before you and thought I might have some use for a man like you. Perhaps I'll tell you more, if we both live long enough, some day."

It was in the cool of the evening that Savine and his daughter, who had been waiting at a house far down the trail, rode back towards the railroad, leaving Geoffrey puzzled at the uncertain ways of women.

"What do you think of my new assistant, Helen?" asked Savine. "You generally have a quick judgment, and you haven't told me yet."

"I hardly know," was the answer. "He is certainly a man of strong character, but there is something about him which repels one – something harsh, almost sinister, though this would, of course, in no way affect his business relations with you. For instance, you saw how he lives, and yet he turned away a countryman who appeared destitute and hungry."