Success, A Novel

Seated in her saddle the newcomer hailed Banneker.

“What news, Ban?  Is the wreck cleared up?”

“Yes.  But the track is out twenty miles east.  Every arroyo and barranca is bank-high and over.”

He had crossed the platform to her.  Now she raised her deep-set, quiet eyes and rested them on the girl.  That the station should harbor a visitor at that hour was not surprising.  But the beauty of the stranger caught Miss Van Arsdale’s regard, and her bearing held it.

“A passenger, Ban?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“Yes, Miss Camilla.”

“Left over from the wreck?”

He nodded.  “You came in the nick of time.  I don’t quite know what to do with her.”

“Why didn’t she go on the relief train?”

“She didn’t show up until last night.”

“Where did she stay the night?”

“Here.”

“In your office?”

“In my room.  I worked in the office.”

“You should have brought her to me.”

“She was hurt.  Queer in the head.  I’m not sure that she isn’t so yet.”

Miss Van Arsdale swung her tall form easily out of the saddle.  The girl came forward at once, not waiting for Banneker’s introduction, with a formal gravity.

“How do you do?  I am Irene Welland.”

The older woman took the extended hand.  There was courtesy rather than kindliness in her voice as she asked, “Are you much hurt?”

“I’m quite over it, thank you.  All but the bandage.  Mr. Banneker was just speaking of you when you rode up, Miss Van Arsdale.”

The other smiled wanly.  “It is a little startling to hear one’s name like that, in a voice from another world.  When do you go on?”

“Ah, that’s a point under discussion.  Mr. Banneker would, I believe, summon a special train if he could, in his anxiety to get rid of me.”

“Not at all,” disclaimed the agent.

But Miss Van Arsdale interrupted, addressing the girl: 

“You must be anxious, yourself, to get back to civilization.”

“Why?” returned the girl lightly.  “This seems a beautiful locality.”

“Were you traveling alone?”

The girl flushed a little, but her eyes met the question without wavering.  “Quite alone.”

“To the coast?”

“To join friends there.”

“If they can patch up the washed-out track,” put in Banneker, “Number Seven ought to get through to-night.”

“And Mr. Banneker in his official capacity was almost ready to put me aboard by force, when I succeeded in gaining a reprieve.  Now he calls you to his rescue.”

“What do you want to do?” inquired Miss Van Arsdale with lifted brows.

“Stay here for a few days, in that funny little house.”  She indicated the portable shack.

“That is Mr. Banneker’s own place.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“I don’t think it would do, Miss Welland.  It is Miss Welland, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed.  Why wouldn’t it do, Miss Van Arsdale?”

“Ask yourself.”

“I am quite capable of taking care of myself,” returned the girl calmly.  “As for Mr. Banneker, I assume that he is equally competent.  And,” she added with a smiling effrontery, “he’s quite as much compromised already as he could possibly be by my staying.”

Banneker flushed angrily.  “There’s no question of my being compromised,” he began shortly.

“You’re wrong, Ban; there is,” Miss Van Arsdale’s quiet voice cut him short again.  “And still more of Miss Welland’s.  What sort of escapade this may be,” she added, turning to the girl, “I have no idea.  But you cannot stay here alone.”

“Can’t I?” retorted the other mutinously.  “I think that rests with Mr. Banneker to say.  Will you turn me out, Mr. Banneker?  After our agreement?”

“No,” said Banneker.

“You can hardly kidnap me, even with all the conventionalities on your side,” Miss Welland pointed out to Miss Van Arsdale.

That lady made no answer to the taunt.  She was looking at the station-agent with a humorously expectant regard.  He did not disappoint her.

“If I get an extra cot for the shack, Miss Van Arsdale,” he asked, “could you get your things and come over here to stay?”

“Certainly.”

“I won’t be treated like a child!” cried the derelict in exactly the tone of one, and a very naughty one.  “I won’t!  I won’t!” She stamped.

Banneker laughed.

“You’re a coward,” said Io.

Miss Van Arsdale laughed.

“I’ll go to the hotel in the town and stay there.”

“Think twice before you do that,” advised the woman.

“Why?” asked Io, struck by the tone.

“Crawly things,” replied Miss Van Arsdale sententiously.

“Big, hungry ones,” added Banneker.

He could almost feel the little rippling shudders passing across the girl’s delicate skin.  “Oh, I think you’re loathly!” she cried.  “Both of you.”

Tears of vexation made lucent the shadowed depths of her eyes.  “I’ve never been treated so in my life!” she declared, overcome by the self-pity of a struggling soul trammeled by the world’s injustice.

“Why not be sensible and stay with me to-night while you think it all over?” suggested Miss Van Arsdale.

“Thank you,” returned the other with an unexpected and baffling change to the amenable and formal “You are very kind.  I’d be delighted to.”

“Pack up your things, then, and I’ll bring an extra horse from the town.  I’ll be back in an hour.”

The girl went up to Banneker’s room, and got her few belongings together.  Descending she found the agent busy among his papers.  He put them aside and came out to her.

“Your telegram ought to get off from Williams sometime to-morrow,” he said.

“That will be time enough,” she answered.

“Will there be any answer?”

“How can there be?  I haven’t given any address.”

“I could wire Williams later.”

“No.  I don’t want to be bothered.  I want to be let alone.  I’m tired.”

He cast a glance about the lowering horizon.  “More rain coming,” he said.  “I wish you could have seen the desert in the sunshine.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Will you?” he cried eagerly.  “It may be quite a while.”

“Perhaps Miss Van Arsdale will keep me, as you wouldn’t.”

He shook his head.  “You know that it isn’t because I don’t want you to stay.  But she is right.  It just wouldn’t do….  Here she comes now.”

Io took a step nearer to him.  “I’ve been looking at your books.”

He returned her gaze unembarrassed.  “Odds and ends,” he said.  “You wouldn’t find much to interest you.”

“On the contrary.  Everything interested me.  You’re a mystery—­and I hate mysteries.”

“That’s rather hard.”

“Until they’re solved.  Perhaps I shall stay until I solve you.”

“Stay longer.  It wouldn’t take any time at all.  There’s no mystery to solve.”  He spoke with an air of such perfect candor as compelled her belief in his sincerity.

“Perhaps you’ll solve it for me.  Here’s Miss Van Arsdale.  Good-bye, and thank you.  You’ll come and see me?  Or shall I come and see you?”

“Both,” smiled Banneker.  “That’s fairest.”

The pair rode away leaving the station feeling empty and unsustained.  At least Banneker credited it with that feeling.  He tried to get back to work, but found his routine dispiriting.  He walked out into the desert, musing and aimless.

Silence fell between the two women as they rode.  Once Miss Welland stopped to adjust her traveling-bag which had shifted a little in the straps.

“Is riding cross-saddle uncomfortable for you?” asked Miss Van Arsdale.

“Not in the least.  I often do it at home.”

Suddenly her mount, a thick-set, soft-going pony shied, almost unseating her.  A gun had banged close by.  Immediately there was a second report.  Miss Van Arsdale dismounted, replacing a short-barreled shot-gun in its saddle-holster, stepped from the trail, and presently returned carrying a brace of plump, slate-gray birds.

“Wild dove,” she said, stroking them.  “You’ll find them a welcome addition to a meager bill of fare.”

“I should be quite content with whatever you usually have.”

“Doubted,” replied the other.  “I live rather a frugal life.  It saves trouble.”

“And I’m afraid I’m going to make you trouble.  But you brought it upon yourself.”

“By interfering.  Exactly.  How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Good Heavens!  You have the aplomb of fifty.”

“Experience,” smiled the girl, flattered.

“And the recklessness of fifteen.”

“I abide by the rules of the game.  And when I find myself—­well, out of bounds, I make my own rules.”

Miss Van Arsdale shook her firmly poised head.  “It won’t do.  The rules are the same everywhere, for honorable people.”

“Honorable!” There was a flash of resentful pride as the girl turned in the saddle to face her companion.

“I have no intention of preaching at you or of questioning you,” continued the calm, assured voice.  “If you are looking for sanctuary”—­the fine lips smiled slightly—­“though I’m sure I can’t see why you should need it, this is the place.  But there are rules of sanctuary, also.”

“I suppose,” surmised the girl, “you want to know why I don’t go back into the world at once.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll tell you.”

“As you wish.”

“I came West to be married.”

“To Delavan Eyre?”

Again the dun pony jumped, this time because a sudden involuntary contraction of his rider’s muscles had startled him.  “What do you know of Delavan Eyre, Miss Van Arsdale?”

“I occasionally see a New York newspaper.”

“Then you know who I am, too?”

“Yes.  You are the pet of the society column paragraphers; the famous ‘Io’ Welland.”  She spoke with a curious intonation.

“Ah, you read the society news?”

“With a qualmish stomach.  I see the names of those whom I used to know advertising themselves in the papers as if they had a shaving-soap or a chewing-gum to sell.”

“Part of the game,” returned the girl airily.  “The newcomers, the climbers, would give their souls to get the place in print that we get without an effort.”

“Doesn’t it seem to you a bit vulgar?” asked the other.

“Perhaps.  But it’s the way the game is played nowadays.”

“With counters which you have let the parvenues establish for you.  In my day we tried to keep out of the papers.”

“Clever of you,” approved the girl.  “The more you try to keep out, the more eager the papers are to print your picture.  They’re crazy over exclusiveness,” she laughed.

“Speculation, pro and con, as to who is going to marry whom, and who is about to divorce whom, and whether Miss Welland’s engagement to Mr. Eyre is authentic, ’as announced exclusively in this column’—­more exclusiveness—­; or whether—­”

“It wasn’t Del Eyre that I came out here to marry.”

“No?”

“No.  It’s Carter Holmesley.  Of course you know about him.”

“By advertisement, also; the society-column kind.”

“Really, you know, he couldn’t keep out of the papers.  He hates it with all his British soul.  But being what he is, a prospective duke, an international poloist, and all that sort of thing, the reporters naturally swarm to him.  Columns and columns; more pictures than a popular danseuse.  And all without his lifting his hand.”

“Une mariage de reclame,” observed Miss Van Arsdale.  “Is it that that constitutes his charm for you?”

Miss Van Arsdale’s smile was still instinct with mockery, but there had crept into it a quality of indulgence.

“No,” answered the girl.  Her face became thoughtful and serious.  “It’s something else.  He—­he carried me off my feet from the moment I met him.  He was drunk, too, that first time.  I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him cold sober.  But it’s a joyous kind of intoxication; vine-leaves and Bacchus and that sort of thing ’weave a circle ’round him thrice’—­you know.  It is honey-dew and the milk of Paradise to him.”  She laughed nervously.  “And charm!  It’s in the very air about him.  He can make me follow his lead like a little curly poodle when I’m with him.”

“Were you engaged to Delavan Eyre when you met him?”

“Oh, engaged!” returned the girl fretfully.  “There was never more than a sort of understanding.  A mariage de convenance on both sides, if it ever came off.  I am fond of Del, too.  But he was South, and the other came like a whirlwind, and I’m—­I’m queer about some things,” she went on half shamefacedly.  “I suppose I’m awfully susceptible to physical impressions.  Are all girls that way?  Or is that gross and—­and underbred?”

“It’s part of us, I expect; but we’re not all so honest with ourselves.  So you decided to throw over Mr. Eyre and marry your Briton.”

“Well—­yes.  The new British Ambassador, who arrives from Japan next week, is Carty’s uncle, and we were going to make him stage-manage the wedding, you see.  A sort of officially certified elopement.”

“More advertisement!” said Miss Van Arsdale coldly.  “Really, Miss Welland, if marriage seems to you nothing more than an opportunity to create a newspaper sensation I cannot congratulate you on your prospects.”

This time her tone stung.  Io Welland’s eyes became sullen.  But her voice was almost caressingly amiable as she said: 

“Tastes differ.  It is, I believe, possible to create a sensation in New York society without any newspaper publicity, and without at all meaning or wishing to.  At least, it was, fifteen years ago; so I’m told.”

Camilla Van Arsdale’s face was white and lifeless and still, as she turned it toward the girl.

“You must have been a very precocious five-year-old,” she said steadily.

“All the Olneys are precocious.  My mother was an Olney, a first cousin of Mrs. Willis Enderby, you know.”

“Yes; I remember now.”

The malicious smile on the girl’s delicate lips faded.  “I wish I, hadn’t said that,” she cried impulsively.  “I hate Cousin Mabel.  I always have hated her.  She’s a cat.  And I think the way she, acted in—­in the—­the—­well, about Judge Enderby and—­“.

“Please!” Miss Van Arsdale’s tone was peremptory.  “Here is my place.”  She indicated a clearing with a little nest of a camp in it.

“Shall I go back?” asked Io remorsefully.

“No.”

Miss Van Arsdale dismounted and, after a moment’s hesitancy, the other followed her example.  The hostess threw open the door and a beautiful, white-ruffed collie rushed to her with barks of joy.  She held out a hand to her new guest.

“Be welcome,” she said with a certain stately gravity, “for as long as you will stay.”

“It might be some time,” answered Io shyly.  “You’re tempting me.”

“When is your wedding?”

“Wedding!  Oh, didn’t I tell you?  I’m not going to marry Carter Holmesley either.”

“You are not going—­”

“No.  The bump on my head must have settled my brain.  As soon as I came to I saw how crazy it would be.  That is why I don’t want to go on West.”

“I see.  For fear of his overbearing you.”

“Yes.  Though I don’t think he could now.  I think I’m over it.  Poor old Del!  He’s had a narrow escape from losing me.  I hope he never hears of it.  Placid though he is, that might stir him up.”

“Then you’ll go back to him?”

The girl sighed.  “I suppose so.  How can I tell?  I’m only twenty, and it seems to me that somebody has been trying to marry me ever since I stopped petting my dolls.  I’m tired of men, men, men!  That’s why I want to live alone and quiet for a while in the station-agent’s shack.”

“Then you don’t consider Mr. Banneker as belonging to the tribe of men?”

“He’s an official.  I could always see his uniform, at need.”  She fell into thought.  “It’s a curious thing,” she mused.

Miss Van Arsdale said nothing.

“This queer young cub of a station-agent of yours is strangely like Carter Holmesley, not as much in looks as in—­well—­atmosphere.  Only, he’s ever so much better-looking.”

“Won’t you have some tea?  You must be tired,” said Miss Van Arsdale politely.