Ridgway of Montana

by Raine, William MacLeod

  She sympathized with him elaborately. "Calls of that sort do bore men so. I'll not forget the first time you called on me."

  "Nor I," he came back gallantly.

  "I marveled how you came through alive, but I learned then that a man can't be bored to death."

  "I came again nevertheless," he smiled. "And again—and again."

  "I am still wondering why."

  "'Oh, wad some power the giffie gite us

  To see ourselves as others see us!"'

  he quoted with a bow.

  "Is that a compliment?" she asked dubiously.

  "I have never heard it used so before. Anyhow, it is a little hackneyed for anybody so original as you."

  "It was the best I could do offhand."

  She changed the subject abruptly. "Has the new campaign of the war begun yet?"

  "Well, we're maneuvering for position."

  "You've seen him. How does he impress you?"

  "The same as he does others. A hard, ruthless fighter. Unless all signs fail, he is an implacable foe."

  "But you are not afraid?"

  He smiled. "Do I look frightened?"

  "No, you remind me of something a burglar once told me—"

  "A what?"

  "A burglar—a reformed burglar!" She gave him a saucy flash of her dark eyes. "Do you think I don't know any lawbreakers except those I have met in this State? I came across this one in a mission where I used to think I was doing good. He said it was not the remuneration of the profession that had attracted him, but the excitement. It was dreadfully frowned down upon and underpaid. He could earn more at his old trade of a locksmith, but it seemed to him that every impediment to success was a challenge to him. Poor man, he relapsed again, and they put him in Sing Sing. I was so interested in him, too."

  "You've had some queer friends in your time," he laughed, but without a trace of disapproval.

  "I have some queer ones yet," she thrust back.

  "Let's not talk of them," he cried, in pretended alarm.

  Her inextinguishable gaiety brought back the smile he liked. "We'll talk of SOME ONE else—some one of interest to us both."

  "I am always ready to talk of Miss Virginia Balfour," he said, misunderstanding promptly.

  She smiled her disdain of his obtuseness in an elaborately long survey of him.

  "Well?" he wanted to know.

  "That's how you look—very well, indeed. I believe the storm was greatly exaggerated," she remarked.

  "Isn't that rather a good definition for a blizzard—a greatly exaggerated storm?"

  "You don't look the worse for wear—not the wreck I expected to behold."

  "Ah, you should have seen me before I saw you."

  "Thank you. I have no doubt you find the sight of my dear face as refreshing as your favorite cocktail. I suppose that is why it has taken you three days after your return to reach me and then by special request."

  "A pleasure delayed is twice a pleasure anticipation and realization."

  Miss Balfour made a different application of his text, her eyes trained on him with apparent indifference. "I've been enjoying a delayed pleasure myself. I went to see her this afternoon."

  He did not ask whom, but his eyes brightened.

  "She's worth a good deal of seeing, don't you think?"

  "Oh, I'm in love with her, but it doesn't follow you ought to be."

  "Am I?"—he smiled.

  "You are either in love or else you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

  "An interesting thing about you is your point of view. Now, anybody else would tell me I ought to be ashamed if I am in love."

  "I'm not worried about your morals," she scoffed. "It's that poor child I'm thinking of."

  "I think of her a good deal, too."

  "Ah! and does she think of you a good deal That's what we must guard against."

  "Is it?"

  "Yes. You see I'm her confidante." She told it him with sparkling eyes, for the piquancy of it amused her. Not every engaged young woman can hear her lover's praises sung by the woman whose life he has saved with the proper amount of romance.

  "Really?"

  She nodded, laughing at him. "I didn't get a chance to tell her about me."

  "I suppose not."

  "I think I'll tell her about you, though—just what a ruthless barbarian you are."

  His eyes gleamed "I wish you would. I'd like to find out whether she would believe you. I have tried to tell her myself, but the honest truth is, I funk it."

  "You haven't any right to let her know you are interested in her." She interrupted him before he could speak. "Don't trifle with her, Waring. She's not like other girls."

  He met her look gravely. "I wouldn't trifle with her for any reason."

  Her quick rejoinder overlapped his sentence. "Then you love her!"

  "Is that an alternative?"

  "With you—yes."

  "Faith, my lady, you're frank!"

  "I'm not mealy-mouthed. You don't think yourself scrupulous, do you?"

  "I'm afraid I am not."

  "I don't mind so much your being in love with HER, though it's not flattering to my vanity, but—" She stopped, letting him make the inference.

  "Do you think that likely?" he asked, the color flushing his face.

  He wondered how much Aline had told this confidante. Certain specific things he knew she had not revealed, but had she let her guess the situation between them?

  She compromised with her conscience. "I don't know. She is romantic—and Simon Harley isn't a very fertile field for romance, I suppose."

  "You would imply?"

  "Oh, you have points, and nobody knows them better than Waring Ridgway," she told him jauntily. "But you needn't play that role to the address of Aline Harley. Try ME. I'm immune to romance. Besides, I'm engaged to you," she added, laughing at the inconsequence the fact seemed to have for both of them.

  "I'm afraid I can't help the situation, for if I've been playing a part, it has been an unconscious one."

  "That's the worst of it. When you star as Waring Ridgway you are most dangerous. What I want is total abstinence."

  "You'd rather I didn't see her at all?"

  Virginia dimpled, a gleam of reminiscent laughter in her eyes. "When I was in Denver last month a Mrs. Smythe—it was Smith before her husband struck it rich last year—sent out cards for a bridge afternoon. A Mrs. Mahoney had just come to the metropolis from the wilds of Cripple Creek. Her husband had struck a gold-mine, too, and Mr. Smythe was under obligations to him. Anyhow, she was a stranger, and Mrs. Smythe took her in. It was Mrs. Mahoney's introduction to bridge, and she did not know she was playing for keeps. When the afternoon was over, Mrs. Smythe hovered about her with the sweetest sympathy. 'So sorry you had such a horrid run of cards, dear. Better luck next time.' It took Mrs. Mahoney some time to understand that her social afternoon had cost one hundred and twenty dollars, but next day her husband sent a check for one hundred and twenty-two dollars to Mrs. Smythe. The extra two dollars were for the refreshments, he naively explained, adding that since his wife was so poor a gambler as hardly to be able to keep professionals interested, he would not feel offended if Mrs. Smythe omitted her in future from her social functions."

  Ridgway took it with a smile. "Simon Harley brought his one hundred and twenty-two dollars in person."

  "He didn't! When?"

  "This morning. He proposed benevolent assimilation as a solution of our troubles."

  "Just how?"

  "He offered to consolidate all the copper interests of the country and put me at the head of the resulting combine."

  "If you wouldn't play bridge with Mrs. Harley?"

  "Exactly."

  "And you?"

  "Declined to pledge myself."

  She clapped her hands softly. "Well done, Waring Ridgway! There are times when you are magnificent, when I could put you on a pedestal, you great big, unafraid man. But you mustn't play with her, just the same."


  "Why mustn't I?"

  "For her sake."

  He frowned past her into space, his tight-shut jaw standing out saliently. "You're right, Virginia. I've been thinking so myself. I'll keep off the grass," he said, at last.

  "You're a good fellow," slipped out impulsively.

  "Well, I know where there's another," he said. "I ought to think myself a lucky dog."

  Virginia lifted quizzical eyebrows. "Ought to! That tastes of duty. Don't let it come to that. We'll take it off if you like." She touched the solitaire he had given her.

  "Ah, but I don't like"—he smiled.

  CHAPTER 12. ALINE MAKES A DISCOVERY

  Aline pulled her horse to a walk. "You know Mr. Ridgway pretty well, don't you?"

  Miss Balfour gently flicked her divided skirt with a riding-whip, considering whether she might be said to know him well. "Yes, I think I do," she ventured.

  "Mrs. Mott says you and he are great friends, that you seem very fond of each other."

  "Goodness me! I hope I don't seem fond of him. I don't think 'fond' is exactly the word, anyway, though we are good friends." Quickly, keenly, her covert glance swept Aline; then, withdrawing her eyes, she flung her little bomb. "I suppose we may be said to appreciate each other. At any rate, we are engaged."

  Mrs. Harley's pony came to an abrupt halt. "I thought I had dropped my whip," she explained, in a low voice not quite true.

  Virginia, though she executed an elaborate survey of the scenery, could not help noticing that the color had washed from her friend's face. "I love this Western country—its big sweep of plains, of low, rolling hills, with a background of mountains. One can see how it gets into a man's blood so that the East seems insipid ever afterward," discoursed Miss Balfour.

  A question trembled on Aline's blanched lips.

  "Say it," permitted Virginia.

  "Do you mean that you are engaged to him—that you are going to marry Mr. Ridgway—without caring for him?"

  "I don't mean that at all. I like him immensely."

  "But—do you love him?" It was almost a cry—these low words wrung from the tortured heart.

  "No fair," warned her friend smilingly.

  Aline rode in silence, her stricken face full of trouble. How could she, from her glass house, throw stones at a loveless marriage? But this was different from her own case! Nobody was worthy to marry her hero without giving the best a woman had to give. If she were a girl—a sudden tide of color swept her face; a wild, delirious tingle of joy flooded her veins—oh, if she were a girl, what a wealth of love could she give him! Clarity of vision had come to her in a blinding flash. Untutored of life, the knowledge of its meaning had struck home of the suddenest. She knew her heart now that it was too late; knew that she could never be indifferent to what concerned Waring Ridgway.

  Aline caught at the courage behind her childishness, and accomplished her congratulations "You will be happy, I am sure. He is good."

  "Goodness does not impress me as his most outstanding quality," smiled Miss Balfour.

  "No, one never feels it emphasized. He is too free of selfishness to make much of his goodness. But one can't help feeling it in everything he does and says."

  "Does Mr. Harley agree with you? Does he feel it?"

  "I don't think Mr. Harley understands him. I can't help thinking that he is prejudiced." She was becoming mistress of her voice and color again.

  "And you are not?"

  "Perhaps I am. In my thought of him he would still be good, even if he had done all the bad things his enemies accuse him of."

  Virginia gave her up. This idealized interpretation of her betrothed was not the one she had, but for Aline it might be the true one. At least, she could not disparage him very consistently under the circumstances.

  "Isn't there a philosophy current that we find in people what we look for in them? Perhaps that is why you and Mr. Harley read in Mr. Ridgway men so diverse as you do. It is not impossible you are both right and both wrong. Heaven knows, I suppose. At least, we poor mortals fog around enough when we sit in judgment." And Virginia shrugged the matter from her careless shoulders.

  But Aline seemed to have a difficulty in getting away from the subject. "And you—what do you read?" she asked timidly.

  "Sometimes one thing and sometimes another. To-day I see him as a living refutation of all the copy-book rules to success. He shatters the maxims with a touch-and-go manner that is fascinating in its immorality. A gambler, a plunger, an adventurer, he wins when a careful, honest business man would fail to a certainty."

  Aline was amazed. "You misjudge him. I am sure you do. But if you think this of him why—"

  "Why do I marry him? I have asked myself that a hundred times, my dear. I wish I knew. I have told you what I see in him to-day; but tomorrow—why, to-morrow I shall see him an altogether different man. He will be perhaps a radiating center of altruism, devoted to his friends, a level-headed protector of the working classes, a patron of the arts in his own clearminded, unlettered way. But whatever point of view one gets at him, he spares one dullness. Will you explain to me, my dear, why picturesque rascality is so much more likable than humdrum virtue?"

  Mrs. Harley's eyes blazed. "And you can talk this way of the man you are going to marry, a man—" She broke off, her voice choked.

  Miss Balfour was cool as a custard. "I can, my dear, and without the least disloyalty. In point of fact, he asked me to tell you the kind of man I think him. I'm trying to oblige him, you see."

  "He asked you—to tell me this about him?" Aline pulled in her pony in order to read with her astonished eyes the amused ones of her companion.

  "Yes. He was afraid you were making too much of his saving you. He thinks he won't do to set on a pedestal."

  "Then I think all the more of him for his modesty."

  "Don't invest too heavily on his modesty, my dear. He wouldn't be the man he is if he owned much of that commodity."

  "The man he is?"

  "Yes, the man born to win, the man certain of himself no matter what the odds against him. He knows he is a man of destiny; knows quite well that there is something big about him that dwarfs other men. I know it, too. Wherefore I seize my opportunity. It would be a sin to let a man like that get away from one. I could never forgive myself," she concluded airily.

  "Don't you see any human, lovable things in him?" Aline's voice was an accusation.

  "He is the staunchest friend conceivable. No trouble is too great for him to take for one he likes, and where once he gives his trust he does not take it back. Oh, for all his force, he is intensely human! Take his vanity, my dear. It soars to heaven."

  "If I cared for him I couldn't dissect his qualities as you do."

  "That's because you are a triumph of the survival of nature and impulse over civilization, in spite of its attempts to sap your freshness. For me, I fear I'm a sophisticated daughter of a critical generation. If I weren't, I should not hold my judgment so safely in my own keeping, but would surrender it and my heart."

  "There is something about the way you look at him that shocks me. One ought not to let oneself believe all that seems easy to believe."

  "That is your faith, but mine is a different one. You see, I'm a Unitarian," returned Virginia blithely.

  "He will make you love him if you marry him," sighed Aline, coming back to her obsession.

  Virginia nodded eagerly. "In my secret heart that is what I am hoping for, my dear."

  "Unless there is another man," added Aline, as if alone with her thoughts.

  Virginia was irritably aware of a flood of color beating into her cheeks. "There isn't any other man," she said impatiently.

  Yet she thought of Lyndon Hobart. Curiously enough, whenever she conceived herself as marrying Ridgway, the reflex of her brain carried to her a picture of Hobart, clean-handed, fine of instinct, with the inherited inflections of voice and unconscious pride of caste that come from breeding and not from cultivation. If he were not born to greatness, lik
e his rival, at least he satisfied her critical judgment of what a gentleman should be; and she was quite sure that the potential capacity lay in her to care a good deal more for him than for anybody else she had met. Since it was not on the cards, as Miss Virginia had shuffled the pack, that she should marry primarily for reasons sentimental, this annoyed her in her sophisticated hours.

  But in the hours when she was a mere girl when she was not so confidently the heir of all the feminine wisdom of the ages, her annoyance took another form. She had told Lyndon Hobart of her engagement because it was the honest thing to do; because she supposed she ought to discourage any hopes he might be entertaining. But it did not follow that he need have let these hopes be extinguished so summarily. She could have wished his scrupulous regard for the proper thing had not had the effect of taking him so completely out of her external life, while leaving him more insistently than ever the subject of her inner contemplation.

  Virginia's conscience was of the twentieth century and American, though she was a good deal more honest with herself than most of her sex in the same social circle. Also she was straightforward with her neighbors so far as she could reasonably be. But she was not a Puritan in the least, though she held herself to a more rigid account than she did her friends. She judged her betrothed as little as she could, but this was not to be entirely avoided, since she expected her life to become merged so largely in his. There were hours when she felt she must escape the blighting influence of his lawlessness. There were others when it seemed to her magnificent.

  Except for the occasional jangle of a bit or the ring of a horse's shoe on a stone, there was silence which lasted many minutes. Each was busy with her thoughts, and the narrowness of the trail, which here made them go in single file, served as an excuse against talk.

  "Perhaps we had better turn back," suggested Virginia, after the path had descended to a gulch and merged itself in a wagon-road. "We shall have no more than time to get home and dress for dinner."