Mrs. Williams' ranch house at Colorado Springs was universally admitted
to be a show place even among the many magnificent summer residences
with which this fashionable resort is dotted. Perched high on the side
of the famous Ute Pass, a wildly picturesque spot, so called because
the Ute Indians used it as a favorite trail across the mountains, and
commanding an unobstructed view of the beautiful valley below, it was a
conspicuous land-mark for miles. The house, unusually pretentious for a
country home, and built of reddish rough stone in the Greek style of
architecture, was two stories high, with a square turret on one side
and a low, broad roof overhanging a stone terrace. Massive stone
benches, also of Greek design, and strewn with cushions, were placed
here and there, while over the western terrace, shading it from the
afternoon sun, was suspended a canopy made from a Navajo blanket. The
well-kept grounds, with trailing vines around the balustrades, groups
of marble statuary, a fountain of a marble Venus gracefully splashing
water into a wide basin in which floated large, white lilies, privet
hedges, artistically clipped to represent all kinds of fantastic
figures, rattan lounging chairs, and tables with the leading papers and
magazines--all suggested a home of culture and wealth. So close was the
house to the edge of the declivity that at one end the terrace actually
overlooked the canon, a sheer drop of 2,000 feet, while across the
yawning chasm, one could see the rolling foothills and lofty heights of
the Rockies, with Pike's Peak in the distance, snow-capped and
colossal.
For more than a week Laura had been Mrs. Williams' guest. The rich
society woman had taken a great liking to the young actress, and would
not hear of her departure. An inveterate bridge player, she insisted on
Laura staying, if only to learn the game. So, partly because she was
unwilling to give offense, partly because she was comfortable and happy
there, and at the same time near the man she loved, she had consented
to remain a little longer. But only for a few days, she insisted.
Autumn was already at hand. There was no time to lose. She realized
that if she wanted to find a good engagement for the coming season she
must return to New York at once, for, from now on, there would be no
influence to aid her. To secure future engagements she must rely on her
own efforts alone.
She did not regret the step she had taken. On the contrary, for the
first time in her life, she felt perfectly happy and carefree. When,
the day following their excursion to the Garden of the Gods, he had
come to the hotel for her answer, there was very little said. Her eyes
spoke to him, and he understood.
"Very well, John," she said simply.
He turned very pale, and, drawing her to him, kissed her solemnly.
"It's until death, little one!"
"Until death!" she repeated gravely.
Then they both sat down together and enthusiastically began to make
plans for the future.
It was not without due premeditation that Madison had entered into this
affair. He was not the kind of man to undertake anything lightly.
Everything he had done in his life had been long and well thought out.
He liked this girl and he wanted her for his wife. Both her beauty and
her personality pleased him. He knew that she was not the kind of woman
to whom men usually give their names, but he had never been
conventional. He ridiculed and scoffed at the conventions. He made his
own social laws and cared not a rap for the good or bad opinion of the
world. If there had been opportunities to meet decent women, of good
social standing, he had always thrown them aside with the exclamation
that such women bored him to death, and in all his relations with the
opposite sex there had never entered into his heart a feeling or idea
of real affection until now. He fell, for a moment only, under the
spell of Laura's fascination, and then, drawing aloof, with cold logic
he analyzed her and found out that while outwardly she had every sign
of girlhood ingenuousness, sweetness of character and possibility of
affection, spiritually and mentally she was nothing more than a moral
wreck. At the beginning of their acquaintance he had watched with
covert amusement her efforts to win him, and he had likewise noted her
disappointment at her failure--not, he believed, that she cared so much
for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity not to be successful
with this big, good-natured, penniless bohemian, when men of wealth and
position she made kneel at her feet. From afar he had watched her
slowly changing point of view, how from an artificial ingenuousness she
became serious, womanly, sincere. He knew that he had awakened in her
her first decent affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him
his first desire to accomplish things and be big and worth while. So,
together, these two began to drift toward a path of decent dealing,
decent ambition, decent thought and decent love, until at last they had
both found themselves, acknowledged all the badness of what had been,
and planned for all the goodness of what was to be.
Laura's immediate task, and assuredly it was both a difficult and
unpleasant one, was to acquaint Will Brockton with her determination.
That the news would astonish him, was certain. She also thought that he
would be sorry. In his indifferent, selfish way, she believed that he
cared for her--perhaps more than for any of the other women he had
known. She knew him too well to believe that he would make a scene. He
was too much the gentleman and man of the world for that. He would
accept the situation philosophically. Besides, any opposition on his
part would be in direct violation of their agreement, that it was her
privilege to quit whensoever she might choose. She was considerably put
out at first when she received his telegram telling her that he was
coming to Denver to fetch her back, and her first impulse was to send a
wire to stop him. She thought she would prefer to wait and tell him in
New York. But, on consideration, she did nothing of the kind. Perhaps
it were better to have it over with at once. Why make a mystery of it?
There was nothing to conceal. The sooner every one knew it the better.
He had reached Denver that morning, and, finding she had already left
Colorado Springs, followed here there post haste. He arrived at Mr.
Williams' villa, _debonnair_ and immaculate, as usual, and in the
kindly paternal manner characteristic of him, he saluted Laura with a
chaste kiss.
"Why, kid, how well you look!" he exclaimed heartily.
Laura was looking her best that morning. She had not expected Brockton
so soon. Indeed, she had dressed to please John, who came to see her
every afternoon. Her gown, made of summery, filmy stuff, was simple,
girlish and attractive. Her hair, arranged in the simplest fashion, was
parted in the center. There was about her that sweetness and
girlishness of demeanor which had been her greatest asset through life.
Embarrassed, and temporarily at a loss how to account to her hostess
for the broker's presence and evident intimacy, the young girl
introduced him as--her uncle. It was not the first white fib she had
told in her life, and it was one of the least harmful. With ready tact,
she quickly added that Mr. Brockton was a skilful bridge player. This
was enough to insure his welcome. Mrs. Williams, impressed with the
visitor's talents and aristocratic appearance insisted on his staying
to dinner, which cordial invitation he politely accepted.
Diplomatically, he burst into extravagant raptures over the beauty of
the view.
"What a magnificent panorama! This is worth coming a thousand miles to
see."
Visibly pleased, Mrs. Williams smiled:
"I hope you will afford me the privilege of entertaining you a few
days. We could show you views still more beautiful."
Brockton bowed.
"You are very kind, madame. I regret exceedingly that business calls me
immediately back to New York."
"But not before you've shown us your skill at bridge," she laughed.
"We're having a game inside now. I'll be pleased to have you join us."
"I shall be delighted," he bowed.
The old lady reentered the house to join her friends, and he turned
quickly to Laura:
"When can you get ready?"
She made no answer. Apparently she had not heard. Sitting at the end of
the terrace, she leaned over the balustrade of the porch, looking
intently into the canon below, as if expecting to see some one, her
eyes shielded with her hands from the hot afternoon sun. Approaching
her, Brockton repeated the question.
"When can you get ready?"
She started as if suddenly surprised in some secret reverie.
"Ready? What for?"
"Why--to go back to New York, of course."
"New York?" she echoed.
"Yes," he said mockingly, "New York. Why, Laura, what's the matter? You
seem dazed. Didn't you ever hear of a little old place called New
York?"
She laughed nervously.
"Don't be silly." Passing her hand over her forehead, she said: "I'm a
little stupid to-day--I think it's the sun."
At that moment a maid servant approached the broker.
"Mrs. Williams wishes me to show you to your room, sir," she said.
"All right," replied Brockton, turning to follow her. To Laura, he
said: "I'll go and brush up. Wait for me here. I'll be back in a
minute."
Laura sat motionless, watching the winding road, which, like a long,
undulating ribbon, led up the declivity out of the valley. Straining
her eyes, she tried to make out the little cloud of dust that would
warn her of John's approach. She wondered what detained him. He said he
would come at four o'clock, and now it was nearly five. Yet, perhaps,
it was just as well. It would hardly do for the men to meet until she
had had her talk with Will. The critical moment had come. She must tell
Brockton everything. Nothing must be held back. He must be told that
she had finished with him forever.
In a few minutes Brockton reappeared, smoking a cigar. Clean-shaven and
comfortable in a Tuxedo coat, he had the air of a man at peace with
himself and the whole world. Laura was still sitting where he had left
her. With her head resting on one hand in a meditative manner, she was
so intently watching the road that she did not look up as he
approached. He watched her for a moment without speaking. Then slowly
removing his cigar from his mouth, he asked laconically:
"Blue?"
She shook her head.
"No."
"What's up?"
"Nothing."
"A little preoccupied?"
"Perhaps."
Still she did not turn her head, yet her heart was beating fast. This
was her opportunity. He looked in the same direction she was looking.
"What's up that way?" he demanded.
"Which way?"
"The way you are looking."
"That's the road from Manitou Springs. They call it the trail out
here."
Brockton nodded.
"I know that. I've done a lot of business west of the Missouri."
The girl gave a half-yawn of indifference.
"I didn't know it," she said.
"Oh, yes," he went on; "south of here, in the San Juan country. Spent a
couple of years there once."
"That's interesting," replied Laura, with another yawn, and still not
turning her head.
With a chuckle of self-satisfaction, he went on:
"It was then that I made some money there. It's always interesting when
you make money. Still----"
"Still what?" she asked absent-mindedly.
He looked at her, as if surprised at her manner. Somewhat impatiently
he said:
"I can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road. Some one
coming?"
"Yes."
"One of Mrs. Williams' friends, eh?"
Crossing to the other side of the terrace, he seated himself in one of
the comfortable lounging chairs.
"Yes," answered the girl.
"Yours, too?" he asked dryly.
"Yes."
"Man?"
"Yes, a _real_ man."
There was no mistaking the significance of these last words, which she
uttered with strong emphasis, as if they came right from the heart.
The broker sat up with a start. At first he was too surprised to speak,
but quickly he regained his composure, and gave vent to a long, low
whistle, which was inaudible to his companion. Carelessly throwing his
cigar over the balustrade, he rose from his seat, and stood leaning on
another chair a short distance away. Laura, meantime, had not moved,
except to place her left hand on a cushion and lean her head wearily
against it. She still sat motionless, her gaze steadfastly fixed on the
road in the pass. Brockton broke the rather awkward silence.
"A _real_ man?" he echoed. "By that you mean----"
"Just that," she said testily, "a real man."
He gave an imperceptible shrug with his shoulders, and his tone was
tinged with irony as he inquired with forced mildness:
"Any different--from the _many_ you have known?"
"Yes," she retorted; "from _all_ I have known."
He laughed derisively.
"So that's why you didn't come into Denver to meet me to-day, but left
word for me to come out here?"
"Yes."
"I thought I was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half-way across the
continent in order to keep you company on your way back to New York,
and welcome you to our home, but maybe I had the wrong idea."
She nodded, and almost mockingly replied:
"Yes, I think you had the wrong idea."
"In love, eh?" he chuckled.
"Yes," she answered firmly. "Just that--in love."
He smiled grimly.
"A new sensation?"
"No," she retorted quick as a flash, "the first conviction."
He left the seat on which he was leaning, and approached nearer to
where she still sat crouched.
"You have had that idea before," he said ironically. "Every woman's
love is the real one when it comes. Do you make a distinction in this
case, young lady?"
"Yes," she answered.
"For instance, what?"
She rose to her feet, and, going to a chair, sat carelessly on one of
the arms, drawing imaginary lines on the ground with her parasol. He
could see that she was highly nervous and trying hard to control
herself. Quickly she said:
"This man is poor--absolutely broke. He hasn't even got a good job. You
know, Will--all the rest, including yourself, generally had some
material inducement----"
The broker gave a snort of impatience, and, going to the table, picked
up a magazine, and made a pretense of becoming deeply interested in its
contents. But his fit of sulks did not last long. Looking up, he
growled:
"What's his business?"
"He's a newspaper man."
"H'm-m! Romance, eh?"
"Yes, if you want to call it that--romance."
"Do I know him?"
She shook her head and smiled.
"I hardly think so. He has been to New York only once or twice in his
life, and he's not the kind of man one usually finds in your set."
Brockton sat looking at her with an amused, indulgent, almost paternal
expression on his face. In contrast with his big, bluff physical
personality, his iron-gray hair and bull-dog expression Laura appeared
more youthful and girlish than ever. A stranger catching a glimpse of
the terrace might have taken them for father and daughter engaged in an
intimate chat.
"How old is he?" he demanded.
"Thirty." Instantly she added: "You are forty-five."
"No," he corrected dryly; "forty-six."
Laura laughed. She saw that his good-humor had returned. At least there
was no immediate danger of his doing anything desperate. The nervous
tension was over for the time being. Rising and going near to him, she
asked archly:
"Shall I tell you about him, eh?"
The broker looked serious.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Yourself."
"In what way?" she demanded.
He hesitated and looked at her for a moment in silence before he
replied:
"If it will interfere with the plans I have made for you and myself."
The girl turned her head. Coldly, she said:
"Have you made any particular plans for me that have anything
particularly to do with you?"
Lighting another cigar, he said with assumed nonchalance:
"Why, yes. I have given up the lease of your apartment on West End
Avenue and bought a house on Riverside Drive. I thought you would like
it better. Everything will be quiet and nice. It'll be more comfortable
for you. There's a stable nearby. Your horses and car can be kept
there. I'm going to put the house in your name. That way you'll be your
own mistress. Besides, I've fixed you up for a new part."
[Illustration: "I'VE BOUGHT A HOUSE FOR YOU ON RIVERSIDE DRIVE."
_Page 86._]