A WOMAN'S WILES
From the ceiling of the cabin Lawler had suspended a spare blanket. It
hung between the two tiers of bunks, thus providing a certain privacy
for both Miss Wharton and Lawler.
Lawler had been scrupulously considerate, and with a delicacy that must
have earned her applause--had she been serious-minded--he had sought to
seem unaware or indifferent to the many inevitable intimacies forced
upon them by the nature of their association.
He knew, however, that the girl was secretly laughing at him. Certain
signs were convincing. On the first night of their enforced joint
occupancy of the cabin, she had silently watched him tack the blanket to
the ceiling; and though she had said nothing, he had noted a gleam in
her eyes which had made him wonder if he should not have waited until
_she_ suggested it.
At other times he felt her gaze upon him--her eyes always glowing with
the suggestion of silent mirth. She seemed to be amused over the
delicacy he exhibited--to be wondering at it. Whether she appreciated it
or not he did not know, or care. For he had noted other things that had
increased his contempt of her. She was betraying absolutely no
perturbation over her enforced stay in the cabin with him. On the
contrary, her manner gave him the impression that she was enjoying
herself and not thinking of the future. She was contented with the
present.
Moreover, he could not fail to be aware of her interest in him; for the
many signs were infallible. Glances, the intonations of her voice, a way
she had of standing close to him, of touching his hands or his
shoulders--all was evidence of the guile he had detected in her,
convincing him that she thought him desirable, and that she had decided
to win him.
But vanity in Lawler had long since been ruthlessly overwhelmed by the
serious business of life. He had never had time--in his later years--to
yield to the fatuous imaginings of youth. He had lived a rough, hard
life, in which values were computed by the rule of sheer worth--a life
that had taught him that performance, and not appearances, must be the
standard by which all men and women must ultimately be judged.
Lawler was not flattered by Della Wharton's feminine blandishments. He
was grimly amused--when he was not disgusted; though he continued to
treat her with the utmost courtesy and gentleness, trying to keep her
from divining his emotions.
Also, he had tried to lessen the dread monotony that encompassed them.
There was nothing they could do. Beyond the mechanical tasks of eating,
or of cooking and sleeping, of plunging outside to the water hole for
water, or of caring for the horses and bringing wood for the fire, there
was no diversion except that of talking. And, as the days dragged and
the storm did not abate, even talking began to irk Lawler. There would
be periods during which they would be silent, listening to the howling
and moaning of the wind--hours at a stretch when the cold outside would
seem to threaten, to tighten its constricting circle, when a great awe
oppressed them; when it seemed that the whole world was snowbound, and
that it would keep piling over and around them and all life would be
extinct.
It was on the morning of the tenth day that Lawler began to notice that
the dread monotony and the white, ever-present menace were beginning to
affect the girl. Her face was white and in her eyes was a haunting gleam
of fear. He noted how she clasped her hands; how she nervously twined
and untwined her fingers, and how she kept pushing her chair toward him,
as though for protection.
A swift sympathy seized him; he laughed, lowly, reaching out a hand and
laying it lightly on her shoulder as she started at the sound of his
voice and drew a quick, startled breath.
"Oh!" she said; "will it never end?"
"It can't last much longer, Miss Wharton," he smiled. "It has held on
longer, now, than it should at this season."
The sound of his voice reassured her--it was calm, quiet, confident.
Some color came back into her face, and she smiled.
"I believe I was beginning to get the doldrums," she said.
"That wouldn't be startling, Miss Wharton. Life in a line camp does
become monotonous. It is to be expected. It becomes tragic. Also, it has
a humorous side--viewed from a distance--chiefly afterward. In the
fall, men go into line camps fast friends. We always pair them that way.
Any other method would be fatal, for when the men come out in the spring
they invariably are deadly enemies. You can imagine what would happen if
we sent into a line cabin two men who did not think well of each other."
She shuddered and snuggled closer to him, letting her head fall to his
shoulder. A pulse of pity stirred him, and he permitted her head to stay
where she had laid it, while he gently smoothed her hair.
He would have done as much for any woman in her position; the emotion
that filled him was entirely that of pity. She was vain and
frivolous--employing every artifice, but she was a woman despite that,
and entitled, in the present circumstances, to what comfort and sympathy
he could give her.
However, to Della, the moment of victory was at hand. She _had_ been a
trifle worried just an instant before; and the white world outside _had_
seemed to threaten to rush in and crush out her life--the life she loved
so well--and she had been just a little afraid.
But she had not been too frightened to note Lawler's sympathy--the quick
glow in his eyes, and the atmosphere of tenderness that suddenly seemed
to envelop him. It was surrender, she thought, the breaking down of that
quiet, steady reserve in him which had filled her with resentment.
She caught his free hand and held it tightly, while she turned her head
so that she could look into his eyes.
"Lawler," she said then, in a low voice; "I lied to you."
"Lied?" He stiffened, dropped his hand from her head and looked straight
at her.
She laughed, lightly. "Yes; I lied, Lawler. The day we met in
Willets--you remember? Well, I loved you from that moment, Lawler. You
looked so big and fine and strong. I just couldn't help it. I did
overhear Gary Warden telling those two men to cut the fence; and I
didn't want them to set all those cattle adrift. But I didn't intend to
come here. I started out to find your ranch--the Circle L. I thought I
would find you there, and I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to the
Two Diamond right away--that you would have to keep me at your house
until the storm was over. But I got lost, and when I saw the light in
the window, here, I knew I had better go toward it. But I came because I
wanted to be near you, Lawler. And now--" She laughed and tried to draw
him toward her.
"Of course you are not in earnest, Miss Wharton," he said, slowly, his
voice grave. "Such a confession----"
"It's the truth," she declared, shamelessly, holding tightly to him. "It
is simple, isn't it? I love you--and I came to you. I came, because I
had to--I wanted to. I had been thinking of you--dreaming of you. You
were in my mind all the time.
"And you have been acting dreadfully distant. I had begun to believe
that you didn't like me--that you wished I hadn't come----"
"That would be the truth, Miss Wharton," he interrupted. He grimly
walked to the fireplace, standing with his back to it, looking at her.
He was wondering how he could tell her that she had disgraced her sex;
how he could, without being brutal, tell her how he abhorred women who
pursued men.
Despite the impulse of charity that moved him, he could not veil the
grim disgust that had seized him. It showed in the curve of his lips and
in his eyes.
And Miss Wharton saw it. She had been watching him narrowly
when he walked away from her; she was looking at him now, in resentful
inquiry, her lips tight-pressed. She was puzzled, incredulous.
Then, with their glances locked, she laughed, jeeringly.
"I really don't know how to classify you!" she said, scornfully. "Am I
ugly?"
He smiled grimly. "Far from it," he answered, frankly. "I think," he
added, his gaze still holding hers, "that mere physical beauty doesn't
intrigue my interest. There must be something back of it."
"Character, I suppose," she mocked; "nobility, virtue?"
"I think you have said it," he smiled. "At least I haven't the slightest
desire to like you."
"School teachers are more in your line, I suppose," she jibed.
There was a wanton light in her eyes. The change that had come over her
was startling; and Lawler found himself watching her, trying to
associate this new side of her character with that she had shown before
she had betrayed her real character; she represented a type that had
always been repulsive to him. And, until now, she had fooled him. He had
wasted his politeness, his gentleness, his consideration, and his
delicacy. He understood, now, why she had seemed to laugh at him when he
had endeavored to provide a certain measure of privacy for her; he knew
how she felt at this moment, when she must realize that she had betrayed
herself.
Any further talk between them would be profitless, and so Lawler did not
answer her question. He stood, looking at the north window, which was a
little to one side of her; while she sat staring past him, her lips
straight and hard.
At last she looked up. "What an odd courtship!"
His gaze dropped, met hers, and he smiled.
"Yes--odd," he returned, dryly.
"But I suppose," she said, in a tone equally dry; "that you will make up
for it, after we are married. You will learn to like me."
"Yes; after we are married," he smiled, ironically.
"That will be as soon as we can get to town, I presume," she went on,
watching him with brazen directness. "You see," she explained; "I have
been here with you for about two weeks, you know, and my friends will
ask embarrassing questions. You are so _honorable_ that you cannot
refuse to protect my reputation."
"I am sorry, of course, Miss Wharton. But you should have considered
your reputation before you decided to come here."
"You mean that you won't marry me?" she demanded. She got up and walked
toward him, halting within a pace of him and standing stiffly before
him.
"You have perception, after all, it seems," he said, gravely. "But you
don't understand human nature. No man--or woman--in this section will
see anything wrong in your staying in this cabin with me during the
storm. They will accept it as being the most natural thing in the world.
It was a simple act of humanness for me to take you in, and it entails
no offer of marriage. Perhaps it has been done, and will be done again,
where there is an inclination to marry. It has been done in books, and
in certain sections of the world where narrow-minded people are the
manufacturers of public sentiment. The mere fact that I happened to save
your life does not obligate me to marry you, Miss Wharton. And I do not
feel like playing the martyr."
For an instant it seemed that Della would become hysterical. But when
she looked into Lawler's eyes and realized that mere acting would not
deceive him, she sneered.
"I might have known _you_ wouldn't be man enough to protect me!"
Lawler smiled, but did not answer. And after an instant, during which
Della surveyed him with scorn unspeakable, she strode stiffly to a chair
in a far corner of the room and dropped into it.
Lawler had been little affected. He pitied her because of her perverted
moral sense, which sought an honorable marriage from a wild, immoral
impulse. He pitied her because she was what she was--a wanton who was
determined by scheme and wile to gain her ends. And he shrewdly
suspected that she was not so much concerned for her reputation as she
was eager to achieve what she had determined upon. Defeat to her kind is
intolerable.
"Gary Warden will never marry me if he discovers that I have been here,"
declared Della from the corner.
"You said you did not love Warden, Miss Wharton," Lawler reminded her.
"You wouldn't marry a man you merely liked, would you?"
"We have been engaged for a year. Certainly, I shall marry him. Why not?
But he won't have me, now!"
"Does Warden love you, Miss Wharton?"
"That doesn't concern you!" she snapped.
"No--not in the least. But if Warden loves you, and I went to him and
explained that your being here was accidental----"
"Bah!" she sneered; "you're a fool, Lawler! Do you expect Gary Warden
would swallow _that_! You don't know him!"
"Well," said Lawler, gently; "he need not know. If you are afraid to
face public opinion, to show by your actions that you have nothing to be
ashamed of, I'll take you to the Circle L, just as soon as we can get
through. We'll time ourselves to get there at night. No one need know,
and you can tell Warden that you were caught in the storm and drifted to
the Circle L, where you stayed with my mother. I can come back here and
no one will ever know the difference."
"I don't want to see your mother!" she sneered. "I'd be afraid she would
be something like you! Ugh! I hate you!"
"There is only one other way," smiled Lawler. "I know Keller, the owner
of the Willets Hotel, very intimately. I can take you there, at
night--after the storm breaks. No one need know. You can say you were at
the hotel all the time. And Keller will support your word."
"I presume I shall have to go to Willets--since I have to lie!" she
said, wrathfully.
"Yes," said Lawler incisively; "it takes courage to be truthful, Miss
Wharton. But if a person always tells the truth----"
"Shut up!" she said savagely; "you make me sick!" She glared malignantly
at him. "Ugh, I positively loathe you! I must have been crazy when I
thought I saw something in you!" She paused for an instant to get her
breath, and then she resumed, vindictively:
"I hope they arrest you for killing those two men--Link and Givens. I
hope they hang you. And they will hang you, because you can't prove you
acted in self-defense. You'll be sorry you didn't marry me when you
realize that I might have saved you by telling the truth about the
fight!"
"Well," he said; "you can't testify without admitting you were here, you
know."
"And I will never tell!" she declared; "I will never admit it!" she
added, exultingly. "You'll change your mind about marrying me--you'll
have to, to save your neck!"
Lawler shook his head negatively.
"You wouldn't marry me to save your life?" asked the girl,
incredulously.
"Not to save my life, Miss Wharton."
"Well," she said slowly; "you're a damned fool!"
Lawler smiled and turned away. He heard Della moving about in the cabin,
but he did not look around.
But later, after there had been a deep silence for a time, he ventured a
backward glance. During the day he had kept the dividing blanket rolled
up out of the way, fastening it with two loops that he had suspended
from the ceiling. The blanket was now down--it was the first time Della
had touched it.
Lawler smiled, pulled a chair over near the fireplace, rolled a
cigarette, and puffed slowly at it, reflecting that life in the cabin
would now be more monotonous than ever.
Della did not get out of her bunk during the day. She ate nothing, nor
did she reply to Lawler when he invited her to partake of the food he
had prepared.
Late that afternoon Lawler noted a glow of light coming through the
north window. He went to the door, opened it and looked out. The snow
had ceased and the wind had gone down. Far over in the west a cold sun,
hanging its rim on a mountain peak, bathed the world with a shimmering,
glittering, blinding light.
Lawler went outside and shielding his eyes with his hands, peered out
over the gleaming waste. He noted that the snow had drifted much, but
that there were ridges where no snow had settled, as well as vast
sections of plain where the wind had swept the snow clear. There would
be no difficulty in reaching Willets, for the wind that was coming over
the plains now was mild--almost warm.
He went inside, told Della, and began to make preparations for the ride.
And later that night, moving swiftly northward, under straggling clouds
that obscured the moon, the two journeyed--Della swathed in clothing
that assured her of warmth, and still preserving a sullen silence;
Lawler riding ahead, breaking trail.