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Page 66
If only Bennett could have believed that, in spite of what had happened,
Lloyd yet loved him, he could have found some ray of light in the
darkness wherein he groped, some saving strength to bear the weight of
his remorse and sorrow. But now, just in proportion as he saw clearer
and truer he saw that he must look for no help in that direction. Being
what Lloyd was, it was impossible for her, even though she wished it, to
love him now--love the man who had broken her! The thought was
preposterous. He remembered clearly that she had warned him of just
this. No, that, too, the one sweetness of his rugged life, he must put
from him as well--had already, and of his own accord, put from him.
How go on? Of what use now was ambition, endeavour, and the striving to
attain great ends? The thread of his life was snapped; his friend was
dead, and the love of the one woman of his world. For both he was to
blame. Of what avail was it now to continue his work?
Ferriss was dead. Who now would stand at his side when the darkness
thickened on ahead and obstacles drew across the path and Death overhead
hung poised and menacing?
Lloyd's love for him was dead. Who now to bid him godspeed as his
vessel's prow swung northward and the water whitened in her wake? Who
now to wait behind when the great fight was dared again, to wait behind
and watch for his home-coming; and when the mighty hope had been
achieved, the goal of all the centuries attained, who now to send that
first and dearest welcome out to him when the returning ship showed over
the horizon's rim, flagged from her decks to her crosstrees in all the
royal blazonry of an immortal triumph?
Now, that triumph was never to be for him. Ambition, too, was dead; some
other was to win where now he could but lose, to gain where now he could
but fail; some other stronger than he, more resolute, more determined.
At last Bennett had come to this, he who once had been so imperial in
the consciousness of his power, so arrogant, so uncompromising. Beaten,
beaten at last; defeated, daunted, driven from his highest hopes,
abandoning his dearest ambitions. And how, and why? Not by the Enemy he
had so often faced and dared, not by any power external to himself; but
by his very self's self, crushed by the engine he himself had set in
motion, shattered by the recoil of the very force that for so long had
dwelt within himself. Nothing in all the world could have broken him but
that. Danger, however great, could not have cowed him; circumstances,
however hopeless, could not have made him despair; obstacles, however
vast, could not have turned him back. Himself was the only Enemy that
could have conquered; his own power the only one to which he would have
yielded. And fate had so ordered it that this one Enemy of all others,
this one power of all others, had turned upon and rent him. The mystery
of it! The terror of it! Why had he never known? How was it he had never
guessed? What was this ruthless monster, this other self, that for so
long had slept within his flesh, strong with his better strength,
feeding and growing big with that he fancied was the best in him, that
tricked him with his noblest emotion--the love of a good woman--lured
him to a moment of weakness, then suddenly, and without warning, leaped
at his throat and struck him to the ground?
He had committed one of those offences which the law does not reach, but
whose punishment is greater than any law can inflict. Retribution had
been fearfully swift. His career, Ferriss, and Lloyd--ambition,
friendship, and the love of a woman--had been a trinity of dominant
impulses in his life. Abruptly, almost in a single instant, he had lost
them all, had thrown them away. He could never get them back. Bennett
started sharply. What was this on his cheek; what was this that suddenly
dimmed his eyes? Had it actually come to this? And this was
he--Bennett--the same man who had commanded the Freja expedition. No, it
was not the same man. That man was dead. He ground his teeth, shaken
with the violence of emotions that seemed to be tearing his heart to
pieces. Lost, lost to him forever! Bennett bowed his head upon his
folded arms. Through his clenched teeth his words seemed almost wrenched
from him, each word an agony.
"Dick--Dick, old man, you're gone, gone from me, and it was I who did
it; and Lloyd, she too--she--God help me!"
Then the tension snapped. The great, massive frame shook with grief from
head to heel, and the harsh, angular face, with its salient jaw and
hard, uncouth lines, was wet with the first tears he had ever known.
He was roused at length by a sudden movement on the part of the dog.
Kamiska had risen to her feet with a low growl, then, as the gate-latch
clinked, she threw up her head and gave tongue to the night with all the
force of her lungs. Bennett straightened up, thanking fortune that the
night was dark, and looked about him. A figure was coming up the front
walk, the gravel crunching under foot. It was the figure of a man. At
the foot of the steps of the veranda he paused, and as Bennett made a
movement turned in his direction and said:
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