What Should He Do
The next morning, it was evident to Sibyl Andrés that the man who said his
name was Henry Marston had not slept.
All that day, she watched the battle--saw him fighting with himself. He
kept apart from her, and spoke but little. When night came, as soon as
supper was over, he again left the cabin, to spend the long, dark hours in
a struggle that the girl could only dimly sense. She could not understand;
but she felt him fighting, fighting; and she knew that he fought for her.
What was it? What terrible unseen force mastered this man,--compelled him
to do its bidding,--even while he hated and loathed himself for
submitting?
Watchful, ready, hoping, despairing, the helpless girl could only pray
that her companion might be given strength.
The following morning, at breakfast, he told her that he must go to
Granite Peak to signal. His orders were to lock her in the cabin, and to
go alone; but he would not. She might go with him, if she chose.
Even this crumb of encouragement--that he would so far disobey his
master--filled the girl's heart with hope. "I would love to go with you,
Mr. Marston," she said, "but if it is going to make trouble for you, I
would rather stay."
"You mean that you would rather be locked up in the cabin all day, than to
make trouble for me?" he asked.
"It wouldn't be so terrible," she answered, "and I would like to do
something--something to--to show you that I appreciate your, kindness to
me. There's nothing else I _can_ do, is there?"
The man looked at her wonderingly. It was impossible to doubt her
sincerity. And Sibyl, as she saw his face, knew that she had never before
witnessed such mental and spiritual anguish. The eyes that looked into
hers so questioningly, so pleadingly, were the eyes of a soul in torment.
Her own eyes filled with tears that she could not hide, and she turned
away.
At last he said slowly, "No, Miss Andrés, you shall not stay in the cabin
to-day. Come; we must go on, or I shall be late."
At Granite Peak, Sibyl watched the signal flashes from distant
Fairlands--the flashes that Aaron King was watching, from the peak where
they had sat together that day of their last climb. As the man answered
the signals with his mirror, and the girl beside him watched, the artist
was training his glass upon the spot where they stood; but, partially
concealed as they were, the distance was too great.
When Sibyl's captor turned, after receiving the message conveyed by the
flashes of light, his face was terrible to see; and the girl, without
asking, knew that the crisis was drawing near. Deadly fear gripped her
heart; but she was strangely calm. On the way back to the cabin, the man
scarcely spoke, but walked with bent head; and the girl felt him fighting,
fighting. She longed to cry out, to plead with him, to demand that he tell
her why he must do this thing; but she dared not. She knew, instinctively
that he must fight alone. So she watched and waited and prayed. As they
were crossing the face of the canyon wall, on the narrow ledge, the man
stopped and, as though forgetting the girl's presence, stood looking
moodily down into the depths below. Then they went on. That night, he did
not leave the cabin as soon as they had finished their evening meal, but
sat on one of the rude seats with which the little hut was furnished,
gazing into the fire.
The girl's heart beat quicker, as he said, "Miss Andrés, I would like to
ask your opinion in a matter that I cannot decide satisfactorily to
myself."
She took the seat on the other side of the rude fireplace.
"What is it, Mr. Marston?"
"I will put it in the form of a story," he answered. Then, after a wait of
some minutes, as though he found it hard to begin, he said, "It is an old
story, Miss Andrés; a very common one, but with a difference. A young man,
with every chance in the world to go right, went wrong. He was well-born.
He was fairly well educated. His father was a man of influence and
considerable means. He had many friends, good and bad. I do not think the
man was intentionally bad, but I do not excuse him. He was a fool--that's
all--a fool. And, as fools must, he paid the price of his foolishness.
"A sentence of thirty years in the penitentiary is a big price for a young
man to pay for being a fool, Miss Andrés. He was twenty-five when he went
in--strong and vigorous, with a good mind; the prospects years of prison
life--but that's not the story. I could not hope to make you understand
what a thirty years sentence to the penitentiary means to a man of
twenty-five. But, at least, you will not wonder that the man watched for
an opportunity to escape. He prayed for an opportunity. For ten
years,--ten years,--Miss Andrés, the man watched and prayed for a chance
to escape. Then he got away.
"He was never a criminal at heart, you must understand. He had no wish,
now, to live a life of crime. He wished only to live a sane, orderly,
useful, life of freedom. They hunted him to the mountains. They could not
take him, but they made it impossible for him to escape--he was
starving--dying. He would not give himself up to the twenty years of hell
that waited him. He did not want to die--but he would die rather than go
back.
"Then, one day, when he was very near the end, a man found him. The poor
hunted devil of a convict aroused his pity. He offered help. He gave the
wretched, starving creature food. He arranged to furnish him with
supplies, until it would be safe for him to leave his hiding place. He
brought him food and clothing and books. Later, when the convict's prison
pallor was gone, when his hair and beard were grown, and the prison manner
and walk were, in some measure, forgotten; when the officers, thinking
that he had perished in the mountains, had given up looking for him; his
benefactor gave him work--beautiful work in the orange groves--where he
was safe and happy and useful and could feel himself a _man_.
"Do you wonder, Miss Andrés, that the man was grateful? Do you wonder that
he worshipped his benefactor--that he looked upon his friend as upon his
savior?"
"No," said the girl, "I do not wonder. It was a beautiful thing to do--to
help the poor fellow who wanted to do right. I do not wonder that the man
who had escaped, loved his friend."
"But listen," said the other, "when the convict was beginning to feel
safe; when he saw that he was out of danger; when he was living an
honorable, happy life, instead of spending his days in the hell they call
prison; when he was looking forward to years of happiness instead of to
years of torment; then his benefactor came to him suddenly, one day, and
said, 'Unless you do what I tell you, now--unless you help me to something
that I want, I will send you back to prison. Do as I say, and your life
shall go on as it is--as you have planned. Refuse, and I will turn you
over to the officers, and you will go back to your hell for the remainder
of your life.'
"Do you wonder, Miss Andrés, that the convict obeyed his master?"
The girl's face was white with despair, but she did not lose her
self-control. She answered the man, thoughtfully--as though they were
discussing some situation in which neither had a vital interest. "I think,
Mr. Marston," she said, "that it would depend upon what it was that the
man wanted the convict to do. It seems to me that I can imagine the
convict being happier in prison, knowing that he had not done what the man
wanted, than he would he, free, remembering what he had done to gain his
freedom. What was it the man wanted?"
Breathlessly, Sibyl waited the answer.
The man on the other side of the fire did not speak.
At last, in a voice hoarse with emotion, Henry Marston said, "Freedom and
a life of honorable usefulness purchased at a price, or hell, with only
the memory of a good deed--which should the man choose, Miss Andrés?"
"I think," she replied, "that you should tell me, plainly, what it was
that the man wanted the convict to do."
"I will go on with the story," said the other.
"The convict's benefactor--or, perhaps I should say, master--loved a woman
who refused to listen to him. The girl, for some reason, left home, very
suddenly and unexpectedly to any one. She left a hurried note, saying,
only, that she was going away. By accident, the man found the note and saw
his opportunity. He guessed that the girl would go to friends in the
mountains. He saw that if he could intercept her, and keep her hidden, no
one would know what had become of her. He believed that she would marry
him rather than face the world after spending so many days with him alone,
because her manner of leaving home would lend color to the story that she
had gone with him. Their marriage would save her good name. He wanted the
man whom he could send back to prison to help him.
"The convict had known his benefactor's kindness of heart, you must
remember, Miss Andrés. He knew that this man was able to give his wife
everything that seems desirable in life--that thousands of women would
have been glad to marry him. The man assured the convict that he desired
only to make the girl his wife before all the world. He agreed that she
should remain under the convict's protection until she _was_ his wife, and
that the convict should, himself, witness the ceremony." The man paused.
When the girl did not speak, he said again, "Do you wonder, Miss Andrés,
that the convict obeyed his master?"
"No," said the girl, softly, "I do not wonder. But, Mr. Marston," she
continued, hesitatingly, "what do you think the convict in your story
would have done if the man had not--if he had not wanted to marry the
girl?"
"I know what he would have done in that case," the other answered with
conviction. "He would have gone back to his twenty years of hell. He would
have gone back to fifty years of hell, if need be, rather than buy his
freedom at such a price."
The girl leaned forward, eagerly; "And suppose--suppose--that after the
convict had done his master's bidding--suppose that after he had taken the
girl away from her friends--suppose, then, the man would not marry her?"
For a moment there was no sound in the little room, save the crackling of
the fire in the fire-place, and the sound of a stick that had burned in
two, falling in the ashes.
"What would the convict do if the man would not marry the girl?" persisted
Sibyl.
Her companion spoke with the solemnity of a judge passing sentence; "If
the man violated his word--if he lied to the convict--if his purpose
toward the girl was anything less than an honorable marriage--if he
refused to keep his promise after the convict had done his part--he would
die, Miss Andrés. The convict would kill his benefactor--as surely as
there is a just God who, alone, can say what is right and what is wrong."
The girl uttered a low cry.
The man did not seem to notice. "But the man will do as he promised, Miss
Andrés. He wishes to make the girl his wife. He can give her all that
women, these days, seem to desire in marriage. In the eyes of the world,
she would be envied by thousands. And the convict would gain freedom and
the right to live an honorable life--the right to earn his bread by doing
an honest man's work. Freedom and a life of honorable service, at the
price; or hell, with only the memory of a good deed--which should he
choose, Miss Andrés? The convict is past deciding for himself."
The troubled answer came out of the honesty of the girl's heart; "Mr.
Marston, I do not know."
A moment, the man on the other side of the fireplace waited. Then, rising,
he quietly left the cabin. The girl did not know that he was gone, until
she heard the door close.
* * * * *
In that log hut, hidden in the deep gorge, in the wild Cold Water country,
Sibyl Andrés sat before the dying fire, waiting for the dawn. On a high,
wind-swept ledge in the Galena mountains, Aaron King grimly walked his
weary beat. In Clear Creek Canyon, Myra Willard and Conrad Lagrange
waited, and Brian Oakley planned for the morrow. Over in the Galena
Valley, an automobile from Fairlands stopped at the mouth of a canyon
leading toward Granite Peak. Somewhere, in the darkness of the night, a
man strove to know right from wrong.