Ben Blair

by Will Lillibridge

  CHAPTER XXI

  LOVE IN CONFLICT

  The habits of a lifetime are not changed in a day. Ben Blair wasaccustomed to rising early, and he was astir next morning long beforethe city proper was thoroughly awake. In the hotel where he wasstopping, the night clerk looked his surprise as he nodded a stereotyped"Good-morning." The lobby was in confusion, undergoing its early morningscrubbing, and the guest sought the street. The sun was just risen, butthe air was already sultry, casting oppression and languor over everydetail 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 inmotion--distributors of necessities, of ice, of milk, of vegetables--andthey partook of the general indolence. The horses' ears swayedlistlessly, or were set back in dogged endurance. The drivers loungedstolidly in their seats. Even the few passengers on the monotonouslydroning cars but added to the impression of tacit conformity to theinevitable. Poorly dressed as a rule, tired looking, they gazed at theirfeet or glanced out upon the street with absent indifference. It was alldepressing.

  Ben, normal, vigorous, country bred, shook himself and walked on. He wasas susceptible as a child to surrounding influences, and to those nowabout him he was distinctly antagonistic. Life, as a whole, particularlywork, the thing that does most to fill life, he had found good. Thatothers should so obviously find it different grated upon him. He wantedto get away from their presence; and making inquiry of the firstpoliceman he met, he sought the nearest park.

  All his life he had heard of the beauty of the New York parks. The fewpeople he knew who had visited them emphasized this beauty above allother features. Perhaps in consequence he was expecting the impossible.At least, he was disappointed. Here was nature, to be sure, but natureimprisoned under the thumb of man. The visitor had a healthy desire toroll on the grass, to turn himself loose, to stretch every joint andmuscle; yet signs on each side gave warning to "keep off." The trees, itmust be admitted, were beautiful and natural,--they could not live andbe otherwise; but somehow they had the air of not being there of theirown free-will.

  Ben chose a bench and sat down. A listlessness was upon him that theozone 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 wouldexhaust the supply. A big freshly-shaven policeman strolled by, eyinghim suspiciously. It gave the young man the impression of being aprisoner out on good behavior; and in an indefinite way it almostinsulted his self-respect. For the lack of something better to do hewatched the minion of the law as he pursued his beat. Not Ben Blairalone, but every person the officer passed, went through thischallenging inspection. The countryman had been too much preoccupied tonotice that he had companions; but now that his interest was aroused, hebegan inspecting the occupants of the other benches. The person nearesthim was a little old man in a crumpled linen suit. Most of the time hisnose was close to his morning paper; but now and then he raised his faceand looked away with an absent expression in his faded near-sightedeyes. Was he enjoying his present life? Ben would have taken his oath tothe contrary. Again there flashed over him the impression of a prisonwith this fellow-being in confinement. There was indescribable pathos inthat dull retrospective gaze, and Ben looked away. In the land fromwhich he came there could not be found such an example of hopeless anduseless age. There the aged had occupation,--the care of theirchildren'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 andunshaven. His battered felt hat was drawn low over the upper half of hisface, and he was stretched flat upon the narrow bench. He was far toolong for his bed, and to accommodate his superfluous length his kneeswere bent up like a jack-knife. Carrying with them the baggytrousers,--he wore no underclothes,--they left a hairy expanse betweentheir ends and the yellow, rusty shoes. His chest rose and fell in themotion of sleep.

  Ben Blair had seen many a human derelict on the frontier; the countrywas full of them,--adventurers, searchers after lost health--popularlydenominated "one-lungers"--soldiers of fortune; but he had never knownsuch a class as this man represented,--useless cumberers of the earth,wanderers by day, sleepers on the benches of public parks by night. Hadhe been a student of sociology he might have found a certain morbidinterest in the spectacle; but it was merely depressing to him; itdestroyed what pleasure he might otherwise have taken in the place. Thisman 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 weretoo stolid to rebel; while he--

  Ben sprang to his feet and began retracing his steps. People bred in thecity might be callous to the miseries of their fellows; those providedwith plenty might be content to live their lives side by side with suchhopeless poverty, might even apply to their own profit the necessitiesof others; but his was the hospitality and consideration of thefrontier, the democracy that shares its last loaf with its fellow nomatter who he may be, and shares it without question. The heartlessselfishness of the conditions he was observing almost made his bloodboil. He felt that he was amid an alien people: their standards were notas his standards, their lives were not of his life, and he wanted tohurry through with his affairs and get away. He returned to the hotel.

  Breakfast was ready by this time, and after some exploration hesucceeded in finding the dining-room. The head-waiter showed him to aseat and held his chair obsequiously. Another, a negro of uncertainage, fairly exuding dignity and impassive as a sphinx, poured water overthe ice in his glass with a practised hand, produced the menu, andwaited for his order. Without intending it, the countryman had selecteda rather fashionable place, and the bill of fare was unintelligible asSanskrit to him. He looked at it helplessly. A man across the table,observing his predicament, smiled involuntarily. Ben caught theexpression, looked at its bearer meaningly, looked until it vanished,and until a faint red, obviously a stranger to that face, took itsplace. By a sudden inspiration Blair's hand went to his pocket andreturned with a silver coin.

  "Bring me what a healthy man usually eats at this time of day, andplenty of it," he said. He glanced absently, blandly past his companion.

  The gentleman of color looked at the speaker as though he were a strangeanimal in a "zoo."

  "Yes, sah," he said.

  While he was waiting, Ben looked around him with interest. The room wasbig, high, massive of pillars and of beams. Every detail had beencarefully arranged. The heavy oak tables, the spotless linen, thesparkling silver and glassware appealed to the sense of luxury. Thecoolness of the place, due to unseen ventilating fans which he heardfaintly droning somewhere in the ceiling, and increased by the tilefloor and the skilfully adjusted shades, was delightful. The few otherpeople present were as immaculate as bath, laundry, tailor, and modistecould make them. From one group at which Ben looked came the suppressedsound 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 fouryoung men, and notwithstanding the fact that for them it was yet veryearly in the day, the pop of a champagne cork was heard, and soonrepeated. Blair, fresh from a glimpse of the outer and under world,observed it all, and drew comparisons. Again he saw the huddled figureof the tramp on the bench; and again he heard the careless music of thewoman's laugh. He saw the dull animal stare of workers on their way touncongenial toil; the hands still unsteady from yesterday's excesseslifting to dry lips the wine that would make them still more unsteady onthe 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 whichthey existed was life? He could not believe it. His nature rebelled atthe thought. No; life was not an artificial formula like this. It wasbroad and free and natural, as the prairies, his prairies, were naturaland free. This other condition was a delirium, a mome
ntary oblivion, ofwhich the four young men in the alcove were a symbol. Transientpleasure, the life might mean; but the reverse, the inevitable reactionas from all intoxication, that--

  Finishing his breakfast, Ben lit a cigar and sauntered out to thestreet. He had intended spending the morning seeing the town; but forthe present he felt he had had enough--all he could mentally digest.Without at first any definite destination, in mere excess of healthyanimal activity, he began to walk; but his principal object in comingto the city, the object he made no effort to conceal, acted upon himlike a lodestone, and almost ere he was aware he was well out in theresidence portion of the city and headed directly for the Baker home. Hewas unaware that morning was not the fashionable time to call upon alady. To him the fact of inclination and of presence in the vicinity wassufficient justification; and mounting the well-remembered steps he rangthe doorbell stoutly. A prim maid in cap and diminutive apron, a recentaddition 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 decorumhe had a suspicion that she was inclined to smile.

  "I hardly think Miss Baker is up yet," she announced at last. "Will youleave your card?"

  Ben looked at the sun, now well elevated in the sky, with an eye trainedin 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 theintelligence that Florence was out but would soon return. Evidently theEnglishman had been instructed; for, though he added an invitation towait, it was only half-hearted, and being declined the matter was notpressed.

  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; butBenjamin Blair was in no sense of the word a little man. He had come totown with definite intent of seeing a certain girl alone, and see heralone he would. At four o'clock in the afternoon he again pressed thebutton on the Baker door-post, and again waited.

  Again it was the maid who answered, and at the expected query she smiledoutright. It seemed to her a capital joke that she was assisting inplaying upon this man of unusual attire.

  "Miss Baker is engaged," she announced, with the glibness of previouspreparation.

  To her surprise the visitor did not depart. Instead, he gave her a lookwhich sent her mirth glimmering.

  "Very well," he said. The door leading into the vestibule and fromthence into the library was open, and without form of invitation heentered. "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 hermission, he heard the maid open another door on the same floor. Therewas for a moment a murmur of feminine voices, one of which herecognized; 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. Everyfragment of the indomitable perseverance of his nature was aroused, andinstead of discouraging him each minute as it passed only made hisdetermination the stronger. He shifted his chair so that it faced thewindow and the street, crossed his legs comfortably, half closed hiseyes, resting yet watchful, and meditatively observed the growingprocession of homeward bound wage-earners in car and on foot.

  Suddenly there was the rustle of a woman's skirts, and he was consciousthat he was no longer alone. He turned as he saw who it was, sprang tohis feet, and despite the intentional slight of the long wait, a smileflashed to his face. He started to advance, but stopped.

  "You wished to see me, I understand," a voice said coldly, as thespeaker halted just within the doorway.

  Ben Blair straightened. The hot blood mounted to his brain, throbbing athis throat and temples. It was not easy for him to receive insult; butoutwardly 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 isadmirable," she said.

  Ben Blair caught the word. "Persistency," he remarked, "seems the onlyrecourse when past friendship and common courtesy are ignored."

  Florence made no reply, and going forward Ben placed a chairdeferentially. "It seems necessary for me to reverse the position ofhost 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 beoffended 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 inthe eyes, while her own blazed. Once more she felt his dominancecontrolling 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 abit forward, his elbow on his knee, "why, Florence Baker, have you doneeverything in your power to prevent my seeing you? What have I done oflate, what have I ever done, to deserve this treatment from you?"

  The girl evaded his eyes. "It is not usually considered necessary for alady to give her reasons for not wishing to see a gentleman," sheparried. The handkerchief in her lap was being rolled unconsciously intoa tight little ball. "The fact itself is sufficient."

  Ben's free hand closed on the chair-arm with a mighty grip. "I beg yourpardon," he said, "but I cannot agree with you. There's a certain amountof courtesy due between a woman and a man, as there is between man andman. It is my right to repeat the question."

  The girl felt the cord drawing tighter, felt that in the end she wouldbend 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 waswell-nigh absolute. Yet she was not angry. An instinct that she had feltbefore possessed her; the longing of the weaker for the stronger--theimpulse to give him what he wished. Her whole womanhood went out to him,with an entire confidence that she would never give to another humanbeing. Naturally, he was her mate; naturally,--but she was not natural.She hesitated as she had done once before, a multitude of conflictingdesires and ambitions seething in her brain. If she could but eliminatethe artificial in her nature, the desire for the empty things of theworld, then--But she could not yet give them up, and he could never bemade to care for them with her. She was nearer now to giving them up, togiving up everything for his sake, than when she had sat alone with himout on the prairie. She realized this with an added complexity ofemotion; 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 oracquaintances I would be only too glad to see you; but we are not, andnever can be merely friends. We have got to be either more or less." Thevoice, brave so far, dropped. A mist came over the brown eyes. "And wecan't be more," she added.

  The man's grip on the chair-arm loosened. He bent his face fartherforward. "Miss Baker," he exclaimed. "Florence!"

  Interrupting, almost imploring, the girl drew back. "Don't! Pleasedon't!" she pleaded; then, as she saw the futility of words, with theold girlish motion her face dropped into her hands. "Oh, I knew it wouldmean this if I saw you!" she wailed. "You see for yourself we cannot bemere friends!"

  The man did not stir, but his eyes changed color a
nd seemed to growdarker. "No," he said, "we cannot be mere friends; I care for you toomuch for that. And I cannot be silent when I came away off here to seeyou. I would never respect myself again if I were. You can do what youplease, 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 itis you I love, Florence Baker." He paused, looking tenderly at thegirl's bowed head.

  "Florence," he went on gently, "you don't know what you are to me, orwhat your having left me means. I often go over to your old ranch of anight and sit there alone, thinking of you, dreaming of you. Sometimesit is all so vivid that I almost feel that you are near, and before Iknow it I speak your name. Then I realize you are not there, and I feelso lonely that I wish I were dead. I think of to-morrow, and the nextday, and the next--the thousands of days that I'll have to live throughwithout 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 standit!"

  But the man only looked at her steadily.

  "I must finish," he said. "I may never have a chance to say this to youagain, and something compels me to tell you of myself, for you are mygood angel. In many ways it is of necessity a rough life I lead, but youare always with me, and I am the better for it. I haven't drank a dropsince I came to know that I loved you, and we ranchers are notaccustomed 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 mefrom something worse than drink. There was a man who shot Mr. Rankin andbefore this, from almost the first thought I can remember, I had swornthat if I ever met him I would kill him. We did meet. I followed him dayafter day until at last I caught up with him, until he was down and myhands 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 emptychurch. 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 helptelling 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 goodfor me, Ben Blair. Forgive you! I ought never to cease asking you toforgive me!"

  "Florence!" pleaded the man. "Florence!"

  But the girl, in her turn, went on. "I have felt all the while thatcertain things I saw here were unreal, that they were not what theyseemed. I have prevaricated to you deliberately. I haven't really beenhere long, but it seems to me now that it's been years. As you said Iwould, I've looked beneath the surface and seen the sham. At first Iwouldn'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. Onecan only feel that way once in one's life." The small form trembled withthe memory, and the listener made a motion as if to stop her; but sheheld him away.

  "It isn't that I'm any longer blind; I am acting now with my eyes wideopen. It is something else that keeps me from you now, something thatcrept 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 mecome here? You could have kept me if you would--you can do--anything. Iwould have loved you--I did love you all the time; only, only--" Shecould say no more.

  For a second the man did not understand; then like a flash camerealization, and he was upon his feet pacing up and down the narrowroom. To lose an object one cares for most is one thing; to have itfilched by another is something very different. He was elemental, thisman from the plains, and in some phases very illogical. The ways of thehigher civilization, where man loves many times, where he dines andwines in good fellowship with him who is the husband of a formerlove--these were not his ways. White anger was in his heart, not againstthe woman, but against that other man. His fingers itched to be at histhroat, regardless of custom or law. Temporarily, the rights and wishesof the woman, the prize of contention, were forgotten. Two young bucksin the forest do not consider the feelings of the doe that is the rewardof the victor in the contest when they meet; and Ben Blair was very likethese wild things. Only by an effort of the will could he keep fromgoing immediately to find that other man,--intuition made it unnecessaryto ask his name. As it was, he wanted now to be away. The tiny roomseemed all at once stifling. He wanted to be out of doors where the sunshone, out where he could think. He seized his hat, then suddenlyremembered, paused to glance--and that instant was his undoing, andanother man's--Clarence Sidwell's--salvation.

  And Florence Baker, at whom he had glanced? She was not tearful orhysterical 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 jawwas 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 worththe sacrifice you ask of me? Answer!"

  But the girl did not answer, did not stir. "You won't hurt him!" sherepeated. "Say you won't!"

  A moment longer Ben Blair held her; then his hands dropped and he turnedtoward the vestibule.

  "I don't know," he said. "I don't know."