XXVI
FAILURE
Smaltz was a liar, as he said, but Bruce knew that he had told the truthregarding Banule's work. He confirmed the suspicions and fears that hadbeen in Bruce's mind for months. Therefore, when he said quietly toBanule--"You'd better go up the hill!" there was that in his voice andeyes which made that person take his departure with only a little lesscelerity than Smaltz had taken his.
It remained for Bruce to gather up Banule's scattered tools, drain thepumps, and nail the pump-house door. When he closed the head gate andturned the water back into Big Squaw Creek, removed the belting from thepulleys in the power-house and shut the place up tight, he felt that itwas much like making arrangements for his own funeral.
At last everything was done and Porcupine Jim, who had stayed on a dayor so to help, was waiting for Bruce to finish his letter to HelenDunbar so he could take it up the hill. Jim sat by the kitchen stovewhistling dismally through his teeth while Bruce groped for words inwhich to break the news of his complete failure.
If only he could truthfully hold out some hope! But there was not theslightest that he could see. Harrah was out of it. The stockholders hadlost both confidence and interest in him and his proposition and wouldsell out, as they had notified him they would do if the season's workwas a failure--and consider themselves lucky to have the chance. It wasa foregone conclusion that Sprudell would shortly own the controllingstock.
There was nothing for it but the blunt truth so Bruce wrote:
Sprudell boasted that he would down me and he has. Villainy, incompetency and carelessness have been too strong a combination for my inexperience to beat.
I've failed. I'm broke. I've spent $40,000 and have nothing to show for it but a burned-out plant of an obsolete type.
You can't imagine how it hurts to write these words. The disappointment and humiliation of it passes belief. No one who has not been through an experience like it could ever, even faintly, understand.
I grow hot and cold with shame when I look back now and see my mistakes. They are so plain that it makes me feel a fool--an ignorant, conceited, inexperienced fool. I've learned many lessons, but at what a price!
You'll see from the enclosed paper what I was up against. But it does not excuse me, not in the least. Thinking myself just, I was merely weak. A confiding confidence in one's fellowman is very beautiful in theory but there's nothing makes him more ridiculous when it's taken advantage of. When I recall the suspicious happenings that should have warned me from Jenning's incompetency to Smaltz's villainy I have no words in which to express my mortification. The stockholders cannot condemn me more severely for my failure than I condemn myself.
You are the beginning and end of everything with me. All my hopes, my ambitions, my life itself have come to centre in you. It was the thought that it was for you that kept me going when I have been so tired doing two men's work that I could scarcely drag one foot after the other. It made me take risks I might otherwise never have dared to take. It kept me plodding on when one failure after another smashed me in the face so fast that I could not see for the blackness.
I never dreamed that love was like this--that it was such a spur--such an incentive--or that it could add so to the bitterness of failure. For I do love you, Helen; I see now that I have loved you from the time I saw you with Sprudell--further back than that, from the time I shook your picture out of that old envelope.
I'm telling you this so you'll know why my tongue ran away with my judgment when I talked so much to you of my plans and expectations, hoping that in spite of the great disappointment my failure will be to you, it will make you a little more lenient.
I have failed so completely that I don't even dare ask you if you care the least bit for me. It's presumptuous to suggest it-- it seems like presuming because you have been kind. But even if such a miracle could be, I have nothing to offer you. I don't mean to quit but it may be years before I get again the chance that I had down here.
I love you, Helen, truly, completely: I am sure there will never be any one else for me. If only for this reason won't you write to me sometimes, for your letters will mean so much in the days that are ahead of me.
When he had finished, Bruce gave Jim the letter and paid him off withthe check that took the last of his balance in the bank.
From the doorway of the shack he watched the Swede climb the hill,following him with his eyes until he had rounded the last point beforethe zig-zag trail disappeared into the timber on the ridge. A pall ofawful loneliness seemed to settle over the canyon as the figure passedfrom sight and as Bruce turned inside he wondered which was going to bethe worst--the days or nights. His footsteps sounded hollow when hewalked across the still room. He stopped in the centre and looked at theashes overflowing the hearth of the greasy range, at the unwashedfrying-pan on the dirty floor, at the remains of Jim's lunch thatlittered the shabby oilcloth on the table. A black wave of despairswept over him. This was for him instead of cleanliness, comfort,brightness, friendly people--and Helen Dunbar. This squalor, this bareloneliness, was the harsh penalty of failure. He put his hand to histhroat and rubbed it for it ached with the sudden contraction of themuscles, but he made no sound.
* * * * *
One of the pictures with which Bruce tortured himself was Helen'sdisappointment when she should read his letter. He imagined theanimation fading from her face, the tears rising slowly to her eyes. Herletters had shown how much she was counting on what he had led her toexpect, for she had written him of her plans; so the collapse of herair-castles could not be other than a blow.
And he was right. The blunt news _was_ a blow. In one swift pictureHelen saw herself trudging drearily along the dull, narrow road ofgenteel poverty to the end of her days, sacrificing every taste, andimpulse, and instinct to the necessity of living, for more and more asshe thought her freedom closer the restrictions of economic slaverychaffed.
But as she read on, her face grew radiant and when she raised the letterimpulsively to her lips her eyes were luminous with happiness. He lovedher--he had told her so--that fact was paramount. It overshadowedeverything else, even her disappointment. The conditions against whichshe rebelled so fiercely suddenly shrank to small importance. It wasextraordinary how half-a-dozen sentences should change the world! Shewas so incredibly happy that she could have cried.
In her eagerness, she had read the first of Bruce's letter hastily soshe had not grasped the full significance of what he had written of thepart in his failure that Sprudell had played. It was not until she readit again together with Smaltz's confession, that it came to her clearly.When it did she was dumfounded by the extent of Sprudell's villainy, hisaudacity, the length to which his mania for revenge would take him. Itwas like a plot in one of his own preposterous melodramas!
And was he to be allowed to get away with it? Were his plans to work outwithout a hitch? she asked herself furiously. She realized that Bruce'shands were tied, that the complete exhaustion of his resources left himhelpless.
She sat at her desk for a long time, mechanically drawing little designsupon a blotter. Wild impulses, impractical plans, followed each other inquick succession. They crystallized finally into a definite resolve, andher lips set in a line of determination.
"I don't know how much or how little I can do, but, T. Victor Sprudell,"Helen clenched a small fist and shook it in the direction in which sheimagined Bartlesville lay, "I'm going to fight!"
If much of Helen's work was uncongenial it at least had the merit ofdeveloping useful traits. It had given her confidence, resourcefulness,persistency and when she was aroused, as now, these qualities were ofthe sort most apt to furnish the exultant Sprudell with a disagreeablesurprise.
* * * * *
It was not such a difficult matter as He
len had thought to get from theinvestors a thirty days' option upon their stock. In the first placethey were frankly amused and interested by her request; and, in thesecond, while Sprudell had succeeded in shaking their confidence inBruce he had not inspired any liking for himself. Besides, he had notbeen able to conceal his eagerness and they felt that his offer wouldkeep. It was unusual and quite outside their experiences, but in thesedays of women architects, legislators, financiers, who could tell wherethe sex would turn up next? So at a meeting of the stockholders it wasagreed that it would do no harm to "give the girl a chance" though theymade no secret of the fact that they had little expectation that shewould be able to take up the option.
When it was secure and she had obtained leave of absence from theoffice, Helen felt that the hardest part of the task she had assignedherself was done. To acquaint Bruce's father with Sprudell's plot andenlist him on Bruce's side seemed altogether the easiest part of herplan. She had no notion that she was the brilliant lady-journalist towhom the diplomat, the recluse, the stern and rock-bound capitalist,give up the secrets of their souls, but she did have an assured feelingthat with the arguments she had to offer she could manage Bruce's "Dad."
Therefore on the monotonous journey west her nerves relaxed and with acomfortable feeling of security she rehearsed her case as she meant topresent it, which was to conclude with an eloquent plea for help. Itseemed to her that in spite of the years of estrangement it would be themost natural thing in the world for Burt, when he heard all the facts,to rush to the rescue of his son. Of the result she really entertainedno doubt.
But she was reckoning without John Burt. Reasoning that would apply tonearly any other man did not at all fit Bruce's father. Helen had thesensation of having run at full speed against a stone wall when Burtcame toward her slowly, leading his saddle-horse through one of thecorrals near the unpretentious ranch-house, which she had reached aftera long drive.
The amenities to which she was accustomed were not, as the phrase is,John Burt's long suit. He did not raise his hat, extend a hand, orevince the slightest interest by any lighting of the eye. With his armthrown across his saddle he waited for her to begin, to state herbusiness and be gone.
The broad backs of ten thousand cattle glistened in the sun as they fedinside the John Burt ranch, but owing to his seedy appearance theirowner was frequently mistaken for his own hired man. Self-centred, ofnarrow views, strong prejudices, saving to penuriousness, whatever therewas of sentiment, or warm human impulse, in his nature, seemed to havebeen buried with Bruce's mother. He had not re-married, but this was theonly outward evidence by which any one could know that the memory of"his Annie" was as green as the day she died. He never spoke of her norof his son, and Burt's life seemed to have for its aim the piling up ofdollars faster than his neighbors.
Helen grasped something of his character in her swift appraisement. Asshe returned his impersonal gaze she realized that to him she was simplya female--a person in petticoats who was going to take up his time andbore him until he could get rid of her. She was not accustomed to areception of this kind; it disconcerted her, but chiefly the magnitudeof her task loomed before her.
The sudden, unexpected fear of failure threw her into a panic. Thefeeling which came upon her was like stage-fright. In the first awkwardmoment she could scarcely remember why she had come, much less what shehad intended to say. But he was too indifferent to notice her confusionand this helped her somewhat to recover her presence of mind.
When she mentioned the distance she had travelled to see him he wasentirely unimpressed and it was not until she mentioned Bruce's namethat he appeared to realize that she was not an agent trying to sell hima book. Then Helen saw in his eyes his mental start;--the look ofresignation vanished and his black brows, so like Bruce's, contracted ina frown.
"He's alive then," Burt's voice was hard.
Helen nodded.
"I've come to see you on his behalf."
"Oh, he's in trouble." His voice had an acid edge. "He wants me to helphim out."
"In trouble--yes--but I'm not sure he'd forgive me if he knew I hadcome."
"Still sore, is he?" His features stiffened.
"Not sore," Helen pleaded, "but--proud."
"Stubborn"--curtly--"mulish. But why should you come to me?"
"Why shouldn't I? You're his father and he needs a helping hand just nowmore perhaps than he ever will again."
"Being his father is no reason, that I can see. He's never written me aline."
"And you've never tried to find him," Helen retorted.
"He had a good home and he ran away. He was fourteen--old enough to knowwhat he was doing."
"Fourteen!" repeated Helen scornfully throwing diplomacy to the winds athis criticism of Bruce, "Fourteen!--and you judged him as though hewere a man of your own age and experience!"
"I made $20 a month and my board when I was fourteen."
"That doesn't prove anything except a difference in ambition. You wantedthe $20 a month and Bruce wanted an education."
"He owed me some respect." Burt declared obstinately. At the moment heand Bruce looked marvellously alike.
"And don't you think you owed him anything?" Helen's cheeks wereflaming. The last thing she had expected was to quarrel with Bruce'sfather, but since she was in it she meant to stand her ground. She hadmade a muddle of it she felt, and her chances of success were slimindeed. "Don't you think a child is entitled to the best chance forhappiness and success that his parents can give him? All Bruce asked wasan education--the weapon that every child has a right to, to enable himto fight his own battles. I had the best education my parents couldafford and at that I'm not bowed down with gratitude for the privilegeof struggling merely to exist."
She expected him to reply with equal heat but instead he ignored herargument and with a return to his former manner as though his flare-upof interest had passed, asked indifferently:
"What's he done?"
"Nothing to be ashamed of," Helen answered vigorously, "and everythingto be proud of. He's put up a plucky fight but the odds are too strongagainst him and he's going to lose unless you come to therescue--quick."
Burt combed the horse's mane with his fingers.
"What's he in--what's he doing?" There was no personal interest in thequestion.
Helen hesitated for a second, knowing instinctively the effect heranswer would have upon him--then she replied with a touch of defiance:
"Mining."
"Minin'!" His tone was full of disgust, much as though she had saidgambling or burglary. "I might have known it would be some fool thinglike that. No, ma'am," harshly, "by writin' first you might have savedyourself the trip for not a dollar of my money ever has or ever will gointo any minin' scheme. I don't speculate."
"But Mr. Burt--" Helen began pleadingly. She had a panicky feeling thatshe was going to cry.
"It's no use arguin'," he interrupted. "He can't get me into anywild-cat minin' scheme--"
"It isn't a wild-cat mining scheme," Helen defended hotly.
Burt went on--
"If he wants to come home and help me with the cattle and behave himselfnow that he's fooled away his time and failed--"
"But he hasn't failed." Helen insisted with eager impatience. "He won'tfail if----"
"Well he's hard up--he wants money----" Burt spoke as though the factwere a crime.
"A good many men have been 'hard up' and needed money before theysucceeded," Helen pleaded. "Surely you know that crises come in nearlyevery undertaking where there isn't unlimited capital, obstacles andcombinations of circumstances that no one can forsee. And if you knewwhat Bruce has had to fight----"
Helen had expected of course to tell Bruce's father of the placerproperties and his efforts to develop them. She had thought he wouldhave a father's natural pride in what Bruce had accomplished in the faceof dangers and difficulties. She had intended to tell him of Sprudell,to show him Smaltz's confession, and the options which would defeatSprudell's plotting, but in
the face of his narrow obstinacy, his deepprejudices, she felt the futility of words or argument. She had not fora moment counted upon such opposition; now she felt helpless, impotentbefore this armor of hardness.
"I don't care what he's had to fight. I'd just as soon put my money inthe stove as put it in a mining scheme. There's two things I never do,young lady, and that's speculate and go on people's notes."
"But, Mr. Burt," she begged hopelessly, "If you'd only make anexception--just this once. Go to him--see for yourself that all he needsis a helping hand across this one hard place."
"I got on without any helping hands. Nobody saw me across hard places.I've told you the only way that he can expect to get anything from me."
"Then it's useless, quite, quite useless for me to say any more?" Helenwas struggling hard to keep her voice steady to the end. "No matter whatthe circumstances may be you refuse to do anything for Bruce?"
"That's the size of it--unless he comes back. There's plenty for him todo here." His tone was implacable and he was waiting with a stolidpatience for her to go.
"I'm sorry if I've bored you and I shan't inflict you any more. Pleaseremember that Bruce knew nothing of my coming. I came upon my ownresponsibility. But his success meant so much to him--to me that I--thatI----" she choked and turned away abruptly. She dared not even saygood-bye.
Burt remained standing by his horse looking after her straight, slenderfigure as she walked toward the gate. His face was still sphinx-like butthere was a speculative look in his shrewd eyes. Bruce's success "meantso much to her," did it? That, then, was why she had come. The distanceshe had travelled for the purpose of seeing him had not impressed him inthe least before.
Helen was halfway to the gate when she stopped to replace the rubberthat stuck in the muddy corral and slipped from her heel. Her chin wasquivering, her sensitive lips drooped and, feeling that Burt was lookingat her, she raised her eyes to his. They were brimming full of tears.She looked for all the world like a sorrowful, disappointed, woe-begonelittle girl of not more than ten or twelve.
The unconscious pathos of some look or pose grips the heart harder thanany spoken word and so it was that this unstudied trick of expressionfound the vulnerable spot in Burt's armor--the spot which might haveremained impervious indefinitely to any plea. It went straight to hisone weakness, his single point of susceptibility, and that was hisunsuspected but excessive fondness for little girls.
The distinct picture that was firmly fixed in his unimaginative mindbefore Bruce was born was still there; the picture of that little girlwith flaxen hair that had blue ribbons in it, with a laughing mouth thathad tiny sharp teeth like pearls, and who was to come dancing to meethim with her arms outstretched each time that he rode into the yard.That the dream was never realized was one of the real disappointments ofBurt's life. Inexplicably he saw that little girl again as he looked atHelen's upturned face with its quivering chin and swimming, reproachfuleyes.
John Burt had a queer feeling of something wilting, crumbling inside ofhim, something hard and cold giving way around his heart. He could nothave explained it, it was not his way to try, but he took an impulsivestep toward her and called out:
"Wait a minute! Go on in the house till I put up my horse, I'll hearwhat you have to say."
The Man from the Bitter Roots Page 26