[image]"'I reckon that about winds up all your loose ends around Mesa,' said Jeff cheerfully."But Bent by this time had taken up his cap, and was gone.CHAPTER IIINEW YORKWonderful things happened in the year which followed. The "Lone Tree" was a bonanza. Every month added to the value of the discovery. The incredulous came, saw, and were conquered, and Mesa City was a "boom town" again. Jeff Wray hadn't a great deal to say in those days. His brain was working overtime upon the great interlocking scheme of financial enterprises which was to make him one of the richest men in the West. He spoke little, but his face wore a smile that never came off, and his baby-blue stare was more vacuous than ever.And yet, as month followed month and the things happened which he had so long predicted for himself and for the town, something of his old arrogance slipped away from him. If balked ambition and injured pride had made him boast before, it was success that tamed him. There was no time to swagger. Weighty problems gave him an air of seriousness which lent him a dignity he had never possessed. And if sometimes he blustered now, people listened. There was a difference.As the time for her wedding approached, for the first time in her life Camilla felt the personality of the man. Why was it that she could not love him? Since that hour at the schoolhouse when Cortland Bent had shown her how near—and how fearful—could be the spiritual relation between a woman and a man, life had taken a different meaning to her.Jeff's was a curious courtship. He made love to her bunglingly, and she realized that his diffidence was the expression of a kind of rustic humility which set her in a shrine at which he distantly worshipped. He seemed most like the Jeff of other days when he was talking of himself, and she allowed him to do this by the hour, listening, questioning, and encouraging. If this was to make the most of her life, perhaps it might be as well to get used to the idea. She could not deny that she was interested. Jeff's schemes seemed like a page out of a fairy book, and, whether she would or not, she went along with him. There seemed no limit to his invention, and there was little doubt in his mind, or, indeed, in hers, that the world was to be made to provide very generously for them both.It was on the eve of their wedding day that Jeff first spoke of his childhood."I suppose you know, Camilla, I never had a father. That is," he corrected, "not one to brag about. My mother was a waitress in the Frontier Hotel at Fort Dodge. She died when I was born. That's my family tree. You knew it, I guess, but I thought maybe you'd like to change your mind."He looked away from her. The words came slowly, and there was a note of heaviness in his voice. She realized how hard it was for him to speak of these things, and put her hand confidently in his."Yes, I knew," she said softly. "But I never weighedthatagainst you, Jeff. It only makes me prouder of what you have become." And then, after a pause, "Did you never hear anything about him?""There were some letters written before I was born. I'll show them to you some day. He was from New York, that's all I know. Maybe you can guess now why I didn't like Cort Bent."Camilla withdrew her hands from his and buried her face in them, while Wray sat gloomily gazing at the opposite wall. In a moment she raised her head, her cheeks burning."Yes, I understand now," she muttered. "He was not worth bothering about."* * * * *And now they were at the hotel in New York, where Jeff had come on business. The Empire drawing room overlooked Fifth Avenue and the cross street. There was a reception room in the French style, a dining room in English oak, a library (Flemish), smoking room (Turkish), a hall (Dutch), and a number of bedrooms, each a reproduction of a celebrated historical apartment. The wall hangings were of silk, the curtains of heavy brocade, the pictures poor copies of excellent old masters, the rugs costly; and the fixtures in Camilla's bathroom were of solid silver.Camilla stood before the cheval glass in her dressing room (Recamier) trying on, with the assistance of her maid and a modiste, a fetching hat and afternoon costume. Chairs, tables, and the bed in her own sleeping room were covered with miscellaneous finery.When the women had gone, Camilla dropped into a chair in the drawing room. There was something about the made-to-order magnificence which oppressed her with its emptiness. Everything that money could buy was hers for the asking. Her husband was going to be fabulously wealthy—every month since they had been married had developed new possibilities. His foresight was extraordinary, and his luck had become a by-word in the West. Each of his new ventures had attracted a large following, and money had flowed into the coffers of the company. It was difficult for her to realize all that happened in the wonderful period since she had sat at her humble desk in the schoolhouse at Mesa City. She was not sure what it was that she lacked, for she and Jeff got along admirably, but the room in which she sat seemed to be one expression of it—a room to be possessed but not enjoyed. Their good fortune was so brief that it had no perspective. Life had no personality. It was made of Things, like the articles in this drawing room, each one agreeably harmonious with the other, but devoid of associations, pleasant or unpleasant. The only difference between this room and the parlor at Mrs. Brennan's was that the furniture of the hotel had cost more money.To tell the truth, Camilla was horribly bored. She had proposed to spend the mornings, when Jeff was downtown, in the agreeable task of providing herself with a suitable wardrobe. But she found that the time hung heavily on her hands. The wives of Jeff's business associates in New York had not yet called. Perhaps they never would call. Everything here spoke of wealth, and the entrance of a new millionaire upon the scene was not such a rare occurrence as to excite unusual comment. She peered out up the avenue at the endless tide of wealth and fashion which passed her by, and she felt very dreary and isolated, like a vacant house from which old tenants had departed and into which new ones would not enter.She was in this mood when a servant entered. She had reached the point when even this interruption was welcome, but when she saw that the man bore a card tray her interest revived, and she took up the bit of pasteboard with a short sigh of relief. She looked at it, turned it over in her fingers, her blood slowing a little, then rushing hotly to her temples.Cortland Bent! She let the card fall on the table beside her."Tell him that I am not——" she paused and glanced out of the window. The quick impulse was gone. "Tell him—to come up," she finished.When the page disappeared she glanced about the room, then hurried to the door to recall him, but he had turned the corner into the corridor outside, and the message was on its way to a lower floor.She paused, irresolute, then went in again, closing the outside door behind her. What had she done? A message of welcome to Cortland Bent, the one person in the world she had promised herself she should never see again; her husband's enemy, her own because he was her husband's; her own, too, because he had given her pride a wound from which it had not yet recovered! What should she do? She moved toward the door leading to her dressing room—to pause again.What did it matter after all? Jeff wouldn't care. She laughed. Why should he? He could afford to be generous with the man who had lost the fortune he now possessed. He had, too, an implicit confidence in her own judgment, and never since they had been married had he questioned an action or motive of hers. As for herself—that was another matter. She tossed her head and looked at herself in her mirror. Should she not even welcome the opportunity to show Bent how small a place he now held in her memory? The mirror told her she was handsome, but she still lingered before it, arranging her hair, when her visitor was announced.He stood with his hands behind his back studying the portrait over the fireplace, turning at the sound of her voice."It's very nice of you to see me," he said slowly. "How long have you been here?""A few weeks only. Won't you sit down?"A warm color had come to her checks as she realized that he was carefully scrutinizing her from head to heel."Of course we're very much honored——" she began."I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," he broke in warmly. "I was tempted to write you a dozen times, but your engagement and marriage to Wray and"—he paused—"the trouble about the mine seemed to make it difficult, somehow.""I'm sure my husband bears you no ill-will."He gave a short laugh. "There's no reason why he should. There's nothing forhimto be upset about. He got the fortune that should—which might have been mine—to say nothing of the girl——""Perhaps we had better leave the girl out of it," she put in calmly. "Even time hasn't explainedthatmisunderstanding."He shrugged a shoulder expressively. "As you please. I'll not parade any ghosts if I can help it. I'm too happy to see you. You're more wonderful than ever. Really I don't believe I should have known you. You're changed somehow. I wonder what it is?""Prosperity?" she suggested."I'm not sure I feel at home with you. You're so matured, so—so punctilious and modish.""You wouldn't have me wear a short skirt and a sombrero?" she said with a slow smile."No, no. It is not what you wear so much as what you are. You are really the great lady. I think I knew it there in the West."She glanced around the room."This?" she queried. "This was Jeff's idea." And then, as the possible disloyalty occurred to her, "You know I would much have preferred a quieter place. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds.""But fine birds can be no less fine whatever they wear." There was a pause, and then he asked:"How long will you be here?""All winter, I think. My husband has business in New York.""Yes, I know. Mesa City can spare him best at this season."Bent took up an ivory paper cutter from the table and sat turning it over in his fingers. "I hope—I really hope we may be friends, Mrs. Wray. I think perhaps if you'll let me I can be of service to you here. I don't think that there is a chance that I can forget your husband's getting the 'Lone Tree' away from me. It's pretty hard to have a success like that at the tips of one's fingers and not be able to grasp it. I've been pretty sick about it, and the governor threatened to disown me. But he seems to have taken a fancy to your husband. I believe that they have some business relations. The fifty thousand dollars we got in the final settlement salved his wounds I think. Your husband has the law on his side and that's all there is to it. I'm glad he has it for your sake, though, especially as it has given me a chance to see you again.""You're very generous," she said. "I'm sorry. It has worried me a great deal.""Oh, well, let's say no more about it," he said more cheerfully. "I'm so glad that you're to be here. What do you think of my little burg? Does it amuse you at all? What? Have you met many people, or don't you want to meet them? I'd like you to know my family—my aunt, Mrs. Rumsen, especially. She's a bit of a grenadier, but I know you'll get along. She always says what she thinks, so you mustn't mind. She's quite the thing here. Makes out people's lists for them and all that kind of thing. Won't you come and dine with the governor some time?""Perhaps it will be time enough when we're asked——""Oh—er—of course. I forgot. I'll ask Gladys—that's my sister—to call at once.""Please don't trouble."Try as she might to present an air of indifference, down in her heart she was secretly delighted at his candid, friendly attitude. No other could have so effectually salved the sudden searing wound he had once inflicted. To-day it was difficult to believe him capable of evil. He had tried to forget the past. Why should not she? There was another girl. Perhaps their engagement had been announced. She knew she was treading on dangerous ground, but she ventured to ask him."Gretchen?" he replied. "Oh, Lord, no! Not yet. You see she has some ideas of her own on the subject, and it takes at least two to make a bargain. Miss Janney is a fine sport. Life is a good deal of a joke with her, as it is to me, but neither of us feels like carrying it as far as matrimony. We get on beautifully. She's frightfully rich. I suppose I'll be, too, some day. What's the use? It's a sheer waste of raw material. She has a romantic sort of an idea that she wants a poor man—the sort of chap she can lift out of a gray atmosphere. And I——" His voice grew suddenly sober. "You won't believe that I, too, had the same kind of notion."It was some moments before she understood what he meant, but the silence which followed was expressive. He did not choose that she should misunderstand."Yes," he added, "I mean you."She laughed nervously. "You didn't ask me to marry you?""No. But I might have explained why I didn't if you had given me time. I don't think I realized what it meant to me to leave you until I learned that I had to. Perhaps it isn't too late to tell you now."She was silent, and so he went on."I was engaged to be married. I have been since I was a boy. It was a family affair. Both of us protested, but my father and hers had set their hearts on it. My governor swore he'd cut me off unless I did as he wished. And he's not a man to break his word. I was afraid of him. I was weak, Camilla. I'm not ashamed to tell you the truth. I knew unless I made good at the mine that I should have nothing to offer you. So I thought if I could get you to come East, stay for a while, and meet my father, that time might work out our salvation."She got up hurriedly and walked to the window. "I can't see that you can do any good telling me this. It means so little," she stammered."Only to justify myself. I want to try and make it possible for you to understand how things were with me then—how they are now.""No, no. It can do no good.""Let me finish," he said calmly. "It was the other girl I was thinking about. I was still pledged to her. I could have written her for my release—but matters came to a crisis rather suddenly. And then you told me of your engagement to Mr. Wray. You see, after that I didn't care what happened." He paused, leaning with one hand on the table, his head bent. "Perhaps I ought not to speak to you in this way now. But it was on your own account. I don't know what I said to you. I only remember that I did not ask you to marry me, but that I wanted you with me always."His voice sounded very far away to Camilla, like a message from another life she had lived so long ago that it seemed almost a message from the dead. She did not know whether what she most felt was happiness or misery. The one thing she was sure of was that he had no right to be speaking to her in this way and that she had no right to be listening. But still she listened. His words sank almost to a whisper, but she heard. "I wanted you to be with me always. I knew afterward that I had never loved any woman but you—God help me—that I never could love any other woman——" He stopped again. In her corner Camilla was crying softly—tears of pity for him, for the ashes of their dead."Don't, dear," he said gently. She thought he was coming forward and raised her head to protest, but she saw that he still stood by the table, his back toward her. She turned one look of mute appeal, which he did not see, in his direction, and then rose quickly."You must never speak in this way again," she said, with a surer note. "Never. I should not have listened. It is my fault. But I have been so—so glad to hear that—you didn't mean what you said. God knows I forgive you, and I only hope you can understand—how it was—with me. You had been so friendly—so clean. It wounded me—horribly. It made me lose my faith in all things, and I wanted to keep you—as a friend.""I think I may still be a friend.""I hope so——" She emerged diffidently and laid her hand gently on his arm. "If you want to be my friend you must forget.""I'll try. Ihavetried. That was easier this morning than it is this afternoon. It will be harder to-night—harder still to-morrow." He gave a short laugh and turned away from her toward the fireplace where he stood, watching the gray embers."Oh, people don't die of this sort of thing," he muttered.It was almost with an air of unconcern that she began rearranging the Beauties on the table, speaking with such a genuine spirit of raillery that he turned to look at her."Oh, it isn't nearly as bad as you think it is. A man is never quite so madly in love that he can't forget. You've been dreaming. I was different from the sort of girls you were used to. You were in love with the mountains, and mistook me for background.""No. There wasn't any background," he broke in. "There was never anything in the picture but you. I know. It's the same now.""Sh—I must not let you speak to me so. If you do, I must go away from New York—or you must.""You wouldn't care."She could make no reply to that, and attempted none. When the flowers were arranged she sat on the edge of the table facing him. "Perhaps it would be the better way for me to go back to the West," she said, "but New York is surely big enough to hold us both without danger of your meeting me too often. And I have another idea," her smile came slowly, with difficulty, "when you see enough of me in your own city, you will be glad to forget me whether you want to or not. Perhaps you may meet me among your own kind of people—your own kind of girls, at dinners, or at dances. You don't really know me very well, after all. Wouldn't it bother you if from sheer awkwardness I spilled my wine or said 'yes, ma'am,' or 'no, ma'am,' to my hostess, not because I wanted to, but because I was too frightened to think of anything else? Or mistook the butler for my host? Or stepped on somebody's toes in a ballroom. You know I don't dance very well. Suppose——""Oh, what's the use, Camilla?" he broke in angrily. "You don't deceive anybody. You know that kind of thing wouldn't make any difference to me.""But it might to other people. You wouldn't fancy seeing me ridiculous." He turned to the fire again, and she perceived that her warning hadn't merited the dignity of a reply, but her attitude and the lighter key in which her tone was pitched had saved the situation. When he spoke again, all trace of his discomposure had vanished."Oh, I suppose I'll survive. I've got a name for nerve of a certain kind, and nobody shall say I ran away from a woman. I don't suppose there's any use of my trying to like your husband. You see, I'm frank with you. But I'll swallow a good deal to be able to be near you."There was a silence during which she keenly searched his face."You mustn't dislike Jeff. I can't permit that. You can't blame him for being lucky——""Lucky? Yes, I suppose you might call it luck. Didn't you know how your husband and Mulrennan got that mine?"She rose, her eyes full of a new wonder and curiosity."They leased it. Everything was legally done," she said."Oh, yes. Legally——" he paused."Go on—go on.""What is the use?""I must know—everything.""He never told you? I think I know why. Because your code and his are different. The consciences of some men are satisfied if they keep their affairs within the letter of the law. But there's a moral law which has nothing to do with the courts. He didn't tell you because he knew you obeyed a different precept.""What did he do? Won't you tell me?"CHAPTER IVTHE FORBIDDEN WAYHe came forward and stood facing her, one hand clutching the back of a chair, his eyes blazing with newly kindled resentment. "Yes, I will tell you. It's right for you to know. There was a man in my employ who had a fancied grievance against my foreman. He had no just cause for complaint. I found that out and told Harbison to fire him. If Harbison had obeyed orders there would have been a different story to tell about the 'Lone Tree.' But my foreman took pity on him because he had a family; then tried to get him started right again. The man used to work extra time at night, sometimes with a shift and sometimes alone. And one night in the small gallery at the hundred-foot level he found the vein we had been looking for. He was a German, Max Reimer, by name——""Max Reimer," she repeated mechanically."Alone there in that cavern he thought out the plan which afterward resulted in putting me out of business. He quickly got some timbers together and hid the hole he'd made. This was easy, for the steps and railing of the winze needed supports and planking. He put in a blast farther over and hid the gold-bearing rock—all but a few of the pieces. These he took out in the pockets of his overalls and carried them to Jeff Wray——""Jeff——""Your husband called in Pete Mulrennan, and they talked it over. Then one night Pete and Max crept up to the mine, got past the watchman, and Max showed Pete what he'd found. I learned all this from Harbison after they let Max loose.""Let him loose? What do you mean?""I'll tell you. Max wanted a lump sum in cash. They laughed at him—chiefly because they didn't have the money to pay. Then he wanted a percentage bigger than they wanted to give. When they temporized he got ugly, swore he'd rather run his chances with Harbison and me, but he never had an opportunity——""You don't mean——?" she gasped."Wray and Mulrennan lured Reimer to a room over the saloon and got up a fight; they put him out, gagged and trussed him like a fowl, and left him there until Jeff Wray had closed the deal with me. That's how your husband got my mine.""It can't be," she stammered. "Yes—yes. And Reimer?""They hid him for two weeks, until they brought to terms.""I remember," she said, passing her hand over her brow. "Reimer's boy was in my school. They missed old Max. They thought he had deserted them. What a horrible thing! And Jeff—my husband——""That is what people call Jeff Wray's luck," he said, and then added grimly, "and my misfortune.""But the law?" she said. "Was there no way in which you could prove the—the——""The fraud?" he said brutally. "Oh, yes. The Law! Do you know who impersonates the Law in Mesa City? Pete Mulrennan! He's judge, court, and jury. We had the best lawyer in Denver. But Lawrence Berkely had done his work too well. There's a suit still pending, but we haven't a show. Good God, Camilla! do you mean to say you heard nothing of all this?""Nothing," she said. "Nothing. When I heard of the suit and questioned Jeff he—he said it was maliciousness, jealousy, disappointment, and I believed him."He turned away from her and paced the floor. "He was right. It was all of these. But there was something else——""Oh, I know," she broke in. "It was what I am feeling now—the sense of a wrong. But you forget——" She got up and faced him, groping vaguely for an extenuating circumstance. "That sort of thing has been done in the West before. A successful mine is all a matter of luck. Max Reimer's find might have only been a pocket. In that case you would have been the gainer, and Jeff would have lost.""That's sophistry. I can't blame you for defending your husband. Mines have been leased and bought on theory—with a chance to win, a chance to lose—for the mere love of a gamble. There was no gamble here. The gold ore was there—one had only to look. There never has been anything like it since Cripple Creek. It was mine. Jeff Wray wanted it—so he took it—by force."She had sunk on the settee between the windows, her face buried in her hands, and was trying to think. All this, the hired magnificence, the empty show, the damask she was sitting on, the rings on her hands, her clothing even, belonged by every law of decency and morality to the man who stood there before her. And the wrong she had so long cherished in her heart against him was as nothing to the injury her husband had done to him. She knew nothing of the law, cared nothing for it. All she could think of were the facts of the case as he had presented them. Cortland told the truth, she recognized it in everything he had said, in the ringing note of his voice, the clear light of his eye, the resentment of a nature that had been tried too far. A hundred forgotten incidents were now remembered—Jeff's reticence about the law-suit, Max Reimer's disappearance, the many secret conferences with Mulrennan. She wondered that suspicion of Jeff had never entered her mind before. She realized now more poignantly than ever that she had been moving blindly, supinely, under the spell of a personality stronger than her own. She recalled the scene in the cañon when, beside herself with shame and mortification, she had struck him in the face and he had only laughed at her, as he would have laughed at a rebellious child. In that moment she had hated him. The tolerance that had come later had been defensive—a defense of her pride. When Cortland Bent had left, she had flown like a wounded swallow to the hawk's nest, glad of any refuge from the ache at her heart.She raised her head and sought Bent's eyes with her own. A while ago it had seemed so easy to speak to him. He had been so gentle with her, and his reticence had made her own indifference possible. He had gone back to the dead fire again as though to find there a phenix of his lost hope, and was leaning with an elbow on the mantel, his head bowed in subjection. He had put his fetters on again as though to make her understand that his sharp indictment of her husband had not been intended to include the woman he loved. Painfully she rose and took a step toward him, and, when she spoke, her voice was low and constrained, for her thoughts came with difficulty."You are right. Thereisa moral code—a law of conscience. In my heart I know that no matter what other men have done in the West in their madness for gold, the fever for wealth, nothing the law holds will make Jeff's responsibility to you any the less in my sight. I—I did not know. You believe me, don't you? I did not know. Even if I had known, perhaps it would not have made any difference. But I am sure of one thing—I could never have married a man to live on what he had stolen from another." As he turned toward her she put her hands over her face. "Oh, I am shamed—shamed. Perhaps I could have done something; I would have tried. You know that I would have tried—don't you?""Yes, yes, I know. I would not have told, I would not have made you unhappy—but it maddens me to see you here with what is mine—his wife." He took her hands down and made her look in his face. "Don't think harshly of me. It isn't the money. If you could have had it—if you didn't have to share it with him—can't you understand?"But she would not look at him, and only murmured, "I understand—I understand many things I did not know before. But the one thing that seems most important is that I am his wife. Whatever he has done to others, he has been very good, very gentle and kind to me."He dropped her hands and turned violently away. "How could you?" he groaned. "How could you have married him?""God knows!"The words were wrung from her quickly, like the sudden dropping of a burden which shocked by the noise of its impact before she was conscious of its loss. She turned in the same moment and looked at him, hoping that he had not heard her. But before she could prevent him he had caught her in his arms and held her close to his body, so that, struggle as she might, there was no chance for her to escape. And in his eyes she saw the gleam of an old delight, a bright, wild spark among the embers of bitterness."Camilla!" he whispered. "I know now. God forgive me that I did not know before—out there in the schoolhouse, when you gave yourself to him. You loved me then—you love me now. Isn't that why you tremble, Camilla? You need not speak. Your heart is close to mine and I can read——""No, no, no," she murmured. "It is not true. You must not. I did not mean—what I said, you misunderstood——""Once I misunderstood. I won't make the same mistake again. It was I who found you there, parching in the desert, and taught you how to grow—who showed you that life was something more than the barren waste you had found it. Won't you forgive me? I was a fool—and worse. Look up at me, Camilla, dear. You were mine out there before you were his. At least a half of what Jeff Wray has stolen from me—your spiritual side——"At the sound of her husband's name she raised her head and looked up at him in a daze. He caught her again madly, and his lips even brushed her cheek, but she started from his arms and sped the length of the room away from him."Camilla!""No, no. You must not." She stood facing him, wildly pleading. "Don't come near me, Cort. Is this the way you are going to try to forget—the way you will teach me to forget?""I didn't know then—I want you, Camilla——"As he came forward she retreated to the door of the library and put her hand on the knob. She did not hear the soft patter of feet on the other side."Then I must go," she said decisively.He stopped, looked at her blankly, then turned away."I suppose you're right," he said quietly. "Forgive me. I had almost forgotten."He slowly paced the room away from her and, his head in his hands, sank in a distant chair. He heard her sharp sigh and the sound of her footsteps as she gathered courage and came forward. But he did not move, and listened with the dull ears of a broken man from whom all hope has departed."It is going to be harder than I thought. I hoped at least that I could keep what was in my heart a secret. When my secret was my own it did not seem as if I was doing any injustice to—to Jeff. It was my heart that was breaking—not his. What did my secrets matter as long as I did my duty? But now that you share the burden I know that I am doing him a great wrong—a greater wrong even than he has done to you. I can't blame you for coming here. It is hard to forgive a wrong like that. But with me it is different. No matter what Jeff has done, what he may do, my duty is very clear—my duty to him, and even to you. I don't know just how—I must have time to think it out for myself. One thing is certain: I must not see you again."He waved a hand in deprecation. "That is so easy to say. You shall see me again," he threatened. "I will not give you up.""You must! I will find some excuse to leave New York.""I'll follow you," doggedly. "You're mine."She paused in dismay. Were all the odds to be against her? A sudden terror gripped her heart and left her supine. She summoned her strength with an effort."Cort!" she cried desperately. "You must not speak to me like that. I will not listen. You don't know what you are saying.""I don't care what I'm saying—you have driven me mad." As he rose, she retreated, still facing him, her lips pale, her eyes bright, her face drawn but resolved."And I," she said clearly, "I am sane again. If you follow—I will ring. Do you hear?"Her hand sought the wall, then was arrested in mid air. A sound of voices, the ringing of a bell, and the soft patter of a servant's steps in the corridor brought Cortland Bent to his senses."It's Jeff," she whispered breathlessly; and then with a quiet air of self-command, the dignity of a well-bred hostess, "Will you sit down, Mr. Bent? I will ring for tea."In the shadowed doorway a tall figure stood."Why, Jeff," said Camilla coolly, "you're early, aren't you? I thought——"She rose as she realized that the gentleman in the doorway wore a frock coat—a garment Jeff affected to despise—and that the hair at his temples was white. "I beg your pardon," she murmured.The gentleman smiled and came forward into the room with outstretched hand."I am General Bent. Is this Mrs. Wray? Your husband is coming along."Jeff entered from the corridor at this moment. "Hello, Camilla! The General was kind enough to say he wanted to meet you, so he brought me uptown in his machine."The eyes of both newcomers fell on Cortland Bent, who emerged from the shadow."Why, Cort! You here?" said the General, and if his quick tones showed slight annoyance, his well-bred accents meant only polite inquiry."Yes, dad. How do you do, Mr. Wray?"Wray went over and took him by the hand."Well! well!" said Wray heartily. "This is sure like old times. Glad to see you, Bent. It seems like only yesterday that you and Camilla were galloping over the plains together. A year and a half has made some changes, eh? Camilla, can't we have a drink? One doesn't meet old friends every day.""I rang for tea.""Tea? Ugh! Not tea, Camilla. I can't get used to these foreign notions. General—Cort—some Scotch? That's better. Tea was invented for sick people and old maids," and then, as the servant entered, "Tell Greer to bring the tray, and some cigars. You'll let us, won't you, Camilla? General Bent and I have been talking for two hours, and if there's any thirstier business than that——""I hope we aren't intruding," said the General. "I have been very anxious to meet you, Mrs. Wray.""I'm very much flattered. I'm afraid, though, that Jeff has taken you out of your way." She paused, conscious that the sharp eyes of the old man were peering at her curiously from under the shadows of his bushy eyebrows. "I feel as if I ought to know you very well," she went on. "In the West your son often spoke of you.""Did he? H—m!" And then, with a laugh, "Cortland, my boy, what did you say to her? You expected to see an old ogre, didn't you?""Oh, no, but you are different from the idea I had of you. You and your son are not in the least alike, are you?""No. You see Cortland took the comeliness of the Davidges, and I—well, I won't tell you what they call me in the Street," he laughed grimly. "You know Mr. Wray and I have some interests in the West in common—some properties that adjoin, and some railroads that join. It's absurdly simple.Hewants whatIhave, andIwant whathehas, and neither of us is willing to give up a square inch. Won't you tell us what to do?""I give it up," she laughed. "My husband has a way of getting what he wants.""The great secret of that," said Wray comfortably, "is wanting what you can get. Still, I don't doubt that when the General's crowd gets through with me there won't be enough of me to want anything. You needn't worry about the 'Lone Tree,' Cortland. You'll have it again, after a while, when my hide is spread out to dry."General Bent's eyes vanished under his heavy brows."No," he said cryptically. "It looks as though the fruit of the 'Lone Tree' was forbidden."CHAPTER VDINERS OUTWhen the visitors had gone, Camilla disappeared in the direction of her own apartment. The thought of being alone with Jeff was intolerable to her. She must have time to think, to wash away the traces of her emotion, which she was sure even the shadows of the drawing room could hardly have hidden from the sharp eyes of her elderly guest. Her husband had given no indication of having noticed anything unusual in her appearance, but she knew that he would not have let her discover it if he had. She breathed a sigh of relief when the door was closed behind her, dismissed her maid, and, slipping into a comfortable garment, threw herself face downward on a couch and buried her head in its pillow.Out of the disordered tangle of her thoughts one idea gradually evolved—that she must not see Cortland Bent again. She could not plan just now how she was to avoid him, for General Bent had already invited them to dine at his house, and she knew that she must go, for Jeff's sake, no matter what it cost her. She could not blame Cortland as much as she blamed herself, for she realized now how vulnerable she had been even from the first moment when she had entered the room, bravely assuring herself that she cared for him no longer. The revelation of her husband's part in the lease of the "Lone Tree" had shocked her, but even her abomination of his brutal method of consummating the business was lost in the discovery of her own culpability. Before to-day it had not seemed so great a sin to hold another man's image in her heart, but the disclosure of her secret had robbed it of some of the dignity of seclusion. The one thing that had redeemed her in the past had been the soft pains of self-abnegation, and now she had not even those to comfort her.The revelation to Cort had even made their relation a little brutal. She fought with herself silently, proposing subterfuge and sophistry, then dragging her pitiful treasure forth remorselessly under the garish light of conscience. She could not understand the change that Cortland's presence made; for what yesterday had been only unduteous, to-day was a sin. What then had been a balm was now a poison.
[image]"'I reckon that about winds up all your loose ends around Mesa,' said Jeff cheerfully."
[image]
[image]
"'I reckon that about winds up all your loose ends around Mesa,' said Jeff cheerfully."
But Bent by this time had taken up his cap, and was gone.
CHAPTER III
NEW YORK
Wonderful things happened in the year which followed. The "Lone Tree" was a bonanza. Every month added to the value of the discovery. The incredulous came, saw, and were conquered, and Mesa City was a "boom town" again. Jeff Wray hadn't a great deal to say in those days. His brain was working overtime upon the great interlocking scheme of financial enterprises which was to make him one of the richest men in the West. He spoke little, but his face wore a smile that never came off, and his baby-blue stare was more vacuous than ever.
And yet, as month followed month and the things happened which he had so long predicted for himself and for the town, something of his old arrogance slipped away from him. If balked ambition and injured pride had made him boast before, it was success that tamed him. There was no time to swagger. Weighty problems gave him an air of seriousness which lent him a dignity he had never possessed. And if sometimes he blustered now, people listened. There was a difference.
As the time for her wedding approached, for the first time in her life Camilla felt the personality of the man. Why was it that she could not love him? Since that hour at the schoolhouse when Cortland Bent had shown her how near—and how fearful—could be the spiritual relation between a woman and a man, life had taken a different meaning to her.
Jeff's was a curious courtship. He made love to her bunglingly, and she realized that his diffidence was the expression of a kind of rustic humility which set her in a shrine at which he distantly worshipped. He seemed most like the Jeff of other days when he was talking of himself, and she allowed him to do this by the hour, listening, questioning, and encouraging. If this was to make the most of her life, perhaps it might be as well to get used to the idea. She could not deny that she was interested. Jeff's schemes seemed like a page out of a fairy book, and, whether she would or not, she went along with him. There seemed no limit to his invention, and there was little doubt in his mind, or, indeed, in hers, that the world was to be made to provide very generously for them both.
It was on the eve of their wedding day that Jeff first spoke of his childhood.
"I suppose you know, Camilla, I never had a father. That is," he corrected, "not one to brag about. My mother was a waitress in the Frontier Hotel at Fort Dodge. She died when I was born. That's my family tree. You knew it, I guess, but I thought maybe you'd like to change your mind."
He looked away from her. The words came slowly, and there was a note of heaviness in his voice. She realized how hard it was for him to speak of these things, and put her hand confidently in his.
"Yes, I knew," she said softly. "But I never weighedthatagainst you, Jeff. It only makes me prouder of what you have become." And then, after a pause, "Did you never hear anything about him?"
"There were some letters written before I was born. I'll show them to you some day. He was from New York, that's all I know. Maybe you can guess now why I didn't like Cort Bent."
Camilla withdrew her hands from his and buried her face in them, while Wray sat gloomily gazing at the opposite wall. In a moment she raised her head, her cheeks burning.
"Yes, I understand now," she muttered. "He was not worth bothering about."
* * * * *
And now they were at the hotel in New York, where Jeff had come on business. The Empire drawing room overlooked Fifth Avenue and the cross street. There was a reception room in the French style, a dining room in English oak, a library (Flemish), smoking room (Turkish), a hall (Dutch), and a number of bedrooms, each a reproduction of a celebrated historical apartment. The wall hangings were of silk, the curtains of heavy brocade, the pictures poor copies of excellent old masters, the rugs costly; and the fixtures in Camilla's bathroom were of solid silver.
Camilla stood before the cheval glass in her dressing room (Recamier) trying on, with the assistance of her maid and a modiste, a fetching hat and afternoon costume. Chairs, tables, and the bed in her own sleeping room were covered with miscellaneous finery.
When the women had gone, Camilla dropped into a chair in the drawing room. There was something about the made-to-order magnificence which oppressed her with its emptiness. Everything that money could buy was hers for the asking. Her husband was going to be fabulously wealthy—every month since they had been married had developed new possibilities. His foresight was extraordinary, and his luck had become a by-word in the West. Each of his new ventures had attracted a large following, and money had flowed into the coffers of the company. It was difficult for her to realize all that happened in the wonderful period since she had sat at her humble desk in the schoolhouse at Mesa City. She was not sure what it was that she lacked, for she and Jeff got along admirably, but the room in which she sat seemed to be one expression of it—a room to be possessed but not enjoyed. Their good fortune was so brief that it had no perspective. Life had no personality. It was made of Things, like the articles in this drawing room, each one agreeably harmonious with the other, but devoid of associations, pleasant or unpleasant. The only difference between this room and the parlor at Mrs. Brennan's was that the furniture of the hotel had cost more money.
To tell the truth, Camilla was horribly bored. She had proposed to spend the mornings, when Jeff was downtown, in the agreeable task of providing herself with a suitable wardrobe. But she found that the time hung heavily on her hands. The wives of Jeff's business associates in New York had not yet called. Perhaps they never would call. Everything here spoke of wealth, and the entrance of a new millionaire upon the scene was not such a rare occurrence as to excite unusual comment. She peered out up the avenue at the endless tide of wealth and fashion which passed her by, and she felt very dreary and isolated, like a vacant house from which old tenants had departed and into which new ones would not enter.
She was in this mood when a servant entered. She had reached the point when even this interruption was welcome, but when she saw that the man bore a card tray her interest revived, and she took up the bit of pasteboard with a short sigh of relief. She looked at it, turned it over in her fingers, her blood slowing a little, then rushing hotly to her temples.
Cortland Bent! She let the card fall on the table beside her.
"Tell him that I am not——" she paused and glanced out of the window. The quick impulse was gone. "Tell him—to come up," she finished.
When the page disappeared she glanced about the room, then hurried to the door to recall him, but he had turned the corner into the corridor outside, and the message was on its way to a lower floor.
She paused, irresolute, then went in again, closing the outside door behind her. What had she done? A message of welcome to Cortland Bent, the one person in the world she had promised herself she should never see again; her husband's enemy, her own because he was her husband's; her own, too, because he had given her pride a wound from which it had not yet recovered! What should she do? She moved toward the door leading to her dressing room—to pause again.
What did it matter after all? Jeff wouldn't care. She laughed. Why should he? He could afford to be generous with the man who had lost the fortune he now possessed. He had, too, an implicit confidence in her own judgment, and never since they had been married had he questioned an action or motive of hers. As for herself—that was another matter. She tossed her head and looked at herself in her mirror. Should she not even welcome the opportunity to show Bent how small a place he now held in her memory? The mirror told her she was handsome, but she still lingered before it, arranging her hair, when her visitor was announced.
He stood with his hands behind his back studying the portrait over the fireplace, turning at the sound of her voice.
"It's very nice of you to see me," he said slowly. "How long have you been here?"
"A few weeks only. Won't you sit down?"
A warm color had come to her checks as she realized that he was carefully scrutinizing her from head to heel.
"Of course we're very much honored——" she began.
"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you," he broke in warmly. "I was tempted to write you a dozen times, but your engagement and marriage to Wray and"—he paused—"the trouble about the mine seemed to make it difficult, somehow."
"I'm sure my husband bears you no ill-will."
He gave a short laugh. "There's no reason why he should. There's nothing forhimto be upset about. He got the fortune that should—which might have been mine—to say nothing of the girl——"
"Perhaps we had better leave the girl out of it," she put in calmly. "Even time hasn't explainedthatmisunderstanding."
He shrugged a shoulder expressively. "As you please. I'll not parade any ghosts if I can help it. I'm too happy to see you. You're more wonderful than ever. Really I don't believe I should have known you. You're changed somehow. I wonder what it is?"
"Prosperity?" she suggested.
"I'm not sure I feel at home with you. You're so matured, so—so punctilious and modish."
"You wouldn't have me wear a short skirt and a sombrero?" she said with a slow smile.
"No, no. It is not what you wear so much as what you are. You are really the great lady. I think I knew it there in the West."
She glanced around the room.
"This?" she queried. "This was Jeff's idea." And then, as the possible disloyalty occurred to her, "You know I would much have preferred a quieter place. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds."
"But fine birds can be no less fine whatever they wear." There was a pause, and then he asked:
"How long will you be here?"
"All winter, I think. My husband has business in New York."
"Yes, I know. Mesa City can spare him best at this season."
Bent took up an ivory paper cutter from the table and sat turning it over in his fingers. "I hope—I really hope we may be friends, Mrs. Wray. I think perhaps if you'll let me I can be of service to you here. I don't think that there is a chance that I can forget your husband's getting the 'Lone Tree' away from me. It's pretty hard to have a success like that at the tips of one's fingers and not be able to grasp it. I've been pretty sick about it, and the governor threatened to disown me. But he seems to have taken a fancy to your husband. I believe that they have some business relations. The fifty thousand dollars we got in the final settlement salved his wounds I think. Your husband has the law on his side and that's all there is to it. I'm glad he has it for your sake, though, especially as it has given me a chance to see you again."
"You're very generous," she said. "I'm sorry. It has worried me a great deal."
"Oh, well, let's say no more about it," he said more cheerfully. "I'm so glad that you're to be here. What do you think of my little burg? Does it amuse you at all? What? Have you met many people, or don't you want to meet them? I'd like you to know my family—my aunt, Mrs. Rumsen, especially. She's a bit of a grenadier, but I know you'll get along. She always says what she thinks, so you mustn't mind. She's quite the thing here. Makes out people's lists for them and all that kind of thing. Won't you come and dine with the governor some time?"
"Perhaps it will be time enough when we're asked——"
"Oh—er—of course. I forgot. I'll ask Gladys—that's my sister—to call at once."
"Please don't trouble."
Try as she might to present an air of indifference, down in her heart she was secretly delighted at his candid, friendly attitude. No other could have so effectually salved the sudden searing wound he had once inflicted. To-day it was difficult to believe him capable of evil. He had tried to forget the past. Why should not she? There was another girl. Perhaps their engagement had been announced. She knew she was treading on dangerous ground, but she ventured to ask him.
"Gretchen?" he replied. "Oh, Lord, no! Not yet. You see she has some ideas of her own on the subject, and it takes at least two to make a bargain. Miss Janney is a fine sport. Life is a good deal of a joke with her, as it is to me, but neither of us feels like carrying it as far as matrimony. We get on beautifully. She's frightfully rich. I suppose I'll be, too, some day. What's the use? It's a sheer waste of raw material. She has a romantic sort of an idea that she wants a poor man—the sort of chap she can lift out of a gray atmosphere. And I——" His voice grew suddenly sober. "You won't believe that I, too, had the same kind of notion."
It was some moments before she understood what he meant, but the silence which followed was expressive. He did not choose that she should misunderstand.
"Yes," he added, "I mean you."
She laughed nervously. "You didn't ask me to marry you?"
"No. But I might have explained why I didn't if you had given me time. I don't think I realized what it meant to me to leave you until I learned that I had to. Perhaps it isn't too late to tell you now."
She was silent, and so he went on.
"I was engaged to be married. I have been since I was a boy. It was a family affair. Both of us protested, but my father and hers had set their hearts on it. My governor swore he'd cut me off unless I did as he wished. And he's not a man to break his word. I was afraid of him. I was weak, Camilla. I'm not ashamed to tell you the truth. I knew unless I made good at the mine that I should have nothing to offer you. So I thought if I could get you to come East, stay for a while, and meet my father, that time might work out our salvation."
She got up hurriedly and walked to the window. "I can't see that you can do any good telling me this. It means so little," she stammered.
"Only to justify myself. I want to try and make it possible for you to understand how things were with me then—how they are now."
"No, no. It can do no good."
"Let me finish," he said calmly. "It was the other girl I was thinking about. I was still pledged to her. I could have written her for my release—but matters came to a crisis rather suddenly. And then you told me of your engagement to Mr. Wray. You see, after that I didn't care what happened." He paused, leaning with one hand on the table, his head bent. "Perhaps I ought not to speak to you in this way now. But it was on your own account. I don't know what I said to you. I only remember that I did not ask you to marry me, but that I wanted you with me always."
His voice sounded very far away to Camilla, like a message from another life she had lived so long ago that it seemed almost a message from the dead. She did not know whether what she most felt was happiness or misery. The one thing she was sure of was that he had no right to be speaking to her in this way and that she had no right to be listening. But still she listened. His words sank almost to a whisper, but she heard. "I wanted you to be with me always. I knew afterward that I had never loved any woman but you—God help me—that I never could love any other woman——" He stopped again. In her corner Camilla was crying softly—tears of pity for him, for the ashes of their dead.
"Don't, dear," he said gently. She thought he was coming forward and raised her head to protest, but she saw that he still stood by the table, his back toward her. She turned one look of mute appeal, which he did not see, in his direction, and then rose quickly.
"You must never speak in this way again," she said, with a surer note. "Never. I should not have listened. It is my fault. But I have been so—so glad to hear that—you didn't mean what you said. God knows I forgive you, and I only hope you can understand—how it was—with me. You had been so friendly—so clean. It wounded me—horribly. It made me lose my faith in all things, and I wanted to keep you—as a friend."
"I think I may still be a friend."
"I hope so——" She emerged diffidently and laid her hand gently on his arm. "If you want to be my friend you must forget."
"I'll try. Ihavetried. That was easier this morning than it is this afternoon. It will be harder to-night—harder still to-morrow." He gave a short laugh and turned away from her toward the fireplace where he stood, watching the gray embers.
"Oh, people don't die of this sort of thing," he muttered.
It was almost with an air of unconcern that she began rearranging the Beauties on the table, speaking with such a genuine spirit of raillery that he turned to look at her.
"Oh, it isn't nearly as bad as you think it is. A man is never quite so madly in love that he can't forget. You've been dreaming. I was different from the sort of girls you were used to. You were in love with the mountains, and mistook me for background."
"No. There wasn't any background," he broke in. "There was never anything in the picture but you. I know. It's the same now."
"Sh—I must not let you speak to me so. If you do, I must go away from New York—or you must."
"You wouldn't care."
She could make no reply to that, and attempted none. When the flowers were arranged she sat on the edge of the table facing him. "Perhaps it would be the better way for me to go back to the West," she said, "but New York is surely big enough to hold us both without danger of your meeting me too often. And I have another idea," her smile came slowly, with difficulty, "when you see enough of me in your own city, you will be glad to forget me whether you want to or not. Perhaps you may meet me among your own kind of people—your own kind of girls, at dinners, or at dances. You don't really know me very well, after all. Wouldn't it bother you if from sheer awkwardness I spilled my wine or said 'yes, ma'am,' or 'no, ma'am,' to my hostess, not because I wanted to, but because I was too frightened to think of anything else? Or mistook the butler for my host? Or stepped on somebody's toes in a ballroom. You know I don't dance very well. Suppose——"
"Oh, what's the use, Camilla?" he broke in angrily. "You don't deceive anybody. You know that kind of thing wouldn't make any difference to me."
"But it might to other people. You wouldn't fancy seeing me ridiculous." He turned to the fire again, and she perceived that her warning hadn't merited the dignity of a reply, but her attitude and the lighter key in which her tone was pitched had saved the situation. When he spoke again, all trace of his discomposure had vanished.
"Oh, I suppose I'll survive. I've got a name for nerve of a certain kind, and nobody shall say I ran away from a woman. I don't suppose there's any use of my trying to like your husband. You see, I'm frank with you. But I'll swallow a good deal to be able to be near you."
There was a silence during which she keenly searched his face.
"You mustn't dislike Jeff. I can't permit that. You can't blame him for being lucky——"
"Lucky? Yes, I suppose you might call it luck. Didn't you know how your husband and Mulrennan got that mine?"
She rose, her eyes full of a new wonder and curiosity.
"They leased it. Everything was legally done," she said.
"Oh, yes. Legally——" he paused.
"Go on—go on."
"What is the use?"
"I must know—everything."
"He never told you? I think I know why. Because your code and his are different. The consciences of some men are satisfied if they keep their affairs within the letter of the law. But there's a moral law which has nothing to do with the courts. He didn't tell you because he knew you obeyed a different precept."
"What did he do? Won't you tell me?"
CHAPTER IV
THE FORBIDDEN WAY
He came forward and stood facing her, one hand clutching the back of a chair, his eyes blazing with newly kindled resentment. "Yes, I will tell you. It's right for you to know. There was a man in my employ who had a fancied grievance against my foreman. He had no just cause for complaint. I found that out and told Harbison to fire him. If Harbison had obeyed orders there would have been a different story to tell about the 'Lone Tree.' But my foreman took pity on him because he had a family; then tried to get him started right again. The man used to work extra time at night, sometimes with a shift and sometimes alone. And one night in the small gallery at the hundred-foot level he found the vein we had been looking for. He was a German, Max Reimer, by name——"
"Max Reimer," she repeated mechanically.
"Alone there in that cavern he thought out the plan which afterward resulted in putting me out of business. He quickly got some timbers together and hid the hole he'd made. This was easy, for the steps and railing of the winze needed supports and planking. He put in a blast farther over and hid the gold-bearing rock—all but a few of the pieces. These he took out in the pockets of his overalls and carried them to Jeff Wray——"
"Jeff——"
"Your husband called in Pete Mulrennan, and they talked it over. Then one night Pete and Max crept up to the mine, got past the watchman, and Max showed Pete what he'd found. I learned all this from Harbison after they let Max loose."
"Let him loose? What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you. Max wanted a lump sum in cash. They laughed at him—chiefly because they didn't have the money to pay. Then he wanted a percentage bigger than they wanted to give. When they temporized he got ugly, swore he'd rather run his chances with Harbison and me, but he never had an opportunity——"
"You don't mean——?" she gasped.
"Wray and Mulrennan lured Reimer to a room over the saloon and got up a fight; they put him out, gagged and trussed him like a fowl, and left him there until Jeff Wray had closed the deal with me. That's how your husband got my mine."
"It can't be," she stammered. "Yes—yes. And Reimer?"
"They hid him for two weeks, until they brought to terms."
"I remember," she said, passing her hand over her brow. "Reimer's boy was in my school. They missed old Max. They thought he had deserted them. What a horrible thing! And Jeff—my husband——"
"That is what people call Jeff Wray's luck," he said, and then added grimly, "and my misfortune."
"But the law?" she said. "Was there no way in which you could prove the—the——"
"The fraud?" he said brutally. "Oh, yes. The Law! Do you know who impersonates the Law in Mesa City? Pete Mulrennan! He's judge, court, and jury. We had the best lawyer in Denver. But Lawrence Berkely had done his work too well. There's a suit still pending, but we haven't a show. Good God, Camilla! do you mean to say you heard nothing of all this?"
"Nothing," she said. "Nothing. When I heard of the suit and questioned Jeff he—he said it was maliciousness, jealousy, disappointment, and I believed him."
He turned away from her and paced the floor. "He was right. It was all of these. But there was something else——"
"Oh, I know," she broke in. "It was what I am feeling now—the sense of a wrong. But you forget——" She got up and faced him, groping vaguely for an extenuating circumstance. "That sort of thing has been done in the West before. A successful mine is all a matter of luck. Max Reimer's find might have only been a pocket. In that case you would have been the gainer, and Jeff would have lost."
"That's sophistry. I can't blame you for defending your husband. Mines have been leased and bought on theory—with a chance to win, a chance to lose—for the mere love of a gamble. There was no gamble here. The gold ore was there—one had only to look. There never has been anything like it since Cripple Creek. It was mine. Jeff Wray wanted it—so he took it—by force."
She had sunk on the settee between the windows, her face buried in her hands, and was trying to think. All this, the hired magnificence, the empty show, the damask she was sitting on, the rings on her hands, her clothing even, belonged by every law of decency and morality to the man who stood there before her. And the wrong she had so long cherished in her heart against him was as nothing to the injury her husband had done to him. She knew nothing of the law, cared nothing for it. All she could think of were the facts of the case as he had presented them. Cortland told the truth, she recognized it in everything he had said, in the ringing note of his voice, the clear light of his eye, the resentment of a nature that had been tried too far. A hundred forgotten incidents were now remembered—Jeff's reticence about the law-suit, Max Reimer's disappearance, the many secret conferences with Mulrennan. She wondered that suspicion of Jeff had never entered her mind before. She realized now more poignantly than ever that she had been moving blindly, supinely, under the spell of a personality stronger than her own. She recalled the scene in the cañon when, beside herself with shame and mortification, she had struck him in the face and he had only laughed at her, as he would have laughed at a rebellious child. In that moment she had hated him. The tolerance that had come later had been defensive—a defense of her pride. When Cortland Bent had left, she had flown like a wounded swallow to the hawk's nest, glad of any refuge from the ache at her heart.
She raised her head and sought Bent's eyes with her own. A while ago it had seemed so easy to speak to him. He had been so gentle with her, and his reticence had made her own indifference possible. He had gone back to the dead fire again as though to find there a phenix of his lost hope, and was leaning with an elbow on the mantel, his head bowed in subjection. He had put his fetters on again as though to make her understand that his sharp indictment of her husband had not been intended to include the woman he loved. Painfully she rose and took a step toward him, and, when she spoke, her voice was low and constrained, for her thoughts came with difficulty.
"You are right. Thereisa moral code—a law of conscience. In my heart I know that no matter what other men have done in the West in their madness for gold, the fever for wealth, nothing the law holds will make Jeff's responsibility to you any the less in my sight. I—I did not know. You believe me, don't you? I did not know. Even if I had known, perhaps it would not have made any difference. But I am sure of one thing—I could never have married a man to live on what he had stolen from another." As he turned toward her she put her hands over her face. "Oh, I am shamed—shamed. Perhaps I could have done something; I would have tried. You know that I would have tried—don't you?"
"Yes, yes, I know. I would not have told, I would not have made you unhappy—but it maddens me to see you here with what is mine—his wife." He took her hands down and made her look in his face. "Don't think harshly of me. It isn't the money. If you could have had it—if you didn't have to share it with him—can't you understand?"
But she would not look at him, and only murmured, "I understand—I understand many things I did not know before. But the one thing that seems most important is that I am his wife. Whatever he has done to others, he has been very good, very gentle and kind to me."
He dropped her hands and turned violently away. "How could you?" he groaned. "How could you have married him?"
"God knows!"
The words were wrung from her quickly, like the sudden dropping of a burden which shocked by the noise of its impact before she was conscious of its loss. She turned in the same moment and looked at him, hoping that he had not heard her. But before she could prevent him he had caught her in his arms and held her close to his body, so that, struggle as she might, there was no chance for her to escape. And in his eyes she saw the gleam of an old delight, a bright, wild spark among the embers of bitterness.
"Camilla!" he whispered. "I know now. God forgive me that I did not know before—out there in the schoolhouse, when you gave yourself to him. You loved me then—you love me now. Isn't that why you tremble, Camilla? You need not speak. Your heart is close to mine and I can read——"
"No, no, no," she murmured. "It is not true. You must not. I did not mean—what I said, you misunderstood——"
"Once I misunderstood. I won't make the same mistake again. It was I who found you there, parching in the desert, and taught you how to grow—who showed you that life was something more than the barren waste you had found it. Won't you forgive me? I was a fool—and worse. Look up at me, Camilla, dear. You were mine out there before you were his. At least a half of what Jeff Wray has stolen from me—your spiritual side——"
At the sound of her husband's name she raised her head and looked up at him in a daze. He caught her again madly, and his lips even brushed her cheek, but she started from his arms and sped the length of the room away from him.
"Camilla!"
"No, no. You must not." She stood facing him, wildly pleading. "Don't come near me, Cort. Is this the way you are going to try to forget—the way you will teach me to forget?"
"I didn't know then—I want you, Camilla——"
As he came forward she retreated to the door of the library and put her hand on the knob. She did not hear the soft patter of feet on the other side.
"Then I must go," she said decisively.
He stopped, looked at her blankly, then turned away.
"I suppose you're right," he said quietly. "Forgive me. I had almost forgotten."
He slowly paced the room away from her and, his head in his hands, sank in a distant chair. He heard her sharp sigh and the sound of her footsteps as she gathered courage and came forward. But he did not move, and listened with the dull ears of a broken man from whom all hope has departed.
"It is going to be harder than I thought. I hoped at least that I could keep what was in my heart a secret. When my secret was my own it did not seem as if I was doing any injustice to—to Jeff. It was my heart that was breaking—not his. What did my secrets matter as long as I did my duty? But now that you share the burden I know that I am doing him a great wrong—a greater wrong even than he has done to you. I can't blame you for coming here. It is hard to forgive a wrong like that. But with me it is different. No matter what Jeff has done, what he may do, my duty is very clear—my duty to him, and even to you. I don't know just how—I must have time to think it out for myself. One thing is certain: I must not see you again."
He waved a hand in deprecation. "That is so easy to say. You shall see me again," he threatened. "I will not give you up."
"You must! I will find some excuse to leave New York."
"I'll follow you," doggedly. "You're mine."
She paused in dismay. Were all the odds to be against her? A sudden terror gripped her heart and left her supine. She summoned her strength with an effort.
"Cort!" she cried desperately. "You must not speak to me like that. I will not listen. You don't know what you are saying."
"I don't care what I'm saying—you have driven me mad." As he rose, she retreated, still facing him, her lips pale, her eyes bright, her face drawn but resolved.
"And I," she said clearly, "I am sane again. If you follow—I will ring. Do you hear?"
Her hand sought the wall, then was arrested in mid air. A sound of voices, the ringing of a bell, and the soft patter of a servant's steps in the corridor brought Cortland Bent to his senses.
"It's Jeff," she whispered breathlessly; and then with a quiet air of self-command, the dignity of a well-bred hostess, "Will you sit down, Mr. Bent? I will ring for tea."
In the shadowed doorway a tall figure stood.
"Why, Jeff," said Camilla coolly, "you're early, aren't you? I thought——"
She rose as she realized that the gentleman in the doorway wore a frock coat—a garment Jeff affected to despise—and that the hair at his temples was white. "I beg your pardon," she murmured.
The gentleman smiled and came forward into the room with outstretched hand.
"I am General Bent. Is this Mrs. Wray? Your husband is coming along."
Jeff entered from the corridor at this moment. "Hello, Camilla! The General was kind enough to say he wanted to meet you, so he brought me uptown in his machine."
The eyes of both newcomers fell on Cortland Bent, who emerged from the shadow.
"Why, Cort! You here?" said the General, and if his quick tones showed slight annoyance, his well-bred accents meant only polite inquiry.
"Yes, dad. How do you do, Mr. Wray?"
Wray went over and took him by the hand.
"Well! well!" said Wray heartily. "This is sure like old times. Glad to see you, Bent. It seems like only yesterday that you and Camilla were galloping over the plains together. A year and a half has made some changes, eh? Camilla, can't we have a drink? One doesn't meet old friends every day."
"I rang for tea."
"Tea? Ugh! Not tea, Camilla. I can't get used to these foreign notions. General—Cort—some Scotch? That's better. Tea was invented for sick people and old maids," and then, as the servant entered, "Tell Greer to bring the tray, and some cigars. You'll let us, won't you, Camilla? General Bent and I have been talking for two hours, and if there's any thirstier business than that——"
"I hope we aren't intruding," said the General. "I have been very anxious to meet you, Mrs. Wray."
"I'm very much flattered. I'm afraid, though, that Jeff has taken you out of your way." She paused, conscious that the sharp eyes of the old man were peering at her curiously from under the shadows of his bushy eyebrows. "I feel as if I ought to know you very well," she went on. "In the West your son often spoke of you."
"Did he? H—m!" And then, with a laugh, "Cortland, my boy, what did you say to her? You expected to see an old ogre, didn't you?"
"Oh, no, but you are different from the idea I had of you. You and your son are not in the least alike, are you?"
"No. You see Cortland took the comeliness of the Davidges, and I—well, I won't tell you what they call me in the Street," he laughed grimly. "You know Mr. Wray and I have some interests in the West in common—some properties that adjoin, and some railroads that join. It's absurdly simple.Hewants whatIhave, andIwant whathehas, and neither of us is willing to give up a square inch. Won't you tell us what to do?"
"I give it up," she laughed. "My husband has a way of getting what he wants."
"The great secret of that," said Wray comfortably, "is wanting what you can get. Still, I don't doubt that when the General's crowd gets through with me there won't be enough of me to want anything. You needn't worry about the 'Lone Tree,' Cortland. You'll have it again, after a while, when my hide is spread out to dry."
General Bent's eyes vanished under his heavy brows.
"No," he said cryptically. "It looks as though the fruit of the 'Lone Tree' was forbidden."
CHAPTER V
DINERS OUT
When the visitors had gone, Camilla disappeared in the direction of her own apartment. The thought of being alone with Jeff was intolerable to her. She must have time to think, to wash away the traces of her emotion, which she was sure even the shadows of the drawing room could hardly have hidden from the sharp eyes of her elderly guest. Her husband had given no indication of having noticed anything unusual in her appearance, but she knew that he would not have let her discover it if he had. She breathed a sigh of relief when the door was closed behind her, dismissed her maid, and, slipping into a comfortable garment, threw herself face downward on a couch and buried her head in its pillow.
Out of the disordered tangle of her thoughts one idea gradually evolved—that she must not see Cortland Bent again. She could not plan just now how she was to avoid him, for General Bent had already invited them to dine at his house, and she knew that she must go, for Jeff's sake, no matter what it cost her. She could not blame Cortland as much as she blamed herself, for she realized now how vulnerable she had been even from the first moment when she had entered the room, bravely assuring herself that she cared for him no longer. The revelation of her husband's part in the lease of the "Lone Tree" had shocked her, but even her abomination of his brutal method of consummating the business was lost in the discovery of her own culpability. Before to-day it had not seemed so great a sin to hold another man's image in her heart, but the disclosure of her secret had robbed it of some of the dignity of seclusion. The one thing that had redeemed her in the past had been the soft pains of self-abnegation, and now she had not even those to comfort her.
The revelation to Cort had even made their relation a little brutal. She fought with herself silently, proposing subterfuge and sophistry, then dragging her pitiful treasure forth remorselessly under the garish light of conscience. She could not understand the change that Cortland's presence made; for what yesterday had been only unduteous, to-day was a sin. What then had been a balm was now a poison.