Chapter XX: The Valley of Decision

Much water had run under the bridges of the world and incidentally over the wreck of the International, since that bitter farewell between Bertram Meade and Helen Illingworth over the grave of the old engineer. Life had seemed to hold absolutely nothing for Meade as he knelt by that low mound and watched the woman walk slowly away with many a backward glance, with many a pause, obviously reluctant. He realized that the lifting of a hand would have called her back. How hard it was for him to remain quiet; and, finally, before she disappeared and before she took her last look at him, to turn his back resolutely as if to mark the termination of the situation.

Father, fame, reputation, love, taken away at one and the same moment! A weaker man might have sent life to follow. In the troubled days after the fall of the bridge, his father's death, the inquests, his testimony and evidence freely given, and that parting, something like despair had filled the young engineer's heart. Life held nothing. He debated with himself whether it would not be better to end it than to live it. He envied his father his broken heart. Singularly enough, the thing that made life of least value was the thing that kept him from throwing it away--the woman.

Striving to analyze the complex emotions that centered about his losses he was forced to admit, although it seemed a sign of weakness, that love of woman was greater than love of fame, that in the balance one girl outweighed bridge and father. That the romance was ended was what made life insupportable. Yet the faint, vague possibility that it might be resumed if he could find some way to show his worthiness was what made him cling to it.

Of course he could have showed without much difficulty and beyond peradventure at the inquest over Abbott and the investigation into the cause of the failure of the bridge--unfortunate but too obvious--that the frightful and fatal error in the design was not his and that he had protested against the accepted plan, if only he had found the letter addressed to his father. But that he would never do and the letter had not been discovered anyway. He did not even regret the bold falsehood he had uttered or the practical subornation of perjury of which he had been guilty in drawing out and accepting and emphasizing Shurtliff's testimony.

There had been no inquest over his father's death. The autopsy had showed clearly heart failure. He had not been compelled to go on the witness stand and under oath as to that. Although, if that had been demanded, he must needs have gone through with it. Indeed so prompt and public had been his avowals of responsibility that he had not been seriously questioned thereon. He had left nothing uncertain. There was nothing concealed.

He had inherited a competence from his father. It was indeed much more than he or anyone had expected. He had realized enough ready money from the sale of certain securities for his present needs. The remainder he placed in Shurtliff's care and a few days after the funeral, having settled everything possible, he took a train for the West.

The whole world was before him, and he was measurably familiar with many portions of it. He could have buried himself in out-of-the-way corners of far countries, in strange continents. These possibilities did not attract him. He wanted to get away from, out of touch with, the life he had led. He wished to go to some place where he could be practically alone, where he could have time to recover his poise, to think things out, to plan his future, to try to devise a means for rehabilitation, if it were possible. He could do that just as well, perhaps better, in America than in any place else. And there was another reason that held him to his native land. He would still tread the same soil, breathe the same air, with the woman. He did not desire to put seas between them.

He swore to himself that the freedom he had offered her, that he had indeed forced upon her unwilling and rejecting it, should be no empty thing so far as he was concerned. He would leave her absolutely untrammeled. He would not write to her or communicate with her in any way. He would not even seek to hear about her and of course as she would not know whither he had gone or where he was she could not communicate with him. The silence that had fallen between them should not be broken even forever unless and until---- Ah, yes, he could not see any way to complete that "unless and until" at first, but perhaps after a while he might.

He knew exactly where he would go. Dick Winters, another classmate and devoted friend at Cambridge, had gone out West shortly after graduation. He had a big cattle ranch miles from a railroad in a young southwestern state. Winters, like the other member of the youthful triumvirate, Rodney, was a bachelor. He could be absolutely depended upon. He had often begged Meade to visit him. The engineer would do it now. He knew Winters would respect his moods, that he would let him severely alone, that he could get on a horse and ride into the hills and do what he pleased, think out his thoughts undisturbed.

To Winters, therefore, he had gone. He had an idea that his future would be outside of engineering. Indeed he had put all thought of his chosen profession out of his mind and heart, at least so he fancied. Yet, spending an idle forenoon in Chicago waiting for the departure of the western train, he found himself irresistibly drawn to the great steel-framed structures, the sky-scrapers rising gaunt and rigid above the other buildings of the city. He remembered that Chicago was the home of the tall building, that in it the first great constructions that were to make American engineering famous had astonished the world, and he took deep interest in comparing the older buildings with the newer. Again the train was delayed and held up for half an hour just as it reached the Mississippi River. He left his seat in the dining-car, his dinner uneaten on the table, to go out and inspect the bridge during the half-hour that the "Limited" lay idle. The next day some enormous irrigation works in western Nebraska so engrossed his attention and aroused his interest that in spite of himself he stopped over between trains to see them. And these actions were typical.

Yet after every one of these excursions back into his own field, his conscience smote him. Was he never to get away from this engineering? Was there nothing else for him but brick and stone, steel and concrete, designs and plans and undertaking and accomplishment in the world? Because it was the thing that he must abandon and put out of his mind, engineering seemed the only thing he cared for. There would be no engineering on that ranch on the slopes of the range. He could settle the question there.

Winters was glad to see him. He and Rodney and Meade had been the warmest of friends. Of course Meade could not tell Rodney the truth on account of his newspaper connections, but he decided finally that he could and would tell Winters under assurance of absolute secrecy. For one thing the big cattleman had bluntly refused to credit his friend's first statements; and, when he at last heard the truth, he blamed him roundly while he appreciated fully the nobleness of his self-sacrifice. The clear-headed, practical Winters put it this way: Meade was capable of doing splendid service to humanity as an engineer and bade fair to be even greater than his father, yet for the sake of the fame of a dead man, to whom after all it would matter little, he had thrown away that splendid opportunity!

This was a new thought to Meade and a disturbing one. Unfortunately, as even Winters was forced to acknowledge, the suggestion came too late. The course had been entered upon. It would be cowardly to try to change it now. Indeed it would have been impossible with the disappearance of the written protests and notes. Even if Shurtliff had been willing, no one would have believed a delayed retraction and explanation, and Shurtliff would not have been willing Meade well knew. Neither for that matter was Meade himself. He was glad that the affair had been settled and would not change it now even though Winters' rough-and-ready presentation of the situation disquieted him.

Winters, who saw how greatly overwrought and unstrung his friend was, contented himself with the assertion. He did not press the point or argue it with him. He rested quietly confident that matters would right themselves some way in the long run. He treated Meade exactly right. He left him to his own devices. He did not force his company upon him. Sometimes the engineer would mount a horse---and all at the ranch were at his disposal--and would ride away into the woods and mountains with a camping outfit. Sometimes he would be gone for several days, coming back white and haggard and exhausted but victor in some hard battle fought out alone.

Before Meade had left New York he had deposited a sufficient sum of money with one of the leading florists there and on every Saturday a box of the rarest and most beautiful flowers was delivered namelessly to Helen Illingworth. She knew the florist from whom they came but never questioned him. She divined that they came from Meade in the absence of any card. She did not make the slightest effort, however, to confirm that conclusion or find out how or why they were sent so regularly. She just took the flowers to her heart, wept over them, kissed them, and loved them; and every time they came she held her head higher.

One day there came to the ranch a letter to Winters from Rodney, full of friendly chat and pleasant reminiscence.

"Meade has disappeared absolutely," wrote Rodney in closing. "Even Miss Illingworth, to whom he was reported engaged and upon whom I have called occasionally, says she does not know his whereabouts, although she confided to me, knowing my friendship for him, that a New York florist sends her flowers every week, which she knows could come only from him. Of course you saw in the papers his connection with the tragedy and failure of the International? I happened to be the man to whom he made the admission of the error in his calculations. Although his frank statement was corroborated by that of the older Meade's private secretary, I have never been able to believe it, neither does Miss Illingworth. I know Bert, and so does she. We can't accept even his own testimony. We have been working together to establish the truth, but with very faint prospects of success so far. There's some tremendous mystery about it. I have thought that maybe Meade might have come to you. If he has show him this letter and beg him to tell us the truth at any rate."

Winters passed the letter over to Meade without comment. The engineer read it with passionate eagerness. He was hungry for any news of Helen Illingworth. The flowers were being received. She had divined whence they came. That was something. And Rodney was calling upon her. A sharp pang of jealousy shot through him at that, although he knew there was no reason. Dear old Rodney! He could see his grave face, his disapproving manner, his air of unbelief, as he had taken down Meade's words in the office that tragic day.

Of course, Helen Illingworth was not a recluse as he was. She mingled in society. She took up life with its demands. She entered into its pleasures and fulfilled its duties. He was jealous of everyone who might come in contact with her, but he knew the names of none except Rodney.

And they were suspicious of his avowal! That was balm to his soul. Of course Helen Illingworth was suspicious, but why should Rodney doubt his assumption of the blame? And they were working to establish his innocence. The thought disquieted him lest they should discover the truth in some way. And it gave him joy also. They would work despite any remonstrance from him. He thought of that protest to his father always with uneasiness. If he could only have found it and destroyed it himself he would have been happier. Could it be in existence somewhere? Would it turn up? Would they unearth it? Well, he had done his best for his father, yet he was glad those two disbelieved and were working for him.

Meade had been the most brilliant, Winters the most indifferent, Rodney the most persevering, of the trio at college. He remembered that well. His first thought was to forbid Rodney to do anything further, although how far his friend would respect his wishes he could not tell. Anyway, he did not have to decide that matter, because he could not say a word to him. To have allowed Winters to write would have betrayed his whereabouts. He was living with Winters under an assumed name of course. He had had his hair cut differently and had grown a beard and mustache. He thought it would have taken a keen eye indeed to have recognized him with these changes.

In the end he handed the letter back to Winters, only charging him that if he wrote to Rodney he must not betray the fact that Meade was with him. He had plenty of time to think over the situation. He decided finally that so long as he had been born an engineer and trained and educated as an engineer and had worked as an engineer that an engineer he would have to be until the end of the chapter. He would go out and seek work, not such work as his ability and experience and education had entitled him to undertake, but under some assumed name he would begin at the very beginning, at the foot of the ladder as a rodman, if he could; and then he would work on quietly, faithfully, obscurely, praying for his chance. If it came he would strive to be equal to the opportunity; if it did not at least he would be engaged in honest work in an honest way.

It was a very humble programme, not at all promising or heroic or romantic, just a beginning. He would work on and wait. They say that all things come to him who waits. That is only half true. Some things come to him who waits sometimes. That is more nearly accurate. Well, he could think of no better plan. So he bade Winters good-by, swearing him again to secrecy until he should lift the ban against speech, and rode away. When he got to the little village on the Picket Wire below the dam he stopped a long time gazing at the long bridge, or viaduct, of steel that was replacing the old wooden trestle and carrying the railroad from the hills to the eastward over the river.

It was not such an undertaking as the lost International, still it was interesting engineering construction. It was work that would be intensely congenial, to which he was drawn almost irresistibly, yet he managed to hold himself aloof. The Martlet people were building this steel bridge and they had just finished the arch up under the mesa. A well-known construction company was building the great earth dam across the Picket Wire in the valley.

Meade's engineering life had been spent mainly out of the United States. He had never been connected with the Martlet and its employees until he had been associated with his father on the International. He could have gone among them with little danger of immediate discovery, since most of the men he had known had gone down with the bridge, but he decided not to do so. The work on the dam would be simpler and he would have less opportunity to betray himself and it would give him more chance to work up in a plausible and reasonable way. Besides, if Colonel Illingworth came on to inspect his bridge, as he would probably do, Meade would have to leave before his arrival. The dam would be safer. No one would ever think of looking for him there. And no one would ever recognize in the rough-bearded workman the clear-cut, smooth-faced young engineer of other days.

The dam was twenty miles up the valley. Yes, he would be less apt to be observed working there than on the bridge. Yet as he recalled that private car and that it might come there, he realized that she might be on it. His heart leaped even as it had leaped at the sight of the viaduct then building, as it had quivered to the familiar rat-tat-tat of the pneumatic riveters and the clang and the clash of the structural steel. But what was the use? He would not dare trust himself to look at her even from a distance. No, it was the dam that best suited his purpose, so he turned away from the bridge and rode up the valley. There he was fortunate in falling into a position, as has been set forth.