Camilla had known for some time that she could not forget. She sought excitements eagerly because they softened the sting of memory, and the childish delights of the afternoon with the Havilands, while they made the grim shadow less tangible, could not drive it away. When the idle chatter of small talk was missing, Jeff loomed large. At The Cove she went at once to her room, but instead of dressing she threw herself on the bed and followed the pretty tracery of the wall paper beside her; her eyes only conjured mental pictures of the days in Mesa City, before Cortland Bent had come, the long rides with Jeff up the mountain trail when she first began to learn what manner of man he was and what manner of things he must one day accomplish. She seemed to realize now that even in those early days Jeff Wray had stood as a type of the kind of manhood that, since the beginning of time, has made history for the world.
With all his faults, his vulgar self-appreciation, and his distorted ethics, there was nothing petty or mean about him. He was generous, had always been generous to a fault, and there was many a poor devil of a gambler or a drunkard even in those days who had called his name blessed. He hadn't had much to give, but when he made a stake there were many who shared it with him. Since he had been married his benefactions had been numberless. He never forgot his old friends and, remembering old deeds of kindness to himself, had sought them out—a broken sheep-herder back on the range, a barber in Pueblo who was paralyzed, a cowboy in Arizona with heart disease, a freight brakeman of the D. & W. who had lost a leg—and given them money when he couldn't find work that they could do. She remembered what people in the West still said—that Jeff had never had a friend who wasn't still his friend.
She had often reviled herself because her judgment of all men was governed by the external marks of gentility which had been so dear to her heart—the kind of gentility which Cortland Bent had brought into Mesa City. Gentility was still dear to her heart, but there was a growing appreciation in her mind of something bigger in life than mere forms of polite intercourse. Jack Perot, who was painting her portrait; Billy Haviland, who sent her roses; Douglas Warrington, who rode with her in the park; Cortland Bent—all these men had good manners as their birthright. What was it they lacked? Culture had carved them all with finer implements on the same formula, but what they had gained in delicacy they had lost in force. Jeff might have been done by Rodin, the others by Carrière—Beleuze.
It made her furious that in spite of herself she still thought of Jeff. She got up and went to the mirror. There were little telltale wrinkles about her eyes, soft shadows under her cheek-bones which had not been there when she came to New York. It was worry that was telling on her. She had never yet been able to bring herself to the point of believing that all was over between Jeff and herself. Had she really believed that he was willing to live his future without her, she could not have consented even for so long as this to play the empty part he had assigned her. It was his money she was spending, not her own; his money which provided all the luxuries about her—the rich apartment in New York, the motor car, carte blanche at Sherry's, extravagances, she was obliged to acknowledge, which for the present he did not share. True, she was following implicitly his directions in keeping his memory green in the social set to which he aspired, and she had done her part well. But the burden of her indebtedness to him was not decreased by this obedience, and she felt that she could not for long accept the conditions he had imposed. Such a life must soon be intolerable—intolerable to them both.
It was intolerable now. She could not bear the thought of his brutality, the cruelty of his silence, the pitiless money which he threw at her every week as one would throw a bone to a dog. He was carrying matters with a high hand, counting on her love of luxury and the delights of gratified social ambition to hold her in obedience. He had planned well, but the end of it all was near. It was her pride that revolted—that Jeff could have thought her capable of the unutterable things he thought of her—the pitiful tatters of her pride which were slowly being dragged from her by the tongue of gossip. Mrs. Rumsen had warned her, and Mrs. Cheyne made free use of her name with Cort's. The world was conspiring to throw her into Cortland's arms. She would not admit that the fault was her own—it was Jeff's. It had always been Jeff's. She had given him every chance to redeem her, but he had tossed her aside—for another. Now she had reached a point when she didn't care whether he redeemed her or not. She felt herself drifting—drifting—she didn't know where and didn't seem to care where.
It was affection she craved, love that she loved, and Cortland was an expression of it. He had always been patient—even when she had treated him unkindly. A whispered word to Cortland——
Her musing stopped abruptly. What did Cortland mean by avoiding her? And why was he leaving New York? There was a tiny pucker at her brows while she gave the finishing touches to her toilet; but when she went down to dinner her cheeks glowed with ripe color and her eyes were shot with tiny sparkling fires.
"Auction" bridge followed dinner. In the cutting Cort and the Baroness were out of it, and when Cort and the Baroness cut in, Camilla and Perot cut out. Fate conspired, and it was not until late in the evening that Cortland and Camilla found themselves alone in the deserted library at the far end of the wing. Camilla sank back into the silk cushions of the big davenport wearily.
"I played well to-night," she said; "I believe even Billy is pleased with me. I did have luck, though—shameful luck——"
She stretched her arms above her head, sighing luxuriously. "Oh, life is sweet—after all."
Cortland watched her.
"Is it?" he asked quietly.
"Don't you think so, Cort?"
"There's not much sweetness left, for me in anything. I've got to go away from you, Camilla."
"So you said." And then airily, "Good-by."
He closed his eyes a moment.
"I want you to know what it means to me."
"Then why do it?"
"I—I've thought it all out. It's the best thing I can do—for you—for myself——"
"I ought to be a judge of that."
His dark eyes sought her face for a meaning.
"It's curious you didn't consult me," she went on. "I hope I know what's best for myself——"
"You mean that you don't care—my presence is unimportant. My absence will be even less important."
"I do care," she insisted. "What's the use of my telling you. I'll be very unhappy without you."
He shook his head and smiled. "Oh, I know—you'll miss me as you would your afternoon tea if it was denied you—but you'll do without it."
"I'm quite fond of afternoon tea, Cort." And then, more seriously, "Are you really resolved?"
"Yes," he muttered, "resolved—desperately resolved."
She threw herself away from him against the opposite end of the couch, facing him, and folded her arms, her lips closed in a hard line.
"Very well, then," she said cruelly, "go!" It seemed as if he hadn't heard her, for he leaned forward, his head in his hands, and went on in a voice without expression.
"I've felt for some time that I've been doing you a wrong. People are talking about us—coupling your name with mine—unpleasantly. Heaven knows what lies they're telling. Of course you don't hear—and I don't—but I know they're talking."
"How do you know?"
"My father——"
"Oh!"
"We quarreled—but the poison left its sting."
Camilla laughed nervously, the laughter of a woman of the world. It grated on him strangely.
"Don't you suppose I know?" she said. "I'm not a baby. And now that you've ruined my reputation you're going to leave me. That's unkind of you. Oh, don't worry," she laughed again. "I'll get along. There are others, I suppose."
He straightened and turned toward her sternly.
"You mustn't talk like that," he said. "You're lying. I know your heart. It's clean as snow."
"Because you haven't soiled it?" She clasped her hands over her knees and leaned toward him with wicked coquetry. "Really, Cort, you're a sweet boy—but you lack imagination. You know you're not the only man in the world. A woman in my position has much to gain—little to lose. I'm a derelict, a ship without a captain——"
He interrupted her by taking her in his arms and putting his fingers over her lips. "Stop!" he whispered, "I'll not listen to you."
"I mean it. I've learned something in your world. I thought life was a sacrament. I find it's only a game." She struggled away from him and went to the fireplace, but he rose and stood beside her.
"You're lying, Camilla," he repeated, "lying to me. Oh, I know—I've been a fool—a vicious—a selfish fool. I've let them talk because I couldn't bear to be without you—because I thought that some day you'd learn what a love like mine meant. And I wanted you—wanted you——"
"Don't you want me still, Cort?" she asked archly.
He put his elbows on the mantel and gazed into the flames, but would not reply, and the smile faded from her lips before the dignity of his silence.
"I've thought it all out, Camilla. I'm going away on business for my father, and I don't expect to come back. I thought I could go without seeing you again—just send you a note to say good-by. It was easier for me that way. I thought I had won out until I saw you to-day—but now it's harder than ever."
He looked up as he thought she might misconstrue his meaning. "Oh, I'm not afraid to leave on your account. Our set may make you a little careless, a little cynical, but you've got too much pride to lose your grip—and you'll never be anything else but what you are." He gazed into the fire again and went on in the same impersonal tone as if he had forgotten her existence. "I'll always love you, Camilla.... I love you more now than I ever did—only it's different somehow.... It used to be a madness—an obsession.... Your lips, your eyes, your soft fingers, the warm elusive tints of your skin—the petals of the bud—I would have taken them because of their beauty, crushed out, if I could, the soul that lived inside, as one crushes a shrub to make its sweetness sweeter." He sighed deeply and went on: "I told you I loved you then—back there in Mesa City—but I lied to you, Camilla. It wasn't love. Love is calmer, deeper, almost judicial, more mental than physical even.... I'm going away from you because I love you more than I love myself."
"Oh! you never loved me," she stammered. "You couldn't speak coldly like this if you did."
He raised his eyes calmly, but made no reply.
"Love—judicial!" she went on scornfully. "What do you know of love? Love is a storm in the heart; a battle—a torrent—it has no mind for anything but itself. Love is ruthless—self-seeking——"
"You make it hard for me," he said with an effort at calmness.
"You know I—I need you—and yet you'd leave me at a word."
"I'm going—because it's best to go," he said hoarsely.
"You're going because you don't care what happens to me."
He flashed around, unable to endure more, and caught her in his arms. "Do I look like a man who doesn't care? Do I?" he whispered. "If you only hadn't said that—if you only hadn't said that——"
Now that she had won she was ready to end the battle, and drew timidly away. But with Cort the battle had just begun. And though she struggled to prevent it, he kissed her as he had never done before. Her resistance and the lips she denied him, the suppleness of her strong young body, the perfume of her hair brought back the spell of mid-summer madness which had first enchained him.
"You've got to listen to me now, Camilla. I don't care what happens to my promises—to you—or to any one else. I'm mad with love for you. I'll take the soul of you. It was mine by every right before it was his. I'll go away from here—but you'll go with me—somewhere, where we can start again——"
In that brief moment in his arms there came a startling revelation to Camilla. Cort's touch—his kisses—transformed him into a man she did not know.
"Oh, Cort! Let me go!" she whispered.
"Away from all this where the idle prattle of the world won't matter," he went on wildly. "You have no right to stay on here, using the money he sends you—my money—money he stole from me. He has thrown you over, dropped you like a faded leaf. You're clinging to a rotten tree, Camilla. He'll fall. He's going to fall soon. You'll be buried with him—and nothing between you and death but his neglect and brutality."
In his arms Camilla was sobbing hysterically. The excitement with which she had fed her heart for the last few months had suddenly stretched her nerves to too great a tension. She had been mad—cruel to tantalize him—and she had not realized what her intolerance meant for them both until it was too late.
He misunderstood the meaning of those tears and petted her as if she had been a child.
"Don't, Camilla—there's nothing to fear. I'll be so tender to you—so kind that you'll wonder you could ever have thought of being happy before. Look up at me, dear. Kiss me. You never have, Camilla. Kiss me and tell me you'll go with me—anywhere."
But as he tried to lift her head she put up her hands and with an effort repulsed—broke away from—him and fell on the couch in a passion of tears. She had not meant this—not this. It wasn't in her to love any one.
In the process of mental readjustment following her husband's desertion of her she had learned to think of Cort in a different way. It seemed as though the tragedy of her married life had dwarfed every other relation, minimized every emotion that remained to her. Cortland Bent was the lesser shadow within the greater shadow, a dimmer figure blurred in the bulk, a part of the tragedy, but not the tragedy itself. For a time he had seemed to understand, and of late had played the part of guide, philosopher, and friend, if not ungrudgingly, at least patiently, without those boyish outbursts of petulance and temper in which he had been so difficult to manage. She cared for him deeply, and lately he had been so considerate and so gentle that she had almost been ready to believe that the kind of devotion he gave her was the only thing in life worth while. He had learned to pass over the many opportunities she offered him to take advantage of her isolation, and she was thankful that at last their relation had found a happy path of communion free from danger or misunderstanding. While other people amused and distracted her, Cort had been her real refuge, his devotion the rock to which she tied. But this! She realized that what had gone before was only the calm before the storm—and she had brought it all on herself!
He watched her anxiously, waiting for the storm to pass, and at last came near and put his arms around her again.
"No—not that!" she said brokenly. "It wasn't that I wanted, Cort. You don't understand. I needed you—but not that way." He straightened slowly as her meaning came to him.
"You were only—fooling—only playing with me? I might have known——"
"No, I wasn't playing with you. I—couldn't bear to lose you—but," she stammered resolutely, "now—I must—— You've got to go. I don't know what has happened to me—I haven't any heart—I think—no heart—or soul——"
He had turned away from her, his gaze on the dying log.
"Why couldn't you have let me go—without this?" he groaned. "It would have been easier for both of us."
She sat up slowly, still struggling to suppress the nervous paroxysms which shook her shoulders.
"Forgive me, Cort. You—you'll get along best without me. I've only brought you suffering. I'm a bird of ill-omen—which turns on the hand that feeds it. I was—was thinking only of myself. I wish I could make you happy—you deserve it, Cort. But I can't," she finished miserably, "I can't."
He did not move. It almost seemed as though he had not heard her. His voice came to her at last as though from a distance.
"I know," he groaned. "God help you, you love him." She started up as though in dismay, and then, leaning forward, buried her face in her hands in silent acquiescence. When she looked up a moment later he was gone.