The Silent Battle

“Tea-ing it, Bibby?”

“Oh, yes. Might as well do that as sit somewhere. Just stopped in on my way down.” Worthington’s apartment was above. And then, “Lord Coley, you are filling out! Riding?”

“No,” grinned the other, “going to pick strawberries on the Metropolitan Tower. Don’t I look like it?”

Worthington smiled. Van Duyn’s playfulness always much resembled that of a young St. Bernard puppy.

“I thought you’d given it up. Her name, please.”

Mr. Van Duyn refused to reply.

“It’s the Loring girl, isn’t it?” Worthington queried cheerfully. “I thought so. You lucky devil!” He touched the tips of two fingers and thumb to his lips, and with eyes heavenward laid them upon his heart. “She’s an angel, a blue-eyed angel, fresh from the rosy aura of a cherubim. Oh, Coley, what the devil can she see in you?”

“Don’t be an ass, Bibby,” Van Duyn grunted wrathfully.

“I’m not an ass. I’m in love, you amatory Behemoth, in love as I’ve never been before—with an angel fresh from Elysium.”

“Meaning Miss Jane Loring?”

“Who else? There’s no one else,” dolefully. “There never has been any one else—there never will be any one else. You’re in love with her, too; aren’t you, Coley?”

“Well, of all the impudence!”

“Nonsense. I’m only living up to the traditions of our ancient friendship. I’m giving you a fair warning. I intend to marry the lady myself.”

The visitor had lit a cigarette and was calmly helping himself to whisky. Van Duyn threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“You! Good joke. Haw! You’ve got as many lives as a cat, Bibby. Been blowing out your brains every season for fifteen years.” He struggled into his coat and squared himself before the mirror. “Wasting your time,” he finished dryly.

“Meaning that you are the chosen one? Oh, I say, Coley, don’t make me laugh. You’ll spoil the set of my cravat. You know, I couldn’t care for her if I thought her taste was as bad as that. Not engaged are you?”

“Oh, drop it,” said the other. “Remarks are personal. Miss Loring is fine girl. Fellow gets her will be lucky.” He had poured himself a drink, but paused in the act of taking it, and asked, “Haven’t seen Gallatin lately, have you?”

“No—nobody has—since that night at the Club. He’d been sitting tight—and God knows that’s no joke! Good Lord, but he did fall off with a thud! Been on the wagon six months, too. He ought to let it alone.”

“He can’t,” said Van Duyn grimly.

“Well, six months is a good while—for Phil—but he stuck it out like a little man.” And then ruminatively, “I wonder what made him begin again. He’d been refusing all the afternoon. Came in later with his jaw set—white and somber—you know—and started right in. It’s a great pity! I’d like to have a talk with Phil. I’m fond of that boy. But he’s so touchy. Great Scott! I tried it once, and I’ll never forget the look he gave me. Never again! I’d as leave try a curtain lecture on a Bengal tiger.”

“What’s the use? We’ve got troubles of our own.”

“Not like his, Coley. With me it’s a diversion, with you it’s an appetite, with Phil it’s a disease. That’s why he went to Canada this summer. By the way, you were in the woods with the Lorings, of course you heard about that girl that Phil met up there?”

“No,” growled the other.

“Seems to be a mystery. Percy Endicott says–”

Van Duyn set his glass on the table with a crash that broke it, then rose with an oath.

“Think I’m going to listen to that rubbish?” he muttered. “Who cares what happened to Gallatin? I don’t, for one. As for Percy, he’s a lyin’, little gossipin’ Pharisee. I don’t believe there was any girl–”

“But Gallatin admits it.”

“D– Gallatin!” he roared.

Worthington looked up in surprise, but rose and kicked his trousers legs into their immaculate creases.

“Oh, if you feel that way about it—” He took up his silk hat and brushed it with his coat sleeve. “I think I’ll be toddling along.”

“Oh, don’t get peevish, Bibby. You like Phil Gallatin. Well, I don’t. Always too d– starchy for me anyway.” He paused at the table in the library while he filled his cigarette case from a silver box. Then he examined Worthington’s face. “You didn’t hear the girl’s name mentioned, did you?” he asked carelessly.

“Oh, no, even Gallatin didn’t know it.” Worthington had put on his hat and was making for the door. “Of course it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Van Duyn followed, his man helping them into their overcoats.

“Can’t drop you anywhere, can I, Bibby? I’ve got the machine below.”

“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

On the ride uptown Coleman Van Duyn glowered moodily out at the winter sunlight. He had heard enough of this story they were telling about Phil Gallatin and the mysterious girl in the woods. He alone knew that the main facts were true, because he had had incontestible evidence that the mysterious girl was Jane Loring. All the circumstances as related exactly tallied with his own information received from the two guides who had brought her into Loring’s camp. And in spite of his knowledge of Jane’s character, the coarse embroidery that gossip was adding to the tale had left a distinctly disagreeable impression. Jane Loring had spent the better part of a week alone with Phil Gallatin in the heart of the Canadian wilderness. Van Duyn did not like Gallatin. They had known each other for years, and an appearance of fellowship existed between them, but in all tastes save one they had nothing in common. He and Gallatin had locked horns once before on a trifling matter, and the fact that the girl Van Duyn intended to marry had been thrown upon the mercies of a man of Gallatin’s stamp was gall and wormwood to him. But when he thought of Jane he cursed the gossips in his heart for a lot of meddlers and scandal-mongers. If he knew anything of human nature—and like most heavy deliberate men, he believed his judgment to be infallible, Jane was the blue-eyed angel Mr. Worthington had so aptly described, “fresh from the rosy aura of a cherubim.” But there were many things to be explained. One of the guides that had found her had dropped a hint that it was no guide’s camp that she had visited in the woods, as she had told them at camp. And why, if she had been well cared for there, had she fled? What relations existed between Jane Loring and Phil Gallatin that made it necessary for her to hide the fact of his existence? What had Gallatin done that she should wish to escape him? Van Duyn’s turgid blood seethed darkly in his veins. Gallatin had acknowledged the main facts of the story. Why hadn’t he told it all, as any other man would have done without making all this mystery about it? Or why hadn’t he denied it entirely instead of leaving a loophole for the gossip? Why hadn’t he lied, as any other man would have done, like a gentleman? Only he, Van Duyn, had an inkling of the facts, and yet his lips were sealed. He had had to sit calmly and listen while the story was told in his presence at the club, while his fingers were aching to throttle the man who was repeating it. Phil Gallatin! D– him!

It was, therefore, in no very pleasant frame of mind that Van Duyn got down at Miss Loring’s door. The horses were already at the carriage drive and Miss Loring came down at once. Mr. Van Duyn helped her into the saddle, and in a few moments they were in the Park walking their horses carefully until they reached the nearest bridle path, when they swung into a canter. Miss Loring had noted the preoccupation of her companion, and after one or two efforts at cheerful commonplace, had subsided, only too glad to enjoy in silence the glory of the afternoon sunlight. But presently when the horses were winded, she pulled her own animal into a walk and Van Duyn quickly imitated her example.

“Oh, I’m so glad I came, Coley,” she said genuinely, with mounting color and sparkling eyes.

“Are you?” he panted, Jane’s optimism at last defeating his megrims. “Bully, isn’t it? Ever hunted?”

“Yes, one season at Pau.”

“Jolly set, hunting set. Jolliest in New York.”

“Yes, I know some of them—Mr. Kane, Mr. Spencer, Miss Jaffray, the Rawsons and the Penningtons. They wouldn’t do this, though; they turn up their noses at Park riding. Aren’t you hunting this year?”

“No,” he grunted. “Life’s too short.” He might also have added that he wasn’t up to the work, but he didn’t. Jane noticed the drop in his voice and examined him curiously.

“You don’t seem very happy to-day, Coley.”

“Any reason you can think of why I should be?” he muttered.

“Thousands,” she laughed, purposely oblivious. “The joy of living–”

“Oh, rot, Jane!”

“Coley! You’re not polite!”

“Oh, you know what I mean well enough,” he insisted sulkily.

“Do I? Please explain.”

“Don’t you know, this is the first time I’ve been with you alone—since the woods?” he stammered.

Jane laughed.

“I’m sorry I have such a bad effect on you. You asked me to come, you know.”

“Oh, don’t tease a chap so. What’s the use? Been tryin’ to see you for weeks. You’ve been avoidin’ me, Jane. What I want to know is—why?”

“I don’t want to avoid you. If I did, I shouldn’t be with you to-day, should I?”

There seemed to be no reply to that and Van Duyn’s frown only deepened.

“I thought we were goin’ to be friends,” he went on slowly. “We had a quarrel up at camp, but I thought we’d straightened that out. You forgave me, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t very well do anything else. But you’ll have to admit I’d never done anything to warrant–”

“I was a fool. Sorry for what I did, too. When you got back I told you so. I’m a fool still, but I’ve got sense enough to be patient. Pretty rough, though, the way you treat me. Thinkin’ about you most of the time—all upset—don’t sleep the way I ought—things don’t taste right. I’m in love with you, Jane–”

“I thought you had promised not to speak of that again,” she put in with lowered voice.

“Oh, hang it! I’ve got to speak of it,” he growled. “When a fellow wants to marry a girl, he can’t stay in the background and see other fellows payin’ her attention—hear stories of–”

Jane looked up, her eyes questioning sharply and Coleman Van Duyn stopped short. He had not meant to go so far.

“Stories about me?”

He wouldn’t reply, and only glowered at his horse’s ears.

“What story have you heard about me, Coley?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, nothing,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t about you,” he finished lamely.

“It’s something that concerns me then. You’ve made that clear. You must tell me—at once,” she said decisively.

Van Duyn glanced at her and dropped his gaze, aware for the second time that this girl’s spirit when it rose was too strong for him. And yet there was an anxiety in her curiosity, too, which gave him a sense of mastery.

“Oh, just gossip,” he said cautiously. “Everybody gets his share of it, you know.” Then he laughed aloud, rather too noisily, so that she wasn’t deceived.

“It’s something I have a right to know, of course. It must be unpleasant or you wouldn’t have thought of it again. You must tell me, Coley.”

“What difference does it make?”

“None. But I mean to hear it just the same.”

“Oh!” He saw that her face was set in resolute lines, so he looked away, his lids narrowing, while he thought of a plan which might turn his information to his own advantage.

“It isn’t about you at all,” he said slowly, sparring for time.

“Then why did you think of it?” She had him cornered now and he knew it, so he fought back sullenly, looking anywhere but at her.

“You haven’t given me a fair show, Jane. Up in camp we got to be pretty good pals until—until you found out I wanted to marry you. Even then you said there wasn’t any reason why we shouldn’t be friends. I lost my head that morning and made a fool of myself and you ran away and got lost. When the guides brought you back you were different, utterly changed. Something had happened. You wouldn’t have been so rotten to me, just because—because of that. Besides you forgave me. Didn’t I acknowledge it? And haven’t I done the square thing, let you alone, watched you from a distance, almost as if I didn’t even know you? I tell you, Jane–”

“What has this to do with–”

“Wait,” he said, his eyes now searching hers, his color deepening as he gathered courage, while Jane Loring listened, conscious that her companion’s intrusiveness and brutality were dragging her pride in the dust. “You went off into the woods and stayed five days. You told us when you got back to camp that you’d been found by an Indian guide and that you hadn’t been able to find the trail—and all that sort of thing. Everybody believed you. We were all too glad to get you back. What I want to know is why you told that story? What was your reason for keeping back–”

“It was true—” she stammered, but his keen eyes saw that her face was blanching and her emotion infuriated him.

“All except that the Indian guide was Phil Gallatin,” he said brutally.

The hands that held the reins jerked involuntarily and her horse reared and swerved away, but in a moment she had steadied him; and when Van Duyn drew alongside of her, she was still very pale but quite composed.

“How do you know that?” she asked in a voice the tones of which she still struggled to control.

He waited a long moment, the frown gathering more darkly. He had still hoped, it seemed, that she might deny it.

“Oh, I know it, all right,” he muttered, glowering.

Her laughter rather surprised him. “Your keenness does you credit,” she continued. “I met a stranger in the woods and stayed at his camp. There’s nothing extraordinary in that–”

“No,” he interrupted quickly. “Not in that. The extraordinary thing is that you should have–” he hesitated.

“Lied about it?” she suggested calmly. “Oh, I don’t think we need discuss that. I’m not in the habit of talking over my personal affairs.”

Her indifference inflamed him further and his eyes gleamed maliciously.

“It’s a pity Gallatin hasn’t a similar code.”

Her eyes opened wide. “What—do—you—mean?” she asked haltingly.

“That Gallatin is telling of the adventure himself,” he said with a bold laugh.

“He is telling—of—the—adventure—” she repeated, and then paused, her horrified eyes peering straight ahead of her. “Oh, how odious of him—how odious! There is nothing to tell—Coley—absolutely nothing—” And then as a new thought even more horrible than those that had gone before crossed her mind, “What are they saying? Has he—has he spoken my name? Tell me. I can’t believe that of him—not that!”

Van Duyn was not sure that the emotion which he felt was pity for her or pity for himself, but he looked away, his face reddening uncomfortably, and when he spoke his voice was lowered.

“I heard the story,” he said with crafty deliberateness, “at the Club. I got up and left the room.”

“Was—was Mr. Gallatin there?”

“No—not there?” he muttered. “He came in as I left. You know it wouldn’t have been possible for me to stay.”

“What are they saying, Coley?” she gasped, seeking in one breath to plumb the whole depth of her humiliation. “You must tell me. Do you mean that they’re saying—that—that Mr. Gallatin and I—were—?” she couldn’t finish, and he made no effort to help her, for her troubled face and every word that she uttered went further to confirm his suspicions and increase his misery.

“Do you believe that?” she whispered again. “Do you?” And then, as he refused to turn his head or reply, “Oh, how dreadful of you!”

She put spurs to her horse and before he was well aware of it was vanishing among the trees. His animal was unequal to the task he set for it, for he lost sight of her, found her again in the distance and thundered after, breathing heavily and perspiring at every pore, hating himself for his suspicions, and filled with terror at the thought of losing her. Never had he been so mad for the possession of her as now, and floundered helplessly on like an untrained dog in pursuit of a wounded bird. But he couldn’t catch up with her. And when, later, he stopped at the Loring house, she refused to see him.