RIVAL CONSCIENCES
The transcontinental train from the East rarely made its great climb up
the Two Forks divide on time, and to-day it was more than usually late.
A solitary figure long since had begun to pace the station platform,
looking anxiously up and down the track.
It was Sim Gage; and this was the first time he ever had come to meet a
train at Two Forks.
Sim Gage, but not the same. He now was in stiff, ill-fitting and
exclaimingly new clothing. A new dark hat oppressed his perspiring
brow, new and pointed shoes agonized his feet, a new white collar and a
tie tortured his neck. He had been owner of these things no longer
than overnight. He did not feel acquainted with himself.
He was to meet a woman! Her picture was in his pocket, in his brain,
in his blood. A vast shyness, coming to consternation, seized him. He
felt a sense of personal guilt; and yet a feeling of indignity and
injustice claimed him. But all this and all his sullen anger was wiped
out in this great shyness of a man not used to facing women. Sim Gage
was product of a womanless land. This was the closest his orbit ever
had come to that of the great mystery. And he had been alone so long.
A sudden surging longing came to his heart. Sim Gage was shy always,
and he was frightened now; but now he felt a longing--a longing to be
human.
Sim Gage never in all his life had seen a young woman looking back at
him over his shoulder. And now there came accession of all his ancient
dread, joined with this growing sense of guilt. A few passengers from
the resort hotel back in the town began to appear, lolling at the
ticket window or engaged at the baggage room. Sim Gage found a certain
comfort in the presence of other human beings. All the time he gazed
furtively down the railway tracks.
A long-drawn scream of the laboring engines told of the approaching
train at last. Horses and men pricked up their ears. The blood of Sim
Gage's heart seemed to go to his brain. He was seized with a panic,
but, fascinated by some agency he could not resist, he stood
uncertainly until the train came in. He began to tremble in the
unadulterated agony of a shy man about to meet the woman to whom he has
made love only in his heart.
Sim Gage's team of young and wild horses across the street began to
plunge now, and to entangle themselves dangerously, but he did not
cross the street to care for them. _She_ was coming! The woman from
the States was on this very train. In two minutes----
But the crowd thinned and dissipated at length, and Sim Gage had not
found her after all. He felt sudden relief that she had not come,
mingled with resentment that he had been made foolish. She was not
there--she had not come!
But his gaze, passing from one to another of the early tourists, rested
at last upon a solitary figure which stood close to the burly train
conductor near the station door. The conductor held the young woman's
arm reassuringly, as they both looked questioningly from side to side.
She was in dark clothing. A dark veil was across her face. As she
pushed it back he saw her eyes protected by heavy black lenses.
Sim Gage hesitated. The conductor spoke to him so loudly that he
jumped.
"Say, are you Mr. Gage?"
"That's me," said Sim. "I'm Mr. Gage." He could not recall that ever
in his life he had been so accosted before; he had never thought of
himself as being Mr. Gage, only Sim Gage.
One redeeming quality he had--a pleasant speaking voice. A sudden turn
of the head of the young woman seemed to recognize this. She reached
out, groping for the arm of the conductor. Consternation urged her
also to seek protection. This was the man!
"Lady for you, Mr. Gage," said the conductor. "This young woman caught
a cinder down the road. Better see a doctor soon as you can--bad eye.
She said she was to meet you here."
"It's all right," said Sim Gage suddenly to him. "It's all right. You
can go if you want to."
He saw that the young woman was looking at him, but she seemed to make
no sign of recognition.
"I'm Mr. Gage, ma'am," said he, stepping up. "I'm sorry you got a
cinder in your eye. We'll go up and see the doctor. Why, I had a
cinder onct in my eye, time I was going down to Arizony, and it like to
of ruined me. I couldn't see nothing for nearly four days."
He was lying now, rather fluently and beautifully. He had never been
in Arizona, and so little did he know of railway travel that he had not
noted that this young woman came not from a sleeping car, but from one
of the day coaches. The dust upon her garments seemed to him there
naturally enough.
She did not answer, stood so much aloof from him that a sudden sense of
inferiority possessed him. He could not see that her throat was
fluttering, did not know that tears were coming from back of the heavy
glasses. He could not tell that Mary Warren had appraised him even
now, blind though she was; that she herself suffered by reason of that
wrong appraisal.
The throng thinned, the tumult and shouting of the hotel men died away.
Sim Gage did not know what to do. A woman seemed to mean a sudden and
strangely overwhelming accession of problems. What should he do?
Where would he put her? What ought he to say?
"If you'll excuse me," he ventured at last, "I'll go acrosst and git my
team. They're all tangled up, like you see."
She spoke, her voice agitated; reached out a hand. "I--I can't see at
_all_, sir!"
"That's too bad, ma'am," said Sim Gage, "but don't you worry none at
all. You set right down here on the aidge of the side walk, till I git
the horses fixed. They're scared of the cars. Is this your satchel,
ma'am?"
"Yes--that's mine."
"You got any trunk for me to git?" he asked, turning back, suddenly and
by miracle, recalling that people who traveled usually had trunks.
He could not see the flush of her cheek as she replied, "No, I didn't
bring one. I thought--what I had would do." He could not know that
nearly all her worldly store was here in this battered cheap valise.
"You ain't a-going to leave us so soon like that, are you?"
She turned to him wistfully, a swift light upon her face. He had said,
"leave us"--not "leave me." And his voice was gentle. Surely he was
the kind-hearted and chivalrous rancher of his own simple letters. She
began to feel a woman's sense of superiority. On the defensive, she
replied: "I don't know yet. Suppose we--suppose----"
"Suppose that we wait awhile, eh?" said Sim Gage, himself wistful.
"Why--yes."
"All right, ma'am. We'll do anything you like. You don't need no
trunk full of things out here--I hope you'll git along somehow."
Knowing that he ought to assist her, he put out a hand to touch her
arm, withdrew it as though he had been stung, and then hastily stood as
he felt her hand rest upon his arm. He led her slowly to the edge of
the platform. Then she heard his footsteps passing, heard the voices
of two men--for now a bystander had gone across to do something for the
plunging horses, one of which had thrown itself under the buckboard
tongue. She heard the two men as they worked on. "Git up!" said one
voice. "Git around there!" Then came certain oaths on the part of
both men, and conversation whose import she did not know.
Their voices were as though heard in a dream. There suddenly came an
overwhelming sense of guilt to Mary Warren. She had been unfair to
this man! He was a trifle crude, yes; but kind, gentle, unpresuming.
She felt safer and safer--guilty and more guilty. How could she ever
explain it all to him?
"I reckon they're all right now," said Sim Gage, after a considerable
battle with his team. "Nothing busted much. Git up on the seat, won't
you, Bill, and drive acrosst--I got to help that lady git in."
"Who is she?" demanded the other, who had not failed to note the
waiting figure.
"It's none of your damn business," said Sim Gage. "That is, it's my
housekeeper--she's going to cook for the hay hands."
"With a two months' start?" grinned the other.
"Drive on acrosst now," said Sim Gage, in grim reply, which closed the
other's mouth at once.
Mary Warren heard the crunch of wheels, heard the thump of her valise
as Sim Gage caught it up and threw it into the back of the buckboard.
Then he spoke again. She felt him standing close at hand. Once more,
trembling as in an ague, she placed a hand upon his arm.
"Now, when I tell you," he said gently, "why, you put your foot up on
the hub of the wheel here, and grab the iron on the side, and climb in
quick--these horses is sort of uneasy."
"I can't see the wheel," said Mary Warren, groping.
She felt his hand steadying her--felt the rim of the wheel under her
hand, felt him gently if clumsily try to help her up. Her foot missed
the hub of the wheel, the horses started, and she almost fell--would
have done so had not he caught her in his arms. It was almost the
first time in his life, perhaps the only time, that he had felt the
full weight of a woman in his arms. She disengaged herself, apologized
for her clumsiness.
"You didn't hurt yourself, any?" said he anxiously.
"No," she said. "But I'm blind--_I'm blind_! Oh, don't you know?"
He said nothing. How could she know that her words brought to Sim Gage
not regret, but--relief!
He steadied her foot so that it might find the hub of the wheel,
steadied her arm, cared for her as she clambered into the seat.
"All right," she heard him say, not to her; and then he replaced the
other man on the high seat. The horses plunged forward. She felt
herself helpless, alone, swept away. And she was blind.
All the way across the Middle West, across the great plains, Mary
Warren had been able to see somewhat. Perhaps it was the
knitting--hour after hour of it, in spite of all, done in sheer
self-defense. But at the western edge of the great Plains, it had
come--what she had dreaded. Both eyes were gone! Since then she had
not seen at all, and having in mind her long warning, accepted her
blindness as a permanent thing.
She passed now through a world of blackness. She could not see the man
who had written those letters to her. She could catch only the wine of
a high, clean air, the breath of pine trees, the feeling of space,
appreciable even by the blind.
Suddenly she began to sob. Sim Gage by now had somewhat quieted his
wild team, and he looked at her, his face puckered into a perturbed
frown.
"Now, now," he said, "don't you take on, little woman." He was abashed
at his daring, but himself felt almost like tears, as things now were.
"It'll all come right. Don't you worry none. Don't be scared of these
horses a-tall, ma'am; I can handle 'em all right. We got to see that
doctor."
But when presently they had driven the half mile to the village, he
learned that the doctor was not in town.
"We can't do anything," said she. "Drive on--we'll go. I don't think
the doctor could help me very much."
All the time she knew she had in part been lying to him. It was not
merely a cinder in her eye--this was a helpless blindness, a permanent
thing. The retina of each eye now was ruined, gone. So she had been
warned. Again she reached out her hand in spite of all to touch his
arm. He remained silent. She cruelly misunderstood him.
At last she turned fully towards him, and spoke suddenly. "Listen!"
said she. "I believe you're a good man. I'll not deceive you."
"God knows I ain't no good man," said Sim Gage suddenly, "and God knows
I'm sorry I deceived you like I have. But I'll take care of you until
you can do something better, and until you want to go back home."
"Home?" she said. "I haven't any home. I tell you I've deceived you.
I'm sorry--oh, it's all so terrible."
"It shore is," said Sim Gage. "I didn't really write them letters--but
it's my fault you're here. You can blame me fer everything. Why,
almost I was a notion never to come near this here place this morning.
I felt guilty, like I'd shot somebody--I didn't know. I feel that way
now."
"You're all your letters said you were," said Mary Warren, weeping now.
"Any woman who would deceive such a man----"
"You ain't deceived me none," said Sim Gage. "But it's wrong of me to
fool a woman such as you, and I'm sorry. Only, just don't you git
scared too much. I'm a-going to take care of you the best I know how."
"But it wasn't true!" she broke out--"what the conductor said! It
isn't just a cinder in my eye--it's worse. My eyes have been getting
bad right along. I couldn't see _anything_ to-day. You didn't know.
I lost my place. I have no relatives--there wasn't any place in the
world for me. I was afraid I was going blind--and yesterday I _did_ go
blind. I'll never see again. And you're kind to me. I wish--I
wish--why, what shall I _do_?"
"Ma'am," said Sim Gage, "I didn't know, and you didn't know. Can you
ever forgive me fer what I've done to you?"
"Forgive you--what do you mean?" she said. "Oh, my God, what shall I
do!"
Sim Gage's face was frowning more than ever.
"Now, you mustn't take on, ma'am," said he. "I'm sorry as I can be fer
you, but I got to drive these broncs. But fer as I'm concerned--it
ain't just what I want to say, neither--I _can't_ make it right plain
to you, ma'am. It ain't right fer me to say I'm almost _glad_ you
can't see--but somehow, that's right the way I do feel! It's
mercifuler to _you_ that way, ma'am."
"What do you mean?" said Mary Warren. She caught emotion in this man's
voice. "Whatever can you _mean_?"
"Well," said Sim Gage, "take me like I am, setting right here, I ain't
fitten to be setting here. But I don't _want_ you to see. I got that
advantage of you, ma'am. I can _see_ you, ma'am"; and he undertook a
laugh which made a wretched failure.
"How far is it to your--our--the place where we're going?" she asked
after a time.
"About twenty-three mile, ma'am," he answered cheerfully. "Road's
pretty fair now. I wish't you could see how pretty the hills
is--they're gitting green now some."
"And the sky is blue?" Her eyes turned up, sensible of no more than a
feeling that light was somewhere.
"Right blue, ma'am, with leetle white clouds, not very big. I wish't
you could see our sky."
"And trees?"
"Dark green, ma'am--pine trees always is."
She heard the rumble of the wheels on planks, caught the sound of
rushing waters.
"This is the bridge over the West Fork, ma'am," said her companion.
"It's right pretty here--the water runs over the rocks like."
"And what is the country like on ahead, where--where we're going?"
"It's in a valley like, ma'am," said Sim Gage.
"There's mountains on each side--they come closest down to the other
fork, near in where I live. That fork's just as clean as glass,
ma'am--you can see right down into it, twenty feet----" Then suddenly
he caught himself. "That is, I wish't you could. Plenty of fish in
it--trout and grayling--I'll catch you all you want, ma'am. They're
fine to eat."
"And are there things about the place--chickens or something?"
"There's calves, ma'am," said Sim Gage. "Not many. I ain't got no
hens, but I'll git some if you want 'em. We'd ought to have some eggs,
oughtn't we? And I got several cattle--not many as I'd like, but some.
This ain't my wagon. These ain't my horses; I got one horse and a
mule."
"What sort is it--the house?"
Sim Gage spoke now like a man and a gentleman.
"I ain't got no house fitten to call one, ma'am," said he, "and that's
the truth. I've got a log cabin with one room. I've slept there alone
fer a good many years, holding down my land."
"But," he added quickly, "that's a-going to be your place. Me--I'm out
a leetle ways off, in the flat, beyond the first row of willers between
the house and the creek--I always sleep in a tent in the summer time.
I allow you'd feel safer in a house."
"I've always read about western life," said she slowly, in her gentle
voice. "If only--I wish----"
"So do I, ma'am," said Sim Gage.
But neither really knew what was the wish in the other's heart.