The Forbidden Way

"Nobody knows. It was one of the marriages that weren't made in Heaven, that's all."

"Few marriages are, but they're none the less binding because of that."

"Yes, I know," he said soberly.

She recognized the minor note and turned the subject quickly.

"What a heavenly spot! These are the stables, of course. And the buildings beyond?"

"The kennels. Mr. Janney has his own pack – corking hounds. They've been breeding this strain a long while in England. I suppose they're as good as any in the world."

"I'm wild to see them."

The head groom met them at the door of the carriage house and showed them through. The much despised touring car of the Havilands occupied a negligible part of the great floor. The coach, brake, carryall, station wagons, victoria, runabouts, and brake-carts – all in royal blue with primrose running-gear – looked down with an old-fashioned dignity and disapprobation on this product of a new civilization. The paneled walls of the room were covered with sporting prints, and the trophy room, with its cabinets of cups and ribbons, bore eloquent testimony to Curtis Janney's success at horse shows in every large city of the country. In the stables Camilla lost all sense of restraint. A stable had never meant anything like this. The cement floors were spotless, and the long line of stalls of polished wood with brass newels and fittings shone like the silver in the drawing room. The mats and blankets were of blue, and each bore the monogram of the owner in yellow.

"These are the coach and carriage horses, Camilla," Bent explained.

"Yes, ma'am," put in the groom. "The hunters are here," and he led the way to the box stalls.

"Where is Mackinaw? Mr. Janney promised him to me for to-morrow."

"Oh, Mackinaw is right here, ma'am. And a fine bit of flesh he is." He went in and threw off the blanket, while Camilla followed. "Not a blemish. He'll take his four rails like they was two. Just give him his head, and you won't be far off when they kill."

"Oh, what a darling! I'm wild to get on him. Is he gentle?"

She patted him on the neck, and he nosed her pocket for sugar. One by one she saw them all, and they reached the kennels in time for the evening meal.

"Oh, well," she sighed as they turned back toward the house, "I'm almost reconciled to riches. One could live in a place like this and forget there was anything else in the world."

"Yes, perhaps some people might," he said significantly. "I couldn't, even if I wanted to. The only real joy in life is the memory of Saguache Peak at sunset."

"Sunsets pass – they're symbols of the brevity of things beautiful – "

"But the night is long," he murmured. "So long, and so dark."

CHAPTER VIII

THE BRUSH

Jeff Wray was learning many things. The arrival of Lawrence Berkely on the scene had at first seemed rather alarming. Several wires in cipher before Larry reached New York had apprised Jeff of an uncertain state of mind in members of the directorate of the Denver and Western Railroad Company. Collins, Hardy, and even Jim Noakes had been approached by representatives of the Chicago and Utah with flattering offers for their interests in the D. & W., and Berkely reported them on the horns of a dilemma. Collins and Hardy were big owners of land which lay along the trunk line and were dependent on that company for all facilities for moving their wheat and other crops. It had not always been easy to get cars to haul their stuff to market, and this fall they only got their hay and potatoes in by a dispensation from the men higher up. Noakes, as Jeff well knew, owned stock in the through line, but the showing of the Saguache Mountain Development Company for the year had been so strong that he had felt sure his associates would see the importance of keeping their interests intact, temporizing, where they could, with the Denver crowd, who had it in their power to threaten his connections at Saguache.

Mulrennan was wiring Jeff, too – copiously. There was an election pending in Kinney, and the Denver crowd had advanced a candidate for judge in opposition to the party with which Pete was affiliated. Other reports both in New York and from the West indicated a strong pressure from the East on the officers of the D. & W. Berkely viewed all these indications of a concerted movement against Jeff's railroad with increasing dismay and lost no time in giving him his opinion as to the possible outcome of the raid.

But Jeff apparently was losing no sleep over the situation. He was fully aware that the whole movement had originated in New York, and that Cornelius Bent and his crowd were back of it. He knew, too, that the Amalgamated Reduction Company wanted his new smelter. Long ago he had foreseen this possibility and had laid his own plans accordingly. The Denver and Saguache was his. With Noakes, Collins, and Hardy, he had a control of the Denver and Western, but their possible defection, which he had also foreseen, had made other plans necessary. Three months before he came East he had unobtrusively secured through other persons a right of way from Saguache to Pueblo, a distance of one hundred and twenty miles. The line of this survey was well to the southward and would open up a country occupied only by small settlers under the Homestead laws. He had turned the organization of the Development Company loose for two months on that vast tract of land, and had, at a reasonably small expense, secured by purchase or long-time options the most valuable land along his new line. His engineers were Germans, imported for the work, who had no affiliations with other roads, and his plans had so far worked out to a T. He had also worked out (on paper) an irrigation scheme for the whole proposition.

At Pueblo the new road would connect with the Denver and California, a line which had no connection with the Chicago and Utah, and which had even been recently engaged in a rate war with the other roads to the coast. Its officers were friendly, and Wray's plans had all been worked out in their confidence and with their approval. Indeed, a good part of his backing had been furnished by capitalists in San Francisco.

Jeff felt sure that the first move to capture the D. & W. was only a bluff, and in his conferences with General Bent, Janney, and McIntyre, had played a waiting game. The "Daisy" was now a producer – not a producer like the "Lone Tree" – but it was paying, and the "Comet," a new prospect that had been opened farther south, was doing a business of a hundred to the ton. His stamps were working night and day, and the smelter was doing its share in Wray's triumphant progress. All his other plans were working out, and the longer he could wait the more formidable he could make himself as an adversary. He knew that the crux of the situation was the ambition of the Amalgamated Reduction Company. They controlled every smelting concern in three states, and Wray's big plant was a thorn in their side. By waiting, Jeff hoped that he could make them show their hands, so he made no attempt to force an issue, being content to play the part they themselves had assigned him. Their hospitality, his welcome into their exclusive set, his use of their clubs (to two of which he had been proposed for membership), the business associations they were planning for him, did little to convince Jeff of the sincerity of their attentions. But he acted the dupe with a good grace, with one eye to windward, greatly amused at their friendliness, which, while it failed to flatter, gave him an increasing sense of the importance of his mission. General Bent had intimated that within a week or so he would be in a position to make a definite proposition for his railroad, which, of course, meant the absorption of Wray's plant into the Trust. Financially, there were great possibilities in a friendly association with these men.

They were closely in touch with No. – Broadway and, if they chose, could point the way to power such as he had never dreamed of. But in his heart he mistrusted them. He thought of Mrs. Rumsen's words of warning, and he knew that what she said was true. They would not spare him if he offered them a chance which would give them a command of the situation. Well, they hadn't command of it yet, and he knew he held some cards which they had never seen. If they continued to weave their web as they had begun it, there would still be time to side-step.

Meanwhile, he gave himself up to a thorough enjoyment of the situation. There was nothing he liked better than a fight, and the fact that his adversaries were formidable lent a zest to the situation. He reassured Larry, sent a lot of wires to Mulrennan, took a few successful flyers in the stock market (which went to show that his luck had not yet turned), and spent his leisure moments in a riding school uptown going over the jumps with Camilla.

Curtis Janney's dinner table held nothing in common with General Bent's. The viands were well cooked but not heavy; the wines of a lighter variety, dry, for the most part, and sparkling; the service deft and dignified but not austere. The table decorations were not made up of set-pieces from the florists', but came from Janney's own conservatories and were more in the way of colored embroideries against the damask cloth. General conversation was, therefore, continuous, and every person at this table could see and be seen by every other. The formality of the city seemed to be banished by common consent, and Camilla, who went in with Cortland Bent (a mischievous dispensation of Miss Janney), felt very much at home in the frank, friendly atmosphere. Almost all the conversation, she discovered, was of the "horsey" variety, at least at Camilla's end of the table, where their host presided, and, as she had never ridden to hounds before, she seized the opportunity to acquaint herself with the interesting details of the morning which awaited her.

The Sunnybrook Hunt Club, she learned, was only a mile away, but on certain days the Braebank hounds were used and members of the Hunt Club living in the vicinity added their numbers to the field. There were plenty of foxes, Mr. Janney assured her, and to-morrow they were to draw a cover over toward the Chelten Hills. Mrs. Cheyne, she heard, was thought to be the best horsewoman in the county. Her own country-place was but five miles away, and, in spite of her boasted love of ease, she was to be found at every Meet in the season, no matter how early the hour. To-morrow was to be one of the big days of the year, Mr. Janney informed Camilla, and all the farmers over whose fields they hunted were invited to lunch after the Meet, in the Long Gallery.

So when, in the early morning, after a light breakfast, Mr. Janney's guests met on the terrace, it was with a feeling of intense interest and excitement that Camilla drew on her gloves and joined them. Of the men, Curtis Janney, Worthington Rumsen, and Billy Haviland wore the pink coats with gray facings of Sunnybrook, while their host wore in addition the velvet cap which distinguished him as Master of the Hounds. The hounds were already loose on the great lawn, while the Huntsman and Whippers-in rode among them. The sun had not yet risen, and the heavy frost which lay upon the lawns caught the chill greenish opalescent tints of the dawn. Mrs. Cheyne was already in the saddle, her hunter, a lean, rangy boy, pirouetting and mouthing his bits, eager to be off. The Baroness Charny, dainty and very modish in a dark green habit and silk hat, was chatting gaily with Larry Berkely while a groom adjusted her stirrup-leather. Mrs. Haviland, Wray, Perot, and her host were waiting for their horses, which the men were bringing up from the stables. Curtis Janney came forward gaily when Camilla appeared.

"We're all here, Mrs. Wray," he greeted her. "The others will meet us at the Chelten Crossroads. Your horse is ready," and then, with a glance at her habit, "You're riding across, I believe?"

She nodded. "What a heavenly morning!"

"The conditions are perfect. This white frost will soften at sun-up. We'll have a fine run. Won't you let me help you mount?"

They were all in the saddle in a few moments and, walking their horses, with the Huntsman and hounds in the lead, were soon on their way past the big entrance gates. Camilla saw Jeff draw his horse alongside that of Mrs. Cheyne and realized that the few days during which Lawrence Berkely had been in the city had done much for her husband's appearance. She saw the look and heard the laugh with which Mrs. Cheyne greeted her husband and experienced, in spite of herself, a sense of annoyance that Jeff continually showed a preference for her company to that of any of the other women of the party. She knew that in her heart it made no difference to her into whose hands Jeff entrusted himself. Mrs. Cheyne's languid air of patronage had provoked her, and her pride rebelled at the thought of any slight, however thoughtless, at the hands of her husband. But as Cortland Bent came alongside of her, she realized that the friendly relations of her husband and his feminine partner might progress far on extravagantly sentimental lines and still provide no just cause for complaint.

If Mrs. Cheyne had any mental reservations, her graceful back gave no sign of them. She sat her horse squarely, even a little stiffly, which brought into contrast the easy, rather slouchy seat which Jeff had learned on the plains. But Wray was in his element. On a horse, at least, he felt himself the equal of any one in the party and need ask no favors or give any. He examined Mrs. Cheyne's costume curiously. Her long coat was a mere subterfuge, for beneath it she wore white breeches like his own and patent leather boots. Her hair was done in a compact mass on the back of her head, and her hat was held in place by a strong elastic band. The shoulders of her coat were square and her manner easy. He recalled the flowing feminine lines of her costume at dinner the night before, and it seemed difficult to appreciate that she was the same person with whom he had talked so late in the smoking room.

"Am I a freak?" she asked amiably, "or is there a hiatus somewhere? I dressed in a tearing hurry – without a maid."

"Oh, no. Only you're another kind of a person – on the back of a horse."

"Am I? How?"

"Last night you were all woman. You and I are making friends pretty fast, but I was a little afraid of you."

"Why?"

"You're different at night, so sleepy and handsome, like a rattler in the sun, the kind you hate to wake up but must, to see how far he'll strike."

She laughed. "I don't know whether I like that or not. And yet I think I do. How am I different to-day?"

"To-day you're only part woman. The rest of you is just kid. If it wasn't for that knot of hair I'd take you for a boy – a very nice, good-looking boy."

She looked up at him mischievously. "You know you have a faculty of saying unpleasant things very pleasantly. I'm glad I look youthful. My only horror is of growing old. I don't think I like the idea of your thinking me anything unfeminine."

He glanced frankly at her protruding knee. "I don't. Most of you is woman all right – but you don't scare me half as much this morning."

"Why should you be scared? You haven't struck me as being a man who could be scared at anything."

"Not out here, but inside – in the drawing room – you've got me at a disadvantage. I'm new to soft speeches, low lights, and the way you Eastern women dress. There's too much glamor. I never know whether you mean what you say or whether it's all just a game – and I'm It."

She threw back her head and laughed with a full throat.

"You dear, delicious, impossible creature! Don't you know that the world is a tangle of illusions, and that you and I and everybody else were made to help keep them tangled? Nobody ever means what he says. Half of the joy in life consists in making people think you different from what you are."

"Which are you? The kid on the horse or the woman – back there – last night?"