Chapter VII: The Colonel Makes Conditions

"Bert," a sweet voice came to him out of the darkness, and the first familiar sound of his name from her lips confirmed all that had passed which, as he had waited, he almost had felt he had dreamed.

He turned to discover her standing in the door of the car dressed as she should have been for such an excursion had she at first followed her father's wise suggestion. His heart thrilled to the use of the familiar name. With a sort of boyish shyness he made answer in kind.

"Helen," he said, "shall I come up there?"

"I'm coming down to you."

Now whether she was afflicted with sudden weakness or he with sudden fear, it was quite apparent, had anyone been by to see, that no longer could she descend from car step to platform without much careful assistance; also she had to pay toll before he let her pass. There was no unwillingness in either case. Hand-in-hand they walked to the rear of the car, where the observation platform was still brightly lighted.

Abbott had gone and the other three men were on their feet. They were about to separate for the night, although it was still rather early.

"Father," said his daughter out of the darkness.

"Oh, you're there," answered the Colonel. "I wondered when you were coming back. I was just thinking of going to fetch you. Is Mr. Meade----?"

"I'm here, sir."

"Good-night, gentlemen," said the Colonel as the others turned away, leaving him alone on the platform.

He came to the edge and leaned over the brass railing.

"Are you two going to make a night of it?" he asked jocosely.

"Colonel Illingworth," began Meade.

"Father," said his daughter at the same time, "we have something to say to you."

"Umph," said the Colonel, staring down at them narrowly as they stepped into the full light from the dome of the platform. "Something to say to me, eh?"

"Yes."

The old man's face fell a little as every father's face falls when his daughter and the man obviously in love with her make that statement.

"Well, say it and be done with it," he continued, clamping his teeth on his cigar a trifle nervously.

"We can't say it with you there and we here. Come down, and----"

Colonel Illingworth opened the gate, lifted the platform, and descended the steps.

"Here I am," he said as he stopped by the two.

His daughter took him by the arm and they walked down the platform so as to be out of any possible hearing from the car.

"Now," she said to Meade, who followed her.

His heart was beating almost as rapidly as it had on the bridge and for exactly the same reason--fear of losing her. He tried to speak.

"Well, young man?" said Illingworth, flicking the ashes from his cigar and wishing to get it over, "you said you had something to say to me."

"Yes, sir, I have."

"Why don't you say it, then?"

"It's a very hard thing to say, sir." He looked helplessly at the girl, but she was speechless. It was his task. If she were not worth asking for she was not worth having, she might have said. "Well, sir," he began desperately, "I love your daughter, Helen. I want to marry her."

"Umph," said the Colonel again, "I supposed as much. How long have you and Helen known each other?"

"Over a year, sir, but I loved her from the very moment I saw her. I did not dare hope, I didn't dream, I never imagined, and strange as it may seem, sir, she--seems to love me."

"Seems?" exclaimed the girl softly.

"Wait, Helen," said her father, "this is a matter for me and Mr. Meade."

"And am I to have nothing to say?"

"It strikes me that you have probably had your say already."

"Yes, on the bridge," burst forth the engineer.

"Ah, on the bridge! I see. Are you sure she loves you enough to be your wife?"

"I--you see--er--a----"

"Of course I do," said Helen, realizing that it was now high time for her to come to the rescue of her lover, "and so would any other woman."

"You know, of course, that while I am not rich, I am not poor and I can support my wife in every comfort, sir," urged the man, greatly relieved by the woman's prompt avowal.

"She'll need a few luxuries besides, I'm thinking."

"Yes, of course, sir, I'll see that she gets them. This bridge is going to make us all famous and I shall have my father's influence and----"

"When the bridge is finished," said the Colonel decisively, "come to me and you shall have my daughter."

"Oh, father, the bridge won't be finished for----" began the girl.

"I accept your terms gladly," said the man, realizing that in any event they would have to wait for the bridge. "It's in the contract that we are to deliver it complete before the first of November."

"And that's not far off," Colonel Illingworth reminded his daughter.

"If it is left to me, sir, and I can stir up Abbott, we will be ahead of the contract date," said Meade.

"You understand, of course, that there is to be no public announcement of the engagement until the bridge is finished," the older man said emphatically.

"I understand, sir," answered the engineer, too happy at her father's consent to make any difficulties over any reasonable conditions he might impose. "Yes, Helen, it's all right, your father is right. This job's got to be done before I----"

"Don't say before you tackle another," protested the girl, half disappointed, and yet seeing the reasonableness of both men, while the Colonel laughed grimly.

"That's about the size of it," said the old man, "no matter how you put it. One thing at a time. Meade has this bridge on his soul, and he ought to have it, and although he may have you on his heart he must forget that until the bridge is completed and then--well, Meade, you'll be coming into our employ and I don't know anybody on earth I would rather have for my son-in-law than a clean, honest, able American with a record like yours. A man who can look me in the eye and grasp me by the hand, like this."

He put out his hand as he spoke. Meade's own palm met it and the two men shook hands unemotionally but firmly after the manner of the self-restrained practical American, who is always fearful of a scene and does not wear his heart upon his sleeve. The Colonel threw away his cigar, slipped his arm around his daughter's waist, kissed her softly on the forehead.

"I hate to lose you, Helen. I hate to give you up to anyone. We have been very happy together since your mother died, leaving you a little girl to me; but it had to come, I suppose, and perhaps I shall be glad in the end. Good-night, Meade. You will be coming in presently, Helen?"

He turned and walked away as they answered him. They watched him go slowly with bended head. They watched him climb, rather heavily, up the steps of the car--that he was an old man seemed rather suddenly borne in upon them. He stood for a moment in the light smiling, remembering, and then turned and marched within the car. He switched the light out as he passed down the corridor.

"Wasn't he splendid?" said Helen, when she had time to breathe and freedom to speak.

"One of the finest old men on earth," continued Meade. "He and father would make a great team and----"

"You and I another," she said quickly.

"If I could only live up to you there wouldn't be a pair since Adam and Eve like us."

"But it's so long to wait for the bridge. I hate to have my fate bound up in iron and steel."

"It will be ages," said the man, "and yet your father is right. My father and I have undertaken to put this bridge across and we have to do it. Our honor is pledged. I'll think more of that bridge now since its completion means you. And every blow of riveter or hammer, every grinding of steel on steel, every creak of winches, will say to me, '_Hurry up, old man, hurry up; your girl is waiting for you when the great spans are completed and the river is crossed._' What an inspiration that will be for me."

"I was interested in the bridge, before," said the woman, "but think how I shall watch it now. You must write me every day and tell me every inch that you have gained."

"Trust me, I'll measure it in millimeters."

"And now, sweet love, good-night," she whispered.

"I shall see you in the morning?"

"If father attempts to run this train away without letting me see you again he will have to leave me behind," she laughed as she looked back at him through the door.

Meade did not want to leave the car. He would fain stand on the platform near it all night long. It was completely dark except for her stateroom, where trickles of light came from around the close-drawn curtains. He did wait until that room was dark also before he went to his shack, which was built on the high land so that it faced the bridge. He could see it from the window. He lay there watching it, that bridge in which was bound up his love, his life, his fortune.