by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER XVII*
*OLD ROSE LEAVES*
Camilla wrote nothing to Jeff about her illness. It was nothing veryserious, the doctor said--only a fashionable case of nerves. The typewas common, the medicine rest and quiet. He commended his ownsanitarium, where he could assure her luxury and the very best society,but Camilla refused. She wanted to be alone, and so she denied herselfto callers, canceled all her engagements, and took the rest cure in herown way. She slept late in the mornings, took her medicineconscientiously, put herself on a diet, and in the afternoon, with hermaid only for company, took long motor rides in the country toout-of-the-way places on roads where she would not be likely to meet heracquaintances.
She knew what it was that she needed. It wasn't the strychnia tonic thedoctor had prescribed, or even the rest cure. The more she was alone,the more time she had to think. It was in moments like the present, inthe morning hours in her own rooms, that she felt that she could notforget. There was no longer the hum of well-bred voices about her, nomusic, the glamor of lowered lights, or the odor of embowered roses todistract her mind or soothe her senses. In the morning hours Jeff waspresent with her in the flesh. Everything about her reminded her ofhim; the desk at which he had worked, with its pigeon-holes full ofpapers in the reckless disorder which was characteristic of him; thecorncob pipe which he had refused to discard; the Durham tobacco in itscotton bag beside a government report on mining; the specimens of orefrom the "Lone Tree," which he had always used as paper weights; thebrass bowl into which he had knocked his ashes; and the photograph, inits jeweled frame, of herself in sombrero and kerchief, taken at Myers'sPhotograph Gallery in Mesa City at the time when she had taught school,before Jeff's dreams had come true.
She took the picture up and examined it closely. It was the picture of agirl sitting on a table, a lariat in one hand and a quirt in the other,and the background presented Mesa City's idea of an Italian villa, withfluted columns, backed by some palms and a vista of lake. How well sheremembered that gray painted screen and the ornate wicker chair andtable which were its inevitable accompaniment. They had served as abackground for Pete Mulrennan in a Prince Albert coat, when he waselected mayor; for Jack Williams, the foreman of the "Lazy L" ranch, andhis bride from Kinney; for Mrs. Brennan in her new black silk dress; forthe Harbison twins and their cherubic mother. She put the photographdown, and her head sank forward on her arms in mute rebellion. In hersleep she had murmured Cort's name, and Jeff had heard her. But sheknew that in itself this was not enough to have caused the breach. Whatelse had he heard? Jeff had tired of her--that was all--had tired ofbeing married to a graven image, to a mere semblance of the woman he hadthought she was. She could not blame him for that. It was his right tobe tired of her if he chose.
It was the sudden revelation of the actual state of her mind with regardto Cortland which had given her the first suggestion of her truebearings--that and the careless chatter of the people of their set inwhich Mrs. Cheyne was leading. Cortland had guessed the truth which shehad been so resolutely hiding from herself. She loved Jeff--had alwaysloved him--and would until the end of time. Like the chemist who formonths has been seeking the solution of a problem, she had found theacid which had magically liberated the desired element; the acid wasJealousy, and, after all dangerous vapors had passed, Love remained inthe retort, elemental and undefiled. The simplicity of the revelationwas as beautiful as it was mystifying. Had she by some fortuitousaccident succeeded in transmuting some baser metal into gold, she couldnot have been more bewildered. Of course, Jeff could not know. To himshe was still the Graven Image, the pretty Idol, the symbol of whatmight have been. How could he guess that his Idol had been made fleshand blood--that now she waited for him, no longer a symbol of lostillusions, but just a woman--his wife. She raised her head at last,sighed deeply, and put the photograph in the drawer of the desk. As shedid so, the end of a small battered tin box protruded. She rememberedit at once--for in it Jeff had always kept the letters and papers whichreferred to his birth and babyhood. She had looked them over beforewith Jeff, but it was almost with a feeling of timidity at an intrusionthat she took the box out and opened it now. The papers were ragged,soiled, and stained with dampness and age, and the torn edges had beenjoined with strips of court-plaster. There were two small portraitstaken by a photographer in Denver. Camilla took the photographs in herfingers and looked at them with a new interest. One of the pictures wasof a young woman of about Camilla's age, in a black beaded Jersey waistand a full overskirt. Her front hair was done in what was known as a"bang," and the coils were twisted high on top of her head. But eventhese disfigurements--according to the lights of a latergeneration--could not diminish the attractiveness of her personality.There was no denying the beauty of the face, the wistful eyes, thestraight, rather short nose, the sensitive lips, and the deeplyindented, well-made chin--none of the features in the least like Jeff'sexcept the last, which, though narrower than his, had the same firmlines at the angle of the jaw. It was not a weak face, nor a strongone, for whatever it gained at brows and chin it lost at the eyes andmouth.
But Jeff's resemblance to his father was remarkable. Except for theold-fashioned collar and "string" tie, the queerly cut coat, andsomething in the brushing of the hair, the figure in the otherphotograph was that of her husband in the life. She had discovered thiswhen she and Jeff had looked into the tin box just after they weremarried, and had commented on it, but Jeff had said nothing in reply.He had only looked at the picture steadily for a moment, then ratherabruptly taken it from her and put it away. From this Camilla knew thatthe thoughts of his mother were the only ones which Jeff had cared toselect from the book of memory and tradition. Of his father he hadnever spoken, nor would speak. He would not even read again theseletters which his mother had kept, wept over, and handed down to her sonthat the record of a man's ignominy might be kept intact for thegenerations to follow her.
It was, therefore, with a sense of awe, of intrusion upon the mystery ofa sister's tragedy, that Camilla opened the letters again and read them.There were eight of them in all, under dates from May until October,1875, all with the same superscription "Ned." As she read, Camillaremembered the whole sad story, and, with the face of the woman beforeher, was able to supply almost word for word the tender, passionate,bitter, forgiving letters which must have come between. She had pleadedwith him in May to return to her, but in June, from New York, he hadwritten her that he could not tell when he would go West again. In Julyhe was sure he would not go West until the following year, if then. InAugust he sent her money--which she must have returned--for the nextletter referred to it. In September his manner was indifferent--inOctober it was heartless. It had taken only six months for this manmadly to love and then as madly to forget.
Camilla remembered the rest of the story as Jeff had told it to her,haltingly, shamedly, one night at Mrs. Brennan's, as it had been told tohim when he was a boy by one of the nurses who had taken him away fromthe hospital where his mother had died--of her persistent refusal tospeak of Jeff's father or to reveal his identity, of Jeff's birthwithout a name, and of his mother's death a few weeks later, unrepentantand unforgiving. With her last words she had blessed the child andprayed that they would not name it after her. At first he had beenplayfully called "Thomas Jefferson," and so Thomas Jefferson he remaineduntil later another of his guardians had added the "Wray" after acharacter in a book she was reading and "because it sounded pretty."That was Jeff's christening.
Camilla put the letters aside with the faded blue ribbon which hadalways accompanied them and gazed at the photograph of Jeff's father.Yes, it was a cruel face--a handsome, cruel face--and it looked likeJeff. She had never thought of Jeff as being cruel. Did she reallyknow her husband, after all? Until they had come to New York Jeff hadalways been forbearing, kindly, and tender. Before their marriage he hadsometimes been impatient with her--but since that time, often
when hehad every right to be angry, he had contented himself with a baby-likestare and had then turned away and left her. Flashes of crueltysometimes had shown in his treatment of the Mexicans on the railroad orat the mines, but it was not the kind of cruelty this man in thephotograph had shown--not the enduring cruelty of heartlessness whichwould let a woman die for the love of him. The night Jeff had left herthe worst in him was dominant, and yet she had not thought of him ascruel. It was to the future alone which she must look for an answer tothe troubled question that rose in her mind.
At this moment her maid entered--a welcome interruption.
"Will you see Mrs. Rumsen, Madame?"
"Oh, yes, Celeste. Ask her if she won't come in here."
Of all the friendships she had made in New York, that of Mrs. Rumsen wasthe one Camilla most deeply prized. There was a tincture of old-worldsimplicity in her grandeur. Only those persons were snobbish, Mrs.Rumsen always averred, whose social position was insecure. It was shewho had helped Camilla to see society as it really was, laid bare to herits shams, its inconsistencies, and its follies; who had shown her thetrue society of old New York; taken her to unfamiliar heights among the"cliff-dwellers" of the old regime who lived in the quiet elegance ofsocial security with and for their friends, unmoved by the glitter ofmodern gew-gaws, who resisted innovations and fought hard for oldtraditions which the newer generation was seeking to destroy, amild-eyed, incurious race of people who were sure that what they had andwere was good, and viewed the social extravagances as the inhabitants ofanother planet might do, from afar, who went into the world when theychose, and returned to their "cliffs" when they chose, sure of theirwelcome at either place. They were the people Rita Cheyne called"frumps," and Cortland Bent, "bores," but to Camilla, who had oftenfound herself wondering what was the end and aim of all things, theywere a symbol of completion.
Mrs. Rumsen laid aside her wraps with the deliberation of a person whois sure of her welcome.
"You'll forgive my appearance?" asked Camilla. "I didn't think you'dmind."
"I'm flattered, child. It has taken longer than I supposed it would toteach you not to be punctilious with me. Well, you're better, ofcourse. This long rest has done wonders for you."
"Oh, yes. But I'm afraid I wouldn't last long here. I'm used to airand sunshine and bed at ten o'clock at night." She paused a moment."I've been thinking of going West for a while."
"Really? When?"
"I--I haven't decided. I thought that Jeff would have returned by thistime, but his business still keeps him."
"And you miss him? That's very improper. I'm afraid I haven't schooledyou carefully enough." She smiled and sighed. "That is a vulgarweakness your woman of society must never confess to. We may love ourhusbands as much as we like, but we mustn't let people know it. Itoffends their conceit and reminds them unpleasantly of their owndeficiencies."
"People aren't really as bad as you're trying to paint then," laughedCamilla. "Even you, Mrs. Rumsen! Why, I thought the habit of cynicismwas only for the very young and inexperienced."
"Thanks, child. Perhaps it's my second childhood. I don't want to becynical--but I must. One reason I came to you is because I want you torefresh my point of view. I wonder what air and sunshine and bed at teno'clock would do for me. Would you like to prescribe it for me? Iwonder if you wouldn't take me West with you."
Camilla laughed again.
"Are you really in earnest? Of course I'd be delighted--but I'm afraidyou wouldn't be. The accommodations are abominable except, of course,in Denver, and you wouldn't want to stay there. You know our--our houseisn't finished yet. It would be fine if we could camp--but that isn'tvery comfortable. I love it. But you know there are no porcelaintubs----"
"Oh, I know. I've camped in the West, dear, a good many yearsago--before you were born. I wonder how I should like it now----"
She paused, her wandering gaze resting on the desk, which Camilla hadleft in disorder, the letters scattered, the photographs at which shehad been looking propped upright against the tin document-box. It was onthe photographs that Mrs. Rumsen's gaze had stopped. Slowly she rosefrom her chair, with an air of arrested attention, adjusted her lorgnon,and examined it at close range.
"I thought I might have been mistaken at first," she said quickly. "Isee I'm not. Camilla, dear, where on earth did you get that photographof the General?"
Camilla had risen. "The General?" she faltered. "I don't understand."
"Of my brother--Cornelius Bent--that is his photograph. I have one likeit in the family album at home."
"That can't be."
"I was looking over them only the other day--why do you look sostrangely?"
"Are you sure? You can't be sure----"
"I am. I remember the queer cravat and the pose of the hands on thechair. I remember him, too--perfectly. Do you think I wouldn't know myown brother?"
"Oh, there must be some mistake--it is dreadful. I can't----"
"What is dreadful, child? What do you mean?" She laid a hand onCamilla's arm, and Camilla caught at it, her nerves quivering.
"The photograph is----"
"Where did you get it? It isn't mine, is it? or Cortland's?"
"No, no. It has been in that tin box for more than thirty years. Itisn't yours. It's Jeff's--my husband's--do you understand? It'shis--oh, I can't tell you. It's too horrible. I can't believe itmyself. I don't want to believe it."
She sank into the chair at the desk, trembling violently. Mrs. Rumsen,somewhat surprised and aware of the imminence of a revelation the natureof which she could not even faintly surmise, bent over Camilla kindlyand touched her gently on the shoulder.
"Compose yourself, Camilla, and if you think I ought to know, tell me.What had my brother to do with you or yours? How did his picture comehere?"
Camilla replied with difficulty.
"That picture has been in Jeff's possession since he was a baby. It wasthe only heritage his mother left him, the photograph and these letters.I have just been reading them. They were written to _her_. _He_ haddeserted her--before Jeff was born----"
Mrs. Rumsen's hand had dropped from Camilla's shoulder, and she turnedquickly away--with a sharp catch in her breath. When she spoke, hervoice, like Camilla's, was suppressed and controlled with difficulty.
"Then my brother was--your husband's----"
"Oh, I don't know," Camilla broke in quickly. "It is all so dreadful.There may be some mistake. Jeff will never speak of it. He has triedall these years to forget. I don't know why I took these letters out toread. Perhaps it would be better if you hadn't known----"
"No, no. I think I ought to know. Perhaps in justice to mybrother----"
"There can be no justice for Jeff's father, Mrs. Rumsen. I have readhis letters to her--to Jeff's mother. Before you came in I was tryingto think of a punishment horrible enough for the kind of men who deceivewomen as he did, and then leave them to face the world alone."
"But perhaps there was something you don't know----" she groped vainly.
"Every question you would ask, every excuse that he could offer, isanswered in these letters. Now that you know Jeff's story perhaps youhad better read them."
With trembling hands she gathered the letters and gave them to hervisitor, who now sat in the big armchair near the window, her straightfigure almost judicial in its severity. She glanced at the handwritingand at the signature, and then let the papers fall into her lap.
"Yes, they are my brother's," she said slowly. "It is hishandwriting--and the name--the General's name is Cornelius Edward--'Ned'was his name at college--he never used his first name until later inlife. I--I suppose there's no doubt about it."
She sat with one hand to her brow as though trying to reconcile twoparts of an astounding narrative. Camilla's revelation did not seem inthe least like reality. Cornelius Bent's part in it was so at variancewith his character as she had known it. There had never been time forlove or for play. When he
had given up his profession of engineeringand plunged into business downtown his youth was ended. She recalledthat this must have been about the time he returned from the Westerntrip--the year before he was married. The making of money had been theonly thing in life her brother had ever cared about. He had loved hiswife in his peculiar way until she died, and he had been grateful forhis children. His membership in the ---- Regiment, years ago, had beena business move, and the service, though distinguished, had made himmany valuable business connections, but all of Cornelius Bent's familyknew that his heart and his soul were downtown, day and night, night andday.
And yet there seemed no chance that Camilla could be mistaken. Themarks of handling, the stains of Time--perhaps of tears--the pin-hole atthe top, these were the only differences between the photograph in heralbum at home and the one she now held in her fingers.
Camilla waited for her to speak again. Her own heart was too full ofJeff and of what this discovery might mean to him to be willing to trustherself to further speech until she was sure that her visitor understoodthe full meaning of the situation. There was a sudden appreciation ofthe delicacy of her own position and of the danger to which herfriendship with Mrs. Rumsen was being subjected--and, highly as she hadprized it, Camilla knew that if her visitor could not take her own pointof view with regard to Jeff's father and with regard to Jeff himself shemust herself bring that friendship to an end. In some anxiety she waitedand watched Mrs. Rumsen while she read. The proud head was bent, thebrows and chin had set in austere lines, and Camilla, not knowing whatto expect, sat silently and waited.
"It is true, of course," said her visitor, softly. "There can't be theslightest doubt of it now. There are some allusions here which identifythese letters completely. I don't know just what to say to you, child.From the first time I saw your husband he attracted mecuriously--reflected a memory--you remember my speaking of it? It allseems so clear to me now that the wonder is I didn't think of it myself.The resemblance between the two men is striking even now."
"Yes--yes--I hadn't thought of that."
There was another silence, during which Mrs. Rumsen seemed to realizewhat was passing in Camilla's mind--her sudden reticence and the meaningof it, for she straightened in her chair and extended both hands warmly.
"It is all true. But my brother's faults shall make no difference in myfeeling for his children. If anything I should and will love them themore. Come and kiss me, Camilla, dear," she said with gentlesimplicity.
And Camilla, her heart full of her kindness, fell on her knees at Mrs.Rumsen's feet.
"You are so good--so kind," she sobbed happily.
"Not at all," said Mrs. Rumsen with a return of her old "grenadier"manner, at the same time touching her handkerchief to her eyes. "Towhom should I not be good unless to my own. If my brother disowns yourhusband, there's room enough in my own empty heart for you both----"
Camilla started back frightened, her eyes shining through her tears.
"You must not speak of this to him--to General Bent--not yet. I mustthink what it is best for us to do."
"No, dear. I'll not speak of it. I'll never speak of it unless youallow me to. It is your husband's affair. He shall do what he thinksbest. As for Cornelius--it is a matter for my brother--and his God----"
"He has forgotten. Perhaps it would be better if he never knew."
"Something tells me that he will learn the truth. It was written yearsago. It will not come through me--because it is not my secret to tell.One thing only is certain in my mind, and that is that your husband,Jeff, must be told. It is his right."
"Yes, I know. I must go to him. It will be terrible news for him."
"Terrible?"
"I fear so. I remember his once saying that if he ever found his fatherhe'd shoot him as he would a dog."
As Mrs. Rumsen drew back in alarm, she added quickly, "Oh, no, of coursehe didn't mean that. That was just Jeff's way of expressing himself."
As Camilla rose, Mrs. Rumsen sighed deeply.
"I don't suppose I have any right to plead for my brother--but you andJeff must do him justice, too. All this happened a long while ago.Between that time and this lie thirty years of good citizenship andhonorable manhood. Cornelius has been no despoiler of women." Shepicked up the papers again. "The curious thing about it, Camilla, isthat nowhere in these letters is there any mention of a child. I can'tunderstand that. Have you thought--that perhaps he did not know? It'svery strange, mystifying. I have never known the real heart of mybrother, but he could hardly have been capable of _that_. He was nevergiven at any time to show his feelings--even to his wife or his family.Have you thought--that perhaps he loved--Jeff's mother?"
"I hope--I pray that he did. Perhaps if Jeff could believe that--butthe letters--no, Mrs. Rumsen--no man who had ever loved could havewritten that last letter."
"But you must do what you can to make your husband see the best of it,Camilla. That is your duty, child--don't you see it that way?"
Camilla was kneeling on a chair, her elbows on its back, her fingerswreathing her brows.
"Yes, I suppose so," she sighed. "But I'm afraid in this matter Jeffwill not ask my opinions--he must choose for himself. I don't know whathe will do or say. You could hardly expect him to show filial devotion.Gladys and Cortland"--she rose in a new dismay and walked to thewindow--"I had not thought of them."
Her visitor followed Camilla with questioning eyes. "They must share theburden--it is theirs, too," she put in after a moment.
"It is very hard for me to know what to do. It is harder now than itwould have been before this fight of the Amalgamated for the smelter.They are enemies--don't you suppose I hear the talk about it? GeneralBent has sworn to ruin Jeff--to put him out of business; and Jeff willfight until he drops. Father against son--oh, Mrs. Rumsen, what can bedone?" She took the photograph and letters from the lap of her visitorand stood before the mantel. "If I burned them----"
"No, no," Mrs. Rumsen had risen quickly and seized Camilla by the arm."You mustn't do that."
"It would save so much pain----"
"No one saved _her_ pain. You have no right. Who are you to play thepart of Providence to two human souls? This drama was arranged yearsbefore you were born. It's none of your affair. Fate has simply usedyou--used _us_--as humble instruments in working out its plans."
Camilla shook her head. "It can do Jeff no good. It will do Gladys andCortland harm. Jeff has forgotten the past. It has done him noharm--except that he has no name. He has won his way without aname--even this will not give him one. Jeff's poor incubus will be agrim reality--tangible flesh--to be despised."
Mrs. Rumsen looked long into the fire. "I can't believe it," she saidslowly. "My brother and I are not on the best of terms--we have neverbeen intimate, because we could not understand each other. But he isnot the kind of man any one despises. People downtown say he has nosoul. If he hasn't, then this news can be no blow to him. If hehas----"
She paused. And then, instead of going on, took Camilla by the hand.
"Camilla," she said gently, "we must think long over this--but not now.It must be slept on. Get dressed while I read these letters, and we'lltake a spin into the country. Perhaps by to-morrow we'll be able to seethings more clearly."