CROSS-PURPOSES AT CEDARCREST
At Cedarcrest, the night was still young. Patricia, and then Morton,
had arrived at the country home of the Gardners while the several
guests were still at table, and the scenes which followed their coming
had passed with such stunning rapidity that every one of the party was
more or less affected by them, each one in his or her separate manner.
The men of the party were silent and preoccupied. The scene enacted
just before the departure of Morton weighed more or less heavily upon
them, and while each one felt that the young ranchman had "got what
was coming to him," there was not one among them who did not
experience a thrill of sympathy for the young fellow, who had been so
well liked by the new acquaintances he had made in the East.
The two gentlemen strangers, who had brought Morton to the house in
their car, were the first to take their departure, after Morton's
dramatic exit, although they remained long enough to imbibe a
whisky-and-soda, and to hear what Jack Gardner still had to say. That
was not so very much, but, like all he had said that night, it was
straight to the point.
"Gentlemen," he said to them, standing with his glass in hand and
addressing all, impersonally, "what I have to say now, is said to all,
alike. Two of you are strangers to me; the others are more or less
intimately my friends. It is my particular wish that we should all
bind ourselves to secrecy, concerning what has happened at Cedarcrest,
and in this vicinity, to-night. It happens that no real harm has been
done; no one has been injured; amends have been made to Miss Langdon,
so far as it has been possible to make them, and I am quite sure of
her desire never to hear the subject mentioned again."
There was a generally affirmative nodding of heads about him as he
spoke, and after an instant, he continued:
"In what has occurred in this room, I have had to assume a triple
obligation: that of host, that of self-appointed champion of the young
woman who received the affront from another of my guests, and that of
a life-long acquaintance with the man whom I was compelled, by
circumstances, to expel from my house. The last was the most
difficult of all to fill. There is not one of you who could not
readily have assumed two of the responsibilities; the last one I have
named has been distinctly unpleasant. I have known and liked Dick
Morton, since we were boys. We hail from the same state, and from a
locality there where we were near neighbors, during our youth. He is
somewhat younger than I--about two years, I think--and, until
to-night, I have never known him to be otherwise than a brave and
chivalrous fellow, ready to fight at the drop of the hat. We must
agree that no matter what his conduct was, prior to the scene in this
room, he conducted himself, while here, in a manner that was beyond
reproach. He realized the enormity of the outrage he had committed,
and he took his medicine, I think, as a fighter should. He is gone
now, and I doubt if any of us see him again. That is all, I think,
that need be said." It was then that Roderick Duncan silently put
aside his glass, and went out of the room, unnoticed by the others. He
knew that a general discussion of the incidents of the evening would
follow, and he had no wish to take part in it. He anticipated that the
two gentlemen who had brought Morton to the house, would be asked to
remain, and that he would therefore see them again, later on, and so
he took the opportunity that was afforded him to escape unseen and
unnoticed.
The whole affair weighed heavily upon him. He realized much better
than Patricia did that she alone was to blame for it all; and the fear
lest the responsibility of it should come home to her drove him to
seek her at once, even before Morton had had time to get beyond the
gates of Cedarcrest. Patricia was, of course, unaware of the scene
that had taken place at Duncan's rooms just before the informal
invitations to Cedarcrest were issued, but Duncan recalled that
circumstance now, with a deeper understanding of all that had happened
as a sequel to it; and he believed that the time was ripe for a better
understanding between himself and Patricia. Therefore, he left the
room to seek her.
Outside the door, he came to a pause, in doubt which direction to
take. From where he stood, he could see into a part of the
dining-room, and instinct told him that it was deserted, save by the
butler, who was yet at his post. He approached the music-room, and,
screened by a Japanese curtain that hung across the entrance, peered
inside. Beatrice and Sally were there, with the other ladies of the
party, but Patricia was nowhere to be seen. It occurred to him that
she might have sought solitude in some other part of the great house,
and he had turned away, striving to think where he might find her,
when the whirr of an automobile engine came to him through an open
window from the rear of the building.
He guessed, at once, that it would be Morton's roadster, ready to take
him away, and, impelled by a sudden spasm of pity for the man who was
now tabooed he hurried toward the front entrance--and fate willed it
that he should arrive at the threshold just at the very instant when
Patricia took that impulsive step nearer to Morton, reaching her arms
out toward him, as she did so, and Duncan plainly heard the words she
uttered, "Good bye, Dick; and God bless you." He had heard no word
which preceded them; he had seen nothing till that instant; but he did
see the tears in Patricia's eyes, and hear the pathos in her voice
when she spoke those last words to the man who was supposed to have
offended her past forgiveness: and he saw Morton leap into the roadway
and start toward the garage to meet his machine.
Duncan waited a moment before he advanced farther; watching Patricia
from his sheltered place near the door. Then, he stepped forward to
meet the young woman to whom he was betrothed--stepped forward to
plead with her once more, and to be rebuffed in the manner we have
seen.
When she had left him, he dropped upon one of the veranda chairs, and
with his head upon his hand gave himself up to bitter thought--bitter,
because of his utter inadequacy to cope with the conditions by which
he was surrounded.
Duncan was aroused, presently, by the approach of Beatrice and Sally.
They came through the door with their arms encircling each other's
waist, and walked forward together until they stood at the edge of the
top step, under the _porte cochere_.
"It's a shame," Beatrice was saying, impulsively. "I feel that the
whole thing is more or less my fault, Sally, and--" a warning cough
from Duncan told them that they were not alone; and also, at that
moment, the other guests trooped out upon the broad veranda; all save
Patricia, who did not appear.
The two gentlemen who had brought Morton to the house after he was
deserted by Patricia on the road, declined to remain, pleading other
engagements, and soon their car whirred itself away down the road, and
was gone. Nesbit Farnham contrived to secure a _solitude-a-deux_ with
Beatrice, who, however, turned an indifferent shoulder to his eager
words; Agnes and Frances Houston strolled into obscurity with the two
"extras" who had been asked there to fill out Sally's original plan;
Sally disappeared into the house, evidently in search of Patricia;
Jack Gardner and the lawyer lighted cigars and betook themselves to an
"S" chair at a far corner of the veranda. Duncan remained where he
was, alone, screened from view by overhanging vines, as desolate in
spirit as any man can be, who is suddenly brought face to face with an
unpleasant truth.
Nothing had mattered much, in a comparative sense, until this last
scene with Patricia. He had been convinced all along, until now, that
Patricia loved him and that her strange conduct during the last
upheaval in their relations had been the result of wounded pride,
only; it had not even remotely occurred to him that she did not love
him. They had been together all their lives; he had never known a time
when he did not love her; he believed that there had never been a
time, since their childhood, when she did not expect some day to
become his wife.
But that short scene he had witnessed on the veranda, when Patricia
bade Morton good-bye, had changed all this. He doubted the correctness
of his previous convictions. He saw another and an entirely different
explanation for Patricia's conduct toward him, for her attitude in the
matter of the engagement contract which Melvin had been compelled to
draw, and which he, himself, had likewise been compelled to sign. He
read in that last scene between the ranchman and Patricia a fondness
on her part for the young cattle-king which had been forced into the
"open" of her own convictions, by the principal episode of the
evening. He saw the utter wreck of his own hopes, of his entire scheme
of life.
While he sat there in the shadow of the vine, unseen and unseeing, he
made still another discovery, a grim one, which brought with it a
better realization of Morton's incentives, than anything else could
have done. He realized that he hated Morton; hated him wholly and
absolutely--hated him suddenly and vehemently. He knew, then, why
Morton had attempted to kill him, for, if Morton had made a
reappearance at that moment, Roderick Duncan would have taken the
initiative, and would have been the one to do the killing.
Yet, he made no move. If you had been watching him from beyond the
screen of vines, no indication of what was passing in his thoughts
would have been noticeable. The fierce hatred he so suddenly
experienced was not made manifest by any act or expression, although
it was none the less pronounced, for all that. And, strangely enough,
it did not lead him to any greater consideration of Morton, or of his
acts; rather the contrary.
Once, while he was preoccupied in this manner, he was again conscious
of the distant whirr of an automobile engine, but he gave it no
thought, till afterward. He did notice that Jack Gardner also heard
it, and took his cigar from his mouth while he listened to it; but at
once resumed his conversation with the lawyer. Soon afterward,
Roderick left his chair under the vine, and passed inside the house.
"Hello, Rod," Jack called after him. "I didn't know you were there.
Won't you join Melvin and me, in our cozy corner?" to which Duncan
called back some casual reply, and passed on.
He had made up his mind that he would seek out Patricia, at once, and
tell her of the discovery he had just made; that he had been a fool
not to realize before, that Morton was the man of her choice, and that
she could have the fellow if she wanted him; that he would not only
release her from the tentative engagement, but that he would repudiate
the contract entirely, and that, as soon as he could secure his own
copy of it from the strong-box where he had put it, he would tear it
into ten thousand pieces; that he would have no more of her, on any
conditions, and that--oh, well, he thought of many bitter and biting
things that he would say to her the moment he should find
her--possibly in tears because of Morton's enforced departure from
Cedarcrest, or in the act of weeping out the truth on Sally Gardner's
shoulder. He thought he understood the situation now, as he had not
seen it before.
Duncan searched in the drawing-room, the music-room, the dining-room;
he explored the snuggery, the library, and even Jack's own particular
den; he sought the side piazzas; he went outside among the trees to
certain hidden nooks he knew. But Patricia was nowhere to be
discovered. Neither had he been able to see Sally anywhere about, and
the conviction became stronger upon him that the two were somewhere
together, and that Patricia, her pride forgotten, was keeping the
young hostess with her while she told of the terrible predicament in
which she now found herself to be enmeshed; for it would be a most
stupendous predicament for Patricia to face--the realization that she
was in love with Morton, in spite of the contract in writing she had
forced Roderick Duncan to sign with her.
Returning to the house, he found the butler, and was about to send him
in search of his mistress, when he discovered Sally, descending the
stairway.
"Where is Patricia?" Each asked the question simultaneously, so that
the words were pronounced exactly together; and yet neither one
smiled. Each question was a reply to its mate.
"I have been searching everywhere for her," said Duncan.
"So have I," replied Sally. "Where can she be?"
"I haven't an idea. Isn't she up-stairs?"
"No. Couldn't you find her, outside?"
"No."
"I haven't seen her since--since that dreadful scene on the veranda,"
said Sally. "Have you seen her, Roderick?"
"Yes."
"When? Where?"
"I saw her taking leave of Morton, when he went away," he replied,
with such bitterness that Sally stared at him; but, wisely, she made
no comment; nor did she attempt to stay him when he turned abruptly
away from her, and walked rapidly toward one of the side entrances.
But he stopped and turned, before he left the room.
"Sally," he said, "I am going to ask you to excuse me. I want to get
away. I would rather not explain to the others--I would rather not
attempt to explain to you. But I want to go. You will excuse me? and
if those who remain should happen to miss me, will you make whatever
excuse seems necessary?"
"None will be necessary, Roderick. Oh, you men! You make me tired! You
do, really! It is inconceivable why you should all fall hopelessly in
love with one woman, and utterly ignore the others who are--" She
stopped suddenly. She had been on the point of saying too much, and
she did not wish to utter words she would be sorry for, afterward.
Duncan did not attempt any reply, and was turning away a second time,
when she called after him: "If you would only be really sensible,
and--"
"And what, Sally?" he asked her, when she again hesitated.
"Nothing."
"But you were about to make a suggestion. What was it?"
"If it was anything at all, it was that you chase yourself out there
among the trees, find Beatrice and Nesbit Farnum, and take her away
from him," exclaimed this impetuous young woman, who found delight in
expressing herself in the slang of the day. Duncan shrugged his
shoulders, and uttered the one word:
"Why?"
But Sally did not vouchsafe any reply at all, to the question. She
tossed her head, and darted along the wide hall toward a rear door.
Duncan gazed after her for a moment, and then, with another shrug of
his shoulders, he passed on out of the house, and made his way swiftly
toward the stables and the garage, for he was determined to get out
his car and to return to the city, forthwith.
His surprise was great, when, on arriving at the door of the garage,
he found that Sally had preceded him, and, as he drew near, she turned
a white, scared face toward him, exclaiming:
"Oh, Roderick! What do you think? Patricia has gone."
"Gone!" he echoed. "Gone where? Gone, when? What do you mean, Sally?"
"She has gone. She has taken one of Jack's cars, and gone home."
"Alone?"
"No. She took Patrick with her, to drive the car. They left here half
an hour ago, I am told. Why do you suppose she did such a thing,
without consulting me, Roderick? Why? Why?"
"Why?" he echoed her question a second time. Then, he laughed, and it
was not a pleasant laugh to hear. All the bitterness of those moments
under the vine on the veranda was voiced in that laugh. "It isn't a
difficult question to answer, Sally. She has followed Morton--that is
why;" and, while Mrs. Gardner stared at him, uncomprehendingly, he
turned to one of the stablemen who was near, and who had been Sally's
informant about the movements of Patricia, and called out:
"Tell my man to fetch my car to me, here. I shall go, at once, Sally."
His car was already moving toward him, and, as it stopped and he put
one foot upon the step, Sally replied:
"I'll say that you and Patricia went away together. It will sound
better."
"Pardon me, Sally, but you will say no such thing--with my permission.
Go ahead, Thompson." He sprang into the car, and it sped away with
him, leaving Sally staring after him, wide-eyed with the amazement she
felt. Already, she realized that her house-party, from which she had
expected such wholesome results, had proven disastrous all around. Her
husband's prophecy concerning it had been correct. But she did not
know, and could not know as yet, just how disastrous it had been, for
there had been no prophet to foretell the catastrophe at the stone
quarry, toward which Patricia Langdon had started, half an hour
earlier, in one of Jack Gardner's cars, guided by one of Jack's most
trusted servants; and, oddly enough, by one who had formerly been in
the employ of Stephen Langdon, and who, as a servant, had fallen under
the spell of the daughter of the house to such an extent that he had
never ceased to quote her as the criterion of all things in the way of
excellence to be attained by an employer. And toward this quarry
Duncan was now hastening at the full speed of his big Packard-sixty,
with the trusted Thompson at the wheel; and toward it, as the chief
actor, Richard Morton had started away from Cedarcrest with a broken
heart, and with a brain crazed by the calamities that had rushed so
swiftly upon him.