XVII
ORA had more than one cause for uneasiness when she returned to her little home in the pine woods, but paramount was the fear that she should not see Gregory Compton again unless by accident. She rose early after another almost sleepless night and spent a distracted day wandering over the hills, returning at intervals to inquire if her telephone bell had rung. Once more she felt a disposition to run away, anathematising the slavery of love. Only the hope that Mowbray would wear down Ida’s resistance kept her from yielding to the impatient, imaginative, too highly organised woman’s impulse to flee when love seems hopeless and a nervous explosion imminent. She still refused to feel traitorous to Ida, but she did wonder once or twice if she ever should dare to face her as Mrs. Gregory Compton. Ida was the reverse of a fool. She might be blind now, for obvious reasons—but Ora shrugged her shoulders at the vision of Ida’s horror and wrath. What did she care for Ida or any other woman if she got her man?
She made one of her sudden dashes into the house as the telephone bell was ringing. For the moment she thought she was about to faint; then, both appalled and angry at the lawless behaviour of her nerves, she stamped her foot, shook herself, marched over to the telephone, took down the receiver, and asked in a bored voice: “Well?”
“I shall come to supper tonight if you will have me?” Gregory’s tones were those he employed when “canning” a miner.
“Delighted.” Ora’s nerves fell into place like good little soldiers. “Will you be here at seven?”
“About. I prefer to have you tell me here what she had to say.”
“Constitutionally opposed at present, but that was to be expected. Seeds always sprout if well planted and judiciously watered. Our friend from England will do his part.”
“Good. We’ll say no more about it. But I shall go to see you as usual.”
“Why not? We are not fools or children. Any new developments at the mine?”
“Shaft has reached third level. Vein seems to be about the same richness as on the second. Mann is here. Good-bye.”
As Ora, her body no longer braced and rigid, but so filled with the languor of happiness that she wanted to throw herself down on the divan and sleep, crossed the room, she became aware that someone was standing in the outer doorway. His hat was in his hand, and as she focussed her absent gaze she managed to recognise Professor Whalen. Her impulse was to turn her back and run into her bedroom; but Ora was always a great lady. She could be extremely rude to a member of her own class, but she had never permitted herself to wound the morbid sensitiveness of those to whom fortune had been less kind. So, secretly wondering if the little man really stood there, or if anything so insignificant mattered, she went forward smiling and offered him her hand.
“So good of you to come and have a cup of tea with me.” She rang a bell and ordered tea of her Chinaman. “But why did you dress up? I am accustomed to overalls and flannel shirts, and quite like the idea of living in a mining camp.”
Whalen sat on the edge of his chair and stared into the fire, twirling his hat in his hands. “I guess I’ve got to be a gentleman again,” he said with a short laugh. “There’s nothing else left for me to be.”
“Oh! I hope——”
“My find—and I paid a thousand dollars for the claim—was nothing but a gash vein. Nothing in that but low grade carbonates.”
“But are you so sure? Often veins appears to pinch out a hundred feet or more above a really rich lode.”
“I’ve poured into that hole all my savings; all I had saved from my salary during four years, and every cent of my reward in the field of letters. I even—and against my secret resolutions—consumed a legacy left me by an uncle.”
“Perhaps if you would ask Mr. Compton to look at your claim—he is a sort of ore wizard——”
“I’ll ask no favours of Gregory Compton!” Whalen burst out, violently. “Were it not for him I never would have been enticed into this foolish venture. I cannot realise it—I, who was brought up in the most conservative corner of this conservative country—I, a pedagogue, a man of letters, that I should have so far descended as to become a prospector—live in a hut, cook my own bacon, dig with a pick——” He paused choking.
“Doubtless you remembered that some of the greatest millionaires in the country began that way. Or possibly the Northwest kindled your sense of adventure—that is inherent in every real man. But why blame Mr. Compton?”
Whalen had recovered his breath. He spat out his words. “Why should a man like that have all the luck? And such colossal luck! Who is he? What is he? In what way does he compare with me—a man of no family, of no culture, of no intellect——”
“Mr. Compton has given evidence that he has one of the best brains this country has produced.” Ora spoke evenly but with a glint in her eye.
“Oh, yes,brains! I make a fine distinction between mere brains and intellect. He has the sort of mental composition those men always seem to have in order that they may make use of their luck and roll up millions. But intellect? Not a cell. He has never read anything. I journeyed with him from Pony to Butte not long since and endeavoured to engage him in conversation. I might as well have tried to talk to a mummy—and an ill-mannered one at that. The moment I left the subject of mines he merely looked out of the window.”
Ora laughed merrily, and poured out the tea the Chinaman had brought in. “Perhaps it is just that lack of overdevelopment that we call intellect which permits these men to concentrate upon their genius for making money.”
“But that has nothing to do with their luck in the beginning. Luck! Blind luck! Fool’s luck! And why not to me? Why to this Gregory Compton? I never believed in luck before, but since this rush, and my own personal experience——” He swallowed a mouthful of tea too hastily, scalded himself, and, while he was gasping, Ora said soothingly:
“You cannot help believing in luck if you study theearly history of any mining state. There are hundreds of stories of prospectors—you have told of many yourself; the majority had little or no education, less science. Out of a hundred evenly equipped with grit, common sense, some practical knowledge of ores, perhaps two would find a rich pocket or placer. Four or five possibly made a strike that would insure them a competence if they neither gambled nor drank. The rest nothing—not after forty years of prospecting in these mountains. I fancy there is something in that old phrase about the lucky star; in astronomical parlance the position of the planets at the moment of one’s birth.”
“But why not I?” wailed the professor. “Why—why this—well, he is a friend of yours—Gregory Compton?”
“Why not?”
“I am infinitely his superior in every way!” cried Whalen in perfect good faith. “It is I who should have discovered those millions and taken them to Beacon Street, not this obscure young Westerner, son of an illiterate old ranchman——”
“But you didn’t,” said Ora, patiently. “Besides, the fates are not unjust. They made you a member of the New England aristocracy, and gave you intellect. Do not be unreasonable and demand the mere prospector’s luck as well.”
Whalen looked at her suspiciously, but her eyes were teasing, not satiric. He had admired her always more than any woman he had met in the West, and had come to her blindly to be consoled. Suddenly he saw an indefinable change steal over her face, although her mouth remained curled with the stereotyped smile she kept for the Whalens. It was as if something deep in her brilliant eyes came to life, and her slight bust rose under the stiff shirtwaist. Whalen’s ears were not acute and he did not hear the light footstep that preceded a peremptory knock. Ora crossed the room swiftly and opened the door. Whalen was no fool, and he had written fiction for four years. He had guessed at once that his beautiful hostess loved the man who demanded admittance, and when he heard Gregory Compton’s voice he almost whistled. But he merely arose and frowned.
“Knocked off and thought I would run in early,” Gregory was beginning, when he saw Whalen. “How are you?”he asked with more cordiality than he usually wasted upon the little man. His spirits always flew to his head when he met Ora, stolid as he might look. “How’s your mine getting on?” he added, as he selected the longest of the chairs before the fire. “Heard it had petered out.”
“It has!”
“I’ll go over and have a look at it tomorrow if you like. I fancy you’re located too close to one of the faults. The trouble with you amateur prospectors—or buyers of prospectors’ claims—is that you don’t take a geologist out with you. You lose your heads over an assay report on exceptional specimens. But I’d like to see for myself.”
“It’s no use,” said Whalen gloomily. “I have used up all my money in that——” He had learned to swear in mining camp society, but he pulled himself up hastily, “that hole.”
“If I think there is anything there I’ll grub-stake you. Nobody would buy your claim, but somebody might jump it if you let it lapse, and I want to know who my neighbours are. Have you patented it?”
“Not yet.”
“Spent five hundred dollars on it?”
“HaveI!”
“Well, I’ll look at it tomorrow, and if I think it’s good for anything I’ll help you out. I am going to Helena in a day or two. Come along and apply for your patent.”
“You are very kind.” Whalen felt repentant, and more grateful than he had ever condescended to feel before. “I’ll expect you tomorrow.” He inferred that he could best show his gratitude by taking himself off, and rose. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Blake. This hour has been refreshing and inspiring after my long absence from civilisation.”
“You must come soon again,” said Ora sweetly, as she marshalled him out. “The best of luck.”
She went to her bedroom for a few moments, and when she returned wore a soft tea gown made of several shades of woodland greens. She seated herself in her favourite chair, straight, with a high carved back, and took up her neglected embroidery. “Dinner will not be ready for half an hour,” she said. “How long that little man did stay. I am glad you made a friend of him, for I havealways imagined that he could be venomous, and before you came in he was by way of hating you. Now tell me the surprise you have for the geologists and newspaper men on the second level.”
And for the next three hours they talked of ores.