_ CHAPTER XXI. THE REASON WHY
Roderick Duncan traveled westward in a special train made up of his own private car, a regular Pullman, and a diner. With his valet for company, Duncan constituted the personnel of the first of these; the second was occupied by the Reverend Doctor Moreley, his wife and two daughters. The reverend gentleman was aware of a part of the purpose of that trip; the members of his family were yet to be told of it. A lavish use of the magician, Money, had prepared everything in advance for Duncan, and he had now only to carry out the arrangements he had made. There was a slight delay in making the start, but after that all things moved as smoothly as possible. Ultimately, the special train was sidetracked at a point that was within a few miles of the house and outbuildings of Three-Star ranch.
The state of Montana held no finer ranch and range, no better or more up-to-date buildings, no better outfit in all respects, than Three-Star. The house, set well up along the side of a hill, faced toward the south, and commanded a view which had been the pride of its former owners, before Richard Morton bought up all the rangeland in that locality and converted it into one huge estate of his own. A broad veranda extended from end to end, at the front, and from that vantage point miles upon miles of rich pasture could be seen, dotted with grazing thousands of cattle. Trees, set out with a view to the future, by the creators of the ranch, imparted an aspect of homely comfort, of seclusion, peace and contentment to it all.
Just at sundown when Patricia Langdon came through the wide door and stepped out upon the veranda toward the broad flight of steps which led down to the flowered inclosure in front of the house, she stopped suddenly, her right hand flew toward her throat, and her face, flushed and angry until that instant, went as pale as death itself. She gasped and caught her breath, swayed a second where she stood, and then drew herself upright again; and she stood straight and tall and brave, face to face with Roderick Duncan who appeared at the top step at the instant when Patricia advanced toward it.
For a space, neither one uttered a word, or made another gesture, save that, in the first instant, Roderick raised his hat in silent salutation, and now stood with it held in his hand.
Patricia's first act was to cast a half-furtive and wholly apprehensive glance over her shoulder, toward the doorway through which she had just passed. Then, she sprang forward like a young fawn and darted down the steps toward the pathway.
"Come with me," she threw back at him. "There must be an interview, but it cannot be held here. Follow me."
Duncan obeyed her, but without haste; and she led him into a pathway among the trees, soon emerging upon an open space in the center of which a rustic pavilion had been erected. It was overgrown by a riot of climbing vines; an inclosure with windows at every side of it, occupied the center of the space beneath the roof, and inside the inclosure were all the evidences of feminine occupancy. Wicker chairs and chairs of willow, rugs, hassocks, cushions, pillows with embroidered covers, littered the place. One could discern at a glance that it was a place of retreat and rest for a woman of taste. In reality, it was Patricia Langdon's place of refuge--at least, she so regarded it.
She did not speak again until she had mounted the steps which led up to it; nor did the man who followed her. But then, when they were beneath the roof of the pavilion, she turned about and faced him.
"Now," she said, "why are you here? Why have you dared to come to this place, in search of me?" She spoke without emphasis, but the very absence of all emotion gave her words the more weight and power.
Duncan stood tall and straight before her, calmly facing her. If her face showed no emotion, now that she had regained control over herself, neither did his. Before he replied to her question, he took a folded paper from the breast-pocket of his coat, and held it in his hand.
"I have a document here, which bears your signature, and mine," he said, then. "It recites the terms of a certain contract which you have agreed to fulfill. I am here to insist that you carry out the terms of this agreement. It is time now, for action on your part."
Patricia gasped. She took a single step backward, and rested one hand upon the top of a willow armchair. Her composure seemed about to forsake her utterly, but by a great effort she controlled herself, lifting her free hand to her throat as if something were choking her.
"It--is--impossible--now," she muttered, at last; and she swayed where she stood, as if she might fall.
"Be seated, Patricia," he said, using her name for the first time; and, when she had complied, he passed around the chair until he stood behind her. It was a delicate act on his part--a consideration for her feelings which might not have been expected, under all the circumstances. He thought he understood how terrible this interview must be to her, and he did not wish to compel her to face him, while it endured. Patricia shivered when he passed her; otherwise she gave no sign. "It is not impossible," he went on, without perceptible pause. "It has never been impossible; it can never be so. On the contrary, it is imperative; more than ever imperative, now."
She shivered again, and did not reply when he paused. He continued:
"Patricia Langdon, you are not one to refuse the terms of a written contract which you have signed and sealed with a full knowledge of its meaning, particularly when the other party to it insists upon its fulfillment. I am the other party to this contract, and I do insist upon its complete fulfillment. You are the last woman in the world to--"
"I am the last woman in the world--the very last!" she interrupted him, vehemently, but she did not turn her head toward him. He continued as if he had not heard her:
"--to repudiate the distinct terms of an agreement you have knowingly made."
"I have already repudiated them."
"No, you have not. And you shall not."
"Shall not?"
"No."
"Do--do you mean that you would force me to a compliance with the conditions of that agreement you hold in your hand?"
"Yes--if such a course is necessary."
"But you cannot! You cannot!"
"Yes, I can; and I will, Patricia."
"Don't speak my name!" she cried out, hotly. "Don't utter it again! Don't you dare to do so! Don't you dare!"
"Very well."
"How will you force me? You cannot do it."
"There is a penalty attached to all legally drawn contracts," he lied, glibly enough; and, realizing that she was startled by what he had already said, he did not hesitate to add more to it. "I have come here prepared to insist that you fulfill your obligation. You know that I am not one to relent, once I have set my course. There are officers of the law in this county and state, as well as within the county and state where you made the contract." He stopped a moment when she shrank visibly in her chair, for he was about to say a really cruel thing. He would not have said it, had he not deemed it entirely necessary, in order to coerce her to his will; but he went on, relentlessly: "If you make it needful to do so, I shall not hesitate to send officers here, to take you before a court, there to relate why you will not carry out the conditions of your contract."
Duncan expected that Patricia would fly into a rage, at this; he thought she would leap to her feet, confront him, and defy him. He looked for a tirade of rage, of abuse, or of despair; or, failing these, for an outburst of pleading on her part that he would relent.
There was no evidence of any of these emotions. Indeed, for a moment it seemed as if she had not heard him, so still did she sit in her chair, so utterly unmoved did she appear to be by the statement he had made.
If, at that moment he had stepped around in front of her and looked into her face, he would have been amazed by what he saw. He would have seen great tears welling in her eyes, held in check by her long lashes; he would have seen a near approach to a smile behind those tears, although she was unconscious of that, herself; he would have noticed that she caught her breath again, but not in the same manner, nor from the same cause that had led to the like effort, earlier in their interview. When, at last, she did reply to him, it was in a far-away, uncertain voice, so soft, and so like the Patricia of quiet and sympathetic moods, that Roderick was startled, and he found himself compelled to hold his own spirit in check, lest he should forget the studied deportment he had determined upon for the occasion.
"Why do you insist upon it?" she asked him. He replied, without hesitation--and coldly:
"Because I love you."
"Because ... you ... love ... me," she said, slowly, and so softly that he barely heard the words. They did not form a question; they comprised a statement, like his own.
"Yes," he said.
"But"--she hesitated--"there is another reason."
"Yes. We need not dwell upon that."
"Nevertheless, I should like to hear it."
"No."
"You will not tell me what it is?"
"It is not necessary. It is begging the question."
"You wish to give me the protection of your name. I think I understand."
"Have it so, if you wish."
"You wish to make me your wife. I am beginning to comprehend you, Roderick." The name slipped out, unconsciously, on her part, although he was tragically aware of it. "Have you remembered--have you thought of--are you quite aware of what you are doing?"
"Quite. I have remembered everything, thought of all things."
"And your reason for all this is--what? Tell me again, please."
"You make my task harder," he said, coldly. "My reason is that I love you."
Again, Patricia was silent for a time. Then:
"How do you propose to carry out this chivalrous conduct? Who will marry us, if I agree to your absurd proposal?"
"It is not absurd. It is the only logical thing for you to do. Doctor Moreley will marry us. He came with me, in my special train." She caught at the arms of the chair, and clung to them. "Mrs. Moreley, with Evelyn and Kate, accompany him. It is a short ride to where the cars are sidetracked, waiting. You can ride there in the morning--or go there with me this evening, if you will."
"Do ... they ... know--?"
"They know nothing save the one fact that we are to be married, that Doctor Moreley is to perform the ceremony, and that the members of his family are to act as witnesses. Nobody knows anything at all, save that. Nobody ever shall know. Your absence from New York has occasioned no suspicion--save only in the mind of one man, Radnor. The fact of our marriage will be published and broadcast at once, and even his suspicions will be stilled."
"And ... afterward ... after we are married--what?"
"We will discuss that question after the ceremony."
"No. We will discuss it now. Afterward--what?"
"You will be my wife, then. It is right and proper that you should return to New York, that you should live in my house. I shall take you there, and install you, properly. I shall insist upon that much. There is no way for you to escape the fulfillment of your contract. When you are my wife, you will have entered upon another contract which you will also keep. The contract to honor and obey."
"To love, honor, and obey," she corrected him.
"I shall not insist upon the first of those terms. The second one I shall endeavor to merit. The third one, I shall insist upon. Now, when will you--"
"Wait. You are sure that you do this because you love me?"
"Yes."
"And you are ready to sacrifice your name, your life, to a creature who, according to your view of conditions, should be the very last woman to bear your name--to become your wife? You do this because you love me? It must be a great love, indeed, Roderick, to compel you to such an act--oh it must have been a very great love, indeed."
"It is a great love; and there will be no sacrifice: there will be satisfaction."
She arose from the chair, but stood as she was, with her back toward him.
"You have forgotten one thing," she said, gently.
"I have forgotten nothing."
She raised her right arm, and pointed toward the house, through the trees.
"You have forgotten the man, in there," she said, no less gently. It was his turn to shudder, but he repeated with doggedness in his tone:
"I have forgotten nothing."
"You mean to deal with him--afterward?"
"Yes."
"How? If I consent to all that you have asked, will you deal with him--gently?"
"Can you plead for him, even now, when--?"
"Hush! Answer my question, if you please."
"I will deal with him more gently than he deserves. I promise you that."
"I shall be satisfied with that promise." She turned about and faced him, and there was a smile on her lips, now, although Roderick entirely misunderstood the cause of it. He drew backward, farther away from her. But she followed after him, holding out one hand for him to take, and persisting in the effort when he refused to see it. There were tears under her lashes again, but she was smiling through them; and then, while she followed him, and he still sought to avoid her, Patricia lost all control over herself. She half-collapsed, half-threw herself upon the chair again, and buried her face in her hands, sobbing.
"Don't Patricia; please, don't," he said to her, brokenly. "You make it much harder for both of us. This has been a terrible scene for you to pass through, I know, but after a little you will realize its wisdom--and the full justice of the cause I plead."
She controlled herself. She started to her feet.
"Come with me," she cried out to him; and then, before he could stop her, she darted away out of his reach, flew down the steps, and along the pathway, toward the house. He followed. There was nothing else for him to do. She waited for him at the top of the steps where he had first seen her; and, when he would have detained her, she eluded him a second time, and fled through the doorway, into the wide hall of the house--of Richard Morton's dwelling place.
"Come," she called after him again; and again he followed. _