The Forbidden Way

by George Gibbs

  *CHAPTER XX*

  _*La Femme Propose*_

  The wagon-road to the "Lone Tree" skirted the mountains for a way andthen wound through a nick in the foothills into a level vale of naturalparks, meadows, and luxuriant grass, bordered by pines and cottonwoods,beneath which tiny streams meandered leisurely down to the plains below.

  Mrs. Cheyne emerged from the scrub-oak delightedly.

  "It's like a Central Park for Brobdingnags," she cried. "I feel asthough Apache ought to have seven-league horseshoes. As a piece oflandscape gardening it's remarkably well done, for Nature is so apt tomake mistakes--only Art is unerring." She breathed deep and sighed."Here it seems Nature and Art are one. But it's all on such a bigscale. It makes me feel so tiny--I'm not sure that I like it, JeffWray. I don't fancy being an insect. And the mountain tops! Will theynever come any nearer? We've been riding toward them for an hour, butthey seem as far away as ever. I know now why it was that I likedyou--because your eyes only mirrored big things--nobody can have amountain for a friend without joining the immortal Fellowship. It makesit so easy to scorn lesser things--like bridge and teas. Imagine amountain at an afternoon tea!"

  Jeff rode beside her, answering in monosyllables. The road now climbed awood of tall oaks, rock-pines, and spruces, through which the sunlightfiltered uncertainly, dappling fern and moss with vagrant amber.Somewhere near them a stream gushed among the rocks and a breeze croonedin the boughs. Rita Cheyne stopped talking and listened for she knewnot what. There was mystery here--the voice of the primeval, calling toher down the ages. She glanced at Jeff, who sat loosely on his horse,his gaze on the trail. She had believed he shared her own emotions, butshe knew by the look in his eyes that his thoughts were elsewhere. Shespoke so suddenly that he looked up, startled.

  "Why don't you say something? This place makes me think about Time andDeath--the two things I most abhor. Come, let's get out of here."

  Apache sprang forward up the trail at the bidding of his mistress, whosesmall heels pressed his flanks, again and again, as she urged him on andout into the afternoon sunlight beyond, while Jeff thundered after. Hecaught her at the top of a sand-ridge half a mile away, where theypulled their horses down to a walk.

  "What was the matter?" said Jeff. "You rode as if the Devil was afteryou."

  "Oh, no--I'm not afraid of the Devil. It's the mystery of the Infinite.That wood--why don't the dead oak-branches fall? They look likegibbets. Ugh!" She shuddered and laughed. "Didn't you feel it?"

  "Feel what?"

  "Spooky."

  "No. I camped there once when I was prospecting. That stream you jumpedwas Dead Man's Creek."

  "He must be there yet, the dead man. It was like a tomb. Who was he?"

  "A soldier. He deserted from Fort Garland and was killed by someMexicans. They buried him under a pile of stones."

  "What a disagreeable place. It's like a cemetery for dead hopes. Iwon't go back; you'll have to take me around some other way."

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "I'm afraid of melancholy--I hate unhappiness. I was born to beamused--I _won't_ be unhappy," she said almost fiercely. "Why should Ibe? I have everything in the world that most people want. If I seeanything I want and haven't got, I go and get it."

  "You're lucky."

  She shrugged. "So people say. I do as I please. I always have andalways will. You were surprised to see me here. I told you why I came.I wanted to see you. You were the only person in New York who did notbore me to extinction. If it gives me pleasure to be here, this is theplace where I ought to be. That's logical, isn't it?"

  "It sounds all right. But you won't stay here long," he said.

  "Why not?"

  "You couldn't stand it. There's nothing to do but ride."

  "I'd rather ride than do anything else."

  Jeff looked straight forward over his horse's ears, his eyes narrowing,his lips widening in a smile.

  "Well--if you don't see what you want--ask for it," he said slowly.

  "I will. Just now, however, I don't want anything except an interest inyour business. You're going to let me have it, aren't you, Jeff? You'dtake some stranger in. Why not me? I'm the most innocuous stockholderthat ever lived. I always do whatever anybody tells me to do."

  "You don't realize the situation. I've told you I'm in a dangerousposition. With that stock in my possession again, all my holdings wouldbe intact and I might stand a long siege--or perhaps be able to make afavorable compromise--but there's no certainty of it. I don't know whatthey've got up their sleeves. As it is, I stand to lose the greaterpart of my own money, but I'm not going to lose yours."

  "I don't believe you're going to lose. I'm not quite a fool. Thosepapers you showed me don't prove anything. The Development Company hastwo hundred thousand acres of land worth twenty dollars an acre and thecoal fields besides. That's good enough security for me."

  "It would be good enough security for any one if we had our connection.I could make you a lot of money." He broke off impatiently. "See here,Rita, don't press me in this matter, I'd rather wait a while. I've gota few days before those notes are due. Something may turn up----"

  "Which will let me out--thanks, I'm not going to be left out. I knowwhat you've done in these mountains and in this country, and I believein you as much as I ever did. I'd like you to let me help you, and I'mnot afraid of losing--but if I do lose, it won't kill me. Perhaps I'mricher than you think I am. I'm willing to wait. You'll be rich againsome day, and I'll take my chances. They can't keep you down, Jeff--notfor long."

  Jeff thrust forth a hand and put it over hers.

  "You're solid gold, Rita, and you're the best friend I ever had. Ican't say more than that."

  She smiled happily. "I've been hoping you'd say that. It's worthcoming out here for. I want to prove it, though--and I hope you'll letme."

  The road now turned upward toward the railroad grade. As they reachedthe crest of the hill Jeff pointed to the left at the mills and thesmelter buildings hanging tier on tier down the side of the mountain.Below in a depression of the hills a lake had formed, surrounded bybanks of reddish earth. The whole scene was surpassing ugly, and theonly dignity it possessed was lent by the masses of tall black stacks,above which hung a pall of smoke and yellow gases. Rita Cheyne gasped."So that's the bone of contention? I thought it would be something likethe New York Public Library or the Capitol at Washington! Why, Jeff,it's nothing but a lot of rusty iron sheds!"

  "Yes," he drawled, "we don't go in much for architecture out here. It'swhat's inside those sheds that counts. We've got every known appliancefor treating ore that was ever patented, with a wrinkle or two theAmalgamated hasn't."

  They rode around the lake while Wray explained everything to her, andthen up the hill toward the trestles and ore-dumps of the "Lone Tree"mine. Wray's struggles for a right-of-way to the markets of the countryshowed no reflection here. From two small holes in the mountain sidecars emerged at intervals upon their small tracks and dumped their loadsat the mill, from which there came a turmoil of titanic forces. Jeffoffered to show his companion the workings, but she refused.

  "No, I think not," she said. "It's too noisy here. I haven't finishedtalking to you, and I want to ride."

  And so they turned their horses' heads into another trail, whichdescended among the rocks and scrub-oak, after a while emerging at theedge of a great sand-dune which the wind had tossed up from the valleybelow--a hill of sand a thousand feet high, three miles wide and sixmiles long, a mountain range in miniature, in which trees, rocks, andpart of a mountain were obliterated. Even the Great Desert had notpresented to Rita Cheyne such a scene of desolation. Their horsesstopped, sniffed the breeze, and snorted. Jeff pointed into the air,where some vultures wheeled.

  Mrs. Cheyne shuddered. "It looks like Paradise Lost. We're not goingthere?"

  "No--I only wanted you to see it. The
re's a thousand million dollars ofgold in that sandpile."

  "Let it stay there. I think it's a frightfully unpleasant place. Whydo you show me all these things when all I want to do is to talk?" Sheturned her horse's head, and they followed a slight trail between grovesof aspen trees, a shimmering loveliness of transparent color. "You'renot giving me much encouragement, Jeff. You didn't believe in myfriendship in New York, but you're trying your best to keep me fromproving it here."

  "I do believe it now. Didn't I tell you so?"

  "Yes, but you don't show it. What do you think my enemies in New Yorkare saying of my disappearance? What will they say when they know I'vecome out here to you? Not that I care at all. Only I think that _you_ought to consider it."

  "I do," he said briefly. "Why do you make such a sacrifice?"

  "I never make sacrifices," she said, eluding him skillfully, "even formy friends. Don't make that mistake. I've told you I came because I'drather be here than in New York. If I heard that your financial enemieswere trying to ruin you, that only made me the more anxious to come.Besides, I had an idea that you might be lonely. Was I right?"

  "Yes--I am."

  "Was, you mean."

  "Yes--was," he corrected. "I've been pretty busy, of course, night aswell as day, but after New York this place is pretty quiet."

  "Did you miss me?"

  "Yes," frankly, "I did--you and I seem to get on pretty well. I thinkwe always will."

  "So do I. I've always wondered if I'd ever meet a man who hadn't beenspoiled. And I was just about ready to decide that he didn't exist whenyou came along. The discovery restored my faith in human nature. Itwas all the more remarkable, too, because you were married. Mostmarried men are either smug and conceited, or else dejected andapprehensive. In either case they're quite useless for my purpose."

  "What is your purpose?" he asked.

  "Psychological experiment," she returned glibly. "Some naturalists studybeetles, others butterflies and moths. I like to study men."

  "Have you got me classified?"

  "Yes--you're my only reward for years of patient scientific endeavor.The mere fact that you're married makes no difference, except that as aspecimen you're unique. Do you wonder that I don't want to lose you?"

  "I'm not running away very fast."

  "No. But the fact remains that you're not my property," she answered,frowning. "I can't see--I've never been able to see--why you evermarried, any more than I can see why I did. I'm quite sure that youwould have made me an admirable husband, just as I'm sure that I wouldhave made you an admirable wife. You don't mind my speaking plainly, doyou? I'm thinking out loud. I don't do it as a rule. It's a kind ofluxury that one doesn't dare to indulge in often. I have so many weakpoints in which you are strong, and I have a few strong ones in whichyou are weak, we could help each other. You could make something of me,I'm sure. I'm not as useless as I seem to be; sometimes I think I havein me the material to accomplish great things--if I only knew where tobegin, or if I had some one who is in the habit of accomplishing them toshow me how. That is why I wanted to help you. It struck me as a stepin the right direction."

  "It was," he ventured, "only it was too big a step."

  "One can't do big things by halves," she insisted. "Money is the onlything I have that you lack. It is the only thing that I cangive--that's why I want to give it--so that you can use it as a measureof my sincerity. I'd like to make you happy, too----" She paused, andher voice sank a note. "Why should you be unhappy? You don't deserveit. I know you don't. I haven't any patience with women who don't knowa good thing when they have it."

  "Perhaps I'm not as good a thing as I seem. You yourself are not beyondmaking mistakes, Rita."

  "Oh, Cheyne? I didn't make that mistake, Cheyne did. He thoughtmarriage was a sentimental holiday, when everybody nowadays knows thatit's only a business contract. Don't let's talk of Cheyne. I can stillhear the melancholy wail of his 'cello. I want to forget all of that.You have helped me to do it. I've been looking at you from every angle,Jeff Wray, and I find that I approve of you. Your wife has other views.She married you out of pique. You married her because she was the onlywoman in sight. You put a halo around her head, dressed her up intinsel, set her on a gilt pedestal, and made believe that she was agoddess. It was a pretty game, but it was only a game after all.Imagine making a saint of a woman of this generation! People did--backin the Dark Ages--but the ages must have been very dark, or they'd neverhave made such a mistake. I've often thought that saints must be veryuncomfortable, because they were human once. Your wife was human. Shestill is. She didn't want to be worshipped. She hadn't forgotten mycousin Cortland, you see----"

  "What's the use of all this, Rita?" said Wray hoarsely. "I don't mindyour knowing. Everybody else seems to. But why talk about it? Letsleeping dogs lie."

  She waved her hand in protest. "One of the dearest privileges offriendship is to say as many disagreeable things as one likes. I'mtrying to show you how impossible you are to a woman of her type, andhow impossible your wife is to you."

  "I'd rather you wouldn't."

  "She marries you to prove to my cousin Cortland that he isn't the onlyman in the world, and then spends an entire winter in New York provingto everybody that he is. There hasn't been a day since you left thatthey haven't been together, riding, motoring, going to the theatre andopera. It has reached the point when people can't think of asking one ofthem to dinner without including the other. If you don't know all this,it's time you did. And I take it as a melancholy privilege to be theone to tell you of it. It's too bad. No clever woman can allow herselfto be the subject of gossip, and when she does she has a motive for whatshe's doing or else she doesn't care. Perhaps you know what Mrs. Wray'smotive is. If you have an understanding with her you haven't done methe honor of telling it."

  "No," he muttered, "I'm not in the habit of talking of my affairs. Youknow we don't get along. No amount of talking will help matters."

  "What are you going to do?"

  Wray's eyes were sullen. Rita Cheyne chose to believe that he wasthinking of his wife. But as he didn't reply at once she repeated thequestion. It almost seemed as though her insistence annoyed him, but histone was moderate.

  "What is it to you, Rita?"

  She took a quick glance at him before she replied.

  "It means a good deal to me," she went on more slowly. "To begin with,I haven't any fancy for seeing my best friend made a fool of by theenemies of his own household. It seems to me that your affairs and hershave reached a point where something must be done. Perhaps you'vealready decided."

  "I've left her--she's in love with Cort Bent. I have proof of it. Wemade a mistake, that's all."

  "Of course you did," she said. "I'm glad that you acknowledge it. Areyou going back to New York?"

  "I haven't decided. That depends on many things. She thinks I'm inlove with you."

  They had come to a piece of rough ground sown with boulders and fallentrees, through which their horses picked their way carefully. RitaCheyne watched the broad back of her companion with a new expression inher eyes. He had never seemed so difficult to read as at this moment,but she thought that she understood and she found something admirable inhis reticence and in his loyalty to his wife. In a moment the trailwidened again as they reached the levels, and her horse found its wayalongside his.

  "She thinks you're in love with me? What does she know about love?What do I know about it? or you? Love is a condition of mind,contagious in extreme youth, but only mildly infectious later in life.Why should any one risk his whole future on a condition of mind? Youfeel sick but you don't marry your doctor or your trained nurse becausehe helps to cure you. Why don't you? Simply because you get well andthen discover that your doctor has a weak chin or disagreeable fingerends. When you get well of love, if you marry to cure it, there'snothing left but Reno. I don't believe in love. I simply deny itsexistence--just as I refuse to beli
eve in ghosts or a personal Devil. Iresent the idea that your wife should believe you're in love with me.You find pleasure in my society because I don't rub you the wrong way,and I like you because I find less trouble in getting on with you thanwith anybody else."

  "You're a cold-blooded proposition, Rita," said Wray smiling.

  "Yes--if it's cold-blooded to think--and to say what one thinks. ButI'm not so cold-blooded that I could marry one man when I likedanother--a man with whom I had no bond of sympathy. Cheyne was thenearest approach I could find to the expression of a youthfulideal--people told me I was in love with him--so I married him. Ofcourse, if I had had any sense--but what's the use? I've learnedsomething since then. To-day I would marry--not for love, but forsomething finer--not because of a condition of mind or a condition ofbody, but because of a stronger, more enduring relation, like thatbetween the lime and sand that build a house. I'd marry a man because Iwanted to give him my friendship and because I couldn't get on withouthis friendship, and if the house we built would not endure, then nomarriage will endure."

  "You mean, Rita," Wray interrupted with sober directness, "that you'dmarry me if you could?"

  She flushed mildly. "I didn't say so. I said I would marry forfriendship because it's the biggest thing in the world. I don't mindsaying I'd marry you. It's quite safe, because, obviously, I can't."

  Jeff looked at her uncertainly and then laughed noisily.

  "Rita, you're a queer one! I never know when the seriousness stops andthe fun begins."

  She smiled and frowned at the same time.

  "The fun hasn't begun. I mean what I say. Why shouldn't a woman saywhat she thinks? A man does. I shock you?"

  "No--it's part of you somehow. Speak out. I'll tell you whether Ibelieve you or not when you're through."

  "I suppose I'm what people call a modern woman. If I am, I'm glad of it.Most women fight hard for their independence. I've simply taken mine.I say and do and shall always say and do precisely what comes into mymind. I've no doubt that I'll make enemies. I've already succeeded indoing that. I'll also probably shock my friends--but I've thrown awaymy fetters and refuse to put them on again because some silly prigbelieves in living up to feminine traditions. I haven't any sympathywith tradition. Tradition has done more to hinder the enlighteneddevelopment of the individual than any single force in history.Tradition means old fogyism, cant and hypocrisy. I never could see why,because our fathers and mothers were stupid, we have to be stupid, too.Imagine an age in which it was not proper to cross one's legs if onewanted to--an age of stiff-backed chairs, to sit in which was to betortured--when every silly person denied himself a hundred harmless,innocent amusements simply because tradition demanded it! We live in anage of reason. If a woman loves a man, why shouldn't she tell him so?"