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.