Why should he pity others who were pitiless to him? What mattered it, if, like Samson of old, he should drag down the very pillars of the structure he had raised? What mattered it, if he too should perish in the ruins?
The party that had gathered to see the last stone of the great Sangre de Cristo dam swung into position was far larger than Winston had expected. Elijah was not among them. Winston had spared no effort to find Elijah and to deliver to him another message to the effect that he was once more a free man. Messengers had been sent to his ranch; but he had left home and Amy had not seen him for several days; she supposed him to be in Ysleta. Parties had scoured the mountain in the vicinity of the dam, but in vain. It was clear that Elijah was purposely in hiding and that the exercises at the dam must be carried on without him.
Ysleta was largely represented. Winston was at first surprised, then deeply grateful for the genuine interest which even the wildest boomers displayed in his work. As, one by one, in pairs or in groups, they took him cordially by the hand, congratulated him on the successful completion of a great piece of work, compared the lasting utility of his work with their own ephemeral and selfish efforts, a wave of self-reproach swept over him. These were the people whom, in season and out, he had condemned as greedy, selfish, unprincipled sharks. For the first time in his life, he began to realize the fact that, even in the worst of humanity, there is a soul of goodness, a soul that is only obscured, never extinguished. In deep contrition, he reviewed his attitude of mind toward Elijah. He saw him in a new light, the light of kindliness that was radiating from those whose hearts he had condemned as black with unscrupulous greed. He pictured Elijah, shunning his fellow men like a hunted animal, the warmth of his good intentions changed to the biting flame of bitter resentment against those who were to profit by his success, and who had turned from him at sight of the first shadow that had fallen upon him. He reproached himself for not having gone directly to Elijah on the first suspicion of defalcation, for not having pointed out to him his error, for not having pleaded with him to face the consequences of his wrong doing, to endeavor to set himself right. He contrasted his self-righteous conduct with that of Helen Lonsdale, her readiness to stand by Elijah, to assume her own share of blame for Elijah's mistaken actions. He had assumed that, because certain of Elijah's actions had been criminal, Elijah was a criminal by instinct, and he, a friend, an intimate business associate, had treated him as one, but made no effort at reclamation.
Winston's was not an emotional nature, but the circumstances in which he was placed, played upon his calmly balanced mind, until he saw his own self-righteous errors and condemned himself as sharply as he had condemned Elijah. He was recalled to himself by the proffered hand of one of the most successful and as he deemed him, one of the most heartless of Ysleta's boomers.
"Say, Ralph, old man, I want to do myself the honor of shaking hands with the real thing. This work," he swept his hand with a comprehensive gesture which included the dam, the canal, and the waiting hillsides, "makes us feel like thirty cents Mexican. It don't come with the real plunk from us, you know, but it's real just the same. Ysleta wasn't worth whooping for, but we whooped. We whooped for cash. Some of us got it; but what we got, others lost, and we knew it. But you fellows have helped us to make good. With this thing in working order," he again pointed to the dam, "Ysleta will make good in time."
"I know it," Winston's voice was regretful, "but the beginning, end and middle of this whole business, is a hunted man who dares not show his face, even to those whom he had every reason to believe were his friends."
The man looked sharply at Winston.
"You mean 'Lige Berl?"
"Yes, the best man of us all."
"You're right there. And say, Ralph, you just listen. We all know about this Pacific business. It was a mistake on 'Lige's part, that's all. He'll make good, if he gets a chance, and by God, we're going to stand by and see that he gets it."
Winston's grasp tightened on the hand he held.
"It's all straightened out now, if we only knew where he was."
The work at the dam called for Winston's attention. As he passed through a bowing, smiling group, he came face to face with Helen. She was laughing and chatting with some Ysleta acquaintances. She darted an eager, inquiring look at Winston as he came towards her. In obedience to an unvoiced bidding, she joined Winston as he passed by. Beyond the hearing of the group, her look changed to one of anxiety.
"Have you seen anything of Elijah?" she asked.
"Not a thing. Helen, I'm worried about Elijah. He has been home, but has gone again and I can't find him in the mountains. I have sent men everywhere."
There were tears in Helen's eyes. They did not fall; they only softened and intensified their depths.
"I hoped to see him here. If we could only get word to him about Seymour." After a moment's hesitation, she added: "I have had several strange letters from him, but no clue as to where they were sent from."
Winston's glance wandered to the group of Ysleta men.
"It just crushes me, Helen, to think that these men are actually truer to Elijah than I have been."
"No, don't blame yourself too much. I know more now than I did when you and Uncle Sid held me up that day in the office, and—Oh, I cannot talk about it, Ralph! It is all unspeakably awful."
Helen turned abruptly away and joined Uncle Sid at the foot of the great derrick which was to swing the last stone into place.
Winston glanced quickly at her, but she was talking eagerly with Uncle Sid, her somber mood apparently quite gone. He turned inquiringly to the foreman, who nodded his head in reply.
"Come, Helen; they are ready for us." He took Helen by the arm to steady her, and together they started out over the foot-way on the crest of the dam, Helen a little in advance of Winston.
"Don't look down," he continued, "it may make you dizzy."
"Dizzy!" she repeated derisively, "why I could walk a slack rope. It's great! I don't wonder that you are an engineer."
"This is easy, doing things, when some one tells you what to do and what for."
"Thanks! You are original and independent. So am I." With reckless daring she freed her arm from Winston's detaining hand, and before he could prevent, she was skipping over the dizzy walk far ahead.
"Stop, Helen, stop! It's dangerous!" His voice was commanding.
"I know it is. That's where the fun comes in." Over her shoulder she flung him a mocking glance from reckless eyes.
Winston dared make no quick move that would increase her danger. He could not understand the spirit of bravado that had come over her. A sigh of intense relief escaped him as she grasped one of the staying ropes and swung inside the enclosure, which, hanging far out over the abyss, railed in the space where the last stone was to be laid.
"It's no credit to you," he said sternly, "that your childish prank hasn't ended in tragedy."
Helen was conscious of a creeping thrill as she looked into Winston's eyes. They were like poles of a dynamo, with thousands of volts of energy waiting to leap out, if the safety line was crossed. She felt as if she were dangerously near the line.
"Be thankful for your mercies," she said lightly. "No tragedy has happened."
Winston wanted to say more, but an expectant crowd was waiting.
"Well, go ahead," he said. "You're in command now."
"I don't know where to begin, but I'm not old enough yet not to take a dare."
Out on one of the abutments, a great derrick rose; near its foot an engineer stood with his hand on the throttle of an engine. Helen waved her hand, looking defiantly at Winston.
There came the short, sharp bark of the engine, the groaning of rope and timber as the locking stone swung in the air, turned, poised high above them; them slowly began to sink to its position. Under Winston's directions, her small, firm hands guided the great block, as it settled, then came to a rest. The fall ropes slackened, and Helen unclasped the tackle. Amidst the cheers of the watchers on the abutments, the boom of the derrick swung free. The last stone had been laid in the Sangre de Cristo dam.
Helen turned to Winston. Her great, black eyes were solemn.
"It is finished now, isn't it Ralph?"
"It is."
Helen sighed deeply. It suggested relief from a long, anxious strain.
"Thunder and Mars, Helen! Isn't there anything more in life for you? I can imagine Alexander heaving that sigh when he realized that he'd done the whole world."
"That's where Alexander and I separate. I'm relieved, not regretful."
Winston spoke with feeling.
"It must be a relief, Helen. No one has done more for this work than you."
Helen's reply was unguarded.
"I wasn't thinking of myself."
Winston looked up in unfeigned surprise.
"You weren't?"
"Let's not talk of this now. It's finished."
"Tell me what you meant."
Helen looked at Winston. There was a suggestion of yielding in her eyes. Her lips trembled on the verge of speech; then they set, voiceless. Why should she tell Winston of her fears of Elijah? That, driven to desperation, as she knew he was, she feared that in some way he would thwart the work that was now completed.
"Sometime, perhaps; not now." She was not quite herself. "This will stay here forever?" She evidently wished to be reassured.
"Unless something happens."
"But what can happen?" She questioned anxiously.
"A very simple thing might destroy the whole thing in an hour."
Helen's face grew white.
Winston noted the look, but failed to assign the correct reason for it. Helen had given more to the work than he had thought.
"There's no danger, really." Winston spoke with conviction. "It's just this. We've built a rip-rap dam with a stone facing. No amount of water behind it can ever move it. Yet if by chance the water should flow over the crest, it would go in an hour."
"What's to prevent it?" Helen's voice was sharp.
"The waste weir." Winston pointed to the stone paved canal on the far side of the dam. "We know the rainfall here. That spillway will handle twice the amount."
"But if it should become choked?"
"We have the flood gates." Winston pointed to the two great shafts that reached up from the base of the dam, crowned with grooved wheels.
"But suppose they should get wedged so they could not be opened?"
"Then I would advise you to get out of the way! What's the matter, Helen?" Winston grew suddenly conscious that there was more in Helen's persistent questions than appeared on the surface.
Helen did not reply.
"Couldn't all this have been provided against?"
"Yes; but it would have cost more money than we had to put in. It's safe enough, if we watch out."
Helen laid her hand on Winston's arm. Her eyes were deep and anxious.
"Watch out day and night, Ralph. There is danger, grave danger."
Winston was thoroughly aroused.
"You know something that you are concealing from me. Tell me!"
"I have told you enough to put you on your guard. I can't tell you any more. I don't know any more."
Helen turned resolutely toward the foot-way. Winston walked silently beside her. He wanted to know more, but he felt the uselessness of words. As soon as he could free himself from the friends who thronged around him and Helen, he sought out Uncle Sid and told him of Helen's warning.
"What do you make out of it?" he asked.
"No more than you do, I guess."
"You think Elijah is at the bottom of it all, don't you?"
"Yes, I do. I'm sure of it."
"Why didn't she tell me then?" Winston burst out.
"Well, women are queer creatures." Uncle Sid spoke meditatively. "They see more sides to a man than we do, an' when he's down, they stay by him closer. I sometimes think that Helen knows more about 'Lige than we do; anyway, she's mighty suspicious of him, but she's goin' to give him every chance to get up, an' at the same time she's lookin' out that no one gets hurt when he's flappin' his heels around, tryin' to make his feet. What are you doin' to shut off any deviltry?"
"I've put on extra watchmen, day and night, and I've got men out hunting Elijah."
"I guess that's all that you can do."
Winston meditated long over Helen's warning and Uncle Sid's explanation of her conduct. The idea of Elijah's trying to injure the dam finally seemed too monstrous to be entertained. It occurred to him to remain at the dam and not trust to watchmen; but this was impossible. He had other pressing duties demanding him. Nothing could happen this night; the next would be spent at the mouth of the cañon. The day following he would send some of his young assistants in place of the Mexicans.
The sun had long since sunk beneath the sheen of the ocean and one by one the distant stars pricked sharp and clear through the azure veil that made the world a unit in the depths of space. From their spanless heights, moonlight and starlight plunged like hissing shafts of water and, like shafts of water falling on the softly resisting air, broke in diffused mantles that half concealed and half revealed the softened contours of the slumbering world. The gently falling radiance disclosed no detail of the swelling plains below, yet each tumid roll, crowned with its aureole of lustrous light voiced with tongueless words an everlasting peace.
Winston was busy until far into the night. There was a strange sense of oppression as he passed from point to point of the now completed dam. The machinery that had for so long a time been pulsing with life, was now stilled. There were no banked fires under the boilers, to speak of rest for the labor of the morrow, for the labor was completed. In the laborer's camp, the men were packing their few belongings for an early start in the morning. Some were busy touching up the machines for their long rest. These were not to be dismantled at once, but were to wait a more convenient time. The lanterns of the men twinkled through clumps of mountain pine where the shadows lay thick and deep; then faded to a dim point in the white moonlight. The occasional clink of a hammer, and the voices of the men drifted across the water, softened by distance. It was funereal, after all! And he had looked forward to these very sounds with an impatient thrill. Now it was all completed. The last stone of the dam had been laid, from the dam to the terminal canal every gate had been put in, every trestle had been built, every tunnel had been driven. Tomorrow, with the men, he would go over every foot of the canal for a final inspection. If this was satisfactory, and he knew it would be, in two days the gates would be opened and the water turned into the canal.
Winston was standing on the apron of the dam looking out over the great reservoir that in the moonlight lay like a plate of burnished steel between the pine-clad granite hills that dipped steeply into the water. The dam was already filled to the brim, and the full volume of the Sangre de Cristo was sweeping through the weir and plunging into the cañon below. The sights and sounds only deepened Winston's oppression. His work was done; the work he loved so well. The future held nothing so bright as the past had held. Only, in the future, was there to be the dull routine of office work, the laying off of orange groves, the running out of ditches that would lead the water to them; simple work this that any tyro who could set a level and read an angle, could perform. No intricate problems that absorbed every energy of an active mind, that blotted out consciousness of time and self in delicious oblivion of existence; no obstacles of nature that lifted a forbidding hand "thus far and no farther;" no thrill of determined battle that rushed against these obstacles and bore them down. His field had been sown; the harvest was waiting for him to thrust in and reap, what? Money; that was all. Money that would only intensify his consciousness of an existence that like rank vegetation throve aimlessly only to rot and thrive again. What would love, even Helen's love, mean to him? Would that, assured, satisfy him, or would it, possessed, be to him like his work that was done? What had drawn them together but an intense, absorbing, common interest?
This mood was strange to Winston. He could, and did, reason himself out of it; but its influence remained. In his cabin, which was his office as well, he wrapped his blankets around him and lay down to sleep.
Helen's night was sleepless. She had retired early, not to sleep, as she knew, but that in solitude she might try to think out more clearly her course of action. Her admiration for Winston had increased a thousand-fold, if that were possible; and he had offered her his love to crown it all, and she had seemed to weigh it in her hands, as a Jew might bite a piece of gold to try its worth. She had done this when every fiber of her heart cried out against it, demanding that she should render to Ralph his own. Why had she turned even seemingly against Ralph, against herself?
Only that she might do penance for her sin. Was not that it after all? But she was innocent of any intentional wrong. Was it not selfishness, this penance which she was imposing upon herself? Was she not compelling Ralph to bear a part of her punishment, demanding that he wait in doubt till she could declare herself purified? Was it not pride and selfish pride which demanded that through Elijah's redemption she should be declared free?
Then a thought came to her which quickened every nerve to painful throbs. Was it not worse than selfishness, was it not a crime? Was not this shielding of Elijah a crime against others, innocent? What if she should fail? Her heart was beating with great, painful throbs. She thought of what Ralph had told her as he had showed her the weak points of the dam. "If the waste weir should be choked, in a few hours the dam would be gone." He had pointed out to her just how simple a thing it was to wedge the gates and to choke the weir. And she had listened, and to protect herself,—that was the pitiful part of it,—to protect herself, she had warned him to be on his guard. She began dressing herself with trembling fingers. She would go to him and tell him all. Let him think what he might, she would tell him all, unsparing of herself. She parted the flaps of the tent and stepped out into the night. Outside, she paused for a moment. The soft gray of the moonlight, lying white on the silent tents, the sighing of the pines, the distant, bell-like notes of calling wood-birds, spoke to her of peace that stilled her acute fears. Then she became conscious of another sound; a throbbing, muffled roar that made the night air tremulous.
She changed the direction of her steps. On the bridge that spanned the waste weir, she looked down on the swirling waters that rushed over the floor of the weir. For a moment she paused, then went out over the foot-board of the dam. The gate house rose black from the waters that lapped against the dam. Inside the gate house, every wheel and gear was in place. Once more in the open air, her tense feelings relaxed. She laughed at her fears. Her resolution hardened. In the morning she would tell Ralph everything. The relaxation from the strain of the night induced a sleep that kept her late in bed. When she joined the others, Ralph had gone. The party were to camp that night at the mouth of the cañon, where he would meet them the following day for lunch. Helen was disappointed. At first she thought of riding ahead and hunting out Ralph, but she knew him, and the idea of overtaking him was absurd. She restrained herself with as much patience as she could command, but her senses were on the alert.
The ponies were saddled and bridled, waiting for them when breakfast was over. Helen was surprised at this. She well knew the spirit of mañana, which, with the lesser virtues had come down to the descendants of the Spanish cavaliers. She was therefore surprised at the alert, beady eyes of the swarthy Mexicans, in place of the dreamy lassitude to which she was accustomed. The surprise was ephemeral and soon passed away; but she was to recall it later.
The following morning when the party was again under way, Helen rode up to Uncle Sid.
"Uncle Sid, you ride down to the camp with the crowd, and I'll meet you there at noon. I'm going this way." She pointed to a trail which branched off from the main line.
"What for?" Uncle Sid asked bluntly.
Helen could hardly answer satisfactorily to herself much less to Uncle Sid.
"Oh," she replied, "because I want to. Won't that do?"
"You'd better come along with us," Uncle Sid protested. "You might meet some more dried beef."
"I'm not afraid; besides I'm mounted now." Then they parted.
The trail which Helen had chosen, followed the canal. For a distance it was squeezed tight between the walls of the steep-sloped, cedar-tufted barranca. The bed was dry now; but when the water should be turned on, this trail would be impassable. A little further, and the gorge opened into a deep arroyo which the canal bridged, then turned and followed the opposite bank.
Helen had followed this trail for two reasons. In the first place, she wanted to be alone. Then, this was the trail over which she had ridden with Ralph when he had first shown her his work. The head of the arroyo was clad with a thicket of cedars, so dense as to be almost impenetrable. As the last foot-fall sounded on the bridge, Helen's pony halted abruptly, and with swelling nostrils and forward pointing ears, whinnied a short, sharp challenge. There was an answering whinny, and Helen's eyes followed the direction of the sound. Almost hidden by the dull leaves of the cedars, was a draggled looking pony, saddled, with the reins trailing on the ground. At first, Helen hardly noticed the figure squatting limply beside the pony. His dishevelled clothing was stuck full of gray needles, like those scattered on the ground, whence the figure had evidently just risen to a sitting posture. The man raised his eyes and Helen's heart stood still. In the gray, drawn face, the dull, lusterless eyes, she recognized Elijah Berl. As she looked wonderingly at him, in spite of the knowledge of his misdeeds, a great wave of womanly pity swept over her heart. A single glance at the pitiful figure, with the knowledge that had come to her from her associations with him, told her the struggle he had lived through, a struggle that had unbalanced his reason and left him lower than the beasts of the field.
"Oh, Elijah! Why weren't you at the dam?" Her voice was tremulous, in spite of her efforts to control it.
The answer to her words was a vacant, uncomprehending stare.
"Every one missed you," she continued. "Every one was asking for you." Again she paused, eagerly searching her soul for words that would bring the light of reason to the listless eyes.
There was no response, save a dropping of the dull eyes, an aimless picking of the fingers at the needles that clung to his garments.
Helen reined her pony close to the abutment of the bridge, and dismounting, trailed the bridle on the stones. She trembled at what she was about to do, but the spirit of atonement forced her on. Another moment, and she was beside the limp figure, one hand resting on the bowed shoulders.
"Elijah, listen! I have something to tell you. Listen, for you must not miss a single word. Go back to Ysleta, go back to Amy. You are free. Mr. Seymour—"
At the name, Elijah sprang to his feet, his hands clenched and knotted, his eyes shining with maniacal rage.
"Curse him!" he shouted, "Curse him, curse him! Curse them all for a pack of ravening wolves! He has done it; they have done it! The Philistines be upon them! They be of them who would gather where I have strewn, who would reap of the harvest I have sown. The day of wrath is upon them, the consuming anger of a terrible God. Listen!" He seized Helen's hand, crushing it in his fierce grasp, as he bent forward toward the cañon of the Sangre de Cristo. His eyes were strained, his lips parted.
Helen was half conscious of a sudden silence. The roaring waters were stilled. She was beginning to comprehend the reason and the import of the hushed waters. Elijah dropped the clasped hand; he stood triumphant, his head thrown back, his eyes raised to the cloudless sky.
"It is done! 'I will tell you what I have done for my vineyard; I will take away the hedge thereof, and it shall be eaten up; and I will break down the wall thereof, and it shall be trodden down. And I will lay it waste; it shall not be pruned nor digged, but there shall come up briars and thorns. Hell hath enlarged herself and opened her mouth without measure; and their glory and their multitude, and their pomp, and he that rejoiceth, shall descend into it!'"
The words were chanted, rather than spoken; chanted with the resonant triumph of him who has fought and won. He yet stood, with clenched, outspread hands; but the color was dying from the drawn cheeks, the fierce light fading from the gleaming eyes. Then he stood as before, dull, listless, apathetic. The momentary fire had burned itself to ashes.
Helen stood with every sense strained to catch the full import of Elijah's changing moods. What was he about to do? What had he done? She must prevent his purpose if possible, nullify it if—this was not to be thought of now. She must read, and read quickly, the flickering light of reason that burned fitfully through the chaos of his soul. She was certain that reason had departed; was it beyond recall? She must try. Precious as she felt the moments to be, she must yet try. She took one of Elijah's hands in her own firm grasp.
"You don't understand, Elijah. He is not your enemy." She dared not use Seymour's name again. "He is your friend. He and Ralph have sent out men to find you; they are searching for you now. They are looking for you to tell you that the money has been restored. They say that—" Helen hesitated, but the pause was imperceptible, "you did the best thing, the best thing for the company, in buying the Pico ranch; that you saw farther than they did."
Helen was hesitating mentally, but her words went on without pause. She was watching intently for a sign of comprehension in the stolid, passionless face. With her last words, the light came again to the eyes she was searching. Not the fierce passion-blaze of unchained fury, only the peaceful glow of returning reason. He spoke slowly, stumblingly, as one waking from a dream.
"They know now,—that I was right, that—I did right?" The eyes again wavered between intelligence and stupor.
"Yes, Elijah, they know now."
His voice was querulous.
"Why didn't they trust me? After all I had done; why didn't they trust me?"
"They do trust you now. Come back, Elijah. All is forgiven."
Elijah's reply was again querulous, almost peevish.
"Why didn't they trust me? Why didn't they trust me before it was too late?" The bitterness dropped from voice and manner. His voice was loud and terrible. "Don't you hear me? It is too late! Listen! It is too late! Don't you know what this means? Listen! The roar of the water has stopped! Don't you know what this means? The flood gates are closed. In a few minutes, in a few hours, the reservoir will fill, and the water will go over the dam. Don't you know what that means? It is too late!" He paused! there was a strained look in his eyes. Then he sprang into action.
"Is it too late? My God! Is it too late?"
He was in the saddle, the pony's head pointing up the cañon, his flanks shrinking from the pounding stirrups, and from the lashings of the bridle thongs.
Helen watched the flying horseman. For a moment she was struck motionless with uncomprehending terror. What did it all mean? What could she do? Oh, if Ralph were only here! For a moment she stood; then she was on her pony and riding hard toward the camping place and Ralph. Through scrubby sage and cedar, stumbling in burrows, shying at stinging cactus, her horse was driving madly on. Her thoughts were all on finding Ralph; but mingling with these, were the beady eyes of the alert Mexicans, and the silenced waters of the Sangre de Cristo. These had a meaning for her now.
From the summit of a low ridge, she saw below her the camp of the party for which she was so eagerly watching. One tall figure she singled out and kept her eyes upon him. He turned. She could almost see his questioning eyes as he strode out from his companions. He was near enough to hear her cry—
"Oh, Ralph! The dam! The dam! Elijah is at the dam!"
Winston asked no questions. Whatever else there might be to learn, could be learned at the dam with no waste of precious time. As to what time meant, Winston was fully alive. As to what effect the constant, lonely ferment over real or fancied wrongs would have upon a morbidly sensitive mind, he took no moment to forecast. He knew the ruin that could be wrought; for he knew the strength and the weakness of the dam; and he knew Elijah. The thought that Elijah could be driven to wreck the crowning work of years of struggle, seemed to him monstrous, but he knew that it was possible; and he knew Elijah. He knew also the sinister conditions in the note to Mellin. He knew that they were harmless now; but Elijah did not know.
Winston could count upon his men and they followed his lead. He was eager, anxious; but neither eagerness nor anxiety prevented the calm judgment which spared his horse while pushing it to the limit; and his men followed his lead.
As he flew past the intake gates of the canal he noted that they were closed. This fact pointed to the worst. As he rode through the cañon he noted the silence, the oily threads of water sliding between the boulders; these facts made suspicion certainty. The worst had happened or was on the way.
As he came near the dam, he did not need the sight of the thin, wrinkling veil that was sliding over the crest, and, in ever increasing volume, was plunging into the depths below, to tell him what had happened. As he sprang from his horse, he did not need to see the tangled mass of earth and timber that choked the waste weir to the brim, nor did he need to see the closed gates and the broken wheels that forbade the hope of opening them. Long ago, so it seemed, he had forecast the design and the method of its execution.
He saw another sight which he had not forecast. He saw repentance—repentance, he saw surely; atonement, if within the reach of time, and life, and sacrifice of life. He saw Repentance with bared brow, with gray, drawn face, with glowing eyes that directed crashing strokes of a shining axe, eating deep into a locking tree-trunk which held back with its mass of crushed timbers and close-packed earth, the seething waters of the weir. He saw it all, and his heart swelled and pulsed and throbbed with the glory of it. He saw and felt the glory of it, that lifts man above the beasts that raven, the angels who adore, and places him at the side of God, the crowning labor of his mighty hands.
But through the swelling, flaming glory that bathed the world with the light of heaven, the earthborn instinct thrust; to save a human life though repentance and atonement were laid low, and the light that they radiated was quenched. Through the oily, sliding, deepening veil Ralph dashed, shouting as he went—
"Come back! Come back! Elijah! Come back"!
But Repentance heeded not the call. Once again the shining blade bit deep in the straining timber, and Atonement had gained its perfect work.
A crash like riving thunder drowned the swirl of falling water, and the huddled mass of rock and earth and timber groaned and swelled and thrust, and then, with a crash and roar, swept through the stone-paved weir and plunged into the yawning canon.
The blade had fallen from the bared hands; the gray, drawn face was lifted to the heavens; but the grayness was gone. In its place was the light that comes from but one source. Repentance was crowned with atonement; but life had departed.
Not quite. From a boiling eddy, struggling, impatient to join the swirling rush of turbid waters, pitying hands drew a torn, bruised body. A rough, kind hand brushed earth-stained locks from the still face.
"My God! That sight would make a man of the devil!" This was the tribute of a dormant soul cased in a toil-calloused body.
Ralph was bending low. The eyelids fluttered, then sprang open; but the vision was not of this world. The lips trembled—
"Amy! Amy!" Then they closed forever.
Had a ball of fire, shot from the cloudless sky, smitten one of their number to eternal silence, no greater, no more awesome hush could have fallen upon the merry party below the dam. Men looked at each other with stricken eyes, then turned to watch the speeding horsemen led by Winston. As Helen rode nearer to them, questioning eyes were turned to her, but she gave no heed. Only in the white, set face they read the outlines of some awful tragedy. Uncle Sid was first at her side.
"Come with me," she commanded. Then she turned and rode slowly toward the cañon. Uncle Sid rode close beside her.
"What is it, little girl?" There was a pitying, restful caress in the softened voice.
Helen longed to throw herself in his arms, to bury her head on his breast, to pour out her soul in confession before him. She controlled herself, her voice.
"I have found Elijah." Then she told him all. It was good to unburden herself. She told of the pitiful wreck from which reason had all but fled; the burst of insane rage when Seymour's name was mentioned; the dumb struggle to grasp the assurance that he was forgiven, was free; the hopeless plaint, "Why didn't they trust me before it was too late,—" the silence of the river; the wild cry,—"Is it too late, my God, is it too late?" the mad ride, fury driven, up the cañon trail. She told him of her fears for the dam, how easily it could be wrecked, and her voice, steady until now, broke pitifully. "I should have told Ralph all. Only my wicked pride kept me from it."
Uncle Sid reined his pony closer and laid a soothing hand on her arm.
"It isn't too late, little girl. Listen! You have saved Elijah. You have saved the dam!"
They were near the cañon now, and a heavy murmur, growing in intensity, pulsed in the quiet air. A great, hopeful light glowed in Helen's eyes; then it suddenly gave place to anxious fear. Was it too late after all? Had the dam given way? A moment and her questions would be answered. She sat with parted lips, and straining eyes, waiting for the rending, crashing thunder that would come if—then a sigh of relief escaped her. At the cañon's mouth, the turbid, soil-stained waters of the Sangre de Cristo were leaping and falling, but the volume was decreasing. She turned to Uncle Sid.
"Wait here. I am going up the cañon."
She felt that she was losing control of herself; she was striving against it, but in vain. Try as she would, she could lay hold of nothing in the past that could aid her. What had been her past? A sense of right and a determination to live in accord with it, and with what results? In self-confident pride she had looked down with contempt upon Ysleta boomers and their methods. At the first beck of Elijah, yielding to the subtle, intangible influence which he had thrown around her, she had abandoned her principles and had become as one of them. Not openly, not strongly, not defiantly, here was the shame and the pain of it; she had not been herself, but another. She had protested, to herself, to Elijah, she had stood up against him and had gone down before him. Day after day, the meshes of this sinister influence had held her more closely in its silken web; day after day, her past stood out more clearly with all its pitiful failures, and day after day the future, even with the light of the past beating white upon it, saw her yet more strongly bound. What deeper depths would have yawned to engulf her, had not Elijah's declaration jarred her to a loathsome recognition of what she was, of what she might become, she shuddered to forecast. A smile of bitter self-contempt played over her lips for a moment; then was gone.
In her darkness, there was yet a ray of light. She had failed, failed miserably. She bore this in upon her soul with no softening words. This was her darkness.
Brave, strong, patient hands had laid hold upon Elijah. If they had not saved him, they had saved his work. They had laid hold upon her. If they had not saved her, they had made her failures harmless. This was her light. She could forget herself, her pain, her shame, in the glory of Ralph's triumph. From the dust of her humiliation, she could yet raise a heart filled with unselfish love.
Yet was there not hope? Ralph had known all that had lain on the surface and he had offered her his love and had asked for hers in return. She would be brave. She would tell him all. Even though he cast her aside, she would yet have her love for him which could not harm him, but save her. She would tell him all. Then if the light of love still shone in his eyes, the light of the love he offered, the light of the love he asked, she would know it; she could trust it without fear. She was learning a lesson that might not avail her; but she was learning a lesson. On the somber background of repentance the brightest pictures of life are painted.
Through the pine boughs that hung low over the trail, she caught a glimpse of hatless men who were carrying a burden between them. For a moment her heart stood still. It was death. Then her heart once more beat high. She saw Ralph's face, a face clouded with grief but yet lightened by a supernal glow. She slipped from her pony and with bowed head waited for the covered burden to pass by. Then her eyes were raised to Ralph's; her hand was in his.
"It is all over, Helen; but his death was glorious. It was worth a thousand lives."
Her hand in Ralph's, she heard the story of Elijah's life redeemed in death. Tears welled from her eyes and fell silently down her cheeks.
Ralph was drawing her nearer; his arm was around her.
"I know all now, Helen." He would have said more but she checked him gently.
"No; you do not know all. I must tell you. I must." She was trying to free herself.
"I want you to tell me just one thing."
"I must. Then—" her eyes met his bravely.
He laid his fingers gently on her lips.
"I know what you would tell me, but I do not care to hear. I will not listen, Helen. Don't you believe that I know myself, that I know you?"
She hid her face in her hands.
"Ralph."
"Stop!" Ralph's voice was strong and commanding. "Every word you speak condemns me."
Slowly the hands dropped from the face that was now raised to his. The great, dark eyes were deep with questioning hope. The lips trembled with a smile that a breath would fan into life.
"I must obey my master."
Ralph's face was close to hers. His voice was low and strong.
"Then tell me that you love me."
"I love you. With all my heart and soul and strength, I love you."
Gently she put him aside.
"Let me go now, Ralph. I must be with Amy."
A woman was standing beside an iron gate all but hidden in a riotous growth of blossoming vines that opened upon a grass-grown mound.
"To the memory of Elijah Berl."
"He shall make the desert blossom as the rose"—was graven on the bronze plate.
Far below her, and on either side, instead of the bare, brown hillsides of a few, short years ago, grew rank on rank, leaves of glossy green, flecked with tawny gold. Here and there, red-tiled houses, their walls all but covered with climbing roses, stood at the head of marshalled groves. Shining lines moved out and in, where the waters of the Sangre de Cristo sank into the red earth and sprang upwards in fruit and flower. The air was resonant with happy bird notes that trilled from tree to tree as the tiny musicians with swelling throats poured out the happiness that their little bodies could not contain.
There was no longer the old-time harshness of the desert air, the sky was bluer, the sunlight softer. There was nothing that whispered of death, save the bronze tablet; even this spoke not so much of death as of triumph over it.
By the side of the grave stood a woman clad in somber black. Her robes were out of harmony with the inscription, the blossoming landscape; out of harmony with the soft, patient eyes, the rounded, tinted cheeks, the fluffy masses of tawny hair. Not a line, not a wrinkle, not a gray thread told that the heart of Amy Berl was lying with her husband beneath the guarding bronze.
A tall, earnest faced boy was coming down the path, trying to preserve a dignified walk that was yet pulled into abrupt steps by a dancing, laughing girl who tugged at his outstretched arm.
"Mama," she cried, "Uncle Sid is waiting for you."
Amy slowly turned her eyes to the child, as if with an effort, then moved up the path. The boy was by his mother's side, walking evenly with her. The girl was dancing and skipping, now before them, now behind, dragging her mother to admire a new-blown rose, then starting off in vain chase of a rainbow-tinted lizard that skittered up a tree trunk, and, having reached a safe height, turned calmly and curiously towards its pursuer, and with palpitating throat and lazily blinking eyes, composed itself to rest.
Where the path opened out to the palm-bordered drive-way, the child abandoned her companions and, with a merry shout, clambered into the carriage with Uncle Sid. Before he was aware of her purpose, she had clutched the lines from his fingers and had snapped the drowsy horses into action. Uncle Sid regained his balance with difficulty.
"You pesky little jack-rabbit, you!" he growled. "Anybody'd know who your father was, with his eyes shut!"
Uncle Sid brought the horses to a halt and turned to Amy.
"You don't know of no orphan asylum nor no reform school, do you, where a respectable, steady-minded old sea captain could end his days in peace? Because if you do, I'm goin' to apply at once, if it takes me out of California. I'm gettin' used up. If Ralph jr. ain't got the colic an's a howlin' over it, he's cheerful, which is worse, an' when he does get to sleep, then Ralph an' Helen tackles the job right where he left off."
"You know you're always welcome here, Uncle Sid." Amy smiled at the old face that seemed to get no older in spite of his complaints.
"Yes," growled Uncle Sid, "to get yanked around by this bundle of electricity. The only thing that's restsome here, is that boy. Ain't you got no dance in your shanks?" Uncle Sid flicked his whip threateningly at the boy, who skipped aside smiling. "That's right. You keep it up till you've skipped the whole kit an' kerboodle into this wagon, an' I'll take the lot o' you to Palm Wells. That's what I'm here for."
They drove over a winding, palm-bordered road, through spicy orange groves, through ragged-barked, spindling groups of eucalyptus, and drew up before the doors of the Palm Wells cottage.
Ralph and Helen came out to meet their guests. Perhaps Ralph would have chosen to be more dignified in the welcoming of his friends, but a wriggling, crowing mass of pink and white prevented him.
"There he is!" groaned Uncle Sid. "There he is! The most wonderful thing in the whole world, exceptin' sixty hundred millions more just like him. He can't talk Latin nor Greek, nor anythin' but "googoo," when he's happy, an' "yow" when his feelin's are troublin' him, an' he don't know any better'n to play horse with his daddy's transit when he finds it lyin' round loose, just like any other good-for-nuthin' baby."
Deals with an intrigue of international moment—the fomenting of a war between Great Britain and Germany and the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy in France as a consequence. Intensely readable for the dramatic force with which the story is told, the absolute originality of the underlying creative thought, and the strength of all the men and women who fill the pages.—Pittsburg Times.
Not for long has so good a story of the kind been published, and the book is the more commendable because the literary quality of its construction has not been slighted.—Chicago Record-Herald.
When a man is summoned home to attend the marriage to another man of the woman he loves, and when the bridegroom is his own brother, the situation is certainly very striking. The wedding does not take place, for the bridegroom is murdered. The scene in which the victim appears to his brother, on the latter's arrival at Dover, is singularly impressive. All this is disclosed in the opening chapter, and paves the way for a story which becomes more and more intense and interesting as its remarkable plot is developed.
In this gallant romance of love and daring, in which the action is swift, the characters are individual and interesting, and the atmosphere and setting are well adapted to the theme. Lady Elizabeth Spencer, daughter of Lord Sunderland, and through his sordid and ambitious motives married at the age of eleven to Lord Clancarty, makes the most charming of heroines, and her nobility of character and faithful love are finely and tenderly portrayed.
In this new novel by Sir William Magnay, the heroine, "Princess Ruperta," a princess of the blood royal, sick of the monotony and unreality of Court, goes out one night, incognito, with her maid. Danger unexpectedly threatens her, and when she is gallantly rescued from this danger by a young and handsome stranger, it is not unnatural that (betrothed compulsorily as she is for State reasons to a royal person whom she has never seen) love is born in the heart of the Princess as well as in that of her unknown rescuer. Then follows a series of adventures brilliantly imagined and enthrallingly told.
Another strong Western story with spirited and graphic picturing of local conditions, the agricultural development of a Western ranch section, and the struggle between the ranchmen and the farmers. The story has three remarkably striking scenes of danger—a high-grass fire, a stampede of excited cattle, and a terrific storm and cloud-burst. There is abundant love interest; also a strong political element, dealing with Colorado politics and the fight between cattlemen and irrigationists to control the legislature, in which the hero becomes the storm centre. The attempt of a beautiful, crafty, and unscrupulous woman, who is a wrecker of hearts and of men, to influence his vote for United States senator plays an important part.
A remarkable story of cattle ranges of Arizona, the great desert, and the grand canon of the Colorado river. The author has written a romance of adventure, of conflict, and of love,—a story of breathless interest, remarkable situation, and great humor and pathos. Chalkeye, the cowboy who tells the story, Captain McCalmont, the robber-chief, Lord Babshannon, the owner of a Colorado ranch, his son "Jim," and "Curly," who gives the name to the story, are characters of great strength, finely portrayed and well contrasted.
In this fine romance of love and war Miss Ray has a wider field than she has compassed before and strikes a deeper note of feeling. The events take place in South Africa during the Boer War, and in local details Mr. Fuller has given valuable aid. As in the author's other books, the characters awaken interest because they are so human.
In a new tale of absorbing interest the author of the successful "Rose of Normandy" has faithfully portrayed feminine tenderness and sweetness of character, and at the same time has shown that a work of fiction can have for its motif the gratification of personal revenge without offending the highest moral taste of the modern civilized world. "A Knot of Blue" abounds in intrigue, adventure, the joy of living and achieving, and it throbs with romantic tenderness. The scene is laid in Old Quebec.