"Of my brother--Cornelius Bent--that is his photograph. I have one like
it in the family album at home."
"That can't be."
"I was looking over them only the other day--why do you look so
strangely?"
"Are you sure? You can't be sure----"
"I am. I remember the queer cravat and the pose of the hands on the
chair. I remember him, too--perfectly. Do you think I wouldn't know my
own brother?"
"Oh, there must be some mistake--it is dreadful. I can't----"
"What is dreadful, child? What do you mean?" She laid a hand on
Camilla's arm, and Camilla caught at it, her nerves quivering.
"The photograph is----"
"Where did you get it? It isn't mine, is it? or Cortland's?"
"No, no. It has been in that tin box for more than thirty years. It
isn't yours. It's Jeff's--my husband's--do you understand? It's
his--oh, I can't tell you. It's too horrible. I can't believe it
myself. I don't want to believe it."
She sank into the chair at the desk, trembling violently. Mrs. Rumsen,
somewhat surprised and aware of the imminence of a revelation the nature
of which she could not even faintly surmise, bent over Camilla kindly
and touched her gently on the shoulder.
"Compose yourself, Camilla, and if you think I ought to know, tell me.
What had my brother to do with you or yours? How did his picture come
here?"
Camilla replied with difficulty.
"That picture has been in Jeff's possession since he was a baby. It was
the only heritage his mother left him, the photograph and these letters.
I have just been reading them. They were written to _her_. _He_ had
deserted her--before Jeff was born----"
Mrs. Rumsen's hand had dropped from Camilla's shoulder, and she turned
quickly away--with a sharp catch in her breath. When she spoke, her
voice, like Camilla's, was suppressed and controlled with difficulty.
"Then my brother was--your husband's----"
"Oh, I don't know," Camilla broke in quickly. "It is all so dreadful.
There may be some mistake. Jeff will never speak of it. He has tried
all these years to forget. I don't know why I took these letters out to
read. Perhaps it would be better if you hadn't known----"
"No, no. I think I ought to know. Perhaps in justice to my
brother----"
"There can be no justice for Jeff's father, Mrs. Rumsen. I have read
his letters to her--to Jeff's mother. Before you came in I was trying
to think of a punishment horrible enough for the kind of men who deceive
women as he did, and then leave them to face the world alone."
"But perhaps there was something you don't know----" she groped vainly.
"Every question you would ask, every excuse that he could offer, is
answered in these letters. Now that you know Jeff's story perhaps you
had better read them."
With trembling hands she gathered the letters and gave them to her
visitor, who now sat in the big armchair near the window, her straight
figure almost judicial in its severity. She glanced at the handwriting
and at the signature, and then let the papers fall into her lap.
"Yes, they are my brother's," she said slowly. "It is his
handwriting--and the name--the General's name is Cornelius Edward--'Ned'
was his name at college--he never used his first name until later in
life. I--I suppose there's no doubt about it."
She sat with one hand to her brow as though trying to reconcile two
parts of an astounding narrative. Camilla's revelation did not seem in
the least like reality. Cornelius Bent's part in it was so at variance
with his character as she had known it. There had never been time for
love or for play. When he had given up his profession of engineering
and plunged into business downtown his youth was ended. She recalled
that this must have been about the time he returned from the Western
trip--the year before he was married. The making of money had been the
only thing in life her brother had ever cared about. He had loved his
wife in his peculiar way until she died, and he had been grateful for
his children. His membership in the ---- Regiment, years ago, had been
a business move, and the service, though distinguished, had made him
many valuable business connections, but all of Cornelius Bent's family
knew that his heart and his soul were downtown, day and night, night and
day.
And yet there seemed no chance that Camilla could be mistaken. The
marks of handling, the stains of Time--perhaps of tears--the pin-hole at
the top, these were the only differences between the photograph in her
album at home and the one she now held in her fingers.
Camilla waited for her to speak again. Her own heart was too full of
Jeff and of what this discovery might mean to him to be willing to trust
herself to further speech until she was sure that her visitor understood
the full meaning of the situation. There was a sudden appreciation of
the delicacy of her own position and of the danger to which her
friendship with Mrs. Rumsen was being subjected--and, highly as she had
prized it, Camilla knew that if her visitor could not take her own point
of view with regard to Jeff's father and with regard to Jeff himself she
must herself bring that friendship to an end. In some anxiety she waited
and watched Mrs. Rumsen while she read. The proud head was bent, the
brows and chin had set in austere lines, and Camilla, not knowing what
to expect, sat silently and waited.
"It is true, of course," said her visitor, softly. "There can't be the
slightest doubt of it now. There are some allusions here which identify
these letters completely. I don't know just what to say to you, child.
From the first time I saw your husband he attracted me
curiously--reflected a memory--you remember my speaking of it? It all
seems so clear to me now that the wonder is I didn't think of it myself.
The resemblance between the two men is striking even now."
"Yes--yes--I hadn't thought of that."
There was another silence, during which Mrs. Rumsen seemed to realize
what was passing in Camilla's mind--her sudden reticence and the meaning
of it, for she straightened in her chair and extended both hands warmly.
"It is all true. But my brother's faults shall make no difference in my
feeling for his children. If anything I should and will love them the
more. Come and kiss me, Camilla, dear," she said with gentle
simplicity.
And Camilla, her heart full of her kindness, fell on her knees at Mrs.
Rumsen's feet.
"You are so good--so kind," she sobbed happily.
"Not at all," said Mrs. Rumsen with a return of her old "grenadier"
manner, at the same time touching her handkerchief to her eyes. "To
whom should I not be good unless to my own. If my brother disowns your
husband, there's room enough in my own empty heart for you both----"
Camilla started back frightened, her eyes shining through her tears.
"You must not speak of this to him--to General Bent--not yet. I must
think what it is best for us to do."
"No, dear. I'll not speak of it. I'll never speak of it unless you
allow me to. It is your husband's affair. He shall do what he thinks
best. As for Cornelius--it is a matter for my brother--and his God----"
"He has forgotten. Perhaps it would be better if he never knew."
"Something tells me that he will learn the truth. It was written years
ago. It will not come through me--because it is not my secret to tell.
One thing only is certain in my mind, and that is that your husband,
Jeff, must be told. It is his right."
"Yes, I know. I must go to him. It will be terrible news for him."
"Terrible?"
"I fear so. I remember his once saying that if he ever found his father
he'd shoot him as he would a dog."
As Mrs. Rumsen drew back in alarm, she added quickly, "Oh, no, of course
he didn't mean that. That was just Jeff's way of expressing himself."
As Camilla rose, Mrs. Rumsen sighed deeply.
"I don't suppose I have any right to plead for my brother--but you and
Jeff must do him justice, too. All this happened a long while ago.
Between that time and this lie thirty years of good citizenship and
honorable manhood. Cornelius has been no despoiler of women." She
picked up the papers again. "The curious thing about it, Camilla, is
that nowhere in these letters is there any mention of a child. I can't
understand that. Have you thought--that perhaps he did not know? It's
very strange, mystifying. I have never known the real heart of my
brother, but he could hardly have been capable of _that_. He was never
given at any time to show his feelings--even to his wife or his family.
Have you thought--that perhaps he loved--Jeff's mother?"
"I hope--I pray that he did. Perhaps if Jeff could believe that--but
the letters--no, Mrs. Rumsen--no man who had ever loved could have
written that last letter."
"But you must do what you can to make your husband see the best of it,
Camilla. That is your duty, child--don't you see it that way?"
Camilla was kneeling on a chair, her elbows on its back, her fingers
wreathing her brows.
"Yes, I suppose so," she sighed. "But I'm afraid in this matter Jeff
will not ask my opinions--he must choose for himself. I don't know what
he will do or say. You could hardly expect him to show filial devotion.
Gladys and Cortland"--she rose in a new dismay and walked to the
window--"I had not thought of them."
Her visitor followed Camilla with questioning eyes. "They must share the
burden--it is theirs, too," she put in after a moment.
"It is very hard for me to know what to do. It is harder now than it
would have been before this fight of the Amalgamated for the smelter.
They are enemies--don't you suppose I hear the talk about it? General
Bent has sworn to ruin Jeff--to put him out of business; and Jeff will
fight until he drops. Father against son--oh, Mrs. Rumsen, what can be
done?" She took the photograph and letters from the lap of her visitor
and stood before the mantel. "If I burned them----"
"No, no," Mrs. Rumsen had risen quickly and seized Camilla by the arm.
"You mustn't do that."
"It would save so much pain----"
"No one saved _her_ pain. You have no right. Who are you to play the
part of Providence to two human souls? This drama was arranged years
before you were born. It's none of your affair. Fate has simply used
you--used _us_--as humble instruments in working out its plans."
Camilla shook her head. "It can do Jeff no good. It will do Gladys and
Cortland harm. Jeff has forgotten the past. It has done him no
harm--except that he has no name. He has won his way without a
name--even this will not give him one. Jeff's poor incubus will be a
grim reality--tangible flesh--to be despised."
Mrs. Rumsen looked long into the fire. "I can't believe it," she said
slowly. "My brother and I are not on the best of terms--we have never
been intimate, because we could not understand each other. But he is
not the kind of man any one despises. People downtown say he has no
soul. If he hasn't, then this news can be no blow to him. If he
has----"
She paused. And then, instead of going on, took Camilla by the hand.
"Camilla," she said gently, "we must think long over this--but not now.
It must be slept on. Get dressed while I read these letters, and we'll
take a spin into the country. Perhaps by to-morrow we'll be able to see
things more clearly."
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*COMBAT*
It had been a time of terrific struggles. For four months Wray's
enemies had used every device that ingenuity could devise to harass him
in the building of his new road, the Saguache Short Line; had attacked
the legality of every move in the courts; hampered and delayed, when
they could, the movement of his material; bribed his engineers and
employes; offered his Mexicans double wages elsewhere; found an
imaginary flaw in his title to the Hermosa Estate which for a time
prevented the shipment of ties until Larry came on and cleared the
matter up. Finally they caused a strike at the Pueblo Steel Works,
where his rails were made, so that before the completion of the contract
the works were shut down. Tooth and nail Jeff fought them at every
point, and Pete Mulrennan's judge at Kinney, whose election had taken
place before the other crowd had made definite plans, had been an
important asset in the fight for supremacy.
The other crowd had appealed from his decisions, of course, but the law
so far had been on Wray's side, and there was little chance that the
decisions would be overruled in the higher court. But as Jeff well
knew, the Amalgamated crowd had no intention of standing on ceremony,
and what they couldn't do in one way they attempted to accomplish in,
another. Five carloads of ties on the Denver and Saguache railroad were
ditched in an arroyo between Mesa City and Saguache. Wray's engineers
reported that the trestles had been tampered with. Jeff satisfied
himself that this was true, then doubled his train crews, supplied the
men with Winchesters and revolvers, and put a deputy sheriff in the cab
of each locomotive. After that an explosion of dynamite destroyed a
number of his flat cars, and a fire in the shops was narrowly averted.
A man caught at the switches had been shot and was now in the hospital
at Kinney with the prospect of a jail sentence before him. Judge Weigel
was a big gun in Kinney, and he liked to make a big noise. He would
keep the law in Saguache County, he said, if he had to call on the
Governor to help him.
More difficult to combat were the dissensions Jeff found among his own
employes. The German engineers, like other men, were fallible, and left
him when the road was half done because they were offered higher
salaries elsewhere. His under-engineers, his contractors, his foremen
were all subject to the same influences, but he managed somehow to keep
the work moving. New men, some of them just out of college, were
imported from the East and Middle West, and the Development Company was
turned into an employment agency to keep the ranks of workmen filled.
Mexicans went and Mexicans came, but the building of the road went
steadily on. There were no important engineering problems to solve,
since the greater part of the line passed over the plains, where the
fills and cuts were small and the grading inexpensive. Seven months had
passed since ground had been broken and the road, in spite of obstacles,
had been nearly carried to completion.
Already Wray had had a taste of isolation. For two months there had
been but one passenger train a day between Kinney and Saguache. To all
intents and purposes Kinney was now the Western terminus of the road,
and Saguache was beginning to feel the pinch of the grindstones.
Notwithstanding the findings of the Railroad Commission, Judge Weigel's
decision, and Jeff's representations through his own friends at
Washington, the Denver and Western refused to put on more trains.
Saguache, they contended, was not the real terminus of the road; that
the line had been extended from Kinney some years before to tap a coal
field which had not proved successful; that Saguache was not a growing
community, and that the old stage line still in operation between the
two towns would be adequate for every purpose. These were lies of
course, vicious lies, for every one knew that since the development of
the Mesa City properties Saguache had trebled in size, and that the
freight business alone in ten years would have provided for the entire
bonded indebtedness of the road. What might happen in time Jeff did not
know or care. It was a matter which must be fought out at length and
might take years to settle. The Chicago and Utah Railroad Company for
the present had command of the situation. To handle the business Jeff
had put on a dozen four-mule teams between Kinney and Saguache, which
carried his freight and necessary supplies along the old trail over the
Boca Pass, which was shorter by ten miles than the railroad, a
heart-breaking haul and a dangerous one to man and beast. But it was
the only thing left for him to do.
Realizing the futility of any efforts at coercion, Jeff had relinquished
the losing battle and had put his heart and soul into the building of
the Saguache Short Line. He knew every stick and stone of it and rode
along the line from camp to camp, lending some of his own enthusiasm to
the foremen of the gangs, pitting one crowd against the other in
friendly rivalry for substantial bonuses. At last the connecting links
were forged and only a matter of twenty miles of track remained to be
laid--when the Pueblo Steel Works shut down. This was a severe
blow--one on which Jeff had not counted. The penalties for non-delivery
to which the steel company were liable were heavy, but Jeff did not want
the penalties. Compared with his own magnificent financial prospects,
the penalties were only a drop in the bucket. He wanted his road. His
entire future depended upon its completion--the smelter, the Development
Company, and all his chain of mining, coal, and lumber properties.
Without that road he was now at the mercy of his enemies.
Twenty miles of rails! They seemed very little in the face of what he
had already accomplished. He had not counted on this, and had laid no
alternative plans. The Denver and California people were powerless to
help him. A subtle influence was at work among the steel companies,
and, so far as Jeff could see, it would take him from three to five
months to get his rails from the West or East. In the meanwhile what
might his enemies not accomplish in bringing about his downfall. What
would become of his pledges to the settlers on the Hermosa Estate--and
the lot-holders of Saguache, many of whose houses were only half built
while they waited for the material to complete them? These people were
already impatient, and in a short while, unless something could be done
to open connections, the storm must break.
Some days before, by request, Jeff had met Cortland Bent in Denver. He
was glad to learn that at last the Amalgamated had decided to come out
into the open and kept the appointment, wondering why the General had
chosen Cortland as his emissary. He had entered the offices of the
Chicago and Utah with his usual air of self-confidence, frankly curious
as to what part Cort could be expected to play in such a big game. It
did not take him long to learn. They had not been talking more than a
few moments before Jeff discovered that General Bent had made no
mistake. The bored, abstracted air of the gilded youth, the mannerisms
which Jeff had been accustomed to associate with Cortland Bent, were for
some reason lacking. In the short time since they had last met a change
of some sort had come over his old acquaintance. He conveyed an
impression of spareness and maturity, as though in a night he had melted
off all superfluities of flesh and spirit. His eyes now seemed to be
more deeply set, their gaze, formerly rather deliberate, now
penetrating, almost to a degree of shrewdness. He was no longer the boy
who had been a failure. He was now the man who had tasted the
bitterness of success.
"I thought we might make one more effort for peace, Wray. That's why
I'm here. I'm fully informed as to the affairs of the Amalgamated
Reduction Company and as to my father's previous conversations with you.
I'm authorized to talk over your interests in the Valley. We thought
before carrying out all our plans you might like to have a chance to
reconsider."
"That's pretty clever of you, Bent. I'm ready to talk business--any
time. Fire away!"
"I will. By this time you have probably formed some sort of an idea of
the kind of a proposition you're up against. I'm not making any
pretence of friendship when I warn you that you're going to lose out in
the end. My instructions are to ask you to come in with us now. Later
perhaps you couldn't do it so advantageously."
"H--m! I'm figuring my chances are getting better every minute, Bent."
He paused and then added, smiling, "How would your crowd like to come in
with me? I've got a good thing--a very good thing. And I wouldn't mind
selling a small block at a good figure. It seems a pity to cut each
other's throats, don't it? They'll be building houses of gold-bricks
out here next year, and you and I will pay the bill--while we might be
putting a snug profit into our pockets."
Bent remembered another bluff of Wray's which had been expensive, so he
only laughed.
"You once froze me out with a pair of deuces, Wray, but I'm holding
cards this hand," he finished quietly.
"I haven't such a bad hand, Bent," drawled Jeff, shaking some Durham
into a paper. "Even 'fours' wouldn't scare me." He put the drawing
string of his tobacco-bag in his teeth and closed the bag viciously.
"See here--we're wasting time. What are your offers? If they're not
better than your father's were, it's not worth while talking."
"Better than my father's?" Cortland couldn't restrain a gasp of
admiration. "Why, Wray, your property isn't worth what it was."
"Why not?" savagely.
"Well, for one thing," said Cortland coolly, "your railroad connections
are not what they might be. I might add to that, there's no assurance
they're going to be improved."
"Not unless I give it to you. Trains are scheduled to run on the
Saguache Short Line on the twenty-fifth of May."
"They're not going to run, Wray." Jeff turned on him quickly, but
Cortland's eyes met his eagerly. "That's true," he added. "Believe it
or not, as you choose."
Jeff's sharp glance blurred quickly. Then he smiled and looked out of
the window with his childish stare.
"Oh, well," he said quietly, "we'll do the best we can."
"You'd better take my advice and come in with, us now. We'll meet you
in a fair spirit----"
"Why?" asked Jeff suddenly. "Why should you meet me in any kind of
spirit. You've got things all your own way--at the upper end of the
Valley--now you say you've coppered my outlet at Pueblo."
"Yes, that's true. But there are other reasons why we prefer to go no
farther without an effort to come to terms. We're frank in admitting
that when we can accomplish anything by compromise we prefer to do it.
This fight has been expensive. It promises to be more expensive. But,
no matter what your reasons, ours are greater, and no matter what move
you make, the Amalgamated can check you. The Amalgamated will win in
the end. It always has. It always will. You've only to look at its
history----"
"Oh, I know its history," said Wray. "It's a history of organized crime
in three states. You've had a succession of easy marks--of sure things.
I'm another one. You've got a sure thing. Why don't you go ahead and
play it. Why do you want to talk about it? I wouldn't in your place.
I'd clean you out and hang your bones up the way you did Conrad
Seemuller's, for the crows to roost on." Wray leaned forward and
brought his fist down on the table. "I know what your 'fair spirit'
means, Cort Bent. It means that your 'sure thing' is a 'selling
plater'; that you've played your best cards and the tricks are still in
my hand."
Cortland Bent's shoulders moved almost imperceptibly.
"You're mistaken," he said shortly.
"Well, you'll have to prove it. I lived for some years in Missouri."
"Then you won't consider any basis for settlement?"
"There's nothing to settle. You started this fight. Now finish it.
Either your father wins--or I do. He wouldn't consider my figures in
New York. He'd be less likely to consider them now. They've gone up
since then."
Cortland rose and walked to the window.
"I warn you that you're making a mistake. This is neither a bluff nor a
threat. I mean what I say. You're going to lose. You've been hampered
by lack of railroad facilities. How do you like it? Your own mines
have kept your plant busy, but you can't buy any ore and you can't
compete with us. You'll never be able to."
"I'll take my chances."
"Then this is final?"
"Yes." And, as Cortland Bent rose and took up his hat, "You go back to
those that sent you here and say that on the twenty-fifth of May the
Saguache Smelting Company will be in the market for ore. I've never
competed with your company. I've always been content to take my profit
at the current prices. But if it's necessary to be a hog to remain in
this business, I'll be the biggest hog now or get out of it. You tell
your people that in future I'll regulate my schedule to theirs, and
whatever the prices of the Amalgamated are, my prices will be better.
Is that clear?"
"Perfectly. I'm much obliged. Good morning."
The interview had terminated rather suddenly--almost too suddenly to be
entirely satisfactory to Jeff, who had at first seen in a talk with
Cortland Bent an opportunity to learn by inductive methods something of
the future plans of his enemies. He realized, as he watched Bent's
squared shoulders disappear through the door of an inner office, that in
this respect he had been entirely unsuccessful. Bent had revealed
nothing that Jeff did not know before. Jeff had a feeling, too, that
Bent had retired with a slight advantage, even though it had been moral
rather than tactical. Throughout the interview Bent had preserved the
same demeanor of quiet confidence, of repression and solidity, which, in
spite of his advances, had more than offset Jeff's violence and
distemper. What had come over the man? Had he found himself at last?
In his heart Jeff had always had a feeling of good-humored contempt for
the men of Cortland Bent's class, and the fact that Camilla preferred
this one to him had made him less tolerant of them even than before. He
was unwilling to acknowledge to himself the slight sense of shock he had
experienced in discovering that Cort Bent was now a foeman worthy of his
own metal. Their trails were crossing too often. It wasn't healthy for
either of them.
He understood now why it was that Camilla had written him vaguely of an
urgent matter about which she could not write, requesting permission to
come West at once. He had put it down to the whim of a woman--as he did
everything feminine he could not understand. It was all clear to him
now. She wanted to be near Cortland Bent and feared to take any
definite step which might compromise her in the eyes of her husband. He
had had some misgivings about her letters--they had seemed so frank, so
womanly and friendly, with a touch of regretful tenderness in them that
was unlike anything Jeff could remember when they had been together.
But he was glad now that he had refused her. Seeing Bent had brought
back into Jeff's mind the whole sad history of their mistaken marriage.
There wasn't a day when he didn't miss her, and his business worries
were never so thick about him that her image didn't intrude. Frequently
he found himself thinking and planning, as he used to plan, for Camilla;
only to remember bitterly in time that the battle he was fighting was
only for himself. And now the man she loved had come down to help the
legions of autocracy against him. He was glad of that. It would nerve
him for the struggle. He could fight better with Cort Bent on the other
side.
With an effort he put the thought of Camilla from his mind and went
about his other business with a new determination to circumvent his
foes. He always fought better when his back was to the wall, and his
conversation with Bent had confirmed the necessity of completing the
Short Line at any cost.
The drains upon his resources had been enormous. Three million dollars
had already been spent, and there was another million still to be
provided for. His expenses had been greater because of the unusual
impediments thrown in his way. The mine was paying "big," and the
railroad and the banks were still backing him, but he knew that there
was a limit to the amounts he must expect from these quarters. He had
tried to buy rails in the open market and found that his enemies had
forestalled him. The mills agreed to take his orders, but during the
press of business refused to name a definite date for delivery. General
Bent, whose friendship was necessary to the steel interests East and
West, had seen to that. But if the Amalgamated thought that the lack of
rails was going to stop the construction of the Short Line, they were
going to have another guess.
Already an alternative plan had suggested itself to Wray, a desperate,
unheard-of plan which he could never have thought of except as a last
resort. But the more he thought of it, the more convinced he was that it
was the only solution of his problem. He would tear up the rails of the
old narrow-gauge which ran from Mesa City up to the old coal field at
Trappe. They were light rails, old and rusty from disuse, but they were
_rails_, and by the use of more ties and "blue-boards" for the time
would serve his purpose. With the sidings and a reserve supply of the
D. & S. at Saguache, he managed to figure out enough to finish the Short
Line. He knew his engineers wouldn't approve--they couldn't approve, he
knew, on any grounds but those of expediency, for such construction was
dangerous and would make the accomplishment of any kind of a fast
schedule impossible, but they would give him his connection--without
which all of his plans must fall to earth. By October, or perhaps by
late summer, he would manage to get standard rails somewhere. It would
be easier once the road was in operation. He couldn't help smiling when
he went into the office of the Denver and California. If this was the
last card Bent's crowd could play, it was on the tallies that they were
to lose the game.
His plans met with the approval of his friends, and Jeff went back to
Mesa City with a lighter heart than when he had left it. A hurried
conference with his engineers and directors, which exhausted some of
Jeff's strength and most of his patience, and the old road was doomed to
destruction. Nor was Jeff satisfied until three dilapidated flat cars
loaded with Mexicans and tools were started over the line to the coal
fields. Then he turned with a sigh under the "Watch Us Grow" sign and
went into his private office, where an accumulation of mining business
awaited him.
But his sense of triumph was short-lived. The week had not ended before
advices of a disquieting nature reached him from Denver and Pueblo of a
considerable activity in the stock of the Denver and California. This
information in itself was not surprising, for during the past year the
rate-war and the unsettled condition of the country had made the stock
of the road particularly vulnerable to manipulation? But back of this
movement, Symonds, the General Manager of the road, one of Wray's
staunchest supporters, thought he detected powerful influences. Rumors
of a more startling character had transpired, signifying the transfer of
large blocks of the stock to Eastern investors which seriously
threatened the control of those in power. Other men, men of the
directorate, Jeff discovered, also showed signs of apprehension. A
reorganization of the road might mean anything--to Jeff it meant ruin,
if the new stockholders were in any way identified with the Chicago and
Utah. Was this Bent's crowd? For the first time Wray really appreciated
the lengths to which his enemies were prepared to go to accomplish his
downfall. He knew that they had already spent large sums and had used
all their influence in completing their control of the Denver and
Western, but a control of the Denver and California! It was simply
incredible!
Letters from the banks were still more disquieting. Conditions, they
wrote, were so unsatisfactory throughout the West that their boards of
directors had thought it advisable to call their loans on the stock of
the Denver and Saguache Railroad Company. The uncertainty of the
development of the Saguache Company's properties, owing to the
imperfection of their railroad connections, made this course necessary
until they secured definite and satisfactory assurances as to the
completion of the Saguache Short Line and the value of its contracts
with the Denver and California Railroad Company. The receipt of these
letters in the same mail was a coincidence which showed Jeff that, in
spite of all assurances to the contrary, his friends were weakening
under fire and that the enemy had invaded his own country. They meant,
in short, that unless he could meet the loans at once--eight hundred
thousand dollars on stock really worth two millions and a half--those
securities would fall into the hands of the Amalgamated people.
Eight hundred thousand dollars! It seemed a prodigious sum of money
now. The "Lone Tree" would bring that in the open market--of course,
but he and Pete could not sell the "Lone Tree." It was the backbone of
his entire financial position! Really alarmed at the sudden disastrous
turn the company's affairs had taken, he called a meeting of Mulrennan,
Larry Berkely, Weigel, Willoughby, and other available directors, and
then hurried to Denver to see his friends in the D. & C.
Other disappointments awaited him there. Symonds, and Shackelton, the
vice-president, advised him for the sake of his head, as well, perhaps,
as for their own, to compromise with his enemies if he could. Until
more light was shed as to the new ownership of the D. & C. they could
make him no further promises of assistance either moral or financial.
He argued with them, pleaded with them at least for some pledge on the
part of the road with which he could reassure the banks. They were
powerless, they said. Their contracts, of course, would be a basis for
a suit even under a new management. They could--or would do nothing
more.
A suit? Jeff knew what that meant--interminable legal proceedings,
while the ties of the Saguache Short Line rotted under the rails, and
washouts in the summer tore the roadbed to pieces; it meant the shutting
down of his coal mines, the abandonment of his lumber camps, the
complete isolation of his mines and smelter, which, if they did business
at all, must do it under all kinds of disadvantages.
There was only one thing left to do, and that was to finish the Short
Line and put it into operation. Then, perhaps, the courts would uphold
him and force the D. & C. to live up to its contracts--no matter who was
in control. But how was he to redeem the eight hundred thousand in
stock? He had enough available capital to finish the Short Line, but
not enough to redeem the stock, too. He got on the Denver and Western
sleeper for Kinney that night, sore in mind and body. He was too tired
even to think. Larry and Pete must help him now. Perhaps there was
some way. He fell into a troubled sleep, and about his ears Cornelius
Bent's railroad mocked at him in noisy triumph.
* * * * *
The arrival of the morning train from Saguache was an event in Mesa
City. There were but two trains a day, and it was the morning train
which brought the mail and yesterday's newspapers from Denver. For
obvious reasons, the passenger traffic was small, and, as almost every
member of the Saguache community was personally known to almost every
citizen of Mesa City, the greetings as a rule were short and laconic,
consisting of a rustic nod or the mere mention of a surname. Most of
the travelers were men and descended from the combination
baggage-smoker; but this morning Bill Wilkinson, the conductor (and
brakeman), a person by nature taciturn, appeared upon the platform of
the rear coach bearing a lady's English traveling bag, and winked,
actually winked, at Ike Matthews, the station master, who was waiting
for his envelope from headquarters. At least eight people saw that wink
and fully eighteen the handbag, and, when a pretty lady in a dove-gray
traveling suit appeared in the car doorway to be helped down
ceremoniously to the station platform, thirty-six eyes were agog and
thirty-six ears were open to learn the meaning of the unusual
occurrence; for it was plainly to be seen that the visitor bore every
mark of consequence and came from the East--surely from Denver--possibly
from Chicago.
They saw her smile her thanks to Wilkinson, but when she looked rather
helplessly about her and asked for a "coupe" or "station wagon" a
snigger, immediately suppressed, arose from the younger persons in the
audience. The firm hand of Ike Matthews now took control of the
situation.
"Do you want the hotel, ma'am?" he said.
"Yes, I think so," said the lady. "But first I want to find Mr. Jeff
Wray. Can you tell me where I can see him?"
Her eyes searched the cottonwood trees along the creek opposite the
station, as though she hoped to find him there, searching in the wrong
direction for the town which had been described to her.
"Yes, ma'am, if you'll come with me." Ike took up the bag and led the
way around the corner of the building into Main Street, while the
engineer and fireman hung out of their cab and with the crowd on the
platform followed the slim figure with their eyes until it vanished into
the crowd at the post-office.
A clerk in the outer room of the Development Company's office building
received the queer pair.
"Mr. Wray is in, ma'am, but he's very busy." He looked at her timidly.
"I don't know whether he'll see you or not. Who shall I say?"
The lady handed him a card, and, as he disappeared, she fingered in her
pocketbook for change--then, after a glance at the station master,
smiled at him instead.
"I'm much obliged to you," she said gratefully. "I think I'll stay here
now. I'll find my way to the hotel."
Matthews put the bag on a desk, awkwardly removed his hat and departed,
while the lady sat and waited.
In the inner office, his head in his hands, his elbows on his desk, his
brows bent over some papers, sat Jeff, trying to bring cosmos out of the
chaos of his affairs. His clerk entered, the card in his hand,
wondering whether he had made a mistake. Hell had been let loose in the
Development Company for a week, and Mr. Wray, he knew, was in no humor
for interruptions. Jeff looked up with a frown.
"Well--what is it?"
"A lady--to see you."
Jeff's head sank into his papers again.
"Tell her I'm busy!" Then he looked up irritably. "What lady? Who is
she? I can't see anybody to-day."
"I don't know. She doesn't belong around here." And he dropped the
card on the desk.
Jeff picked it up and looked at it with a scowl, then started in
amazement. What did it mean? He rose slowly, his brows perplexed, and
put on his coat.
"Tell her to come in," he said. He was still standing in the middle of
the room looking at her card when Mrs. Cheyne entered.
*CHAPTER XIX*
*THE LADY IN GRAY*
She was frankly amused at his bewilderment.
"Well," she said with a smile, "you don't seem very pleased to see me."
"I--it's rather sudden. I wasn't exactly certain it was you." He took
her hand mechanically. "What on earth are you doing out here?"
"I've come to see you--traveled two thousand miles to tell you I'm
sorry."
Jeff brought forth a chair.
"Sorry? What for? Oh, yes, we quarreled, didn't we? I remember. It
was my fault. But I don't understand yet. Are you on your way to the
coast?"
"What coast? Oh, no," coolly; "I rather thought I'd reached my
destination, but perhaps I'm mistaken."
Jeff was still regarding her curiously, as if he couldn't be quite sure
he was not dreaming. He pulled out his swivel chair and sat in it,
facing her.
"Now tell me what this means," he insisted rather sternly.
"I've told you. I want to convey the impression of begging your pardon.
Don't I do it? I've tried so hard. Ugh! Such unspeakable
sleeping-cars last night! Such a silly little train this morning from
the place with the unpronounceable name. I had no idea that friendship
could be such a martyrdom!" She sighed. "I think I really deserve
something after this."
He found that he was smiling in spite of himself. "You do, I'm sure," he
said after a pause. "But I don't bear you any grudge. I expected too
much of you, I guess. I've forgotten that long ago. I'm glad to see
you."
"Really?" she drawled. "You convey just the opposite idea. You ought
to be glad, you know. I've never been so tired in my life. That train!
Oh, Jeff, whatever possessed you to live in such an outlandish place?"
"This is where I belong. If Mesa City is outlandish, then I'm
outlandish, too."
"Love me, love my dog," she laughed. "I'd have to love you a lot.
Perhaps it will improve on acquaintance." She crossed her feet and
settled more comfortably in her chair, while Jeff watched her shrewdly.
"You can't mean you want to stay here?" he asked.
"I don't know. That depends on you. I've told you the sentimental side
of my journey. Actually I'm a practical young female, with a prudent eye
for an investment." And when her companion smiled, "Are you laughing
because you think I'm not practical--or because you think I'm not
prudent?"
"I'd hardly call you either. In fact, I don't know what to think. You
don't seem to belong, somehow."
"Why not? Once you said I spoke out like Mesa City."
"But you don't look like Mesa City."
"Horrors!" preening her hair, "I hope not."
Jeff leaned back in his chair with folded arms and examined her--his
eyes narrowing critically. She had given two explanations of her
presence, neither of which in itself seemed sufficient. The real
explanation, he was forced to admit, lay in the presence itself. She
bore his scrutiny calmly, examining him with frank interest.
"What is it you don't understand?" she asked him, answering the question
in his eyes with another. "Me? Oh, you'll have to give it up. There
isn't any answer. I'm something between a sibyl and a sphinx. You
thought you'd guessed me in New York, but you hadn't, you see. I'm
neither what you thought I was, nor what you thought I ought to be. I'm
the spirit of Self-Will. I do as I choose. I thought I'd like to see
you, and so I came--_Voila_."
"I don't know what you can expect here. The accommodations at the
hotel----"
"Oh, I can stand anything now--after your trains----"
"You'll be bored to death."
"I'm always bored to death. But, then, this place may have the charm of
boring me in an entirely new way. After all," she sighed, "I might as
well be bored here as at home."
Wray got up without speaking and walked to the window which overlooked
the plains. He stood here a moment, his hands behind his back, the look
of perplexity deepening on his face. Somehow Rita Cheyne didn't seem
accessory to the rather grim background of his thoughts. For days he
had been acting the leading part in what now promised to be a tragedy.
Rita belonged to satirical comedy or, at the best, to the polite
melodrama. Something of this she suddenly read in his attitude,
wondering why she had not discerned it before. She got up and went over
to him.
"What is it, Jeff? You're changed somehow out here. You seem older,
bigger, browner, more thoughtful."
"This is where I work, Rita," he said with a slow smile. "In New York
we Westerners only play. I am older--yes, more thoughtful, too. I've
had a good deal to worry me----"
"Yes, I know. I think Cortland Bent has been behaving very badly."
Jeff made a quick gesture of protest.
"I didn't mean that," he said abruptly. "My worries are business
worries."
"Oh! I intruded."
"Yes, you did. But I'm glad of it now. I'm going to Hell about as fast
as a man can, but I might as well do it comfortably."
"What do you mean?" she asked in alarm.
"Your relatives, the Bents. They've got me in a corner."
"Yes, I heard. What will be the end of it?"
Jeff ran a finger around his throat with a significant gesture.
"Won't you tell me about it?"
"It wouldn't interest you. It's a long story. They have more money than
I have. That's the amount of it."
"I thought you were so wealthy."
"I am. But I can't go up against the whole of Wall Street. They've
cost me a lot. If I won this fight I'd be the richest man west of the
Missouri River. It isn't over yet." He paced the room violently,
beginning to rant, as he still did when to talked of himself. "No, by
G--d! not yet. They've got to come to me in the end. They can't get my
mine." He went over to his desk and took out a piece of ore. "See
that, Rita; that came out of 'Lone Tree' only yesterday. They may get a
control of the Denver and Saguache and even of the Development Company,
but they can't get the 'Lone Tree.' I reckon I won't starve."
"But how can they get the Development Company?"
"The banks have called my loans--oh, you can't understand. If I don't
meet them, the stock will be sold. Bent's crowd will buy it."
"Of course I don't know much about these things, but I was
wondering--how much stock is there?"
"Two million and a half. I've borrowed eight hundred thousand dollars."
She looked down, turning the ferrule of her umbrella on the toe of her
boot.
"Suppose some one else bought it?"
"I hadn't thought of that. Who?"
"Me."
Jeff started forward in his chair, his eyes blazing--then he took a step
or two away from her.
"You?"
She nodded pertly. He turned and looked at her over his shoulder.
Then, with a warm impulse, he seized both of her hands in his and held
them tightly in his own.
"That's white of you, Rita. You're the real thing. I'll swear you
are--the Real Thing--you've got sand, too, a lot of it, and I like you
for it. It's worth while getting in a hole to find out who your friends
are. I won't forget this soon."
She disengaged her hands.
"Thanks," she said calmly. "Do you agree?"
"Agree? To what?"
"To let me buy that stock?"
He straightened and turned to his desk, uncertainly fingering some
papers there. He was silent so long that she repeated the question.
"No," he said at last.
"Why do you say that?"
"I don't want you to."
"I don't understand. In New York you were willing to have me in with
you. Why do you object now? Any security your banks will take ought to
be good enough for me. Any security my cousin Cornelius Bent wants to
buy ought to be worth having."
"It is--to him."
"Then why not to me?--it's all in the family."
He looked at her blankly a moment and then laughed and shook his head.
"No--there's too much risk."
"I expected to risk something."
He sat down in his chair before her and put his hands over hers.
"See here, Rita. You'll have to let me think this thing out and take my
own time. I never put my friends into anything I don't believe in
myself. If you're looking for an investment here I'll find you
something. I know a dozen good things."
"You can't prevent my getting that stock if I want it," she broke in.
"The Amalgamated can."
"I'll go to the General and tell him I insist on having it. He's a
little afraid of me."
He laughed. "He ought to be. I am, too." Jeff rose and took up his
hat and Rita Cheyne's traveling bag. "There's one thing sure: I'm not
going to talk about this any more--not now. You're tired. I've got to
get you fixed up somehow. You know I started building a place up in the
canon, but it's not finished yet. Mrs. Brennan is away. There's
nothing for it but a hotel, I guess."
"Oh, I don't care. I'm not going to be discouraged. I warn you I always
have my own way--in the end--in all things."
He chose to disregard the significance of the remark and showed her out.
On their way up the street the spirit moved him to apologize again.
"There's a bathroom at the Kinney House. I'd better take you there.
It's pretty well kept. Camilla stayed there once. I wish she was here."
"You do?" quizzically.
"Why--yes."
"Then why don't you have her here?" she asked suddenly.
A shade passed over Jeff's face. "We went East for the winter," he said
slowly. "I had to come back here. My wife likes it in New York. It--it
wasn't advisable for her to come."
"Thanks, I knew that before," she said slowly. Further conversation was
interrupted by their arrival at the Kinney House, a frame structure at
the upper end of Main Street, where it stood in lonely dignity, quite
dwarfing its nearest neighbors, which clambered part of the way up the
slope and then paused--as though in sudden diffidence before the majesty
of its three-storied preeminence. It wore at this time a coat of yellow
paint of a somewhat bilious hue, but its cornices, moldings, and the
rather coquettish ornaments about the "Ladies Entrance" were painted
white. The letters C-A-F-E (without the accent), painted ostentatiously
upon a window, gave a touch of modernity, and the words "Ladies' Parlor"
advised the wearied traveler that here was to be found a haven for the
females of refined and retiring dispositions. The sound of a piano was
heard from that chaste apartment as Mrs. Cheyne registered her long
angular signature beneath that of "Pat O'Connell, Santa Fe"; and the
strains of "The Maiden's Prayer" came forth, followed presently by the
"Carnival of Venice." Mrs. Cheyne smiled her tolerance.
"Do you want a room by the day, week or month, ma'am?" asked the clerk.
"I'm a little uncertain," she said; "I may be here only for a day or two
or I may be here"--and she glanced at Jeff--"for a month--or even
longer."
"Mrs. Cheyne is looking into some mining properties," said Jeff with an
amused air. But when his companion followed the clerk up the stairway,
jangling a key with a huge brass tag, Jeff departed thoughtfully. So
far as he could see, Mrs. Cheyne had come to Mesa City with the express
intention of playing the devil. The magnificence of her financial
offer, while it dazzled, had not blinded him. But he was truly
bewildered by her audacity, disarmed by the recklessness of her
amiability. She always got what she wanted in the end, she said. What
was it she wanted? Himself? He couldn't help thinking so, but it made
him feel like a fool. In the East she had led him or as she led other
men on, for the mere joy of the game, and he had followed her
cautiously, aware of his own insufficiency but delighting in the
opportunities her society afforded him to even his accounts with
Camilla. Both had called their relation friendship for want of a better
word, but Jeff knew that friendship had another flavor. The night when
he had last visited her he had played his cards and had called that
bluff. But to-day he realized that she had seen his raise and had now
removed the limit from the game. From now on it was to be for table
stakes, with Rita Cheyne dealing the cards.
And what did her amazing financial proposition mean? Could it be
genuine? He knew that she was very wealthy--wealthy in the New York
way--but it was not in his experience that sentiment and finance had
anything in common. If her offers were genuine, her confidence in his
financial integrity and in him was extraordinary. If they were not, her
confidence in herself was likewise extraordinary.
Jeff smiled to himself a little uneasily. What would Mesa City be
saying about the unexplained arrival of a captivating female from New
York who sought him out at his office and whose claims upon his society
(unless he fled) could not be denied. There was no chance for him to
flee, even if he wished, the condition of his business requiring his
presence here for at least a few days, and the trunk check in his hand
reminded him that he had promised Rita Cheyne her trunk immediately, so
that she might ride with him that very afternoon. What was to be done?
Her ingenuity had always surprised him, and her resources were of
infinite variety. To tell the truth, he was afraid of her, and was
willing for the first time to acknowledge it frankly to himself. She
interested him--had always interested him--but it seemed to be more the
interest of curiosity than that of any real affiliation. To be with
Rita Cheyne was like going to a three-ring circus, where one is apt to
lose sight of the refined performance on the stage just in front in
bewilderment over the acrobatic feats of the lady in spangles at one
side. What was her real reason for coming West to Mesa City? He gave
it up and turned in at the office, gave the trunk check to a clerk, and
in a moment had taken up his business at the point where Mrs. Cheyne had
interrupted him.
Eight hundred thousand dollars! If the Amalgamated took up that stock,
General Bent's crowd would have control of the Development Company and
the Denver and Saguache Railroad Company. If Rita Cheyne's offers were
genuine--if he chose to use her money to redeem that stock--he could
place himself on some kind of financial footing, could entrench himself
for a long battle over the railroad connections, which he might
eventually win. There was a chance. He did not dare to call in
Mulrennan to talk the matter over. Pete had been catching at straws for
a week, and Jeff knew what his advice would be. His superstitious mind
would look on Mrs. Cheyne's visit as a direct interposition of
Providence, as a message and an injunction. Jeff began to think himself
mad not to have accepted her proposition at once. It dangled before him
temptingly--but he let it hang there like ripe fruit upon the vine,
hesitating to reach forth and seize. He could not believe it was real.
It was "too aisy," as Pete would have said. Was he losing his nerve?
Was it that the last victories of his enemies had sapped some of his old
assurance, or had he suddenly developed a conscience? He put his head
in his hands and tried to think. If he won his fight he could double
Rita Cheyne's money in a year. If he lost--and he had to think of that
more and more each day--the stock might not be worth the paper it was
written on. Rita knew all this, but she still believed in him--more
even than he believed in himself. Women were funny. He couldn't
understand, unless she had some motive which had not been revealed to
him. There would be a string of some sort to that extraordinary
proposition.
He got up at last and sent a message to the Home Ranch, ordering two
horses to be sent to his office at three o'clock.
*CHAPTER XX*
_*La Femme Propose*_
The wagon-road to the "Lone Tree" skirted the mountains for a way and
then wound through a nick in the foothills into a level vale of natural
parks, meadows, and luxuriant grass, bordered by pines and cottonwoods,
beneath which tiny streams meandered leisurely down to the plains below.
Mrs. Cheyne emerged from the scrub-oak delightedly.
"It's like a Central Park for Brobdingnags," she cried. "I feel as
though Apache ought to have seven-league horseshoes. As a piece of
landscape gardening it's remarkably well done, for Nature is so apt to
make mistakes--only Art is unerring." She breathed deep and sighed.
"Here it seems Nature and Art are one. But it's all on such a big
scale. It makes me feel so tiny--I'm not sure that I like it, Jeff
Wray. I don't fancy being an insect. And the mountain tops! Will they
never come any nearer? We've been riding toward them for an hour, but
they seem as far away as ever. I know now why it was that I liked
you--because your eyes only mirrored big things--nobody can have a
mountain for a friend without joining the immortal Fellowship. It makes
it so easy to scorn lesser things--like bridge and teas. Imagine a
mountain at an afternoon tea!"
Jeff rode beside her, answering in monosyllables. The road now climbed a
wood of tall oaks, rock-pines, and spruces, through which the sunlight
filtered uncertainly, dappling fern and moss with vagrant amber.
Somewhere near them a stream gushed among the rocks and a breeze crooned
in the boughs. Rita Cheyne stopped talking and listened for she knew
not what. There was mystery here--the voice of the primeval, calling to
her down the ages. She glanced at Jeff, who sat loosely on his horse,
his gaze on the trail. She had believed he shared her own emotions, but
she knew by the look in his eyes that his thoughts were elsewhere. She
spoke so suddenly that he looked up, startled.
"Why don't you say something? This place makes me think about Time and
Death--the two things I most abhor. Come, let's get out of here."
Apache sprang forward up the trail at the bidding of his mistress, whose
small heels pressed his flanks, again and again, as she urged him on and
out into the afternoon sunlight beyond, while Jeff thundered after. He
caught her at the top of a sand-ridge half a mile away, where they
pulled their horses down to a walk.
"What was the matter?" said Jeff. "You rode as if the Devil was after
you."
"Oh, no--I'm not afraid of the Devil. It's the mystery of the Infinite.
That wood--why don't the dead oak-branches fall? They look like
gibbets. Ugh!" She shuddered and laughed. "Didn't you feel it?"
"Feel what?"
"Spooky."
"No. I camped there once when I was prospecting. That stream you jumped
was Dead Man's Creek."
"He must be there yet, the dead man. It was like a tomb. Who was he?"
"A soldier. He deserted from Fort Garland and was killed by some
Mexicans. They buried him under a pile of stones."
"What a disagreeable place. It's like a cemetery for dead hopes. I
won't go back; you'll have to take me around some other way."
"What are you afraid of?"
"I'm afraid of melancholy--I hate unhappiness. I was born to be
amused--I _won't_ be unhappy," she said almost fiercely. "Why should I
be? I have everything in the world that most people want. If I see
anything I want and haven't got, I go and get it."
"You're lucky."
She shrugged. "So people say. I do as I please. I always have and
always will. You were surprised to see me here. I told you why I came.
I wanted to see you. You were the only person in New York who did not
bore me to extinction. If it gives me pleasure to be here, this is the
place where I ought to be. That's logical, isn't it?"
"It sounds all right. But you won't stay here long," he said.
"Why not?"
"You couldn't stand it. There's nothing to do but ride."
"I'd rather ride than do anything else."
Jeff looked straight forward over his horse's ears, his eyes narrowing,
his lips widening in a smile.
"Well--if you don't see what you want--ask for it," he said slowly.
"I will. Just now, however, I don't want anything except an interest in
your business. You're going to let me have it, aren't you, Jeff? You'd
take some stranger in. Why not me? I'm the most innocuous stockholder
that ever lived. I always do whatever anybody tells me to do."
"You don't realize the situation. I've told you I'm in a dangerous
position. With that stock in my possession again, all my holdings would
be intact and I might stand a long siege--or perhaps be able to make a
favorable compromise--but there's no certainty of it. I don't know what
they've got up their sleeves. As it is, I stand to lose the greater
part of my own money, but I'm not going to lose yours."
"I don't believe you're going to lose. I'm not quite a fool. Those
papers you showed me don't prove anything. The Development Company has
two hundred thousand acres of land worth twenty dollars an acre and the
coal fields besides. That's good enough security for me."
"It would be good enough security for any one if we had our connection.
I could make you a lot of money." He broke off impatiently. "See here,
Rita, don't press me in this matter, I'd rather wait a while. I've got
a few days before those notes are due. Something may turn up----"
"Which will let me out--thanks, I'm not going to be left out. I know
what you've done in these mountains and in this country, and I believe
in you as much as I ever did. I'd like you to let me help you, and I'm
not afraid of losing--but if I do lose, it won't kill me. Perhaps I'm
richer than you think I am. I'm willing to wait. You'll be rich again
some day, and I'll take my chances. They can't keep you down, Jeff--not
for long."
Jeff thrust forth a hand and put it over hers.
"You're solid gold, Rita, and you're the best friend I ever had. I
can't say more than that."
She smiled happily. "I've been hoping you'd say that. It's worth
coming out here for. I want to prove it, though--and I hope you'll let
me."
The road now turned upward toward the railroad grade. As they reached
the crest of the hill Jeff pointed to the left at the mills and the
smelter buildings hanging tier on tier down the side of the mountain.
Below in a depression of the hills a lake had formed, surrounded by
banks of reddish earth. The whole scene was surpassing ugly, and the
only dignity it possessed was lent by the masses of tall black stacks,
above which hung a pall of smoke and yellow gases. Rita Cheyne gasped.
"So that's the bone of contention? I thought it would be something like
the New York Public Library or the Capitol at Washington! Why, Jeff,
it's nothing but a lot of rusty iron sheds!"
"Yes," he drawled, "we don't go in much for architecture out here. It's
what's inside those sheds that counts. We've got every known appliance
for treating ore that was ever patented, with a wrinkle or two the
Amalgamated hasn't."
They rode around the lake while Wray explained everything to her, and
then up the hill toward the trestles and ore-dumps of the "Lone Tree"
mine. Wray's struggles for a right-of-way to the markets of the country
showed no reflection here. From two small holes in the mountain side
cars emerged at intervals upon their small tracks and dumped their loads
at the mill, from which there came a turmoil of titanic forces. Jeff
offered to show his companion the workings, but she refused.
"No, I think not," she said. "It's too noisy here. I haven't finished
talking to you, and I want to ride."
And so they turned their horses' heads into another trail, which
descended among the rocks and scrub-oak, after a while emerging at the
edge of a great sand-dune which the wind had tossed up from the valley
below--a hill of sand a thousand feet high, three miles wide and six
miles long, a mountain range in miniature, in which trees, rocks, and
part of a mountain were obliterated. Even the Great Desert had not
presented to Rita Cheyne such a scene of desolation. Their horses
stopped, sniffed the breeze, and snorted. Jeff pointed into the air,
where some vultures wheeled.
Mrs. Cheyne shuddered. "It looks like Paradise Lost. We're not going
there?"
"No--I only wanted you to see it. There's a thousand million dollars of
gold in that sandpile."
"Let it stay there. I think it's a frightfully unpleasant place. Why
do you show me all these things when all I want to do is to talk?" She
turned her horse's head, and they followed a slight trail between groves
of aspen trees, a shimmering loveliness of transparent color. "You're
not giving me much encouragement, Jeff. You didn't believe in my
friendship in New York, but you're trying your best to keep me from
proving it here."
"I do believe it now. Didn't I tell you so?"
"Yes, but you don't show it. What do you think my enemies in New York
are saying of my disappearance? What will they say when they know I've
come out here to you? Not that I care at all. Only I think that _you_
ought to consider it."
"I do," he said briefly. "Why do you make such a sacrifice?"
"I never make sacrifices," she said, eluding him skillfully, "even for
my friends. Don't make that mistake. I've told you I came because I'd
rather be here than in New York. If I heard that your financial enemies
were trying to ruin you, that only made me the more anxious to come.
Besides, I had an idea that you might be lonely. Was I right?"
"Yes--I am."
"Was, you mean."
"Yes--was," he corrected. "I've been pretty busy, of course, night as
well as day, but after New York this place is pretty quiet."
"Did you miss me?"
"Yes," frankly, "I did--you and I seem to get on pretty well. I think
we always will."
"So do I. I've always wondered if I'd ever meet a man who hadn't been
spoiled. And I was just about ready to decide that he didn't exist when
you came along. The discovery restored my faith in human nature. It
was all the more remarkable, too, because you were married. Most
married men are either smug and conceited, or else dejected and
apprehensive. In either case they're quite useless for my purpose."
"What is your purpose?" he asked.
"Psychological experiment," she returned glibly. "Some naturalists study
beetles, others butterflies and moths. I like to study men."
"Have you got me classified?"
"Yes--you're my only reward for years of patient scientific endeavor.
The mere fact that you're married makes no difference, except that as a
specimen you're unique. Do you wonder that I don't want to lose you?"
"I'm not running away very fast."
"No. But the fact remains that you're not my property," she answered,
frowning. "I can't see--I've never been able to see--why you ever
married, any more than I can see why I did. I'm quite sure that you
would have made me an admirable husband, just as I'm sure that I would
have made you an admirable wife. You don't mind my speaking plainly, do
you? I'm thinking out loud. I don't do it as a rule. It's a kind of
luxury that one doesn't dare to indulge in often. I have so many weak
points in which you are strong, and I have a few strong ones in which
you are weak, we could help each other. You could make something of me,
I'm sure. I'm not as useless as I seem to be; sometimes I think I have
in me the material to accomplish great things--if I only knew where to
begin, or if I had some one who is in the habit of accomplishing them to
show me how. That is why I wanted to help you. It struck me as a step
in the right direction."
"It was," he ventured, "only it was too big a step."
"One can't do big things by halves," she insisted. "Money is the only
thing I have that you lack. It is the only thing that I can
give--that's why I want to give it--so that you can use it as a measure
of my sincerity. I'd like to make you happy, too----" She paused, and
her voice sank a note. "Why should you be unhappy? You don't deserve
it. I know you don't. I haven't any patience with women who don't know
a good thing when they have it."
"Perhaps I'm not as good a thing as I seem. You yourself are not beyond
making mistakes, Rita."
"Oh, Cheyne? I didn't make that mistake, Cheyne did. He thought
marriage was a sentimental holiday, when everybody nowadays knows that
it's only a business contract. Don't let's talk of Cheyne. I can still
hear the melancholy wail of his 'cello. I want to forget all of that.
You have helped me to do it. I've been looking at you from every angle,
Jeff Wray, and I find that I approve of you. Your wife has other views.
She married you out of pique. You married her because she was the only
woman in sight. You put a halo around her head, dressed her up in
tinsel, set her on a gilt pedestal, and made believe that she was a
goddess. It was a pretty game, but it was only a game after all.
Imagine making a saint of a woman of this generation! People did--back
in the Dark Ages--but the ages must have been very dark, or they'd never
have made such a mistake. I've often thought that saints must be very
uncomfortable, because they were human once. Your wife was human. She
still is. She didn't want to be worshipped. She hadn't forgotten my
cousin Cortland, you see----"
"What's the use of all this, Rita?" said Wray hoarsely. "I don't mind
your knowing. Everybody else seems to. But why talk about it? Let
sleeping dogs lie."
She waved her hand in protest. "One of the dearest privileges of
friendship is to say as many disagreeable things as one likes. I'm
trying to show you how impossible you are to a woman of her type, and
how impossible your wife is to you."
"I'd rather you wouldn't."
"She marries you to prove to my cousin Cortland that he isn't the only
man in the world, and then spends an entire winter in New York proving
to everybody that he is. There hasn't been a day since you left that
they haven't been together, riding, motoring, going to the theatre and
opera. It has reached the point when people can't think of asking one of
them to dinner without including the other. If you don't know all this,
it's time you did. And I take it as a melancholy privilege to be the
one to tell you of it. It's too bad. No clever woman can allow herself
to be the subject of gossip, and when she does she has a motive for what
she's doing or else she doesn't care. Perhaps you know what Mrs. Wray's
motive is. If you have an understanding with her you haven't done me
the honor of telling it."
"No," he muttered, "I'm not in the habit of talking of my affairs. You
know we don't get along. No amount of talking will help matters."
"What are you going to do?"
Wray's eyes were sullen. Rita Cheyne chose to believe that he was
thinking of his wife. But as he didn't reply at once she repeated the
question. It almost seemed as though her insistence annoyed him, but his
tone was moderate.
"What is it to you, Rita?"
She took a quick glance at him before she replied.
"It means a good deal to me," she went on more slowly. "To begin with,
I haven't any fancy for seeing my best friend made a fool of by the
enemies of his own household. It seems to me that your affairs and hers
have reached a point where something must be done. Perhaps you've
already decided."
"I've left her--she's in love with Cort Bent. I have proof of it. We
made a mistake, that's all."
"Of course you did," she said. "I'm glad that you acknowledge it. Are
you going back to New York?"
"I haven't decided. That depends on many things. She thinks I'm in
love with you."
They had come to a piece of rough ground sown with boulders and fallen
trees, through which their horses picked their way carefully. Rita
Cheyne watched the broad back of her companion with a new expression in
her eyes. He had never seemed so difficult to read as at this moment,
but she thought that she understood and she found something admirable in
his reticence and in his loyalty to his wife. In a moment the trail
widened again as they reached the levels, and her horse found its way
alongside his.
"She thinks you're in love with me? What does she know about love?
What do I know about it? or you? Love is a condition of mind,
contagious in extreme youth, but only mildly infectious later in life.
Why should any one risk his whole future on a condition of mind? You
feel sick but you don't marry your doctor or your trained nurse because
he helps to cure you. Why don't you? Simply because you get well and
then discover that your doctor has a weak chin or disagreeable finger
ends. When you get well of love, if you marry to cure it, there's
nothing left but Reno. I don't believe in love. I simply deny its
existence--just as I refuse to believe in ghosts or a personal Devil. I
resent the idea that your wife should believe you're in love with me.
You find pleasure in my society because I don't rub you the wrong way,
and I like you because I find less trouble in getting on with you than
with anybody else."
"You're a cold-blooded proposition, Rita," said Wray smiling.
"Yes--if it's cold-blooded to think--and to say what one thinks. But
I'm not so cold-blooded that I could marry one man when I liked
another--a man with whom I had no bond of sympathy. Cheyne was the
nearest approach I could find to the expression of a youthful
ideal--people told me I was in love with him--so I married him. Of
course, if I had had any sense--but what's the use? I've learned
something since then. To-day I would marry--not for love, but for
something finer--not because of a condition of mind or a condition of
body, but because of a stronger, more enduring relation, like that
between the lime and sand that build a house. I'd marry a man because I
wanted to give him my friendship and because I couldn't get on without
his friendship, and if the house we built would not endure, then no
marriage will endure."
"You mean, Rita," Wray interrupted with sober directness, "that you'd
marry me if you could?"
She flushed mildly. "I didn't say so. I said I would marry for
friendship because it's the biggest thing in the world. I don't mind
saying I'd marry you. It's quite safe, because, obviously, I can't."
Jeff looked at her uncertainly and then laughed noisily.
"Rita, you're a queer one! I never know when the seriousness stops and
the fun begins."
She smiled and frowned at the same time.
"The fun hasn't begun. I mean what I say. Why shouldn't a woman say
what she thinks? A man does. I shock you?"
"No--it's part of you somehow. Speak out. I'll tell you whether I
believe you or not when you're through."
"I suppose I'm what people call a modern woman. If I am, I'm glad of it.
Most women fight hard for their independence. I've simply taken mine.
I say and do and shall always say and do precisely what comes into my
mind. I've no doubt that I'll make enemies. I've already succeeded in
doing that. I'll also probably shock my friends--but I've thrown away
my fetters and refuse to put them on again because some silly prig
believes in living up to feminine traditions. I haven't any sympathy
with tradition. Tradition has done more to hinder the enlightened
development of the individual than any single force in history.
Tradition means old fogyism, cant and hypocrisy. I never could see why,
because our fathers and mothers were stupid, we have to be stupid, too.
Imagine an age in which it was not proper to cross one's legs if one
wanted to--an age of stiff-backed chairs, to sit in which was to be
tortured--when every silly person denied himself a hundred harmless,
innocent amusements simply because tradition demanded it! We live in an
age of reason. If a woman loves a man, why shouldn't she tell him so?"
*CHAPTER XXI*
_*L'homme Dispose*_
Jeff Wray had listened in curiosity, then in amazement, his eyes turned
toward the Saguache Peak, whose snow-cap caught a reflection of the
setting sun. He had accustomed himself to unusual audacities on the
part of his companion, but the frankness of her speech had outdone
anything he could remember. When he turned his look in her direction it
was with a shrewd glance of appraisement like the one she felt in the
morning when she had first appeared in his office. As they reached an
opening in the trees Jeff halted his horse and dismounted.
"It's early yet. Let's sit for a while. Throw your bridle over his
head. He'll stand."
Mrs. Cheyne got down, and they sat on a rock facing the slope, which
dropped away gently to the valley. Jeff took out his tobacco and papers
and deftly rolled a cigarette, while Rita Cheyne watched him. He
offered to make her one, but she refused.
"You've got me guessing now, Rita," he said with a laugh. "More than
once in New York I wondered what sort of a woman you really were. I
thought I'd learned a thing or two before I came away, but I'll admit
you've upset all my calculations. I've always known you were clever when
it came to the real business of disguising your thoughts. I know you
never mean what you say, but I can't understand anybody traveling two
thousand miles to create a false impression. You know as well as I do
that all this talk of yours about friendship is mere clever nonsense. I
know what friendship means, and I guess I know what love means, too, but
there isn't any way that you can mix them up so that I won't know one
from the other."
"I'm not trying to mix them up."
"You're trying to mix _me_ up then." He took her hand in his and made
her look at him. "You've been playing with me for some time. I was a
different kind of a breed from anything you'd been used to in New York,
and you liked to wind me up so that you could see the wheels go 'round.
You've had a lot of fun out of me in one way or another, and you still
find me amusing."
She stopped indignantly.
"Don't you believe in me?"
"No. The things you say are too clever to be genuine for one thing.
You're too cold-blooded for another."
"One can't think unless one is cold-blooded."
"When a woman's in love she doesn't want to think."
"I'm not in love--I simply say I'll marry you, that's all."
"You're talking nonsense."
"I never was saner in my life. I want you to believe in my kind of
friendship."
"Eight hundred thousand dollars' worth of friendship is not to be
sneezed at."
"Stop, Jeff, you're brutal. I won't listen."
"You've got to. I've listened to you. Now you must listen to me, and
I'm going to make you play the game with your cards above the table. So
far as I can understand, you hold the New York record for broken hearts
to date, and I was warned that you had strewn your wrecks along the
whole front of Central Park East. But I suppose I was too much
flattered when you showed me attention to take to my heels. I liked you
and I wanted you to like me. Perhaps we both liked each other for the
same reason--with the same motive--curiosity. You put me in odd
situations just to see what I'd do. I liked to be with you. You purred
like a kitten in the sun, and I liked to hear you, so I was willing to
perform for that privilege. You claimed me for a friend, but you tried
your best to make me lose my head. That's true, you can't deny it. I
didn't lose it, because--well, because I had made up my mind that I
wouldn't. I don't know whether you were disappointed or not, but I know
you were surprised, because you weren't in the habit of missing a trick
when you played that game."
She withdrew her hand abruptly and turned her head away. "That isn't
true," she murmured. "You must not speak to me so."
"I've got to. Every word of what I say is true--and you know it."
"It's not true now."