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[177] 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.
“‘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.
“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.”
“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.