THE HANEY PALACE
One day early in the following summer a tall, thin man, with one
helpless side, entered the big luminous hall of the Antlers Hotel at the
Springs, upheld by a stalwart attendant, and accompanied by a
sweet-faced, calm-lipped young woman. This was Marshall Haney and his
young wife Bertha, down from the mountain for the first time since his
illness, and those who knew their story and recognized them, stood aside
with a thrill of pity for the man and a look of admiration for the girl,
whose bravery and devotion had done so much to bring her husband back to
life and to a growing measure of his former strength.
Marshall Haney was, indeed, but a poor hulk of his stalwart self. One
lung had been deeply torn, his left shoulder was almost wholly disabled,
and he walked with a stoop and shuffle; but his physical weakening was
not more marked than his mental mellowing. He was softened--"gentled,"
as the horsemen say. His eyes were larger, and his face, once so stern
and masterful, gave out an appealing expression by reason of the deep
horizontal wrinkles which had developed in his brow. He had grown a
mustache, and this being gray gave him an older look--older and more
military. It was plain, also, that he leaned upon his keen-eyed,
impassive little wife, who never for one moment lost her hold upon
herself or her surroundings. Her flashing glances took note of
everything about her, and her lips were close-set and firm.
Williams, ugly and wordless as ever, followed them with a proud smile
till they entered the handsome suite of rooms which had been reserved
for them. "There's nothing too good for Marshall Haney and his
side-partner," he exulted to the bell-boy.
Thereupon, Mart, with a look of reverence at his young bride, replied:
"She's airned it--and more!"
A sigh was in his voice and a singular appeal in his big eyes as he sank
into an easy-chair. "I believe I do feel better down here; my heart
seems to work aisier. I'm going to get well now, darlin'."
"Of course you are," she answered, in the tone of a daughter; then
added, with a smile: "I like it here. Why not settle?"
To her Colorado Springs was a dazzling social centre. The beauty of the
homes along its wide streets, the splendor of its private carriages,
affected her almost as deeply as the magnitude and glory of Denver
itself; but she was not of those who display their weaknesses and
diffidence. She ate her first dinner in the lofty Antlers dining-hall
with quiet dignity, and would not have been particularly noticed but for
Haney, who was well-known to the waiters of the hotel. Her association
with him had made her a marked figure in their mountain towns, and she
was accustomed to comment.
She met the men who addressed her with entire fearlessness and candor
(she was afraid only of women in good clothes), speaking with the easy
slanginess of a herder, using naturally and unconsciously the most
picturesque phrases of the West. Her speech was incisive and
unhesitating, yet not swift. She never chattered, but "you bet" and "all
right" were authorized English so far as she was concerned. "They say
you can't beat this town anywhere for society, and I sure like the looks
of what we've seen. Suppose we hang around this hotel for a while--not
too long, for it's mighty expensive." Here she smiled--a quick, flashing
smile. "You see, I can't get used to spending money--I'm afraid all the
time I'll wake up. It's just like a dream I used to have of finding
chink--I always came to before I had a chance to handle it and see if it
was real."
Haney answered, indulgently: "'Tis all real, Bertie. I'll show you that
when I'm meself again."
"Oh, I believe it--at least, part of the time," she retorted. "But I'll
have to flash a roll to do it--checks are no good. I could sign a
million checks and not have 'em seem like real money. I'm from Missouri
when it comes to cash."
Mrs. Gilman, who had always stood in bewilderment and wonder of her
daughter, was entirely subject now. She and Williams usually moved in
silence, like adoring subjects in the presence of their sovereigns. They
had no doubts whatsoever concerning the power and primacy of gold; and
as for Haney himself, his unquestioning confidence in his little wife's
judgment had come to be like an article of religious faith.
After breakfast on the second day of her stay Bertha ordered a carriage,
and they drove about the town in the brilliant morning sunshine, looking
for a place to build. She resembled a little home-seeking sparrow. Every
cosey cottage was to her an almost irresistible allurement. "There's a
dandy place, Captain," she called several times. "Wouldn't you like a
house like that?"
He, with larger notions, shook his head each time. "Too small, Bertie.
We've the right to a fine big place--like that, now." He nodded towards
a stately gray-stone mansion, with the sign "For Sale" planted on its
lawn.
She was aghast. "Gee! what would we do with a state-house like that?"
"Live in it, sure."
"It would need four chamber-maids and two hired men to take care of a
place like that. And think of the money it would spoil to stock it with
furniture!" Nevertheless, she gazed at it longingly. "I'd sure like that
big garden and that porch. You could sit on that porch and see the
mountains, couldn't you? But my ears and whiskers, the expense of
keeping it!"
They passed on to other and less palatial possibilities, and returned to
the hotel undecided. The two women, bewildered and weary, diverged and
discussed the matter of dress till the mid-day meal.
"I like being rich," remarked the young wife, as they took their seats
in the lovely dining-room, and looked about at the tables so shining, so
dainty. "It would be fun to run a house like this, don't you think?" She
addressed her mother.
"Good gracious, no! Think of the bill for help and the worry of looking
after all this silver! No, it's too splendid for us."
Haney still retained enough of his ancient humor to smile at them. "I'd
rather see you manage that big stone house with the porch which I'm
going to buy."
"You don't mean it?" said Bertha, while Mrs. Gilman stared at him over
her soup.
He went on quietly. "Sure! Me mind's made up. You want the garden and I
like the porch; so 'phone the agent after dinner, and we'll go up and
see to it this very afternoon."
Bertha's bosom heaved with excitement, and her eyes expanded. "I'd like
just once to see the _inside_ of a house like that. It must be half as
big as this hotel--but to own it! You're crazy, Captain."
The remote possibility of walking through that wonderful mansion took
away the young wife's appetite, and she became silent and reflective in
the face of a delicious fried chicken. The magic of her husband's wealth
began to make itself most potently felt.
Haney insisted on smoking a cigar in the lobby. Bertha took her mother
away to talk over the tremendous decision which was about to be thrust
upon them. "We want a house," said she, decisively, "but not a palace
like that. What would we do with it? It scares me up a tree to think of
it."
"I guess he was only joking," Mrs. Gilman agreed.
"I can see the porch would be fine for him," Bertha went on. "But,
jiminy spelter, we'd all be lost in the place!"
Haney called Williams to his side, and told him of the house. "It's a
big place, but I want it. Go you and see the agent. My little girl needs
a roof, and why not the best?"
"Sure!" replied Williams, with conviction. "She's entitled to a castle.
You round up the women, and I'll do the rest."
The house proved to be even more splendid and spacious than its exterior
indicated, and Bertha walked its wide halls with breathless delight.
After a hurried survey of the interior, they came out upon the broad
veranda, and lingered long in awe and wonder of the outlook. To the west
lay a glorious garden of fruits and flowers; a fountain was playing over
the rich green grass; high above the tops of the pear and peach trees
(which made a little copse) rose the purple peaks of the Rampart range.
"Oh, isn't it great!" exclaimed Bertha.
Haney turned to the agent with a tense look on his pale face--a look of
exultant power.
"Make out your papers," said he, quietly. "We take the place--as it
stands."
Bertha was overwhelmed by this flourish of the enchanter's wand--but
only for a moment. No sooner was the contract signed than she roused
herself as to a new business venture. "Well, now, the first thing is
furniture. Let's see! There is some carpets and curtains in the place,
isn't there? And a steel range. It's up to me to rustle the balance of
the outfit together right lively."
And so she set to work quite as she would have done in outfitting a new
hotel--so many beds, so many chairs in a room, so many dressers, and
soon had a long list made out and the order placed.
She spent every available moment of her time for the next two days
getting the kitchen and dining-room in running order, and when she had
two beds ready insisted on moving in. "We can kind o' camp out in the
place till we get stocked up. I'm crazy to be under our own roof."
Haney, almost as eager as she, consented, and on the third day they
drove up to the door, dismissed their hired coachman, and stepped inside
the gate--master and mistress of an American chateau.
Mart turned, and, with misty eyes and a voice choked with happiness,
said: "Well, darlin', we have it now--the palace of the fairy stories."
"It's great," she repeated, musingly; "but I can't make it seem like a
home--mebbe it'll change when I get it filled with furniture, but the
garden is sure all right."
They took their first meal on the porch overlooking the mountains,
listening to the breeze in the vines. It was heavenly sweet after the
barren squalor of their Cripple Creek home, and they did little but gaze
and dream.
"We need a team," Bertha said, at last.
"Buy one," replied Haney.
So Bertha bought a carriage and a fine black span. This expenditure
involved a coachman, and to fill that position an old friend of
Williams'--a talkative and officious old miner--was employed. She next
secured a Chinese cook, the best to be had, and a girl to do the
chamber-work. They were all busy as hornets, and Bertha lived in a glow
of excitement every waking hour of the day--though she did not show it.
Haney's check-book was quite as wonderful in its way as Aladdin's lamp,
and little by little the women permitted themselves to draw upon its
magic. The shining span of blacks, with flowing manes and champing bits,
became a feature of the avenue as the women drove up and down on their
never-ending quest for household luxuries--they had gone beyond mere
necessities. Mart usually went with them, sitting in the carriage while
they "visited" with the grocery clerks and furniture dealers. They were
very popular with these people, as was natural.
"Little Mrs. Haney" became at once the subject of endless
comment--mostly unfavorable; for Mart's saloon-made reputation was
well-known, and the current notion of a woman who would marry him was
not high. She was reported, in the alien circles of the town, to be a
vulgar little chamber-maid who had taken a gambler for his money at a
time when he was supposed to be on his death-bed, and her elevation to
the management of a palatial residence was pointed out as being
"peculiarly Western-American."
The men, however, were much more tolerant of judgment than their women.
They had become more or less hardened to seeing crude miners luxuriating
in sudden, accidental wealth; therefore, they nodded good-humoredly at
Haney and tipped their hats to his pretty wife with smiles. As bankers,
tradesmen, and taxpayers generally they could not afford to neglect a
citizen possessed of so much wealth and circumstance.
Mrs. Gilman presented a letter of introduction to the nearest church of
her own persuasion, and went to service quite as unassumingly as in
Sibley, and was greeted by a few of the ladies there cordially and
without hint of her son-in-law's connections. Two or three, including
the pastor's wife, made special effort to cultivate her acquaintance by
calling immediately, but they were not of those who attracted Bertha;
and though she showed them about the house and answered their questions,
she did not promise to call. "We're too busy," she explained. "I haven't
got more than half the rooms into shape, and, besides, we're to have my
brother's folks down from the Junction--we're on the hustle all day
long."
This was true. She had been quite besieged by her former neighbors in
Sibley, who found it convenient to "put up with the Haneys" while
visiting the town. They were, in fact, very curious to study her in her
new and splendid setting; and though some of them peeked and peered amid
the beds, and thumped the mattresses in vulgar curiosity, the young
housewife merely laughed. All her life had been spent among folk of this
directly inquisitive sort. She expected them to act as they did, and,
being a hearty and generous soul, as well as a very democratic one, she
sent them away happy.
Indeed, she won praise from all who came to know her. But that small
part of the Springs--alien and exclusive--which considered itself higher
if not better than the rest of the Western world, looked askance at "the
gambler's wife and her freak friends," and Mrs. Crego, who was inclined
to be very censorious, alluded to the Haneys as "beggars on horseback"
as she met them on the boulevard.
Of all this critical comment Bertha remained, happily, unconscious, and
it is probable that she would soon have won her way to a decent circle
of friends had not Charles Haney descended upon them like a plague. Mart
had been receiving letters from this brother, but had said nothing to
Bertha of his demands. "Charles despised me when he met me in Denver,"
he explained to Williams. "I was busted at the time, ye mind." He
winked. "And now when he reads in the papers that Mart Haney is rich, he
comes down on me like a hawk on a June bug. 'Tis no matter. He may
come--I'll not cast him out. But he does not play with me
double-eagles--not he!"
Charles Haney was not fitted to raise his brother's wife in the social
scale, for he belonged to that marked, insistent variety of actor to be
distinguished on trains and in the lobbies of hotels--a fat, sleek,
loud-voiced comedian, who enacted scenes from his unwritten plays while
ladling his soup, and who staggered and fell across chairs in
illustration of highly emotional lines and, what was worse, he was of
those who regard every unescorted woman as fair game. Bold of glance and
brassy of smile, he began to make eyes at his sister-in-law from their
first meeting.
She amazed him. He had expected a woman of his own class--an
adventuress, painted, designing; and to find this sweet little
girl--"why, she's too good for Mart," he concluded, and shifted his
hollow pretensions of sympathy from his brother to his sister-in-law.
Before the first evening of his visit closed he sought opportunity to
tell her, in hypocritic sadness, that Mart was a doomed man, and that
she would soon be free of him. Bertha was disturbed by his gaze and
repelled by his touch, but tried to like him on Mart's account. His
mouthing disgusted her, and the good-will with which Haney greeted his
brother turned into bitterness as the boaster and low wit began to
display himself.
"We all grew up in the street or in the saloon," Haney sadly remarked,
"and you finished your education in the variety theatre, I'm thinking."
The actor took this as a joke, and with a grin retorted: "That's better
than running a faro-layout."
"I dunno; a good quiet game has its power to educate a man," replied the
gambler.
That night, as she was preparing the Captain for bed, he remarked, with
a sigh: "Life is a quare game! I mind Charley well as a cute little
yellow-haired divil, always laughing, always in mischief, and me chasin'
after him--a big slob of a boy. I used to carry him up an' down the
tenement stairs. I learned him to skate--and now here he is drinkin'
himself puffy, whilst I am an old broken-down hack at forty-five." He
looked up at her with a sheen of tears in his eyes. "Darlin', 'tis a
shame to be leanin' on you."
She put her arm around his big grizzled head and drew it to her.
"You can lean hard, Mart. I'm standin' by."
"No, I'll not lean too hard," he answered. "I don't want your fine,
straight back to stoop. I make no demands. I'll not spoil your young
life. I'm not worth it. You're free to go when you can't stand me any
longer."
"Now, now, no more of that!" she warned. "When I have cause to knock,
you won't need no ear-trumpet. Put up your hoof." He obeyed, and,
stooping swiftly, she began to unlace the shoe which he could no longer
reach. Her manner was that of a daughter who tyrannizes over an
indulgent father. Her admiration and gratitude, so boyish once, were now
replaced by an affection in which the element of sex had small place,
and his love for her sprang also from a source far removed from the
fierce instinct which first led him to seek her subduing.