The Forbidden Way. Gibbs George
polite comments on the dignity of the house, sat a little aside in silence. Cortland Bent, after a glance toward the door through which Miss Janney had vanished, dropped into the vacant chair beside her.
"I'm so glad to see you," she said genuinely. "You know the magnificence is rather bewildering." She paused and lowered her voice. "It seems as if I hadn't seen you for ages."
"Yes," he murmured. "I'm expecting wings any day now. I'm almost too good to be true."
"You're an angel," she smiled. "I want you to be good, and I'm sure I want you to be true. And yet" – she paused – "this seems the only case in the world where to be true is to be bad."
"You can't make the sun stop shining."
"I don't think I want it to stop shining altogether. You see, I'm selfish. I want it under a cloud, that's all."
There was a pause – significant to them both.
"I am trying, Camilla. I am doing my best. You appreciate that?"
"Yes, but it shouldn't be so hard. I don't think it would be hard for me in your place!"
His eyes questioned.
"Miss Janney – she is adorable." She looked over the rim of her cup at him as she finished her tea. "My dear Cort," she laughed, as she handed it to him, "the best I can say for you is that you have the worst taste in the world. I'm really in love with her myself. I can't see what you could have been thinking of – "
"Any more than I can see what you were thinking of."
There was a refuge from the danger toward which she felt herself drifting, and she took it, addressing her nearest neighbor.
"Mrs. Cheyne, don't you think men have abominable taste?"
"Oh, yes, abominable," laughed the lady. "Ugh! I hate mustaches, too, don't you?"
Camilla turned a shade rosier, but her discomfiture was lost in the laughter of those who remembered that Cheyne had worn a beard.
"You know I didn't mean just that," explained Camilla. "I meant their appreciation of women – their sense of the esthetic – "
"Anesthetic, Mrs. Wray. That's the only word for a man's perceptions. A French frock, a smart hat, a little deft color, and the plainest of us is a match for the gayest Lothario. They're only bipeds, instincts on legs – "
"Oh, I say now, Rita," laughed Bent.
"We can't stand for that, Mrs. Cheyne," put in their host. "I suppose you'd think me ungallant if I asked you what kind of instincts women were."
"Instincts with wings," she purred, "angels by intuition, rhapsodists by occupation, and sirens by inheritance. We're not in the least afraid of you, Mr. Janney."
"I should think not. For my part, if I knew that one of you was camping on my trail, I'd give in at once."
"I'm so glad. It's a pet theory of mine that when a woman really sets her cap for a man he had better give up at once, for she will win him – fortune favoring – in the end. Don't you agree, Mrs. Wray?"
"I've never thought about it, Mrs. Cheyne," said Camilla slowly. "By fortune you mean propinquity?"
"Oh, yes – and other things – " laughingly. "For instance, if I had fallen in love with a man I shouldn't stop to consider. If he was another woman's husband – say your husband, Mrs. Wray – that would only add a new element of interest. The more difficult an undertaking, the greater satisfaction in the achievement."
Camilla looked at her steadily for a moment. "I've never thought that any man ought to be dignified by such extraordinary effort. A husband so easily won away is not worth keeping."
The two women had only met once before. They both smiled, sweetly tolerant, their weapons politely sheathed. Only Cortland Bent, who knew the hearts of both, sensed the difference between them.
"You're very flattering, Rita," he broke in, "especially to the bipeds. You've carefully deprived us of every attribute but legs. But we still have those – and can run."
"But you don't," laughed Mrs. Cheyne. "That's just the point. You like the game – all of you. Even your legs aren't proof against flattery."
"Stop, Rita," put in Betty Haviland. "You're letting out all the secrets of the craft."
"Come, Camilla," said Cortland, rising, "wouldn't you like to see the horses and dogs? It's not nearly dark yet."
"Oh, yes," she cried gladly. And then to her host, "What am I to expect, Mr. Janney, silver feed troughs and sterilized water?"
"Oh, no," said their host, "not yet. But they're worth it."
The pair made their way through the library and a small corridor which led to the south portico.
"How do you like my cousin Rita?" Bent asked when they were alone outside.
"Is she your cousin?"
"Through my mother – the Davidges. Quite wonderful, eh?"
"I don't like her. You don't mind my saying so, do you?"
"Not in the least. She's not your sort, Camilla. But then nobody ever takes Rita seriously. She doesn't want them to. She's a spoiled darling. Everybody pets her. That bored kind of cleverness is effective – but everybody knows she doesn't mean half she says."
"I'd be sorry to think she meant anything she says," severely.
Bent laughed. "I'm afraid you're too sincere for my crowd, Camilla."
"Who is Mr. Cheyne?" she asked suddenly.
"A perfectly amiable person with a bald head and a passion for domesticity and music, both of which Rita affects to despise."
"Why did she marry him then?"
"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