Chapter 23

A WOMAN'S WILES

From the ceiling of the cabin Lawler had suspended a spare blanket. It hung between the two tiers of bunks, thus providing a certain privacy for both Miss Wharton and Lawler.

Lawler had been scrupulously considerate, and with a delicacy that must have earned her applause--had she been serious-minded--he had sought to seem unaware or indifferent to the many inevitable intimacies forced upon them by the nature of their association.

He knew, however, that the girl was secretly laughing at him. Certain signs were convincing. On the first night of their enforced joint occupancy of the cabin, she had silently watched him tack the blanket to the ceiling; and though she had said nothing, he had noted a gleam in her eyes which had made him wonder if he should not have waited until _she_ suggested it.

At other times he felt her gaze upon him--her eyes always glowing with the suggestion of silent mirth. She seemed to be amused over the delicacy he exhibited--to be wondering at it. Whether she appreciated it or not he did not know, or care. For he had noted other things that had increased his contempt of her. She was betraying absolutely no perturbation over her enforced stay in the cabin with him. On the contrary, her manner gave him the impression that she was enjoying herself and not thinking of the future. She was contented with the present.

Moreover, he could not fail to be aware of her interest in him; for the many signs were infallible. Glances, the intonations of her voice, a way she had of standing close to him, of touching his hands or his shoulders--all was evidence of the guile he had detected in her, convincing him that she thought him desirable, and that she had decided to win him.

But vanity in Lawler had long since been ruthlessly overwhelmed by the serious business of life. He had never had time--in his later years--to yield to the fatuous imaginings of youth. He had lived a rough, hard life, in which values were computed by the rule of sheer worth--a life that had taught him that performance, and not appearances, must be the standard by which all men and women must ultimately be judged.

Lawler was not flattered by Della Wharton's feminine blandishments. He was grimly amused--when he was not disgusted; though he continued to treat her with the utmost courtesy and gentleness, trying to keep her from divining his emotions.

Also, he had tried to lessen the dread monotony that encompassed them. There was nothing they could do. Beyond the mechanical tasks of eating, or of cooking and sleeping, of plunging outside to the water hole for water, or of caring for the horses and bringing wood for the fire, there was no diversion except that of talking. And, as the days dragged and the storm did not abate, even talking began to irk Lawler. There would be periods during which they would be silent, listening to the howling and moaning of the wind--hours at a stretch when the cold outside would seem to threaten, to tighten its constricting circle, when a great awe oppressed them; when it seemed that the whole world was snowbound, and that it would keep piling over and around them and all life would be extinct.

It was on the morning of the tenth day that Lawler began to notice that the dread monotony and the white, ever-present menace were beginning to affect the girl. Her face was white and in her eyes was a haunting gleam of fear. He noted how she clasped her hands; how she nervously twined and untwined her fingers, and how she kept pushing her chair toward him, as though for protection.

A swift sympathy seized him; he laughed, lowly, reaching out a hand and laying it lightly on her shoulder as she started at the sound of his voice and drew a quick, startled breath.

"Oh!" she said; "will it never end?"

"It can't last much longer, Miss Wharton," he smiled. "It has held on longer, now, than it should at this season."

The sound of his voice reassured her--it was calm, quiet, confident. Some color came back into her face, and she smiled.

"I believe I was beginning to get the doldrums," she said.

"That wouldn't be startling, Miss Wharton. Life in a line camp does become monotonous. It is to be expected. It becomes tragic. Also, it has a humorous side--viewed from a distance--chiefly afterward. In the fall, men go into line camps fast friends. We always pair them that way. Any other method would be fatal, for when the men come out in the spring they invariably are deadly enemies. You can imagine what would happen if we sent into a line cabin two men who did not think well of each other."

She shuddered and snuggled closer to him, letting her head fall to his shoulder. A pulse of pity stirred him, and he permitted her head to stay where she had laid it, while he gently smoothed her hair.

He would have done as much for any woman in her position; the emotion that filled him was entirely that of pity. She was vain and frivolous--employing every artifice, but she was a woman despite that, and entitled, in the present circumstances, to what comfort and sympathy he could give her.

However, to Della, the moment of victory was at hand. She _had_ been a trifle worried just an instant before; and the white world outside _had_ seemed to threaten to rush in and crush out her life--the life she loved so well--and she had been just a little afraid.

But she had not been too frightened to note Lawler's sympathy--the quick glow in his eyes, and the atmosphere of tenderness that suddenly seemed to envelop him. It was surrender, she thought, the breaking down of that quiet, steady reserve in him which had filled her with resentment.

She caught his free hand and held it tightly, while she turned her head so that she could look into his eyes.

"Lawler," she said then, in a low voice; "I lied to you."

"Lied?" He stiffened, dropped his hand from her head and looked straight at her.

She laughed, lightly. "Yes; I lied, Lawler. The day we met in Willets--you remember? Well, I loved you from that moment, Lawler. You looked so big and fine and strong. I just couldn't help it. I did overhear Gary Warden telling those two men to cut the fence; and I didn't want them to set all those cattle adrift. But I didn't intend to come here. I started out to find your ranch--the Circle L. I thought I would find you there, and I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to the Two Diamond right away--that you would have to keep me at your house until the storm was over. But I got lost, and when I saw the light in the window, here, I knew I had better go toward it. But I came because I wanted to be near you, Lawler. And now--" She laughed and tried to draw him toward her.

"Of course you are not in earnest, Miss Wharton," he said, slowly, his voice grave. "Such a confession----"

"It's the truth," she declared, shamelessly, holding tightly to him. "It is simple, isn't it? I love you--and I came to you. I came, because I had to--I wanted to. I had been thinking of you--dreaming of you. You were in my mind all the time.

"And you have been acting dreadfully distant. I had begun to believe that you didn't like me--that you wished I hadn't come----"

"That would be the truth, Miss Wharton," he interrupted. He grimly walked to the fireplace, standing with his back to it, looking at her. He was wondering how he could tell her that she had disgraced her sex; how he could, without being brutal, tell her how he abhorred women who pursued men.

Despite the impulse of charity that moved him, he could not veil the grim disgust that had seized him. It showed in the curve of his lips and in his eyes.

And Miss Wharton saw it. She had been watching him narrowly when he walked away from her; she was looking at him now, in resentful inquiry, her lips tight-pressed. She was puzzled, incredulous.

Then, with their glances locked, she laughed, jeeringly.

"I really don't know how to classify you!" she said, scornfully. "Am I ugly?"

He smiled grimly. "Far from it," he answered, frankly. "I think," he added, his gaze still holding hers, "that mere physical beauty doesn't intrigue my interest. There must be something back of it."

"Character, I suppose," she mocked; "nobility, virtue?"

"I think you have said it," he smiled. "At least I haven't the slightest desire to like you."

"School teachers are more in your line, I suppose," she jibed.

There was a wanton light in her eyes. The change that had come over her was startling; and Lawler found himself watching her, trying to associate this new side of her character with that she had shown before she had betrayed her real character; she represented a type that had always been repulsive to him. And, until now, she had fooled him. He had wasted his politeness, his gentleness, his consideration, and his delicacy. He understood, now, why she had seemed to laugh at him when he had endeavored to provide a certain measure of privacy for her; he knew how she felt at this moment, when she must realize that she had betrayed herself.

Any further talk between them would be profitless, and so Lawler did not answer her question. He stood, looking at the north window, which was a little to one side of her; while she sat staring past him, her lips straight and hard.

At last she looked up. "What an odd courtship!"

His gaze dropped, met hers, and he smiled.

"Yes--odd," he returned, dryly.

"But I suppose," she said, in a tone equally dry; "that you will make up for it, after we are married. You will learn to like me."

"Yes; after we are married," he smiled, ironically.

"That will be as soon as we can get to town, I presume," she went on, watching him with brazen directness. "You see," she explained; "I have been here with you for about two weeks, you know, and my friends will ask embarrassing questions. You are so _honorable_ that you cannot refuse to protect my reputation."

"I am sorry, of course, Miss Wharton. But you should have considered your reputation before you decided to come here."

"You mean that you won't marry me?" she demanded. She got up and walked toward him, halting within a pace of him and standing stiffly before him.

"You have perception, after all, it seems," he said, gravely. "But you don't understand human nature. No man--or woman--in this section will see anything wrong in your staying in this cabin with me during the storm. They will accept it as being the most natural thing in the world. It was a simple act of humanness for me to take you in, and it entails no offer of marriage. Perhaps it has been done, and will be done again, where there is an inclination to marry. It has been done in books, and in certain sections of the world where narrow-minded people are the manufacturers of public sentiment. The mere fact that I happened to save your life does not obligate me to marry you, Miss Wharton. And I do not feel like playing the martyr."

For an instant it seemed that Della would become hysterical. But when she looked into Lawler's eyes and realized that mere acting would not deceive him, she sneered.

"I might have known _you_ wouldn't be man enough to protect me!"

Lawler smiled, but did not answer. And after an instant, during which Della surveyed him with scorn unspeakable, she strode stiffly to a chair in a far corner of the room and dropped into it.

Lawler had been little affected. He pitied her because of her perverted moral sense, which sought an honorable marriage from a wild, immoral impulse. He pitied her because she was what she was--a wanton who was determined by scheme and wile to gain her ends. And he shrewdly suspected that she was not so much concerned for her reputation as she was eager to achieve what she had determined upon. Defeat to her kind is intolerable.

"Gary Warden will never marry me if he discovers that I have been here," declared Della from the corner.

"You said you did not love Warden, Miss Wharton," Lawler reminded her. "You wouldn't marry a man you merely liked, would you?"

"We have been engaged for a year. Certainly, I shall marry him. Why not? But he won't have me, now!"

"Does Warden love you, Miss Wharton?"

"That doesn't concern you!" she snapped.

"No--not in the least. But if Warden loves you, and I went to him and explained that your being here was accidental----"

"Bah!" she sneered; "you're a fool, Lawler! Do you expect Gary Warden would swallow _that_! You don't know him!"

"Well," said Lawler, gently; "he need not know. If you are afraid to face public opinion, to show by your actions that you have nothing to be ashamed of, I'll take you to the Circle L, just as soon as we can get through. We'll time ourselves to get there at night. No one need know, and you can tell Warden that you were caught in the storm and drifted to the Circle L, where you stayed with my mother. I can come back here and no one will ever know the difference."

"I don't want to see your mother!" she sneered. "I'd be afraid she would be something like you! Ugh! I hate you!"

"There is only one other way," smiled Lawler. "I know Keller, the owner of the Willets Hotel, very intimately. I can take you there, at night--after the storm breaks. No one need know. You can say you were at the hotel all the time. And Keller will support your word."

"I presume I shall have to go to Willets--since I have to lie!" she said, wrathfully.

"Yes," said Lawler incisively; "it takes courage to be truthful, Miss Wharton. But if a person always tells the truth----"

"Shut up!" she said savagely; "you make me sick!" She glared malignantly at him. "Ugh, I positively loathe you! I must have been crazy when I thought I saw something in you!" She paused for an instant to get her breath, and then she resumed, vindictively:

"I hope they arrest you for killing those two men--Link and Givens. I hope they hang you. And they will hang you, because you can't prove you acted in self-defense. You'll be sorry you didn't marry me when you realize that I might have saved you by telling the truth about the fight!"

"Well," he said; "you can't testify without admitting you were here, you know."

"And I will never tell!" she declared; "I will never admit it!" she added, exultingly. "You'll change your mind about marrying me--you'll have to, to save your neck!"

Lawler shook his head negatively.

"You wouldn't marry me to save your life?" asked the girl, incredulously.

"Not to save my life, Miss Wharton."

"Well," she said slowly; "you're a damned fool!"

Lawler smiled and turned away. He heard Della moving about in the cabin, but he did not look around.

But later, after there had been a deep silence for a time, he ventured a backward glance. During the day he had kept the dividing blanket rolled up out of the way, fastening it with two loops that he had suspended from the ceiling. The blanket was now down--it was the first time Della had touched it.

Lawler smiled, pulled a chair over near the fireplace, rolled a cigarette, and puffed slowly at it, reflecting that life in the cabin would now be more monotonous than ever.

Della did not get out of her bunk during the day. She ate nothing, nor did she reply to Lawler when he invited her to partake of the food he had prepared.

Late that afternoon Lawler noted a glow of light coming through the north window. He went to the door, opened it and looked out. The snow had ceased and the wind had gone down. Far over in the west a cold sun, hanging its rim on a mountain peak, bathed the world with a shimmering, glittering, blinding light.

Lawler went outside and shielding his eyes with his hands, peered out over the gleaming waste. He noted that the snow had drifted much, but that there were ridges where no snow had settled, as well as vast sections of plain where the wind had swept the snow clear. There would be no difficulty in reaching Willets, for the wind that was coming over the plains now was mild--almost warm.

He went inside, told Della, and began to make preparations for the ride. And later that night, moving swiftly northward, under straggling clouds that obscured the moon, the two journeyed--Della swathed in clothing that assured her of warmth, and still preserving a sullen silence; Lawler riding ahead, breaking trail.