*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. Theincredulous came, saw, and were conquered, and Mesa City was a "boomtown" again. Jeff Wray hadn't a great deal to say in those days. Hisbrain was working overtime upon the great interlocking scheme offinancial enterprises which was to make him one of the richest men inthe West. He spoke little, but his face wore a smile that never cameoff, and his baby-blue stare was more vacuous than ever.
And yet, as month followed month and the things happened which he had solong predicted for himself and for the town, something of his oldarrogance slipped away from him. If balked ambition and injured pridehad made him boast before, it was success that tamed him. There was notime to swagger. Weighty problems gave him an air of seriousness whichlent him a dignity he had never possessed. And if sometimes heblustered now, people listened. There was a difference.
As the time for her wedding approached, for the first time in her lifeCamilla felt the personality of the man. Why was it that she could notlove him? Since that hour at the schoolhouse when Cortland Bent hadshown her how near--and how fearful--could be the spiritual relationbetween 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 sherealized that his diffidence was the expression of a kind of rustichumility which set her in a shrine at which he distantly worshipped. Heseemed 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, andencouraging. If this was to make the most of her life, perhaps it mightbe as well to get used to the idea. She could not deny that she wasinterested. 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 nolimit to his invention, and there was little doubt in his mind, or,indeed, in hers, that the world was to be made to provide verygenerously for them both.
It was on the eve of their wedding day that Jeff first spoke of hischildhood.
"I suppose you know, Camilla, I never had a father. That is," hecorrected, "not one to brag about. My mother was a waitress in theFrontier Hotel at Fort Dodge. She died when I was born. That's myfamily tree. You knew it, I guess, but I thought maybe you'd like tochange your mind."
He looked away from her. The words came slowly, and there was a note ofheaviness in his voice. She realized how hard it was for him to speakof these things, and put her hand confidently in his.
"Yes, I knew," she said softly. "But I never weighed _that_ againstyou, Jeff. It only makes me prouder of what you have become." Andthen, after a pause, "Did you never hear anything about him?"
"There were some letters written before I was born. I'll show them toyou some day. He was from New York, that's all I know. Maybe you canguess now why I didn't like Cort Bent."
Camilla withdrew her hands from his and buried her face in them, whileWray sat gloomily gazing at the opposite wall. In a moment she raisedher head, her cheeks burning.
"Yes, I understand now," she muttered. "He was not worth botheringabout."
* * * * *
And now they were at the hotel in New York, where Jeff had come onbusiness. The Empire drawing room overlooked Fifth Avenue and the crossstreet. There was a reception room in the French style, a dining roomin English oak, a library (Flemish), smoking room (Turkish), a hall(Dutch), and a number of bedrooms, each a reproduction of a celebratedhistorical apartment. The wall hangings were of silk, the curtains ofheavy brocade, the pictures poor copies of excellent old masters, therugs costly; and the fixtures in Camilla's bathroom were of solidsilver.
Camilla stood before the cheval glass in her dressing room (Recamier)trying on, with the assistance of her maid and a modiste, a fetching hatand afternoon costume. Chairs, tables, and the bed in her own sleepingroom were covered with miscellaneous finery.
When the women had gone, Camilla dropped into a chair in the drawingroom. There was something about the made-to-order magnificence whichoppressed her with its emptiness. Everything that money could buy washers for the asking. Her husband was going to be fabulouslywealthy--every month since they had been married had developed newpossibilities. His foresight was extraordinary, and his luck had becomea by-word in the West. Each of his new ventures had attracted a largefollowing, and money had flowed into the coffers of the company. It wasdifficult for her to realize all that happened in the wonderful periodsince 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 alongadmirably, but the room in which she sat seemed to be one expression ofit--a room to be possessed but not enjoyed. Their good fortune was sobrief that it had no perspective. Life had no personality. It was madeof Things, like the articles in this drawing room, each one agreeablyharmonious with the other, but devoid of associations, pleasant orunpleasant. The only difference between this room and the parlor atMrs. 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 spendthe mornings, when Jeff was downtown, in the agreeable task of providingherself with a suitable wardrobe. But she found that the time hungheavily on her hands. The wives of Jeff's business associates in NewYork had not yet called. Perhaps they never would call. Everything herespoke of wealth, and the entrance of a new millionaire upon the scenewas not such a rare occurrence as to excite unusual comment. She peeredout up the avenue at the endless tide of wealth and fashion which passedher by, and she felt very dreary and isolated, like a vacant house fromwhich 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 pointwhen even this interruption was welcome, but when she saw that the manbore a card tray her interest revived, and she took up the bit ofpasteboard with a short sigh of relief. She looked at it, turned itover in her fingers, her blood slowing a little, then rushing hotly toher 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 tothe door to recall him, but he had turned the corner into the corridoroutside, and the message was on its way to a lower floor.
She paused, irresolute, then went in again, closing the outside doorbehind her. What had she done? A message of welcome to Cortland Bent,the one person in the world she had promised herself she should neversee 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 hadnot yet recovered! What should she do? She moved toward the doorleading to her dressing room--to pause again.
What did it matter after all? Jeff wouldn't care. She laughed. Whyshould he? He could afford to be generous with the man who had lost thefortune he now possessed. He had, too, an implicit confidence in herown judgment, and never since they had been married had he questioned anaction or motive of hers. As for herself--that was another matter. Shetossed her head and looked at herself in her mirror. Should she noteven welcome the opportunity to show Bent how small a place he now heldin her memory? The mirror told her she was handsome, but she stilllingered before it, arranging her hair, when her visitor was announced.
He stood with his hands behind his back studying the portrait over thefireplace, turning at the sound of her voice.
"It's very nice of you to see me," he said slowly. "How long have youbeen here?"
"A few weeks only. Won't you sit down?"
A warm color had come to her checks as she realized that he wascarefully 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 wastempted to write you a dozen times, but your engagement and marriage toWray and"--he paused--"the trouble about the mine seemed to make itdifficult, somehow."
"I'm sure my husband bears you no ill-will."
He gave a short laugh. "There's no reason why he should. There'snothing for _him_ to be upset about. He got the fortune thatshould--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 explained _that_ misunderstanding."
He shrugged a shoulder expressively. "As you please. I'll not paradeany ghosts if I can help it. I'm too happy to see you. You're morewonderful 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--sopunctilious and modish."
"You wouldn't have me wear a short skirt and a sombrero?" she said witha slow smile.
"No, no. It is not what you wear so much as what you are. You arereally 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 possibledisloyalty occurred to her, "You know I would much have preferred aquieter place. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds."
"But fine birds can be no less fine whatever they wear." There was apause, 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 itover 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'sgetting the 'Lone Tree' away from me. It's pretty hard to have asuccess like that at the tips of one's fingers and not be able to graspit. I've been pretty sick about it, and the governor threatened todisown me. But he seems to have taken a fancy to your husband. Ibelieve that they have some business relations. The fifty thousanddollars we got in the final settlement salved his wounds I think. Yourhusband has the law on his side and that's all there is to it. I'm gladhe has it for your sake, though, especially as it has given me a chanceto see you again."
"You're very generous," she said. "I'm sorry. It has worried me a greatdeal."
"Oh, well, let's say no more about it," he said more cheerfully. "I'mso 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 youwant 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 getalong. She always says what she thinks, so you mustn't mind. She'squite the thing here. Makes out people's lists for them and all thatkind 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--tocall at once."
"Please don't trouble."
Try as she might to present an air of indifference, down in her heartshe was secretly delighted at his candid, friendly attitude. No othercould have so effectually salved the sudden searing wound he had onceinflicted. To-day it was difficult to believe him capable of evil. Hehad tried to forget the past. Why should not she? There was anothergirl. Perhaps their engagement had been announced. She knew she wastreading on dangerous ground, but she ventured to ask him.
"Gretchen?" he replied. "Oh, Lord, no! Not yet. You see she has someideas of her own on the subject, and it takes at least two to make abargain. Miss Janney is a fine sport. Life is a good deal of a jokewith her, as it is to me, but neither of us feels like carrying it asfar as matrimony. We get on beautifully. She's frightfully rich. Isuppose I'll be, too, some day. What's the use? It's a sheer waste ofraw material. She has a romantic sort of an idea that she wants a poorman--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 thesame kind of notion."
It was some moments before she understood what he meant, but the silencewhich followed was expressive. He did not choose that she shouldmisunderstand.
"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 Ilearned 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 afamily affair. Both of us protested, but my father and hers had settheir hearts on it. My governor swore he'd cut me off unless I did ashe 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 knewunless 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 meetmy father, that time might work out our salvation."
She got up hurriedly and walked to the window. "I can't see that you cando 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 tounderstand 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 thinkingabout. I was still pledged to her. I could have written her for myrelease--but matters came to a crisis rather suddenly. And then you toldme of your engagement to Mr. Wray. You see, after that I didn't carewhat happened." He paused, leaning with one hand on the table, his headbent. "Perhaps I ought not to speak to you in this way now. But it wason your own account. I don't know what I said to you. I only rememberthat I did not ask you to marry me, but that I wanted you with mealways."
His voice sounded very far away to Camilla, like a message from anotherlife she had lived so long ago that it seemed almost a message from thedead. She did not know whether what she most felt was happiness ormisery. The one thing she was sure of was that he had no right to bespeaking 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 sheheard. "I wanted you to be with me always. I knew afterward that I hadnever loved any woman but you--God help me--that I never could love anyother woman----" He stopped again. In her corner Camilla was cryingsoftly--tears of pity for him, for the ashes of their dead.
"Don't, dear," he said gently. She thought he was coming forward andraised her head to protest, but she saw that he still stood by thetable, his back toward her. She turned one look of mute appeal, whichhe 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 beenso--so glad to hear that--you didn't mean what you said. God knows Iforgive 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 mademe 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 hisarm. "If you want to be my friend you must forget."
"I'll try. I _have_ tried. That was easier this morning than it isthis afternoon. It will be harder to-night--harder still to-morrow."He gave a short laugh and turned away from her toward the fireplacewhere 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 theBea
uties on the table, speaking with such a genuine spirit of raillerythat he turned to look at her.
"Oh, it isn't nearly as bad as you think it is. A man is never quite somadly in love that he can't forget. You've been dreaming. I wasdifferent from the sort of girls you were used to. You were in lovewith the mountains, and mistook me for background."
"No. There wasn't any background," he broke in. "There was neveranything 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 fromNew York--or you must."
"You wouldn't care."
She could make no reply to that, and attempted none. When the flowerswere arranged she sat on the edge of the table facing him. "Perhaps itwould be the better way for me to go back to the West," she said, "butNew York is surely big enough to hold us both without danger of yourmeeting 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 willbe glad to forget me whether you want to or not. Perhaps you may meetme among your own kind of people--your own kind of girls, at dinners, orat dances. You don't really know me very well, after all. Wouldn't itbother 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, butbecause I was too frightened to think of anything else? Or mistook thebutler for my host? Or stepped on somebody's toes in a ballroom. Youknow I don't dance very well. Suppose----"
"Oh, what's the use, Camilla?" he broke in angrily. "You don't deceiveanybody. You know that kind of thing wouldn't make any difference tome."
"But it might to other people. You wouldn't fancy seeing meridiculous." He turned to the fire again, and she perceived that herwarning hadn't merited the dignity of a reply, but her attitude and thelighter key in which her tone was pitched had saved the situation. Whenhe spoke again, all trace of his discomposure had vanished.
"Oh, I suppose I'll survive. I've got a name for nerve of a certainkind, and nobody shall say I ran away from a woman. I don't supposethere's any use of my trying to like your husband. You see, I'm frankwith 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 forbeing lucky----"
"Lucky? Yes, I suppose you might call it luck. Didn't you know howyour 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 aredifferent. The consciences of some men are satisfied if they keep theiraffairs within the letter of the law. But there's a moral law which hasnothing to do with the courts. He didn't tell you because he knew youobeyed a different precept."
"What did he do? Won't you tell me?"