Gibbs George
The Forbidden Way
"You're very kind to me," he said slowly. "You say you like me because I'm different from other fellows here. I suppose I am. I was born different and I guess I grew up different. If you think I'm worth while, then I'm glad I grew up the way I did." He got up and walked slowly the length of the room. She watched him doubtfully, wondering what was passing in his mind. She learned in a moment; for when he approached her again he leaned over her chair and, without the slightest warning, had put his arms around her and kissed her again and again on the lips.
She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible to do so, and she was too bewildered for a moment to do anything but sit and stare blankly before her. He was a strange fish – a most extraordinary fish which rose only when one had stopped fishing. It was the way he did it that appalled her – he was so brutal, so cold-blooded. When he released her she rose abruptly, her face pale and her lips trembling.
"How could you?" she said. "How could you?" And then, with more composure, she turned and pointed toward the door.
"I wish you'd please go – at once."
But as he stood staring at her she was obliged to repeat: "Don't you hear me? I want you to go and not to come back. Isn't that plain? Or would you prefer to have me ring for a servant?"
"No, I don't prefer either," he said with a smile; "I don't want to go. I want to stay here with you. That's what I came for."
She walked over to the door and stood by the bell. "Do you wish me to ring?"
"Of course not."
"Will you go?"
"No."
She raised her hand toward the bell, but halted it in midair. Wray noticed her hesitation.
"Wait a moment. Don't be foolish, Rita. I have something to say to you. It wouldn't reflect much credit on either of us for you to send me out. I thought we understood each other. I'm sorry. You said once that you liked me because I was plain-spoken and because I said and did just what came into my head, but you haven't been fair with me."
"What do you mean?"
"Just this: You and I were to speak to each other freely of ourselves and of each other. You said you needed me, and I knew I needed you. We decided it was good to be friends. That was our agreement. You broke it wilfully. You have acted with me precisely as you have acted with a dozen other men. It was lucky I discovered my danger in time. I don't think any woman in the world could do as much with me as you could – if you wanted to. When I like anybody I try to show them that I do. If you were a man I'd give you my hand, or loan you money, or help you in business. I can't do that with you. You're a woman and meant to be kissed. So I kissed you."
She dropped her hands. "Yes, you kissed me, brutally, shamelessly – "
"Shamelessly?"
"You've insulted me. I'll never forgive you. Don't you think a woman can tell? There are other ways of judging a man. I've interested you, yes, because you've never known any real woman before," contemptuously. "I suppose you're interested still. You ought to be. But you can never care for any woman until you forget to be interested in yourself. For you the sun rises and sets in Jeff Wray, and you want other people to think so, too."
"I'm sorry you think so badly of me."
"Oh, no, I don't think badly of you. From the present moment I sha'n't think of you at all. I – I dislike you – intensely. I want to be alone. Will you please go?"
Wray gave her his blandest stare, and then shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the door.
"You're willing to have me go like this?"
"Yes."
"I'm going West to-morrow."
"It makes no difference to me where you are going."
"Won't you forgive me?"
"No."
As he passed her, he offered his hand in one last appeal, but she turned away from him, her hands behind her, and in a moment he was gone.
Rita Cheyne heard the hall door close behind him and then sank into the chair before the open fire, her eyes staring before her at the tiny flame which still played fitfully above the gray log. Her fish had risen at last with such wanton viciousness that he had taken hook, line, reel, and rod. Only her creel remained to her – her empty creel.
CHAPTER XIV
FATHER AND SON
Father and son had dined together alone, and for most of the time in silence. Cornelius Bent had brought his business mien uptown with him, and Cortland, with a discretion borrowed of experience, made only the most perfunctory attempts at a conversation. Since the "Lone Tree" affair there had happened a change in their relations which each of them had come to understand. Cortland Bent's successive failures in various employments had at last convinced his father that his son was not born of the stuff of which Captains of Industry are made. The loss of the mine had been the culminating stroke in Cortland's ill-fortune, and since his return to New York he had been aware of a loss of caste in the old man's eyes. General Bent had a habit of weighing men by their business performances and their utility in the financial enterprises which were controlled from the offices of Bent & Company. It was not his custom to make allowances for differences in temperament in his employees, or even to consider their social relationships except in so far as they contributed to his own financial well-being. He had accustomed himself for many years to regard the men under him as integral parts of the complicated machinery of his office, each with its own duty, upon the successful performance of which the whole fabric depended. He had figured the coefficient of human frailty to a decimal point, and was noted for the strength of his business organization.
To such a man an only son with incipient leanings toward literature, music, and the arts was something in the nature of a reproach upon the father himself. Cort had left college with an appreciation of Æschylus and Euripides and a track record of ten-seconds flat. So far as Bent Senior could see, these accomplishments were his only equipment for his eventual control of the great business of the firm of which his father was the founder. The Greek poets were Greek, indeed, to the General, but the track record was less discouraging, so Cortland began the business of life at twenty-three as a "runner" for the bank, rising in time to the dignity of a post inside a brass cage, figuring discounts, where for a time he was singularly contented, following the routine with a cheerfulness born of desperation. As assistant to the cashier he was less successful, and when his father took him into his own office later and made him a seller of bonds, Cortland was quite sure that at last he had come into his own. For the selling of bonds, it seemed, required only tireless legs and tireless imagination – both of which he possessed. Only after a month he was convinced that bond sellers are born – not made.
The General, still hoping against hope, had now taken him back into his office on a salary and an interest in business secured, and thus made his son more or less dependent upon his own efforts for the means to enjoy his leisure. Father and son existed now as they had always done, on a basis of mutual tolerance – a hazardous relation which often threatened to lead and often did lead to open rupture. To-night Cortland was aware that a discussion of more than usual importance was impending, and, when dinner was over, the General ordered the coffee served in the smoking room, the door of which, after the departure of the butler, he firmly closed.
General Bent lit his cigar with some deliberation, while Cortland watched him, studying the hard familiar features, the aquiline nose, the thin lips, the deeply indented chin, wondering, as he had often wondered before, how a father and son could be so dissimilar. It was a freak of heredity, Nature's little joke – at Cornelius Bent's expense. The General sank into his armchair, thoughtfully contemplating his legs and emitting a cloud of smoke as though seeking in the common rite of tobacco some ground of understanding between his son and himself.
"I want to speak to you about the Wrays," he said at last.
Cortland's gaze found the fire and remained on it.
"You are aware that a situation has arisen within the past few weeks which has made it impossible for Bent & Company or myself personally to have any further relations, either financial or social, with Jeff Wray? He has taken a stand in regard to his holdings in Saguache Valley which I consider neither proper nor justifiable. To make short of a long matter, I thought it best some weeks ago to forget the matter of the mine and make Wray an offer for his entire interests in the Saguache Valley. It was a generous offer, one that no man in his position had a right to refuse. But he did refuse it in such terms that further negotiations on the subject were impossible."
"Yes, sir, I know," put in his son.
"Wray's rise is one of those remarkable combinations of luck and ability – I'll concede him that – which are to be found in every community once in a decade. From obscure beginnings – God knows what the fellow sprang from – he has worked his way up in a period of three years to a position of commanding influence. He owns the biggest independent smelter in the West – built it, we now believe, with the intention of underbidding the Amalgamated. He has not done so yet because he hasn't been sure enough of himself. But he's rapidly acquiring a notion that nothing Jeff Wray can do will fail. That is his weak point – as it is with every beggar on horseback. You are familiar with all of these facts. You've had some occasion," bitterly, "to form your own judgment of the man. When you came East I was under the impression that, aside from business, there were other reasons, why you disliked him."
"That is correct, sir," muttered Cortland, "there were."
The General eyed his son sharply before he spoke again.
"Am I to understand that those reasons still exist? Or – "
"One moment, sir. I'd like to know just where this conversation is drifting. My relations with Wray have never been pleasant. He isn't the type of man I've ever cared much about. No conditions that I'm aware of could ever make us friendly, and, aside from his personality, which I don't admire, I'm not likely to forget the 'Lone Tree' matter very soon."
"H – m! That still rankles, does it? It does with me – with all of us. Oh, I'm not blaming you, Cort. If you had been a little sharper you might have made one last investigation before you signed those papers. But you didn't, and that's the end of that part of the matter. What I want to know now is just what your relations with the Wray family are at the present moment. You hate Wray, and yet most of your leisure moments are spent in the company of his wife. Am I to understand – ?"
"Wait a moment, sir – " Cortland had risen and moved uneasily to the fireplace. "I'd prefer that Mrs. Wray's name be kept out of the discussion. I can't see how my relations with her can have any bearing – "
"They have," the General interrupted suavely. "If Mrs. Wray is to receive your confidences I can't give you mine."
"Thank you," bitterly. "I didn't know I had ever done anything to warrant such an attitude as this."
"Tut! tut! Don't misunderstand me. Whatever your sins, they've always been those of omission. I don't believe you'd betray me wilfully. But intimacies with pretty women are dangerous, especially intimacies with the wives of one's financial enemies; unless, of course, there's some method in one's madness."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm sorry I don't make my intention clear. If your friendship with Mrs. Wray can be useful to Bent & Company I see no reason why it shouldn't continue. But if it jeopardizes my business plans in any way, it's time it stopped. In my office you are in a position and will, I hope, in the near future be in a further position to learn all the business plans of the Amalgamated and other companies. Of course, I don't know how far Mrs. Wray enjoys the business confidences of-her husband. But it is safe to assume that, being a woman, she knows much more than her husband thinks she does. I don't intend that you should be placed in an embarrassing position with respect to her or with respect to me. I'm on the point of starting the machinery of my office on a big financial operation for the Amalgamated Reduction Company – the exact nature of which until the present moment has remained a secret. Your part in this deal has been mapped out with some care, and the responsibilities I have selected for you should give you a sense of my renewed faith in your capabilities. But you can't carry water on both shoulders – "
"You're very flattering, sir. I've never carried much water on either shoulder; and my relations with Mrs. Wray hardly warrant – "
"I can't see that," impatiently. "You're so often together that people are talking about you. Curtis Janney has spoken to me about it. Of course, your affair with Gretchen is one that you must work out for yourselves, but I'll confess I'm surprised that she stands for your rather obvious attentions to a married woman."
Cortland Bent smiled at the ash of his cigar. His father saw it and lost his temper.
"I'm tired of this shilly-shallying," he snapped. "You seem to make a practice in life of skating along the edge of important issues. I'm not going to tolerate it any longer, and I've got to know just where you stand."
"Well, dad," calmly, "where shall we begin? With Gretchen? Very well. Gretchen and I have decided that we're not going to be married."
"What?"
"We have no intention of marrying next year or at any other time."
"Well, of all the – ! Curtis Janney doesn't know this."
"He should. Gretchen is in love with somebody else, and I – "
"You! I understand. You are, too. You're in love with Jeff Wray's wife."
He paused, but his son made no reply, though the old man watched his face curiously for a sign. The General knocked his cigar-ash into the fire.
"Is that true?"
"Under the circumstances I should prefer not to discuss the matter."
"Why? You and I haven't always been in sympathy, but the fact remains that I'm your father." The old man's long fingers clutched the chair arm, and he looked straight before him, speaking slowly. "I suppose you've got to have your fling. I did. Every man does. But you're almost old enough to be through that period now. There was never a woman in the world worth the pains and anxieties of an affair of this kind. A woman who plays loose with one man will do it with another. The fashion of making love to other men's wives did not exist when I was young."
Cortland turned to the fire, his lips compressed, and with the tongs replaced a fallen log.
"When I was young," the old man went on, "a man's claim upon his wife was never questioned. Society managed things better in those days. Ostracism was the fate of the careless woman; and men of your age who sought married women by preference were denied the houses of the young girls of their own condition. If a fellow of your type had oats to sow, he sowed them with a decent privacy instead of bringing his mother, his sister, into contact – "
Cortland straightened up, the tongs in his hand, his face pale with fury, saying in stifled tones:
"For God's sake, stop, or I'll strike you as you sit."
The General moved forward in his chair almost imperceptibly, and the cigar slipped from his fingers and rolled on the hearth. For a long moment the two men looked into each other's eyes, the elder conscious that for the first time in his life he had seen his son really aroused. There was no fear in the father's look, only surprise and a kind of reluctant admiration for a side of Cortland's character he had never seen. He sank back into his chair and looked into the fire.
"Oh!" he muttered.
"You had no right to speak of Mrs. Wray in those terms," said Cortland, his voice still quivering.
"I'm sorry. I did not know."
Cortland set down the fire tongs, his hands trembling, and put both elbows on the mantel-shelf.
"Perhaps, since you know so much," he said in a suppressed voice, "I had better add that I would have married her if Wray hadn't."
"Really? You surprise me."
There was a moment of silence which proved to both men the futility of further discussion.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather we didn't speak of this. Mrs. Wray would understand your viewpoint less clearly than I do. She is not familiar with vice, and she does not return my feeling for her. If she did, I should be the last person in the world she would see – "
"I can't believe you."
"It is the truth. Strange as it may seem to you and to me, she loves her husband."
"She married him for his money."
Cortland was silent. Memory suddenly pictured the schoolroom at Mesa City where he had won Camilla and lost her in the same unfortunate hour – his hour of mistakes, spiritual and material – a crucial hour in his life which he had met mistily, a slave of the caste which had bred him, a trifler in the sight of the only woman he could love, just as he had been a trifler before the world in letters and in business.
"No," he replied. "She did not marry him for money. She married him – for other reasons. She found those reasons sufficient then – she finds them sufficient now." He dropped heavily, with the air of a broken man, into an armchair, and put a hand over his eyes as though the light hurt them. "Don't try to influence me, sir. Let me think this out in my own way. Perhaps, after what you've told me about the Amalgamated, I ought to let you know."
"Speak to me freely, Cort," said the old man more kindly.
"I don't want you to think of Camilla as the wife of Jeff Wray. I want you to think of her as I think of her – as herself – as the girl I knew when I first went West, an English garden-rose growing alone in the heart of the desert. How she had taken root there Heaven only knows, but she had – and bloomed more tenderly because of the weeds that surrounded her."
He paused a moment and glanced at his father. General Bent had sunk deep in his chair, his shaggy brows hiding his deeply set eyes, which peered like those of a seer of visions into the dying embers before him. A spell seemed to have fallen over him. Cortland felt for the first time in his life that there was between them now some subtle bond of sympathy, unknown, undreamed of, even. Encouraged, he went on.
"She was different from the others. I thought then it was because of the rough setting. I know now that it wasn't. She is the same here that she was out there. I can't see anything in any other woman; I don't want to see anything in any other woman. I couldn't make her out; it puzzled me that I could do nothing with her. After school hours – she was the schoolmistress, you know, sir – we rode far up into the mountains. She got to be a habit with me; then a fever. I didn't know what was the matter except that I was sick because of the need of her. I didn't think of marriage then. She was nothing. Her father kept a store in Abilene, Kansas. I thought of you. All my inherited instincts, my sense of class distinction, of which we people in New York make such a fetich, were revolted. But I loved her, and I told her so."
Cortland sat up, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and followed his father's gaze into the fire.
"She was too clean to understand me, sir. I knew it almost before I had spoken. In her eyes there dawned the horror, the fear, the self-pity which could not be said in words. Then Jeff Wray came in and I left her – left Mesa City. There was – nothing else – to do."
His voice, which had sunk to a lower key, halted and then was silent. A chiming clock in the hallway struck the hour; other clocks in dainty echo followed in different parts of the house; an automobile outside hooted derisively; but for a long while the two men sat, each busied with a thread of memory which the young man had unreeled from the spool of life. In the midst of his thoughts Cort heard a voice at his elbow, the voice of an old man, tremulous and uncertain, a softer voice than his father's.
"It is strange – very, very strange!"
"What is strange, sir?"
Cornelius Bent passed his fingers before his eyes quickly and straightened in his chair.
"Your story. It's strange. You know, Cort, I, too, once loved a woman like that – the way you do. It's an old romance – before your mother, Cort. Nobody knows – nobody in the East ever knew – even Caroline – "
He stopped speaking as though he had already said too much, got up slowly and walked the length of the room, while Cortland watched him, conscious again of the sudden unusual sense of conciliation in them both. At the other end of the room the General stood a moment, his hands behind his back, his gaze upon the floor.
"I am sorry, Cort," he said with sudden harshness. And then, after a pause, "You must not see Mrs. Wray again."
Cortland's hands clenched until the knuckles were white, and his eyes closed tightly, as though by a muscular effort he might rob them of a persistent vision. When he spoke his voice was husky like that of a man who had been silent for a long time.
"You're right, sir – I've thought so for some days. But it's not so easy. Sometimes I think she needs me – "
"Needs you? Don't they get along?"
"I don't know. There are times when I feel that I am doing the right sort of thing."
"He doesn't abuse her?"
"I don't know. She'd be the last person to speak of it if he did. But I think she doesn't altogether want me to go."
General Bent shook his head slowly. "No, Cort. It won't do. What you've just told me makes your duty very clear – your duty to her and your duty to yourself. There's danger ahead – danger for you both. You may not care for my advice – we've not always understood each other – but I hope you'll believe me when I say that I offer it unselfishly, with the single purpose of looking after your own welfare. Leave New York. I'm prepared to send you West next week, if you'll go. There will be a lot of work for us all. It's possible that I may go, too, before long. I can give you duties which will keep you busy so that you won't have time to think of other things. When I first spoke to you of this business to-night I spoke as President of the Amalgamated Reduction Company, now I am speaking to you as a father. I want you with us more than ever – largely on our account, but more largely now upon your own. Will you go?"
Cortland rose and leaned one elbow on the mantel.
"You want me to help you in the fight for Wray's smelter?"
"Yes, I do."
"Don't you want me to see her again?"
"It's wiser not to. No good can come of it – perhaps a great deal of harm."
"She would not understand – she knows I dislike her husband, but it seems to me I ought to tell her – "
"That you're making financial war upon her husband? Forewarn him – forearm him? What else would you say. That doesn't seem fair to me, does it?"
He paused, watching his son narrowly and yet with a kind of stealthy pity. Cortland's struggle cost him something.
"I suppose you're right," he said at last. And then, turning around toward his father, "I will not see her again. Give me the work, sir, and I'll do my best. Perhaps I haven't always tried to do that. I will, though, if you give me the chance."
"Your hand on it, Cort. I won't forget this. I'm glad you spoke to me. It hasn't always been our custom to exchange confidences, but I'll give you more of mine if you'll let me. I'm getting old. More and more I feel the need of younger shoulders to lean on. I'm not all a business document, but the habit of mercilessness grows on one downtown. Mercy has no place in business, and it's the merciful man that goes to the wall. But I have another side. There's a tender chord left in me somewhere. You've struck it to-night, and there's a kind of sweetness in the pain of it, Cort. It's rusty and out of use, but it can still sing a little."
Cortland laid his hand on the old man's shoulder almost timidly, as he might have done to a stranger.
"You'll forgive me, father – ?"
"Oh, that" – and he took his son's hand – "I honor you for that, my son. She was the woman you loved. You could not hear her badly spoken of. Perhaps if I had known my duty – I should have guessed. Say nothing more. You're ready to take my instructions?"
"Yes – and the sooner the better."
"Very good. You'll hear more of this to-morrow. I am – I'm a little tired to-night. I will see you at the office."
Cortland watched him pass out of the door and listened to his heavy step on the broad staircase. Cornelius Bent was paying the toll of his merciless years.
When he was gone, Cortland sank into the big chair his father had vacated, his head in his hands, and remained motionless.
