A STRICKEN MAN
He chose the road which led to Ben’s ranch, and he went along at an
almost feverish pace, not stopping to rest for a single moment, during
all those seven miles. When Ben saw him, he knew at once from the
terrible expression on his face that some trouble had befallen him. He
led him silently into the house, pushed him gently into the arm-chair,
and, with a tenderness all his own, forced him to take some food and
stimulant; and then drawing his chair alongside, and lighting his pipe
afresh, he waited, as close friends know how to wait, for the moment
when the heart desires to ease itself. At last Robert spoke, but so
quietly that his very manner would have awed any listener, and it
filled Ben with apprehension.
“Ben,” he said, “Hilda has told me to-night how she hates the whole
life. She bitterly regrets having come, she bitterly reproaches me for
having settled in the country, and I recognise the truth of everything
she says. She yearns to be free again, and she shall have her freedom.
It is the very least I can do for her. But I’m a stricken man. I’ve
been fool enough to think she cared for me--I’ve loved her so much
myself, that it did not seem possible she could not care a little for
me--and I’ve been fool enough to try and make myself believe that in
time she might get reconciled to this Californian life. I might have
known it was never at any moment possible. I’ve made a wretched failure
of my life and career over in England and over here, and I’ve earned
for myself not her love, nor her tenderness, nor even her sympathy,
but her scorn. Ben, I felt it in every word she said. I can never
forget my humiliation, I can never forget her contempt. I could have
fought through other things, but not that. If that is all one gets
for all one’s years of longing and labour, then the game is not worth
the candle. Do you remember me telling you that the worst thing which
could happen to me would be, not her changing her mind and throwing me
over, but her disappointment and her scorn? Do you remember that? You
laughed at me, and tried to chase away my misgivings, but it seems to
me now that our misgivings are about the only things in our lives which
cannot be called failures.”
Ben drew nearer to his friend.
“Dear old man,” he said, “take heart again. She was home-sick perhaps,
and all the home-longings came leaping out. She could not have meant
to be hard. She will bitterly regret her words, and all will be well
between you again. You will forgive her, and the wound will be healed.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Robert said quietly. “I don’t blame her
at all, but I blame myself bitterly, bitterly.”
“But I blame her,” said Ben, fiercely, “and face to face I shall tell
her so.”
“The only thing I have against her is that she has not cared in the
very least for me,” Robert said, “and words cannot mend that, Ben.”
He leaned back wearily in the chair, looking almost as though he had
ceased to be of this world. The silence was broken only by the note of
the mocking-bird, and the noise of the brown mare knocking impatiently
against the stall.
“She must go home to the life which she gave up for me,” Robert said,
after a long pause. “I don’t want her sacrifices: they are not worth
anything to me. I think I have enough money left for her passage, and
if not, I know you will help me out. I must give her her freedom at
once.”
He rose abruptly, but sank back with a groan, his hand to his heart.
[Illustration: “‘BEN,’ HE MURMURED, ‘WE MUST--’ HE FAINTED AWAY.”]
“Ben,” he murmured, “we must--”
He fainted away.
Ben got him on the ground, loosened his shirt, tended him as he had so
often done before in similar attacks, and he came back to life once
more. After a time Ben put him to bed like a little tired child. He
held Ben’s hand, and looked into his kind face and smiled.
“Dear old fellow,” he said tenderly, “dear old fellow. We must send her
home, Ben,” he said, as he turned his face to the wall.
Then he raised himself for a moment.
“She was mistaken about one thing,” he said. “She had seen some of
those settled-up parts on her way out here, and they seemed attractive
to her, and she reproached me for not having bought land there. But
you know, Ben, I had not the money for that sort of thing; you know I
could not have afforded to pay fancy prices for my ranch. But it was
only that she did not understand.”
After that he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, and Ben crept back
into the living-room, half beside himself with indignation and anxiety.
He felt he ought to let Hilda know that Robert was with him, and yet
it was quite impossible for him to leave his friend. He longed to see
her, and speak his mind to her about her cruelty. His whole being was
at feud with her. A torrent of words rushed to his lips, and broke off
into impotent silence.
There was a knock at the door. When he opened it, he found Hilda
outside.
“Robert is here?” she asked breathlessly.
“Robert is here,” he answered coldly.
He had stood barring the door as it were, and now he stepped back to
let her pass in.
“I must see him at once,” she said, turning round defiantly to Ben.
“He is sleeping,” Ben said sternly. “At least let him rest awhile.”
He lit the lamp, and placed it on the table, and then looked her
straight in the face.
“You have heard everything from Robert,” she said, shrinking back
almost imperceptibly.
“Robert has told me of his trouble,” Ben answered, trying manfully
to restrain his anger. But he thought of his friend stricken to the
heart, and his indignation could no longer be smothered.
“I blame you bitterly,” he said, folding his arms together tightly and
towering before her. “Yes, you shall hear what I think of you. He says
he has nothing against you, but I have everything against you! If you
had not a heart to bring with you, and some kind of tenderness, why did
you come out here? No one made you come. You could have stayed at home
if you had chosen. That would have been better than this. But to come
and give him nothing but scorn, and throw his failure in his face, and
make him feel that you despise him for not having done better in the
old country--I tell you that you are the one to be despised.”
“It is not your part to talk to me like this,” she said, interrupting
him fiercely. “You are not my judge.”
“And yet I do judge you,” he flung out fearlessly, and then he glanced
at her, and stopped short in the very heat of his anger and resentment,
for her face wore a terribly strained expression of pain, and his
gentler feelings were aroused even at that moment. “Ah, well,” he said,
“words are not of much use after all. I am so deeply sorry for him, and
for you too--there is nothing I would not do to set things right for
you both.”
His kinder manner softened her at once.
“I never meant to speak to him as I did this afternoon,” she said. “I
don’t know how it was that I could not control myself better, but I was
just wild with regret, and the music had stirred me up to such a pitch
that the words came tumbling out of their own accord; and after it was
all over, and he had gone, I stood there horrified with myself, and
terrified for him, because I knew he cared so much. And that has been
the awful part of it all through: he has cared so much, and I seemed
to have cared so little. Oh, you don’t realise how I’ve tried to take
up this life. Day after day I’ve begun over again and struggled to put
from me the dull feeling of depression, but it came back ten times
worse, until I’ve been in despair. Naturally enough you have only seen
the one side, but you would not think so harshly of me if you’d known
how I have tried, and how everything has been against the grain.”
He turned to her with something of his old kind bearing.
“I know you have tried,” he said slowly; and some of the pain passed
from her face when he spoke these words.
“I think I would like to see if he is still sleeping,” she said, almost
pleadingly.
Ben pointed to the bedroom door.
“Don’t rouse him,” he said. “If he sleeps long and heavily, he may
wake refreshed. But I think he is very ill. He has just had one of his
fainting fits, and an obstinate one too, and his state of exhaustion
afterwards has made me horribly anxious.”
She turned pale, and went softly into the bedroom. She came back in
a few minutes, and found Ben preparing supper. He looked up at her
eagerly, and was relieved when she told him that Robert was still
sleeping soundly, and that she had not lingered lest she might disturb
him.
“He was murmuring something about not being able to pay a fancy price
for land,” she said. “I wonder what he meant.”
“He took it greatly to heart that you thought he might have bought land
in a more settled part of the country,” Ben replied. “But he could not
have afforded to do that.”
“He looks very ill,” Hilda said, half dreamily.
“I have been anxious for him these many months,” Ben said quietly. “He
never had much strength, and he has overtaxed it with his ranch and his
reservoir. It is the story of many a rancher in California.”
“And I have not helped him,” Hilda said.
Ben was silent.
“I would give anything on earth to undo this afternoon’s work,” she
said, with painful eagerness. “And it’s so awful to sit here, and not
be able to tell him that. I long for him to rest, and yet I long for
him to wake. I don’t know how to bear myself.”
“You must wait,” Ben said, gently.
So they waited and watched together. It was a lovely night, and the
country was bathed in moonlight. The mountains were darkly outlined
against the silvery sky. The world seemed to be one vast fairy-land,
wrapt in mystery and peace. On such a night, a poet might have woven
dreams, an idealist might have seen bright visions, and to them the
hours would have faded imperceptibly like the moonlight into dawn.
But to Hilda that time of waiting seemed endless. She looked out
on the fairy scene, and then came back gratefully to the fire which
Ben had built up directly the night turned chilly. He sat near her,
smoking his pipe, and twirling his great moustaches. Once when he saw
her shiver, he rose and fetched a rug for her, and wrapped it around
her, and threw a few more logs on the fire. They did not attempt
conversation now: they sat rigidly upright, waiting for the morning to
dawn. Once she drowsed a little, and when she opened her eyes again,
Ben told her that Robert had called out loudly in his sleep, but was
now resting quietly.
“The morning is almost here,” he said; “it is half-past three.”
[Illustration: “SHE BENT OVER HER HUSBAND AND LOOKED AT HIS PALE FACE.”]
She drowsed once more, and the clock was striking five, when she
suddenly started up and stole into the bedroom. She bent over her
husband and looked at his pale face. He lay there absolutely still:
there was no sound of breathing--no movement of the limbs. A sudden
fear seized her.
“Ben!” she cried, “Ben!”
Ben Overleigh heard his name, and felt a thrill of terror in her voice,
and knew by the answering terror in his own heart that the dreaded
trouble had come at last. Together they raised that quiet form, and
strove by every means they knew to bring it back to consciousness and
life. But in vain.
Then he shrank back from her, and his fiercest anger took possession of
him.
“So you have your freedom,” he said.