Chapter XXXI: At Last to the Stars

All the men except Curtiss and Winters had discreetly withdrawn from the car and had gone over to the mesa to look at the lake and the outlet. Indeed the water was roaring down beneath the steel arch bridge, filling for the first time in generations the channel of the Kicking Horse. Fortunately it could flow that way without danger to the town or the viaduct below.

The Colonel led his daughter to a chair and then turned to Winters.

"You were there?" he began. "Tell me about it."

Graphically the big cattle rancher told the story of Meade's mad rush over the rocks with his two companions, of the desperate assault on the hog-back, of the success that had met their efforts to open the improvised spill-way, and then the final disaster. The recital lost nothing in his graphic relation.

"It was fine, it was magnificent," said the Colonel, patting his daughter's shoulder. "Where are the two who went with him?"

"They're outside there," said Winters.

The old Colonel went to the door of the car and called the two men into the car.

"In the bank down in Coronado there's a thousand dollars of mine for each of you," he said promptly.

"We didn't do it for money, sor," said the big Irishman, "although 'twill be welcome enough, but how is Mr. Roberts?"

"You mean the man who blew up the hog-back?"

"Si, signore, a greata man he ees," said the little Italian.

"I wish I could say he was all right, but there's a doctor with him and we have sent for the best physicians in town. He's horribly hurt."

"But, plaise God, he may pull through, sor. The Holy Virgin an' the Saints presarve him," said the Irishman, making the sign of the cross.

And in his own language little Funaro breathed a similar prayer and with his grimy, toil-stained hand he made the same gesture.

"Murphy," shouted a voice from the pines on the side of the hill between the car and the mesa.

"That'll be Mr. Vandeventer, the resident engineer," said Murphy.

Colonel Illingworth turned to the door again.

"Where's Roberts?" cried Vandeventer, stumbling down the hill. He was haggard and worn and weary to the point of exhaustion, but as soon as he had been assured of the safety of the dam--and before he left the water was visibly receding--he had started out to seek the engineer whom he had, in his mind in the excitement of the moment, accused of desertion.

"He's here in my car, sir," said Colonel Illingworth.

"And who are you, may I ask?" said Vandeventer, crossing the track and swinging himself upon the platform of the car.

"I am Colonel Illingworth, president of the Martlet Bridge Company."

"But Roberts?"

"His name is not Roberts. It's Meade."

"What? The International man?"

"Yes."

"I knew he was an engineer. Well, he's made up for his failure there."

"He did not fail there any more than he failed here," said the Colonel.

"Where is he?"

"It's a long story."

"It can wait," said Vandeventer brusquely. "I want to thank him for saving the dam and the lives of the men on it, and the town, and the railroad, and the bridge."

"I don't know whether you can thank him or not," said the Colonel.

"You don't mean----"

"He was terribly hurt by the last explosion and they brought him here."

"Can I see him?"

For answer Colonel Illingworth pointed to the door.

"This is my daughter. Your name is Vandeventer, is it not? Helen, this is the engineer who is building the dam. He has come to ask after his man."

"I've done everything I can for him," said Severence, coming out of the stateroom, followed by the porter, as Vandeventer shook hands with the girl. "He's still unconscious, but seems to breathe a little easier."

Into the little room the woman and the four men crowded. Vandeventer, accompanied by Murphy and Funaro, followed the Colonel. Neither of the workmen would be left out. There lay the engineer, his face as white as the linen of the pillow or the bandage which had been deftly tied around his head. One hand, still grimy and mud-stained, lay on the sheet. Helen Illingworth knelt down and kissed it and laid her head on the bed.

"He is to be my husband if he lives," she said simply.

"A man and an engineer he is," whispered Vandeventer.

"I misjudged you, Meade," said the Colonel softly, speaking as if the unconscious man could hear. "I condemned you. I wish to heaven you could hear me make amends now."

"Begob," whispered Murphy, "you'd ought to seen him run wid the dinnamite."

The voice of the Italian murmured words which they knew were prayers and though they came from humble lips they brought relief to all. They entered deeply into Helen Illingworth's heart and mingled with her own petitions, frantic, fervent, imperative, although she offered them to Almighty God as from a woman broken. Presently they all filed out of the room, leaving Helen Illingworth alone with what was left of life in the crushed body of the man she had never loved so much before.

In the observation room Vandeventer told them of the fight for the dam and how they had reached their maximum power of resistance and more, and that the relief came in the very nick of time. Meanwhile the engine driver had burned up the track going and coming and in less than an hour he was back with two surgeons and a trained nurse. Was it their skill and care and watchfulness that finally brought Meade back to consciousness, or was it the passionate, consuming intensity of will and purpose of the woman who loved him, who could scarcely be driven from his side? Well, whatever the reason, after many days he passed from death into life and came back again.

He was conscious of Helen's presence and lay quietly enveloped in her love long before he could talk coherently or question. Indeed, with Rodney and Winters, and old Shurtliff, who swore to himself that he would never forgive himself if Meade did not recover, and the Colonel, and Vandeventer, and all the men of the force, who used to stroll over after hours and just sit on the side of the track and stare at the car where the man who had saved them was fighting for his life as desperately as they had fought to save the dam, Meade was surrounded by such an atmosphere of admiration and devotion as might have stayed the hand of death itself. There came a day when the physician said he could talk a little.

"I saw you," Helen whispered. "I was standing on the high hill watching, looking down upon you just before----"

"But I shall look up to you all the rest of my life," said the man, as the woman knelt, as was her wont, by the side of the bed. She kissed his hand, thin, wasted, but white and clean now.

"No, I to you," she murmured, as she pressed her lips to his fingers.

"Look up a little higher, then," whispered Meade with some of the old humor.

"You mean?"

The voiceless movement of his lips told her the story. She raised herself and kissed them lightly.

"I haven't dared to ask that before," said the man, closing his eyes. "I wasn't strong enough to stand that."

"But you're going to get strong; you must. I'd like to kiss you forever," said the woman with pitying tenderness and great joy.

"It's heavenly now, but I shall have to go away again when I am able and----"

"We are never going to be parted again."

"I cannot let you marry a discredited man, a failure."

"Don't you know," said the woman, rising, "that the whole United States rings with your exploit, that the splendid saving of the dam has caught the fancy of the people as it deserves and you are a hero everywhere and to everybody?"

"But the International Bridge and its failure?"

Unbeknown to the two the Colonel had stopped in the doorway.

"We know the truth now, my boy," said the old man, coming into the room. "It was your father's fault, not yours."

It was characteristic of Meade's temper and temperament that his white lips closed in a straight line at this.

"Where's Shurtliff?" he asked, after a little silent communing with himself.

The old man had come in and out of the room like a ghost during his slow recovery. Colonel Illingworth turned away and summoned the secretary. Rodney and Winters came, too.

"Shurtliff," said Meade faintly but firmly, "tell them again who is responsible for the failure of the International."

"Forgive me, Mr. Meade," said Shurtliff, "but it was your brave old father's fault."

"You see," said the Colonel.

"We knew it all the time," said Rodney.

"But Mr. Shurtliff bravely gave us the final proof," said Winters.

"Those papers?" said Meade.

Shurtliff nodded.

"And your father's own letter that he wrote the papers before his heart broke," said Rodney; "I'll read it to you presently."

"Why did you do it, Shurtliff?"

"To right a great wrong, sir. I saw that we were mistaken to try to spare the dead at the expense of the living, to wreck your life and the future, and the happiness of Miss Illingworth. God bless her for her kindness to a lonely old man. And so when you were brought here dead I told them the truth and gave them the papers."

"Gentlemen," said Meade, making a last try, "it is useless to deny it now, but for the sake of my father's fame you won't let anyone know?"

"Old man," said Rodney, "it was on the wires an hour afterward and the whole United States knows it now. Your father made the mistake; his letter admitted it bravely. The world honors him, it honors you."

"Rodney," said Meade, "I wish you hadn't done it."

"It was for Miss Illingworth's happiness and yours that I did it," said Rodney. "And how much that cost me," he added, the confession being wrung from him, "no one can ever know."

He turned and left the room. Winters followed him full of sympathy and comprehension.

"Let me go out alone, old man," said Rodney. "I'll be back presently. This is the last fight I've got to make."

Winters watched him from the steps of the car as he disappeared in the pine trees _en route_ to the mesa to fight it out under the open sky alone. The others left the room also, last of all Shurtliff.

"You forgive me, Mr. Meade. I've been through hell itself," said the old man, "in these last six months."

"Freely," said Meade.

And Shurtliff went away with a lighter heart than he had borne for many a long day.

The two lovers were alone again.

"You see," said Helen, "there's nothing can keep us apart now."

"Nothing, thank God," whispered the man. "But I am sorry that it all came out this way. I'm sorry not only because of your suffering, but for other reasons--Rodney for one. He--it's too bad! It was not necessary for you to get yourself almost killed to win me, I mean, for wherever and whenever I found you I was resolved to marry you, willy-nilly."

"And is it true that poor old Rod had grown to care?" he asked, putting by the academic discussion.

The woman nodded.

"I'm very sorry. I can't help it. We were always together, talking about you," she said.

"And he couldn't help it, either," said Meade. "Somehow I believe he was the better man for you to have taken."

But he looked at her wistfully and anxiously as he spoke.

"I won't argue with you," said the girl, bending close to him. "I'll only say that I know I have the best man in all the world, but if he were the worst, I would rejoice to have him just the same."

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[Transcriber's note: illustration captions in brackets were added by the transcriber.]