"The conditions are perfect. This white frost will soften at sun-up.
We'll have a fine run. Won't you let me help you mount?"
They were all in the saddle in a few moments and, walking their horses,
with the Huntsman and hounds in the lead, were soon on their way past
the big entrance gates. Camilla saw Jeff draw his horse alongside that
of Mrs. Cheyne and realized that the few days during which Lawrence
Berkely had been in the city had done much for her husband's appearance.
She saw the look and heard the laugh with which Mrs. Cheyne greeted her
husband and experienced, in spite of herself, a sense of annoyance that
Jeff continually showed a preference for her company to that of any of
the other women of the party. She knew that in her heart it made no
difference to her into whose hands Jeff entrusted himself. Mrs.
Cheyne's languid air of patronage had provoked her, and her pride
rebelled at the thought of any slight, however thoughtless, at the hands
of her husband. But as Cortland Bent came alongside of her, she
realized that the friendly relations of her husband and his feminine
partner might progress far on extravagantly sentimental lines and still
provide no just cause for complaint.
If Mrs. Cheyne had any mental reservations, her graceful back gave no
sign of them. She sat her horse squarely, even a little stiffly, which
brought into contrast the easy, rather slouchy seat which Jeff had
learned on the plains. But Wray was in his element. On a horse, at
least, he felt himself the equal of any one in the party and need ask no
favors or give any. He examined Mrs. Cheyne's costume curiously. Her
long coat was a mere subterfuge, for beneath it she wore white breeches
like his own and patent leather boots. Her hair was done in a compact
mass on the back of her head, and her hat was held in place by a strong
elastic band. The shoulders of her coat were square and her manner
easy. He recalled the flowing feminine lines of her costume at dinner
the night before, and it seemed difficult to appreciate that she was the
same person with whom he had talked so late in the smoking room.
"Am I a freak?" she asked amiably, "or is there a hiatus somewhere? I
dressed in a tearing hurry--without a maid."
"Oh, no. Only you're another kind of a person--on the back of a horse."
"Am I? How?"
"Last night you were all woman. You and I are making friends pretty
fast, but I was a little afraid of you."
"Why?"
"You're different at night, so sleepy and handsome, like a rattler in
the sun, the kind you hate to wake up but must, to see how far he'll
strike."
She laughed. "I don't know whether I like that or not. And yet I think
I do. How am I different to-day?"
"To-day you're only part woman. The rest of you is just kid. If it
wasn't for that knot of hair I'd take you for a boy--a very nice,
good-looking boy."
She looked up at him mischievously. "You know you have a faculty of
saying unpleasant things very pleasantly. I'm glad I look youthful. My
only horror is of growing old. I don't think I like the idea of your
thinking me anything unfeminine."
He glanced frankly at her protruding knee. "I don't. Most of you is
woman all right--but you don't scare me half as much this morning."
"Why should you be scared? You haven't struck me as being a man who
could be scared at anything."
"Not out here, but inside--in the drawing room--you've got me at a
disadvantage. I'm new to soft speeches, low lights, and the way you
Eastern women dress. There's too much glamor. I never know whether you
mean what you say or whether it's all just a game--and I'm _It_."
She threw back her head and laughed with a full throat.
"You dear, delicious, impossible creature! Don't you know that the
world is a tangle of illusions, and that you and I and everybody else
were made to help keep them tangled? Nobody ever means what he says.
Half of the joy in life consists in making people think you different
from what you are."
"Which are you? The kid on the horse or the woman--back there--last
night?"
"Do you think I'll tell you?"
"No, I suppose not. And it wouldn't help me much if you're going to lie
about it--I mean," he corrected, "if you're trying to keep me guessing."
"My poor, deluded friend, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. So
what's the use. For the present," she added defiantly, "I'm the kid on
the horse."
"And I guess I'm _It_, all right," he laughed.
As they approached Chelten Hills they made out at the cross-roads a
number of figures on horseback. The sun, a pale madder ball, had
suddenly sprung from behind the hills and painted with its rosy hues the
streaks of mist which hung in the valleys below them. As its shadows
deepened and its glow turned from pink to orange, the figures at the
cross-roads stood out in silhouette against the frosty meadows beyond.
There were three women and at least a dozen men, most of them wearing
the club colors, which took on added brilliancy as the sun emerged from
behind the distant hills. A cloud of vapor rose from the flanks of the
horses. There was much "hallo-ing" and waving of riding crops as the
Huntsman and his hounds rode into their midst and the two parties met.
A brief consultation, and the hounds were sent down a narrow lane and
across a wooden bridge toward a patch of woods which darkened the
hillside half a mile away.
"We'll draw that cover first," said Curtis Janney. "Perhaps we can coax
the old Chelten Fox to come out to-day." It was the name they had given
to an old quarry of theirs, the elusive victor in half a dozen runs in
the last few years.
Cortland Bent had refused to relinquish his post beside Camilla. There
seemed no reason why he should, since Gretchen had so completely
appropriated Larry, and Jeff, Mrs. Cheyne.
"Be careful, Camilla," he was saying. "You're new at this game, and the
going is none too safe."
But Camilla only smiled. She looked forward at Mrs. Cheyne's intolerant
back, and there was a joyous flash in her eyes like the one he
remembered two years ago when she led the chase of a coyote, which she
ran down and roped unaided. She leaned forward gaily and patted her
horse's neck.
"We understand each other, don't we, Mackinaw?"
And then, as though to express her emancipation from all earthly
barriers, she gave her horse his head in the pasture and followed a
party which had scorned the open gate. Mackinaw took the three rails
like a bird and shook his head viciously when Camilla restrained him.
Cortland followed her, smiling, and in a moment they had all stopped at
the foot of the hill, while the hounds went forward into the cover.
Janney had planned well. They waited a while, chatting among
themselves, and then suddenly the hounds gave tongue. At the farther
end of the cover, taking a diagonal course across an old cornfield up
the hill, the old fox emerged, while the hounds, getting the scent,
followed hot-foot after him.
"Tally-ho!" was the cry from one of the whips, and it echoed again and
again the length of the field. In a second they were off, Curtis Janney
in the lead, roaring some instructions which nobody understood. Camilla,
overanxious, cleared the brook at a bound and won her way among the
leaders. Gretchen Janney and Mrs. Cheyne, their horses well in hand,
were a little to the left, following the Master, whose knowledge of the
lay of the land foresaw that the run would follow the ridge which
farther on turned to the eastward. Camilla only knew that she must ride
straight, and went forward up the hill toward the line of bushes around
which the last hound had disappeared. Bent thundered after her,
watching her anxiously as she took the fence at the top of the hill--a
tall one--and landed safely in the stubble beyond.
"Pull up a little, Camilla!" he shouted. "You'll blow him if you don't.
This may last all morning."
"I--I can't!" she cried. "He's pulling me. He doesn't want to stop, and
neither do I."
"It's the twenty pounds of under weight--but you'd better use your
curb."
As they cleared the bushes they "viewed" again from a distance the
hounds running in a straight line, skirting a pasture at the edge of a
wood half a mile away. The field below to their left was now a thin
line of single horsemen or groups of twos and threes. Behind Bent were
Billy Haviland and the Baroness. Down the hill they went, more carefully
this time, then up again over rocky ground dotted with pitfalls of ice
and snow which made the going hazardous. Janney's crowd below on the
level meadows was forging ahead, but when Camilla reached the top of the
next hill she saw that, instead of surging toward the river, the hounds
were far away to the right in open country and going very fast. They
reached the road from the meadow just as Curtis Janney, closely followed
by Gretchen and Mrs. Cheyne, Larry, and Jeff, came riding into the open.
"Have you 'viewed'?"
Cortland Bent pointed with his crop, and they all saw the pack making
for the woods and the trees which lined the creek in the hollow beyond.
It was a wide stretch of open country made up of half a dozen fields and
fences. The short, sharp cry of the hounds as they sighted the fox was
music to Camilla, but the roar of the wind in her ears and the thunder
of the horses' hoofs were sweeter. It was a race for the creek. The
Master, on his big thoroughbred, was three lengths in the lead, but
Jeff, Mrs. Cheyne, and Camilla, just behind him, were taking their jumps
together.
At the third fence, for some reason, Mackinaw refused, and, scarcely
knowing how it had happened, Camilla slid forward over his ears to the
ground. She was a little stunned, but managed to keep her hold on the
reins, and before Cortland Bent could dismount she was on her feet
again, her cheeks a little pale, but in nowise injured.
"Are you hurt, Camilla?"
"No. Help me up quickly, Cort." She had seen Jeff and Mrs. Cheyne draw
rein a moment on the other side of the fence, but, when she rose, ride
on together. Jeff shouted something to her, but she could not hear it.
"I didn't give him his head," Camilla stammered. "I'll know better now."
"For God's sake, be careful," whispered Bent.
If she heard him she gave no sign of it, for, with her face pale and her
lips compressed, she made a wide turn, and, before the rest of the field
came up, she had put Mackinaw at the jump again, giving him his head and
the crop on his flank just before he rose to it. The frightened animal
cleared the rails with two feet to spare and a good six feet on the
farther side, and, when Jeff turned at the bank of the creek to look, he
saw Mackinaw nobly clearing the last fence that remained between them.
Camilla, her color coming slowly back, kept her eyes fixed on the smart
silk hat of Mrs. Cheyne. The memory of Mrs. Cheyne's smile infuriated
her. Her manner was so superior, her equipment so immaculate, her seat
such a fine pattern of English horsemanship. The run was to be long,
they said. Perhaps there would still be time to show that she could
ride--as the boys in the West rode, for every inch--for every pound.
Through the ford she dashed, with Cortland close at her heels, the water
deluging them both, up the bank and over the rise of the hill, toward a
patch of bushes where the fox doubled and went straight with the wind
across the valley for the hills. The going was rougher here--boulders,
stone walls, and ploughed fields. Camilla cut across the angle and in a
moment was riding beside her husband and Mrs. Cheyne, who seemed to be
setting the pace.
"Are you all right?" Jeff asked. But she only smiled at him and touched
Mackinaw with her heel. She was riding confidently now, sure of herself
and surer of her horse. They understood each other, and Mackinaw
responded nobly, for when he found his place by the side of Rita
Cheyne's bay mare he sensed the will of his rider that here was the
horse that he must outstay. The pace was terrific, and once or twice
Camilla felt the eyes of the other woman upon her, but she rode
joyously, grimly, looking neither to left nor right, as she realized
that Mrs. Cheyne's mount was tiring and that Mackinaw seemed to be
gaining strength at every jump.
The old Chelten Fox gained immortality that day. Twice the foremost
hounds were snapping at his very heels, when, from some hidden source of
energy, he drew another store and ran away from them, doubling through
the brush and throwing them off the scent, which they recovered only
when he had put a safe distance between them. Camilla had lost her hat,
her hair had fallen about her shoulders, and a thorn had gashed her
cheek. The pace was telling on Mackinaw, whose stride was not so long
or his jumps so powerful, but Mrs. Cheyne still rode beside her, her
face a little paler than before, but her seat as firm--her hands as
light as ever. If there were any other riders near them, both women
were oblivious, seeing nothing but the blur of the flying turf beneath
them, hearing nothing but the sharp note of the hounds in front, which
told that the chase was nearly ended.
Before them was a lane with two fences of four rails, an "in and out,"
with a low "take off" from the meadow. Camilla rose in her stirrups to
look and saw that Mrs. Cheyne had drawn rein. It was a jump which would
tax the mettle of fresher animals. With a smile on her face which might
have been a counterfeit of the one Mrs. Cheyne had worn earlier in the
morning, Camilla turned in her saddle, catching the eye of her
companion, and pointed with her crop straight before her to where the
hounds had "killed" in the meadow just beyond, then set Mackinaw for the
highest panel she could find.
"Come on, Mrs. Cheyne!" she cried hoarsely. "Come on!"
Mackinaw breasted the fence and reached the road--a pause of a second
until Camilla's spurs sank into his flanks, when, mad with pain, he
leaped forward into the air, just clearing the other fence and the ditch
that lay on the farther side. Camilla pulled up sharply as the Huntsman
dismounted and made his way among the dogs. Turning, she saw Mrs.
Cheyne's horse rise awkwardly from the lane and go crashing through the
fence, breaking the top rail and landing in the ditch. Its rider,
thrown forward out of the saddle, landed heavily and then rolled to one
side and lay quiet.
[Illustration: "Turning, she saw Mrs. Cheyne's horse go crashing through
the fence."]
With a quick cry of dismay, Camilla dismounted, conscience-stricken, and
ran to her fallen foe, just as the others rode up and caught the
frightened horse.
"Dear Mrs. Cheyne," she heard herself saying, "I'm so sorry. Are you
really badly hurt?" But the only reply she got was a feeble shake of
the head. Curtis Janney brought out a brandy flask, and, after a sip or
two, Mrs. Cheyne revived and looked about her.
"I'm all here, I think," she said. "That was a bad cropper--in my own
barnyard, too--the Brush must be yours, Mrs. Wray. Give me a cigarette,
somebody."
*CHAPTER IX*
*THE SHADOW*
Mrs. Cheyne's farmhands and stablemen came running and took the horses
of those who dismounted; and Mrs. Cheyne, after examining herself to see
that no bones were broken, led the way, stiffly but without assistance,
to the house. Camilla, still a little bewildered, saw Mackinaw led off
to the stable for a rub-down. The Master of the Hounds was the first to
congratulate her.
"Here is your Brush, Mrs. Wray. You've filled every woman's heart with
envy. To be in at the death of the old Chelten Fox is an achievement.
You had a fall. Are you injured?"
"I believe not," she said. "Mackinaw is a darling. I hope he's sound?"
she inquired anxiously.
"As a bell," he said generously. "He's got the heart of an ox. You
know"--he laughed and whispered--"I bought him from Mrs. Cheyne, and
to-day you've vindicated me."
Others came up, men of the Hunt Club, and asked to be presented, and
Camilla, enjoying her triumph, followed the party to the house.
Mrs. Cheyne's house differed in character from that of the Janneys. It
was snugly built in a pocket of the hills, facing to the south. The
original building, square and massive, dated from the early eighteenth
century, but two symmetrical wings at the sides had greatly increased
its original size. Large pillars and a portico gave the graceful lines
which the addition demanded. The wide stair hall which ran from front
to back had not been altered, and the furniture and hangings rigidly
preserved the ancient atmosphere.
The surprised butler and his assistant hurriedly prepared hot Scotches
and toddy, and the halls and large rooms on the lower floor were soon
filled with the swaggering company--all talking at once, each with his
tale of luck or misfortune.
It was not until Camilla was gratefully enthroned in a big chair by the
open fireplace that Cortland Bent found a chance to speak to her.
"What possessed you, Camilla? You rode like a demon. You've dragged
poor Rita's pride in the mire. Riding is her long suit. She's not used
to yielding her laurels as she did to-day. I fancy she's not at all
happy about it."
"Why?" asked Camilla, wonderingly.
"You don't know Rita as I do. She runs things out here pretty much in
her own way." He chuckled quietly. "Good Lord, but you did put it over
her."
"I'm sorry if she feels badly about it," she put in mendaciously.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. You won out against odds on a horse
she'd thrown into the discard. That doesn't make her feel any sweeter.
She's a queer one. There's no telling how she'll take things. But she
doesn't like being the under dog, and she won't forget this soon."
"Neither will I," said Camilla, smiling to herself. "She scored one on
me yesterday, but I fancy our accounts are about even."
"Yes, they are. I suppose there's no use warning you."
"No, there isn't, Cort. I fancy I'll be able to look out for myself."
He examined her keenly and realized that she was looking at Jeff, who
stood with some men at the end of the room toasting their hostess. He
seemed to have forgotten Camilla's existence. In the field before they
came into the house Jeff had spoken to her, and when Janney had given
Camilla the Brush, Jeff had congratulated her noisily and with the
heartiness and enthusiasm he always showed over things which reflected
credit on himself. In their private life Jeff still stood a little in
awe of Camilla. He realized that his many deficiencies put him at a
disadvantage with a woman of her stamp, and, no matter what he felt, he
had never asked more of her in the way of companionship than she had
been willing to give him ungrudgingly; he was tolerant of her literary
moods, her music, her love of pictures, and the many things he could not
understand. She was the only cultured woman he had ever known, and his
marriage had done little to change his way of thinking of her. Camilla
had not meant to abide forever in the shrine in which Jeff had enthroned
her.
In the earlier days of their married life she had been willing to sit
enshrined because it had been the easiest way to conceal the actual
state of her own mind; because it had come to be a habit with her--and
with him to behold her there. Their pilgrimage to New York had made a
difference. It was not easy for Camilla to define it just yet. He was a
little easier in his ways with her, regarded her inaccessibility a
little less seriously, and questioned by his demeanor rather than by any
spoken words matters which had long been taken for granted by them both.
He had made no overt declaration of independence and, in his way, gave
her opinions the same respect he had always given them. The difference,
if anything, had been in the different way in which they viewed from the
very same angle the great world of affairs. Men, as Jeff had always
known, were much the same all the world over, but, curiously enough, he
had never seen fit to apply any rule to its women. It was flattery,
indeed, for him to have believed for so long that, because Camilla was
cultured, all cultured women must be like Camilla. His wife realized
that Jeff's discovery of Mrs. Cheyne was requiring a readjustment of all
his early ideas. And so, while she spoke lightly of Mrs. Cheyne to
Cortland Bent, in her heart she was aware that if the lady took it into
her pretty head to use Jeff as a weapon she might herself be put upon
the defensive.
It seemed as though Cortland had an intuition of what was passing in her
mind.
"If there's any way in which I can be of service," he ventured.
"Oh, yes, Cort," she laughed. "I'll call on you. The only thing I ask
of you now is--not to fall in love with Mrs. Cheyne."
"Rita? I'd as soon think of falling in love with a kaleidoscope.
Besides----"
But she laid restraining fingers on his arm.
"Tell me about Gretchen," she interrupted quickly.
"There's nothing to tell, except," he said with a sigh, "that she's
quite gone on Larry."
"You can't mean it?"
"Really--she told me so."
Camilla glanced toward the hall where the two young people were sitting
in the big haircloth sofa engaged in a harmless investigation of the
science of palmistry.
Camilla laughed. "It really looks so, doesn't it? I am sorry, though.
I had begun to look on Miss Janney as one of the solutions of our
difficulty."
"There isn't any solution of it--not that way--you must take my word for
it. Gretchen and I understand each other perfectly. If I can do
anything to help Lawrence Berkely with her, I'll do it."
"Oh, you're quite hopeless, Cort," she sighed, "and I have no patience
with Larry. I can't see why he doesn't mind his own business."
Bent glanced at the young couple in the hall. "He seems to me to be
doing _that_ tolerably well." He leaned forward so that his tone,
though lowered, could be heard distinctly.
"There is another solution. Perhaps you had not thought of it." She
turned her head quickly and searched his face for a meaning. For reply
he coolly turned his gaze in the direction of Jeff and Mrs. Cheyne, who
had withdrawn into an embrasure of one of the windows.
"A solution----" she stammered.
"Yes, a way out--for both of us."
"You mean Jeff--and Mrs. Cheyne?" she whispered.
"I do."
The poison of his suggestion flowed slowly through her mind, like a drug
which stimulates and stupefies at the same time.
"You mean that I should allow Jeff--that I should connive in his----"
She stopped, horror-stricken. "Oh, Cort, that was unworthy of you," she
whispered.
"I mean it. They're well met--those two," he finished viciously.
Camilla held up her fingers pleadingly. "Don't speak. I forbid you."
And, rising, she took up her gloves and crop from the table. "Besides,"
she said more lightly, "I have a suspicion that you are trying to stir
up a tempest in a teapot."
"Do you mean you haven't noticed?" he insisted. "At my father's? At the
Warringtons'? Last night at the Janneys'?"
"No," she replied carelessly, "I hadn't noticed."
Curtis Janney, who had been moving fussily from one group to another,
came forward as he saw Camilla rise.
"I was hoping we might still get another short run, but I suppose you're
too tired, Mrs. Wray?"
"A little--but don't let me interfere. I think I can find my way back."
He looked at his watch. "Hello! It's time we were off anyway. The
other guests will be eating all our breakfast. Come, Cort, Gretchen,
Mrs. Cheyne--you know you're my guest still," strolling from group to
group and ruthlessly breaking up the tete-a-tetes so successfully that
Rita Cheyne rebelled.
"You're a very disagreeable person, Mr. Janney--Ivywild resents it.
You're trying to form the hospitality of the county into one of those
horrid trusts. Every time accident throws the hunt my way you insist on
dragging it off to Braebank. It isn't fair. Of course, if you
insist----"
And then, crossing to Camilla, "_Dear_ Mrs. Wray, I'm borrowing your
husband for a while. I feel a little tired, so he promised to lunch
with me here and go on to Braebank later. You don't mind, do you?"
"Not in the least, my _dear_ Mrs. Cheyne. I'm _so_ sorry you feel
badly." And then to her husband, "Remember, Jeff, Mr. Janney expects
you later." Each spoke effusively, the tips of their fingers just
touching. Then Mrs. Cheyne followed her visitors to the door.
Outside a coach-horn was blowing, and, as they emerged upon the porch
the Janney brake arrived, tooled by the coachman and bearing aloft Mrs.
Rumsen, General Bent, and Gladys, who had arrived from town on the
morning train. But they would not get down, and the cavalcade soon
wound its way along the drive, leaving Jeff and Mrs. Cheyne waving them
a good-by from the steps.
Camilla took the road thoughtfully. It was the first time in their
brief social career that Jeff had not consulted her before he made his
own plans. She did not blame him altogether, for she knew that Jeff's
inexperience made him singularly vulnerable to the arts of a woman of
the type of Mrs. Cheyne, who, for want of any better occupation in life,
had come to consider all men her lawful prey. Camilla knew that mild
flirtations were the rule rather than the exception in this gay world
where idle people caught at anything which put to flight the insistent
demon of weariness and boredom. And she discovered that it was a part
of the diversion of the younger married couples to loan husbands and
wives to satisfy the light fancy of the hour. All this was a part of the
fabric in which she and Jeff were living and endangered society only
when the women were weak and the men vicious. But Jeff somehow didn't
seem to fit into the picture. His personality she had learned to
associate with significant achievements. His faults, as well as his
virtues, were big, and he had a habit of scorning lesser sins. The
pleasure of a mild flirtation such as his brothers of the city might
indulge in for the mere delight of the society of a woman would offer
nothing to Jeff, who was not in the habit of doing anything mildly or by
halves. Camilla knew him better than Mrs. Cheyne did.
Of course, no one thought anything of his new interest in Mrs. Cheyne.
All of the younger men were interested in Mrs. Cheyne at one time or
another, and it was doubtful if people had even noticed his attentions.
Cortland had, but there was a reason for that. Anything that could
discredit Jeff in her eyes was meat and drink to him. But it was cruel
of Cortland to take advantage of her isolation, but how could she cut
herself off from Cort, when her husband, by the nature of the situation,
had thrown her so completely on his mercies? It seemed as though all
the world was conspiring to throw her with the one man whose image she
had promised her conscience she would wipe from her heart. He rode
beside her now remorselessly, proving by his silence more eloquently the
measure of his appreciation of the situation. She felt that he, too, was
entering the Valley of Indecision, with the surer step of a dawning
Hope, while she faltered on the brink of the Slough of Despond.
They had fallen well behind the others, and followed a quiet lane
bordered by a row of birch trees which still clung tenaciously to the
remnants of their autumn finery. At one side gushed a stream, fed by
the early snows, which sang musically of the secrets of earth and sky.
There was no indecision here. Every twig, every painted stone, the sky
and breeze, spoke a message of blithe optimism. All was right with the
world, and if doubt crept into the hearts of men it was because they
were deaf to the messages of Nature. The spell of its beauty fell on
Camilla, too, and she found herself smiling up at Cortland Bent. There
were many things to be thankful for.
"Are you happy?" he asked.
"One can't be anything else on a day like this."
"You don't care then?"
"For what? Oh, yes. I have a natural interest in the welfare of my
husband. But I think Mrs. Cheyne is wasting her time."
"I think perhaps you underrate her," he muttered.
"I'd rather underrate Mrs. Cheyne than underrate myself," proudly.
He was silent for a moment, flicking at the weeds with his riding-crop.
"Mrs. Cheyne and you have nothing in common, Camilla," he said. "I'm
afraid it isn't in you to understand this crowd. The set in which she
and I were brought up is a little world in itself. The things which
happen outside of it are none of its concern. It doesn't care. It has
its own rules and its own code of decency to which it makes its members
subscribe. It is New York in miniature, the essence, the cream of its
vices, its virtues, and its follies. It lives like that poison-ivy
along the fence, stretching out its tendrils luxuriously in the
direction of the sun, moving along the line of least resistance. It
does not care what newer growth it stunts, what blossom learns to grow
beneath its shade, to fade and droop, perhaps to wither for lack of air
and sunlight----"
"And yet--there's Gretchen," she said, "and you."
He smiled almost gaily. "Yes, there are many Gretchens, thank God.
Girls with the clean, sound vision of their sturdy forbears, whose
mothers were young when the city still felt the impress of its early
austerities."
"And you?" she repeated.
His brow darkened and he looked straight before him.
"What I am doesn't matter. I was born and bred in this atmosphere.
Isn't that enough?"
"It's enough that you survived--that you, too, have a clean vision."
"No, that is not true," he said sharply. "I can't see clearly--I'm not
sure that I want to see clearly--not now."
"I won't believe that, Cort. Back there at _her_ house you said
something that was unworthy of you, that showed me another side of your
nature, the dark side, like the shadowy places under the ivy. I want you
to forget that you ever said them--that you ever thought them even."
"I can't," he muttered savagely. "I _want_ some one to come between
you--to make him suffer what I am suffering--to place a distance between
you which nothing can ever repair."
"Some one has already come between us," she said, gently. "The one I
have in mind is the Cort Bent of Mesa City, who used to help me gather
columbines; who rode with me far up the trail to get the last ray of the
sunset when the valley below was already asleep in the shadow; who
shouted my name in the gorge because he said it was sweet to hear the
mountains send back its echoes all silvered over with the mystery of the
Infinite; who told me of palaces and gardens in lands which I had never
seen, and of the talented men and women who had lived in them; who sang
to me in the moonlight and taught me to dream----"
"Don't, Camilla----"
"That was a boy I remember, who lived years and years ago when I was
rich--rich in innocent visions which he did nothing to destroy. It was
he who gave me an idea that there were men who differed from those I had
known before--men in whose hearts was tenderness and in whose minds one
might find a mirror for one's harmless aspirations toward a life that
wasn't all material and commonplace. He was my knight, that boy,
thoughtful, considerate, and gentle. He was foolish sometimes, but I
loved him because his ideals had not been destroyed."
"I lied to you. Life is a cinder."
She shook her head. "No, you did not lie to me--not then. Later you
did when you asked me to come to New York. Oh, I know. I can see more
clearly now. Suppose that even now I chose what you call your solution
of the tangle we've made of things. You'd like to see Jeff desert me
for Rita Cheyne so that you could have your own way with me now."
"Camilla! I was mad then. I thought you understood. Gretchen and
I----"
"I understand many things better than I did," she interrupted. "You
were no more mad then than you are now. I think I have always been
willing to forgive you for that. I wanted to forgive you because I
thought perhaps you didn't know what you were saying. But you make it
harder for me now. The boy I knew in the West is dead, Cortland. In
his place rides a man I do not know, a man with a shadow in his eyes, a
man of the gay world, which moves along the line of least resistance,
with little room in his heart for the troubles of the woman he once
offered to protect with his life."
"I would still protect you--that is what I am offering."
"How? By making me a woman like Rita Cheyne, who changes her husbands
as though they were fashions in parasols. You offer me protection from
Jeff. I refuse it." And then she added a little haughtily, "I'm not
sure that I need any protection."
He glowered toward her, searching her face sullenly.
"You love him?" he muttered.
She smiled a little proudly. "I can't love you both. Jeff is my
husband."
"You love him?" he repeated. "Answer me!"
"Not when you take that tone. I'll answer you nothing. Come, we had
better ride forward." And, before he could restrain her, she had urged
her horse into a canter.
"Camilla!" he called.
But before he could reach her she had joined the others, outside the
gates of Braebank.
*CHAPTER X*
*TRITON OF THE MINNOWS*
Mr. Janney's breakfast guests had gone, and, having seen the last of the
country wagons depart, he went into the office next to the smoking room,
where Cornelius Bent sat awaiting him. Curtis Janney brought a sheaf of
telegrams and letters which he laid on the desk. Then he opened a
humidor, offered his guest a cigar, took one himself, and sat down.
"Well, what did you hear?" asked General Bent. Janney took a puff or two
at his cigar, then frowned at the papers on the table.
"A great deal," he muttered, "both bad and good. I have here reports
for the whole week from our men in Denver, Pueblo, Kinney, and Saguache.
The pressure from Abington and the Chicago and Utah has finally brought
Noakes into line. It was something of a job, for he's tied up in one of
Wray's development companies, and it has cost some money. Abington had
to give him a big bonus for the stock in the Denver and Western.
Collins and Hardy came around all right, and it only remains to put the
screws on to make Wray show his hand."
"Have you decided on that?" asked the General.
"No, I haven't."
Curtis Janney took up a letter which he had separated from the others.
"You remember we thought his planning this new line to Pueblo was
financial suicide and that, if we gave Wray enough rope, he'd hang
himself. We didn't even see the use of throwing the usual impediments
in the way."
Bent nodded.
"Well, they're building it."
"It's only a bluff."
"I'm not so sure. My last reports show that the money is in the
treasury--some of it is Wray's, but most of it has come from Utah,
California, and Washington even. The Denver and California is backing
the whole project, and tent towns are springing up along the line of the
survey. Those people out there believe in Wray and are following him
like sheep."
"They wouldn't follow him long if we found a way to stop him," said the
General grimly. "I've seen those stampedes before, but they always come
to an end. What does Lamson report?"
"The Denver and California seems set on this thing--the more so as it
promises to be a success without much help from them."
General Bent got up and paced the floor with quick, nervous strides.
"Why, Curtis," he said, "you seem to see unusual trouble in the way.
The case presents no greater difficulties than the Seemuller plant did,
or the Myers and Ott, but we got them both in the end."
"There is a difference."
"Where?"
"The man himself. He'll fight to the last ditch. That jaw wasn't given
him altogether as an ornament. I'm sorry we can't find his weak point.
A man who looks as far ahead as he does is a good one to tie to."
"But he may not want any strings on him. The other night at dinner at
my house he was boasting of his independence. He didn't know how hot it
made me."
"Yes, he did. That's why he did it. He said the same thing here
yesterday. But I wasn't deceived. It was all a part of his game. I
think in a game of bluff he can make old gamesters like you and me sit
up and do some guessing." Janney knocked the ash from his cigar and
laughed.
"Cornelius, our fine scheme hasn't worked out--not so far. When Wray
first came in the office, you sized him up as a social climber. But, if
you think we are going to bewilder him by our clubs, the opera, and
social connections, you're reckoning without your host."
General Bent smiled tolerantly.
"He assimilates surprisingly well," he said with a reflective nod. "For
all his Western manner, he never gives the impression of being
ill-at-ease. I'll say that for him. Why, do you know, I strolled in on
Caroline the other afternoon on my way uptown and found him teaching her
how to play pinochle."
"Mrs. Rumsen?"
"Yes. She'll be making him the rage before the winter is out. But he
takes it all as a matter of course. Indeed, I think he fancies himself
our equal in any matter." He paused and then rose. "But he must prove
that. The Amalgamated must own that smelter."
"Oh, yes," said Janney, following him with his eyes. "It will, of
course. We can't have him underbidding us. It's lucky he hasn't tried
it yet. But that's the danger from a man with both ability and ambition.
And we can't run the risk of letting him get too far."
There was a silence of some moments, which Cornelius Bent improved by
running over the correspondence. When he had finished he tossed the
letters abruptly on the table, and walked to the window. "Poor Cort,"
he muttered, "he lost us the whole thing. I wonder what's the matter
with that boy. He always seems to miss it somehow. I can never make a
business man of him--like you or myself--or like Jeff Wray."
"He's cost us a pretty penny," growled Janney.
The General still stood by the window, his chin deep in his chest, his
long fingers twitching behind his back.
"Jeff Wray must pay for that, Curtis. If we can't beat him in one way
we must choose another. Jeff Wray stole the 'Lone Tree.' He trespassed
on our property in the dead of the night, did violence to one of our
employes, and bluffed Cort into signing that lease. If there was any
law in the state of Colorado, he'd be serving his term at Canon City.
But I'll get him yet! I will, by God! If he'd come in this office now
and hold you up for the money in your safe he'd be a thief. What is the
difference?"
"Just this: He was successful, and he left no loose ends behind him."
"I've thought at times, Janney, that you lack some interest in this
fight."
"Why? Because I take the precaution to get all the information I
can--and because my information turns out to be unfavorable to our
plans? You want to crush Wray. Very well. I have no objections. Crush
him if you can. But it would hardly do to let him crush _us_."
Bent turned and examined his host curiously. Then he laughed. It wasn't
pretty laughter, and it cracked dryly, like the sound of a creaking
door.
"Upon my word, Curtis, you amaze me," he said.
"Very well," put in Janney coolly. "But think it over. Don't be hasty.
If he puts that road through and starts the game of underbidding on the
raw product, we'll be in for a long fight--and an expensive one. I
don't think the Company wants that now. McIntyre doesn't, I know. And
Warrington, as usual, is for temporizing."
"Temporizing?" Cornelius Bent's jaws snapped viciously. "This is not a
case where personal preferences can be considered. There's a great
principle involved. Are we going to let an upstart like Jeff Wray--a
petty real estate operator from an obscure Western town--come into our
field with a few stolen millions and destroy the plans of an organized
business which controls the output of practically all the great
gold-producing states--a company whose sound methods have brought order
out of chaos, have given employment to an army of people; whose patents
have simplified processes, reduced the cost of production, and kept the
price of the metal where it is satisfactory both to the mines and the
market? Are we going to see all this jeopardized by a wild-catter, a
tin-horn gambler, a fellow with neither decency nor moral principle?
Temporize like Warrington if you like, but the Board of the Amalgamated
must make a fight for the Wray smelter--or accept my resignation."
Bent stalked the floor swiftly, biting off the ends of his sentences as
though they were parts of Wray's anatomy, clenching his fingers as he
might have done had they encircled Wray's neck. Curtis Janney followed
him with his gaze, his brows tangled and his lips compressed, aware of
the seriousness of the situation. The resignation of Cornelius Bent
from the Board of the Amalgamated was a contingency not for a moment to
be considered.
"That, of course, is impossible," he said. "We're all behind you to a
dollar if you take that stand. But couldn't it be wise to have Wray in
and talk to him? We might learn something that's not on the cards."
"Oh, yes, if you like," growled the General, "but you're wasting time.
I've got my idea of what that property is worth. I'll make him the
offer. If he refuses"--and his lower jaw worked forward--"it will be
war--to the last ditch."
Curtis Janney pressed a bell, and a servant appeared.
"Has Mr. Wray returned?"
"Yes, sir," said the man.
"Tell him General Bent would like to see him here."
The man departed, and General Bent with an effort relaxed the muscles of
his face and sat. Both gentlemen looked up quickly when the servant
returned a few moments later.
"I delivered your message, sir," he said. "Mr. Wray asked me to say
that he is engaged at the present moment and will join you later."
General Bent's brows drew together angrily, but Janney inquired suavely,
"Where did you find him, Carey?"
"In the conservatory, sir, with Mrs. Cheyne."
Janney smiled, but suppressed Bent's sudden exclamation with a wave of
the hand.
"You may bring in the whisky, then tell him that General Bent and I will
await his convenience."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Confound his impudence!" muttered the General, biting at his lip.
"All for effect, Cornelius," said Janney. "That fellow is an artist.
He's saving his face for the ordeal."
"Let him save his neck," sneered Bent.
Janney stretched his legs forward and smoked comfortably. "Break it if
you like, Cornelius," he said. "I can't, you know, so long as he's my
guest."
Wray sauntered in some moments later, accompanied by Rita Cheyne.
General Bent looked up with a scowl, which the lady's gay assurance
failed to dismiss.
"May I come in, too?" she asked. "I'm wild to hear how big men talk
business. Won't you let me, Cousin Cornelius? I'm positively thirsty
for knowledge--business knowledge. You' don't mind, do you, Mr.
Janney?"
"You can't be interested."
Wray laughed. "I'm the original woolly Western lamb being led to the
shearing, Mrs. Cheyne----"
"The golden fleece!" she put in. "I know. But I'm not going to allow
it. You're not going to let them--are you, Jeff Wray?"
"I never knew a lamb that had any opinions on the matter," he said
easily.
The General got to his feet testily.
"Rita, this won't do at all. We wanted to speak to Wray privately----"
"Oh! You needn't mind me. I'm positively bursting with other people's
confidences. But I'm really the soul of discretion. Please let me
stay." She went over to Curtis Janney and laid her hands on his
shoulders appealingly. "I'll sell you Jack-in-the-Box if you will, Mr.
Janney," she said. "You know you've wanted that horse all season."
Janney laughed. "That's a great temptation--but this isn't my affair,"
and he glanced at General Bent, who stood frowning at them from the
window.
"Leave the room at once, Rita!" said the General sternly. "You're
interfering here. Can't you see----?"
Mrs. Cheyne dropped her hands.
"Oh, if you take that tone, of course." She moved toward the door,
turning with her hand on the knob--"I think you're horrid--both of you.
I hope your lamb turns out to be a lion, and eats you up." And, with a
laugh and a toss of her head, she went out, banging the door behind her.
Jeff Wray and Curtis Janney laughed, but the frown on General Bent's
face had not relaxed for an instant. When the door had closed he sat
down in his chair again, while Janney offered cigars. Jeff took one
with a sudden serious air, meant perhaps as a tribute to the attitude
and years of his fellow guest.
Curtis Janney, looking from one to the other, searched each face for
signs of doubt or indetermination and found in each the same deeply set
eyes, straight brow, firm, thin mouth, square jaw, and heavy chin which
he recognized as belonging to those of this world who know how to fight
and who do not know when they are beaten. Wray's features were heavier,
the lines in the General's face more deeply bitten by the acid of Time,
but their features were so much alike that, had Janney not known the
thing was impossible, it might have been easy to imagine some kind of
collateral or even more intimate family relationship.
"You asked me to come here," said Wray, easily apologetic. "What can I
do for you, General Bent?"
Bent's deeply set eyes were hidden under his bushy eyebrows, but the
lips which held his cigar were flickering in a smile.
"Yes," he began with a slow, distinct enunciation, which Wray recognized
at once as belonging to his office downtown, "I thought we might talk a
little business, if Mr. Janney doesn't object."
"Not in the least," said Janney, "but there's no reason why we shouldn't
mix in a little of the Old Thorne," and he handed the decanter to Wray.
Cornelius Bent refused.
"Wray," he went on, "we've been talking about your plant down in the
Valley. From all we've been able to find out, it's a pretty good
proposition in a small way. But the Amalgamated Reduction Company has
no special interest in acquiring it. That mountain range, in our
judgment, will never be a big producer. The 'Lone Tree' is the kind of
an exception that one finds only once in a lifetime."
"And yet we're running on full time," said Wray, with an odd smile. "If
the other mines keep up their promise we won't need to buy any more ore,
General."
"The mountains of the West are full of holes that once were promising,
Wray--like notes of hand--but they've long since gone to protest."
Jeff's chin tipped upward the fraction of an inch. "I'm endorsing these
notes, General. Besides," he added suavely, "you know I'm not
overanxious to sell. When I came into your office it was only with the
hope that I might establish friendly relations. That, I'm glad to say,
I succeeded in doing. Your health, Mr. Janney."
General Bent refused to be disarmed. "Yes, I know. But friendship and
business are two things. Commercially you are in the attitude of a
rival of the company I represent. Of course"--opulently--"not a serious
rival, but one who must logically be considered in our plans. We didn't
like your building that smelter, and you could have brought your ore at
a fair price to one of our plants in Pueblo or Colorado Springs."
"Yes--but that interfered with my own plans," said Jeff. "And I have
had them a long time."
"It's a little late to talk about that," assented Bent. "The plant is
there, the mines are there, and----"
"Yes. But I don't see how they need bother you. Most of the gold we
send to market comes from the 'Lone Tree.' I haven't handled any ore
below your prices--not yet."
There was, if possible, the slightest accent on the last words, but Wray
uttered them with a sweet complacency which failed to deceive. This
young fool was threatening--actually threatening the mighty Smelting
Trust. It was so preposterous that General Bent actually laughed--a
thing he seldom did below Twenty-third Street or when he talked business
elsewhere.
"No," he said grimly. "I'm glad that didn't seem necessary. It would
have been a pity. See here, Wray"--he leaned forward, his face drawn in
decisive lines--"let's get to the point. We've both been dodging it
very consistently for a month. You've got some property that may be
useful to us. We've thought enough about it at least to make a few
inquiries about the whole situation--and about you. We could take that
plant under our own management and do a little better than you could. I
don't think the location really warrants it--for the big mine may stop
paying any day and the railroad facilities, you'll admit, are not of the
best. But, if you're willing to sell out at a moderate figure, we might
buy it. Or, perhaps, you'd like to come in with us and take stock in
the Company. We think a good deal of your ability. There isn't any
doubt that you could make yourself useful to us if you chose."
"Thanks," said Jeff, with a sip at his Scotch, and then looked out of
the window. He had caught the meaning of General Bent's casual remark
about the railroad facilities.
"Of course," Bent went on, "I don't care to show improper curiosity
about your plans, but if you are willing to meet me in a friendly spirit
we might reach an agreement that would be profitable both to your
companies and mine."
"I'd rather think it was interest than curiosity," said Wray with a
smile. "But, unfortunately, I haven't got any plans--further than to
get all the ore I can out of 'Lone Tree' and to keep my works busy.
Just now I'm pretty happy the way things are going. I've screwed the
lid down, and I'm sitting on it, besides--with one eye peeled for the
fellow with the screw driver."
Cornelius Bent controlled his anger with difficulty. His equality with
Jeff, as a guest of Curtis Janney, gave Wray some advantages. The easy
good nature with which he faced the situation and his amused
indifference to the danger which threatened him put the burden of proof
on the General, who experienced the feelings of an emperor who has been
jovially poked in the ribs by the least of his subjects. This was _lese
majeste_. Wray was either a fool or a madman.
"Has it never occurred to you, Wray," snapped Bent, "that somebody might
come along with an axe?"
"Er--no. I hadn't thought of that," he replied quietly.
"Well, think it over. It's worth your while."
"Is this a declaration of war?"
"Oh, no," hastily, "merely a movement for peace."
Wray took a few puffs at his cigar and looked from Janney to the
General, like a man on whom some great truth had suddenly dawned.
"I had no idea," he said, with a skillfully assumed expression of
wonder, "that the Amalgamated was so desperately anxious as this."
In drawing aside the curtain, he had still managed to retain his
tactical advantage. Both older men felt it--Bent more than Janney,
because it was he who had shown their hand, while Wray's cards were
still unread.
The natural response was tolerant amusement, and both of them made it.
"Anxious?" laughed Bent. "Is the lion anxious when the wolf comes
prowling in his jungle? Success has twisted your perspective, my dear
Wray. The Amalgamated is not anxious--it has, however, a natural
interest in the financial health of its competitors."
"But I'm _not_ a competitor. That's just the point. I'm governed by
_your_ methods, _your_ plans, _your_ prices. I've been pretty careful
about that. No, _sir_, I know better than to look for trouble with the
Amalgamated."
"One moment, Wray," put in Janney; "we don't seem to be getting
anywhere. Let's simplify matters. We can get along without your plant,
but if we wanted to buy, what would you want for it?"
"Do you mean the smelter--or all my interests in the Valley?" asked Wray
quickly.
"The smelter, of course--and the Denver and Saguache Railroad."
"I don't care to sell--I've got other interests--my Development Company,
the coal mines and lumber--they're all a part of the same thing, Mr.
Janney, like the limbs of my body--cut one off, and I might bleed to
death."
"We could give you traffic agreements."
"I'd rather not. I'll sell--but only as a whole--gold mines, coal,
lumber, and all."
Wray caught General Bent's significant nod.
"That is my last word, gentlemen," he concluded firmly.
There was a silence, which Cornelius Bent broke at last.
"And what is your figure, Mr. Wray?" he asked.
Jeff Wray reached for the match box, slowly re-lit his cigar, which
emitted clouds of smoke, through which presently came his reply. "You
gentlemen have been kind to me here in New York. I want you to know that
I appreciate it. You've shown me a side of life I never knew existed.
I like the West, but I like New York, too. I want to build a house and
spend my winters here--I wasn't figuring on doing that just yet--but if
you really want my interests I'll sell them to you--without
reservation--every stick and stone of them for thirty millions."
"Thirty millions?"
The voices of both men sounded as one, Janney's frankly
incredulous--Bent's satirical and vastly unpleasant.
"Thirty millions!" Bent repeated with a sneer. "Dollars or cents, Mr.
Wray?"
Jeff turned and looked at him with the innocent and somewhat vacuous
stare which had learned its utility in a great variety of services.
Jeff only meant it as a disguise, but the General thought it impudent.
"Dollars, sir," said Jeff coolly. "It will pay me that--in time."
"In a thousand years," roared the General. "The Amalgamated doesn't
figure on millenniums, Mr. Wray. We don't want your other interests,
but we'll buy them--for five million dollars--in cash--and not a cent
more. You can sell at that price or--" the General did not see, or
refused to see, the warning glance from Janney--"or be wiped off the
map. Is that clear?"
"I think so, sir," said Wray politely. "Will you excuse me, Mr.
Janney?" and bowed himself out of the room.
*CHAPTER XI*
*DISCORD*
That afternoon late, Berkely and the Wrays returned to town, and the
Western wires tingled with Jeff's telegrams to Pueblo, Kinney, and Mesa
City. He had burnt his bridges behind him, and, like a skillful cavalry
leader, was picking out the vantage points in the enemy's country. The
answers came slowly, but Wray had planned his campaign before he left
the West, and the messages were satisfactory. He realized that his
utility in New York, for the present at least, was at an end, and he saw
that he must soon leave for the West to repair any possible break in his
line of communications.
Camilla learned of his intended departure with mingled feelings. Her
husband's rather ostentatious deference to Mrs. Cheyne had annoyed her.
She knew in her heart that she had no right to cavil or to criticise,
and pride forbade that she should question him. Larry's presence at
dinner precluded personal discussions, and Camilla sat silent while the
men talked seriously of Jeff's business plans. It had not been her
husband's habit to discuss his affairs with her, and, when the coffee
was served, he asked her coolly if she wouldn't rather be alone.
"Do you mind if I stay, Jeff?" she asked. "I'd like to hear, if you
don't mind."
"I'd rather you wouldn't. You can't be interested in this--besides, the
matter is rather important and confidential."
She got up quickly. Larry Berkely, who had caught the expression in her
eyes, opened the door for her and followed her into the drawing room.
"Don't be annoyed, Camilla," he whispered. "Jeff is worried. You
understand, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, I understand," she replied wearily. "Don't mind me."
As the door closed behind him she stood irresolute for a moment, then
suddenly realized she had been up since dawn and was very tired. Her
body ached, and her muscles were sore, but the weariness in her mind was
greater than these. The closing of the dining-room door had robbed her
of the refuge she most needed. She wanted to talk--to hear them
talk--anything that would banish her own thoughts--anything that would
straighten out the disorderly tangle of her late impressions of the new
life and the people she had met in it. She had never thought of Jeff as
sanctuary before, and yet she now realized, when the support of his
strength was denied her, that in her heart she had always more or less
depended upon him for guidance.
And yet she feared him, too. A while ago she had been filled with
horror at his share in the "Lone Tree" affair, and since that time the
knowledge had haunted her. But she had not dared to speak of it to him.
She felt instinctively that this was one of the matters upon the other
side of the gulf that had always yawned with more or less imminence
between them. Their relations were none too stable to risk a chance of
further discord. The difference in his manner which she had noticed a
week or more ago had become more marked, and to-night at the dinner
table he had troubled less than usual to disguise his lack of interest
in her opinions. The image of Cort was ever in her mind, and the danger
that threatened her seemed no less distant than before, and yet she
still hoped, as she had always done, that something would happen--some
miracle, some psychological crisis which would show her husband and
herself the way to unity. Since she had seen Cortland Bent, she had lost
some faith in herself, gained some fear of Jeff, whose present attitude
she was at a loss to understand, but she still clung desperately to the
tattered shreds of their strange union, though lately even those seemed
less tangible. To-night, when she had asked him to take her West with
him, he had refused her impatiently--almost brusquely.
She went into her own rooms slowly and undressed. As she sat before her
mirror, the sight of the scratch on her face recalled the incidents of
the day. Mrs. Cheyne! Her lips drew together, her brows tangled in
thought, and she dismissed her maid, who had come in to brush her hair.
What right had Jeff to ignore her as he had done? No matter what her
own shortcomings, in public, at least, she had always shown him a proper
respect and had never in her heart dishonored him by an unworthy
thought. For one brief moment in Cortland Bent's arms she had been swept
from the shallows into deeper water, but even then she had known, as she
knew now, that loyalty to Jeff had always been uppermost in her
thoughts. They must have an understanding before he went away. She
would not be left here in New York alone. She had learned to distrust
herself, to distrust Jeff, Cort, and all the charming irresponsible
people of the gay set into which they had been introduced.
In her dressing gown she sat before her fire and listened to the murmur
of voices in the drawing room, from which she had been banished. She
could hear Jeff's steps as he rose and paced the floor, his voice louder
and more insistent than Larry's. There was a coming and going of pages
delivering and receiving telegrams, and she felt the undercurrent of a
big crisis in Jeff's career--the nature of which she had only been
permitted to surmise. His attitude had wounded her pride. It hurt her
that Larry should see her placed in the position of a petitioner. Her
one comfort was the assurance that she did not care what Jeff himself
thought of her, that it was her pride which insisted on a public
readjustment of their relations.
Camilla got up, slowly, thoughtfully, and at last moved to the bell
determinedly.
To her maid she said, "Tell Mr. Wray I'd like to see him before he goes
out."
When Wray entered the room later, a frown on his face, the cloud of
business worry in his eyes, he found Camilla asleep on the divan under a
lamp, a magazine on the rug beside her, where it had fallen from her
fingers. His lips had been set for short words, but when he saw her he
closed the door noiselessly behind him. Even sleep could not diminish
the proud curve of the nostrils, or change the firmly modeled chin and
the high, clearly penciled brows. Jeff looked at her a moment, his face
showing some of the old reverence--the old awe of her beauty.
And while he looked, she stirred uneasily and murmured a name. He
started so violently that a chair beside him scraped the floor and awoke
her.
"I must have--oh--it's you, Jeff----"
"You wanted to see me?" he asked harshly.
"Yes--I----" She sat up languidly. "I did want to see you. There are
some things I want to talk about--some things I want explained. Sit
down, won't you?"
"I--I haven't much time."
"I won't keep you long. You've decided to go West--without me?"
"Yes, next week. Perhaps sooner if----"
"I want you to change your mind about taking me with you."
"Why?"
"I want to go."
Jeff laughed disagreeably. "You women are funny. For a year you've
been telling me that the only thing you wanted was a visit to New York.
Now you're here, you want to go back. I've told you to get all the
clothes you need, hired you an apartment in the best hotel, given you
some swell friends, bought you jewelry----"
"I don't want jewelry, or clothes, or friends," she insisted. "I want
to go back and watch them build 'Glen Irwin.'"
"They've stopped working on 'Glen Irwin.' I wanted the money that was
going into that."
"Oh!"
"I've a big fight on, and I need all the capital I can swing. 'Glen
Irwin' will have to wait," he finished grimly.
"Of course--I didn't understand. But it makes no difference. I can
stay at the hotel or at Mrs. Brennan's."
"After all this? Oh, no, you'd be miserable. Besides, I have other
plans."
"You don't want me?"
"No. I'll be very busy."
"No busier than you were before we came here."
Jeff paced the length of the room and returned before he answered her.
"See here, Camilla. You ought to know, by this time that when I say a
thing I mean it. I'm going West alone to do some fence-building.
You're to stay here and do the same thing--socially. I need these people
in my business, and I want you to keep on good terms with them."
She gazed thoughtfully at the fire. "Don't you believe me when I say I
want to go with you?"
Jeff made an abrupt movement. "Well--hardly. We've always got along
pretty well, so long as each of us followed our own pursuits. But I
think you might as well acknowledge that you don't need me--haven't
needed me now or at any other time."
"I do need you, Jeff. I want to try and take a greater interest in your
affairs--to help you if I can, socially if necessary, but I'd rather do
it with you than alone."
"I may not be gone long--perhaps only a week or so. In the meanwhile,
you're your own mistress."
"You've always let me be that. But I have reasons for wanting to leave
New York."