“If I have done things that were wrong, and heaven knows I have, it was because I was fighting to keep you, Anne. And you know everything is fair in such a case, isn’t that true?”
And she had answered: “To tell you the truth, Charlie, I’m trying to forget all about the mountains and what happened there. I’m trying to forget anything very bad that you may have done. Is that what you want to know?”
It was not all, and he was frank to tell her so. “If you succeed too well,” he said, “you may forget me altogether. I’d rather be remembered a little, even if it has to be viciously.”
He was convinced that he was very far on the outskirts of her attention, and it cut him to the quick. Had she not once been his prospective wife? But he clung to the task, and before long she was listening with more attention, although she persisted in confining their walk to the ridiculous little paths of that garden. He grew bolder as the moments passed. When she asked him when he was going West, he said: “When I have to give up hope.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” she asked him, and she asked it so unemotionally, so far from either scorn or invitation, that he was abashed, but he said gravely: “I mean that I’m struggling to win back your friendly respect first, Anne. And when that comes … well, then I’ll go on hoping for something else. Do you think I’m wrong to do so?”
He had always been a proud and downright fellow, and he knew that his humility was what was breaking down her dislike for him and opening her mind, but he was delighted beyond all bounds when she did not at once return a negative answer to his last question. Indeed, she did not answer at all, and when she straightened and looked wistfully at the rich blue of the sea beyond the yellow-green oaks, he knew that she was remembering pleasant things out of their mutual past. He had his share of intuition and cunning, and he discreetly kept silent.
It was at this very moment that the letter was brought to her. She glanced down at it carelessly and continued her walk, but, presently looking down again, she seemed to read the address and understand it for the first time. He saw her hand hastily cover the writing on the envelope, and at the same time her eyes became alert. She wanted to get rid of him at once, and he knew it. More than that, when she looked at him now there was a certain hardness in her eyes. Something about that handwriting had made her suddenly call up her old anger, her old distaste for him.
But still, although the test was a stern one, Charles Merchant was not a fool. He brought her back to the house at the first pretext and left her alone with the infernal letter, then he went to find Anne’s maid.
When he had decided that life was not worthwhile without Anne Withero and that he must make a deliberate and determined campaign to regain his old position with her, he had, like a good general, cast about to find a friend in the enemy’s camp. By means of a small subsidy, he had secured a friend in the person of Mary, Anne’s maid. She had already proven invaluable to him in many ways. She could not only keep him informed of her mistress’s movements, but she was also intelligent enough to catch the general drift of Anne’s interests of the moment. When Anne was reading books of the West and talking about the mountains, Charles Merchant knew perfectly well that her mind was turning to Andrew Lanning, that strange adventurer who had literally dropped out of the sky to ruin his own romance with Anne Withero. And, when Anne read and talked of other things, Charles knew in turn that she was letting the memory of her outlaw lover grow dim. In time, and with three thousand miles between them, he was sure that the girl would forget the fellow entirely. Any other solution was socially impossible. But he remained uneasy.
He met Mary at their appointed rendezvous beyond the tennis courts, and he told her at once what he wanted.
“Your lady got a letter a few minutes ago,” he said, “a fat letter on blue-white paper. You know, the cheap stuff and the big, sprawling handwriting. You can’t mistake it. Now, I want that letter to be in my hands before the night comes, you understand?”
When Mary stood with her hands folded and her eyes cast down, there was a good deal of the angel in her pale face. When she glanced up quickly, however, one found a pronounced seasoning of mischief in her eyes. And now she looked up very quickly, indeed. In her heart Mary despised big, handsome Charles Merchant; she had her own opinion of men who could not take the queen of their hearts by storm, but had to resort to such tactics as bribing maids. Nevertheless, she had decided to serve Charles Merchant. It was really for her mistress’s sake more than her own. For Charles Merchant was rich, and he was also weak. An ideal man for a master and, also, from Mary’s point of view, for a husband. If Anne married him she, Mary, would retain a mighty hold on the purse and the respect of the master of the house. She might even stand at the balance between master and mistress of a great establishment. She would be the power behind the throne. All of these things were in her mind as she now looked into the face of Charles Merchant, but she could not keep back the small grimace of mockery.
“Mister Merchant,” she said, “may I ask you just one thing?”
“Fire away, Mary.”
“After you marry Miss Withero, will you keep on handling her the same way?”
He laughed, and there was a sigh of relief behind the laughter. “After we’re married!” he exclaimed. “After we’re married, I’ll find a way of handling her, never doubt that. Plenty of ways.”
There was something in his manner of saying this that made Mary’s eyes grow very big, and a sudden doubt of Charles Merchant came to her. His short command for her to hurry sent her away before she had time to speak again, but she went away thoughtfully.
III
That night the letter was in the hands of Charles Merchant. He read it hastily, for Mary was waiting anxiously to take it back to its proper place. He detained her for a moment.
“Has she been talking about anything unusual?” he asked, almost fiercely.
“No, nothing.”
“Thank goodness!” said Merchant. “You’re sure? No mention of a journey?”
Mary grew thoughtful. “She asked me, when she was dressing for dinner, if I had ever been West, and if I’d like to go there.”
Merchant groaned. “She said that?”
“What’s in that? She was just talking about the mountains.”
“Only the mountains?”
“And she said there was a different breed of men there, too.”
“That’s all!”
He slammed the door after her and, going back to the window, slumped into a chair with his face between his hands. For all that he shut out the light from his eyes, he was seeing too clearly the picture of the lithe fellow, straight, graceful, dark-eyed, and light and nervous of hand—that was Andrew Lanning. He cursed the picture and the name and the thought of the name, as his mind went back to the night, so long ago, when the figure had leaned over his bed and asked through the darkness: “Where is the girl’s room?” And then, lest he make an outcry and alarm the house, Lanning had tied and gagged him.
In truth, the coming of Lanning had tied and gagged him forever, so far as Anne Withero’s interest was concerned. Afterward the name of Lanning had grown in importance, had become a legend, one of those soul-stirring legends that grow up, now and then, around the figure of a stirring man of action.
An outlaw certainly was beyond the pale of Anne’s interest, but Charles could see now that, perhaps, the very strangeness of the wanderer’s position and character had made him fascinating in the romantic eyes of the girl. And then, striking back through a thousand dangers and risking his life for the sake of one interview, Andy Lanning, the outlaw, had come to the Merchant house again and seen Anne Withero once more. Only twice they had seen one another, but out of those two meetings had come the wreck of his own affair with her. He gritted his teeth when he recalled it.