“No,” he answered.

“But Stillwell wants you so badly.”

“No.”

“Stewart, I want you to come.”

“No.”

His replies had been hoarse, loud, furious.  They disconcerted Madeline, and she paused, trying to think of a way to proceed.  Stewart staggered away from the wall, and, falling upon the bench, he hid his face in his hands.  All his motions, like his speech, had been violent.

“Will you please go away?” he asked.

“Stewart, certainly I cannot remain here longer if you insist upon my going.  But why not listen to me when I want so much to help you?  Why?”

“I’m a damned blackguard,” he burst out.  “But I was a gentleman once, and I’m not so low that I can stand for you seeing me here.”

“When I made up my mind to help you I made it up to see you wherever you were.  Stewart, come away, come back with us to the ranch.  You are in a bad condition now.  Everything looks black to you.  But that will pass.  When you are among friends again you will get well.  You will be your old self.  The very fact that you were once a gentleman, that you come of good family, makes you owe so much more to yourself.  Why, Stewart, think how young you are!  It is a shame to waste your life.  Come back with me.”

“Miss Hammond, this was my last plunge,” he replied, despondently.  “It’s too late.”

“Oh no, it is not so bad as that.”

“It’s too late.”

“At least make an effort, Stewart.  Try!”

“No.  There’s no use.  I’m done for.  Please leave me—­thank you for—­”

He had been savage, then sullen, and now he was grim.  Madeline all but lost power to resist his strange, deadly, cold finality.  No doubt he knew he was doomed.  Yet something halted her—­held her even as she took a backward step.  And she became conscious of a subtle change in her own feeling.  She had come into that squalid hole, Madeline Hammond, earnest enough, kind enough in her own intentions; but she had been almost imperious—­a woman habitually, proudly used to being obeyed.  She divined that all the pride, blue blood, wealth, culture, distinction, all the impersonal condescending persuasion, all the fatuous philanthropy on earth would not avail to turn this man a single hair’s-breadth from his downward career to destruction.  Her coming had terribly augmented his bitter hate of himself.  She was going to fail to help him.  She experienced a sensation of impotence that amounted almost to distress.  The situation assumed a tragic keenness.  She had set forth to reverse the tide of a wild cowboy’s fortunes; she faced the swift wasting of his life, the damnation of his soul.  The subtle consciousness of change in her was the birth of that faith she had revered in Stillwell.  And all at once she became merely a woman, brave and sweet and indomitable.

“Stewart, look at me,” she said.

He shuddered.  She advanced and laid a hand on his bent shoulder.  Under the light touch he appeared to sink.