Chapter XVII: That Which Lay Between

There were no legal proceedings, of course, that could be brought against the dead engineer or his son, although there were many inquests at the bridge. The cause of the failure was clear. Man cannot be punished in law for honest errors in judgment. It was recognized by everyone, whose opinion was worth considering, that the disaster had resulted from a mistake which any engineer could have made. As a matter of fact there was no experience to guide the designers. There never had been such a bridge before. Certain elements of empiricism had to enter into their calculations. They had made the plan after their best judgment and it had failed. They could be blamed, censured, even vilified as they were in the press, but that was the extent of their punishment; of Bertram Meade's punishment, rather, because Rodney and the other reporters had made much of his assumption of the blame. There might have been a doubt of it, engineers at least might have suspected the truth, but the evidence of Shurtliff put it beyond reasonable doubt. The older Meade escaped lightly. Men could only point out his mistake in committing such responsibilities to so young a man. And his dramatic death in large measure disarmed criticism.

The bitter weight of censure fell entirely upon Bertram Meade. His ruin as an engineer was immediate and absolute. He was the scapegoat. No one had any good to say of him except Rodney, who fought valiantly for his friend and classmate, at least striving to mitigate the censure by pointing out the quick and ready acknowledgment of the error which might have been ascribed to the dead man without fear of contradiction.

An effort was made by competitors and stock speculators to ruin the Martlet Bridge Company. By throwing into the gap their private fortunes to the last dollar and by herculean work on the part of their friends, the directors saved the Martlet Company, although its losses were tremendous and almost insupportable, not only in money, but in prestige and reputation. Colonel Illingworth came out of the struggle older and grayer than ever. He went through the fires in his effort to save the concern which had been the foundation of his fortune and in which he felt a greater interest than in anything else in life save his daughter. He had led his company, his battalion, and finally his regiment, on many a hard-fought field in the War, but no battle had ever been fiercer or called upon him for greater efforts than this. The terrific combat had left him almost broken for a time, and his daughter saw that it was not possible even to mention Bertram Meade to him, then.

She had a great sympathy, as well as a tender affection, for her father. Albeit of a different kind, it was almost as great and abiding as her sympathy and affection for her lover. She had seen Meade only once since that day he had taken her to his heart by the body of his dead father and then put her away.

The funeral of the great engineer had been strictly private. Only his confrères, men who stood high in scientific circles, certain people for whom he had made great and successful designs, a few others whose ties were personal, had been invited to the house for the services. The interment was in the little Connecticut town of Milford, in which the older Meade had been born, and from which he had gone forth as a boy to conquer the world.

Shurtliff, the clergyman, and a few of his father's oldest friends, accompanied the young engineer to the car that was to take them to that village. They rode with him to the quaint old cemetery and stood by while those last words that are said over the greatest and the weakest, over youth and age, over beauty and ugliness, over virtue and shame, over triumph and defeat alike, were uttered, and then at his wish they all went away. They felt deeply for the ruined young engineer, who bade them good-by and stood by the side of the grave with Shurtliff, while the men filled it in. The special car would take the others back to New York. Meade would come later at his own time.

"Shurtliff," said the engineer, after the mound had been heaped up and covered with sods and strewn with flowers and the workmen had gone, "I have left everything I possess in your charge. You have a power of attorney to receive and pay out all moneys; to deposit, invest, and carry on my father's estate. The office is to be closed and the house is to be sold. My will, in which I leave everything to Miss Illingworth, is in your hands. You are empowered to draw from the revenue of the estate your present salary so long as you live. If anything happens to me you will have the will probated and be governed accordingly."

"Mr. Meade," said the old man, and he somehow found himself transferring the affection which he had thought had been buried beneath the sod on that long mound before him, to the younger man. He had loved and served a Meade all his life and he began to see that he could not stop now, nor could he lavish what he had to give merely on a remembrance, "Mr. Meade," he said, "you are not going to do yourself any hurt?"

"If you knew me as well as you knew my father you would not ask the question."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but we seem to be rather alone, you and I, in the world."

"Yes," said Meade.

"Well, forgive your father's old if humble friend, if he asks where you are going and what you intend to do?"

"I don't know where I shall go, or what I shall undertake eventually," said the man. "I'm going to leave everything behind now and try to get a little rest at first. Then, I shall try to make another place for myself in the world, if I can, and I'm going to do it without any of the advantages or disadvantages of the period of my life which ends today."

"And you will keep me advised of your whereabouts?"

"I shall see that you get news of my death if I die, Shurtliff, and if I do anything or become anything----"

"The world will advise me of that, you mean?"

"Perhaps--I don't know. One last injunction: you are not to tell anyone the truth."

"God forbid," said Shurtliff, "we have lied to preserve the honor and fame of him we loved who lies here."

"Don't render our perjuries of non-effect."

"I will not, sir. I haven't found that paper. I guess it was destroyed."

"I presume so. And now, good-by."

"Aren't you coming with me?"

"I want to stay here a little while by myself."

Shurtliff looked at the young man standing so strong and splendid by the grave of his father. He put out his hand. He never condemned himself so much before. He began to wonder if he had pursued the right course. He began to question whether he who lay beneath the sod would approve of his suppression of the truth; of the lie he had told to save the father's fame and honor and to back up the assertion of the son. No, on the whole, Shurtliff did not question that. He knew that if it were possible the older man would rise from his grave to assume the responsibility, to proclaim the younger man innocent. Well, Shurtliff would save his beloved chief in spite of himself.

He released the young man's hand, turned, and walked away. When he reached the road, down which he must go, he stopped and faced about again. Meade was standing where he had been. The old man took off his hat in reverent farewell.

Meade was not left alone. Beyond the hillside where his father had been buried rose a clump of trees. Bushes grew at their feet. A woman--should man be buried without woman's tears?--had stood concealed there waiting. Helen Illingworth had wept over the dreariness, the mournfulness of it all. She had hoped that Meade might stay after the others went and now that he was alone she came to him. She laid her hand upon his arm. He turned and looked at her.

"I knew that you would be here," he said.

"Did you see me?"

"I felt your presence."

"And would that you might feel it always by your side."

The man looked down at the grave.

"That," he said with a wave of his hand, "lies between us, that and the ruined bridge."

"Listen," said the woman. "You are wrecking your life for your father's fame. A man has a right perhaps to do with his own life what he will, but, when he loves a woman and when he has told her so and she has given him her heart, did it ever occur to you that when he wrecks his life he wrecks hers, and has he a right to wreck her life for anyone else?"

"What would you have me do?" asked Meade. "Unsay those words I said? Put the blame on the dead, destroy in a breath that great record of achievement, that vast reputation, the honor of a great name?"

"Ah, but on this side is a woman's heart."

"Oh, my God," said Meade, "this is more than I can bear."

"I don't want to force you to do anything you don't want to do and you are not in any mood to discuss these things," she said in quick compassion. "Some day you will come back to me."

"If I can ever hold my head up among men, look them straight in the eye because I have enforced their respect, I shall come."

"I shall wait."

"The task before me daunts me. It is beyond human achievement."

"Even for love like mine?"

He stretched out his hands toward her over the grave.

"I don't know," he cried. "I dare not hope."

"With love like ours," she answered, "all things are possible."

"I can't bind you. You must be free."

"I shall be free, free to love you, free to work in my own way. No loyalty"--she pointed down--"to him binds me. My loyalty is all to you."

"But you must consider my wishes."

"No," said the woman boldly. "Have you considered mine?"

"It is just," he said slowly, turning his head. "You are breaking my heart, but I shall live and fight on for love and you."

"God bless you."

"You are going away?" she asked at last.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"You will write to me?"

He shook his head.

"I must break with everything. I must give you your chance of freedom."

"Very well," said the woman. "Now hear me. You can't go so far on this earth or hide yourself away so cunningly but that I can find you and maybe follow you. And I will. Now, I must go. I left my car down the road yonder. Will you go with me?"

The man shook his head and knelt down before her suddenly and caught her skirt in his grasp. His arms swept around her knees. She yielded one hand to the pressure of his lips and laid the other upon his head.

"Go now," he whispered, "for God's sake. If I look at you I must follow."

She was great enough to heed his request, to understand his mood, and as the old secretary had done she walked across the grass and down the road. Her last long glimpse of him was of a bent figure bowed over a new-made grave on a wind-swept hill.