"Where have you been? Do you realize that I haven't seen you for the
last two days?"
"Four," he corrected soberly. "I--I've been very busy."
"That's no explanation. You're angry?"
"No, not at all. I--thought I'd better not come."
She examined him curiously, and laid her fingers on his arm. "How funny
you are? Has anything happened?"
He didn't reply at once, and kept his gaze away from her. "I came here
to-day," he said deliberately, "because I thought it would be the one
place where you and I wouldn't meet."
"Oh!" and she turned away abruptly, her chin in the air, "I'm sorry. We
needn't meet _now_," and she hurried her steps.
But he lengthened his stride and kept pace with her.
"You don't understand----"
"I don't care to understand. You don't want to see me--that's
enough----"
"Camilla, please----"
"I'm not in the habit of pursuing the men of my acquaintance, Cort.
I'll save you the trouble of avoiding me." And with that she broke away
from him and ran down the path, joining the others at the door of the
house. His attitude annoyed her more because she couldn't understand it
than because of any other reason. What had come over him? They had
parted as friends with the definite assurance that they were to meet the
next day. She had been busy writing letters then, but she remembered
now that he had not called. There was an unaccountable difference in
his manner, and he had spoken with a cold precision which chilled her.
She felt it in all the sensitive antennae which a woman projects to
guard the approaches to her heart. All that was feminine and cruel in
her was up in arms at once against him. He needed a lesson. She must
give it to him.
On the ice they met a merry party, and Billy Haviland pointed them all
out to Camilla--Molly Bracknell and her diminutive husband, known in
clubdom as the "comic supplement"; Jack Archer, the famous surgeon, and
his fiancee, who had lost her appendix and her heart at the same time.
Stephen Gillis, the lawyer, who was in love with his pretty client, Mrs.
Cheyne, and didn't care who knew it.
"Is he really in love with Mrs. Cheyne?" asked Camilla.
"Oh, yes--threw over a girl he was engaged to. He's got it bad--worse
than most of 'em."
"What a pity!"
"Rita's in good form this winter."
"She has a charm for men."
"Dolly says she's a _de luxe_ binding of a French novel on a copy of
'Handley Cross.' I guess it's true. But I've always been afraid of
Rita."
"Why?"
"She's too infernally clever. She don't like my sort. She likes brainy
chaps with serious purposes. They're the kind that always take to her.
I think she knows I'm 'wise.'"
They crossed hands, and Camilla resolutely gave herself over to the
pleasure of motion. She skated rather badly--a fact to be bewailed,
since Rita Cheyne was doing "figure eights" and "corkscrews," but with
Haviland's help she managed to make three or four turns without mishap.
But she refused to "crack the whip," and skated alone until Cortland
Bent joined her. He offered her his hand, but she refused his help.
"Won't you go away please, Cort?"
"I've got to see you to-night, Camilla," he said suddenly. "Where will
you be?"
As she wouldn't reply, he took her hand and skated backward facing her.
"You've got to see me, Camilla----"
"I can't--I won't."
"I'm going away to-morrow."
"We've gotten along for four days without meeting," she said airily. "I
think I'll survive."
"You're heartless----"
"I know it. Please get out of my way."
"No--not until you promise to let me see you."
"You're seeing me now."
He took her firmly by the elbows. "Listen, Camilla! I'm leaving New
York to-morrow for a long while--perhaps for good----"
For the first time she realized the importance of what he was saying and
looked up into his eyes, discovering something in their shadows she had
not seen before.
"Is it true? Why are you going?"
"That's what I wanted to tell you. May I see you to-night?"
She considered a moment before she replied indifferently.
"Yes, if you like. I am at the Havilands'."
As they stopped before the cabin, Jack Perot joined them, offering to
take Camilla for a turn, but she said she was cold, and the three of
them went inside to the burning log. Larry and Gretchen on the bench
put a space between them rather suddenly.
"Don't move on _our_ account, Larry," said Perot mischievously; "your
silhouettes through the window were wonderful--quite touching--in fact."
"Jack!" said Gretchen, her face flaming, "you couldn't _see_----"
"No, as a matter of fact, we couldn't--because the shades are
drawn"--the painter laughed immoderately--"but you know we _might_
have."
"You're a very disagreeable person, and I don't like you at all," said
Miss Janney. "I'll never let you do my portrait--_never_!"
"Ha! ha!" he cried in accents of Bowery melodrama. "At last, Geraldine,
I have you in me cul-lutches. I'm desprit and starving! Next week I
paint your portrait--or tell your father! Cha-oose, beautiful one!"
In the laugh which followed Larry joined good-naturedly. Indeed, there
was nothing left to do--unless it was to wring the painter's neck.
Instead of which, he wrung his hand and whispered, "I wish you would,
Perot. It'll save me the trouble."
The rest of the crowd appeared after a while, and the steward brought
hot Scotches, which detracted nothing from the gayety of the occasion.
"God made the country--man made the town," sighed Billy sententiously,
holding the amber liquid to the firelight. "The simple pleasures--the
healthy sports of our ancestors! Eh, Rita?"
"Oh, yes," with fine scorn, "quilting parties! No bridge, golf or
tennis. Imagine a confirmed night owl like _you_, Billy, tucked safely
in bed at nine."
"I'm often in bed by nine."
"Nine in the morning," laughed Perot. "That's safe enough."
"Don't believe 'em, Camilla. I'm an ideal husband, aren't I, Dolly?"
"I hadn't noticed it."
"Oh, what's the use?" sniffed Mrs. Cheyne. "There's only one Ideal
Husband."
"Who?" asked a voice, solicitous and feminine.
"Oh, some other woman's, of course."
"How silly of you, Rita," said Gretchen indignantly. "It's gotten to the
point where nobody believes the slightest thing you say."
"That's just what she wants," laughed Cortland. "Don't gratify her,
Gretchen."
Mrs. Cheyne shrugged her shoulders, and, with a glance at Camilla, "Now
the Ideal Wife, Cort----"
"Would be my own," he interrupted quickly, his face flushing. "I
wouldn't marry any other kind."
"That's why you _haven't_ married, Cortland dear," said Rita
acidulously.
Camilla listened with every outward mark of composure--her gaze in the
fire--conscious of the growing animosity in Mrs. Cheyne. They had met
only twice since Jeff's departure, and on those occasions each had
outdone the other in social amenities, each aware of the other's
hypocrisy. In their polite interchange of compliments Wray's name had
by mutual consent been avoided, and neither of them could be said to
have the slightest tactical advantage. But Camilla felt rather than
knew that an understanding of some sort existed between Mrs. Cheyne and
Jeff--a more complete understanding than Camilla and her husband had
ever had. She could not understand it, for two persons more dissimilar
had never been created. Mrs. Cheyne was the last expression of a
decadent dynasty--Jeff, the dawning hope of a new one. She had taken him
up as the season's novelty, a masculine curiosity which she had added to
her cabinet of eligible amusements. Camilla's intuition had long since
told her of Jeff's danger, and it had been in her heart the night they
separated to warn him against his dainty enemy. Even now it might not
have been too late--if he would have listened to her, if he would
believe that her motive was a part of their ancient friendship, if he
would meet her in a spirit of compromise, if he were not already too
deeply enmeshed in Rita Cheyne's silken net. There were too many "ifs,"
and the last one seemed to suggest that any further effort in the way of
a reconciliation would be both futile and demeaning.
Camilla was now aware that Mrs. Cheyne was going out of her way to make
her relations with Cort conspicuous--permissible humor, had the two
women been friendly. Under present conditions it was merely
impertinence.
"Mrs. Cheyne means," said Camilla distinctly, "that the ideal husbands
are the ones one can't get." And then, pointedly, "Don't you, Mrs.
Cheyne?"
Rita glanced at Camilla swiftly and smiled her acknowledgment of the
thrust.
"They wouldn't be ideal," she laughed, "if we ever got them, Mrs. Wray."
"Touchee," whispered Billy Haviland to Larry Berkely, delightedly.
Outside there was a merry jingle of sleighbells, and Mrs. Haviland rose.
"Come, children," she said, "that's for us. I wish we had more room at
The Cove. You'll come, though, Cort, won't you? We need another man."
"Do you mind if I stay out, Rita?" Cortland appealed.
"Oh, not at all, I'm so used to being deserted for Mrs. Wray that I'm
actually uncomfortable without the sensation."
So the party was arranged. A long bobsled hitched to a pair of horses
was at the door, and the women got on, while Gretchen pelted snowballs
at Perot, and only succeeded in hitting the horses, so that Camilla and
the Baroness were spilled out into the snow and the man had a hard time
bringing the team to a stop. A pitched battle ensued while the three
women scrambled into their places, Cortland and Billy covering the
retreat. At last they all got on, and, amid a shower of snowballs which
the sledders couldn't return, the horses galloped up the hill and out
into the turnpike which led to the Haviland farm.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*OLD DANGERS*
Camilla had known for some time that she could not forget. She sought
excitements eagerly because they softened the sting of memory, and the
childish delights of the afternoon with the Havilands, while they made
the grim shadow less tangible, could not drive it away. When the idle
chatter of small talk was missing, Jeff loomed large. At The Cove she
went at once to her room, but instead of dressing she threw herself on
the bed and followed the pretty tracery of the wall paper beside her;
her eyes only conjured mental pictures of the days in Mesa City, before
Cortland Bent had come, the long rides with Jeff up the mountain trail
when she first began to learn what manner of man he was and what manner
of things he must one day accomplish. She seemed to realize now that
even in those early days Jeff Wray had stood as a type of the kind of
manhood that, since the beginning of time, has made history for the
world.
With all his faults, his vulgar self-appreciation, and his distorted
ethics, there was nothing petty or mean about him. He was generous, had
always been generous to a fault, and there was many a poor devil of a
gambler or a drunkard even in those days who had called his name
blessed. He hadn't had much to give, but when he made a stake there
were many who shared it with him. Since he had been married his
benefactions had been numberless. He never forgot his old friends and,
remembering old deeds of kindness to himself, had sought them out--a
broken sheep-herder back on the range, a barber in Pueblo who was
paralyzed, a cowboy in Arizona with heart disease, a freight brakeman of
the D. & W. who had lost a leg--and given them money when he couldn't
find work that they could do. She remembered what people in the West
still said--that Jeff had never had a friend who wasn't still his
friend.
She had often reviled herself because her judgment of all men was
governed by the external marks of gentility which had been so dear to
her heart--the kind of gentility which Cortland Bent had brought into
Mesa City. Gentility was still dear to her heart, but there was a
growing appreciation in her mind of something bigger in life than mere
forms of polite intercourse. Jack Perot, who was painting her portrait;
Billy Haviland, who sent her roses; Douglas Warrington, who rode with
her in the park; Cortland Bent--all these men had good manners as their
birthright. What was it they lacked? Culture had carved them all with
finer implements on the same formula, but what they had gained in
delicacy they had lost in force. Jeff might have been done by Rodin,
the others by Carriere--Beleuze.
It made her furious that in spite of herself she still thought of Jeff.
She got up and went to the mirror. There were little telltale wrinkles
about her eyes, soft shadows under her cheek-bones which had not been
there when she came to New York. It was worry that was telling on her.
She had never yet been able to bring herself to the point of believing
that all was over between Jeff and herself. Had she really believed
that he was willing to live his future without her, she could not have
consented even for so long as this to play the empty part he had
assigned her. It was _his_ money she was spending, not her own; _his_
money which provided all the luxuries about her--the rich apartment in
New York, the motor car, _carte blanche_ at Sherry's, extravagances, she
was obliged to acknowledge, which for the present he did not share.
True, she was following implicitly his directions in keeping his memory
green in the social set to which he aspired, and she had done her part
well. But the burden of her indebtedness to him was not decreased by
this obedience, and she felt that she could not for long accept the
conditions he had imposed. Such a life must soon be
intolerable--intolerable to them both.
It was intolerable now. She could not bear the thought of his
brutality, the cruelty of his silence, the pitiless money which he threw
at her every week as one would throw a bone to a dog. He was carrying
matters with a high hand, counting on her love of luxury and the
delights of gratified social ambition to hold her in obedience. He had
planned well, but the end of it all was near. It was her pride that
revolted--that Jeff could have thought her capable of the unutterable
things he thought of her--the pitiful tatters of her pride which were
slowly being dragged from her by the tongue of gossip. Mrs. Rumsen had
warned her, and Mrs. Cheyne made free use of her name with Cort's. The
world was conspiring to throw her into Cortland's arms. She would not
admit that the fault was her own--it was Jeff's. It had always been
Jeff's. She had given him every chance to redeem her, but he had tossed
her aside--for another. Now she had reached a point when she didn't
care whether he redeemed her or not. She felt herself
drifting--drifting--she didn't know where and didn't seem to care where.
It was affection she craved, love that she loved, and Cortland was an
expression of it. He had always been patient--even when she had treated
him unkindly. A whispered word to Cortland----
Her musing stopped abruptly. What did Cortland mean by avoiding her?
And why was he leaving New York? There was a tiny pucker at her brows
while she gave the finishing touches to her toilet; but when she went
down to dinner her cheeks glowed with ripe color and her eyes were shot
with tiny sparkling fires.
"Auction" bridge followed dinner. In the cutting Cort and the Baroness
were out of it, and when Cort and the Baroness cut in, Camilla and Perot
cut out. Fate conspired, and it was not until late in the evening that
Cortland and Camilla found themselves alone in the deserted library at
the far end of the wing. Camilla sank back into the silk cushions of
the big davenport wearily.
"I played well to-night," she said; "I believe even Billy is pleased
with me. I _did_ have luck, though--shameful luck----"
She stretched her arms above her head, sighing luxuriously. "Oh, life
is sweet--after all."
Cortland watched her.
"Is it?" he asked quietly.
"Don't you think so, Cort?"
"There's not much sweetness left, for me in anything. I've got to go
away from you, Camilla."
"So you said." And then airily, "Good-by."
He closed his eyes a moment.
"I want you to know what it means to me."
"Then why do it?"
"I--I've thought it all out. It's the best thing I can do--for you--for
myself----"
"I ought to be a judge of that."
His dark eyes sought her face for a meaning.
"It's curious you didn't consult me," she went on. "I hope I know what's
best for myself----"
"You mean that you don't care--my presence is unimportant. My absence
will be even less important."
"I do care," she insisted. "What's the use of my telling you. I'll be
very unhappy without you."
He shook his head and smiled. "Oh, I know--you'll miss me as you would
your afternoon tea if it was denied you--but you'll do without it."
"I'm quite fond of afternoon tea, Cort." And then, more seriously, "Are
you really resolved?"
"Yes," he muttered, "resolved--desperately resolved."
She threw herself away from him against the opposite end of the couch,
facing him, and folded her arms, her lips closed in a hard line.
"Very well, then," she said cruelly, "go!" It seemed as if he hadn't
heard her, for he leaned forward, his head in his hands, and went on in
a voice without expression.
"I've felt for some time that I've been doing you a wrong. People are
talking about us--coupling your name with mine--unpleasantly. Heaven
knows what lies they're telling. Of course you don't hear--and I
don't--but I know they're talking."
"How do you know?"
"My father----"
"Oh!"
"We quarreled--but the poison left its sting."
Camilla laughed nervously, the laughter of a woman of the world. It
grated on him strangely.
"Don't you suppose _I_ know?" she said. "I'm not a baby. And now that
you've ruined my reputation you're going to leave me. That's unkind of
you. Oh, don't worry," she laughed again. "I'll get along. There are
others, I suppose."
He straightened and turned toward her sternly.
"You mustn't talk like that," he said. "You're lying. I know your
heart. It's clean as snow."
"Because _you_ haven't soiled it?" She clasped her hands over her knees
and leaned toward him with wicked coquetry. "Really, Cort, you're a
sweet boy--but you lack imagination. You know you're not the only man
in the world. A woman in my position has much to gain--little to lose.
I'm a derelict, a ship without a captain----"
He interrupted her by taking her in his arms and putting his fingers
over her lips. "Stop!" he whispered, "I'll not listen to you."
"I mean it. I've learned something in your world. I thought life was a
sacrament. I find it's only a game." She struggled away from him and
went to the fireplace, but he rose and stood beside her.
"You're lying, Camilla," he repeated, "lying to me. Oh, I know--I've
been a fool--a vicious--a selfish fool. I've let them talk because I
couldn't bear to be without you--because I thought that some day you'd
learn what a love like mine meant. And I wanted you--wanted you----"
"Don't you want me still, Cort?" she asked archly.
He put his elbows on the mantel and gazed into the flames, but would not
reply, and the smile faded from her lips before the dignity of his
silence.
"I've thought it all out, Camilla. I'm going away on business for my
father, and I don't expect to come back. I thought I could go without
seeing you again--just send you a note to say good-by. It was easier for
me that way. I thought I had won out until I saw you to-day--but now
it's harder than ever."
He looked up as he thought she might misconstrue his meaning. "Oh, I'm
not afraid to leave on your account. Our set may make you a little
careless, a little cynical, but you've got too much pride to lose your
grip--and you'll never be anything else but what you are." He gazed
into the fire again and went on in the same impersonal tone as if he had
forgotten her existence. "I'll always love you, Camilla.... I love you
more now than I ever did--only it's different somehow.... It used to be
a madness--an obsession.... Your lips, your eyes, your soft fingers, the
warm elusive tints of your skin--the petals of the bud--I would have
taken them because of their beauty, crushed out, if I could, the soul
that lived inside, as one crushes a shrub to make its sweetness
sweeter." He sighed deeply and went on: "I told you I loved you
then--back there in Mesa City--but I lied to you, Camilla. It wasn't
love. Love is calmer, deeper, almost judicial, more mental than
physical even.... I'm going away from you because I love you more than
I love myself."
"Oh! you never loved me," she stammered. "You couldn't speak coldly
like this if you did."
He raised his eyes calmly, but made no reply.
"Love--judicial!" she went on scornfully. "What do you know of love?
Love is a storm in the heart; a battle--a torrent--it has no mind for
anything but itself. Love is ruthless--self-seeking----"
"You make it hard for me," he said with an effort at calmness.
"You know I--I need you--and yet you'd leave me at a word."
"I'm going--because it's best to go," he said hoarsely.
"You're going because you don't care what happens to me."
He flashed around, unable to endure more, and caught her in his arms.
"Do I look like a man who doesn't care? Do I?" he whispered. "If you
only hadn't said that--if you only hadn't said that----"
Now that she had won she was ready to end the battle, and drew timidly
away. But with Cort the battle had just begun. And though she
struggled to prevent it, he kissed her as he had never done before. Her
resistance and the lips she denied him, the suppleness of her strong
young body, the perfume of her hair brought back the spell of mid-summer
madness which had first enchained him.
"You've got to listen to me now, Camilla. I don't care what happens to
my promises--to you--or to any one else. I'm mad with love for you.
I'll take the soul of you. It was mine by every right before it was
his. I'll go away from here--but you'll go with me--somewhere, where we
can start again----"
In that brief moment in his arms there came a startling revelation to
Camilla. Cort's touch--his kisses--transformed him into a man she did
not know.
"Oh, Cort! Let me go!" she whispered.
"Away from all this where the idle prattle of the world won't matter,"
he went on wildly. "You have no right to stay on here, using the money
he sends you--my money--money he stole from me. He has thrown you over,
dropped you like a faded leaf. You're clinging to a rotten tree,
Camilla. He'll fall. He's going to fall soon. You'll be buried with
him--and nothing between you and death but his neglect and brutality."
In his arms Camilla was sobbing hysterically. The excitement with which
she had fed her heart for the last few months had suddenly stretched her
nerves to too great a tension. She had been mad--cruel to tantalize
him--and she had not realized what her intolerance meant for them both
until it was too late.
He misunderstood the meaning of those tears and petted her as if she had
been a child.
"Don't, Camilla--there's nothing to fear. I'll be so tender to you--so
kind that you'll wonder you could ever have thought of being happy
before. Look up at me, dear. Kiss me. You never have, Camilla. Kiss
me and tell me you'll go with me--anywhere."
But as he tried to lift her head she put up her hands and with an effort
repulsed--broke away from--him and fell on the couch in a passion of
tears. She had not meant this--not this. It wasn't in her to love any
one.
In the process of mental readjustment following her husband's desertion
of her she had learned to think of Cort in a different way. It seemed
as though the tragedy of her married life had dwarfed every other
relation, minimized every emotion that remained to her. Cortland Bent
was the lesser shadow within the greater shadow, a dimmer figure blurred
in the bulk, a part of the tragedy, but not the tragedy itself. For a
time he had seemed to understand, and of late had played the part of
guide, philosopher, and friend, if not ungrudgingly, at least patiently,
without those boyish outbursts of petulance and temper in which he had
been so difficult to manage. She cared for him deeply, and lately he
had been so considerate and so gentle that she had almost been ready to
believe that the kind of devotion he gave her was the only thing in life
worth while. He had learned to pass over the many opportunities she
offered him to take advantage of her isolation, and she was thankful
that at last their relation had found a happy path of communion free
from danger or misunderstanding. While other people amused and
distracted her, Cort had been her real refuge, his devotion the rock to
which she tied. But this! She realized that what had gone before was
only the calm before the storm--and she had brought it all on herself!
He watched her anxiously, waiting for the storm to pass, and at last
came near and put his arms around her again.
"No--not that!" she said brokenly. "It wasn't that I wanted, Cort. You
don't understand. I needed you--but not that way." He straightened
slowly as her meaning came to him.
"You were only--fooling--only playing with me? I might have known----"
"No, I wasn't playing with you. I--couldn't bear to lose you--but," she
stammered resolutely, "now--I _must_---- You've got to go. I don't
know what has happened to me--I haven't any heart--I think--no heart--or
soul----"
He had turned away from her, his gaze on the dying log.
"Why couldn't you have let me go--without this?" he groaned. "It would
have been easier for both of us."
She sat up slowly, still struggling to suppress the nervous paroxysms
which shook her shoulders.
"Forgive me, Cort. You--you'll get along best without me. I've only
brought you suffering. I'm a bird of ill-omen--which turns on the hand
that feeds it. I was--was thinking only of myself. I wish I could make
you happy--you deserve it, Cort. But I can't," she finished miserably,
"I can't."
He did not move. It almost seemed as though he had not heard her. His
voice came to her at last as though from a distance.
"I know," he groaned. "God help you, you love _him_." She started up
as though in dismay, and then, leaning forward, buried her face in her
hands in silent acquiescence. When she looked up a moment later he was
gone.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*OLD ROSE LEAVES*
Camilla wrote nothing to Jeff about her illness. It was nothing very
serious, the doctor said--only a fashionable case of nerves. The type
was common, the medicine rest and quiet. He commended his own
sanitarium, where he could assure her luxury and the very best society,
but Camilla refused. She wanted to be alone, and so she denied herself
to callers, canceled all her engagements, and took the rest cure in her
own way. She slept late in the mornings, took her medicine
conscientiously, put herself on a diet, and in the afternoon, with her
maid only for company, took long motor rides in the country to
out-of-the-way places on roads where she would not be likely to meet her
acquaintances.
She knew what it was that she needed. It wasn't the strychnia tonic the
doctor had prescribed, or even the rest cure. The more she was alone,
the more time she had to think. It was in moments like the present, in
the morning hours in her own rooms, that she felt that she could not
forget. There was no longer the hum of well-bred voices about her, no
music, the glamor of lowered lights, or the odor of embowered roses to
distract her mind or soothe her senses. In the morning hours Jeff was
present with her in the flesh. Everything about her reminded her of
him; the desk at which he had worked, with its pigeon-holes full of
papers in the reckless disorder which was characteristic of him; the
corncob pipe which he had refused to discard; the Durham tobacco in its
cotton bag beside a government report on mining; the specimens of ore
from the "Lone Tree," which he had always used as paper weights; the
brass bowl into which he had knocked his ashes; and the photograph, in
its jeweled frame, of herself in sombrero and kerchief, taken at Myers's
Photograph Gallery in Mesa City at the time when she had taught school,
before Jeff's dreams had come true.
She took the picture up and examined it closely. It was the picture of a
girl sitting on a table, a lariat in one hand and a quirt in the other,
and the background presented Mesa City's idea of an Italian villa, with
fluted columns, backed by some palms and a vista of lake. How well she
remembered that gray painted screen and the ornate wicker chair and
table which were its inevitable accompaniment. They had served as a
background for Pete Mulrennan in a Prince Albert coat, when he was
elected mayor; for Jack Williams, the foreman of the "Lazy L" ranch, and
his bride from Kinney; for Mrs. Brennan in her new black silk dress; for
the Harbison twins and their cherubic mother. She put the photograph
down, and her head sank forward on her arms in mute rebellion. In her
sleep she had murmured Cort's name, and Jeff had heard her. But she
knew that in itself this was not enough to have caused the breach. What
else had he heard? Jeff had tired of her--that was all--had tired of
being married to a graven image, to a mere semblance of the woman he had
thought she was. She could not blame him for that. It was his right to
be tired of her if he chose.
It was the sudden revelation of the actual state of her mind with regard
to Cortland which had given her the first suggestion of her true
bearings--that and the careless chatter of the people of their set in
which Mrs. Cheyne was leading. Cortland had guessed the truth which she
had been so resolutely hiding from herself. She loved Jeff--had always
loved him--and would until the end of time. Like the chemist who for
months has been seeking the solution of a problem, she had found the
acid which had magically liberated the desired element; the acid was
Jealousy, and, after all dangerous vapors had passed, Love remained in
the retort, elemental and undefiled. The simplicity of the revelation
was as beautiful as it was mystifying. Had she by some fortuitous
accident succeeded in transmuting some baser metal into gold, she could
not have been more bewildered. Of course, Jeff could not know. To him
she was still the Graven Image, the pretty Idol, the symbol of what
might have been. How could he guess that his Idol had been made flesh
and blood--that now she waited for him, no longer a symbol of lost
illusions, but just a woman--his wife. She raised her head at last,
sighed deeply, and put the photograph in the drawer of the desk. As she
did so, the end of a small battered tin box protruded. She remembered
it at once--for in it Jeff had always kept the letters and papers which
referred to his birth and babyhood. She had looked them over before
with Jeff, but it was almost with a feeling of timidity at an intrusion
that she took the box out and opened it now. The papers were ragged,
soiled, and stained with dampness and age, and the torn edges had been
joined with strips of court-plaster. There were two small portraits
taken by a photographer in Denver. Camilla took the photographs in her
fingers and looked at them with a new interest. One of the pictures was
of a young woman of about Camilla's age, in a black beaded Jersey waist
and a full overskirt. Her front hair was done in what was known as a
"bang," and the coils were twisted high on top of her head. But even
these disfigurements--according to the lights of a later
generation--could not diminish the attractiveness of her personality.
There was no denying the beauty of the face, the wistful eyes, the
straight, rather short nose, the sensitive lips, and the deeply
indented, well-made chin--none of the features in the least like Jeff's
except the last, which, though narrower than his, had the same firm
lines at the angle of the jaw. It was not a weak face, nor a strong
one, for whatever it gained at brows and chin it lost at the eyes and
mouth.
But Jeff's resemblance to his father was remarkable. Except for the
old-fashioned collar and "string" tie, the queerly cut coat, and
something in the brushing of the hair, the figure in the other
photograph was that of her husband in the life. She had discovered this
when she and Jeff had looked into the tin box just after they were
married, and had commented on it, but Jeff had said nothing in reply.
He had only looked at the picture steadily for a moment, then rather
abruptly taken it from her and put it away. From this Camilla knew that
the thoughts of his mother were the only ones which Jeff had cared to
select from the book of memory and tradition. Of his father he had
never spoken, nor would speak. He would not even read again these
letters which his mother had kept, wept over, and handed down to her son
that the record of a man's ignominy might be kept intact for the
generations to follow her.
It was, therefore, with a sense of awe, of intrusion upon the mystery of
a sister's tragedy, that Camilla opened the letters again and read them.
There were eight of them in all, under dates from May until October,
1875, all with the same superscription "Ned." As she read, Camilla
remembered the whole sad story, and, with the face of the woman before
her, was able to supply almost word for word the tender, passionate,
bitter, forgiving letters which must have come between. She had pleaded
with him in May to return to her, but in June, from New York, he had
written her that he could not tell when he would go West again. In July
he was sure he would not go West until the following year, if then. In
August he sent her money--which she must have returned--for the next
letter referred to it. In September his manner was indifferent--in
October it was heartless. It had taken only six months for this man
madly to love and then as madly to forget.
Camilla remembered the rest of the story as Jeff had told it to her,
haltingly, shamedly, one night at Mrs. Brennan's, as it had been told to
him when he was a boy by one of the nurses who had taken him away from
the hospital where his mother had died--of her persistent refusal to
speak of Jeff's father or to reveal his identity, of Jeff's birth
without a name, and of his mother's death a few weeks later, unrepentant
and unforgiving. With her last words she had blessed the child and
prayed that they would not name it after her. At first he had been
playfully called "Thomas Jefferson," and so Thomas Jefferson he remained
until later another of his guardians had added the "Wray" after a
character in a book she was reading and "because it sounded pretty."
That was Jeff's christening.
Camilla put the letters aside with the faded blue ribbon which had
always accompanied them and gazed at the photograph of Jeff's father.
Yes, it was a cruel face--a handsome, cruel face--and it looked like
Jeff. She had never thought of Jeff as being cruel. Did she really
know her husband, after all? Until they had come to New York Jeff had
always been forbearing, kindly, and tender. Before their marriage he had
sometimes been impatient with her--but since that time, often when he
had every right to be angry, he had contented himself with a baby-like
stare and had then turned away and left her. Flashes of cruelty
sometimes had shown in his treatment of the Mexicans on the railroad or
at the mines, but it was not the kind of cruelty this man in the
photograph had shown--not the enduring cruelty of heartlessness which
would let a woman die for the love of him. The night Jeff had left her
the worst in him was dominant, and yet she had not thought of him as
cruel. It was to the future alone which she must look for an answer to
the troubled question that rose in her mind.
At this moment her maid entered--a welcome interruption.
"Will you see Mrs. Rumsen, Madame?"
"Oh, yes, Celeste. Ask her if she won't come in here."
Of all the friendships she had made in New York, that of Mrs. Rumsen was
the one Camilla most deeply prized. There was a tincture of old-world
simplicity in her grandeur. Only those persons were snobbish, Mrs.
Rumsen always averred, whose social position was insecure. It was she
who had helped Camilla to see society as it really was, laid bare to her
its shams, its inconsistencies, and its follies; who had shown her the
true society of old New York; taken her to unfamiliar heights among the
"cliff-dwellers" of the old regime who lived in the quiet elegance of
social security with and for their friends, unmoved by the glitter of
modern gew-gaws, who resisted innovations and fought hard for old
traditions which the newer generation was seeking to destroy, a
mild-eyed, incurious race of people who were sure that what they had and
were was good, and viewed the social extravagances as the inhabitants of
another planet might do, from afar, who went into the world when they
chose, and returned to their "cliffs" when they chose, sure of their
welcome at either place. They were the people Rita Cheyne called
"frumps," and Cortland Bent, "bores," but to Camilla, who had often
found herself wondering what was the end and aim of all things, they
were a symbol of completion.
Mrs. Rumsen laid aside her wraps with the deliberation of a person who
is sure of her welcome.
"You'll forgive my appearance?" asked Camilla. "I didn't think you'd
mind."
"I'm flattered, child. It has taken longer than I supposed it would to
teach you not to be punctilious with me. Well, you're better, of
course. This long rest has done wonders for you."
"Oh, yes. But I'm afraid I wouldn't last long here. I'm used to air
and sunshine and bed at ten o'clock at night." She paused a moment.
"I've been thinking of going West for a while."
"Really? When?"
"I--I haven't decided. I thought that Jeff would have returned by this
time, but his business still keeps him."
"And you miss him? That's very improper. I'm afraid I haven't schooled
you carefully enough." She smiled and sighed. "That is a vulgar
weakness your woman of society must never confess to. We may love our
husbands as much as we like, but we mustn't let people know it. It
offends their conceit and reminds them unpleasantly of their own
deficiencies."
"People aren't really as bad as you're trying to paint then," laughed
Camilla. "Even you, Mrs. Rumsen! Why, I thought the habit of cynicism
was only for the very young and inexperienced."
"Thanks, child. Perhaps it's my second childhood. I don't want to be
cynical--but I must. One reason I came to you is because I want you to
refresh my point of view. I wonder what air and sunshine and bed at ten
o'clock would do for me. Would you like to prescribe it for me? I
wonder if you wouldn't take me West with you."
Camilla laughed again.
"Are you really in earnest? Of course I'd be delighted--but I'm afraid
you wouldn't be. The accommodations are abominable except, of course,
in Denver, and you wouldn't want to stay there. You know our--our house
isn't finished yet. It would be fine if we could camp--but that isn't
very comfortable. I love it. But you know there are no porcelain
tubs----"
"Oh, I know. I've camped in the West, dear, a good many years
ago--before you were born. I wonder how I should like it now----"
She paused, her wandering gaze resting on the desk, which Camilla had
left in disorder, the letters scattered, the photographs at which she
had been looking propped upright against the tin document-box. It was on
the photographs that Mrs. Rumsen's gaze had stopped. Slowly she rose
from her chair, with an air of arrested attention, adjusted her lorgnon,
and examined it at close range.
"I thought I might have been mistaken at first," she said quickly. "I
see I'm not. Camilla, dear, where on earth did you get that photograph
of the General?"