LOVE IN CONFLICT
The habits of a lifetime are not changed in a day. Ben Blair was
accustomed to rising early, and he was astir next morning long before
the city proper was thoroughly awake. In the hotel where he was
stopping, the night clerk looked his surprise as he nodded a stereotyped
"Good-morning." The lobby was in confusion, undergoing its early morning
scrubbing, and the guest sought the street. The sun was just risen, but
the air was already sultry, casting oppression and languor over every
detail of the scene. The bare brick and stone fronts of the buildings,
the brown cobblestones of the pavements, the dull gray of the sidewalks,
all looked inhospitable and forbidding. Few vehicles were yet in
motion--distributors of necessities, of ice, of milk, of vegetables--and
they partook of the general indolence. The horses' ears swayed
listlessly, or were set back in dogged endurance. The drivers lounged
stolidly in their seats. Even the few passengers on the monotonously
droning cars but added to the impression of tacit conformity to the
inevitable. Poorly dressed as a rule, tired looking, they gazed at their
feet or glanced out upon the street with absent indifference. It was all
depressing.
Ben, normal, vigorous, country bred, shook himself and walked on. He was
as susceptible as a child to surrounding influences, and to those now
about him he was distinctly antagonistic. Life, as a whole, particularly
work, the thing that does most to fill life, he had found good. That
others should so obviously find it different grated upon him. He wanted
to get away from their presence; and making inquiry of the first
policeman he met, he sought the nearest park.
All his life he had heard of the beauty of the New York parks. The few
people he knew who had visited them emphasized this beauty above all
other features. Perhaps in consequence he was expecting the impossible.
At least, he was disappointed. Here was nature, to be sure, but nature
imprisoned under the thumb of man. The visitor had a healthy desire to
roll on the grass, to turn himself loose, to stretch every joint and
muscle; yet signs on each side gave warning to "keep off." The trees, it
must be admitted, were beautiful and natural,--they could not live and
be otherwise; but somehow they had the air of not being there of their
own free-will.
Ben chose a bench and sat down. A listlessness was upon him that the
ozone of the prairies had never let him feel. He felt cramped for room,
as though, should he draw as full a breath as he wished, it would
exhaust the supply. A big freshly-shaven policeman strolled by, eying
him suspiciously. It gave the young man the impression of being a
prisoner out on good behavior; and in an indefinite way it almost
insulted his self-respect. For the lack of something better to do he
watched the minion of the law as he pursued his beat. Not Ben Blair
alone, but every person the officer passed, went through this
challenging inspection. The countryman had been too much preoccupied to
notice that he had companions; but now that his interest was aroused, he
began inspecting the occupants of the other benches. The person nearest
him was a little old man in a crumpled linen suit. Most of the time his
nose was close to his morning paper; but now and then he raised his face
and looked away with an absent expression in his faded near-sighted
eyes. Was he enjoying his present life? Ben would have taken his oath to
the contrary. Again there flashed over him the impression of a prison
with this fellow-being in confinement. There was indescribable pathos in
that dull retrospective gaze, and Ben looked away. In the land from
which he came there could not be found such an example of hopeless and
useless age. There the aged had occupation,--the care of their
children's children, a garden, an interest in crops and growing things,
a fame as prophets of weather,--but such apathy as this, never.
A bit farther away was another type, also a man, badly dressed and
unshaven. His battered felt hat was drawn low over the upper half of his
face, and he was stretched flat upon the narrow bench. He was far too
long for his bed, and to accommodate his superfluous length his knees
were bent up like a jack-knife. Carrying with them the baggy
trousers,--he wore no underclothes,--they left a hairy expanse between
their ends and the yellow, rusty shoes. His chest rose and fell in the
motion of sleep.
Ben Blair had seen many a human derelict on the frontier; the country
was full of them,--adventurers, searchers after lost health--popularly
denominated "one-lungers"--soldiers of fortune; but he had never known
such a class as this man represented,--useless cumberers of the earth,
wanderers by day, sleepers on the benches of public parks by night. Had
he been a student of sociology he might have found a certain morbid
interest in the spectacle; but it was merely depressing to him; it
destroyed what pleasure he might otherwise have taken in the place. This
man was but a step beneath those dull toilers he had seen on the cars.
They had not yet given up the struggle against the inevitable, or were
too stolid to rebel; while he--
Ben sprang to his feet and began retracing his steps. People bred in the
city might be callous to the miseries of their fellows; those provided
with plenty might be content to live their lives side by side with such
hopeless poverty, might even apply to their own profit the necessities
of others; but his was the hospitality and consideration of the
frontier, the democracy that shares its last loaf with its fellow no
matter who he may be, and shares it without question. The heartless
selfishness of the conditions he was observing almost made his blood
boil. He felt that he was amid an alien people: their standards were not
as his standards, their lives were not of his life, and he wanted to
hurry through with his affairs and get away. He returned to the hotel.
Breakfast was ready by this time, and after some exploration he
succeeded in finding the dining-room. The head-waiter showed him to a
seat and held his chair obsequiously. Another, a negro of uncertain
age, fairly exuding dignity and impassive as a sphinx, poured water over
the ice in his glass with a practised hand, produced the menu, and
waited for his order. Without intending it, the countryman had selected
a rather fashionable place, and the bill of fare was unintelligible as
Sanskrit to him. He looked at it helplessly. A man across the table,
observing his predicament, smiled involuntarily. Ben caught the
expression, looked at its bearer meaningly, looked until it vanished,
and until a faint red, obviously a stranger to that face, took its
place. By a sudden inspiration Blair's hand went to his pocket and
returned with a silver coin.
"Bring me what a healthy man usually eats at this time of day, and
plenty of it," he said. He glanced absently, blandly past his companion.
The gentleman of color looked at the speaker as though he were a strange
animal in a "zoo."
"Yes, sah," he said.
While he was waiting, Ben looked around him with interest. The room was
big, high, massive of pillars and of beams. Every detail had been
carefully arranged. The heavy oak tables, the spotless linen, the
sparkling silver and glassware appealed to the sense of luxury. The
coolness of the place, due to unseen ventilating fans which he heard
faintly droning somewhere in the ceiling, and increased by the tile
floor and the skilfully adjusted shades, was delightful. The few other
people present were as immaculate as bath, laundry, tailor, and modiste
could make them. From one group at which Ben looked came the suppressed
sound of a woman's laugh; from another, a man's voice, well modulated,
illustrated a point with a story. At a small table in an alcove sat four
young men, and notwithstanding the fact that for them it was yet very
early in the day, the pop of a champagne cork was heard, and soon
repeated. Blair, fresh from a glimpse of the outer and under world,
observed it all, and drew comparisons. Again he saw the huddled figure
of the tramp on the bench; and again he heard the careless music of the
woman's laugh. He saw the dull animal stare of workers on their way to
uncongenial toil; the hands still unsteady from yesterday's excesses
lifting to dry lips the wine that would make them still more unsteady on
the morrow. Could these contrasts be forever continued? he wondered.
Would they be permitted to exist indefinitely side by side? Again,
problem more difficult, could it be possible that the condition in which
they existed was life? He could not believe it. His nature rebelled at
the thought. No; life was not an artificial formula like this. It was
broad and free and natural, as the prairies, his prairies, were natural
and free. This other condition was a delirium, a momentary oblivion, of
which the four young men in the alcove were a symbol. Transient
pleasure, the life might mean; but the reverse, the inevitable reaction
as from all intoxication, that--
Finishing his breakfast, Ben lit a cigar and sauntered out to the
street. He had intended spending the morning seeing the town; but for
the present he felt he had had enough--all he could mentally digest.
Without at first any definite destination, in mere excess of healthy
animal activity, he began to walk; but his principal object in coming
to the city, the object he made no effort to conceal, acted upon him
like a lodestone, and almost ere he was aware he was well out in the
residence portion of the city and headed directly for the Baker home. He
was unaware that morning was not the fashionable time to call upon a
lady. To him the fact of inclination and of presence in the vicinity was
sufficient justification; and mounting the well-remembered steps he rang
the doorbell stoutly. A prim maid in cap and diminutive apron, a recent
addition to the household, answered his ring.
"I'd like to see Miss Baker, if you please," said Ben.
The girl inspected the visitor critically. Beneath her surface decorum
he had a suspicion that she was inclined to smile.
"I hardly think Miss Baker is up yet," she announced at last. "Will you
leave your card?"
Ben looked at the sun, now well elevated in the sky, with an eye trained
in the estimate of time. He drew mental conclusions silently.
"No," he said. "I will call later."
He did call later,--two hours later,--to receive from Scotty himself the
intelligence that Florence was out but would soon return. Evidently the
Englishman had been instructed; for, though he added an invitation to
wait, it was only half-hearted, and being declined the matter was not
pressed.
Ben returned to the hotel, ate his lunch, and considered the situation.
A lesser man would have given up the fight and hidden his bruise; but
Benjamin Blair was in no sense of the word a little man. He had come to
town with definite intent of seeing a certain girl alone, and see her
alone he would. At four o'clock in the afternoon he again pressed the
button on the Baker door-post, and again waited.
Again it was the maid who answered, and at the expected query she smiled
outright. It seemed to her a capital joke that she was assisting in
playing upon this man of unusual attire.
"Miss Baker is engaged," she announced, with the glibness of previous
preparation.
To her surprise the visitor did not depart. Instead, he gave her a look
which sent her mirth glimmering.
"Very well," he said. The door leading into the vestibule and from
thence into the library was open, and without form of invitation he
entered. "Tell her, please, that I will wait until she is not engaged."
The girl hesitated. This particular exigency had not been anticipated.
"Shall I give her a name?" she suggested, with an attempt at formality.
Ben Blair did not turn. "Tell her what I said."
He chose a chair facing the entrance and sat down. Departing on her
mission, he heard the maid open another door on the same floor. There
was for a moment a murmur of feminine voices, one of which he
recognized; then silence again, as the door closed.
A half-hour passed, lengthened into an hour, all but repeated itself,
and still apparently Florence was engaged; and still the visitor sat on.
No power short of fire or an earthquake could have moved him now. Every
fragment of the indomitable perseverance of his nature was aroused, and
instead of discouraging him each minute as it passed only made his
determination the stronger. He shifted his chair so that it faced the
window and the street, crossed his legs comfortably, half closed his
eyes, resting yet watchful, and meditatively observed the growing
procession of homeward bound wage-earners in car and on foot.
Suddenly there was the rustle of a woman's skirts, and he was conscious
that he was no longer alone. He turned as he saw who it was, sprang to
his feet, and despite the intentional slight of the long wait, a smile
flashed to his face. He started to advance, but stopped.
"You wished to see me, I understand," a voice said coldly, as the
speaker halted just within the doorway.
Ben Blair straightened. The hot blood mounted to his brain, throbbing at
his throat and temples. It was not easy for him to receive insult; but
outwardly he gave no sign.
"I think I have demonstrated the fact you mention," he replied calmly.
Florence Baker clasped her hands together. "Yes, your persistency is
admirable," she said.
Ben Blair caught the word. "Persistency," he remarked, "seems the only
recourse when past friendship and common courtesy are ignored."
Florence made no reply, and going forward Ben placed a chair
deferentially. "It seems necessary for me to reverse the position of
host and guest," he said. "Won't you be seated?"
The girl did not stir.
"I hardly think it necessary," she answered.
"Florence," Ben Blair's great chin lifted meaningly, "I will not be
offended whatever you may do. I have something I wish to say to you.
Please sit down."
The girl hesitated, and almost against her will looked the man fairly in
the eyes, while her own blazed. Once more she felt his dominance
controlling her, felt as she did when, in what seemed the very long ago,
he had spread his blanket for her upon the prairie earth.
She sat down.
Ben drew up another chair and sat facing her. "Why," he was leaning a
bit forward, his elbow on his knee, "why, Florence Baker, have you done
everything in your power to prevent my seeing you? What have I done of
late, what have I ever done, to deserve this treatment from you?"
The girl evaded his eyes. "It is not usually considered necessary for a
lady to give her reasons for not wishing to see a gentleman," she
parried. The handkerchief in her lap was being rolled unconsciously into
a tight little ball. "The fact itself is sufficient."
Ben's free hand closed on the chair-arm with a mighty grip. "I beg your
pardon," he said, "but I cannot agree with you. There's a certain amount
of courtesy due between a woman and a man, as there is between man and
man. It is my right to repeat the question."
The girl felt the cord drawing tighter, felt that in the end she would
bend to his will.
"And should I refuse?" she asked.
"You won't refuse."
The girl's eyes returned to his. Even now she wondered that they did so,
that try as she might she could not deny him. His dominance over her was
well-nigh absolute. Yet she was not angry. An instinct that she had felt
before possessed her; the longing of the weaker for the stronger--the
impulse to give him what he wished. Her whole womanhood went out to him,
with an entire confidence that she would never give to another human
being. Naturally, he was her mate; naturally,--but she was not natural.
She hesitated as she had done once before, a multitude of conflicting
desires and ambitions seething in her brain. If she could but eliminate
the artificial in her nature, the desire for the empty things of the
world, then--But she could not yet give them up, and he could never be
made to care for them with her. She was nearer now to giving them up, to
giving up everything for his sake, than when she had sat alone with him
out on the prairie. She realized this with an added complexity of
emotion; but even yet, even yet--
A minute passed in silence, a minute of which the girl was unconscious.
It was Ben Blair's voice repeating his first question that recalled her.
This time she did not hesitate.
"I think you know the reason as well as I do. If we were mere friends or
acquaintances I would be only too glad to see you; but we are not, and
never can be merely friends. We have got to be either more or less." The
voice, brave so far, dropped. A mist came over the brown eyes. "And we
can't be more," she added.
The man's grip on the chair-arm loosened. He bent his face farther
forward. "Miss Baker," he exclaimed. "Florence!"
Interrupting, almost imploring, the girl drew back. "Don't! Please
don't!" she pleaded; then, as she saw the futility of words, with the
old girlish motion her face dropped into her hands. "Oh, I knew it would
mean this if I saw you!" she wailed. "You see for yourself we cannot be
mere friends!"
The man did not stir, but his eyes changed color and seemed to grow
darker. "No," he said, "we cannot be mere friends; I care for you too
much for that. And I cannot be silent when I came away off here to see
you. I would never respect myself again if I were. You can do what you
please, say what you please, and I'll not resent it--because it is you.
I will love you as long as I live. I am not ashamed of this, because it
is you I love, Florence Baker." He paused, looking tenderly at the
girl's bowed head.
"Florence," he went on gently, "you don't know what you are to me, or
what your having left me means. I often go over to your old ranch of a
night and sit there alone, thinking of you, dreaming of you. Sometimes
it is all so vivid that I almost feel that you are near, and before I
know it I speak your name. Then I realize you are not there, and I feel
so lonely that I wish I were dead. I think of to-morrow, and the next
day, and the next--the thousands of days that I'll have to live through
without you--and I wonder how I am going to do it."
The girl's face sank deeper into her hands. A muffled sob escaped her.
"Please don't say any more!" she pleaded. "Please don't! I can't stand
it!"
But the man only looked at her steadily.
"I must finish," he said. "I may never have a chance to say this to you
again, and something compels me to tell you of myself, for you are my
good angel. In many ways it is of necessity a rough life I lead, but you
are always with me, and I am the better for it. I haven't drank a drop
since I came to know that I loved you, and we ranchers are not
accustomed to that, Florence. But I never will drink as long as I live;
for I'll think of you, and I couldn't then if I would. Once you saved me
from something worse than drink. There was a man who shot Mr. Rankin and
before this, from almost the first thought I can remember, I had sworn
that if I ever met him I would kill him. We did meet. I followed him day
after day until at last I caught up with him, until he was down and my
hands were upon his throat. But I didn't hurt him, Florence, after all;
I thought of you just in time."
He was silent, and suddenly the place seemed as still as an empty
church. The girl's sobs were almost hysterical. The man's mood changed;
he reached over and touched her gently on the shoulder.
"Forgive me for hurting you, Florence," he said. "I--I couldn't help
telling you."
Involuntarily the girlish figure straightened.
"Forgive you!" A tear-stained face was looking into his. "Forgive you!
I'll never be able to forgive myself! You are a million times too good
for me, Ben Blair. Forgive you! I ought never to cease asking you to
forgive me!"
"Florence!" pleaded the man. "Florence!"
But the girl, in her turn, went on. "I have felt all the while that
certain things I saw here were unreal, that they were not what they
seemed. I have prevaricated to you deliberately. I haven't really been
here long, but it seems to me now that it's been years. As you said I
would, I've looked beneath the surface and seen the sham. At first I
wouldn't believe what I saw; but at last I couldn't help believing it,
and, oh, it hurt! I never expect to be so hurt again. I couldn't be. One
can only feel that way once in one's life." The small form trembled with
the memory, and the listener made a motion as if to stop her; but she
held him away.
"It isn't that I'm any longer blind; I am acting now with my eyes wide
open. It is something else that keeps me from you now, something that
crept in while I was learning my lesson, something I can't tell you."
Once more the girl could not control herself, and sobbing, trembling,
she covered her face. "Ben, Ben," she wailed, "why did you ever let me
come here? You could have kept me if you would--you can do--anything. I
would have loved you--I did love you all the time; only, only--" She
could say no more.
For a second the man did not understand; then like a flash came
realization, and he was upon his feet pacing up and down the narrow
room. To lose an object one cares for most is one thing; to have it
filched by another is something very different. He was elemental, this
man from the plains, and in some phases very illogical. The ways of the
higher civilization, where man loves many times, where he dines and
wines in good fellowship with him who is the husband of a former
love--these were not his ways. White anger was in his heart, not against
the woman, but against that other man. His fingers itched to be at his
throat, regardless of custom or law. Temporarily, the rights and wishes
of the woman, the prize of contention, were forgotten. Two young bucks
in the forest do not consider the feelings of the doe that is the reward
of the victor in the contest when they meet; and Ben Blair was very like
these wild things. Only by an effort of the will could he keep from
going immediately to find that other man,--intuition made it unnecessary
to ask his name. As it was, he wanted now to be away. The tiny room
seemed all at once stifling. He wanted to be out of doors where the sun
shone, out where he could think. He seized his hat, then suddenly
remembered, paused to glance--and that instant was his undoing, and
another man's--Clarence Sidwell's--salvation.
And Florence Baker, at whom he had glanced? She was not tearful or
hysterical now. Instead, she was looking at him out of wide-open eyes.
Well she knew this man, and knew the volcano she had aroused.
"You won't hurt him, Ben!" she said. "You won't hurt him! For my sake,
say you won't!"
The devil lurking in the cowboy's blue eyes vanished, but the great jaw
was still set. He reached out and caught the girl by the shoulder.
"Florence Baker," he said, "on your honor, is he worth it--is he worth
the sacrifice you ask of me? Answer!"
But the girl did not answer, did not stir. "You won't hurt him!" she
repeated. "Say you won't!"
A moment longer Ben Blair held her; then his hands dropped and he turned
toward the vestibule.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know."