“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.
CHAPTER XI
PASSION AND LOYALTY
THERE was great sorrow felt when the news spread about that Robert Strafford had died, but there was no surprise, for his friends had long since seen that he was slipping away from them, having reduced himself to the last inch of his strength through overwork and anxiety. It was an old story in Southern California, and one not rightly understood in the old country, but Ben Overleigh explained it in the letter which he wrote to Robert’s father.
“We buried him yesterday,” he wrote, “and his wife and we fellows who had known him and loved him, stood by the grave. He never had much strength, but what he had, he taxed to the uttermost. These last months he worked like one possessed. No delicate frame could stand it, and then he was unhappy about his wife, seeing her so home-sick. That finished matters for him. I remember when I first met him about four years ago, I thought it sheer madness for a frail young fellow like that to come out to a life of physical toil. Ranching is not child’s play, and if you want to succeed, you don’t sit down and watch your trees; you work at them the whole time, and it isn’t light work. To leave a city office, and come and be in the open air during the whole day sounds inviting, but some of those who try it, and have not much physical strength, go under. I wish this could be better understood in the old country. But I expect no one realises, until he tries for himself, what hard work manual labour really is, when one has never been accustomed to it, and knows nothing about it. Two years ago a young English doctor here died in the same way. He knew he had drained himself of strength, and that his heart was worn out. I want you to know we all loved your son, and as for myself, he leaves me bereft indeed. I shall buy his ranch, and work it together with mine. His wife will no doubt return as soon as she can, but at present there is a tremendous railway strike going on, and we are entirely cut off from the Eastern States. But some of the mails get through, and so I will risk it, and send this letter.”