Gibbs George
The Forbidden Way

CHAPTER XXIII
THE INTRUDER

Meanwhile, in Parlor A, next door, a lady in a pink kimono, who seemed unusually diminutive and childish in her low-heeled bedroom slippers, pottered about uneasily, walking from window to window, jerking at the shades to peer out of doors, and then pulling the shades noisily down again; opening the hall door, looking down the corridor, walking out a few steps and then coming rapidly back again, to light a cigarette which she almost immediately put out and threw into the stove; coughing, dropping things – and then standing tense and alert to listen, acting altogether in a surprising and unusual manner. But the sound of voices in the adjoining room persevered, now loud – now less loud, but always perfectly audible through the thin, paper-like partition. At last, as though in sudden desperation, without removing her clothes, or even her slippers, she crawled quickly into the bed and pulled the covers and pillow over her head, lying still as a mouse, but tense and alert in spite of herself and – in spite of herself – listening. She emerged again in a while, half smothered, like a diver coming to the surface, listening again, and then with an exclamation quickly got out of bed, her fingers at her ears, to open the hall door presently and flee down the corridor.

From her vantage point – in an empty room – she heard Jeff's rapid footsteps go past, and only when she heard them no longer did she go back to Parlor A. She closed the outer door and locked it, sat down in an armchair, leaning forward, her head in her hands, staring at a pink rose in the ornate carpet, deep in thought. In the room next door all was quiet again. Once she thought she heard the sound of a sob, but she could not be sure of it, and after a while the light which had shone through the wide crack under the door disappeared. For a long time she sat there, immovable except for the slight, quick tapping of one small foot upon the floor.

At last she rose with an air of resolution and touched the bell. To the clerk, who answered it in person, she asked for telegraph blanks and a messenger. He looked at his watch.

"The telegraph office is closed."

"Well, it will have to be opened. This is a matter which can't wait until morning. The operator must be found."

"We might get a message through." He looked at the bill she had put in his hand. "Yes, I'm sure we can."

"And you might send me up some tea and toast." She shut the door, went to her trunk, took out her writing pad, put it on the table, turned up the wick of the lamp, and began writing. She finished a letter and sealed it carefully. When the telegraph blanks came she wrote two rather lengthy messages. One of the telegrams was addressed to the cashier of the Tenth National Bank of Denver – the other telegram and the letter were addressed to Lawrence Berkely at the Brown Palace Hotel in the same city. When she had given the messenger his instructions, she sank in her chair again with a sigh, and, with a tea cup in one hand and a piece of buttered toast in the other, sat facing the door into Parlor B. Her face wore a curious expression, partly mischievous, partly solemn, but there was at times a momentary trace of trouble in it, too, and when the tea cup was set aside she stretched her arms wearily and then brought them down, lacing her fingers behind her neck, putting her head back and closing her eyes as though in utter, soul-racking weariness. Suddenly she rose, passing the back of one wrist abruptly across her brows, and prepared to go to bed.

* * * * *

Camilla awoke late and ordered breakfast in her room. It was not bodily fatigue which she felt now. That seemed to have passed. It was mental inertia, which, like muscular stiffness, follows the carrying of too heavy a burden. A part of her burden she still carried, and even the brightness of the Colorado sun, which dappled the tinsel wall paper beside her, failed to rekindle the embers of old delights. From one of her windows she could see the fine sweep of the Saguache range as it extended its great half-moon toward the northern end of the valley, where it joined the main ridge of the Continental Divide; from the other window the roofs of the town below her, Mulrennan's, the schoolhouse, and Jeff's "Watch Us Grow" sign, now dwarfed by the brick office building which had risen behind it. It seemed a hundred years since she had lived in Mesa City, and to her eyes, accustomed to elegant distances, the town seemed to have grown suddenly smaller, more ugly, garish, and squalid. And yet it was here that she had lived for five years – five long years of youth and hope and boundless ambition. In those days the place had oppressed her with its emptiness, and she had suffered for the lack of opportunity to live her life in accordance with the dreams of her school-days; but to-day, when she seemed to have neither hope nor further ambition, she knew that the early days were days of real happiness. What did it matter if it had been the bliss of ignorance, since she was now aware of the folly of wisdom? She could never be happy anywhere now – not even here. She lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes, but even then the vision of Rita Cheyne intruded – a vision of Jeff and Rita Cheyne riding together over the mountain trails.

She was indeed unpleasantly surprised when, a few moments later, there was a knock upon the door at the foot of her bed; and when she had put on a dressing gown the door opened suddenly, and there stood Rita Cheyne herself, smiling confidently and asking admittance.

Camilla was perturbed – so much so, in fact, that no words occurred to her. The door had opened outward toward Rita Cheyne, who held its knob. It was, therefore, obviously impossible for Camilla to close it without Mrs. Cheyne's assistance. This, it seemed, the visitor had no intention of giving, for she came forward on the door-sill and held out her hand.

"Mrs. Wray," she said gently, "I want to come in and talk to you. May I?"

"This is – rather surprising," Camilla began.

"Yes," she admitted, "it is. Perhaps I'm a little surprised, too. I – I wanted to talk to you. There are some things – important things – "

By this time Camilla had managed to collect her scattered resources. "I'm not sure," she said coolly, "that our friendship has ever been intimate enough to warrant – "

Rita put one hand up before her. "Don't, Mrs. Wray! It hasn't. But you'll understand in a moment, if you'll let me come in and talk to you."

Camilla drew her laces around her throat and with a shrug stood aside. "I hope you'll be brief," she said coldly. "Will you sit down?"

But Mrs. Cheyne had already sat in a chair with her back to one of the windows, where her face was partially obscured by the shadows of her hair. She pulled her kimono about her figure, clasped her fingers over her knees, and leaned forward, eagerly examining her companion, who had seated herself uneasily upon the side of the bed. "You are handsome!" she said candidly, as if settling a point in her own mind which had long been debatable. "I don't think I ever saw you handsomer than you are at the present moment. Trouble becomes you, it gives a meaning to the shadows of your face which they never had before."

Camilla started up angrily. "Did you come here to comment upon my appearance?"

"No," said Rita suavely. "I can't help it – that's all. Did you know that you have been the means of destroying one of my most treasured ideals? You have, you know. I've always scoffed at personal beauty – now I remain to pray. It's a definite living force – like politics – or like religion."

"Really, Mrs. Cheyne – !"

"Please let me talk – you would if you only knew what I'm going to say. My remarks may seem irrelevant, but they're not. They're a confession of weakness on my part – an acknowledgment of strength on yours. You never liked me from the first, and I don't think I really was very fond of you. We seemed to have been run in different moulds. There's no reason why we shouldn't have got along because – well, you know I'm not half bad when one really knows me; and you! – you have everything that most people like – you're beautiful, cultured, clever and – and quite human."

Camilla made a gesture of impatience, but Rita went on imperturbably. "You're handsome, gentle and human – but you – you're a dreadful fool!"

And then, with a laugh, "Please sit down and don't look so tragic. It's true, dear, perfectly true, and you'll be quite sure of it in a moment."

Anger seemed so futile, Camilla was reduced to a smile of contempt. "I'm sure I can't be anything but flattered at your opinions, Mrs. Cheyne." But, in spite of herself, she was conscious of a mild curiosity as to whither this remarkable conversation was leading.

"Thanks," said Rita with mock humility. "There's only one thing in the world more blind than hatred, and that's love. Because you think you hate me, you'd be willing to let slip forever your only chance of happiness in this world."

"I don't hate you," said Camilla icily, "and luckily my happiness is not in any way dependent on what you may say or do."

"Oh, yes, it is," said Rita quickly. "I'm going to prevent you from making a mistake. You've already made too many of them. You're planning to go away to Kansas when your husband positively adores the very ground you walk on."

Having shot her bolt, like the skillful archer she put her head on one side and eagerly watched its flight. Camilla started up, one hand on the bed-post, her color vanishing.

"You – you heard?"

"I – I know."

"He told you."

"Who? Jeff?" She leaned back in her chair and laughed up at the ceiling. "Well, hardly. I don't mind people telling me they adore the ground I walk on, but – "

"How did you know?" Camilla glanced toward the door and into Mrs. Cheyne's room, a new expression of dismay coming into her eyes. "You heard what passed in here – last night?"

"Yes – something – I couldn't help it."

"How could you – have listened?" Camilla gasped.

"I tried not to – I tried to make you stop – by dropping things and making a noise, but I couldn't. You didn't or wouldn't hear – either of you. Finally I had to go out of the room." She rose with a sudden impulse of sympathy and put her hand on Camilla's shoulder.

"Oh, don't think everything bad about me! Can't you understand? Won't you realize that at this moment I'm the best friend you have in the world? Even if you don't admit that, try to believe that what I say to you is true. Why should I risk a rebuff in coming in here to you if it wasn't with a motive more important than any hurt you can do to me? What I say to you is true. Your husband loves you. He's mad about you. Don't you understand?" Camilla lowered her eyes, one of her hands fingering at the bed-cover, suddenly aware of the friendly pat on her shoulder. At last she slowly raised her head and found Rita Cheyne's eyes with the searching, intrusive look that one woman has for another.

"Why should you tell me this?" she asked. Mrs. Cheyne turned aside with a light laugh.

"Why shouldn't I? Is happiness so easily to be had in this world that I'd refuse it – to a friend if it was in my power to give? I can't see you throwing it away for a foolish whim. That's what it is – a whim. You've got to stay with Jeff. What right have you to go? What has he done to deserve it? I flirted with him. I acknowledge it. What is that? I flirt with every man I like. It's my way of amusing myself." She straightened, and, with a whimsical smile which had in it a touch of effrontery, "The fact that he still loves you after that, my dear," she said, "is the surest proof of his devotion."

Camilla looked away – out of the window toward the "Watch Us Grow" sign, the symbol of Jeff's ambition, and her eyes softened. She got up and walked to the window which faced the mountains.

"If I could only believe you – if I only could," she said, and then, turning suddenly, "Why did you try to make Jeff fall in love with you?"

Rita shrugged. "Simply because – because it was impossible. I'm so tired of doing easy things. I've always done everything I wanted to, and it bored me. I owe your husband a debt. I thought all men were the same. Do you really think there are any more like Jeff?"

Camilla watched her narrowly, probing shrewdly below the surface for traces of the vein of feeling she had shown a moment before. What she discovered was little, but that little seemed to satisfy her, for, after a pause, in which she twisted the window cord and then untwisted it again, she came forward slowly, took Rita by both hands and looked deep into her eyes.

"Why did you come out here?"

It was no time for equivocation. Camilla's eyes burned steadily, oh, so steadily. But Rita did not flinch.

"I thought Jeff was lonely. I thought he needed some one, and so I came out in the Bents' private car as far as Denver. I left them there and came on alone. I wanted to help him – I'm trying to help him still – with my sympathy, my money – and – and such influence as I can use to make his wife realize her duty to him and her duty to herself."

It was an explanation which somehow did not seem to explain, and yet curiously enough it satisfied Camilla. If it was not the whole truth, there was enough of it that was nothing but the truth. She felt that it would not have been fair to ask for more. Rita was not slow to follow up this advantage. She gave a quick sigh, then took Camilla by both shoulders. "You mustn't go away to Kansas, I tell you. You've never loved anybody but Jeff. Cortland knows it, and I know it. I've known it all the while. A woman has a way of learning these things. If you leave him now there's no telling what may happen. He needs you. He can't get on without you. They're trying to crush the life out of him in this soulless war for the smelter, and they may succeed. He's pushed to the limit of his resourcefulness and his endurance. Flesh and blood can't stand that strain long. He needs all his friends now and every help, moral and physical, that they can give him. There's no one else who can take your place now. No one to stand at his side and take the bad with the good. You've had your half of his success – now you must take your half of his failure. You're his wife, Camilla! Do you understand that? His wife!"

A sob welled up in Camilla's throat and took her unawares. She bent her head to hide it – and then gave way and fell on the bed in a passion of tears.

Rita watched her for a moment with a smile, for she knew that the tears were tears of happiness, then went over and put her arms around Camilla's shoulders, murmuring gently:

"You're not to blame, Camilla – not altogether – and it's not too late to begin again. He needs you now as he has never needed you before. It's your opportunity. I hope you see it."

"I do, I do," came faintly from the coverlid.

"You must see him at once. Do you understand? Shall I send for him?"

"Yes, soon." Camilla sat up and smiled through her tears, drew Rita down alongside of her, put her arm around her and kissed her on the cheek.

"I understand you now. I'm sorry – for many things. I want to know you better, dear. May I?"

"Yes," said Rita calmly, "if you can. Perhaps then you might explain me to myself. But I'm going to New York again soon – something tells me you are to stay here."

"I will stay here now," said Camilla proudly, "if Jeff wants me. Are you sure – sure – he – "

Rita held her off at arm's length, quizzically – tantalizing her purposely.

"No, silly. He loves me, of course – that's why I'm presenting him to you." Then she leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, and rose quickly.

"It's pretty late. I must catch the eleven o'clock train. I have a lot to do. I'm going into my own room."

There was a knock at the outer door. Camilla answered it and received a note from the clerk.

"From Mr. Wray's office. There's no answer."

She opened it hurriedly, while Rita watched.

"Dear Camilla" (it ran): "I'm leaving suddenly by the early train for Denver on a business matter which to me means either life or death. For the love of God don't leave me now. Wait until I return. I'm going to the Brown Palace Hotel and will write you from there.

"JEFF."

She read through the hurried scrawl twice and then silently handed it to her companion.

"You must follow, Camilla – at once – with me," said Mrs. Cheyne.

CHAPTER XXIV
GRETCHEN DECIDES

Lawrence Berkely was doing scout duty in the neighborhood of the seat of war, keeping closely in touch with Wray by wire code. Although he had a room at the Brown Palace Hotel, he went elsewhere for his meals, and since the arrival of General Bent's party he had eluded the detection of Cornelius Bent, Curtis Janney, or Cortland. He had been advised by a brief wire from Gretchen Janney of the date of her departure from New York and had noted the arrival of his business enemies with mingled feelings. In response to his note to her room Gretchen had stolen away and met him quietly in one of the hotel parlors, where, unknown to Curtis Janney, they had renewed their vows of eternal fidelity.

Gretchen was, of course, familiar with Larry's position as a business rival of her father's pet company, and she had thought it best, since Larry's departure from New York, to keep their engagement a secret from her parents. She had heard from him regularly, and distance, it seemed, had made no difference in the nature of her feelings for him, but she knew from her father's disappointment at Cortland Bent's defection that the time to take her parents into her confidence had not yet arrived.

It had not occurred to Curtis Janney to think of Lawrence Berkely's attentions seriously, but Gretchen knew that her mother, at least, had breathed a sigh of relief when Larry had left New York. Mrs. Janney had questioned her daughter anxiously, but Gretchen had answered in riddles, and in the end had succeeded in convincing her that marriage was the last thing in the world she was thinking of. Gretchen was a little afraid of her father. Once or twice he had expressed himself rather freely as to the kind of man he expected his daughter to marry, from which it was clear that his list of eligibles did not include Lawrence Berkely. She had written all of this tearfully to Larry, so that when she reached Denver he decided that matters had reached a crisis which demanded some sort of an understanding with Janney père. The clandestine meetings, which rather appealed to Gretchen's sense of the romantic, made Larry unhappy. He had nothing to be ashamed of and saw no reason why he had to court the woman he loved under cover of darkness. So he made up his mind to settle the thing in his own way.

In this crisis it had occurred to Gretchen to enlist Mrs. Cheyne's services in their behalf, for Rita had always been a favorite of her father's; but an evening or two after her arrival in Denver that lady had mysteriously disappeared from the hotel, only leaving word that she had gone to visit friends in the neighborhood and would advise General Bent of her future plans. No one but Larry, with whom she had been talking, had for a moment suspected that the "friends" in the neighborhood were only Jeff, and, though she had not bound Larry to secrecy, both duty and discretion demanded his silence.

Larry's position was difficult, but when he discovered that nothing was to be gained by keeping his movements hidden from Cornelius Bent he took the bull by the horns and boldly sent up his card to Curtis Janney's suite. He was so full of his own affairs that Mr. Janney's possible misconception of the object of his visit had not occurred to him. He was welcomed cordially – so jovially, in fact, that for a moment he was taken off his guard.

"Well, Berkely, by George! glad to see you. Rather a surprise to find us all out here invading your own country, eh?"

Larry sat rather soberly, refused a cigar, and expressed well-bred surprise.

"I can't imagine anybody wanting to leave Braebank in April," he said.

"Well, I didn't want to, Berkely – I'm doing a little scientific farming this summer – but we had to come out on this smelter business – the General and I – " He stopped and puffed rapidly at his cigar. "It's too bad – really – I'm sorry, sorry, but I think Wray made a mistake. I like Wray, Berkely. He's got stuff in him, but he overleaped himself in this smelter business. It's a pity he thought he had to fight us, but you've got to admit we gave him every chance."

"I didn't come to see you about the smelter business, Mr. Janney," said Berkely rather quietly, "but on a matter of my own – a personal – a private matter."

Janney's face grew grave.

"A private matter?"

"Yes, sir." Larry closed his lips firmly for a moment, and then came to the point without further words. "Mr. Janney, I suppose I should have spoken to you before I left New York. Our business relations seemed to make it difficult. But the very fact that we can't be friends in business makes it necessary for me, at least, to be honest with you in this other matter."

"What on earth are you driving at?"

"I want to marry your daughter, sir, that's all," said Larry with the suddenness of desperation.

"Gretchen? My daughter?" Janney said, explosively. He rose, with one hand on the back of his chair, and glared at Larry as though he doubted his sanity. "You want to marry Gretchen?" Then he laughed – and Larry discovered in that laugh wherein Janney and General Bent had points of contact. Janney took three long strides to the window, then wheeled suddenly. "You must be crazy. My daughter – marry you?"

Larry had risen and met Janney's impertinent scrutiny with some dignity.

"Yes, sir; I'm not aware of anything in my family, my connections, my prospects, or my character which can be found objectionable. Your daughter cares for me – "

"Why, you insolent young fortune-hunter!"

"Wait a moment!" and Larry's voice dominated. "You'll speak to me as one gentleman does to another – or you'll not speak to me at all." He took up his hat from the table, and then, more evenly, "I take it, you refuse your consent?"

By this time Curtis Janney's usual poise had completely deserted him.

"Refuse – my consent? Well, rather!"

He went to the door through which Berkely had entered. But instead of opening the door Janney turned and put his back to it.

"See here, young man, you don't like my language. Perhaps you'll like it less when I'm through talking. Colorado seems to breed big ambitions. I know nothing of your family and care less. But I do know something of your prospects. Inside of forty-eight hours you won't have prospects of any kind. You're going to be blotted out. Do you understand? I've made other plans for my daughter – and I'm not in the mood to listen to any silly romantic nonsense from her or any far-sighted propositions from you. Your proposal is impudent sir, d – d impudent – the proposition of a desperate man who, failing to win by fair means – "

"Will you open the door, sir?" said Larry, now white with rage. "If not, I'll find means to open it myself." He took a step forward, and the two men glared into each other's eyes not a pace apart. There was no mistaking Larry's determination, and Mr. Janney's surprise was manifest. This was not the manner of the fortune-hunters he had met. Somewhat uncertainly he stood aside, and Berkely put his hand on the door-knob.

"I did you an honor in consulting you, sir. It's a pity you couldn't appreciate it. In the future I'll act on my own initiative. Good afternoon."

And, before the older man had even realized what the words meant, Larry had opened the door and was gone. He hurried down the corridor, still trembling at the meaning of Janney's insults, which had touched his Southern pride. For Gretchen's sake it would have been better if he could have kept himself under control, and he realized that he had lost every chance of getting Curtis Janney's permission and approval. But that did not daunt him. He had acquitted his mind of a responsibility, and he was glad that in the future there could be no misunderstanding. If he could not marry Gretchen with the approval of her family, he would marry her without it.

Halfway up the block above the hotel on Seventeenth Street Larry stopped, able for the first time to review more calmly the incidents of the last half hour. What was it Curtis Janney had said about his prospects? In forty-eight hours he would be wiped off the earth. That meant Jeff, too. He had a sudden guilty sense of shock, that in his selfish absorption in his own affairs he had for the moment forgotten Jeff and the business of the Company. Forty-eight hours! That was important information – and Janney had let it slip in anger – there was no doubt about that. What did it mean? That all the Amalgamated Company's wires were laid, and the only thing left was to touch the button which would blow the Wray interests to pieces?

It looked that way, and yet Larry still hoped. The rails of the Saguache Short Line would be joined to those of the D. & C. to-morrow. Much depended on Symonds. Larry hurried over to the offices of the Denver and California and emerged later with a look of satisfaction. Symonds was still General Manager and was still loyal. Within thirty-six hours, at his orders, a locomotive and one passenger car from the D. & C. yards at Pueblo would carry Clinton, Symonds, Mulrennan, Judge Weigel, and other stockholders of the Development Company from Pueblo over the line to Saguache, establishing their connection at Pueblo in accordance with Jeff's agreements with the road. It would take some queer construction of the law for Jeff's enemies to get around that. Larry knew that it meant a long fight, one which lack of money might lose in the end, but he assured himself that he could establish a nice legal point which would be worth fighting for. The calling of Jeff's loans by the banks was a more dangerous matter. Larry had hoped that this could have been arranged, but only a small amount of the money had been forthcoming, and where Jeff was going to raise the rest of it Providence only knew!

When Larry reached his room at the hotel he found a brief note from Gretchen:

"I have heard about everything. I shall never speak to father again. You must marry me at once, Larry. I can't stand the suspense any longer. Mother is here with me, but I'm going to get away somehow. Meet me at the Shirley at ten o'clock."

Larry smiled and kissed the penciled scrawl rapturously. "God bless you, I'll do it – Gretchen, dear," he said to himself.

That was a busy evening for Larry. It was six o'clock when he wrote a line to Gretchen and rang for a page, to whom he gave careful instructions – also, some money. Then he sat at his desk and with his code sent a long wire to Jeff. At half-past six he was dressing carefully in the intervals between packing a suit case and 'phoning to a legal friend of his, Dick Wetherall, about a minister and a license. At seven-thirty he dined with Wetherall. At eight he received Rita Cheyne's mysterious wire. At nine he found the cashier of the Tenth National Bank at his home and planned for the taking up of the Development Company's notes and arranging to deposit Mrs. Cheyne's money to Jeff Wray's account on the following morning. At ten he met Gretchen at the Shirley Hotel, and, at half-past ten, had married her.

* * * * *

In response to Larry's first telegram and speeding eastward on the early train, Jeff Wray read all this astonishing news in the sheaf of telegrams handed him at the station by Ike Matthews. His brow lifted, and the hard lines at his mouth relaxed in a smile. Good old Larry! He tried to conjure a vision of Curtis Janney's face as he heard the news. Larry was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance.

It took Jeff longer to decipher the second telegram:

"Mrs. Cheyne has arranged with her Denver agents – deposit eight hundred thousand dollars your credit Tenth National to-morrow morning. Await instructions."

It seemed incredible. When had Rita done this? The grim lines that his long night's vigil had seared at the corners of his mouth grew deeper, but his eyes glowed with a sombre fire. There was still an even chance to win – for Larry was holding the fort awaiting reinforcements, and Rita Cheyne had restored the break in Jeff's line of communication. The astonishing information in Larry's last wire seemed to clear his mind of the doubts which had assailed it all night long. The possibility of success now gave his own affairs a different complexion. He could never have told the truth to General Bent (Jeff couldn't think of him as a father) unless he won the fight for the independence of the Saguache Smelter. Jeff was no man to come cringing in the hour of failure at the feet of his enemy, asking immunity on the strength of such a relationship as that which existed between them. It had been clear to Jeff all night long that if he lost his fight he could never face General Bent with the truth. That was the real bitterness of defeat.

But if he won? The long years of dishonor through which he had struggled, without a name, without kindred, without friends, loomed large before him – mute, merciless years of struggle, privation, and emptiness. If he won, there was more than one victory to be gained in this fight, a moral victory as well as a physical one – the triumph of an eternal truth, the vindication of a forgotten wrong. If he won he would tell General Bent the truth – not as a son to a father, but as one merciless enemy to another, asking no quarter and giving none.

The only connection for Kinney at Saguache was with the later train, but Jeff had arranged for a motor-car which took him over the Pass and landed him at Kinney in time for the twelve o'clock train for Denver, where he arrived at six o'clock that evening. Larry met him at the station, smiling broadly.

"I think we've put a spoke in their wheel, Jeff," he laughed. "But we must keep dark. To-morrow morning when the banks open you're going to take up that stock, then we're going to call on the General."