Berkely stood beside him, smoking and leaning over his shoulder, but
didn't reply.
Bent laughed. "Well, it's all cut and dried. Seems a pity to have put
_you_ to so much trouble, Larry. I haven't made up my mind. They say
twice as much money goes into gold mines as ever comes out of 'em. I
guess it's true. If it wasn't for Jeff Wray in this deal I'd sign that
paper in a minute. But I've always had an idea that some day he'd make
his pile, and I don't relish the idea of his making it on me. He's a
visionary--a fanatic on the gold in these mountains, but fortune has a
way of favoring the fool----"
"Sounds as though you might be talking about me," said a voice from the
doorway, where Jeff stood smiling, his broad figure completely blocking
the entrance.
Bent turned, confused, but recovered himself with a short laugh. "Yes,
I was," he replied slowly. "I've put twenty thousand dollars in that
hole in the rocks, and I hate to leave it."
Jeff Wray wiped his brow, went to the cooler, drew a glass of water, and
slowly drank it.
"Well, my friend," he said carelessly between swallows, "there's still
time to back down. You're not committed to anything. Neither am I.
Suit yourself. I'm going to get a mine or so. But I'm not particular
which one. The 'Daisy' looks good to me, but they want too much for it.
The terms on your mine, the 'Lone Tree,' just about suited me--that's
all. It's not a 'big' proposition. It might pan thirty or forty to the
ton, but there's not much in that--not away up there. Take my offer--or
leave it, Bent. I don't give a d--n."
He tossed his hat on the chair, took off his coat, and opened the door
of the back office.
"Larry," he added, "you needn't bother to stay, I've got some writing to
do. I'll lock up when I go."
If Mr. Mulrennan had been present he would have lost his senses in sheer
admiration or sheer dismay. Berkely remembered that "bluff" later, when
he learned how much had depended on its success.
But it worked beautifully.
"Oh, well," said Bent peevishly, "let's get it over. I'll sign. Are
you ready to make a settlement?"
*CHAPTER II*
*CAMILLA*
Her pupils had all been dismissed for the day and the schoolmistress sat
at her desk, a half-written letter before her, gazing out through the
open doorway over the squalid roofs of the "residence section" of Mesa
City. The "Watch Us Grow" sign on the false front over Jeff Wray's
office was just visible over the flat roof of the brick bank building.
"Watch Us Grow!" The shadow in her eyes deepened. For two long years
she had seen that sign from doorway and window of the school, and, even
when she went home to Mrs. Brennan's bungalow up above, she must see it
again from the veranda. Jeff's business card was the most prominent
object in town, except perhaps Jeff himself. It was so much larger than
it had any right to be, out of scale, so vulgar, so insistent, so--so
like Jeff. Jeff had stood in the doorway of the schoolhouse while they
were building his office, and, in his masterful way, had told her of the
trade-mark he had adopted for his business; he wanted it in plain sight
of her desk so that she could see it every day and watch Mesa City (and
himself) fulfil the prophecy.
That seemed ages ago now. It was before the "Jeff Wray" had been
painted out and "Wray and Berkely" put in its place, before Larry came
out, or Cortland Bent, in the days when Jeff was a new kind of animal to
her, when she had arrived fresh from her boarding school in Kansas.
"Watch Us Grow!" How could any one grow in a place like this--grow
anything, at least, but wrinkled and stale and ugly. The sign had been
a continual mockery to her, a travesty on the deeper possibilities of
life which Fate had so far denied her. She shut her eyes and resolutely
turned her head away, but she could not get Jeff Wray out of her mind.
She was thoroughly frightened. His air of proprietorship so suddenly
assumed yesterday and the brutality of his kiss had brought her own
feelings to a crisis--for she had learned in that moment that their
relationship was impossible. But her fingers tingled still--at the
memory of the blow she had given him. She _had_ promised to marry him
when he "made good." But in Mesa City that had seemed like no promise
at all. How could any one succeed in anything here?
She leaned forward on the desk and buried her face in her hands. What
chance had she? Where was the fairy prince who would rescue her from
her hut and broth kettle?
She raised her head at the sound of a voice and saw Cortland Bent's
broad shoulders at the open window.
"Morning!" he said, cheerfully. "You look like Ariadne deserted. May I
come in?"
She nodded assent, and, thrusting her school books and unfinished letter
in the desk, turned the key viciously in its lock.
"Aren't you riding to-day?" he asked from the doorway.
"No."
He came forward, sat on the top of one of the small desks facing her,
and examined her at his ease.
"You're peevish--no? What?"
"Yes. I'm in a frightful mood. You'd better not stay."
He only laughed up at the sunflower dangling from the water pitcher.
"Oh, I don't mind. I've a heavenly disposition."
"How do you show it?" she broke in impetuously. "Every man thinks the
one way to get on with a woman is to make love to her----"
"No--not altogether," he reproached her. "You and I have had other
topics, you know--Swinburne and Shakespeare and the musical glasses."
"Oh, yes, but you always drifted back again."
"How can you blame me? If I've made love to you, it was----"
"Oh, I know. I'm a rustic, and it's a good game."
"You're the least rustic person I've ever known," he said seriously.
"It's not a game. I can't think of it as a game. It is something more
serious than that." He took a few paces up and down the aisle before
her and then went on.
"I know you've never been willing to give me credit for anything I've
said when I've tried to show you how much you were to me--and yet, I
think you cared--you've showed it sometimes. But I've tried to go about
my work and forget you, because I thought it was best for us both. But
I can't, Camilla, I tell you I can't get you out of my head. I think of
something else, and then, in a moment, there you are again--elusive,
mocking, scornful, tender, all in a breath. And then, when I find
you're there to stay, I don't try any more. I don't want to think of
anything else." He leaned across the desk and seized one of her hands
with an ardor which took her by storm. "You've got into my blood like
wine, Camilla. To be near you means to reach forward and take you--the
sound of your voice, the response of your eyes, the appeal of your mind
to mine in this wilderness of spirit--I can't deny them--I don't want to
deny them."
Her head sank, but she withdrew her hands. "And my sanity?" she asked
clearly. "That does not appeal to you."
"Perhaps it does--most of all. It maddens me, too--that I can't make
you care for me enough to forget yourself."
She looked up at him, smiling gently now. "It is easy to say forget
myself, that _you_ may have one more frail woman to remember. Am I so
provincial, Cortland Bent? Am I really so rustic? Two days ago you
were telling me I had all the _savoir faire_ of the great lady."
He did not reply to that, but, while she watched him, he got up and
walked slowly over to the map of the United States which hung between
the windows.
"I don't suppose it will mean anything to you when I tell you I'm
going," he said bitterly.
"Going--where?"
"East."
"For long?"
"For good. I've leased the mine."
She started up from her chair, breathless, and stood poised on the edge
of the platform, the slender fingers of one hand grasping the projecting
edge of the desk.
"You're--going--East to--to stay?"
He did not turn, and, if he noticed any change in her intonation, he
gave no sign of it.
"I've finished here. The mine is leased. I'm going back to New York."
"I can't believe--you never told me. It's curious you shouldn't have
said something before."
"Why should I? No man likes to admit that he's a failure."
"You've leased the 'Lone Tree'? To whom?"
"To Wray. He made me a proposition yesterday. I've accepted it. In
fact, I'm out of the thing altogether."
"Jeff? I don't understand. Why, only yesterday he----"
Was it loyalty to Jeff that made her pause? He turned quickly.
"What--did he say anything?"
"Oh, nothing--only that the mine was a failure. That seems curious if he
had decided to lease it."
"Oh!" he said smiling, "it's only Wray's way of doing business. When
anything is hanging fire he always says exactly what he doesn't mean. He
doesn't worry me. I've gone over that hole with a fine-tooth comb, and
I'm glad to get out of it."
"And out of Mesa City?" Then, with an attempt at carelessness, "Of
course we'll all miss you," she said dully.
"Don't! You mustn't speak to me in that way. I've always been pretty
decent to you. You've never believed in me, but that's because you've
never believed in any man. I've tried to show you how differently I
felt----"
"By kissing me?" she mocked scornfully.
Bent changed his tone. "See here, Camilla," he said, "I'm not in a mood
to be trifled with. I can't go away from here and leave you in this
God-forsaken hole. There isn't a person here fit for you to associate
with. It will drive you mad in another year. Do you ever try to
picture what your future out here is going to be?"
"Haven't I?" bitterly.
"You've seen them out on the ranches, haven't you? Slabsided, gingham
scarecrows in sunbonnets, brown and wrinkled like dried peaches, moving
all day from kitchen to bedroom, from bedroom to barn, and back
again----"
"Yes, yes," said Camilla, her head in her hands. "I've seen them."
"Without one thought in life but the successes of their husbands--the
hay crop, the price of cattle; without other diversion than the visit to
Kinney, the new hat and frock once a year (a year behind the fashion);
their only companions women like themselves, with the same tastes, the
same thoughts, the same habits----"
"O God!" whispered the girl, laying a restraining hand on his arm,
"don't go on! I can't stand it."
He clasped her hands in both of his own.
"Don't you see it's impossible?" he whispered. "You weren't made for
that kind of thing. Your bloom would fade like theirs, only sooner
because of your fineness. You'd never grow like those women, because it
isn't in you to be ugly. But you'd fade early."
"Yes," she said, "I know it."
"You can't stay. I know, just as you know, that you were never meant
for a life like that--you weren't meant for a life like this. Do you
care what becomes of these kids? No matter how much chance you give
them to get up in the world, they'll seek their own level in the end."
"No, I can't stay here." She repeated the phrase mechanically, her gaze
afar.
"I've watched you, Camilla. I know. For all your warm blood, you're no
hardy plant to be nourished in a soil like this. You need environment,
culture, the sun of flattery, of wealth--without them you'll wither----"
"And die. Yes, I will. I could not stand this much longer. Perhaps it
would be better to die than to become the dull, sodden things these
women are."
"Listen, Camilla," he said madly. He put his arms around her, his
pulses leaping at the contact of her body. Her figure drooped away from
him, but he felt the pressure of her warm fingers in his, and saw the
veins throbbing at her throat and temples, and he knew that at last she
was awakened. "You must come with me to the East. I won't go without
you. I want you. I want to see you among people of your own sort.
I'll be good to you--so gentle, so kind that you'll soon forget that
there ever was such a place as this."
His tenderness overpowered her, and she felt herself yielding to the
warmth of his entreaty. "Do you really need me so much?" she asked
brokenly.
His reply was to draw her closer to him and to raise her lips to his.
But she turned her head and would not let him kiss her. Perhaps through
her mind passed the memory of that other kiss only yesterday.
"No, I'm afraid."
"Of me? Why?"
"Of myself. Life is so terrible--so full of meaning. I'm afraid--yes,
afraid of you, too. Somewhere deep in me I have a conscience. To-day
you appeal to me. You have put things so clearly--things I have thought
but have never dared speak of. To-day you seem to be the only solution
of my troubles----"
"Let me solve them then."
"Wait. To-day you almost seem to be the only man in the world--almost,
but not quite. I'm not sure of you--nor sure of myself. You point a
way to freedom from this--perhaps a worse slavery would await me there.
Suppose I married you----"
"Don't marry me then," he broke in wildly. "What is marriage? A word
for a social obligation which no one denies. But why insist on it? The
real obligation is a moral one and needs no rites to make it binding. I
love you. What does it matter whether----"
His meaning dawned on her slowly, and she turned in his arms, her eyes
widening with bewilderment as she looked as though fascinated by the
horror she read in his words. He felt her body straighten in his arms
and saw that the blood had gone from her face.
"Do I startle you? Don't look so strangely. You are the only woman in
the world. I am mad about you. You know that? Can't you see? Look up
at me, Camilla. There's a girl in the East they want me to marry--of an
old line with money--but I swear I'll never marry her. Never!"
Slowly she disengaged his arms and put the chair between them. There
was even a smile on her lips. "You mean--that I--that you----" She
paused, uncertain of her words.
"That I'll stick to you until Kingdom Come," he assented.
Her laugh echoed harshly in the bare room. "Whether you marry the other
girl or not?"
"I'll never marry the other girl," he said savagely, "never see her
again if you say so----"
He took a step toward her, but she held up her hand as though warding
off a blow.
"One moment," she said, a calm taking the place of her forced gayety,
her voice ringing with a deep note of scorn. "I didn't understand at
first. Back here in the valley we're a little dull. We learn to speak
well or ill as we think. At least, we learn to be honest with
ourselves, and we try to be honest with others. We do not speak fair
words and lie in our hearts. Our men have a rougher bark than yours,
but they're sound and strong inside." She drew herself to her full
height. "A woman is safe in this country--with the men of this country,
Mr. Bent. It is only when----"
"Camilla! Forgive me. I was only trying you. I will do whatever you
say--I----"
She walked to the door rapidly, then paused uncertainly, leaning against
the door-jamb and looking down the street.
"Will you go?" she murmured.
"I can't--not yet."
"You must--at once. Jeff Wray is coming here--now!"
"What have I to do with him?"
"Nothing--only if he guesses what you've been saying to me, I won't
answer for him. That's all."
Bent looked up with a quick smile, and then sat on the nearest desk. "I
suppose I ought to be frightened. What? Jeff is a kind of a 'bad man,'
isn't he? But I can't go now, Camilla. Wouldn't be the sporting thing,
you know. I think I'll stay. Do you mind if I smoke?"
She watched the approaching figure of Jeff for a moment irresolutely and
then turned indoors. "Of course, I can't _make_ you go," she said, "but
I have always understood that when a woman expressed a wish to be alone,
it was the custom of gentlemen----"
"You made my going impossible," he said coolly. "Don't forget that.
I'll go after a while, but I won't run. You've got something to tell
Jeff Wray. I prefer to be here when you do it."
"I didn't say I'd tell him," she put in quickly. "I'm not going to tell
him. Now will you go?"
"No."
He sat on a desk, swinging one long leg to and fro and looking out of
the open door, at which the figure of Jeff presently appeared. The
newcomer took off his hat and shuffled in uneasily, but his wide stare
and a nod to Bent showed neither surprise nor ill-humor. Indeed, his
expression gave every sign of unusual content. He spoke to Bent, then
gazed dubiously toward the teacher's desk, where Camilla, apparently
absorbed in her letter, looked up with a fine air of abstraction,
nodded, and then went on with her writing.
"Looks sort of coolish around here," said Jeff. "Hope I haven't butted
into an Experience Meeting or anything." He laughed, but Bent only
examined the ash of his cigarette and smiled. "I thought, Camilla," he
went on, "maybe you'd like to take a ride----"
Miss Irwin looked up. She knew every modulation of Jeff's voice. His
tone was quiet--as it had been yesterday--but in it was the same note of
command--or was it triumph? She glanced at Cortland Bent.
"I'm not riding to-day," she said quietly.
"Not with Bent, either? That's funny. What will people think around
here? We've sort of got used to the idea of seeing you two out
together--kind of part of the afternoon scenery, so to speak. Nothing
wrong, is there?"
Bent flushed with anger, and Camilla marveled at this new manifestation
of Jeff's instinct. It almost seemed as though he knew what had
happened between them as well as though she had told him. Jeff laughed
softly and looked from one to the other with his mildest stare, as
though delighted at the discovery.
Miss Irwin rose and put her letter in the drawer of the desk. "I wish
you'd go--both of you," she said quietly. But Wray had made himself
comfortable in a chair and showed no disposition to move.
"I thought you might like to ride out to the 'Lone Tree,'" he said.
"You know Mr. Bent has leased it to me?"
"Yes, he told me."
"What else did he tell you?"
"Oh, I say, Wray," Bent broke in, "I don't see how that can be any
affair of yours."
Jeff Wray wrapped his quirt around one knee and smiled indulgently.
"Doesn't seem so, does it, Bent?" he said coolly. "But it really is.
You see, Camilla--Miss Irwin--and I have been friends a long time--as a
matter of fact, we're sort of engaged----"
"Jeff!" gasped the girl. The calmness of his effrontery almost, if not
quite, deprived her of speech. "Even if it were true, you must see that
it can hardly interest----"
"I thought that he might like to know. I haven't interfered much
between you two, but I've been thinking about you some. I thought it
might be just as well that Mr. Bent understood before he went away."
Camilla started up, stammered, began to speak, then sank in her chair
again. Bent looked coolly from one to the other.
"There seems to be a slight difference of opinion," he said.
"Oh, we're engaged all right," Jeff went on. "That's why I thought I'd
better tell you it wouldn't be any use for you to try to persuade
Camilla--that is, Miss Irwin--to go to New York with you."
Jeff made this surprising statement with the same ease with which he
might have dissuaded a client in an unprofitable deal. Miss Irwin
became a shade paler, Bent a shade darker. Such intuition was rather
too precise to be pleasant. Neither of them replied. Bent, because he
feared to trust himself to speak--Camilla, because her tongue refused
obedience.
"Oh, I'm a pretty good guesser. Camilla told you she wasn't going,
didn't she? I thought so. You see, that wouldn't have done at all,
because I'd have had to go all the way East to bring her back again.
When we're married of course----"
"Jeff!" The girl's voice, found at last, echoed so shrilly in the bare
room that even Wray was startled into silence. He had not seemed aware
of any indelicacy in his revelation, but each moment added to the
bitterness of Miss Irwin's awakening. Bent's indignity had made her
hate herself and despise the man who had offered it. She thought she
saw what kind of wood had been hidden under his handsome veneer--she had
always known what Jeff was made of. The fibre was there, tough, strong,
and ugly as ever, but it was not rotten. And in that hour she learned a
new definition of chivalry.
"Jeff, will you be quiet?" But she went over to him and put her hand on
his shoulder, and her words came slowly and very distinctly, as she
looked over Wray's head into Cortland Bent's eyes. "What Mr. Wray says
is true. I intend to marry him when he asks me to."
Bent bowed his head, as Jeff rose, the girl's hand in his.
"I reckon that about winds up all your loose ends around Mesa, don't it,
Bent?" said Jeff cheerfully. "When are you leaving town?"
[Illustration: "'I reckon that about winds up all your loose ends around
Mesa,' said Jeff cheerfully."]
But Bent by this time had taken up his cap, and was gone.
*CHAPTER III*
*NEW YORK*
Wonderful things happened in the year which followed. The "Lone Tree"
was a bonanza. Every month added to the value of the discovery. The
incredulous came, saw, and were conquered, and Mesa City was a "boom
town" again. Jeff Wray hadn't a great deal to say in those days. His
brain was working overtime upon the great interlocking scheme of
financial enterprises which was to make him one of the richest men in
the West. He spoke little, but his face wore a smile that never came
off, and his baby-blue stare was more vacuous than ever.
And yet, as month followed month and the things happened which he had so
long predicted for himself and for the town, something of his old
arrogance slipped away from him. If balked ambition and injured pride
had made him boast before, it was success that tamed him. There was no
time to swagger. Weighty problems gave him an air of seriousness which
lent him a dignity he had never possessed. And if sometimes he
blustered now, people listened. There was a difference.
As the time for her wedding approached, for the first time in her life
Camilla felt the personality of the man. Why was it that she could not
love him? Since that hour at the schoolhouse when Cortland Bent had
shown her how near--and how fearful--could be the spiritual relation
between a woman and a man, life had taken a different meaning to her.
Jeff's was a curious courtship. He made love to her bunglingly, and she
realized that his diffidence was the expression of a kind of rustic
humility which set her in a shrine at which he distantly worshipped. He
seemed most like the Jeff of other days when he was talking of himself,
and she allowed him to do this by the hour, listening, questioning, and
encouraging. If this was to make the most of her life, perhaps it might
be as well to get used to the idea. She could not deny that she was
interested. Jeff's schemes seemed like a page out of a fairy book, and,
whether she would or not, she went along with him. There seemed no
limit to his invention, and there was little doubt in his mind, or,
indeed, in hers, that the world was to be made to provide very
generously for them both.
It was on the eve of their wedding day that Jeff first spoke of his
childhood.
"I suppose you know, Camilla, I never had a father. That is," he
corrected, "not one to brag about. My mother was a waitress in the
Frontier Hotel at Fort Dodge. She died when I was born. That's my
family tree. You knew it, I guess, but I thought maybe you'd like to
change your mind."
He looked away from her. The words came slowly, and there was a note of
heaviness in his voice. She realized how hard it was for him to speak
of these things, and put her hand confidently in his.
"Yes, I knew," she said softly. "But I never weighed _that_ against
you, Jeff. It only makes me prouder of what you have become." And
then, after a pause, "Did you never hear anything about him?"
"There were some letters written before I was born. I'll show them to
you some day. He was from New York, that's all I know. Maybe you can
guess now why I didn't like Cort Bent."
Camilla withdrew her hands from his and buried her face in them, while
Wray sat gloomily gazing at the opposite wall. In a moment she raised
her head, her cheeks burning.
"Yes, I understand now," she muttered. "He was not worth bothering
about."
* * * * *
And now they were at the hotel in New York, where Jeff had come on
business. The Empire drawing room overlooked Fifth Avenue and the cross
street. There was a reception room in the French style, a dining room
in English oak, a library (Flemish), smoking room (Turkish), a hall
(Dutch), and a number of bedrooms, each a reproduction of a celebrated
historical apartment. The wall hangings were of silk, the curtains of
heavy brocade, the pictures poor copies of excellent old masters, the
rugs costly; and the fixtures in Camilla's bathroom were of solid
silver.
Camilla stood before the cheval glass in her dressing room (Recamier)
trying on, with the assistance of her maid and a modiste, a fetching hat
and afternoon costume. Chairs, tables, and the bed in her own sleeping
room were covered with miscellaneous finery.
When the women had gone, Camilla dropped into a chair in the drawing
room. There was something about the made-to-order magnificence which
oppressed her with its emptiness. Everything that money could buy was
hers for the asking. Her husband was going to be fabulously
wealthy--every month since they had been married had developed new
possibilities. His foresight was extraordinary, and his luck had become
a by-word in the West. Each of his new ventures had attracted a large
following, and money had flowed into the coffers of the company. It was
difficult for her to realize all that happened in the wonderful period
since she had sat at her humble desk in the schoolhouse at Mesa City.
She was not sure what it was that she lacked, for she and Jeff got along
admirably, but the room in which she sat seemed to be one expression of
it--a room to be possessed but not enjoyed. Their good fortune was so
brief that it had no perspective. Life had no personality. It was made
of Things, like the articles in this drawing room, each one agreeably
harmonious with the other, but devoid of associations, pleasant or
unpleasant. The only difference between this room and the parlor at
Mrs. Brennan's was that the furniture of the hotel had cost more money.
To tell the truth, Camilla was horribly bored. She had proposed to spend
the mornings, when Jeff was downtown, in the agreeable task of providing
herself with a suitable wardrobe. But she found that the time hung
heavily on her hands. The wives of Jeff's business associates in New
York had not yet called. Perhaps they never would call. Everything here
spoke of wealth, and the entrance of a new millionaire upon the scene
was not such a rare occurrence as to excite unusual comment. She peered
out up the avenue at the endless tide of wealth and fashion which passed
her by, and she felt very dreary and isolated, like a vacant house from
which old tenants had departed and into which new ones would not enter.
She was in this mood when a servant entered. She had reached the point
when even this interruption was welcome, but when she saw that the man
bore a card tray her interest revived, and she took up the bit of
pasteboard with a short sigh of relief. She looked at it, turned it
over in her fingers, her blood slowing a little, then rushing hotly to
her temples.
Cortland Bent! She let the card fall on the table beside her.
"Tell him that I am not----" she paused and glanced out of the window.
The quick impulse was gone. "Tell him--to come up," she finished.
When the page disappeared she glanced about the room, then hurried to
the door to recall him, but he had turned the corner into the corridor
outside, and the message was on its way to a lower floor.
She paused, irresolute, then went in again, closing the outside door
behind her. What had she done? A message of welcome to Cortland Bent,
the one person in the world she had promised herself she should never
see again; her husband's enemy, her own because he was her husband's;
her own, too, because he had given her pride a wound from which it had
not yet recovered! What should she do? She moved toward the door
leading to her dressing room--to pause again.
What did it matter after all? Jeff wouldn't care. She laughed. Why
should he? He could afford to be generous with the man who had lost the
fortune he now possessed. He had, too, an implicit confidence in her
own judgment, and never since they had been married had he questioned an
action or motive of hers. As for herself--that was another matter. She
tossed her head and looked at herself in her mirror. Should she not
even welcome the opportunity to show Bent how small a place he now held
in her memory? The mirror told her she was handsome, but she still
lingered before it, arranging her hair, when her visitor was announced.
He stood with his hands behind his back studying the portrait over the
fireplace, turning at the sound of her voice.
"It's very nice of you to see me," he said slowly. "How long have you
been here?"
"A few weeks only. Won't you sit down?"
A warm color had come to her checks as she realized that he was
carefully scrutinizing her from head to heel.
"Of course we're very much honored----" she began.
"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," he broke in warmly. "I was
tempted to write you a dozen times, but your engagement and marriage to
Wray and"--he paused--"the trouble about the mine seemed to make it
difficult, somehow."
"I'm sure my husband bears you no ill-will."
He gave a short laugh. "There's no reason why he should. There's
nothing for _him_ to be upset about. He got the fortune that
should--which might have been mine--to say nothing of the girl----"
"Perhaps we had better leave the girl out of it," she put in calmly.
"Even time hasn't explained _that_ misunderstanding."
He shrugged a shoulder expressively. "As you please. I'll not parade
any ghosts if I can help it. I'm too happy to see you. You're more
wonderful than ever. Really I don't believe I should have known you.
You're changed somehow. I wonder what it is?"
"Prosperity?" she suggested.
"I'm not sure I feel at home with you. You're so matured, so--so
punctilious and modish."
"You wouldn't have me wear a short skirt and a sombrero?" she said with
a slow smile.
"No, no. It is not what you wear so much as what you are. You are
really the great lady. I think I knew it there in the West."
She glanced around the room.
"This?" she queried. "This was Jeff's idea." And then, as the possible
disloyalty occurred to her, "You know I would much have preferred a
quieter place. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds."
"But fine birds can be no less fine whatever they wear." There was a
pause, and then he asked:
"How long will you be here?"
"All winter, I think. My husband has business in New York."
"Yes, I know. Mesa City can spare him best at this season."
Bent took up an ivory paper cutter from the table and sat turning it
over in his fingers. "I hope--I really hope we may be friends, Mrs.
Wray. I think perhaps if you'll let me I can be of service to you here.
I don't think that there is a chance that I can forget your husband's
getting the 'Lone Tree' away from me. It's pretty hard to have a
success like that at the tips of one's fingers and not be able to grasp
it. I've been pretty sick about it, and the governor threatened to
disown me. But he seems to have taken a fancy to your husband. I
believe that they have some business relations. The fifty thousand
dollars we got in the final settlement salved his wounds I think. Your
husband has the law on his side and that's all there is to it. I'm glad
he has it for your sake, though, especially as it has given me a chance
to see you again."
"You're very generous," she said. "I'm sorry. It has worried me a great
deal."
"Oh, well, let's say no more about it," he said more cheerfully. "I'm
so glad that you're to be here. What do you think of my little burg?
Does it amuse you at all? What? Have you met many people, or don't you
want to meet them? I'd like you to know my family--my aunt, Mrs.
Rumsen, especially. She's a bit of a grenadier, but I know you'll get
along. She always says what she thinks, so you mustn't mind. She's
quite the thing here. Makes out people's lists for them and all that
kind of thing. Won't you come and dine with the governor some time?"
"Perhaps it will be time enough when we're asked----"
"Oh--er--of course. I forgot. I'll ask Gladys--that's my sister--to
call at once."
"Please don't trouble."
Try as she might to present an air of indifference, down in her heart
she was secretly delighted at his candid, friendly attitude. No other
could have so effectually salved the sudden searing wound he had once
inflicted. To-day it was difficult to believe him capable of evil. He
had tried to forget the past. Why should not she? There was another
girl. Perhaps their engagement had been announced. She knew she was
treading on dangerous ground, but she ventured to ask him.
"Gretchen?" he replied. "Oh, Lord, no! Not yet. You see she has some
ideas of her own on the subject, and it takes at least two to make a
bargain. Miss Janney is a fine sport. Life is a good deal of a joke
with her, as it is to me, but neither of us feels like carrying it as
far as matrimony. We get on beautifully. She's frightfully rich. I
suppose I'll be, too, some day. What's the use? It's a sheer waste of
raw material. She has a romantic sort of an idea that she wants a poor
man--the sort of chap she can lift out of a gray atmosphere. And I----"
His voice grew suddenly sober. "You won't believe that I, too, had the
same kind of notion."
It was some moments before she understood what he meant, but the silence
which followed was expressive. He did not choose that she should
misunderstand.
"Yes," he added, "I mean you."