THE DOLLAR CHASERS
Granville took them to its bosom with a haste and earnestness that made
Hazel catch her breath. The Marshes took possession of them upon their
arrival, and they were no more than domiciled under the Marsh roof than
all her old friends flocked to call. Tactfully none so much as
mentioned Andrew Bush, nor the five-thousand-dollar legacy--the
disposition of which sum still perplexed that defunct gentleman's
worthy executors. And once more in a genial atmosphere Hazel concluded
to let sleeping dogs lie. Many a time in the past two years she had
looked forward to cutting them all as dead as they had cut her during
that unfortunate period. But once among them, and finding them
willing, nay, anxious, to forget that they had ever harbored unjust
thoughts of her, she took their proffered friendship at its face value.
It was quite gratifying to know that many of them envied her. She
learned from various sources that Bill's fortune loomed big, had grown
by some mysterious process of Granville tattle, until it had reached
the charmed six figures of convention.
That in itself was sufficient to establish their prestige. In a
society that lived by and for the dollar, and measured most things with
its dollar yardstick, that murmured item opened--indeed, forced
open--many doors to herself and her husband which would otherwise have
remained rigid on their fastenings. It was pleasant to be sought out
and made much of, and it pleased her to think that some of her quondam
friends were genuinely sorry that they had once stood aloof. They
attempted to atone, it would seem. For three weeks they lived in an
atmosphere of teas and dinners and theater parties, a giddy little
whirl that grew daily more attractive, so far as Hazel was concerned.
There had been changes. Jack Barrow had consoled himself with a bride.
Moreover, he was making good, in the popular phrase, at the real-estate
game. The Marshes, as she had previously known them, had been
tottering on the edge of shabby gentility. But they had come into
money. And as Bill slangily put it, they were using their pile to cut
a lot of social ice. Kitty Brooks' husband was now the head of the
biggest advertising agency in Granville. Hazel was glad of that mild
success. Kitty Brooks was the one person for whom she had always kept
a warm corner in her heart. Kitty had stood stoutly and unequivocally
by her when all the others had viewed her with a dubious eye. Aside
from these there were scores of young people who revolved in their same
old orbits. Two years will upon occasion make profound changes in some
lives, and leave others untouched. But change or no change, she found
herself caught up and carried along on a pleasant tide.
She was inordinately proud of Bill, when she compared him with the
average Granville male--yet she found herself wishing he would adopt a
little more readily the Granville viewpoint. He fell short of it, or
went beyond it, she could not be sure which; she had an uneasy feeling
sometimes that he looked upon Granville doings and Granville folk with
amused tolerance, not unmixed with contempt. But he attracted
attention. Whenever he was minded to talk he found ready listeners.
And he did not seem to mind being dragged to various functions,
matinées, and the like. He fell naturally into that mode of existence,
no matter that it was in profound contrast to his previous manner of
life, as she knew it. She felt a huge satisfaction in that. Anything
but a well-bred man would have repelled her, and she had recognized
that quality in Bill Wagstaff even when he had carried her bodily into
the wilderness against her explicit desire that memorable time. And he
was now exhibiting an unsuspected polish. She used to wonder amusedly
if he were possibly the same Roaring Bill whom she had with her eyes
seen hammer a man insensible with his fists, who had kept "tough"
frontiersmen warily side-stepping him in Cariboo Meadows. Certainly he
was a many-sided individual.
Once or twice she conjured up a vision of his getting into some
business there, and utterly foregoing the North--which for her was
already beginning to take on the aspect of a bleak and cheerless region
where there was none of the things which daily whetted her appetite for
luxury, nothing but hardships innumerable--and gold. The gold had been
their reward--a reward well earned, she thought. Still--they had been
wonderfully happy there at the Pine River cabin, she remembered.
They came home from a theater party late one night. Bill sat down by
their bedroom window, and stared out at the street lights, twin rows of
yellow beads stretching away to a vanishing point in the pitch-black of
a cloudy night. Hazel kicked off her slippers, and gratefully toasted
her silk-stockinged feet at a small coal grate. Fall had come, and
there was a sharp nip to the air.
"Well, what do you think of it as far as you've gone?" he asked
abruptly.
"Of what?" she asked, jarred out of meditation upon the play they had
just witnessed.
"All this." He waved a hand comprehensively. "This giddy swim we've
got into."
"I think it's fine," she candidly admitted. "I'm enjoying myself. I
like it. Don't you?"
"As a diversion," he observed thoughtfully, "I don't mind it. These
people are all very affable and pleasant, and they've rather gone out
of their way to entertain us. But, after all, what the dickens does it
amount to? They spend their whole life running in useless circles. I
should think they'd get sick of it. You will."
"Hardly, Billum," she smiled. "We're merely making up for two years of
isolation. I think we must be remarkable people that we didn't fight
like cats and dogs. For eighteen months, you know, there wasn't a soul
to talk to, and not much to think about except what you could do if you
were some place else."
"You're acquiring the atmosphere," he remarked--sardonically, she
thought.
"No; just enjoying myself," she replied lightly.
"Well, if you really are," he answered slowly, "we may as well settle
here for the winter--and get settled right away. I'm rather weary of
being a guest in another man's house, to tell you the truth."
"Why, I'd love to stay here all winter," she said. "But I thought you
intended to knock around more or less."
"But don't you see, you don't particularly care to," he pointed out;
"and it would spoil the fun of going any place for me if you were not
interested. And when it comes to a show-down I'm not aching to be a
bird of passage. One city is pretty much like another to me. You seem
to have acquired a fairly select circle of friends and acquaintances,
and you may as well have your fling right here. We'll take a run over
to New York. I want to get some books and things. Then we'll come
back here and get a house or a flat. I tell you right now," he laughed
not unpleasantly, "I'm going to renig on this society game. You can
play it as hard as you like, until spring. I'll be there with bells on
when it comes to a dance. And I'll go to a show--when a good play
comes along. But I won't mix up with a lot of silly women and equally
silly she-men, any more than is absolutely necessary."
"Why, Bill!" she exclaimed, aghast.
"Well, ain't it so?" he defended lazily. "There's Kitty Brooks--she
has certainly got intelligence above the average. That Lorimer girl
has brains superimposed on her artistic temperament, and she uses 'em
to advantage. Practically all the rest that I've met are intellectual
nonentities--strong on looks and clothes and amusing themselves, and
that lets them out. And they have no excuse, because they've had
unlimited advantages. The men divide themselves into two types. One
that chases the dollar, talks business, thinks business, knows nothing
outside of business, and their own special line of business at that;
the other type, like these Arthur fellows, and Dave Allan and T.
Fordham Brown, who go in for afternoon teas and such gentlemanly
pastimes, and whose most strenuous exercise is a game of billiards.
Shucks, there isn't a real man in the lot. Maybe I'll run across some
people who don't take a two-by-four view of life if I stay around here
long enough, but it hasn't happened to me yet. I hope I'm not an
intellectual snob, little person, any more than I'm puffed up over
happening to be a little bigger and stronger than the average man, but
I must say that the habitual conversation of these people gives me a
pain. That platitudinous discussion of the play to-night, for
instance."
"That _was_ droll." Hazel chuckled at the recollection, and she
recalled the weary look that had once or twice flitted over Bill's face
during that after-theater supper.
But she herself could see only the humor of it. She was fascinated by
the social niceties and the surroundings of the set she had drifted
into. The little dinners, the impromptu teas, the light chatter and
general atmosphere of luxury more than counterbalanced any other lack.
She wanted only to play, and she was prepared to seize avidly on any
form of pleasure, no matter if in last analysis it were utterly
frivolous. She could smile at the mental vacuity she encountered, and
think nothing of it, if with that vacuity went those material factors
which made for ease and entertainment. The physical side of her was
all alert. Luxury and the mild excitements of a social life that took
nothing seriously, those were the things she craved. For a long time
she had been totally deprived of them. Nor had such unlimited
opportunities ever before been in her grasp.
"Yes, that was droll," she repeated.
Bill snorted.
"Droll? Perhaps," he said. "Blatant ignorance, coupled with a desire
to appear the possessor of culture, is sometimes amusing. But as a
general thing it simply irritates."
"You're hard to please," she replied. "Can't you enjoy yourself, take
things as they come, without being so critical?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent.
"Well," he said presently, "we'll take that jaunt to New York day after
to-morrow."
He was still sitting by the window when Hazel was ready to go to bed.
She came back into the room in a trailing silk kimono, and, stealing
softly up behind him, put both hands on his shoulders.
"What are you thinking so hard about, Billy-boy?" she whispered.
"I was thinking about Jake Lauer, and wondering how he was making it
go," Bill answered. "I was also picturing to myself how some of these
worthy citizens would mess things up if they had to follow in his
steps. Hang it, I don't know but we'd be better off if we were pegging
away for a foothold somewhere, like old Jake."
"If we had to do that," she argued, "I suppose we would, and manage to
get along. But since we don't have to, why wish for it? Money makes
things pleasanter."
"If money meant that we would be compelled to lead the sort of
existence most of these people do," he retorted, "I'd take measures to
be broke as soon as possible. What the deuce is there to it? The
women get up in the morning, spend the forenoon fixing themselves up to
take in some innocuous gabblefest after luncheon. Then they get into
their war paint for dinner, and after dinner rush madly off to some
other festive stunt. Swell rags and a giddy round. If it were just
fun, it would be all right. But it's the serious business of life with
them. And the men are in the same boat. All of 'em collectively don't
amount to a pinch of snuff. This thing that they call business is
mostly gambling with what somebody else has sweated to produce.
They're a soft-handed, soft-bodied lot of incompetent egotists, if you
ask me. Any of 'em would lick your boots in a genteel sort of way if
there was money in it; and they'd just as cheerfully chisel their best
friend out of his last dollar, if it could be done in a business way.
They haven't even the saving grace of physical hardihood."
"You're awful!" Hazel commented.
Bill snorted again.
"To-morrow, you advise our hostess that we're traveling," he
instructed. "When we come back we'll make headquarters at a hotel
until we locate a place of our own--if you are sure you want to winter
here."
Her mind was quite made up to spend the winter there, and she frankly
said so--provided he had no other choice. They had to winter
somewhere. They had set out to spend a few months in pleasant
idleness. They could well afford that. And, unless he had other plans
definitely formed, was not Granville as good as any place? Was it not
better, seeing that they did know some one there? It was big enough to
afford practically all the advantages of any city.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so. All right; we'll winter here," Bill
acquiesced. "That's settled."
And, as was his habit when he had come to a similar conclusion, he
refused to talk further on that subject, but fell to speculating idly
on New York. In which he was presently aided and abetted by Hazel, who
had never invaded Manhattan, nor, for that matter, any of the big
Atlantic cities. She had grown up in Granville, with but brief
journeys to near-by points. And Granville could scarcely be classed as
a metropolis. It numbered a trifle over three hundred thousand souls.
Bill had termed it "provincial." But it meant more to her than any
other place in the East, by virtue of old associations and more recent
acquaintance. One must have a pivotal point of such a sort, just as
one cannot forego the possession of a nationality.
New York, she was constrained to admit, rather overwhelmed her. She
traversed Broadway and other world-known arteries, and felt a trifle
dubious amid the unceasing crush. Bill piloted her to famous cafés,
and to equally famous theaters. She made sundry purchases in
magnificent shops. The huge conglomeration of sights and sounds made
an unforgettable impression upon her. She sensed keenly the colossal
magnitude of it all. But she felt a distinct wave of relief when they
were Granville bound once more.
In a week they were settled comfortably in a domicile of their
own--five rooms in an up-to-date apartment house. And since the social
demands on Mrs. William Wagstaff's time grew apace, a capable maid and
a cook were added to the Wagstaff establishment. Thus she was relieved
of the onus of housework. Her time was wholly her own, at her own
disposal or Bill's, as she elected.
But by imperceptible degrees they came to take diverse roads in the
swirl of life which had caught them up. There were so many little
woman affairs where a man was superfluous. There were others which
Bill flatly refused to attend. "Hen parties," he dubbed them. More
and more he remained at home with his books. Invariably he read
through the daytime, and unless to take Hazel for a walk or a drive, or
some simple pleasure which they could indulge in by themselves, he
would not budge. If it were night, and a dance was to the fore, he
would dress and go gladly. At such, and upon certain occasions when a
certain little group would take supper at some café, he was apparently
in his element. But there was always a back fire if Hazel managed to
persuade him to attend anything in the nature of a formal affair. He
drew the line at what he defined as social tommyrot, and he drew it
more and more sharply.
Sometimes Hazel caught herself wondering if they were getting as much
out of the holiday as they should have gotten, as they had planned to
get when they were struggling through that interminable winter. _She_
was. But not Bill. And while she wished that he could get the same
satisfaction out of his surroundings and opportunities as she conceived
herself to be getting, she often grew impatient with his sardonic,
tolerant contempt toward the particular set she mostly consorted with.
If she ventured to give a tea, he fled the house as if from the plague.
He made acquaintances of his own, men from God only knew where,
individuals who occasionally filled the dainty apartment with
malodorous tobacco fumes, and who would cheerfully sit up all night
discoursing earnestly on any subject under the sun. But so long as
Bill found Granville habitable she did not mind.
Above all, as the winter and the winter gayety set in together with
equal vigor, she thought with greater reluctance of the ultimate return
to that hushed, deep-forested area that surrounded the cabin.
She wished fervently that Bill would take up some business that would
keep him in touch with civilization. He had the capital, she
considered, and there was no question of his ability. Her faith in his
power to encompass whatever he set about was strong. Other men, less
gifted, had acquired wealth, power, even a measure of fame, from a less
auspicious beginning. Why not he?
It seemed absurd to bury one's self in an uninhabited waste, when life
held forth so much to be grasped. Her friends told her so--thus
confirming her own judgment. But she could never quite bring herself
to put it in so many words to Bill.