Thurston of Orchard Valley

"I am not," she admitted. "I would not have told you if you had not insisted. It is the result of my own folly, and there is no use complaining."

Anthony Thurston stretched out a thin, claw-like hand and laid it on one of her own. "Tell me," he said.

"We are poor. That is, my husband's position is precarious, and it is a constant struggle to live up to it."

"Then why do you try?"

Millicent sighed as she answered:

"It is, I believe, necessary or he would lose it, while he aims at obtaining sufficient influence to win him a connection, if he resumed his former land business."

"From what I know it is a rascally business; but there is more than this. My time is very short, Millicent, but it seems such a very little while since a bright-haired girl who atoned for another's injury sat upon my knee, and for the sake of those days I can still protect you. Your husband treats you ill?"

There was a vibration in the strained voice which more strongly reminded the listener of Geoffrey's, and awoke her bitterness against the man she had married. It was so long since she had taken a living soul into her confidence, that she answered impulsively: "There is no use hiding the truth from you. He does not treat me well."

Then she related the story of her married life, and Anthony Thurston listened gravely, comprehending more than she meant to tell him, for when she had finished he commented: "You have neither been over loyal nor over wise – too quick to see the present gain, blind to the greater one behind – but it is my part to help, not blame you, and I will try to do so. It is dark now. Please ask for my draught and the candles. Then I want you to tell me about Geoffrey. You have met him in Canada."

Millicent, retiring, stood for a few minutes looking down from a narrow window in the bare stone corridor on to the moor. There was no moon, but the night was luminous, for the stars twinkled with a windy glitter that was flung back by a neighboring tarn. The call of the curlew seemed more mournful, the crying of lapwing rose from the meadow land, and she started at a hollow hoot as an owl swept by on muffled wing. The night voices filled her with an eerie sensation – there was, she recollected, always something creepy about Crosbie Ghyll, and, for Millicent was superstitious, she shivered again at the reflection that she had cheated a dying man. But she could make partial reparation to the living at least, and when she came back with the candles there was resolve in her face.

"You asked me about Geoffrey. He has no reason to be ashamed of his record in Canada," she said. "I will tell you what I know from the beginning – and I hope I shall tell it well."

It was a relief to do so, and the story of Geoffrey's struggle and prospective triumph was a stirring one as it fell from the lips of the woman who had thrice wronged him. She guessed how her husband's employers had plotted, having gathered much from the talk of his guests, and the old man listened eagerly, until he struck the coverlet when she concluded. Grim satisfaction was stamped upon his twitching face.

"It is a brave story. I thank you, Millicent; you told it very well. Ay, the old blood tells – and I was proud of the lad. Went his own way in spite of me – he is my kinsman, what should I expect of him? Standing alone for a broken master, with cunning and wealth against him and his last dollar in the scheme! Quite in keeping with traditions, and there'll be broken crowns before they beat him down."

The dying man, who had fought perhaps as stubbornly all his life long, gasped once or twice before he added, "You must go now, Millicent. Send Halliday to me."

Millicent went out with a throbbing pulse and downcast eyes, and when the lawyer came in Thurston said: "Read over that partly completed will."

"Had you not better rest until to-morrow, sir?" was the answer. "Dr. Maltby warned you – "

"You ought to know by this time that I seldom take a warning, and to-morrow may be too late. Write, and write quickly. After payment of all bequests above, balance of real estate to yourself and Forsyth as trustees, to apply and use for the individual benefit of Millicent Leslie. If her husband lays hands upon it, I'll haunt you. You have power to nominate Geoffrey Thurston as your co-trustee. God knows what may happen, and her rascally husband may get himself shot by somebody he has swindled some day. What I wished for mightn't follow then? I'm paying you to make my will and not dictate to me. Repeat it as many times as may appear necessary to let my meaning show clearly through your legal phraseology."

"I have got it down, sir," the writer told him presently.

"Now, after deductions enumerated, all my floating investments in mines, stocks and shares to Geoffrey Thurston, to hold or sell as pleases him, unconditionally. Bequeathed in the hope that this will help him to confound his enemies."

It was written, signed and witnessed by Musker and the surgeon, then Anthony Thurston asked once more and very faintly for Millicent. He drew her down beside him and took her hand in his thin, gnarled one before he said:

"I have done my best for you, Milly – and again thank you for the story. After what Halliday said, it has helped to conquer an old bitterness, and – for my work is finished – I can die contented. I may be gone to-morrow, and my strength is spent. Good-by, Milly. God bless you!"

Millicent stooped and kissed him with a sense of shame. Before morning all power of speech or volition left Anthony Thurston, and twelve hours later he was dead.

CHAPTER XXII

A REPRIEVE

It was with a heavy heart that Geoffrey Thurston turned over the papers Thomas Savine spread out before him in the Vancouver offices.

"I'm almost scared to do any more figuring," said Savine. "Money is going to be uncommonly tight with us, and, to make things worse, I can neither realize nor borrow. My brother's investments are way below par now, and the first sign of any weakness would raise up an opposition that would finish us. I can't stay here forever, and poor Julius is steadily getting worse instead of better. Are you still certain you can get the work done before the winter's through?"

"Yes," asserted Geoffrey. "If I can get the machinery and sufficient men – which means money. There's a moderate fortune waiting us once we can run the water out of the valley, and it's worth a desperate effort to secure it."

"We have made a good many daring moves since my brother gave me his power of attorney, and I have sunk more of my own money than my partners, who have backed me pluckily, care about. Still, I can't see how I'm going to meet your estimate, nohow."

"You have just got to do it," Geoffrey insisted. "It is the part you chose. At my end, I'll stop for nothing short of manslaughter. We simply can't afford to be beaten, and we're not going to be."

"I hope not," and Thomas Savine sighed dubiously. "Your assurance is refreshing, Geoffrey, but I own up I can't see – well, we've done enough for one day. Come round and spend the evening with me. Mrs. Savine is anxious to see you."

Geoffrey hesitated for a few seconds, and Thomas Savine smiled at something which faintly amused him. Remembering Helen's freezing look and his occupation when she last saw him, Geoffrey felt that it might not be pleasant to meet her so soon. Then, because he was a proud man, he endeavored to accept the invitation with cordiality.

"I am glad you will come," said Thomas Savine, with a trace of the dry humor which occasionally characterized him.

Geoffrey, who felt that in this instance the pleasure was hardly mutual, and that Helen might not share it with her uncle, said nothing further on that subject, until Mrs. Savine met him in the hotel corridor. A friendship had grown up between them since the day Geoffrey endured the elixir, after mending the bicycle, and there was a mischievous amusement in the lady's eyes as she said; "My compliments, Geoffrey. You are a brave man."

"I don't deserve them, madam. Wherein lies the bravery? Being at present in perfect health, I have no cause to fear you."

Mrs. Savine laughed good-naturedly, then laid her hand upon his arm with a friendly gesture. "Sober earnest, I am glad you came. I believe in you, Geoffrey, and like to see a man show the grit that's in him."

"I am honored," returned Geoffrey, with a little bow. There was a grateful look in his brown eyes, which did not quail in the slightest under the lady's scrutiny.

In spite of her good-will, he, however, derived little pleasure from that evening of relaxation. Helen showed no open displeasure, but he was painfully conscious that what she had seen had been a shock to her. It was impossible for him to volunteer an explanation. He was glad to retire with Savine and a cigar-box to the veranda, and trying to console himself with the reflection that he had at least shown no weakness – he took his leave early. Helen was not present when he bade Mrs. Savine farewell, but she saw him stride away over the gravel. Though she would not ask herself why, she felt gratified that he had not stayed away.

It was some time later when, one day of early winter, he sat in his wooden shanty, which at that season replaced the tent above the cañon. Close by English Jim was busy writing, and Geoffrey, gnawing an unlighted pipe, glanced alternately through the open door at his hurrying workmen and at the letter from Thomas Savine which he held in his hand.

The letter expressed a fear that a financial crisis was imminent. "Tell him he must settle all local bills up to the minute," said Thurston, throwing it across to his amanuensis. "I daresay the English makers will wait a little for payment due on machinery. Did you find that the amount I mentioned would cover the wages through the winter?"

"Only just," was the answer. "That is, unless you could cut some of them a little."

"Not a cent," Geoffrey replied. "The poor devils who risk their lives daily fully earn their money."

"Do you know their wages equal the figure the strikers demanded and you refused to pay? Summers told me about that dispute, sir," ventured English Jim.

"The strikers were not prepared to earn higher pay – and that one word, 'demanded,' makes a big difference. Hello! who is the stranger?"

Mattawa Tom was directing a horseman towards the shanty, and Geoffrey, who watched the newcomer with growing interest, found something familiar in his face and figure, until he rose up in astonishment when the man rode nearer.

"Halliday, by all that's wonderful!" he cried. "Uncommonly glad to see you; but whatever brought you back to this far-off land again?"

"Several things," was the answer, as Halliday, shaking the snow from his furs, dismounted stiffly. "Strain of overwork necessitated a change, my doctor told me. Trust estate I'm winding up comprised doubtful British Columbian mining interests, and last, but not least, to see you, Geoffrey."

The man's fur coat was open now, and Geoffrey, who glanced at the black coat beneath it, said:

"I'm glad you wanted to see me, anyway, but come in. Here, Jake, take the horse to the stable. Are my sympathies needed, Halliday – any of my new friends over yonder dead?"

Halliday stared at him blankly. "Haven't you read the letter I sent you? Do you get no English papers?" he questioned.

"No, to both. I fancy very few people over yonder trouble themselves as to whether I'm living. How did you address your letter?"