Ben Blair

by Will Lillibridge

  CHAPTER XXV

  OF WHAT AVAIL?

  It was late next morning, almost noon in fact, when Florence Bakerawoke; and even then she did not at once rise. A physical listlessness,very unusual to her, lay upon her like a weight. A year ago, by thistime of day, she would have been ravenously hungry; but now she had afeeling that she could not have taken a mouthful of food had her lifedepended on it. The room, although it faced the west and was wellventilated, seemed hot and depressing. A breeze stirred the lacecurtains at the window, but it was heated by the blocks of citypavements over which it had come. The girl involuntarily compared thisawakening with that of a former life in what now seemed to her the verylong ago. She remembered the light morning wind of the prairies, which,always fresh with the coolness of dew and of growing things, had driftedin at the tiny windows of the Baker ranch-house. She recalled the sweetscent of the buffalo grass with a vague sense of depression andirrevocable loss.

  She turned restlessly beneath the covers, and in doing so her face camein contact with the moistened surface of her pillow. Propping herself upon her elbow, she looked curiously at the tell-tale bit of linen.Obviously, she had been crying in her sleep; and for this there musthave been a reason. Until that moment she had not thought of theprevious night; but now the sudden recollection overwhelmed her. She wasonly a girl-woman--a child of nature, incapable of repression. Two greattears gathered in her soft brown eyes; with instinctive desire ofconcealment the fluffy head dropped to the pillow, and the sobs brokeout afresh.

  Minutes passed; then her mother's hesitating steps approached the door.

  "Florence," called a voice. "Florence, are you well?"

  The dishevelled brown head lifted, but the girl made no motion to lether mother in.

  "Yes--I am well," she echoed.

  For a moment Mrs. Baker hesitated, but she was too much in awe of herdaughter to enter uninvited.

  "I have a note for you," she announced. "Mr. Sidwell's man Alec justbrought it. He says there's to be an answer."

  But still the girl did not move. It was an unpropitious time to mentionthe club-man's name. The fascination of such as he fades at earlymorning; it demands semi-darkness or artificial light. Just now thethought of him was distinctly depressing, like the sultry breeze thatwandered in at the window.

  "Very well," said Florence, at last. "Leave it, please, and tell Alec towait. I'll be down directly."

  In response, an envelope with a monogram in the corner was slipped inunder the door, and the bearer's footsteps tapped back into silence.

  Slowly the girl crawled from her bed, but she did not at once take upthe note. Instead, she walked over to the dresser, and, leaning on itspolished top, gazed into the mirror at the reflection of hertear-stained face, with its mass of disarranged hair. It was not a happyface that she saw; and just at this moment it looked much older than itreally was. The great brown eyes inspected it critically andrelentlessly.

  "Florence Baker," she said to the face in the mirror, "you are gettingto be old and haggard." A prophetic glimpse of the future came to hersuddenly. "A few years more, and you will not be even--good-looking."

  She stood a moment longer, then, walking over to the door, she picked upthe envelope and tore it open.

  "Miss Baker," ran the note, "there is to be an informal littlegathering--music, dancing, and a few things cool--at the Country Clubthis evening. You already know most of the people who will be there. MayI call for you?--Sidwell."

  Florence read the missive slowly; then slowly returned it to its cover.There was no need to tell her the meaning of the unwritten message sheread between the lines of those few brief sentences. It is only instory-books that human beings do not even suspect the inevitable untilit arrives. As well as she knew her own name, she realized that in heranswer to that evening's invitation lay the choice of her future life.She was at the turning of the ways--a turning that admitted of noreconsideration. Dividing at her feet, each equally free, were thetrails of the natural and the artificial. For a time they kept side byside; but in the distance they were as separate as the two ends of theearth. By no possibility could both be followed. She must choose betweenthem, and abide by her decision for good or for ill.

  As slowly as she had read the note, Florence dressed; and even then shedid not leave the room. Bathing her reddened eyes, she drew a chair infront of the window and gazed wistfully down at the handful of greengrass, with the unhealthy-looking elm in its centre, which made theBaker lawn. Against her will there came to her a vision of the natural,impersonated in the form of Ben Blair as she had seen him yesterday.Masterful, optimistic, compellingly honest, splendidly vital, with lovesand hates like elemental forces of nature, he intruded upon her horizonat every crisis. Try as she would to eliminate him from her life, shecould not do it. With a little catch of the breath she remembered thatlast night, when that man had done--what he did--it was not of what herfather or Clarence Sidwell would think, if either of them knew, but ofwhat Ben Blair would think, what he would do, that she most cared.Reluctant as she might be to admit it even to herself, yet in her innerconsciousness she knew that this prairie man had a power over her thatno other human being would ever have. Still, knowing this, she wasdeliberately turning away from him. If she accepted that invitation forto-night, with all that it might mean, the separation from Ben would beirrevocable. Once more the brown head dropped into the waiting hands,and the shoulders rocked to and fro in indecision and perplexity.

  "God help me!" she pleaded, in the first prayer she had voiced inmonths. "God help me!"

  Again footsteps approached her door, and a hand tapped insistentlythereon.

  "Florence," said her father's voice. "Are you up?"

  The girl lifted her head. "Yes," she answered.

  "Let me in, then." The insistence that had been in the knock spoke inthe voice. "I wish to speak with you."

  Instantly an expression almost of repulsion flashed over the girl'sbrown face. Never in his life had the Englishman understood hisdaughter. He was a glaring example of those who cannot catch thepsychological secret of human nature in a given situation. From thegirl's childhood he had been complaisant when he should have beensevere, had stepped in with the parental authority recognized by hisrace when he should have held aloof.

  "Some other time, please," replied Florence. "I don't feel like talkingto-day."

  Scotty's knuckles met the door-panel with a bang. "But I do feel likeit," he responded; "and the inclination is increasing every moment. Youwould try the patience of Job himself. Come, I'm waiting!" and heshifted from one foot to the other restlessly.

  Within the room there was a pause, so long that the Englishman thoughthe was going to be refused point-blank; then an even voice said, "Comein," and he entered.

  He had expected to find Florence defiant and aggressive at theintrusion. If he did not understand this daughter of his, he at leastknew, or thought he knew, a few of her phases. But she had not evenrisen from her seat, and when he entered she merely turned her headuntil her eyes met his. Scotty felt his parental dignity vanishing likesmoke,--his feelings very like those of a burglar who, invading asimilar boudoir, should find the rightful owner at prayer. His firstinstinct was to beat a retreat, and he stopped uncertainly just withinthe doorway.

  "Well?" questioned Florence, and the pupils of her brown eyes widened.

  Scotty flushed, but memory of the impassive Alec waiting below returned,and his anger arose.

  "How much longer are you going to keep that negro waiting?" he demanded."He has been here an hour already by the clock."

  A look of almost childlike surprise came over the face of the girl, anexpression implying that the other was making a mountain out of amole-hill. "I really don't know," she said.

  Scotty took a chair, and ran his long fingers through his hairperplexedly. "Florence," he said, "at times you are simply maddening;and I do not want to be angry with you. Alec says he is waiting for ananswer. What is it an answer to, please? It is my right to know."


  Again there was a pause, so long that Scotty expected unqualifiedrefusal: and again he was disappointed. Without a word, the girl removedthe note from the envelope and passed it over to him.

  Scotty read it and returned the sheet.

  "You haven't written an answer yet, I judge?"

  "No."

  The Englishman's fingers were tapping nervously on the edge of thechair-seat.

  "I wish you to decline, then."

  The childish expression left the girl's eyes, the listlessness left herattitude.

  "Why, if I may ask?" A challenge was in the query.

  Scotty arose, and for a half-minute walked back and forth across thedisordered room. At last he stopped, facing his daughter.

  "The reason, first of all, is that I do not like this man Sidwell in anyparticular. If you respect my wishes you will have nothing to do withhim or with any of his class in future. The second reason is that it ishigh time some one was watching the kind of affairs you attend." Thespeaker looked down on the girl sternly. "I think it unnecessary tosuggest that neither of us desires a repetition of last night'sexperience."

  Of a sudden, her face very red, Florence was likewise upon her feet. Inthe irony of circumstances, Sidwell could not have had a more powerfulally. Her decision was instantly formed.

  "I quite agree with you about the incident of last evening," she flamed."As to who shall be my associates, and where I shall go, however, I amof age--" and she started to leave the room.

  But preventing, Scotty was between her and the door. "Florence,"--hisface was very white and his voice trembled,--"we may as well have anunderstanding now as to defer it. Maybe, as you say, I have no authorityover you longer; but at least I can make a request. You know that Ilove you, that I would not ask anything which was not for your good.Knowing this, won't you at my request cease going with this man? Won'tyou refuse his invitation for to-night?"

  Nearer than ever before in his life was the Englishman at that moment tograsping the secret of control of this child of many moods. Had he butlearned it a few years, even a few months, sooner--But again was thesatire of fate manifest, the same irony which, jealously withholding therewards of labor, keeps the student at his desk, the laborer at hisbench, until the worse than useless prizes flutter about like Autumnleaves.

  For a moment following Scotty's request there was absolute silence andinaction; then, with a little appealing movement, the girl came close tohim.

  "Oh, daddy!" she cried. "Dear old daddy! You make it so hard for me! Iknow you love me, and I do want to do as you wish; I want to be good;but--but"--the brown head was upon Scotty's shoulder, and two soft armsgripped him tight,--"but," the voice was all but choking, "I can't lethim go now. It's too late!"

  * * * * *

  The driving of his own conveyance was to Sidwell a source of pride. Itwas therefore no surprise to Florence that at dusk he and his pair ofthoroughbreds should appear alone. The girl, very grave, very quiet, hadbeen waiting for him, and was ready almost before he stopped. With asmile of parental pride upon her face, Mollie was on the porch to saygood-bye. At the last moment she approached and kissed her daughter onthe cheek. Not in months before had the mother done such a thing asthat; and despite herself, as she walked toward the waiting carriage,there came to the girl the thought of another historic kiss, and of aJudas, the betrayer. Once within the narrow single-seated buggy shelooked back, hoping against hope; but her father was nowhere in sight.

  After the first greeting, neither she nor Sidwell spoke for someminutes. For a time Florence did not even look at her companion. She hada suspicion that he already knew most if not all that had taken place inthe Baker home the last day; and the thought tinged her face scarlet. Atlast she gave a furtive glance at him. He was not looking, and her eyeslingered on his face. It was paler than she had ever seen it before;there were deep circles under the eyes, and he looked nervous and tired;but over it all there was an expression of exaltation that could havebut one meaning to her.

  "You must let me read it when you get it in shape," she began suddenly.

  Sidwell turned blankly. "Read what, please?" he asked.

  The girl smiled triumphantly. "The story you have just written. I knowby your face it must be good."

  The flame of exaltation vanished. The man understood now.

  "What if I should refute your theory?" he asked.

  "I hardly believe that is possible. I know of nothing else which couldmake you look like that."

  Sidwell hesitated. "There are but few things," he admitted, "butnevertheless I spoke the truth. It was one of them this time."

  Florence smiled interestedly. "I am very curious," she suggested.

  The brown eyes and the black met steadily. "Very well, then," said theman, "I'll tell you. The reason was, because I have with me thehandsomest girl in the whole city."

  Instantly the brown eyes dropped; the face reddened, but not with theflush of pleasure. Florence was not yet sufficiently artificial for suchempty compliment.

  "I'd rather you wouldn't say such things," she said simply. "They hurtme."

  "But not when they're true," he persisted.

  There was no answer, and they drove on again in silence; the tap of thethoroughbreds' feet on the asphalt sounding regular as the rattle of asnare-drum, the rows of houses at either side running past like theshifting scenes of a panorama. They passed numbers of other carriages,and to the occupants of several Sidwell lifted his hat. Each as he didso glanced at his companion curiously. The man was far too well known tohave his actions pass without gossip. At last they reached a semblanceof the open country, and a few minutes later Sidwell pointed out the rowof lights on the broad veranda of the big one-story club-house. Theaffair had begun in the afternoon with a golf tournament, and when thetwo drove up and Sidwell turned over his trotters to a man in waiting,the entertainment was in full blast, although the hour was still early.

  The building itself, ordinarily ample for the organization's ratherexclusive membership, was fairly crowded on this occasion. Theclub-house had been given up to the orchestra and dancers, andrefreshments were being served on the lawn and under the adjoiningtrees. Even the veranda had been cleared of chairs.

  As Sidwell and his companion approached the place, he said in anundertone, "Let's not get in the crush yet; if we do, we won't escapeall the evening." His dark eyes looked into his companion's facemeaningly. "I have something I wish especially to say to you."

  Florence did not meet his eyes, but she well knew the message therein.She nodded assent to the request.

  Making a detour, they emerged into the park, and strolled back to aplace where, seeing, they themselves could not be seen. Sidwell found abench, and they sat down side by side. The girl offered no suggestion,no protest. Since that row of lights had appeared in the distance shehad become passive. She knew beforehand all that was to take place;something that she had decided to accede to, the details of which wereunimportant. An apathy which she did not attempt to explain held her.The music heard so near, the glimpses of shifting, faultlessly dressedfigures, the loveliness of a perfect night--things that ordinarily wouldhave been intensely exhilarating--now passed by her unnoticed. Hersenses were temporarily in lethargy. If she had a conscious wish, it wasthat the inevitable would come, and be over with.

  From without this land of unreality she was suddenly conscious of avoice speaking to her. "Florence," it said, "Florence Baker, you knowbefore I say a word the thing I wish to tell you, the question I wish toask. You know, because more than once I've tried to speak, and at thelast moment you have prevented. But you can't stop me to-night. We haverun on understanding each other long enough; too long. I have never liedto you yet, Florence, and I am not going to begin now. I will not evenanalyze the feeling I have for you, or call it by name. I know this isan unheard-of-way to talk to a girl, especially one so impressionable asyou; but I cannot help it. There is something about you, Florence, thatkeeps me from untruth, when probab
ly under the same circumstances Iwould lie to any other woman in the world. I simply know that youimpersonate a desire of my nature ungratified; that without you I haveno wish to live."

  Strange and cold-blooded as this proposal would have seemed to alistener, Florence heard it without a sign. It did not even affect herwith the shock of the unexpected. It was merely a part of thatinevitable something she had anticipated, and had for months watchedslowly taking form.

  "I suppose it seems unaccountable to you," the voice went on, "that Ishould have been attracted to you in the first place. It has often beenso to me, and I've tried to explain it. Beautiful, you undeniably are,Florence; but I do not believe it was that. It was, I think, because,despite your ideals of something which--pardon me--doesn't exist, youwere absolutely natural; and the women I'd met before were the reverseof that. Like myself, they had tasted of life and found it flat. Idanced with them, drank with them, went the round of so-called gayetywith them; but they repelled me. But you, Florence, are very different.You make me think of a prairie anemone with the dew on its petals. Ihaven't much to offer you save money, which you already have in plenty,and an empty fame; but I'll play the game fair. I'll take you anywherein the world, do anything you wish." Out of the shadow an arm creptaround the girl's waist, closed there, and she did not stir. "I amwriting an English story now, and the principal character, a soldier,has been ordered to India. To catch the atmosphere, I've got to be onthe spot. The boat I wish to take will leave in ten days. Will you gowith me as my wife?"

  The voice paused, and the face so near her own remained motionless,waiting. Into the pause crept the music of the orchestra--beat, beat,beat, like the throbbing of a mighty heart. Above it, distinct for aninstant, sounded the tinkle of a woman's laugh; then again silence. Itwas now the girl's turn to speak, to answer; but not a sound left herlips. She had an odd feeling that she was playing a game of checkers,and that it was her turn to play. "Move!" said an inward monitor. "Move!move!" But she knew not where or how.

  The man's arm tightened around her; his lips touched hers again andagain; and although she was conscious of the fact, it carried noparticular significance. It all seemed a part of the scene that wasgoing on in which she was a silent actor--of the game in which she was aplayer.

  "Florence," said an insistent voice, "Florence, Florence Baker! Don'tsit like that! For God's sake, speak to me, answer me!"

  This time the figure stirred, the head drooped in assent.

  "Yes," she said.

  Again the circling arm tightened, and the man's lips touched her own,again and again. The very repetition aroused her.

  "And you will sail with me in ten days?"

  Fully awake was Florence Baker now, fully conscious of all that hadhappened and was happening.

  "Yes," she said. "The sooner the better. I want to have it over with." Amoment longer she sat still as death; then suddenly the mood of apathydeparted, and in infinite weakness, infinite pathos, the dark headburied itself on the man's shoulder. "Promise me," she pleaded brokenly,"that you will be kind to me! Promise me that you always will be kind!"