Front matter (continued 4)

"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 antennæ 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 fiancée, 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."

"Touchée," 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 Carrière—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 régime 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 "coupé" 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—Voilà."

"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 cañon, 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 slope and then paused—as though in sudden diffidence before the majesty of its three-storied preëminence. 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.