  Produced by Al Haines. [image] As she sat before her mirror... THE BY GEORGE GIBBS AUTHOR OF ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK Copyright, 1911, BY Published September, 1911 Printed in the United States of America CONTENTS CHAPTER
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 Cripple 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 caÑon, 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?" |
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