by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER VI*
*MRS. CHEYNE*
Over the coffee, curiously enough, there seemed to be a disposition torefrain from market quotations, for General Bent skilfully directed theconversation into other channels--motoring--aviation--the HorseShow--the newest pictures in the Metropolitan--and Jeff listened avidly,newly alive to the interests of these people, who, as Mrs. Rumsen hadsaid, above Twenty-third Street took on a personality which was not tobe confounded with the life downtown, where he had first met them. WhenCurtis Janney asked him if he rode, Jeff only laughed.
"Oh, yes, of course you do. One doesn't punch cattle for nothing. Butjumping is different--and then there's the saddle----"
"Oh, I think I can stay on without going for the leather. Anyway, I'dlike to try."
"Right-o!" said Janney heartily. "We've had one run already--a drag.Couldn't you and Mrs. Wray come out soon? We're having a few people forthe hunt week after next. There will be Cortland Bent, Jack Perot, theRumsens, the Billy Havilands, Mrs. Cheyne, the Baroness and--if you'llcome along--yourselves."
"Delighted. I'm sure Camilla will be glad to accept. We haven't manyengagements."
"I think you've hidden your wife long enough, Mr. Wray. Does she ride,too?"
"Like a breeze--astride. But she wouldn't know what to do on aside-saddle."
"I don't blame her. Some of our women ride across. Gladys, Gretchen,Mrs. Cheyne----"
"Well," Jeff silently raised his brandy glass in imitation of hiscompanion, "I'm glad there are a few horses somewhere around here--Ihaven't seen any outside of the shafts of a hansom since I left theWest."
"The horse would soon be extinct if it wasn't for Curtis Janney," put inthe General breezily. "Why, he won't even own a motor. No snortingdevils for him. Might give his horses the pip or something. The stableis worth seeing, though. You're going, aren't you, Wray?"
In the library, later, Wray found Mrs. Cheyne. Until he had come to NewYork Wray's idea of a woman had never strayed from Camilla. There wereother females in the Valley, and he had known some of them, but Camillahad made any comparison unfortunate. She was a being living in a sphereapart, with which mere clay had nothing in common. He had alwaysthought of her as he thought of the rare plants in Jim Noakes'conservatory in Denver, flowers to be carefully nurtured and admired.Even marriage had made little difference in his point of view. It iscurious that he thought of these things when he leaned over Mrs. Cheyne.To his casual eye this new acquaintance possessed many of thecharacteristics of his wife. Perhaps even more than Camilla sherepresented a mental life of which he knew nothing, contributed morethan her share to the sublimated atmosphere in which he found himselfmoving. They might have been grown in the same conservatory, but, ifCamilla was the Orchid, Mrs. Cheyne was the Poinsettia flower. And yetshe was not beautiful as Camilla was. Her features, taken one at atime, were singularly imperfect. He was almost ready to admit that shewasn't even strikingly pretty. But as he looked at her he realized forthe first time in his life the curious fact that a woman need not bebeautiful to be attractive. He saw that she was colorful and unusuallyshapely, and that she gave forth a flow of magnetism which her air of_ennui_ made every effort to deny. Her eyes, like her hair, were brown,but the pupils, when she lifted her lids high enough to show them, wereso large that they seemed much darker. Her dinner dress, cut straightacross her shoulders, was of black, like the jewelled bandeau in herhair and the pearls which depended from her ears. These ornaments,together with the peculiar dressing of her hair, gave her well-formedhead an effect which, if done in brighter hues, might have beenbarbaric, but which, in the subdued tones of her color scheme, onlyadded to the impression of sombre distinction.
As he approached, she looked up at him sleepily.
"I thought you were never coming," she said.
"Did you?" said Wray, bewildered. "I--I came as soon as I could, Mrs.Cheyne. We had our cigars----"
"Oh, I know. Men have always been selfish--they always will be selfish.Cousin Cornelius is provincial to herd the men and women--likesheep--the ones in one pen, the others in another. There isn't a salonin Europe--a real salon--where the women may not smoke if they like."
"You want to smoke----"
"I'm famished--but the General doesn't approve----"
Wray had taken out his cigarette case. "Couldn't we find a spot?"
She rose and led the way through a short corridor to the conservatory,where they found a stone bench under a palm.
He offered her his case, and she lit the cigarette daintily, holding itby the very tips of her fingers, and steadying her hand against his ownas Wray would have done with a man's. Wray did not speak. He watchedher amusedly, aware of the extraordinary interest with which sheinvested his pet vice.
"Thanks," she said gratefully. Turning toward him then, she lowered herchin, opened her eyes, and looked straight into his.
"You know, you didn't come to me nearly as soon as I thought you would."
"I--I didn't know----"
"You should have known."
"Why should I----?"
"Because I wanted you to."
"I'm glad you wanted me. I think I'd have come anyway."
She smiled approvingly.
"Then my efforts were unnecessary."
"Your efforts?"
"Yes, I willed it. You interested me, you see."
He looked at her quickly. Her eyes only closed sleepily, then openedagain.
"I'm lucky," he said, "that's sure."
"How do you know? I may not be at all the kind of person you think Iam."
"I'll take a chance on that--but I wish you'd tell me what made you wantme."
"I was bored. I usually am. The Bent parties are so formal andtiresome. Everybody always says the same things--does the same things."She sighed deeply. "If Cousin Cornelius saw me now I'd be in disgrace.I wonder why I always like to do the things people don't expect me to."
"You wouldn't be much of a woman if you didn't," he laughed. "But Ilike surprises. There wouldn't be much in life if you knew what wasgoing to happen every minute."
"You didn't think I was going to happen then?"
"Er--no. Maybe I hoped so."
"Well," she smiled, "I have happened. What are you going to do aboutit?"
"Be thankful--mostly. You seem sort of human, somehow. You do what youwant to--say what you want----"
"And if I don't get what I want, ask for it," she laughed. "I toldGladys it was very inconsiderate of her not to send you in to dinnerwith me. She's always doing that sort of thing. Gladys lacks a senseof proportion. As it is, the evening is almost gone, and we've onlybegun."
"I feel as if I'd known you for years," said Jeff heartily. "That'sfunny, too," he added, "because you're so different from any other womanI've ever known. You look as if you might have come from a book--butyou speak out like Mesa City."
"Tell me about Mesa City. You know I was out West last year."
"Were you? Sure?" eagerly. "In Colorado?"
"Oh, yes," she said slowly, "but I was living in Nevada."
"Nevada? That was my old stamping ground. I punched for the Bar Circledown there. What part?"
"Reno."
"Oh!"
"I went there for my divorce."
His voice fell a note. "I didn't know that. I'm awfully sorry you wereso unfortunate. Won't you tell me about it?"
"There's nothing to tell. Cheyne and I were incompatible--at leastthat's what the lawyers said. As such things go, I thought we got alongbeautifully. We weren't in the least incompatible so long as Cheynewent his way and let me go mine. It's so easy for married people tomanage, if they only knew how. But Cheyne didn't. He didn't want to bewith me himself--and he didn't want any one else to be. So things cameto a pretty pass. It actually got so bad that when people wanted eitherof us to dinner they had to write first to inquire which of us was tostay away. It made a lot o
f trouble, and the Cheyne family got to be abore--so we decided to break it up."
"Was he unkind to you--cruel?"
"Oh, dear, no! I wish he had been. Our life was one dreadful round ofcheerful monotony. I got so tired of the shape of his ears that I couldhave screamed. Yes, I really think," she mused, "that it was his ears."
Wray examined her with his baby-like stare as though she had been aspecimen of ore. There seemed to be no doubt of the fact that she wasquite serious.
"I'm really sorry for him. It is--very sad----"
She threw her head back and laughed softly.
"My dear Mr. Wray, your sympathy is touching--he would appreciate it asmuch as I do--if he had not already married again."
"Married? Here in New York?"
"Oh, yes. They're living within a stone's throw of my house."
"Do you see him?"
"Of course. I dined with them only last week. You see," and she leanedtoward him with an air of new confidences, "that's only human. I can'treally give up anything I've once possessed. You know, I try not tosell horses that I've liked. I did sell one once, and he turned up onemorning in a hired brougham. That taught me a lesson I've neverforgotten. Now when they outlive their usefulness I turn them out on myfarm in Westchester. Of course, I couldn't do that to Harold, but I didthe next best thing. I've satisfied myself that he's properly lookedafter--and I'm sure he'll reflect credit on his early training."
"And he's happy?"
"Blissfully so. It wouldn't be possible for a man to have theadvantages of a training like the one I have given him and not be ableto make a woman happy."
"But he didn't make _you_ happy."
"Me? Oh, I wasn't made for bondage of any kind. Most women marrybecause they're bored or because they're curious. In either case theypay a penalty. Marriage provides no panacea. One only becomes morebored--with one's own husband--or more curious about other people'shusbands."
"Are you curious? You don't look as if you cared enough to be curious."
"I do care." She held her cigarette at arm's length and flicked off itsash with her little finger. "Mr. Wray, I'll let you into a secret. Awoman never appears so bored as when she is intensely interested insomething--never so much interested as when she is bored to extinction.I am curious. I am trying to learn (without asking you impertinentquestions) how on earth you and Mrs. Wray ever happened to marry."
She tilted her chin impudently and looked down her nose at him, her eyesmasked by her dark lashes, through which it hardly seemed possible thatshe could see him at all. Jeff laughed. She had her nerve with her, hethought, but her frankness was amusing. He liked the way she went afterwhat she wanted.
"Oh, Camilla--I don't know. It just happened, I guess. She's more yourkind than mine. I'm a good deal of a scrub, Mrs. Cheyne. You see, Inever went to college--or even to high school. Camilla knows a lot.She used to teach, but I reckon she's about given up the idea of tryingto teach _me_. I'm a low-brow all right. I never read a novel in mylife."
"You haven't missed much. Books were only meant for people who arewilling to take life at second-hand. One year of the life you lived onthe range is worth a whole shelf-ful. The only way to see life isthrough one's own eyes."
"Oh, I've seen life. I've been a cowboy, rancher, speculator, miner,and other things. And I've seen some rough times. But I wouldn't haveworked at those things if I hadn't needed the money. Now I've got it,maybe I'll learn something of the romantic side of life."
She leaned back and laughed at him. "You dear, delicious man. Then ithas never occurred to you that during all these years you've been livinga romance?"
He looked at her askance.
"And then, to cap it all," she finished, "you discover a gold mine, andmarry the prettiest woman in the West. I suppose you'll call thatprosaic, too. You're really quite remarkable. What is it that youexpect of life after all?"
"I don't know," he said slowly, "something more----"
"But there's nothing left."
"Oh, yes, there is. I've only tasted success, but it's good, and I likeit. What I've got makes me want more. There's only one thing in theworld that really means anything to me--and that's power----"
"But your money----"
"Yes, money. But money itself doesn't mean anything to me--idlemoney--the kind of money you people in New York are content to live on,the interest on land or bonds. It's what live, active money can do thatcounts with me. My money has got to keep working the way I work--onlyharder. Some people worship money for what it can buy their bodies. Idon't. I can't eat more than three square meals a day. I want my moneyto make the desert bloom--to make the earth pay up what it owes, andbuild railroads that will carry its products where they're needed. Iwant it to take the miserable people away from the alleys in your cityslums and put them to work in God's country, where their efforts willcount for something in building up the waste ground that's waiting forthem out there. Why, Mrs. Cheyne, last year I took up a piece ofdesert. There wasn't a thing on it but rabbit-brush. Last spring Iworked out a colonization plan and put it through. There's a town therenow called Wrayville, with five thousand inhabitants, two hotels, threemiles of paved sidewalk, a public school, four factories, and twonewspapers. All that in six months. It's a hummer, I can tell you."
As he paused for breath she sighed. "And yet you speak of romance."
"Romance? There's no romance in that. That's just get-up-and-get. Ihad to hustle, Mrs. Cheyne. I'd promised those people the water from themountains on a certain date, but I couldn't do it, and the big ditchwasn't finished. I was in a bad fix, for I'd broken my word. Thosepeople had paid me their money, and they threatened to lynch me. Theyhad a mass meeting and were calling me some ugly names when I walked in.Why they didn't take a shot at me then, I don't know--but they didn't.I got up on the table, and, when they stopped yelling, I began to talkto 'em. I didn't know just what to say, but I knew I had to saysomething and make good--or go out of town in a pine box. I began bytelling 'em what a great town Wrayville was going to be. They onlyyelled, 'Where's our water?' I told them it was coming. They tried tohoot me down, but I kept on."
"Weren't you afraid?"
"You bet I was. But _they_ never knew it. I tried to think of a reasonwhy they didn't have that water, and in a moment they began to listen.I told 'em there was thirty thousand dollars' worth of digging to bedone. I told 'em it would _be_ done, too, but that I didn't see whythat money should go out of Wrayville to a lot of contractors in Denver.I'd been saving that work for the citizens of Wrayville. I was preparedto pay the highest wages for good men, and, if Wrayville said the word,they could begin the big ditch to-morrow."
"What did they do?"
"They stopped yelling right there, and I knew I had 'em going. In aminute they started to cheer. Before I finished they were carrying mearound the hall on their shoulders. Phew--but that took some quickthinking."
Mrs. Cheyne had started forward when he began, and, as he went on, hereyes lost their sleepy look, her manner its languor, and she followedhim to the end in wonder. When he stopped, she sank back in her corner,smiling, and repeated: "Romance? What romance is there left in the worldfor a man like you?"
He looked up at her with his baby stare and then laughed awkwardly."You're making fun of me, Mrs. Cheyne. I've been talking too much, Ireckon."
She didn't reply at once, and the look in her eyes embarrassed him. Hereached for his cigarette case, offered it to her, and, when sherefused, took one himself, lit it slowly, gazing out of the transomopposite.
"I hope I haven't tired you, Mrs. Cheyne. It's dangerous to get metalking about myself. I never know when to stop."
"I don't want you to stop. I've never been so entertained in my life.I don't believe you know how interesting you are."
He turned toward her, embarrassed and still incredulous. "You're verykind," he muttered.
"You mustn't be so humble," she broke in sharply. "You
weren't so aminute ago. I like you best when you are talking of yourself."
"I thought I'd like to talk about you."
She waved a hand in deprecation. "Me? Oh, no. We can't come to earthlike that. Tell me another fairy tale."
"Fairy tale? Then you don't believe me?"
"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I believe you, but to me they're fairy talesjust the same. It seems so easy for you to do wonderful things. I wishyou'd do some conjuring for me."
"Oh, there isn't any magic business about me. But I'll try. What do youwant most?"
She put an elbow on her knee and gazed at the blossom in her fingers.Her voice, too, fell a note.
"What I think I want most," she said slowly, "is a way out of this."She waved the blossom vaguely in the direction of the drawing room."I'm sick of it all, of the same tiresome people, the same tiresomedinners, dances, teas. We're so narrow, so cynical, so deeply enmeshedin our small pursuits. I'm weary--desperately weary of myself."
"You?"
"Yes." And then, with a short, unmirthful laugh, "That's my secret.You didn't suspect it, did you?"
"Lord! no." And after a pause, "You're unhappy about him?"
"Cheyne? Oh, no. He's the only thing I am happy about. Have you everbeen really bored, Mr. Wray?"
"Never. I never even heard the word until I came to New York."
"Have you ever been so tired that your body was numb--so that if youstruck it a blow you were hardly conscious of it, when you felt as ifyou could go to sleep and never want to wake up? Well, that's thecondition of my mind. It's so tired of the same impressions that itfails to make note of them; the people I see, the things I do, are allblurred and colorless like a photograph that has been taken out offocus. The only regret I have when I go to sleep is that I have to wakeup again."
"My dear Mrs. Cheyne----"
"Oh, I'm not morbid. I'm too bored to be morbid even. I don't thinkI'm even unhappy. It takes an effort to be unhappy. I can't tell youwhat the matter is. One drifts. I've been drifting a long time. Ithink I have too much money. I want to _want_ something."
"Don't you ever want anything you can't have?"
She sat upright, and her voice, instead of drawling languidly, came inthe quick accents of discovery. "Yes, I do. I've just found out.You've actually created a new interest in life. Won't you be nice tome? Come and see me often and tell me more fairy tales."
