"WHY DO YOU CRY FOR ME?"
When he said that he had seen Murdoch standing in the road before the
house, he had spoken the truth. It was also true that even as they stood
upon the terrace he was there still.
He was there every night. Where he slept or when, or if at all, his
mother and Christian did not know; they only knew that he never spent a
night at home. They barely saw him from day to day. When he came home in
the morning and evening, it was to sit at the table, rarely speaking,
scarcely tasting food, only drinking greedily the cup of strong coffee
Christian always had in readiness for him. The girl was very good to him
in these days. She watched him in terror of his unnatural mood. He
hardly seemed to see them when they were in the room with him; his eyes
were hollow and burning bright; he grew thin and narrow-chested and
stooped; his hands were unsteady when he lifted anything.
When she was alone, Christian said to herself again and again:
"He will die. There is no help for it. He will die--or worse."
One morning she came down to find him lying on the sofa with closed eyes
and such a deathly face that she almost cried out aloud. But she
restrained herself and went into the kitchen as if to perform her usual
tasks. Not long afterward she returned carrying a little tray with a cup
of hot coffee upon it.
"Will you drink this for me?" she said to him.
He opened his eyes a little impatiently, but he sat up and drank it.
"It's very good," he said, as he fell back again into his old position,
"but you mustn't put yourself to trouble for me."
Afterward the coffee was always ready for him when he came in, and he
got into the habit of drinking it mechanically.
The books he had been accustomed to pore over at every leisure moment
lay unopened. He neither touched nor looked at them.
The two women tried to live their lives as if nothing were happening.
They studiously avoided questioning or appearing to observe him.
"We must not let him think that we talk of him," Christian said.
She showed a wonderful gentleness and tact. Until long afterward, Mrs.
Murdoch scarcely knew what support and comfort she had in her. Her past
life had planted in her a readiness to despair.
"He is like his father," she said once. "He was like him as a child. He
is very trusting and faithful, but when his belief is gone it is all
over. He has given up as his father did before he died. He will not try
to live."
He did not try to live, but he did not think of death. He was too full
of other morbid thoughts. He could not follow any idea far. A thousand
of them came and went, and in the end were as nothing.
"Why," he kept saying to himself weakly and wearily,--"_why_ was it?
What had I done? It was a strange thing to choose me out of so many. I
was hardly worth it. To have chosen another man would have served her
better."
He did not know how the days passed at the Works. The men began to gaze
at him askance and mutter when he went by.
"Th' feyther went daft," they said. "Is this chap goin' th' same way?"
It was only the look of his face which made them say so. He got through
his work one way or another. But the days were his dread. The nights,
strange and dreadful enough, were better than the broad daylight, with
the scores of hands about him and the clangor of hammers and whir of
machinery. He fell into the habit of going to the engine-room and
standing staring at the engine, fascinated by it. Once he drew nearer
and nearer with such a look in his eye that Floxham began to regard him
stealthily. He went closer, pace by pace, and at last made a step which
brought a shout from Floxham, who sprang upon him and tore him away.
"What art at, tha foo'?" he yelled. "Does tha want to go whoam on a
shutter?"
Wakening, with a long breath, he said:
"I forgot, that was it. I was thinking of another thing."
The time came at length when he had altered so that when he went out his
mother and Christian often sat up together half the night trembling with
a fear neither of them would have put into words. As they sat trying to
talk, each would glance at the other stealthily, and when their eyes
met, each would start as if with some guilty thought.
On one of the worst and most dreadful of nights, Christian suddenly
rose from her seat, crossed the hearth and threw herself upon her knees
before her companion.
"I am going out," she said. "Don't--don't try to keep me."
"It is midnight," said Mrs. Murdoch, "and--you don't know where to go."
"Yes," the girl returned, "I do. For God's sake, let me go! I cannot
bear it."
The woman gave her a long look, and then said a strange and cruel thing.
"You had better stay where you are. It is not _you_ he wants."
"No," she said bitterly, "it is not I he wants; but I can find him and
make sure--that--he will come back. And then you will go to sleep." She
left her in spite of her efforts to detain her. She was utterly
fearless, and went into the night as if there was no such thing as peril
on earth.
She did know where to go and went there. Murdoch was standing opposite
the house in which Rachel Ffrench slept. She went to him and put her
hand on his arm.
"What are you doing here?" she said, in a low voice. He turned and gave
her a cold, vacant look. He did not seem at all surprised at finding her
dark, beautiful young face at his very shoulder.
"I don't know. Can you tell me?"
"We have been waiting for you," she said. "We cannot rest when you are
away."
"Do you want me to go home and go to bed decently and sleep?" he said.
"Do you suppose I would not, if I could? I always start from here and
come back here. I say to myself, 'It will take me an hour to reach the
place where I can see her window.' It is something to hold one's mind in
check with. This rambling--and--and forgetting what one has meant to
think about is a terrible thing."
"Come home with me," she said. "We will not talk. You can lie on the
sofa and we will go away. I want your mother to sleep."
Something in her presence began to influence him to a saner mood.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "It is midnight."
"I am not afraid. I could not bear to stay in the house. We sit
there----"
An idea seemed to strike him suddenly. He stopped her and asked
deliberately:
"Did you come because you thought I might do myself harm?"
She would not answer, and after waiting a second or so he went on
slowly:
"I have thought I might myself--sometimes, but never for long. You have
no need to fear. I am always stopped by the thought that--perhaps--it is
not worth it after all. When things look clearer, I shall get over it.
Yes--I think I shall get over it--though now there seems to be no end.
But--some day--it will come--and I shall get over it. Don't be afraid
that I shall do myself harm. If I am not killed--before the end comes--I
shall not kill myself. I shall know it was not worth it after all."
The tears had been running down her cheeks as she stood, but she bit her
lip and forced herself to breathe evenly, so that he might not find her
out. But just then, as he moved, a great drop fell upon the back of his
hand. He stopped and began to tremble.
"Good heavens!" he cried. "You are crying. Why do you cry for me?"
"Because I cannot help it," she said in a half-whisper. "I do not cry
often. I never cried for any one before."
"I'll take you home," he said, moving slowly along at her side. "Don't
cry."