"Romance? There's no romance in that. That's just get-up-and-get. I
had to hustle, Mrs. Cheyne. I'd promised those people the water from the
mountains on a certain date, but I couldn't do it, and the big ditch
wasn't finished. I was in a bad fix, for I'd broken my word. Those
people had paid me their money, and they threatened to lynch me. They
had a mass meeting and were calling me some ugly names when I walked in.
Why they didn't take a shot at me then, I don't know--but they didn't.
I got up on the table, and, when they stopped yelling, I began to talk
to 'em. I didn't know just what to say, but I knew I had to say
something and make good--or go out of town in a pine box. I began by
telling 'em what a great town Wrayville was going to be. They only
yelled, 'Where's our water?' I told them it was coming. They tried to
hoot me down, but I kept on."
"Weren't you afraid?"
"You bet I was. But _they_ never knew it. I tried to think of a reason
why they didn't have that water, and in a moment they began to listen.
I told 'em there was thirty thousand dollars' worth of digging to be
done. I told 'em it would _be_ done, too, but that I didn't see why
that money should go out of Wrayville to a lot of contractors in Denver.
I'd been saving that work for the citizens of Wrayville. I was prepared
to pay the highest wages for good men, and, if Wrayville said the word,
they could begin the big ditch to-morrow."
"What did they do?"
"They stopped yelling right there, and I knew I had 'em going. In a
minute they started to cheer. Before I finished they were carrying me
around the hall on their shoulders. Phew--but that took some quick
thinking."
Mrs. Cheyne had started forward when he began, and, as he went on, her
eyes lost their sleepy look, her manner its languor, and she followed
him to the end in wonder. When he stopped, she sank back in her corner,
smiling, and repeated: "Romance? What romance is there left in the world
for a man like you?"
He looked up at her with his baby stare and then laughed awkwardly.
"You're making fun of me, Mrs. Cheyne. I've been talking too much, I
reckon."
She didn't reply at once, and the look in her eyes embarrassed him. He
reached for his cigarette case, offered it to her, and, when she
refused, took one himself, lit it slowly, gazing out of the transom
opposite.
"I hope I haven't tired you, Mrs. Cheyne. It's dangerous to get me
talking about myself. I never know when to stop."
"I don't want you to stop. I've never been so entertained in my life.
I don't believe you know how interesting you are."
He turned toward her, embarrassed and still incredulous. "You're very
kind," he muttered.
"You mustn't be so humble," she broke in sharply. "You weren't so a
minute ago. I like you best when you are talking of yourself."
"I thought I'd like to talk about you."
She waved a hand in deprecation. "Me? Oh, no. We can't come to earth
like that. Tell me another fairy tale."
"Fairy tale? Then you don't believe me?"
"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I believe you, but to me they're fairy tales
just the same. It seems so easy for you to do wonderful things. I wish
you'd do some conjuring for me."
"Oh, there isn't any magic business about me. But I'll try. What do you
want most?"
She put an elbow on her knee and gazed at the blossom in her fingers.
Her voice, too, fell a note.
"What I think I want most," she said slowly, "is a way out of this."
She waved the blossom vaguely in the direction of the drawing room.
"I'm sick of it all, of the same tiresome people, the same tiresome
dinners, dances, teas. We're so narrow, so cynical, so deeply enmeshed
in our small pursuits. I'm weary--desperately weary of myself."
"You?"
"Yes." And then, with a short, unmirthful laugh, "That's my secret.
You didn't suspect it, did you?"
"Lord! no." And after a pause, "You're unhappy about him?"
"Cheyne? Oh, no. He's the only thing I am happy about. Have you ever
been really bored, Mr. Wray?"
"Never. I never even heard the word until I came to New York."
"Have you ever been so tired that your body was numb--so that if you
struck it a blow you were hardly conscious of it, when you felt as if
you could go to sleep and never want to wake up? Well, that's the
condition of my mind. It's so tired of the same impressions that it
fails to make note of them; the people I see, the things I do, are all
blurred and colorless like a photograph that has been taken out of
focus. The only regret I have when I go to sleep is that I have to wake
up again."
"My dear Mrs. Cheyne----"
"Oh, I'm not morbid. I'm too bored to be morbid even. I don't think
I'm even unhappy. It takes an effort to be unhappy. I can't tell you
what the matter is. One drifts. I've been drifting a long time. I
think I have too much money. I want to _want_ something."
"Don't you ever want anything you can't have?"
She sat upright, and her voice, instead of drawling languidly, came in
the quick accents of discovery. "Yes, I do. I've just found out.
You've actually created a new interest in life. Won't you be nice to
me? Come and see me often and tell me more fairy tales."
*CHAPTER VII*
*BRAEBANK*
"I can't see, Curtis," said Mrs. Janney, in the smoking room, "why you
chose to ask those vulgar Wrays to Braebank. It almost seems as if you
were carrying your business relationships too far. The woman is pretty
enough, and I dare say her easy Western ways will be attractive to the
masculine portion of your guests. But the man is impossible--absolutely
impossible! He does not even use correct English, and his
manners--atrocious!"
The palms of the good lady's hands, as she raised them in her righteous
wrath, were very pink on the inside, like the petals of rosebuds. They
were sheltered hands, very soft and plump, and their fingers bore many
large and expensive jewels. Mrs. Janney was made up wholly of convex
curves, which neither art nor starvation could deflect. The roundness
of her face was further accented by concentric curves at brows, mouth,
and chin, which gave the impression of a series of parentheses. It
would not be stretching the figure too far to add that Mrs. Janney, in
most of their few affiliations, bore a somewhat parenthetical relation
to her husband. Her life, as well as her conversation, was made up of
"asides," to which Curtis Janney was not in the habit of paying the
slightest attention. Her present remarks, however, seemed to merit a
reply.
"My dear Amelia," he said, tolerantly, from his easy chair, "when we
were first married you used to say that all a man needed to make his way
in New York was a dress suit and a smile. Wray has both. Besides, it
is quite necessary to be on good terms with him. As for his wife, I
have rarely seen a girl who created such an agreeable impression.
Cornelius Bent has taken them up. He has his reasons for doing so. So
have I. I'll trouble you, therefore, to be civil."
He got up and put down his cigar, and Mrs. Janney shrugged her shoulders
into a more pronounced convexity.
"I won't question your motives, Curtis, though, of course, I know you
have them. But I don't think we can afford to jeopardize our standing
by always taking up new people like the Wrays. The man is vulgar--the
woman, provincial."
Mr. Janney by this time had taken up the telephone and was ordering the
wagons to the station.
"Why, Gretchen, dear! You're late. It's almost train time." Miss
Janney entered in riding clothes from the terrace, bringing traces of
the fine November weather. She was a tall, slender girl of the athletic
type, sinuous and strong, with a skin so firm and ruddy from the air
that it glowed crisply as though shot with mica.
"Is it, mother? Cortland and I had _such_ a wonderful ride. He is
really quite the nicest man in the world. Aren't you, Cort?"
"Of course I am," said Bent, laughing, as he entered, "anything Gretchen
says. That's because I never made love to her, isn't it, Gretchen?"
"Partly. Love is so silly. You know, daddy, I've given Cort his
_conge_."