Chapter XII
After the passing of Steve Garland the farm was more lonesome than ever, or so it seemed to Mary Blaine. It was almost uncanny. Frequently as she went about her work she imagined she could hear the echo of Steve's laughter. She could not get him out of her thoughts. Although he was dead, in her memory he still lived.
Often she sat moodily on the veranda gazing off into space. In her own fashion she mourned for him. It was an alien sensation. She had never mourned for any man before. As far as she was concerned they were all dead when they left her arms. But Steve Garland was different. He had been on the fringe of death when she met him. Yet now he seemed more alive than even Yekial Meigs.
Yekial noticed her brooding and became angry.
"Have you nothing better to do," he demanded, "than to sit about moping?"
"You tend to your affairs," she sneered, "and I'll tend to mine. Where is the gallant gentleman I met at the World's Fair? Was your attitude then merely a mask which you had borrowed for the occasion?"
The question confused him. "We can't always be playing," he said uncomfortably.
"No?" she asked innocently. "And why not? Why can't we always play? What is there so all important about work? It seems to me that half our lives is given to useless toil and most of the remainder is devoted to sham and pomp. Man lives only about two per cent of his life."
"Who are you quoting?" he asked irritably. "That Garland fellow?"
"Perhaps," she said slowly. "At least I hope so. Physically he was one of the weakest men I have known and yet he saw more of life in a day than you do in a month."
"Just what do you mean by that?"
"I am willing to give you problems, but I refuse to attempt to give you understanding."
They had continued advertising in the Fort Wayne papers at intervals. It was a relief to Mary when a new boarder arrived at the farm. At least this new boarder would be in the nature of a diversion, somebody new to talk to. She didn't want to think any more about Steve Garland and his portrait of the woman with the halo. If she remained alone much longer, that hidden woman might attempt to peer out again from her hiding place. If that inner woman existed she must be suffocated, strangled. She must not get glimpses of the moon.
Monty Camp, the new boarder, was a professional gambler, a confidence man, a fake stock salesman, to name only a few of his multitudinous callings. He was well-educated, a college graduate, and could adapt himself to any job as long as it was not a legitimate one. In appearance he was a cultured, polished gentleman. He wore good clothes though his suits were too bizarre and his ties were much too loud. He wore jewelry in a vulgar manner and the solid gold watch-chain across his waistcoat was almost heavy enough to be used for a harness. From it dangled a horse's head carved from a bit of petrified wood and an elk's tooth. He was well under forty, tall, handsome, of a type decidedly appealing to romantic maidens. Monty was conscious of his good-looks, his clean shaven face, his manicured hands. He liked whiskey and women and had never been able to get enough of either. It was seldom that he was without funds. Lady Luck was among the host of his admirers.
Monty had noticed the farm-ad in the paper at a time when he believed it would be well for him to get out of town for a while. He had had a streak of luck that was phenomenal and poor losers were beginning to talk. They were making slurring remarks about him. It was best for him not to be too conspicuous for a while in Fort Wayne. Besides he had been keeping atrocious hours, getting less sleep than a gold fish. A real rest might do him good, pep him up a bit. He could afford to take a vacation and by going out to the farm, it could not be said that he was running away from Fort Wayne. He would still be nearby although in temporary retirement.
When he beheld the lovely form of Mary Blaine he had the idea that it might be permanent. Recently he had given so much time to cards, he had neglected women. He needed one and Mary was in a receptive mood. She hated Yekial Meigs and she wanted to forget Steve Garland. But more than all else she wanted to kill off that hidden woman Steve had discovered and whom she knew existed even though she fought against the knowledge.
Mary Blaine was not living the life for which nature had intended her. She was walking through life in some other woman's shoes. But the shoes fitted her well. They were comfortable and she meant to remain in them. But what had become of the Mary Blaine that might have been, that should have been? Was she lost to the world forever? Mary decided that she must be. She must be drowned. No effort must ever be made to revive her.
Yekial Meigs liked Monty Camp. Monty saw to that. Among scores of other things he was a diplomat. Often in the evenings he played checkers with Yekial. It bored him to death but it was good politics. He wanted to be in the good graces of the man whose wife he desired. While they played, he paid no attention to Mary who sat by the fireplace sewing or knitting.
At last Yekial would grow so tired that he would almost fall asleep. Then he would yawn and stride off, in excellent humor, for somehow or other he was usually a game or two ahead when the session broke up. Monty Camp knew men, especially men of the type of Yekial Meigs. He reasoned that he would gain more by losing to Yekial and so he lost gracefully.
Yekial would chuckle softly as he undressed. Monty was a good fellow, a good checker-player, but not quite good enough. In a very few minutes after he was in bed he would be sleeping, dead to the world, a great shapeless hulk of a man with the mentality of a child, at least insofar as the vagaries and treacheries of love were concerned.
Then Monty Camp and Mary would go out and sit upon the veranda together. His arm would steal about her waist and he would kiss her unresisting lips.
"Poor Yekial," he sighed, "he wasn't willing for me to jump his king, but he was not so solicitous about his queen."
They did not talk a great deal during those nocturnal interludes. After all there was no necessity for talk. Monty marveled that he had gained his point so easily with Mary. She was of exquisite beauty, her flesh was smooth, her lips were sweet. There was no reticence on her part. She gave herself to him, but she did not love him. He had slight appeal for her. He was merely a diversion, a means of escape. He prevented her from being lonely.
Monty was captivated. As the weeks lengthened into months he remained at the farm. He could not drag himself away, even after need of caution had gone and his escapades in town were all but forgotten.
One night Yekial Meigs awakened suddenly. He imagined that he had heard the echo of laughter. Laughter he hated. There was no place for loud laughter on his farm. A smile was sufficient record of mirth for anyone. Laughter was the pastime of fools and children. He had the feeling that it was late, almost daylight. Mechanically he put out his hand to touch Mary but she was not sleeping beside him. As he felt the pillow there was no indenture where her head had lain. There could be no doubt of it, she had never retired.
"Odd," he reflected. "What could keep her up till this unearthly hour?"
Yekial slept in his underwear and now as he rose soundlessly to his feet and crept down the stairs he presented an absurd appearance in the moonlight. The door of the house was open and as he peered outside he could discern the forms of Mary and Monty Camp laughing softly, enjoying a brief rhapsody of love.
In amazement Yekial stepped back. His face grew purple with rage. The veins stood out on his neck like hempen rope. He extended his hands, fingers clutching menacingly. They knocked down a tiny bisque statue from the whatnot cabinet that stood in the corner of the hall. In the utter stillness the shattering china rang out at drum pitch. Monty Camp sprang to his feet.
"What was that?" he demanded hoarsely.
"Mice," guessed Mary flippantly.
Whatever it was she did not care. She was tired of the farm anyway. She wanted to leave. She had been living in a parched desert. She longed once more for the river of life.
Yekial Meigs got himself somewhat under control. Like a drunken man he staggered out upon the porch.
"What does this mean?" he cried belligerently.
"It means," she said curtly, "that you are very discourteous to interrupt."
In his rage, Yekial made a step forward and lifted his fist as though he would strike her. But Monty Camp whipped out a revolver.
"I wouldn't do that," he said softly. "I might have to kill you unless you calm down. If there is anything I detest it is unnecessary disturbance."
That sobered Yekial a little. He swallowed several times before he could speak.
"You are a slut!" he said menacingly to Mary. But he did not lift his arm again. "It is unbelievable that you could sink so low after I have given you everything."
"Liar!" she said. "Filthy liar! You didn't even care enough for me to offer me marriage. You've treated me like a beast of burden. Can I be blamed if I act like one? For you I've merely been a cheap woman. A prostitute without payment. Ge out and sleep with your cattle. You give them far more attention than you do me anyway."
"I have given you the opportunity to be a good woman," said he.
"If this is being a good woman," she scoffed, "give me hell. It is like being dead without the formality of burial. One thing you may as well know. I am going away. I wasn't an innocent girl when you lured me here. I had had a veritable parade of lovers. I simply came to this farm because for a moment I was weak and sickly sentimental. I longed for the cheer of an open hearth. It was a foolish whim. I was tired of living in a room that was as private as a railroad terminal and that had almost as much traffic."
"Jesus!" he cried. "And I thought you were a decent woman!" There was no denying his utter amazement.
"What decent woman would want you," she asked, "smelling as you do of the stable? Yet you shudder because you believe I am soiled."
"Get out of my house!" he cried.
"That is the pleasantest speech you have ever made," said she. "I cannot leave too soon."
He moaned: "And I have done everything for you."
"You tried to make an earth-worm of me," she declared bitterly. "Had I been able to burrow into the ground I might have been happy."
"I wonder if your brother knows the kind of a woman you are," he reflected.
"If you write and tell him," said she, "I will kill you."
"She won't have to bother," broke in Monty Camp. "I'll see that it is done professionally. I have several acquaintances who are always willing to carve for a friend. They are very efficient, but unfortunately they have a leaning toward torture. One little squawk from Mr. Meigs may prove to be his death rattle."
Yekial licked his dry lips. His face had taken on an ashen hue. He had no great bodily bravery. He dreaded death. He was as fond of his life as if it amounted to something.
"I won't speak," he managed to assure them finally. "And I am glad you are going away. I shall be well rid of you."
Impulsively Mary sprang forward. She threw her arms about his neck. "Kiss, me good-bye," she whispered. "There isn't any reason for us to part enemies."
As he reluctantly obeyed, her soft lips pressed against his with such ardor that he trembled. Again and again she kissed him.
"Now are you glad I am leaving you?" she asked finally.
"No! No!" he cried frantically. "My God, don't go! Stay! I don't care if you have a thousand lovers."
But she was possessed of a devil at that moment. She was utterly wanton, utterly without feeling.
"If I had a thousand lovers," she told him, "there wouldn't be a place for you among them. I consider my liaison with you my uttermost degradation. I can never sink lower. Now wherever I go it must be upward."
He sat down in one of the veranda chairs, a pitiful, broken figure. A huge shapeless mass of fat and bone. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed like a child. He begged her to stay with him. He made her the most preposterous promises. He would build her a new house. Her room should be more exquisite than any suite at a hotel. But she only laughed.
"Poor fool!" she said as she entered the house and went upstairs to pack her things.
Monty Camp followed her. He took her into his arms.
"Mary," he said, "you are magnificent. We'll go away together."
"Despite the fact that you know I'm not decent?"
"Who cares? You have an ivory velvet body. You may be, as you claim, a lady of hell but in your arms I have found heaven."
On the veranda, Yekial Meigs sat and cursed. He had been trodden down into the dust of his farm. For a while he had walked about in a house made beautiful by a woman's presence. Now she was leaving him. It would be like turning off the light. He must live in darkness.