"No. But I might have explained why I didn't if you had given me time.
I don't think I realized what it meant to me to leave you until I
learned that I had to. Perhaps it isn't too late to tell you now."
She was silent, and so he went on.
"I was engaged to be married. I have been since I was a boy. It was a
family affair. Both of us protested, but my father and hers had set
their hearts on it. My governor swore he'd cut me off unless I did as
he wished. And he's not a man to break his word. I was afraid of him.
I was weak, Camilla. I'm not ashamed to tell you the truth. I knew
unless I made good at the mine that I should have nothing to offer you.
So I thought if I could get you to come East, stay for a while, and meet
my father, that time might work out our salvation."
She got up hurriedly and walked to the window. "I can't see that you can
do any good telling me this. It means so little," she stammered.
"Only to justify myself. I want to try and make it possible for you to
understand how things were with me then--how they are now."
"No, no. It can do no good."
"Let me finish," he said calmly. "It was the other girl I was thinking
about. I was still pledged to her. I could have written her for my
release--but matters came to a crisis rather suddenly. And then you told
me of your engagement to Mr. Wray. You see, after that I didn't care
what happened." He paused, leaning with one hand on the table, his head
bent. "Perhaps I ought not to speak to you in this way now. But it was
on your own account. I don't know what I said to you. I only remember
that I did not ask you to marry me, but that I wanted you with me
always."
His voice sounded very far away to Camilla, like a message from another
life she had lived so long ago that it seemed almost a message from the
dead. She did not know whether what she most felt was happiness or
misery. The one thing she was sure of was that he had no right to be
speaking to her in this way and that she had no right to be listening.
But still she listened. His words sank almost to a whisper, but she
heard. "I wanted you to be with me always. I knew afterward that I had
never loved any woman but you--God help me--that I never could love any
other woman----" He stopped again. In her corner Camilla was crying
softly--tears of pity for him, for the ashes of their dead.
"Don't, dear," he said gently. She thought he was coming forward and
raised her head to protest, but she saw that he still stood by the
table, his back toward her. She turned one look of mute appeal, which
he did not see, in his direction, and then rose quickly.
"You must never speak in this way again," she said, with a surer note.
"Never. I should not have listened. It is my fault. But I have been
so--so glad to hear that--you didn't mean what you said. God knows I
forgive you, and I only hope you can understand--how it was--with me.
You had been so friendly--so clean. It wounded me--horribly. It made
me lose my faith in all things, and I wanted to keep you--as a friend."
"I think I may still be a friend."
"I hope so----" She emerged diffidently and laid her hand gently on his
arm. "If you want to be my friend you must forget."
"I'll try. I _have_ tried. That was easier this morning than it is
this afternoon. It will be harder to-night--harder still to-morrow."
He gave a short laugh and turned away from her toward the fireplace
where he stood, watching the gray embers.
"Oh, people don't die of this sort of thing," he muttered.
It was almost with an air of unconcern that she began rearranging the
Beauties on the table, speaking with such a genuine spirit of raillery
that he turned to look at her.
"Oh, it isn't nearly as bad as you think it is. A man is never quite so
madly in love that he can't forget. You've been dreaming. I was
different from the sort of girls you were used to. You were in love
with the mountains, and mistook me for background."
"No. There wasn't any background," he broke in. "There was never
anything in the picture but you. I know. It's the same now."
"Sh--I must not let you speak to me so. If you do, I must go away from
New York--or you must."
"You wouldn't care."
She could make no reply to that, and attempted none. When the flowers
were arranged she sat on the edge of the table facing him. "Perhaps it
would be the better way for me to go back to the West," she said, "but
New York is surely big enough to hold us both without danger of your
meeting me too often. And I have another idea," her smile came slowly,
with difficulty, "when you see enough of me in your own city, you will
be glad to forget me whether you want to or not. Perhaps you may meet
me among your own kind of people--your own kind of girls, at dinners, or
at dances. You don't really know me very well, after all. Wouldn't it
bother you if from sheer awkwardness I spilled my wine or said 'yes,
ma'am,' or 'no, ma'am,' to my hostess, not because I wanted to, but
because I was too frightened to think of anything else? Or mistook the
butler for my host? Or stepped on somebody's toes in a ballroom. You
know I don't dance very well. Suppose----"
"Oh, what's the use, Camilla?" he broke in angrily. "You don't deceive
anybody. You know that kind of thing wouldn't make any difference to
me."
"But it might to other people. You wouldn't fancy seeing me
ridiculous." He turned to the fire again, and she perceived that her
warning hadn't merited the dignity of a reply, but her attitude and the
lighter key in which her tone was pitched had saved the situation. When
he spoke again, all trace of his discomposure had vanished.
"Oh, I suppose I'll survive. I've got a name for nerve of a certain
kind, and nobody shall say I ran away from a woman. I don't suppose
there's any use of my trying to like your husband. You see, I'm frank
with you. But I'll swallow a good deal to be able to be near you."
There was a silence during which she keenly searched his face.
"You mustn't dislike Jeff. I can't permit that. You can't blame him for
being lucky----"
"Lucky? Yes, I suppose you might call it luck. Didn't you know how
your husband and Mulrennan got that mine?"
She rose, her eyes full of a new wonder and curiosity.
"They leased it. Everything was legally done," she said.
"Oh, yes. Legally----" he paused.
"Go on--go on."
"What is the use?"
"I must know--everything."
"He never told you? I think I know why. Because your code and his are
different. The consciences of some men are satisfied if they keep their
affairs within the letter of the law. But there's a moral law which has
nothing to do with the courts. He didn't tell you because he knew you
obeyed a different precept."
"What did he do? Won't you tell me?"
*CHAPTER IV*
*THE FORBIDDEN WAY*
He came forward and stood facing her, one hand clutching the back of a
chair, his eyes blazing with newly kindled resentment. "Yes, I will tell
you. It's right for you to know. There was a man in my employ who had
a fancied grievance against my foreman. He had no just cause for
complaint. I found that out and told Harbison to fire him. If Harbison
had obeyed orders there would have been a different story to tell about
the 'Lone Tree.' But my foreman took pity on him because he had a
family; then tried to get him started right again. The man used to work
extra time at night, sometimes with a shift and sometimes alone. And
one night in the small gallery at the hundred-foot level he found the
vein we had been looking for. He was a German, Max Reimer, by name----"
"Max Reimer," she repeated mechanically.
"Alone there in that cavern he thought out the plan which afterward
resulted in putting me out of business. He quickly got some timbers
together and hid the hole he'd made. This was easy, for the steps and
railing of the winze needed supports and planking. He put in a blast
farther over and hid the gold-bearing rock--all but a few of the pieces.
These he took out in the pockets of his overalls and carried them to
Jeff Wray----"
"Jeff----"
"Your husband called in Pete Mulrennan, and they talked it over. Then
one night Pete and Max crept up to the mine, got past the watchman, and
Max showed Pete what he'd found. I learned all this from Harbison after
they let Max loose."
"Let him loose? What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you. Max wanted a lump sum in cash. They laughed at
him--chiefly because they didn't have the money to pay. Then he wanted
a percentage bigger than they wanted to give. When they temporized he
got ugly, swore he'd rather run his chances with Harbison and me, but he
never had an opportunity----"
"You don't mean----?" she gasped.
"Wray and Mulrennan lured Reimer to a room over the saloon and got up a
fight; they put him out, gagged and trussed him like a fowl, and left
him there until Jeff Wray had closed the deal with me. That's how your
husband got my mine."
"It can't be," she stammered. "Yes--yes. And Reimer?"
"They hid him for two weeks, until they brought to terms."
"I remember," she said, passing her hand over her brow. "Reimer's boy
was in my school. They missed old Max. They thought he had deserted
them. What a horrible thing! And Jeff--my husband----"
"That is what people call Jeff Wray's luck," he said, and then added
grimly, "and my misfortune."
"But the law?" she said. "Was there no way in which you could prove
the--the----"
"The fraud?" he said brutally. "Oh, yes. The Law! Do you know who
impersonates the Law in Mesa City? Pete Mulrennan! He's judge, court,
and jury. We had the best lawyer in Denver. But Lawrence Berkely had
done his work too well. There's a suit still pending, but we haven't a
show. Good God, Camilla! do you mean to say you heard nothing of all
this?"
"Nothing," she said. "Nothing. When I heard of the suit and questioned
Jeff he--he said it was maliciousness, jealousy, disappointment, and I
believed him."
He turned away from her and paced the floor. "He was right. It was all
of these. But there was something else----"
"Oh, I know," she broke in. "It was what I am feeling now--the sense of
a wrong. But you forget----" She got up and faced him, groping vaguely
for an extenuating circumstance. "That sort of thing has been done in
the West before. A successful mine is all a matter of luck. Max
Reimer's find might have only been a pocket. In that case you would
have been the gainer, and Jeff would have lost."
"That's sophistry. I can't blame you for defending your husband. Mines
have been leased and bought on theory--with a chance to win, a chance to
lose--for the mere love of a gamble. There was no gamble here. The gold
ore was there--one had only to look. There never has been anything like
it since Cripple Creek. It was mine. Jeff Wray wanted it--so he took
it--by force."
She had sunk on the settee between the windows, her face buried in her
hands, and was trying to think. All this, the hired magnificence, the
empty show, the damask she was sitting on, the rings on her hands, her
clothing even, belonged by every law of decency and morality to the man
who stood there before her. And the wrong she had so long cherished in
her heart against him was as nothing to the injury her husband had done
to him. She knew nothing of the law, cared nothing for it. All she
could think of were the facts of the case as he had presented them.
Cortland told the truth, she recognized it in everything he had said, in
the ringing note of his voice, the clear light of his eye, the
resentment of a nature that had been tried too far. A hundred forgotten
incidents were now remembered--Jeff's reticence about the law-suit, Max
Reimer's disappearance, the many secret conferences with Mulrennan. She
wondered that suspicion of Jeff had never entered her mind before. She
realized now more poignantly than ever that she had been moving blindly,
supinely, under the spell of a personality stronger than her own. She
recalled the scene in the canon when, beside herself with shame and
mortification, she had struck him in the face and he had only laughed at
her, as he would have laughed at a rebellious child. In that moment she
had hated him. The tolerance that had come later had been defensive--a
defense of her pride. When Cortland Bent had left, she had flown like a
wounded swallow to the hawk's nest, glad of any refuge from the ache at
her heart.
She raised her head and sought Bent's eyes with her own. A while ago it
had seemed so easy to speak to him. He had been so gentle with her, and
his reticence had made her own indifference possible. He had gone back
to the dead fire again as though to find there a phenix of his lost
hope, and was leaning with an elbow on the mantel, his head bowed in
subjection. He had put his fetters on again as though to make her
understand that his sharp indictment of her husband had not been
intended to include the woman he loved. Painfully she rose and took a
step toward him, and, when she spoke, her voice was low and constrained,
for her thoughts came with difficulty.
"You are right. There _is_ a moral code--a law of conscience. In my
heart I know that no matter what other men have done in the West in
their madness for gold, the fever for wealth, nothing the law holds will
make Jeff's responsibility to you any the less in my sight. I--I did
not know. You believe me, don't you? I did not know. Even if I had
known, perhaps it would not have made any difference. But I am sure of
one thing--I could never have married a man to live on what he had
stolen from another." As he turned toward her she put her hands over
her face. "Oh, I am shamed--shamed. Perhaps I could have done
something; I would have tried. You know that I would have tried--don't
you?"
"Yes, yes, I know. I would not have told, I would not have made you
unhappy--but it maddens me to see you here with what is mine--his wife."
He took her hands down and made her look in his face. "Don't think
harshly of me. It isn't the money. If you could have had it--if you
didn't have to share it with him--can't you understand?"
But she would not look at him, and only murmured, "I understand--I
understand many things I did not know before. But the one thing that
seems most important is that I am his wife. Whatever he has done to
others, he has been very good, very gentle and kind to me."
He dropped her hands and turned violently away. "How could you?" he
groaned. "How could you have married him?"
"God knows!"
The words were wrung from her quickly, like the sudden dropping of a
burden which shocked by the noise of its impact before she was conscious
of its loss. She turned in the same moment and looked at him, hoping
that he had not heard her. But before she could prevent him he had
caught her in his arms and held her close to his body, so that, struggle
as she might, there was no chance for her to escape. And in his eyes
she saw the gleam of an old delight, a bright, wild spark among the
embers of bitterness.
"Camilla!" he whispered. "I know now. God forgive me that I did not
know before--out there in the schoolhouse, when you gave yourself to
him. You loved me then--you love me now. Isn't that why you tremble,
Camilla? You need not speak. Your heart is close to mine and I can
read----"
"No, no, no," she murmured. "It is not true. You must not. I did not
mean--what I said, you misunderstood----"
"Once I misunderstood. I won't make the same mistake again. It was I
who found you there, parching in the desert, and taught you how to
grow--who showed you that life was something more than the barren waste
you had found it. Won't you forgive me? I was a fool--and worse. Look
up at me, Camilla, dear. You were mine out there before you were his.
At least a half of what Jeff Wray has stolen from me--your spiritual
side----"
At the sound of her husband's name she raised her head and looked up at
him in a daze. He caught her again madly, and his lips even brushed her
cheek, but she started from his arms and sped the length of the room
away from him.
"Camilla!"
"No, no. You must not." She stood facing him, wildly pleading. "Don't
come near me, Cort. Is this the way you are going to try to forget--the
way you will teach me to forget?"
"I didn't know then--I want you, Camilla----"
As he came forward she retreated to the door of the library and put her
hand on the knob. She did not hear the soft patter of feet on the other
side.
"Then I must go," she said decisively.
He stopped, looked at her blankly, then turned away.
"I suppose you're right," he said quietly. "Forgive me. I had almost
forgotten."
He slowly paced the room away from her and, his head in his hands, sank
in a distant chair. He heard her sharp sigh and the sound of her
footsteps as she gathered courage and came forward. But he did not
move, and listened with the dull ears of a broken man from whom all hope
has departed.
"It is going to be harder than I thought. I hoped at least that I could
keep what was in my heart a secret. When my secret was my own it did
not seem as if I was doing any injustice to--to Jeff. It was my heart
that was breaking--not his. What did my secrets matter as long as I did
my duty? But now that you share the burden I know that I am doing him a
great wrong--a greater wrong even than he has done to you. I can't
blame you for coming here. It is hard to forgive a wrong like that.
But with me it is different. No matter what Jeff has done, what he may
do, my duty is very clear--my duty to him, and even to you. I don't
know just how--I must have time to think it out for myself. One thing
is certain: I must not see you again."
He waved a hand in deprecation. "That is so easy to say. You shall see
me again," he threatened. "I will not give you up."
"You must! I will find some excuse to leave New York."
"I'll follow you," doggedly. "You're mine."
She paused in dismay. Were all the odds to be against her? A sudden
terror gripped her heart and left her supine. She summoned her strength
with an effort.
"Cort!" she cried desperately. "You must not speak to me like that. I
will not listen. You don't know what you are saying."
"I don't care what I'm saying--you have driven me mad." As he rose, she
retreated, still facing him, her lips pale, her eyes bright, her face
drawn but resolved.
"And I," she said clearly, "I am sane again. If you follow--I will ring.
Do you hear?"
Her hand sought the wall, then was arrested in mid air. A sound of
voices, the ringing of a bell, and the soft patter of a servant's steps
in the corridor brought Cortland Bent to his senses.
"It's Jeff," she whispered breathlessly; and then with a quiet air of
self-command, the dignity of a well-bred hostess, "Will you sit down,
Mr. Bent? I will ring for tea."
In the shadowed doorway a tall figure stood.
"Why, Jeff," said Camilla coolly, "you're early, aren't you? I
thought----"
She rose as she realized that the gentleman in the doorway wore a frock
coat--a garment Jeff affected to despise--and that the hair at his
temples was white. "I beg your pardon," she murmured.
The gentleman smiled and came forward into the room with outstretched
hand.
"I am General Bent. Is this Mrs. Wray? Your husband is coming along."
Jeff entered from the corridor at this moment. "Hello, Camilla! The
General was kind enough to say he wanted to meet you, so he brought me
uptown in his machine."
The eyes of both newcomers fell on Cortland Bent, who emerged from the
shadow.
"Why, Cort! You here?" said the General, and if his quick tones showed
slight annoyance, his well-bred accents meant only polite inquiry.
"Yes, dad. How do you do, Mr. Wray?"
Wray went over and took him by the hand.
"Well! well!" said Wray heartily. "This is sure like old times. Glad
to see you, Bent. It seems like only yesterday that you and Camilla
were galloping over the plains together. A year and a half has made
some changes, eh? Camilla, can't we have a drink? One doesn't meet old
friends every day."
"I rang for tea."
"Tea? Ugh! Not tea, Camilla. I can't get used to these foreign
notions. General--Cort--some Scotch? That's better. Tea was invented
for sick people and old maids," and then, as the servant entered, "Tell
Greer to bring the tray, and some cigars. You'll let us, won't you,
Camilla? General Bent and I have been talking for two hours, and if
there's any thirstier business than that----"
"I hope we aren't intruding," said the General. "I have been very
anxious to meet you, Mrs. Wray."
"I'm very much flattered. I'm afraid, though, that Jeff has taken you
out of your way." She paused, conscious that the sharp eyes of the old
man were peering at her curiously from under the shadows of his bushy
eyebrows. "I feel as if I ought to know you very well," she went on.
"In the West your son often spoke of you."
"Did he? H--m!" And then, with a laugh, "Cortland, my boy, what did
you say to her? You expected to see an old ogre, didn't you?"
"Oh, no, but you are different from the idea I had of you. You and your
son are not in the least alike, are you?"
"No. You see Cortland took the comeliness of the Davidges, and I--well,
I won't tell you what they call me in the Street," he laughed grimly.
"You know Mr. Wray and I have some interests in the West in common--some
properties that adjoin, and some railroads that join. It's absurdly
simple. _He_ wants what _I_ have, and _I_ want what _he_ has, and
neither of us is willing to give up a square inch. Won't you tell us
what to do?"
"I give it up," she laughed. "My husband has a way of getting what he
wants."
"The great secret of that," said Wray comfortably, "is wanting what you
can get. Still, I don't doubt that when the General's crowd gets
through with me there won't be enough of me to want anything. You
needn't worry about the 'Lone Tree,' Cortland. You'll have it again,
after a while, when my hide is spread out to dry."
General Bent's eyes vanished under his heavy brows.
"No," he said cryptically. "It looks as though the fruit of the 'Lone
Tree' was forbidden."
*CHAPTER V*
*DINERS OUT*
When the visitors had gone, Camilla disappeared in the direction of her
own apartment. The thought of being alone with Jeff was intolerable to
her. She must have time to think, to wash away the traces of her
emotion, which she was sure even the shadows of the drawing room could
hardly have hidden from the sharp eyes of her elderly guest. Her
husband had given no indication of having noticed anything unusual in
her appearance, but she knew that he would not have let her discover it
if he had. She breathed a sigh of relief when the door was closed
behind her, dismissed her maid, and, slipping into a comfortable
garment, threw herself face downward on a couch and buried her head in
its pillow.
Out of the disordered tangle of her thoughts one idea gradually
evolved--that she must not see Cortland Bent again. She could not plan
just now how she was to avoid him, for General Bent had already invited
them to dine at his house, and she knew that she must go, for Jeff's
sake, no matter what it cost her. She could not blame Cortland as much
as she blamed herself, for she realized now how vulnerable she had been
even from the first moment when she had entered the room, bravely
assuring herself that she cared for him no longer. The revelation of
her husband's part in the lease of the "Lone Tree" had shocked her, but
even her abomination of his brutal method of consummating the business
was lost in the discovery of her own culpability. Before to-day it had
not seemed so great a sin to hold another man's image in her heart, but
the disclosure of her secret had robbed it of some of the dignity of
seclusion. The one thing that had redeemed her in the past had been the
soft pains of self-abnegation, and now she had not even those to comfort
her.
The revelation to Cort had even made their relation a little brutal.
She fought with herself silently, proposing subterfuge and sophistry,
then dragging her pitiful treasure forth remorselessly under the garish
light of conscience. She could not understand the change that
Cortland's presence made; for what yesterday had been only unduteous,
to-day was a sin. What then had been a balm was now a poison.
Morning brought regeneration. The sun shone brightly through her yellow
curtains, and her maid brought with her breakfast tray a note from the
contrite Cortland.
"Forgive me, Camilla. Forgive me. Call me selfish, unreasonable,
cruel--anything you like--but don't tell me I shall not see you again.
You will find me a model of all the virtues. Gladys is calling on you
to-day. You are coming to the dinner, aren't you? I will be there--in
a corner somewhere, but I won't bother you. The night has brought me
patience. Forgive me.
"C."
Camilla slipped the note among her laces, and when Jeff looked in to
bring her the invitation which had arrived in the morning mail to dine
at the house of Cornelius Bent, she presented a fair face and joyous
countenance.
General Bent's dinners had a way of being ponderous--like himself. From
soup to coffee the victuals were rich and highly seasoned, the wines
full-bodied; his dishes were heavy, his silver-service massive, his
furniture capacious. The impression of solidity was further enhanced by
the thick oak paneling, the wide fireplace, and the sumptuous
candelabra. Many, if not all, of these adjectives might readily be
applied to his men-servants, who had been so long in his employ that the
essentials of their surroundings had been seared into their souls. The
Bent regime was their religion, the General its high priest, and their
offices components of a ceremony which they observed with impressive
dignity and sedate fervor.
As a rule, the personality of the General's guests did nothing to
detract from the impression of opulence. They were the heavy men of
affairs, the big men of clubdom, of business, of religion, of politics.
Camilla had been warned of what she must expect, but it was with
feelings of trepidation not far removed from awe that she and Jeff got
down from their taxi under the glow of the porte-cochere before the wide
portal of the great house in Madison Avenue. Her last admonition to her
husband in the cab had been, "Jeff, don't shuffle your feet! And don't
say 'ma'am.' And keep your hands out of your pockets! If you can't
think of anything to say, don't say it."
Wray only laughed. He was very much at his ease, for he had convinced
himself downtown that the doors of the Bent establishment would not have
swung so wide had the General not found that Wray's holdings and
influence in the West were matters which some day he would have to
reckon with.
When they arrived they were pleased to discover that there were to be
young people among the guests as well as old. Three stout, florid
gentlemen, members of the directorate of the Amalgamated Reduction
Company, whom Jeff had met downtown, with their wives, and Mr. and Mrs.
Worthington Rumsen lent their share to the dignity the General required,
but there was a leaven of a younger set in Gladys, his daughter (Mrs.
Bent had died many years before), Cortland, his son, and some others.
Most of the guests were already in the drawing room when the Wrays were
announced. And Camilla entered a little uncertainly, her eyes
sparkling, seeking her hostess. There was a subdued masculine murmur of
approval, a raising of lorgnons to aged feminine noses, a general
movement of appreciation.
Camilla was radiant. Cortland Bent came forward from his corner, slowly
drinking in her loveliness with his eyes. She was gowned in white and
wore no ornaments. The slenderness which all women ape was hers without
asking. Her ruddy hair at the last moment had resisted the arts of the
hair-dresser, and so she wore it as she had always done, in a heavy coil
like a rope of flame. If she had been pale as she entered, the blood
now flowed quickly--almost too quickly to be fashionable--suffusing her
face and gently warming her splendid throat and shoulders.
"Am I late?" she asked. "I'm so sorry. Will you forgive me?"
"You're not late," said her hostess. "Awfully glad----"
"We're bountifully repaid," put in General Bent gallantly, as he came
forward. "I'm sure you're quite worth waiting for. I've been telling
New York for years it had better keep its eyes on the West. Now I must
warn its women. How are you, Wray? You know Warrington--and Janney.
Let me present you, Wray--the Baroness Charny."
Jeff felt himself appraised civilly.
"You are _the_ Mr. Wray?" she asked him. "The rich Mr. Wray?"
Jeff flushed with pleasure. Nothing ever tickled him more than a
reference to his possessions.
"I'm Wray--from Colorado. And you--you know I've never seen a real live
baroness before. So don't mind if I look at you a little. You see, we
never have anybody like you out our way----"
"I don't mind in the least," she said with a slight accent. "What did
you think a baroness ought to look like?"
"I had a kind of an idea she was stoutish, wore a crown, and sat in a
big chair all day, ordering people around."
"I'm afraid you read fairy stories. I don't own a crown, and I might
order people all day, but nobody would pay the least attention to me."
"What a pity," he said soberly.
His ingenuousness was refreshing.
"You know, Mr. Wray, baronesses aren't any more important nowadays than
anybody else. The only barons worth while in the world are the Coal
Barons, the Wheat Barons, the Gold Barons, like you." And then, "Did
you know that you were to take me in? Are you glad?"
"Of course," with a vague attempt at gallantry. "I'd take you anywhere
and be proud to."
"Then give me your arm," she laughed. And they followed the others in
to dinner. Wray's other neighbor was Mrs. Rumsen, his host's sister.
Camilla had related many tales of her social prowess, and she was really
the only person at the table of whom Jeff stood the least in awe. Mrs.
Rumsen's nose was aquiline like her brother's, her eyebrows high and
slightly arched, her eyes small and rather close together, as though
nature had intended them for a short but concentrated vision. She held
her head very erect, and from her great height was enabled without
pretence to look down on all lesser things. Cortland had described her
as a grenadier, and, as Wray realized that the moment when he must talk
to her was inevitably approaching, he lost some faith in his moods and
tenses.
"Mr. Wray," she began, in a tone which was clearly to be heard the
length of the table, "you have a handsome wife."
"Yes, ma'am," he drawled. "I'm glad you think so, Mrs. Rumsen."
"A woman with her looks and your money could have the world at her feet
if she wished."
"Yes. I've told her the same thing. But I don't think she likes a
fuss. Why, I sent up a whole carload of hats--all colors, with plumes
and things, but she wouldn't have one of them."
The old lady's deep wrinkles relaxed.
"And diamonds----" he went on. "She's got half a peck, but I can't get
her to put them on."
Mrs. Rumsen did not reply, only examined him with her small eyes through
her lorgnon.
"You know, Mr. Wray, ever since you came into the room you have been a
puzzle to me. Your features resemble those of some one I have
known--years ago--some one I have known intimately--curious I can't----"
"Have you ever been West?"
"Oh, yes. Were your people----?"
"I have no people, Mrs. Rumsen," he said with a quick air of finality.
"Oh!" She still looked at him wonderingly. "I beg your pardon." Then
she went on calmly, "You really interest me a great deal. I have seen
Westerners in New York before--but you're different--I mean," she added,
"the cut of your nose, the lines of your chin, the set of your head on
your shoulders. I hope you'll forgive an old woman's curiosity."