



Produced by Al Haines.





[Illustration: As she sat before her mirror...]




                                  *THE
                             FORBIDDEN WAY*


                                   BY

                              GEORGE GIBBS

                               AUTHOR OF
                         THE BOLTED DOOR, ETC.



                              ILLUSTRATED



                                NEW YORK
                            GROSSET & DUNLAP
                               PUBLISHERS




                          Copyright, 1911, BY
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
     Copyright, 1911, by Associated Sunday Magazines, Incorporated.



                      _Published September, 1911_



                Printed in the United States of America




                               *CONTENTS*

CHAPTER

      I. Sharp Practice
     II. Camilla
    III. New York
     IV. The Forbidden Way
      V. Diners Out
     VI. Mrs. Cheyne
    VII. Braebank
   VIII. The Brush
     IX. The Shadow
      X. Triton of the Minnows
     XI. Discord
    XII. Tea Cups and Music
   XIII. Good Fishing
    XIV. Father and Son
     XV. Infatuation
    XVI. Old Dangers
   XVII. Old Rose Leaves
  XVIII. Combat
    XIX. The Lady in Gray
     XX. *La Femme Propose*
    XXI. *L'Homme Dispose*
   XXII. Private Matters
  XXIII. The Intruder
   XXIV. Gretchen Decides
    XXV. The Crisis
   XXVI. The Call of the Heart
  XXVII. General Bent
 XXVIII. Household Gods--and Goddesses




                          *THE FORBIDDEN WAY*



                              *CHAPTER I*

                            *SHARP PRACTICE*


The young man in the swivel chair drummed with his toes against the
desk, while he studied the gaudy fire insurance calendar on the wall
before him.  His pipe hung bowl downward from his lips, and the long
fingers of one hand toyed with a legal document in his lap.

"Something new is hatching in this incubator," he muttered at last,
dipping his pen in the ink bottle again.  "And I think--I _think_ it's
an ugly duckling.  Of course, it's no business of mine, but----"  He
looked up suddenly as a bulky figure darkened the doorway.  "Hello,
Jeff!"

Jeff Wray nodded and walked to the water cooler.

"Mulrennan's been here to see you three times," said the man in the
swivel chair.  "Each time he's been getting madder.  I wish you'd keep
your appointments or get another office-boy.  That man's vocabulary is a
work of genius.  Even you, in your happiest humors--why, what's the
matter with your face?"

Wray put his fingers up.  Four red streaks ran parallel across his cheek
bone.  He touched the marks with his hand, then looked at his finger
tips.

"Oh, that?  Seems like I must have butted into something."  He gave a
short, unmirthful laugh. "Don't make me look any prettier, does it?
Funny I didn't feel it before."  And then, as he turned to the inner
office, "Is Mulrennan coming back?" he asked.

"Yes, at five."

Wray glanced at the clock.  "Has Bent been in?"

"No."

"When will those papers be ready?"

"To-night, if you want them."

"Good!"  Wray turned, with his hand on the knob of the door.  "When Pete
comes, send him back.  Will you, Larry?"

Larry Berkely nodded, and Wray went into the back office and closed the
door behind him.  He took out his keys and unlocked the desk, but,
instead of sitting at once, he went over to a cracked mirror in the
corner and examined his face, grinning at his image and touching the red
marks with his fingers.

"That was a love-tap for fair," he said.  "I reckon I deserved it.  But
she oughtn't to push a man too far.  She was sure angry.  Won't speak
now for a while."  He turned with a confident air. "She'll come around,
though," he laughed.  "You just bet she will."  Then he sat down at his
desk, took a photograph in a brass frame out of the drawer, put it up
against the pen-rack before him, and, folding his arms across the
blotter, gazed at it steadily for a moment.

"It was a mean trick, wasn't it, Camilla girl?" he muttered, half aloud.
"I'm sorry.  But you've got to learn who you belong to.  There can't be
any fooling of other fellows around Jeff Wray's girl.  I just had to
kiss you--had to put my seal on you, Camilla.  I reckon you put yours on
me, too, black and blue."  He laughed ruefully.  "You'll forgive me,
though.  A diamond necklace or so will square _that_.  You bet it will!"

He put the picture down, hid it away, and took up some papers that lay
before him.  But when, a while later, Larry Berkely showed Mulrennan in,
they found him sitting with his face to the window, looking out with his
baby stare over the hundred thousand acres of the Hermosa Company.

"Come in, Pete, and shut the door.  You don't mind, Larry?  Mulrennan
and I have got some private business."  Then, when the door was closed,
he said in a half-whisper, "Well?  What did you find out about the 'Lone
Tree'?"

Mr. Mulrennan carefully sought the cuspidor, then wiped his brow with a
dirty red handkerchief. "What didn't I find out?  God, Jeff! that mine's
lousy with sylvanite.  The watchman was asleep, and we got in
scrumpshus-like.  It's half way down that short winze they made last
fall.  Max had put some timbers up to hide it, and we pulled 'em down.
We only had matches to strike and couldn't see much, but what we saw was
a-plenty. It's the vein, all right.  Holy Mother! but it started my
mouth to watherin'--I haven't had a wink of shlape.  Where in h--l have
you been all day?"

"Business," said Jeff vaguely, "in the mountains."

"It's no time to be potherin' about wid little matthers."  Mulrennan
brought his huge fist down on the table.  "You've got to nail this deal,
Jeff, to-day."

"To-day?  Bent hasn't been back."

"Well, you've got to find him--now."

"What for?  See here, Pete, cool down.  Can't you see if I go after him
he'll get suspicious--and then good-bye to everything.  You leave this
deal to me.  He'll sign.  Larry's drawing the lease and bond now.  Maybe
to-morrow----"

"To-morrow?  To-morrow will be too late.  That's what I'm gettin' at.
Max is ugly----"

Wray clenched his bony fingers over the chair arm and leaned across the
desk.

"Max!" he whispered angrily.  "What----?"

"He's afther more money.  He talked pretty big last night, but this
mornin'----"  He broke off breathlessly.  "Oh, I've had the h--l of a
day----"

"What did he say?"

"He's talkin' of goin' to the mine owner.  He says, after all, Cort Bent
never harmed him any, and it's only a matter of who gives him the most."

Wray got to his feet and took two or three rapid turns up and down the
room.

"D--n him!" he muttered.  And then suddenly, "Where is he now?"

"Up the bar playing pinochle with Fritz."

"Are you sure?"

"He was twenty minutes ago.  I haven't left him a minute except to come
here.  Fritz is losin' money to him.  I told him to.  That will kape him
for a while."

But Wray had already taken up his hat.  "Come, let's go up there.  We've
got to shut his mouth some way," he said, through set lips.

"I've been promisin' myself sick, but he's a sharp one--God!  But I wish
them papers was signed," sighed Mulrennan.

As they passed through the office Jeff stopped a moment.

"If Bent comes in, Larry, tell him I'll be back in half an hour.
Understand?  Don't seem anxious. Just tell him I'm going to Denver and
want to settle that deal one way or another as soon as possible."

Berkely nodded and watched the strange pair as they made their way up
the street.  Wray, his head down and hands in his pockets, and the
Irishman using his arms in violent gestures.

"I'm _sure_ it's an ugly duckling," commented the sage.

                     *      *      *      *      *

It was three years now since Berkely had come to Colorado for his
health, and two since Fate had sent him drifting down to Mesa City and
Jeff Wray. Mesa City was a "boom" town.  Three years ago, when the "Jack
Pot" mine was opened, it had become the sudden proud possessor of five
hotels (and saloons), three "general" stores, four barber shops, three
pool rooms, a livery stable, and post office. Its main (and only) street
was a quarter of a mile in length, and the plains for a half mile in
every direction had been dotted with the camps of the settlers.  It had
almost seemed as if Saguache County had found another <DW36> Creek.

A time passed, and then Mesa City awoke one morning to find that the
gamblers, the speculators, and the sporting men (and women) had gone
forth to other fields, and left it to its fate, and the town knew that
it was a failure.

But Jeff Wray stayed on.  And when Berkely came, he stayed, too, partly
because the place seemed to improve his health, but more largely on
account of Jeff Wray.  What was it that had drawn him so compellingly
toward the man?  He liked him--why, he could not say--but he did--and
that was the end of it.  There was a directness in the way Wray went
after what he wanted which approached nothing Berkely could think of so
much as the unhesitating self-sufficiency of a child.  He seemed to have
an intuition for the right thing, and, though he often did the wrong
one, Berkely was aware that he did it open-eyed and that no book wisdom
or refinement would have made the slightest difference in the
consummation of his plans.  Berkely was sure, as Wray was sure, that the
only reason Jeff hadn't succeeded was because opportunity hadn't yet
come knocking at his door.  He liked Wray because he was bold and
strong, because he looked him in the eye, because he gave a sense of
large areas, because his impulses, bad as well as good, were generous
and big, like the mountains and plains of which he was a part.  His
schemes showed flashes of genius, but neither of them had money enough
to put them into practice.  He was always figuring in hundreds of
thousands or even in millions, and at times it seemed to Berkely as
though he was frittering his life away over small problems when he might
have been mastering big ones.  At others he seemed very like Mulberry
Sellers, Munchausen, and D'Artagnan all rolled into one.

What was happening now, Berkely could not determine, so he gave up the
problem and, when his work was done, filled his pipe, strolled to the
door, and watched the changing colors on the mountains to the east of
him, as the sun, sinking lower, found some clouds and sent their shadows
scurrying along the range to the southward.  With his eye he followed
the line of the trail up the canon, and far up above the cottonwoods
that skirted the town he could see two figures on horseback coming down.
He recognized them at once, even at that distance, for they were a sight
to which Mesa City had become accustomed.

"Camilla and Bent," he muttered.  "I'm glad Jeff's not here.  It's been
getting on his nerves. I hope if Bent sells out he'll hunt a new field.
There are too few women around here--too few like Camilla.  I wonder if
she really cares.  I wonder----"

He stopped, his eyes contracted to pin points. The pair on the horses
had halted, and the man had drawn close to his companion, leaning
forward. Was he fixing her saddle?  An unconscious exclamation came from
Berkely's lips.

"He's got his nerve--right in plain view of the town, too.  What----?"

The girl's horse suddenly drew ahead and came galloping down through the
scrub-oak, the man following.  Berkely smiled.  "The race isn't always
to the swift, Cort Bent," he muttered.

At the head of the street he saw Miss Irwin's horse turn in at the
livery stable where she kept him, but Cortland Bent's came straight on
at an easy canter and halted at Berkely's door.

"Is Wray there?" asked Bent.

"No, but he told me to ask you to wait.  Won't you come in?"

"Just tell him I'll be in in the morning."

"Jeff may go to Denver to-morrow," said Larry, "but of course there's no
hurry----"

Bent took out a silver cigarette case and offered it to Berkely.  "See
here, Larry," he said, "what the devil do you fellows want with the
'Lone Tree'? Are you going to work it, or are you getting it for some
one else?  Of course, it's none of my business--but I'd like to know,
just----"

"Oh, I'm not in this.  This is Jeff's deal.  I don't know much about it,
but I think he'd probably work it for a while."

Together they walked into the office, and Berkely spread some papers out
over the desk.  "Jeff told me to draw these up.  I think you'll find
everything properly stated."

Bent nodded.  "Humph!  He feels pretty certain I'll sign, doesn't he?"

Berkely stood beside him, smoking and leaning over his shoulder, but
didn't reply.

Bent laughed.  "Well, it's all cut and dried. Seems a pity to have put
_you_ to so much trouble, Larry.  I haven't made up my mind.  They say
twice as much money goes into gold mines as ever comes out of 'em.  I
guess it's true. If it wasn't for Jeff Wray in this deal I'd sign that
paper in a minute.  But I've always had an idea that some day he'd make
his pile, and I don't relish the idea of his making it on me. He's a
visionary--a fanatic on the gold in these mountains, but fortune has a
way of favoring the fool----"

"Sounds as though you might be talking about me," said a voice from the
doorway, where Jeff stood smiling, his broad figure completely blocking
the entrance.

Bent turned, confused, but recovered himself with a short laugh.  "Yes,
I was," he replied slowly. "I've put twenty thousand dollars in that
hole in the rocks, and I hate to leave it."

Jeff Wray wiped his brow, went to the cooler, drew a glass of water, and
slowly drank it.

"Well, my friend," he said carelessly between swallows, "there's still
time to back down.  You're not committed to anything.  Neither am I.
Suit yourself.  I'm going to get a mine or so.  But I'm not particular
which one.  The 'Daisy' looks good to me, but they want too much for it.
The terms on your mine, the 'Lone Tree,' just about suited me--that's
all.  It's not a 'big' proposition. It might pan thirty or forty to the
ton, but there's not much in that--not away up there.  Take my offer--or
leave it, Bent.  I don't give a d--n."

He tossed his hat on the chair, took off his coat, and opened the door
of the back office.

"Larry," he added, "you needn't bother to stay, I've got some writing to
do.  I'll lock up when I go."

If Mr. Mulrennan had been present he would have lost his senses in sheer
admiration or sheer dismay.  Berkely remembered that "bluff" later, when
he learned how much had depended on its success.

But it worked beautifully.

"Oh, well," said Bent peevishly, "let's get it over.  I'll sign.  Are
you ready to make a settlement?"




                              *CHAPTER II*

                               *CAMILLA*


Her pupils had all been dismissed for the day and the schoolmistress sat
at her desk, a half-written letter before her, gazing out through the
open doorway over the squalid roofs of the "residence section" of Mesa
City.  The "Watch Us Grow" sign on the false front over Jeff Wray's
office was just visible over the flat roof of the brick bank building.
"Watch Us Grow!"  The shadow in her eyes deepened.  For two long years
she had seen that sign from doorway and window of the school, and, even
when she went home to Mrs. Brennan's bungalow up above, she must see it
again from the veranda.  Jeff's business card was the most prominent
object in town, except perhaps Jeff himself.  It was so much larger than
it had any right to be, out of scale, so vulgar, so insistent, so--so
like Jeff.  Jeff had stood in the doorway of the schoolhouse while they
were building his office, and, in his masterful way, had told her of the
trade-mark he had adopted for his business; he wanted it in plain sight
of her desk so that she could see it every day and watch Mesa City (and
himself) fulfil the prophecy.

That seemed ages ago now.  It was before the "Jeff Wray" had been
painted out and "Wray and Berkely" put in its place, before Larry came
out, or Cortland Bent, in the days when Jeff was a new kind of animal to
her, when she had arrived fresh from her boarding school in Kansas.
"Watch Us Grow!"  How could any one grow in a place like this--grow
anything, at least, but wrinkled and stale and ugly.  The sign had been
a continual mockery to her, a travesty on the deeper possibilities of
life which Fate had so far denied her.  She shut her eyes and resolutely
turned her head away, but she could not get Jeff Wray out of her mind.
She was thoroughly frightened.  His air of proprietorship so suddenly
assumed yesterday and the brutality of his kiss had brought her own
feelings to a crisis--for she had learned in that moment that their
relationship was impossible.  But her fingers tingled still--at the
memory of the blow she had given him.  She _had_ promised to marry him
when he "made good."  But in Mesa City that had seemed like no promise
at all.  How could any one succeed in anything here?

She leaned forward on the desk and buried her face in her hands.  What
chance had she?  Where was the fairy prince who would rescue her from
her hut and broth kettle?

She raised her head at the sound of a voice and saw Cortland Bent's
broad shoulders at the open window.

"Morning!" he said, cheerfully.  "You look like Ariadne deserted.  May I
come in?"

She nodded assent, and, thrusting her school books and unfinished letter
in the desk, turned the key viciously in its lock.

"Aren't you riding to-day?" he asked from the doorway.

"No."

He came forward, sat on the top of one of the small desks facing her,
and examined her at his ease.

"You're peevish--no?  What?"

"Yes.  I'm in a frightful mood.  You'd better not stay."

He only laughed up at the sunflower dangling from the water pitcher.
"Oh, I don't mind.  I've a heavenly disposition."

"How do you show it?" she broke in impetuously. "Every man thinks the
one way to get on with a woman is to make love to her----"

"No--not altogether," he reproached her.  "You and I have had other
topics, you know--Swinburne and Shakespeare and the musical glasses."

"Oh, yes, but you always drifted back again."

"How can you blame me?  If I've made love to you, it was----"

"Oh, I know.  I'm a rustic, and it's a good game."

"You're the least rustic person I've ever known," he said seriously.
"It's not a game.  I can't think of it as a game.  It is something more
serious than that."  He took a few paces up and down the aisle before
her and then went on.

"I know you've never been willing to give me credit for anything I've
said when I've tried to show you how much you were to me--and yet, I
think you cared--you've showed it sometimes.  But I've tried to go about
my work and forget you, because I thought it was best for us both.  But
I can't, Camilla, I tell you I can't get you out of my head.  I think of
something else, and then, in a moment, there you are again--elusive,
mocking, scornful, tender, all in a breath.  And then, when I find
you're there to stay, I don't try any more. I don't want to think of
anything else."  He leaned across the desk and seized one of her hands
with an ardor which took her by storm.  "You've got into my blood like
wine, Camilla.  To be near you means to reach forward and take you--the
sound of your voice, the response of your eyes, the appeal of your mind
to mine in this wilderness of spirit--I can't deny them--I don't want to
deny them."

Her head sank, but she withdrew her hands. "And my sanity?" she asked
clearly.  "That does not appeal to you."

"Perhaps it does--most of all.  It maddens me, too--that I can't make
you care for me enough to forget yourself."

She looked up at him, smiling gently now.  "It is easy to say forget
myself, that _you_ may have one more frail woman to remember.  Am I so
provincial, Cortland Bent?  Am I really so rustic?  Two days ago you
were telling me I had all the _savoir faire_ of the great lady."

He did not reply to that, but, while she watched him, he got up and
walked slowly over to the map of the United States which hung between
the windows.

"I don't suppose it will mean anything to you when I tell you I'm
going," he said bitterly.

"Going--where?"

"East."

"For long?"

"For good.  I've leased the mine."

She started up from her chair, breathless, and stood poised on the edge
of the platform, the slender fingers of one hand grasping the projecting
edge of the desk.

"You're--going--East to--to stay?"

He did not turn, and, if he noticed any change in her intonation, he
gave no sign of it.

"I've finished here.  The mine is leased.  I'm going back to New York."

"I can't believe--you never told me.  It's curious you shouldn't have
said something before."

"Why should I?  No man likes to admit that he's a failure."

"You've leased the 'Lone Tree'?  To whom?"

"To Wray.  He made me a proposition yesterday. I've accepted it.  In
fact, I'm out of the thing altogether."

"Jeff?  I don't understand.  Why, only yesterday he----"

Was it loyalty to Jeff that made her pause?  He turned quickly.

"What--did he say anything?"

"Oh, nothing--only that the mine was a failure. That seems curious if he
had decided to lease it."

"Oh!" he said smiling, "it's only Wray's way of doing business.  When
anything is hanging fire he always says exactly what he doesn't mean. He
doesn't worry me.  I've gone over that hole with a fine-tooth comb, and
I'm glad to get out of it."

"And out of Mesa City?"  Then, with an attempt at carelessness, "Of
course we'll all miss you," she said dully.

"Don't!  You mustn't speak to me in that way. I've always been pretty
decent to you.  You've never believed in me, but that's because you've
never believed in any man.  I've tried to show you how differently I
felt----"

"By kissing me?" she mocked scornfully.

Bent changed his tone.  "See here, Camilla," he said, "I'm not in a mood
to be trifled with.  I can't go away from here and leave you in this
God-forsaken hole.  There isn't a person here fit for you to associate
with.  It will drive you mad in another year.  Do you ever try to
picture what your future out here is going to be?"

"Haven't I?" bitterly.

"You've seen them out on the ranches, haven't you?  Slabsided, gingham
scarecrows in sunbonnets, brown and wrinkled like dried peaches, moving
all day from kitchen to bedroom, from bedroom to barn, and back
again----"

"Yes, yes," said Camilla, her head in her hands. "I've seen them."

"Without one thought in life but the successes of their husbands--the
hay crop, the price of cattle; without other diversion than the visit to
Kinney, the new hat and frock once a year (a year behind the fashion);
their only companions women like themselves, with the same tastes, the
same thoughts, the same habits----"

"O God!" whispered the girl, laying a restraining hand on his arm,
"don't go on!  I can't stand it."

He clasped her hands in both of his own.

"Don't you see it's impossible?" he whispered. "You weren't made for
that kind of thing.  Your bloom would fade like theirs, only sooner
because of your fineness.  You'd never grow like those women, because it
isn't in you to be ugly.  But you'd fade early."

"Yes," she said, "I know it."

"You can't stay.  I know, just as you know, that you were never meant
for a life like that--you weren't meant for a life like this.  Do you
care what becomes of these kids?  No matter how much chance you give
them to get up in the world, they'll seek their own level in the end."

"No, I can't stay here."  She repeated the phrase mechanically, her gaze
afar.

"I've watched you, Camilla.  I know.  For all your warm blood, you're no
hardy plant to be nourished in a soil like this.  You need environment,
culture, the sun of flattery, of wealth--without them you'll wither----"

"And die.  Yes, I will.  I could not stand this much longer.  Perhaps it
would be better to die than to become the dull, sodden things these
women are."

"Listen, Camilla," he said madly.  He put his arms around her, his
pulses leaping at the contact of her body.  Her figure drooped away from
him, but he felt the pressure of her warm fingers in his, and saw the
veins throbbing at her throat and temples, and he knew that at last she
was awakened. "You must come with me to the East.  I won't go without
you.  I want you.  I want to see you among people of your own sort.
I'll be good to you--so gentle, so kind that you'll soon forget that
there ever was such a place as this."

His tenderness overpowered her, and she felt herself yielding to the
warmth of his entreaty.  "Do you really need me so much?" she asked
brokenly.

His reply was to draw her closer to him and to raise her lips to his.
But she turned her head and would not let him kiss her.  Perhaps through
her mind passed the memory of that other kiss only yesterday.

"No, I'm afraid."

"Of me?  Why?"

"Of myself.  Life is so terrible--so full of meaning.  I'm afraid--yes,
afraid of you, too. Somewhere deep in me I have a conscience.  To-day
you appeal to me.  You have put things so clearly--things I have thought
but have never dared speak of.  To-day you seem to be the only solution
of my troubles----"

"Let me solve them then."

"Wait.  To-day you almost seem to be the only man in the world--almost,
but not quite.  I'm not sure of you--nor sure of myself.  You point a
way to freedom from this--perhaps a worse slavery would await me there.
Suppose I married you----"

"Don't marry me then," he broke in wildly. "What is marriage?  A word
for a social obligation which no one denies.  But why insist on it?  The
real obligation is a moral one and needs no rites to make it binding.  I
love you.  What does it matter whether----"

His meaning dawned on her slowly, and she turned in his arms, her eyes
widening with bewilderment as she looked as though fascinated by the
horror she read in his words.  He felt her body straighten in his arms
and saw that the blood had gone from her face.

"Do I startle you?  Don't look so strangely. You are the only woman in
the world.  I am mad about you.  You know that?  Can't you see?  Look up
at me, Camilla.  There's a girl in the East they want me to marry--of an
old line with money--but I swear I'll never marry her.  Never!"

Slowly she disengaged his arms and put the chair between them.  There
was even a smile on her lips. "You mean--that I--that you----"  She
paused, uncertain of her words.

"That I'll stick to you until Kingdom Come," he assented.

Her laugh echoed harshly in the bare room. "Whether you marry the other
girl or not?"

"I'll never marry the other girl," he said savagely, "never see her
again if you say so----"

He took a step toward her, but she held up her hand as though warding
off a blow.

"One moment," she said, a calm taking the place of her forced gayety,
her voice ringing with a deep note of scorn.  "I didn't understand at
first. Back here in the valley we're a little dull.  We learn to speak
well or ill as we think.  At least, we learn to be honest with
ourselves, and we try to be honest with others.  We do not speak fair
words and lie in our hearts.  Our men have a rougher bark than yours,
but they're sound and strong inside."  She drew herself to her full
height.  "A woman is safe in this country--with the men of this country,
Mr. Bent.  It is only when----"

"Camilla!  Forgive me.  I was only trying you. I will do whatever you
say--I----"

She walked to the door rapidly, then paused uncertainly, leaning against
the door-jamb and looking down the street.

"Will you go?" she murmured.

"I can't--not yet."

"You must--at once.  Jeff Wray is coming here--now!"

"What have I to do with him?"

"Nothing--only if he guesses what you've been saying to me, I won't
answer for him.  That's all."

Bent looked up with a quick smile, and then sat on the nearest desk.  "I
suppose I ought to be frightened.  What?  Jeff is a kind of a 'bad man,'
isn't he?  But I can't go now, Camilla.  Wouldn't be the sporting thing,
you know.  I think I'll stay. Do you mind if I smoke?"

She watched the approaching figure of Jeff for a moment irresolutely and
then turned indoors. "Of course, I can't _make_ you go," she said, "but
I have always understood that when a woman expressed a wish to be alone,
it was the custom of gentlemen----"

"You made my going impossible," he said coolly. "Don't forget that.
I'll go after a while, but I won't run.  You've got something to tell
Jeff Wray.  I prefer to be here when you do it."

"I didn't say I'd tell him," she put in quickly. "I'm not going to tell
him.  Now will you go?"

"No."

He sat on a desk, swinging one long leg to and fro and looking out of
the open door, at which the figure of Jeff presently appeared.  The
newcomer took off his hat and shuffled in uneasily, but his wide stare
and a nod to Bent showed neither surprise nor ill-humor.  Indeed, his
expression gave every sign of unusual content.  He spoke to Bent, then
gazed dubiously toward the teacher's desk, where Camilla, apparently
absorbed in her letter, looked up with a fine air of abstraction,
nodded, and then went on with her writing.

"Looks sort of coolish around here," said Jeff. "Hope I haven't butted
into an Experience Meeting or anything."  He laughed, but Bent only
examined the ash of his cigarette and smiled.  "I thought, Camilla," he
went on, "maybe you'd like to take a ride----"

Miss Irwin looked up.  She knew every modulation of Jeff's voice.  His
tone was quiet--as it had been yesterday--but in it was the same note of
command--or was it triumph?  She glanced at Cortland Bent.

"I'm not riding to-day," she said quietly.

"Not with Bent, either?  That's funny.  What will people think around
here?  We've sort of got used to the idea of seeing you two out
together--kind of part of the afternoon scenery, so to speak. Nothing
wrong, is there?"

Bent flushed with anger, and Camilla marveled at this new manifestation
of Jeff's instinct.  It almost seemed as though he knew what had
happened between them as well as though she had told him.  Jeff laughed
softly and looked from one to the other with his mildest stare, as
though delighted at the discovery.

Miss Irwin rose and put her letter in the drawer of the desk.  "I wish
you'd go--both of you," she said quietly.  But Wray had made himself
comfortable in a chair and showed no disposition to move.

"I thought you might like to ride out to the 'Lone Tree,'" he said.
"You know Mr. Bent has leased it to me?"

"Yes, he told me."

"What else did he tell you?"

"Oh, I say, Wray," Bent broke in, "I don't see how that can be any
affair of yours."

Jeff Wray wrapped his quirt around one knee and smiled indulgently.
"Doesn't seem so, does it, Bent?" he said coolly.  "But it really is.
You see, Camilla--Miss Irwin--and I have been friends a long time--as a
matter of fact, we're sort of engaged----"

"Jeff!" gasped the girl.  The calmness of his effrontery almost, if not
quite, deprived her of speech.  "Even if it were true, you must see that
it can hardly interest----"

"I thought that he might like to know.  I haven't interfered much
between you two, but I've been thinking about you some.  I thought it
might be just as well that Mr. Bent understood before he went away."

Camilla started up, stammered, began to speak, then sank in her chair
again.  Bent looked coolly from one to the other.

"There seems to be a slight difference of opinion," he said.

"Oh, we're engaged all right," Jeff went on. "That's why I thought I'd
better tell you it wouldn't be any use for you to try to persuade
Camilla--that is, Miss Irwin--to go to New York with you."

Jeff made this surprising statement with the same ease with which he
might have dissuaded a client in an unprofitable deal.  Miss Irwin
became a shade paler, Bent a shade darker.  Such intuition was rather
too precise to be pleasant.  Neither of them replied.  Bent, because he
feared to trust himself to speak--Camilla, because her tongue refused
obedience.

"Oh, I'm a pretty good guesser.  Camilla told you she wasn't going,
didn't she?  I thought so. You see, that wouldn't have done at all,
because I'd have had to go all the way East to bring her back again.
When we're married of course----"

"Jeff!"  The girl's voice, found at last, echoed so shrilly in the bare
room that even Wray was startled into silence.  He had not seemed aware
of any indelicacy in his revelation, but each moment added to the
bitterness of Miss Irwin's awakening.  Bent's indignity had made her
hate herself and despise the man who had offered it.  She thought she
saw what kind of wood had been hidden under his handsome veneer--she had
always known what Jeff was made of.  The fibre was there, tough, strong,
and ugly as ever, but it was not rotten.  And in that hour she learned a
new definition of chivalry.

"Jeff, will you be quiet?"  But she went over to him and put her hand on
his shoulder, and her words came slowly and very distinctly, as she
looked over Wray's head into Cortland Bent's eyes.  "What Mr. Wray says
is true.  I intend to marry him when he asks me to."

Bent bowed his head, as Jeff rose, the girl's hand in his.

"I reckon that about winds up all your loose ends around Mesa, don't it,
Bent?" said Jeff cheerfully.  "When are you leaving town?"

[Illustration: "'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 weighed _that_ against
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 for _him_ to 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 explained _that_ misunderstanding."

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.  I _have_ tried.  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 <DW36> 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 canon 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.  There _is_ a 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.  _He_ wants what _I_ have, and _I_ want what _he_ has, 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.


Morning brought regeneration.  The sun shone brightly through her yellow
curtains, and her maid brought with her breakfast tray a note from the
contrite Cortland.


"Forgive me, Camilla.  Forgive me.  Call me selfish, unreasonable,
cruel--anything you like--but don't tell me I shall not see you again.
You will find me a model of all the virtues.  Gladys is calling on you
to-day.  You are coming to the dinner, aren't you?  I will be there--in
a corner somewhere, but I won't bother you.  The night has brought me
patience.  Forgive me.

"C."


Camilla slipped the note among her laces, and when Jeff looked in to
bring her the invitation which had arrived in the morning mail to dine
at the house of Cornelius Bent, she presented a fair face and joyous
countenance.


General Bent's dinners had a way of being ponderous--like himself.  From
soup to coffee the victuals were rich and highly seasoned, the wines
full-bodied; his dishes were heavy, his silver-service massive, his
furniture capacious.  The impression of solidity was further enhanced by
the thick oak paneling, the wide fireplace, and the sumptuous
candelabra.  Many, if not all, of these adjectives might readily be
applied to his men-servants, who had been so long in his employ that the
essentials of their surroundings had been seared into their souls.  The
Bent regime was their religion, the General its high priest, and their
offices components of a ceremony which they observed with impressive
dignity and sedate fervor.

As a rule, the personality of the General's guests did nothing to
detract from the impression of opulence.  They were the heavy men of
affairs, the big men of clubdom, of business, of religion, of politics.
Camilla had been warned of what she must expect, but it was with
feelings of trepidation not far removed from awe that she and Jeff got
down from their taxi under the glow of the porte-cochere before the wide
portal of the great house in Madison Avenue.  Her last admonition to her
husband in the cab had been, "Jeff, don't shuffle your feet!  And don't
say 'ma'am.'  And keep your hands out of your pockets!  If you can't
think of anything to say, don't say it."

Wray only laughed.  He was very much at his ease, for he had convinced
himself downtown that the doors of the Bent establishment would not have
swung so wide had the General not found that Wray's holdings and
influence in the West were matters which some day he would have to
reckon with.

When they arrived they were pleased to discover that there were to be
young people among the guests as well as old.  Three stout, florid
gentlemen, members of the directorate of the Amalgamated Reduction
Company, whom Jeff had met downtown, with their wives, and Mr. and Mrs.
Worthington Rumsen lent their share to the dignity the General required,
but there was a leaven of a younger set in Gladys, his daughter (Mrs.
Bent had died many years before), Cortland, his son, and some others.
Most of the guests were already in the drawing room when the Wrays were
announced.  And Camilla entered a little uncertainly, her eyes
sparkling, seeking her hostess.  There was a subdued masculine murmur of
approval, a raising of lorgnons to aged feminine noses, a general
movement of appreciation.

Camilla was radiant.  Cortland Bent came forward from his corner, slowly
drinking in her loveliness with his eyes.  She was gowned in white and
wore no ornaments.  The slenderness which all women ape was hers without
asking.  Her ruddy hair at the last moment had resisted the arts of the
hair-dresser, and so she wore it as she had always done, in a heavy coil
like a rope of flame.  If she had been pale as she entered, the blood
now flowed quickly--almost too quickly to be fashionable--suffusing her
face and gently warming her splendid throat and shoulders.

"Am I late?" she asked.  "I'm so sorry.  Will you forgive me?"

"You're not late," said her hostess.  "Awfully glad----"

"We're bountifully repaid," put in General Bent gallantly, as he came
forward.  "I'm sure you're quite worth waiting for.  I've been telling
New York for years it had better keep its eyes on the West.  Now I must
warn its women.  How are you, Wray?  You know Warrington--and Janney.
Let me present you, Wray--the Baroness Charny."

Jeff felt himself appraised civilly.

"You are _the_ Mr. Wray?" she asked him.  "The rich Mr. Wray?"

Jeff flushed with pleasure.  Nothing ever tickled him more than a
reference to his possessions.

"I'm Wray--from Colorado.  And you--you know I've never seen a real live
baroness before. So don't mind if I look at you a little.  You see, we
never have anybody like you out our way----"

"I don't mind in the least," she said with a slight accent.  "What did
you think a baroness ought to look like?"

"I had a kind of an idea she was stoutish, wore a crown, and sat in a
big chair all day, ordering people around."

"I'm afraid you read fairy stories.  I don't own a crown, and I might
order people all day, but nobody would pay the least attention to me."

"What a pity," he said soberly.

His ingenuousness was refreshing.

"You know, Mr. Wray, baronesses aren't any more important nowadays than
anybody else. The only barons worth while in the world are the Coal
Barons, the Wheat Barons, the Gold Barons, like you."  And then, "Did
you know that you were to take me in?  Are you glad?"

"Of course," with a vague attempt at gallantry. "I'd take you anywhere
and be proud to."

"Then give me your arm," she laughed.  And they followed the others in
to dinner.  Wray's other neighbor was Mrs. Rumsen, his host's sister.
Camilla had related many tales of her social prowess, and she was really
the only person at the table of whom Jeff stood the least in awe.  Mrs.
Rumsen's nose was aquiline like her brother's, her eyebrows high and
slightly arched, her eyes small and rather close together, as though
nature had intended them for a short but concentrated vision.  She held
her head very erect, and from her great height was enabled without
pretence to look down on all lesser things.  Cortland had described her
as a grenadier, and, as Wray realized that the moment when he must talk
to her was inevitably approaching, he lost some faith in his moods and
tenses.

"Mr. Wray," she began, in a tone which was clearly to be heard the
length of the table, "you have a handsome wife."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawled.  "I'm glad you think so, Mrs. Rumsen."

"A woman with her looks and your money could have the world at her feet
if she wished."

"Yes.  I've told her the same thing.  But I don't think she likes a
fuss.  Why, I sent up a whole carload of hats--all colors, with plumes
and things, but she wouldn't have one of them."

The old lady's deep wrinkles relaxed.

"And diamonds----" he went on.  "She's got half a peck, but I can't get
her to put them on."

Mrs. Rumsen did not reply, only examined him with her small eyes through
her lorgnon.

"You know, Mr. Wray, ever since you came into the room you have been a
puzzle to me.  Your features resemble those of some one I have
known--years ago--some one I have known intimately--curious I can't----"

"Have you ever been West?"

"Oh, yes.  Were your people----?"

"I have no people, Mrs. Rumsen," he said with a quick air of finality.

"Oh!"  She still looked at him wonderingly. "I beg your pardon."  Then
she went on calmly, "You really interest me a great deal.  I have seen
Westerners in New York before--but you're different--I mean," she added,
"the cut of your nose, the lines of your chin, the set of your head on
your shoulders.  I hope you'll forgive an old woman's curiosity."

Jeff bowed politely.  "I'm very much flattered, Mrs. Rumsen."

"You and my brother have business interests in common?"

"Yes, I've a mine--a chain of mines and property interests, including a
control of the Denver and Western Railroad."

She laid a hand impressively on his arm.

"Hold them.  Take my advice and hold them. I know it is a great
temptation to extend your control, to be a big man East and West.  But
don't try it by weakening what you have.  Other men have come here to
set the Hudson afire----"

"Some of them have done it, too, Mrs. Rumsen."

She shrugged.  "What is the use?  You have an empire of your own.  Stay
at home, develop it. Wouldn't you rather be first in Mantua than second
in Rome?"

"I--I'm afraid I don't just take you?"

"I mean, wouldn't you rather be an emperor among your own people than
fetch and carry--as so many others are doing--for Wall Street?"

"That's just the point.  Only the boot is on the other leg.  Wall Street
needs the West.  Wall Street doesn't think so.  It's away behind the
times.  Those people downtown are so stuck on themselves that they think
the whole country is stooping with its ear to the ground listening to
what they're doing.  Why, Mrs. Rumsen, there are men in the West--big
men, too--who think Wall Street is a joke.  Funny, isn't it?  Wall
Street doesn't seem to know that millions of acres of corn, of wheat,
and potatoes keep growing just the same.  Those things don't wait to
hear what Wall Street thinks.  Only God Almighty can make 'em stop
growing.  And as long as they grow, we don't bother much."

She smiled approvingly.

"Then why do you care?"

"Oh, I'm a kind of missionary.  These people downtown are heathen
critters.  They're so ignorant about their own country it almost makes
me ashamed to talk to them."

The last vestige of the grenadier aspect in Mrs. Rumsen had vanished,
and her face dissolved in smiles.

"Heathens!  They are," she laughed delightedly. "Critters--yes,
critters, too.  Splendid!  Have you told Cornelius--my brother--that?"

Wray's truffle stuck in his throat and he gasped, "Good God, ma'am!  No.
You won't tell him, will you?"

"I'd like to," she chuckled.  "But I won't."

Jeff laughed.  "I'm afraid I've put my foot in it.  I'm apt to.  I'm
rather a raw product----"

"Whatever you do, Mr. Wray, don't change. You're positively refreshing.
Anybody can learn to be good form.  It's as simple as a, b, c.  If it
wasn't easy there wouldn't be so many people practising it.  The people
in the shops even adopt our adjectives before they're well out of our
mouths. Hats are 'smart,' when in earlier days they were simply
'becoming.'  Gowns are 'fetching' or 'stunning' that were once merely
'pretty.'  Let a fashionable Englishman wear a short coat with a high
hat to the Horse Show, and every popinjay in town will be doing the same
thing in a week. If you're a raw product, remain so by all means. Raw
products are so much more appetizing than half-baked ones."

"I don't think there's any way to make me any different, Mrs. Rumsen,"
he laughed, "even if I wanted to be.  People will have to take me as I
am.  Your brother has been kind.  It seems as if he had a broader view
of our people than most of the others."

"Don't be too sure.  They're all tarred with the same stick.  It's a
maxim of mine never to put my trust in any person or thing below
Twenty-third Street.  The farther downtown you go, the deeper the
villainy.  You'll find all New Yorkers much the same.  Out of business
hours they are persons of the most exemplary habits, good fathers,
vestrymen in churches, excellent hosts.  In business----" she held up
her hands in mock horror.

"Oh, I know," Wray chuckled.  "But I'm not afraid.  I'm something of a
wolf myself.  Your brother needs me more than I need him.  I think we'll
get along."

"You have everything you want.  Take my advice and keep your money in
the West."

"Thanks.  But I like New York, and I don't want to be idle.  Besides,
there's Camilla--Mrs. Wray, you know."

"Yes, I see.  I can't blame her.  No woman with her looks wants to waste
them on mountain scenery.  I must know her better--and you. She must let
me call on her.  I'm giving a ball later.  Do you think you could come?"

And the great lady turned to her dinner partner.

The Baroness, too, was amiable.  It was her first visit to America.  Her
husband was an attache of an embassy in Washington.  She had not yet
been in the West.  Were all the men big, as Mr. Wray was?

She had a charming faculty of injecting the personal note into her
questions, and before he was aware of it Wray found himself well
launched in a description of his country--the mountains, the plains, the
cowboys.

She had never heard of cowboys.  What were they?  Little cows?

Jeff caught a warning look from Camilla across the table, which softened
his laughter.  He explained, and the Baroness joined in the merriment.
Then he told her that he had been for years a cowpuncher down in Arizona
and New Mexico before he went into business, described the "round-up,"
the grub wagon, and told her of a brush with some Yaqui Indians who were
on the warpath.  When he began, the other people stopped talking and
listened.  Jeff was in his element and without embarrassment finished
his story amid plaudits. Camilla, listening timidly, was forced to admit
that his domination of the table was complete.  The conversation became
general, a thing which rarely happened at the Bent dinners, and Jeff
discovered himself the centre of attention.  Almost unconsciously he
found himself addressing most of his remarks to a lady opposite, who had
listened and questioned with an unusual show of interest.

When the ices were passed he turned to Mrs. Rumsen and questioned.

"Haven't you met her?"  And then, across the table, "Rita--you haven't
met Mr. Wray--Mrs. Cheyne."




                              *CHAPTER VI*

                             *MRS. CHEYNE*


Over the coffee, curiously enough, there seemed to be a disposition to
refrain from market quotations, for General Bent skilfully directed the
conversation into other channels--motoring--aviation--the Horse
Show--the newest pictures in the Metropolitan--and Jeff listened avidly,
newly alive to the interests of these people, who, as Mrs. Rumsen had
said, above Twenty-third Street took on a personality which was not to
be confounded with the life downtown, where he had first met them.  When
Curtis Janney asked him if he rode, Jeff only laughed.

"Oh, yes, of course you do.  One doesn't punch cattle for nothing.  But
jumping is different--and then there's the saddle----"

"Oh, I think I can stay on without going for the leather.  Anyway, I'd
like to try."

"Right-o!" said Janney heartily.  "We've had one run already--a drag.
Couldn't you and Mrs. Wray come out soon?  We're having a few people for
the hunt week after next.  There will be Cortland Bent, Jack Perot, the
Rumsens, the Billy Havilands, Mrs. Cheyne, the Baroness and--if you'll
come along--yourselves."

"Delighted.  I'm sure Camilla will be glad to accept.  We haven't many
engagements."

"I think you've hidden your wife long enough, Mr. Wray.  Does she ride,
too?"

"Like a breeze--astride.  But she wouldn't know what to do on a
side-saddle."

"I don't blame her.  Some of our women ride across.  Gladys, Gretchen,
Mrs. Cheyne----"

"Well," Jeff silently raised his brandy glass in imitation of his
companion, "I'm glad there are a few horses somewhere around here--I
haven't seen any outside of the shafts of a hansom since I left the
West."

"The horse would soon be extinct if it wasn't for Curtis Janney," put in
the General breezily. "Why, he won't even own a motor.  No snorting
devils for him.  Might give his horses the pip or something.  The stable
is worth seeing, though. You're going, aren't you, Wray?"

In the library, later, Wray found Mrs. Cheyne. Until he had come to New
York Wray's idea of a woman had never strayed from Camilla.  There were
other females in the Valley, and he had known some of them, but Camilla
had made any comparison unfortunate.  She was a being living in a sphere
apart, with which mere clay had nothing in common.  He had always
thought of her as he thought of the rare plants in Jim Noakes'
conservatory in Denver, flowers to be carefully nurtured and admired.
Even marriage had made little difference in his point of view.  It is
curious that he thought of these things when he leaned over Mrs. Cheyne.
To his casual eye this new acquaintance possessed many of the
characteristics of his wife. Perhaps even more than Camilla she
represented a mental life of which he knew nothing, contributed more
than her share to the sublimated atmosphere in which he found himself
moving.  They might have been grown in the same conservatory, but, if
Camilla was the Orchid, Mrs. Cheyne was the Poinsettia flower.  And yet
she was not beautiful as Camilla was.  Her features, taken one at a
time, were singularly imperfect.  He was almost ready to admit that she
wasn't even strikingly pretty. But as he looked at her he realized for
the first time in his life the curious fact that a woman need not be
beautiful to be attractive.  He saw that she was colorful and unusually
shapely, and that she gave forth a flow of magnetism which her air of
_ennui_ made every effort to deny.  Her eyes, like her hair, were brown,
but the pupils, when she lifted her lids high enough to show them, were
so large that they seemed much darker.  Her dinner dress, cut straight
across her shoulders, was of black, like the jewelled bandeau in her
hair and the pearls which depended from her ears.  These ornaments,
together with the peculiar dressing of her hair, gave her well-formed
head an effect which, if done in brighter hues, might have been
barbaric, but which, in the subdued tones of her color scheme, only
added to the impression of sombre distinction.

As he approached, she looked up at him sleepily.

"I thought you were never coming," she said.

"Did you?" said Wray, bewildered.  "I--I came as soon as I could, Mrs.
Cheyne.  We had our cigars----"

"Oh, I know.  Men have always been selfish--they always will be selfish.
Cousin Cornelius is provincial to herd the men and women--like
sheep--the ones in one pen, the others in another. There isn't a salon
in Europe--a real salon--where the women may not smoke if they like."

"You want to smoke----"

"I'm famished--but the General doesn't approve----"

Wray had taken out his cigarette case.  "Couldn't we find a spot?"

She rose and led the way through a short corridor to the conservatory,
where they found a stone bench under a palm.

He offered her his case, and she lit the cigarette daintily, holding it
by the very tips of her fingers, and steadying her hand against his own
as Wray would have done with a man's.  Wray did not speak.  He watched
her amusedly, aware of the extraordinary interest with which she
invested his pet vice.

"Thanks," she said gratefully.  Turning toward him then, she lowered her
chin, opened her eyes, and looked straight into his.

"You know, you didn't come to me nearly as soon as I thought you would."

"I--I didn't know----"

"You should have known."

"Why should I----?"

"Because I wanted you to."

"I'm glad you wanted me.  I think I'd have come anyway."

She smiled approvingly.

"Then my efforts were unnecessary."

"Your efforts?"

"Yes, I willed it.  You interested me, you see."

He looked at her quickly.  Her eyes only closed sleepily, then opened
again.

"I'm lucky," he said, "that's sure."

"How do you know?  I may not be at all the kind of person you think I
am."

"I'll take a chance on that--but I wish you'd tell me what made you want
me."

"I was bored.  I usually am.  The Bent parties are so formal and
tiresome.  Everybody always says the same things--does the same things."
She sighed deeply.  "If Cousin Cornelius saw me now I'd be in disgrace.
I wonder why I always like to do the things people don't expect me to."

"You wouldn't be much of a woman if you didn't," he laughed.  "But I
like surprises.  There wouldn't be much in life if you knew what was
going to happen every minute."

"You didn't think I was going to happen then?"

"Er--no.  Maybe I hoped so."

"Well," she smiled, "I have happened.  What are you going to do about
it?"

"Be thankful--mostly.  You seem sort of human, somehow.  You do what you
want to--say what you want----"

"And if I don't get what I want, ask for it," she laughed.  "I told
Gladys it was very inconsiderate of her not to send you in to dinner
with me.  She's always doing that sort of thing.  Gladys lacks a sense
of proportion.  As it is, the evening is almost gone, and we've only
begun."

"I feel as if I'd known you for years," said Jeff heartily.  "That's
funny, too," he added, "because you're so different from any other woman
I've ever known.  You look as if you might have come from a book--but
you speak out like Mesa City."

"Tell me about Mesa City.  You know I was out West last year."

"Were you?  Sure?" eagerly.  "In Colorado?"

"Oh, yes," she said slowly, "but I was living in Nevada."

"Nevada?  That was my old stamping ground. I punched for the Bar Circle
down there.  What part?"

"Reno."

"Oh!"

"I went there for my divorce."

His voice fell a note.  "I didn't know that. I'm awfully sorry you were
so unfortunate.  Won't you tell me about it?"

"There's nothing to tell.  Cheyne and I were incompatible--at least
that's what the lawyers said.  As such things go, I thought we got along
beautifully.  We weren't in the least incompatible so long as Cheyne
went his way and let me go mine. It's so easy for married people to
manage, if they only knew how.  But Cheyne didn't.  He didn't want to be
with me himself--and he didn't want any one else to be.  So things came
to a pretty pass. It actually got so bad that when people wanted either
of us to dinner they had to write first to inquire which of us was to
stay away.  It made a lot of trouble, and the Cheyne family got to be a
bore--so we decided to break it up."

"Was he unkind to you--cruel?"

"Oh, dear, no!  I wish he had been.  Our life was one dreadful round of
cheerful monotony.  I got so tired of the shape of his ears that I could
have screamed.  Yes, I really think," she mused, "that it was his ears."

Wray examined her with his baby-like stare as though she had been a
specimen of ore.  There seemed to be no doubt of the fact that she was
quite serious.

"I'm really sorry for him.  It is--very sad----"

She threw her head back and laughed softly.

"My dear Mr. Wray, your sympathy is touching--he would appreciate it as
much as I do--if he had not already married again."

"Married?  Here in New York?"

"Oh, yes.  They're living within a stone's throw of my house."

"Do you see him?"

"Of course.  I dined with them only last week. You see," and she leaned
toward him with an air of new confidences, "that's only human.  I can't
really give up anything I've once possessed.  You know, I try not to
sell horses that I've liked.  I did sell one once, and he turned up one
morning in a hired brougham.  That taught me a lesson I've never
forgotten.  Now when they outlive their usefulness I turn them out on my
farm in Westchester.  Of course, I couldn't do that to Harold, but I did
the next best thing.  I've satisfied myself that he's properly looked
after--and I'm sure he'll reflect credit on his early training."

"And he's happy?"

"Blissfully so.  It wouldn't be possible for a man to have the
advantages of a training like the one I have given him and not be able
to make a woman happy."

"But he didn't make _you_ happy."

"Me?  Oh, I wasn't made for bondage of any kind. Most women marry
because they're bored or because they're curious.  In either case they
pay a penalty. Marriage provides no panacea.  One only becomes more
bored--with one's own husband--or more curious about other people's
husbands."

"Are you curious?  You don't look as if you cared enough to be curious."

"I do care."  She held her cigarette at arm's length and flicked off its
ash with her little finger. "Mr. Wray, I'll let you into a secret.  A
woman never appears so bored as when she is intensely interested in
something--never so much interested as when she is bored to extinction.
I am curious.  I am trying to learn (without asking you impertinent
questions) how on earth you and Mrs. Wray ever happened to marry."

She tilted her chin impudently and looked down her nose at him, her eyes
masked by her dark lashes, through which it hardly seemed possible that
she could see him at all.  Jeff laughed.  She had her nerve with her, he
thought, but her frankness was amusing.  He liked the way she went after
what she wanted.

"Oh, Camilla--I don't know.  It just happened, I guess.  She's more your
kind than mine. I'm a good deal of a scrub, Mrs. Cheyne.  You see, I
never went to college--or even to high school.  Camilla knows a lot.
She used to teach, but I reckon she's about given up the idea of trying
to teach _me_.  I'm a low-brow all right.  I never read a novel in my
life."

"You haven't missed much.  Books were only meant for people who are
willing to take life at second-hand.  One year of the life you lived on
the range is worth a whole shelf-ful.  The only way to see life is
through one's own eyes."

"Oh, I've seen life.  I've been a cowboy, rancher, speculator, miner,
and other things.  And I've seen some rough times.  But I wouldn't have
worked at those things if I hadn't needed the money.  Now I've got it,
maybe I'll learn something of the romantic side of life."

She leaned back and laughed at him.  "You dear, delicious man.  Then it
has never occurred to you that during all these years you've been living
a romance?"

He looked at her askance.

"And then, to cap it all," she finished, "you discover a gold mine, and
marry the prettiest woman in the West.  I suppose you'll call that
prosaic, too.  You're really quite remarkable.  What is it that you
expect of life after all?"

"I don't know," he said slowly, "something more----"

"But there's nothing left."

"Oh, yes, there is.  I've only tasted success, but it's good, and I like
it.  What I've got makes me want more.  There's only one thing in the
world that really means anything to me--and that's power----"

"But your money----"

"Yes, money.  But money itself doesn't mean anything to me--idle
money--the kind of money you people in New York are content to live on,
the interest on land or bonds.  It's what live, active money can do that
counts with me.  My money has got to keep working the way I work--only
harder.  Some people worship money for what it can buy their bodies.  I
don't.  I can't eat more than three square meals a day.  I want my money
to make the desert bloom--to make the earth pay up what it owes, and
build railroads that will carry its products where they're needed.  I
want it to take the miserable people away from the alleys in your city
slums and put them to work in God's country, where their efforts will
count for something in building up the waste ground that's waiting for
them out there.  Why, Mrs. Cheyne, last year I took up a piece of
desert.  There wasn't a thing on it but rabbit-brush.  Last spring I
worked out a colonization plan and put it through.  There's a town there
now called Wrayville, with five thousand inhabitants, two hotels, three
miles of paved sidewalk, a public school, four factories, and two
newspapers.  All that in six months.  It's a hummer, I can tell you."

As he paused for breath she sighed.  "And yet you speak of romance."

"Romance?  There's no romance in that.  That's just get-up-and-get.  I
had to hustle, Mrs. Cheyne. I'd promised those people the water from the
mountains on a certain date, but I couldn't do it, and the big ditch
wasn't finished.  I was in a bad fix, for I'd broken my word.  Those
people had paid me their money, and they threatened to lynch me.  They
had a mass meeting and were calling me some ugly names when I walked in.
Why they didn't take a shot at me then, I don't know--but they didn't.
I got up on the table, and, when they stopped yelling, I began to talk
to 'em. I didn't know just what to say, but I knew I had to say
something and make good--or go out of town in a pine box.  I began by
telling 'em what a great town Wrayville was going to be.  They only
yelled, 'Where's our water?'  I told them it was coming.  They tried to
hoot me down, but I kept on."

"Weren't you afraid?"

"You bet I was.  But _they_ never knew it.  I tried to think of a reason
why they didn't have that water, and in a moment they began to listen.
I told 'em there was thirty thousand dollars' worth of digging to be
done.  I told 'em it would _be_ done, too, but that I didn't see why
that money should go out of Wrayville to a lot of contractors in Denver.
I'd been saving that work for the citizens of Wrayville.  I was prepared
to pay the highest wages for good men, and, if Wrayville said the word,
they could begin the big ditch to-morrow."

"What did they do?"

"They stopped yelling right there, and I knew I had 'em going.  In a
minute they started to cheer. Before I finished they were carrying me
around the hall on their shoulders.  Phew--but that took some quick
thinking."

Mrs. Cheyne had started forward when he began, and, as he went on, her
eyes lost their sleepy look, her manner its languor, and she followed
him to the end in wonder.  When he stopped, she sank back in her corner,
smiling, and repeated: "Romance? What romance is there left in the world
for a man like you?"

He looked up at her with his baby stare and then laughed awkwardly.
"You're making fun of me, Mrs. Cheyne.  I've been talking too much, I
reckon."

She didn't reply at once, and the look in her eyes embarrassed him.  He
reached for his cigarette case, offered it to her, and, when she
refused, took one himself, lit it slowly, gazing out of the transom
opposite.

"I hope I haven't tired you, Mrs. Cheyne.  It's dangerous to get me
talking about myself.  I never know when to stop."

"I don't want you to stop.  I've never been so entertained in my life.
I don't believe you know how interesting you are."

He turned toward her, embarrassed and still incredulous.  "You're very
kind," he muttered.

"You mustn't be so humble," she broke in sharply.  "You weren't so a
minute ago.  I like you best when you are talking of yourself."

"I thought I'd like to talk about you."

She waved a hand in deprecation.  "Me?  Oh, no.  We can't come to earth
like that.  Tell me another fairy tale."

"Fairy tale?  Then you don't believe me?"

"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I believe you, but to me they're fairy tales
just the same.  It seems so easy for you to do wonderful things.  I wish
you'd do some conjuring for me."

"Oh, there isn't any magic business about me. But I'll try.  What do you
want most?"

She put an elbow on her knee and gazed at the blossom in her fingers.
Her voice, too, fell a note.

"What I think I want most," she said slowly, "is a way out of this."
She waved the blossom vaguely in the direction of the drawing room.
"I'm sick of it all, of the same tiresome people, the same tiresome
dinners, dances, teas.  We're so narrow, so cynical, so deeply enmeshed
in our small pursuits.  I'm weary--desperately weary of myself."

"You?"

"Yes."  And then, with a short, unmirthful laugh, "That's my secret.
You didn't suspect it, did you?"

"Lord! no."  And after a pause, "You're unhappy about him?"

"Cheyne?  Oh, no.  He's the only thing I am happy about.  Have you ever
been really bored, Mr. Wray?"

"Never.  I never even heard the word until I came to New York."

"Have you ever been so tired that your body was numb--so that if you
struck it a blow you were hardly conscious of it, when you felt as if
you could go to sleep and never want to wake up?  Well, that's the
condition of my mind.  It's so tired of the same impressions that it
fails to make note of them; the people I see, the things I do, are all
blurred and colorless like a photograph that has been taken out of
focus.  The only regret I have when I go to sleep is that I have to wake
up again."

"My dear Mrs. Cheyne----"

"Oh, I'm not morbid.  I'm too bored to be morbid even.  I don't think
I'm even unhappy. It takes an effort to be unhappy.  I can't tell you
what the matter is.  One drifts.  I've been drifting a long time.  I
think I have too much money.  I want to _want_ something."

"Don't you ever want anything you can't have?"

She sat upright, and her voice, instead of drawling languidly, came in
the quick accents of discovery. "Yes, I do.  I've just found out.
You've actually created a new interest in life.  Won't you be nice to
me?  Come and see me often and tell me more fairy tales."




                             *CHAPTER VII*

                               *BRAEBANK*


"I can't see, Curtis," said Mrs. Janney, in the smoking room, "why you
chose to ask those vulgar Wrays to Braebank.  It almost seems as if you
were carrying your business relationships too far.  The woman is pretty
enough, and I dare say her easy Western ways will be attractive to the
masculine portion of your guests. But the man is impossible--absolutely
impossible! He does not even use correct English, and his
manners--atrocious!"

The palms of the good lady's hands, as she raised them in her righteous
wrath, were very pink on the inside, like the petals of rosebuds.  They
were sheltered hands, very soft and plump, and their fingers bore many
large and expensive jewels. Mrs. Janney was made up wholly of convex
curves, which neither art nor starvation could deflect.  The roundness
of her face was further accented by concentric curves at brows, mouth,
and chin, which gave the impression of a series of parentheses.  It
would not be stretching the figure too far to add that Mrs. Janney, in
most of their few affiliations, bore a somewhat parenthetical relation
to her husband. Her life, as well as her conversation, was made up of
"asides," to which Curtis Janney was not in the habit of paying the
slightest attention.  Her present remarks, however, seemed to merit a
reply.

"My dear Amelia," he said, tolerantly, from his easy chair, "when we
were first married you used to say that all a man needed to make his way
in New York was a dress suit and a smile.  Wray has both.  Besides, it
is quite necessary to be on good terms with him.  As for his wife, I
have rarely seen a girl who created such an agreeable impression.
Cornelius Bent has taken them up.  He has his reasons for doing so.  So
have I.  I'll trouble you, therefore, to be civil."

He got up and put down his cigar, and Mrs. Janney shrugged her shoulders
into a more pronounced convexity.

"I won't question your motives, Curtis, though, of course, I know you
have them.  But I don't think we can afford to jeopardize our standing
by always taking up new people like the Wrays.  The man is vulgar--the
woman, provincial."

Mr. Janney by this time had taken up the telephone and was ordering the
wagons to the station.

"Why, Gretchen, dear!  You're late.  It's almost train time."  Miss
Janney entered in riding clothes from the terrace, bringing traces of
the fine November weather.  She was a tall, slender girl of the athletic
type, sinuous and strong, with a skin so firm and ruddy from the air
that it glowed crisply as though shot with mica.

"Is it, mother?  Cortland and I had _such_ a wonderful ride.  He is
really quite the nicest man in the world.  Aren't you, Cort?"

"Of course I am," said Bent, laughing, as he entered, "anything Gretchen
says.  That's because I never made love to her, isn't it, Gretchen?"

"Partly.  Love is so silly.  You know, daddy, I've given Cort his
_conge_."

Janney turned testily.  "What nonsense you children talk!"

"I mean it, though, daddy," she went on calmly. "I'm too fond of Cort
ever to think of marrying him.  We settled that still more definitely
to-day. Since you were so inconsiderate, you two, as to neglect to
provide me with a brother, I've adopted Cort."

"Really, Gretchen, you're getting more hopeless every day," sighed her
mother.  "What does Cortland say?"

"I?" laughed Bent.  "What is there left for me to say?  We're hopelessly
friendly, that's all.  I'm afraid there's nothing left but to take to
drink. May I?"

He lifted the decanter of Scotch and poured himself a drink, but Janney,
with a scowl in the direction of his daughter, left the room.

"You mustn't speak so heartlessly, dear," said Mrs. Janney.  "You know
it always makes your father angry.  You must be patient with her,
Cortland."

"I am," said that gentleman, helping himself to a cigarette.  "I'm the
soul of patience, Mrs. Janney.  I've pleaded and begged.  I've even
threatened suicide, but all to no purpose.  There's no satisfaction in
shooting one's self on account of a girl who's going to laugh at your
funeral."

He threw himself hopelessly into a big English chair and sighed
exuberantly, while Gretchen gave him a reproachful look over her
mother's shoulder. "My poor boy, don't give her up," said the lady,
genuinely.  "All will come right in time, I'm sure. You must be sweeter
to him, Gretchen.  You really must."

"I suppose I must," said Gretchen with an air of resignation.  "I'll not
be any more cruel than I can help."

When the good lady left the room they looked at each other for a moment,
and then burst into shameless laughter.

"Poor mother!  She never had a sense of humor. I wouldn't laugh at your
funeral, though, Cort. That was unkind.  You know, I'm afraid father is
very much provoked."

Bent's laughter died, and he gazed at the ash of his cigarette.  "He's
really quite serious about it, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes.  It's an awful nuisance, because, in his way, he has a will as
strong as mine."

Bent smiled.  "I'm glad I'm not in his boots. You're fearfully stubborn,
Gretchen."

"Because I insist on marrying whom I choose?"

"Because you insist on not marrying me."

Miss Janney sank in a chair by the table, fingering the pages of a
magazine.  She said nothing in reply, but in a few moments spoke
carelessly.

"Tell me something about Lawrence Berkely, will you?"

"Larry?  You've only met him once.  Your curiosity is indecent."

"You know he's coming here with the Wrays."

"Not really?  That's going a bit strong.  I don't think I'll stand for
that."

"Oh, yes, you will.  He's quite as good as we are.  He belongs to _the_
Berkelys of Virginia. Mrs. Rumsen knows them."

"That's convincing.  Any one Aunt Caroline knows will need no card to
Saint Peter.  Oh, Larry's all right.  But I warn you not to fall in love
with him."

"That's precisely what I've done," she asserted.

He glanced at her amusedly, but she met his look coolly.

"It's true, Cort.  He's actually the only man I've met since I came out
who really isn't eligible.  I'm so delighted.  Of course, father would
never have permitted it if he'd only known that Mr. Berkely wasn't rich.
He hasn't much use for poor people. Oh, he's well enough off, I suppose,
as Mr. Wray's partner, but then he doesn't own any of that fabulous gold
mine."

"How do you know all these things?"

"He told me.  Besides, he's terribly good looking, and has had something
the matter with his lungs."

"Well, of all the----"

"That's why he's been living in the West.  But he's quite well now.
Isn't it splendid?  I only hope he'll like me.  Don't you think he has
wonderful eyes?"

"I'm sure I never noticed.  See here, Gretchen, you're talking rot.  I'm
going to tell your father."

"Oh, I don't care," airily.  "But if you do, I'll tell Mr. Wray."

"Wray?"

"Yes--that you're in love with his wife."

Miss Janney exploded this bombshell casually while she removed her hat,
watching him carefully meanwhile in the mirror.  If she had planned her
coup, she could not have been more fully rewarded, for Cortland started
up, clutching at the chair arms, his face aghast; but when his eyes met
hers in the mirror he sank back again, laughing uneasily.

"What--who on earth put that silly idea into your head?"

"You--yourself.  I watched you at the Warringtons."

"What nonsense!  I've known Camilla a long time."

"Not so long as you've known me.  And you never looked at me like that."
She laid her hat beside her crop on the table, then turned quickly and
put her hand over his on the chair arm.  "You may trust me, Cortland,
dear.  If I'm going to be your sister, I may as well begin at once.
It's true, isn't it?"

He remained silent a long while, his gaze fixed on the open fire before
him.  Then at last he turned his hand over so that his fingers clasped
hers.  "Yes," he whispered, "it's true, Gretchen.  It's true."

"I'm so sorry, Cort," she murmured.  "I suspected from your letters.  I
wish I might have helped you.  I feel somehow that I am to blame--that
we ever got engaged.  Won't you tell me how it happened that she married
him--instead of you?"

"No, no," he said, rising and walking to the window.  "She--she married
Wray--because--because she loved him, that's all.  I wasn't the man."

Gretchen watched him wistfully, still standing beside the chair he had
vacated, full of the first deep sympathy she had ever known.  Slowly she
walked over and put her hand timidly on his shoulder.

"You'll forgive me, won't you, Cort?  I wouldn't have spoken if I had
known how deeply you felt."  She turned aside with a bitter little
laugh.  "Isn't it queer that life should be so full of complications?
Everybody expects you and me to marry each other--at least, everybody
but ourselves, and we won't because--why is it that we won't?  Chiefly
because everybody expects us to--and because it's so easy.  I'm sure if
there was any reason why we shouldn't marry, I'd love you quite madly.
Instead of which, you're in love with a married woman, and I--I'm
interested in a youth with sad romantic eyes and an impaired breathing
apparatus."

"Gretchen, don't be silly," he said, smiling in spite of himself.

"I'm really serious--you'll see."  She stopped and clutched Bent's arm.
"Tell me, Cort.  He's not married already, is he?"

"You silly child.  Not that I know of.  Berkely is a conscientious sort
of a bird--he wouldn't have let you make love to him----"

"I _didn't_," with dignity, "we talked about the weather mostly."

"That must have been romantic."

"Cort, I'll not speak to you again."  She rushed past him to the window,
her head erect.  Outside was the whirr of an arriving motor.  "How
tiresome. Here come the Billy Havilands," she said, "and they'll want to
be playing 'Auction' at once.  They always do.  As if there was nothing
but 'Bridge' in the world!"  She sniffed.  "I wish we were going to be
fewer in number.  Just you and I and----"

"And Larry?"

"Yes--and Mrs. Wray," she put in viciously.

Curtis Janney was already in the big stair hall to welcome the arrivals.

"Billy--Dorothy--welcome!  Of course you had to bring your buzz-wagon.
I suppose I'll be driven to build a garage some day--but it will be well
down by the East Lodge.  Do you expect to follow in that thing?  Rita!
Awfully glad.  Your hunter came over last night.  He looks fit as a
fiddle. Aren't you cold?  Gretchen, dear, ring for tea."

Noiseless maids and men-servants appeared, appropriated wraps and hand
baggage, and departed.

"We timed it nicely," said Haviland, looking at his watch.  "Forty-seven
from the ferry.  We passed your wagons a moment ago.  Gretchen, who's
the red-haired girl with the Rumsens?"

"_Et tu, Brute_?  That's Mrs. Wray.  None of us has a chance when she's
around.  Here they are now."

The two station wagons drew up at the terrace, and the guests
dismounted.  Mr. and Mrs. Rumsen with the Wrays in the station wagon,
and the Baroness Charny, the Warringtons, Jack Perot, and Lawrence
Berkely in the 'bus.

"Well, Worthy!  Got here after all!  Caroline, Mrs. Wray, would you like
to go right up or will you wait for tea?  Wray, there's something
stronger just inside.  Show him, won't you, Billy?"

Wray entered the big hall with a renewed appreciation of the utility of
wealth.  The houses in New York which he had seen were, of course, built
upon a more moderate scale.  He had still to discover that the men of
wealth were learning to make their week-ends out of town longer, and
that the real home-life of many of them had been transferred to the
country, where broad acres and limitless means enabled them to gratify
their tastes in developing great estates which would hand down their
names in the architectural history of the country when their city houses
should be overwhelmed and lost in the march of commerce.  Curtis Janney,
for all his great responsibilities, was an open-air man, and he took a
real delight in his great Tudor house and stables.  The wide entrance
hall which so impressed Jeff was designed in the ripe Palladian manner
which distinguished the later work of the great Inigo Jones.  This lofty
room was the keynote of the building--a double cube in shape, the
staircase which led from the centre opposite the door ornate in a
character purely classic--the doorways to the other rooms on the same
floor masterful in structural arrangement and elegant in their grace and
simplicity.  It almost seemed as though the room had been designed as a
framework for the two wonderful Van <DW18>s which were placed at each side
of the stairway.

Jeff smiled as he walked into the smoking room--the smile of possession.
He realized, as never before, that taste, elegance, style, were things
which could be bought with money, as one would buy stock or a piece of
real estate.  The only difference between Curtis Janney and himself was
that his host had an ancestor or two--while Jeff had none.

Miss Janney had quietly and cleverly appropriated Lawrence Berkely and
was already on her way to the conservatory.  Jack Perot, who painted the
portraits of fashionable ladies, had taken the Baroness to the Long
Room, where the English pictures were hung.  Camilla, after a few polite
comments on the dignity of the house, sat a little aside in silence.
Cortland Bent, after a glance toward the door through which Miss Janney
had vanished, dropped into the vacant chair beside her.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said genuinely. "You know the magnificence
is rather bewildering."  She paused and lowered her voice.  "It seems as
if I hadn't seen you for ages."

"Yes," he murmured.  "I'm expecting wings any day now.  I'm almost too
good to be true."

"You're an angel," she smiled.  "I want you to be good, and I'm sure I
want you to be true.  And yet"--she paused--"this seems the only case in
the world where to be true is to be bad."

"You can't make the sun stop shining."

"I don't think I want it to stop shining altogether. You see, I'm
selfish.  I want it under a cloud, that's all."

There was a pause--significant to them both.

"I am trying, Camilla.  I am doing my best. You appreciate that?"

"Yes, but it shouldn't be so hard.  I don't think it would be hard for
me in your place!"

His eyes questioned.

"Miss Janney--she is adorable."  She looked over the rim of her cup at
him as she finished her tea.  "My dear Cort," she laughed, as she handed
it to him, "the best I can say for you is that you have the worst taste
in the world.  I'm really in love with her myself.  I can't see what you
could have been thinking of----"

"Any more than _I_ can see what _you_ were thinking of."

There was a refuge from the danger toward which she felt herself
drifting, and she took it, addressing her nearest neighbor.

"Mrs. Cheyne, don't you think men have abominable taste?"

"Oh, yes, abominable," laughed the lady.  "Ugh! I hate mustaches, too,
don't you?"

Camilla turned a shade rosier, but her discomfiture was lost in the
laughter of those who remembered that Cheyne had worn a beard.

"You know I didn't mean just that," explained Camilla.  "I meant their
appreciation of women--their sense of the esthetic----"

"Anesthetic, Mrs. Wray.  That's the only word for a man's perceptions.
A French frock, a smart hat, a little deft color, and the plainest of us
is a match for the gayest Lothario.  They're only bipeds, instincts on
legs----"

"Oh, I say now, Rita," laughed Bent.

"We can't stand for that, Mrs. Cheyne," put in their host.  "I suppose
you'd think me ungallant if I asked you what kind of instincts women
were."

"Instincts with wings," she purred, "angels by intuition, rhapsodists by
occupation, and sirens by inheritance.  We're not in the least afraid of
you, Mr. Janney."

"I should think not.  For my part, if I knew that one of you was camping
on my trail, I'd give in at once."

"I'm so glad.  It's a pet theory of mine that when a woman really sets
her cap for a man he had better give up at once, for she will win
him--fortune favoring--in the end.  Don't you agree, Mrs. Wray?"

"I've never thought about it, Mrs. Cheyne," said Camilla slowly.  "By
fortune you mean propinquity?"

"Oh, yes--and other things----" laughingly. "For instance, if I had
fallen in love with a man I shouldn't stop to consider.  If he was
another woman's husband--say _your_ husband, Mrs. Wray--that would only
add a new element of interest. The more difficult an undertaking, the
greater satisfaction in the achievement."

Camilla looked at her steadily for a moment.  "I've never thought that
any man ought to be dignified by such extraordinary effort. A husband so
easily won away is not worth keeping."

The two women had only met once before.  They both smiled, sweetly
tolerant, their weapons politely sheathed.  Only Cortland Bent, who knew
the hearts of both, sensed the difference between them.

"You're very flattering, Rita," he broke in, "especially to the bipeds.
You've carefully deprived us of every attribute but legs.  But we still
have those--and can run."

"But you don't," laughed Mrs. Cheyne. "That's just the point.  You like
the game--all of you.  Even your legs aren't proof against flattery."

"Stop, Rita," put in Betty Haviland.  "You're letting out all the
secrets of the craft."

"Come, Camilla," said Cortland, rising, "wouldn't you like to see the
horses and dogs?  It's not nearly dark yet."

"Oh, yes," she cried gladly.  And then to her host, "What am I to
expect, Mr. Janney, silver feed troughs and sterilized water?"

"Oh, no," said their host, "not yet.  But they're worth it."

The pair made their way through the library and a small corridor which
led to the south portico.

"How do you like my cousin Rita?" Bent asked when they were alone
outside.

"Is she your cousin?"

"Through my mother--the Davidges.  Quite wonderful, eh?"

"I don't like her.  You don't mind my saying so, do you?"

"Not in the least.  She's not your sort, Camilla. But then nobody ever
takes Rita seriously.  She doesn't want them to.  She's a spoiled
darling. Everybody pets her.  That bored kind of cleverness is
effective--but everybody knows she doesn't mean half she says."

"I'd be sorry to think she meant anything she says," severely.

Bent laughed.  "I'm afraid you're too sincere for my crowd, Camilla."

"Who is Mr. Cheyne?" she asked suddenly.

"A perfectly amiable person with a bald head and a passion for
domesticity and music, both of which Rita affects to despise."

"Why did she marry him then?"

"Nobody knows.  It was one of the marriages that weren't made in Heaven,
that's all."

"Few marriages are, but they're none the less binding because of that."

"Yes, I know," he said soberly.

She recognized the minor note and turned the subject quickly.

"What a heavenly spot!  These are the stables, of course.  And the
buildings beyond?"

"The kennels.  Mr. Janney has his own pack--corking hounds.  They've
been breeding this strain a long while in England.  I suppose they're as
good as any in the world."

"I'm wild to see them."

The head groom met them at the door of the carriage house and showed
them through.  The much despised touring car of the Havilands occupied a
negligible part of the great floor.  The coach, brake, carryall, station
wagons, victoria, runabouts, and brake-carts--all in royal blue with
primrose running-gear--looked down with an old-fashioned dignity and
disapprobation on this product of a new civilization.  The paneled walls
of the room were covered with sporting prints, and the trophy room, with
its cabinets of cups and ribbons, bore eloquent testimony to Curtis
Janney's success at horse shows in every large city of the country. In
the stables Camilla lost all sense of restraint.  A stable had never
meant anything like this.  The cement floors were spotless, and the long
line of stalls of polished wood with brass newels and fittings shone
like the silver in the drawing room.  The mats and blankets were of
blue, and each bore the monogram of the owner in yellow.

"These are the coach and carriage horses, Camilla," Bent explained.

"Yes, ma'am," put in the groom.  "The hunters are here," and he led the
way to the box stalls.

"Where is Mackinaw?  Mr. Janney promised him to me for to-morrow."

"Oh, Mackinaw is right here, ma'am.  And a fine bit of flesh he is."  He
went in and threw off the blanket, while Camilla followed.  "Not a
blemish. He'll take his four rails like they was two.  Just give him his
head, and you won't be far off when they kill."

"Oh, what a darling!  I'm wild to get on him.  Is he gentle?"

She patted him on the neck, and he nosed her pocket for sugar.  One by
one she saw them all, and they reached the kennels in time for the
evening meal.

"Oh, well," she sighed as they turned back toward the house, "I'm almost
reconciled to riches.  One could live in a place like this and forget
there was anything else in the world."

"Yes, perhaps some people might," he said significantly.  "I couldn't,
even if I wanted to.  The only real joy in life is the memory of
Saguache Peak at sunset."

"Sunsets pass--they're symbols of the brevity of things beautiful----"

"But the night is long," he murmured.  "So long, and so dark."




                             *CHAPTER VIII*

                              *THE BRUSH*


Jeff Wray was learning many things. The arrival of Lawrence Berkely on
the scene had at first seemed rather alarming. Several wires in cipher
before Larry reached New York had apprised Jeff of an uncertain state of
mind in members of the directorate of the Denver and Western Railroad
Company.  Collins, Hardy, and even Jim Noakes had been approached by
representatives of the Chicago and Utah with flattering offers for their
interests in the D. & W., and Berkely reported them on the horns of a
dilemma. Collins and Hardy were big owners of land which lay along the
trunk line and were dependent on that company for all facilities for
moving their wheat and other crops.  It had not always been easy to get
cars to haul their stuff to market, and this fall they only got their
hay and potatoes in by a dispensation from the men higher up.  Noakes,
as Jeff well knew, owned stock in the through line, but the showing of
the Saguache Mountain Development Company for the year had been so
strong that he had felt sure his associates would see the importance of
keeping their interests intact, temporizing, where they could, with the
Denver crowd, who had it in their power to threaten his connections at
Saguache.

Mulrennan was wiring Jeff, too--copiously.  There was an election
pending in Kinney, and the Denver crowd had advanced a candidate for
judge in opposition to the party with which Pete was affiliated.  Other
reports both in New York and from the West indicated a strong pressure
from the East on the officers of the D. & W.  Berkely viewed all these
indications of a concerted movement against Jeff's railroad with
increasing dismay and lost no time in giving him his opinion as to the
possible outcome of the raid.

But Jeff apparently was losing no sleep over the situation.  He was
fully aware that the whole movement had originated in New York, and that
Cornelius Bent and his crowd were back of it.  He knew, too, that the
Amalgamated Reduction Company wanted his new smelter.  Long ago he had
foreseen this possibility and had laid his own plans accordingly.  The
Denver and Saguache was his.  With Noakes, Collins, and Hardy, he had a
control of the Denver and Western, but their possible defection, which
he had also foreseen, had made other plans necessary.  Three months
before he came East he had unobtrusively secured through other persons a
right of way from Saguache to Pueblo, a distance of one hundred and
twenty miles.  The line of this survey was well to the southward and
would open up a country occupied only by small settlers under the
Homestead laws.  He had turned the organization of the Development
Company loose for two months on that vast tract of land, and had, at a
reasonably small expense, secured by purchase or long-time options the
most valuable land along his new line.  His engineers were Germans,
imported for the work, who had no affiliations with other roads, and his
plans had so far worked out to a T.  He had also worked out (on paper)
an irrigation scheme for the whole proposition.

At Pueblo the new road would connect with the Denver and California, a
line which had no connection with the Chicago and Utah, and which had
even been recently engaged in a rate war with the other roads to the
coast.  Its officers were friendly, and Wray's plans had all been worked
out in their confidence and with their approval.  Indeed, a good part of
his backing had been furnished by capitalists in San Francisco.

Jeff felt sure that the first move to capture the D. & W. was only a
bluff, and in his conferences with General Bent, Janney, and McIntyre,
had played a waiting game.  The "Daisy" was now a producer--not a
producer like the "Lone Tree"--but it was paying, and the "Comet," a new
prospect that had been opened farther south, was doing a business of a
hundred to the ton.  His stamps were working night and day, and the
smelter was doing its share in Wray's triumphant progress.  All his
other plans were working out, and the longer he could wait the more
formidable he could make himself as an adversary.  He knew that the crux
of the situation was the ambition of the Amalgamated Reduction Company.
They controlled every smelting concern in three states, and Wray's big
plant was a thorn in their side.  By waiting, Jeff hoped that he could
make them show their hands, so he made no attempt to force an issue,
being content to play the part they themselves had assigned him. Their
hospitality, his welcome into their exclusive set, his use of their
clubs (to two of which he had been proposed for membership), the
business associations they were planning for him, did little to convince
Jeff of the sincerity of their attentions.  But he acted the dupe with a
good grace, with one eye to windward, greatly amused at their
friendliness, which, while it failed to flatter, gave him an increasing
sense of the importance of his mission. General Bent had intimated that
within a week or so he would be in a position to make a definite
proposition for his railroad, which, of course, meant the absorption of
Wray's plant into the Trust. Financially, there were great possibilities
in a friendly association with these men.

They were closely in touch with No. -- Broadway and, if they chose,
could point the way to power such as he had never dreamed of.  But in
his heart he mistrusted them.  He thought of Mrs. Rumsen's words of
warning, and he knew that what she said was true.  They would not spare
him if he offered them a chance which would give them a command of the
situation.  Well, they hadn't command of it yet, and he knew he held
some cards which they had never seen.  If they continued to weave their
web as they had begun it, there would still be time to side-step.

Meanwhile, he gave himself up to a thorough enjoyment of the situation.
There was nothing he liked better than a fight, and the fact that his
adversaries were formidable lent a zest to the situation.  He reassured
Larry, sent a lot of wires to Mulrennan, took a few successful flyers in
the stock market (which went to show that his luck had not yet turned),
and spent his leisure moments in a riding school uptown going over the
jumps with Camilla.

Curtis Janney's dinner table held nothing in common with General Bent's.
The viands were well cooked but not heavy; the wines of a lighter
variety, dry, for the most part, and sparkling; the service deft and
dignified but not austere.  The table decorations were not made up of
set-pieces from the florists', but came from Janney's own conservatories
and were more in the way of  embroideries against the damask
cloth.  General conversation was, therefore, continuous, and every
person at this table could see and be seen by every other.  The
formality of the city seemed to be banished by common consent, and
Camilla, who went in with Cortland Bent (a mischievous dispensation of
Miss Janney), felt very much at home in the frank, friendly atmosphere.
Almost all the conversation, she discovered, was of the "horsey"
variety, at least at Camilla's end of the table, where their host
presided, and, as she had never ridden to hounds before, she seized the
opportunity to acquaint herself with the interesting details of the
morning which awaited her.

The Sunnybrook Hunt Club, she learned, was only a mile away, but on
certain days the Braebank hounds were used and members of the Hunt Club
living in the vicinity added their numbers to the field.  There were
plenty of foxes, Mr. Janney assured her, and to-morrow they were to draw
a cover over toward the Chelten Hills.  Mrs. Cheyne, she heard, was
thought to be the best horsewoman in the county.  Her own country-place
was but five miles away, and, in spite of her boasted love of ease, she
was to be found at every Meet in the season, no matter how early the
hour.  To-morrow was to be one of the big days of the year, Mr. Janney
informed Camilla, and all the farmers over whose fields they hunted were
invited to lunch after the Meet, in the Long Gallery.

So when, in the early morning, after a light breakfast, Mr. Janney's
guests met on the terrace, it was with a feeling of intense interest and
excitement that Camilla drew on her gloves and joined them. Of the men,
Curtis Janney, Worthington Rumsen, and Billy Haviland wore the pink
coats with gray facings of Sunnybrook, while their host wore in addition
the velvet cap which distinguished him as Master of the Hounds.  The
hounds were already loose on the great lawn, while the Huntsman and
Whippers-in rode among them.  The sun had not yet risen, and the heavy
frost which lay upon the lawns caught the chill greenish opalescent
tints of the dawn. Mrs. Cheyne was already in the saddle, her hunter, a
lean, rangy boy, pirouetting and mouthing his bits, eager to be off.
The Baroness Charny, dainty and very modish in a dark green habit and
silk hat, was chatting gaily with Larry Berkely while a groom adjusted
her stirrup-leather.  Mrs. Haviland, Wray, Perot, and her host were
waiting for their horses, which the men were bringing up from the
stables.  Curtis Janney came forward gaily when Camilla appeared.

"We're all here, Mrs. Wray," he greeted her. "The others will meet us at
the Chelten Crossroads.  Your horse is ready," and then, with a glance
at her habit, "You're riding across, I believe?"

She nodded.  "What a heavenly morning!"

"The conditions are perfect.  This white frost will soften at sun-up.
We'll have a fine run.  Won't you let me help you mount?"

They were all in the saddle in a few moments and, walking their horses,
with the Huntsman and hounds in the lead, were soon on their way past
the big entrance gates.  Camilla saw Jeff draw his horse alongside that
of Mrs. Cheyne and realized that the few days during which Lawrence
Berkely had been in the city had done much for her husband's appearance.
She saw the look and heard the laugh with which Mrs. Cheyne greeted her
husband and experienced, in spite of herself, a sense of annoyance that
Jeff continually showed a preference for her company to that of any of
the other women of the party.  She knew that in her heart it made no
difference to her into whose hands Jeff entrusted himself.  Mrs.
Cheyne's languid air of patronage had provoked her, and her pride
rebelled at the thought of any slight, however thoughtless, at the hands
of her husband.  But as Cortland Bent came alongside of her, she
realized that the friendly relations of her husband and his feminine
partner might progress far on extravagantly sentimental lines and still
provide no just cause for complaint.

If Mrs. Cheyne had any mental reservations, her graceful back gave no
sign of them.  She sat her horse squarely, even a little stiffly, which
brought into contrast the easy, rather slouchy seat which Jeff had
learned on the plains.  But Wray was in his element.  On a horse, at
least, he felt himself the equal of any one in the party and need ask no
favors or give any.  He examined Mrs. Cheyne's costume curiously.  Her
long coat was a mere subterfuge, for beneath it she wore white breeches
like his own and patent leather boots.  Her hair was done in a compact
mass on the back of her head, and her hat was held in place by a strong
elastic band.  The shoulders of her coat were square and her manner
easy.  He recalled the flowing feminine lines of her costume at dinner
the night before, and it seemed difficult to appreciate that she was the
same person with whom he had talked so late in the smoking room.

"Am I a freak?" she asked amiably, "or is there a hiatus somewhere?  I
dressed in a tearing hurry--without a maid."

"Oh, no.  Only you're another kind of a person--on the back of a horse."

"Am I?  How?"

"Last night you were all woman.  You and I are making friends pretty
fast, but I was a little afraid of you."

"Why?"

"You're different at night, so sleepy and handsome, like a rattler in
the sun, the kind you hate to wake up but must, to see how far he'll
strike."

She laughed.  "I don't know whether I like that or not.  And yet I think
I do.  How am I different to-day?"

"To-day you're only part woman.  The rest of you is just kid.  If it
wasn't for that knot of hair I'd take you for a boy--a very nice,
good-looking boy."

She looked up at him mischievously.  "You know you have a faculty of
saying unpleasant things very pleasantly.  I'm glad I look youthful.  My
only horror is of growing old.  I don't think I like the idea of your
thinking me anything unfeminine."

He glanced frankly at her protruding knee.  "I don't.  Most of you is
woman all right--but you don't scare me half as much this morning."

"Why should you be scared?  You haven't struck me as being a man who
could be scared at anything."

"Not out here, but inside--in the drawing room--you've got me at a
disadvantage.  I'm new to soft speeches, low lights, and the way you
Eastern women dress.  There's too much glamor.  I never know whether you
mean what you say or whether it's all just a game--and I'm _It_."

She threw back her head and laughed with a full throat.

"You dear, delicious, impossible creature!  Don't you know that the
world is a tangle of illusions, and that you and I and everybody else
were made to help keep them tangled?  Nobody ever means what he says.
Half of the joy in life consists in making people think you different
from what you are."

"Which are you?  The kid on the horse or the woman--back there--last
night?"

"Do you think I'll tell you?"

"No, I suppose not.  And it wouldn't help me much if you're going to lie
about it--I mean," he corrected, "if you're trying to keep me guessing."

"My poor, deluded friend, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.  So
what's the use.  For the present," she added defiantly, "I'm the kid on
the horse."

"And I guess I'm _It_, all right," he laughed.

As they approached Chelten Hills they made out at the cross-roads a
number of figures on horseback. The sun, a pale madder ball, had
suddenly sprung from behind the hills and painted with its rosy hues the
streaks of mist which hung in the valleys below them.  As its shadows
deepened and its glow turned from pink to orange, the figures at the
cross-roads stood out in silhouette against the frosty meadows beyond.
There were three women and at least a dozen men, most of them wearing
the club colors, which took on added brilliancy as the sun emerged from
behind the distant hills.  A cloud of vapor rose from the flanks of the
horses.  There was much "hallo-ing" and waving of riding crops as the
Huntsman and his hounds rode into their midst and the two parties met.
A brief consultation, and the hounds were sent down a narrow lane and
across a wooden bridge toward a patch of woods which darkened the
hillside half a mile away.

"We'll draw that cover first," said Curtis Janney. "Perhaps we can coax
the old Chelten Fox to come out to-day."  It was the name they had given
to an old quarry of theirs, the elusive victor in half a dozen runs in
the last few years.

Cortland Bent had refused to relinquish his post beside Camilla.  There
seemed no reason why he should, since Gretchen had so completely
appropriated Larry, and Jeff, Mrs. Cheyne.

"Be careful, Camilla," he was saying.  "You're new at this game, and the
going is none too safe."

But Camilla only smiled.  She looked forward at Mrs. Cheyne's intolerant
back, and there was a joyous flash in her eyes like the one he
remembered two years ago when she led the chase of a coyote, which she
ran down and roped unaided.  She leaned forward gaily and patted her
horse's neck.

"We understand each other, don't we, Mackinaw?"

And then, as though to express her emancipation from all earthly
barriers, she gave her horse his head in the pasture and followed a
party which had scorned the open gate.  Mackinaw took the three rails
like a bird and shook his head viciously when Camilla restrained him.
Cortland followed her, smiling, and in a moment they had all stopped at
the foot of the hill, while the hounds went forward into the cover.

Janney had planned well.  They waited a while, chatting among
themselves, and then suddenly the hounds gave tongue.  At the farther
end of the cover, taking a diagonal course across an old cornfield up
the hill, the old fox emerged, while the hounds, getting the scent,
followed hot-foot after him.

"Tally-ho!" was the cry from one of the whips, and it echoed again and
again the length of the field. In a second they were off, Curtis Janney
in the lead, roaring some instructions which nobody understood. Camilla,
overanxious, cleared the brook at a bound and won her way among the
leaders.  Gretchen Janney and Mrs. Cheyne, their horses well in hand,
were a little to the left, following the Master, whose knowledge of the
lay of the land foresaw that the run would follow the ridge which
farther on turned to the eastward.  Camilla only knew that she must ride
straight, and went forward up the hill toward the line of bushes around
which the last hound had disappeared.  Bent thundered after her,
watching her anxiously as she took the fence at the top of the hill--a
tall one--and landed safely in the stubble beyond.

"Pull up a little, Camilla!" he shouted.  "You'll blow him if you don't.
This may last all morning."

"I--I can't!" she cried.  "He's pulling me. He doesn't want to stop, and
neither do I."

"It's the twenty pounds of under weight--but you'd better use your
curb."

As they cleared the bushes they "viewed" again from a distance the
hounds running in a straight line, skirting a pasture at the edge of a
wood half a mile away.  The field below to their left was now a thin
line of single horsemen or groups of twos and threes. Behind Bent were
Billy Haviland and the Baroness. Down the hill they went, more carefully
this time, then up again over rocky ground dotted with pitfalls of ice
and snow which made the going hazardous. Janney's crowd below on the
level meadows was forging ahead, but when Camilla reached the top of the
next hill she saw that, instead of surging toward the river, the hounds
were far away to the right in open country and going very fast.  They
reached the road from the meadow just as Curtis Janney, closely followed
by Gretchen and Mrs. Cheyne, Larry, and Jeff, came riding into the open.

"Have you 'viewed'?"

Cortland Bent pointed with his crop, and they all saw the pack making
for the woods and the trees which lined the creek in the hollow beyond.
It was a wide stretch of open country made up of half a dozen fields and
fences.  The short, sharp cry of the hounds as they sighted the fox was
music to Camilla, but the roar of the wind in her ears and the thunder
of the horses' hoofs were sweeter.  It was a race for the creek.  The
Master, on his big thoroughbred, was three lengths in the lead, but
Jeff, Mrs. Cheyne, and Camilla, just behind him, were taking their jumps
together.

At the third fence, for some reason, Mackinaw refused, and, scarcely
knowing how it had happened, Camilla slid forward over his ears to the
ground. She was a little stunned, but managed to keep her hold on the
reins, and before Cortland Bent could dismount she was on her feet
again, her cheeks a little pale, but in nowise injured.

"Are you hurt, Camilla?"

"No.  Help me up quickly, Cort."  She had seen Jeff and Mrs. Cheyne draw
rein a moment on the other side of the fence, but, when she rose, ride
on together.  Jeff shouted something to her, but she could not hear it.

"I didn't give him his head," Camilla stammered. "I'll know better now."

"For God's sake, be careful," whispered Bent.

If she heard him she gave no sign of it, for, with her face pale and her
lips compressed, she made a wide turn, and, before the rest of the field
came up, she had put Mackinaw at the jump again, giving him his head and
the crop on his flank just before he rose to it.  The frightened animal
cleared the rails with two feet to spare and a good six feet on the
farther side, and, when Jeff turned at the bank of the creek to look, he
saw Mackinaw nobly clearing the last fence that remained between them.

Camilla, her color coming slowly back, kept her eyes fixed on the smart
silk hat of Mrs. Cheyne. The memory of Mrs. Cheyne's smile infuriated
her. Her manner was so superior, her equipment so immaculate, her seat
such a fine pattern of English horsemanship.  The run was to be long,
they said. Perhaps there would still be time to show that she could
ride--as the boys in the West rode, for every inch--for every pound.

Through the ford she dashed, with Cortland close at her heels, the water
deluging them both, up the bank and over the rise of the hill, toward a
patch of bushes where the fox doubled and went straight with the wind
across the valley for the hills.  The going was rougher here--boulders,
stone walls, and ploughed fields.  Camilla cut across the angle and in a
moment was riding beside her husband and Mrs. Cheyne, who seemed to be
setting the pace.

"Are you all right?" Jeff asked.  But she only smiled at him and touched
Mackinaw with her heel.  She was riding confidently now, sure of herself
and surer of her horse.  They understood each other, and Mackinaw
responded nobly, for when he found his place by the side of Rita
Cheyne's bay mare he sensed the will of his rider that here was the
horse that he must outstay.  The pace was terrific, and once or twice
Camilla felt the eyes of the other woman upon her, but she rode
joyously, grimly, looking neither to left nor right, as she realized
that Mrs. Cheyne's mount was tiring and that Mackinaw seemed to be
gaining strength at every jump.

The old Chelten Fox gained immortality that day. Twice the foremost
hounds were snapping at his very heels, when, from some hidden source of
energy, he drew another store and ran away from them, doubling through
the brush and throwing them off the scent, which they recovered only
when he had put a safe distance between them.  Camilla had lost her hat,
her hair had fallen about her shoulders, and a thorn had gashed her
cheek.  The pace was telling on Mackinaw, whose stride was not so long
or his jumps so powerful, but Mrs. Cheyne still rode beside her, her
face a little paler than before, but her seat as firm--her hands as
light as ever.  If there were any other riders near them, both women
were oblivious, seeing nothing but the blur of the flying turf beneath
them, hearing nothing but the sharp note of the hounds in front, which
told that the chase was nearly ended.

Before them was a lane with two fences of four rails, an "in and out,"
with a low "take off" from the meadow.  Camilla rose in her stirrups to
look and saw that Mrs. Cheyne had drawn rein.  It was a jump which would
tax the mettle of fresher animals.  With a smile on her face which might
have been a counterfeit of the one Mrs. Cheyne had worn earlier in the
morning, Camilla turned in her saddle, catching the eye of her
companion, and pointed with her crop straight before her to where the
hounds had "killed" in the meadow just beyond, then set Mackinaw for the
highest panel she could find.

"Come on, Mrs. Cheyne!" she cried hoarsely. "Come on!"

Mackinaw breasted the fence and reached the road--a pause of a second
until Camilla's spurs sank into his flanks, when, mad with pain, he
leaped forward into the air, just clearing the other fence and the ditch
that lay on the farther side.  Camilla pulled up sharply as the Huntsman
dismounted and made his way among the dogs.  Turning, she saw Mrs.
Cheyne's horse rise awkwardly from the lane and go crashing through the
fence, breaking the top rail and landing in the ditch.  Its rider,
thrown forward out of the saddle, landed heavily and then rolled to one
side and lay quiet.

[Illustration: "Turning, she saw Mrs. Cheyne's horse go crashing through
the fence."]

With a quick cry of dismay, Camilla dismounted, conscience-stricken, and
ran to her fallen foe, just as the others rode up and caught the
frightened horse.

"Dear Mrs. Cheyne," she heard herself saying, "I'm so sorry.  Are you
really badly hurt?"  But the only reply she got was a feeble shake of
the head.  Curtis Janney brought out a brandy flask, and, after a sip or
two, Mrs. Cheyne revived and looked about her.

"I'm all here, I think," she said.  "That was a bad cropper--in my own
barnyard, too--the Brush must be yours, Mrs. Wray.  Give me a cigarette,
somebody."




                              *CHAPTER IX*

                              *THE SHADOW*


Mrs. Cheyne's farmhands and stablemen came running and took the horses
of those who dismounted; and Mrs. Cheyne, after examining herself to see
that no bones were broken, led the way, stiffly but without assistance,
to the house.  Camilla, still a little bewildered, saw Mackinaw led off
to the stable for a rub-down. The Master of the Hounds was the first to
congratulate her.

"Here is your Brush, Mrs. Wray.  You've filled every woman's heart with
envy.  To be in at the death of the old Chelten Fox is an achievement.
You had a fall.  Are you injured?"

"I believe not," she said.  "Mackinaw is a darling.  I hope he's sound?"
she inquired anxiously.

"As a bell," he said generously.  "He's got the heart of an ox.  You
know"--he laughed and whispered--"I bought him from Mrs. Cheyne, and
to-day you've vindicated me."

Others came up, men of the Hunt Club, and asked to be presented, and
Camilla, enjoying her triumph, followed the party to the house.

Mrs. Cheyne's house differed in character from that of the Janneys.  It
was snugly built in a pocket of the hills, facing to the south.  The
original building, square and massive, dated from the early eighteenth
century, but two symmetrical wings at the sides had greatly increased
its original size. Large pillars and a portico gave the graceful lines
which the addition demanded.  The wide stair hall which ran from front
to back had not been altered, and the furniture and hangings rigidly
preserved the ancient atmosphere.

The surprised butler and his assistant hurriedly prepared hot Scotches
and toddy, and the halls and large rooms on the lower floor were soon
filled with the swaggering company--all talking at once, each with his
tale of luck or misfortune.

It was not until Camilla was gratefully enthroned in a big chair by the
open fireplace that Cortland Bent found a chance to speak to her.

"What possessed you, Camilla?  You rode like a demon.  You've dragged
poor Rita's pride in the mire.  Riding is her long suit.  She's not used
to yielding her laurels as she did to-day.  I fancy she's not at all
happy about it."

"Why?" asked Camilla, wonderingly.

"You don't know Rita as I do.  She runs things out here pretty much in
her own way."  He chuckled quietly.  "Good Lord, but you did put it over
her."

"I'm sorry if she feels badly about it," she put in mendaciously.

"There's nothing to be sorry about.  You won out against odds on a horse
she'd thrown into the discard.  That doesn't make her feel any sweeter.
She's a queer one.  There's no telling how she'll take things.  But she
doesn't like being the under dog, and she won't forget this soon."

"Neither will I," said Camilla, smiling to herself. "She scored one on
me yesterday, but I fancy our accounts are about even."

"Yes, they are.  I suppose there's no use warning you."

"No, there isn't, Cort.  I fancy I'll be able to look out for myself."

He examined her keenly and realized that she was looking at Jeff, who
stood with some men at the end of the room toasting their hostess.  He
seemed to have forgotten Camilla's existence. In the field before they
came into the house Jeff had spoken to her, and when Janney had given
Camilla the Brush, Jeff had congratulated her noisily and with the
heartiness and enthusiasm he always showed over things which reflected
credit on himself.  In their private life Jeff still stood a little in
awe of Camilla.  He realized that his many deficiencies put him at a
disadvantage with a woman of her stamp, and, no matter what he felt, he
had never asked more of her in the way of companionship than she had
been willing to give him ungrudgingly; he was tolerant of her literary
moods, her music, her love of pictures, and the many things he could not
understand.  She was the only cultured woman he had ever known, and his
marriage had done little to change his way of thinking of her. Camilla
had not meant to abide forever in the shrine in which Jeff had enthroned
her.

In the earlier days of their married life she had been willing to sit
enshrined because it had been the easiest way to conceal the actual
state of her own mind; because it had come to be a habit with her--and
with him to behold her there.  Their pilgrimage to New York had made a
difference. It was not easy for Camilla to define it just yet. He was a
little easier in his ways with her, regarded her inaccessibility a
little less seriously, and questioned by his demeanor rather than by any
spoken words matters which had long been taken for granted by them both.
He had made no overt declaration of independence and, in his way, gave
her opinions the same respect he had always given them.  The difference,
if anything, had been in the different way in which they viewed from the
very same angle the great world of affairs.  Men, as Jeff had always
known, were much the same all the world over, but, curiously enough, he
had never seen fit to apply any rule to its women.  It was flattery,
indeed, for him to have believed for so long that, because Camilla was
cultured, all cultured women must be like Camilla.  His wife realized
that Jeff's discovery of Mrs. Cheyne was requiring a readjustment of all
his early ideas.  And so, while she spoke lightly of Mrs. Cheyne to
Cortland Bent, in her heart she was aware that if the lady took it into
her pretty head to use Jeff as a weapon she might herself be put upon
the defensive.

It seemed as though Cortland had an intuition of what was passing in her
mind.

"If there's any way in which I can be of service," he ventured.

"Oh, yes, Cort," she laughed.  "I'll call on you. The only thing I ask
of you now is--not to fall in love with Mrs. Cheyne."

"Rita?  I'd as soon think of falling in love with a kaleidoscope.
Besides----"

But she laid restraining fingers on his arm.

"Tell me about Gretchen," she interrupted quickly.

"There's nothing to tell, except," he said with a sigh, "that she's
quite gone on Larry."

"You can't mean it?"

"Really--she told me so."

Camilla glanced toward the hall where the two young people were sitting
in the big haircloth sofa engaged in a harmless investigation of the
science of palmistry.

Camilla laughed.  "It really looks so, doesn't it? I am sorry, though.
I had begun to look on Miss Janney as one of the solutions of our
difficulty."

"There isn't any solution of it--not that way--you must take my word for
it.  Gretchen and I understand each other perfectly.  If I can do
anything to help Lawrence Berkely with her, I'll do it."

"Oh, you're quite hopeless, Cort," she sighed, "and I have no patience
with Larry.  I can't see why he doesn't mind his own business."

Bent glanced at the young couple in the hall. "He seems to me to be
doing _that_ tolerably well."  He leaned forward so that his tone,
though lowered, could be heard distinctly.

"There is another solution.  Perhaps you had not thought of it."  She
turned her head quickly and searched his face for a meaning.  For reply
he coolly turned his gaze in the direction of Jeff and Mrs. Cheyne, who
had withdrawn into an embrasure of one of the windows.

"A solution----" she stammered.

"Yes, a way out--for both of us."

"You mean Jeff--and Mrs. Cheyne?" she whispered.

"I do."

The poison of his suggestion flowed slowly through her mind, like a drug
which stimulates and stupefies at the same time.

"You mean that I should allow Jeff--that I should connive in his----"
She stopped, horror-stricken.  "Oh, Cort, that was unworthy of you," she
whispered.

"I mean it.  They're well met--those two," he finished viciously.

Camilla held up her fingers pleadingly.  "Don't speak.  I forbid you."
And, rising, she took up her gloves and crop from the table.  "Besides,"
she said more lightly, "I have a suspicion that you are trying to stir
up a tempest in a teapot."

"Do you mean you haven't noticed?" he insisted. "At my father's?  At the
Warringtons'?  Last night at the Janneys'?"

"No," she replied carelessly, "I hadn't noticed."

Curtis Janney, who had been moving fussily from one group to another,
came forward as he saw Camilla rise.

"I was hoping we might still get another short run, but I suppose you're
too tired, Mrs. Wray?"

"A little--but don't let me interfere.  I think I can find my way back."

He looked at his watch.  "Hello!  It's time we were off anyway.  The
other guests will be eating all our breakfast.  Come, Cort, Gretchen,
Mrs. Cheyne--you know you're my guest still," strolling from group to
group and ruthlessly breaking up the tete-a-tetes so successfully that
Rita Cheyne rebelled.

"You're a very disagreeable person, Mr. Janney--Ivywild resents it.
You're trying to form the hospitality of the county into one of those
horrid trusts.  Every time accident throws the hunt my way you insist on
dragging it off to Braebank.  It isn't fair.  Of course, if you
insist----"

And then, crossing to Camilla, "_Dear_ Mrs. Wray, I'm borrowing your
husband for a while.  I feel a little tired, so he promised to lunch
with me here and go on to Braebank later.  You don't mind, do you?"

"Not in the least, my _dear_ Mrs. Cheyne.  I'm _so_ sorry you feel
badly."  And then to her husband, "Remember, Jeff, Mr. Janney expects
you later."  Each spoke effusively, the tips of their fingers just
touching.  Then Mrs. Cheyne followed her visitors to the door.

Outside a coach-horn was blowing, and, as they emerged upon the porch
the Janney brake arrived, tooled by the coachman and bearing aloft Mrs.
Rumsen, General Bent, and Gladys, who had arrived from town on the
morning train.  But they would not get down, and the cavalcade soon
wound its way along the drive, leaving Jeff and Mrs. Cheyne waving them
a good-by from the steps.

Camilla took the road thoughtfully.  It was the first time in their
brief social career that Jeff had not consulted her before he made his
own plans. She did not blame him altogether, for she knew that Jeff's
inexperience made him singularly vulnerable to the arts of a woman of
the type of Mrs. Cheyne, who, for want of any better occupation in life,
had come to consider all men her lawful prey.  Camilla knew that mild
flirtations were the rule rather than the exception in this gay world
where idle people caught at anything which put to flight the insistent
demon of weariness and boredom.  And she discovered that it was a part
of the diversion of the younger married couples to loan husbands and
wives to satisfy the light fancy of the hour. All this was a part of the
fabric in which she and Jeff were living and endangered society only
when the women were weak and the men vicious.  But Jeff somehow didn't
seem to fit into the picture.  His personality she had learned to
associate with significant achievements.  His faults, as well as his
virtues, were big, and he had a habit of scorning lesser sins.  The
pleasure of a mild flirtation such as his brothers of the city might
indulge in for the mere delight of the society of a woman would offer
nothing to Jeff, who was not in the habit of doing anything mildly or by
halves. Camilla knew him better than Mrs. Cheyne did.

Of course, no one thought anything of his new interest in Mrs. Cheyne.
All of the younger men were interested in Mrs. Cheyne at one time or
another, and it was doubtful if people had even noticed his attentions.
Cortland had, but there was a reason for that.  Anything that could
discredit Jeff in her eyes was meat and drink to him. But it was cruel
of Cortland to take advantage of her isolation, but how could she cut
herself off from Cort, when her husband, by the nature of the situation,
had thrown her so completely on his mercies?  It seemed as though all
the world was conspiring to throw her with the one man whose image she
had promised her conscience she would wipe from her heart.  He rode
beside her now remorselessly, proving by his silence more eloquently the
measure of his appreciation of the situation. She felt that he, too, was
entering the Valley of Indecision, with the surer step of a dawning
Hope, while she faltered on the brink of the Slough of Despond.

They had fallen well behind the others, and followed a quiet lane
bordered by a row of birch trees which still clung tenaciously to the
remnants of their autumn finery.  At one side gushed a stream, fed by
the early snows, which sang musically of the secrets of earth and sky.
There was no indecision here.  Every twig, every painted stone, the sky
and breeze, spoke a message of blithe optimism. All was right with the
world, and if doubt crept into the hearts of men it was because they
were deaf to the messages of Nature.  The spell of its beauty fell on
Camilla, too, and she found herself smiling up at Cortland Bent.  There
were many things to be thankful for.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

"One can't be anything else on a day like this."

"You don't care then?"

"For what?  Oh, yes.  I have a natural interest in the welfare of my
husband.  But I think Mrs. Cheyne is wasting her time."

"I think perhaps you underrate her," he muttered.

"I'd rather underrate Mrs. Cheyne than underrate myself," proudly.

He was silent for a moment, flicking at the weeds with his riding-crop.

"Mrs. Cheyne and you have nothing in common, Camilla," he said.  "I'm
afraid it isn't in you to understand this crowd.  The set in which she
and I were brought up is a little world in itself.  The things which
happen outside of it are none of its concern.  It doesn't care.  It has
its own rules and its own code of decency to which it makes its members
subscribe.  It is New York in miniature, the essence, the cream of its
vices, its virtues, and its follies.  It lives like that poison-ivy
along the fence, stretching out its tendrils luxuriously in the
direction of the sun, moving along the line of least resistance.  It
does not care what newer growth it stunts, what blossom learns to grow
beneath its shade, to fade and droop, perhaps to wither for lack of air
and sunlight----"

"And yet--there's Gretchen," she said, "and you."

He smiled almost gaily.  "Yes, there are many Gretchens, thank God.
Girls with the clean, sound vision of their sturdy forbears, whose
mothers were young when the city still felt the impress of its early
austerities."

"And you?" she repeated.

His brow darkened and he looked straight before him.

"What I am doesn't matter.  I was born and bred in this atmosphere.
Isn't that enough?"

"It's enough that you survived--that you, too, have a clean vision."

"No, that is not true," he said sharply.  "I can't see clearly--I'm not
sure that I want to see clearly--not now."

"I won't believe that, Cort.  Back there at _her_ house you said
something that was unworthy of you, that showed me another side of your
nature, the dark side, like the shadowy places under the ivy. I want you
to forget that you ever said them--that you ever thought them even."

"I can't," he muttered savagely.  "I _want_ some one to come between
you--to make him suffer what I am suffering--to place a distance between
you which nothing can ever repair."

"Some one has already come between us," she said, gently.  "The one I
have in mind is the Cort Bent of Mesa City, who used to help me gather
columbines; who rode with me far up the trail to get the last ray of the
sunset when the valley below was already asleep in the shadow; who
shouted my name in the gorge because he said it was sweet to hear the
mountains send back its echoes all silvered over with the mystery of the
Infinite; who told me of palaces and gardens in lands which I had never
seen, and of the talented men and women who had lived in them; who sang
to me in the moonlight and taught me to dream----"

"Don't, Camilla----"

"That was a boy I remember, who lived years and years ago when I was
rich--rich in innocent visions which he did nothing to destroy.  It was
he who gave me an idea that there were men who differed from those I had
known before--men in whose hearts was tenderness and in whose minds one
might find a mirror for one's harmless aspirations toward a life that
wasn't all material and commonplace.  He was my knight, that boy,
thoughtful, considerate, and gentle.  He was foolish sometimes, but I
loved him because his ideals had not been destroyed."

"I lied to you.  Life is a cinder."

She shook her head.  "No, you did not lie to me--not then.  Later you
did when you asked me to come to New York.  Oh, I know.  I can see more
clearly now.  Suppose that even now I chose what you call your solution
of the tangle we've made of things.  You'd like to see Jeff desert me
for Rita Cheyne so that you could have your own way with me now."

"Camilla!  I was mad then.  I thought you understood.  Gretchen and
I----"

"I understand many things better than I did," she interrupted.  "You
were no more mad then than you are now.  I think I have always been
willing to forgive you for that.  I wanted to forgive you because I
thought perhaps you didn't know what you were saying.  But you make it
harder for me now.  The boy I knew in the West is dead, Cortland.  In
his place rides a man I do not know, a man with a shadow in his eyes, a
man of the gay world, which moves along the line of least resistance,
with little room in his heart for the troubles of the woman he once
offered to protect with his life."

"I would still protect you--that is what I am offering."

"How?  By making me a woman like Rita Cheyne, who changes her husbands
as though they were fashions in parasols.  You offer me protection from
Jeff.  I refuse it."  And then she added a little haughtily, "I'm not
sure that I need any protection."

He glowered toward her, searching her face sullenly.

"You love him?" he muttered.

She smiled a little proudly.  "I can't love you both.  Jeff is my
husband."

"You love him?" he repeated.  "Answer me!"

"Not when you take that tone.  I'll answer you nothing.  Come, we had
better ride forward."  And, before he could restrain her, she had urged
her horse into a canter.

"Camilla!" he called.

But before he could reach her she had joined the others, outside the
gates of Braebank.




                              *CHAPTER X*

                        *TRITON OF THE MINNOWS*


Mr. Janney's breakfast guests had gone, and, having seen the last of the
country wagons depart, he went into the office next to the smoking room,
where Cornelius Bent sat awaiting him.  Curtis Janney brought a sheaf of
telegrams and letters which he laid on the desk.  Then he opened a
humidor, offered his guest a cigar, took one himself, and sat down.

"Well, what did you hear?" asked General Bent. Janney took a puff or two
at his cigar, then frowned at the papers on the table.

"A great deal," he muttered, "both bad and good.  I have here reports
for the whole week from our men in Denver, Pueblo, Kinney, and Saguache.
The pressure from Abington and the Chicago and Utah has finally brought
Noakes into line.  It was something of a job, for he's tied up in one of
Wray's development companies, and it has cost some money.  Abington had
to give him a big bonus for the stock in the Denver and Western.
Collins and Hardy came around all right, and it only remains to put the
screws on to make Wray show his hand."

"Have you decided on that?" asked the General.

"No, I haven't."

Curtis Janney took up a letter which he had separated from the others.

"You remember we thought his planning this new line to Pueblo was
financial suicide and that, if we gave Wray enough rope, he'd hang
himself.  We didn't even see the use of throwing the usual impediments
in the way."

Bent nodded.

"Well, they're building it."

"It's only a bluff."

"I'm not so sure.  My last reports show that the money is in the
treasury--some of it is Wray's, but most of it has come from Utah,
California, and Washington even.  The Denver and California is backing
the whole project, and tent towns are springing up along the line of the
survey.  Those people out there believe in Wray and are following him
like sheep."

"They wouldn't follow him long if we found a way to stop him," said the
General grimly.  "I've seen those stampedes before, but they always come
to an end.  What does Lamson report?"

"The Denver and California seems set on this thing--the more so as it
promises to be a success without much help from them."

General Bent got up and paced the floor with quick, nervous strides.

"Why, Curtis," he said, "you seem to see unusual trouble in the way.
The case presents no greater difficulties than the Seemuller plant did,
or the Myers and Ott, but we got them both in the end."

"There is a difference."

"Where?"

"The man himself.  He'll fight to the last ditch. That jaw wasn't given
him altogether as an ornament.  I'm sorry we can't find his weak point.
A man who looks as far ahead as he does is a good one to tie to."

"But he may not want any strings on him.  The other night at dinner at
my house he was boasting of his independence.  He didn't know how hot it
made me."

"Yes, he did.  That's why he did it.  He said the same thing here
yesterday.  But I wasn't deceived.  It was all a part of his game.  I
think in a game of bluff he can make old gamesters like you and me sit
up and do some guessing."  Janney knocked the ash from his cigar and
laughed.

"Cornelius, our fine scheme hasn't worked out--not so far.  When Wray
first came in the office, you sized him up as a social climber.  But, if
you think we are going to bewilder him by our clubs, the opera, and
social connections, you're reckoning without your host."

General Bent smiled tolerantly.

"He assimilates surprisingly well," he said with a reflective nod.  "For
all his Western manner, he never gives the impression of being
ill-at-ease. I'll say that for him.  Why, do you know, I strolled in on
Caroline the other afternoon on my way uptown and found him teaching her
how to play pinochle."

"Mrs. Rumsen?"

"Yes.  She'll be making him the rage before the winter is out.  But he
takes it all as a matter of course.  Indeed, I think he fancies himself
our equal in any matter."  He paused and then rose. "But he must prove
that.  The Amalgamated must own that smelter."

"Oh, yes," said Janney, following him with his eyes.  "It will, of
course.  We can't have him underbidding us.  It's lucky he hasn't tried
it yet. But that's the danger from a man with both ability and ambition.
And we can't run the risk of letting him get too far."

There was a silence of some moments, which Cornelius Bent improved by
running over the correspondence.  When he had finished he tossed the
letters abruptly on the table, and walked to the window.  "Poor Cort,"
he muttered, "he lost us the whole thing.  I wonder what's the matter
with that boy.  He always seems to miss it somehow.  I can never make a
business man of him--like you or myself--or like Jeff Wray."

"He's cost us a pretty penny," growled Janney.

The General still stood by the window, his chin deep in his chest, his
long fingers twitching behind his back.

"Jeff Wray must pay for that, Curtis.  If we can't beat him in one way
we must choose another. Jeff Wray stole the 'Lone Tree.'  He trespassed
on our property in the dead of the night, did violence to one of our
employes, and bluffed Cort into signing that lease.  If there was any
law in the state of Colorado, he'd be serving his term at Canon City.
But I'll get him yet!  I will, by God!  If he'd come in this office now
and hold you up for the money in your safe he'd be a thief.  What is the
difference?"

"Just this: He was successful, and he left no loose ends behind him."

"I've thought at times, Janney, that you lack some interest in this
fight."

"Why?  Because I take the precaution to get all the information I
can--and because my information turns out to be unfavorable to our
plans? You want to crush Wray.  Very well.  I have no objections.  Crush
him if you can.  But it would hardly do to let him crush _us_."

Bent turned and examined his host curiously. Then he laughed.  It wasn't
pretty laughter, and it cracked dryly, like the sound of a creaking
door.

"Upon my word, Curtis, you amaze me," he said.

"Very well," put in Janney coolly.  "But think it over.  Don't be hasty.
If he puts that road through and starts the game of underbidding on the
raw product, we'll be in for a long fight--and an expensive one.  I
don't think the Company wants that now.  McIntyre doesn't, I know.  And
Warrington, as usual, is for temporizing."

"Temporizing?"  Cornelius Bent's jaws snapped viciously.  "This is not a
case where personal preferences can be considered.  There's a great
principle involved.  Are we going to let an upstart like Jeff Wray--a
petty real estate operator from an obscure Western town--come into our
field with a few stolen millions and destroy the plans of an organized
business which controls the output of practically all the great
gold-producing states--a company whose sound methods have brought order
out of chaos, have given employment to an army of people; whose patents
have simplified processes, reduced the cost of production, and kept the
price of the metal where it is satisfactory both to the mines and the
market?  Are we going to see all this jeopardized by a wild-catter, a
tin-horn gambler, a fellow with neither decency nor moral principle?
Temporize like Warrington if you like, but the Board of the Amalgamated
must make a fight for the Wray smelter--or accept my resignation."

Bent stalked the floor swiftly, biting off the ends of his sentences as
though they were parts of Wray's anatomy, clenching his fingers as he
might have done had they encircled Wray's neck.  Curtis Janney followed
him with his gaze, his brows tangled and his lips compressed, aware of
the seriousness of the situation.  The resignation of Cornelius Bent
from the Board of the Amalgamated was a contingency not for a moment to
be considered.

"That, of course, is impossible," he said.  "We're all behind you to a
dollar if you take that stand.  But couldn't it be wise to have Wray in
and talk to him?  We might learn something that's not on the cards."

"Oh, yes, if you like," growled the General, "but you're wasting time.
I've got my idea of what that property is worth.  I'll make him the
offer.  If he refuses"--and his lower jaw worked forward--"it will be
war--to the last ditch."

Curtis Janney pressed a bell, and a servant appeared.

"Has Mr. Wray returned?"

"Yes, sir," said the man.

"Tell him General Bent would like to see him here."

The man departed, and General Bent with an effort relaxed the muscles of
his face and sat.  Both gentlemen looked up quickly when the servant
returned a few moments later.

"I delivered your message, sir," he said.  "Mr. Wray asked me to say
that he is engaged at the present moment and will join you later."

General Bent's brows drew together angrily, but Janney inquired suavely,
"Where did you find him, Carey?"

"In the conservatory, sir, with Mrs. Cheyne."

Janney smiled, but suppressed Bent's sudden exclamation with a wave of
the hand.

"You may bring in the whisky, then tell him that General Bent and I will
await his convenience."

"Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir."

"Confound his impudence!" muttered the General, biting at his lip.

"All for effect, Cornelius," said Janney.  "That fellow is an artist.
He's saving his face for the ordeal."

"Let him save his neck," sneered Bent.

Janney stretched his legs forward and smoked comfortably.  "Break it if
you like, Cornelius," he said.  "I can't, you know, so long as he's my
guest."

Wray sauntered in some moments later, accompanied by Rita Cheyne.
General Bent looked up with a scowl, which the lady's gay assurance
failed to dismiss.

"May I come in, too?" she asked.  "I'm wild to hear how big men talk
business.  Won't you let me, Cousin Cornelius?  I'm positively thirsty
for knowledge--business knowledge.  You' don't mind, do you, Mr.
Janney?"

"You can't be interested."

Wray laughed.  "I'm the original woolly Western lamb being led to the
shearing, Mrs. Cheyne----"

"The golden fleece!" she put in.  "I know.  But I'm not going to allow
it.  You're not going to let them--are you, Jeff Wray?"

"I never knew a lamb that had any opinions on the matter," he said
easily.

The General got to his feet testily.

"Rita, this won't do at all.  We wanted to speak to Wray privately----"

"Oh!  You needn't mind me.  I'm positively bursting with other people's
confidences.  But I'm really the soul of discretion.  Please let me
stay."  She went over to Curtis Janney and laid her hands on his
shoulders appealingly.  "I'll sell you Jack-in-the-Box if you will, Mr.
Janney," she said.  "You know you've wanted that horse all season."

Janney laughed.  "That's a great temptation--but this isn't my affair,"
and he glanced at General Bent, who stood frowning at them from the
window.

"Leave the room at once, Rita!" said the General sternly.  "You're
interfering here.  Can't you see----?"

Mrs. Cheyne dropped her hands.

"Oh, if you take that tone, of course."  She moved toward the door,
turning with her hand on the knob--"I think you're horrid--both of you.
I hope your lamb turns out to be a lion, and eats you up."  And, with a
laugh and a toss of her head, she went out, banging the door behind her.

Jeff Wray and Curtis Janney laughed, but the frown on General Bent's
face had not relaxed for an instant.  When the door had closed he sat
down in his chair again, while Janney offered cigars.  Jeff took one
with a sudden serious air, meant perhaps as a tribute to the attitude
and years of his fellow guest.

Curtis Janney, looking from one to the other, searched each face for
signs of doubt or indetermination and found in each the same deeply set
eyes, straight brow, firm, thin mouth, square jaw, and heavy chin which
he recognized as belonging to those of this world who know how to fight
and who do not know when they are beaten.  Wray's features were heavier,
the lines in the General's face more deeply bitten by the acid of Time,
but their features were so much alike that, had Janney not known the
thing was impossible, it might have been easy to imagine some kind of
collateral or even more intimate family relationship.

"You asked me to come here," said Wray, easily apologetic.  "What can I
do for you, General Bent?"

Bent's deeply set eyes were hidden under his bushy eyebrows, but the
lips which held his cigar were flickering in a smile.

"Yes," he began with a slow, distinct enunciation, which Wray recognized
at once as belonging to his office downtown, "I thought we might talk a
little business, if Mr. Janney doesn't object."

"Not in the least," said Janney, "but there's no reason why we shouldn't
mix in a little of the Old Thorne," and he handed the decanter to Wray.
Cornelius Bent refused.

"Wray," he went on, "we've been talking about your plant down in the
Valley.  From all we've been able to find out, it's a pretty good
proposition in a small way.  But the Amalgamated Reduction Company has
no special interest in acquiring it. That mountain range, in our
judgment, will never be a big producer.  The 'Lone Tree' is the kind of
an exception that one finds only once in a lifetime."

"And yet we're running on full time," said Wray, with an odd smile.  "If
the other mines keep up their promise we won't need to buy any more ore,
General."

"The mountains of the West are full of holes that once were promising,
Wray--like notes of hand--but they've long since gone to protest."

Jeff's chin tipped upward the fraction of an inch. "I'm endorsing these
notes, General.  Besides," he added suavely, "you know I'm not
overanxious to sell.  When I came into your office it was only with the
hope that I might establish friendly relations.  That, I'm glad to say,
I succeeded in doing. Your health, Mr. Janney."

General Bent refused to be disarmed.  "Yes, I know.  But friendship and
business are two things.  Commercially you are in the attitude of a
rival of the company I represent.  Of course"--opulently--"not a serious
rival, but one who must logically be considered in our plans.  We didn't
like your building that smelter, and you could have brought your ore at
a fair price to one of our plants in Pueblo or Colorado Springs."

"Yes--but that interfered with my own plans," said Jeff.  "And I have
had them a long time."

"It's a little late to talk about that," assented Bent.  "The plant is
there, the mines are there, and----"

"Yes.  But I don't see how they need bother you.  Most of the gold we
send to market comes from the 'Lone Tree.'  I haven't handled any ore
below your prices--not yet."

There was, if possible, the slightest accent on the last words, but Wray
uttered them with a sweet complacency which failed to deceive.  This
young fool was threatening--actually threatening the mighty Smelting
Trust.  It was so preposterous that General Bent actually laughed--a
thing he seldom did below Twenty-third Street or when he talked business
elsewhere.

"No," he said grimly.  "I'm glad that didn't seem necessary.  It would
have been a pity.  See here, Wray"--he leaned forward, his face drawn in
decisive lines--"let's get to the point.  We've both been dodging it
very consistently for a month. You've got some property that may be
useful to us.  We've thought enough about it at least to make a few
inquiries about the whole situation--and about you.  We could take that
plant under our own management and do a little better than you could.  I
don't think the location really warrants it--for the big mine may stop
paying any day and the railroad facilities, you'll admit, are not of the
best.  But, if you're willing to sell out at a moderate figure, we might
buy it.  Or, perhaps, you'd like to come in with us and take stock in
the Company.  We think a good deal of your ability. There isn't any
doubt that you could make yourself useful to us if you chose."

"Thanks," said Jeff, with a sip at his Scotch, and then looked out of
the window.  He had caught the meaning of General Bent's casual remark
about the railroad facilities.

"Of course," Bent went on, "I don't care to show improper curiosity
about your plans, but if you are willing to meet me in a friendly spirit
we might reach an agreement that would be profitable both to your
companies and mine."

"I'd rather think it was interest than curiosity," said Wray with a
smile.  "But, unfortunately, I haven't got any plans--further than to
get all the ore I can out of 'Lone Tree' and to keep my works busy.
Just now I'm pretty happy the way things are going.  I've screwed the
lid down, and I'm sitting on it, besides--with one eye peeled for the
fellow with the screw driver."

Cornelius Bent controlled his anger with difficulty. His equality with
Jeff, as a guest of Curtis Janney, gave Wray some advantages.  The easy
good nature with which he faced the situation and his amused
indifference to the danger which threatened him put the burden of proof
on the General, who experienced the feelings of an emperor who has been
jovially poked in the ribs by the least of his subjects.  This was _lese
majeste_.  Wray was either a fool or a madman.

"Has it never occurred to you, Wray," snapped Bent, "that somebody might
come along with an axe?"

"Er--no.  I hadn't thought of that," he replied quietly.

"Well, think it over.  It's worth your while."

"Is this a declaration of war?"

"Oh, no," hastily, "merely a movement for peace."

Wray took a few puffs at his cigar and looked from Janney to the
General, like a man on whom some great truth had suddenly dawned.

"I had no idea," he said, with a skillfully assumed expression of
wonder, "that the Amalgamated was so desperately anxious as this."

In drawing aside the curtain, he had still managed to retain his
tactical advantage.  Both older men felt it--Bent more than Janney,
because it was he who had shown their hand, while Wray's cards were
still unread.

The natural response was tolerant amusement, and both of them made it.

"Anxious?" laughed Bent.  "Is the lion anxious when the wolf comes
prowling in his jungle? Success has twisted your perspective, my dear
Wray. The Amalgamated is not anxious--it has, however, a natural
interest in the financial health of its competitors."

"But I'm _not_ a competitor.  That's just the point.  I'm governed by
_your_ methods, _your_ plans, _your_ prices.  I've been pretty careful
about that. No, _sir_, I know better than to look for trouble with the
Amalgamated."

"One moment, Wray," put in Janney; "we don't seem to be getting
anywhere.  Let's simplify matters.  We can get along without your plant,
but if we wanted to buy, what would you want for it?"

"Do you mean the smelter--or all my interests in the Valley?" asked Wray
quickly.

"The smelter, of course--and the Denver and Saguache Railroad."

"I don't care to sell--I've got other interests--my Development Company,
the coal mines and lumber--they're all a part of the same thing, Mr.
Janney, like the limbs of my body--cut one off, and I might bleed to
death."

"We could give you traffic agreements."

"I'd rather not.  I'll sell--but only as a whole--gold mines, coal,
lumber, and all."

Wray caught General Bent's significant nod.

"That is my last word, gentlemen," he concluded firmly.

There was a silence, which Cornelius Bent broke at last.

"And what is your figure, Mr. Wray?" he asked.

Jeff Wray reached for the match box, slowly re-lit his cigar, which
emitted clouds of smoke, through which presently came his reply.  "You
gentlemen have been kind to me here in New York. I want you to know that
I appreciate it.  You've shown me a side of life I never knew existed.
I like the West, but I like New York, too.  I want to build a house and
spend my winters here--I wasn't figuring on doing that just yet--but if
you really want my interests I'll sell them to you--without
reservation--every stick and stone of them for thirty millions."

"Thirty millions?"

The voices of both men sounded as one, Janney's frankly
incredulous--Bent's satirical and vastly unpleasant.

"Thirty millions!" Bent repeated with a sneer. "Dollars or cents, Mr.
Wray?"

Jeff turned and looked at him with the innocent and somewhat vacuous
stare which had learned its utility in a great variety of services.
Jeff only meant it as a disguise, but the General thought it impudent.

"Dollars, sir," said Jeff coolly.  "It will pay me that--in time."

"In a thousand years," roared the General. "The Amalgamated doesn't
figure on millenniums, Mr. Wray.  We don't want your other interests,
but we'll buy them--for five million dollars--in cash--and not a cent
more.  You can sell at that price or--" the General did not see, or
refused to see, the warning glance from Janney--"or be wiped off the
map.  Is that clear?"

"I think so, sir," said Wray politely.  "Will you excuse me, Mr.
Janney?" and bowed himself out of the room.




                              *CHAPTER XI*

                               *DISCORD*


That afternoon late, Berkely and the Wrays returned to town, and the
Western wires tingled with Jeff's telegrams to Pueblo, Kinney, and Mesa
City.  He had burnt his bridges behind him, and, like a skillful cavalry
leader, was picking out the vantage points in the enemy's country.  The
answers came slowly, but Wray had planned his campaign before he left
the West, and the messages were satisfactory.  He realized that his
utility in New York, for the present at least, was at an end, and he saw
that he must soon leave for the West to repair any possible break in his
line of communications.

Camilla learned of his intended departure with mingled feelings.  Her
husband's rather ostentatious deference to Mrs. Cheyne had annoyed her.
She knew in her heart that she had no right to cavil or to criticise,
and pride forbade that she should question him.  Larry's presence at
dinner precluded personal discussions, and Camilla sat silent while the
men talked seriously of Jeff's business plans. It had not been her
husband's habit to discuss his affairs with her, and, when the coffee
was served, he asked her coolly if she wouldn't rather be alone.

"Do you mind if I stay, Jeff?" she asked.  "I'd like to hear, if you
don't mind."

"I'd rather you wouldn't.  You can't be interested in this--besides, the
matter is rather important and confidential."

She got up quickly.  Larry Berkely, who had caught the expression in her
eyes, opened the door for her and followed her into the drawing room.

"Don't be annoyed, Camilla," he whispered. "Jeff is worried.  You
understand, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, I understand," she replied wearily. "Don't mind me."

As the door closed behind him she stood irresolute for a moment, then
suddenly realized she had been up since dawn and was very tired.  Her
body ached, and her muscles were sore, but the weariness in her mind was
greater than these.  The closing of the dining-room door had robbed her
of the refuge she most needed.  She wanted to talk--to hear them
talk--anything that would banish her own thoughts--anything that would
straighten out the disorderly tangle of her late impressions of the new
life and the people she had met in it.  She had never thought of Jeff as
sanctuary before, and yet she now realized, when the support of his
strength was denied her, that in her heart she had always more or less
depended upon him for guidance.

And yet she feared him, too.  A while ago she had been filled with
horror at his share in the "Lone Tree" affair, and since that time the
knowledge had haunted her.  But she had not dared to speak of it to him.
She felt instinctively that this was one of the matters upon the other
side of the gulf that had always yawned with more or less imminence
between them.  Their relations were none too stable to risk a chance of
further discord.  The difference in his manner which she had noticed a
week or more ago had become more marked, and to-night at the dinner
table he had troubled less than usual to disguise his lack of interest
in her opinions. The image of Cort was ever in her mind, and the danger
that threatened her seemed no less distant than before, and yet she
still hoped, as she had always done, that something would happen--some
miracle, some psychological crisis which would show her husband and
herself the way to unity. Since she had seen Cortland Bent, she had lost
some faith in herself, gained some fear of Jeff, whose present attitude
she was at a loss to understand, but she still clung desperately to the
tattered shreds of their strange union, though lately even those seemed
less tangible.  To-night, when she had asked him to take her West with
him, he had refused her impatiently--almost brusquely.

She went into her own rooms slowly and undressed. As she sat before her
mirror, the sight of the scratch on her face recalled the incidents of
the day. Mrs. Cheyne!  Her lips drew together, her brows tangled in
thought, and she dismissed her maid, who had come in to brush her hair.
What right had Jeff to ignore her as he had done?  No matter what her
own shortcomings, in public, at least, she had always shown him a proper
respect and had never in her heart dishonored him by an unworthy
thought. For one brief moment in Cortland Bent's arms she had been swept
from the shallows into deeper water, but even then she had known, as she
knew now, that loyalty to Jeff had always been uppermost in her
thoughts.  They must have an understanding before he went away.  She
would not be left here in New York alone.  She had learned to distrust
herself, to distrust Jeff, Cort, and all the charming irresponsible
people of the gay set into which they had been introduced.

In her dressing gown she sat before her fire and listened to the murmur
of voices in the drawing room, from which she had been banished.  She
could hear Jeff's steps as he rose and paced the floor, his voice louder
and more insistent than Larry's. There was a coming and going of pages
delivering and receiving telegrams, and she felt the undercurrent of a
big crisis in Jeff's career--the nature of which she had only been
permitted to surmise.  His attitude had wounded her pride. It hurt her
that Larry should see her placed in the position of a petitioner.  Her
one comfort was the assurance that she did not care what Jeff himself
thought of her, that it was her pride which insisted on a public
readjustment of their relations.

Camilla got up, slowly, thoughtfully, and at last moved to the bell
determinedly.

To her maid she said, "Tell Mr. Wray I'd like to see him before he goes
out."

When Wray entered the room later, a frown on his face, the cloud of
business worry in his eyes, he found Camilla asleep on the divan under a
lamp, a magazine on the rug beside her, where it had fallen from her
fingers.  His lips had been set for short words, but when he saw her he
closed the door noiselessly behind him.  Even sleep could not diminish
the proud curve of the nostrils, or change the firmly modeled chin and
the high, clearly penciled brows.  Jeff looked at her a moment, his face
showing some of the old reverence--the old awe of her beauty.

And while he looked, she stirred uneasily and murmured a name.  He
started so violently that a chair beside him scraped the floor and awoke
her.

"I must have--oh--it's you, Jeff----"

"You wanted to see me?" he asked harshly.

"Yes--I----"  She sat up languidly.  "I did want to see you.  There are
some things I want to talk about--some things I want explained.  Sit
down, won't you?"

"I--I haven't much time."

"I won't keep you long.  You've decided to go West--without me?"

"Yes, next week.  Perhaps sooner if----"

"I want you to change your mind about taking me with you."

"Why?"

"I want to go."

Jeff laughed disagreeably.  "You women are funny.  For a year you've
been telling me that the only thing you wanted was a visit to New York.
Now you're here, you want to go back.  I've told you to get all the
clothes you need, hired you an apartment in the best hotel, given you
some swell friends, bought you jewelry----"

"I don't want jewelry, or clothes, or friends," she insisted.  "I want
to go back and watch them build 'Glen Irwin.'"

"They've stopped working on 'Glen Irwin.'  I wanted the money that was
going into that."

"Oh!"

"I've a big fight on, and I need all the capital I can swing.  'Glen
Irwin' will have to wait," he finished grimly.

"Of course--I didn't understand.  But it makes no difference.  I can
stay at the hotel or at Mrs. Brennan's."

"After all this?  Oh, no, you'd be miserable. Besides, I have other
plans."

"You don't want me?"

"No.  I'll be very busy."

"No busier than you were before we came here."

Jeff paced the length of the room and returned before he answered her.

"See here, Camilla.  You ought to know, by this time that when I say a
thing I mean it.  I'm going West alone to do some fence-building.
You're to stay here and do the same thing--socially. I need these people
in my business, and I want you to keep on good terms with them."

She gazed thoughtfully at the fire.  "Don't you believe me when I say I
want to go with you?"

Jeff made an abrupt movement.  "Well--hardly. We've always got along
pretty well, so long as each of us followed our own pursuits.  But I
think you might as well acknowledge that you don't need me--haven't
needed me now or at any other time."

"I do need you, Jeff.  I want to try and take a greater interest in your
affairs--to help you if I can, socially if necessary, but I'd rather do
it with you than alone."

"I may not be gone long--perhaps only a week or so.  In the meanwhile,
you're your own mistress."

"You've always let me be that.  But I have reasons for wanting to leave
New York."

Wray turned and stared at her blankly.  "Reasons?"

"Yes.  I--I'm a little tired.  The life here is so gay.  I'm unused to
it.  It bewilders me."

"I think I understand," he said slowly.  "But it can't be helped.  I
want you to cultivate the McIntyres, the Warringtons, and the Rumsens.
Larry will stay here in the hotel for a while.  You can call on him."

She fingered the pages of a book beside her. "Then this is final?" she
asked.

"Yes--you must do as I say."

He had never before used that tone with her. The warm impulse that had
sought this interview was dried at its source.  "Very well--I'll stay,"
she said coldly, "no matter what happens."

He examined her shrewdly.

"You're afraid?" he asked.  "That's too bad. I thought I was doing you a
service."

"What do you mean?"

"Cort Bent.  That's what I mean.  Cort Bent. He's yours.  I give him to
you."

"Jeff!"

She rose and faced him, trembling, and her eyes flickered like a
guttering candle, as she tried to return his look.  "How could you?" she
stammered. "How could you speak to me so?"

But he was merciless.  "Oh, I'm not blind, and I'm not deaf, either.
I've seen and I've heard.  But I didn't need to see or to hear.  Don't
you suppose I've always known you married me out of spite--out of pique,
because Cort Bent wouldn't marry you.  I knew it then just as I know it
now, but I hoped I could win you back and that things would be the same
as they were before _he_ came meddling in my affairs.  Well, you know
what happened better than I do.  Our marriage has been a failure. I was
a fool--so were you.  We've made the best of a bad job, but that don't
make it a good job. I let you go your own way.  I've been good to you
because I knew I'd been as big a fool as you were. What I didn't know
was that you'd met Cort Bent behind my back----"

"That is not true," she broke in.  "That day he called here----"

"Don't explain," impatiently, "it won't help matters.  I'm not blind.
The main fact is that you've seen Cort Bent again and that you're still
in love with him.  These people are talking about you."

"Who?  Mrs. Cheyne?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cheyne--and others."

Camilla steadied herself with a hand upon the table.  The brutality of
his short, sharp indictment unnerved her for the moment.  She had hoped
he would have given her the opportunity to make an explanation in her
own way, a confession even which, if he had willed, might have brought
them nearer in spirit than they had ever been.  But that was now
impossible.  Every atom of him breathed antagonism--and the words of her
avowal were choked in the hot effusion of blood which pride and shame
sent coursing to her throat and temples.

"And if I _am_ still in love with him," she said insolently, "what
then?"  He looked at her admiringly, for scorn became her.

"Oh, nothing," he said with a shrug.  "Only be careful, that's all.
Back in Mesa City I thought of shooting Cort Bent, but I found a better
way to punish him.  Here"--he laughed--"I've a different plan.  I'm
going to give you a free foot.  I'm going to throw you two together--to
give you a chance to work out your salvation in your own way. Your
marriage to me means nothing to you.  Time has proved that.  You and I
are oil and water. We don't mix.  We never have mixed.  There isn't any
reason that I can see that we're ever going to mix.  We've worried along
somehow, to date, but it's getting on my nerves.  I'd rather we
understood each other once and for all.  I'm past changing. You knew
what I was--a queer weed, a mongrel. I took root and I grew as Nature
made me grow, in the soil I fell in, hardy, thick-ribbed, stubborn, and
lawless.  The world was my enemy, but I fought it as Nature taught, by
putting on a rough bark and spines like the cactus that grew beside me.
Oh, I grew flowers, too, pretty pale blossoms that tried to open to the
sun.  You had a chance to see them--but they weren't your kind.  You
looked beyond them at the hot-house plants----"

"Don't, Jeff," she pleaded.  "I can't bear it."

But he only laughed at her.

"Well, I've brought them to you--the roses, the orchids, the carnations,
and you're going to live with them, in the atmosphere you've always
wanted----"

"Won't you let me speak?"

"No!" he thundered.  "My mind is made up. I'm going West alone.  You go
your way.  I go mine.  Is that clear?  You and Cortland Bent can meet
when and where you please."

"I don't want to meet him," she whispered brokenly.  "I don't want to
see him again."

"I can't believe you," he sneered.  "We've lived a lie since we were
married.  Let's tell the truth for once in our lives.  When I came in
this room you were asleep, but even while you slept you dreamed of him
and his name was in your mouth."

The face she turned up to him was haggard, but her eyes were wide with
wonder.

"I heard you--you were calling for Cort.  I'm not going to be a fool any
longer."

He turned away from her and went toward the door, while she got up with
some dignity and walked to the fireplace.

"You're going--to Mrs. Cheyne?" she asked coldly.

"If I like," defiantly.  "This game works both ways."

"Yes, I see.  There's some method in your madness after all."

"I don't see why you should care--since I don't object to Bent.  Mrs.
Cheyne is a friend of mine. She's investing in my company----"

"Evidently," with scorn.  "No doubt you make it profitable to her."

"We won't talk about Mrs. Cheyne.  You don't like her.  I do.  You like
Cort Bent.  I don't. And there we are.  We understand each other. It's
the first time in our lives we ever have.  I don't question you, and
you're not to question me. All I ask is that you hide your trail, as
I'll hide mine.  I have some big interests at stake, and I don't want
any scandal hanging around my name--or yours.  I'm giving you into the
hands of my enemies.  The father wants to ruin my business, the son to
ruin my wife.  I'll fight General Bent with his own weapons.  The
son----"

"You're insulting," she broke in.  "Will you go?"

He turned at the door--his face pale with fury.

"Yes, I'll go.  And I won't bother you again. These rooms are yours.
When I'm here, mine are there.  Some day when I'm ready I'll get you a
divorce.  Then you can marry as you please.  As for me," he finished
passionately, "I'm done with marriage--done with it--you understand?"

And the door crashed between them.

Camilla stood for a moment, tense and breathless, staring wide-eyed at
the pitiless door.  Then the room went whirling and she caught at the
chair at her desk and sank into it helplessly, one hand pressed against
her breast.  For a moment she could not think, could not see even.  The
brutality of his insults had driven her out of her bearings.  Why he had
not struck her she could not imagine, for it was in the character of the
part he was playing. He had not given her a chance.  He must have seen
that she was trying to repair past damages and begin anew.  A throb of
self-pity that was almost a sob came into her throat.  Tears gathered in
her eyes and pattered on the desk before her.  She did not notice them
until she heard them fall, and then she dried her eyes abruptly as
though in shame for a weakness.  He did not want to begin anew. She
could see it all clearly now.  He was tired of her and caught at the
easiest way to be rid of her, by putting her in the wrong.  Her strength
came quickly as she found the explanation, and she sat up rigidly in her
chair, her face hot with shame and resentment.  She deserved something
better from him than this.  All that was worst in her clamored for
utterance.

With a quick movement of decision she reached forward for a pen and
paper and wrote rapidly a scrawl, then rang the bell for her maid.

"Have this note mailed at once."

It was addressed to Cortland Bent.




                             *CHAPTER XII*

                          *TEA CUPS AND MUSIC*


Dropping in on Jack Perot meant being shot skyward for twelve stories in
a Louis Sixteenth elevator operated by a magnificent person in white
gloves and the uniform of a Prussian lieutenant.  Perot's panelled door
was no different from others in the corridor upstairs, except for its
quaint bronze knocker, but the appearance of a man-servant in livery and
the glimpse of soft tapestries and rare and curious furniture which one
had on entering the small reception room gave notice that a person of
more than ordinary culture and taste dwelt within.  The studio of the
painter itself was lofty, the great north window extending the full
height of two stories of the building, while the apartment beyond, a
library and dining room with steps leading above to the bedrooms,
contained all the luxuries that the most exacting bachelor might
require.

To arrive at the distinction of being a fashionable portrait painter one
must have many qualifications. In the schools one must know how to draw
and to paint from the model.  In the fashionable studio one must know
how to draw and paint--then discover how not to do either.  If the nose
of one's sitter is too long, one must know how to chop it off at the
end; if the mouth is too wide, one must approximate it to the Greek
proportions; eyes that squint must be made squintless and colorful;
protruding ears must be reduced.  Indeed, there is nothing that the
beauty doctor professes to accomplish that the fashionable portrait
painter must not do with his magic brush.  He must make the lean
spinster stout and the stout dowager lean; the freckled, spotless; the
vulgar, elegant; the anaemic, rosy; his whole metier is to select
agreeable characteristics and to present them so forcibly that the
unpleasant ones may be forgotten, to paint people as they ought to be
rather than as they are, to put women in silk who were meant for shoddy,
and men in tailored coats who have grown up in shirt-sleeves.

In addition to these purely technical attainments, he must be an
infallible judge of character, a diplomat, a sophist; he must have a
silver tea-service, to say nothing of excellent Scotch and cigarettes.
He must be able to write a sonnet or mix a salad, discuss the Book of
Job or the plays of Bernard Shaw, follow the quotations of the stock
market, the news of the day, and the fashions in women's hats.  He must
laugh when he feels dejected and look dejected when he feels like
laughing.  Indeed, there is nothing the fashionable portrait painter
must not be able to do, except perhaps really--to paint.

Jack Perot could even do that, too, when he wanted to.  The sketch of
the Baroness Charny on his easel was really sincere--an honest bit of
painting done with the freedom his other work lacked.  Perhaps this was
because it was not a commission, but just one of those happy interludes
which sometimes occur amid the dreariest of measures. It pleased him, at
any rate, and he stood off from it squinting delightedly through his
monocle while the Baroness poured the tea.

"Really, madame, it's too bad it's finished.  I was almost ready to
believe myself back in Paris again," he said in French.  "If one could
only live one's life backward!"

"Oh, that wouldn't do--in a little while perhaps you would be quite
poor."

"Yes," he sighed, "but think how much better I would paint."  He stopped
before the sketch and sighed again.  "I think it's you, Baroness.  You
bring an echo of my vanished youth.  Besides, I didn't paint you for
money.  That is the difference."

"You are going to paint that handsome Madame Wray?"

"Yes.  She's coming in for tea to-day."

"They are wonderful, those people.  He is so original--so _farouche_."

"He's too fond of talking about himself," he growled.  "These people
represent the Western type so common in New York--climbers--but New York
will forgive much in the husband of Mrs. Wray."

"He doesn't care whether he's forgiven or not, does he?"

"That's a pose.  All Westerners adopt it.  To consent to be like other
people would be to confess a weakness."

"I like him; but then"--the Baroness yawned politely--"all Americans are
attractive.  Mrs. Wray I find less interesting."

"Naturally, madame.  You are a woman."  Then, after a pause, "It is a
pity she's getting herself talked about."

"Really?  That's encouraging--with Monsieur Bent?"

"Oh, yes--they met in the West--the phenix of an old romance."

"How delightful!  Monsieur Jeff doesn't care?"

"Oh, no," significantly.  "He has his reasons."

The door-knocker clanged, and Mrs. Rumsen entered, escorting two
debutantes, who paused on the threshold of the studio gurglingly, their
eyes round with timidity and a precocious hopefulness of imminent
deviltries.

"_So_ kind of you, Mrs. Rumsen.  Good morning, Miss Van Alstyne--Miss
Champney" (with Jack Perot it was always morning until six of the
afternoon).  "You've met the Baroness?"

"How too thweetly perfect!"

"How fearfully interesting!"

The newcomers fluttered palpitantly from canvas to canvas and only
subsided when Mrs. Cheyne entered.

"Am I welcome?" she drawled.  "This is your day, isn't it, Jack?  Oh,
how charming!"  She paused before the sketch of the Baroness.  "Why
didn't you paint _me_ like that?  I'll never forgive you.  You were
painting me for Cheyne, I know it. My portrait fairly exudes the early
Victorian."

Perot kissed the tips of his fingers and wafted them toward her.  "Quite
correct, dear Rita.  Cheyne was paying the bill.  Now if you gave me
another commission----"

"I won't--you're the most mercenary creature. Besides, I'm too hard up.
One must really have billions nowadays."  She sank on the couch beside
the Baroness.  "It's really very exhausting--trying to live on one's
income.  I'm very much afraid I shall have to marry again."

"You need a manager.  May I offer----"

"No, thanks.  I shall be in the poor-house soon enough."

"Get Mr. Wray to help," laughed the painter mischievously.  "They say he
has a way of making dollars bloom from sage-brush."

She glanced at him swiftly, but took her cup of tea from the Baroness
and held her peace.

The knocker clanged again, and Mrs. Wray, Miss Janney, Larry Berkely,
and Cortland Bent came in.

"This is really jolly, Gretchen.  Hello!  Cort, Berkely--Mrs. Wray, I've
been pining to see your hair against my old tapestry.  Oh! shades of
Titian! Can I ever dare?"

Camilla  softly, aware of Mrs. Cheyne's sleepy eyes in the shadow
below the skylight.  She nodded in their general direction and then took
Mrs. Rumsen's proffered hand--and the seat beside her.

"I was so sorry to have missed you this morning," she said.  "I'm always
out, it seems, when the people I want to see come in."

"I should have 'phoned," said the lady.  "I had something particular to
speak to you about.  Is your husband coming here?"

"I--I really don't know," Camilla stammered. "He has been away and very
busy."

"He'll be back for my dance, won't he?"

"I think so--but he's never certain.  He's going West very soon."

"He was telling me something about his early life.  You ought to be very
proud of him."

"I can't tell just what it is, but to me your husband seems like an echo
of something, an incarnation of some memory of my youth--perhaps only a
long-forgotten dream.  But it persists--it persists.  I can't seem to
lose it."

"How very curious."

"It is the kind of personality one isn't likely to forget.  Has he any
memory of his father or--of his mother?"

"No.  His mother died when he was born.  His father--he doesn't remember
his father at all."

Mrs. Rumsen smiled.  "Forgive me, won't you? I suppose you'll think me a
meddlesome old busybody. But I'm not, really.  I want to be friendly.
You're a stranger in New York, and it occurred to me that perhaps you
might crave a little mothering once in a while.  It is so easy to make
mistakes here, and there are so many people who are willing to take
advantage of them."

"You're very kind, Mrs. Rumsen.  I'm glad you think us worth while."

"I do.  So much worth while that I want to lay particular stress upon
it.  Perhaps I ought to tell you what I mean.  Last night my brother
dined with us.  He was in a very disagreeable mood--and spoke very
bitterly of your husband.  I suppose he may even go so far as to carry
his business antagonism into his social relations with you both."

"How very unfortunate!" in genuine dismay.

"That is his way.  He's rather used to lording it over people here.  And
people stand it just because he's Cornelius Bent.  I suppose Mr. Wray
knows what he is about.  At any rate, I honor him for his independence.
I told my brother so--and we're not on speaking terms."

As Camilla protested she laughed.  "Oh, don't be alarmed, dear; we have
been that way most of our lives.  You see we're really very much alike.
But I wanted you to understand that my brother's attitude, whatever it
is, will make no possible difference to me."

"I shouldn't dare to be a cause of any disagreement----"

"Not a word, child.  I'm not going to permit Wall Street to tell me who
my friends shall be. There is too much politics in society already.
That is why I want you to dine with me before my ball, and receive with
me afterward, if you will."

Camilla's eyes brightened with pleasure.  "Of course, I'm very much
honored, Mrs. Rumsen.  I will come gladly, if you don't think I'll add
fuel to the flame."

"I don't really care.  Why should you?"

"There are reasons.  The General was most kind to us both----"

"Because he had something to get out of you," she sniffed.  "I could
have told you that before."

"But it was through General Bent that we met everybody--people who have
entertained us--the Janneys, the McIntyres, and yourself, Mrs. Rumsen."

"He was the ill-wind that blew us the good," she finished graciously.
"Say no more about it. I have a great many friends in New York, my
child--some who are not stockholders in the Amalgamated Reduction
Company."

                     *      *      *      *      *

In another corner of the studio--a dark one behind a screen--Miss Janney
had impounded Larry Berkely.

"Have you seen 'Man and Super-man'?" she was asking.

"I've read it."

"Well, do you believe in it?  Don't you think it breeds a false
philosophy?  Can you imagine a girl so brazen as to pursue a man whether
he wanted her or not?"

"No.  It was very un-human," said Larry.

"Or a man so helpless, saying such dreadful things--thinking such
dreadful things about a girl and then marrying her?"

"It was absurd--quite ridiculous in fact.  No one ever meets that kind
of people in real life.  I never could stand a girl of that sort."

"Oh, I'm so glad you agree with me.  Do you know, Larry, I really
believe that you and I have exactly the same way of thinking about most
things.  It's really remarkable.  I'm so glad.  It's a great comfort to
me, too, because ever since I first met you I hoped we'd learn to
understand each other better."

"How curious!  I've been hoping the same sort of thing--fearing it,
too," he added dolefully.

"Fearing it?  What do you mean?  Tell me at once."

"Oh, nothing," he murmured.

"I insist on knowing."

"I wanted you to like me--and yet I dreaded it, too."

"Don't say that again," she whispered.  "I can't stand it, Larry.  I do
care for you--more and more every time I see you.  But it makes me
terribly unhappy to feel that anything is bothering you."

"It needn't bother _you_."

"Yes, it does--if it makes _you_ miserable.  What is it?  Won't you tell
me?"

"I--I don't think we ought to be too friendly."

"Why not?" in surprise.

"Because it wouldn't be good for you--for either of us."

"That's no answer at all.  I refuse to listen. What do I mind if it's
good for me or not--if I care for you enough to--to--what is it, Larry?
Answer me."

"Well, you know I'm all right now, but when I went West my bellows--my
breathing apparatus--oh, hang it all!  The reason I went West was on
account of my health.  My lungs, you know----"

"You silly boy.  I've known that for ever so long. That's one of the
reasons why I fell in love with----"

She stopped, the color suddenly rushing to her cheeks as she realized
what she had been saying. But Larry's fingers had found hers in the
corner, and she looked up into his eyes and went on resolutely.  "I do
love you, Larry.  I think I always have.  Are you glad?"

Then Larry kissed her.

                     *      *      *      *      *

On the other side of the screen, to her own accompaniment on the piano,
the Baroness Charny began singing:

    "Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux
    Qui voltigent fous sur mes levres,
    Ils y versent l'oubli des fievres
    Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux,
    Aussi legers que des roseaux,
    Foules par les pieds blancs des chevres
    Tes doux baisers sont des oiseaux
    Qui voltigent fous, sur mes levres."


Amid the chorus of approval, as the Baroness paused, a thin little
lisping voice was heard.

"Oh, how too utterly thweetly exthquithite! I never thought of kitheth
being like the flight of little birdth.  Are they, Mr. Bent?  I thought
they lathted longer."

Bent shrugged his shoulders and laughed.  "How should _I_ know, Miss
Champney?  _I've_ never been married."

"Married?  How thilly!  Of courthe not!  It would be thtupid to kith
_then_--tho unneth-eth--unneth-eth--oh, you know what I mean, don't
you?"

"I'm afraid I don't.  I'd be tempted not to understand, just to hear you
say 'unnecessary' again."

"Now you're making fun of me.  You're perfectly horrid.  _Ithn't_ he,
Mr. Perot?"

"He's a brute, Miss Champney--an utter brute; that's because he's never
been kissed."

"Oh, how very interethting!  Haven't you really, Mr. Bent?  Oh, you're
really quite hopeleth."

Mrs. Cheyne sipped her tea quite fastidiously and listened, bored to the
point of extinction.  Nor did her expression change when, some moments
later, Jeff Wray was announced.  Camilla's face was the only one in the
room which showed surprise. She had not seen her husband for several
days, and she noticed, as he came over and spoke to Mrs. Rumsen, that he
looked more than ordinarily tired and worried.  With Camilla he
exchanged a careless greeting and then passed her on his way to the
others.  The servant brought the decanter and soda bottle, and he sank
on the divan by the side of Rita Cheyne.  It surprised him a little when
she began talking quite through him to their host and the Baroness, whom
they were asking to sing again.

It was a _Chanson Galante_ of Bemberg

      "A la cour
        A la cour
    Aimer est un badinage
        Et l'amour
        Et l'amour
    N'est dangereux qu'au village
        Un berger
        Un berger
    Si la bergere n'est tendre
        Sait se prendre
        Sait se prendre
    Mais il ne saurait changer.
    Et parmi nous quand les belles
    Sont legeres ou cruelles,
    Loin d'en mourir de depit
    On en rit, on en rit,
    Et l'on change aussi-tot qu'elles."


Jeff listened composedly and joined perfunctorily in the applause.  Rita
Cheyne laughed.

"Charming, Baroness.  I'm so in sympathy with the sentiment, too.  It's
delightfully French."

"What is the sentiment?" asked Jeff vaguely of any one.

Mrs. Cheyne undertook to explain.

"That love is only dangerous to the villager, Mr. Wray.  In the city
it's a joke--it amuses and helps to pass the time."

"Oh!" said Jeff, subsiding, conscious, that the question and reply had
been given for the benefit of the entire company.

"Rather dainty rubbish, I should say," said Perot, with a sense of
saving a situation (and a client). "Love is less majestic in the
village--that's all, but perhaps a little sweeter.  Ah, Baroness!"--he
sighed tumultuously--"Why should you recall--these memories?"

The conversation became general again, and Wray finished his glass and
set it down on the edge of the transom.

"What is the matter, Mrs. Cheyne?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see
me?"

"Why should I be?" coolly.

"I don't know.  I thought you might be.  I stopped at your house.  They
told me you were here, so I came right down."

"You're very kind--but I didn't leave any instructions."

"No, but they told me.  I wanted to see you." "You didn't want to see me
the other night."

"I couldn't--I 'phoned you."

"Don't you think it would have been in better taste if you had come
yourself?"

"I left in the morning for Washington.  I've just returned.  I'm sorry
you didn't understand."

"I did.  You had other fish to fry.  Did you know I came all the way in
from the country to see you?  No woman cares to throw herself at the
head of a man.  Personally I prefer an insult to a slight, Mr. Wray."

"Good Lord!  I hope you don't think I could do that.  I certainly have
never showed you anything but friendship.  I've been worried over--over
business matters."

"That's a man's excuse.  It lacks originality.  I'm not accustomed to
rebuffs, Mr. Wray.  I made the mistake of showing that I liked you.
That's always fatal, I thought you were different.  I know better now.
There's no depth too great for the woman who cheapens herself--I'm glad
I learned that in time."

"Don't talk like that.  I tell you I've been away," he protested.

"Really!  Why didn't you write to me then?"

"Write?"

"Or send me some roses?"

"I'll send you a wagon-load."

"It's too late," she sighed.  "It was the thought I wanted."

Wray rubbed his chin pensively.  It occurred to him that there were
still many things with which he was unfamiliar.

"I did think of you."

"Why didn't you tell me so then?"

"I'm telling you now."

She leaned toward him with a familiar gesture of renewed confidences.

"There are a thousand ways of telling a woman you're thinking of her,
Mr. Wray.  The only way not to tell her is to _say_ that you are.  What
a man says is obvious and unimportant.  A woman always judges a man by
the things that he ought to have done--and the things he ought not to
have done."

"I don't suppose I'll ever learn----"

"Not unless some woman teaches you."

"Won't you try me again?"

"I'll think about it."  And then with one of her sudden transitions, she
added in a lower tone, "I am at home to-night.  It is your last chance
to redeem yourself."

"I'll take it.  I can't lose you, Mrs. Cheyne."

"No--not if I can help it," she whispered.

A general movement among Perot's visitors brought the conversation to a
pause.  Mrs. Rumsen, after a final word with Camilla, departed with her
small brood.  Cortland Bent, with a mischievous intention of supplying
evidence of the inefficacy of the parental will, removed one wing of the
screen which sheltered Berkely and his own ex-fiancee. But Miss Janney
was not in the least disconcerted, only turning her head over her
shoulder to throw at him:

"Please go away, Cort.  I'm extremely busy."

Camilla smiled, but was serious again when Bent whispered at her ear,
"_My_ refuge!" he said.  "_Yours_ is yonder."

She followed his glance toward Wray and Rita Cheyne, who were so wrapped
in each other's conversation that they were unconscious of what went on
around them.

"Come," said Camilla, her head in the air, "let us go."




                             *CHAPTER XIII*

                             *GOOD FISHING*


A clock struck the hour of nine. Mrs. Cheyne lowered the volume of
Shaw's plays, the pages of which she had made a pretence of reading, and
frowned at the corner of the rug.  She now wore a house gown of clinging
material whose colors changed from bronze to purple in the shadow of the
lamps.  It fitted her slim figure closely like chain-mail and shimmered
softly like the skin of a dusky chameleon. Mrs. Cheyne was fond of
uncertain colors in a low key, and her hour was in the dim of twilight,
which lent illusions, stimulated the imagination to a perception of the
meaning of shadows--softened shadows which hung around her eyes and
mouth, which by day were merely lines--a little bitter, a little hard, a
little cynical.  Mrs. Cheyne's effects were all planned with exquisite
care; the amber- shades, the warmish rug and scarlet table cover,
the Chinese mandarin's robe on her piano, the azaleas in the yellow
pots, all were a part of a color scheme upon which she had spent much
thought.  Her great wealth had not spoiled her taste for simplicity.
The objects upon her table and mantel-shelf were few but choice, and
their arrangement, each with reference to the other, showed an artistry
which had learned something from Japan.  She hated ugliness.  Beauty was
her fetich.  The one great sorrow of her life was the knowledge that her
own face was merely pretty; but the slight irregularity of her features
somewhat condoned for this misfortune, and she had at last succeeded in
convincing herself that the essence of beauty lies rather in what it
suggests than in what it reveals.  Nature, by way of atoning for not
making each feature perfect, had endowed them all with a kind of Protean
mobility, and her mind with a genius for suggestion, which she had
brought to a high degree of usefulness.  Without, therefore, being
beautiful at all, she gave the impression of beauty, and she rejoiced in
the reputation which she possessed of being marked "Dangerous."

She had rejoiced in it, moreover, because she had been aware that, no
matter how dangerous she might prove to be with others, with herself she
had not been dangerous.  The kind of romance, the kind of sentiment, in
which she indulged she had come to regard as highly specialized art in
which she was Past Grand Mistress.  She loved them for their own sake.
She was a fisher of men, but fished only for the love of fishing, and it
was her pleasure while her victims still writhed to unhook them as
tenderly as might be and let them flap ungracefully back into their own
element.  Her fly-book was a curiosity and of infinite variety. Izaak
Walton advances the suggestion that trout bite "not for hunger, but
wantonness."  Rita Cheyne was of the opinion that men bit for a similar
reason; and so she whipped the social streams ruthlessly for the mere
joy of the game, matching her skill to the indifference of her quarry,
her artistry to their vehemence.

And now she suddenly discovered that she must throw her fly-book
away--she had tried them all--the "silver-doctor," the "white moth," the
"brown hackle"--and all to no purpose.  Her fish had risen, but he would
not bite.  She was fishing in unfamiliar waters, deeper waters, where
there were hidden currents she could not understand. The tackle she had
used when fishing for others would not serve for Jeff Wray.

It provoked her that her subtlety was of no avail, for she had the true
fisher's contempt for heavy tackle.  And yet she realized that it was
only heavy tackle which would land him.  He was the only man who had
really interested her in years, and his conquest was a matter of pride
with her. She had other reasons, too.  His wife was beautiful. Rita
Cheyne was merely artistic.  Victory meant that Beauty was only an
incident--that Art, after all, was immortal.  The theory of a whole
lifetime needed vindication.

When Wray entered she was deep in "You Never Can Tell," but looked up at
her visitor slowly and extended a languid hand.

"Aren't you early?" she asked, slipping a marker in the pages of her
book and closing it slowly.

"No, I don't think so.  I thought I was late. I was detained."

She held up a hand in protest.

"I was really hoping you might not come.  I've been really so
amused--and when one is really amused nowadays one should expect nothing
more of the gods."

Wray got up hurriedly.  "I won't 'butt in' then.  I don't want to
disturb----"

"Oh, sit down--do.  You make me nervous. Have a cigarette--I'll take
one, too.  Now tell me what on earth is the matter with you."

"The matter?  Nothing.  I'm all right."

"You've changed somehow.  When I met you at the Bents' I thought you the
most wonderful person I had ever met--with great--very great
possibilities.  Even at the Janneys' the illusion still remained.
Something has happened to change you.  You do nothing but scowl and say
the wrong thing.  There's no excuse for any man to do that."

"I'm worried.  There's been a slight tangle in my plans.  I--but I'm not
going to trouble you with----"

"I want to hear--of course.  You went to Washington?"

"Yes--to see some of our congressmen.  I have the law on my side in this
fight, and I'm trying to make things copperlined--so there can't be a
leak anywhere.  Those fellows down there are afraid of their own lives.
They act as though they were on the lookout for somebody to stab them in
the back.  Washington is too near New York. A fellow goes there from the
West and in about six months he's a changed man.  He forgets that he
ever came from God's country, and learns to bow and scrape and lick
boots.  I reckon that's the way to get what you want here in the
East--but it goes against my grain."

"Weren't you successful?"

"Oh, yes, I found out what I wanted to know. It's only a question of
money.  They'll fall in line when I'm ready.  But it's going to take
cash--more than I thought it would."

"Are you going to have enough?"

"My credit's good, and I'm paying eight per cent."

"Eight?  Why, I only get four!"

"I know.  Eight is the legal rate in my state. Business is done on that
basis."

"I wish I could help.  You know I'm horribly rich. I'd like to look into
the matter.  Will you let me?"

"Yes, but there's a risk--you see, I'm honest with you.  I'll give stock
as security and a share in the profits--but my stock isn't exactly like
government bonds.  Who is your lawyer?  I'll put it up to him if you
like."

"Stephen Gillis.  But he'll do what I say."

"I'd rather you consulted him."

"Oh, yes, I shall.  But I have faith in you, Jeff Wray.  It seems like a
good speculation.  I'd like you to send me all the data.  I'll really
look into it seriously."  She stopped and examined his face in some
concern.  In the lamplight she saw the lines that worry had drawn there.
"But not to-night.  You've had enough of business. You're tired--in your
mind"--she paused again that he might the better understand her
meaning--"but you're more tired in your heart.  Business is the least of
your worries.  Am I right?"

"Yes," he said sullenly.

"I'm very sorry.  Is there any way in which I can help?"

"No."

The decision in his tone was not encouraging, but she persevered.

"You don't want help?"

"It isn't a matter I can speak about."

"Oh!"

Her big fish was sulking in the deeps?  It was a case for shark-bait and
a "dipsy" lead.

"You won't tell me?  Very well.  Frankness is a privilege of friendship.
I'll use it.  Your wife is in love with my cousin Cortland."

Wray started violently.

"How do you know?"

She smiled.  "Oh, I don't know.  I guessed. It's true, though."  She
paused and examined him curiously.  He had subsided in his chair, his
head on his breast, his brows lowering.

"Are you unhappy?" she asked.

"No," he muttered at last.  "It's time we understood each other."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Do?  Nothing," he said with a short laugh. "There's nothing to do.  I'm
a good deal of a fool, but I know that putting trouble in a woman's way
never made her quit going after what she'd set her mind on.  If I licked
Cort Bent she'd make me out a brute; if I shot him, she'd make _him_ out
a martyr.  Any way, I'm a loser.  I'm going my own way and she----"  He
got up and strode the length of the room and back, and then spoke
constrainedly: "I'm not going to speak of this matter to you or to any
one else."

He dropped into his chair beside her again and glared at the window
curtain.  Mrs. Cheyne leaned one elbow on the arm of her chair which was
nearest him and sighed deeply.

"Why is it that we always marry the wrong people?  If life wasn't so
much of a joke, I'd be tempted to cry over the fallibility of human
nature. The love of one's teens is the only love that is undiluted with
other motives--the only love that's really what love was meant to be.
It's perfectly heavenly, but of course it's entirely unpractical.
Marrying one's first love is iconoclasm--it's a sacrilege--a
profanation--and ought to be prohibited by law.  First love was meant
for memory only--to sweeten other memories later on--but it was never
meant for domestication. Rose petals amid cabbage leaves!  Incense amid
the smells of an apartment kitchen!"

She sank back in her chair again and mused dreamily, her eyes on the
open fire.

"It's a pretty madness," she sighed.  "Romance thrives on unrealities.
What has it in common with the butcher?  You know"--she paused and gave
a quick little laugh--"you know, Cheyne and I fell in love at first
sight.  He was an adorable boy and he made love like an angel.  He had a
lot of money, too--almost as much as I had--but he didn't let that spoil
him--not then.  He used to work quite hard before we were married, and
was really a useful citizen.

"Matrimony ruined him.  It does some men. He got to be so comfortable
and contented in his new condition that he forgot that there was
anything else in the world but comfort and content--even me.  He began
to get fat and bald.  Don't you hate bald-headed men with beards?  He
was so sleek, shiny, and respectable that he got on my nerves.  He
didn't want to go anywhere but to symphony concerts and the opera.
Sometimes he played quite dolefully on the 'cello--even insisted on
doing so when we had people in to dinner. It was really very
inconsiderate of him when every one wanted to be jolly.  He began making
a collection of 'cellos, too, which stood around the walls of the music
room in black cases like coffins. Imagine a taste like that!  The thing
I had once mistaken for poetry, for sentiment, had degenerated into a
kind of flabby sentimentality which extended to all of the commonplaces
of existence.  I found that it wasn't really me that he loved at all.
It was _love_ that he loved.  I had made a similar mistake.  We
discovered it quite casually one evening after dinner."

She broke off with a sigh.  "What's the use?  I suppose you'll think I'm
selfish--talking of myself. Mine is an old story.  Time has mellowed it
agreeably.  Yours is newer----"

"I'm very sorry for you.  But you know that I'm sorry.  I've told you so
before.  I think I understand you better now."

"And I you," and then softly, "Mrs. Wray was your first love?"

"No," he muttered, "she was my last."

Mrs. Cheyne's lids dropped, and she looked away from him.  Had Wray been
watching her he would have discovered that the ends of her lips were
flickering on the verge of a smile, but Wray's gaze was on the andirons.

They sat there in silence for some moments, but Wray, who first spoke,
restored her self-complacency.

"You're very kind to me," he said slowly.  "You say you like me because
I'm different from other fellows here.  I suppose I am.  I was born
different and I guess I grew up different.  If you think I'm worth
while, then I'm glad I grew up the way I did."  He got up and walked
slowly the length of the room.  She watched him doubtfully, wondering
what was passing in his mind.  She learned in a moment; for when he
approached her again he leaned over her chair and, without the slightest
warning, had put his arms around her and kissed her again and again on
the lips.

She did not struggle or resist.  It seemed impossible to do so, and she
was too bewildered for a moment to do anything but sit and stare blankly
before her.  He was a strange fish--a most extraordinary fish which rose
only when one had stopped fishing.  It was the way he did it that
appalled her--he was so brutal, so cold-blooded. When he released her
she rose abruptly, her face pale and her lips trembling.

[Illustration: "She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible to
do so."]

"How could you?" she said.  "How could you?"  And then, with more
composure, she turned and pointed toward the door.

"I wish you'd please go--at once."

But as he stood staring at her she was obliged to repeat: "Don't you
hear me?  I want you to go and not to come back.  Isn't that plain?  Or
would you prefer to have me ring for a servant?"

"No, I don't prefer either," he said with a smile; "I don't want to go.
I want to stay here with you. That's what I came for."

She walked over to the door and stood by the bell.  "Do you wish me to
ring?"

"Of course not."

"Will you go?"

"No."

She raised her hand toward the bell, but halted it in midair.  Wray
noticed her hesitation.

"Wait a moment.  Don't be foolish, Rita.  I have something to say to
you.  It wouldn't reflect much credit on either of us for you to send me
out. I thought we understood each other.  I'm sorry. You said once that
you liked me because I was plain-spoken and because I said and did just
what came into my head, but you haven't been fair with me."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this: You and I were to speak to each other freely of ourselves
and of each other.  You said you needed me, and I knew I needed you. We
decided it was good to be friends.  That was our agreement.  You broke
it wilfully.  You have acted with me precisely as you have acted with a
dozen other men.  It was lucky I discovered my danger in time.  I don't
think any woman in the world could do as much with me as you could--if
you wanted to.  When I like anybody I try to show them that I do.  If
you were a man I'd give you my hand, or loan you money, or help you in
business.  I can't do that with you.  You're a woman and meant to be
kissed.  So I kissed you."

She dropped her hands.  "Yes, you kissed me, brutally, shamelessly----"

"Shamelessly?"

"You've insulted me.  I'll never forgive you. Don't you think a woman
can tell?  There are other ways of judging a man.  I've interested you,
yes, because you've never known any real woman before," contemptuously.
"I suppose you're interested still.  You ought to be.  But you can never
care for any woman until you forget to be interested in yourself.  For
you the sun rises and sets in Jeff Wray, and you want other people to
think so, too."

"I'm sorry you think so badly of me."

"Oh, no, I don't think badly of you.  From the present moment I sha'n't
think of you at all. I--I dislike you--intensely.  I want to be alone.
Will you please go?"

Wray gave her his blandest stare, and then shrugged his shoulders and
turned toward the door.

"You're willing to have me go like this?"

"Yes."

"I'm going West to-morrow."

"It makes no difference to me where you are going."

"Won't you forgive me?"

"No."

As he passed her, he offered his hand in one last appeal, but she turned
away from him, her hands behind her, and in a moment he was gone.

Rita Cheyne heard the hall door close behind him and then sank into the
chair before the open fire, her eyes staring before her at the tiny
flame which still played fitfully above the gray log.  Her fish had
risen at last with such wanton viciousness that he had taken hook, line,
reel, and rod.  Only her creel remained to her--her empty creel.




                             *CHAPTER XIV*

                            *FATHER AND SON*


Father and son had dined together alone, and for most of the time in
silence. Cornelius Bent had brought his business mien uptown with him,
and Cortland, with a discretion borrowed of experience, made only the
most perfunctory attempts at a conversation.  Since the "Lone Tree"
affair there had happened a change in their relations which each of them
had come to understand.  Cortland Bent's successive failures in various
employments had at last convinced his father that his son was not born
of the stuff of which Captains of Industry are made.  The loss of the
mine had been the culminating stroke in Cortland's ill-fortune, and
since his return to New York he had been aware of a loss of caste in the
old man's eyes.  General Bent had a habit of weighing men by their
business performances and their utility in the financial enterprises
which were controlled from the offices of Bent & Company.  It was not
his custom to make allowances for differences in temperament in his
employees, or even to consider their social relationships except in so
far as they contributed to his own financial well-being. He had
accustomed himself for many years to regard the men under him as
integral parts of the complicated machinery of his office, each with its
own duty, upon the successful performance of which the whole fabric
depended.  He had figured the coefficient of human frailty to a decimal
point, and was noted for the strength of his business organization.

To such a man an only son with incipient leanings toward literature,
music, and the arts was something in the nature of a reproach upon the
father himself. Cort had left college with an appreciation of AEschylus
and Euripides and a track record of ten-seconds flat.  So far as Bent
Senior could see, these accomplishments were his only equipment for his
eventual control of the great business of the firm of which his father
was the founder.  The Greek poets were Greek, indeed, to the General,
but the track record was less discouraging, so Cortland began the
business of life at twenty-three as a "runner" for the bank, rising in
time to the dignity of a post inside a brass cage, figuring discounts,
where for a time he was singularly contented, following the routine with
a cheerfulness born of desperation.  As assistant to the cashier he was
less successful, and when his father took him into his own office later
and made him a seller of bonds, Cortland was quite sure that at last he
had come into his own.  For the selling of bonds, it seemed, required
only tireless legs and tireless imagination--both of which he possessed.
Only after a month he was convinced that bond sellers are born--not
made.

The General, still hoping against hope, had now taken him back into his
office on a salary and an interest in business secured, and thus made
his son more or less dependent upon his own efforts for the means to
enjoy his leisure.  Father and son existed now as they had always done,
on a basis of mutual tolerance--a hazardous relation which often
threatened to lead and often did lead to open rupture.  To-night
Cortland was aware that a discussion of more than usual importance was
impending, and, when dinner was over, the General ordered the coffee
served in the smoking room, the door of which, after the departure of
the butler, he firmly closed.

General Bent lit his cigar with some deliberation, while Cortland
watched him, studying the hard familiar features, the aquiline nose, the
thin lips, the deeply indented chin, wondering, as he had often wondered
before, how a father and son could be so dissimilar.  It was a freak of
heredity, Nature's little joke--at Cornelius Bent's expense.  The
General sank into his armchair, thoughtfully contemplating his legs and
emitting a cloud of smoke as though seeking in the common rite of
tobacco some ground of understanding between his son and himself.

"I want to speak to you about the Wrays," he said at last.

Cortland's gaze found the fire and remained on it.

"You are aware that a situation has arisen within the past few weeks
which has made it impossible for Bent & Company or myself personally to
have any further relations, either financial or social, with Jeff Wray?
He has taken a stand in regard to his holdings in Saguache Valley which
I consider neither proper nor justifiable.  To make short of a long
matter, I thought it best some weeks ago to forget the matter of the
mine and make Wray an offer for his entire interests in the Saguache
Valley.  It was a generous offer, one that no man in his position had a
right to refuse.  But he did refuse it in such terms that further
negotiations on the subject were impossible."

"Yes, sir, I know," put in his son.

"Wray's rise is one of those remarkable combinations of luck and
ability--I'll concede him that--which are to be found in every community
once in a decade.  From obscure beginnings--God knows what the fellow
sprang from--he has worked his way up in a period of three years to a
position of commanding influence.  He owns the biggest independent
smelter in the West--built it, we now believe, with the intention of
underbidding the Amalgamated.  He has not done so yet because he hasn't
been sure enough of himself. But he's rapidly acquiring a notion that
nothing Jeff Wray can do will fail.  That is his weak point--as it is
with every beggar on horseback.  You are familiar with all of these
facts.  You've had some occasion," bitterly, "to form your own judgment
of the man.  When you came East I was under the impression that, aside
from business, there were other reasons, why you disliked him."

"That is correct, sir," muttered Cortland, "there were."

The General eyed his son sharply before he spoke again.

"Am I to understand that those reasons still exist?  Or----"

"One moment, sir.  I'd like to know just where this conversation is
drifting.  My relations with Wray have never been pleasant.  He isn't
the type of man I've ever cared much about.  No conditions that I'm
aware of could ever make us friendly, and, aside from his personality,
which I don't admire, I'm not likely to forget the 'Lone Tree' matter
very soon."

"H--m!  That still rankles, does it?  It does with me--with all of us.
Oh, I'm not blaming you, Cort.  If you had been a little sharper you
might have made one last investigation before you signed those papers.
But you didn't, and that's the end of that part of the matter.  What I
want to know now is just what your relations with the Wray family are at
the present moment.  You hate Wray, and yet most of your leisure moments
are spent in the company of his wife.  Am I to understand----?"

"Wait a moment, sir----"  Cortland had risen and moved uneasily to the
fireplace.  "I'd prefer that Mrs. Wray's name be kept out of the
discussion. I can't see how my relations with her can have any
bearing----"

"They have," the General interrupted suavely. "If Mrs. Wray is to
receive your confidences I can't give you mine."

"Thank you," bitterly.  "I didn't know I had ever done anything to
warrant such an attitude as this."

"Tut! tut!  Don't misunderstand me.  Whatever your sins, they've always
been those of omission. I don't believe you'd betray me wilfully.  But
intimacies with pretty women are dangerous, especially intimacies with
the wives of one's financial enemies; unless, of course, there's some
method in one's madness."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry I don't make my intention clear.  If your friendship with
Mrs. Wray can be useful to Bent & Company I see no reason why it
shouldn't continue.  But if it jeopardizes my business plans in any way,
it's time it stopped.  In my office you are in a position and will, I
hope, in the near future be in a further position to learn all the
business plans of the Amalgamated and other companies.  Of course, I
don't know how far Mrs. Wray enjoys the business confidences of-her
husband.  But it is safe to assume that, being a woman, she knows much
more than her husband thinks she does.  I don't intend that you should
be placed in an embarrassing position with respect to her or with
respect to me.  I'm on the point of starting the machinery of my office
on a big financial operation for the Amalgamated Reduction Company--the
exact nature of which until the present moment has remained a secret.
Your part in this deal has been mapped out with some care, and the
responsibilities I have selected for you should give you a sense of my
renewed faith in your capabilities.  But you can't carry water on both
shoulders----"

"You're very flattering, sir.  I've never carried much water on either
shoulder; and my relations with Mrs. Wray hardly warrant----"

"I can't see that," impatiently.  "You're so often together that people
are talking about you. Curtis Janney has spoken to me about it.  Of
course, your affair with Gretchen is one that you must work out for
yourselves, but I'll confess I'm surprised that she stands for your
rather obvious attentions to a married woman."

Cortland Bent smiled at the ash of his cigar.  His father saw it and
lost his temper.

"I'm tired of this shilly-shallying," he snapped. "You seem to make a
practice in life of skating along the edge of important issues.  I'm not
going to tolerate it any longer, and I've got to know just where you
stand."

"Well, dad," calmly, "where shall we begin? With Gretchen?  Very well.
Gretchen and I have decided that we're not going to be married."

"What?"

"We have no intention of marrying next year or at any other time."

"Well, of all the----!  Curtis Janney doesn't know this."

"He should.  Gretchen is in love with somebody else, and I----"

"_You_!  I understand.  You are, too.  You're in love with Jeff Wray's
wife."

He paused, but his son made no reply, though the old man watched his
face curiously for a sign.  The General knocked his cigar-ash into the
fire.

"Is that true?"

"Under the circumstances I should prefer not to discuss the matter."

"Why?  You and I haven't always been in sympathy, but the fact remains
that I'm your father."  The old man's long fingers clutched the chair
arm, and he looked straight before him, speaking slowly. "I suppose
you've got to have your fling.  I did. Every man does.  But you're
almost old enough to be through that period now.  There was never a
woman in the world worth the pains and anxieties of an affair of this
kind.  A woman who plays loose with one man will do it with another.
The fashion of making love to other men's wives did not exist when I was
young."

Cortland turned to the fire, his lips compressed, and with the tongs
replaced a fallen log.

"When I was young," the old man went on, "a man's claim upon his wife
was never questioned. Society managed things better in those days.
Ostracism was the fate of the careless woman; and men of your age who
sought married women by preference were denied the houses of the young
girls of their own condition.  If a fellow of your type had oats to sow,
he sowed them with a decent privacy instead of bringing his mother, his
sister, into contact----"

Cortland straightened up, the tongs in his hand, his face pale with
fury, saying in stifled tones:

"For God's sake, stop, or I'll strike you as you sit."

The General moved forward in his chair almost imperceptibly, and the
cigar slipped from his fingers and rolled on the hearth.  For a long
moment the two men looked into each other's eyes, the elder conscious
that for the first time in his life he had seen his son really aroused.
There was no fear in the father's look, only surprise and a kind of
reluctant admiration for a side of Cortland's character he had never
seen.  He sank back into his chair and looked into the fire.

"Oh!" he muttered.

"You had no right to speak of Mrs. Wray in those terms," said Cortland,
his voice still quivering.

"I'm sorry.  I did not know."

Cortland set down the fire tongs, his hands trembling, and put both
elbows on the mantel-shelf.

"Perhaps, since you know so much," he said in a suppressed voice, "I had
better add that I would have married her if Wray hadn't."

"Really?  You surprise me."

There was a moment of silence which proved to both men the futility of
further discussion.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather we didn't speak of this.  Mrs. Wray would
understand your viewpoint less clearly than I do.  She is not familiar
with vice, and she does not return my feeling for her.  If she did, I
should be the last person in the world she would see----"

"I can't believe you."

"It is the truth.  Strange as it may seem to you and to me, she loves
her husband."

"She married him for his money."

Cortland was silent.  Memory suddenly pictured the schoolroom at Mesa
City where he had won Camilla and lost her in the same unfortunate
hour--his hour of mistakes, spiritual and material--a crucial hour in
his life which he had met mistily, a slave of the caste which had bred
him, a trifler in the sight of the only woman he could love, just as he
had been a trifler before the world in letters and in business.

"No," he replied.  "She did not marry him for money.  She married
him--for other reasons. She found those reasons sufficient then--she
finds them sufficient now."  He dropped heavily, with the air of a
broken man, into an armchair, and put a hand over his eyes as though the
light hurt them.  "Don't try to influence me, sir.  Let me think this
out in my own way.  Perhaps, after what you've told me about the
Amalgamated, I ought to let you know."

"Speak to me freely, Cort," said the old man more kindly.

"I don't want you to think of Camilla as the wife of Jeff Wray.  I want
you to think of her as I think of her--as herself--as the girl I knew
when I first went West, an English garden-rose growing alone in the
heart of the desert.  How she had taken root there Heaven only knows,
but she had--and bloomed more tenderly because of the weeds that
surrounded her."

He paused a moment and glanced at his father. General Bent had sunk deep
in his chair, his shaggy brows hiding his deeply set eyes, which peered
like those of a seer of visions into the dying embers before him.  A
spell seemed to have fallen over him. Cortland felt for the first time
in his life that there was between them now some subtle bond of
sympathy, unknown, undreamed of, even.  Encouraged, he went on.

"She was different from the others.  I thought then it was because of
the rough setting.  I know now that it wasn't.  She is the same here
that she was out there.  I can't see anything in any other woman; I
don't want to see anything in any other woman.  I couldn't make her out;
it puzzled me that I could do nothing with her.  After school hours--she
was the schoolmistress, you know, sir--we rode far up into the
mountains.  She got to be a habit with me; then a fever.  I didn't know
what was the matter except that I was sick because of the need of her.
I didn't think of marriage then.  She was nothing.  Her father kept a
store in Abilene, Kansas.  I thought of you. All my inherited instincts,
my sense of class distinction, of which we people in New York make such
a fetich, were revolted.  But I loved her, and I told her so."

Cortland sat up, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and
followed his father's gaze into the fire.

"She was too clean to understand me, sir.  I knew it almost before I had
spoken.  In her eyes there dawned the horror, the fear, the self-pity
which could not be said in words.  Then Jeff Wray came in and I left
her--left Mesa City.  There was--nothing else--to do."

His voice, which had sunk to a lower key, halted and then was silent.  A
chiming clock in the hallway struck the hour; other clocks in dainty
echo followed in different parts of the house; an automobile outside
hooted derisively; but for a long while the two men sat, each busied
with a thread of memory which the young man had unreeled from the spool
of life.  In the midst of his thoughts Cort heard a voice at his elbow,
the voice of an old man, tremulous and uncertain, a softer voice than
his father's.

"It is strange--very, very strange!"

"What is strange, sir?"

Cornelius Bent passed his fingers before his eyes quickly and
straightened in his chair.

"Your story.  It's strange.  You know, Cort, I, too, once loved a woman
like that--the way you do.  It's an old romance--before your mother,
Cort.  Nobody knows--nobody in the East ever knew--even Caroline----"

He stopped speaking as though he had already said too much, got up
slowly and walked the length of the room, while Cortland watched him,
conscious again of the sudden unusual sense of conciliation in them
both.  At the other end of the room the General stood a moment, his
hands behind his back, his gaze upon the floor.

"I am sorry, Cort," he said with sudden harshness.  And then, after a
pause, "You must not see Mrs. Wray again."

Cortland's hands clenched until the knuckles were white, and his eyes
closed tightly, as though by a muscular effort he might rob them of a
persistent vision.  When he spoke his voice was husky like that of a man
who had been silent for a long time.

"You're right, sir--I've thought so for some days. But it's not so easy.
Sometimes I think she needs me----"

"Needs you?  Don't they get along?"

"I don't know.  There are times when I feel that I am doing the right
sort of thing."

"He doesn't abuse her?"

"I don't know.  She'd be the last person to speak of it if he did.  But
I think she doesn't altogether want me to go."

General Bent shook his head slowly.  "No, Cort. It won't do.  What
you've just told me makes your duty very clear--your duty to her and
your duty to yourself.  There's danger ahead--danger for you both.  You
may not care for my advice--we've not always understood each other--but
I hope you'll believe me when I say that I offer it unselfishly, with
the single purpose of looking after your own welfare.  Leave New York.
I'm prepared to send you West next week, if you'll go.  There will be a
lot of work for us all.  It's possible that I may go, too, before long.
I can give you duties which will keep you busy so that you won't have
time to think of other things.  When I first spoke to you of this
business to-night I spoke as President of the Amalgamated Reduction
Company, now I am speaking to you as a father.  I want you with us more
than ever--largely on our account, but more largely now upon your own.
Will you go?"

Cortland rose and leaned one elbow on the mantel.

"You want me to help you in the fight for Wray's smelter?"

"Yes, I do."

"Don't you want me to see her again?"

"It's wiser not to.  No good can come of it--perhaps a great deal of
harm."

"She would not understand--she knows I dislike her husband, but it seems
to me I ought to tell her----"

"That you're making financial war upon her husband?  Forewarn
him--forearm him?  What else would you say.  That doesn't seem fair to
me, does it?"

He paused, watching his son narrowly and yet with a kind of stealthy
pity.  Cortland's struggle cost him something.

"I suppose you're right," he said at last.  And then, turning around
toward his father, "I will not see her again.  Give me the work, sir,
and I'll do my best.  Perhaps I haven't always tried to do that. I will,
though, if you give me the chance."

"Your hand on it, Cort.  I won't forget this. I'm glad you spoke to me.
It hasn't always been our custom to exchange confidences, but I'll give
you more of mine if you'll let me.  I'm getting old. More and more I
feel the need of younger shoulders to lean on.  I'm not all a business
document, but the habit of mercilessness grows on one downtown. Mercy
has no place in business, and it's the merciful man that goes to the
wall.  But I have another side.  There's a tender chord left in me
somewhere. You've struck it to-night, and there's a kind of sweetness in
the pain of it, Cort.  It's rusty and out of use, but it can still sing
a little."

Cortland laid his hand on the old man's shoulder almost timidly, as he
might have done to a stranger.

"You'll forgive me, father----?"

"Oh, that"--and he took his son's hand--"I honor you for that, my son.
She was the woman you loved.  You could not hear her badly spoken of.
Perhaps if I had known my duty--I should have guessed.  Say nothing
more.  You're ready to take my instructions?"

"Yes--and the sooner the better."

"Very good.  You'll hear more of this to-morrow. I am--I'm a little
tired to-night.  I will see you at the office."

Cortland watched him pass out of the door and listened to his heavy step
on the broad staircase. Cornelius Bent was paying the toll of his
merciless years.

When he was gone, Cortland sank into the big chair his father had
vacated, his head in his hands, and remained motionless.




                              *CHAPTER XV*

                             *INFATUATION*


The season was at its height.  The Rumsen ball, the Warringtons'
dinner-dance, and some of the subscription affairs had passed into
social history, but a brilliant season of opera not yet half over and a
dozen large dances were still to follow.  Camilla sat at her desk
assorting and arranging the cards of her many visitors, recording
engagements and obligations.  When Jeff had left for the West she had
plunged into the social whirlpool with a desperation born of a desire to
forget, and, as she went out, there had come a bitter pleasure in the
knowledge that, after all, she had been able to win her way in New York
against all odds.  People sought her now, not because she was a protegee
of Mrs. Worthington Rumsen, or because she was the wife of the rich Mr.
Wray, but because she was herself.

The dangers which threatened no longer caused her any dismay, for
ambition obsessed her.  It was an appetite which had grown great with
feeding, and she let it take her where it would.  There was not an hour
of the day when she was not busy--in the mornings with her notes and her
shopping, in the afternoons with luncheons, teas, and other smart
functions, at night with dinners, the theatre, or the opera and the
calendared dances.  There were few opportunities for her to be alone,
and the thought of a reconciliation with her husband, which had at one
time seemed possible, had been relegated to her mental dust-bin in
company with an assorted lot of youthful ideals which she had found it
necessary to discard.

She could not remember the day when she had not been socially ambitious.
Five months ago, before she and Jeff had quarreled, there had been a
time when she had been willing to give up the world and go back with
him.  She had been less ambitious at that moment than ever before in her
life.  If he had taken her with him then, there might still have been
time to repair their damages and begin life on a basis of real
understanding.  For a brief time she had abhorred the new life he had
found for her, had hated herself for the thing that she really was, a
social climber, a pariah--too good for her old acquaintances, not good
enough for her new ones--a creature with a mission of intrusion, a being
neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring, and yet perhaps something of
all three.  But that period of mental probation had passed.  She no
longer felt that she was climbing.  There were many broken rungs below
her on the social ladder, but those above were sound, and her head was
among clouds tinted with pink and amber.

Such was the magic of success.  She lived in an atmosphere of soft
excitements and pleasurable exhilarations, of compliments and of
flattery, of violets and roses.  Bridge lessons had improved her game,
but she still discovered that the amounts she could lose in a week were
rather appalling.  Checks for large amounts came regularly from the
West, and she spent them a little recklessly, convinced that she was
obeying to the letter her husband's injunction to strengthen their
social position, no matter what the cost.  She had written Jeff twice in
the first week after his departure asking if she could not follow him to
Mesa City.  His replies had been brief and unnecessarily offensive--so
that, though his image loomed large at times, pride refused further
advances.  Cortland Bent had been with her continually and of course
people were talking.  She heard that from Mrs. Rumsen, who, in the
course of a morning of casual "mothering," had spoken to Camilla with
characteristic freedom.

"I know there's no harm in his attentions, child," she said, "at least
so far as you're concerned.  You have always struck me as being
singularly capable of looking after yourself--and of course Cort is old
enough to know what _he_ is about.  But it never does any one any good
to be talked about--especially a woman who has her way to make in the
world.  There is a simplicity almost rustic in the way you two young
people allow yourselves to be discovered in public places--which, to an
ancient philosopher like myself, carries complete conviction of
innocence.  But others may not be so discerning. If you were ugly or
deformed it wouldn't make the slightest difference what you did, but,
being handsome, you are on trial; and every pretty woman in society is
on the jury of a court which convicts on circumstantial evidence alone."

Camilla thanked her preceptor for the warning, aware of an unpleasant
sense of shock at the revelation.  She seemed to have reached a point in
her mad infatuation with life where warnings made no impression upon
her.  She had not seen Cort Bent for several days now, and, while she
experienced a vague sense of loss in his absence, which had not been
explained, she was so busy that she had not even found time to analyze
it.

A belated cold season had set in--a season of snow and ice; and
fashionable New Yorkers, in a brief interlude of unimportant
engagements, flocked for the week-end to their country places to enjoy a
few days of old-fashioned winter weather.  The Billy Havilands' farm was
within motoring distance of the town.  It wasn't much of a place in the
modern sense, merely a charming old shingled farmhouse which had been
remodeled and added to, set in a big lawn like a baroque pearl in green
enamel, surrounded by ancient trees which still protected it with their
beneficent boughs.  As Haviland and his wife preferred the city in
winter and went to their Newport cottage in summer, they only used The
Cove for small house parties between seasons.  It was kept open for just
such occasions as the present one, and Camilla, who had joined this
party at the last moment, was looking forward with enjoyment to a
glimpse of winter life in a different sort of community.

Snow had fallen during the night, but the day was cold and clear--one of
those dry, sparkling days like the winter ones in Colorado when the
Saguache Peak was laid like a white paper-cutting against the turquoise
sky, and the trees at timber line were visible in silhouette to the
naked eye.  It was freezing hard, and Camilla's skin tingled sharply
beneath her motor veil, but she lay back in her warm furs beside Dorothy
Haviland in the tonneau, drinking deep breaths of delight as she watched
the panorama of purple hills across the river.  The snow was not too
deep for easy going, but in places it had drifted across the road waist
high.  Rejoicing in the chance to test the mettle of his high-powered
car, Haviland took these drifts on the high gear, sending a cloud of
iridescent crystals over and about his guests, who pelted the
unresponsive back of his head with snowballs.  Farmers in sleighs and
wagons on runners drew aside in alarm, to stare with open mouths at the
panting demon--which passed them by before their horses had time to be
frightened.  Every ride with "Billy" was a "joy" ride--he hadn't driven
this car in the Vanderbilt Cup race for nothing. Jack Perot clung to the
robe rail, and alternately prayed and swore in Haviland's ear; the
Baroness Charny punctuated his remarks with cunning foreign cries, and
Dorothy herself admonished him to be careful, but Camilla, whatever she
felt, sat quietly between the two women, her pulses going fast, a prey
to the new excitement of speed.

Haviland had 'phoned his orders from the city to have the bobsled sent
over to the Country Club--and when they drove through the entrance
gates, the pond in the valley below the golf course was dotted with
skaters.  A blue thread of smoke trailed skyward from the cabin of the
Fishing and Skating Club--a part of the larger organization--from which
people came and glided forth by twos and threes over the glossy blue
surface of the pond.

A surprise awaited the party, for as the motor drew up at the steps of
the Golf House it was greeted by a storm of soft snowballs from a crowd
ambushed in a snow fort on the lawn.  The motor party got out hurriedly,
laughing like children, while Billy Haviland, like a good general,
marshaled his forces under the protecting bulk of the machine, while
they threw off their heavy furs and made snowballs enough to sally forth
valiantly to the attack.  The battle was short and furious, until Jack
Perot and Camilla by a dexterous flank-movement assailed the unprotected
wings and came to close quarters with the enemy, Larry, Gretchen,
Cortland Bent, and Rita Cheyne.  A well-aimed shot by Camilla caught
Cortland on the nose, which disconcerted him for a moment, and Haviland
improved his opportunity by washing Rita's face in snow.  A truce was
declared, however, but not before the besiegers had entered the
breastworks and given three cheers for their victory.

"I'll never forgive you, Billy," laughed Rita, brushing the snow from
her neck.  "Never--I'm simply soaking."

"Spoils of victory!  You're lucky I didn't kiss you."

"Yes, I am," she said with sudden demureness. "I'd rather have my face
washed."

The machine was sent on, and, chatting gaily, the party made its way
down to the cabin by the lakeside, a path to which had been cleared
through the snow.  Camilla glanced at Cortland Bent, who stood silently
at her side.

"What's the matter, Cort?  Aren't you going to speak to me?" she asked
carelessly.

He forced a laugh.  "Oh, yes, of course."

"Where have you been?  Do you realize that I haven't seen you for the
last two days?"

"Four," he corrected soberly.  "I--I've been very busy."

"That's no explanation.  You're angry?"

"No, not at all.  I--thought I'd better not come."

She examined him curiously, and laid her fingers on his arm.  "How funny
you are?  Has anything happened?"

He didn't reply at once, and kept his gaze away from her.  "I came here
to-day," he said deliberately, "because I thought it would be the one
place where you and I wouldn't meet."

"Oh!" and she turned away abruptly, her chin in the air, "I'm sorry.  We
needn't meet _now_," and she hurried her steps.

But he lengthened his stride and kept pace with her.

"You don't understand----"

"I don't care to understand.  You don't want to see me--that's
enough----"

"Camilla, please----"

"I'm not in the habit of pursuing the men of my acquaintance, Cort.
I'll save you the trouble of avoiding me."  And with that she broke away
from him and ran down the path, joining the others at the door of the
house.  His attitude annoyed her more because she couldn't understand it
than because of any other reason.  What had come over him?  They had
parted as friends with the definite assurance that they were to meet the
next day.  She had been busy writing letters then, but she remembered
now that he had not called.  There was an unaccountable difference in
his manner, and he had spoken with a cold precision which chilled her.
She felt it in all the sensitive antennae which a woman projects to
guard the approaches to her heart.  All that was feminine and cruel in
her was up in arms at once against him.  He needed a lesson.  She must
give it to him.

On the ice they met a merry party, and Billy Haviland pointed them all
out to Camilla--Molly Bracknell and her diminutive husband, known in
clubdom as the "comic supplement"; Jack Archer, the famous surgeon, and
his fiancee, who had lost her appendix and her heart at the same time.
Stephen Gillis, the lawyer, who was in love with his pretty client, Mrs.
Cheyne, and didn't care who knew it.

"Is he really in love with Mrs. Cheyne?" asked Camilla.

"Oh, yes--threw over a girl he was engaged to.  He's got it bad--worse
than most of 'em."

"What a pity!"

"Rita's in good form this winter."

"She has a charm for men."

"Dolly says she's a _de luxe_ binding of a French novel on a copy of
'Handley Cross.'  I guess it's true.  But I've always been afraid of
Rita."

"Why?"

"She's too infernally clever.  She don't like my sort.  She likes brainy
chaps with serious purposes. They're the kind that always take to her.
I think she knows I'm 'wise.'"

They crossed hands, and Camilla resolutely gave herself over to the
pleasure of motion.  She skated rather badly--a fact to be bewailed,
since Rita Cheyne was doing "figure eights" and "corkscrews," but with
Haviland's help she managed to make three or four turns without mishap.
But she refused to "crack the whip," and skated alone until Cortland
Bent joined her.  He offered her his hand, but she refused his help.

"Won't you go away please, Cort?"

"I've got to see you to-night, Camilla," he said suddenly.  "Where will
you be?"

As she wouldn't reply, he took her hand and skated backward facing her.
"You've got to see me, Camilla----"

"I can't--I won't."

"I'm going away to-morrow."

"We've gotten along for four days without meeting," she said airily.  "I
think I'll survive."

"You're heartless----"

"I know it.  Please get out of my way."

"No--not until you promise to let me see you."

"You're seeing me now."

He took her firmly by the elbows.  "Listen, Camilla!  I'm leaving New
York to-morrow for a long while--perhaps for good----"

For the first time she realized the importance of what he was saying and
looked up into his eyes, discovering something in their shadows she had
not seen before.

"Is it true?  Why are you going?"

"That's what I wanted to tell you.  May I see you to-night?"

She considered a moment before she replied indifferently.

"Yes, if you like.  I am at the Havilands'."

As they stopped before the cabin, Jack Perot joined them, offering to
take Camilla for a turn, but she said she was cold, and the three of
them went inside to the burning log.  Larry and Gretchen on the bench
put a space between them rather suddenly.

"Don't move on _our_ account, Larry," said Perot mischievously; "your
silhouettes through the window were wonderful--quite touching--in fact."

"Jack!" said Gretchen, her face flaming, "you couldn't _see_----"

"No, as a matter of fact, we couldn't--because the shades are
drawn"--the painter laughed immoderately--"but you know we _might_
have."

"You're a very disagreeable person, and I don't like you at all," said
Miss Janney.  "I'll never let you do my portrait--_never_!"

"Ha! ha!" he cried in accents of Bowery melodrama.  "At last, Geraldine,
I have you in me cul-lutches.  I'm desprit and starving!  Next week I
paint your portrait--or tell your father! Cha-oose, beautiful one!"

In the laugh which followed Larry joined good-naturedly.  Indeed, there
was nothing left to do--unless it was to wring the painter's neck.
Instead of which, he wrung his hand and whispered, "I wish you would,
Perot.  It'll save me the trouble."

The rest of the crowd appeared after a while, and the steward brought
hot Scotches, which detracted nothing from the gayety of the occasion.

"God made the country--man made the town," sighed Billy sententiously,
holding the amber liquid to the firelight.  "The simple pleasures--the
healthy sports of our ancestors!  Eh, Rita?"

"Oh, yes," with fine scorn, "quilting parties! No bridge, golf or
tennis.  Imagine a confirmed night owl like _you_, Billy, tucked safely
in bed at nine."

"I'm often in bed by nine."

"Nine in the morning," laughed Perot.  "That's safe enough."

"Don't believe 'em, Camilla.  I'm an ideal husband, aren't I, Dolly?"

"I hadn't noticed it."

"Oh, what's the use?" sniffed Mrs. Cheyne. "There's only one Ideal
Husband."

"Who?" asked a voice, solicitous and feminine.

"Oh, some other woman's, of course."

"How silly of you, Rita," said Gretchen indignantly. "It's gotten to the
point where nobody believes the slightest thing you say."

"That's just what she wants," laughed Cortland. "Don't gratify her,
Gretchen."

Mrs. Cheyne shrugged her shoulders, and, with a glance at Camilla, "Now
the Ideal Wife, Cort----"

"Would be my own," he interrupted quickly, his face flushing.  "I
wouldn't marry any other kind."

"That's why you _haven't_ married, Cortland dear," said Rita
acidulously.

Camilla listened with every outward mark of composure--her gaze in the
fire--conscious of the growing animosity in Mrs. Cheyne.  They had met
only twice since Jeff's departure, and on those occasions each had
outdone the other in social amenities, each aware of the other's
hypocrisy.  In their polite interchange of compliments Wray's name had
by mutual consent been avoided, and neither of them could be said to
have the slightest tactical advantage.  But Camilla felt rather than
knew that an understanding of some sort existed between Mrs. Cheyne and
Jeff--a more complete understanding than Camilla and her husband had
ever had.  She could not understand it, for two persons more dissimilar
had never been created. Mrs. Cheyne was the last expression of a
decadent dynasty--Jeff, the dawning hope of a new one. She had taken him
up as the season's novelty, a masculine curiosity which she had added to
her cabinet of eligible amusements.  Camilla's intuition had long since
told her of Jeff's danger, and it had been in her heart the night they
separated to warn him against his dainty enemy.  Even now it might not
have been too late--if he would have listened to her, if he would
believe that her motive was a part of their ancient friendship, if he
would meet her in a spirit of compromise, if he were not already too
deeply enmeshed in Rita Cheyne's silken net.  There were too many "ifs,"
and the last one seemed to suggest that any further effort in the way of
a reconciliation would be both futile and demeaning.

Camilla was now aware that Mrs. Cheyne was going out of her way to make
her relations with Cort conspicuous--permissible humor, had the two
women been friendly.  Under present conditions it was merely
impertinence.

"Mrs. Cheyne means," said Camilla distinctly, "that the ideal husbands
are the ones one can't get."  And then, pointedly, "Don't you, Mrs.
Cheyne?"

Rita glanced at Camilla swiftly and smiled her acknowledgment of the
thrust.

"They wouldn't be ideal," she laughed, "if we ever got them, Mrs. Wray."

"Touchee," whispered Billy Haviland to Larry Berkely, delightedly.

Outside there was a merry jingle of sleighbells, and Mrs. Haviland rose.
"Come, children," she said, "that's for us.  I wish we had more room at
The Cove.  You'll come, though, Cort, won't you?  We need another man."

"Do you mind if I stay out, Rita?" Cortland appealed.

"Oh, not at all, I'm so used to being deserted for Mrs. Wray that I'm
actually uncomfortable without the sensation."

So the party was arranged.  A long bobsled hitched to a pair of horses
was at the door, and the women got on, while Gretchen pelted snowballs
at Perot, and only succeeded in hitting the horses, so that Camilla and
the Baroness were spilled out into the snow and the man had a hard time
bringing the team to a stop.  A pitched battle ensued while the three
women scrambled into their places, Cortland and Billy covering the
retreat.  At last they all got on, and, amid a shower of snowballs which
the sledders couldn't return, the horses galloped up the hill and out
into the turnpike which led to the Haviland farm.




                             *CHAPTER XVI*

                             *OLD DANGERS*


Camilla had known for some time that she could not forget.  She sought
excitements eagerly because they softened the sting of memory, and the
childish delights of the afternoon with the Havilands, while they made
the grim shadow less tangible, could not drive it away.  When the idle
chatter of small talk was missing, Jeff loomed large.  At The Cove she
went at once to her room, but instead of dressing she threw herself on
the bed and followed the pretty tracery of the wall paper beside her;
her eyes only conjured mental pictures of the days in Mesa City, before
Cortland Bent had come, the long rides with Jeff up the mountain trail
when she first began to learn what manner of man he was and what manner
of things he must one day accomplish. She seemed to realize now that
even in those early days Jeff Wray had stood as a type of the kind of
manhood that, since the beginning of time, has made history for the
world.

With all his faults, his vulgar self-appreciation, and his distorted
ethics, there was nothing petty or mean about him.  He was generous, had
always been generous to a fault, and there was many a poor devil of a
gambler or a drunkard even in those days who had called his name
blessed.  He hadn't had much to give, but when he made a stake there
were many who shared it with him.  Since he had been married his
benefactions had been numberless.  He never forgot his old friends and,
remembering old deeds of kindness to himself, had sought them out--a
broken sheep-herder back on the range, a barber in Pueblo who was
paralyzed, a cowboy in Arizona with heart disease, a freight brakeman of
the D. & W. who had lost a leg--and given them money when he couldn't
find work that they could do.  She remembered what people in the West
still said--that Jeff had never had a friend who wasn't still his
friend.

She had often reviled herself because her judgment of all men was
governed by the external marks of gentility which had been so dear to
her heart--the kind of gentility which Cortland Bent had brought into
Mesa City.  Gentility was still dear to her heart, but there was a
growing appreciation in her mind of something bigger in life than mere
forms of polite intercourse.  Jack Perot, who was painting her portrait;
Billy Haviland, who sent her roses; Douglas Warrington, who rode with
her in the park; Cortland Bent--all these men had good manners as their
birthright.  What was it they lacked?  Culture had carved them all with
finer implements on the same formula, but what they had gained in
delicacy they had lost in force.  Jeff might have been done by Rodin,
the others by Carriere--Beleuze.

It made her furious that in spite of herself she still thought of Jeff.
She got up and went to the mirror. There were little telltale wrinkles
about her eyes, soft shadows under her cheek-bones which had not been
there when she came to New York.  It was worry that was telling on her.
She had never yet been able to bring herself to the point of believing
that all was over between Jeff and herself.  Had she really believed
that he was willing to live his future without her, she could not have
consented even for so long as this to play the empty part he had
assigned her.  It was _his_ money she was spending, not her own; _his_
money which provided all the luxuries about her--the rich apartment in
New York, the motor car, _carte blanche_ at Sherry's, extravagances, she
was obliged to acknowledge, which for the present he did not share.
True, she was following implicitly his directions in keeping his memory
green in the social set to which he aspired, and she had done her part
well.  But the burden of her indebtedness to him was not decreased by
this obedience, and she felt that she could not for long accept the
conditions he had imposed.  Such a life must soon be
intolerable--intolerable to them both.

It was intolerable now.  She could not bear the thought of his
brutality, the cruelty of his silence, the pitiless money which he threw
at her every week as one would throw a bone to a dog.  He was carrying
matters with a high hand, counting on her love of luxury and the
delights of gratified social ambition to hold her in obedience.  He had
planned well, but the end of it all was near.  It was her pride that
revolted--that Jeff could have thought her capable of the unutterable
things he thought of her--the pitiful tatters of her pride which were
slowly being dragged from her by the tongue of gossip.  Mrs. Rumsen had
warned her, and Mrs. Cheyne made free use of her name with Cort's.  The
world was conspiring to throw her into Cortland's arms.  She would not
admit that the fault was her own--it was Jeff's.  It had always been
Jeff's.  She had given him every chance to redeem her, but he had tossed
her aside--for another.  Now she had reached a point when she didn't
care whether he redeemed her or not.  She felt herself
drifting--drifting--she didn't know where and didn't seem to care where.

It was affection she craved, love that she loved, and Cortland was an
expression of it.  He had always been patient--even when she had treated
him unkindly.  A whispered word to Cortland----

Her musing stopped abruptly.  What did Cortland mean by avoiding her?
And why was he leaving New York?  There was a tiny pucker at her brows
while she gave the finishing touches to her toilet; but when she went
down to dinner her cheeks glowed with ripe color and her eyes were shot
with tiny sparkling fires.

"Auction" bridge followed dinner.  In the cutting Cort and the Baroness
were out of it, and when Cort and the Baroness cut in, Camilla and Perot
cut out.  Fate conspired, and it was not until late in the evening that
Cortland and Camilla found themselves alone in the deserted library at
the far end of the wing.  Camilla sank back into the silk cushions of
the big davenport wearily.

"I played well to-night," she said; "I believe even Billy is pleased
with me.  I _did_ have luck, though--shameful luck----"

She stretched her arms above her head, sighing luxuriously.  "Oh, life
is sweet--after all."

Cortland watched her.

"Is it?" he asked quietly.

"Don't you think so, Cort?"

"There's not much sweetness left, for me in anything.  I've got to go
away from you, Camilla."

"So you said."  And then airily, "Good-by."

He closed his eyes a moment.

"I want you to know what it means to me."

"Then why do it?"

"I--I've thought it all out.  It's the best thing I can do--for you--for
myself----"

"I ought to be a judge of that."

His dark eyes sought her face for a meaning.

"It's curious you didn't consult me," she went on. "I hope I know what's
best for myself----"

"You mean that you don't care--my presence is unimportant.  My absence
will be even less important."

"I do care," she insisted.  "What's the use of my telling you.  I'll be
very unhappy without you."

He shook his head and smiled.  "Oh, I know--you'll miss me as you would
your afternoon tea if it was denied you--but you'll do without it."

"I'm quite fond of afternoon tea, Cort."  And then, more seriously, "Are
you really resolved?"

"Yes," he muttered, "resolved--desperately resolved."

She threw herself away from him against the opposite end of the couch,
facing him, and folded her arms, her lips closed in a hard line.

"Very well, then," she said cruelly, "go!"  It seemed as if he hadn't
heard her, for he leaned forward, his head in his hands, and went on in
a voice without expression.

"I've felt for some time that I've been doing you a wrong.  People are
talking about us--coupling your name with mine--unpleasantly.  Heaven
knows what lies they're telling.  Of course you don't hear--and I
don't--but I know they're talking."

"How do you know?"

"My father----"

"Oh!"

"We quarreled--but the poison left its sting."

Camilla laughed nervously, the laughter of a woman of the world.  It
grated on him strangely.

"Don't you suppose _I_ know?" she said.  "I'm not a baby.  And now that
you've ruined my reputation you're going to leave me.  That's unkind of
you.  Oh, don't worry," she laughed again. "I'll get along.  There are
others, I suppose."

He straightened and turned toward her sternly.

"You mustn't talk like that," he said.  "You're lying.  I know your
heart.  It's clean as snow."

"Because _you_ haven't soiled it?"  She clasped her hands over her knees
and leaned toward him with wicked coquetry.  "Really, Cort, you're a
sweet boy--but you lack imagination.  You know you're not the only man
in the world.  A woman in my position has much to gain--little to lose.
I'm a derelict, a ship without a captain----"

He interrupted her by taking her in his arms and putting his fingers
over her lips.  "Stop!" he whispered, "I'll not listen to you."

"I mean it.  I've learned something in your world. I thought life was a
sacrament.  I find it's only a game."  She struggled away from him and
went to the fireplace, but he rose and stood beside her.

"You're lying, Camilla," he repeated, "lying to me.  Oh, I know--I've
been a fool--a vicious--a selfish fool.  I've let them talk because I
couldn't bear to be without you--because I thought that some day you'd
learn what a love like mine meant. And I wanted you--wanted you----"

"Don't you want me still, Cort?" she asked archly.

He put his elbows on the mantel and gazed into the flames, but would not
reply, and the smile faded from her lips before the dignity of his
silence.

"I've thought it all out, Camilla.  I'm going away on business for my
father, and I don't expect to come back.  I thought I could go without
seeing you again--just send you a note to say good-by. It was easier for
me that way.  I thought I had won out until I saw you to-day--but now
it's harder than ever."

He looked up as he thought she might misconstrue his meaning.  "Oh, I'm
not afraid to leave on your account.  Our set may make you a little
careless, a little cynical, but you've got too much pride to lose your
grip--and you'll never be anything else but what you are."  He gazed
into the fire again and went on in the same impersonal tone as if he had
forgotten her existence.  "I'll always love you, Camilla....  I love you
more now than I ever did--only it's different somehow....  It used to be
a madness--an obsession.... Your lips, your eyes, your soft fingers, the
warm elusive tints of your skin--the petals of the bud--I would have
taken them because of their beauty, crushed out, if I could, the soul
that lived inside, as one crushes a shrub to make its sweetness
sweeter."  He sighed deeply and went on: "I told you I loved you
then--back there in Mesa City--but I lied to you, Camilla.  It wasn't
love.  Love is calmer, deeper, almost judicial, more mental than
physical even....  I'm going away from you because I love you more than
I love myself."

"Oh! you never loved me," she stammered.  "You couldn't speak coldly
like this if you did."

He raised his eyes calmly, but made no reply.

"Love--judicial!" she went on scornfully. "What do you know of love?
Love is a storm in the heart; a battle--a torrent--it has no mind for
anything but itself.  Love is ruthless--self-seeking----"

"You make it hard for me," he said with an effort at calmness.

"You know I--I need you--and yet you'd leave me at a word."

"I'm going--because it's best to go," he said hoarsely.

"You're going because you don't care what happens to me."

He flashed around, unable to endure more, and caught her in his arms.
"Do I look like a man who doesn't care?  Do I?" he whispered.  "If you
only hadn't said that--if you only hadn't said that----"

Now that she had won she was ready to end the battle, and drew timidly
away.  But with Cort the battle had just begun.  And though she
struggled to prevent it, he kissed her as he had never done before.  Her
resistance and the lips she denied him, the suppleness of her strong
young body, the perfume of her hair brought back the spell of mid-summer
madness which had first enchained him.

"You've got to listen to me now, Camilla.  I don't care what happens to
my promises--to you--or to any one else.  I'm mad with love for you.
I'll take the soul of you.  It was mine by every right before it was
his.  I'll go away from here--but you'll go with me--somewhere, where we
can start again----"

In that brief moment in his arms there came a startling revelation to
Camilla.  Cort's touch--his kisses--transformed him into a man she did
not know.

"Oh, Cort!  Let me go!" she whispered.

"Away from all this where the idle prattle of the world won't matter,"
he went on wildly.  "You have no right to stay on here, using the money
he sends you--my money--money he stole from me. He has thrown you over,
dropped you like a faded leaf.  You're clinging to a rotten tree,
Camilla.  He'll fall.  He's going to fall soon.  You'll be buried with
him--and nothing between you and death but his neglect and brutality."

In his arms Camilla was sobbing hysterically. The excitement with which
she had fed her heart for the last few months had suddenly stretched her
nerves to too great a tension.  She had been mad--cruel to tantalize
him--and she had not realized what her intolerance meant for them both
until it was too late.

He misunderstood the meaning of those tears and petted her as if she had
been a child.

"Don't, Camilla--there's nothing to fear.  I'll be so tender to you--so
kind that you'll wonder you could ever have thought of being happy
before. Look up at me, dear.  Kiss me.  You never have, Camilla.  Kiss
me and tell me you'll go with me--anywhere."

But as he tried to lift her head she put up her hands and with an effort
repulsed--broke away from--him and fell on the couch in a passion of
tears. She had not meant this--not this.  It wasn't in her to love any
one.

In the process of mental readjustment following her husband's desertion
of her she had learned to think of Cort in a different way.  It seemed
as though the tragedy of her married life had dwarfed every other
relation, minimized every emotion that remained to her.  Cortland Bent
was the lesser shadow within the greater shadow, a dimmer figure blurred
in the bulk, a part of the tragedy, but not the tragedy itself.  For a
time he had seemed to understand, and of late had played the part of
guide, philosopher, and friend, if not ungrudgingly, at least patiently,
without those boyish outbursts of petulance and temper in which he had
been so difficult to manage.  She cared for him deeply, and lately he
had been so considerate and so gentle that she had almost been ready to
believe that the kind of devotion he gave her was the only thing in life
worth while.  He had learned to pass over the many opportunities she
offered him to take advantage of her isolation, and she was thankful
that at last their relation had found a happy path of communion free
from danger or misunderstanding.  While other people amused and
distracted her, Cort had been her real refuge, his devotion the rock to
which she tied.  But this! She realized that what had gone before was
only the calm before the storm--and she had brought it all on herself!

He watched her anxiously, waiting for the storm to pass, and at last
came near and put his arms around her again.

"No--not that!" she said brokenly.  "It wasn't that I wanted, Cort.  You
don't understand.  I needed you--but not that way."  He straightened
slowly as her meaning came to him.

"You were only--fooling--only playing with me?  I might have known----"

"No, I wasn't playing with you.  I--couldn't bear to lose you--but," she
stammered resolutely, "now--I _must_----  You've got to go.  I don't
know what has happened to me--I haven't any heart--I think--no heart--or
soul----"

He had turned away from her, his gaze on the dying log.

"Why couldn't you have let me go--without this?" he groaned.  "It would
have been easier for both of us."

She sat up slowly, still struggling to suppress the nervous paroxysms
which shook her shoulders.

"Forgive me, Cort.  You--you'll get along best without me.  I've only
brought you suffering.  I'm a bird of ill-omen--which turns on the hand
that feeds it.  I was--was thinking only of myself. I wish I could make
you happy--you deserve it, Cort.  But I can't," she finished miserably,
"I can't."

He did not move.  It almost seemed as though he had not heard her.  His
voice came to her at last as though from a distance.

"I know," he groaned.  "God help you, you love _him_."  She started up
as though in dismay, and then, leaning forward, buried her face in her
hands in silent acquiescence.  When she looked up a moment later he was
gone.




                             *CHAPTER XVII*

                           *OLD ROSE LEAVES*


Camilla wrote nothing to Jeff about her illness.  It was nothing very
serious, the doctor said--only a fashionable case of nerves.  The type
was common, the medicine rest and quiet.  He commended his own
sanitarium, where he could assure her luxury and the very best society,
but Camilla refused.  She wanted to be alone, and so she denied herself
to callers, canceled all her engagements, and took the rest cure in her
own way.  She slept late in the mornings, took her medicine
conscientiously, put herself on a diet, and in the afternoon, with her
maid only for company, took long motor rides in the country to
out-of-the-way places on roads where she would not be likely to meet her
acquaintances.

She knew what it was that she needed.  It wasn't the strychnia tonic the
doctor had prescribed, or even the rest cure.  The more she was alone,
the more time she had to think.  It was in moments like the present, in
the morning hours in her own rooms, that she felt that she could not
forget. There was no longer the hum of well-bred voices about her, no
music, the glamor of lowered lights, or the odor of embowered roses to
distract her mind or soothe her senses.  In the morning hours Jeff was
present with her in the flesh.  Everything about her reminded her of
him; the desk at which he had worked, with its pigeon-holes full of
papers in the reckless disorder which was characteristic of him; the
corncob pipe which he had refused to discard; the Durham tobacco in its
cotton bag beside a government report on mining; the specimens of ore
from the "Lone Tree," which he had always used as paper weights; the
brass bowl into which he had knocked his ashes; and the photograph, in
its jeweled frame, of herself in sombrero and kerchief, taken at Myers's
Photograph Gallery in Mesa City at the time when she had taught school,
before Jeff's dreams had come true.

She took the picture up and examined it closely. It was the picture of a
girl sitting on a table, a lariat in one hand and a quirt in the other,
and the background presented Mesa City's idea of an Italian villa, with
fluted columns, backed by some palms and a vista of lake.  How well she
remembered that gray painted screen and the ornate wicker chair and
table which were its inevitable accompaniment. They had served as a
background for Pete Mulrennan in a Prince Albert coat, when he was
elected mayor; for Jack Williams, the foreman of the "Lazy L" ranch, and
his bride from Kinney; for Mrs. Brennan in her new black silk dress; for
the Harbison twins and their cherubic mother.  She put the photograph
down, and her head sank forward on her arms in mute rebellion.  In her
sleep she had murmured Cort's name, and Jeff had heard her.  But she
knew that in itself this was not enough to have caused the breach.  What
else had he heard?  Jeff had tired of her--that was all--had tired of
being married to a graven image, to a mere semblance of the woman he had
thought she was.  She could not blame him for that.  It was his right to
be tired of her if he chose.

It was the sudden revelation of the actual state of her mind with regard
to Cortland which had given her the first suggestion of her true
bearings--that and the careless chatter of the people of their set in
which Mrs. Cheyne was leading.  Cortland had guessed the truth which she
had been so resolutely hiding from herself.  She loved Jeff--had always
loved him--and would until the end of time.  Like the chemist who for
months has been seeking the solution of a problem, she had found the
acid which had magically liberated the desired element; the acid was
Jealousy, and, after all dangerous vapors had passed, Love remained in
the retort, elemental and undefiled.  The simplicity of the revelation
was as beautiful as it was mystifying.  Had she by some fortuitous
accident succeeded in transmuting some baser metal into gold, she could
not have been more bewildered.  Of course, Jeff could not know.  To him
she was still the Graven Image, the pretty Idol, the symbol of what
might have been.  How could he guess that his Idol had been made flesh
and blood--that now she waited for him, no longer a symbol of lost
illusions, but just a woman--his wife.  She raised her head at last,
sighed deeply, and put the photograph in the drawer of the desk.  As she
did so, the end of a small battered tin box protruded.  She remembered
it at once--for in it Jeff had always kept the letters and papers which
referred to his birth and babyhood.  She had looked them over before
with Jeff, but it was almost with a feeling of timidity at an intrusion
that she took the box out and opened it now.  The papers were ragged,
soiled, and stained with dampness and age, and the torn edges had been
joined with strips of court-plaster.  There were two small portraits
taken by a photographer in Denver.  Camilla took the photographs in her
fingers and looked at them with a new interest.  One of the pictures was
of a young woman of about Camilla's age, in a black beaded Jersey waist
and a full overskirt.  Her front hair was done in what was known as a
"bang," and the coils were twisted high on top of her head.  But even
these disfigurements--according to the lights of a later
generation--could not diminish the attractiveness of her personality.
There was no denying the beauty of the face, the wistful eyes, the
straight, rather short nose, the sensitive lips, and the deeply
indented, well-made chin--none of the features in the least like Jeff's
except the last, which, though narrower than his, had the same firm
lines at the angle of the jaw.  It was not a weak face, nor a strong
one, for whatever it gained at brows and chin it lost at the eyes and
mouth.

But Jeff's resemblance to his father was remarkable.  Except for the
old-fashioned collar and "string" tie, the queerly cut coat, and
something in the brushing of the hair, the figure in the other
photograph was that of her husband in the life. She had discovered this
when she and Jeff had looked into the tin box just after they were
married, and had commented on it, but Jeff had said nothing in reply.
He had only looked at the picture steadily for a moment, then rather
abruptly taken it from her and put it away.  From this Camilla knew that
the thoughts of his mother were the only ones which Jeff had cared to
select from the book of memory and tradition.  Of his father he had
never spoken, nor would speak.  He would not even read again these
letters which his mother had kept, wept over, and handed down to her son
that the record of a man's ignominy might be kept intact for the
generations to follow her.

It was, therefore, with a sense of awe, of intrusion upon the mystery of
a sister's tragedy, that Camilla opened the letters again and read them.
There were eight of them in all, under dates from May until October,
1875, all with the same superscription "Ned."  As she read, Camilla
remembered the whole sad story, and, with the face of the woman before
her, was able to supply almost word for word the tender, passionate,
bitter, forgiving letters which must have come between.  She had pleaded
with him in May to return to her, but in June, from New York, he had
written her that he could not tell when he would go West again.  In July
he was sure he would not go West until the following year, if then.  In
August he sent her money--which she must have returned--for the next
letter referred to it.  In September his manner was indifferent--in
October it was heartless.  It had taken only six months for this man
madly to love and then as madly to forget.

Camilla remembered the rest of the story as Jeff had told it to her,
haltingly, shamedly, one night at Mrs. Brennan's, as it had been told to
him when he was a boy by one of the nurses who had taken him away from
the hospital where his mother had died--of her persistent refusal to
speak of Jeff's father or to reveal his identity, of Jeff's birth
without a name, and of his mother's death a few weeks later, unrepentant
and unforgiving.  With her last words she had blessed the child and
prayed that they would not name it after her.  At first he had been
playfully called "Thomas Jefferson," and so Thomas Jefferson he remained
until later another of his guardians had added the "Wray" after a
character in a book she was reading and "because it sounded pretty."
That was Jeff's christening.

Camilla put the letters aside with the faded blue ribbon which had
always accompanied them and gazed at the photograph of Jeff's father.
Yes, it was a cruel face--a handsome, cruel face--and it looked like
Jeff.  She had never thought of Jeff as being cruel.  Did she really
know her husband, after all?  Until they had come to New York Jeff had
always been forbearing, kindly, and tender. Before their marriage he had
sometimes been impatient with her--but since that time, often when he
had every right to be angry, he had contented himself with a baby-like
stare and had then turned away and left her.  Flashes of cruelty
sometimes had shown in his treatment of the Mexicans on the railroad or
at the mines, but it was not the kind of cruelty this man in the
photograph had shown--not the enduring cruelty of heartlessness which
would let a woman die for the love of him.  The night Jeff had left her
the worst in him was dominant, and yet she had not thought of him as
cruel.  It was to the future alone which she must look for an answer to
the troubled question that rose in her mind.

At this moment her maid entered--a welcome interruption.

"Will you see Mrs. Rumsen, Madame?"

"Oh, yes, Celeste.  Ask her if she won't come in here."

Of all the friendships she had made in New York, that of Mrs. Rumsen was
the one Camilla most deeply prized.  There was a tincture of old-world
simplicity in her grandeur.  Only those persons were snobbish, Mrs.
Rumsen always averred, whose social position was insecure.  It was she
who had helped Camilla to see society as it really was, laid bare to her
its shams, its inconsistencies, and its follies; who had shown her the
true society of old New York; taken her to unfamiliar heights among the
"cliff-dwellers" of the old regime who lived in the quiet elegance of
social security with and for their friends, unmoved by the glitter of
modern gew-gaws, who resisted innovations and fought hard for old
traditions which the newer generation was seeking to destroy, a
mild-eyed, incurious race of people who were sure that what they had and
were was good, and viewed the social extravagances as the inhabitants of
another planet might do, from afar, who went into the world when they
chose, and returned to their "cliffs" when they chose, sure of their
welcome at either place.  They were the people Rita Cheyne called
"frumps," and Cortland Bent, "bores," but to Camilla, who had often
found herself wondering what was the end and aim of all things, they
were a symbol of completion.

Mrs. Rumsen laid aside her wraps with the deliberation of a person who
is sure of her welcome.

"You'll forgive my appearance?" asked Camilla. "I didn't think you'd
mind."

"I'm flattered, child.  It has taken longer than I supposed it would to
teach you not to be punctilious with me.  Well, you're better, of
course.  This long rest has done wonders for you."

"Oh, yes.  But I'm afraid I wouldn't last long here.  I'm used to air
and sunshine and bed at ten o'clock at night."  She paused a moment.
"I've been thinking of going West for a while."

"Really?  When?"

"I--I haven't decided.  I thought that Jeff would have returned by this
time, but his business still keeps him."

"And you miss him?  That's very improper.  I'm afraid I haven't schooled
you carefully enough."  She smiled and sighed.  "That is a vulgar
weakness your woman of society must never confess to. We may love our
husbands as much as we like, but we mustn't let people know it.  It
offends their conceit and reminds them unpleasantly of their own
deficiencies."

"People aren't really as bad as you're trying to paint then," laughed
Camilla.  "Even you, Mrs. Rumsen!  Why, I thought the habit of cynicism
was only for the very young and inexperienced."

"Thanks, child.  Perhaps it's my second childhood.  I don't want to be
cynical--but I must. One reason I came to you is because I want you to
refresh my point of view.  I wonder what air and sunshine and bed at ten
o'clock would do for me. Would you like to prescribe it for me?  I
wonder if you wouldn't take me West with you."

Camilla laughed again.

"Are you really in earnest?  Of course I'd be delighted--but I'm afraid
you wouldn't be.  The accommodations are abominable except, of course,
in Denver, and you wouldn't want to stay there. You know our--our house
isn't finished yet.  It would be fine if we could camp--but that isn't
very comfortable.  I love it.  But you know there are no porcelain
tubs----"

"Oh, I know.  I've camped in the West, dear, a good many years
ago--before you were born.  I wonder how I should like it now----"

She paused, her wandering gaze resting on the desk, which Camilla had
left in disorder, the letters scattered, the photographs at which she
had been looking propped upright against the tin document-box. It was on
the photographs that Mrs. Rumsen's gaze had stopped.  Slowly she rose
from her chair, with an air of arrested attention, adjusted her lorgnon,
and examined it at close range.

"I thought I might have been mistaken at first," she said quickly.  "I
see I'm not.  Camilla, dear, where on earth did you get that photograph
of the General?"

Camilla had risen.  "The General?" she faltered. "I don't understand."

"Of my brother--Cornelius Bent--that is his photograph.  I have one like
it in the family album at home."

"That can't be."

"I was looking over them only the other day--why do you look so
strangely?"

"Are you sure?  You can't be sure----"

"I am.  I remember the queer cravat and the pose of the hands on the
chair.  I remember him, too--perfectly.  Do you think I wouldn't know my
own brother?"

"Oh, there must be some mistake--it is dreadful. I can't----"

"What is dreadful, child?  What do you mean?"  She laid a hand on
Camilla's arm, and Camilla caught at it, her nerves quivering.

"The photograph is----"

"Where did you get it?  It isn't mine, is it? or Cortland's?"

"No, no.  It has been in that tin box for more than thirty years.  It
isn't yours.  It's Jeff's--my husband's--do you understand?  It's
his--oh, I can't tell you.  It's too horrible.  I can't believe it
myself.  I don't want to believe it."

She sank into the chair at the desk, trembling violently.  Mrs. Rumsen,
somewhat surprised and aware of the imminence of a revelation the nature
of which she could not even faintly surmise, bent over Camilla kindly
and touched her gently on the shoulder.

"Compose yourself, Camilla, and if you think I ought to know, tell me.
What had my brother to do with you or yours?  How did his picture come
here?"

Camilla replied with difficulty.

"That picture has been in Jeff's possession since he was a baby.  It was
the only heritage his mother left him, the photograph and these letters.
I have just been reading them.  They were written to _her_. _He_ had
deserted her--before Jeff was born----"

Mrs. Rumsen's hand had dropped from Camilla's shoulder, and she turned
quickly away--with a sharp catch in her breath.  When she spoke, her
voice, like Camilla's, was suppressed and controlled with difficulty.

"Then my brother was--your husband's----"

"Oh, I don't know," Camilla broke in quickly. "It is all so dreadful.
There may be some mistake. Jeff will never speak of it.  He has tried
all these years to forget.  I don't know why I took these letters out to
read.  Perhaps it would be better if you hadn't known----"

"No, no.  I think I ought to know.  Perhaps in justice to my
brother----"

"There can be no justice for Jeff's father, Mrs. Rumsen.  I have read
his letters to her--to Jeff's mother.  Before you came in I was trying
to think of a punishment horrible enough for the kind of men who deceive
women as he did, and then leave them to face the world alone."

"But perhaps there was something you don't know----" she groped vainly.

"Every question you would ask, every excuse that he could offer, is
answered in these letters.  Now that you know Jeff's story perhaps you
had better read them."

With trembling hands she gathered the letters and gave them to her
visitor, who now sat in the big armchair near the window, her straight
figure almost judicial in its severity.  She glanced at the handwriting
and at the signature, and then let the papers fall into her lap.

"Yes, they are my brother's," she said slowly. "It is his
handwriting--and the name--the General's name is Cornelius Edward--'Ned'
was his name at college--he never used his first name until later in
life.  I--I suppose there's no doubt about it."

She sat with one hand to her brow as though trying to reconcile two
parts of an astounding narrative.  Camilla's revelation did not seem in
the least like reality.  Cornelius Bent's part in it was so at variance
with his character as she had known it.  There had never been time for
love or for play.  When he had given up his profession of engineering
and plunged into business downtown his youth was ended.  She recalled
that this must have been about the time he returned from the Western
trip--the year before he was married. The making of money had been the
only thing in life her brother had ever cared about.  He had loved his
wife in his peculiar way until she died, and he had been grateful for
his children.  His membership in the ---- Regiment, years ago, had been
a business move, and the service, though distinguished, had made him
many valuable business connections, but all of Cornelius Bent's family
knew that his heart and his soul were downtown, day and night, night and
day.

And yet there seemed no chance that Camilla could be mistaken.  The
marks of handling, the stains of Time--perhaps of tears--the pin-hole at
the top, these were the only differences between the photograph in her
album at home and the one she now held in her fingers.

Camilla waited for her to speak again.  Her own heart was too full of
Jeff and of what this discovery might mean to him to be willing to trust
herself to further speech until she was sure that her visitor understood
the full meaning of the situation.  There was a sudden appreciation of
the delicacy of her own position and of the danger to which her
friendship with Mrs. Rumsen was being subjected--and, highly as she had
prized it, Camilla knew that if her visitor could not take her own point
of view with regard to Jeff's father and with regard to Jeff himself she
must herself bring that friendship to an end. In some anxiety she waited
and watched Mrs. Rumsen while she read.  The proud head was bent, the
brows and chin had set in austere lines, and Camilla, not knowing what
to expect, sat silently and waited.

"It is true, of course," said her visitor, softly. "There can't be the
slightest doubt of it now.  There are some allusions here which identify
these letters completely.  I don't know just what to say to you, child.
From the first time I saw your husband he attracted me
curiously--reflected a memory--you remember my speaking of it?  It all
seems so clear to me now that the wonder is I didn't think of it myself.
The resemblance between the two men is striking even now."

"Yes--yes--I hadn't thought of that."

There was another silence, during which Mrs. Rumsen seemed to realize
what was passing in Camilla's mind--her sudden reticence and the meaning
of it, for she straightened in her chair and extended both hands warmly.

"It is all true.  But my brother's faults shall make no difference in my
feeling for his children.  If anything I should and will love them the
more.  Come and kiss me, Camilla, dear," she said with gentle
simplicity.

And Camilla, her heart full of her kindness, fell on her knees at Mrs.
Rumsen's feet.

"You are so good--so kind," she sobbed happily.

"Not at all," said Mrs. Rumsen with a return of her old "grenadier"
manner, at the same time touching her handkerchief to her eyes.  "To
whom should I not be good unless to my own.  If my brother disowns your
husband, there's room enough in my own empty heart for you both----"

Camilla started back frightened, her eyes shining through her tears.

"You must not speak of this to him--to General Bent--not yet.  I must
think what it is best for us to do."

"No, dear.  I'll not speak of it.  I'll never speak of it unless you
allow me to.  It is your husband's affair.  He shall do what he thinks
best.  As for Cornelius--it is a matter for my brother--and his God----"

"He has forgotten.  Perhaps it would be better if he never knew."

"Something tells me that he will learn the truth. It was written years
ago.  It will not come through me--because it is not my secret to tell.
One thing only is certain in my mind, and that is that your husband,
Jeff, must be told.  It is his right."

"Yes, I know.  I must go to him.  It will be terrible news for him."

"Terrible?"

"I fear so.  I remember his once saying that if he ever found his father
he'd shoot him as he would a dog."

As Mrs. Rumsen drew back in alarm, she added quickly, "Oh, no, of course
he didn't mean that. That was just Jeff's way of expressing himself."

As Camilla rose, Mrs. Rumsen sighed deeply.

"I don't suppose I have any right to plead for my brother--but you and
Jeff must do him justice, too.  All this happened a long while ago.
Between that time and this lie thirty years of good citizenship and
honorable manhood.  Cornelius has been no despoiler of women."  She
picked up the papers again.  "The curious thing about it, Camilla, is
that nowhere in these letters is there any mention of a child.  I can't
understand that.  Have you thought--that perhaps he did not know?  It's
very strange, mystifying.  I have never known the real heart of my
brother, but he could hardly have been capable of _that_.  He was never
given at any time to show his feelings--even to his wife or his family.
Have you thought--that perhaps he loved--Jeff's mother?"

"I hope--I pray that he did.  Perhaps if Jeff could believe that--but
the letters--no, Mrs. Rumsen--no man who had ever loved could have
written that last letter."

"But you must do what you can to make your husband see the best of it,
Camilla.  That is your duty, child--don't you see it that way?"

Camilla was kneeling on a chair, her elbows on its back, her fingers
wreathing her brows.

"Yes, I suppose so," she sighed.  "But I'm afraid in this matter Jeff
will not ask my opinions--he must choose for himself.  I don't know what
he will do or say.  You could hardly expect him to show filial devotion.
Gladys and Cortland"--she rose in a new dismay and walked to the
window--"I had not thought of them."

Her visitor followed Camilla with questioning eyes. "They must share the
burden--it is theirs, too," she put in after a moment.

"It is very hard for me to know what to do.  It is harder now than it
would have been before this fight of the Amalgamated for the smelter.
They are enemies--don't you suppose I hear the talk about it?  General
Bent has sworn to ruin Jeff--to put him out of business; and Jeff will
fight until he drops.  Father against son--oh, Mrs. Rumsen, what can be
done?"  She took the photograph and letters from the lap of her visitor
and stood before the mantel.  "If I burned them----"

"No, no," Mrs. Rumsen had risen quickly and seized Camilla by the arm.
"You mustn't do that."

"It would save so much pain----"

"No one saved _her_ pain.  You have no right. Who are you to play the
part of Providence to two human souls?  This drama was arranged years
before you were born.  It's none of your affair. Fate has simply used
you--used _us_--as humble instruments in working out its plans."

Camilla shook her head.  "It can do Jeff no good. It will do Gladys and
Cortland harm.  Jeff has forgotten the past.  It has done him no
harm--except that he has no name.  He has won his way without a
name--even this will not give him one. Jeff's poor incubus will be a
grim reality--tangible flesh--to be despised."

Mrs. Rumsen looked long into the fire.  "I can't believe it," she said
slowly.  "My brother and I are not on the best of terms--we have never
been intimate, because we could not understand each other.  But he is
not the kind of man any one despises.  People downtown say he has no
soul.  If he hasn't, then this news can be no blow to him. If he
has----"

She paused.  And then, instead of going on, took Camilla by the hand.

"Camilla," she said gently, "we must think long over this--but not now.
It must be slept on.  Get dressed while I read these letters, and we'll
take a spin into the country.  Perhaps by to-morrow we'll be able to see
things more clearly."




                            *CHAPTER XVIII*

                                *COMBAT*


It had been a time of terrific struggles.  For four months Wray's
enemies had used every device that ingenuity could devise to harass him
in the building of his new road, the Saguache Short Line; had attacked
the legality of every move in the courts; hampered and delayed, when
they could, the movement of his material; bribed his engineers and
employes; offered his Mexicans double wages elsewhere; found an
imaginary flaw in his title to the Hermosa Estate which for a time
prevented the shipment of ties until Larry came on and cleared the
matter up.  Finally they caused a strike at the Pueblo Steel Works,
where his rails were made, so that before the completion of the contract
the works were shut down.  Tooth and nail Jeff fought them at every
point, and Pete Mulrennan's judge at Kinney, whose election had taken
place before the other crowd had made definite plans, had been an
important asset in the fight for supremacy.

The other crowd had appealed from his decisions, of course, but the law
so far had been on Wray's side, and there was little chance that the
decisions would be overruled in the higher court.  But as Jeff well
knew, the Amalgamated crowd had no intention of standing on ceremony,
and what they couldn't do in one way they attempted to accomplish in,
another.  Five carloads of ties on the Denver and Saguache railroad were
ditched in an arroyo between Mesa City and Saguache.  Wray's engineers
reported that the trestles had been tampered with.  Jeff satisfied
himself that this was true, then doubled his train crews, supplied the
men with Winchesters and revolvers, and put a deputy sheriff in the cab
of each locomotive.  After that an explosion of dynamite destroyed a
number of his flat cars, and a fire in the shops was narrowly averted.
A man caught at the switches had been shot and was now in the hospital
at Kinney with the prospect of a jail sentence before him.  Judge Weigel
was a big gun in Kinney, and he liked to make a big noise.  He would
keep the law in Saguache County, he said, if he had to call on the
Governor to help him.

More difficult to combat were the dissensions Jeff found among his own
employes.  The German engineers, like other men, were fallible, and left
him when the road was half done because they were offered higher
salaries elsewhere.  His under-engineers, his contractors, his foremen
were all subject to the same influences, but he managed somehow to keep
the work moving.  New men, some of them just out of college, were
imported from the East and Middle West, and the Development Company was
turned into an employment agency to keep the ranks of workmen filled.
Mexicans went and Mexicans came, but the building of the road went
steadily on.  There were no important engineering problems to solve,
since the greater part of the line passed over the plains, where the
fills and cuts were small and the grading inexpensive.  Seven months had
passed since ground had been broken and the road, in spite of obstacles,
had been nearly carried to completion.

Already Wray had had a taste of isolation.  For two months there had
been but one passenger train a day between Kinney and Saguache.  To all
intents and purposes Kinney was now the Western terminus of the road,
and Saguache was beginning to feel the pinch of the grindstones.
Notwithstanding the findings of the Railroad Commission, Judge Weigel's
decision, and Jeff's representations through his own friends at
Washington, the Denver and Western refused to put on more trains.
Saguache, they contended, was not the real terminus of the road; that
the line had been extended from Kinney some years before to tap a coal
field which had not proved successful; that Saguache was not a growing
community, and that the old stage line still in operation between the
two towns would be adequate for every purpose.  These were lies of
course, vicious lies, for every one knew that since the development of
the Mesa City properties Saguache had trebled in size, and that the
freight business alone in ten years would have provided for the entire
bonded indebtedness of the road. What might happen in time Jeff did not
know or care.  It was a matter which must be fought out at length and
might take years to settle.  The Chicago and Utah Railroad Company for
the present had command of the situation.  To handle the business Jeff
had put on a dozen four-mule teams between Kinney and Saguache, which
carried his freight and necessary supplies along the old trail over the
Boca Pass, which was shorter by ten miles than the railroad, a
heart-breaking haul and a dangerous one to man and beast.  But it was
the only thing left for him to do.

Realizing the futility of any efforts at coercion, Jeff had relinquished
the losing battle and had put his heart and soul into the building of
the Saguache Short Line.  He knew every stick and stone of it and rode
along the line from camp to camp, lending some of his own enthusiasm to
the foremen of the gangs, pitting one crowd against the other in
friendly rivalry for substantial bonuses.  At last the connecting links
were forged and only a matter of twenty miles of track remained to be
laid--when the Pueblo Steel Works shut down.  This was a severe
blow--one on which Jeff had not counted.  The penalties for non-delivery
to which the steel company were liable were heavy, but Jeff did not want
the penalties. Compared with his own magnificent financial prospects,
the penalties were only a drop in the bucket. He wanted his road.  His
entire future depended upon its completion--the smelter, the Development
Company, and all his chain of mining, coal, and lumber properties.
Without that road he was now at the mercy of his enemies.

Twenty miles of rails!  They seemed very little in the face of what he
had already accomplished. He had not counted on this, and had laid no
alternative plans.  The Denver and California people were powerless to
help him.  A subtle influence was at work among the steel companies,
and, so far as Jeff could see, it would take him from three to five
months to get his rails from the West or East.  In the meanwhile what
might his enemies not accomplish in bringing about his downfall. What
would become of his pledges to the settlers on the Hermosa Estate--and
the lot-holders of Saguache, many of whose houses were only half built
while they waited for the material to complete them?  These people were
already impatient, and in a short while, unless something could be done
to open connections, the storm must break.

Some days before, by request, Jeff had met Cortland Bent in Denver.  He
was glad to learn that at last the Amalgamated had decided to come out
into the open and kept the appointment, wondering why the General had
chosen Cortland as his emissary.  He had entered the offices of the
Chicago and Utah with his usual air of self-confidence, frankly curious
as to what part Cort could be expected to play in such a big game.  It
did not take him long to learn.  They had not been talking more than a
few moments before Jeff discovered that General Bent had made no
mistake.  The bored, abstracted air of the gilded youth, the mannerisms
which Jeff had been accustomed to associate with Cortland Bent, were for
some reason lacking.  In the short time since they had last met a change
of some sort had come over his old acquaintance.  He conveyed an
impression of spareness and maturity, as though in a night he had melted
off all superfluities of flesh and spirit.  His eyes now seemed to be
more deeply set, their gaze, formerly rather deliberate, now
penetrating, almost to a degree of shrewdness.  He was no longer the boy
who had been a failure.  He was now the man who had tasted the
bitterness of success.

"I thought we might make one more effort for peace, Wray.  That's why
I'm here.  I'm fully informed as to the affairs of the Amalgamated
Reduction Company and as to my father's previous conversations with you.
I'm authorized to talk over your interests in the Valley.  We thought
before carrying out all our plans you might like to have a chance to
reconsider."

"That's pretty clever of you, Bent.  I'm ready to talk business--any
time.  Fire away!"

"I will.  By this time you have probably formed some sort of an idea of
the kind of a proposition you're up against.  I'm not making any
pretence of friendship when I warn you that you're going to lose out in
the end.  My instructions are to ask you to come in with us now.  Later
perhaps you couldn't do it so advantageously."

"H--m!  I'm figuring my chances are getting better every minute, Bent."
He paused and then added, smiling, "How would your crowd like to come in
with me?  I've got a good thing--a very good thing.  And I wouldn't mind
selling a small block at a good figure.  It seems a pity to cut each
other's throats, don't it?  They'll be building houses of gold-bricks
out here next year, and you and I will pay the bill--while we might be
putting a snug profit into our pockets."

Bent remembered another bluff of Wray's which had been expensive, so he
only laughed.

"You once froze me out with a pair of deuces, Wray, but I'm holding
cards this hand," he finished quietly.

"I haven't such a bad hand, Bent," drawled Jeff, shaking some Durham
into a paper.  "Even 'fours' wouldn't scare me."  He put the drawing
string of his tobacco-bag in his teeth and closed the bag viciously.
"See here--we're wasting time.  What are your offers?  If they're not
better than your father's were, it's not worth while talking."

"Better than my father's?"  Cortland couldn't restrain a gasp of
admiration.  "Why, Wray, your property isn't worth what it was."

"Why not?" savagely.

"Well, for one thing," said Cortland coolly, "your railroad connections
are not what they might be.  I might add to that, there's no assurance
they're going to be improved."

"Not unless I give it to you.  Trains are scheduled to run on the
Saguache Short Line on the twenty-fifth of May."

"They're not going to run, Wray."  Jeff turned on him quickly, but
Cortland's eyes met his eagerly. "That's true," he added.  "Believe it
or not, as you choose."

Jeff's sharp glance blurred quickly.  Then he smiled and looked out of
the window with his childish stare.

"Oh, well," he said quietly, "we'll do the best we can."

"You'd better take my advice and come in with, us now.  We'll meet you
in a fair spirit----"

"Why?" asked Jeff suddenly.  "Why should you meet me in any kind of
spirit.  You've got things all your own way--at the upper end of the
Valley--now you say you've coppered my outlet at Pueblo."

"Yes, that's true.  But there are other reasons why we prefer to go no
farther without an effort to come to terms.  We're frank in admitting
that when we can accomplish anything by compromise we prefer to do it.
This fight has been expensive. It promises to be more expensive.  But,
no matter what your reasons, ours are greater, and no matter what move
you make, the Amalgamated can check you.  The Amalgamated will win in
the end.  It always has.  It always will.  You've only to look at its
history----"

"Oh, I know its history," said Wray.  "It's a history of organized crime
in three states.  You've had a succession of easy marks--of sure things.
I'm another one.  You've got a sure thing.  Why don't you go ahead and
play it.  Why do you want to talk about it?  I wouldn't in your place.
I'd clean you out and hang your bones up the way you did Conrad
Seemuller's, for the crows to roost on."  Wray leaned forward and
brought his fist down on the table.  "I know what your 'fair spirit'
means, Cort Bent.  It means that your 'sure thing' is a 'selling
plater'; that you've played your best cards and the tricks are still in
my hand."

Cortland Bent's shoulders moved almost imperceptibly.

"You're mistaken," he said shortly.

"Well, you'll have to prove it.  I lived for some years in Missouri."

"Then you won't consider any basis for settlement?"

"There's nothing to settle.  You started this fight.  Now finish it.
Either your father wins--or I do.  He wouldn't consider my figures in
New York.  He'd be less likely to consider them now. They've gone up
since then."

Cortland rose and walked to the window.

"I warn you that you're making a mistake.  This is neither a bluff nor a
threat.  I mean what I say.  You're going to lose.  You've been hampered
by lack of railroad facilities.  How do you like it?  Your own mines
have kept your plant busy, but you can't buy any ore and you can't
compete with us.  You'll never be able to."

"I'll take my chances."

"Then this is final?"

"Yes."  And, as Cortland Bent rose and took up his hat, "You go back to
those that sent you here and say that on the twenty-fifth of May the
Saguache Smelting Company will be in the market for ore.  I've never
competed with your company. I've always been content to take my profit
at the current prices.  But if it's necessary to be a hog to remain in
this business, I'll be the biggest hog now or get out of it.  You tell
your people that in future I'll regulate my schedule to theirs, and
whatever the prices of the Amalgamated are, my prices will be better.
Is that clear?"

"Perfectly.  I'm much obliged.  Good morning."

The interview had terminated rather suddenly--almost too suddenly to be
entirely satisfactory to Jeff, who had at first seen in a talk with
Cortland Bent an opportunity to learn by inductive methods something of
the future plans of his enemies.  He realized, as he watched Bent's
squared shoulders disappear through the door of an inner office, that in
this respect he had been entirely unsuccessful.  Bent had revealed
nothing that Jeff did not know before.  Jeff had a feeling, too, that
Bent had retired with a slight advantage, even though it had been moral
rather than tactical.  Throughout the interview Bent had preserved the
same demeanor of quiet confidence, of repression and solidity, which, in
spite of his advances, had more than offset Jeff's violence and
distemper.  What had come over the man?  Had he found himself at last?

In his heart Jeff had always had a feeling of good-humored contempt for
the men of Cortland Bent's class, and the fact that Camilla preferred
this one to him had made him less tolerant of them even than before.  He
was unwilling to acknowledge to himself the slight sense of shock he had
experienced in discovering that Cort Bent was now a foeman worthy of his
own metal.  Their trails were crossing too often.  It wasn't healthy for
either of them.

He understood now why it was that Camilla had written him vaguely of an
urgent matter about which she could not write, requesting permission to
come West at once.  He had put it down to the whim of a woman--as he did
everything feminine he could not understand.  It was all clear to him
now.  She wanted to be near Cortland Bent and feared to take any
definite step which might compromise her in the eyes of her husband.  He
had had some misgivings about her letters--they had seemed so frank, so
womanly and friendly, with a touch of regretful tenderness in them that
was unlike anything Jeff could remember when they had been together.
But he was glad now that he had refused her.  Seeing Bent had brought
back into Jeff's mind the whole sad history of their mistaken marriage.
There wasn't a day when he didn't miss her, and his business worries
were never so thick about him that her image didn't intrude. Frequently
he found himself thinking and planning, as he used to plan, for Camilla;
only to remember bitterly in time that the battle he was fighting was
only for himself.  And now the man she loved had come down to help the
legions of autocracy against him.  He was glad of that.  It would nerve
him for the struggle.  He could fight better with Cort Bent on the other
side.

With an effort he put the thought of Camilla from his mind and went
about his other business with a new determination to circumvent his
foes.  He always fought better when his back was to the wall, and his
conversation with Bent had confirmed the necessity of completing the
Short Line at any cost.

The drains upon his resources had been enormous. Three million dollars
had already been spent, and there was another million still to be
provided for. His expenses had been greater because of the unusual
impediments thrown in his way.  The mine was paying "big," and the
railroad and the banks were still backing him, but he knew that there
was a limit to the amounts he must expect from these quarters.  He had
tried to buy rails in the open market and found that his enemies had
forestalled him.  The mills agreed to take his orders, but during the
press of business refused to name a definite date for delivery.  General
Bent, whose friendship was necessary to the steel interests East and
West, had seen to that.  But if the Amalgamated thought that the lack of
rails was going to stop the construction of the Short Line, they were
going to have another guess.

Already an alternative plan had suggested itself to Wray, a desperate,
unheard-of plan which he could never have thought of except as a last
resort. But the more he thought of it, the more convinced he was that it
was the only solution of his problem. He would tear up the rails of the
old narrow-gauge which ran from Mesa City up to the old coal field at
Trappe.  They were light rails, old and rusty from disuse, but they were
_rails_, and by the use of more ties and "blue-boards" for the time
would serve his purpose.  With the sidings and a reserve supply of the
D. & S. at Saguache, he managed to figure out enough to finish the Short
Line. He knew his engineers wouldn't approve--they couldn't approve, he
knew, on any grounds but those of expediency, for such construction was
dangerous and would make the accomplishment of any kind of a fast
schedule impossible, but they would give him his connection--without
which all of his plans must fall to earth.  By October, or perhaps by
late summer, he would manage to get standard rails somewhere.  It would
be easier once the road was in operation.  He couldn't help smiling when
he went into the office of the Denver and California.  If this was the
last card Bent's crowd could play, it was on the tallies that they were
to lose the game.

His plans met with the approval of his friends, and Jeff went back to
Mesa City with a lighter heart than when he had left it.  A hurried
conference with his engineers and directors, which exhausted some of
Jeff's strength and most of his patience, and the old road was doomed to
destruction. Nor was Jeff satisfied until three dilapidated flat cars
loaded with Mexicans and tools were started over the line to the coal
fields.  Then he turned with a sigh under the "Watch Us Grow" sign and
went into his private office, where an accumulation of mining business
awaited him.

But his sense of triumph was short-lived.  The week had not ended before
advices of a disquieting nature reached him from Denver and Pueblo of a
considerable activity in the stock of the Denver and California.  This
information in itself was not surprising, for during the past year the
rate-war and the unsettled condition of the country had made the stock
of the road particularly vulnerable to manipulation?  But back of this
movement, Symonds, the General Manager of the road, one of Wray's
staunchest supporters, thought he detected powerful influences.  Rumors
of a more startling character had transpired, signifying the transfer of
large blocks of the stock to Eastern investors which seriously
threatened the control of those in power.  Other men, men of the
directorate, Jeff discovered, also showed signs of apprehension.  A
reorganization of the road might mean anything--to Jeff it meant ruin,
if the new stockholders were in any way identified with the Chicago and
Utah. Was this Bent's crowd?  For the first time Wray really appreciated
the lengths to which his enemies were prepared to go to accomplish his
downfall. He knew that they had already spent large sums and had used
all their influence in completing their control of the Denver and
Western, but a control of the Denver and California!  It was simply
incredible!

Letters from the banks were still more disquieting. Conditions, they
wrote, were so unsatisfactory throughout the West that their boards of
directors had thought it advisable to call their loans on the stock of
the Denver and Saguache Railroad Company.  The uncertainty of the
development of the Saguache Company's properties, owing to the
imperfection of their railroad connections, made this course necessary
until they secured definite and satisfactory assurances as to the
completion of the Saguache Short Line and the value of its contracts
with the Denver and California Railroad Company. The receipt of these
letters in the same mail was a coincidence which showed Jeff that, in
spite of all assurances to the contrary, his friends were weakening
under fire and that the enemy had invaded his own country.  They meant,
in short, that unless he could meet the loans at once--eight hundred
thousand dollars on stock really worth two millions and a half--those
securities would fall into the hands of the Amalgamated people.

Eight hundred thousand dollars!  It seemed a prodigious sum of money
now.  The "Lone Tree" would bring that in the open market--of course,
but he and Pete could not sell the "Lone Tree."  It was the backbone of
his entire financial position! Really alarmed at the sudden disastrous
turn the company's affairs had taken, he called a meeting of Mulrennan,
Larry Berkely, Weigel, Willoughby, and other available directors, and
then hurried to Denver to see his friends in the D. & C.

Other disappointments awaited him there.  Symonds, and Shackelton, the
vice-president, advised him for the sake of his head, as well, perhaps,
as for their own, to compromise with his enemies if he could.  Until
more light was shed as to the new ownership of the D. & C. they could
make him no further promises of assistance either moral or financial.
He argued with them, pleaded with them at least for some pledge on the
part of the road with which he could reassure the banks.  They were
powerless, they said.  Their contracts, of course, would be a basis for
a suit even under a new management.  They could--or would do nothing
more.

A suit?  Jeff knew what that meant--interminable legal proceedings,
while the ties of the Saguache Short Line rotted under the rails, and
washouts in the summer tore the roadbed to pieces; it meant the shutting
down of his coal mines, the abandonment of his lumber camps, the
complete isolation of his mines and smelter, which, if they did business
at all, must do it under all kinds of disadvantages.

There was only one thing left to do, and that was to finish the Short
Line and put it into operation. Then, perhaps, the courts would uphold
him and force the D. & C. to live up to its contracts--no matter who was
in control.  But how was he to redeem the eight hundred thousand in
stock?  He had enough available capital to finish the Short Line, but
not enough to redeem the stock, too. He got on the Denver and Western
sleeper for Kinney that night, sore in mind and body.  He was too tired
even to think.  Larry and Pete must help him now.  Perhaps there was
some way.  He fell into a troubled sleep, and about his ears Cornelius
Bent's railroad mocked at him in noisy triumph.

                     *      *      *      *      *

The arrival of the morning train from Saguache was an event in Mesa
City.  There were but two trains a day, and it was the morning train
which brought the mail and yesterday's newspapers from Denver.  For
obvious reasons, the passenger traffic was small, and, as almost every
member of the Saguache community was personally known to almost every
citizen of Mesa City, the greetings as a rule were short and laconic,
consisting of a rustic nod or the mere mention of a surname.  Most of
the travelers were men and descended from the combination
baggage-smoker; but this morning Bill Wilkinson, the conductor (and
brakeman), a person by nature taciturn, appeared upon the platform of
the rear coach bearing a lady's English traveling bag, and winked,
actually winked, at Ike Matthews, the station master, who was waiting
for his envelope from headquarters.  At least eight people saw that wink
and fully eighteen the handbag, and, when a pretty lady in a dove-gray
traveling suit appeared in the car doorway to be helped down
ceremoniously to the station platform, thirty-six eyes were agog and
thirty-six ears were open to learn the meaning of the unusual
occurrence; for it was plainly to be seen that the visitor bore every
mark of consequence and came from the East--surely from Denver--possibly
from Chicago.

They saw her smile her thanks to Wilkinson, but when she looked rather
helplessly about her and asked for a "coupe" or "station wagon" a
snigger, immediately suppressed, arose from the younger persons in the
audience.  The firm hand of Ike Matthews now took control of the
situation.

"Do you want the hotel, ma'am?" he said.

"Yes, I think so," said the lady.  "But first I want to find Mr. Jeff
Wray.  Can you tell me where I can see him?"

Her eyes searched the cottonwood trees along the creek opposite the
station, as though she hoped to find him there, searching in the wrong
direction for the town which had been described to her.

"Yes, ma'am, if you'll come with me."  Ike took up the bag and led the
way around the corner of the building into Main Street, while the
engineer and fireman hung out of their cab and with the crowd on the
platform followed the slim figure with their eyes until it vanished into
the crowd at the post-office.

A clerk in the outer room of the Development Company's office building
received the queer pair.

"Mr. Wray is in, ma'am, but he's very busy."  He looked at her timidly.
"I don't know whether he'll see you or not.  Who shall I say?"

The lady handed him a card, and, as he disappeared, she fingered in her
pocketbook for change--then, after a glance at the station master,
smiled at him instead.

"I'm much obliged to you," she said gratefully. "I think I'll stay here
now.  I'll find my way to the hotel."

Matthews put the bag on a desk, awkwardly removed his hat and departed,
while the lady sat and waited.

In the inner office, his head in his hands, his elbows on his desk, his
brows bent over some papers, sat Jeff, trying to bring cosmos out of the
chaos of his affairs.  His clerk entered, the card in his hand,
wondering whether he had made a mistake. Hell had been let loose in the
Development Company for a week, and Mr. Wray, he knew, was in no humor
for interruptions.  Jeff looked up with a frown.

"Well--what is it?"

"A lady--to see you."

Jeff's head sank into his papers again.

"Tell her I'm busy!"  Then he looked up irritably.  "What lady?  Who is
she?  I can't see anybody to-day."

"I don't know.  She doesn't belong around here."  And he dropped the
card on the desk.

Jeff picked it up and looked at it with a scowl, then started in
amazement.  What did it mean? He rose slowly, his brows perplexed, and
put on his coat.

"Tell her to come in," he said.  He was still standing in the middle of
the room looking at her card when Mrs. Cheyne entered.




                             *CHAPTER XIX*

                           *THE LADY IN GRAY*


She was frankly amused at his bewilderment.

"Well," she said with a smile, "you don't seem very pleased to see me."

"I--it's rather sudden.  I wasn't exactly certain it was you."  He took
her hand mechanically. "What on earth are you doing out here?"

"I've come to see you--traveled two thousand miles to tell you I'm
sorry."

Jeff brought forth a chair.

"Sorry?  What for?  Oh, yes, we quarreled, didn't we?  I remember.  It
was my fault.  But I don't understand yet.  Are you on your way to the
coast?"

"What coast?  Oh, no," coolly; "I rather thought I'd reached my
destination, but perhaps I'm mistaken."

Jeff was still regarding her curiously, as if he couldn't be quite sure
he was not dreaming.  He pulled out his swivel chair and sat in it,
facing her.

"Now tell me what this means," he insisted rather sternly.

"I've told you.  I want to convey the impression of begging your pardon.
Don't I do it?  I've tried so hard.  Ugh!  Such unspeakable
sleeping-cars last night!  Such a silly little train this morning from
the place with the unpronounceable name. I had no idea that friendship
could be such a martyrdom!"  She sighed.  "I think I really deserve
something after this."

He found that he was smiling in spite of himself. "You do, I'm sure," he
said after a pause.  "But I don't bear you any grudge.  I expected too
much of you, I guess.  I've forgotten that long ago.  I'm glad to see
you."

"Really?" she drawled.  "You convey just the opposite idea.  You ought
to be glad, you know. I've never been so tired in my life.  That train!
Oh, Jeff, whatever possessed you to live in such an outlandish place?"

"This is where I belong.  If Mesa City is outlandish, then I'm
outlandish, too."

"Love me, love my dog," she laughed.  "I'd have to love you a lot.
Perhaps it will improve on acquaintance."  She crossed her feet and
settled more comfortably in her chair, while Jeff watched her shrewdly.

"You can't mean you want to stay here?" he asked.

"I don't know.  That depends on you.  I've told you the sentimental side
of my journey. Actually I'm a practical young female, with a prudent eye
for an investment."  And when her companion smiled, "Are you laughing
because you think I'm not practical--or because you think I'm not
prudent?"

"I'd hardly call you either.  In fact, I don't know what to think.  You
don't seem to belong, somehow."

"Why not?  Once you said I spoke out like Mesa City."

"But you don't look like Mesa City."

"Horrors!" preening her hair, "I hope not."

Jeff leaned back in his chair with folded arms and examined her--his
eyes narrowing critically. She had given two explanations of her
presence, neither of which in itself seemed sufficient.  The real
explanation, he was forced to admit, lay in the presence itself.  She
bore his scrutiny calmly, examining him with frank interest.

"What is it you don't understand?" she asked him, answering the question
in his eyes with another.  "Me?  Oh, you'll have to give it up. There
isn't any answer.  I'm something between a sibyl and a sphinx.  You
thought you'd guessed me in New York, but you hadn't, you see.  I'm
neither what you thought I was, nor what you thought I ought to be.  I'm
the spirit of Self-Will. I do as I choose.  I thought I'd like to see
you, and so I came--_Voila_."

"I don't know what you can expect here.  The accommodations at the
hotel----"

"Oh, I can stand anything now--after your trains----"

"You'll be bored to death."

"I'm always bored to death.  But, then, this place may have the charm of
boring me in an entirely new way.  After all," she sighed, "I might as
well be bored here as at home."

Wray got up without speaking and walked to the window which overlooked
the plains.  He stood here a moment, his hands behind his back, the look
of perplexity deepening on his face. Somehow Rita Cheyne didn't seem
accessory to the rather grim background of his thoughts.  For days he
had been acting the leading part in what now promised to be a tragedy.
Rita belonged to satirical comedy or, at the best, to the polite
melodrama.  Something of this she suddenly read in his attitude,
wondering why she had not discerned it before.  She got up and went over
to him.

"What is it, Jeff?  You're changed somehow out here.  You seem older,
bigger, browner, more thoughtful."

"This is where I work, Rita," he said with a slow smile.  "In New York
we Westerners only play.  I am older--yes, more thoughtful, too. I've
had a good deal to worry me----"

"Yes, I know.  I think Cortland Bent has been behaving very badly."

Jeff made a quick gesture of protest.

"I didn't mean that," he said abruptly.  "My worries are business
worries."

"Oh!  I intruded."

"Yes, you did.  But I'm glad of it now.  I'm going to Hell about as fast
as a man can, but I might as well do it comfortably."

"What do you mean?" she asked in alarm.

"Your relatives, the Bents.  They've got me in a corner."

"Yes, I heard.  What will be the end of it?"

Jeff ran a finger around his throat with a significant gesture.

"Won't you tell me about it?"

"It wouldn't interest you.  It's a long story. They have more money than
I have.  That's the amount of it."

"I thought you were so wealthy."

"I am.  But I can't go up against the whole of Wall Street.  They've
cost me a lot.  If I won this fight I'd be the richest man west of the
Missouri River.  It isn't over yet."  He paced the room violently,
beginning to rant, as he still did when to talked of himself.  "No, by
G--d! not yet. They've got to come to me in the end.  They can't get my
mine."  He went over to his desk and took out a piece of ore.  "See
that, Rita; that came out of 'Lone Tree' only yesterday.  They may get a
control of the Denver and Saguache and even of the Development Company,
but they can't get the 'Lone Tree.'  I reckon I won't starve."

"But how can they get the Development Company?"

"The banks have called my loans--oh, you can't understand.  If I don't
meet them, the stock will be sold.  Bent's crowd will buy it."

"Of course I don't know much about these things, but I was
wondering--how much stock is there?"

"Two million and a half.  I've borrowed eight hundred thousand dollars."

She looked down, turning the ferrule of her umbrella on the toe of her
boot.

"Suppose some one else bought it?"

"I hadn't thought of that.  Who?"

"Me."

Jeff started forward in his chair, his eyes blazing--then he took a step
or two away from her.

"You?"

She nodded pertly.  He turned and looked at her over his shoulder.
Then, with a warm impulse, he seized both of her hands in his and held
them tightly in his own.

"That's white of you, Rita.  You're the real thing.  I'll swear you
are--the Real Thing--you've got sand, too, a lot of it, and I like you
for it.  It's worth while getting in a hole to find out who your friends
are.  I won't forget this soon."

She disengaged her hands.

"Thanks," she said calmly.  "Do you agree?"

"Agree?  To what?"

"To let me buy that stock?"

He straightened and turned to his desk, uncertainly fingering some
papers there.  He was silent so long that she repeated the question.

"No," he said at last.

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't want you to."

"I don't understand.  In New York you were willing to have me in with
you.  Why do you object now?  Any security your banks will take ought to
be good enough for me.  Any security my cousin Cornelius Bent wants to
buy ought to be worth having."

"It is--to him."

"Then why not to me?--it's all in the family."

He looked at her blankly a moment and then laughed and shook his head.

"No--there's too much risk."

"I expected to risk something."

He sat down in his chair before her and put his hands over hers.

"See here, Rita.  You'll have to let me think this thing out and take my
own time.  I never put my friends into anything I don't believe in
myself.  If you're looking for an investment here I'll find you
something.  I know a dozen good things."

"You can't prevent my getting that stock if I want it," she broke in.

"The Amalgamated can."

"I'll go to the General and tell him I insist on having it.  He's a
little afraid of me."

He laughed.  "He ought to be.  I am, too."  Jeff rose and took up his
hat and Rita Cheyne's traveling bag.  "There's one thing sure: I'm not
going to talk about this any more--not now. You're tired.  I've got to
get you fixed up somehow.  You know I started building a place up in the
canon, but it's not finished yet.  Mrs. Brennan is away.  There's
nothing for it but a hotel, I guess."

"Oh, I don't care.  I'm not going to be discouraged. I warn you I always
have my own way--in the end--in all things."

He chose to disregard the significance of the remark and showed her out.
On their way up the street the spirit moved him to apologize again.

"There's a bathroom at the Kinney House. I'd better take you there.
It's pretty well kept. Camilla stayed there once.  I wish she was here."

"You do?" quizzically.

"Why--yes."

"Then why don't you have her here?" she asked suddenly.

A shade passed over Jeff's face.  "We went East for the winter," he said
slowly.  "I had to come back here.  My wife likes it in New York. It--it
wasn't advisable for her to come."

"Thanks, I knew that before," she said slowly. Further conversation was
interrupted by their arrival at the Kinney House, a frame structure at
the upper end of Main Street, where it stood in lonely dignity, quite
dwarfing its nearest neighbors, which clambered part of the way up the
<DW72> and then paused--as though in sudden diffidence before the majesty
of its three-storied preeminence. It wore at this time a coat of yellow
paint of a somewhat bilious hue, but its cornices, moldings, and the
rather coquettish ornaments about the "Ladies Entrance" were painted
white.  The letters C-A-F-E (without the accent), painted ostentatiously
upon a window, gave a touch of modernity, and the words "Ladies' Parlor"
advised the wearied traveler that here was to be found a haven for the
females of refined and retiring dispositions.  The sound of a piano was
heard from that chaste apartment as Mrs. Cheyne registered her long
angular signature beneath that of "Pat O'Connell, Santa Fe"; and the
strains of "The Maiden's Prayer" came forth, followed presently by the
"Carnival of Venice."  Mrs. Cheyne smiled her tolerance.

"Do you want a room by the day, week or month, ma'am?" asked the clerk.

"I'm a little uncertain," she said; "I may be here only for a day or two
or I may be here"--and she glanced at Jeff--"for a month--or even
longer."

"Mrs. Cheyne is looking into some mining properties," said Jeff with an
amused air.  But when his companion followed the clerk up the stairway,
jangling a key with a huge brass tag, Jeff departed thoughtfully.  So
far as he could see, Mrs. Cheyne had come to Mesa City with the express
intention of playing the devil.  The magnificence of her financial
offer, while it dazzled, had not blinded him. But he was truly
bewildered by her audacity, disarmed by the recklessness of her
amiability.  She always got what she wanted in the end, she said. What
was it she wanted?  Himself?  He couldn't help thinking so, but it made
him feel like a fool. In the East she had led him or as she led other
men on, for the mere joy of the game, and he had followed her
cautiously, aware of his own insufficiency but delighting in the
opportunities her society afforded him to even his accounts with
Camilla.  Both had called their relation friendship for want of a better
word, but Jeff knew that friendship had another flavor.  The night when
he had last visited her he had played his cards and had called that
bluff. But to-day he realized that she had seen his raise and had now
removed the limit from the game. From now on it was to be for table
stakes, with Rita Cheyne dealing the cards.

And what did her amazing financial proposition mean?  Could it be
genuine?  He knew that she was very wealthy--wealthy in the New York
way--but it was not in his experience that sentiment and finance had
anything in common.  If her offers were genuine, her confidence in his
financial integrity and in him was extraordinary.  If they were not, her
confidence in herself was likewise extraordinary.

Jeff smiled to himself a little uneasily.  What would Mesa City be
saying about the unexplained arrival of a captivating female from New
York who sought him out at his office and whose claims upon his society
(unless he fled) could not be denied. There was no chance for him to
flee, even if he wished, the condition of his business requiring his
presence here for at least a few days, and the trunk check in his hand
reminded him that he had promised Rita Cheyne her trunk immediately, so
that she might ride with him that very afternoon.  What was to be done?
Her ingenuity had always surprised him, and her resources were of
infinite variety. To tell the truth, he was afraid of her, and was
willing for the first time to acknowledge it frankly to himself.  She
interested him--had always interested him--but it seemed to be more the
interest of curiosity than that of any real affiliation.  To be with
Rita Cheyne was like going to a three-ring circus, where one is apt to
lose sight of the refined performance on the stage just in front in
bewilderment over the acrobatic feats of the lady in spangles at one
side.  What was her real reason for coming West to Mesa City?  He gave
it up and turned in at the office, gave the trunk check to a clerk, and
in a moment had taken up his business at the point where Mrs. Cheyne had
interrupted him.

Eight hundred thousand dollars!  If the Amalgamated took up that stock,
General Bent's crowd would have control of the Development Company and
the Denver and Saguache Railroad Company. If Rita Cheyne's offers were
genuine--if he chose to use her money to redeem that stock--he could
place himself on some kind of financial footing, could entrench himself
for a long battle over the railroad connections, which he might
eventually win.  There was a chance.  He did not dare to call in
Mulrennan to talk the matter over.  Pete had been catching at straws for
a week, and Jeff knew what his advice would be.  His superstitious mind
would look on Mrs. Cheyne's visit as a direct interposition of
Providence, as a message and an injunction.  Jeff began to think himself
mad not to have accepted her proposition at once.  It dangled before him
temptingly--but he let it hang there like ripe fruit upon the vine,
hesitating to reach forth and seize.  He could not believe it was real.
It was "too aisy," as Pete would have said.  Was he losing his nerve?
Was it that the last victories of his enemies had sapped some of his old
assurance, or had he suddenly developed a conscience?  He put his head
in his hands and tried to think.  If he won his fight he could double
Rita Cheyne's money in a year.  If he lost--and he had to think of that
more and more each day--the stock might not be worth the paper it was
written on.  Rita knew all this, but she still believed in him--more
even than he believed in himself. Women were funny.  He couldn't
understand, unless she had some motive which had not been revealed to
him.  There would be a string of some sort to that extraordinary
proposition.

He got up at last and sent a message to the Home Ranch, ordering two
horses to be sent to his office at three o'clock.




                              *CHAPTER XX*

                          _*La Femme Propose*_


The wagon-road to the "Lone Tree" skirted the mountains for a way and
then wound through a nick in the foothills into a level vale of natural
parks, meadows, and luxuriant grass, bordered by pines and cottonwoods,
beneath which tiny streams meandered leisurely down to the plains below.

Mrs. Cheyne emerged from the scrub-oak delightedly.

"It's like a Central Park for Brobdingnags," she cried.  "I feel as
though Apache ought to have seven-league horseshoes.  As a piece of
landscape gardening it's remarkably well done, for Nature is so apt to
make mistakes--only Art is unerring."  She breathed deep and sighed.
"Here it seems Nature and Art are one.  But it's all on such a big
scale.  It makes me feel so tiny--I'm not sure that I like it, Jeff
Wray.  I don't fancy being an insect. And the mountain tops!  Will they
never come any nearer?  We've been riding toward them for an hour, but
they seem as far away as ever.  I know now why it was that I liked
you--because your eyes only mirrored big things--nobody can have a
mountain for a friend without joining the immortal Fellowship.  It makes
it so easy to scorn lesser things--like bridge and teas.  Imagine a
mountain at an afternoon tea!"

Jeff rode beside her, answering in monosyllables. The road now climbed a
wood of tall oaks, rock-pines, and spruces, through which the sunlight
filtered uncertainly, dappling fern and moss with vagrant amber.
Somewhere near them a stream gushed among the rocks and a breeze crooned
in the boughs.  Rita Cheyne stopped talking and listened for she knew
not what.  There was mystery here--the voice of the primeval, calling to
her down the ages.  She glanced at Jeff, who sat loosely on his horse,
his gaze on the trail.  She had believed he shared her own emotions, but
she knew by the look in his eyes that his thoughts were elsewhere.  She
spoke so suddenly that he looked up, startled.

"Why don't you say something?  This place makes me think about Time and
Death--the two things I most abhor.  Come, let's get out of here."

Apache sprang forward up the trail at the bidding of his mistress, whose
small heels pressed his flanks, again and again, as she urged him on and
out into the afternoon sunlight beyond, while Jeff thundered after.  He
caught her at the top of a sand-ridge half a mile away, where they
pulled their horses down to a walk.

"What was the matter?" said Jeff.  "You rode as if the Devil was after
you."

"Oh, no--I'm not afraid of the Devil.  It's the mystery of the Infinite.
That wood--why don't the dead oak-branches fall?  They look like
gibbets.  Ugh!"  She shuddered and laughed. "Didn't you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"Spooky."

"No.  I camped there once when I was prospecting. That stream you jumped
was Dead Man's Creek."

"He must be there yet, the dead man.  It was like a tomb.  Who was he?"

"A soldier.  He deserted from Fort Garland and was killed by some
Mexicans.  They buried him under a pile of stones."

"What a disagreeable place.  It's like a cemetery for dead hopes.  I
won't go back; you'll have to take me around some other way."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid of melancholy--I hate unhappiness. I was born to be
amused--I _won't_ be unhappy," she said almost fiercely.  "Why should I
be?  I have everything in the world that most people want.  If I see
anything I want and haven't got, I go and get it."

"You're lucky."

She shrugged.  "So people say.  I do as I please. I always have and
always will.  You were surprised to see me here.  I told you why I came.
I wanted to see you.  You were the only person in New York who did not
bore me to extinction.  If it gives me pleasure to be here, this is the
place where I ought to be.  That's logical, isn't it?"

"It sounds all right.  But you won't stay here long," he said.

"Why not?"

"You couldn't stand it.  There's nothing to do but ride."

"I'd rather ride than do anything else."

Jeff looked straight forward over his horse's ears, his eyes narrowing,
his lips widening in a smile.

"Well--if you don't see what you want--ask for it," he said slowly.

"I will.  Just now, however, I don't want anything except an interest in
your business.  You're going to let me have it, aren't you, Jeff?  You'd
take some stranger in.  Why not me?  I'm the most innocuous stockholder
that ever lived.  I always do whatever anybody tells me to do."

"You don't realize the situation.  I've told you I'm in a dangerous
position.  With that stock in my possession again, all my holdings would
be intact and I might stand a long siege--or perhaps be able to make a
favorable compromise--but there's no certainty of it.  I don't know what
they've got up their sleeves.  As it is, I stand to lose the greater
part of my own money, but I'm not going to lose yours."

"I don't believe you're going to lose.  I'm not quite a fool.  Those
papers you showed me don't prove anything.  The Development Company has
two hundred thousand acres of land worth twenty dollars an acre and the
coal fields besides.  That's good enough security for me."

"It would be good enough security for any one if we had our connection.
I could make you a lot of money."  He broke off impatiently.  "See here,
Rita, don't press me in this matter, I'd rather wait a while.  I've got
a few days before those notes are due.  Something may turn up----"

"Which will let me out--thanks, I'm not going to be left out.  I know
what you've done in these mountains and in this country, and I believe
in you as much as I ever did.  I'd like you to let me help you, and I'm
not afraid of losing--but if I do lose, it won't kill me.  Perhaps I'm
richer than you think I am.  I'm willing to wait.  You'll be rich again
some day, and I'll take my chances. They can't keep you down, Jeff--not
for long."

Jeff thrust forth a hand and put it over hers.

"You're solid gold, Rita, and you're the best friend I ever had.  I
can't say more than that."

She smiled happily.  "I've been hoping you'd say that.  It's worth
coming out here for.  I want to prove it, though--and I hope you'll let
me."

The road now turned upward toward the railroad grade.  As they reached
the crest of the hill Jeff pointed to the left at the mills and the
smelter buildings hanging tier on tier down the side of the mountain.
Below in a depression of the hills a lake had formed, surrounded by
banks of reddish earth.  The whole scene was surpassing ugly, and the
only dignity it possessed was lent by the masses of tall black stacks,
above which hung a pall of smoke and yellow gases.  Rita Cheyne gasped.
"So that's the bone of contention?  I thought it would be something like
the New York Public Library or the Capitol at Washington!  Why, Jeff,
it's nothing but a lot of rusty iron sheds!"

"Yes," he drawled, "we don't go in much for architecture out here.  It's
what's inside those sheds that counts.  We've got every known appliance
for treating ore that was ever patented, with a wrinkle or two the
Amalgamated hasn't."

They rode around the lake while Wray explained everything to her, and
then up the hill toward the trestles and ore-dumps of the "Lone Tree"
mine. Wray's struggles for a right-of-way to the markets of the country
showed no reflection here.  From two small holes in the mountain side
cars emerged at intervals upon their small tracks and dumped their loads
at the mill, from which there came a turmoil of titanic forces.  Jeff
offered to show his companion the workings, but she refused.

"No, I think not," she said.  "It's too noisy here.  I haven't finished
talking to you, and I want to ride."

And so they turned their horses' heads into another trail, which
descended among the rocks and scrub-oak, after a while emerging at the
edge of a great sand-dune which the wind had tossed up from the valley
below--a hill of sand a thousand feet high, three miles wide and six
miles long, a mountain range in miniature, in which trees, rocks, and
part of a mountain were obliterated.  Even the Great Desert had not
presented to Rita Cheyne such a scene of desolation.  Their horses
stopped, sniffed the breeze, and snorted.  Jeff pointed into the air,
where some vultures wheeled.

Mrs. Cheyne shuddered.  "It looks like Paradise Lost.  We're not going
there?"

"No--I only wanted you to see it.  There's a thousand million dollars of
gold in that sandpile."

"Let it stay there.  I think it's a frightfully unpleasant place.  Why
do you show me all these things when all I want to do is to talk?"  She
turned her horse's head, and they followed a slight trail between groves
of aspen trees, a shimmering loveliness of transparent color.  "You're
not giving me much encouragement, Jeff.  You didn't believe in my
friendship in New York, but you're trying your best to keep me from
proving it here."

"I do believe it now.  Didn't I tell you so?"

"Yes, but you don't show it.  What do you think my enemies in New York
are saying of my disappearance?  What will they say when they know I've
come out here to you?  Not that I care at all. Only I think that _you_
ought to consider it."

"I do," he said briefly.  "Why do you make such a sacrifice?"

"I never make sacrifices," she said, eluding him skillfully, "even for
my friends.  Don't make that mistake.  I've told you I came because I'd
rather be here than in New York.  If I heard that your financial enemies
were trying to ruin you, that only made me the more anxious to come.
Besides, I had an idea that you might be lonely.  Was I right?"

"Yes--I am."

"Was, you mean."

"Yes--was," he corrected.  "I've been pretty busy, of course, night as
well as day, but after New York this place is pretty quiet."

"Did you miss me?"

"Yes," frankly, "I did--you and I seem to get on pretty well.  I think
we always will."

"So do I.  I've always wondered if I'd ever meet a man who hadn't been
spoiled.  And I was just about ready to decide that he didn't exist when
you came along.  The discovery restored my faith in human nature.  It
was all the more remarkable, too, because you were married.  Most
married men are either smug and conceited, or else dejected and
apprehensive.  In either case they're quite useless for my purpose."

"What is your purpose?" he asked.

"Psychological experiment," she returned glibly. "Some naturalists study
beetles, others butterflies and moths.  I like to study men."

"Have you got me classified?"

"Yes--you're my only reward for years of patient scientific endeavor.
The mere fact that you're married makes no difference, except that as a
specimen you're unique.  Do you wonder that I don't want to lose you?"

"I'm not running away very fast."

"No.  But the fact remains that you're not my property," she answered,
frowning.  "I can't see--I've never been able to see--why you ever
married, any more than I can see why I did.  I'm quite sure that you
would have made me an admirable husband, just as I'm sure that I would
have made you an admirable wife.  You don't mind my speaking plainly, do
you?  I'm thinking out loud. I don't do it as a rule.  It's a kind of
luxury that one doesn't dare to indulge in often.  I have so many weak
points in which you are strong, and I have a few strong ones in which
you are weak, we could help each other.  You could make something of me,
I'm sure.  I'm not as useless as I seem to be; sometimes I think I have
in me the material to accomplish great things--if I only knew where to
begin, or if I had some one who is in the habit of accomplishing them to
show me how.  That is why I wanted to help you.  It struck me as a step
in the right direction."

"It was," he ventured, "only it was too big a step."

"One can't do big things by halves," she insisted. "Money is the only
thing I have that you lack.  It is the only thing that I can
give--that's why I want to give it--so that you can use it as a measure
of my sincerity.  I'd like to make you happy, too----"  She paused, and
her voice sank a note.  "Why should you be unhappy?  You don't deserve
it.  I know you don't.  I haven't any patience with women who don't know
a good thing when they have it."

"Perhaps I'm not as good a thing as I seem.  You yourself are not beyond
making mistakes, Rita."

"Oh, Cheyne?  I didn't make that mistake, Cheyne did.  He thought
marriage was a sentimental holiday, when everybody nowadays knows that
it's only a business contract.  Don't let's talk of Cheyne.  I can still
hear the melancholy wail of his 'cello.  I want to forget all of that.
You have helped me to do it.  I've been looking at you from every angle,
Jeff Wray, and I find that I approve of you.  Your wife has other views.
She married you out of pique.  You married her because she was the only
woman in sight.  You put a halo around her head, dressed her up in
tinsel, set her on a gilt pedestal, and made believe that she was a
goddess.  It was a pretty game, but it was only a game after all.
Imagine making a saint of a woman of this generation!  People did--back
in the Dark Ages--but the ages must have been very dark, or they'd never
have made such a mistake. I've often thought that saints must be very
uncomfortable, because they were human once.  Your wife was human.  She
still is.  She didn't want to be worshipped.  She hadn't forgotten my
cousin Cortland, you see----"

"What's the use of all this, Rita?" said Wray hoarsely.  "I don't mind
your knowing.  Everybody else seems to.  But why talk about it? Let
sleeping dogs lie."

She waved her hand in protest.  "One of the dearest privileges of
friendship is to say as many disagreeable things as one likes.  I'm
trying to show you how impossible you are to a woman of her type, and
how impossible your wife is to you."

"I'd rather you wouldn't."

"She marries you to prove to my cousin Cortland that he isn't the only
man in the world, and then spends an entire winter in New York proving
to everybody that he is.  There hasn't been a day since you left that
they haven't been together, riding, motoring, going to the theatre and
opera. It has reached the point when people can't think of asking one of
them to dinner without including the other.  If you don't know all this,
it's time you did.  And I take it as a melancholy privilege to be the
one to tell you of it.  It's too bad.  No clever woman can allow herself
to be the subject of gossip, and when she does she has a motive for what
she's doing or else she doesn't care. Perhaps you know what Mrs. Wray's
motive is.  If you have an understanding with her you haven't done me
the honor of telling it."

"No," he muttered, "I'm not in the habit of talking of my affairs.  You
know we don't get along.  No amount of talking will help matters."

"What are you going to do?"

Wray's eyes were sullen.  Rita Cheyne chose to believe that he was
thinking of his wife.  But as he didn't reply at once she repeated the
question. It almost seemed as though her insistence annoyed him, but his
tone was moderate.

"What is it to you, Rita?"

She took a quick glance at him before she replied.

"It means a good deal to me," she went on more slowly.  "To begin with,
I haven't any fancy for seeing my best friend made a fool of by the
enemies of his own household.  It seems to me that your affairs and hers
have reached a point where something must be done.  Perhaps you've
already decided."

"I've left her--she's in love with Cort Bent. I have proof of it.  We
made a mistake, that's all."

"Of course you did," she said.  "I'm glad that you acknowledge it.  Are
you going back to New York?"

"I haven't decided.  That depends on many things.  She thinks I'm in
love with you."

They had come to a piece of rough ground sown with boulders and fallen
trees, through which their horses picked their way carefully.  Rita
Cheyne watched the broad back of her companion with a new expression in
her eyes.  He had never seemed so difficult to read as at this moment,
but she thought that she understood and she found something admirable in
his reticence and in his loyalty to his wife.  In a moment the trail
widened again as they reached the levels, and her horse found its way
alongside his.

"She thinks you're in love with me?  What does she know about love?
What do I know about it? or you?  Love is a condition of mind,
contagious in extreme youth, but only mildly infectious later in life.
Why should any one risk his whole future on a condition of mind?  You
feel sick but you don't marry your doctor or your trained nurse because
he helps to cure you.  Why don't you?  Simply because you get well and
then discover that your doctor has a weak chin or disagreeable finger
ends. When you get well of love, if you marry to cure it, there's
nothing left but Reno.  I don't believe in love.  I simply deny its
existence--just as I refuse to believe in ghosts or a personal Devil.  I
resent the idea that your wife should believe you're in love with me.
You find pleasure in my society because I don't rub you the wrong way,
and I like you because I find less trouble in getting on with you than
with anybody else."

"You're a cold-blooded proposition, Rita," said Wray smiling.

"Yes--if it's cold-blooded to think--and to say what one thinks.  But
I'm not so cold-blooded that I could marry one man when I liked
another--a man with whom I had no bond of sympathy. Cheyne was the
nearest approach I could find to the expression of a youthful
ideal--people told me I was in love with him--so I married him. Of
course, if I had had any sense--but what's the use?  I've learned
something since then.  To-day I would marry--not for love, but for
something finer--not because of a condition of mind or a condition of
body, but because of a stronger, more enduring relation, like that
between the lime and sand that build a house.  I'd marry a man because I
wanted to give him my friendship and because I couldn't get on without
his friendship, and if the house we built would not endure, then no
marriage will endure."

"You mean, Rita," Wray interrupted with sober directness, "that you'd
marry me if you could?"

She flushed mildly.  "I didn't say so.  I said I would marry for
friendship because it's the biggest thing in the world.  I don't mind
saying I'd marry you.  It's quite safe, because, obviously, I can't."

Jeff looked at her uncertainly and then laughed noisily.

"Rita, you're a queer one!  I never know when the seriousness stops and
the fun begins."

She smiled and frowned at the same time.

"The fun hasn't begun.  I mean what I say. Why shouldn't a woman say
what she thinks?  A man does.  I shock you?"

"No--it's part of you somehow.  Speak out. I'll tell you whether I
believe you or not when you're through."

"I suppose I'm what people call a modern woman. If I am, I'm glad of it.
Most women fight hard for their independence.  I've simply taken mine.
I say and do and shall always say and do precisely what comes into my
mind.  I've no doubt that I'll make enemies.  I've already succeeded in
doing that.  I'll also probably shock my friends--but I've thrown away
my fetters and refuse to put them on again because some silly prig
believes in living up to feminine traditions.  I haven't any sympathy
with tradition.  Tradition has done more to hinder the enlightened
development of the individual than any single force in history.
Tradition means old fogyism, cant and hypocrisy.  I never could see why,
because our fathers and mothers were stupid, we have to be stupid, too.
Imagine an age in which it was not proper to cross one's legs if one
wanted to--an age of stiff-backed chairs, to sit in which was to be
tortured--when every silly person denied himself a hundred harmless,
innocent amusements simply because tradition demanded it!  We live in an
age of reason.  If a woman loves a man, why shouldn't she tell him so?"




                             *CHAPTER XXI*

                          _*L'homme Dispose*_


Jeff Wray had listened in curiosity, then in amazement, his eyes turned
toward the Saguache Peak, whose snow-cap caught a reflection of the
setting sun.  He had accustomed himself to unusual audacities on the
part of his companion, but the frankness of her speech had outdone
anything he could remember.  When he turned his look in her direction it
was with a shrewd glance of appraisement like the one she felt in the
morning when she had first appeared in his office. As they reached an
opening in the trees Jeff halted his horse and dismounted.

"It's early yet.  Let's sit for a while.  Throw your bridle over his
head.  He'll stand."

Mrs. Cheyne got down, and they sat on a rock facing the <DW72>, which
dropped away gently to the valley.  Jeff took out his tobacco and papers
and deftly rolled a cigarette, while Rita Cheyne watched him.  He
offered to make her one, but she refused.

"You've got me guessing now, Rita," he said with a laugh.  "More than
once in New York I wondered what sort of a woman you really were.  I
thought I'd learned a thing or two before I came away, but I'll admit
you've upset all my calculations. I've always known you were clever when
it came to the real business of disguising your thoughts.  I know you
never mean what you say, but I can't understand anybody traveling two
thousand miles to create a false impression.  You know as well as I do
that all this talk of yours about friendship is mere clever nonsense.  I
know what friendship means, and I guess I know what love means, too, but
there isn't any way that you can mix them up so that I won't know one
from the other."

"I'm not trying to mix them up."

"You're trying to mix _me_ up then."  He took her hand in his and made
her look at him.  "You've been playing with me for some time.  I was a
different kind of a breed from anything you'd been used to in New York,
and you liked to wind me up so that you could see the wheels go 'round.
You've had a lot of fun out of me in one way or another, and you still
find me amusing."

She stopped indignantly.

"Don't you believe in me?"

"No.  The things you say are too clever to be genuine for one thing.
You're too cold-blooded for another."

"One can't think unless one is cold-blooded."

"When a woman's in love she doesn't want to think."

"I'm not in love--I simply say I'll marry you, that's all."

"You're talking nonsense."

"I never was saner in my life.  I want you to believe in my kind of
friendship."

"Eight hundred thousand dollars' worth of friendship is not to be
sneezed at."

"Stop, Jeff, you're brutal.  I won't listen."

"You've got to.  I've listened to you.  Now you must listen to me, and
I'm going to make you play the game with your cards above the table. So
far as I can understand, you hold the New York record for broken hearts
to date, and I was warned that you had strewn your wrecks along the
whole front of Central Park East.  But I suppose I was too much
flattered when you showed me attention to take to my heels.  I liked you
and I wanted you to like me.  Perhaps we both liked each other for the
same reason--with the same motive--curiosity.  You put me in odd
situations just to see what I'd do.  I liked to be with you. You purred
like a kitten in the sun, and I liked to hear you, so I was willing to
perform for that privilege.  You claimed me for a friend, but you tried
your best to make me lose my head.  That's true, you can't deny it.  I
didn't lose it, because--well, because I had made up my mind that I
wouldn't. I don't know whether you were disappointed or not, but I know
you were surprised, because you weren't in the habit of missing a trick
when you played that game."

She withdrew her hand abruptly and turned her head away.  "That isn't
true," she murmured. "You must not speak to me so."

"I've got to.  Every word of what I say is true--and you know it."

"It's not true now."

"Yes, it's true now.  I know how much you really care about me.  You've
got so much in life that you're never really interested in anything
except the things you can't get.  You like me because you know I'm out
of your reach and you can't have me even if I wanted you to.  You're a
great artist, but I don't think you really ever fooled me much. You like
to run with a fast and Frenchy set just because it gives your cleverness
a chance it couldn't have with the Dodos, but you don't mind being
talked about, because your conscience is clear; you like the excitement
of running into danger just to prove your cleverness in getting out of
it. See here, Rita, this time you're going too far. I suppose I ought to
feel very proud of the faith you put in me and your willingness to trust
yourself so completely in my hands.  I guess I do. But things are
different with me somehow.  I told you I was going to Hell pretty fast,
and I'm not in a mood to be trifled with."

"I'm not trifling."  She had caught a sinister note in his voice and
looked up at him in alarm.

"There's a way to prove that."

"How?"

"This!"

He put his arms around her, turned her face to his, and held it there
while he looked a moment into her eyes.  But she struggled and held away
from him, suddenly discovering something unfamiliar in the roughness of
his touch and the expression in his eyes.

"Let me go!" she cried, struggling desperately to be free.

"You'll kiss me."

"No--never, not after that."

"After what?"

"The way you speak to me.  You're rough----"

"I'll not let you go until you tell me why you came here.  If you love
me, you'll look in my eyes and tell me so."

"I don't love you," she panted, still struggling. "I never shall.  Let
me go, I say!"

He laughed at her.  Her struggles were so futile. Art could not avail
her here.  She realized it at last and lay quietly in his arms, her eyes
closed, her figure relaxed, while he kissed her as he pleased.

"Will you tell me you love me?"

"No.  I loathe you."

Then she began struggling again; he released her, and she flung away and
stood facing him, her hat off, hair in disorder, cheeks flaming, her
body trembling with rage and dismay.

"Oh, that you could have touched me so!"

"Why, Rita----" he began.

"Don't speak to me----" She moved toward the horses.  "I'm going," she
asserted.

"Where?"

"To Mesa City."

"How can you?  You don't know the way."

"I'll find the way.  Oh----"  She stamped her foot in rage and then,
without other warning, sank on a rock near by and burst into tears.

Jeff Wray rose uncertainly and stared at her, wide-eyed, like other more
practiced men in similar situations, unaccountably at a loss.  He had
acted on impulse with a sense of fitting capably into a situation.  He
watched her in amazement, for her tears were genuine.  No woman was
clever enough to be able to cry like that.  There was no feminine
artistry here.  She was only a child who had made the discovery that her
doll is stuffed with sawdust.  He realized that perhaps for the first
time he saw her divested of her artifice, the polite mummery of the
world, the real Rita Cheyne, who all her life had wanted to want
something and, now that she had found what it was, could not have it
just as she wanted it.  It was real woe, there was no doubt of that, the
pathetic woe of childhood. He went over to her and laid his hand gently
on her shoulder.  But she would not raise her head, and it almost seemed
as though she had forgotten him. He stood beside her for some moments,
looking down at her with a changing expression.  The hard lines she had
discovered in his face were softened, the frown relaxed, and at his lips
there came the flicker of a smile.

"I--I'm sorry," he said at last.  "I--I made a mistake, Rita.  I made a
mistake."

The sobs began anew.

"How--how could you--treat me so?"

There was no reply to that, so he stood silently and waited for the
storm to pass.  Meanwhile he had the good taste not to touch her again.
But as the sobs diminished he repeated:

"I made a mistake, Rita.  You made me think----"

"Oh!" only.  Her face appeared for a moment above her arms and then
instantly disappeared. "You're odious!"

"Why, Rita," he said with warm frankness, "how could I believe anything
else?  All your talk of friendship; why, you asked me to marry you. What
did you expect of me?"

"Not that--not what you did--the way you did it."

"You forgave me once."

She raised her head, careless of the tears which still coursed.

"Yes, I forgave you then.  But not now.  I can't forgive you now.  No
man ever kissed a woman the way you kissed me unless he is mad about
her--or despises her."

"Despises----"

"Yes.  You might as well ask me to forgive you for murdering my brother.
You've killed something inside me--my pride, I think.  I can
never--never forget that."

She got up and turned her back to him, fingering for her handkerchief.
She had none.  He slowly undid the kerchief from around his own neck and
put it in her hand.

"Don't cry, Rita."

"Cry?"  She wheeled around, still staunching her tears.  "No, I'll not
cry.  I was a fool to cry. I'll not cry any more.  I cried
because--because I was disappointed--that any one I trusted could be so
base."

"I'm not so dreadful as all that.  You must admit----"

"I'll admit nothing--except that I made a mistake, too.  It hasn't been
a pleasant awakening. I know now what those kisses meant."

Wray's incomprehension was deeper.

"I wish _I_ did," he said.  "I was sure they wouldn't do you any harm.
You wouldn't have been so frank with me if you hadn't been pretty sure
of yourself."

"That was my mistake.  I was so sure of myself that I didn't think it
necessary to be sure of you."  And while Jeff was trying to understand
what she meant, she went on:

"Those were not _my_ kisses.  They were impersonal--and might have been
given to any woman--that is, any woman who would allow them. Each of
them a separate insult--Judas kisses--treacherous kisses--kisses of
retaliation--of revenge----"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You've been using me to square your accounts with your wife--that's
all," scornfully.  "As if you didn't know."

He flushed crimson and bit his lips.  "That's not true," he muttered.
"What does it matter to my wife?  Why should she care who I kiss--or
why?"

"It doesn't matter to her, I suppose," she said, slightly ironical; "she
is her own mistress again, but it does to you.  Curiously enough you're
still in love with your wife.  She's in love with somebody else.
Naturally it wounds your self-esteem--that precious self-esteem of yours
that's more stupendous than the mountain above you.  She hurts you, and
you come running to me for the liniment.  Thanks!  You've come to the
wrong shop, Mr. Wray."

Jeff's brows darkened.  He opened his mouth as though to speak, but
thought better of it. As Rita Cheyne took up the bridle of her horse and
led him to a rock that she might mount, Jeff interfered.

"One moment, Rita.  I think we'd better have this thing out.  I'm
beginning to understand better the width of the breach between us--it's
widened some to-day--and I don't believe you're going to try to make it
up to-morrow.  I'm sorry, but I'm not going to have any more
misunderstandings, either.  I want you to forgive me if you can.  I've
cared for you a good deal--enough to make me sorry you were only
fooling.  Things don't seem to be going my way, and I've had lot of
thinking to do that hasn't made me any too cheerful.  I don't seem to
see things just the way I did.  This fight has made me bitter.  I've got
everything against me--_your_ world, the organized forces of your world
against a rank outsider.  I belong to the people who work with their
hands.  I've always been pretty proud of that.  I went East and mixed up
with a lot of your kind of people.  I had a good time. They asked me to
their houses, gave me their wine and food.  They knew what they were
about. They had need of me, but no matter what they said or did they
never for a moment let me forget what I'd come from.  You were the only
one of all that crowd who tried to make me feel differently. Was it any
wonder that I was grateful for it?"

"Your gratitude takes a curious form."

He held up a hand in protest.

"Then you--you liked me because I said just what I thought whenever I
thought it, but even with you I never forgot it wasn't possible for us
ever to reach an understanding of perfect equality. You played with
life--you had been taught to. Life is a kind of joke to you.  People are
incidents, only important when they give you amusement. I've been more
important than others for that reason--because I gave you more amusement
than others, but there's never been any doubt that I was only an
incident.  To me life is a grim problem--I've felt its weight, and I
know.  To-day you talked of making a marriage as I would speak of making
a cigarette.  It was too cold-blooded even for humour----"

"You refuse me then, do you, Jeff?" she laughed. But he made no reply to
her banter.

"I've done with marriage," he went on.  "I tried it and I failed, just
as you tried it and failed, but I'm not ready, as you are, to make a
joke of it. Failures are not the kind of things I like to joke about.
You joke because joking makes you forget.  I'm not trying to forget.  I
couldn't if I wanted to. I've learned that out here.  My wife can do as
she likes.  If she wants to marry Cort Bent I'll give her a divorce, but
as for me, I've done with it--for good."

Jeff had sunk to the rock beside her, his head in his hands, while she
stood a little way off looking down at him.  Their relative attitudes
seemed somehow to make a difference in her way of thinking of him.  In
spite of the light bitterness of her mood, she, too, felt the weight of
his thoughts.

"Do you mean to say," she murmured, half in pity, half in contempt,
"that you still love your wife as much as this?"

But he made no reply.

"It's really quite extraordinary," she went on with a manner which
seemed to go with upraised brows and a lorgnon.  "You're really the most
wonderful person I've ever known.  This is the kind of fidelity one
usually associates with the noble house-dog.  I'm sure she'd be
flattered.  But why will you give her a divorce?  Since you're not going
to marry--what's the use?"

He rose and went to the horses.  "Come," he said, "it's getting late.
Let's get back."

She refused his help, mounted alone, and silently they rode down the
<DW72> through the underbrush, where after a while Jeff found a trail in
the open.

"Does this lead to Mesa City?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Good-by, then."  She flourished her hand and, before he realized it,
was off and had soon disappeared from sight.  He urged his horse forward
into a full gallop, but saw that he could not catch her.  Apache was the
faster horse, and his own animal carried too much weight.  So after a
few miles he gave up the race, walked his winded horse, and gave himself
up to his thoughts.

The exercise had refreshed his mind, and he was able to think with calm
amusement of the little comedy in which he had just been an actor.  What
a spoiled child she was!  He couldn't understand why he had ever been
afraid of her.  It was only pity he felt now, the pity of those tears,
the only really inartistic thing Rita had ever been guilty of, for her
face had not been so pretty when she cried. And yet they appealed to him
more strongly than any token she had ever given him.  What did they
mean?  He had hurt her pride, of course--he had had to do that, but
somehow his conscience didn't seem to trouble him much about the state
of Rita's heart.  Love meant something different to him from the kind of
cold, analytical thing Rita Cheyne was capable of.  If it hadn't been
for those tears! They worried him.

As he reached the edge of a wood he caught a glimpse of her just
disappearing over the brow of a hill, half a mile away.  So he urged his
horse forward.  It wouldn't do to have her ride into Mesa without him.
He rode hard and suddenly came upon her kneeling at the border of a
stream, dipping his bandana into the water and touching her eyes. When
she saw him she looked up pertly, and he saw that she was only a child
washing its face.

"Hello!" she said.  "I was waiting for you.  Do you see what I'm doing?
It's a rite.  Do I look like Niobe?  I'm washing my hands--of you."

Jeff got down and stood beside her.

"Do be sensible, Rita."

"I am--am I clean?  You haven't a powder puff about you--have you?"

"You're going to tell me you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive.  If you think there's anything to forgive,
I'll forgive--of course."  She got up from her knees, wiping her face,
sat down on a tree trunk, and motioned him to sit beside her.

"Jeff," she said, "I've a confession to make. You know what it is,
because you're cleverer than you have any right to be.  I don't love you
really, you know, and I'm pretty sure it isn't in me to love any
one--except myself.  It has always made me furious to think that I
couldn't do anything with you.  From the first I set my heart on having
you for myself, not because I wanted to laugh at you--I couldn't have
done that--but because you were in love with your wife."

"Why--do you hate her so?"

"I don't.  I don't hate any one.  But she irritated me.  She was so
self-satisfied, so genuine, so handsome--three things which I am not."
She waited for him to contradict her, but Jeff was frowning at vacancy.

"Just to satisfy my self-esteem--which is almost as great as yours, Jeff
Wray--I would have moved mountains to win, and I even let you drag my
pride in the dust before I discovered that I couldn't. I die pretty
hard, but I know when I'm dead."

"Don't, Rita; you and I are going to be better friends than ever."

"No, Jeff, I'm going East to-morrow.  I don't want to see you.  To see
you would be to remind me of my insufficiencies."

"You've made a friend."

"No," shaking her head, "that won't do.  It never does.  I may have
tried to deceive you, but I know better.  Friendship is masculine--or
it's feminine.  It can't be both.  I'm going away at once.  I'm not
going to see you again."

"Oh, yes, you are.  To-morrow we'll----"

"No.  I'd go to-night if there was a train.  I want you to do one thing
for me, though.  Will you?"

"If I can."

"That money--the money for that stock.  I want to leave it with you--to
use or not to use as you think best.  I've got a great deal of
money--much more than is good for me."

Jeff shook his head.

"No, Rita, no.  I can't do that.  If I'm going to lose, I'll lose
alone."

"But if you win?" she turned and gave him her hand.  "You will.  I've
sworn you will.  And here's luck on it."  Instead of clasping her hand,
as she intended he should, he raised it to his lips and kissed it
gently--as under different conditions he might have kissed her lips.
She looked down at the top of his head and closed her eyes a moment, but
when he looked up she was smiling gaily.

"You're a good sport, Rita," he said.

"Yes," she said coolly, "I believe I am."

They rode into Mesa City slowly.  The valley was already wrapped in
shadow, but above them the upper half of Saguache Peak was afire with
the sunset.  The evening train was in and had puffed its way up to the
yard.  There was a crowd at the post-office waiting for mail, and
scattered groups here and there were chatting with the arrivals. Wray
and Mrs. Cheyne climbed the <DW72> to the Kinney House, where a cowboy
from the Home Ranch was waiting for their horses.  They dismounted and
went indoors to the office, where a solitary lady in a dark dress was
signing her name to the hotel register.  At the sound of their voices
she turned and straightened, suddenly very pale and tense.  And then,
before Jeff could speak, turned again quickly to the clerk and said
quietly:

"If you'll show me the way up at once, please, I'd like to go to my
room."




                             *CHAPTER XXII*

                           *PRIVATE MATTERS*


Jeff followed Camilla's departing back with blank bewilderment, too
amazed to utter a word.  Rita Cheyne looked at Jeff's face and then
laughed.

"Act Three will now begin," she said gaily. "It's really too good, Jeff.
But it's time for the lady-villain to die.  I'm off stage now, so
good-by."

She gave him her hand, and he took it mechanically.

"I'll see you to-morrow," he said gravely.

"No, this is good-by.  There isn't any to-morrow for us.  I won't see
you, Jeff.  I think perhaps you won't want to see me now."

"This will make no difference," he stammered. "Don't you see--I've got
to make _her_ understand."

"You mean--my reputation.  She'd never understand that.  You'll be
wasting time.  Don't bother.  I'm going to Denver in the morning. No,
not a word----"

He tried to hold her, but the clerk came down at this moment, so, with a
last flourish of the hand, she sped past him and up the stairs.

Jeff stood for a moment in the middle of the floor, irresolute.  Then he
turned to the desk and asked the number of Mrs. Wray's room.

"Parlor B, Mr. Wray, but she told me to say that she did not want to be
disturbed."

Jeff hesitated, and then, with a frown: "That doesn't matter," he
growled.  "I'll explain.  I'm going up," and he made his way to the
stairs.

The room, he remembered, was at the front of the house.  He had occupied
it before they built his sleeping quarters in the office building.  He
found the door readily and knocked, but there was no response.  He
knocked again.  This time her voice inquired.

"It's Jeff, Camilla," he said.  "I must see you at once.  Let me in,
please."

Another long pause of indecision.  He might have been mistaken, but he
fancied he could hear Rita Cheyne's light laugh somewhere down the
corridor.  He did not want a scene--as yet his and Camilla's misfortunes
had not reached the ears of Mesa City.  He was still debating whether he
would knock again or go away when the key turned in the lock and the
door was opened.

"Come in," said Camilla, and he entered.  She had removed her hat, and
the bed and pillow already bore traces of her weight.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he began awkwardly.

"Shut the door," she suggested.  "Perhaps it's just as well that people
here shouldn't know any more of our private affairs than is necessary."

He obeyed and turned the key in the lock.  His wife had moved to the
window and stood, very straight and pale, waiting for him to speak.  She
seemed, if anything, slimmer than when he had seen her last, and her
hair, which had fallen loosely about her shoulders, was burnished with
the last warm glow from Saguache Peak.  He had never thought her more
beautiful, but there were lines at her eyes and mouth which the growing
shadows of the room made deeper.

"I suppose you're willing to believe the worst of me," he began, "and of
her.  Perhaps I ought to tell you first that she only came here this
morning--that she's going away to-morrow----"

"It isn't necessary to explain," she interrupted. "I hope Mrs. Cheyne
won't go on my account.  I'm going, too, in the morning.  Under the
circumstances, I'm sorry I couldn't have waited a day or two, but I had
to see you at once."

"You had to see me?  Has something gone wrong in New York?  What
is----?"

"Oh, no," wearily.  "Everything in New York is all right.  I've had
everything packed in boxes and have given up the apartment at the
hotel."

Jeff's brows tangled in mystification.

"You've given up the apartment?  Why?"

"I'm not going to live there any more.  I'm going to Kansas--to Abilene.
I'm very tired, Jeff, and I need a rest."

"Camilla!"  He pushed an armchair toward her and made her sit.  "You do
look as if you--you're not sick, are you?"

"Oh, no--just tired of everything."  Her voice was low, as it always had
been, but it had no life in it.  "Just tired of being misunderstood.  I
won't explain, and I don't expect you to.  I couldn't listen if you did.
I came here because I had to come, because no matter what our relations
are it was my duty to see you at once and tell you something of the
greatest importance."

He stood behind her chair, his fingers close to her pallid cheeks,
gently brushed by the filaments of her hair, the perfume of which
reached him like some sweet memory.  He leaned over her, aching for some
token that would let him take her in his arms and forget all the shadows
that had for so long hung about them.  But as she spoke, he
straightened, glowering at the wall beyond her.

"It isn't--it's nothing--to do with you--and Cort Bent----?"

"Oh, no, not at all.  I haven't seen Cort for some time.  It's
about--about the General."

"General Bent?"  Jeff gave a quick sigh, paced across the room, and then
turned with a frown. "I'm not interested in General Bent," he muttered.
"For me he has stopped being a person.  He's only a piece of
machinery--a steel octopus that's slowly crushing me to bits.  I'd
rather not talk of General Bent."

"Is it as bad as that?" she murmured, awe-stricken.

"Yes--they've pushed me to the wall.  I'm still fighting, but unless I
compromise or sell the mine----" he stopped and straightened his great
frame.  "Camilla, don't let's talk of this.  I know you're tired.  I
won't stay long.  Just tell me what you mean about going back to
Abilene."

She clasped her hands nervously, glad of the chance to postpone her
revelation, which seemed to grow more difficult with each moment.

"I can't stand the life I'm living, Jeff.  I can't take any more from
you.  I've done it all spring because you wanted me to, but I can't live
a lie any longer.  Those rooms, that luxury, the servants, the people
about me, they oppressed me and bore me to the earth.  I have no right
to them--still less now that things are going badly with you. You wanted
me to keep the place we'd made--to make a larger place for your name in
New York. I hope I've made it, but it has cost me something. I'm sick of
ambition, of the soulless striving, the emptiness of it all.  I can't do
it any longer.  I must go somewhere where I can be myself, where I don't
have to knuckle to people I despise, where I don't have to climb, climb,
climb--my ears deaf to the sneers and the envy of the scandal-mongers,
and open only for the flattery which soothes my self-esteem but not--no,
nothing can soothe the ache at the heart."

"What has happened, Camilla?  I understood you had made many new
friends."

"Yes, some new friends--also, some new enemies. But that hasn't bothered
me.  It's the lying I had to do--about you--the excuses I have had to
make for being alone, the dates I have set for your return, lies--all
lies--when I knew you were not going to return, that you had deserted me
and left me only your money as a bribe.  I couldn't do it any longer.  I
wrote you all this.  You thought I didn't mean what I said--because I
had your money--your merciless money, to gratify my pride in my pretty
body.  It has come to the point where your money is an insult--as much
of an insult as the dishonor you put on me."

"Dishonor?  I can't have you associate that name with Mrs. Cheyne," he
blurted forth.

She smiled and then gave a hard, dry, little unmirthful laugh.

"Oh, you mistake my meaning.  I wasn't thinking of Mrs. Cheyne.  I was
selfish enough to be still thinking of myself."

"I don't understand."

She got up and walked to the window, leaning her face against the pane
to soothe with its coolness the heat of her brow.  "I was thinking of my
own dishonor--not yours--I have nothing to do with yours.  To be doubted
as you have doubted me--to know that you could believe me capable of
dishonoring you--that is dishonor enough."

"You mustn't forget that you gave me cause," he said hoarsely.  "What
kind of a man do you think I am?  You married me for a whim--because
another man wouldn't have you.  I forgave you that because I was willing
to take you at any price. That was my fault as much as yours.  It was
what came after----"

He came up behind her, his voice trembling but suppressed.

"Do you think I'm the kind of man to tolerate the things between you and
Cort Bent?  I was a fool once.  I believed in you--I thought no matter
how little love you had in your heart for me that you'd have enough
respect for yourself.  Do you think I could stand knowing that my
servants had seen you in his arms?"

She flashed around at him, breathless, paler than ever, clutching at the
window-sill behind her for support.  "Who--who told you this?"

"Greer--my valet at the hotel," he snarled, "when I discharged him and
came here."

"He said----?"

Jeff caught her by the elbows--brutally--and held her so that he could
look into her eyes.

"It's true--isn't it?  Answer me!"

She gazed at him wide-eyed, and now for the first time he saw how ill
she looked.  Even at that moment he was sure that pity and love and a
desire for possession were still the feelings that dominated him.  She
could not stand the gaze of his eyes.  They seemed to burn through her,
so she lowered her head.

"Yes," she admitted brokenly, "it's true--I was in his arms."

A sound came from his throat--a guttural sound half-choked in the
utterance, as he dropped her, turned violently and in a stride was at
the door. But as the key turned in the lock, she started forward and
clutched him by the sleeve.

"Wait," she whispered piteously.  "You must. You can't go now.  You've
got to know everything."

"I think I've had enough.  I'm going."  He turned the knob and opened
the door, but she leaned against it and pushed it shut.

"You've got to listen.  I have some rights still--the right every woman
has to defend her name."

"If she can," he sneered.

"I can--I will.  Will you listen?"  He shrugged his shoulders and walked
past her to the window. Camilla faced him, beginning slowly,
breathlessly. "It was when we first came to New York that it began--that
day when you and your--you and General Bent came in from downtown.
Cortland was there--I--I thought I had forgotten him.  I was happy with
you.  I was beginning to believe that, after all, we hadn't made a
mistake. But you were away all day and I was lonely.  The city was so
vast, so unfriendly.  I had no right to be lonely but I was.  I was
bewildered by all the magnificence and homesick for Mesa City. That day
Cort Bent came in I had a fit of the blues. He brought back all the old
story--and told me how you stole the mine."

Jeff laughed aloud.  "So he told you that--did he?  For sympathy?" he
sneered.

"It revolted me," she persisted.  "It revolts me still.  I was new to
modern business methods then.  I can't like them now, but I've learned
to keep silent.  He asked me to forgive him the past, and I did.  The
spell of romance was over me still. He told me that he loved me more
than ever and that he would not give me up.  I thought--I thought I
loved him, too----"

"You _thought_!  You _knew_!" he said immoderately. "You've always loved
him."

"No, no.  It wasn't that," she pleaded.  "It wasn't love, Jeff.  I
learned that soon enough. It was only pity----"

"And where was your pity for me?"

"Don't, Jeff--let me finish.  Whatever my feelings for you then,
whatever they are now, I was true to you in word and deed."

"When you were in his arms?"  He laughed harshly.

"He took me in his arms.  He tried to kiss me on the lips, but I would
not let him.  I've never let him.  I broke away and threatened to ring
if he followed me--and then--and then you came in. That's all,
Jeff--all--and it's the truth."  She faced him bravely, her eyes seeking
his.  He glared at her madly, but could not stare her down.  It was one
of those tragic moments when all the future hangs on the flicker of an
eyelash.  Jeff's gaze fell first.

"I would have come back here," she went on. "I asked you to leave New
York with me.  You wouldn't go.  Instead of that you threw us together
more and more.  Why, I don't know, unless it was because you did not
care."

"I did care," he muttered.

"You did not care," she insisted.  "You had met Rita Cheyne then----"

"It was because _she_ saw what I did," he asserted. "It was because----"

"Don't explain," she said.  "I'm not asking _you_ to explain or to
exonerate her.  It's too late for that. But I cannot bear to have you
think such dreadful things about me, cruel things, things that
hurt--hurt me here----"

She put her hand to her breast and swayed. He sprang to her side and
caught her in his arms as she fell, lifting her like a child and
carrying her to the bed, terror-stricken at the coldness of her hands
and face.  He rang the bell, and then with bungling fingers loosened her
collar and dress, whimpering the while like a child.  "Camilla, my girl,
don't look so white.  Open your eyes.  I believe you, dearie; I've
always believed you.  Look at me, Camilla.  I know you're straight.  I
didn't mean it.  I was cruel to you.  I wouldn't hurt you for the world.
I love you.  You're _my_ girl--_my_ girl."

There was a commotion at the door of the adjoining room, which suddenly
flew open, and a figure in a trailing silk kimono glided in, pushed him
aside abruptly, and put a silver brandy flask to Camilla's lips.  It was
Mrs. Cheyne.

"I was next door," she explained jerkily.  "I heard.  I couldn't help
it.  The partitions are so thin."  And then, with sudden authority:
"Don't stand there like a fool.  Bring some water--quickly," and when he
had obeyed: "Now bathe her temples and give her brandy.  She'll be all
right in a minute.  When I go, get a light.  But she mustn't see me
here."  And, before he was even aware of it, she had vanished like a
wraith.

The housemaid brought a lamp, put it on the table, and hovered anxiously
in the background, but Camilla's eyes had opened.

"Mrs. Wray is sick," Jeff began.

But Camilla had already drawn herself up on one elbow and gently pushed
him away.

"I--I'm all right now.  I can't imagine what made me feel so queerly.
I've never been--I've never fainted before."

"A little more brandy?"

"No, not now.  Who--?  Wasn't there some one else in here?  I thought--I
saw some one in pink--and smelled a perfume.  I must have been
dreaming."

"Lie back on the pillow and rest, Camilla, dear. You're played out.  The
doctor will be here in a minute."

"I don't want a doctor.  I'm all right."  With an effort she
straightened and sat on the side of the bed.  "I remember--I was telling
you----"

"Don't, Camilla.  I don't want to hear.  I believe you.  It's all a
mistake."  He bent over her and tried to take her in his arms.

But she held up her hand and gently restrained him.  "No--no," she said
shaking her head. "Don't try to soothe me.  That doesn't mean anything.
I know.  Shadows like these are not brushed away so quickly.  Sit there,
Jeff, by the window and listen.  There's something else I must tell
you--I should have told you at once.  It's what I came here for, but I
didn't seem to have the courage."

"No, not to-night."

"I must--it won't keep.  You must listen."  Her eyes pleaded, and so he
sank into the rocking chair, leaning forward eagerly.  She took up the
handbag beside her on the table and fumbled tremblingly at the lock.

"It's something which concerns General Bent and you--no, not business,
Jeff--something personal--something dreadfully personal--which has
nothing whatever to do with your business relations, and yet something
which seems to make your hatred of each other all the more terrible.
It--it seems very hard for me to tell you, because it's something you
have never liked to speak about--something that has always made you very
unhappy."

"Why, what do you mean, Camilla?" he asked.

"You must let me tell you in my own way, because it will be hard for you
to realize.  I must show you that there is no mistake--no chance of a
mistake, Jeff.  Two weeks ago at the hotel in New York I was reading the
letters in the old tin box and looking at the photographs.  They were in
the drawer of your desk.  I've never spoken of them to you or looked at
them since we were married--but you were not there to see them and--I--I
didn't think you'd mind.  I had them on your desk when Mrs. Rumsen came
in.  She saw the photograph of your father.  She--she had one just like
it in her album at home----"

"She knew him, then?" eagerly.

"Yes.  I've brought both photographs with me."  She took them out of the
handbag with trembling hands and gave them to him.

He got up, took them to the light and held them side by side.  "Yes,
yes," he muttered, "they are the same--the very same.  There's no doubt
about that."  And then, in a suppressed voice, "You know who he is?"

"Yes, Jeff.  Mrs. Rumsen and I know--no one else--not a soul else.  It's
your secret.  We couldn't tell.  No one can or will but you."  Her voice
had sunk almost to a whisper.  "It's--it's the General--Jeff--General
Bent."

Outwardly Jeff gave no sign of unusual disturbance--a slight tightening
of his thumbs upon the pictures, a slight bending of the head that his
eyes might be surer of their vision.  But to Camilla, who was watching
him timidly, he seemed to grow compact, his big frame to shrink into
itself and his eyes to glow with a strange, unfamiliar fire.

"General--Bent--General--Bent," he repeated the words huskily, as if
they were a formula which he was trying to commit to memory.  "It can't
be true?"

"Yes, Jeff, it's true.  Mrs. Rumsen identified the letters.  There's no
doubt--none."

"I can't believe--why, I'd have _felt_ it--Camilla. I've always said I'd
know him if I saw him."

"You didn't--but have you thought?  You look like him, Jeff.  You _look_
like him."

"Yes--it's strange I didn't think of that."  And then suddenly, "Does
_he_ know?"

"No--he won't unless you tell him."

He looked up at her with dumb, uncomprehending eyes and sank in his
chair again, still grasping the photographs.

"I must think," he groaned, "I've got to think--what to do.  I've hated
him so--all these long years.  I hate him now--not because he's my--my
father--but because--he's himself."

"Stop, Jeff, you mustn't--you mustn't speak so."

"It's true," raising his bloodshot eyes to hers. "Why should I care?
Did _he_ care for the atom he's put into the world to float about
without a name to land on any dung-hill?  I'll pay him back for that, by
God!  I'm not his son.  The only thing I want of his blood is his
cruelty.  I'll take that and use it when I can--on him and his."

"You mustn't, Jeff.  It's horrible.  I can't stand hearing this."

At the touch of her hand he stopped, got up and paced the length of the
room and back again in grim silence, his lips working, while she watched
him, fearful of another outburst.

"I must think this thing out, Camilla--by myself.  I don't know what
I'll do."  And then suddenly, "Where is he now?" he asked harshly.

"In Denver--at the Brown Palace Hotel.  They came West before I did with
the Janneys, Gretchen, and Mrs. Rumsen.  They came in a private car."

"To be in at my finish," he muttered bitterly. "I can't seem to think,
Camilla.  It's all so monstrous--it staggers me."

He stopped pacing the floor and looked at her, suddenly realizing how
ill she had been, and contrite and self-accusing he fell on his knees at
her feet and put his arms around her.

"Camilla!  I shouldn't have let you tell me all this to-night.  You were
not strong enough.  I've been brutal to you--to forget what you were
suffering.  You must sleep.  My heart has been aching for you all these
long months.  I'll take care of you and make you strong and well again.
You're not going back to Abilene, Camilla."

Slowly she disengaged her hands.

"You must go now, Jeff.  I--I am tired.  But all I need is rest.  I
couldn't have slept until I told you.  It has preyed on me like a
poison.  I can't influence you, though.  You must use your own judgment
as to what you'll do, but I pray you'll do nothing rash."

"You must not go back to Abilene.  There's much to be explained,
Camilla--you must promise not to go away!  I want to speak to you about
Rita Cheyne."

She rose from her seat on the bed with a kind of wistful dignity.

"I can't promise anything, Jeff.  Go, please.  I want to be alone."

He looked at her a moment, pleading, and then turned without a word and
went out.  She heard his heavy steps go down the noisy hall, heard them
again on the porch below and on the boardwalk through the village until
they were engulfed in the gloom of the night--Jeff's night of anguish,
battle, and temptation.




                            *CHAPTER XXIII*

                             *THE INTRUDER*


Meanwhile, in Parlor A, next door, a lady in a pink kimono, who seemed
unusually diminutive and childish in her low-heeled bedroom slippers,
pottered about uneasily, walking from window to window, jerking at the
shades to peer out of doors, and then pulling the shades noisily down
again; opening the hall door, looking down the corridor, walking out a
few steps and then coming rapidly back again, to light a cigarette which
she almost immediately put out and threw into the stove; coughing,
dropping things--and then standing tense and alert to listen, acting
altogether in a surprising and unusual manner.  But the sound of voices
in the adjoining room persevered, now loud--now less loud, but always
perfectly audible through the thin, paper-like partition.  At last, as
though in sudden desperation, without removing her clothes, or even her
slippers, she crawled quickly into the bed and pulled the covers and
pillow over her head, lying still as a mouse, but tense and alert in
spite of herself and--in spite of herself--listening.  She emerged again
in a while, half smothered, like a diver coming to the surface,
listening again, and then with an exclamation quickly got out of bed,
her fingers at her ears, to open the hall door presently and flee down
the corridor.

From her vantage point--in an empty room--she heard Jeff's rapid
footsteps go past, and only when she heard them no longer did she go
back to Parlor A.  She closed the outer door and locked it, sat down in
an armchair, leaning forward, her head in her hands, staring at a pink
rose in the ornate carpet, deep in thought.  In the room next door all
was quiet again.  Once she thought she heard the sound of a sob, but she
could not be sure of it, and after a while the light which had shone
through the wide crack under the door disappeared.  For a long time she
sat there, immovable except for the slight, quick tapping of one small
foot upon the floor.

At last she rose with an air of resolution and touched the bell.  To the
clerk, who answered it in person, she asked for telegraph blanks and a
messenger.  He looked at his watch.

"The telegraph office is closed."

"Well, it will have to be opened.  This is a matter which can't wait
until morning.  The operator must be found."

"We _might_ get a message through."  He looked at the bill she had put
in his hand.  "Yes, I'm sure we can."

"And you might send me up some tea and toast."  She shut the door, went
to her trunk, took out her writing pad, put it on the table, turned up
the wick of the lamp, and began writing.  She finished a letter and
sealed it carefully.  When the telegraph blanks came she wrote two
rather lengthy messages. One of the telegrams was addressed to the
cashier of the Tenth National Bank of Denver--the other telegram and the
letter were addressed to Lawrence Berkely at the Brown Palace Hotel in
the same city. When she had given the messenger his instructions, she
sank in her chair again with a sigh, and, with a tea cup in one hand and
a piece of buttered toast in the other, sat facing the door into Parlor
B. Her face wore a curious expression, partly mischievous, partly
solemn, but there was at times a momentary trace of trouble in it, too,
and when the tea cup was set aside she stretched her arms wearily and
then brought them down, lacing her fingers behind her neck, putting her
head back and closing her eyes as though in utter, soul-racking
weariness. Suddenly she rose, passing the back of one wrist abruptly
across her brows, and prepared to go to bed.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Camilla awoke late and ordered breakfast in her room.  It was not bodily
fatigue which she felt now. That seemed to have passed.  It was mental
inertia, which, like muscular stiffness, follows the carrying of too
heavy a burden.  A part of her burden she still carried, and even the
brightness of the Colorado sun, which dappled the tinsel wall paper
beside her, failed to rekindle the embers of old delights.  From one of
her windows she could see the fine sweep of the Saguache range as it
extended its great half-moon toward the northern end of the valley,
where it joined the main ridge of the Continental Divide; from the other
window the roofs of the town below her, Mulrennan's, the schoolhouse,
and Jeff's "Watch Us Grow" sign, now dwarfed by the brick office
building which had risen behind it.  It seemed a hundred years since she
had lived in Mesa City, and to her eyes, accustomed to elegant
distances, the town seemed to have grown suddenly smaller, more ugly,
garish, and squalid.  And yet it was here that she had lived for five
years--five long years of youth and hope and boundless ambition. In
those days the place had oppressed her with its emptiness, and she had
suffered for the lack of opportunity to live her life in accordance with
the dreams of her school-days; but to-day, when she seemed to have
neither hope nor further ambition, she knew that the early days were
days of real happiness. What did it matter if it had been the bliss of
ignorance, since she was now aware of the folly of wisdom? She could
never be happy anywhere now--not even here.  She lay back on her pillows
and closed her eyes, but even then the vision of Rita Cheyne intruded--a
vision of Jeff and Rita Cheyne riding together over the mountain trails.

She was indeed unpleasantly surprised when, a few moments later, there
was a knock upon the door at the foot of her bed; and when she had put
on a dressing gown the door opened suddenly, and there stood Rita Cheyne
herself, smiling confidently and asking admittance.

Camilla was perturbed--so much so, in fact, that no words occurred to
her.  The door had opened outward toward Rita Cheyne, who held its knob.
It was, therefore, obviously impossible for Camilla to close it without
Mrs. Cheyne's assistance.  This, it seemed, the visitor had no intention
of giving, for she came forward on the door-sill and held out her hand.

"Mrs. Wray," she said gently, "I want to come in and talk to you.  May
I?"

"This is--rather surprising," Camilla began.

"Yes," she admitted, "it is.  Perhaps I'm a little surprised, too.  I--I
wanted to talk to you.  There are some things--important things----"

By this time Camilla had managed to collect her scattered resources.
"I'm not sure," she said coolly, "that our friendship has ever been
intimate enough to warrant----"

Rita put one hand up before her.  "Don't, Mrs. Wray! It hasn't.  But
you'll understand in a moment, if you'll let me come in and talk to
you."

Camilla drew her laces around her throat and with a shrug stood aside.
"I hope you'll be brief," she said coldly.  "Will you sit down?"

But Mrs. Cheyne had already sat in a chair with her back to one of the
windows, where her face was partially obscured by the shadows of her
hair.  She pulled her kimono about her figure, clasped her fingers over
her knees, and leaned forward, eagerly examining her companion, who had
seated herself uneasily upon the side of the bed. "You _are_ handsome!"
she said candidly, as if settling a point in her own mind which had long
been debatable.  "I don't think I ever saw you handsomer than you are at
the present moment. Trouble becomes you, it gives a meaning to the
shadows of your face which they never had before."

Camilla started up angrily.  "Did you come here to comment upon my
appearance?"

"No," said Rita suavely.  "I can't help it--that's all.  Did you know
that you have been the means of destroying one of my most treasured
ideals?  You have, you know.  I've always scoffed at personal
beauty--now I remain to pray.  It's a definite living force--like
politics--or like religion."

"Really, Mrs. Cheyne----!"

"Please let me talk--you would if you only knew what I'm going to say.
My remarks may seem irrelevant, but they're not.  They're a confession
of weakness on my part--an acknowledgment of strength on yours.  You
never liked me from the first, and I don't think I really was very fond
of you.  We seemed to have been run in different moulds.  There's no
reason why we shouldn't have got along because--well, you know I'm not
half bad when one really knows me; and you!--you have everything that
most people like--you're beautiful, cultured, clever and--and quite
human."

Camilla made a gesture of impatience, but Rita went on imperturbably.
"You're handsome, gentle and human--but you--you're a dreadful fool!"

And then, with a laugh, "Please sit down and don't look so tragic.  It's
true, dear, perfectly true, and you'll be quite sure of it in a moment."

Anger seemed so futile, Camilla was reduced to a smile of contempt.
"I'm sure I can't be anything but flattered at your opinions, Mrs.
Cheyne."  But, in spite of herself, she was conscious of a mild
curiosity as to whither this remarkable conversation was leading.

"Thanks," said Rita with mock humility. "There's only one thing in the
world more blind than hatred, and that's love.  Because you think you
hate me, you'd be willing to let slip forever your only chance of
happiness in this world."

"I don't hate you," said Camilla icily, "and luckily my happiness is not
in any way dependent on what you may say or do."

"Oh, yes, it is," said Rita quickly.  "I'm going to prevent you from
making a mistake.  You've already made too many of them.  You're
planning to go away to Kansas when your husband positively adores the
very ground you walk on."

Having shot her bolt, like the skillful archer she put her head on one
side and eagerly watched its flight.  Camilla started up, one hand on
the bed-post, her color vanishing.

"You--you heard?"

"I--I know."

"_He_ told you."

"Who?  Jeff?"  She leaned back in her chair and laughed up at the
ceiling.  "Well, hardly. I don't mind people telling me they adore the
ground _I_ walk on, but----"

"How did you know?"  Camilla glanced toward the door and into Mrs.
Cheyne's room, a new expression of dismay coming into her eyes.  "You
heard what passed in here--last night?"

"Yes--something--I couldn't help it."

"How could you--have listened?" Camilla gasped.

"I tried not to--I tried to make you stop--by dropping things and making
a noise, but I couldn't.  You didn't or wouldn't hear--either of you.
Finally I had to go out of the room."  She rose with a sudden impulse of
sympathy and put her hand on Camilla's shoulder.

"Oh, don't think everything bad about me! Can't you understand?  Won't
you realize that at this moment I'm the best friend you have in the
world?  Even if you don't admit that, try to believe that what I say to
you is true.  Why should I risk a rebuff in coming in here to you if it
wasn't with a motive more important than any hurt you can do to me?
What I say to you is true. Your husband loves you.  He's mad about you.
Don't you understand?"  Camilla lowered her eyes, one of her hands
fingering at the bed-cover, suddenly aware of the friendly pat on her
shoulder. At last she slowly raised her head and found Rita Cheyne's
eyes with the searching, intrusive look that one woman has for another.

"Why should _you_ tell me this?" she asked.  Mrs. Cheyne turned aside
with a light laugh.

"Why _shouldn't_ I?  Is happiness so easily to be had in this world that
I'd refuse it--to a friend if it was in my power to give?  I can't see
you throwing it away for a foolish whim.  That's what it is--a whim.
You've got to stay with Jeff.  What right have you to go?  What has he
done to deserve it?  I flirted with him.  I acknowledge it.  What is
that?  I flirt with every man I like.  It's my way of amusing myself."
She straightened, and, with a whimsical smile which had in it a touch of
effrontery, "The fact that he still loves you after that, my dear," she
said, "is the surest proof of his devotion."

Camilla looked away--out of the window toward the "Watch Us Grow" sign,
the symbol of Jeff's ambition, and her eyes softened.  She got up and
walked to the window which faced the mountains.

"If I could only believe you--if I only could," she said, and then,
turning suddenly, "Why did you try to make Jeff fall in love with you?"

Rita shrugged.  "Simply because--because it was impossible.  I'm so
tired of doing easy things. I've always done everything I wanted to, and
it bored me.  I owe your husband a debt.  I thought all men were the
same.  Do you really think there are any more like Jeff?"

Camilla watched her narrowly, probing shrewdly below the surface for
traces of the vein of feeling she had shown a moment before.  What she
discovered was little, but that little seemed to satisfy her, for, after
a pause, in which she twisted the window cord and then untwisted it
again, she came forward slowly, took Rita by both hands and looked deep
into her eyes.

"Why did you come out here?"

It was no time for equivocation.  Camilla's eyes burned steadily, oh, so
steadily.  But Rita did not flinch.

"I thought Jeff was lonely.  I thought he needed some one, and so I came
out in the Bents' private car as far as Denver.  I left them there and
came on alone.  I wanted to help him--I'm trying to help him still--with
my sympathy, my money--and--and such influence as I can use to make his
wife realize her duty to him and her duty to herself."

It was an explanation which somehow did not seem to explain, and yet
curiously enough it satisfied Camilla.  If it was not the whole truth,
there was enough of it that was nothing but the truth.  She felt that it
would not have been fair to ask for more.  Rita was not slow to follow
up this advantage. She gave a quick sigh, then took Camilla by both
shoulders.  "You mustn't go away to Kansas, I tell you.  You've never
loved anybody but Jeff. Cortland knows it, and I know it.  I've known it
all the while.  A woman has a way of learning these things.  If you
leave him now there's no telling what may happen.  He needs you.  He
can't get on without you.  They're trying to crush the life out of him
in this soulless war for the smelter, and they may succeed.  He's pushed
to the limit of his resourcefulness and his endurance.  Flesh and blood
can't stand that strain long.  He needs all his friends now and every
help, moral and physical, that they can give him.  There's no one else
who can take your place now.  No one to stand at his side and take the
bad with the good.  You've had your half of his success--now you must
take your half of his failure.  You're his wife, Camilla!  Do you
understand that?  His wife!"

A sob welled up in Camilla's throat and took her unawares.  She bent her
head to hide it--and then gave way and fell on the bed in a passion of
tears.

Rita watched her for a moment with a smile, for she knew that the tears
were tears of happiness, then went over and put her arms around
Camilla's shoulders, murmuring gently:

"You're not to blame, Camilla--not altogether--and it's not too late to
begin again.  He needs you now as he has never needed you before.  It's
your opportunity.  I hope you see it."

"I do, I do," came faintly from the coverlid.

"You must see him at once.  Do you understand? Shall I send for him?"

"Yes, soon."  Camilla sat up and smiled through her tears, drew Rita
down alongside of her, put her arm around her and kissed her on the
cheek.

"I understand you now.  I'm sorry--for many things.  I want to know you
better, dear.  May I?"

"Yes," said Rita calmly, "if you can.  Perhaps then you might explain me
to myself.  But I'm going to New York again soon--something tells me you
are to stay here."

"I will stay here now," said Camilla proudly, "if Jeff wants me.  Are
you sure--sure--he----"

Rita held her off at arm's length, quizzically--tantalizing her
purposely.

"No, silly.  He loves me, of course--that's why I'm presenting him to
you."  Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, and rose
quickly.

"It's pretty late.  I must catch the eleven o'clock train.  I have a lot
to do.  I'm going into my own room."

There was a knock at the outer door.  Camilla answered it and received a
note from the clerk.

"From Mr. Wray's office.  There's no answer."

She opened it hurriedly, while Rita watched.


"Dear Camilla" (it ran): "I'm leaving suddenly by the early train for
Denver on a business matter which to me means either life or death. For
the love of God don't leave me now.  Wait until I return.  I'm going to
the Brown Palace Hotel and will write you from there.

"JEFF."


She read through the hurried scrawl twice and then silently handed it to
her companion.

"You must follow, Camilla--at once--with me," said Mrs. Cheyne.




                             *CHAPTER XXIV*

                           *GRETCHEN DECIDES*


Lawrence Berkely was doing scout duty in the neighborhood of the seat of
war, keeping closely in touch with Wray by wire code.  Although he had a
room at the Brown Palace Hotel, he went elsewhere for his meals, and
since the arrival of General Bent's party he had eluded the detection of
Cornelius Bent, Curtis Janney, or Cortland.  He had been advised by a
brief wire from Gretchen Janney of the date of her departure from New
York and had noted the arrival of his business enemies with mingled
feelings. In response to his note to her room Gretchen had stolen away
and met him quietly in one of the hotel parlors, where, unknown to
Curtis Janney, they had renewed their vows of eternal fidelity.

Gretchen was, of course, familiar with Larry's position as a business
rival of her father's pet company, and she had thought it best, since
Larry's departure from New York, to keep their engagement a secret from
her parents.  She had heard from him regularly, and distance, it seemed,
had made no difference in the nature of her feelings for him, but she
knew from her father's disappointment at Cortland Bent's defection that
the time to take her parents into her confidence had not yet arrived.

It had not occurred to Curtis Janney to think of Lawrence Berkely's
attentions seriously, but Gretchen knew that her mother, at least, had
breathed a sigh of relief when Larry had left New York.  Mrs. Janney had
questioned her daughter anxiously, but Gretchen had answered in riddles,
and in the end had succeeded in convincing her that marriage was the
last thing in the world she was thinking of.  Gretchen was a little
afraid of her father.  Once or twice he had expressed himself rather
freely as to the kind of man he expected his daughter to marry, from
which it was clear that his list of eligibles did not include Lawrence
Berkely. She had written all of this tearfully to Larry, so that when
she reached Denver he decided that matters had reached a crisis which
demanded some sort of an understanding with Janney pere.  The
clandestine meetings, which rather appealed to Gretchen's sense of the
romantic, made Larry unhappy.  He had nothing to be ashamed of and saw
no reason why he had to court the woman he loved under cover of
darkness.  So he made up his mind to settle the thing in his own way.

In this crisis it had occurred to Gretchen to enlist Mrs. Cheyne's
services in their behalf, for Rita had always been a favorite of her
father's; but an evening or two after her arrival in Denver that lady
had mysteriously disappeared from the hotel, only leaving word that she
had gone to visit friends in the neighborhood and would advise General
Bent of her future plans.  No one but Larry, with whom she had been
talking, had for a moment suspected that the "friends" in the
neighborhood were only Jeff, and, though she had not bound Larry to
secrecy, both duty and discretion demanded his silence.

Larry's position was difficult, but when he discovered that nothing was
to be gained by keeping his movements hidden from Cornelius Bent he took
the bull by the horns and boldly sent up his card to Curtis Janney's
suite.  He was so full of his own affairs that Mr. Janney's possible
misconception of the object of his visit had not occurred to him.  He
was welcomed cordially--so jovially, in fact, that for a moment he was
taken off his guard.

"Well, Berkely, by George! glad to see you. Rather a surprise to find us
all out here invading your own country, eh?"

Larry sat rather soberly, refused a cigar, and expressed well-bred
surprise.

"I can't imagine anybody wanting to leave Braebank in April," he said.

"Well, I didn't want to, Berkely--I'm doing a little scientific farming
this summer--but we had to come out on this smelter business--the
General and I----"  He stopped and puffed rapidly at his cigar.  "It's
too bad--really--I'm sorry, sorry, but I think Wray made a mistake.  I
like Wray, Berkely.  He's got stuff in him, but he overleaped himself in
this smelter business.  It's a pity he thought he had to fight us, but
you've got to admit we gave him every chance."

"I didn't come to see you about the smelter business, Mr. Janney," said
Berkely rather quietly, "but on a matter of my own--a personal--a
private matter."

Janney's face grew grave.

"A private matter?"

"Yes, sir."  Larry closed his lips firmly for a moment, and then came to
the point without further words.  "Mr. Janney, I suppose I should have
spoken to you before I left New York.  Our business relations seemed to
make it difficult.  But the very fact that we can't be friends in
business makes it necessary for me, at least, to be honest with you in
this other matter."

"What on earth are you driving at?"

"I want to marry your daughter, sir, that's all," said Larry with the
suddenness of desperation.

"Gretchen?  My daughter?" Janney said, explosively. He rose, with one
hand on the back of his chair, and glared at Larry as though he doubted
his sanity.  "You want to marry Gretchen?"  Then he laughed--and Larry
discovered in that laugh wherein Janney and General Bent had points of
contact.  Janney took three long strides to the window, then wheeled
suddenly.  "You must be crazy.  My daughter--marry _you_?"

Larry had risen and met Janney's impertinent scrutiny with some dignity.

"Yes, sir; I'm not aware of anything in my family, my connections, my
prospects, or my character which can be found objectionable.  Your
daughter cares for me----"

"Why, you insolent young fortune-hunter!"

"Wait a moment!" and Larry's voice dominated. "You'll speak to me as one
gentleman does to another--or you'll not speak to me at all."  He took
up his hat from the table, and then, more evenly, "I take it, you refuse
your consent?"

By this time Curtis Janney's usual poise had completely deserted him.

"Refuse--my consent?  Well, rather!"

He went to the door through which Berkely had entered.  But instead of
opening the door Janney turned and put his back to it.

"See here, young man, you don't like my language. Perhaps you'll like it
less when I'm through talking.  Colorado seems to breed big ambitions. I
know nothing of your family and care less.  But I do know something of
your prospects.  Inside of forty-eight hours you won't have prospects of
any kind. You're going to be blotted out.  Do you understand? I've made
other plans for my daughter--and I'm not in the mood to listen to any
silly romantic nonsense from her or any far-sighted propositions from
you.  Your proposal is impudent sir, d--d impudent--the proposition of a
desperate man who, failing to win by fair means----"

"Will you open the door, sir?" said Larry, now white with rage.  "If
not, I'll find means to open it myself."  He took a step forward, and
the two men glared into each other's eyes not a pace apart. There was no
mistaking Larry's determination, and Mr. Janney's surprise was manifest.
This was not the manner of the fortune-hunters he had met. Somewhat
uncertainly he stood aside, and Berkely put his hand on the door-knob.

"I did you an honor in consulting you, sir.  It's a pity you couldn't
appreciate it.  In the future I'll act on my own initiative.  Good
afternoon."

And, before the older man had even realized what the words meant, Larry
had opened the door and was gone.  He hurried down the corridor, still
trembling at the meaning of Janney's insults, which had touched his
Southern pride.  For Gretchen's sake it would have been better if he
could have kept himself under control, and he realized that he had lost
every chance of getting Curtis Janney's permission and approval.  But
that did not daunt him.  He had acquitted his mind of a responsibility,
and he was glad that in the future there could be no misunderstanding.
If he could not marry Gretchen with the approval of her family, he would
marry her without it.

Halfway up the block above the hotel on Seventeenth Street Larry
stopped, able for the first time to review more calmly the incidents of
the last half hour.  What was it Curtis Janney had said about his
prospects?  In forty-eight hours he would be wiped off the earth.  That
meant Jeff, too.  He had a sudden guilty sense of shock, that in his
selfish absorption in his own affairs he had for the moment forgotten
Jeff and the business of the Company. Forty-eight hours!  That was
important information--and Janney had let it slip in anger--there was no
doubt about that.  What did it mean? That all the Amalgamated Company's
wires were laid, and the only thing left was to touch the button which
would blow the Wray interests to pieces?

It looked that way, and yet Larry still hoped. The rails of the Saguache
Short Line would be joined to those of the D. & C. to-morrow.  Much
depended on Symonds.  Larry hurried over to the offices of the Denver
and California and emerged later with a look of satisfaction.  Symonds
was still General Manager and was still loyal.  Within thirty-six hours,
at his orders, a locomotive and one passenger car from the D. & C. yards
at Pueblo would carry Clinton, Symonds, Mulrennan, Judge Weigel, and
other stockholders of the Development Company from Pueblo over the line
to Saguache, establishing their connection at Pueblo in accordance with
Jeff's agreements with the road.  It would take some queer construction
of the law for Jeff's enemies to get around that.  Larry knew that it
meant a long fight, one which lack of money might lose in the end, but
he assured himself that he could establish a nice legal point which
would be worth fighting for.  The calling of Jeff's loans by the banks
was a more dangerous matter.  Larry had hoped that this could have been
arranged, but only a small amount of the money had been forthcoming, and
where Jeff was going to raise the rest of it Providence only knew!

When Larry reached his room at the hotel he found a brief note from
Gretchen:


"I have heard about everything.  I shall never speak to father again.
You must marry me at once, Larry.  I can't stand the suspense any
longer. Mother is here with me, but I'm going to get away somehow.  Meet
me at the Shirley at ten o'clock."


Larry smiled and kissed the penciled scrawl rapturously.  "God bless
you, I'll do it--Gretchen, dear," he said to himself.

That was a busy evening for Larry.  It was six o'clock when he wrote a
line to Gretchen and rang for a page, to whom he gave careful
instructions--also, some money.  Then he sat at his desk and with his
code sent a long wire to Jeff.  At half-past six he was dressing
carefully in the intervals between packing a suit case and 'phoning to a
legal friend of his, Dick Wetherall, about a minister and a license. At
seven-thirty he dined with Wetherall.  At eight he received Rita
Cheyne's mysterious wire.  At nine he found the cashier of the Tenth
National Bank at his home and planned for the taking up of the
Development Company's notes and arranging to deposit Mrs. Cheyne's money
to Jeff Wray's account on the following morning.  At ten he met Gretchen
at the Shirley Hotel, and, at half-past ten, had married her.

                     *      *      *      *      *

In response to Larry's first telegram and speeding eastward on the early
train, Jeff Wray read all this astonishing news in the sheaf of
telegrams handed him at the station by Ike Matthews.  His brow lifted,
and the hard lines at his mouth relaxed in a smile.  Good old Larry!  He
tried to conjure a vision of Curtis Janney's face as he heard the news.
Larry was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance.

It took Jeff longer to decipher the second telegram:


"Mrs. Cheyne has arranged with her Denver agents--deposit eight hundred
thousand dollars your credit Tenth National to-morrow morning.  Await
instructions."


It seemed incredible.  When had Rita done this? The grim lines that his
long night's vigil had seared at the corners of his mouth grew deeper,
but his eyes glowed with a sombre fire.  There was still an even chance
to win--for Larry was holding the fort awaiting reinforcements, and Rita
Cheyne had restored the break in Jeff's line of communication. The
astonishing information in Larry's last wire seemed to clear his mind of
the doubts which had assailed it all night long.  The possibility of
success now gave his own affairs a different complexion. He could never
have told the truth to General Bent (Jeff couldn't think of him as a
father) unless he won the fight for the independence of the Saguache
Smelter.  Jeff was no man to come cringing in the hour of failure at the
feet of his enemy, asking immunity on the strength of such a
relationship as that which existed between them.  It had been clear to
Jeff all night long that if he lost his fight he could never face
General Bent with the truth. That was the real bitterness of defeat.

But if he won?  The long years of dishonor through which he had
struggled, without a name, without kindred, without friends, loomed
large before him--mute, merciless years of struggle, privation, and
emptiness.  If he won, there was more than one victory to be gained in
this fight, a moral victory as well as a physical one--the triumph of an
eternal truth, the vindication of a forgotten wrong.  If he won he would
tell General Bent the truth--not as a son to a father, but as one
merciless enemy to another, asking no quarter and giving none.

The only connection for Kinney at Saguache was with the later train, but
Jeff had arranged for a motor-car which took him over the Pass and
landed him at Kinney in time for the twelve o'clock train for Denver,
where he arrived at six o'clock that evening.  Larry met him at the
station, smiling broadly.

"I think we've put a spoke in their wheel, Jeff," he laughed.  "But we
must keep dark.  To-morrow morning when the banks open you're going to
take up that stock, then we're going to call on the General."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes, Symonds is standing pat, but they don't know it.  The new General
Manager comes in to-morrow, but Symonds's orders will go through first.
That train will run, Jeff--sure."

"Poor old Larry! a fine honeymoon you're having! Where's your wife?"

"At the Wetherall Ranch.  Went out there last night.  Her mother has
been out to see her.  It looks as though they might come around.  It's
too bad I had to go against them just now, but Mr. Janney forced my
hand, and I had to.  You understand, don't you, Jeff?"  And, explaining
as they went, Berkely followed Jeff out of the station, into a motor-car
that was awaiting them.




                             *CHAPTER XXV*

                              *THE CRISIS*


One of the rooms in Janney's suite had been turned into an office for
General Bent, and here it was that all the conferences between the
officers of the Amalgamated Reduction Company and their underlings had
taken place. The big men of Denver had all called to pay their respects
to the bigger man from the East, and some of them had taken part in the
business of reorganizing the Denver and California and its subsidiary
companies.

But in spite of the conditions which had made Bent's control of the
railroad possible and the money the crowd would make out of it,
everybody in this intimate circle knew that the real object of the
General's financial operations was the fight of the Amalgamated
Reduction Company for the ownership of the Saguache Smelter.  The
reorganization of the Denver and California had now been completed, and
this morning orders had gone forth removing Clinton, Symonds, and all
the old crowd from the active management of the road.

General Bent sat at the end of the long desk table in conference with
Curtis Janney, Cortland Bent, and a youngish-oldish, keen-eyed man in a
cutaway coat and white waistcoat.  This was Henry McCabe of
Denver--attorney for the Amalgamated--the shrewdest lawyer west of the
Missouri River, and one of the shrewdest east of it.  In front of McCabe
on the desk was a leather portfolio from which a number of papers
protruded.  Behind him sat a clerk who had been taking down in shorthand
his questions and the replies of two men at the farther end of the
table.  These men were roughly dressed, and, though at the present
moment each of them smoked one of Curtis Janney's remarkable cigars,
they sat aloof and uncomfortable on their gilt chairs, assuming
attitudes of ease they were far from feeling.  One of the strangers was
Max Reimer, the man who had discovered the lost vein in the "Lone Tree"
mine.  The other was Fritz Weyl, one-time barkeeper of Pete Mulrennan's
saloon in Mesa City.

McCabe's examination had hardly been concluded when two cards were
brought in by a page and handed to Cortland Bent.  He glanced at them,
and then, without comment, laid them on the table before his father.

"H--m!  He's here now," muttered the General, staring grimly.  "He's
saved us the trouble of sending for him."  He tossed the cards on the
table and rose.  "There's nothing more you wanted to ask, was there,
McCabe?"

"No, sir, nothing.  I know all I need to."

"I thought so.  Will you take these men downstairs?  But have them
within call--I may need them.  Have Harbison handy, too.  Curtis, you'll
stay, of course--and you, Cort."  Then to the waiting servant, "Show
these gentlemen up."

When Wray and Berkely entered, General Bent had resumed his chair at the
head of the table, and Cortland and Curtis Janney sat on either side of
him.  The General's head was bent forward in its customary pose, his
shaggy brows lowered so that his eyes were scarcely visible, but in the
smile that twisted one end of his thin lips Berkely read a sardonic
confidence in the outcome of the interview. On entering the room Wray
fixed his wide gaze on General Bent, his eyes gleaming strangely, and
kept it on him as though fascinated, until, at a word from Cortland
Bent, he sank into a chair beside Berkely.  Aside from this civility, no
amenities passed.  General Bent had sunk back in his armchair, coolly
swinging his glasses by their cord, while he keenly eyed Berkely, who
had begun talking. Curtis Janney, trying to bury his personal
animosities in the present issue, folded his stout arms resolutely and
leaned forward upon the table.

"We understand, General Bent, that it is you--representing Eastern
interests--who have obtained a majority of the stock of the Denver and
California Railroad Company.  Am I correctly informed?"

General Bent's head dropped the fraction of an inch.  "Your information
is correct," he said shortly.

"As general counsel for the Saguache Short Line," Berkely went on, "I am
here to inform you that, in accordance with a contract entered into in
March of last year, the Denver and California made certain traffic
arrangements with my Company conditional upon the completion of the
Saguache Short Line upon a specified date.  My company accepted these
conditions and has succeeded in carrying out to the letter the terms of
its agreements----"

"One moment, Mr. Berkely," put in the General with a vague attempt to be
humorous, "if I may ask, what is the Saguache Short Line?  A telegraph,
stage, or railroad company?"

Wray's jaw set, and he glared angrily, but Berkely only smiled.

"A railroad company, sir," he said with suave directness, "controlling a
right of way from Pueblo to Saguache--the most direct line from the
Saguache to the market.  Our tracks are laid, our signals in place, our
stations built, and this morning we are advised that the Denver and
California is running its first train through from Pueblo to Saguache!"

The three men started, and Berkely grinned.

"I may add that in addition to Mr. Clinton (who at ten o'clock this
morning had not yet retired from the presidency of your road), the train
also carries other officers of your company as well as stockholders of
mine.  A lunch has been provided at the northern terminus of the road,
and a spirit of harmony dominates the occasion--one which I'm sure
you'll admit is noteworthy in every particular."

General Bent's brow twitched ominously.  "I hope, Mr. Berkely, you'll
come to the point without delay," he said.

"Willingly.  The Saguache Short Line has fulfilled its part of the
contract.  The present officers of your company are willing to carry out
theirs. The object of our visit was merely to reassure ourselves of your
friendly disposition--the friendly disposition of the newly elected
officers of your road--and to arrange with all proper haste a practical
schedule for the operation of the line."

Larry paused and sank back in his chair with a smile. General Bent had
risen and was leaning forward over the table toward Berkely, his face a
thunder-cloud.

"You want a schedule, do you?" he growled, his voice deepening.  "Well,
I'll give you one--I'll give it to you now, and it won't take a great
while, either.  As long as I'm in control of the Denver and California
Railroad Company not a wheel shall turn on your little jerk-water line
within a mile of Pueblo.  That's my answer to your proposition. Our yard
limit marks your terminus--do you understand?  Get your ore there if you
can find any," he finished brutally.

But Berkely refused to lose his temper.

"You're aware, of course," he said coolly, "that such a policy is likely
to prove expensive?"

"You'll have to show that."

"I think we will.  But I can't believe that you repudiate this
contract," said Larry, tapping a paper with his forefinger.

"I didn't make that contract.  I would never have made it.  The courts
will pass on its validity."

"Then this is final?"

"Absolutely.  Is there anything more you want to say?"

"I think that's all, General Bent," said Berkely, rising.  "I had hoped
you would have been willing to meet us in a fair spirit.  Failing to
discover that--either in your attitude or your demeanor--I suppose there
is nothing else to be said."

"One moment," interrupted the General, sinking back in his chair with an
effort at self-control. "Sit down, please.  There's something more to be
said--something which you both may be interested to hear."  And he
addressed his remarks directly to Wray.  "I can't say that I've watched
your efforts to put your plans through without some interest, Mr. Wray.
Under other circumstances I may say that I would have been compelled to
a kind of admiration for your fruitless perseverance. It's all the more
remarkable in the face of the obstacles with which you had to contend.
But we are fully informed as to your actual financial strength, and I
think the time has come when we may draw aside the veil and speak
frankly.  Mr. Berkely informs me that he intends to proceed against the
Denver and California Railroad Company.  To do this, of course, he must
have the proper authority. Are you sure that he can get it?"

Larry smiled.  "I think so."

"To do so he requires, does he not, a majority vote of the Denver and
Saguache Railroad Company as well as that of the Short Line--those two
companies and the Development Company, as I understand it, being in a
way dependent one upon the other?"

"That is correct."

The General settled back in his chair, swinging his gold eyeglasses
daintily.

"How is he going to get that authority?" he asked.

His smile infuriated Wray, who replied quickly.

"By virtue of my control of all companies," he said crisply.

"Your control?" said Bent; "you have no control. I know your resources
to a dollar, Mr. Wray. To-day at twelve o'clock your Denver and Saguache
Railroad Company stock will be in my possession."

Wray exchanged a glance with Berkely and laughed dryly.

"Oh, you're really coming in with us at last, are you, General?" he
said.  "That's fine!"  And then with a chuckle, "Your name on the
directorate of the Denver and Saguache ought to have some weight with
the new officers of the Denver and California."

The frown on Bent's brows deepened.  The point of this joke did not dawn
on him.

"That stock has always been for sale," Wray went on.  "Everything I have
is for sale when the man comes along who can afford to buy it.  It's
funny, though, General Bent, that you haven't said anything to me about
it."

A slight twitching of Bent's lips and the nervous movement of his
fingers among the papers on the table.  Was this really a joke or only
the last manifestation of Wray's colossal impudence?  He chose to think
it the latter.

"It hasn't been necessary to say anything to you about it, sir," he said
sternly.  "To-day at noon two million and a half of that stock is thrown
on the market at a bargain--at a very great bargain.  But I'm the only
man in the United States who would dare to touch it.  I'm the only man
in the world, except yourself, to whom it's worth a dollar.  I know your
resources down to the last dime.  _You_ haven't the money to take it up.
I _have_.  At noon that stock will be mine, so will you be mine--your
two railroads and your smelter, at the price I choose to pay for them."

Jeff sat quietly, one of his hands toying with the top of an inkstand,
which he was regarding with friendly interest.

"Are you _sure_, General?" he asked calmly.

General Bent clasped his twitching fingers to keep them still.  "Why,
sir--what do you mean?"

"That you're mistaken, that's all.  That stock is for sale, but you'll
still have to come to me to buy it."

"How----"

"Because I paid off those notes this morning. That stock is in my
safe-deposit vault, where it's going to stay--unless"--and he smiled
sarcastically--"unless you still want it."

General Bent's face paled and grew red, then purple.  He struggled to
his feet with difficulty. His plans didn't often miscarry, and the fact
that one of the links of the chain he had tested so carefully had failed
to hold completely mystified him. How--where had Jeff Wray succeeded in
raising eight hundred thousand dollars when the limit of his borrowing
capacity had long ago been reached? For months the wonderful secret
organization of the Amalgamated had been at work prying into the affairs
of Wray's companies and had figured his possible resources to the
thinnest part of a hair. He had not sold the "Lone Tree" or even the
smallest interest in it, and yet there he was apparently entrenched as
firmly as ever.  General Bent gasped in amazement.  Only the
interposition of Providence could have made such a thing possible.
Cortland Bent had gone into the adjoining room suddenly, and Wray knew
he was verifying this information over the telephone.  But General Bent
did not wait for him to return.  To his mind this news needed no
verification.  It was time for him to play his last card--and his best.

"You d--d young scoundrel," he said in a hoarse whisper, his voice
trembling with fury, while Wray and Berkely rose angrily and faced him.
"I won't mince matters with you any longer.  You thought when you stole
that mine three years ago that you had covered all your tracks and made
yourself safe from civil suits.  Mr. Berkely planned well.  We fought
you in the courts and lost.  I suppose you thought we had given up.  We
did let up, but it was only to get a firmer hold.  We've got it now, and
we're going to use it.  You stole that mine--trespassed on our property
at night and tried to murder one of our employes.  You assaulted him and
would have killed him if you hadn't been interrupted----"

"That's a lie!" said Jeff calmly.

"You'll have a chance to prove that.  You lured Max Reimer into a
gambling den and put him out of business so that he couldn't prevent my
son from signing that lease."

"That's another lie!  He was drunk and violent and drew a gun on me.  My
partner struck him down.  His head hit the edge of a table."

"Nonsense, sir.  We have a witness who verifies Reimer in every
particular, who swears he saw from the doorway----"

"Who is your witness?"

"Fritz Weyl--I see you remember him.  He----"

Wray laughed uneasily.  "Yes, I remember Fritz?"

Bent came one step nearer, waving a trembling hand at Cortland, who had
returned and was trying to restrain him.  But the General shook him off.

"We dropped those civil suits because we thought it was wise to do so,
and because we knew that in time we would be in a position to win in
other ways. There are other processes of law besides the civil ones, and
those are the ones we choose to take. Before you can leave Denver you'll
be arrested on charges of abduction and conspiracy.  I suppose you know
what that means?"

Jeff grew a shade paler, his eyes blazing their resentment at the old
man who stood tottering before him.

"You'd do that--you?" cried Jeff, hoarsely, struggling hard to keep
himself under control. "You'd hire men to send me to the penitentiary
because I've balked your plans--because I've beaten you in a fair fight
against odds;--_you?--you?_"  Wray clenched his fist and took a step
forward, but Larry Berkely seized him by the arm, and Cortland Bent
stepped between.

General Bent pushed his son aside.

"Go, Cort--call McCabe.  We'll see----"

At this moment there was an interruption.

"Wait a moment, Cort, please," said a voice.

The door into Mr. Janney's parlor had opened suddenly, and Mrs. Cheyne
had entered the room. And while the General eyed her angrily, too amazed
to speak, she strode quickly forward into the group and continued
quietly,

"There has been a mistake--a terrible mistake. If you'll let me
explain----"

General Bent was the first to recover his senses. "Rita!  Leave the room
at once!" he commanded.

"No," she said firmly, "not until you hear what I have to say----"

"I can't listen now--another time," he fumed.

"No, now.  I'm going to save you from doing something that you'll regret
the rest of your life."

While the General questioned, Jeff had turned and seized her by the arm,
his eyes pleading.

"Rita!" he muttered, "You know? .... For God's sake, don't! ... Not
now!"

[Illustration: "'Rita!' he muttered, 'You know?'"]

"Yes," she said firmly.  "No one else will.  I must."

Cornelius Bent and Cortland had watched Wray in amazement.  His face had
suddenly grown white and drawn.

"You have no right to tell him, Rita," he persisted. "It's my
secret!--not yours!  You can't!  I tell you."

But she eluded him and faced the General.

"You must listen to me, Cousin Cornelius."

Curtis Janney, who had been watching Wray closely, now interposed.

"Let her speak, General.  It seems to be something of more than usual
importance."

"Very well," he growled, "but be brief."

"I can't tell it here," she insisted.  "I must speak to you alone."

"Alone?  Why?"

"It's a private matter.  Will you come into the next room, there's no
one there----"

She turned and was moving toward the door when Jeff's large figure
blocked the way.

"You don't know what you're doing, Rita," he whispered.  "You can't.  I
forbid it."  But Berkely, who had been watching the General, took Jeff
by the arm and held him by main force.

"Stand aside, sir," said General Bent, roughly brushing by.  "If there's
something you want concealed, it's something I want to hear."  And he
followed, banging the door behind him.

Jeff made a movement as though he would follow--then turned toward
Cortland Bent and Janney, who had watched this extraordinary change in
the demeanor of their enemy with wonder and some curiosity.  Jeff stared
at them wildly and took up his hat, saying in a strange voice,

"Come, Larry, I must get away from here--at once," and, opening the
door, he fled madly down the corridor.

Berkely paused a moment.  "We have no intention of dodging any issues,"
he said quietly.  "If any of you gentlemen want to see Mr. Wray or me,
you can find us both at the Wetherall Ranch to-morrow."




                             *CHAPTER XXVI*

                        *THE CALL OF THE HEART*


Larry caught up with Jeff outside the elevator shaft, where he found him
striding up and down like a caged beast.  Jeff entered the car in a daze
and followed Larry blindly across the huge lobby downstairs and out of
doors to a motor which was waiting for them at the curb. Larry was still
bewildered at the surprising conclusion of their visit and eyed his
companion sharply, but Jeff sat with folded arms, looking neither to the
right nor left as they whirled through the city streets and out into the
highroad.  The hunted look in Jeff's eyes warned Larry not to speak, so
he sat beside his partner patiently and waited.

Suddenly, without moving, Jeff's great hand shot out and clinched
Larry's knee like a vise.

"He--he's my father, Larry," said Jeff hoarsely, "my father--do you
understand?  I didn't want him to know."

Larry put his hand over Jeff's and gripped it hard.  He knew what other
people in Mesa City knew of Jeff's birth, but no words occurred to him.
The information had taken his breath away.

"I didn't want him to know," Jeff went on.  "I wanted to wait--to tell
him myself when things had broken right for us.  I wanted to win--to
show him I was his master--not to come crawling and licking his boots
for mercy.  I'll not do it now, either, by G--d.  He can break me to
bits, but he'll never own me--I never was his--I never will be----"

"He hasn't broken us yet, Jeff.  He can't keep us out of Pueblo.  We're
going to win, I tell you."

"We've got to win, Larry," groaned Jeff.  "We've got to win.  That
conspiracy charge----"

"Mere piffle," said Larry.  "Don't worry. They've bought Fritz Weyl.
He's not a competent witness.  I can prove it."

Jeff sank back again, his gaze on the mountains. "He'd send me to Canon
City--to the penitentiary--if he could--and he's--my father."

Larry bit his lip, but didn't reply, for his mind was working rapidly.
He had a perspective on the situation which had been denied to Jeff, and
the vista did not seem unpleasant.  He was prepared to fight for Jeff's
interests and his own to the bitter end, but he was too keen a lawyer
and too sound a philosopher not to know the value of compromise, and, in
spite of himself, it was his legal mind which grasped the essentials of
Jeff's relation to their common enemy.  What would be the effect of this
astonishing revelation on the mind of General Bent? He did not dare
speak of this to Jeff, who in his present mood could only misinterpret
him; but he was still thinking of it when the car drew up at the steps
at Wetherall's big bungalow palace. Gretchen and their hostess met the
arrivals at the door, and Jeff followed them in slowly.  He wanted to be
alone again to think--and here was sanctuary. Gretchen paused at the
entrance to the morning room, and, taking Jeff by the arm, opened the
door, pushed him in quickly, and closed it behind him. And while Jeff
was wondering what it all meant he heard a step beside him, felt the
timid touch of a hand on his sleeve, and found his eyes looking down
into Camilla's.

"Jeff," she was whispering, "they told me you needed me, and so I came
to you.  Do you want me?"

He looked at her mistily, for the misfortunes which hung about him had
dulled his perceptions.  It seemed strange that she should be there, but
he experienced no surprise at seeing her.

"Yes, I want you," he said absently.  "Of course I want you."  He
fingered the hand on his sleeve and patted it gently, as he would have
done a child's, but she saw with pain that the tragedy of his birth now
overshadowed all other issues.  If he was thinking of her at all, it was
of the other Camilla--the Camilla he had known longest--the gingerbread
woman that she had been.  It hurt her, but she knew that it was her own
fault that he could not think otherwise.  She took his hand in her own
warm fingers, and held it closely against her breast.

"Jeff, dear, look at me.  I'm not the woman that I used to be.  I'm the
real Camilla, now--the Camilla you always hoped I'd be.  I'm changed.
Something has happened to me.  I want you to understand--I'm not a
graven image now, Jeff, I'm just--your wife."

He looked at her, bewildered, but in her eyes he saw that what she said
was true.  They were different eyes from the ones he had
known--softened, darker--and looked up into his own pleadingly, wet with
compassion, the tender, compelling eyes of a woman whose soul is
awakened.  She released his hand and threw her arms around his neck,
lifting her face to his.  "Don't you understand, Jeff?  I want you.  I
want you.  I've never wanted anybody else."

His arms tightened about her, and their lips met. She was tangible
now--no mere image to be worshipped from afar, but a warm idol of flesh
and blood, to be taken into one's heart and enshrined there.

"Camilla, girl.  Is it true?"

"Yes," she whispered, "it has always been true--only I didn't know it.
I love you, Jeff.  I love you--oh, how I love you!  Better than
myself--better than all the world.  Do you realize it now?"

He took her head between his hands and held it away so that he might
look deep into her eyes and be sure.  Their lashes dropped once or twice
and hid them, but that made them only the more lovely when they opened
again.  For in them he read the whole measure of his happiness and hers.

"Yes, it's true.  I know it now.  You've never looked at me like
that--never before."  He bent her head forward and would have kissed
her--as he sometimes used to do--on the forehead--but she would not let
him.

"No, not that kiss--the cold kiss of homage, Jeff.  I don't want to be
venerated.  You're not to kiss me like that again--ever.  My
lips--they're yours, Jeff--my lips ... No one else--no, never ...
they're yours."

So he took them, and in their sweetness for a while found forgetfulness
of his bitterness.  At last she led him to a big chair by the window,
made him sit, and sank on the floor at his feet.

"You're not going back to Kansas?" he asked anxiously.

She smiled.  "Not unless you want me to."

He drew her into his arms again.  "I'll never want you to.  I want you
here--close--close--my girl."

"You must never leave me again, Jeff--I've suffered so."

"I couldn't stand seeing you.  I thought you loved----"  She put her
fingers over his lips and would not let him finish.

"No--not now----don't speak of that, it's all a nightmare.  But you must
never leave me again. I want to be with you always.  I want to take my
half of your troubles."

His head bowed, the grasp of his hands relaxed, and his eyes stared into
vacancy.

"My troubles--yes, there are a lot of them. Perhaps you won't care for
me so much when I'm down and out, Camilla.  I suppose I ought to tell
you.  He--my father is going to have me indicted for conspiracy--about
the mines.  He's going to try to jail me--if he can."

She started up, terror-stricken.

"Oh, he couldn't--even he--couldn't do a thing like that."

"Oh, yes, he could," grimly.  "He has bribed Reimer and Fritz Weyl.
They swear I tried to murder Max."

"But you didn't, Jeff--tell me you didn't," she said tremulously.  "You
know you never told me what happened, and I've feared--you were
desperate in those days--and lawless."

"I'm desperate and lawless yet," he muttered. "But I'd never try to kill
a man just for money. We offered Max Reimer a share in the mine--a good
share--but he wanted to hog it all.  I told him he was a drunken fool,
and he tried to shoot me. Mulrennan struck him, and knocked him out. I
wouldn't be here now if he hadn't.  I don't know why I never told you.
I suppose I thought you wouldn't understand.  I left Mulrennan trying to
bring him around--and went down and bought that lease.  That's all."

"Thank God," she crooned.  "I've been so afraid.  There have been so
many stories."

"Lies--all lies--circulated by him.  Now he's got Reimer to swear to
them."

She threw her arms around his neck and searched his face anxiously.

"Jeff--he can't make people believe----"

"He wants to ruin me--and he'll do it if he can. There's no telling what
money will do.  He squeezed Conrad Seemuller and made him a bankrupt.
Seemuller drank himself to death.  Jimmy Ott blew out his brains.  Oh,
don't be afraid--I'm not going to do either--I'm not going to be crushed
like a worm.  If he ruins me, he'll pay dear for the privilege.  I'll
drag him down with me, and he'll drop farther than I will.  I wanted to
keep things quiet--but I won't any longer.  I'll tell the world my
story--his story, and let the world judge between us."

He tramped up and down the floor like a madman until Camilla interposed
and led him to a divan. He followed her like a child and let her sit
beside him while she questioned him as to what had happened.  Jeff had
looked for sanctuary, and he had found it at last.  The other people in
the house did not disturb them, and they sat for a long time alone,
exchanging the confidences which had been so long delayed; but they were
none the less sweet on that account.  Late in the afternoon Camilla
questioned Jeff again about the happenings of the morning. Rita Cheyne's
part in the situation did not surprise her.  She knew that Rita had
heard everything and had decided to continue to play the game with Fate
in Jeff's behalf.  But she did not tell Jeff so. When he questioned her
she told him what had happened at the Kinney House after he had left.

"Oh, Jeff, I don't know how I could have misjudged you so.  Rita opened
my eyes--why she chose to do it, I don't know.  She's a strange woman--I
can't quite make her out even now. She's half angel, half vixen, but
I'll never forget her--never!"  Camilla put her hand over Jeff's
suddenly.  "That money--Jeff--you must pay her back that money--if you
have to sell the mine."

"I can't sell the mine--not now.  It would clean me out."

"I don't care," she pleaded.  "I don't want money.  It has brought
nothing but unhappiness to either of us.  I want to begin all over
again. I've learned my lesson.  I look back to the old days and wonder
what I could have been dreaming of. I've seen all I want of the world.
Happiness belongs in the heart--no amount of money can buy it a place
there.  I want to be poor again--with you. Give him--give General Bent
what he wants, Jeff--that will satisfy him, won't it?  Please, Jeff, for
my sake!  Sell out the smelter and the mine----"

"Never!"  Jeff's jaw set, and he rose, putting her aside almost roughly.

"I'll never give them up while I've an ounce of blood to fight!"

His tongue faltered and was silent.  Camilla followed his startled gaze
through the open window at an automobile, from the tonneau of which a
man hurriedly descended.

"What can it mean?" Jeff was asking as though to himself.  "Cort Bent!
What does he want?"

"It's very curious," Camilla said slowly.  "To see you----"

When Bent came into the room a moment later they were both aware of the
imminence of important revelations.  Camilla had not seen him for two
months, and she was conscious of a slight sense of shock at his
appearance.  Jeff, too, noted that he was very pale and that in his eyes
there hung a shadow of the misfortune that had marked them all.

At the door Cortland turned to Mrs. Berkely who had met him in the hall.

"If you don't mind, Gretchen, I'd like to speak to him alone."  And,
when Camilla would have gone, "No, Camilla, it concerns you, too."
While they wondered what was coming he walked past Camilla and put a
hand on Jeff's shoulder, the lines in his face softening gently.

"They've told me, Jeff.  I know.  I've come to offer you my hand."  And,
as Jeff still stared at him uncertainly, "You won't refuse it, will
you!"

There was a nobility in the simple gesture, a depth of meaning in the
quiet tones of his voice. Camilla alone knew what those few words were
costing him, and she watched Jeff, who was standing as though he had
been turned to stone, his head bent forward upon his breast, his
deep-set eyes peering under his brows as General Bent's had often done.
His eyes found Cortland's at last, searching them keenly, but he found
in them only a small bright flame of fellowship among the embers of
regret.  Jeff's fingers twitched a little, then his hand came forward
impulsively, and the two men clasped hands.

"I'm sorry, Jeff--I am--from the bottom of my heart.  I want you to
understand."

"I do," said Jeff, with difficulty.  "I didn't want you to know----"

"I'm glad.  I think it's better so."

He paused a moment before going on.  "I want--I want you and Camilla to
go right back with me. Can you?  That's what I came to ask.  Father is
ill."

"Ill?" stammered Jeff.

"A stroke of apoplexy--the sudden shock of discovering all this."  Jeff
and Camilla started forward with one impulse of horror.  "Rita and Aunt
Caroline were with him, and Rita had told him the truth--the doctors are
there--he has recovered consciousness, but his left side is paralyzed,
completely paralyzed."

Jeff sank heavily in a chair and buried his face in his hands.

"What do the doctors say?" asked Camilla anxiously.

"That he's very sick--that's all.  Nobody can tell.  I've wired Chicago
for a specialist.  We can only wait and hope.  It's pretty desperate--I
know that.  He's an old man--and he's grown older lately."

Cort stopped speaking and walked to the window, while Camilla watched
him pityingly.  He wasn't like the old Cort she used to know, and yet
there was something inexpressively appealing in his gentleness which
reminded her of the moods in him she had liked the best.  She glanced at
Jeff.  His head was still buried in his hands, and he had not moved.
But Camilla knew that this startling revelation was causing a
rearrangement of all Jeff's ideas.  In that moment she prayed that
Jeff's bitterness might be sweetened--that the tragedy which had
suddenly stalked among them might soften his heart to pity for the old
man who was his father and his enemy.

Cortland turned and spoke with an effort.

"Will you go back with me, Jeff?  When he first recovered consciousness
he spoke your name.  He has been asking for you ever since.  He
wants----"

Jeff's eyes peered above his trembling fingers.

"He asked--for me?" he said hoarsely.

"Yes--he wants to see you."

Jeff's head sank into his hands again.

"He wants--to see _me_?  I can't--seem to realize----"

"It's true--he asked me to bring you."

There was a long period of silence, during which Jeff's long, bony
fingers clasped and unclasped back of his head as he struggled with
himself.  "I can't," he groaned at last.  "I can't.  It has been too
long--too much."  He straightened in disorder and went on wildly: "Why,
he has dogged my steps for months--used all his genius and cunning to do
away with me--tried to rid himself of me as he did years ago--and even
hired men to swear my liberty away."  His head dropped into his hands
again and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.  "No, I can't,
Cort.  I can't.  It's too much to ask--too much."

Cortland stood in the middle of the floor, his arms folded, head bent,
waiting for the storm to pass, his own pain engulfed in the greater pain
of the man before him.  He did not try to answer Jeff, for there was no
answer to be made.  It was not a moment for words, and he knew he had no
right even to petition.  It was a matter for Jeff's heart alone--a heart
so long embittered that even if it refused this charity, Cortland could
not find it in his own heart to condemn.

With a glance at Cortland, Camilla went over to Jeff and laid her
fingers lightly on his shoulder.

"Jeff," she said with gentle firmness, "you must go--to your father."
But, as he did not move, she went on.  "You forget--he did not know.
Perhaps if he had known he would have tried to make atonement before.
Do you realize what it means for a man like General Bent to make such a
request at such a time?  You can't refuse, Jeff. You can't."

Jeff moved his head and stared for a long time at the fireplace, his
fingers clenched on the chair arms, turning at last to Cortland.

"Do you--do you think he'll die?" he asked. "What do they say?"

"His heart is bad," said Cort gravely.  "I don't know--a man of father's
years seldom recovers from a thing like that----"

But it was Camilla who interposed.  She stepped between the two men and
took Jeff Ly the arm. "Cort can't go back without you, Jeff," she said
passionately.  "Don't you see that?  He can't.  You've got to go.  If
your father died to-night you'd never forgive yourself.  He may have
done you a wrong, but God knows he's trying to right it now.  You've got
to let him."  Cortland watched them a moment, then suddenly straightened
and glanced at his watch.

"I can't stay here any longer," he said.  "I've got to go back to him.
There is much to be done, and I'm the only one to do it.  This is my
last plea--not that of a dying man's son for his father, but of a
brother to a brother for the father of both. Come back with me--Jeff.
Not for his sake--but for your own.  It is your own blood that is
calling you--pitifully--you can't refuse."

Jeff struggled heavily to his feet and passed his hands across his eyes,
and then, with a sudden sharp intake of his breath, he turned to
Cortland, his lips trembling.

"I'll go," he said hoarsely.  "If he wants me, I'll go, Cort.  Something
is drawing me--something inside of me that awoke when you told me what
had happened.  I've been fighting against it, the habit of thirty years
was fighting it, but I've got to go.  I'd be cursed if I didn't.  You're
sure he really wants me, Cort?"




                            *CHAPTER XXVII*

                             *GENERAL BENT*


The room at the hotel into which Cortland showed them was a part of
General Bent's own suite.  Curtis Janney and a doctor consulted near the
window, and a nurse from the hospital, in her white linen uniform and
cap, hovered near.  Jeff's questioning gaze sought the crack of the door
of the darkened room adjoining.

"I think you may go in, Mr. Bent," said the doctor to Cortland.  "He's
conscious at longer intervals now.  It looks very much more hopeful,
sir.  He still asks for Mr. Wray."

Cortland followed the doctor into the sick room, while Janney joined
Jeff and Camilla and waited.

"Will he--get over it, Mr. Janney?" Camilla asked softly.

"Oh, I think so now--we didn't at first.  Only one side is affected.  He
can even move the hand a little.  Of course, it may be a long time."

Jeff listened in a daze.  The baby stare had come into his eyes again,
and it moved from one object in the room to another--always returning to
the door of the darkened room into which Cortland had vanished.  There
was an odor of medicine, the sound of crackling ice, and now the murmur
of voices.  A moment later one of the nurses appeared in the doorway.

"Mr. Wray," she said, "you may come in."

And Jeff entered, passing Cortland, who stood with bowed head at the
door.  In the darkness he could just make out the white figure of the
old man propped up against the pillows.  He breathed with difficulty,
and Jeff, unused to scenes of sickness, felt all his heart go out in
pity for the helpless old man who was calling for him.

"Is he here?" the General murmured.  "Is he here?"

Jeff moved quietly around the bed to the chair which the nurse had
placed for him, "Yes, sir," he said huskily.  "It's Jeff."

The General's right hand groped feebly along the covers, and Jeff took
it in both of his own.  "Cort told me you wanted me, sir."

"I'm glad--very glad."  He turned his head and tried to smile.  "It
was--so--so sudden--the news," he said with an effort, "to find out----"

"I'm sorry, sir.  I didn't want you to know."

"I'm glad to know.  It makes me--happy.  I've been trying for so many
years to find you."

"You tried?" in astonishment.

"Yes, I didn't know anything about--about having a son--until it was too
late.  One of my associates--in the West--told me later.  I tried to
find out--where they had taken you, but the nurse in the hospital--had
gone--and there was no record of her--or of--of you."  He spoke with a
great effort, striving against the drowsiness which from time to time
attacked him.  "They did things--differently in those days.  She--your
mother--never mentioned my name.  We had had a quarrel--a serious
quarrel--just after we were married----"

"Married?"  Jeff leaned forward over the white coverlid toward the old
man's distorted face.  "You were married?" he whispered, awe-stricken.

"Yes, married, Jeff--married--I--I have the papers--at home--I'll show
them to you----"

Jeff bent his head suddenly over the old man's lean fingers and kissed
them impulsively.

"Married!" he murmured, "Thank God!  Thank God for that."

The General's eyes followed him plaintively, while he struggled for
breath.  "Yes, it's true.  In Topeka--Kansas.  That's what I wanted to
tell you.  I couldn't go--I couldn't die without letting you know that.
It didn't matter to her--she could forget.  I did her a wrong, but not a
great wrong, as I did you.  I've thought about you all these years,
Jeff.  It's my secret--I've kept it a long time----"

He sank back into his pillows, exhausted, breathing heavily again, and
the doctor who had stood in the doorway came forward.  "I think you had
better rest, General.  Mr. Wray can come in later."  But the General
resolutely waved him aside with a movement that suggested his old
authority.

"No, not yet--I'm better--I'll sleep again in a moment."  And, as the
doctor withdrew, the old man's grasp on Jeff's hand grew tighter.  "They
took you away from the hospital--without even giving you a name."

"Yes, sir--I had no name but the one they gave me."  Jeff tried to make
him stop talking, but he went on, striving desperately:

"I had men working--to try and find you.  I've their reports at
home--you shall see them.  I want you to know that I did all I could.
We got the name of the nurse."

"Mrs. Nixon?"

"I think--no," he said confusedly.  "I can't remember--she
disappeared----"

"Yes, sir.  She married again and went to Texas. She took me with her."

Bent's eyes searched Jeff's piteously.  "That was it," he whispered,
"that was it.  That's my excuse--I tried, you know I tried, don't you?
It has been my burden for years--more even lately--than when I was
younger--the wrong I had done you. Say that you understand--won't
you--my--my--son?"

The tears had come into Jeff's eyes, welled forth like the gush of water
in a dry fountain, and fell upon the old wrinkled fingers.

"I do, sir--I do."

The General's hand left the coverlid and rested for a moment on Jeff's
shoulder.

"I hoped you would.  I've always hoped you'd forgive me when you knew."

Jeff straightened and brushed his eyes.  "There's nothing to forgive.
I--I only want you to get well--you will, sir.  They say you're better."

"Yes, Jeff, better--better already--but I'm very tired.  I think--I
think--I can sleep now--but don't go away--don't go," and he sank back
in a state of coma.

General Bent recovered.  The stroke was a slight one, and he gained
strength and the use of his faculties rapidly.  But Time had served its
notice of dispossession, and they all knew that the hour had come when
the management of Bent's great business interests must pass to younger
hands.  Within a few weeks he was permitted to sit up for an hour each
day, and with Cortland's help took up the loose ends of the most urgent
business.  But he tired easily, and it was evident to them all that the
days of his activity were ended.

In spite of it all, a great calm had fallen over the General's spirit.
The quick decision, the incisive judgment, were still his--for one
doesn't forget in a moment the habits of a lifetime of command--but his
tones were softer, his manner more gentle, and in his eyes there had
dawned a soft light of toleration and benignity which became him
strangely.

Gladys, who had come on from Lakewood, was with him constantly and
watched these changes in her father with timid wonder.  He had never
been one to confide in his children, and it required some readjustment
of her relations with him to accept the quiet appeal of his eyes and the
sympathy and appreciation which she found in his newly begotten
tenderness.  In Cortland, too, she saw a great change, and it surprised
her to discover the resolute, unobtrusive way in which he met his
responsibilities, both functional and moral.  Jeff and Camilla, aware of
their anomalous position, had decided to leave the hotel and go back to
Mesa City as soon as General Bent grew better.  It was Cortland who
prevailed on them to stay.

"We're all one family now, Jeff," he said firmly, "one and indivisible.
Gladys and I are of a mind on that, and father wishes it so.  Your claim
on him comes before ours--we don't forget that--we don't want to forget
it."

Jeff, unable to reply, only grasped him by the hand.  And then, with
Larry's help, the two of them plunged into the business of straightening
out the tangle in the General's affairs and Jeff's.  It was a matter of
moment with Cortland to give the Saguache Short Line a proper schedule
at once, and so by his dispensation on the twenty-fifth of May, as Jeff
had boasted (he thought of it now), trains were running from Pueblo to
Saguache.  The Denver and Western, too, restored its old schedule from
Kinney, and the Saguache Mountain Development Company resumed its
business by really developing.

In the absence of his two sons, Camilla and Gladys sat with the old man,
reading or talking to him as the fancy seized him to have them do.  He
liked to lie on a couch at the window and look out toward the mountains
beyond which Jeff's interests lay, while Camilla told him of her
husband's early struggles in the Valley.  He questioned her eagerly,
often repeating himself, while she told him of the "Watch Us Grow" sign,
of the failure of Mesa City, and of its rejuvenescence.

"Perhaps, after all," the old man would sigh, "perhaps it did him no
harm.  It makes me very happy, child."  He didn't say what made him
happy, but Camilla knew.

Then there came a day when the General was pronounced out of all danger
and capable of resuming a small share of his old responsibilities.  On
that day new articles of partnership were drawn for the firm of Bent &
Company, into which Jeff Wray was now admitted.  The "Lone Tree" mine
and the Saguache Smelter figured in the transaction. Mrs. Cheyne, who
had a wise corner in her pretty head, refused to accept the money which
had been advanced to Jeff Wray, and now insisted on bonds of the
Development Company and stock in the Short Line.  Lawrence Berkely,
whose peace had been made with Curtis Janney, now became the Western
representative of the Amalgamated Reduction Company, with Pete Mulrennan
as actual head of the Mesa City plant.  It was from General Bent that
all of the plans emanated, and Curtis Janney without difficulty
succeeded in arranging matters in New York.  He took a sardonic pleasure
in reminding the General that he had once suggested the advisability of
using Jeff's talents for the benefit of their company--and accepted
these plans as a slight tribute to his own wisdom.

General Bent wanted to go up to Mesa City to see the mine, but it was
thought best by the doctors to send him East to a lower altitude, and
so, about the middle of June, Cortland took him to New York, leaving
Jeff and Camilla to stay for a while at Mesa City, where Camilla could
watch the building of "Glen Irwin."  She could not find it in her heart
to give up the West--not altogether.  Later on they would spend their
summers there--up in the mountains--Jeff's mountains.




                            *CHAPTER XXVIII*

                    *HOUSEHOLD GODS--AND GODDESSES*


The years which followed seemed very short ones to Camilla--a time of
quiet delight, of restitution, and fulfillment.  General Bent had wanted
them to come and live with him in the old house down in Madison Avenue,
and Jeff, in his whole-hearted way, had given him the promise, but it
was Camilla who had thought it wisest for them to have an establishment
of their own.  The house was just off the avenue near the Park, a rented
place, for Camilla had not yet arrived at the state of mind to consider
New York their home.  But most of Jeff's time was now spent in New
York--seven months of the year at least--and she was beginning to learn
with reluctance that before long only their summers could be spent at
"Glen Irwin."  On certain afternoons Camilla sat in the library
downstairs with her embroidery frame (she always seemed to be sewing
now), her lap covered with thin, flimsy fabrics, the borders of which
she was embellishing. They were very tiny pieces of material, apparently
shapeless, but from time to time she held them at arm's length before
her, her head on one side, and smiled approval of her own handiwork.  It
was here that Jeff liked to find her--thus occupied.  He had not even
contracted the habit of stopping at a club on the way uptown, and unless
he was detained on important matters she knew when she would hear the
sound of his key in the latch outside.

Mrs. Wray had made it known that she was not at home except to the
chosen few.  The General came on certain days for his "toddy," Gladys on
the way home from "teaing it," Mrs. Rumsen, Dolly Haviland, and Rita
Cheyne, each for a peep behind the curtain.

Rita Cheyne came oftenest and stayed longest. She had no social
responsibilities, she claimed, except that of seeing the small garments
in Camilla's lap made successfully.  She was hopelessly bored, more
demurely cheerful, more buoyantly pessimistic than ever.

"What a joy it must be," she sighed, "to have an object in life.  My
objects are all subjective.  I have a dreadful fear that I'm getting to
be a philosopher."

Camilla bit off her thread and smiled.

"Platonic?" she asked.

"I'm afraid so.  I used to take such desperate fancies to people.  I
used to want to make people like me whether they wanted to or not.  Now
I'm really indifferent.  I actually don't care whether my hat is on
straight or not.  It's such a pity.  I used to like to be _svelte_,
fluffy, and smartly groomed.  I didn't mind suffering the tortures of
the rack if I knew I was effective.  Now--I'm positively dowdy. I don't
care what I wear so long as I'm comfortable--and I'm actually getting
_fat_, Camilla!  The horror of it!"

Camilla looked up at the exquisite afternoon frock, which fitted her
slender figure as only one made by Patrain could, and smiled.

"Yes, Rita, positively corpulent.  It's a pity. You really had a good
figure once."

"The worst of it is that I don't seem to care," she went on, oblivious.
"I used to love to dress for moods--for my moods and for other people's.
I thought that Art could solve every problem that came to me.  Art!" she
sniffed contemptuously.  "Art in a woman is merely a confession of
inefficiency.  I used to think that Art was immortal.  Now I find that
only Nature is."

Camilla lifted the tiny sacque with its absurd blue silk cuffs and
examined it with a satisfied air. When she had finished she leaned over
to Rita and whispered with the air of an oracle:

"Nature _is_--immortal."

"It is.  You're right," she sighed.  "But it's my nature to be merely
mortal--and I'm going to die very hard.  I must continue to hide my
inefficiencies--by Art."

"You're not inefficient," Camilla corrected. "You're merely
feminine--extravagantly feminine----"

"Yes, feminine--but not womanly.  Oh, I know what I am!" she concluded
fiercely.

"You're a darling!" said Camilla softly.  "You're very much more womanly
than you want people to think you are.  Why should you take such a
delight in _these_?"  Camilla laid a hand on the wicker basket beside
her.

Rita took up one of the tiny garments and examined it with minute
interest.

"It's very pretty, isn't it?  But quite silly. Imagine anything so tiny!
What a lot of trouble you take.  And you've made them all yourself.
They're really exquisite."

"They're Art's tribute to Nature, Rita," said Camilla with an air of
finality.

Mrs. Cheyne sighed.

"My mission in life is ended, Camilla.  I'm quite sure of it now.
You've convinced me.  I'm actually envious of a woman who sits by the
fire and sews baby-clothes.  Your industry is a reproach--your smile a
reproof and your happiness a condemnation. I know you're right.  You've
really solved the problem, and I haven't.  I never will.  I'm past that
now.  I'm going to grow old ungracefully, yielding the smallest fraction
of an inch at a time to the inevitable.  I'm going to be stout, I know
it--and probably dumpy.  I could weep, Camilla."

"Who's talking of weeping here?" said a voice. And General Bent, with
his stick, came thumping in.  "Oh--you, Rita?" he laughed.  "Women never
cry unless there's something to be gained by it."  Rita offered him her
cheek, and Camilla rang for tea.  In a moment Mrs. Rumsen came in.

"I knew you were here, Rita," she said, bending her tall figure for a
caress.

"How?"

"Teddy Wetherby's machine--at the corner--and Teddy."

"Is he waiting still?  Such a nice boy--but absolutely oblivious of the
passage of time."

"I thought you'd given up your kindergarten, Rita," put in Camilla,
laughing.

"I have.  But Teddy is my prize pupil.  He's taking a post-graduate
course."  And, when they all laughed at her, she turned on them
severely.  "I won't have you laughing at Teddy.  He's really an angel."

"I'm going to tell his mother," said Mrs. Rumsen.

Rita took her tea cup and sank back in her chair absently.  "Oh,
well--perhaps you'd better," she said.  "I'm going in for square-toed
shoes and settlement meetings."

The General grunted and sipped his Scotch, but when Jeff and Cortland
came in the women were still laughing at Mrs. Cheyne.  Jeff walked
across the room to his wife and kissed her.

"Father--Aunt Caroline--Hello!  Rita."

"Well, sir--" from Camilla, "please give an account of yourself."

"You'll have to speak to Cort.  We stopped in at the Club for a minute.
Cheyne was there and Hal Dulaney, Perot, Steve Gillis, Douglas
Warrington, and two or three others.  They wanted us to stay for dinner.
But we didn't."

"Of course not," said Camilla so decisively that Rita Cheyne laughed.

"There!" she said pityingly.  "Oh, Jeff! a subject and a slave as well!
Aren't you really going to let him go, Camilla?"

Camilla looked up into Jeff's face with a heavenly smile.

"Of course--if he _wants_ to."

"But I _don't_ want to," said Jeff, sinking into a chair with a
comfortable sigh.  "This is good enough for me.  Besides," he added
mischievously, "it looked like a meeting."

"What kind of a meeting?"

"Of the Rita Cheyne Protective Association."

"Jeff, you're horrid!" said Rita, but she laughed.

"I'm not," he said calmly.  "They have my full sympathy and support.  I
told 'em so."

"Your sins are finding you out, my dear cousin," chuckled the General.
"They always do in the end."

"Oh, you're hopeless--_all_ of you," sighed the culprit, setting down
her tea cup.

Cortland finished his drink in leisurely fashion and dropped into the
vacant chair beside his father.  "Well, we put it over," he said
quietly.

"The bond issue?"

"Yes, sir--we had a fight in the board, but we got McIntyre's vote at
last and jammed it through--that was all we needed."

"I didn't think it was possible," the old man exclaimed.

"It wasn't easy, but Jeff managed it."

"I didn't sir," Jeff interposed.  "Cort did the whole thing.  We've made
him president.  We made it unanimous in the end."

"By George, Cort, I'm proud of you.  I always knew you had the stuff in
you if we ever woke you up."

"Oh, I guess I'm awake all right.  A fellow has to be down there."  He
leaned forward and picked up an article on the work basket.

"Where's His Majesty?" he asked of Mrs. Wray.

Camilla glanced at the clock.

"Asleep, I hope.  He's been very dissipated lately.  He was up yesterday
until seven."

"Takes after his father," said Mrs. Cheyne scornfully.

At that moment a small cry was heard upstairs, and Camilla flew.  "The
lamb!" she cried, and from the hall they heard her telling the trained
nurse to bring the infant down.  At the bottom of the steps she met them
and bore him triumphantly in.  He was a very small person with large
round blue eyes that stared like Jeff's.  They looked at nobody in
particular, and yet they were filled with the wisdom of the ages.

"What a little owl he is!" said Rita, but when she jangled her gold
purse before his eyes he seized it with both hands and gurgled
exultantly.

"He knows a good thing when he sees it," laughed Cort.  "Got the gold
fever, too."

"What a shame!" said Camilla indignantly. "He hasn't any kind of a
fever, have you, Cornelius?"

The child said, "Da!"

"Didn't I tell you?  He knows."

"He has such fuzzy pink hair!" said Cort, rubbing it the wrong way.  "Do
you think it will stay pink?"

"You sha'n't be godfather to my son if you say another word, Cortland.
Here, nurse, take him. They sha'n't abuse him any longer."  She pressed
her lips rapturously against his rosy cheek and released him.  Mrs.
Rumsen gazed through her lorgnon, while the infant, with a cry of
delight, pulled the glasses from the General's nose.

"No respect for age!  None at all!" said Mrs. Rumsen.

After a while they all went away--Rita Cheyne to her post-graduate
pupil, Mrs. Rumsen to her brougham, and Cort and his father to the walk
downtown, leaving Camilla and Jeff sitting at the fireside alone.  One
armchair was big enough for them both.  She sat on his knees and leaned
back against him, close in the shelter of his arms.

"You didn't want to stay out to dinner, did you, Jeff?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he said, "of course I did.  I'm very fond of dining out."

She laughed contentedly.  They had dined out only once this winter, and
that was at his father's house.  There was a long silence.

"Poor Rita," she sighed at last, "what's to become of her?  She's not
really happy, Jeff.  I sometimes think----" she paused.

"What?"

"That she still thinks of you."

Jeff laughed.  "I hope she does.  Why, silly?"

"Simply because she never gives me the slightest reason to think that
she does."

Jeff rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

"That's one too many for me."

"Don't you know that a woman always judges another woman by the thoughts
she suppresses?"

"That's nonsense."

"No, it isn't.  I won't have you say that what I think is nonsense."

She turned her head toward him and looked down into his eyes.

"Are you sure you never cared for Rita?  Not a little?"

"Sure."

"It was the Forbidden Way, Jeff.  Do you like this way--_our_
way--better?"

He held her closer in his arms and that reply seemed adequate.  She
asked him no more questions until some moments later, and she asked him
that one because she always liked the way he answered it.

A sudden loud rasping of the dining-room hangings on their brass rod,
and Camilla sprang up hurriedly. She even had time to go to the mantel
mirror and rearrange the disorder of her hair before the butler came in
to announce dinner.

He was a well-trained servant.




                                THE END




           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *




                       *STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY*

                         *GENE STRATTON-PORTER*


May be had wherever books are sold.  Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.



                            *THE HARVESTER*

Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs

"The Harvester," David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who
draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself.  If
the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man, with his
sure grip on life, his superb optimism, and his almost miraculous
knowledge of nature secrets, it would be notable.  But when the Girl
comes to his "Medicine Woods," and the Harvester's whole sound, healthy,
large outdoor being realizes that this is the highest point of life
which has come to him--there begins a romance, troubled and interrupted,
yet of the rarest idyllic quality.



                              *FRECKLES.*

Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he
takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great
Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to
the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The
Angel" are full of real sentiment.



                      *A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST.*

Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda.

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of
the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness
towards all things; her hope is never dimmed.  And by the sheer beauty
of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and
unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.

It is an inspiring story of a life worth while and the rich beauties of
the out-of-doors are strewn through all its pages.



                     *AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.*

Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp. Design and decorations by Ralph
Fletcher Seymour.

The scene of this charming, idyllic love story is laid in Central
Indiana.  The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender
self-sacrificing love; the friendship that gives freely without return,
and the love that seeks first the happiness of the object.  The novel is
brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos
and tender sentiment will endear it to all.



                     *      *      *      *      *



                           *JOHN FOX, JR'S.*

                  *STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS*

May be had wherever books are sold.  Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.



                   *THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.*

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree
that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top.  The fame of the pine
lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he
finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the
foot-prints of a girl.  And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and
the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder
chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine."



                 *THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME*

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come."
It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which
often springs the flower of civilization.

"Chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he
came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood,
seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and
mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif,
by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the
mountains.



                     *A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND.*

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of
moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the
heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight."  Two
impetuous young Southerners fall under the spell of "The Blight's"
charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the
love making of the mountaineers.

Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of
Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.



                     *      *      *      *      *



                         *MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS*

 May be had wherever books are sold.  Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.



                        *LAVENDER AND OLD LACE.*

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone romance
finds a modern parallel.  The story centers round the coming of love to
the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the
prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fashioned love stories, * * * a
rare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy,
of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity.



                        *A SPINNER IN THE SUN.*

Miss Myrtle Reed may always be depended upon to write a story in which
poetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a clever and
entertaining book. Her characters are delightful and she always displays
a quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of pathos which give a
touch of active realism to all her writings.  In "A Spinner in the Sun"
she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in
solitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen.  There is a
mystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of
romance.



                         *THE MASTER'S VIOLIN.*

A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuoso
is the reverent possessor of a genuine "Cremona."  He consents to take
for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for
technique, but not the soul of an artist.  The youth has led the happy,
careless life of a modern, well-to-do young American and he cannot, with
his meagre past, express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life
and all its happy phases as can the master who has lived life in all its
fulness. But a girl comes into his life--a beautiful bit of human
driftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart and home, and through
his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to
give--and his soul awakes.

Founded on a fact that all artists realize.



                     *      *      *      *      *



                          *GROSSET& DUNLAP'S*

                          *DRAMATIZED NOVELS*

              THE KIND THAT ARE MAKING THEATRICAL HISTORY

  May be had wherever books are sold.  Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list



                           *WITHIN THE LAW.*

By Bayard Veiller & Marvin Dana. Illustrated by Wm. Charles Cooke.

This is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for
two years in New York and Chicago.

The plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed
against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three
years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent.



                        *WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY.*

By Robert Carlton Brown. Illustrated with scenes from the play.

This is a narrative of a young and innocent country girt who is suddenly
thrown into the very heart of New York, "the land of her dreams," where
she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers.

The story of Mary is being told in moving pictures and played in
theatres all over the world.



                      *THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM.*

By David Belasco. Illustrated by John Rae.

This is a novelization of the popular play in which David Warfield, as
Old Peter Grimm, scored such a remarkable success.

The story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful,
both as a book and as a play.



                         *THE GARDEN OF ALLAH.*

By Robert Hichens.

This novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit,
barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness.

It is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting.  The play has
been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties.



                   *BEN HUR.  A Tale of the Christ.*

By General Lew Wallace.

The whole world has placed this famous Religious-Historical Romance on a
height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached.
The clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect
reproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere
of the arena have kept their deep fascination.  A tremendous dramatic
success.



                         *BOUGHT AND PAID FOR.*

By George Broadhurst and Arthur Hornblow.  Illustrated with scenes from
the play.

A stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an
interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled.  The scenes are laid
in New York, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor.

The interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which
show the young wife the price she has paid.



                     *      *      *      *      *



                          *GROSSET & DUNLAP'S*

                           DRAMATIZED NOVELS

          Original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the
                kind that are making theatrical history.



                              *MADAME X.*

By Alexandra Bisson and J. W. McConaughy. Illustrated with scenes from
the play.

A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not
forgive an error of her youth.  Her love for her son is the great final
influence in her career.  A tremendous dramatic success.



                         *THE GARDEN OF ALLAH.*

By Robert Hichens.

An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and
love in an oasis of the Sahara.  Staged this season with magnificent
cast and gorgeous properties.



                         *THE PRINCE OF INDIA.*

By Lew. Wallace.

A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting with extraordinary
power the siege of Constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the
warm underflow of an Oriental romance.  As a play it is a great dramatic
spectacle.



                      *TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY.*

By Grace Miller White.  Illust. by Howard Chandler Christy.

A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell University
student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of
those about her. The dramatic version is one of the sensations of the
season.



                          *YOUNG WALLINGFORD.*

By George Randolph Chester.  Illust. by F. R. Gruger and Henry Raleigh.

A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of
which is just on the safe side of a State's prison offence.  As
"Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of
money manipulation ever seen on the stage.



                       *THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY.*

By P. G. Wodehouse. Illustrations by Will Grefe.

Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur burglary
adventure and a love story. Dramatized under the title of "A Gentleman
of Leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers.



                     *      *      *      *      *



                       *CHARMING BOOKS FOR GIRLS*

  May be had wherever books are sold.  Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list



                     *WHEN PATTY WENT TO COLLEGE.*

By Jean Webster.  Illustrated by C. D. Williams.

One of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been
written.  It is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable
and thoroughly human.



                             *JUST PATTY.*

By Jean Webster.  Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.

Patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious
mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which
is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows.



                      *THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL.*

By Eleanor Gates.  With four full page illustrations.

This story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children
whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom
seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. A
charming play as dramatized by the author.



                     *REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM.*

By Kate Douglas Wiggin.

One of the most beautiful studies of childhood--Rebecca's artistic,
unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of
austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phenomenal
dramatic record.



                      *NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA.*

By Kate Douglas Wiggin.  Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

Additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that
carry Rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday.



                            *REBECCA MARY.*

By Annie Hamilton Donnell. Illustrated by Elizabeth Shippen Green.

This author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque
little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a
pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing.



                    *EMMY LOU: Her Book and Heart.*

By George Madden Martin. Illustrated by Charles Louis Hinton.

Emmy Lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. She
is just a bewitchingly innocent, huggable little maid.  The book is
wonderfully human.


  _Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

             GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK.






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