Thurston of Orchard Valley Part 40

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 canon, 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 att.i.tude. 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.ses 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 G.o.d!" 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 grat.i.tude--only--which prompts me now."

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

"Geoffrey Thurston--I love you."

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