Within the next few days Ramon was sharply reminded that he lived in a
little town where news travels fast and nobody’s business is exclusively
his own. Cortez came into his office and accepted a seat and a cigar with
that respectful but worried manner which always indicated that he had
something to say.
“I hear you lost five hundred dollars the other night,” he observed
gravely, watching his young employer’s face.
“Well, what of it?” Ramon enquired, a bit testily.
“You can’t afford it,” Cortez replied. “And not only the money … you’ve
got to think of your reputation. You know how these gringos are. They keep
things quiet. They expect a young man to lead a quiet life and tend to
business. It’s all right to have a little fun … they all do it … but for
God’s sake be careful. You hurt your chances this way … in the law, in
politics.”
Ramon jerked his head impatiently and flushed a little, but reflection
checked his irritation. Hatred of restraint, love of personal liberty, the
animal courage that scorns to calculate consequences were his by heritage.
But he knew that Cortez spoke the truth.
“All right Antonio,” he said with dignity. “I’ll be careful.”
The next day he got a letter which emphasized the value of his henchman’s
warning and made Ramon really thoughtful. It was from MacDougall, and made
him another offer for his land. It had a preamble to the effect that land
values were falling, money was “tight,” and therefore Ramon would do well
to sell now, before a further drop in prices. It made him an offer of ten
thousand dollars less than MacDougall had offered before.
Ramon knew that the talk about falling values was largely bluff, that
MacDougall had heard of his losses and of his loose and idle life, and
thought that he could now buy the lands at his own price. The gringo had
confidently waited for the Mexican to make a fool of himself. Ramon
resolved hotly that he would do no such thing. He had no idea of selling.
He would be more careful with his money, and next summer he would go back
to Arriba County, renew his campaign against MacDougall and buy some land
with the money he could get for timber and wool. He replied very curtly to
MacDougall that his lands were not for sale.
After that he stayed away from poker games for a while. This was made
easier by a new interest which had entered his life in the person of a
waitress at the Eldorado Lunch room. The girls at this lunch room had long
borne a bad reputation. Even in the days before the big hotel had been
built, when the railroad company maintained merely a little red frame
building there, known as the Eating House, these waitresses had been a
mainstay of local bachelordom. Their successors were still referred to by
their natural enemies, the respectable ladies of the town, as “those awful
eating house girls”; while the advent of a new “hash-slinger” was always a
matter of considerable interest among the unmarried exquisites who
fore-gathered at the White Camel. In this way Ramon quickly heard of the
new waitress. She was reputed to be both prettier and less approachable
than most of her kind. Sidney Felberg had made a preliminary
reconnaissance and a pessimistic report.
“Nothing doing,” he said. “She’s got a husband somewhere and a notion
she’s cut out for better things.… I’m off her!”
This immediately provoked Ramon’s interest. He went to the lunch room at a
time when he knew there would be few customers. When he saw the girl he
felt a faint thrill. The reason for this was that Dora McArdle somewhat
resembled Julia. The resemblance was slight and superficial, yet instantly
noticeable. She was a little larger, but had about the same figure, and
the same colour of hair, and above all the same sensuous, provocative
mouth. Ramon followed her with his eyes until she became conscious of his
scrutiny, when she tossed her head with that elaborate affectation of
queenly scorn, which seems to be the special talent of waitresses
everywhere. Nevertheless, when she came to take his order she gave him a
pleasant smile. He saw now that she was not really like Julia. She was
coarse and commonplace, but she was also shapely, ripe-breasted,
good-natured, full of the appeal of a healthy animalism.
“What time do you get done here?” Ramon enquired.
“Don’t know that it’s any of your business,” she replied with another one
of her crushing tosses of the head, and went away to get his order. When
she came back he asked again.
“What time did you say?”
“Well, about nine o’clock, if it’ll give you any pleasure to know.”
“I’ll come for you in my car,” he told her.
“Oh! will you?” and she paid no more attention to him until he started to
go, when she gave him a broad smile, showing a couple of gold teeth.
At nine o’clock he was waiting for her at the door, and she went with him.
He took her for a drive on the _mesa_, heading for the only road house
which the vicinity boasted. It was a great stone house, which had been
built long ago by a rich man, and had later fallen into the hands of an
Italian named Salvini, who installed a bar, and had both private dining
rooms and bed rooms, these latter available only to patrons in whom he had
the utmost confidence. This resort was informally known as the “chicken
ranch.”
When Ramon tried to take his fair partner there, on the plea that they
must have a bite to eat, she objected.
“I don’t believe that place is respectable,” she told him very primly. “I
don’t think you ought to ask me to go there.”
“O Hell!” said Ramon to himself. But aloud he proposed that they should
drive to an adjacent hill-top from which the lights of the town could be
seen. When he had parked the car on this vantage point and lit a
cigarette, Dora began a narrative of a kind with which he was thoroughly
familiar. She was of that well-known type of woman who is found in a
dubious position, but explains that she has known better days. Her father
had been a judge in Kansas, the family had been wealthy, she had never
known what work was until she got married, her marriage had been a
tragedy, her husband had drank, there had been a smash-up, the family had
met with reverses. On and on went the story, its very tone and character
and the grammar she used testifying eloquently to the fact that she was no
such crushed violet as she claimed to be. Ramon was bored. A year ago he
would have been more tolerant, but now he had experienced feminine charm
of a really high order, and all the vulgarity and hypocrisy of this woman
was apparent to him. And yet as he sat beside her he was keenly, almost
morbidly conscious of the physical attraction of her fine young body. For
all her commonness and coarseness, he wanted her with a peculiarly urgent
desire. Here was the heat of love without the flame and light, desire with
no more exaltation than accompanies a good appetite for dinner. He was
puzzled and a little disgusted.… He did not understand that this was his
defeated love, seeking, as such a love almost inevitably does, a vicarious
satisfaction.
Repugnance and desire struggled strangely within him. He was half-minded
to take her home and leave her alone. At any rate he was not going to sit
there and listen to her insane babble all night. To put his fortunes to
the test, he abruptly took her in his arms. She made a futile pretence of
resistance. When their lips touched, desire flashed up in him strongly,
banishing all his hesitations. He talked hot foolishness to which she
listened greedily, but when he tried to take her to Salvini’s again, she
insisted on going home. Before he left her he had made another
appointment.
Now began an absurd contest between the two in which Ramon was always
manœuvring to get her alone somewhere so that he might complete his
conquest if possible, while her sole object was to have him gratify her
vanity by appearing in public with her. This he knew he could not afford
to do. He could not even drive down the street with her in daylight
without all gossips being soon aware he had done so. No one knew much
about her, of course, but she was “one of those eating house girls” and to
treat her as a social equal was to court social ostracism. He would win
the enmity of the respectable women of the town, and he knew very well
that respectable women rule their husbands. His prospects in business and
politics, already suffering, would be further damaged.
Here again was a struggle within him. He was of a breed that follows
instinct without fear, that has little capacity for enduring restraints.
And he knew well that the other young lawyers, the gringos, were no more
moral than he. But they were careful. Night was their friend and they were
banded together in a league of obscene secrecy. He despised this code and
yet he feared it. For the gringos held the whip; he must either cringe or
suffer.
So he was careful and made compromises. Dora wanted him to take her to
dinner in the main dining room of the hotel, and he evaded and compromised
by taking her there late at night when not many people were present. She
wanted him to take her to a movie and he pleaded that he had already seen
the bill, and asked her if she wanted to bore him. And when she pouted he
made her a present of a pair of silk stockings. She accepted all sorts of
presents, so that he felt he was making progress. She was making vague
promises now of “sometime” and “maybe,” and his desire was whipped up with
anticipation, making him always more reckless.
One night late he took her to the Eldorado and persuaded her to drink
champagne, thinking this would forward his purpose. The wine made her rosy
and pretty, and it also made her forget her poses and affectations. She
was more charming to him than ever before, partly because of the change in
her, and partly because his own critical faculties were blunted by
alcohol. He was almost in love with her and he felt sure that he was about
to win her. But presently she began wheedling him in the old vein. She
wanted him to take her to the dance at the Woman’s Club!
This would be to slap convention in the face, and at first he refused to
consider it. But he foolishly went on drinking, and the more he drank the
more feasible the thing appeared. Dora had quit drinking and was pleading
with him.
“I dare you!” she told him. “You’re afraid.… You don’t think I’m good
enough for you.… And yet you say you love me.… I’m just as good as any
girl in this town.… Well if you won’t, I’m going home. I’m through! I
thought you really cared.”
And then, when he had persuaded her not to run away, she became sad and
just a little tearful.
“It’s terrible,” she confided. “Just because I have to make my own
living.… It’s not fair. I ought never to speak to you again.… And yet, I
do care for you.…”
Ramon was touched. The pathos of her situation appealed strongly to his
tipsy consciousness. Why not do it? After all, the girl was respectable.
As she said, nobody “had anything on her.” The dance was a public affair.
Any one could go. He had been too timid. Not three people there knew who
she was. By God, he would do it!
At first they did not attract much attention. Dora was pretty and fairly
well dressed, in no way conspicuous. They danced exclusively with each
other, as did some other couples present, and nothing was thought of that.
But soon he became aware of glances, hostile, disapproving. Probably it
was true that only a few of the men at first knew who Dora was, but they
told other men, and some of the men told the women. Soon it was known to
all that he had brought “one of those awful eating house girls” to the
dance! The enormity of the mistake he had made was borne in upon him
gradually. Some of the men he knew smiled at him, generally with an
eye-brow raised, or with a shake of the head. Sidney Felberg, who was a
real friend, took him aside.
“For the love of God, Ramon, what did you bring that Flusey here for?
You’re queering yourself at a mile a minute. And you’re drunk, too. For
Heaven’s sake, cart her away while the going’s good!”
Ramon had not realized how drunk he was until he heard this warning.
“O, go to hell, Sid!” he countered. “She’s as good as anybody … I guess I
can bring anybody I want here.…”
Sidney shook his head.
“No use, no use,” he observed philosophically. “But it’s too bad!”
Ramon’s own words sounded hollow to him. He was in that peculiar condition
when a man knows that he is making an ass of himself, and knows that he is
going right ahead doing it. He was more attentive to Dora than ever. He
brought her a glass of water, talked to her continually with his back to
the hostile room. He was fully capable of carrying the thing through, even
though girls he had known all his life were refusing to meet his eyes.
It was Dora who weakened. She became quiet and sad, and looked infinitely
forlorn. When a couple of women got up and moved pointedly away from her
vicinity, her lip began to tremble, and her wide blue eyes were brimming.
“Come on, take me away quick,” she said pathetically. “I’m going to cry.”
When they were in the car again she turned in the seat, buried her face in
her arms and sobbed passionately with a gulping noise and spasmodic
upheavals of her shoulders. Ramon drove slowly. He was sober now,
painfully sober! He was utterly disgusted with himself, and bitterly sorry
for Dora. A strong bond of sympathy had suddenly been created between
them, for he too had tasted the bitterness of prejudice. For the first
time Dora was not merely a frumpy woman who had provoked in him a desire
he half-despised; she was a fellow human, who knew the same miseries.… He
had intended to take her this night, to make a great play for success, but
he no longer felt that way. He drove to the boarding house where she
lived.
“Here you are,” he said gently, “I’ll call you up tomorrow.”
Dora looked up for the first time.
“O, no!” she plead. “Don’t go off and leave me now. Don’t leave me alone.
Take me somewhere, anywhere.… Do anything you want with me.… You’re all
I’ve got!”