"How can you blame me? If I've made love to you, it was – "
"Oh, I know. I'm a rustic, and it's a good game."
"You're the least rustic person I've ever known," he said seriously. "It's not a game. I can't think of it as a game. It is something more serious than that." He took a few paces up and down the aisle before her and then went on.
"I know you've never been willing to give me credit for anything I've said when I've tried to show you how much you were to me – and yet, I think you cared – you've showed it sometimes. But I've tried to go about my work and forget you, because I thought it was best for us both. But I can't, Camilla, I tell you I can't get you out of my head. I think of something else, and then, in a moment, there you are again – elusive, mocking, scornful, tender, all in a breath. And then, when I find you're there to stay, I don't try any more. I don't want to think of anything else." He leaned across the desk and seized one of her hands with an ardor which took her by storm. "You've got into my blood like wine, Camilla. To be near you means to reach forward and take you – the sound of your voice, the response of your eyes, the appeal of your mind to mine in this wilderness of spirit – I can't deny them – I don't want to deny them."
Her head sank, but she withdrew her hands. "And my sanity?" she asked clearly. "That does not appeal to you."
"Perhaps it does – most of all. It maddens me, too – that I can't make you care for me enough to forget yourself."
She looked up at him, smiling gently now. "It is easy to say forget myself, that you may have one more frail woman to remember. Am I so provincial, Cortland Bent? Am I really so rustic? Two days ago you were telling me I had all the savoir faireof the great lady."
He did not reply to that, but, while she watched him, he got up and walked slowly over to the map of the United States which hung between the windows.
"I don't suppose it will mean anything to you when I tell you I'm going," he said bitterly.
"Going – where?"
"East."
"For long?"
"For good. I've leased the mine."
She started up from her chair, breathless, and stood poised on the edge of the platform, the slender fingers of one hand grasping the projecting edge of the desk.
"You're – going – East to – to stay?"
He did not turn, and, if he noticed any change in her intonation, he gave no sign of it.
"I've finished here. The mine is leased. I'm going back to New York."
"I can't believe – you never told me. It's curious you shouldn't have said something before."
"Why should I? No man likes to admit that he's a failure."
"You've leased the 'Lone Tree'? To whom?"
"To Wray. He made me a proposition yesterday. I've accepted it. In fact, I'm out of the thing altogether."
"Jeff? I don't understand. Why, only yesterday he – "
Was it loyalty to Jeff that made her pause? He turned quickly.
"What – did he say anything?"
"Oh, nothing – only that the mine was a failure. That seems curious if he had decided to lease it."
"Oh!" he said smiling, "it's only Wray's way of doing business. When anything is hanging fire he always says exactly what he doesn't mean. He doesn't worry me. I've gone over that hole with a fine-tooth comb, and I'm glad to get out of it."
"And out of Mesa City?" Then, with an attempt at carelessness, "Of course we'll all miss you," she said dully.
"Don't! You mustn't speak to me in that way. I've always been pretty decent to you. You've never believed in me, but that's because you've never believed in any man. I've tried to show you how differently I felt – "
"By kissing me?" she mocked scornfully.
Bent changed his tone. "See here, Camilla," he said, "I'm not in a mood to be trifled with. I can't go away from here and leave you in this God-forsaken hole. There isn't a person here fit for you to associate with. It will drive you mad in another year. Do you ever try to picture what your future out here is going to be?"
"Haven't I?" bitterly.
"You've seen them out on the ranches, haven't you? Slabsided, gingham scarecrows in sunbonnets, brown and wrinkled like dried peaches, moving all day from kitchen to bedroom, from bedroom to barn, and back again – "
"Yes, yes," said Camilla, her head in her hands. "I've seen them."
"Without one thought in life but the successes of their husbands – the hay crop, the price of cattle; without other diversion than the visit to Kinney, the new hat and frock once a year (a year behind the fashion); their only companions women like themselves, with the same tastes, the same thoughts, the same habits – "
"O God!" whispered the girl, laying a restraining hand on his arm, "don't go on! I can't stand it."
He clasped her hands in both of his own.
"Don't you see it's impossible?" he whispered. "You weren't made for that kind of thing. Your bloom would fade like theirs, only sooner because of your fineness. You'd never grow like those women, because it isn't in you to be ugly. But you'd fade early."
"Yes," she said, "I know it."
"You can't stay. I know, just as you know, that you were never meant for a life like that – you weren't meant for a life like this. Do you care what becomes of these kids? No matter how much chance you give them to get up in the world, they'll seek their own level in the end."
"No, I can't stay here." She repeated the phrase mechanically, her gaze afar.
"I've watched you, Camilla. I know. For all your warm blood, you're no hardy plant to be nourished in a soil like this. You need environment, culture, the sun of flattery, of wealth – without them you'll wither – "
"And die. Yes, I will. I could not stand this much longer. Perhaps it would be better to die than to become the dull, sodden things these women are."
"Listen, Camilla," he said madly. He put his arms around her, his pulses leaping at the contact of her body. Her figure drooped away from him, but he felt the pressure of her warm fingers in his, and saw the veins throbbing at her throat and temples, and he knew that at last she was awakened. "You must come with me to the East. I won't go without you. I want you. I want to see you among people of your own sort. I'll be good to you – so gentle, so kind that you'll soon forget that there ever was such a place as this."
His tenderness overpowered her, and she felt herself yielding to the warmth of his entreaty. "Do you really need me so much?" she asked brokenly.
His reply was to draw her closer to him and to raise her lips to his. But she turned her head and would not let him kiss her. Perhaps through her mind passed the memory of that other kiss only yesterday.
"No, I'm afraid."
"Of me? Why?"
"Of myself. Life is so terrible – so full of meaning. I'm afraid – yes, afraid of you, too. Somewhere deep in me I have a conscience. To-day you appeal to me. You have put things so clearly – things I have thought but have never dared speak of. To-day you seem to be the only solution of my troubles – "
"Let me solve them then."
"Wait. To-day you almost seem to be the only man in the world – almost, but not quite. I'm not sure of you – nor sure of myself. You point a way to freedom from this – perhaps a worse slavery would await me there. Suppose I married you – "
"Don't marry me then," he broke in wildly. "What is marriage? A word for a social obligation which no one denies. But why insist on it? The real obligation is a moral one and needs no rites to make it binding. I love you. What does it matter whether – "
His meaning dawned on her slowly, and she turned in his arms, her eyes widening with bewilderment as she looked as though fascinated by the horror she read