Читать книгу: «The Forbidden Way», страница 15

CHAPTER XXII
PRIVATE MATTERS

Jeff followed Camilla's departing back with blank bewilderment, too amazed to utter a word. Rita Cheyne looked at Jeff's face and then laughed.

"Act Three will now begin," she said gaily. "It's really too good, Jeff. But it's time for the lady-villain to die. I'm off stage now, so good-by."

She gave him her hand, and he took it mechanically.

"I'll see you to-morrow," he said gravely.

"No, this is good-by. There isn't any to-morrow for us. I won't see you, Jeff. I think perhaps you won't want to see me now."

"This will make no difference," he stammered. "Don't you see – I've got to make her understand."

"You mean – my reputation. She'd never understand that. You'll be wasting time. Don't bother. I'm going to Denver in the morning. No, not a word – "

He tried to hold her, but the clerk came down at this moment, so, with a last flourish of the hand, she sped past him and up the stairs.

Jeff stood for a moment in the middle of the floor, irresolute. Then he turned to the desk and asked the number of Mrs. Wray's room.

"Parlor B, Mr. Wray, but she told me to say that she did not want to be disturbed."

Jeff hesitated, and then, with a frown: "That doesn't matter," he growled. "I'll explain. I'm going up," and he made his way to the stairs.

The room, he remembered, was at the front of the house. He had occupied it before they built his sleeping quarters in the office building. He found the door readily and knocked, but there was no response. He knocked again. This time her voice inquired.

"It's Jeff, Camilla," he said. "I must see you at once. Let me in, please."

Another long pause of indecision. He might have been mistaken, but he fancied he could hear Rita Cheyne's light laugh somewhere down the corridor. He did not want a scene – as yet his and Camilla's misfortunes had not reached the ears of Mesa City. He was still debating whether he would knock again or go away when the key turned in the lock and the door was opened.

"Come in," said Camilla, and he entered. She had removed her hat, and the bed and pillow already bore traces of her weight.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he began awkwardly.

"Shut the door," she suggested. "Perhaps it's just as well that people here shouldn't know any more of our private affairs than is necessary."

He obeyed and turned the key in the lock. His wife had moved to the window and stood, very straight and pale, waiting for him to speak. She seemed, if anything, slimmer than when he had seen her last, and her hair, which had fallen loosely about her shoulders, was burnished with the last warm glow from Saguache Peak. He had never thought her more beautiful, but there were lines at her eyes and mouth which the growing shadows of the room made deeper.

"I suppose you're willing to believe the worst of me," he began, "and of her. Perhaps I ought to tell you first that she only came here this morning – that she's going away to-morrow – "

"It isn't necessary to explain," she interrupted. "I hope Mrs. Cheyne won't go on my account. I'm going, too, in the morning. Under the circumstances, I'm sorry I couldn't have waited a day or two, but I had to see you at once."

"You had to see me? Has something gone wrong in New York? What is – ?"

"Oh, no," wearily. "Everything in New York is all right. I've had everything packed in boxes and have given up the apartment at the hotel."

Jeff's brows tangled in mystification.

"You've given up the apartment? Why?"

"I'm not going to live there any more. I'm going to Kansas – to Abilene. I'm very tired, Jeff, and I need a rest."

"Camilla!" He pushed an armchair toward her and made her sit. "You do look as if you – you're not sick, are you?"

"Oh, no – just tired of everything." Her voice was low, as it always had been, but it had no life in it. "Just tired of being misunderstood. I won't explain, and I don't expect you to. I couldn't listen if you did. I came here because I had to come, because no matter what our relations are it was my duty to see you at once and tell you something of the greatest importance."

He stood behind her chair, his fingers close to her pallid cheeks, gently brushed by the filaments of her hair, the perfume of which reached him like some sweet memory. He leaned over her, aching for some token that would let him take her in his arms and forget all the shadows that had for so long hung about them. But as she spoke, he straightened, glowering at the wall beyond her.

"It isn't – it's nothing – to do with you – and Cort Bent – ?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I haven't seen Cort for some time. It's about – about the General."

"General Bent?" Jeff gave a quick sigh, paced across the room, and then turned with a frown. "I'm not interested in General Bent," he muttered. "For me he has stopped being a person. He's only a piece of machinery – a steel octopus that's slowly crushing me to bits. I'd rather not talk of General Bent."

"Is it as bad as that?" she murmured, awe-stricken.

"Yes – they've pushed me to the wall. I'm still fighting, but unless I compromise or sell the mine – " he stopped and straightened his great frame. "Camilla, don't let's talk of this. I know you're tired. I won't stay long. Just tell me what you mean about going back to Abilene."

She clasped her hands nervously, glad of the chance to postpone her revelation, which seemed to grow more difficult with each moment.

"I can't stand the life I'm living, Jeff. I can't take any more from you. I've done it all spring because you wanted me to, but I can't live a lie any longer. Those rooms, that luxury, the servants, the people about me, they oppressed me and bore me to the earth. I have no right to them – still less now that things are going badly with you. You wanted me to keep the place we'd made – to make a larger place for your name in New York. I hope I've made it, but it has cost me something. I'm sick of ambition, of the soulless striving, the emptiness of it all. I can't do it any longer. I must go somewhere where I can be myself, where I don't have to knuckle to people I despise, where I don't have to climb, climb, climb – my ears deaf to the sneers and the envy of the scandal-mongers, and open only for the flattery which soothes my self-esteem but not – no, nothing can soothe the ache at the heart."

"What has happened, Camilla? I understood you had made many new friends."

"Yes, some new friends – also, some new enemies. But that hasn't bothered me. It's the lying I had to do – about you – the excuses I have had to make for being alone, the dates I have set for your return, lies – all lies – when I knew you were not going to return, that you had deserted me and left me only your money as a bribe. I couldn't do it any longer. I wrote you all this. You thought I didn't mean what I said – because I had your money – your merciless money, to gratify my pride in my pretty body. It has come to the point where your money is an insult – as much of an insult as the dishonor you put on me."

"Dishonor? I can't have you associate that name with Mrs. Cheyne," he blurted forth.

She smiled and then gave a hard, dry, little unmirthful laugh.

"Oh, you mistake my meaning. I wasn't thinking of Mrs. Cheyne. I was selfish enough to be still thinking of myself."

"I don't understand."

She got up and walked to the window, leaning her face against the pane to soothe with its coolness the heat of her brow. "I was thinking of my own dishonor – not yours – I have nothing to do with yours. To be doubted as you have doubted me – to know that you could believe me capable of dishonoring you – that is dishonor enough."

"You mustn't forget that you gave me cause," he said hoarsely. "What kind of a man do you think I am? You married me for a whim – because another man wouldn't have you. I forgave you that because I was willing to take you at any price. That was my fault as much as yours. It was what came after – "

He came up behind her, his voice trembling but suppressed.

"Do you think I'm the kind of man to tolerate the things between you and Cort Bent? I was a fool once. I believed in you – I thought no matter how little love you had in your heart for me that you'd have enough respect for yourself. Do you think I could stand knowing that my servants had seen you in his arms?"

She flashed around at him, breathless, paler than ever, clutching at the window-sill behind her for support. "Who – who told you this?"

"Greer – my valet at the hotel," he snarled, "when I discharged him and came here."

"He said – ?"

Jeff caught her by the elbows – brutally – and held her so that he could look into her eyes.

"It's true – isn't it? Answer me!"

She gazed at him wide-eyed, and now for the first time he saw how ill she looked. Even at that moment he was sure that pity and love and a desire for possession were still the feelings that dominated him. She could not stand the gaze of his eyes. They seemed to burn through her, so she lowered her head.

"Yes," she admitted brokenly, "it's true – I was in his arms."

A sound came from his throat – a guttural sound half-choked in the utterance, as he dropped her, turned violently and in a stride was at the door. But as the key turned in the lock, she started forward and clutched him by the sleeve.

"Wait," she whispered piteously. "You must. You can't go now. You've got to know everything."

"I think I've had enough. I'm going." He turned the knob and opened the door, but she leaned against it and pushed it shut.

"You've got to listen. I have some rights still – the right every woman has to defend her name."

"If she can," he sneered.

"I can – I will. Will you listen?" He shrugged his shoulders and walked past her to the window. Camilla faced him, beginning slowly, breathlessly. "It was when we first came to New York that it began – that day when you and your – you and General Bent came in from downtown. Cortland was there – I – I thought I had forgotten him. I was happy with you. I was beginning to believe that, after all, we hadn't made a mistake. But you were away all day and I was lonely. The city was so vast, so unfriendly. I had no right to be lonely but I was. I was bewildered by all the magnificence and homesick for Mesa City. That day Cort Bent came in I had a fit of the blues. He brought back all the old story – and told me how you stole the mine."

Jeff laughed aloud. "So he told you that – did he? For sympathy?" he sneered.

"It revolted me," she persisted. "It revolts me still. I was new to modern business methods then. I can't like them now, but I've learned to keep silent. He asked me to forgive him the past, and I did. The spell of romance was over me still. He told me that he loved me more than ever and that he would not give me up. I thought – I thought I loved him, too – "

"You thought! You knew!" he said immoderately. "You've always loved him."

"No, no. It wasn't that," she pleaded. "It wasn't love, Jeff. I learned that soon enough. It was only pity – "

"And where was your pity for me?"

"Don't, Jeff – let me finish. Whatever my feelings for you then, whatever they are now, I was true to you in word and deed."

"When you were in his arms?" He laughed harshly.

"He took me in his arms. He tried to kiss me on the lips, but I would not let him. I've never let him. I broke away and threatened to ring if he followed me – and then – and then you came in. That's all, Jeff – all – and it's the truth." She faced him bravely, her eyes seeking his. He glared at her madly, but could not stare her down. It was one of those tragic moments when all the future hangs on the flicker of an eyelash. Jeff's gaze fell first.

"I would have come back here," she went on. "I asked you to leave New York with me. You wouldn't go. Instead of that you threw us together more and more. Why, I don't know, unless it was because you did not care."

"I did care," he muttered.

"You did not care," she insisted. "You had met Rita Cheyne then – "

"It was because she saw what I did," he asserted. "It was because – "

"Don't explain," she said. "I'm not asking youto explain or to exonerate her. It's too late for that. But I cannot bear to have you think such dreadful things about me, cruel things, things that hurt – hurt me here – "

She put her hand to her breast and swayed. He sprang to her side and caught her in his arms as she fell, lifting her like a child and carrying her to the bed, terror-stricken at the coldness of her hands and face. He rang the bell, and then with bungling fingers loosened her collar and dress, whimpering the while like a child. "Camilla, my girl, don't look so white. Open your eyes. I believe you, dearie; I've always believed you. Look at me, Camilla. I know you're straight. I didn't mean it. I was cruel to you. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I love you. You're my girl —mygirl."

There was a commotion at the door of the adjoining room, which suddenly flew open, and a figure in a trailing silk kimono glided in, pushed him aside abruptly, and put a silver brandy flask to Camilla's lips. It was Mrs. Cheyne.

"I was next door," she explained jerkily. "I heard. I couldn't help it. The partitions are so thin." And then, with sudden authority: "Don't stand there like a fool. Bring some water – quickly," and when he had obeyed: "Now bathe her temples and give her brandy. She'll be all right in a minute. When I go, get a light. But she mustn't see me here." And, before he was even aware of it, she had vanished like a wraith.

The housemaid brought a lamp, put it on the table, and hovered anxiously in the background, but Camilla's eyes had opened.

"Mrs. Wray is sick," Jeff began.

But Camilla had already drawn herself up on one elbow and gently pushed him away.

"I – I'm all right now. I can't imagine what made me feel so queerly. I've never been – I've never fainted before."

"A little more brandy?"

"No, not now. Who – ? Wasn't there some one else in here? I thought – I saw some one in pink – and smelled a perfume. I must have been dreaming."

"Lie back on the pillow and rest, Camilla, dear. You're played out. The doctor will be here in a minute."

"I don't want a doctor. I'm all right." With an effort she straightened and sat on the side of the bed. "I remember – I was telling you – "

"Don't, Camilla. I don't want to hear. I believe you. It's all a mistake." He bent over her and tried to take her in his arms.

But she held up her hand and gently restrained him. "No – no," she said shaking her head. "Don't try to soothe me. That doesn't mean anything. I know. Shadows like these are not brushed away so quickly. Sit there, Jeff, by the window and listen. There's something else I must tell you – I should have told you at once. It's what I came here for, but I didn't seem to have the courage."

"No, not to-night."

"I must – it won't keep. You must listen." Her eyes pleaded, and so he sank into the rocking chair, leaning forward eagerly. She took up the handbag beside her on the table and fumbled tremblingly at the lock.

"It's something which concerns General Bent and you – no, not business, Jeff – something personal – something dreadfully personal – which has nothing whatever to do with your business relations, and yet something which seems to make your hatred of each other all the more terrible. It – it seems very hard for me to tell you, because it's something you have never liked to speak about – something that has always made you very unhappy."

"Why, what do you mean, Camilla?" he asked.

"You must let me tell you in my own way, because it will be hard for you to realize. I must show you that there is no mistake – no chance of a mistake, Jeff. Two weeks ago at the hotel in New York I was reading the letters in the old tin box and looking at the photographs. They were in the drawer of your desk. I've never spoken of them to you or looked at them since we were married – but you were not there to see them and – I – I didn't think you'd mind. I had them on your desk when Mrs. Rumsen came in. She saw the photograph of your father. She – she had one just like it in her album at home – "

"She knew him, then?" eagerly.

"Yes. I've brought both photographs with me." She took them out of the handbag with trembling hands and gave them to him.

He got up, took them to the light and held them side by side. "Yes, yes," he muttered, "they are the same – the very same. There's no doubt about that." And then, in a suppressed voice, "You know who he is?"

"Yes, Jeff. Mrs. Rumsen and I know – no one else – not a soul else. It's your secret. We couldn't tell. No one can or will but you." Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper. "It's – it's the General – Jeff – General Bent."

Outwardly Jeff gave no sign of unusual disturbance – a slight tightening of his thumbs upon the pictures, a slight bending of the head that his eyes might be surer of their vision. But to Camilla, who was watching him timidly, he seemed to grow compact, his big frame to shrink into itself and his eyes to glow with a strange, unfamiliar fire.

"General – Bent – General – Bent," he repeated the words huskily, as if they were a formula which he was trying to commit to memory. "It can't be true?"

"Yes, Jeff, it's true. Mrs. Rumsen identified the letters. There's no doubt – none."

"I can't believe – why, I'd have felt it – Camilla. I've always said I'd know him if I saw him."

"You didn't – but have you thought? You look like him, Jeff. You look like him."

"Yes – it's strange I didn't think of that." And then suddenly, "Does he know?"

"No – he won't unless you tell him."

He looked up at her with dumb, uncomprehending eyes and sank in his chair again, still grasping the photographs.

"I must think," he groaned, "I've got to think – what to do. I've hated him so – all these long years. I hate him now – not because he's my – my father – but because – he's himself."

"Stop, Jeff, you mustn't – you mustn't speak so."

"It's true," raising his bloodshot eyes to hers. "Why should I care? Did he care for the atom he's put into the world to float about without a name to land on any dung-hill? I'll pay him back for that, by God! I'm not his son. The only thing I want of his blood is his cruelty. I'll take that and use it when I can – on him and his."

"You mustn't, Jeff. It's horrible. I can't stand hearing this."

At the touch of her hand he stopped, got up and paced the length of the room and back again in grim silence, his lips working, while she watched him, fearful of another outburst.

"I must think this thing out, Camilla – by myself. I don't know what I'll do." And then suddenly, "Where is he now?" he asked harshly.

"In Denver – at the Brown Palace Hotel. They came West before I did with the Janneys, Gretchen, and Mrs. Rumsen. They came in a private car."

"To be in at my finish," he muttered bitterly. "I can't seem to think, Camilla. It's all so monstrous – it staggers me."

He stopped pacing the floor and looked at her, suddenly realizing how ill she had been, and contrite and self-accusing he fell on his knees at her feet and put his arms around her.

"Camilla! I shouldn't have let you tell me all this to-night. You were not strong enough. I've been brutal to you – to forget what you were suffering. You must sleep. My heart has been aching for you all these long months. I'll take care of you and make you strong and well again. You're not going back to Abilene, Camilla."

Slowly she disengaged her hands.

"You must go now, Jeff. I – I am tired. But all I need is rest. I couldn't have slept until I told you. It has preyed on me like a poison. I can't influence you, though. You must use your own judgment as to what you'll do, but I pray you'll do nothing rash."

"You must not go back to Abilene. There's much to be explained, Camilla – you must promise not to go away! I want to speak to you about Rita Cheyne."

She rose from her seat on the bed with a kind of wistful dignity.

"I can't promise anything, Jeff. Go, please. I want to be alone."

He looked at her a moment, pleading, and then turned without a word and went out. She heard his heavy steps go down the noisy hall, heard them again on the porch below and on the boardwalk through the village until they were engulfed in the gloom of the night – Jeff's night of anguish, battle, and temptation.