by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER XVI*
*OLD DANGERS*
Camilla had known for some time that she could not forget. She soughtexcitements eagerly because they softened the sting of memory, and thechildish delights of the afternoon with the Havilands, while they madethe grim shadow less tangible, could not drive it away. When the idlechatter of small talk was missing, Jeff loomed large. At The Cove shewent at once to her room, but instead of dressing she threw herself onthe bed and followed the pretty tracery of the wall paper beside her;her eyes only conjured mental pictures of the days in Mesa City, beforeCortland Bent had come, the long rides with Jeff up the mountain trailwhen she first began to learn what manner of man he was and what mannerof things he must one day accomplish. She seemed to realize now thateven in those early days Jeff Wray had stood as a type of the kind ofmanhood that, since the beginning of time, has made history for theworld.
With all his faults, his vulgar self-appreciation, and his distortedethics, there was nothing petty or mean about him. He was generous, hadalways been generous to a fault, and there was many a poor devil of agambler or a drunkard even in those days who had called his nameblessed. He hadn't had much to give, but when he made a stake therewere many who shared it with him. Since he had been married hisbenefactions had been numberless. He never forgot his old friends and,remembering old deeds of kindness to himself, had sought them out--abroken sheep-herder back on the range, a barber in Pueblo who wasparalyzed, a cowboy in Arizona with heart disease, a freight brakeman ofthe D. & W. who had lost a leg--and given them money when he couldn'tfind work that they could do. She remembered what people in the Weststill said--that Jeff had never had a friend who wasn't still hisfriend.
She had often reviled herself because her judgment of all men wasgoverned by the external marks of gentility which had been so dear toher heart--the kind of gentility which Cortland Bent had brought intoMesa City. Gentility was still dear to her heart, but there was agrowing appreciation in her mind of something bigger in life than mereforms of polite intercourse. Jack Perot, who was painting her portrait;Billy Haviland, who sent her roses; Douglas Warrington, who rode withher in the park; Cortland Bent--all these men had good manners as theirbirthright. What was it they lacked? Culture had carved them all withfiner implements on the same formula, but what they had gained indelicacy they had lost in force. Jeff might have been done by Rodin,the others by Carriere--Beleuze.
It made her furious that in spite of herself she still thought of Jeff.She got up and went to the mirror. There were little telltale wrinklesabout her eyes, soft shadows under her cheek-bones which had not beenthere when she came to New York. It was worry that was telling on her.She had never yet been able to bring herself to the point of believingthat all was over between Jeff and herself. Had she really believedthat he was willing to live his future without her, she could not haveconsented even for so long as this to play the empty part he hadassigned her. It was _his_ money she was spending, not her own; _his_money which provided all the luxuries about her--the rich apartment inNew York, the motor car, _carte blanche_ at Sherry's, extravagances, shewas obliged to acknowledge, which for the present he did not share.True, she was following implicitly his directions in keeping his memorygreen in the social set to which he aspired, and she had done her partwell. But the burden of her indebtedness to him was not decreased bythis obedience, and she felt that she could not for long accept theconditions he had imposed. Such a life must soon beintolerable--intolerable to them both.
It was intolerable now. She could not bear the thought of hisbrutality, the cruelty of his silence, the pitiless money which he threwat her every week as one would throw a bone to a dog. He was carryingmatters with a high hand, counting on her love of luxury and thedelights of gratified social ambition to hold her in obedience. He hadplanned well, but the end of it all was near. It was her pride thatrevolted--that Jeff could have thought her capable of the unutterablethings he thought of her--the pitiful tatters of her pride which wereslowly being dragged from her by the tongue of gossip. Mrs. Rumsen hadwarned her, and Mrs. Cheyne made free use of her name with Cort's. Theworld was conspiring to throw her into Cortland's arms. She would notadmit that the fault was her own--it was Jeff's. It had always beenJeff's. She had given him every chance to redeem her, but he had tossedher aside--for another. Now she had reached a point when she didn'tcare whether he redeemed her or not. She felt herselfdrifting--drifting--she didn't know where and didn't seem to care where.
It was affection she craved, love that she loved, and Cortland was anexpression of it. He had always been patient--even when she had treatedhim unkindly. A whispered word to Cortland----
Her musing stopped abruptly. What did Cortland mean by avoiding her?And why was he leaving New York? There was a tiny pucker at her browswhile she gave the finishing touches to her toilet; but when she wentdown to dinner her cheeks glowed with ripe color and her eyes were shotwith tiny sparkling fires.
"Auction" bridge followed dinner. In the cutting Cort and the Baronesswere out of it, and when Cort and the Baroness cut in, Camilla and Perotcut out. Fate conspired, and it was not until late in the evening thatCortland and Camilla found themselves alone in the deserted library atthe far end of the wing. Camilla sank back into the silk cushions ofthe big davenport wearily.
"I played well to-night," she said; "I believe even Billy is pleasedwith me. I _did_ have luck, though--shameful luck----"
She stretched her arms above her head, sighing luxuriously. "Oh, lifeis sweet--after all."
Cortland watched her.
"Is it?" he asked quietly.
"Don't you think so, Cort?"
"There's not much sweetness left, for me in anything. I've got to goaway from you, Camilla."
"So you said." And then airily, "Good-by."
He closed his eyes a moment.
"I want you to know what it means to me."
"Then why do it?"
"I--I've thought it all out. It's the best thing I can do--for you--formyself----"
"I ought to be a judge of that."
His dark eyes sought her face for a meaning.
"It's curious you didn't consult me," she went on. "I hope I know what'sbest for myself----"
"You mean that you don't care--my presence is unimportant. My absencewill be even less important."
"I do care," she insisted. "What's the use of my telling you. I'll bevery unhappy without you."
He shook his head and smiled. "Oh, I know--you'll miss me as you wouldyour afternoon tea if it was denied you--but you'll do without it."
"I'm quite fond of afternoon tea, Cort." And then, more seriously, "Areyou really resolved?"
"Yes," he muttered, "resolved--desperately resolved."
She threw herself away from him against the opposite end of the couch,facing him, and folded her arms, her lips closed in a hard line.
"Very well, then," she said cruelly, "go!" It seemed as if he hadn'theard her, for he leaned forward, his head in his hands, and went on ina voice without expression.
"I've felt for some time that I've been doing you a wrong. People aretalking about us--coupling your name with mine--unpleasantly. Heavenknows what lies they're telling. Of course you don't hear--and Idon't--but I know they're talking."
"How do you know?"
"My father----"
"Oh!"
"We quarreled--but the poison left its sting."
Camilla laughed nervously, the laughter of a woman of the world. Itgrated on him strangely.
"Don't you suppose _I_ know?" she said. "I'm not a baby. And now thatyou've ruined my reputation you're going to leave me. That's unkind ofyou. Oh, don't worry," she laughed again. "I'll get along. There areothers, I suppose."
He straightened and turned toward her sternly.
"You mustn't talk like that," he said. "You're lying. I know yourheart. It's clean as snow."
"Because _you_
haven't soiled it?" She clasped her hands over her kneesand leaned toward him with wicked coquetry. "Really, Cort, you're asweet boy--but you lack imagination. You know you're not the only manin the world. A woman in my position has much to gain--little to lose.I'm a derelict, a ship without a captain----"
He interrupted her by taking her in his arms and putting his fingersover her lips. "Stop!" he whispered, "I'll not listen to you."
"I mean it. I've learned something in your world. I thought life was asacrament. I find it's only a game." She struggled away from him andwent to the fireplace, but he rose and stood beside her.
"You're lying, Camilla," he repeated, "lying to me. Oh, I know--I'vebeen a fool--a vicious--a selfish fool. I've let them talk because Icouldn't bear to be without you--because I thought that some day you'dlearn what a love like mine meant. And I wanted you--wanted you----"
"Don't you want me still, Cort?" she asked archly.
He put his elbows on the mantel and gazed into the flames, but would notreply, and the smile faded from her lips before the dignity of hissilence.
"I've thought it all out, Camilla. I'm going away on business for myfather, and I don't expect to come back. I thought I could go withoutseeing you again--just send you a note to say good-by. It was easier forme that way. I thought I had won out until I saw you to-day--but nowit's harder than ever."
He looked up as he thought she might misconstrue his meaning. "Oh, I'mnot afraid to leave on your account. Our set may make you a littlecareless, a little cynical, but you've got too much pride to lose yourgrip--and you'll never be anything else but what you are." He gazedinto the fire again and went on in the same impersonal tone as if he hadforgotten her existence. "I'll always love you, Camilla.... I love youmore now than I ever did--only it's different somehow.... It used to bea madness--an obsession.... Your lips, your eyes, your soft fingers, thewarm elusive tints of your skin--the petals of the bud--I would havetaken them because of their beauty, crushed out, if I could, the soulthat lived inside, as one crushes a shrub to make its sweetnesssweeter." He sighed deeply and went on: "I told you I loved youthen--back there in Mesa City--but I lied to you, Camilla. It wasn'tlove. Love is calmer, deeper, almost judicial, more mental thanphysical even.... I'm going away from you because I love you more thanI love myself."
"Oh! you never loved me," she stammered. "You couldn't speak coldlylike this if you did."
He raised his eyes calmly, but made no reply.
"Love--judicial!" she went on scornfully. "What do you know of love?Love is a storm in the heart; a battle--a torrent--it has no mind foranything but itself. Love is ruthless--self-seeking----"
"You make it hard for me," he said with an effort at calmness.
"You know I--I need you--and yet you'd leave me at a word."
"I'm going--because it's best to go," he said hoarsely.
"You're going because you don't care what happens to me."
He flashed around, unable to endure more, and caught her in his arms."Do I look like a man who doesn't care? Do I?" he whispered. "If youonly hadn't said that--if you only hadn't said that----"
Now that she had won she was ready to end the battle, and drew timidlyaway. But with Cort the battle had just begun. And though shestruggled to prevent it, he kissed her as he had never done before. Herresistance and the lips she denied him, the suppleness of her strongyoung body, the perfume of her hair brought back the spell of mid-summermadness which had first enchained him.
"You've got to listen to me now, Camilla. I don't care what happens tomy promises--to you--or to any one else. I'm mad with love for you.I'll take the soul of you. It was mine by every right before it washis. I'll go away from here--but you'll go with me--somewhere, where wecan start again----"
In that brief moment in his arms there came a startling revelation toCamilla. Cort's touch--his kisses--transformed him into a man she didnot know.
"Oh, Cort! Let me go!" she whispered.
"Away from all this where the idle prattle of the world won't matter,"he went on wildly. "You have no right to stay on here, using the moneyhe sends you--my money--money he stole from me. He has thrown you over,dropped you like a faded leaf. You're clinging to a rotten tree,Camilla. He'll fall. He's going to fall soon. You'll be buried withhim--and nothing between you and death but his neglect and brutality."
In his arms Camilla was sobbing hysterically. The excitement with whichshe had fed her heart for the last few months had suddenly stretched hernerves to too great a tension. She had been mad--cruel to tantalizehim--and she had not realized what her intolerance meant for them bothuntil it was too late.
He misunderstood the meaning of those tears and petted her as if she hadbeen a child.
"Don't, Camilla--there's nothing to fear. I'll be so tender to you--sokind that you'll wonder you could ever have thought of being happybefore. Look up at me, dear. Kiss me. You never have, Camilla. Kissme and tell me you'll go with me--anywhere."
But as he tried to lift her head she put up her hands and with an effortrepulsed--broke away from--him and fell on the couch in a passion oftears. She had not meant this--not this. It wasn't in her to love anyone.
In the process of mental readjustment following her husband's desertionof her she had learned to think of Cort in a different way. It seemedas though the tragedy of her married life had dwarfed every otherrelation, minimized every emotion that remained to her. Cortland Bentwas the lesser shadow within the greater shadow, a dimmer figure blurredin the bulk, a part of the tragedy, but not the tragedy itself. For atime he had seemed to understand, and of late had played the part ofguide, philosopher, and friend, if not ungrudgingly, at least patiently,without those boyish outbursts of petulance and temper in which he hadbeen so difficult to manage. She cared for him deeply, and lately hehad been so considerate and so gentle that she had almost been ready tobelieve that the kind of devotion he gave her was the only thing in lifeworth while. He had learned to pass over the many opportunities sheoffered him to take advantage of her isolation, and she was thankfulthat at last their relation had found a happy path of communion freefrom danger or misunderstanding. While other people amused anddistracted her, Cort had been her real refuge, his devotion the rock towhich she tied. But this! She realized that what had gone before wasonly the calm before the storm--and she had brought it all on herself!
He watched her anxiously, waiting for the storm to pass, and at lastcame near and put his arms around her again.
"No--not that!" she said brokenly. "It wasn't that I wanted, Cort. Youdon't understand. I needed you--but not that way." He straightenedslowly as her meaning came to him.
"You were only--fooling--only playing with me? I might have known----"
"No, I wasn't playing with you. I--couldn't bear to lose you--but," shestammered resolutely, "now--I _must_---- You've got to go. I don'tknow what has happened to me--I haven't any heart--I think--no heart--orsoul----"
He had turned away from her, his gaze on the dying log.
"Why couldn't you have let me go--without this?" he groaned. "It wouldhave been easier for both of us."
She sat up slowly, still struggling to suppress the nervous paroxysmswhich shook her shoulders.
"Forgive me, Cort. You--you'll get along best without me. I've onlybrought you suffering. I'm a bird of ill-omen--which turns on the handthat feeds it. I was--was thinking only of myself. I wish I could makeyou happy--you deserve it, Cort. But I can't," she finished miserably,"I can't."
He did not move. It almost seemed as though he had not heard her. Hisvoice came to her at last as though from a distance.
"I know," he groaned. "God help you, you love _him_." She started upas though in dismay, and then, leaning forward, buried her face in herhands in silent acquiescence. When she looked up a moment later he wasgone.
