For a little time after Virginia's passionate rejection of him Winton
stood abashed and confounded. Weighed in the balance of the
after-thought, his sudden and unpremeditated declaration could plead
little excuse in encouragement. And yet she had been exceedingly kind
to him.
“I have no right to expect a better answer,” he said finally, when he
could trust himself to speak. “But I am like other men: I should like
to know why.”
“You can ask that?” she retorted. “You say you have no right: what
have you done to expect a better answer?”
He shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. But you knew that before.”
“I only know what you have shown me during the past three weeks, and
it has proved that you are what Mr. Adams said you were--though he was
only jesting.”
“And that is?”
“A _faineant_, a dilettante; a man with all the God-given ability to
do as he will and to succeed, and yet who will not take the trouble to
persevere.”
Winton smiled, a grim little smile.
“You are not quite like any other woman I have ever known--not like
any other in the world, I believe. Your sisters, most of them, would
take it as the sincerest homage that a man should neglect his work for
his love. Do you care so much for success, then?”
“For the thing itself--nothing, less than nothing. But--but one may
care a little for the man who wins or loses.”
He tried to take her hand again, tried and failed.
“Virginia!--is that my word of hope?”
“No. Will you never see the commonplace effrontery of it, Mr. Winton?
Day after day you have come here, idling away the precious hours that
meant everything to you, and now you come once again to offer me a
share in what you have lost. Is that your idea of chivalry, of true
manhood?”
Again the grim smile came and went.
“An unprejudiced onlooker might say that you have made me very
welcome.”
“Mr. Winton! Is that generous?”
“No; perhaps it is hardly just. Because I counted the cost and have
paid the price open-eyed. You may remember that I told you that first
evening I should come as often as I dared. I knew then, what I have
known all along: that it was a part of your uncle's plan to delay my
work.”
“His and mine, you mean; only you are too kind--or not quite brave
enough--to say so.”
“Yours? Never! If I could believe you capable of such a thing--”
“You may believe it,” she broke in. “It was I who suggested it.”
He drew a deep breath, and she heard his teeth come together with a
click. It was enough to try the faith of the loyalest lover: it tried
his sorely. Yet he scarcely needed her low-voiced, “Don't you despise
me as I deserve, now?” to make him love her all the more.
“Indeed, I don't. Resentment and love can hardly find room in the same
heart at the same time, and I have said that I love you,” he rejoined
quickly.
She went silent at that, and when she spoke again the listening
Jastrow tuned his ear afresh to lose no word.
“As I have confessed, I suggested it: it was just after I had seen
your men and the sheriff's ready to fly at one another's throats. I
was miserably afraid, and I asked Uncle Somerville if he could not
make terms with you in some other way. I didn't mean--”
He made haste to help her.
“Please don't try to defend your motive to me; it is wholly
unnecessary. It is more than enough for me to know that you were
anxious about my safety.”
But she would not let him have the crumb of comfort undisputed.
“There were other lives involved besides yours. I didn't say I was
specially afraid for you, did I?”
“No, but you meant it. And I thought afterward that I should have
given you a hint in some way, though the way didn't offer at the time.
There was no danger of bloodshed. I knew--we all knew--that Deckert
wouldn't go to extremities with the small force he had.”
“Then it was only a--a--”
“A bluff,” he said, supplying the word. “If I had believed there was
the slightest possibility of a fight, I should have made my men take
to the woods rather than let you witness it.”
“You shouldn't have let me waste my sympathy,” she protested
reproachfully.
“I'm sorry; truly, I am. And you have been wasting it in another
direction as well. To-night will see the shale-slide conquered
definitely, I hope, and three more days of good weather will send us
into the Carbonate yards.”
She broke in upon him with a little cry of impatient despair.
“That shows how unwary you have been! Tell me: is there not a little
valley just above here--an open place where your railroad and Uncle
Somerville's run side by side?”
“Yes, it is a mile this side of the canyon head. What about it?”
“How long is it since you have been up there?” she queried.
Winton stopped to think. “I don't know--a week, possibly.”
“Yet if you had not been coming here every evening, you or Mr. Adams
would have found time to go--to watch every possible chance of
interference, wouldn't you?”
“Perhaps. That was one of the risks I took, a part of the price-paying
I spoke of. If anything had happened, I should still be unrepentant.”
“Something _has_ happened. While you have been taking things for
granted, Uncle Somerville has been at work day and night. He has built
a track right across yours in that little valley, and he keeps a train
of cars or something, filled with armed men, standing there all the
time!”
Winton gave a low whistle. Then he laughed mirthlessly.
“You are quite sure of this?” he asked. “There is no possibility of
your being mistaken?”
“None at all,” she replied. “And I can only defend myself by saying
that I didn't know about it until a few minutes ago. What is to be
done? But stop; you needn't tell me. I am not worthy of your
confidence.”
“You are; you have just proved it. But there isn't anything to be
done. The next thing in order is the exit of one John Winton in
disgrace. That spur track and engine means a crossing fight which can
be prolonged indefinitely, with due vigilance on the part of Mr.
Darrah's mercenaries. I'm smashed, Miss Carteret, thoroughly and
permanently. Ah, well, it's only one more fool for love. Hadn't we
better go in? You'll take cold standing out here.”
She drew herself up and put her hands behind her.
“Is that the way you take it, Mr. Winton?”
The acrid laugh came again.
“Would you have me tear a passion to tatters? My ancestors were not
French.”
Trying as the moment was, she could not miss her opportunity.
“How can you tell when you don't know your grandfather's middle name?”
she said, half crying.
His laugh at this was less acrid. “Adams again? My grandfather had no
middle name. But I mustn't keep you out here in the cold talking
genealogies.”
His hand was on the door to open it for her. Like a flash she came
between, and her fingers closed over his on the door-knob.
“Wait,” she said. “Have I done all this--humbled myself into the very
dust--to no purpose?”
“Not if you will give me the one priceless word I am thirsting for.”
“Oh, how shameless you are!” she cried. “Will nothing serve to arouse
the better part of you?”
“There is no better part of any man than his love for a woman. You
have aroused that.”
“_Then prove it by going and building your railroad_, Mr. Winton. When
you have done that--”
He caught at the word as a drowning man catches at a straw.
“When I have won the fight--Virginia, let me see your eyes--when I
have won, I may come back to you?”
“I didn't say anything of the kind! But I will say what I said to Mr.
Adams. I like men who _do_ things. Good night.” And before he could
reply she had made him open the door for her, and he was left alone on
the square-railed platform.
In the gathering-room of the private car Virginia found an atmosphere
surcharged with electrical possibilities, felt it and inhaled it,
though there was nothing visible to indicate it. The Rajah was buried
in the depths of his particular easy-chair, puffing his cigar; Bessie
had the Reverend Billy in the tete-a-tete contrivance; and Mrs.
Carteret was reading under the Pintsch drop-light at the table.
It was the chaperon who applied the firing spark to the electrical
possibilities.
“Didn't I hear you talking to some one out on the platform, Virginia?”
she asked.
“Yes, it was Mr. Winton. He came to make his excuses.”
Mr. Somerville Darrah awoke out of his tobacco reverie with a start.
“Hah!” he said fiercely. Then, in his most courteous phrase: “Did I
undehstand you to say that Misteh Winton would not faveh us to-night,
my deah Virginia?”
“He could not. He has come upon--upon some other difficulty, I
believe,” she stammered, steering a perilous course among the rocks of
equivocation.
“Mmph!” said the Rajah, rising. “Ah--where is Jastrow?”
The obsequious one appeared, imp-like, at the mention of his name, and
received a curt order.
“Go and find Engineer McGrath and his fireman. Tell him I want the
engine instantly. Move, seh!”
Virginia retreated to her state-room. In a few minutes she heard her
uncle go out; and shortly afterward the Rosemary's engine shook itself
free of the car and rumbled away westward. At that, Virginia went back
to the others and found a book. But if waiting inactive were
difficult, reading was blankly impossible.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed impatiently at last. “How hot you people
keep it in here! Cousin Billy, won't you take a turn with me on the
station platform? I can't breathe!”
Calvert acquiesced eagerly, scenting an opportunity. But when they
were out under the frosty stars he had the good sense to walk her up
and down in the healing silence and darkness for five full minutes
before he ventured to say what was in his mind.
When he spoke it was earnestly and to the purpose, not without
eloquence. He loved her; had always loved her, he thought. Could she
not, with time and the will to try, learn to love him?--not as a
cousin?
She turned quickly and put both hands on his shoulders.
“Oh, Cousin Billy--_don't_!” she faltered brokenly; and he, seeing at
once that he had played the housebreaker where he would fain have been
the welcome guest, took his punishment manfully, drawing her arm in
his and walking her yet other turns up and down the long platform
until his patience and the silence had wrought their perfect work.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked softly, after a long time.
“You would have to change places with me to know just how much it
hurts,” he answered. “And yet you haven't left me quite desolate,
Virginia. I still have something left--all I've ever had, I fancy.”
“And that is--”
“My love for you, you know. It isn't at all contingent upon your yes
or no; or upon possession--it never has been, I think. It has never
asked much except the right to be.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Cousin Billy, I do
believe that you are the best man that ever lived. And I am
ashamed--ashamed!”
“What for?”
“If I have spoiled you, ever so little, for some truer, worthier
woman.”
“You haven't,” he responded; “you mustn't take that view of it. I am
decently in love with my work--a work that not a few wise men have
agreed could best be done alone. I don't think there will be any other
woman. You see, there is only one Virginia. Shall we go in now?”
She nodded, but when they reached the Rosemary the returning engine
was rattling down upon the open siding. Virginia drew back.
“I don't want to meet Uncle Somerville just now,” she confessed.
“Can't we climb up to the observation platform at the other end of the
car?”
He said yes, and made the affirmative good by lifting her in his arms
over the high railing. Once safely on the car, she bade him leave her.
“Slip in quietly and they won't notice,” she said. “I'll come
presently.”
Calvert obeyed, and Virginia stood alone in the darkness. Down in the
Utah construction camp lights were darting to and fro; and before long
she heard the hoarse puffs of the big octopod, betokening activities.
She was shivering a little in the chill wind sliding down from the
snow-peaks, yet she would not go in until she had made sure. In a
little time her patience was rewarded. The huge engine came storming
up the grade on the new line, pushing its three flat-cars, which were
black with clinging men. On the car nearest the locomotive, where the
dazzling beam of the headlight pricked him out for her, stood Winton,
braced against the lurchings of the train over the uneven track.
“God speed you, my--love!” she murmured softly; and when the gloom of
the upper canyon cleft had engulfed man and men and storming engine
she turned to go in.
She was groping for the door-knob in the darkness made thicker by the
glare of the passing headlight when a voice, disembodied for the
moment, said: “Wait a minute, Miss Carteret; I'd like to have a word
with you.”
She drew back quickly.
“Is it you, Mr. Jastrow? Let me go in, please.”
“In one moment. I have something to say to you--something you ought to
hear.”
“Can't it be said on the other side of the door? I am cold--very cold,
Mr. Jastrow.”
It was his saving hint, but he would not take it.
“No, it must be said to you alone. We have at least one thing in
common, Miss Carteret--you and I: that is a proper appreciation of the
successful realities. I--”
She stopped him with a quick little gesture of impatience.
“Will you be good enough to stand aside and let me go in?”
The keen breath of the snow-caps was summer-warm in comparison with
the chilling iciness of her manner; but the secretary went on unmoved:
“Success is the only thing worth while in this world. Winton will
fail, but I shan't. And when I do succeed, I shall marry a woman who
can wear the purple most becomingly.”
“I hope you may, I'm sure,” she answered wearily. “Yet you will excuse
me if I say that I don't understand how it concerns me, or why you
should keep me out here in the cold to tell me about it.”
“Don't you? It concerns you very nearly. You are the woman, Miss
Carteret.”
“Indeed? And if I decline the honor?”
The contingency was one for which the suitor seemed not entirely
prepared. Yet he evinced a willingness to meet the hypothesis in a
spirit of perfect candor.
“You wouldn't do that, definitely, I fancy. It would be tantamount to
driving me to extremities.”
“If you will tell me how I can do it 'definitely,' I shall be most
happy to drive you to extremities, or anywhere else out of my way,”
she said frigidly.
“Oh, I think not,” he rejoined. “You wouldn't want me to go and tell
Mr. Darrah how you have betrayed him to Mr. Winton. I had the singular
good fortune to overhear you conversation--yours and Mr. Winton's, you
know; and if Mr. Darrah knew, he would cut you out of his will with
very little compunction, don't you think? And, really, you mustn't
throw yourself away on that sentimental Tommy of an engineer, Miss
Virginia. He'll never be able to give you the position you're fitted
for.”
Since French was a dead language to Mr. Arthur Jastrow, he never knew
what it was that Miss Carteret named him. But she left him in no doubt
as to her immediate purpose.
“If that be the case, we would better go and find my uncle at once,”
she said in her softest tone; and before he could object she had led
the way to the Rajah's working-den state-room.
Mr. Darrah was deep in one of the cipher telegrams when they entered,
and he looked up to glare fiercely at one and then the other of the
intruders. Virginia gave her persecutor no time to lodge his
accusation.
“Uncle Somerville, Mr. Winton was here an hour ago, as you know, and I
told him what you had done--what I had helped you do. Also, I sent him
about his business; which is to win his railroad fight if he can. Mr.
Jastrow overheard the conversation, purposely, and as he threatens to
turn informer, I am saving him the trouble. Perhaps I ought to add that
he offered to hold his peace if I would promise to marry him.”
What the unlucky Jastrow might have said in his own behalf is not to
be here set down in peaceful black and white. With the final word of
Virginia's explanation the fierce old master of men was up and
clutching for the secretary's throat, and the working complement of
the Rosemary suffered instant loss.
“You'll spy upon a membeh of my family, will you, seh!” he stormed.
“Out with you, bag and baggage, befo' I lose my tempeh and forget what
is due to this young lady you have insulted, seh, with your infamous
proposals! Faveh me instantly, while you have a leg to run with! Go!”
Jastrow disappeared; and when the door closed behind him Virginia
faced her irate clan-chief bravely.
“He was a spy, and he would have been a traitor. But I am little
better. What will you do to me?”
The Rajah's wrath evaporated quickly, and a shrewd smile, not
unkindly, wrinkled the ruddy old face.
“So it was a case of the trappeh trapped, was it, my deah? I'm
sorry--right sorry. I might have known how it would be; a youngeh man
would have known. But you have done no unpahdonable mischief: Misteh
Winton would have found out for himself in a few hours, and we are
ready for him now.”
“Oh, dear! Then he will be beaten?”
“Unquestionably. Faveh me by going to bed, my deah. Your roses will
suffeh sadly for all this excitement, I feah. Good night.”