A LOCKED GATE
Colin Whitford had been telling Clay the story of how a young
cowpuncher had snatched Beatrice from under the hoofs of a charging
steer. His daughter and the Arizonan listened without comment.
"I've always thought I'd like to explain to that young man I didn't
mean to insult him by offering money for saving Bee. But you see he
didn't give me any chance. I never did learn his name," concluded the
mining man.
"And of course we'd like him to know that we appreciate what he did for
me," Beatrice added. She looked at Clay, and a pulse beat in her soft
throat.
"I reckon he knows that," Lindsay suggested. "You must 'a' thought him
mighty rude for to break away like you say he did."
"We couldn't understand it till afterwards. Mr. Bromfield had slipped
him a fifty-dollar bill and naturally he resented it." Miss Whitford's
face bubbled with reminiscent mirth. She looked a question at Clay.
"What do you suppose that impudent young scalawag did with the fifty?"
"Got drunk on it most likely."
"He fed it to his horse. Clary was furious."
"He would be," said the cattleman dryly, in spite of the best
intentions to be generous to his successful rival. "But I reckon I
know why yore grand-stand friend in chaps pulled such a play. In
Arizona you can't square such things with money. So far as I can make
out the puncher didn't do anything to write home about, but he didn't
want pay for it anyhow."
"Of course, Bromfield doesn't understand the West," said Whitford. "I
wouldn't like that young puncher half so well if he'd taken the money."
"He didn't need to spoil a perfectly good fifty-dollar bill, though,"
admitted Clay.
"Yes, he did," denied Beatrice. "That was his protest against
Clarendon's misjudgment of him. I've always thought it perfectly
splendid in its insolence. Some day I'm going to tell him so."
"It happened in your corner of Arizona, Lindsay. If you ever find out
who the chap was I wish you'd let us know," Whitford said.
"I'll remember."
"If you young people are going riding--"
"--We'd better get started. Quite right, Dad. We're off. Clarendon
will probably call up. Tell him I'll be in about four-thirty."
She pinched her father's ear, kissed him on one ruddy cheek, then on
the other, and joined Clay at the door.
They were friends again, had been for almost half an hour, even though
they had not yet been alone together, but their friendship was to hold
reservations now. The shadow of Clarendon Bromfield rode between them.
They were a little stiff with each other, not so casual as they had
been. A consciousness of sex had obtruded into the old boyish
_camaraderie_.
After a brisk canter they drew their horses together for a walk.
Beatrice broke the ice of their commonplaces. She looked directly at
him, her cheeks flushing. "I don't know how you're going to forgive
me, Clay. I've been awf'ly small and priggish. I hate to think I'm
ungenerous, but that's just what I've been."
"Let's forget it," he said gently.
"No, I don't want to forget--not till I've told you how humble I feel
to-day. I might have trusted you. Why didn't I? It would have been
easy for me to have taken your little friend in and made things right
for her. That's what I ought to have done. But, instead of that--Oh,
I hate myself for the way I acted."
Her troubled smile, grave and sweet, touched him closely. It was in
his horoscope that the spell of this young Diana must be upon him.
He put his hand on hers as it rested on the pommel of the saddle and
gave it a slight pressure. "You're a good scout, li'l' pardner."
But it was Beatrice's way to step up to punishment and take what was
coming. As a little girl, while still almost a baby, she had once
walked up to her mother, eyes flashing with spirit, and pronounced
judgment on herself. "I've tum to be spanked. I broke Claire's doll
an' I'm glad of it, mean old fing. So there!" Now she was not going
to let the subject drop until she had freed her soul.
"No, Clay, I've been a poor sportsman. When my friend needed me I
failed him. It hurts me, because--oh, you know. When the test came I
wasn't there. One hates to be a quitter."
Her humility distressed him, though he loved the spirit of her apology.
"It's all right, Bee. Don't you worry. All friends misunderstand each
other, but the real ones clear things up."
She had not yet told him the whole truth and she meant to make clean
confession.
"I've been a miserable little fool." She stopped with a little catch
of the breath, flamed red, and plunged on. Her level eyes never
flinched from his. "I've got to out with it, Clay. You won't
misunderstand, I know. I was jealous. I wanted to keep your
friendship to myself--didn't want to share it with another girl.
That's how mean I am."
A warm smile lit his face. "I've sure enough found my friend again
this mo'nin'."
Her smile met his. Then, lest barriers fall too fast between them, she
put her horse to a gallop.
As they moved into the Park a snorting automobile leaped past them with
muffler open. The horse upon which Beatrice rode was a young one. It
gave instant signals of alarm, went sunfishing on its hind legs, came
down to all fours, and bolted.
Beatrice kept her head. She put her weight on the reins with all the
grip of her small, strong hands. But the horse had the bit in its
teeth. She felt herself helpless, flying wildly down the road at
incredible speed. Bushes and trees, the reeling road, a limousine, a
mounted policeman, all flew by her with blurred detail.
She became aware of the rapid thud of hoofs behind, of a figure beside
her riding knee to knee, of a brown hand taking hold of the rein close
to the bit. The speed slackened. The horses pounded to a halt.
The girl found herself trembling. She leaned back in a haze of
dizziness against an arm which circled her shoulder and waist. Memory
leaped across the years to that other time when she had rested in his
arms, his heart beating against hers. In that moment of deep
understanding of herself, Beatrice knew the truth beyond any doubt. A
new heaven and a new earth were waiting for her, but she could not
enter them. For she herself had closed the gate and locked it fast.
His low voice soothed and comforted her.
"I'm all right," she told him.
Clay withdrew his arm. "I'd report that fellow if I had his number,"
he said. "You stick to yore saddle fine. You're one straight-up
rider."
"I'll ask Mr. Bromfield to give you fifty dollars' again," she laughed
nervously.
That word _again_ stuck in his consciousness.
"You've known me all along," he charged.
"Of course I've known you--knew you when you stood on the steps after
you had tied the janitor."
"I knew you, too."
"Why didn't you say so?"
"Did you expect me to make that grand-stand play on the _parada_ a
claim on yore kindness? I didn't do a thing for you that day any man
wouldn't have done. I happened to be the lucky fellow that got the
chance. That's all. Come to that, it was up to you to do the
recognizing if any was done. I had it worked out that you didn't know
me, but once or twice from things you said I almost thought you did."
"I meant to tell you sometime, but--well, I wanted to see how long you
could keep from telling me. Now you've done it again."
"I'd like to ride with you the rest of yore life," he said unexpectedly.
They trembled on the edge of self-revelation. It was the girl who
rescued them from the expression of their emotions.
"I'll speak to Clary about it. Maybe he'll take you on as a groom,"
she said with surface lightness.
As soon as they reached home Beatrice led the way into the library.
Bromfield was sitting there with her father. They were talking over
plans for the annual election of officers of the Bird Cage Mining
Company. Whitford was the largest stockholder and Bromfield owned the
next biggest block. They controlled it between them.
"Dad, Rob Roy bolted and Mr. Lindsay stopped him before I was thrown."
Whitford rose, the color ebbing from his cheeks. "I've always told you
that brute was dangerous. I'll offer him for sale to-day."
"And I've discovered that we know the man who saved me from the wild
steer in Arizona. It was Mr. Lindsay."
"Lindsay!" Whitford turned to him. "Is that right?"
"It's correct."
Colin Whitford, much moved, put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.
"Son, you know what I'd like to tell you. I reckon I can't say it
right."
"We'll consider it said, Mr. Whitford," answered Clay with his quick,
boyish smile. "No use in spillin' a lot of dictionary words."
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"It was nothin' to brag about."
Bromfield came to time with a thin word of thanks. "We're all greatly
in your debt, Mr. Lindsay."
As the days passed the malicious jealousy of the New York clubman
deepened to a steady hatred. A fellow of ill-controlled temper, his
thin-skinned vanity writhed at the condition which confronted him. He
was engaged to a girl who preferred another and a better man, one
against whom he had an unalterable grudge. He recognized in the
Westerner an eager energy, a clean-cut resilience, and an abounding
vitality he would have given a great deal to possess. His own early
manhood had been frittered away in futile dissipations and he resented
bitterly the contrast between himself and Lindsay that must continually
be present in the mind of the girl who had promised to marry him. He
had many adventitious things to offer her--such advantages as modern
civilization has made desirable to hothouse women--but he could not
give the clean, splendid youth she craved. It was the price he had
paid for many sybaritic pleasures he had been too soft to deny himself.
With only a little more than two weeks of freedom before her, Beatrice
made the most of her days. For the first time in her life she became a
creature of moods. The dominant ones were rebellion, recklessness, and
repentance. While Bromfield waited and fumed she rode and tramped with
Clay. It was not fair to her affianced lover. She knew that. But
there were times when she wanted to shriek as dressmakers and costumers
fussed over her and wore out her jangled nerves with multitudinous
details. The same hysteria welled up in her occasionally at the
luncheons and dinners that were being given in honor of her approaching
marriage.
It was not logical, of course. She was moving toward the destiny she
had chosen for herself. But there was an instinct in her, savage and
primitive, to hurt Bromfield because she herself was suffering. In the
privacy of her room she passed hours of tearful regret for these bursts
of fierce insurrection.
Ten days before the wedding Beatrice wounded his vanity flagrantly.
Clarendon was giving an informal tea for her at his rooms. Half an
hour before the time set, Beatrice got him on the wire and explained
that her car was stalled with engine trouble two miles from Yonkers.
"I'm awf'ly sorry, Clary," she pleaded. "We ought not to have come so
far. Please tell our friends I've been delayed, and--I won't do it
again."
Bromfield hung up the receiver in a cold fury. He restrained himself
for the moment, made the necessary explanations, and went through with
the tea somehow. But as soon as his guests were gone he gave himself
up to his anger. He began planning a revenge on the man who no doubt
was laughing in his sleeve at him. He wanted the fellow exposed,
discredited, and humiliated.
But how? Walking up and down his room like a caged panther, Bromfield
remembered that Lindsay had other enemies in New York, powerful ones
who would be eager to cooperate with him in bringing about the man's
downfall. Was it possible for him to work with them under cover? If
so, in what way?
Clarendon Bromfield was not a criminal, but a conventional member of
society. It was not in his mind or in his character to plot the murder
or mayhem of his rival. What he wanted was a public disgrace, one that
would blare his name out to the newspapers as a law-breaker. He wanted
to sicken Beatrice and her father of their strange infatuation for
Lindsay.
A plan began to unfold itself to him. It was one which called for
expert assistance. He looked up Jerry Durand, got him on the
telephone, and made an appointment to meet him secretly.