_ CHAPTER XII. THE WOMAN
The woman turned from the window at the sound of footsteps somewhere behind her. That was her way now. She started at each fresh sound that suggested anyone approaching. Her nerves were on edge for some reason she could never have put into words. She did not fear, yet a curious nervousness was hers which made her listen acutely at every footstep, and breathe her relief if the sound died away without further intrusion upon her privacy.
Presently she turned back to the window with just such relief. The footstep had passed. She drew her feet up into the ample seat of the rocking-chair, and, with her elbow resting upon its arm, heavily pressed her chin into the palm of her hand, and again stared at the rampart of mountains beyond.
Nor had all the beauties spread out before her yearning gaze the least appeal for her. How should they? Her thoughts were roaming in a world of her own, and her eyes were occupied in gazing upon her woman's pictures as she saw them in her mind. The wonders of that scene of natural splendor laid out before her had no power to penetrate the armor of her preoccupation. All her mind and heart were stirred and torn by emotions such as only a woman can understand, only a woman can feel. The ancient battle of titanic forces, which had brought into existence that world of stupendous might upon which her unseeing eyes gazed, was as nothing, it seemed, to the passionate struggle going on in her torn heart. To her there was nothing beyond her own regretful misery, her own dread of the future, her passionate revulsion at thoughts of the past.
The truth was, she had not yet found the happiness she had promised herself, that had been promised to her. She had left behind her all that life which, when it had been hers, she had hated. Her passionate nature had drawn her whither its stormy waves listed. And now that the tempest was passed, and the driving forces had ceased to urge, leaving her in a rock-bound pool of reflection, she saw the enormity of the step she had taken, she realized the strength of Nature's tendrils which still bound her no less surely.
The mild face of Scipio haunted her. She saw in her remorseful fancy his wondering blue eyes filled with the stricken look of a man powerless to resent, powerless to resist. She read into her thought the feelings of his simple heart which she had so wantonly crushed. For she knew his love as only a woman can. She had probed its depth and found it fathomless--fathomless in its devotion to herself. And now she had thrown him and his love, the great legitimate love of the father of her children, headlong out of her life.
A dozen times she bolstered her actions with the assurance that she did not want his love, that he was not the man she had ever cared for seriously, could ever care for. She told herself that the insignificance of his character, his personality, were beneath contempt. She desired a man of strength for her partner, a man who could make himself of some account in the world which was theirs.
No, she did not want Scipio. He was useless in the scheme of life, and she did not wish to have to "mother" her husband. Far rather would she be the slave of a man whose ruthless domination extended even to herself. And yet Scipio's mild eyes haunted her, and stirred something in her heart that maddened her, and robbed her of all satisfaction in the step she had taken.
But this was only a small part of the cause of her present mood. She had not at first had the vaguest understanding of the bonds which really fettered her, holding her fast to the life that had been hers for so long. Now she knew. And the knowledge brought with it its bitter cost. Some forewarning had been hers when she appealed to her lover for the possession of her children. But although her mother's instinct had been stirred to alarm at parting, she had not, at that time, experienced the real horror of what she was doing in abandoning her children.
She was inconsolable now. With all her mind and heart she was crying out for the warm, moist pressure of infant lips. Her whole body yearned for those who were flesh of her flesh, for the gentle beating hearts to which her body had given life. They were hers--hers, and of her own action she had put them out of her life. They were hers, and she was maddened at the thought that she had left them to another. They were hers, and--yes, she must have them. Whatever happened, they must be restored to her. Life would be intolerable without them.
She was in a wholly unreasoning state of mind. All the mother in her was uppermost, craving, yearning, panting for her own. For the time, at least, all else was lost in an overwhelming regret, and such a power of love for her offspring, that she had no room for the man who had brought about the separation.
She was a selfish woman, and had always craved for the best that life could give her, but now that her mother-love was truly roused her selfishness knew no bounds. She had no thought for anybody, no consideration. She could have none until her desire was satisfied.
Her tortured heart grew angry against Scipio. She was driven to fury against James. What mattered it that her lover had so far fulfilled all his other promises to her, if he did not procure the children and return them to her arms? What mattered it that she was surrounded with luxury uncommon on the prairie, a luxury she had not known for so many years?
She had her own rooms, where no one intruded without her consent. The spacious house had been ransacked to make them all that she could desire. All the outlaw's associates were herded into the background, lest their presence should offend her. Even James himself had refrained from forcing his attentions upon her, lest, in the first rush of feeling at her breaking with the old life, they should be unwelcome. His patience and restraint were wonderful in a man of his peculiar savagery. And surely it pointed his love for her. Had it been simply the momentary passion of an untamed nature, he would have waited for nothing, when once she had become his possession.
It was a curious anachronism that she should be the mistress of the situation with such a man as James. Yet so far she was mistress of the situation. The question was, how long would she remain so? It is possible that she had no understanding of this at first. It is possible that she would have resented such a question, had it occurred to her when she first consented to break away from her old life.
But now it was different. Now that she began to understand all she had flung away for this man, when the mother in her was at last fully aroused, and all her wits were driven headlong to discover a way by which to satisfy her all-consuming desire for her children, now the native cunning of the woman asserted itself. She saw in one revealing flash her position, she saw where lay her power at the moment, and she clung to it desperately, determined to play the man while she could to gain her ends.
Thus it was she was nervous, apprehensive, every time she thought it likely that her lover was about to visit her. She dreaded what might transpire. She dreaded lest her power should be weakened before she had accomplished her end. It was difficult; it was nerve-racking. She must keep his love at fever-heat. It was her one chance.
Again she started. It was the sound of a fresh footstep beyond the door. She glanced at the door with half-startled eyes and sat listening. Then her lips closed decidedly and a look of purpose crept into her eyes. A moment later she stood up. She was pale, but full of purpose.
"Is that you, Jim?" she called.
"Sure," came the ready response.
The next instant the door was flung open and the man came in.
His bronzed face was smiling, and the savage in him was hidden deep down out of sight. His handsome face was good to look upon, and as the woman's eyes surveyed his carefully clad slim figure she felt a thrill of triumph at the thought that he was hers at the raising of her finger.
But she faced him without any responsive smile. She had summoned him with a very definite purpose in her mind, and no display of anything that could be interpreted into weakness must be made.
"I want to talk to you," she said, pointing at the rocking-chair she had just vacated.
James glanced at the chair. Then his eyes turned back to her with a question in them. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and flung himself into the seat, and stretched out his long legs luxuriously.
Apparently Jessie had not noticed the shrug. It would have been better had she done so. She might then have understood more fully the man she was dealing with. However, she turned to the window and spoke with her back to him.
"It's about--things," she said a little lamely.
The man's smile was something ironical, as his eyes greedily devoured the beauty of her figure.
"I'm glad," he said in a non-committing way. Then, as no reply was immediately forthcoming, he added, "Get going."
But Jessie made no answer. She was thinking hard, and somehow her thoughts had an uneasy confusion in them. She was trying hard to find the best way to begin that which she had to say, but every opening seemed inadequate. She must not appeal, she must not dictate. She must adopt some middle course. These things she felt instinctively.
The man shifted his position and glanced round the room.
"Kind of snug here," he said pleasantly, running his eyes appreciatively over the simple decorations, the cheap bric-a-brac which lined the walls and, in a world where all decoration was chiefly conspicuous by its absence, gave to the place a suggestion of richness. The red pine walls looked warm, and the carpeted floor was so unusual as to give one a feeling of extraordinary refinement. Then, too, the chairs, scattered about, spoke of a strain after civilized luxury. The whole ranch-house had been turned inside out to make Jessie's quarters all she could desire them.
"Yes," he muttered, "it's sure snug." Then his eyes came back to the woman. "Maybe there's something I've forgotten. Guess you've just got to fix a name to it."
Jessie turned instantly. Her beautiful eyes were shining with a sudden hope, but her face was pale with a hardly controlled emotion.
"That's easy," she said. "I want my children. I want little Vada. I--I must have her. You promised I should. If you hadn't, I should never have left. I must have her." She spoke breathlessly, and broke off with a sort of nervous jolt.
In the pause that followed James' expression underwent a subtle change. It was not that there was any definite movement of a single muscle. His smile remained, but, somehow, through it peeped a hard look which had not been there before.
"So you want--the kids," he said at last, and a curious metallic quality was in his voice. "Say," he added thoughtfully, "you women are queer ones."
"Maybe we are," retorted Jessie. She tried to laugh as she spoke, but it was a dismal failure. Then she hurried on. "Yes," she cried a little shrilly, "it was part of our bargain, and--so far you have not carried it out."
"Bargain?" The man's brows went up.
"Yes, bargain."
"I don't remember a--bargain." James' eyes had in them an ominous glitter.
"Then you've got a bad memory."
"I sure haven't, Jess. I sure haven't that. I generally remember good. And what I remember now is that I promised you those kids if you needed them. I swore that you should have 'em. But I made no bargain. Guess women don't see things dead right. This is the first time you've spoken to me of this, and you say I haven't fulfilled my bargain. When I refuse to give you them kiddies, it's time to take that tone. You want them kids. Well--go on."
The change in her lover's manner warned Jessie that danger lay ahead. In the brief time she had spent under his roof she had already learned that, as yet, she had only seen the gentlest side of the man, and that the other side was always perilously near the surface.
In the beginning this had been rather a delight to her to think that she, of all people, was privileged to bask in the sunny side of a man who habitually displayed the storm clouds of his fiercer side to the world in general. But since that time a change, which she neither knew nor understood, had come over her, and, instead of rejoicing that he possessed that harsher nature, she rather feared it, feared that it might be turned upon her.
It was this change that had helped to bring her woman's cunning into play. It was this change which had brought her her haunting visions of the old life. It was this change which had prompted her that she must keep her lover at arm's length--as yet. It was this change, had she paused to analyze it, which might have told her of the hideous mistake she had made. That the passion which she had believed to be an absorbing love for the man was merely a passion, a base human passion, inspired in a weak, discontented woman. But as yet she understood nothing of this. The glamour of the man's personality still had power to sway her, and she acknowledged it in her next words.
"Don't be angry, Jim dear," she said, with a smile of seductive sweetness which had immediate effect upon the man. "You don't understand us women. We're sure unreasonable where our love is concerned."
Then a flush spread itself slowly over her handsome face, and passion lit her eyes.
"But I must have my children," she broke out suddenly. "One of them, anyhow--little Vada. You--you can't understand all it means to be away from them. They are mine. They are part of me. I--I feel I could kill anyone who keeps them from me. You promised, Jim, you sure did. Get her for me. My little girl--my little Vada."
The man had risen from his chair and moved to the window. He sat on the rough sill facing her. His eyes were hot with passion, too, but it was passion of a very different sort.
"And if I do?" he questioned subtly.
"If you do?" Jessie's eyes widened with a world of cunning simplicity.
"Yes, if I do?" The man's face was nearer.
"You'll have fulfilled your promise."
Jessie had turned again to the window, and her eyes were cold.
The man's brows drew together sharply, and his dark eyes watched the perfect outline of her oval cheek. Then he drew a sharp breath, and biting words leapt to his lips. But he held them back with a sudden grip that was perilously near breaking. Jessie's power was still enormous with him. But this very power was maddening to a man of his nature, and the two must not come into too frequent conflict.
He suddenly laughed, and the woman turned in alarm at the note that sounded in it.
"Yes," he said tensely. "I'll fulfill my promise. It'll amuse me, sure, getting back at that Sufferin' Creek lay-out. I owe them something for keepin' back the gold-stages. You shall have Vada, sure."
He broke off for an instant and drew nearer. He leant forward, and one arm reached out to encircle her waist. But with an almost imperceptible movement the woman stood beyond his reach.
"And--and after?" he questioned, his arm still outstretched to embrace her.
The woman made no answer.
"And after?"
There was a hot glow in his tone. He waited. Then he went on.
"Then I'll have done everything," he said--"all that a man can do to make you happy. I'll have fulfilled all my promises. I'll--And you?" he went on, coming close up to her.
This time she did not repulse him. Instinct told her that she must not. Before all things she wanted Vada. So his arms closed about her, and a shower of hot, passionate kisses fell upon her face, her hair, her lips.
At last she pushed him gently away. For the moment all the old passion had been stirred, but now, as she released herself, an odd shiver passed through her body, and a great relief came to her as she stood out of his reach. It was the first real, definite feeling of repulsion she had had, and as she realized it a sudden fear gripped her heart, and she longed to rush from his presence. But, even so, she did not fully understand the change that was taking place in her. Her predominating thought was for the possession of little Vada, and she urged him with all the intensity of her longing.
"You'll get her for me?" she cried, with an excitement that transfigured her. "You will. Oh, Jim, I can never thank you sufficiently. You are good to me. And when will you get her--now? Oh, Jim, don't wait. You must do it now. I want her so badly. I wonder how you'll do it. Will you take her? Or will you ask Zip for her? I--I believe he would give her up. He's such a queer fellow. I believe he'd do anything I asked him. I sure do. How are you going to get her?"
The man was watching her with all the fire of his love in his eyes. It was a greedy, devouring gaze of which Jessie must have been aware had she only been thinking less of her child. Nor did he answer at once. Then slowly the passionate light died out of his eyes, and they became thoughtful.
"Tell me," the woman urged him.
Suddenly he looked into her face with a cruel grin.
"Sit down, Jess," he said sharply, "and write a letter to Zip asking him, in your best lingo, to let you have your kid. An' when you done that I'll see he gets it, an'--I'll see you get the kid. But make the letter good an' hot. Pile up the agony biz. I'll fix the rest."
For a moment the woman looked into his face, now lit with such a cruel grin. Something in her heart gave her pause. Somehow she felt that what she was called upon to do was intended to hurt Zip in some subtle way, and the thought was not pleasant. She didn't want to hurt Zip. She tried in those few seconds to probe this man's purpose. But her mind was not equal to the task. Surely a letter appealing to Zip could not really hurt him. And she wanted little Vada so much. It was this last thought that decided her. No, nothing should stand in her way. She steeled her heart against her better feelings, but with some misgivings, and sat down to write.
James watched her. She procured paper and pen, and he watched her bending over the table. No detail of her face and figure escaped his greedy eyes. She was very beautiful, so beautiful to him that he stirred restlessly, chafing irritably under the restraint he was putting upon himself. Again and again he asked himself why he was fool enough to do as he was doing. She was his. There was no one to stop him, no one but--her.
Ah! There was the trouble. Such was the man's temper that nothing could satisfy him that gave him no difficulty of attaining. His was the appetite of an epicure in all things. Everything in its way must be of the best, and to be of the best to him it must be the most difficult of achievement.
He waited with what patience he could until the letter was written. Then he watched Jessie seal and address it. Then she rose and stood staring down at the cruel missive. She knew it was cruel now, for, trading on the knowledge of the man who was to receive it, she had appealed through the channel of her woman's weakness to all that great spirit which she knew to abide in her little husband's heart.
James understood something of what was passing in her mind. And it pleased him to think of what he had forced her to do--pleased him as cruelty ever pleases the truly vicious.
At last she held the missive out to him.
"There it is," she said. And as his hand closed upon it her own was drawn sharply away, as though to avoid contact with his.
"Good," he said, with a peculiar grin.
For a moment the silence remained unbroken. Then the woman raised appealing eyes to his face.
"You won't hurt Zip?" she said in a voice that would surely have heartened the object of her solicitude had he heard it.
The man shook his head. His jaws were set, and his smile was unpleasing.
"Guess any hurtin' Zip gets'll be done by you."
"Ah, no, no!"
The woman reached out wildly for the letter, but James had passed swiftly out of the room. _