Part 30 (1/2)
”Oh, I'll be long asleep when they return, and I'll not speak of it to Ruth in the morning. She'll not rise before noon, I suspect, as it will be one or two o'clock before they're home. Or she may stay with one of the girls she's chummy with and come up with him to-morrow.
Probably that.”
Lee made ready to go. He gave Imogene a sardonic smile.
”May the music she hears to-night strengthen her soul for the morrow's smash,” he said; and went out.
Where the trail from the cabins debouched upon the main mesa road he slowed the car to a stop and sat for a time in thought, with the engine humming softly and the freezing night air biting at his cheeks.
It seemed to make little difference where he went, or if he went at all. Nothing worth while was at the end of any road. His inclination, however, was working and at last he set out for the Graham ranch.
Since his Christmas visit he had made a number of calls there, a rather large number, indeed, considering everything. He had schooled his face and words on those occasions to a pa.s.sivity he was far from feeling, and had left Louise's presence each time with a greater torment of mind. Now this was the end--of her as of everything so far as he was concerned. To-morrow the project came down in wreckage. Then he should go from Perro Creek, poorer in purse, poorer in spirit, poorer in faith, sore, and bitterly disillusionized.
Louise Graham observed a shadow upon his countenance as she invited him to a seat before the fireplace. Her father was absent and she had been reading a book when Bryant's knock came. She had been wondering, too, if the engineer might not choose this night to call again. How much these calls of his now meant to her she did not dare consider.
”What's wrong, Lee?” she asked at once, anxiously. ”I see something has happened.”
He moved round on the divan that he might fully face her.
”Everything so far as my affairs go,” he replied. ”Work stops on the ca.n.a.l to-morrow. That will result, of course, in the water right lapsing and in the ditch never being finished or used, except under the circ.u.mstance of my handing over my interest gratis to Gretzinger and the bondholders. If I did that even, I don't believe Gretzinger could finish it on time, for neither Carrigan nor the men would exert themselves for him as they have for me, and they would be sure of their pay in any case. The trouble is, I've used up all the money and can borrow no more. I'm through. And I can't bring myself to the point of surrendering my interest in the company to the bondholders merely to pull them out. They're trying to strangle me in order that they may profit; they could put up the cash needed easily enough if they would; but they count on my yielding. I shall not do so. And so the project fails. Those New Yorkers will wait too long if ever they do put up the funds; and I can do nothing myself. The uncompleted ditch will remain simply a scar on the mesa.”
”I never dreamed you were in this strait!”
”No, probably not. One always hopes to the last that somehow--by a credulous belief in one's own letter of credit with Providence, I presume--one will pull through. So I delayed telling you of what was impending.”
”If--perhaps father----”
”Your father? No. Above all persons, no. That's a suggestion I can't consider for an instant.”
”But what will you do?” she exclaimed, nervously.
Lee glanced at her, then compressed his lips.
”I'm going away; I couldn't stay here on the scene of this disaster.
It would be intolerable. Before long people will be describing the unfinished project by the name of 'Bryant's Folly', or the like.
Haven't you seen old, windowless structures that were never completed, or gra.s.s-grown railroad enbankments never ironed, or rusting mine machinery never a.s.sembled? Men's failures, men's 'follies'.”
”Lee, Lee! It never will be so!” she cried. ”Nor will your project be a failure to me who have known how you've striven and sacrificed.”
Bryant looked past her and about the room, but his eyes in the end came back to hers.
”You have always been generous in your thoughts of me,” he said, in an unsteady voice.
”No more than you deserved.”
”Listen, Louise,” he went on, after a pause. ”This is the last time I shall see you for a long time, possibly for all time, and it's of your kindness I wish to speak--and of another matter. Of course, I shouldn't be quite human if I hadn't complained a bit about this blow, but my complaints are done now. I'll possibly do some grimacing to myself hereafter, though. What I came to say is that wherever I go in the future I'll always carry with me as a treasure the memory of your goodness and of your face.”
Louise's lips had parted, while the colour slowly receded from her cheeks.
”But we shall see each other,” she gasped. ”We'll meet, we can keep in touch.” After a silence there came in a whisper, ”Friends should.”