The Forbidden Way

by George Gibbs

  *CHAPTER XXII*

  *PRIVATE MATTERS*

  Jeff followed Camilla's departing back with blank bewilderment, tooamazed to utter a word. Rita Cheyne looked at Jeff's face and thenlaughed.

  "Act Three will now begin," she said gaily. "It's really too good, Jeff.But it's time for the lady-villain to die. I'm off stage now, sogood-by."

  She gave him her hand, and he took it mechanically.

  "I'll see you to-morrow," he said gravely.

  "No, this is good-by. There isn't any to-morrow for us. I won't seeyou, Jeff. I think perhaps you won't want to see me now."

  "This will make no difference," he stammered. "Don't you see--I've gotto make _her_ understand."

  "You mean--my reputation. She'd never understand that. You'll bewasting time. Don't bother. I'm going to Denver in the morning. No,not a word----"

  He tried to hold her, but the clerk came down at this moment, so, with alast flourish of the hand, she sped past him and up the stairs.

  Jeff stood for a moment in the middle of the floor, irresolute. Then heturned to the desk and asked the number of Mrs. Wray's room.

  "Parlor B, Mr. Wray, but she told me to say that she did not want to bedisturbed."

  Jeff hesitated, and then, with a frown: "That doesn't matter," hegrowled. "I'll explain. I'm going up," and he made his way to thestairs.

  The room, he remembered, was at the front of the house. He had occupiedit before they built his sleeping quarters in the office building. Hefound the door readily and knocked, but there was no response. Heknocked again. This time her voice inquired.

  "It's Jeff, Camilla," he said. "I must see you at once. Let me in,please."

  Another long pause of indecision. He might have been mistaken, but hefancied he could hear Rita Cheyne's light laugh somewhere down thecorridor. He did not want a scene--as yet his and Camilla's misfortuneshad not reached the ears of Mesa City. He was still debating whether hewould knock again or go away when the key turned in the lock and thedoor was opened.

  "Come in," said Camilla, and he entered. She had removed her hat, andthe bed and pillow already bore traces of her weight.

  "I'm sorry to intrude," he began awkwardly.

  "Shut the door," she suggested. "Perhaps it's just as well that peoplehere shouldn't know any more of our private affairs than is necessary."

  He obeyed and turned the key in the lock. His wife had moved to thewindow and stood, very straight and pale, waiting for him to speak. Sheseemed, if anything, slimmer than when he had seen her last, and herhair, which had fallen loosely about her shoulders, was burnished withthe last warm glow from Saguache Peak. He had never thought her morebeautiful, but there were lines at her eyes and mouth which the growingshadows of the room made deeper.

  "I suppose you're willing to believe the worst of me," he began, "and ofher. Perhaps I ought to tell you first that she only came here thismorning--that she's going away to-morrow----"

  "It isn't necessary to explain," she interrupted. "I hope Mrs. Cheynewon't go on my account. I'm going, too, in the morning. Under thecircumstances, I'm sorry I couldn't have waited a day or two, but I hadto see you at once."

  "You had to see me? Has something gone wrong in New York? Whatis----?"

  "Oh, no," wearily. "Everything in New York is all right. I've hadeverything packed in boxes and have given up the apartment at thehotel."

  Jeff's brows tangled in mystification.

  "You've given up the apartment? Why?"

  "I'm not going to live there any more. I'm going to Kansas--to Abilene.I'm very tired, Jeff, and I need a rest."

  "Camilla!" He pushed an armchair toward her and made her sit. "You dolook as if you--you're not sick, are you?"

  "Oh, no--just tired of everything." Her voice was low, as it always hadbeen, but it had no life in it. "Just tired of being misunderstood. Iwon't explain, and I don't expect you to. I couldn't listen if you did.I came here because I had to come, because no matter what our relationsare it was my duty to see you at once and tell you something of thegreatest importance."

  He stood behind her chair, his fingers close to her pallid cheeks,gently brushed by the filaments of her hair, the perfume of whichreached him like some sweet memory. He leaned over her, aching for sometoken that would let him take her in his arms and forget all the shadowsthat had for so long hung about them. But as she spoke, hestraightened, glowering at the wall beyond her.

  "It isn't--it's nothing--to do with you--and Cort Bent----?"

  "Oh, no, not at all. I haven't seen Cort for some time. It'sabout--about the General."

  "General Bent?" Jeff gave a quick sigh, paced across the room, and thenturned with a frown. "I'm not interested in General Bent," he muttered."For me he has stopped being a person. He's only a piece ofmachinery--a steel octopus that's slowly crushing me to bits. I'drather not talk of General Bent."

  "Is it as bad as that?" she murmured, awe-stricken.

  "Yes--they've pushed me to the wall. I'm still fighting, but unless Icompromise or sell the mine----" he stopped and straightened his greatframe. "Camilla, don't let's talk of this. I know you're tired. Iwon't stay long. Just tell me what you mean about going back toAbilene."

  She clasped her hands nervously, glad of the chance to postpone herrevelation, which seemed to grow more difficult with each moment.

  "I can't stand the life I'm living, Jeff. I can't take any more fromyou. I've done it all spring because you wanted me to, but I can't livea lie any longer. Those rooms, that luxury, the servants, the peopleabout me, they oppressed me and bore me to the earth. I have no rightto them--still less now that things are going badly with you. You wantedme to keep the place we'd made--to make a larger place for your name inNew York. I hope I've made it, but it has cost me something. I'm sick ofambition, of the soulless striving, the emptiness of it all. I can't doit any longer. I must go somewhere where I can be myself, where I don'thave to knuckle to people I despise, where I don't have to climb, climb,climb--my ears deaf to the sneers and the envy of the scandal-mongers,and open only for the flattery which soothes my self-esteem but not--no,nothing can soothe the ache at the heart."

  "What has happened, Camilla? I understood you had made many newfriends."

  "Yes, some new friends--also, some new enemies. But that hasn't botheredme. It's the lying I had to do--about you--the excuses I have had tomake for being alone, the dates I have set for your return, lies--alllies--when I knew you were not going to return, that you had deserted meand left me only your money as a bribe. I couldn't do it any longer. Iwrote you all this. You thought I didn't mean what I said--because Ihad your money--your merciless money, to gratify my pride in my prettybody. It has come to the point where your money is an insult--as muchof an insult as the dishonor you put on me."

  "Dishonor? I can't have you associate that name with Mrs. Cheyne," heblurted forth.

  She smiled and then gave a hard, dry, little unmirthful laugh.

  "Oh, you mistake my meaning. I wasn't thinking of Mrs. Cheyne. I wasselfish enough to be still thinking of myself."

  "I don't understand."

  She got up and walked to the window, leaning her face against the paneto soothe with its coolness the heat of her brow. "I was thinking of myown dishonor--not yours--I have nothing to do with yours. To be doubtedas you have doubted me--to know that you could believe me capable ofdishonoring you--that is dishonor enough."

  "You mustn't forget that you gave me cause," he said hoarsely. "Whatkind of a man do you think I am? You married me for a whim--becauseanother man wouldn't have you. I forgave you that because I was willingto take you at any price. That was my fault as much as yours. It waswhat came after----"

  He came up behind her, his voice trembling but suppressed.

  "Do you think I'm the kind of man to tolerate the things between you andCort Bent? I was a fool once. I believed in you--I thought no matterhow l
ittle love you had in your heart for me that you'd have enoughrespect for yourself. Do you think I could stand knowing that myservants had seen you in his arms?"

  She flashed around at him, breathless, paler than ever, clutching at thewindow-sill behind her for support. "Who--who told you this?"

  "Greer--my valet at the hotel," he snarled, "when I discharged him andcame here."

  "He said----?"

  Jeff caught her by the elbows--brutally--and held her so that he couldlook into her eyes.

  "It's true--isn't it? Answer me!"

  She gazed at him wide-eyed, and now for the first time he saw how illshe looked. Even at that moment he was sure that pity and love and adesire for possession were still the feelings that dominated him. Shecould not stand the gaze of his eyes. They seemed to burn through her,so she lowered her head.

  "Yes," she admitted brokenly, "it's true--I was in his arms."

  A sound came from his throat--a guttural sound half-choked in theutterance, as he dropped her, turned violently and in a stride was atthe door. But as the key turned in the lock, she started forward andclutched him by the sleeve.

  "Wait," she whispered piteously. "You must. You can't go now. You'vegot to know everything."

  "I think I've had enough. I'm going." He turned the knob and openedthe door, but she leaned against it and pushed it shut.

  "You've got to listen. I have some rights still--the right every womanhas to defend her name."

  "If she can," he sneered.

  "I can--I will. Will you listen?" He shrugged his shoulders and walkedpast her to the window. Camilla faced him, beginning slowly,breathlessly. "It was when we first came to New York that it began--thatday when you and your--you and General Bent came in from downtown.Cortland was there--I--I thought I had forgotten him. I was happy withyou. I was beginning to believe that, after all, we hadn't made amistake. But you were away all day and I was lonely. The city was sovast, so unfriendly. I had no right to be lonely but I was. I wasbewildered by all the magnificence and homesick for Mesa City. That dayCort Bent came in I had a fit of the blues. He brought back all the oldstory--and told me how you stole the mine."

  Jeff laughed aloud. "So he told you that--did he? For sympathy?" hesneered.

  "It revolted me," she persisted. "It revolts me still. I was new tomodern business methods then. I can't like them now, but I've learnedto keep silent. He asked me to forgive him the past, and I did. Thespell of romance was over me still. He told me that he loved me morethan ever and that he would not give me up. I thought--I thought Iloved him, too----"

  "You _thought_! You _knew_!" he said immoderately. "You've always lovedhim."

  "No, no. It wasn't that," she pleaded. "It wasn't love, Jeff. Ilearned that soon enough. It was only pity----"

  "And where was your pity for me?"

  "Don't, Jeff--let me finish. Whatever my feelings for you then,whatever they are now, I was true to you in word and deed."

  "When you were in his arms?" He laughed harshly.

  "He took me in his arms. He tried to kiss me on the lips, but I wouldnot let him. I've never let him. I broke away and threatened to ringif he followed me--and then--and then you came in. That's all,Jeff--all--and it's the truth." She faced him bravely, her eyes seekinghis. He glared at her madly, but could not stare her down. It was oneof those tragic moments when all the future hangs on the flicker of aneyelash. Jeff's gaze fell first.

  "I would have come back here," she went on. "I asked you to leave NewYork with me. You wouldn't go. Instead of that you threw us togethermore and more. Why, I don't know, unless it was because you did notcare."

  "I did care," he muttered.

  "You did not care," she insisted. "You had met Rita Cheyne then----"

  "It was because _she_ saw what I did," he asserted. "It was because----"

  "Don't explain," she said. "I'm not asking _you_ to explain or toexonerate her. It's too late for that. But I cannot bear to have youthink such dreadful things about me, cruel things, things thathurt--hurt me here----"

  She put her hand to her breast and swayed. He sprang to her side andcaught her in his arms as she fell, lifting her like a child andcarrying her to the bed, terror-stricken at the coldness of her handsand face. He rang the bell, and then with bungling fingers loosened hercollar and dress, whimpering the while like a child. "Camilla, my girl,don't look so white. Open your eyes. I believe you, dearie; I'vealways believed you. Look at me, Camilla. I know you're straight. Ididn't mean it. I was cruel to you. I wouldn't hurt you for the world.I love you. You're _my_ girl--_my_ girl."

  There was a commotion at the door of the adjoining room, which suddenlyflew open, and a figure in a trailing silk kimono glided in, pushed himaside abruptly, and put a silver brandy flask to Camilla's lips. It wasMrs. Cheyne.

  "I was next door," she explained jerkily. "I heard. I couldn't helpit. The partitions are so thin." And then, with sudden authority:"Don't stand there like a fool. Bring some water--quickly," and when hehad obeyed: "Now bathe her temples and give her brandy. She'll be allright in a minute. When I go, get a light. But she mustn't see mehere." And, before he was even aware of it, she had vanished like awraith.

  The housemaid brought a lamp, put it on the table, and hovered anxiouslyin the background, but Camilla's eyes had opened.

  "Mrs. Wray is sick," Jeff began.

  But Camilla had already drawn herself up on one elbow and gently pushedhim away.

  "I--I'm all right now. I can't imagine what made me feel so queerly.I've never been--I've never fainted before."

  "A little more brandy?"

  "No, not now. Who--? Wasn't there some one else in here? I thought--Isaw some one in pink--and smelled a perfume. I must have beendreaming."

  "Lie back on the pillow and rest, Camilla, dear. You're played out. Thedoctor will be here in a minute."

  "I don't want a doctor. I'm all right." With an effort shestraightened and sat on the side of the bed. "I remember--I was tellingyou----"

  "Don't, Camilla. I don't want to hear. I believe you. It's all amistake." He bent over her and tried to take her in his arms.

  But she held up her hand and gently restrained him. "No--no," she saidshaking her head. "Don't try to soothe me. That doesn't mean anything.I know. Shadows like these are not brushed away so quickly. Sit there,Jeff, by the window and listen. There's something else I must tellyou--I should have told you at once. It's what I came here for, but Ididn't seem to have the courage."

  "No, not to-night."

  "I must--it won't keep. You must listen." Her eyes pleaded, and so hesank into the rocking chair, leaning forward eagerly. She took up thehandbag beside her on the table and fumbled tremblingly at the lock.

  "It's something which concerns General Bent and you--no, not business,Jeff--something personal--something dreadfully personal--which hasnothing whatever to do with your business relations, and yet somethingwhich seems to make your hatred of each other all the more terrible.It--it seems very hard for me to tell you, because it's something youhave never liked to speak about--something that has always made you veryunhappy."

  "Why, what do you mean, Camilla?" he asked.

  "You must let me tell you in my own way, because it will be hard for youto realize. I must show you that there is no mistake--no chance of amistake, Jeff. Two weeks ago at the hotel in New York I was reading theletters in the old tin box and looking at the photographs. They were inthe drawer of your desk. I've never spoken of them to you or looked atthem since we were married--but you were not there to see them and--I--Ididn't think you'd mind. I had them on your desk when Mrs. Rumsen camein. She saw the photograph of your father. She--she had one just likeit in her album at home----"

  "She knew him, then?" eagerly.

  "Yes. I've brought both photographs with me." She took them out of thehandbag with trembling hands and gave them to him.

  He got up, took them to the light and held them
side by side. "Yes,yes," he muttered, "they are the same--the very same. There's no doubtabout that." And then, in a suppressed voice, "You know who he is?"

  "Yes, Jeff. Mrs. Rumsen and I know--no one else--not a soul else. It'syour secret. We couldn't tell. No one can or will but you." Her voicehad sunk almost to a whisper. "It's--it's the General--Jeff--GeneralBent."

  Outwardly Jeff gave no sign of unusual disturbance--a slight tighteningof his thumbs upon the pictures, a slight bending of the head that hiseyes might be surer of their vision. But to Camilla, who was watchinghim timidly, he seemed to grow compact, his big frame to shrink intoitself and his eyes to glow with a strange, unfamiliar fire.

  "General--Bent--General--Bent," he repeated the words huskily, as ifthey were a formula which he was trying to commit to memory. "It can'tbe true?"

  "Yes, Jeff, it's true. Mrs. Rumsen identified the letters. There's nodoubt--none."

  "I can't believe--why, I'd have _felt_ it--Camilla. I've always said I'dknow him if I saw him."

  "You didn't--but have you thought? You look like him, Jeff. You _look_like him."

  "Yes--it's strange I didn't think of that." And then suddenly, "Does_he_ know?"

  "No--he won't unless you tell him."

  He looked up at her with dumb, uncomprehending eyes and sank in hischair again, still grasping the photographs.

  "I must think," he groaned, "I've got to think--what to do. I've hatedhim so--all these long years. I hate him now--not because he's my--myfather--but because--he's himself."

  "Stop, Jeff, you mustn't--you mustn't speak so."

  "It's true," raising his bloodshot eyes to hers. "Why should I care?Did _he_ care for the atom he's put into the world to float aboutwithout a name to land on any dung-hill? I'll pay him back for that, byGod! I'm not his son. The only thing I want of his blood is hiscruelty. I'll take that and use it when I can--on him and his."

  "You mustn't, Jeff. It's horrible. I can't stand hearing this."

  At the touch of her hand he stopped, got up and paced the length of theroom and back again in grim silence, his lips working, while she watchedhim, fearful of another outburst.

  "I must think this thing out, Camilla--by myself. I don't know whatI'll do." And then suddenly, "Where is he now?" he asked harshly.

  "In Denver--at the Brown Palace Hotel. They came West before I did withthe Janneys, Gretchen, and Mrs. Rumsen. They came in a private car."

  "To be in at my finish," he muttered bitterly. "I can't seem to think,Camilla. It's all so monstrous--it staggers me."

  He stopped pacing the floor and looked at her, suddenly realizing howill she had been, and contrite and self-accusing he fell on his knees ather feet and put his arms around her.

  "Camilla! I shouldn't have let you tell me all this to-night. You werenot strong enough. I've been brutal to you--to forget what you weresuffering. You must sleep. My heart has been aching for you all theselong months. I'll take care of you and make you strong and well again.You're not going back to Abilene, Camilla."

  Slowly she disengaged her hands.

  "You must go now, Jeff. I--I am tired. But all I need is rest. Icouldn't have slept until I told you. It has preyed on me like apoison. I can't influence you, though. You must use your own judgmentas to what you'll do, but I pray you'll do nothing rash."

  "You must not go back to Abilene. There's much to be explained,Camilla--you must promise not to go away! I want to speak to you aboutRita Cheyne."

  She rose from her seat on the bed with a kind of wistful dignity.

  "I can't promise anything, Jeff. Go, please. I want to be alone."

  He looked at her a moment, pleading, and then turned without a word andwent out. She heard his heavy steps go down the noisy hall, heard themagain on the porch below and on the boardwalk through the village untilthey were engulfed in the gloom of the night--Jeff's night of anguish,battle, and temptation.