got so much in life that you're never really interested in anything
except the things you can't get. You like me because you know I'm out
of your reach and you can't have me even if I wanted you to. You're a
great artist, but I don't think you really ever fooled me much. You like
to run with a fast and Frenchy set just because it gives your cleverness
a chance it couldn't have with the Dodos, but you don't mind being
talked about, because your conscience is clear; you like the excitement
of running into danger just to prove your cleverness in getting out of
it. See here, Rita, this time you're going too far. I suppose I ought to
feel very proud of the faith you put in me and your willingness to trust
yourself so completely in my hands. I guess I do. But things are
different with me somehow. I told you I was going to Hell pretty fast,
and I'm not in a mood to be trifled with."
"I'm not trifling." She had caught a sinister note in his voice and
looked up at him in alarm.
"There's a way to prove that."
"How?"
"This!"
He put his arms around her, turned her face to his, and held it there
while he looked a moment into her eyes. But she struggled and held away
from him, suddenly discovering something unfamiliar in the roughness of
his touch and the expression in his eyes.
"Let me go!" she cried, struggling desperately to be free.
"You'll kiss me."
"No--never, not after that."
"After what?"
"The way you speak to me. You're rough----"
"I'll not let you go until you tell me why you came here. If you love
me, you'll look in my eyes and tell me so."
"I don't love you," she panted, still struggling. "I never shall. Let
me go, I say!"
He laughed at her. Her struggles were so futile. Art could not avail
her here. She realized it at last and lay quietly in his arms, her eyes
closed, her figure relaxed, while he kissed her as he pleased.
"Will you tell me you love me?"
"No. I loathe you."
Then she began struggling again; he released her, and she flung away and
stood facing him, her hat off, hair in disorder, cheeks flaming, her
body trembling with rage and dismay.
"Oh, that you could have touched me so!"
"Why, Rita----" he began.
"Don't speak to me----" She moved toward the horses. "I'm going," she
asserted.
"Where?"
"To Mesa City."
"How can you? You don't know the way."
"I'll find the way. Oh----" She stamped her foot in rage and then,
without other warning, sank on a rock near by and burst into tears.
Jeff Wray rose uncertainly and stared at her, wide-eyed, like other more
practiced men in similar situations, unaccountably at a loss. He had
acted on impulse with a sense of fitting capably into a situation. He
watched her in amazement, for her tears were genuine. No woman was
clever enough to be able to cry like that. There was no feminine
artistry here. She was only a child who had made the discovery that her
doll is stuffed with sawdust. He realized that perhaps for the first
time he saw her divested of her artifice, the polite mummery of the
world, the real Rita Cheyne, who all her life had wanted to want
something and, now that she had found what it was, could not have it
just as she wanted it. It was real woe, there was no doubt of that, the
pathetic woe of childhood. He went over to her and laid his hand gently
on her shoulder. But she would not raise her head, and it almost seemed
as though she had forgotten him. He stood beside her for some moments,
looking down at her with a changing expression. The hard lines she had
discovered in his face were softened, the frown relaxed, and at his lips
there came the flicker of a smile.
"I--I'm sorry," he said at last. "I--I made a mistake, Rita. I made a
mistake."
The sobs began anew.
"How--how could you--treat me so?"
There was no reply to that, so he stood silently and waited for the
storm to pass. Meanwhile he had the good taste not to touch her again.
But as the sobs diminished he repeated:
"I made a mistake, Rita. You made me think----"
"Oh!" only. Her face appeared for a moment above her arms and then
instantly disappeared. "You're odious!"
"Why, Rita," he said with warm frankness, "how could I believe anything
else? All your talk of friendship; why, you asked me to marry you. What
did you expect of me?"
"Not that--not what you did--the way you did it."
"You forgave me once."
She raised her head, careless of the tears which still coursed.
"Yes, I forgave you then. But not now. I can't forgive you now. No
man ever kissed a woman the way you kissed me unless he is mad about
her--or despises her."
"Despises----"
"Yes. You might as well ask me to forgive you for murdering my brother.
You've killed something inside me--my pride, I think. I can
never--never forget that."
She got up and turned her back to him, fingering for her handkerchief.
She had none. He slowly undid the kerchief from around his own neck and
put it in her hand.
"Don't cry, Rita."
"Cry?" She wheeled around, still staunching her tears. "No, I'll not
cry. I was a fool to cry. I'll not cry any more. I cried
because--because I was disappointed--that any one I trusted could be so
base."
"I'm not so dreadful as all that. You must admit----"
"I'll admit nothing--except that I made a mistake, too. It hasn't been
a pleasant awakening. I know now what those kisses meant."
Wray's incomprehension was deeper.
"I wish _I_ did," he said. "I was sure they wouldn't do you any harm.
You wouldn't have been so frank with me if you hadn't been pretty sure
of yourself."
"That was my mistake. I was so sure of myself that I didn't think it
necessary to be sure of you." And while Jeff was trying to understand
what she meant, she went on:
"Those were not _my_ kisses. They were impersonal--and might have been
given to any woman--that is, any woman who would allow them. Each of
them a separate insult--Judas kisses--treacherous kisses--kisses of
retaliation--of revenge----"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"You've been using me to square your accounts with your wife--that's
all," scornfully. "As if you didn't know."
He flushed crimson and bit his lips. "That's not true," he muttered.
"What does it matter to my wife? Why should she care who I kiss--or
why?"
"It doesn't matter to her, I suppose," she said, slightly ironical; "she
is her own mistress again, but it does to you. Curiously enough you're
still in love with your wife. She's in love with somebody else.
Naturally it wounds your self-esteem--that precious self-esteem of yours
that's more stupendous than the mountain above you. She hurts you, and
you come running to me for the liniment. Thanks! You've come to the
wrong shop, Mr. Wray."
Jeff's brows darkened. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but
thought better of it. As Rita Cheyne took up the bridle of her horse and
led him to a rock that she might mount, Jeff interfered.
"One moment, Rita. I think we'd better have this thing out. I'm
beginning to understand better the width of the breach between us--it's
widened some to-day--and I don't believe you're going to try to make it
up to-morrow. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to have any more
misunderstandings, either. I want you to forgive me if you can. I've
cared for you a good deal--enough to make me sorry you were only
fooling. Things don't seem to be going my way, and I've had lot of
thinking to do that hasn't made me any too cheerful. I don't seem to
see things just the way I did. This fight has made me bitter. I've got
everything against me--_your_ world, the organized forces of your world
against a rank outsider. I belong to the people who work with their
hands. I've always been pretty proud of that. I went East and mixed up
with a lot of your kind of people. I had a good time. They asked me to
their houses, gave me their wine and food. They knew what they were
about. They had need of me, but no matter what they said or did they
never for a moment let me forget what I'd come from. You were the only
one of all that crowd who tried to make me feel differently. Was it any
wonder that I was grateful for it?"
"Your gratitude takes a curious form."
He held up a hand in protest.
"Then you--you liked me because I said just what I thought whenever I
thought it, but even with you I never forgot it wasn't possible for us
ever to reach an understanding of perfect equality. You played with
life--you had been taught to. Life is a kind of joke to you. People are
incidents, only important when they give you amusement. I've been more
important than others for that reason--because I gave you more amusement
than others, but there's never been any doubt that I was only an
incident. To me life is a grim problem--I've felt its weight, and I
know. To-day you talked of making a marriage as I would speak of making
a cigarette. It was too cold-blooded even for humour----"
"You refuse me then, do you, Jeff?" she laughed. But he made no reply to
her banter.
"I've done with marriage," he went on. "I tried it and I failed, just
as you tried it and failed, but I'm not ready, as you are, to make a
joke of it. Failures are not the kind of things I like to joke about.
You joke because joking makes you forget. I'm not trying to forget. I
couldn't if I wanted to. I've learned that out here. My wife can do as
she likes. If she wants to marry Cort Bent I'll give her a divorce, but
as for me, I've done with it--for good."
Jeff had sunk to the rock beside her, his head in his hands, while she
stood a little way off looking down at him. Their relative attitudes
seemed somehow to make a difference in her way of thinking of him. In
spite of the light bitterness of her mood, she, too, felt the weight of
his thoughts.
"Do you mean to say," she murmured, half in pity, half in contempt,
"that you still love your wife as much as this?"
But he made no reply.
"It's really quite extraordinary," she went on with a manner which
seemed to go with upraised brows and a lorgnon. "You're really the most
wonderful person I've ever known. This is the kind of fidelity one
usually associates with the noble house-dog. I'm sure she'd be
flattered. But why will you give her a divorce? Since you're not going
to marry--what's the use?"
He rose and went to the horses. "Come," he said, "it's getting late.
Let's get back."
She refused his help, mounted alone, and silently they rode down the
slope through the underbrush, where after a while Jeff found a trail in
the open.
"Does this lead to Mesa City?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Good-by, then." She flourished her hand and, before he realized it,
was off and had soon disappeared from sight. He urged his horse forward
into a full gallop, but saw that he could not catch her. Apache was the
faster horse, and his own animal carried too much weight. So after a
few miles he gave up the race, walked his winded horse, and gave himself
up to his thoughts.
The exercise had refreshed his mind, and he was able to think with calm
amusement of the little comedy in which he had just been an actor. What
a spoiled child she was! He couldn't understand why he had ever been
afraid of her. It was only pity he felt now, the pity of those tears,
the only really inartistic thing Rita had ever been guilty of, for her
face had not been so pretty when she cried. And yet they appealed to him
more strongly than any token she had ever given him. What did they
mean? He had hurt her pride, of course--he had had to do that, but
somehow his conscience didn't seem to trouble him much about the state
of Rita's heart. Love meant something different to him from the kind of
cold, analytical thing Rita Cheyne was capable of. If it hadn't been
for those tears! They worried him.
As he reached the edge of a wood he caught a glimpse of her just
disappearing over the brow of a hill, half a mile away. So he urged his
horse forward. It wouldn't do to have her ride into Mesa without him.
He rode hard and suddenly came upon her kneeling at the border of a
stream, dipping his bandana into the water and touching her eyes. When
she saw him she looked up pertly, and he saw that she was only a child
washing its face.
"Hello!" she said. "I was waiting for you. Do you see what I'm doing?
It's a rite. Do I look like Niobe? I'm washing my hands--of you."
Jeff got down and stood beside her.
"Do be sensible, Rita."
"I am--am I clean? You haven't a powder puff about you--have you?"
"You're going to tell me you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive. If you think there's anything to forgive,
I'll forgive--of course." She got up from her knees, wiping her face,
sat down on a tree trunk, and motioned him to sit beside her.
"Jeff," she said, "I've a confession to make. You know what it is,
because you're cleverer than you have any right to be. I don't love you
really, you know, and I'm pretty sure it isn't in me to love any
one--except myself. It has always made me furious to think that I
couldn't do anything with you. From the first I set my heart on having
you for myself, not because I wanted to laugh at you--I couldn't have
done that--but because you were in love with your wife."
"Why--do you hate her so?"
"I don't. I don't hate any one. But she irritated me. She was so
self-satisfied, so genuine, so handsome--three things which I am not."
She waited for him to contradict her, but Jeff was frowning at vacancy.
"Just to satisfy my self-esteem--which is almost as great as yours, Jeff
Wray--I would have moved mountains to win, and I even let you drag my
pride in the dust before I discovered that I couldn't. I die pretty
hard, but I know when I'm dead."
"Don't, Rita; you and I are going to be better friends than ever."
"No, Jeff, I'm going East to-morrow. I don't want to see you. To see
you would be to remind me of my insufficiencies."
"You've made a friend."
"No," shaking her head, "that won't do. It never does. I may have
tried to deceive you, but I know better. Friendship is masculine--or
it's feminine. It can't be both. I'm going away at once. I'm not
going to see you again."
"Oh, yes, you are. To-morrow we'll----"
"No. I'd go to-night if there was a train. I want you to do one thing
for me, though. Will you?"
"If I can."
"That money--the money for that stock. I want to leave it with you--to
use or not to use as you think best. I've got a great deal of
money--much more than is good for me."
Jeff shook his head.
"No, Rita, no. I can't do that. If I'm going to lose, I'll lose
alone."
"But if you win?" she turned and gave him her hand. "You will. I've
sworn you will. And here's luck on it." Instead of clasping her hand,
as she intended he should, he raised it to his lips and kissed it
gently--as under different conditions he might have kissed her lips.
She looked down at the top of his head and closed her eyes a moment, but
when he looked up she was smiling gaily.
"You're a good sport, Rita," he said.
"Yes," she said coolly, "I believe I am."
They rode into Mesa City slowly. The valley was already wrapped in
shadow, but above them the upper half of Saguache Peak was afire with
the sunset. The evening train was in and had puffed its way up to the
yard. There was a crowd at the post-office waiting for mail, and
scattered groups here and there were chatting with the arrivals. Wray
and Mrs. Cheyne climbed the slope to the Kinney House, where a cowboy
from the Home Ranch was waiting for their horses. They dismounted and
went indoors to the office, where a solitary lady in a dark dress was
signing her name to the hotel register. At the sound of their voices
she turned and straightened, suddenly very pale and tense. And then,
before Jeff could speak, turned again quickly to the clerk and said
quietly:
"If you'll show me the way up at once, please, I'd like to go to my
room."
*CHAPTER XXII*
*PRIVATE MATTERS*
Jeff followed Camilla's departing back with blank bewilderment, too
amazed to utter a word. Rita Cheyne looked at Jeff's face and then
laughed.
"Act Three will now begin," she said gaily. "It's really too good, Jeff.
But it's time for the lady-villain to die. I'm off stage now, so
good-by."
She gave him her hand, and he took it mechanically.
"I'll see you to-morrow," he said gravely.
"No, this is good-by. There isn't any to-morrow for us. I won't see
you, Jeff. I think perhaps you won't want to see me now."
"This will make no difference," he stammered. "Don't you see--I've got
to make _her_ understand."
"You mean--my reputation. She'd never understand that. You'll be
wasting time. Don't bother. I'm going to Denver in the morning. No,
not a word----"
He tried to hold her, but the clerk came down at this moment, so, with a
last flourish of the hand, she sped past him and up the stairs.
Jeff stood for a moment in the middle of the floor, irresolute. Then he
turned to the desk and asked the number of Mrs. Wray's room.
"Parlor B, Mr. Wray, but she told me to say that she did not want to be
disturbed."
Jeff hesitated, and then, with a frown: "That doesn't matter," he
growled. "I'll explain. I'm going up," and he made his way to the
stairs.
The room, he remembered, was at the front of the house. He had occupied
it before they built his sleeping quarters in the office building. He
found the door readily and knocked, but there was no response. He
knocked again. This time her voice inquired.
"It's Jeff, Camilla," he said. "I must see you at once. Let me in,
please."
Another long pause of indecision. He might have been mistaken, but he
fancied he could hear Rita Cheyne's light laugh somewhere down the
corridor. He did not want a scene--as yet his and Camilla's misfortunes
had not reached the ears of Mesa City. He was still debating whether he
would knock again or go away when the key turned in the lock and the
door was opened.
"Come in," said Camilla, and he entered. She had removed her hat, and
the bed and pillow already bore traces of her weight.
"I'm sorry to intrude," he began awkwardly.
"Shut the door," she suggested. "Perhaps it's just as well that people
here shouldn't know any more of our private affairs than is necessary."
He obeyed and turned the key in the lock. His wife had moved to the
window and stood, very straight and pale, waiting for him to speak. She
seemed, if anything, slimmer than when he had seen her last, and her
hair, which had fallen loosely about her shoulders, was burnished with
the last warm glow from Saguache Peak. He had never thought her more
beautiful, but there were lines at her eyes and mouth which the growing
shadows of the room made deeper.
"I suppose you're willing to believe the worst of me," he began, "and of
her. Perhaps I ought to tell you first that she only came here this
morning--that she's going away to-morrow----"
"It isn't necessary to explain," she interrupted. "I hope Mrs. Cheyne
won't go on my account. I'm going, too, in the morning. Under the
circumstances, I'm sorry I couldn't have waited a day or two, but I had
to see you at once."
"You had to see me? Has something gone wrong in New York? What
is----?"
"Oh, no," wearily. "Everything in New York is all right. I've had
everything packed in boxes and have given up the apartment at the
hotel."
Jeff's brows tangled in mystification.
"You've given up the apartment? Why?"
"I'm not going to live there any more. I'm going to Kansas--to Abilene.
I'm very tired, Jeff, and I need a rest."
"Camilla!" He pushed an armchair toward her and made her sit. "You do
look as if you--you're not sick, are you?"
"Oh, no--just tired of everything." Her voice was low, as it always had
been, but it had no life in it. "Just tired of being misunderstood. I
won't explain, and I don't expect you to. I couldn't listen if you did.
I came here because I had to come, because no matter what our relations
are it was my duty to see you at once and tell you something of the
greatest importance."
He stood behind her chair, his fingers close to her pallid cheeks,
gently brushed by the filaments of her hair, the perfume of which
reached him like some sweet memory. He leaned over her, aching for some
token that would let him take her in his arms and forget all the shadows
that had for so long hung about them. But as she spoke, he
straightened, glowering at the wall beyond her.
"It isn't--it's nothing--to do with you--and Cort Bent----?"
"Oh, no, not at all. I haven't seen Cort for some time. It's
about--about the General."
"General Bent?" Jeff gave a quick sigh, paced across the room, and then
turned with a frown. "I'm not interested in General Bent," he muttered.
"For me he has stopped being a person. He's only a piece of
machinery--a steel octopus that's slowly crushing me to bits. I'd
rather not talk of General Bent."
"Is it as bad as that?" she murmured, awe-stricken.
"Yes--they've pushed me to the wall. I'm still fighting, but unless I
compromise or sell the mine----" he stopped and straightened his great
frame. "Camilla, don't let's talk of this. I know you're tired. I
won't stay long. Just tell me what you mean about going back to
Abilene."
She clasped her hands nervously, glad of the chance to postpone her
revelation, which seemed to grow more difficult with each moment.
"I can't stand the life I'm living, Jeff. I can't take any more from
you. I've done it all spring because you wanted me to, but I can't live
a lie any longer. Those rooms, that luxury, the servants, the people
about me, they oppressed me and bore me to the earth. I have no right
to them--still less now that things are going badly with you. You wanted
me to keep the place we'd made--to make a larger place for your name in
New York. I hope I've made it, but it has cost me something. I'm sick of
ambition, of the soulless striving, the emptiness of it all. I can't do
it any longer. I must go somewhere where I can be myself, where I don't
have to knuckle to people I despise, where I don't have to climb, climb,
climb--my ears deaf to the sneers and the envy of the scandal-mongers,
and open only for the flattery which soothes my self-esteem but not--no,
nothing can soothe the ache at the heart."
"What has happened, Camilla? I understood you had made many new
friends."
"Yes, some new friends--also, some new enemies. But that hasn't bothered
me. It's the lying I had to do--about you--the excuses I have had to
make for being alone, the dates I have set for your return, lies--all
lies--when I knew you were not going to return, that you had deserted me
and left me only your money as a bribe. I couldn't do it any longer. I
wrote you all this. You thought I didn't mean what I said--because I
had your money--your merciless money, to gratify my pride in my pretty
body. It has come to the point where your money is an insult--as much
of an insult as the dishonor you put on me."
"Dishonor? I can't have you associate that name with Mrs. Cheyne," he
blurted forth.
She smiled and then gave a hard, dry, little unmirthful laugh.
"Oh, you mistake my meaning. I wasn't thinking of Mrs. Cheyne. I was
selfish enough to be still thinking of myself."
"I don't understand."
She got up and walked to the window, leaning her face against the pane
to soothe with its coolness the heat of her brow. "I was thinking of my
own dishonor--not yours--I have nothing to do with yours. To be doubted
as you have doubted me--to know that you could believe me capable of
dishonoring you--that is dishonor enough."
"You mustn't forget that you gave me cause," he said hoarsely. "What
kind of a man do you think I am? You married me for a whim--because
another man wouldn't have you. I forgave you that because I was willing
to take you at any price. That was my fault as much as yours. It was
what came after----"
He came up behind her, his voice trembling but suppressed.
"Do you think I'm the kind of man to tolerate the things between you and
Cort Bent? I was a fool once. I believed in you--I thought no matter
how little love you had in your heart for me that you'd have enough
respect for yourself. Do you think I could stand knowing that my
servants had seen you in his arms?"
She flashed around at him, breathless, paler than ever, clutching at the
window-sill behind her for support. "Who--who told you this?"
"Greer--my valet at the hotel," he snarled, "when I discharged him and
came here."
"He said----?"
Jeff caught her by the elbows--brutally--and held her so that he could
look into her eyes.
"It's true--isn't it? Answer me!"
She gazed at him wide-eyed, and now for the first time he saw how ill
she looked. Even at that moment he was sure that pity and love and a
desire for possession were still the feelings that dominated him. She
could not stand the gaze of his eyes. They seemed to burn through her,
so she lowered her head.
"Yes," she admitted brokenly, "it's true--I was in his arms."
A sound came from his throat--a guttural sound half-choked in the
utterance, as he dropped her, turned violently and in a stride was at
the door. But as the key turned in the lock, she started forward and
clutched him by the sleeve.
"Wait," she whispered piteously. "You must. You can't go now. You've
got to know everything."
"I think I've had enough. I'm going." He turned the knob and opened
the door, but she leaned against it and pushed it shut.
"You've got to listen. I have some rights still--the right every woman
has to defend her name."
"If she can," he sneered.
"I can--I will. Will you listen?" He shrugged his shoulders and walked
past her to the window. Camilla faced him, beginning slowly,
breathlessly. "It was when we first came to New York that it began--that
day when you and your--you and General Bent came in from downtown.
Cortland was there--I--I thought I had forgotten him. I was happy with
you. I was beginning to believe that, after all, we hadn't made a
mistake. But you were away all day and I was lonely. The city was so
vast, so unfriendly. I had no right to be lonely but I was. I was
bewildered by all the magnificence and homesick for Mesa City. That day
Cort Bent came in I had a fit of the blues. He brought back all the old
story--and told me how you stole the mine."
Jeff laughed aloud. "So he told you that--did he? For sympathy?" he
sneered.
"It revolted me," she persisted. "It revolts me still. I was new to
modern business methods then. I can't like them now, but I've learned
to keep silent. He asked me to forgive him the past, and I did. The
spell of romance was over me still. He told me that he loved me more
than ever and that he would not give me up. I thought--I thought I
loved him, too----"
"You _thought_! You _knew_!" he said immoderately. "You've always loved
him."
"No, no. It wasn't that," she pleaded. "It wasn't love, Jeff. I
learned that soon enough. It was only pity----"
"And where was your pity for me?"
"Don't, Jeff--let me finish. Whatever my feelings for you then,
whatever they are now, I was true to you in word and deed."
"When you were in his arms?" He laughed harshly.
"He took me in his arms. He tried to kiss me on the lips, but I would
not let him. I've never let him. I broke away and threatened to ring
if he followed me--and then--and then you came in. That's all,
Jeff--all--and it's the truth." She faced him bravely, her eyes seeking
his. He glared at her madly, but could not stare her down. It was one
of those tragic moments when all the future hangs on the flicker of an
eyelash. Jeff's gaze fell first.
"I would have come back here," she went on. "I asked you to leave New
York with me. You wouldn't go. Instead of that you threw us together
more and more. Why, I don't know, unless it was because you did not
care."
"I did care," he muttered.
"You did not care," she insisted. "You had met Rita Cheyne then----"
"It was because _she_ saw what I did," he asserted. "It was because----"
"Don't explain," she said. "I'm not asking _you_ to explain or to
exonerate her. It's too late for that. But I cannot bear to have you
think such dreadful things about me, cruel things, things that
hurt--hurt me here----"
She put her hand to her breast and swayed. He sprang to her side and
caught her in his arms as she fell, lifting her like a child and
carrying her to the bed, terror-stricken at the coldness of her hands
and face. He rang the bell, and then with bungling fingers loosened her
collar and dress, whimpering the while like a child. "Camilla, my girl,
don't look so white. Open your eyes. I believe you, dearie; I've
always believed you. Look at me, Camilla. I know you're straight. I
didn't mean it. I was cruel to you. I wouldn't hurt you for the world.
I love you. You're _my_ girl--_my_ girl."
There was a commotion at the door of the adjoining room, which suddenly
flew open, and a figure in a trailing silk kimono glided in, pushed him
aside abruptly, and put a silver brandy flask to Camilla's lips. It was
Mrs. Cheyne.
"I was next door," she explained jerkily. "I heard. I couldn't help
it. The partitions are so thin." And then, with sudden authority:
"Don't stand there like a fool. Bring some water--quickly," and when he
had obeyed: "Now bathe her temples and give her brandy. She'll be all
right in a minute. When I go, get a light. But she mustn't see me
here." And, before he was even aware of it, she had vanished like a
wraith.
The housemaid brought a lamp, put it on the table, and hovered anxiously
in the background, but Camilla's eyes had opened.
"Mrs. Wray is sick," Jeff began.
But Camilla had already drawn herself up on one elbow and gently pushed
him away.
"I--I'm all right now. I can't imagine what made me feel so queerly.
I've never been--I've never fainted before."
"A little more brandy?"
"No, not now. Who--? Wasn't there some one else in here? I thought--I
saw some one in pink--and smelled a perfume. I must have been
dreaming."
"Lie back on the pillow and rest, Camilla, dear. You're played out. The
doctor will be here in a minute."
"I don't want a doctor. I'm all right." With an effort she
straightened and sat on the side of the bed. "I remember--I was telling
you----"
"Don't, Camilla. I don't want to hear. I believe you. It's all a
mistake." He bent over her and tried to take her in his arms.
But she held up her hand and gently restrained him. "No--no," she said
shaking her head. "Don't try to soothe me. That doesn't mean anything.
I know. Shadows like these are not brushed away so quickly. Sit there,
Jeff, by the window and listen. There's something else I must tell
you--I should have told you at once. It's what I came here for, but I
didn't seem to have the courage."
"No, not to-night."
"I must--it won't keep. You must listen." Her eyes pleaded, and so he
sank into the rocking chair, leaning forward eagerly. She took up the
handbag beside her on the table and fumbled tremblingly at the lock.
"It's something which concerns General Bent and you--no, not business,
Jeff--something personal--something dreadfully personal--which has
nothing whatever to do with your business relations, and yet something
which seems to make your hatred of each other all the more terrible.
It--it seems very hard for me to tell you, because it's something you
have never liked to speak about--something that has always made you very
unhappy."
"Why, what do you mean, Camilla?" he asked.
"You must let me tell you in my own way, because it will be hard for you
to realize. I must show you that there is no mistake--no chance of a
mistake, Jeff. Two weeks ago at the hotel in New York I was reading the
letters in the old tin box and looking at the photographs. They were in
the drawer of your desk. I've never spoken of them to you or looked at
them since we were married--but you were not there to see them and--I--I
didn't think you'd mind. I had them on your desk when Mrs. Rumsen came
in. She saw the photograph of your father. She--she had one just like
it in her album at home----"
"She knew him, then?" eagerly.
"Yes. I've brought both photographs with me." She took them out of the
handbag with trembling hands and gave them to him.
He got up, took them to the light and held them side by side. "Yes,
yes," he muttered, "they are the same--the very same. There's no doubt
about that." And then, in a suppressed voice, "You know who he is?"
"Yes, Jeff. Mrs. Rumsen and I know--no one else--not a soul else. It's
your secret. We couldn't tell. No one can or will but you." Her voice
had sunk almost to a whisper. "It's--it's the General--Jeff--General
Bent."
Outwardly Jeff gave no sign of unusual disturbance--a slight tightening
of his thumbs upon the pictures, a slight bending of the head that his
eyes might be surer of their vision. But to Camilla, who was watching
him timidly, he seemed to grow compact, his big frame to shrink into
itself and his eyes to glow with a strange, unfamiliar fire.
"General--Bent--General--Bent," he repeated the words huskily, as if
they were a formula which he was trying to commit to memory. "It can't
be true?"
"Yes, Jeff, it's true. Mrs. Rumsen identified the letters. There's no
doubt--none."
"I can't believe--why, I'd have _felt_ it--Camilla. I've always said I'd
know him if I saw him."
"You didn't--but have you thought? You look like him, Jeff. You _look_
like him."
"Yes--it's strange I didn't think of that." And then suddenly, "Does
_he_ know?"
"No--he won't unless you tell him."
He looked up at her with dumb, uncomprehending eyes and sank in his
chair again, still grasping the photographs.
"I must think," he groaned, "I've got to think--what to do. I've hated
him so--all these long years. I hate him now--not because he's my--my
father--but because--he's himself."
"Stop, Jeff, you mustn't--you mustn't speak so."
"It's true," raising his bloodshot eyes to hers. "Why should I care?
Did _he_ care for the atom he's put into the world to float about
without a name to land on any dung-hill? I'll pay him back for that, by
God! I'm not his son. The only thing I want of his blood is his
cruelty. I'll take that and use it when I can--on him and his."
"You mustn't, Jeff. It's horrible. I can't stand hearing this."
At the touch of her hand he stopped, got up and paced the length of the
room and back again in grim silence, his lips working, while she watched
him, fearful of another outburst.
"I must think this thing out, Camilla--by myself. I don't know what
I'll do." And then suddenly, "Where is he now?" he asked harshly.
"In Denver--at the Brown Palace Hotel. They came West before I did with
the Janneys, Gretchen, and Mrs. Rumsen. They came in a private car."
"To be in at my finish," he muttered bitterly. "I can't seem to think,
Camilla. It's all so monstrous--it staggers me."
He stopped pacing the floor and looked at her, suddenly realizing how
ill she had been, and contrite and self-accusing he fell on his knees at
her feet and put his arms around her.
"Camilla! I shouldn't have let you tell me all this to-night. You were
not strong enough. I've been brutal to you--to forget what you were
suffering. You must sleep. My heart has been aching for you all these
long months. I'll take care of you and make you strong and well again.
You're not going back to Abilene, Camilla."
Slowly she disengaged her hands.
"You must go now, Jeff. I--I am tired. But all I need is rest. I
couldn't have slept until I told you. It has preyed on me like a
poison. I can't influence you, though. You must use your own judgment
as to what you'll do, but I pray you'll do nothing rash."
"You must not go back to Abilene. There's much to be explained,
Camilla--you must promise not to go away! I want to speak to you about
Rita Cheyne."
She rose from her seat on the bed with a kind of wistful dignity.
"I can't promise anything, Jeff. Go, please. I want to be alone."
He looked at her a moment, pleading, and then turned without a word and
went out. She heard his heavy steps go down the noisy hall, heard them
again on the porch below and on the boardwalk through the village until
they were engulfed in the gloom of the night--Jeff's night of anguish,
battle, and temptation.
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*THE INTRUDER*
Meanwhile, in Parlor A, next door, a lady in a pink kimono, who seemed
unusually diminutive and childish in her low-heeled bedroom slippers,
pottered about uneasily, walking from window to window, jerking at the
shades to peer out of doors, and then pulling the shades noisily down
again; opening the hall door, looking down the corridor, walking out a
few steps and then coming rapidly back again, to light a cigarette which
she almost immediately put out and threw into the stove; coughing,
dropping things--and then standing tense and alert to listen, acting
altogether in a surprising and unusual manner. But the sound of voices
in the adjoining room persevered, now loud--now less loud, but always
perfectly audible through the thin, paper-like partition. At last, as
though in sudden desperation, without removing her clothes, or even her
slippers, she crawled quickly into the bed and pulled the covers and
pillow over her head, lying still as a mouse, but tense and alert in
spite of herself and--in spite of herself--listening. She emerged again
in a while, half smothered, like a diver coming to the surface,
listening again, and then with an exclamation quickly got out of bed,
her fingers at her ears, to open the hall door presently and flee down
the corridor.
From her vantage point--in an empty room--she heard Jeff's rapid
footsteps go past, and only when she heard them no longer did she go
back to Parlor A. She closed the outer door and locked it, sat down in
an armchair, leaning forward, her head in her hands, staring at a pink
rose in the ornate carpet, deep in thought. In the room next door all
was quiet again. Once she thought she heard the sound of a sob, but she
could not be sure of it, and after a while the light which had shone
through the wide crack under the door disappeared. For a long time she
sat there, immovable except for the slight, quick tapping of one small
foot upon the floor.
At last she rose with an air of resolution and touched the bell. To the
clerk, who answered it in person, she asked for telegraph blanks and a
messenger. He looked at his watch.
"The telegraph office is closed."
"Well, it will have to be opened. This is a matter which can't wait
until morning. The operator must be found."
"We _might_ get a message through." He looked at the bill she had put
in his hand. "Yes, I'm sure we can."
"And you might send me up some tea and toast." She shut the door, went
to her trunk, took out her writing pad, put it on the table, turned up
the wick of the lamp, and began writing. She finished a letter and
sealed it carefully. When the telegraph blanks came she wrote two
rather lengthy messages. One of the telegrams was addressed to the
cashier of the Tenth National Bank of Denver--the other telegram and the
letter were addressed to Lawrence Berkely at the Brown Palace Hotel in
the same city. When she had given the messenger his instructions, she
sank in her chair again with a sigh, and, with a tea cup in one hand and
a piece of buttered toast in the other, sat facing the door into Parlor
B. Her face wore a curious expression, partly mischievous, partly
solemn, but there was at times a momentary trace of trouble in it, too,
and when the tea cup was set aside she stretched her arms wearily and
then brought them down, lacing her fingers behind her neck, putting her
head back and closing her eyes as though in utter, soul-racking
weariness. Suddenly she rose, passing the back of one wrist abruptly
across her brows, and prepared to go to bed.
* * * * *
Camilla awoke late and ordered breakfast in her room. It was not bodily
fatigue which she felt now. That seemed to have passed. It was mental
inertia, which, like muscular stiffness, follows the carrying of too
heavy a burden. A part of her burden she still carried, and even the
brightness of the Colorado sun, which dappled the tinsel wall paper
beside her, failed to rekindle the embers of old delights. From one of
her windows she could see the fine sweep of the Saguache range as it
extended its great half-moon toward the northern end of the valley,
where it joined the main ridge of the Continental Divide; from the other
window the roofs of the town below her, Mulrennan's, the schoolhouse,
and Jeff's "Watch Us Grow" sign, now dwarfed by the brick office
building which had risen behind it. It seemed a hundred years since she
had lived in Mesa City, and to her eyes, accustomed to elegant
distances, the town seemed to have grown suddenly smaller, more ugly,
garish, and squalid. And yet it was here that she had lived for five
years--five long years of youth and hope and boundless ambition. In
those days the place had oppressed her with its emptiness, and she had
suffered for the lack of opportunity to live her life in accordance with
the dreams of her school-days; but to-day, when she seemed to have
neither hope nor further ambition, she knew that the early days were
days of real happiness. What did it matter if it had been the bliss of
ignorance, since she was now aware of the folly of wisdom? She could
never be happy anywhere now--not even here. She lay back on her pillows
and closed her eyes, but even then the vision of Rita Cheyne intruded--a
vision of Jeff and Rita Cheyne riding together over the mountain trails.
She was indeed unpleasantly surprised when, a few moments later, there
was a knock upon the door at the foot of her bed; and when she had put
on a dressing gown the door opened suddenly, and there stood Rita Cheyne
herself, smiling confidently and asking admittance.
Camilla was perturbed--so much so, in fact, that no words occurred to
her. The door had opened outward toward Rita Cheyne, who held its knob.
It was, therefore, obviously impossible for Camilla to close it without
Mrs. Cheyne's assistance. This, it seemed, the visitor had no intention
of giving, for she came forward on the door-sill and held out her hand.
"Mrs. Wray," she said gently, "I want to come in and talk to you. May
I?"
"This is--rather surprising," Camilla began.
"Yes," she admitted, "it is. Perhaps I'm a little surprised, too. I--I
wanted to talk to you. There are some things--important things----"
By this time Camilla had managed to collect her scattered resources.
"I'm not sure," she said coolly, "that our friendship has ever been
intimate enough to warrant----"
Rita put one hand up before her. "Don't, Mrs. Wray! It hasn't. But
you'll understand in a moment, if you'll let me come in and talk to
you."
Camilla drew her laces around her throat and with a shrug stood aside.
"I hope you'll be brief," she said coldly. "Will you sit down?"
But Mrs. Cheyne had already sat in a chair with her back to one of the
windows, where her face was partially obscured by the shadows of her
hair. She pulled her kimono about her figure, clasped her fingers over
her knees, and leaned forward, eagerly examining her companion, who had
seated herself uneasily upon the side of the bed. "You _are_ handsome!"
she said candidly, as if settling a point in her own mind which had long
been debatable. "I don't think I ever saw you handsomer than you are at
the present moment. Trouble becomes you, it gives a meaning to the
shadows of your face which they never had before."
Camilla started up angrily. "Did you come here to comment upon my
appearance?"
"No," said Rita suavely. "I can't help it--that's all. Did you know
that you have been the means of destroying one of my most treasured
ideals? You have, you know. I've always scoffed at personal
beauty--now I remain to pray. It's a definite living force--like
politics--or like religion."
"Really, Mrs. Cheyne----!"
"Please let me talk--you would if you only knew what I'm going to say.
My remarks may seem irrelevant, but they're not. They're a confession
of weakness on my part--an acknowledgment of strength on yours. You
never liked me from the first, and I don't think I really was very fond
of you. We seemed to have been run in different moulds. There's no
reason why we shouldn't have got along because--well, you know I'm not
half bad when one really knows me; and you!--you have everything that
most people like--you're beautiful, cultured, clever and--and quite
human."
Camilla made a gesture of impatience, but Rita went on imperturbably.
"You're handsome, gentle and human--but you--you're a dreadful fool!"
And then, with a laugh, "Please sit down and don't look so tragic. It's
true, dear, perfectly true, and you'll be quite sure of it in a moment."
Anger seemed so futile, Camilla was reduced to a smile of contempt.
"I'm sure I can't be anything but flattered at your opinions, Mrs.
Cheyne." But, in spite of herself, she was conscious of a mild
curiosity as to whither this remarkable conversation was leading.
"Thanks," said Rita with mock humility. "There's only one thing in the
world more blind than hatred, and that's love. Because you think you
hate me, you'd be willing to let slip forever your only chance of
happiness in this world."
"I don't hate you," said Camilla icily, "and luckily my happiness is not
in any way dependent on what you may say or do."
"Oh, yes, it is," said Rita quickly. "I'm going to prevent you from
making a mistake. You've already made too many of them. You're
planning to go away to Kansas when your husband positively adores the
very ground you walk on."
Having shot her bolt, like the skillful archer she put her head on one
side and eagerly watched its flight. Camilla started up, one hand on
the bed-post, her color vanishing.
"You--you heard?"
"I--I know."
"_He_ told you."
"Who? Jeff?" She leaned back in her chair and laughed up at the
ceiling. "Well, hardly. I don't mind people telling me they adore the
ground _I_ walk on, but----"
"How did you know?" Camilla glanced toward the door and into Mrs.
Cheyne's room, a new expression of dismay coming into her eyes. "You
heard what passed in here--last night?"
"Yes--something--I couldn't help it."
"How could you--have listened?" Camilla gasped.
"I tried not to--I tried to make you stop--by dropping things and making
a noise, but I couldn't. You didn't or wouldn't hear--either of you.
Finally I had to go out of the room." She rose with a sudden impulse of
sympathy and put her hand on Camilla's shoulder.
"Oh, don't think everything bad about me! Can't you understand? Won't
you realize that at this moment I'm the best friend you have in the
world? Even if you don't admit that, try to believe that what I say to
you is true. Why should I risk a rebuff in coming in here to you if it
wasn't with a motive more important than any hurt you can do to me?
What I say to you is true. Your husband loves you. He's mad about you.
Don't you understand?" Camilla lowered her eyes, one of her hands
fingering at the bed-cover, suddenly aware of the friendly pat on her
shoulder. At last she slowly raised her head and found Rita Cheyne's
eyes with the searching, intrusive look that one woman has for another.
"Why should _you_ tell me this?" she asked. Mrs. Cheyne turned aside
with a light laugh.
"Why _shouldn't_ I? Is happiness so easily to be had in this world that
I'd refuse it--to a friend if it was in my power to give? I can't see
you throwing it away for a foolish whim. That's what it is--a whim.
You've got to stay with Jeff. What right have you to go? What has he
done to deserve it? I flirted with him. I acknowledge it. What is
that? I flirt with every man I like. It's my way of amusing myself."
She straightened, and, with a whimsical smile which had in it a touch of
effrontery, "The fact that he still loves you after that, my dear," she
said, "is the surest proof of his devotion."
Camilla looked away--out of the window toward the "Watch Us Grow" sign,
the symbol of Jeff's ambition, and her eyes softened. She got up and
walked to the window which faced the mountains.
"If I could only believe you--if I only could," she said, and then,
turning suddenly, "Why did you try to make Jeff fall in love with you?"
Rita shrugged. "Simply because--because it was impossible. I'm so
tired of doing easy things. I've always done everything I wanted to, and
it bored me. I owe your husband a debt. I thought all men were the
same. Do you really think there are any more like Jeff?"
Camilla watched her narrowly, probing shrewdly below the surface for
traces of the vein of feeling she had shown a moment before. What she
discovered was little, but that little seemed to satisfy her, for, after
a pause, in which she twisted the window cord and then untwisted it
again, she came forward slowly, took Rita by both hands and looked deep
into her eyes.
"Why did you come out here?"
It was no time for equivocation. Camilla's eyes burned steadily, oh, so
steadily. But Rita did not flinch.
"I thought Jeff was lonely. I thought he needed some one, and so I came
out in the Bents' private car as far as Denver. I left them there and
came on alone. I wanted to help him--I'm trying to help him still--with
my sympathy, my money--and--and such influence as I can use to make his
wife realize her duty to him and her duty to herself."
It was an explanation which somehow did not seem to explain, and yet
curiously enough it satisfied Camilla. If it was not the whole truth,
there was enough of it that was nothing but the truth. She felt that it
would not have been fair to ask for more. Rita was not slow to follow
up this advantage. She gave a quick sigh, then took Camilla by both
shoulders. "You mustn't go away to Kansas, I tell you. You've never
loved anybody but Jeff. Cortland knows it, and I know it. I've known it
all the while. A woman has a way of learning these things. If you
leave him now there's no telling what may happen. He needs you. He
can't get on without you. They're trying to crush the life out of him
in this soulless war for the smelter, and they may succeed. He's pushed
to the limit of his resourcefulness and his endurance. Flesh and blood
can't stand that strain long. He needs all his friends now and every
help, moral and physical, that they can give him. There's no one else
who can take your place now. No one to stand at his side and take the
bad with the good. You've had your half of his success--now you must
take your half of his failure. You're his wife, Camilla! Do you
understand that? His wife!"
A sob welled up in Camilla's throat and took her unawares. She bent her
head to hide it--and then gave way and fell on the bed in a passion of
tears.
Rita watched her for a moment with a smile, for she knew that the tears
were tears of happiness, then went over and put her arms around
Camilla's shoulders, murmuring gently:
"You're not to blame, Camilla--not altogether--and it's not too late to
begin again. He needs you now as he has never needed you before. It's
your opportunity. I hope you see it."
"I do, I do," came faintly from the coverlid.
"You must see him at once. Do you understand? Shall I send for him?"
"Yes, soon." Camilla sat up and smiled through her tears, drew Rita
down alongside of her, put her arm around her and kissed her on the
cheek.
"I understand you now. I'm sorry--for many things. I want to know you
better, dear. May I?"
"Yes," said Rita calmly, "if you can. Perhaps then you might explain me
to myself. But I'm going to New York again soon--something tells me you
are to stay here."
"I will stay here now," said Camilla proudly, "if Jeff wants me. Are
you sure--sure--he----"
Rita held her off at arm's length, quizzically--tantalizing her
purposely.
"No, silly. He loves me, of course--that's why I'm presenting him to
you." Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, and rose
quickly.
"It's pretty late. I must catch the eleven o'clock train. I have a lot
to do. I'm going into my own room."
There was a knock at the outer door. Camilla answered it and received a
note from the clerk.
"From Mr. Wray's office. There's no answer."
She opened it hurriedly, while Rita watched.
"Dear Camilla" (it ran): "I'm leaving suddenly by the early train for
Denver on a business matter which to me means either life or death. For
the love of God don't leave me now. Wait until I return. I'm going to
the Brown Palace Hotel and will write you from there.
"JEFF."
She read through the hurried scrawl twice and then silently handed it to
her companion.
"You must follow, Camilla--at once--with me," said Mrs. Cheyne.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*GRETCHEN DECIDES*
Lawrence Berkely was doing scout duty in the neighborhood of the seat of
war, keeping closely in touch with Wray by wire code. Although he had a
room at the Brown Palace Hotel, he went elsewhere for his meals, and
since the arrival of General Bent's party he had eluded the detection of
Cornelius Bent, Curtis Janney, or Cortland. He had been advised by a
brief wire from Gretchen Janney of the date of her departure from New
York and had noted the arrival of his business enemies with mingled
feelings. In response to his note to her room Gretchen had stolen away
and met him quietly in one of the hotel parlors, where, unknown to
Curtis Janney, they had renewed their vows of eternal fidelity.
Gretchen was, of course, familiar with Larry's position as a business
rival of her father's pet company, and she had thought it best, since
Larry's departure from New York, to keep their engagement a secret from
her parents. She had heard from him regularly, and distance, it seemed,
had made no difference in the nature of her feelings for him, but she
knew from her father's disappointment at Cortland Bent's defection that
the time to take her parents into her confidence had not yet arrived.
It had not occurred to Curtis Janney to think of Lawrence Berkely's
attentions seriously, but Gretchen knew that her mother, at least, had
breathed a sigh of relief when Larry had left New York. Mrs. Janney had
questioned her daughter anxiously, but Gretchen had answered in riddles,
and in the end had succeeded in convincing her that marriage was the
last thing in the world she was thinking of. Gretchen was a little
afraid of her father. Once or twice he had expressed himself rather
freely as to the kind of man he expected his daughter to marry, from
which it was clear that his list of eligibles did not include Lawrence
Berkely. She had written all of this tearfully to Larry, so that when
she reached Denver he decided that matters had reached a crisis which
demanded some sort of an understanding with Janney pere. The
clandestine meetings, which rather appealed to Gretchen's sense of the
romantic, made Larry unhappy. He had nothing to be ashamed of and saw
no reason why he had to court the woman he loved under cover of
darkness. So he made up his mind to settle the thing in his own way.
In this crisis it had occurred to Gretchen to enlist Mrs. Cheyne's
services in their behalf, for Rita had always been a favorite of her
father's; but an evening or two after her arrival in Denver that lady
had mysteriously disappeared from the hotel, only leaving word that she
had gone to visit friends in the neighborhood and would advise General
Bent of her future plans. No one but Larry, with whom she had been
talking, had for a moment suspected that the "friends" in the
neighborhood were only Jeff, and, though she had not bound Larry to
secrecy, both duty and discretion demanded his silence.
Larry's position was difficult, but when he discovered that nothing was
to be gained by keeping his movements hidden from Cornelius Bent he took
the bull by the horns and boldly sent up his card to Curtis Janney's
suite. He was so full of his own affairs that Mr. Janney's possible
misconception of the object of his visit had not occurred to him. He
was welcomed cordially--so jovially, in fact, that for a moment he was
taken off his guard.
"Well, Berkely, by George! glad to see you. Rather a surprise to find us
all out here invading your own country, eh?"
Larry sat rather soberly, refused a cigar, and expressed well-bred
surprise.
"I can't imagine anybody wanting to leave Braebank in April," he said.
"Well, I didn't want to, Berkely--I'm doing a little scientific farming
this summer--but we had to come out on this smelter business--the
General and I----" He stopped and puffed rapidly at his cigar. "It's
too bad--really--I'm sorry, sorry, but I think Wray made a mistake. I
like Wray, Berkely. He's got stuff in him, but he overleaped himself in
this smelter business. It's a pity he thought he had to fight us, but
you've got to admit we gave him every chance."
"I didn't come to see you about the smelter business, Mr. Janney," said
Berkely rather quietly, "but on a matter of my own--a personal--a
private matter."
Janney's face grew grave.
"A private matter?"
"Yes, sir." Larry closed his lips firmly for a moment, and then came to
the point without further words. "Mr. Janney, I suppose I should have
spoken to you before I left New York. Our business relations seemed to
make it difficult. But the very fact that we can't be friends in
business makes it necessary for me, at least, to be honest with you in
this other matter."
"What on earth are you driving at?"
"I want to marry your daughter, sir, that's all," said Larry with the
suddenness of desperation.
"Gretchen? My daughter?" Janney said, explosively. He rose, with one
hand on the back of his chair, and glared at Larry as though he doubted
his sanity. "You want to marry Gretchen?" Then he laughed--and Larry
discovered in that laugh wherein Janney and General Bent had points of
contact. Janney took three long strides to the window, then wheeled
suddenly. "You must be crazy. My daughter--marry _you_?"
Larry had risen and met Janney's impertinent scrutiny with some dignity.
"Yes, sir; I'm not aware of anything in my family, my connections, my
prospects, or my character which can be found objectionable. Your
daughter cares for me----"
"Why, you insolent young fortune-hunter!"
"Wait a moment!" and Larry's voice dominated. "You'll speak to me as one
gentleman does to another--or you'll not speak to me at all." He took
up his hat from the table, and then, more evenly, "I take it, you refuse
your consent?"
By this time Curtis Janney's usual poise had completely deserted him.
"Refuse--my consent? Well, rather!"
He went to the door through which Berkely had entered. But instead of
opening the door Janney turned and put his back to it.
"See here, young man, you don't like my language. Perhaps you'll like it
less when I'm through talking. Colorado seems to breed big ambitions. I
know nothing of your family and care less. But I do know something of
your prospects. Inside of forty-eight hours you won't have prospects of
any kind. You're going to be blotted out. Do you understand? I've made
other plans for my daughter--and I'm not in the mood to listen to any
silly romantic nonsense from her or any far-sighted propositions from
you. Your proposal is impudent sir, d--d impudent--the proposition of a
desperate man who, failing to win by fair means----"
"Will you open the door, sir?" said Larry, now white with rage. "If
not, I'll find means to open it myself." He took a step forward, and
the two men glared into each other's eyes not a pace apart. There was no
mistaking Larry's determination, and Mr. Janney's surprise was manifest.
This was not the manner of the fortune-hunters he had met. Somewhat
uncertainly he stood aside, and Berkely put his hand on the door-knob.
"I did you an honor in consulting you, sir. It's a pity you couldn't
appreciate it. In the future I'll act on my own initiative. Good
afternoon."
And, before the older man had even realized what the words meant, Larry
had opened the door and was gone. He hurried down the corridor, still
trembling at the meaning of Janney's insults, which had touched his
Southern pride. For Gretchen's sake it would have been better if he
could have kept himself under control, and he realized that he had lost
every chance of getting Curtis Janney's permission and approval. But
that did not daunt him. He had acquitted his mind of a responsibility,
and he was glad that in the future there could be no misunderstanding.
If he could not marry Gretchen with the approval of her family, he would
marry her without it.
Halfway up the block above the hotel on Seventeenth Street Larry
stopped, able for the first time to review more calmly the incidents of
the last half hour. What was it Curtis Janney had said about his
prospects? In forty-eight hours he would be wiped off the earth. That
meant Jeff, too. He had a sudden guilty sense of shock, that in his
selfish absorption in his own affairs he had for the moment forgotten
Jeff and the business of the Company. Forty-eight hours! That was
important information--and Janney had let it slip in anger--there was no
doubt about that. What did it mean? That all the Amalgamated Company's
wires were laid, and the only thing left was to touch the button which
would blow the Wray interests to pieces?
It looked that way, and yet Larry still hoped. The rails of the Saguache
Short Line would be joined to those of the D. & C. to-morrow. Much
depended on Symonds. Larry hurried over to the offices of the Denver
and California and emerged later with a look of satisfaction. Symonds
was still General Manager and was still loyal. Within thirty-six hours,
at his orders, a locomotive and one passenger car from the D. & C. yards
at Pueblo would carry Clinton, Symonds, Mulrennan, Judge Weigel, and
other stockholders of the Development Company from Pueblo over the line
to Saguache, establishing their connection at Pueblo in accordance with
Jeff's agreements with the road. It would take some queer construction
of the law for Jeff's enemies to get around that. Larry knew that it
meant a long fight, one which lack of money might lose in the end, but
he assured himself that he could establish a nice legal point which
would be worth fighting for. The calling of Jeff's loans by the banks
was a more dangerous matter. Larry had hoped that this could have been
arranged, but only a small amount of the money had been forthcoming, and
where Jeff was going to raise the rest of it Providence only knew!
When Larry reached his room at the hotel he found a brief note from
Gretchen:
"I have heard about everything. I shall never speak to father again.
You must marry me at once, Larry. I can't stand the suspense any
longer. Mother is here with me, but I'm going to get away somehow. Meet
me at the Shirley at ten o'clock."
Larry smiled and kissed the penciled scrawl rapturously. "God bless
you, I'll do it--Gretchen, dear," he said to himself.
That was a busy evening for Larry. It was six o'clock when he wrote a
line to Gretchen and rang for a page, to whom he gave careful
instructions--also, some money. Then he sat at his desk and with his
code sent a long wire to Jeff. At half-past six he was dressing
carefully in the intervals between packing a suit case and 'phoning to a
legal friend of his, Dick Wetherall, about a minister and a license. At
seven-thirty he dined with Wetherall. At eight he received Rita
Cheyne's mysterious wire. At nine he found the cashier of the Tenth
National Bank at his home and planned for the taking up of the
Development Company's notes and arranging to deposit Mrs. Cheyne's money
to Jeff Wray's account on the following morning. At ten he met Gretchen
at the Shirley Hotel, and, at half-past ten, had married her.
* * * * *
In response to Larry's first telegram and speeding eastward on the early
train, Jeff Wray read all this astonishing news in the sheaf of
telegrams handed him at the station by Ike Matthews. His brow lifted,
and the hard lines at his mouth relaxed in a smile. Good old Larry! He
tried to conjure a vision of Curtis Janney's face as he heard the news.
Larry was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance.
It took Jeff longer to decipher the second telegram:
"Mrs. Cheyne has arranged with her Denver agents--deposit eight hundred
thousand dollars your credit Tenth National to-morrow morning. Await
instructions."
It seemed incredible. When had Rita done this? The grim lines that his
long night's vigil had seared at the corners of his mouth grew deeper,
but his eyes glowed with a sombre fire. There was still an even chance
to win--for Larry was holding the fort awaiting reinforcements, and Rita
Cheyne had restored the break in Jeff's line of communication. The
astonishing information in Larry's last wire seemed to clear his mind of
the doubts which had assailed it all night long. The possibility of
success now gave his own affairs a different complexion. He could never
have told the truth to General Bent (Jeff couldn't think of him as a
father) unless he won the fight for the independence of the Saguache
Smelter. Jeff was no man to come cringing in the hour of failure at the
feet of his enemy, asking immunity on the strength of such a
relationship as that which existed between them. It had been clear to
Jeff all night long that if he lost his fight he could never face
General Bent with the truth. That was the real bitterness of defeat.
But if he won? The long years of dishonor through which he had
struggled, without a name, without kindred, without friends, loomed
large before him--mute, merciless years of struggle, privation, and
emptiness. If he won, there was more than one victory to be gained in
this fight, a moral victory as well as a physical one--the triumph of an
eternal truth, the vindication of a forgotten wrong. If he won he would
tell General Bent the truth--not as a son to a father, but as one
merciless enemy to another, asking no quarter and giving none.
The only connection for Kinney at Saguache was with the later train, but
Jeff had arranged for a motor-car which took him over the Pass and
landed him at Kinney in time for the twelve o'clock train for Denver,
where he arrived at six o'clock that evening. Larry met him at the
station, smiling broadly.
"I think we've put a spoke in their wheel, Jeff," he laughed. "But we
must keep dark. To-morrow morning when the banks open you're going to
take up that stock, then we're going to call on the General."
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes, Symonds is standing pat, but they don't know it. The new General
Manager comes in to-morrow, but Symonds's orders will go through first.
That train will run, Jeff--sure."
"Poor old Larry! a fine honeymoon you're having! Where's your wife?"
"At the Wetherall Ranch. Went out there last night. Her mother has
been out to see her. It looks as though they might come around. It's
too bad I had to go against them just now, but Mr. Janney forced my
hand, and I had to. You understand, don't you, Jeff?" And, explaining
as they went, Berkely followed Jeff out of the station, into a motor-car
that was awaiting them.
*CHAPTER XXV*
*THE CRISIS*
One of the rooms in Janney's suite had been turned into an office for
General Bent, and here it was that all the conferences between the
officers of the Amalgamated Reduction Company and their underlings had
taken place. The big men of Denver had all called to pay their respects
to the bigger man from the East, and some of them had taken part in the
business of reorganizing the Denver and California and its subsidiary
companies.
But in spite of the conditions which had made Bent's control of the
railroad possible and the money the crowd would make out of it,
everybody in this intimate circle knew that the real object of the
General's financial operations was the fight of the Amalgamated
Reduction Company for the ownership of the Saguache Smelter. The
reorganization of the Denver and California had now been completed, and
this morning orders had gone forth removing Clinton, Symonds, and all
the old crowd from the active management of the road.
General Bent sat at the end of the long desk table in conference with
Curtis Janney, Cortland Bent, and a youngish-oldish, keen-eyed man in a
cutaway coat and white waistcoat. This was Henry McCabe of
Denver--attorney for the Amalgamated--the shrewdest lawyer west of the
Missouri River, and one of the shrewdest east of it. In front of McCabe
on the desk was a leather portfolio from which a number of papers
protruded. Behind him sat a clerk who had been taking down in shorthand
his questions and the replies of two men at the farther end of the
table. These men were roughly dressed, and, though at the present
moment each of them smoked one of Curtis Janney's remarkable cigars,
they sat aloof and uncomfortable on their gilt chairs, assuming
attitudes of ease they were far from feeling. One of the strangers was
Max Reimer, the man who had discovered the lost vein in the "Lone Tree"
mine. The other was Fritz Weyl, one-time barkeeper of Pete Mulrennan's
saloon in Mesa City.
McCabe's examination had hardly been concluded when two cards were
brought in by a page and handed to Cortland Bent. He glanced at them,
and then, without comment, laid them on the table before his father.
"H--m! He's here now," muttered the General, staring grimly. "He's
saved us the trouble of sending for him." He tossed the cards on the
table and rose. "There's nothing more you wanted to ask, was there,
McCabe?"
"No, sir, nothing. I know all I need to."
"I thought so. Will you take these men downstairs? But have them
within call--I may need them. Have Harbison handy, too. Curtis, you'll
stay, of course--and you, Cort." Then to the waiting servant, "Show
these gentlemen up."
When Wray and Berkely entered, General Bent had resumed his chair at the
head of the table, and Cortland and Curtis Janney sat on either side of
him. The General's head was bent forward in its customary pose, his
shaggy brows lowered so that his eyes were scarcely visible, but in the
smile that twisted one end of his thin lips Berkely read a sardonic
confidence in the outcome of the interview. On entering the room Wray
fixed his wide gaze on General Bent, his eyes gleaming strangely, and
kept it on him as though fascinated, until, at a word from Cortland
Bent, he sank into a chair beside Berkely. Aside from this civility, no
amenities passed. General Bent had sunk back in his armchair, coolly
swinging his glasses by their cord, while he keenly eyed Berkely, who
had begun talking. Curtis Janney, trying to bury his personal
animosities in the present issue, folded his stout arms resolutely and
leaned forward upon the table.
"We understand, General Bent, that it is you--representing Eastern
interests--who have obtained a majority of the stock of the Denver and
California Railroad Company. Am I correctly informed?"
General Bent's head dropped the fraction of an inch. "Your information
is correct," he said shortly.
"As general counsel for the Saguache Short Line," Berkely went on, "I am
here to inform you that, in accordance with a contract entered into in
March of last year, the Denver and California made certain traffic
arrangements with my Company conditional upon the completion of the
Saguache Short Line upon a specified date. My company accepted these
conditions and has succeeded in carrying out to the letter the terms of
its agreements----"
"One moment, Mr. Berkely," put in the General with a vague attempt to be
humorous, "if I may ask, what is the Saguache Short Line? A telegraph,
stage, or railroad company?"
Wray's jaw set, and he glared angrily, but Berkely only smiled.
"A railroad company, sir," he said with suave directness, "controlling a
right of way from Pueblo to Saguache--the most direct line from the
Saguache to the market. Our tracks are laid, our signals in place, our
stations built, and this morning we are advised that the Denver and
California is running its first train through from Pueblo to Saguache!"
The three men started, and Berkely grinned.
"I may add that in addition to Mr. Clinton (who at ten o'clock this
morning had not yet retired from the presidency of your road), the train
also carries other officers of your company as well as stockholders of
mine. A lunch has been provided at the northern terminus of the road,
and a spirit of harmony dominates the occasion--one which I'm sure
you'll admit is noteworthy in every particular."
General Bent's brow twitched ominously. "I hope, Mr. Berkely, you'll
come to the point without delay," he said.
"Willingly. The Saguache Short Line has fulfilled its part of the
contract. The present officers of your company are willing to carry out
theirs. The object of our visit was merely to reassure ourselves of your
friendly disposition--the friendly disposition of the newly elected
officers of your road--and to arrange with all proper haste a practical
schedule for the operation of the line."
Larry paused and sank back in his chair with a smile. General Bent had
risen and was leaning forward over the table toward Berkely, his face a
thunder-cloud.
"You want a schedule, do you?" he growled, his voice deepening. "Well,
I'll give you one--I'll give it to you now, and it won't take a great
while, either. As long as I'm in control of the Denver and California
Railroad Company not a wheel shall turn on your little jerk-water line
within a mile of Pueblo. That's my answer to your proposition. Our yard
limit marks your terminus--do you understand? Get your ore there if you
can find any," he finished brutally.
But Berkely refused to lose his temper.
"You're aware, of course," he said coolly, "that such a policy is likely
to prove expensive?"
"You'll have to show that."
"I think we will. But I can't believe that you repudiate this
contract," said Larry, tapping a paper with his forefinger.
"I didn't make that contract. I would never have made it. The courts
will pass on its validity."
"Then this is final?"
"Absolutely. Is there anything more you want to say?"
"I think that's all, General Bent," said Berkely, rising. "I had hoped
you would have been willing to meet us in a fair spirit. Failing to
discover that--either in your attitude or your demeanor--I suppose there
is nothing else to be said."
"One moment," interrupted the General, sinking back in his chair with an
effort at self-control. "Sit down, please. There's something more to be
said--something which you both may be interested to hear." And he
addressed his remarks directly to Wray. "I can't say that I've watched
your efforts to put your plans through without some interest, Mr. Wray.
Under other circumstances I may say that I would have been compelled to
a kind of admiration for your fruitless perseverance. It's all the more
remarkable in the face of the obstacles with which you had to contend.
But we are fully informed as to your actual financial strength, and I
think the time has come when we may draw aside the veil and speak
frankly. Mr. Berkely informs me that he intends to proceed against the
Denver and California Railroad Company. To do this, of course, he must
have the proper authority. Are you sure that he can get it?"