Читать книгу: «The Forbidden Way», страница 7

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

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

Mrs. Cheyne dropped her hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is this a declaration of war?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I'm not a competitor. That's just the point. I'm governed by your methods, your plans, your prices. I've been pretty careful about that. No, sir, I know better than to look for trouble with the Amalgamated."

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

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

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

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

"We could give you traffic agreements."

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

Wray caught General Bent's significant nod.

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

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

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

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

"Thirty millions?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI
DISCORD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I – I haven't much time."

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

"Yes, next week. Perhaps sooner if – "

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

"Why?"

"I want to go."

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

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

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

"Oh!"

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

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

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

"You don't want me?"

"No. I'll be very busy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes – you must do as I say."

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

He examined her shrewdly.

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"Jeff!"

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

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

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

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

"Who? Mrs. Cheyne?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cheyne – and others."

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

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

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

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

But he only laughed at her.

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

"Won't you let me speak?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the door crashed between them.

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

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

"Have this note mailed at once."

It was addressed to Cortland Bent.