"Yes, I want you," he said absently. "Of course I want you." He fingered the hand on his sleeve and patted it gently, as he would have done a child's, but she saw with pain that the tragedy of his birth now overshadowed all other issues. If he was thinking of her at all, it was of the other Camilla – the Camilla he had known longest – the gingerbread woman that she had been. It hurt her, but she knew that it was her own fault that he could not think otherwise. She took his hand in her own warm fingers, and held it closely against her breast.
"Jeff, dear, look at me. I'm not the woman that I used to be. I'm the real Camilla, now – the Camilla you always hoped I'd be. I'm changed. Something has happened to me. I want you to understand – I'm not a graven image now, Jeff, I'm just – your wife."
He looked at her, bewildered, but in her eyes he saw that what she said was true. They were different eyes from the ones he had known – softened, darker – and looked up into his own pleadingly, wet with compassion, the tender, compelling eyes of a woman whose soul is awakened. She released his hand and threw her arms around his neck, lifting her face to his. "Don't you understand, Jeff? I want you. I want you. I've never wanted anybody else."
His arms tightened about her, and their lips met. She was tangible now – no mere image to be worshipped from afar, but a warm idol of flesh and blood, to be taken into one's heart and enshrined there.
"Camilla, girl. Is it true?"
"Yes," she whispered, "it has always been true – only I didn't know it. I love you, Jeff. I love you – oh, how I love you! Better than myself – better than all the world. Do you realize it now?"
He took her head between his hands and held it away so that he might look deep into her eyes and be sure. Their lashes dropped once or twice and hid them, but that made them only the more lovely when they opened again. For in them he read the whole measure of his happiness and hers.
"Yes, it's true. I know it now. You've never looked at me like that – never before." He bent her head forward and would have kissed her – as he sometimes used to do – on the forehead – but she would not let him.
"No, not that kiss – the cold kiss of homage, Jeff. I don't want to be venerated. You're not to kiss me like that again – ever. My lips – they're yours, Jeff – my lips … No one else – no, never … they're yours."
So he took them, and in their sweetness for a while found forgetfulness of his bitterness. At last she led him to a big chair by the window, made him sit, and sank on the floor at his feet.
"You're not going back to Kansas?" he asked anxiously.
She smiled. "Not unless you want me to."
He drew her into his arms again. "I'll never want you to. I want you here – close – close – my girl."
"You must never leave me again, Jeff – I've suffered so."
"I couldn't stand seeing you. I thought you loved – " She put her fingers over his lips and would not let him finish.
"No – not now – don't speak of that, it's all a nightmare. But you must never leave me again. I want to be with you always. I want to take my half of your troubles."
His head bowed, the grasp of his hands relaxed, and his eyes stared into vacancy.
"My troubles – yes, there are a lot of them. Perhaps you won't care for me so much when I'm down and out, Camilla. I suppose I ought to tell you. He – my father is going to have me indicted for conspiracy – about the mines. He's going to try to jail me – if he can."
She started up, terror-stricken.
"Oh, he couldn't – even he – couldn't do a thing like that."
"Oh, yes, he could," grimly. "He has bribed Reimer and Fritz Weyl. They swear I tried to murder Max."
"But you didn't, Jeff – tell me you didn't," she said tremulously. "You know you never told me what happened, and I've feared – you were desperate in those days – and lawless."
"I'm desperate and lawless yet," he muttered. "But I'd never try to kill a man just for money. We offered Max Reimer a share in the mine – a good share – but he wanted to hog it all. I told him he was a drunken fool, and he tried to shoot me. Mulrennan struck him, and knocked him out. I wouldn't be here now if he hadn't. I don't know why I never told you. I suppose I thought you wouldn't understand. I left Mulrennan trying to bring him around – and went down and bought that lease. That's all."
"Thank God," she crooned. "I've been so afraid. There have been so many stories."
"Lies – all lies – circulated by him. Now he's got Reimer to swear to them."
She threw her arms around his neck and searched his face anxiously.
"Jeff – he can't make people believe – "
"He wants to ruin me – and he'll do it if he can. There's no telling what money will do. He squeezed Conrad Seemuller and made him a bankrupt. Seemuller drank himself to death. Jimmy Ott blew out his brains. Oh, don't be afraid – I'm not going to do either – I'm not going to be crushed like a worm. If he ruins me, he'll pay dear for the privilege. I'll drag him down with me, and he'll drop farther than I will. I wanted to keep things quiet – but I won't any longer. I'll tell the world my story – his story, and let the world judge between us."
He tramped up and down the floor like a madman until Camilla interposed and led him to a divan. He followed her like a child and let her sit beside him while she questioned him as to what had happened. Jeff had looked for sanctuary, and he had found it at last. The other people in the house did not disturb them, and they sat for a long time alone, exchanging the confidences which had been so long delayed; but they were none the less sweet on that account. Late in the afternoon Camilla questioned Jeff again about the happenings of the morning. Rita Cheyne's part in the situation did not surprise her. She knew that Rita had heard everything and had decided to continue to play the game with Fate in Jeff's behalf. But she did not tell Jeff so. When he questioned her she told him what had happened at the Kinney House after he had left.
"Oh, Jeff, I don't know how I could have misjudged you so. Rita opened my eyes – why she chose to do it, I don't know. She's a strange woman – I can't quite make her out even now. She's half angel, half vixen, but I'll never forget her – never!" Camilla put her hand over Jeff's suddenly. "That money – Jeff – you must pay her back that money – if you have to sell the mine."
"I can't sell the mine – not now. It would clean me out."
"I don't care," she pleaded. "I don't want money. It has brought nothing but unhappiness to either of us. I want to begin all over again. I've learned my lesson. I look back to the old days and wonder what I could have been dreaming of. I've seen all I want of the world. Happiness belongs in the heart – no amount of money can buy it a place there. I want to be poor again – with you. Give him – give General Bent what he wants, Jeff – that will satisfy him, won't it? Please, Jeff, for my sake! Sell out the smelter and the mine – "
"Never!" Jeff's jaw set, and he rose, putting her aside almost roughly.
"I'll never give them up while I've an ounce of blood to fight!"
His tongue faltered and was silent. Camilla followed his startled gaze through the open window at an automobile, from the tonneau of which a man hurriedly descended.
"What can it mean?" Jeff was asking as though to himself. "Cort Bent! What does he want?"
"It's very curious," Camilla said slowly. "To see you – "
When Bent came into the room a moment later they were both aware of the imminence of important revelations. Camilla had not seen him for two months, and she was conscious of a slight sense of shock at his appearance. Jeff, too, noted that he was very pale and that in his eyes there hung a shadow of the misfortune that had marked them all.
At the door Cortland turned to Mrs. Berkely who had met him in the hall.
"If you don't mind, Gretchen, I'd like to speak to him alone." And, when Camilla would have gone, "No, Camilla, it concerns you, too." While they wondered what was coming he walked past Camilla and put a hand on Jeff's shoulder, the lines in his face softening gently.
"They've told me, Jeff. I know. I've come to offer you my hand." And, as Jeff still stared at him uncertainly, "You won't refuse it, will you!"
There was a nobility in the simple gesture, a depth of meaning in the quiet tones of his voice. Camilla alone knew what those few words were costing him, and she watched Jeff, who was standing as though he had been turned to stone, his head bent forward upon his breast, his deep-set eyes peering under his brows as General Bent's had often done. His eyes found Cortland's at last, searching them keenly, but he found in them only a small bright flame of fellowship among the embers of regret. Jeff's fingers twitched a little, then his hand came forward impulsively, and the two men clasped hands.
"I'm sorry, Jeff – I am – from the bottom of my heart. I want you to understand."
"I do," said Jeff, with difficulty. "I didn't want you to know – "
"I'm glad. I think it's better so."
He paused a moment before going on. "I want – I want you and Camilla to go right back with me. Can you? That's what I came to ask. Father is ill."
"Ill?" stammered Jeff.
"A stroke of apoplexy – the sudden shock of discovering all this." Jeff and Camilla started forward with one impulse of horror. "Rita and Aunt Caroline were with him, and Rita had told him the truth – the doctors are there – he has recovered consciousness, but his left side is paralyzed, completely paralyzed."
Jeff sank heavily in a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"What do the doctors say?" asked Camilla anxiously.
"That he's very sick – that's all. Nobody can tell. I've wired Chicago for a specialist. We can only wait and hope. It's pretty desperate – I know that. He's an old man – and he's grown older lately."
Cort stopped speaking and walked to the window, while Camilla watched him pityingly. He wasn't like the old Cort she used to know, and yet there was something inexpressively appealing in his gentleness which reminded her of the moods in him she had liked the best. She glanced at Jeff. His head was still buried in his hands, and he had not moved. But Camilla knew that this startling revelation was causing a rearrangement of all Jeff's ideas. In that moment she prayed that Jeff's bitterness might be sweetened – that the tragedy which had suddenly stalked among them might soften his heart to pity for the old man who was his father and his enemy.
Cortland turned and spoke with an effort.
"Will you go back with me, Jeff? When he first recovered consciousness he spoke your name. He has been asking for you ever since. He wants – "
Jeff's eyes peered above his trembling fingers.
"He asked – for me?" he said hoarsely.
"Yes – he wants to see you."
Jeff's head sank into his hands again.
"He wants – to see me? I can't – seem to realize – "
"It's true – he asked me to bring you."
There was a long period of silence, during which Jeff's long, bony fingers clasped and unclasped back of his head as he struggled with himself. "I can't," he groaned at last. "I can't. It has been too long – too much." He straightened in disorder and went on wildly: "Why, he has dogged my steps for months – used all his genius and cunning to do away with me – tried to rid himself of me as he did years ago – and even hired men to swear my liberty away." His head dropped into his hands again and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "No, I can't, Cort. I can't. It's too much to ask – too much."
Cortland stood in the middle of the floor, his arms folded, head bent, waiting for the storm to pass, his own pain engulfed in the greater pain of the man before him. He did not try to answer Jeff, for there was no answer to be made. It was not a moment for words, and he knew he had no right even to petition. It was a matter for Jeff's heart alone – a heart so long embittered that even if it refused this charity, Cortland could not find it in his own heart to condemn.
With a glance at Cortland, Camilla went over to Jeff and laid her fingers lightly on his shoulder.
"Jeff," she said with gentle firmness, "you must go – to your father." But, as he did not move, she went on. "You forget – he did not know. Perhaps if he had known he would have tried to make atonement before. Do you realize what it means for a man like General Bent to make such a request at such a time? You can't refuse, Jeff. You can't."
Jeff moved his head and stared for a long time at the fireplace, his fingers clenched on the chair arms, turning at last to Cortland.
"Do you – do you think he'll die?" he asked. "What do they say?"
"His heart is bad," said Cort gravely. "I don't know – a man of father's years seldom recovers from a thing like that – "
But it was Camilla who interposed. She stepped between the two men and took Jeff Ly the arm. "Cort can't go back without you, Jeff," she said passionately. "Don't you see that? He can't. You've got to go. If your father died to-night you'd never forgive yourself. He may have done you a wrong, but God knows he's trying to right it now. You've got to let him." Cortland watched them a moment, then suddenly straightened and glanced at his watch.
"I can't stay here any longer," he said. "I've got to go back to him. There is much to be done, and I'm the only one to do it. This is my last plea – not that of a dying man's son for his father, but of a brother to a brother for the father of both. Come back with me – Jeff. Not for his sake – but for your own. It is your own blood that is calling you – pitifully – you can't refuse."
Jeff struggled heavily to his feet and passed his hands across his eyes, and then, with a sudden sharp intake of his breath, he turned to Cortland, his lips trembling.
"I'll go," he said hoarsely. "If he wants me, I'll go, Cort. Something is drawing me – something inside of me that awoke when you told me what had happened. I've been fighting against it, the habit of thirty years was fighting it, but I've got to go. I'd be cursed if I didn't. You're sure he really wants me, Cort?"
CHAPTER XXVII
GENERAL BENT
The room at the hotel into which Cortland showed them was a part of General Bent's own suite. Curtis Janney and a doctor consulted near the window, and a nurse from the hospital, in her white linen uniform and cap, hovered near. Jeff's questioning gaze sought the crack of the door of the darkened room adjoining.
"I think you may go in, Mr. Bent," said the doctor to Cortland. "He's conscious at longer intervals now. It looks very much more hopeful, sir. He still asks for Mr. Wray."
Cortland followed the doctor into the sick room, while Janney joined Jeff and Camilla and waited.
"Will he – get over it, Mr. Janney?" Camilla asked softly.
"Oh, I think so now – we didn't at first. Only one side is affected. He can even move the hand a little. Of course, it may be a long time."
Jeff listened in a daze. The baby stare had come into his eyes again, and it moved from one object in the room to another – always returning to the door of the darkened room into which Cortland had vanished. There was an odor of medicine, the sound of crackling ice, and now the murmur of voices. A moment later one of the nurses appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Wray," she said, "you may come in."
And Jeff entered, passing Cortland, who stood with bowed head at the door. In the darkness he could just make out the white figure of the old man propped up against the pillows. He breathed with difficulty, and Jeff, unused to scenes of sickness, felt all his heart go out in pity for the helpless old man who was calling for him.
"Is he here?" the General murmured. "Is he here?"
Jeff moved quietly around the bed to the chair which the nurse had placed for him, "Yes, sir," he said huskily. "It's Jeff."
The General's right hand groped feebly along the covers, and Jeff took it in both of his own. "Cort told me you wanted me, sir."
"I'm glad – very glad." He turned his head and tried to smile. "It was – so – so sudden – the news," he said with an effort, "to find out – "
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't want you to know."
"I'm glad to know. It makes me – happy. I've been trying for so many years to find you."
"You tried?" in astonishment.
"Yes, I didn't know anything about – about having a son – until it was too late. One of my associates – in the West – told me later. I tried to find out – where they had taken you, but the nurse in the hospital – had gone – and there was no record of her – or of – of you." He spoke with a great effort, striving against the drowsiness which from time to time attacked him. "They did things – differently in those days. She – your mother – never mentioned my name. We had had a quarrel – a serious quarrel – just after we were married – "
"Married?" Jeff leaned forward over the white coverlid toward the old man's distorted face. "You were married?" he whispered, awe-stricken.
"Yes, married, Jeff – married – I – I have the papers – at home – I'll show them to you – "
Jeff bent his head suddenly over the old man's lean fingers and kissed them impulsively.
"Married!" he murmured, "Thank God! Thank God for that."
The General's eyes followed him plaintively, while he struggled for breath. "Yes, it's true. In Topeka – Kansas. That's what I wanted to tell you. I couldn't go – I couldn't die without letting you know that. It didn't matter to her – she could forget. I did her a wrong, but not a great wrong, as I did you. I've thought about you all these years, Jeff. It's my secret – I've kept it a long time – "
He sank back into his pillows, exhausted, breathing heavily again, and the doctor who had stood in the doorway came forward. "I think you had better rest, General. Mr. Wray can come in later." But the General resolutely waved him aside with a movement that suggested his old authority.
"No, not yet – I'm better – I'll sleep again in a moment." And, as the doctor withdrew, the old man's grasp on Jeff's hand grew tighter. "They took you away from the hospital – without even giving you a name."
"Yes, sir – I had no name but the one they gave me." Jeff tried to make him stop talking, but he went on, striving desperately:
"I had men working – to try and find you. I've their reports at home – you shall see them. I want you to know that I did all I could. We got the name of the nurse."
"Mrs. Nixon?"
"I think – no," he said confusedly. "I can't remember – she disappeared – "
"Yes, sir. She married again and went to Texas. She took me with her."
Bent's eyes searched Jeff's piteously. "That was it," he whispered, "that was it. That's my excuse – I tried, you know I tried, don't you? It has been my burden for years – more even lately – than when I was younger – the wrong I had done you. Say that you understand – won't you – my – my – son?"
The tears had come into Jeff's eyes, welled forth like the gush of water in a dry fountain, and fell upon the old wrinkled fingers.
"I do, sir – I do."
The General's hand left the coverlid and rested for a moment on Jeff's shoulder.
"I hoped you would. I've always hoped you'd forgive me when you knew."
Jeff straightened and brushed his eyes. "There's nothing to forgive. I – I only want you to get well – you will, sir. They say you're better."
"Yes, Jeff, better – better already – but I'm very tired. I think – I think – I can sleep now – but don't go away – don't go," and he sank back in a state of coma.
General Bent recovered. The stroke was a slight one, and he gained strength and the use of his faculties rapidly. But Time had served its notice of dispossession, and they all knew that the hour had come when the management of Bent's great business interests must pass to younger hands. Within a few weeks he was permitted to sit up for an hour each day, and with Cortland's help took up the loose ends of the most urgent business. But he tired easily, and it was evident to them all that the days of his activity were ended.
In spite of it all, a great calm had fallen over the General's spirit. The quick decision, the incisive judgment, were still his – for one doesn't forget in a moment the habits of a lifetime of command – but his tones were softer, his manner more gentle, and in his eyes there had dawned a soft light of toleration and benignity which became him strangely.
Gladys, who had come on from Lakewood, was with him constantly and watched these changes in her father with timid wonder. He had never been one to confide in his children, and it required some readjustment of her relations with him to accept the quiet appeal of his eyes and the sympathy and appreciation which she found in his newly begotten tenderness. In Cortland, too, she saw a great change, and it surprised her to discover the resolute, unobtrusive way in which he met his responsibilities, both functional and moral. Jeff and Camilla, aware of their anomalous position, had decided to leave the hotel and go back to Mesa City as soon as General Bent grew better. It was Cortland who prevailed on them to stay.
"We're all one family now, Jeff," he said firmly, "one and indivisible. Gladys and I are of a mind on that, and father wishes it so. Your claim on him comes before ours – we don't forget that – we don't want to forget it."
Jeff, unable to reply, only grasped him by the hand. And then, with Larry's help, the two of them plunged into the business of straightening out the tangle in the General's affairs and Jeff's. It was a matter of moment with Cortland to give the Saguache Short Line a proper schedule at once, and so by his dispensation on the twenty-fifth of May, as Jeff had boasted (he thought of it now), trains were running from Pueblo to Saguache. The Denver and Western, too, restored its old schedule from Kinney, and the Saguache Mountain Development Company resumed its business by really developing.
In the absence of his two sons, Camilla and Gladys sat with the old man, reading or talking to him as the fancy seized him to have them do. He liked to lie on a couch at the window and look out toward the mountains beyond which Jeff's interests lay, while Camilla told him of her husband's early struggles in the Valley. He questioned her eagerly, often repeating himself, while she told him of the "Watch Us Grow" sign, of the failure of Mesa City, and of its rejuvenescence.
"Perhaps, after all," the old man would sigh, "perhaps it did him no harm. It makes me very happy, child." He didn't say what made him happy, but Camilla knew.
Then there came a day when the General was pronounced out of all danger and capable of resuming a small share of his old responsibilities. On that day new articles of partnership were drawn for the firm of Bent & Company, into which Jeff Wray was now admitted. The "Lone Tree" mine and the Saguache Smelter figured in the transaction. Mrs. Cheyne, who had a wise corner in her pretty head, refused to accept the money which had been advanced to Jeff Wray, and now insisted on bonds of the Development Company and stock in the Short Line. Lawrence Berkely, whose peace had been made with Curtis Janney, now became the Western representative of the Amalgamated Reduction Company, with Pete Mulrennan as actual head of the Mesa City plant. It was from General Bent that all of the plans emanated, and Curtis Janney without difficulty succeeded in arranging matters in New York. He took a sardonic pleasure in reminding the General that he had once suggested the advisability of using Jeff's talents for the benefit of their company – and accepted these plans as a slight tribute to his own wisdom.
General Bent wanted to go up to Mesa City to see the mine, but it was thought best by the doctors to send him East to a lower altitude, and so, about the middle of June, Cortland took him to New York, leaving Jeff and Camilla to stay for a while at Mesa City, where Camilla could watch the building of "Glen Irwin." She could not find it in her heart to give up the West – not altogether. Later on they would spend their summers there – up in the mountains – Jeff's mountains.
CHAPTER XXVIII
HOUSEHOLD GODS – AND GODDESSES
The years which followed seemed very short ones to Camilla – a time of quiet delight, of restitution, and fulfillment. General Bent had wanted them to come and live with him in the old house down in Madison Avenue, and Jeff, in his whole-hearted way, had given him the promise, but it was Camilla who had thought it wisest for them to have an establishment of their own. The house was just off the avenue near the Park, a rented place, for Camilla had not yet arrived at the state of mind to consider New York their home. But most of Jeff's time was now spent in New York – seven months of the year at least – and she was beginning to learn with reluctance that before long only their summers could be spent at "Glen Irwin." On certain afternoons Camilla sat in the library downstairs with her embroidery frame (she always seemed to be sewing now), her lap covered with thin, flimsy fabrics, the borders of which she was embellishing. They were very tiny pieces of material, apparently shapeless, but from time to time she held them at arm's length before her, her head on one side, and smiled approval of her own handiwork. It was here that Jeff liked to find her – thus occupied. He had not even contracted the habit of stopping at a club on the way uptown, and unless he was detained on important matters she knew when she would hear the sound of his key in the latch outside.
