"Yes. I--I'm a little tired. The life here is so gay. I'm unused to
it. It bewilders me."
"I think I understand," he said slowly. "But it can't be helped. I
want you to cultivate the McIntyres, the Warringtons, and the Rumsens.
Larry will stay here in the hotel for a while. You can call on him."
She fingered the pages of a book beside her. "Then this is final?" she
asked.
"Yes--you must do as I say."
He had never before used that tone with her. The warm impulse that had
sought this interview was dried at its source. "Very well--I'll stay,"
she said coldly, "no matter what happens."
He examined her shrewdly.
"You're afraid?" he asked. "That's too bad. I thought I was doing you a
service."
"What do you mean?"
"Cort Bent. That's what I mean. Cort Bent. He's yours. I give him to
you."
"Jeff!"
She rose and faced him, trembling, and her eyes flickered like a
guttering candle, as she tried to return his look. "How could you?" she
stammered. "How could you speak to me so?"
But he was merciless. "Oh, I'm not blind, and I'm not deaf, either.
I've seen and I've heard. But I didn't need to see or to hear. Don't
you suppose I've always known you married me out of spite--out of pique,
because Cort Bent wouldn't marry you. I knew it then just as I know it
now, but I hoped I could win you back and that things would be the same
as they were before _he_ came meddling in my affairs. Well, you know
what happened better than I do. Our marriage has been a failure. I was
a fool--so were you. We've made the best of a bad job, but that don't
make it a good job. I let you go your own way. I've been good to you
because I knew I'd been as big a fool as you were. What I didn't know
was that you'd met Cort Bent behind my back----"
"That is not true," she broke in. "That day he called here----"
"Don't explain," impatiently, "it won't help matters. I'm not blind.
The main fact is that you've seen Cort Bent again and that you're still
in love with him. These people are talking about you."
"Who? Mrs. Cheyne?"
"Yes, Mrs. Cheyne--and others."
Camilla steadied herself with a hand upon the table. The brutality of
his short, sharp indictment unnerved her for the moment. She had hoped
he would have given her the opportunity to make an explanation in her
own way, a confession even which, if he had willed, might have brought
them nearer in spirit than they had ever been. But that was now
impossible. Every atom of him breathed antagonism--and the words of her
avowal were choked in the hot effusion of blood which pride and shame
sent coursing to her throat and temples.
"And if I _am_ still in love with him," she said insolently, "what
then?" He looked at her admiringly, for scorn became her.
"Oh, nothing," he said with a shrug. "Only be careful, that's all.
Back in Mesa City I thought of shooting Cort Bent, but I found a better
way to punish him. Here"--he laughed--"I've a different plan. I'm
going to give you a free foot. I'm going to throw you two together--to
give you a chance to work out your salvation in your own way. Your
marriage to me means nothing to you. Time has proved that. You and I
are oil and water. We don't mix. We never have mixed. There isn't any
reason that I can see that we're ever going to mix. We've worried along
somehow, to date, but it's getting on my nerves. I'd rather we
understood each other once and for all. I'm past changing. You knew
what I was--a queer weed, a mongrel. I took root and I grew as Nature
made me grow, in the soil I fell in, hardy, thick-ribbed, stubborn, and
lawless. The world was my enemy, but I fought it as Nature taught, by
putting on a rough bark and spines like the cactus that grew beside me.
Oh, I grew flowers, too, pretty pale blossoms that tried to open to the
sun. You had a chance to see them--but they weren't your kind. You
looked beyond them at the hot-house plants----"
"Don't, Jeff," she pleaded. "I can't bear it."
But he only laughed at her.
"Well, I've brought them to you--the roses, the orchids, the carnations,
and you're going to live with them, in the atmosphere you've always
wanted----"
"Won't you let me speak?"
"No!" he thundered. "My mind is made up. I'm going West alone. You go
your way. I go mine. Is that clear? You and Cortland Bent can meet
when and where you please."
"I don't want to meet him," she whispered brokenly. "I don't want to
see him again."
"I can't believe you," he sneered. "We've lived a lie since we were
married. Let's tell the truth for once in our lives. When I came in
this room you were asleep, but even while you slept you dreamed of him
and his name was in your mouth."
The face she turned up to him was haggard, but her eyes were wide with
wonder.
"I heard you--you were calling for Cort. I'm not going to be a fool any
longer."
He turned away from her and went toward the door, while she got up with
some dignity and walked to the fireplace.
"You're going--to Mrs. Cheyne?" she asked coldly.
"If I like," defiantly. "This game works both ways."
"Yes, I see. There's some method in your madness after all."
"I don't see why you should care--since I don't object to Bent. Mrs.
Cheyne is a friend of mine. She's investing in my company----"
"Evidently," with scorn. "No doubt you make it profitable to her."
"We won't talk about Mrs. Cheyne. You don't like her. I do. You like
Cort Bent. I don't. And there we are. We understand each other. It's
the first time in our lives we ever have. I don't question you, and
you're not to question me. All I ask is that you hide your trail, as
I'll hide mine. I have some big interests at stake, and I don't want
any scandal hanging around my name--or yours. I'm giving you into the
hands of my enemies. The father wants to ruin my business, the son to
ruin my wife. I'll fight General Bent with his own weapons. The
son----"
"You're insulting," she broke in. "Will you go?"
He turned at the door--his face pale with fury.
"Yes, I'll go. And I won't bother you again. These rooms are yours.
When I'm here, mine are there. Some day when I'm ready I'll get you a
divorce. Then you can marry as you please. As for me," he finished
passionately, "I'm done with marriage--done with it--you understand?"
And the door crashed between them.
Camilla stood for a moment, tense and breathless, staring wide-eyed at
the pitiless door. Then the room went whirling and she caught at the
chair at her desk and sank into it helplessly, one hand pressed against
her breast. For a moment she could not think, could not see even. The
brutality of his insults had driven her out of her bearings. Why he had
not struck her she could not imagine, for it was in the character of the
part he was playing. He had not given her a chance. He must have seen
that she was trying to repair past damages and begin anew. A throb of
self-pity that was almost a sob came into her throat. Tears gathered in
her eyes and pattered on the desk before her. She did not notice them
until she heard them fall, and then she dried her eyes abruptly as
though in shame for a weakness. He did not want to begin anew. She
could see it all clearly now. He was tired of her and caught at the
easiest way to be rid of her, by putting her in the wrong. Her strength
came quickly as she found the explanation, and she sat up rigidly in her
chair, her face hot with shame and resentment. She deserved something
better from him than this. All that was worst in her clamored for
utterance.
With a quick movement of decision she reached forward for a pen and
paper and wrote rapidly a scrawl, then rang the bell for her maid.
"Have this note mailed at once."
It was addressed to Cortland Bent.
*CHAPTER XII*
*TEA CUPS AND MUSIC*
Dropping in on Jack Perot meant being shot skyward for twelve stories in
a Louis Sixteenth elevator operated by a magnificent person in white
gloves and the uniform of a Prussian lieutenant. Perot's panelled door
was no different from others in the corridor upstairs, except for its
quaint bronze knocker, but the appearance of a man-servant in livery and
the glimpse of soft tapestries and rare and curious furniture which one
had on entering the small reception room gave notice that a person of
more than ordinary culture and taste dwelt within. The studio of the
painter itself was lofty, the great north window extending the full
height of two stories of the building, while the apartment beyond, a
library and dining room with steps leading above to the bedrooms,
contained all the luxuries that the most exacting bachelor might
require.
To arrive at the distinction of being a fashionable portrait painter one
must have many qualifications. In the schools one must know how to draw
and to paint from the model. In the fashionable studio one must know
how to draw and paint--then discover how not to do either. If the nose
of one's sitter is too long, one must know how to chop it off at the
end; if the mouth is too wide, one must approximate it to the Greek
proportions; eyes that squint must be made squintless and colorful;
protruding ears must be reduced. Indeed, there is nothing that the
beauty doctor professes to accomplish that the fashionable portrait
painter must not do with his magic brush. He must make the lean
spinster stout and the stout dowager lean; the freckled, spotless; the
vulgar, elegant; the anaemic, rosy; his whole metier is to select
agreeable characteristics and to present them so forcibly that the
unpleasant ones may be forgotten, to paint people as they ought to be
rather than as they are, to put women in silk who were meant for shoddy,
and men in tailored coats who have grown up in shirt-sleeves.
In addition to these purely technical attainments, he must be an
infallible judge of character, a diplomat, a sophist; he must have a
silver tea-service, to say nothing of excellent Scotch and cigarettes.
He must be able to write a sonnet or mix a salad, discuss the Book of
Job or the plays of Bernard Shaw, follow the quotations of the stock
market, the news of the day, and the fashions in women's hats. He must
laugh when he feels dejected and look dejected when he feels like
laughing. Indeed, there is nothing the fashionable portrait painter
must not be able to do, except perhaps really--to paint.
Jack Perot could even do that, too, when he wanted to. The sketch of
the Baroness Charny on his easel was really sincere--an honest bit of
painting done with the freedom his other work lacked. Perhaps this was
because it was not a commission, but just one of those happy interludes
which sometimes occur amid the dreariest of measures. It pleased him, at
any rate, and he stood off from it squinting delightedly through his
monocle while the Baroness poured the tea.
"Really, madame, it's too bad it's finished. I was almost ready to
believe myself back in Paris again," he said in French. "If one could
only live one's life backward!"
"Oh, that wouldn't do--in a little while perhaps you would be quite
poor."
"Yes," he sighed, "but think how much better I would paint." He stopped
before the sketch and sighed again. "I think it's you, Baroness. You
bring an echo of my vanished youth. Besides, I didn't paint you for
money. That is the difference."
"You are going to paint that handsome Madame Wray?"
"Yes. She's coming in for tea to-day."
"They are wonderful, those people. He is so original--so _farouche_."
"He's too fond of talking about himself," he growled. "These people
represent the Western type so common in New York--climbers--but New York
will forgive much in the husband of Mrs. Wray."
"He doesn't care whether he's forgiven or not, does he?"
"That's a pose. All Westerners adopt it. To consent to be like other
people would be to confess a weakness."
"I like him; but then"--the Baroness yawned politely--"all Americans are
attractive. Mrs. Wray I find less interesting."
"Naturally, madame. You are a woman." Then, after a pause, "It is a
pity she's getting herself talked about."
"Really? That's encouraging--with Monsieur Bent?"
"Oh, yes--they met in the West--the phenix of an old romance."
"How delightful! Monsieur Jeff doesn't care?"
"Oh, no," significantly. "He has his reasons."
The door-knocker clanged, and Mrs. Rumsen entered, escorting two
debutantes, who paused on the threshold of the studio gurglingly, their
eyes round with timidity and a precocious hopefulness of imminent
deviltries.
"_So_ kind of you, Mrs. Rumsen. Good morning, Miss Van Alstyne--Miss
Champney" (with Jack Perot it was always morning until six of the
afternoon). "You've met the Baroness?"
"How too thweetly perfect!"
"How fearfully interesting!"
The newcomers fluttered palpitantly from canvas to canvas and only
subsided when Mrs. Cheyne entered.
"Am I welcome?" she drawled. "This is your day, isn't it, Jack? Oh,
how charming!" She paused before the sketch of the Baroness. "Why
didn't you paint _me_ like that? I'll never forgive you. You were
painting me for Cheyne, I know it. My portrait fairly exudes the early
Victorian."
Perot kissed the tips of his fingers and wafted them toward her. "Quite
correct, dear Rita. Cheyne was paying the bill. Now if you gave me
another commission----"
"I won't--you're the most mercenary creature. Besides, I'm too hard up.
One must really have billions nowadays." She sank on the couch beside
the Baroness. "It's really very exhausting--trying to live on one's
income. I'm very much afraid I shall have to marry again."
"You need a manager. May I offer----"
"No, thanks. I shall be in the poor-house soon enough."
"Get Mr. Wray to help," laughed the painter mischievously. "They say he
has a way of making dollars bloom from sage-brush."
She glanced at him swiftly, but took her cup of tea from the Baroness
and held her peace.
The knocker clanged again, and Mrs. Wray, Miss Janney, Larry Berkely,
and Cortland Bent came in.
"This is really jolly, Gretchen. Hello! Cort, Berkely--Mrs. Wray, I've
been pining to see your hair against my old tapestry. Oh! shades of
Titian! Can I ever dare?"
Camilla colored softly, aware of Mrs. Cheyne's sleepy eyes in the shadow
below the skylight. She nodded in their general direction and then took
Mrs. Rumsen's proffered hand--and the seat beside her.
"I was so sorry to have missed you this morning," she said. "I'm always
out, it seems, when the people I want to see come in."
"I should have 'phoned," said the lady. "I had something particular to
speak to you about. Is your husband coming here?"
"I--I really don't know," Camilla stammered. "He has been away and very
busy."
"He'll be back for my dance, won't he?"
"I think so--but he's never certain. He's going West very soon."
"He was telling me something about his early life. You ought to be very
proud of him."
"I can't tell just what it is, but to me your husband seems like an echo
of something, an incarnation of some memory of my youth--perhaps only a
long-forgotten dream. But it persists--it persists. I can't seem to
lose it."
"How very curious."
"It is the kind of personality one isn't likely to forget. Has he any
memory of his father or--of his mother?"
"No. His mother died when he was born. His father--he doesn't remember
his father at all."
Mrs. Rumsen smiled. "Forgive me, won't you? I suppose you'll think me a
meddlesome old busybody. But I'm not, really. I want to be friendly.
You're a stranger in New York, and it occurred to me that perhaps you
might crave a little mothering once in a while. It is so easy to make
mistakes here, and there are so many people who are willing to take
advantage of them."
"You're very kind, Mrs. Rumsen. I'm glad you think us worth while."
"I do. So much worth while that I want to lay particular stress upon
it. Perhaps I ought to tell you what I mean. Last night my brother
dined with us. He was in a very disagreeable mood--and spoke very
bitterly of your husband. I suppose he may even go so far as to carry
his business antagonism into his social relations with you both."
"How very unfortunate!" in genuine dismay.
"That is his way. He's rather used to lording it over people here. And
people stand it just because he's Cornelius Bent. I suppose Mr. Wray
knows what he is about. At any rate, I honor him for his independence.
I told my brother so--and we're not on speaking terms."
As Camilla protested she laughed. "Oh, don't be alarmed, dear; we have
been that way most of our lives. You see we're really very much alike.
But I wanted you to understand that my brother's attitude, whatever it
is, will make no possible difference to me."
"I shouldn't dare to be a cause of any disagreement----"
"Not a word, child. I'm not going to permit Wall Street to tell me who
my friends shall be. There is too much politics in society already.
That is why I want you to dine with me before my ball, and receive with
me afterward, if you will."
Camilla's eyes brightened with pleasure. "Of course, I'm very much
honored, Mrs. Rumsen. I will come gladly, if you don't think I'll add
fuel to the flame."
"I don't really care. Why should you?"
"There are reasons. The General was most kind to us both----"
"Because he had something to get out of you," she sniffed. "I could
have told you that before."
"But it was through General Bent that we met everybody--people who have
entertained us--the Janneys, the McIntyres, and yourself, Mrs. Rumsen."
"He was the ill-wind that blew us the good," she finished graciously.
"Say no more about it. I have a great many friends in New York, my
child--some who are not stockholders in the Amalgamated Reduction
Company."
* * * * *
In another corner of the studio--a dark one behind a screen--Miss Janney
had impounded Larry Berkely.
"Have you seen 'Man and Super-man'?" she was asking.
"I've read it."
"Well, do you believe in it? Don't you think it breeds a false
philosophy? Can you imagine a girl so brazen as to pursue a man whether
he wanted her or not?"
"No. It was very un-human," said Larry.
"Or a man so helpless, saying such dreadful things--thinking such
dreadful things about a girl and then marrying her?"
"It was absurd--quite ridiculous in fact. No one ever meets that kind
of people in real life. I never could stand a girl of that sort."
"Oh, I'm so glad you agree with me. Do you know, Larry, I really
believe that you and I have exactly the same way of thinking about most
things. It's really remarkable. I'm so glad. It's a great comfort to
me, too, because ever since I first met you I hoped we'd learn to
understand each other better."
"How curious! I've been hoping the same sort of thing--fearing it,
too," he added dolefully.
"Fearing it? What do you mean? Tell me at once."
"Oh, nothing," he murmured.
"I insist on knowing."
"I wanted you to like me--and yet I dreaded it, too."
"Don't say that again," she whispered. "I can't stand it, Larry. I do
care for you--more and more every time I see you. But it makes me
terribly unhappy to feel that anything is bothering you."
"It needn't bother _you_."
"Yes, it does--if it makes _you_ miserable. What is it? Won't you tell
me?"
"I--I don't think we ought to be too friendly."
"Why not?" in surprise.
"Because it wouldn't be good for you--for either of us."
"That's no answer at all. I refuse to listen. What do I mind if it's
good for me or not--if I care for you enough to--to--what is it, Larry?
Answer me."
"Well, you know I'm all right now, but when I went West my bellows--my
breathing apparatus--oh, hang it all! The reason I went West was on
account of my health. My lungs, you know----"
"You silly boy. I've known that for ever so long. That's one of the
reasons why I fell in love with----"
She stopped, the color suddenly rushing to her cheeks as she realized
what she had been saying. But Larry's fingers had found hers in the
corner, and she looked up into his eyes and went on resolutely. "I do
love you, Larry. I think I always have. Are you glad?"
Then Larry kissed her.
* * * * *
On the other side of the screen, to her own accompaniment on the piano,
the Baroness Charny began singing:
"Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux
Qui voltigent fous sur mes levres,
Ils y versent l'oubli des fievres
Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux,
Aussi legers que des roseaux,
Foules par les pieds blancs des chevres
Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux
Qui voltigent fous, sur mes levres."
Amid the chorus of approval, as the Baroness paused, a thin little
lisping voice was heard.
"Oh, how too utterly thweetly exthquithite! I never thought of kitheth
being like the flight of little birdth. Are they, Mr. Bent? I thought
they lathted longer."
Bent shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "How should _I_ know, Miss
Champney? _I've_ never been married."
"Married? How thilly! Of courthe not! It would be thtupid to kith
_then_--tho unneth-eth--unneth-eth--oh, you know what I mean, don't
you?"
"I'm afraid I don't. I'd be tempted not to understand, just to hear you
say 'unnecessary' again."
"Now you're making fun of me. You're perfectly horrid. _Ithn't_ he,
Mr. Perot?"
"He's a brute, Miss Champney--an utter brute; that's because he's never
been kissed."
"Oh, how very interethting! Haven't you really, Mr. Bent? Oh, you're
really quite hopeleth."
Mrs. Cheyne sipped her tea quite fastidiously and listened, bored to the
point of extinction. Nor did her expression change when, some moments
later, Jeff Wray was announced. Camilla's face was the only one in the
room which showed surprise. She had not seen her husband for several
days, and she noticed, as he came over and spoke to Mrs. Rumsen, that he
looked more than ordinarily tired and worried. With Camilla he
exchanged a careless greeting and then passed her on his way to the
others. The servant brought the decanter and soda bottle, and he sank
on the divan by the side of Rita Cheyne. It surprised him a little when
she began talking quite through him to their host and the Baroness, whom
they were asking to sing again.