Thurston of Orchard Valley

"I will not fail you," promised Helen, choking back a sob of relief; and, trusting that the doctor did not see her quivering face, she added softly, "Heaven is merciful!"

She had been prepared for a change, but she was startled at the sight of Thurston. He lay with blanched patches in the paling bronze on his face, which had grown hollow and lined by pain. Still he was sleeping soundly, and did not move when she bent over him. She stooped further and touched his forehead with her lips, rose with the hot blood pulsing upwards from her neck, and stood trembling, while, either dreaming or stirred by some influence beyond man's knowledge, the sleeper smiled, murmuring, "Helen!"

It was daylight when Thurston awakened, and stared as if doubtful of his senses at his new nurse, until, approaching the frame of canvas whereon he lay, Helen, with a gentle touch, caressingly brushed the hair from his forehead.

"I have come to help you to get better. We cannot spare you, Geoffrey," she said simply.

The sick man asked no question nor betrayed further astonishment. He looked up gratefully into the eyes which met his own for a moment and grew downcast again. "Then I shall certainly cheat the doctors yet," he declared.

Under the circumstances his words were distinctly commonplace, but speech is not the sole means of communion between mind and mind, and for the present both were satisfied. Helen laughed and blushed happily when, as by an after thought, Geoffrey added, "It is really very kind of you."

"You must not talk," she admonished with a half-shy assumption of authority, strangely at variance with her former demeanor. "I shall call in my aunt with the elixir if you do."

Geoffrey smiled, but the brightness of his countenance was not accounted for by his answer: "I believe she has treated me with it once or twice already, and I still survive. In fact, I am inclined to think the doctor caught her red-handed on one occasion, and there was trouble."

After that Geoffrey recovered vigor rapidly, and the days passed quickly for Helen as she watched over him in the dilapidated frame house to which he had been removed after the accident. No word of love passed between them, nor was any word necessary. The man, still weak and languid, appeared blissfully contented to enjoy the present, and Helen, who was glad to see him do so, abided her time.

Meanwhile, supported by sheer force of will and a nervous exaltation, that would vanish utterly when the need for it ceased, Julius Savine, leaning on his foreman's arm, or sitting propped up in a rude jumper sleigh, directed operations in the cañon. He knew he was consuming the vitality that might purchase another few years' life in as many weeks of effort, but he desired only to see the work finished, and was satisfied to pay the price. He slept little and scarcely ate, holding on to his work with desperate purpose and living on cordials. Though progress was much slower than it would have been under Geoffrey's direction, he accomplished that purpose.

One afternoon Thomas Savine entered the sick man's room in a state of complacent satisfaction.

"Glad to see you getting ahead so fast, and you must hurry, for we'll want you soon," he said. "The great charge is to be fired the day after to-morrow. Shackleby, who was at the bottom of the whole opposition, has cleared out with considerable expedition. Sold all his stock in the Company, and if his colleagues knew much about his doings, which is quite possible, they emphatically disown them. As a result I've made one or two good provisional deals with them, and expect no more trouble. In short, everything points to a great success."

When Savine went out Geoffrey beckoned Helen to him.

"I am getting so well that you must leave me to your aunt to-morrow," he said. "You remember your promise to fire the decisive charge for me, and I hope when you see it you will approve of the electric firing key. Tell your father I owe more to him than the doctor, for I should have worried myself beyond the reach of physic if he had not been there to take charge instead of me – that is to say, before you came to cure me."

"I will go," agreed Helen, with signs of suppressed agitation that puzzled Geoffrey. She knew that after that charge had been fired their present relations, pleasant as they were, could not continue. It appeared to her the climax to which all he had dared and suffered, and with a humility that was yet akin to pride she had determined, in reparation, voluntarily to offer him that which, whether victorious or defeated otherwise, he had with infinite patience and loyal service won.

It was early one clear cold morning when Helen Savine stood on a little plank platform perched high in a hollow of the rock walls overhanging the river opposite Thurston's camp. Each detail of the scene burned itself into her memory as she gazed about her under a tense expectancy – the rift of blue sky between the filigree of dark pines high above, the rush of white-streaked water thundering down the gorge below and frothing high about the massive boulders, and one huge fang of promontory which a touch of her finger would, if all went well, reduce to chaotic débris. Groups of workmen waited on the opposite side of the flood, all staring towards her expectantly, and Thomas Savine stood close by holding an insignificant box with wires attached to it, in a hand that was not quite steady. Tom from Mattawa sat perched upon a spire of rock holding up a furled flag, and her father leaned heavily upon the rails of the staging. No one spoke or stirred, and in spite of the roar of hurrying water a deep oppressive silence seemed to brood over cañon and camp.

"This is the key," said Thomas Savine. "It is some notion of Geoffrey's, and he had it made especially in Toronto. You fit it in here."

Helen glanced at the diminutive object before she took the box. The finger grip had been fashioned out of a dollar cut clean across bearing two dates engraved upon it. The first, it flashed upon her, was the one on which she had given the worn-out man that very coin, while the other had evidently been added more recently, with less skill, by some camp artificer.

"It's to-day," said Thomas Savine following her eyes, and Helen noticed that his voice was strained. "Geoffrey told me to get it done. Quaint idea; don't know what it means. But put us out of suspense. We're all waiting."

Helen knew what the dates meant, and appreciated the delicate compliment. It was she who had started the daring contractor on his career who was to complete his triumph, and she drew a deep breath as she looked down into the thundering gorge realizing it was a great fight he had won. Human courage and dogged endurance, inspired by him, had mocked at the might of the river, and, blasting a new pathway for it through the adamantine heart of the hills, would roll back the barren waters from a good land that the stout of heart and arm might enter in. Swamps would give place to wheat fields, orchards blossom where willow swale had been, herds of cattle fatten on the levels of the lake, and the smoke of prosperous homesteads drift across dark forests where, for centuries, the wolf and deer had roamed undisturbed. That was one aspect only, but she knew the man who loved her had won a greater triumph over his own nature and others' passions and infirmities.

It was with a thrill of pride that the girl realized all that he had done for her, and yet for a few seconds she almost shrank from the responsibility as high above the waiting men the stood with slender fingers tightening upon the key. The issues of what must follow its turning would be momentous, for it flashed upon her that the tiny combination of copper and silver might, with equal chance, open the way to a golden future or let in overwhelming disaster upon all she loved. Then the doubt appeared an injustice to Geoffrey Thurston and those who had followed him through frost and flood and whirling snow, and, with a color on her forehead, and a light in her eyes, she pressed home the key.

Then there was bustle and hurry. Julius Savine raised his hand, and Tom from Mattawa whirled high the unfurled flag. Somebody beat upon an iron sheet invisible below and the strip of beach in the depths of the cañon became alive with running men. Next followed a deep stillness intensified by the clamor of the river which would never raise the same wild harmonies again, for the slender hand of a woman had bound it fast henceforward under man's dominion. The hush was ended suddenly. For a second the great hollow seemed filled with tongues of flame; then, while thick smoke quenched them and crag and boulder crumbled to fragments, a stunning detonation rang from rock to rock and rolled upwards into the frozen silence of untrodden hills. Huge masses which eddied and whirled, filling the gorge with the crash of their descent leaped out of the vapor; there was a ceaseless shock and patter of smaller fragments, and then, while long reverberations rolled among the hills, the roar of the tortured river drowned the mingled din. Rising, tremendous in its last revolt, its majestic diapason was deepened by the boom of grinding rock and the detonation of boulders reduced to powder. The draught caused by the water's passage fanned the smoke away, and the blue vapor, curling higher, drifted past the staging, so that Helen could only dimly see a great muddy wave foam down the cañon, bursting here and there into gigantic upheavals of spray. She watched it, held silent, awe-stricken, by the sound and sight.

At last Mattawa Tom appeared again, and his voice was faintly audible through the dying clamors as he waved his hands: "Juss gorgeous. Gone way better than the best we hoped," he hailed.

His comrades heard and answered. They were not mere hirelings toiling for a daily wage, but men who had a stake in that region's future, and would share its prosperity, and, had it been otherwise, they were human still. Toiling long with stubborn patience, often in imminent peril of life and limb; winning ground as it were by inches, and sometimes barely holding what they had won; fulfilling their race's destiny to subdue and people the waste places of the earth with the faith which, when aided by modern science, is greater than the mountains' immobility, they too rejoiced fervently over the consummation of the struggle. Twice a roar that was scarcely articulate filled the cañon, and then, growing into the expression of definite thought, it flung upward their leader's name.

Helen listened, breathless, intoxicated as by wine. Julius Savine stood upright with no trace of weakness in his attitude. Then suddenly he seemed to shrink together, and, with the power gone out of him, caught at the rails as he turned to his daughter.

"We have won! It is Geoffrey's doing, and my last task is done," he spoke in a voice that sounded faint and far-away. "Fast horses and bold riders I can trust you, too, are waiting. Tell him!"

Helen noticed a strange wistfulness in her father's glance, but she asked no question and turned to Thomas Savine. "I leave him in your charge. I will go," she said.

That afternoon passed very slowly for Geoffrey. He lay near a window, which he insisted should be opened, glancing alternately at his watch and the trail that wound down the hillside as the minutes crept by. He was hardly civil to the doctor, and almost abrupt with Mrs. Savine, who, knowing his anxiety, straightway forgave him.

"You tell me I must avoid excitement and await the news with composure. For heaven's sake, man, be reasonable. You might as well recommend your next moribund victim to get up and take exercise," he grumbled to the physician.

But the longest afternoon passes at length, and when the sunset glories flamed in the western sky, and the great peaks put on fading splendors of saffron and crimson, three black moving objects became visible on a hill-crest bare of the climbing firs. Geoffrey watched them with straining eyes, and it was a wonderful picture that he looked upon – black gorge, darkening forest, drifting haze in the hollows, and unearthly splendors above; but he regarded it only as a fit setting for the slight figure in the foreground that swayed to the stride of a galloping horse. He was not surprised – it seemed perfectly appropriate that Helen should bring him the news – though his fingers trembled and his lips twitched.

"We shall know the best or worst in five minutes. You have done your utmost, doctor, but I'll get up and annihilate you with your own bottles if you give me good advice now," he said, and the surgeon, seeing protests were useless, laughed.

Mrs. Savine said nothing. She was in a state of nervous tension, too, and merely laid her hand on the patient, restrainingly, as he strove with small success to raise himself a little. Meantime the horse came nearer, its bridle dripping with flakes of spume. Its rider was sprinkled with snow and her skirt was besmeared with lather, but she came on at a gallop until she reined in the panting horse beneath the window, and flinging one arm aloft sat in the saddle with her flushed face turned towards the watchers. No bearer of good tidings ever appeared more beautiful to an anxious man.

"It is triumph!" she cried.

"Thank God!" answered Mrs. Savine, who slipped quietly from the room.

Little time elapsed before Helen entered the room where Geoffrey impatiently waited for her, but brief as it was, there was no sign of hurried travel about her. Her apparel was fresh and dainty, and there was even a flower from Mexico at her belt. She went straight to Geoffrey and bent over him.

"All has gone well – better, I understand, than you even hoped for, and you have done a great thing, Geoffrey," she said. "You have saved me my inheritance – which is of small importance – and – I know all now – my father's honor. You have repaid him tenfold, and gratified his heart's desire."

"Then I am thankful," answered Geoffrey very quietly. He lay still a moment looking at her with a great longing in his eyes. Helen was very beautiful, more beautiful even than usual, it seemed to him. He did not guess that she had an offering to make, and for the sake of the man at whose feet she would lay it, would not even so far as trifles went, depreciate the gift, hence her careful attire.

Helen's eyes fell beneath his gaze. She discerned what he was thinking, and, though the words "heart's desire" were accidental, there was no mistaking the suggestion. She said slowly:

"I have been unjust, proud and willful – and I am going to do full penance. You have surely the gift of prophecy. Do you remember your last bold prediction?"

Geoffrey's lip twitched. He strove to raise himself that he might see the speaker more clearly, and, still almost helpless in his bandages, slipped back again. Helen slipped her hand into his.

"I have come to beg you not to go away."

"There is one thing that would prevent me." Geoffrey, bewildered, seemed to lose his usual crispness of speech, but Helen checked him.

"Therefore," and Helen's voice was very low, while surging upwards from her neck a swift wave of color flushed cheek and brow. "I have come of my own will to say what you asked of me. You have loved and served me faithfully, and it is not gratitude – only – which prompts me now."

There was a space in which Helen caught her breath. Then she lifted her head, and said proudly:

"Geoffrey Thurston – I love you."