MARSHALL HANEY'S SENTENCE
After Alice Heath's carriage had driven away, Haney returned to his
chair, and with eyes fixed upon the distant peaks gave himself up to a
review of all that the sick woman had said, and entered also upon a
forecast of the game.
He was not entirely unprepared for her revelation. He was, indeed, too
wise not to know that Bertha must sometime surely find in another and
younger man her heart's hunger, but his wish had set that dark day far
away in the future. Moreover, he had relied on her promise to confide in
him, and it hurt him to think that she had not fulfilled her pledge; yet
even in this he sought excuses for her.
"She may love him without knowing it. Anyhow, he's a fine young lad, far
better for her than an old shoulder-shot cayuse like meself." His sense
of unworthiness became the solvent of other and sweeter emotions. His
wealth no longer seemed capable of bridging the deep chasm widening
between them.
This day had shown a black sky to him, even before Alice Heath's
disturbing call, for Bertha had been darkly brooding at breakfast, and
silent at lunch, and immediately after rising from the table had gone
away alone, without a word of explanation to any member of her
household. She had not even taken her dogs with her, and her face was
set and almost sullen as she passed out of the door and down the walk.
All this was so unlike her that Mart was greatly troubled. It gave
weight and significance to every word of Alice Heath's warning.
Bertha was gone till nearly six o'clock, and her mood seemed no whit
lightened as she entered the gate and came slowly up the walk. To Mart's
humbly spoken query, "What troubles ye, darlin'?" she made no reply, but
went at once to her room.
The old gambler seemed pitiably helpless and forlorn as he sat there in
his accustomed chair waiting her return. The bees and birds were busy
among the vines, and all the well-oiled machinery of his splendid home
was going forward to the end that his sweet girl-wife should be served.
If she were unhappy, of what value were these soft rugs, these savory
dishes, this shining silver? There was, in truth, something mocking and
terrifying in the swift, well-trained action of the servants, who went
about their tasks unmoved and apparently unacquainted with any change in
the mind of their young mistress.
In the kitchen the cook was carefully compounding the soup while
watching the roast. Lucius, deft and absorbed, was preparing the table,
arranging the coffee service and deciding upon the china. On the seat
under the pear-trees Miss Franklin was chatting with Mrs. Gilman, and in
the barn the coachman could be heard giving the horses their evening
taste of green grass--"and yet how empty, aimless, and foolish it all is
if Bertha is unhappy," thought the master.
He grew alarmed for fear she would not come down; but at last he heard
her light step on the stairs, and when she came in view his dim eyes
were startled by the transformation in her. She had put on the plainest
of her gowns, and she wore no jewels. By other ways which he felt but
could not analyze she expressed some portentous shift of mood. He could
not define why, but her step scared him, so measured and resolute it
seemed.
She called to her mother and Miss Franklin and then asked, "Has dinner
been announced?"
Her tone was quiet and natural, and Mart was relieved. He answered with
attempt at jocularity, "Lucius is this minute winkin' at me over the
soup-tureen."
As they took seats at the table Mrs. Gilman exclaimed, "Why, dearie,
where did you dig up that old waist?"
"Will it do to visit Sibley in?"
"No indeed! I should say not. When you go back there I want you to wear
the best you've got. They'll consider it an insult if you don't."
A faint smile lighted Bertha's pale face. "I don't think they'll take it
so hard as all that."
"Are you goin' to Sibley?" asked Mart, an anxious tone in his voice.
"I thought of it. Mother is going over to-night, and I rather guess I'll
run over with her. I've never been back, you see, since that night."
There was something ominous in her restraint, in her abstraction of
glance, and especially in her lack of appetite. She took little account
of her guests and seemed profoundly engaged upon some inward
calculation. The beautifully spread table, which would have thrilled her
a few short weeks ago, was powerless to even hold her gaze, and it was
Lucius (deft and watchful) who brought the meal to a successful
conclusion--for the mother was awed and helpless in the presence of the
queenly daughter whom wealth had translated into something almost too
high and shining for her to lay hand upon.
Miss Franklin did her best, but she was not a person of light and
dancing intellectual feet, and she had never understood Haney, anyhow.
Altogether it was a dismal and difficult half-hour.
When the coffee came on Bertha rose abruptly, saying, "Come out into the
garden, Mart, I've got something to say to you."
He obeyed with a sense of being called to account, and as they walked
slowly across the grass, which the light of a vivid orange sunset had
made transcendently green, he glanced to the west with foreboding that
this was the last time he should look upon the kingly peak at sunset
time. A flaming helmet of cloud shone upon the chief, and all the lesser
heights were a deep, purple bank out of which each serrate summit rose
without perspective, sharply set against the other like a monstrous
silhouette of cardboard.
It should have been indeed a very sweet and odorous and peaceful hour.
The murmur of the water from the fountain had the lulling sound of a
hive of bees as they settle to rest, and to the suffering man it seemed
impossible that this, his cherished world, could change to the black
chaos which the loss of his adorable wife would bring upon it.
The settee was of wire, and curved so that when they had taken seats
they faced each other, and the sight of her, so slender, so graceful, so
womanly, filled him with a fury of hate against the assassin who had
torn him to pieces, making him old before his time, a cripple, impotent,
inert, and scarred.
Bertha did not wait for him to begin, and her first words smote like
bullets. "Mart, I'm going back to Sibley."
He looked at her with startled eyes--his brow wrinkling into sorrowful
lines. "For how long?"
"I don't know--it may be a good while. I'm going away to think things
over." Then she added, firmly, "I may not come back at all, Mart."
"For God's sake, don't say that, girlie! You don't mean that!" His voice
was husky with the agony that filled his throat. "I can't live without
ye now. Don't go--that way."
"I've _got_ to go, Mart. My mind ain't made up to this proposition. I
don't know about living with you any more."
"Why not? What's the matter, darlin'? Can't ye put up with me a little
longer? I know I'm only a piece of a man--but tell me the truth. Can't
you stay with me--as we are?"
She met him with the truth, but not the whole truth. "Everybody thinks I
married you for your money, Mart--it ain't true--but the evidence is all
against me. The only way to prove it a lie is to just naturally pull out
and go back to work. I hate to leave, so long as you--feel about me as
you do--but, Mart, I'm 'bleeged' to do it. My mind is so stirred up--I
don't enjoy anything any more. I used to like everything in the
house--all my nice things--the dresses and trinkets you gave me. It was
fun to run the kitchen--now it all goes against the grain some way. Fact
is, none of it seems mine."
His eyes were wet with tears as he said: "It's all my fault. It's all
because of what I said last night--"
She stopped him. "No, it ain't that--it ain't your fault, it's mine.
Something's gone wrong with _me_. I love this home, and my dogs and
horses and all--and yet I can't enjoy 'em any more. They don't belong to
me--now that's the fact, Mart."
"I'll make 'em yours, darlin', I'll deed 'em all over to you."
"No, no, that won't do it. My mind has got to change. It's all in my
mind. Don't you see? I've got to get away from the whole outfit and
think it all out. If I can come back I will, but you mustn't bank on my
return, Mart. You mustn't be surprised if I settle on the other side of
the range."
"I know," he said, sadly. "I know your reason and I don't blame you.
'Tis not for an old derelict like me to hold you--but you must let me
give you some of me money--'tis of no value to me now. If ye do not let
me share it with you me heart will break entirely."
"I haven't a right to a cent of it, Mart--I owe you more than I can ever
pay. No, I can't afford to take another cent."
In the pause which followed his face took on a look of new resolution.
"Bertie, I've had something happen to me to-day. I've learned something
I should have known long since."
Her look of surprise deepened into dismay as he went on: "I know what's
the matter with you, girlie. 'Tis after seeing Ben your face always
shines. You love him, Bertie--and I don't blame you--"
A carriage driving up to the gate brought diversion, and she sprang up,
her face flushed, her eyes big and scared. "There comes Dr. Steele! I'd
plumb forgot about his call."
"So had I," he answered, as he rose to meet his visitor.
Dr. Steele, a gray-haired, vigorous man, entered the gate and came
hurriedly up the path, something fateful in his stride. He greeted them
both casually, smilelessly. "I've got to get that next train," he
announced, mechanically looking at his watch, "and that leaves me just
twenty minutes in which to thump you."
Bertha was in awe of this blunt, tactless man of science, and as they
moved towards the house listened in chilled silence while he continued:
"Brent writes me that you were doing pretty well down by the lake. Why
didn't you stay? He says he advised you not to come back."
"This is me home," answered Haney, simply.
Lucius took Bertha's place at Mart's shoulder and the three men went
into the library, leaving her to wait outside in anxious solitude. There
was something in the doctor's manner which awed her, filled her with new
conceptions, new duties.
Steele was one of these cold-blooded practitioners who do not believe in
the old-fashioned manner. "Cheery suggestion" was nonsense to him. His
examination was to Bertha, as to Haney, a dreaded ordeal. However, Brent
had advised it, and they had agreed to submit to it, and now here he
was, and upon his judgment she must rest.
For half an hour she waited in the hall, almost without moving, so
far-reaching did this verdict promise to be. Her anxiety deepened into
fear as Steele came out of the room and walked rapidly towards her.
"He's a very sick man," he burst forth, irritably. "Get him away from
here as quickly as you can--but don't excite him. Don't let him exert
himself at all till you reach a lower altitude. Keep him quiet and
peaceful, and don't let him clog himself up with starchy food--and above
all, keep liquors away from him. He shouldn't have come back here at
all. Brent warned him that he couldn't live up here. Slide him down to
sea-level--if he'll go--and take care of him. His heart will run along
all right if he don't overtax it. He'll last for years at sea-level."
"He hates to leave--he says he won't leave," she explained.
The man of science shrugged his shoulders. "All right! He can take his
choice of roads"--he used an expressive gesture--"up or down. One leads
to the New Jerusalem and is short--as he'll find out if he stays here.
Good-night! I must get that train."
"Wait a minute!" she called after him. "Is there anything I can do? Did
you leave any medicine?"
He turned and came back. "Yes, a temporary stimulant, but medicine is of
little use. If you can get away to-morrow, you do it."
She stood a few minutes at the library door listening, waiting, and at
last (hearing no sound), opened the door decisively and went in.
Haney, ghastly pale, in limp dejection, almost in collapse, was seated
in an easy-chair, with Lucius holding a glass to his lips. He was
stripped to his undershirt and looked like a defeated, gray old
gladiator, fallen helpless in the arena, deserted by all the world save
his one faithful servant--and Bertha's heart was wrenched with a deep
pang of pity and remorse as she gazed at him. The doctor's warning
became a command. To desert him in returning health was bad enough, to
desert him now was impossible.
Running to him, all her repugnance gone, all her tenderness awake, she
put her arm about his shoulders. "Oh, Mart, did he hurt you? Are you
worse?"
He raised dim eyes to her, eyes that seemed already filmed with death's
opaque curtains, but bravely, slowly smiled. "I'm down but not out,
darlin'. That brute of a doctor jolted me hard; I nearly took the
count--but I'm--still in the ring. Harness me up, Lucius. I'll show that
sawbones the power of mind over matter--the ould croaker!"
He recovered rapidly and was soon able to stagger to his feet. Then,
with a return of his wonted humor, he stretched out his big right arm.
"I'm not to be put out of business by wan punch from an old puddin' like
Steele. I am not the 'stiff' he thinks. He had me agin the ropes, 'tis
true, but I'll surprise him yet."
"What did he say?" she persisted in demanding.
He shook his head. "That's bechune the two of us," he nodded warningly
at Lucius. "For one thing, he says me heart can't stand the high
country. 'It's you to the deep valley,' says he."
Her decision was ready. "All right, then _we go_!"
He faced her quickly. "Did ye say WE, Bertie? Did ye say it,
sweetheart?"
"I did, Mart--I've changed my mind once more. I'm goin' to stick by
you--till you're settled somewhere. I won't leave till you're better."
The tears blinded his eyes again, and his lips twitched. "You're God's
own angel, Bertie, but I don't deserve it. No, stay you here--I'm not
worth your sacrifice. No, no, I can't have it! Stay here with Ben and
look after the mines."
Her face settled in lines that were not girlish as she repeated: "It's
up to me to go, and I'm going, Mart! I didn't realize how bad it was for
you here--I didn't, really!"
"It's all wrong, I'm afraid--all wrong," he answered, "but the Lord
knows I need you worse than ever."
"Shut off on all that!" she commanded. "Lucius, help me take him outside
where the air is better."
Mart put the man away. "One is enough," he said, brusquely; and so,
leaning on his strong, young wife, he went slowly out into the dusk
where the mother and Miss Franklin were sitting, quite unconscious of
the deep significance of the doctor's visit. "Not a word to them,"
warned Haney--"at any rate, not to-night."
They were now both facing the pain of instantly abandoning all these
beautiful and ministering material conditions which money had called
round them. It seemed so foolish, so incredibly silly--this mandate of
the physician. Could any place on the earth be more healthful, more
helpful to human life than this wide-porched, cool-halled house, this
garden, this air? What difference could a few thousand feet make on the
heart's action?
The thought of putting away all hope of seeing Ben Fordyce came at last
to overtop all Bertha's other regrets as the lordly peak overrode the
clouds--and yet she was determined to go. Very quietly she told her
mother that she had decided to put off her visit to Sibley, and at 10:30
she drove down to the station and sent her away composedly. At the
moment she was glad to get her out of the town, so that she should not
share in the grief of next day's departure. To Miss Franklin she then
confided the doctor's warning, and together they began to pack.
Haney, with lowering brow and bleeding heart, went to his bed denouncing
himself. "I have no right to her. 'Tis the time for me to step out. If
the doctor knows his business, 'tis only a matter of a few weeks,
anyhow, when my seat in the game will be empty. Why not stay here in me
own home and so end it all comfortably?"
This was so simple--and yet he spent most of the night fighting the
desire to live out those years the doctor had promised him. It was so
sweet to sit opposite that dear girl-face of a morning, to feel her hand
on his hair--now and again. "She's only a child--she can wait ten years
and still be young." But then came the thought: "'Tis harder for her to
wait than it is for me to go. 'Tis mere selfishness. What can I do in
the world? I have no interest in the game outside of her. No, Mart, the
consumptive is right, 'tis up to you to slip away, genteel and quiet, so
that your widow will not be troubled by anny gossip."
To use the pistol was easy, the handle fitted his hand, but to die so
that no shock or shame would come to her, that was his problem. "I will
not leave her the widow of a suicide," he resolved. "I must go so sly,
so casual-like, that no one will be able to point the finger at her or
Ben."
"Can I visit the mine once more?" he had asked Steele. "No," the doctor
had replied. "To go a thousand feet higher than this would be fatal."
As he mused on this he began to feel the wonder of the body in which he
dwelt. That a machine so bulky and so gross could be so delicate that a
change in the pressure of the atmosphere might be fatal astonished him.
"I'll soon know," he said, "for I cross the range to-morrow."
The dark shadow of the unseen world, once so dim and far, now rose
formidable as a mountain on the horizon of his thought. It was so
difficult to leave the house in which he had found peace and a strange
kind of happiness (the happiness of a soldier home on parole,
convalescent and content under the apple-trees)--it was very hard--and
the tenderness, the care, to which his little wife had returned and
which filled his heart with sweetness, added to his irresolution.
He fell into deep sleep at last, still in debate with himself.
He woke quietly next morning, like a child, and as his eyes took in the
big room in which he had slept for a year, surrounded by such luxury as
he had never dreamed of having (even for a day), life seemed very easy
of continuance, and Steele a mistaken egotist, a foul destroyer of men's
peace; but as he rose to dress and saw himself in the glass, the figure
he presented decided his hand. Was this Mart Haney--this unshaven,
haggard, and wrinkled old man?
Leaning close to the mirror, he studied his face as if it were a mask.
Deep creases ran down on either side of the nose, giving to his gaze the
morose expression of an aged, slavering mastiff. His nerveless cheeks
depended. His neck was stringy. Puffy sacs lay under the eyes, and the
ashen pallor of his skin told how the heart was laboring to maintain
life's red current in its round.
As he looked his decision was taken. "Mart, the game has run mostly in
your favor for twenty-five years--but 'tis agin ye now. The quiet old
gentleman with the bony grin holds the winning fist. Lay down your cards
and quit the board this day, like a man. Why drag on like this for a
year or two more, a burden to yourself and a curse to her."
And yet, though crippled and gray, death was somehow more dreadful to
him at this moment than when in his remorseless and powerful young
manhood he had looked again and again into the murderous eyes of those
who were eager to shed his blood. He shivered at the thought of the dark
river, as those whose limbs having grown pale and thin dread the cold
wind of the night.
"I wonder is the mother over there waitin' fer me?" he half whispered.
"If ye are, your soul will be floating far above me in the light, while
I--burdened by me sins--must wallow below in purgatory. But I go, and
the divil take his toll."
There was not much preparation to be made. His will was written, fully
attested, and filed in a safe place. His small personal belongings he
was willing to leave in Bertha's hands. It was hardest of all to vanish
without a word of good-bye to any soul, but this was essential to his
plan. "No one must suspect design in me departure," he muttered. "I must
drop out--_by accident_. I must cut loose during the day, too--no night
trips for me--in a way that will look natural. If Steele knows his
business, Mart Haney will go out of the game on the summit, if not, 'tis
easy for a cripple to stagger and fall from a rock. Thank God, I leave
her as I found her--small credit to me in that."
Lucius, coming in soon after, found his master unexpectedly cheerful and
vigorous.
In answer to his query, the gambler said: "I take me medicine, Lucius,
like a Cheyenne. 'Tis all in the game. Some man must lose in order that
another may win. The wheel rolls and the board is charged in favor of
the bank. Damn the man that squeals when the cards fall fair."