by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER XXI*
_*L'homme Dispose*_
Jeff Wray had listened in curiosity, then in amazement, his eyes turnedtoward the Saguache Peak, whose snow-cap caught a reflection of thesetting sun. He had accustomed himself to unusual audacities on thepart of his companion, but the frankness of her speech had outdoneanything he could remember. When he turned his look in her direction itwas with a shrewd glance of appraisement like the one she felt in themorning when she had first appeared in his office. As they reached anopening in the trees Jeff halted his horse and dismounted.
"It's early yet. Let's sit for a while. Throw your bridle over hishead. He'll stand."
Mrs. Cheyne got down, and they sat on a rock facing the slope, whichdropped away gently to the valley. Jeff took out his tobacco and papersand deftly rolled a cigarette, while Rita Cheyne watched him. Heoffered to make her one, but she refused.
"You've got me guessing now, Rita," he said with a laugh. "More thanonce in New York I wondered what sort of a woman you really were. Ithought I'd learned a thing or two before I came away, but I'll admityou've upset all my calculations. I've always known you were clever whenit came to the real business of disguising your thoughts. I know younever mean what you say, but I can't understand anybody traveling twothousand miles to create a false impression. You know as well as I dothat all this talk of yours about friendship is mere clever nonsense. Iknow what friendship means, and I guess I know what love means, too, butthere isn't any way that you can mix them up so that I won't know onefrom the other."
"I'm not trying to mix them up."
"You're trying to mix _me_ up then." He took her hand in his and madeher look at him. "You've been playing with me for some time. I was adifferent kind of a breed from anything you'd been used to in New York,and you liked to wind me up so that you could see the wheels go 'round.You've had a lot of fun out of me in one way or another, and you stillfind me amusing."
She stopped indignantly.
"Don't you believe in me?"
"No. The things you say are too clever to be genuine for one thing.You're too cold-blooded for another."
"One can't think unless one is cold-blooded."
"When a woman's in love she doesn't want to think."
"I'm not in love--I simply say I'll marry you, that's all."
"You're talking nonsense."
"I never was saner in my life. I want you to believe in my kind offriendship."
"Eight hundred thousand dollars' worth of friendship is not to besneezed at."
"Stop, Jeff, you're brutal. I won't listen."
"You've got to. I've listened to you. Now you must listen to me, andI'm going to make you play the game with your cards above the table. Sofar as I can understand, you hold the New York record for broken heartsto date, and I was warned that you had strewn your wrecks along thewhole front of Central Park East. But I suppose I was too muchflattered when you showed me attention to take to my heels. I liked youand I wanted you to like me. Perhaps we both liked each other for thesame reason--with the same motive--curiosity. You put me in oddsituations just to see what I'd do. I liked to be with you. You purredlike a kitten in the sun, and I liked to hear you, so I was willing toperform for that privilege. You claimed me for a friend, but you triedyour best to make me lose my head. That's true, you can't deny it. Ididn't lose it, because--well, because I had made up my mind that Iwouldn't. I don't know whether you were disappointed or not, but I knowyou were surprised, because you weren't in the habit of missing a trickwhen you played that game."
She withdrew her hand abruptly and turned her head away. "That isn'ttrue," she murmured. "You must not speak to me so."
"I've got to. Every word of what I say is true--and you know it."
"It's not true now."
"Yes, it's true now. I know how much you really care about me. You'vegot so much in life that you're never really interested in anythingexcept the things you can't get. You like me because you know I'm outof your reach and you can't have me even if I wanted you to. You're agreat artist, but I don't think you really ever fooled me much. You liketo run with a fast and Frenchy set just because it gives your clevernessa chance it couldn't have with the Dodos, but you don't mind beingtalked about, because your conscience is clear; you like the excitementof running into danger just to prove your cleverness in getting out ofit. See here, Rita, this time you're going too far. I suppose I ought tofeel very proud of the faith you put in me and your willingness to trustyourself so completely in my hands. I guess I do. But things aredifferent with me somehow. I told you I was going to Hell pretty fast,and I'm not in a mood to be trifled with."
"I'm not trifling." She had caught a sinister note in his voice andlooked up at him in alarm.
"There's a way to prove that."
"How?"
"This!"
He put his arms around her, turned her face to his, and held it therewhile he looked a moment into her eyes. But she struggled and held awayfrom him, suddenly discovering something unfamiliar in the roughness ofhis touch and the expression in his eyes.
"Let me go!" she cried, struggling desperately to be free.
"You'll kiss me."
"No--never, not after that."
"After what?"
"The way you speak to me. You're rough----"
"I'll not let you go until you tell me why you came here. If you loveme, you'll look in my eyes and tell me so."
"I don't love you," she panted, still struggling. "I never shall. Letme go, I say!"
He laughed at her. Her struggles were so futile. Art could not availher here. She realized it at last and lay quietly in his arms, her eyesclosed, her figure relaxed, while he kissed her as he pleased.
"Will you tell me you love me?"
"No. I loathe you."
Then she began struggling again; he released her, and she flung away andstood facing him, her hat off, hair in disorder, cheeks flaming, herbody trembling with rage and dismay.
"Oh, that you could have touched me so!"
"Why, Rita----" he began.
"Don't speak to me----" She moved toward the horses. "I'm going," sheasserted.
"Where?"
"To Mesa City."
"How can you? You don't know the way."
"I'll find the way. Oh----" She stamped her foot in rage and then,without other warning, sank on a rock near by and burst into tears.
Jeff Wray rose uncertainly and stared at her, wide-eyed, like other morepracticed men in similar situations, unaccountably at a loss. He hadacted on impulse with a sense of fitting capably into a situation. Hewatched her in amazement, for her tears were genuine. No woman wasclever enough to be able to cry like that. There was no feminineartistry here. She was only a child who had made the discovery that herdoll is stuffed with sawdust. He realized that perhaps for the firsttime he saw her divested of her artifice, the polite mummery of theworld, the real Rita Cheyne, who all her life had wanted to wantsomething and, now that she had found what it was, could not have itjust as she wanted it. It was real woe, there was no doubt of that, thepathetic woe of childhood. He went over to her and laid his hand gentlyon her shoulder. But she would not raise her head, and it almost seemedas though she had forgotten him. He stood beside her for some moments,looking down at her with a changing expression. The hard lines she haddiscovered in his face were softened, the frown relaxed, and at his lipsthere came the flicker of a smile.
"I--I'm sorry," he said at last. "I--I made a mistake, Rita. I made amistake."
The sobs began anew.
"How--how could you--treat me so?"
There was no reply to that, so he stood silently and waited for thestorm to pass. Meanwhile he had the good taste not to touch her again.But as the sobs diminished he repeated:
"I made a mistake, Rita. You made me think----"
"Oh!" only. Her face appeared for a moment above her arms and theninstantly disa
ppeared. "You're odious!"
"Why, Rita," he said with warm frankness, "how could I believe anythingelse? All your talk of friendship; why, you asked me to marry you. Whatdid you expect of me?"
"Not that--not what you did--the way you did it."
"You forgave me once."
She raised her head, careless of the tears which still coursed.
"Yes, I forgave you then. But not now. I can't forgive you now. Noman ever kissed a woman the way you kissed me unless he is mad abouther--or despises her."
"Despises----"
"Yes. You might as well ask me to forgive you for murdering my brother.You've killed something inside me--my pride, I think. I cannever--never forget that."
She got up and turned her back to him, fingering for her handkerchief.She had none. He slowly undid the kerchief from around his own neck andput it in her hand.
"Don't cry, Rita."
"Cry?" She wheeled around, still staunching her tears. "No, I'll notcry. I was a fool to cry. I'll not cry any more. I criedbecause--because I was disappointed--that any one I trusted could be sobase."
"I'm not so dreadful as all that. You must admit----"
"I'll admit nothing--except that I made a mistake, too. It hasn't beena pleasant awakening. I know now what those kisses meant."
Wray's incomprehension was deeper.
"I wish _I_ did," he said. "I was sure they wouldn't do you any harm.You wouldn't have been so frank with me if you hadn't been pretty sureof yourself."
"That was my mistake. I was so sure of myself that I didn't think itnecessary to be sure of you." And while Jeff was trying to understandwhat she meant, she went on:
"Those were not _my_ kisses. They were impersonal--and might have beengiven to any woman--that is, any woman who would allow them. Each ofthem a separate insult--Judas kisses--treacherous kisses--kisses ofretaliation--of revenge----"
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"You've been using me to square your accounts with your wife--that'sall," scornfully. "As if you didn't know."
He flushed crimson and bit his lips. "That's not true," he muttered."What does it matter to my wife? Why should she care who I kiss--orwhy?"
"It doesn't matter to her, I suppose," she said, slightly ironical; "sheis her own mistress again, but it does to you. Curiously enough you'restill in love with your wife. She's in love with somebody else.Naturally it wounds your self-esteem--that precious self-esteem of yoursthat's more stupendous than the mountain above you. She hurts you, andyou come running to me for the liniment. Thanks! You've come to thewrong shop, Mr. Wray."
Jeff's brows darkened. He opened his mouth as though to speak, butthought better of it. As Rita Cheyne took up the bridle of her horse andled him to a rock that she might mount, Jeff interfered.
"One moment, Rita. I think we'd better have this thing out. I'mbeginning to understand better the width of the breach between us--it'swidened some to-day--and I don't believe you're going to try to make itup to-morrow. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to have any moremisunderstandings, either. I want you to forgive me if you can. I'vecared for you a good deal--enough to make me sorry you were onlyfooling. Things don't seem to be going my way, and I've had lot ofthinking to do that hasn't made me any too cheerful. I don't seem tosee things just the way I did. This fight has made me bitter. I've goteverything against me--_your_ world, the organized forces of your worldagainst a rank outsider. I belong to the people who work with theirhands. I've always been pretty proud of that. I went East and mixed upwith a lot of your kind of people. I had a good time. They asked me totheir houses, gave me their wine and food. They knew what they wereabout. They had need of me, but no matter what they said or did theynever for a moment let me forget what I'd come from. You were the onlyone of all that crowd who tried to make me feel differently. Was it anywonder that I was grateful for it?"
"Your gratitude takes a curious form."
He held up a hand in protest.
"Then you--you liked me because I said just what I thought whenever Ithought it, but even with you I never forgot it wasn't possible for usever to reach an understanding of perfect equality. You played withlife--you had been taught to. Life is a kind of joke to you. People areincidents, only important when they give you amusement. I've been moreimportant than others for that reason--because I gave you more amusementthan others, but there's never been any doubt that I was only anincident. To me life is a grim problem--I've felt its weight, and Iknow. To-day you talked of making a marriage as I would speak of makinga cigarette. It was too cold-blooded even for humour----"
"You refuse me then, do you, Jeff?" she laughed. But he made no reply toher banter.
"I've done with marriage," he went on. "I tried it and I failed, justas you tried it and failed, but I'm not ready, as you are, to make ajoke of it. Failures are not the kind of things I like to joke about.You joke because joking makes you forget. I'm not trying to forget. Icouldn't if I wanted to. I've learned that out here. My wife can do asshe likes. If she wants to marry Cort Bent I'll give her a divorce, butas for me, I've done with it--for good."
Jeff had sunk to the rock beside her, his head in his hands, while shestood a little way off looking down at him. Their relative attitudesseemed somehow to make a difference in her way of thinking of him. Inspite of the light bitterness of her mood, she, too, felt the weight ofhis thoughts.
"Do you mean to say," she murmured, half in pity, half in contempt,"that you still love your wife as much as this?"
But he made no reply.
"It's really quite extraordinary," she went on with a manner whichseemed to go with upraised brows and a lorgnon. "You're really the mostwonderful person I've ever known. This is the kind of fidelity oneusually associates with the noble house-dog. I'm sure she'd beflattered. But why will you give her a divorce? Since you're not goingto marry--what's the use?"
He rose and went to the horses. "Come," he said, "it's getting late.Let's get back."
She refused his help, mounted alone, and silently they rode down theslope through the underbrush, where after a while Jeff found a trail inthe open.
"Does this lead to Mesa City?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Good-by, then." She flourished her hand and, before he realized it,was off and had soon disappeared from sight. He urged his horse forwardinto a full gallop, but saw that he could not catch her. Apache was thefaster horse, and his own animal carried too much weight. So after afew miles he gave up the race, walked his winded horse, and gave himselfup to his thoughts.
The exercise had refreshed his mind, and he was able to think with calmamusement of the little comedy in which he had just been an actor. Whata spoiled child she was! He couldn't understand why he had ever beenafraid of her. It was only pity he felt now, the pity of those tears,the only really inartistic thing Rita had ever been guilty of, for herface had not been so pretty when she cried. And yet they appealed to himmore strongly than any token she had ever given him. What did theymean? He had hurt her pride, of course--he had had to do that, butsomehow his conscience didn't seem to trouble him much about the stateof Rita's heart. Love meant something different to him from the kind ofcold, analytical thing Rita Cheyne was capable of. If it hadn't beenfor those tears! They worried him.
As he reached the edge of a wood he caught a glimpse of her justdisappearing over the brow of a hill, half a mile away. So he urged hishorse forward. It wouldn't do to have her ride into Mesa without him.He rode hard and suddenly came upon her kneeling at the border of astream, dipping his bandana into the water and touching her eyes. Whenshe saw him she looked up pertly, and he saw that she was only a childwashing its face.
"Hello!" she said. "I was waiting for you. Do you see what I'm doing?It's a rite. Do I look like Niobe? I'm washing my hands--of you."
Jeff got down and stood beside her.
"Do be sensible, Rita."
"I am--am I clean? You haven't a powder puff
about you--have you?"
"You're going to tell me you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive. If you think there's anything to forgive,I'll forgive--of course." She got up from her knees, wiping her face,sat down on a tree trunk, and motioned him to sit beside her.
"Jeff," she said, "I've a confession to make. You know what it is,because you're cleverer than you have any right to be. I don't love youreally, you know, and I'm pretty sure it isn't in me to love anyone--except myself. It has always made me furious to think that Icouldn't do anything with you. From the first I set my heart on havingyou for myself, not because I wanted to laugh at you--I couldn't havedone that--but because you were in love with your wife."
"Why--do you hate her so?"
"I don't. I don't hate any one. But she irritated me. She was soself-satisfied, so genuine, so handsome--three things which I am not."She waited for him to contradict her, but Jeff was frowning at vacancy.
"Just to satisfy my self-esteem--which is almost as great as yours, JeffWray--I would have moved mountains to win, and I even let you drag mypride in the dust before I discovered that I couldn't. I die prettyhard, but I know when I'm dead."
"Don't, Rita; you and I are going to be better friends than ever."
"No, Jeff, I'm going East to-morrow. I don't want to see you. To seeyou would be to remind me of my insufficiencies."
"You've made a friend."
"No," shaking her head, "that won't do. It never does. I may havetried to deceive you, but I know better. Friendship is masculine--orit's feminine. It can't be both. I'm going away at once. I'm notgoing to see you again."
"Oh, yes, you are. To-morrow we'll----"
"No. I'd go to-night if there was a train. I want you to do one thingfor me, though. Will you?"
"If I can."
"That money--the money for that stock. I want to leave it with you--touse or not to use as you think best. I've got a great deal ofmoney--much more than is good for me."
Jeff shook his head.
"No, Rita, no. I can't do that. If I'm going to lose, I'll losealone."
"But if you win?" she turned and gave him her hand. "You will. I'vesworn you will. And here's luck on it." Instead of clasping her hand,as she intended he should, he raised it to his lips and kissed itgently--as under different conditions he might have kissed her lips.She looked down at the top of his head and closed her eyes a moment, butwhen he looked up she was smiling gaily.
"You're a good sport, Rita," he said.
"Yes," she said coolly, "I believe I am."
They rode into Mesa City slowly. The valley was already wrapped inshadow, but above them the upper half of Saguache Peak was afire withthe sunset. The evening train was in and had puffed its way up to theyard. There was a crowd at the post-office waiting for mail, andscattered groups here and there were chatting with the arrivals. Wrayand Mrs. Cheyne climbed the slope to the Kinney House, where a cowboyfrom the Home Ranch was waiting for their horses. They dismounted andwent indoors to the office, where a solitary lady in a dark dress wassigning her name to the hotel register. At the sound of their voicesshe turned and straightened, suddenly very pale and tense. And then,before Jeff could speak, turned again quickly to the clerk and saidquietly:
"If you'll show me the way up at once, please, I'd like to go to myroom."
