He drew her into his arms again. "I'll never want you to. I want you
here--close--close--my girl."
"You must never leave me again, Jeff--I've suffered so."
"I couldn't stand seeing you. I thought you loved----" She put her
fingers over his lips and would not let him finish.
"No--not now----don't speak of that, it's all a nightmare. But you must
never leave me again. I want to be with you always. I want to take my
half of your troubles."
His head bowed, the grasp of his hands relaxed, and his eyes stared into
vacancy.
"My troubles--yes, there are a lot of them. Perhaps you won't care for
me so much when I'm down and out, Camilla. I suppose I ought to tell
you. He--my father is going to have me indicted for conspiracy--about
the mines. He's going to try to jail me--if he can."
She started up, terror-stricken.
"Oh, he couldn't--even he--couldn't do a thing like that."
"Oh, yes, he could," grimly. "He has bribed Reimer and Fritz Weyl.
They swear I tried to murder Max."
"But you didn't, Jeff--tell me you didn't," she said tremulously. "You
know you never told me what happened, and I've feared--you were
desperate in those days--and lawless."
"I'm desperate and lawless yet," he muttered. "But I'd never try to kill
a man just for money. We offered Max Reimer a share in the mine--a good
share--but he wanted to hog it all. I told him he was a drunken fool,
and he tried to shoot me. Mulrennan struck him, and knocked him out. I
wouldn't be here now if he hadn't. I don't know why I never told you.
I suppose I thought you wouldn't understand. I left Mulrennan trying to
bring him around--and went down and bought that lease. That's all."
"Thank God," she crooned. "I've been so afraid. There have been so
many stories."
"Lies--all lies--circulated by him. Now he's got Reimer to swear to
them."
She threw her arms around his neck and searched his face anxiously.
"Jeff--he can't make people believe----"
"He wants to ruin me--and he'll do it if he can. There's no telling what
money will do. He squeezed Conrad Seemuller and made him a bankrupt.
Seemuller drank himself to death. Jimmy Ott blew out his brains. Oh,
don't be afraid--I'm not going to do either--I'm not going to be crushed
like a worm. If he ruins me, he'll pay dear for the privilege. I'll
drag him down with me, and he'll drop farther than I will. I wanted to
keep things quiet--but I won't any longer. I'll tell the world my
story--his story, and let the world judge between us."
He tramped up and down the floor like a madman until Camilla interposed
and led him to a divan. He followed her like a child and let her sit
beside him while she questioned him as to what had happened. Jeff had
looked for sanctuary, and he had found it at last. The other people in
the house did not disturb them, and they sat for a long time alone,
exchanging the confidences which had been so long delayed; but they were
none the less sweet on that account. Late in the afternoon Camilla
questioned Jeff again about the happenings of the morning. Rita Cheyne's
part in the situation did not surprise her. She knew that Rita had
heard everything and had decided to continue to play the game with Fate
in Jeff's behalf. But she did not tell Jeff so. When he questioned her
she told him what had happened at the Kinney House after he had left.
"Oh, Jeff, I don't know how I could have misjudged you so. Rita opened
my eyes--why she chose to do it, I don't know. She's a strange woman--I
can't quite make her out even now. She's half angel, half vixen, but
I'll never forget her--never!" Camilla put her hand over Jeff's
suddenly. "That money--Jeff--you must pay her back that money--if you
have to sell the mine."
"I can't sell the mine--not now. It would clean me out."
"I don't care," she pleaded. "I don't want money. It has brought
nothing but unhappiness to either of us. I want to begin all over
again. I've learned my lesson. I look back to the old days and wonder
what I could have been dreaming of. I've seen all I want of the world.
Happiness belongs in the heart--no amount of money can buy it a place
there. I want to be poor again--with you. Give him--give General Bent
what he wants, Jeff--that will satisfy him, won't it? Please, Jeff, for
my sake! Sell out the smelter and the mine----"
"Never!" Jeff's jaw set, and he rose, putting her aside almost roughly.
"I'll never give them up while I've an ounce of blood to fight!"
His tongue faltered and was silent. Camilla followed his startled gaze
through the open window at an automobile, from the tonneau of which a
man hurriedly descended.
"What can it mean?" Jeff was asking as though to himself. "Cort Bent!
What does he want?"
"It's very curious," Camilla said slowly. "To see you----"
When Bent came into the room a moment later they were both aware of the
imminence of important revelations. Camilla had not seen him for two
months, and she was conscious of a slight sense of shock at his
appearance. Jeff, too, noted that he was very pale and that in his eyes
there hung a shadow of the misfortune that had marked them all.
At the door Cortland turned to Mrs. Berkely who had met him in the hall.
"If you don't mind, Gretchen, I'd like to speak to him alone." And,
when Camilla would have gone, "No, Camilla, it concerns you, too."
While they wondered what was coming he walked past Camilla and put a
hand on Jeff's shoulder, the lines in his face softening gently.
"They've told me, Jeff. I know. I've come to offer you my hand." And,
as Jeff still stared at him uncertainly, "You won't refuse it, will
you!"
There was a nobility in the simple gesture, a depth of meaning in the
quiet tones of his voice. Camilla alone knew what those few words were
costing him, and she watched Jeff, who was standing as though he had
been turned to stone, his head bent forward upon his breast, his
deep-set eyes peering under his brows as General Bent's had often done.
His eyes found Cortland's at last, searching them keenly, but he found
in them only a small bright flame of fellowship among the embers of
regret. Jeff's fingers twitched a little, then his hand came forward
impulsively, and the two men clasped hands.
"I'm sorry, Jeff--I am--from the bottom of my heart. I want you to
understand."
"I do," said Jeff, with difficulty. "I didn't want you to know----"
"I'm glad. I think it's better so."
He paused a moment before going on. "I want--I want you and Camilla to
go right back with me. Can you? That's what I came to ask. Father is
ill."
"Ill?" stammered Jeff.
"A stroke of apoplexy--the sudden shock of discovering all this." Jeff
and Camilla started forward with one impulse of horror. "Rita and Aunt
Caroline were with him, and Rita had told him the truth--the doctors are
there--he has recovered consciousness, but his left side is paralyzed,
completely paralyzed."
Jeff sank heavily in a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"What do the doctors say?" asked Camilla anxiously.
"That he's very sick--that's all. Nobody can tell. I've wired Chicago
for a specialist. We can only wait and hope. It's pretty desperate--I
know that. He's an old man--and he's grown older lately."
Cort stopped speaking and walked to the window, while Camilla watched
him pityingly. He wasn't like the old Cort she used to know, and yet
there was something inexpressively appealing in his gentleness which
reminded her of the moods in him she had liked the best. She glanced at
Jeff. His head was still buried in his hands, and he had not moved.
But Camilla knew that this startling revelation was causing a
rearrangement of all Jeff's ideas. In that moment she prayed that
Jeff's bitterness might be sweetened--that the tragedy which had
suddenly stalked among them might soften his heart to pity for the old
man who was his father and his enemy.
Cortland turned and spoke with an effort.
"Will you go back with me, Jeff? When he first recovered consciousness
he spoke your name. He has been asking for you ever since. He
wants----"
Jeff's eyes peered above his trembling fingers.
"He asked--for me?" he said hoarsely.
"Yes--he wants to see you."
Jeff's head sank into his hands again.
"He wants--to see _me_? I can't--seem to realize----"
"It's true--he asked me to bring you."
There was a long period of silence, during which Jeff's long, bony
fingers clasped and unclasped back of his head as he struggled with
himself. "I can't," he groaned at last. "I can't. It has been too
long--too much." He straightened in disorder and went on wildly: "Why,
he has dogged my steps for months--used all his genius and cunning to do
away with me--tried to rid himself of me as he did years ago--and even
hired men to swear my liberty away." His head dropped into his hands
again and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "No, I can't,
Cort. I can't. It's too much to ask--too much."
Cortland stood in the middle of the floor, his arms folded, head bent,
waiting for the storm to pass, his own pain engulfed in the greater pain
of the man before him. He did not try to answer Jeff, for there was no
answer to be made. It was not a moment for words, and he knew he had no
right even to petition. It was a matter for Jeff's heart alone--a heart
so long embittered that even if it refused this charity, Cortland could
not find it in his own heart to condemn.
With a glance at Cortland, Camilla went over to Jeff and laid her
fingers lightly on his shoulder.
"Jeff," she said with gentle firmness, "you must go--to your father."
But, as he did not move, she went on. "You forget--he did not know.
Perhaps if he had known he would have tried to make atonement before.
Do you realize what it means for a man like General Bent to make such a
request at such a time? You can't refuse, Jeff. You can't."
Jeff moved his head and stared for a long time at the fireplace, his
fingers clenched on the chair arms, turning at last to Cortland.
"Do you--do you think he'll die?" he asked. "What do they say?"
"His heart is bad," said Cort gravely. "I don't know--a man of father's
years seldom recovers from a thing like that----"
But it was Camilla who interposed. She stepped between the two men and
took Jeff Ly the arm. "Cort can't go back without you, Jeff," she said
passionately. "Don't you see that? He can't. You've got to go. If
your father died to-night you'd never forgive yourself. He may have
done you a wrong, but God knows he's trying to right it now. You've got
to let him." Cortland watched them a moment, then suddenly straightened
and glanced at his watch.
"I can't stay here any longer," he said. "I've got to go back to him.
There is much to be done, and I'm the only one to do it. This is my
last plea--not that of a dying man's son for his father, but of a
brother to a brother for the father of both. Come back with me--Jeff.
Not for his sake--but for your own. It is your own blood that is
calling you--pitifully--you can't refuse."
Jeff struggled heavily to his feet and passed his hands across his eyes,
and then, with a sudden sharp intake of his breath, he turned to
Cortland, his lips trembling.
"I'll go," he said hoarsely. "If he wants me, I'll go, Cort. Something
is drawing me--something inside of me that awoke when you told me what
had happened. I've been fighting against it, the habit of thirty years
was fighting it, but I've got to go. I'd be cursed if I didn't. You're
sure he really wants me, Cort?"
*CHAPTER XXVII*
*GENERAL BENT*
The room at the hotel into which Cortland showed them was a part of
General Bent's own suite. Curtis Janney and a doctor consulted near the
window, and a nurse from the hospital, in her white linen uniform and
cap, hovered near. Jeff's questioning gaze sought the crack of the door
of the darkened room adjoining.
"I think you may go in, Mr. Bent," said the doctor to Cortland. "He's
conscious at longer intervals now. It looks very much more hopeful,
sir. He still asks for Mr. Wray."
Cortland followed the doctor into the sick room, while Janney joined
Jeff and Camilla and waited.
"Will he--get over it, Mr. Janney?" Camilla asked softly.
"Oh, I think so now--we didn't at first. Only one side is affected. He
can even move the hand a little. Of course, it may be a long time."
Jeff listened in a daze. The baby stare had come into his eyes again,
and it moved from one object in the room to another--always returning to
the door of the darkened room into which Cortland had vanished. There
was an odor of medicine, the sound of crackling ice, and now the murmur
of voices. A moment later one of the nurses appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Wray," she said, "you may come in."
And Jeff entered, passing Cortland, who stood with bowed head at the
door. In the darkness he could just make out the white figure of the
old man propped up against the pillows. He breathed with difficulty,
and Jeff, unused to scenes of sickness, felt all his heart go out in
pity for the helpless old man who was calling for him.
"Is he here?" the General murmured. "Is he here?"
Jeff moved quietly around the bed to the chair which the nurse had
placed for him, "Yes, sir," he said huskily. "It's Jeff."
The General's right hand groped feebly along the covers, and Jeff took
it in both of his own. "Cort told me you wanted me, sir."
"I'm glad--very glad." He turned his head and tried to smile. "It
was--so--so sudden--the news," he said with an effort, "to find out----"
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't want you to know."
"I'm glad to know. It makes me--happy. I've been trying for so many
years to find you."
"You tried?" in astonishment.
"Yes, I didn't know anything about--about having a son--until it was too
late. One of my associates--in the West--told me later. I tried to
find out--where they had taken you, but the nurse in the hospital--had
gone--and there was no record of her--or of--of you." He spoke with a
great effort, striving against the drowsiness which from time to time
attacked him. "They did things--differently in those days. She--your
mother--never mentioned my name. We had had a quarrel--a serious
quarrel--just after we were married----"
"Married?" Jeff leaned forward over the white coverlid toward the old
man's distorted face. "You were married?" he whispered, awe-stricken.
"Yes, married, Jeff--married--I--I have the papers--at home--I'll show
them to you----"
Jeff bent his head suddenly over the old man's lean fingers and kissed
them impulsively.
"Married!" he murmured, "Thank God! Thank God for that."
The General's eyes followed him plaintively, while he struggled for
breath. "Yes, it's true. In Topeka--Kansas. That's what I wanted to
tell you. I couldn't go--I couldn't die without letting you know that.
It didn't matter to her--she could forget. I did her a wrong, but not a
great wrong, as I did you. I've thought about you all these years,
Jeff. It's my secret--I've kept it a long time----"
He sank back into his pillows, exhausted, breathing heavily again, and
the doctor who had stood in the doorway came forward. "I think you had
better rest, General. Mr. Wray can come in later." But the General
resolutely waved him aside with a movement that suggested his old
authority.
"No, not yet--I'm better--I'll sleep again in a moment." And, as the
doctor withdrew, the old man's grasp on Jeff's hand grew tighter. "They
took you away from the hospital--without even giving you a name."
"Yes, sir--I had no name but the one they gave me." Jeff tried to make
him stop talking, but he went on, striving desperately:
"I had men working--to try and find you. I've their reports at
home--you shall see them. I want you to know that I did all I could.
We got the name of the nurse."
"Mrs. Nixon?"
"I think--no," he said confusedly. "I can't remember--she
disappeared----"
"Yes, sir. She married again and went to Texas. She took me with her."
Bent's eyes searched Jeff's piteously. "That was it," he whispered,
"that was it. That's my excuse--I tried, you know I tried, don't you?
It has been my burden for years--more even lately--than when I was
younger--the wrong I had done you. Say that you understand--won't
you--my--my--son?"
The tears had come into Jeff's eyes, welled forth like the gush of water
in a dry fountain, and fell upon the old wrinkled fingers.
"I do, sir--I do."
The General's hand left the coverlid and rested for a moment on Jeff's
shoulder.
"I hoped you would. I've always hoped you'd forgive me when you knew."
Jeff straightened and brushed his eyes. "There's nothing to forgive.
I--I only want you to get well--you will, sir. They say you're better."
"Yes, Jeff, better--better already--but I'm very tired. I think--I
think--I can sleep now--but don't go away--don't go," and he sank back
in a state of coma.
General Bent recovered. The stroke was a slight one, and he gained
strength and the use of his faculties rapidly. But Time had served its
notice of dispossession, and they all knew that the hour had come when
the management of Bent's great business interests must pass to younger
hands. Within a few weeks he was permitted to sit up for an hour each
day, and with Cortland's help took up the loose ends of the most urgent
business. But he tired easily, and it was evident to them all that the
days of his activity were ended.
In spite of it all, a great calm had fallen over the General's spirit.
The quick decision, the incisive judgment, were still his--for one
doesn't forget in a moment the habits of a lifetime of command--but his
tones were softer, his manner more gentle, and in his eyes there had
dawned a soft light of toleration and benignity which became him
strangely.
Gladys, who had come on from Lakewood, was with him constantly and
watched these changes in her father with timid wonder. He had never
been one to confide in his children, and it required some readjustment
of her relations with him to accept the quiet appeal of his eyes and the
sympathy and appreciation which she found in his newly begotten
tenderness. In Cortland, too, she saw a great change, and it surprised
her to discover the resolute, unobtrusive way in which he met his
responsibilities, both functional and moral. Jeff and Camilla, aware of
their anomalous position, had decided to leave the hotel and go back to
Mesa City as soon as General Bent grew better. It was Cortland who
prevailed on them to stay.
"We're all one family now, Jeff," he said firmly, "one and indivisible.
Gladys and I are of a mind on that, and father wishes it so. Your claim
on him comes before ours--we don't forget that--we don't want to forget
it."
Jeff, unable to reply, only grasped him by the hand. And then, with
Larry's help, the two of them plunged into the business of straightening
out the tangle in the General's affairs and Jeff's. It was a matter of
moment with Cortland to give the Saguache Short Line a proper schedule
at once, and so by his dispensation on the twenty-fifth of May, as Jeff
had boasted (he thought of it now), trains were running from Pueblo to
Saguache. The Denver and Western, too, restored its old schedule from
Kinney, and the Saguache Mountain Development Company resumed its
business by really developing.
In the absence of his two sons, Camilla and Gladys sat with the old man,
reading or talking to him as the fancy seized him to have them do. He
liked to lie on a couch at the window and look out toward the mountains
beyond which Jeff's interests lay, while Camilla told him of her
husband's early struggles in the Valley. He questioned her eagerly,
often repeating himself, while she told him of the "Watch Us Grow" sign,
of the failure of Mesa City, and of its rejuvenescence.
"Perhaps, after all," the old man would sigh, "perhaps it did him no
harm. It makes me very happy, child." He didn't say what made him
happy, but Camilla knew.
Then there came a day when the General was pronounced out of all danger
and capable of resuming a small share of his old responsibilities. On
that day new articles of partnership were drawn for the firm of Bent &
Company, into which Jeff Wray was now admitted. The "Lone Tree" mine
and the Saguache Smelter figured in the transaction. Mrs. Cheyne, who
had a wise corner in her pretty head, refused to accept the money which
had been advanced to Jeff Wray, and now insisted on bonds of the
Development Company and stock in the Short Line. Lawrence Berkely,
whose peace had been made with Curtis Janney, now became the Western
representative of the Amalgamated Reduction Company, with Pete Mulrennan
as actual head of the Mesa City plant. It was from General Bent that
all of the plans emanated, and Curtis Janney without difficulty
succeeded in arranging matters in New York. He took a sardonic pleasure
in reminding the General that he had once suggested the advisability of
using Jeff's talents for the benefit of their company--and accepted
these plans as a slight tribute to his own wisdom.
General Bent wanted to go up to Mesa City to see the mine, but it was
thought best by the doctors to send him East to a lower altitude, and
so, about the middle of June, Cortland took him to New York, leaving
Jeff and Camilla to stay for a while at Mesa City, where Camilla could
watch the building of "Glen Irwin." She could not find it in her heart
to give up the West--not altogether. Later on they would spend their
summers there--up in the mountains--Jeff's mountains.
*CHAPTER XXVIII*
*HOUSEHOLD GODS--AND GODDESSES*
The years which followed seemed very short ones to Camilla--a time of
quiet delight, of restitution, and fulfillment. General Bent had wanted
them to come and live with him in the old house down in Madison Avenue,
and Jeff, in his whole-hearted way, had given him the promise, but it
was Camilla who had thought it wisest for them to have an establishment
of their own. The house was just off the avenue near the Park, a rented
place, for Camilla had not yet arrived at the state of mind to consider
New York their home. But most of Jeff's time was now spent in New
York--seven months of the year at least--and she was beginning to learn
with reluctance that before long only their summers could be spent at
"Glen Irwin." On certain afternoons Camilla sat in the library
downstairs with her embroidery frame (she always seemed to be sewing
now), her lap covered with thin, flimsy fabrics, the borders of which
she was embellishing. They were very tiny pieces of material, apparently
shapeless, but from time to time she held them at arm's length before
her, her head on one side, and smiled approval of her own handiwork. It
was here that Jeff liked to find her--thus occupied. He had not even
contracted the habit of stopping at a club on the way uptown, and unless
he was detained on important matters she knew when she would hear the
sound of his key in the latch outside.
Mrs. Wray had made it known that she was not at home except to the
chosen few. The General came on certain days for his "toddy," Gladys on
the way home from "teaing it," Mrs. Rumsen, Dolly Haviland, and Rita
Cheyne, each for a peep behind the curtain.
Rita Cheyne came oftenest and stayed longest. She had no social
responsibilities, she claimed, except that of seeing the small garments
in Camilla's lap made successfully. She was hopelessly bored, more
demurely cheerful, more buoyantly pessimistic than ever.
"What a joy it must be," she sighed, "to have an object in life. My
objects are all subjective. I have a dreadful fear that I'm getting to
be a philosopher."
Camilla bit off her thread and smiled.
"Platonic?" she asked.
"I'm afraid so. I used to take such desperate fancies to people. I
used to want to make people like me whether they wanted to or not. Now
I'm really indifferent. I actually don't care whether my hat is on
straight or not. It's such a pity. I used to like to be _svelte_,
fluffy, and smartly groomed. I didn't mind suffering the tortures of
the rack if I knew I was effective. Now--I'm positively dowdy. I don't
care what I wear so long as I'm comfortable--and I'm actually getting
_fat_, Camilla! The horror of it!"
Camilla looked up at the exquisite afternoon frock, which fitted her
slender figure as only one made by Patrain could, and smiled.
"Yes, Rita, positively corpulent. It's a pity. You really had a good
figure once."
"The worst of it is that I don't seem to care," she went on, oblivious.
"I used to love to dress for moods--for my moods and for other people's.
I thought that Art could solve every problem that came to me. Art!" she
sniffed contemptuously. "Art in a woman is merely a confession of
inefficiency. I used to think that Art was immortal. Now I find that
only Nature is."
Camilla lifted the tiny sacque with its absurd blue silk cuffs and
examined it with a satisfied air. When she had finished she leaned over
to Rita and whispered with the air of an oracle:
"Nature _is_--immortal."
"It is. You're right," she sighed. "But it's my nature to be merely
mortal--and I'm going to die very hard. I must continue to hide my
inefficiencies--by Art."
"You're not inefficient," Camilla corrected. "You're merely
feminine--extravagantly feminine----"
"Yes, feminine--but not womanly. Oh, I know what I am!" she concluded
fiercely.
"You're a darling!" said Camilla softly. "You're very much more womanly
than you want people to think you are. Why should you take such a
delight in _these_?" Camilla laid a hand on the wicker basket beside
her.
Rita took up one of the tiny garments and examined it with minute
interest.
"It's very pretty, isn't it? But quite silly. Imagine anything so tiny!
What a lot of trouble you take. And you've made them all yourself.
They're really exquisite."
"They're Art's tribute to Nature, Rita," said Camilla with an air of
finality.
Mrs. Cheyne sighed.
"My mission in life is ended, Camilla. I'm quite sure of it now.
You've convinced me. I'm actually envious of a woman who sits by the
fire and sews baby-clothes. Your industry is a reproach--your smile a
reproof and your happiness a condemnation. I know you're right. You've
really solved the problem, and I haven't. I never will. I'm past that
now. I'm going to grow old ungracefully, yielding the smallest fraction
of an inch at a time to the inevitable. I'm going to be stout, I know
it--and probably dumpy. I could weep, Camilla."
"Who's talking of weeping here?" said a voice. And General Bent, with
his stick, came thumping in. "Oh--you, Rita?" he laughed. "Women never
cry unless there's something to be gained by it." Rita offered him her
cheek, and Camilla rang for tea. In a moment Mrs. Rumsen came in.
"I knew you were here, Rita," she said, bending her tall figure for a
caress.
"How?"
"Teddy Wetherby's machine--at the corner--and Teddy."
"Is he waiting still? Such a nice boy--but absolutely oblivious of the
passage of time."
"I thought you'd given up your kindergarten, Rita," put in Camilla,
laughing.
"I have. But Teddy is my prize pupil. He's taking a post-graduate
course." And, when they all laughed at her, she turned on them
severely. "I won't have you laughing at Teddy. He's really an angel."
"I'm going to tell his mother," said Mrs. Rumsen.
Rita took her tea cup and sank back in her chair absently. "Oh,
well--perhaps you'd better," she said. "I'm going in for square-toed
shoes and settlement meetings."
The General grunted and sipped his Scotch, but when Jeff and Cortland
came in the women were still laughing at Mrs. Cheyne. Jeff walked
across the room to his wife and kissed her.
"Father--Aunt Caroline--Hello! Rita."
"Well, sir--" from Camilla, "please give an account of yourself."
"You'll have to speak to Cort. We stopped in at the Club for a minute.
Cheyne was there and Hal Dulaney, Perot, Steve Gillis, Douglas
Warrington, and two or three others. They wanted us to stay for dinner.
But we didn't."
"Of course not," said Camilla so decisively that Rita Cheyne laughed.
"There!" she said pityingly. "Oh, Jeff! a subject and a slave as well!
Aren't you really going to let him go, Camilla?"
Camilla looked up into Jeff's face with a heavenly smile.
"Of course--if he _wants_ to."
"But I _don't_ want to," said Jeff, sinking into a chair with a
comfortable sigh. "This is good enough for me. Besides," he added
mischievously, "it looked like a meeting."
"What kind of a meeting?"
"Of the Rita Cheyne Protective Association."
"Jeff, you're horrid!" said Rita, but she laughed.
"I'm not," he said calmly. "They have my full sympathy and support. I
told 'em so."
"Your sins are finding you out, my dear cousin," chuckled the General.
"They always do in the end."
"Oh, you're hopeless--_all_ of you," sighed the culprit, setting down
her tea cup.
Cortland finished his drink in leisurely fashion and dropped into the
vacant chair beside his father. "Well, we put it over," he said
quietly.
"The bond issue?"
"Yes, sir--we had a fight in the board, but we got McIntyre's vote at
last and jammed it through--that was all we needed."
"I didn't think it was possible," the old man exclaimed.
"It wasn't easy, but Jeff managed it."
"I didn't sir," Jeff interposed. "Cort did the whole thing. We've made
him president. We made it unanimous in the end."
"By George, Cort, I'm proud of you. I always knew you had the stuff in
you if we ever woke you up."
"Oh, I guess I'm awake all right. A fellow has to be down there." He
leaned forward and picked up an article on the work basket.
"Where's His Majesty?" he asked of Mrs. Wray.
Camilla glanced at the clock.
"Asleep, I hope. He's been very dissipated lately. He was up yesterday
until seven."
"Takes after his father," said Mrs. Cheyne scornfully.
At that moment a small cry was heard upstairs, and Camilla flew. "The
lamb!" she cried, and from the hall they heard her telling the trained
nurse to bring the infant down. At the bottom of the steps she met them
and bore him triumphantly in. He was a very small person with large
round blue eyes that stared like Jeff's. They looked at nobody in
particular, and yet they were filled with the wisdom of the ages.
"What a little owl he is!" said Rita, but when she jangled her gold
purse before his eyes he seized it with both hands and gurgled
exultantly.
"He knows a good thing when he sees it," laughed Cort. "Got the gold
fever, too."
"What a shame!" said Camilla indignantly. "He hasn't any kind of a
fever, have you, Cornelius?"