The Forbidden Way

But Jeff's resemblance to his father was remarkable. Except for the old-fashioned collar and "string" tie, the queerly cut coat, and something in the brushing of the hair, the figure in the other photograph was that of her husband in the life. She had discovered this when she and Jeff had looked into the tin box just after they were married, and had commented on it, but Jeff had said nothing in reply. He had only looked at the picture steadily for a moment, then rather abruptly taken it from her and put it away. From this Camilla knew that the thoughts of his mother were the only ones which Jeff had cared to select from the book of memory and tradition. Of his father he had never spoken, nor would speak. He would not even read again these letters which his mother had kept, wept over, and handed down to her son that the record of a man's ignominy might be kept intact for the generations to follow her.

It was, therefore, with a sense of awe, of intrusion upon the mystery of a 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, Camilla remembered the whole sad story, and, with the face of the woman before her, was able to supply almost word for word the tender, passionate, bitter, forgiving letters which must have come between. She had pleaded with him in May to return to her, but in June, from New York, he had written her that he could not tell when he would go West again. In July he was sure he would not go West until the following year, if then. In August he sent her money – which she must have returned – for the next letter referred to it. In September his manner was indifferent – in October it was heartless. It had taken only six months for this man madly 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 to him when he was a boy by one of the nurses who had taken him away from the hospital where his mother had died – of her persistent refusal to speak of Jeff's father or to reveal his identity, of Jeff's birth without a name, and of his mother's death a few weeks later, unrepentant and unforgiving. With her last words she had blessed the child and prayed that they would not name it after her. At first he had been playfully called "Thomas Jefferson," and so Thomas Jefferson he remained until later another of his guardians had added the "Wray" after a character 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 had always accompanied them and gazed at the photograph of Jeff's father. Yes, it was a cruel face – a handsome, cruel face – and it looked like Jeff. She had never thought of Jeff as being cruel. Did she really know her husband, after all? Until they had come to New York Jeff had always been forbearing, kindly, and tender. Before their marriage he had sometimes been impatient with her – but since that time, often when he had every right to be angry, he had contented himself with a baby-like stare and had then turned away and left her. Flashes of cruelty sometimes had shown in his treatment of the Mexicans on the railroad or at the mines, but it was not the kind of cruelty this man in the photograph had shown – not the enduring cruelty of heartlessness which would let a woman die for the love of him. The night Jeff had left her the worst in him was dominant, and yet she had not thought of him as cruel. It was to the future alone which she must look for an answer to the 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 was the one Camilla most deeply prized. There was a tincture of old-world simplicity in her grandeur. Only those persons were snobbish, Mrs. Rumsen always averred, whose social position was insecure. It was she who had helped Camilla to see society as it really was, laid bare to her its shams, its inconsistencies, and its follies; who had shown her the true society of old New York; taken her to unfamiliar heights among the "cliff-dwellers" of the old régime who lived in the quiet elegance of social security with and for their friends, unmoved by the glitter of modern gew-gaws, who resisted innovations and fought hard for old traditions which the newer generation was seeking to destroy, a mild-eyed, incurious race of people who were sure that what they had and were was good, and viewed the social extravagances as the inhabitants of another planet might do, from afar, who went into the world when they chose, and returned to their "cliffs" when they chose, sure of their welcome at either place. They were the people Rita Cheyne called "frumps," and Cortland Bent, "bores," but to Camilla, who had often found herself wondering what was the end and aim of all things, they were a symbol of completion.

Mrs. Rumsen laid aside her wraps with the deliberation of a person who is sure of her welcome.

"You'll forgive my appearance?" asked Camilla. "I didn't think you'd mind."

"I'm flattered, child. It has taken longer than I supposed it would to teach you not to be punctilious with me. Well, you're better, of course. This long rest has done wonders for you."

"Oh, yes. But I'm afraid I wouldn't last long here. I'm used to air and 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 this time, but his business still keeps him."

"And you miss him? That's very improper. I'm afraid I haven't schooled you carefully enough." She smiled and sighed. "That is a vulgar weakness your woman of society must never confess to. We may love our husbands as much as we like, but we mustn't let people know it. It offends their conceit and reminds them unpleasantly of their own deficiencies."

"People aren't really as bad as you're trying to paint then," laughed Camilla. "Even you, Mrs. Rumsen! Why, I thought the habit of cynicism was only for the very young and inexperienced."

"Thanks, child. Perhaps it's my second childhood. I don't want to be cynical – but I must. One reason I came to you is because I want you to refresh my point of view. I wonder what air and sunshine and bed at ten o'clock would do for me. Would you like to prescribe it for me? I wonder 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 afraid you wouldn't be. The accommodations are abominable except, of course, in Denver, and you wouldn't want to stay there. You know our – our house isn't finished yet. It would be fine if we could camp – but that isn't very comfortable. I love it. But you know there are no porcelain tubs – "

"Oh, I know. I've camped in the West, dear, a good many years ago – before you were born. I wonder how I should like it now – "

She paused, her wandering gaze resting on the desk, which Camilla had left in disorder, the letters scattered, the photographs at which she had been looking propped upright against the tin document-box. It was on the photographs that Mrs. Rumsen's gaze had stopped. Slowly she rose from 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. "I see I'm not. Camilla, dear, where on earth did you get that photograph of 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 like it in the family album at home."

"That can't be."

"I was looking over them only the other day – why do you look so strangely?"

"Are you sure? You can't be sure – "

"I am. I remember the queer cravat and the pose of the hands on the chair. I remember him, too – perfectly. Do you think I wouldn't know my own 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 on Camilla'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. It isn't yours. It's Jeff's – my husband's – do you understand? It's his – oh, I can't tell you. It's too horrible. I can't believe it myself. 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 nature of which she could not even faintly surmise, bent over Camilla kindly and 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 come here?"

Camilla replied with difficulty.

"That picture has been in Jeff's possession since he was a baby. It was the only heritage his mother left him, the photograph and these letters. I have just been reading them. They were written to her. He had deserted her – before Jeff was born – "

Mrs. Rumsen's hand had dropped from Camilla's shoulder, and she turned quickly away – with a sharp catch in her breath. When she spoke, her voice, 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 tried all these years to forget. I don't know why I took these letters out to read. Perhaps it would be better if you hadn't known – "

"No, no. I think I ought to know. Perhaps in justice to my brother – "

"There can be no justice for Jeff's father, Mrs. Rumsen. I have read his letters to her – to Jeff's mother. Before you came in I was trying to think of a punishment horrible enough for the kind of men who deceive women 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, is answered in these letters. Now that you know Jeff's story perhaps you had better read them."

With trembling hands she gathered the letters and gave them to her visitor, who now sat in the big armchair near the window, her straight figure almost judicial in its severity. She glanced at the handwriting and at the signature, and then let the papers fall into her lap.

"Yes, they are my brother's," she said slowly. "It is his handwriting – and the name – the General's name is Cornelius Edward – 'Ned' was his name at college – he never used his first name until later in life. I – I suppose there's no doubt about it."

She sat with one hand to her brow as though trying to reconcile two parts of an astounding narrative. Camilla's revelation did not seem in the least like reality. Cornelius Bent's part in it was so at variance with his character as she had known it. There had never been time for love or for play. When he had given up his profession of engineering and plunged into business downtown his youth was ended. She recalled that this must have been about the time he returned from the Western trip – the year before he was married. The making of money had been the only thing in life her brother had ever cared about. He had loved his wife in his peculiar way until she died, and he had been grateful for his children. His membership in the – Regiment, years ago, had been a business move, and the service, though distinguished, had made him many valuable business connections, but all of Cornelius Bent's family knew that his heart and his soul were downtown, day and night, night and day.

And yet there seemed no chance that Camilla could be mistaken. The marks of handling, the stains of Time – perhaps of tears – the pin-hole at the top, these were the only differences between the photograph in her album at home and the one she now held in her fingers.

Camilla waited for her to speak again. Her own heart was too full of Jeff and of what this discovery might mean to him to be willing to trust herself to further speech until she was sure that her visitor understood the full meaning of the situation. There was a sudden appreciation of the delicacy of her own position and of the danger to which her friendship with Mrs. Rumsen was being subjected – and, highly as she had prized it, Camilla knew that if her visitor could not take her own point of view with regard to Jeff's father and with regard to Jeff himself she must herself bring that friendship to an end. In some anxiety she waited and watched Mrs. Rumsen while she read. The proud head was bent, the brows and chin had set in austere lines, and Camilla, not knowing what to expect, sat silently and waited.

"It is true, of course," said her visitor, softly. "There can't be the slightest doubt of it now. There are some allusions here which identify these letters completely. I don't know just what to say to you, child. From the first time I saw your husband he attracted me curiously – reflected a memory – you remember my speaking of it? It all seems 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 realize what was passing in Camilla's mind – her sudden reticence and the meaning of 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 my feeling for his children. If anything I should and will love them the more. Come and kiss me, Camilla, dear," she said with gentle simplicity.

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. "To whom should I not be good unless to my own. If my brother disowns your husband, 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 must think what it is best for us to do."

"No, dear. I'll not speak of it. I'll never speak of it unless you allow me to. It is your husband's affair. He shall do what he thinks best. 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 years ago. 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 father he'd shoot him as he would a dog."

As Mrs. Rumsen drew back in alarm, she added quickly, "Oh, no, of course he 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 and Jeff must do him justice, too. All this happened a long while ago. Between that time and this lie thirty years of good citizenship and honorable manhood. Cornelius has been no despoiler of women." She picked up the papers again. "The curious thing about it, Camilla, is that nowhere in these letters is there any mention of a child. I can't understand that. Have you thought – that perhaps he did not know? It's very strange, mystifying. I have never known the real heart of my brother, but he could hardly have been capable of that. He was never given 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 – but the letters – no, Mrs. Rumsen – no man who had ever loved could have written 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 fingers wreathing her brows.

"Yes, I suppose so," she sighed. "But I'm afraid in this matter Jeff will not ask my opinions – he must choose for himself. I don't know what he 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 the window – "I had not thought of them."

Her visitor followed Camilla with questioning eyes. "They must share the burden – 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 it would have been before this fight of the Amalgamated for the smelter. They are enemies – don't you suppose I hear the talk about it? General Bent has sworn to ruin Jeff – to put him out of business; and Jeff will fight until he drops. Father against son – oh, Mrs. Rumsen, what can be done?" She took the photograph and letters from the lap of her visitor and 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 the part of Providence to two human souls? This drama was arranged years before you were born. It's none of your affair. Fate has simply used you – used us– as humble instruments in working out its plans."

Camilla shook her head. "It can do Jeff no good. It will do Gladys and Cortland harm. Jeff has forgotten the past. It has done him no harm – except that he has no name. He has won his way without a name – even this will not give him one. Jeff's poor incubus will be a grim reality – tangible flesh – to be despised."

Mrs. Rumsen looked long into the fire. "I can't believe it," she said slowly. "My brother and I are not on the best of terms – we have never been intimate, because we could not understand each other. But he is not the kind of man any one despises. People downtown say he has no soul. If he hasn't, then this news can be no blow to him. If he has – "

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'll take a spin into the country. Perhaps by to-morrow we'll be able to see things more clearly."

CHAPTER XVIII

COMBAT

It had been a time of terrific struggles. For four months Wray's enemies had used every device that ingenuity could devise to harass him in the building of his new road, the Saguache Short Line; had attacked the legality of every move in the courts; hampered and delayed, when they could, the movement of his material; bribed his engineers and employes; offered his Mexicans double wages elsewhere; found an imaginary flaw in his title to the Hermosa Estate which for a time prevented the shipment of ties until Larry came on and cleared the matter up. Finally they caused a strike at the Pueblo Steel Works, where his rails were made, so that before the completion of the contract the works were shut down. Tooth and nail Jeff fought them at every point, and Pete Mulrennan's judge at Kinney, whose election had taken place before the other crowd had made definite plans, had been an important asset in the fight for supremacy.

The other crowd had appealed from his decisions, of course, but the law so far had been on Wray's side, and there was little chance that the decisions would be overruled in the higher court. But as Jeff well knew, the Amalgamated crowd had no intention of standing on ceremony, and what they couldn't do in one way they attempted to accomplish in, another. Five carloads of ties on the Denver and Saguache railroad were ditched in an arroyo between Mesa City and Saguache. Wray's engineers reported that the trestles had been tampered with. Jeff satisfied himself that this was true, then doubled his train crews, supplied the men with Winchesters and revolvers, and put a deputy sheriff in the cab of each locomotive. After that an explosion of dynamite destroyed a number of his flat cars, and a fire in the shops was narrowly averted. A man caught at the switches had been shot and was now in the hospital at Kinney with the prospect of a jail sentence before him. Judge Weigel was a big gun in Kinney, and he liked to make a big noise. He would keep the law in Saguache County, he said, if he had to call on the Governor to help him.

More difficult to combat were the dissensions Jeff found among his own employes. The German engineers, like other men, were fallible, and left him when the road was half done because they were offered higher salaries elsewhere. His under-engineers, his contractors, his foremen were all subject to the same influences, but he managed somehow to keep the work moving. New men, some of them just out of college, were imported from the East and Middle West, and the Development Company was turned into an employment agency to keep the ranks of workmen filled. Mexicans went and Mexicans came, but the building of the road went steadily on. There were no important engineering problems to solve, since the greater part of the line passed over the plains, where the fills and cuts were small and the grading inexpensive. Seven months had passed since ground had been broken and the road, in spite of obstacles, had been nearly carried to completion.

Already Wray had had a taste of isolation. For two months there had been but one passenger train a day between Kinney and Saguache. To all intents and purposes Kinney was now the Western terminus of the road, and Saguache was beginning to feel the pinch of the grindstones. Notwithstanding the findings of the Railroad Commission, Judge Weigel's decision, and Jeff's representations through his own friends at Washington, the Denver and Western refused to put on more trains. Saguache, they contended, was not the real terminus of the road; that the line had been extended from Kinney some years before to tap a coal field which had not proved successful; that Saguache was not a growing community, and that the old stage line still in operation between the two towns would be adequate for every purpose. These were lies of course, vicious lies, for every one knew that since the development of the Mesa City properties Saguache had trebled in size, and that the freight business alone in ten years would have provided for the entire bonded indebtedness of the road. What might happen in time Jeff did not know or care. It was a matter which must be fought out at length and might take years to settle. The Chicago and Utah Railroad Company for the present had command of the situation. To handle the business Jeff had put on a dozen four-mule teams between Kinney and Saguache, which carried his freight and necessary supplies along the old trail over the Boca Pass, which was shorter by ten miles than the railroad, a heart-breaking haul and a dangerous one to man and beast. But it was the only thing left for him to do.

Realizing the futility of any efforts at coercion, Jeff had relinquished the losing battle and had put his heart and soul into the building of the Saguache Short Line. He knew every stick and stone of it and rode along the line from camp to camp, lending some of his own enthusiasm to the foremen of the gangs, pitting one crowd against the other in friendly rivalry for substantial bonuses. At last the connecting links were forged and only a matter of twenty miles of track remained to be laid – when the Pueblo Steel Works shut down. This was a severe blow – one on which Jeff had not counted. The penalties for non-delivery to which the steel company were liable were heavy, but Jeff did not want the penalties. Compared with his own magnificent financial prospects, the penalties were only a drop in the bucket. He wanted his road. His entire future depended upon its completion – the smelter, the Development Company, and all his chain of mining, coal, and lumber properties. Without that road he was now at the mercy of his enemies.