CHAPTER VIII
RIVAL CONSCIENCES
The transcontinental train from the East rarely made its great climb upthe Two Forks divide on time, and to-day it was more than usually late.A solitary figure long since had begun to pace the station platform,looking anxiously up and down the track.
It was Sim Gage; and this was the first time he ever had come to meet atrain at Two Forks.
Sim Gage, but not the same. He now was in stiff, ill-fitting andexclaimingly new clothing. A new dark hat oppressed his perspiringbrow, new and pointed shoes agonized his feet, a new white collar and atie tortured his neck. He had been owner of these things no longerthan overnight. He did not feel acquainted with himself.
He was to meet a woman! Her picture was in his pocket, in his brain,in his blood. A vast shyness, coming to consternation, seized him. Hefelt a sense of personal guilt; and yet a feeling of indignity andinjustice claimed him. But all this and all his sullen anger was wipedout in this great shyness of a man not used to facing women. Sim Gagewas product of a womanless land. This was the closest his orbit everhad come to that of the great mystery. And he had been alone so long.A sudden surging longing came to his heart. Sim Gage was shy always,and he was frightened now; but now he felt a longing--a longing to behuman.
Sim Gage never in all his life had seen a young woman looking back athim over his shoulder. And now there came accession of all his ancientdread, joined with this growing sense of guilt. A few passengers fromthe resort hotel back in the town began to appear, lolling at theticket window or engaged at the baggage room. Sim Gage found a certaincomfort in the presence of other human beings. All the time he gazedfurtively down the railway tracks.
A long-drawn scream of the laboring engines told of the approachingtrain at last. Horses and men pricked up their ears. The blood of SimGage's heart seemed to go to his brain. He was seized with a panic,but, fascinated by some agency he could not resist, he stooduncertainly until the train came in. He began to tremble in theunadulterated agony of a shy man about to meet the woman to whom he hasmade love only in his heart.
Sim Gage's team of young and wild horses across the street began toplunge now, and to entangle themselves dangerously, but he did notcross the street to care for them. _She_ was coming! The woman fromthe States was on this very train. In two minutes----
But the crowd thinned and dissipated at length, and Sim Gage had notfound her after all. He felt sudden relief that she had not come,mingled with resentment that he had been made foolish. She was notthere--she had not come!
But his gaze, passing from one to another of the early tourists, restedat last upon a solitary figure which stood close to the burly trainconductor near the station door. The conductor held the young woman'sarm reassuringly, as they both looked questioningly from side to side.She was in dark clothing. A dark veil was across her face. As shepushed it back he saw her eyes protected by heavy black lenses.
Sim Gage hesitated. The conductor spoke to him so loudly that hejumped.
"Say, are you Mr. Gage?"
"That's me," said Sim. "I'm Mr. Gage." He could not recall that everin his life he had been so accosted before; he had never thought ofhimself as being Mr. Gage, only Sim Gage.
One redeeming quality he had--a pleasant speaking voice. A sudden turnof the head of the young woman seemed to recognize this. She reachedout, groping for the arm of the conductor. Consternation urged heralso to seek protection. This was the man!
"Lady for you, Mr. Gage," said the conductor. "This young woman caughta cinder down the road. Better see a doctor soon as you can--bad eye.She said she was to meet you here."
"It's all right," said Sim Gage suddenly to him. "It's all right. Youcan go if you want to."
He saw that the young woman was looking at him, but she seemed to makeno sign of recognition.
"I'm Mr. Gage, ma'am," said he, stepping up. "I'm sorry you got acinder in your eye. We'll go up and see the doctor. Why, I had acinder onct in my eye, time I was going down to Arizony, and it like toof ruined me. I couldn't see nothing for nearly four days."
He was lying now, rather fluently and beautifully. He had never beenin Arizona, and so little did he know of railway travel that he had notnoted that this young woman came not from a sleeping car, but from oneof the day coaches. The dust upon her garments seemed to him therenaturally enough.
She did not answer, stood so much aloof from him that a sudden sense ofinferiority possessed him. He could not see that her throat wasfluttering, did not know that tears were coming from back of the heavyglasses. He could not tell that Mary Warren had appraised him evennow, blind though she was; that she herself suffered by reason of thatwrong appraisal.
The throng thinned, the tumult and shouting of the hotel men died away.Sim Gage did not know what to do. A woman seemed to mean a sudden andstrangely overwhelming accession of problems. What should he do?Where would he put her? What ought he to say?
"If you'll excuse me," he ventured at last, "I'll go acrosst and git myteam. They're all tangled up, like you see."
She spoke, her voice agitated; reached out a hand. "I--I can't see at_all_, sir!"
"That's too bad, ma'am," said Sim Gage, "but don't you worry none atall. You set right down here on the aidge of the side walk, till I gitthe horses fixed. They're scared of the cars. Is this your satchel,ma'am?"
"Yes--that's mine."
"You got any trunk for me to git?" he asked, turning back, suddenly andby miracle, recalling that people who traveled usually had trunks.
He could not see the flush of her cheek as she replied, "No, I didn'tbring one. I thought--what I had would do." He could not know thatnearly all her worldly store was here in this battered cheap valise.
"You ain't a-going to leave us so soon like that, are you?"
She turned to him wistfully, a swift light upon her face. He had said,"leave us"--not "leave me." And his voice was gentle. Surely he wasthe kind-hearted and chivalrous rancher of his own simple letters. Shebegan to feel a woman's sense of superiority. On the defensive, shereplied: "I don't know yet. Suppose we--suppose----"
"Suppose that we wait awhile, eh?" said Sim Gage, himself wistful.
"Why--yes."
"All right, ma'am. We'll do anything you like. You don't need notrunk full of things out here--I hope you'll git along somehow."
Knowing that he ought to assist her, he put out a hand to touch herarm, withdrew it as though he had been stung, and then hastily stood ashe felt her hand rest upon his arm. He led her slowly to the edge ofthe platform. Then she heard his footsteps passing, heard the voicesof two men--for now a bystander had gone across to do something for theplunging horses, one of which had thrown itself under the buckboardtongue. She heard the two men as they worked on. "Git up!" said onevoice. "Git around there!" Then came certain oaths on the part ofboth men, and conversation whose import she did not know.
Their voices were as though heard in a dream. There suddenly came anoverwhelming sense of guilt to Mary Warren. She had been unfair tothis man! He was a trifle crude, yes; but kind, gentle, unpresuming.She felt safer and safer--guilty and more guilty. How could she everexplain it all to him?
"I reckon they're all right now," said Sim Gage, after a considerablebattle with his team. "Nothing busted much. Git up on the seat, won'tyou, Bill, and drive acrosst--I got to help that lady git in."
"Who is she?" demanded the other, who had not failed to note thewaiting figure.
"It's none of your damn business," said Sim Gage. "That is, it's myhousekeeper--she's going to cook for the hay hands."
"With a two months' start?" grinned the other.
"Drive on acrosst now," said Sim Gage, in grim reply, which closed theother's mouth at once.
Mary Warren heard the crunch of wheels, heard the thump of her valiseas Sim Gage caught it up and threw it into the back of the buckboard.Then he spoke again. She felt him standing close at hand. Once more,trembling a
s in an ague, she placed a hand upon his arm.
"Now, when I tell you," he said gently, "why, you put your foot up onthe hub of the wheel here, and grab the iron on the side, and climb inquick--these horses is sort of uneasy."
"I can't see the wheel," said Mary Warren, groping.
She felt his hand steadying her--felt the rim of the wheel under herhand, felt him gently if clumsily try to help her up. Her foot missedthe hub of the wheel, the horses started, and she almost fell--wouldhave done so had not he caught her in his arms. It was almost thefirst time in his life, perhaps the only time, that he had felt thefull weight of a woman in his arms. She disengaged herself, apologizedfor her clumsiness.
"You didn't hurt yourself, any?" said he anxiously.
"No," she said. "But I'm blind--_I'm blind_! Oh, don't you know?"
He said nothing. How could she know that her words brought to Sim Gagenot regret, but--relief!
He steadied her foot so that it might find the hub of the wheel,steadied her arm, cared for her as she clambered into the seat.
"All right," she heard him say, not to her; and then he replaced theother man on the high seat. The horses plunged forward. She feltherself helpless, alone, swept away. And she was blind.
All the way across the Middle West, across the great plains, MaryWarren had been able to see somewhat. Perhaps it was theknitting--hour after hour of it, in spite of all, done in sheerself-defense. But at the western edge of the great Plains, it hadcome--what she had dreaded. Both eyes were gone! Since then she hadnot seen at all, and having in mind her long warning, accepted herblindness as a permanent thing.
She passed now through a world of blackness. She could not see the manwho had written those letters to her. She could catch only the wine ofa high, clean air, the breath of pine trees, the feeling of space,appreciable even by the blind.
Suddenly she began to sob. Sim Gage by now had somewhat quieted hiswild team, and he looked at her, his face puckered into a perturbedfrown.
"Now, now," he said, "don't you take on, little woman." He was abashedat his daring, but himself felt almost like tears, as things now were."It'll all come right. Don't you worry none. Don't be scared of thesehorses a-tall, ma'am; I can handle 'em all right. We got to see thatdoctor."
But when presently they had driven the half mile to the village, helearned that the doctor was not in town.
"We can't do anything," said she. "Drive on--we'll go. I don't thinkthe doctor could help me very much."
All the time she knew she had in part been lying to him. It was notmerely a cinder in her eye--this was a helpless blindness, a permanentthing. The retina of each eye now was ruined, gone. So she had beenwarned. Again she reached out her hand in spite of all to touch hisarm. He remained silent. She cruelly misunderstood him.
At last she turned fully towards him, and spoke suddenly. "Listen!"said she. "I believe you're a good man. I'll not deceive you."
"God knows I ain't no good man," said Sim Gage suddenly, "and God knowsI'm sorry I deceived you like I have. But I'll take care of you untilyou can do something better, and until you want to go back home."
"Home?" she said. "I haven't any home. I tell you I've deceived you.I'm sorry--oh, it's all so terrible."
"It shore is," said Sim Gage. "I didn't really write them letters--butit's my fault you're here. You can blame me fer everything. Why,almost I was a notion never to come near this here place this morning.I felt guilty, like I'd shot somebody--I didn't know. I feel that waynow."
"You're all your letters said you were," said Mary Warren, weeping now."Any woman who would deceive such a man----"
"You ain't deceived me none," said Sim Gage. "But it's wrong of me tofool a woman such as you, and I'm sorry. Only, just don't you gitscared too much. I'm a-going to take care of you the best I know how."
"But it wasn't true!" she broke out--"what the conductor said! Itisn't just a cinder in my eye--it's worse. My eyes have been gettingbad right along. I couldn't see _anything_ to-day. You didn't know.I lost my place. I have no relatives--there wasn't any place in theworld for me. I was afraid I was going blind--and yesterday I _did_ goblind. I'll never see again. And you're kind to me. I wish--Iwish--why, what shall I _do_?"
"Ma'am," said Sim Gage, "I didn't know, and you didn't know. Can youever forgive me fer what I've done to you?"
"Forgive you--what do you mean?" she said. "Oh, my God, what shall Ido!"
Sim Gage's face was frowning more than ever.
"Now, you mustn't take on, ma'am," said he. "I'm sorry as I can be feryou, but I got to drive these broncs. But fer as I'm concerned--itain't just what I want to say, neither--I _can't_ make it right plainto you, ma'am. It ain't right fer me to say I'm almost _glad_ youcan't see--but somehow, that's right the way I do feel! It'smercifuler to _you_ that way, ma'am."
"What do you mean?" said Mary Warren. She caught emotion in this man'svoice. "Whatever can you _mean_?"
"Well," said Sim Gage, "take me like I am, setting right here, I ain'tfitten to be setting here. But I don't _want_ you to see. I got thatadvantage of you, ma'am. I can _see_ you, ma'am"; and he undertook alaugh which made a wretched failure.
"How far is it to your--our--the place where we're going?" she askedafter a time.
"About twenty-three mile, ma'am," he answered cheerfully. "Road'spretty fair now. I wish't you could see how pretty the hillsis--they're gitting green now some."
"And the sky is blue?" Her eyes turned up, sensible of no more than afeeling that light was somewhere.
"Right blue, ma'am, with leetle white clouds, not very big. I wish'tyou could see our sky."
"And trees?"
"Dark green, ma'am--pine trees always is."
She heard the rumble of the wheels on planks, caught the sound ofrushing waters.
"This is the bridge over the West Fork, ma'am," said her companion."It's right pretty here--the water runs over the rocks like."
"And what is the country like on ahead, where--where we're going?"
"It's in a valley like, ma'am," said Sim Gage.
"There's mountains on each side--they come closest down to the otherfork, near in where I live. That fork's just as clean as glass,ma'am--you can see right down into it, twenty feet----" Then suddenlyhe caught himself. "That is, I wish't you could. Plenty of fish init--trout and grayling--I'll catch you all you want, ma'am. They'refine to eat."
"And are there things about the place--chickens or something?"
"There's calves, ma'am," said Sim Gage. "Not many. I ain't got nohens, but I'll git some if you want 'em. We'd ought to have some eggs,oughtn't we? And I got several cattle--not many as I'd like, but some.This ain't my wagon. These ain't my horses; I got one horse and amule."
"What sort is it--the house?"
Sim Gage spoke now like a man and a gentleman.
"I ain't got no house fitten to call one, ma'am," said he, "and that'sthe truth. I've got a log cabin with one room. I've slept there alonefer a good many years, holding down my land."
"But," he added quickly, "that's a-going to be your place. Me--I'm outa leetle ways off, in the flat, beyond the first row of willers betweenthe house and the creek--I always sleep in a tent in the summer time.I allow you'd feel safer in a house."
"I've always read about western life," said she slowly, in her gentlevoice. "If only--I wish----"
"So do I, ma'am," said Sim Gage.
But neither really knew what was the wish in the other's heart.