street. There was reproach in her voice, Dave thought, rather than
bitterness.
He spread his hands. "What's the use? The harm is done. To predict a
collapse would be to precipitate a panic. It is as though we were
passengers on a boat at sea. You and I know the boat is sinking, but
the other passengers don't. They are making merry with champagne and
motor cars--if you can accept that figure--and revelry and easy money.
Why spoil their remaining few hours by telling them they are headed for
the bottom? . . . Besides, they are not deserving of sympathy, after
all. They are in the game because they wanted to make money without
earning it. Gamblers, every one of them. And the man or woman who
expects to get wealth without giving value shouldn't whine if, by a
turn of fate, he gives value without getting wealth."
After a moment she placed her fingers on his arm. "Forgive me, Dave,"
she said. "I didn't mean to whine."
"You didn't whine," he returned, almost fiercely. "It's not in you.
You are too good a sport. But there will be lots of whining in the
coming months." Man-like it did not occur to Dave that in that moment
the girl had bid good-bye to her savings of a dozen years, and had
merely looked up and said, "Forgive me, Dave, I didn't mean to whine."
When he thought of it, long afterward, he had a sudden conviction that
if he had realized then just how much of a brick she was he would have
proposed to her on the spot. . . And she would have laughed, and said,
"Now, Dave, don't spoil our fun with anything like that."
What she did do was to let her hand creep up his arm until she could
tap his cheek with her second finger. "Is this all the entertainment
you can think of to-night?" she bantered.
He glanced at his watch. "It's late for a theatre," he said, "but we
can ride. Which do you say--auto or horse-back?"
"I can't go horse-back in these clothes, and I don't want to change."
Dave pressed a button, and the omnipresent Chinese "boy" stood before
him. "My car," he said. "The two-passenger car. I shall not want a
driver." Then, continuing to Miss Morrison, "You will need something
more than that coat. Let me see. My smoking jacket should fit."
In a few minutes they were threading their way through the street
traffic in Dave's machine. Whatever had been his forecast of impending
disaster, the streets held little hint of it. They were congested with
traffic and building material. Although it was late at night the
imperious clamour of electric rivetters rattled down from steel
structures on every hand. Office blocks, with their rental space all
contracted months in advance, were being rushed to completion by the
aid of arc lights and double shifts. But presently the traffic
thinned, and the car hummed through long residential avenues of
comfortable homes. From a thousand unmasked windows came the glow of
light; here and there were the strains of music. On and on they sped,
until the city streets and the city lights fell behind, and the car was
swinging along a fine country road, through a land marked with streams
and bridges, and blocked out with fragrant bluffs of young poplars.
At last, after an hour's steady driving in a delight of motion too keen
for conversation, they pulled up on the brow of a hill. A soft breeze
from the south-west, sensuous with the smell of spruce and
balm-o'-gilead, pressed, cool and gentle, against their faces, and far
to the south-east some settler's burning straw pile lay like an
orange-red coal on the lips of the prairie, from which she blew an
incense of ruddy gold and ochre, fan-shaped against the heavens.
Behind them, to the north, far-away city lights danced and sparkled in
the lap of the foot-hills, like diamonds strewn by some mighty and
profligate Croesus. Dave switched off his lights, the better to
appreciate the majesty of the night, and in the silence came the low
murmur of water. There were no words. They sat and breathed it.
Suddenly, from a sharp bend in the road, flashed the lights of an
approaching car. Dave was able to switch his own lights on again only
in time to avoid a collision. The on-coming car lurched and passed by
furiously, but not before Dave had recognized Conward as the driver.
Back on its trail of dust floated the ribald notes of half-intoxicated
women.
"Close enough," said Dave, when the dust had settled. "Well, let us
jog back home."
They took the return trip leisurely, drinking in the glories of the
night, and allowing time for the play of conversation. Bert Morrison
was a good conversationalist. Her points of interest were almost
infinite. And they were back among the street lights before they knew.
"Oh, we are nearly home," she exclaimed. "And, honest, Dave, I wanted
to ask you something. Why don't you get married?"
"I guess I'm too sympathetic," he answered, after a moment's pause.
"And it wouldn't be fair--"
"Oh, can that. It's been warmed over once already. Really, though,
why don't you?"
"Why should I?"
"Why shouldn't you? It's natural. And you know you can't go on always
just putting it off. It leaves your life empty. To-night, when I
asked you if you had had dinner, you said, 'Such a meal as a man eats
alone.' That betrays the emptiness."
"I suppose it does. But I don't know many girls. I don't know any
girl very well, except you, and you wouldn't have me."
"No, I wouldn't," she answered frankly. "I like you too well. But you
know other girls, and you could get to know more if you wanted to.
There's Edith Duncan, for instance."
"Edith is a fine girl. The Duncans are wonderful people. I owe to
them almost everything. But as for marrying Edith--"
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I never thought of it that way. She's a fine girl."
"None better," said Bert, with decision. "Dave, I'm not much on
orthodox religion, as you know, but that girl's got something on me.
She has a voice that would make her famous on the stage, but she uses
it all the time, as she says, 'in the service of the King!' I think
she's narrow on that point, but I know she's sincere. Edith has had a
great sorrow, and it makes her nobility stand out, pure and wonderful,
like a white gem in a black setting. It seems to be the law that one
must rub shoulders with sorrow before he really begins to live. And
any afternoon you can find her down in the children's ward, singing
with that wonderful voice to the little sick sufferers."
"I know about her sorrow," said Dave, as though confessing a profound
secret. "She told me about her little brother being killed."
It sprang to Bert's lips to say, "Oh, what's the use?" but she checked
herself. They were at the door of her boarding-house. As he helped
her to the sidewalk Dave stood for a moment with her hand in his. He
had long liked Bert Morrison, and to-night he was powerfully drawn
toward her. He knew--what she would have most strenuously denied--that
her masculinity was a sham. Her defiance of convention--rambling like
a fellow bachelor into his apartments--her occasional profanity and
occasional cigarette--these were but the cloak from which her own deep
womanhood was forever peering forth. He felt impelled to kiss her. He
wondered if she would be angry; if such a familiarity would obstruct
their growing friendship. He felt sure she would not be angry, but she
would probably think him foolish. And man cannot endure being thought
foolish by woman.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she said as they parted, as though she really
had forgotten. "I was at a reception to-day when a beautiful woman
asked for you. Asked me if I had ever heard of Mr. David Elden.
"'What, Dave Elden, the millionaire?' I said. 'Everybody knows him.
He's the beau of the town, or could be, if he wanted to.' Oh, I gave
you a good name, Dave."
"Thanks, Bert. That was decent. Who was she?"
"She said her name was Irene Hardy."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Upon the return of Irene Hardy to the East it had slowly become
apparent to her mother that things were not as they once had been.
There were various vague stirrings of uneasiness, but perhaps the most
alarming manifestation was the strange silence in which the girl
enveloped herself. It seemed as though she had left part of her nature
behind--had outgrown it, perhaps--and had created about herself an
atmosphere of reserve foreign to her earlier life. It seemed as though
the loneliness of the great plains had settled upon her. The old
virility had been sobered; the gaiety of her girlhood had ripened into
a poise more disturbing to Mrs. Hardy than any conventional excess
could have been. She sought her own company; she tolerated social
engagements in which she had previously found delight. And, most
sinister of all, she showed no disposition to encourage the attentions
which were ready enough in the offering.
"Whatever has come over Irene?" said Mrs. Hardy to the doctor one
evening when their daughter had been particularly indifferent to a
theatre invitation. "She hasn't been the same since she came home. I
should not have let her go west alone."
The doctor looked up mildly from his paper. It was the custom of the
doctor to look up mildly when Mrs. Hardy made a statement demanding
some form of recognition. From the wide initiation into domestic
affairs which his profession had given him, Dr. Hardy had long since
ceased to look for the absolute in woman. He had never looked for it
in man. He realized that in Mrs. Hardy he did not possess a perfect
mate, but he was equally convinced that in no other woman would he have
found a perfect mate, and he accepted his lot with the philosophy of
his sixty years. If Mrs. Hardy, in some respects, failed to measure up
to his standard of the ideal, he found it true nevertheless that she
had many admirable qualities. Granting that in his matrimonial
adventure he might possibly have done somewhat better, fairness
compelled the admission that he might also have done very much worse.
And being, as has been hinted, something of a philosopher, he had
sought, whenever possible, to harmonize his life with hers; and when
that was impossible, at least to keep what pressure he might upon the
soft pedal. So instead of reminding his wife that Irene had not been
alone when she went west he remarked, very mildly, that the girl was
growing older.
Mrs. Hardy found in this remark occasion to lay down the book she had
been holding, and to sit upright in a rigidity of intense disapproval.
Dr. Hardy was aware that this was entirely a theatrical attitude,
assumed for the purpose of imposing upon him a proper humility. He had
experienced it many, many times. And he knew that his statement,
notwithstanding its obviousness, was about to be challenged.
"Dr. Hardy," said his wife, after the lapse of an appropriate period,
"do you consider that an intelligent remark?"
"It has the advantage of truthfulness," returned the doctor,
complacently. "It is susceptible of demonstration."
"I should think this is a matter of sufficient interest to the family
to be discussed seriously," retorted Mrs. Hardy, who had an unfortunate
habit of becoming exasperated by her husband's good humour. She had
none of his philosophy, and she mistook his even temper for
indifference. "Irene is our only child, and before your very eyes you
see her--you see her--" Mrs. Hardy's fears were too nebulous to enable
her to complete the sentence.
"Yes, I see her," the doctor admitted. "That is, I did see her at
dinner. There is nothing alarming about that." Then, relenting, "But,
seriously, what reason have you for uneasiness about the child?"
"Reason enough. She behaves so strangely. Do you know, I begin--I
really do begin to suspect that she's in love."
It was Dr. Hardy's turn to sit upright. "Nonsense," he said. "Why
should she be in love?" It is the unfortunate limitation of the
philosopher that he so often leaves irrational behaviour out of the
reckoning. "She is only a child."
"She will be eighteen presently. And why shouldn't she be in love?
And the question is--who? That is for you to answer. Whom did she
meet?"
"If you would find a Hamlet at the root of this melancholy you must ask
our Ophelia. She met no one with me. My accident left me to enjoy my
holiday as best I could at a ranch deep in the foothills, and Reenie
stayed with me there. There was no one else--"
"No one? No ranch men, cowboys,--cow punchers--I think I have
heard,"--with nice disdain.
"No. Only young Elden--"
"_Only_? Who is this young Elden?"
"But he is just a boy. Just the son of the old rancher of whom I have
told you."
"Exactly. And Irene is just a girl. Dr. Hardy, you are all very well
with your fevers and your chills, but you can't diagnose a love case
worth a cent. An epidemic would break out under your very eyes and you
blissfully unconscious. What about this young Elden? Did Irene see
much of him?"
The doctor spread his hands. "Do you realize that there were four of
us at that ranch--four, only, and no one else for miles? How could she
help seeing him?",
"And you permitted it?"
"I was on my back with a broken leg. We were guests at their home.
They were good Samaritans to us. I couldn't chaperon her. And
besides, they don't do things that way in that country. You don't
understand. It's altogether different."
"Andrew," said Mrs. Hardy, leaning forward, and the word was ominous,
for she used his Christian name only in moments of crisis,--"was Irene
ever, with this young man--alone?"
The doctor arose to his feet and trod heavily upon the rich carpetings.
"I told you you don't understand," he protested. "The West is not the
East. Everything is different--"
"I suppose human nature is different," she interrupted, meaningly.
Then her head fell upon the table and her hands went up about her hair.
It had been brown hair once, but was now thin and streaked with grey.
"Oh, Andrew," she wept. "We are ruined. That we should ever have come
to this!"
It was now Dr. Hardy's turn to be exasperated. There was one thing his
philosophy could not endure. That was a person who was not, and would
not be, philosophical. Mrs. Hardy was not, and would not be,
philosophical. She was an absolutist. With Mrs. Hardy things were
right or things were wrong. Moreover, that which was done according to
rule was right, and that which was not done according to rule was
wrong. It was apparent that the acquaintanceship of Irene and Dave
Elden had not been according to rule.
"This is all nonsense," said the doctor, impatiently. "There is
nothing to it, anyway. The girl had to have some company. What if
they did ride together? What--"
"They rode together? Alone?"
"They had their horses along," said the doctor, whose impatience had
made way for sarcasm.
"Through the forest, I suppose," said Mrs. Hardy, with an air of one
whose humiliation is complete.
"Oh, yes, through the forests, across the foothills, up the canyons,
hours of it, days of it, weeks of it--"
"Stop! You are mocking me. In this hour of shame you are making
jests. Call Irene."
The girl was summoned. Her fine face had lost some of its brownness,
and the eyes seemed deeper and slower, but she was still a vision of
grace and beauty as she stood in response to their call framed in the
curtains of an archway. Her quick sense caught the tense atmosphere,
and she came forward with parted lips and extended fingers. There was
the glint of light on her white teeth. "Yes?" she said. "What is
wrong? Can I help?"
"Your father has confessed," said Mrs. Hardy, trying hard to speak with
judicial calm. "Now tell us about your relations with this young
Elden, this cow _puncher_. Let us know the worst."
Irene's startled eyes flew from her mother to her father's face. And
there they caught something that restored their calm.
"There was no worst," she said, with a ripple of laughter. "But there
was a good deal of best. Shall I tell you the best?"
"Irene," said her mother, severely, "Did you permit that young man to
make love to you?"
"I did not give him permission, if that answers you, because--he didn't
ask it."
Mrs. Hardy had risen, "Andrew, you hear that? She confesses. And you,
blind, blind, couldn't see it!"
"Is it very dreadful?" asked Irene.
"Yes, you mock me, too. Of course it's dreadful. Horrible. What will
everybody say?"
"No worse than you have said, I'll be bound," put in the doctor.
"Yes, take her part. What care you for the family name?"
"I have a right to speak for the family name," said the doctor firmly.
"It was mine before it was yours. And I sometimes think, if we lived
under more liberal laws, it might be mine after it had ceased to be
yours. . . . I cannot see that the family name has been compromised in
the slightest degree. This is Irene's first adventure. It will pass
away. And even if it does not--he is a manly boy."
Mrs. Hardy surveyed her husband hopelessly, then turned to Irene.
"Have you made any promises?"
"Only that I wouldn't make any promises until he had his chance. That
seemed fair."
"I suppose you are receiving letters from him?"
"No."
"None at all?"
"None at all."
"Why doesn't he write?"
For the first time Irene's eyes fell, and the colour mounted richer in
her cheeks. She had to confess now, not for herself, but for him.
"He can't write," she said.
"Merciful Heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, collapsing into a chair.
"Andrew, bring me a stimulant."
The outcome was that Mrs. Hardy insisted upon Irene embarking at once
upon a finishing course. When this was completed, as the girl had
shown a sense for form and colour, she encouraged her into a special
art course. Afterwards they travelled together for a year in Europe.
Then, home again, Irene pursued her art, and her mother surrounded her
with the social attractions which Dr. Hardy's comfortable income and
professional standing made possible. Her purpose was obvious, and but
thinly disguised. She hoped that her daughter would outlive her
youthful infatuation, and would at length, in a more suitable match,
give her heart to one of the numerous eligibles of her circle.
To promote this end Mrs. Hardy spared no pains. Young Carlton, son of
a banker, and one of the leading men of his set, seemed a particularly
appropriate match. Mrs. Hardy opened her home to him, and Carlton,
whatever his motives, was not slow to grasp the situation. For years
Irene had not spoken of Dave Elden, and the mother had grown to hope
that the old attachment had died down and would presently be quite
forgotten in a new and more becoming passion. The fact is that Irene
at that time would have been quite incapable of stating her relation
toward Elden and its influence upon her attitude to life. She was by
no means sure that she loved that sun-burned boy of romantic memory;
she was by no means sure that she should ever marry him, let his
development in life be what it would. But she felt that her heart was
locked, at least for the present, to all other suitors. She had given
her promise, and that settled the matter. True, he had not come to
claim fulfilment of that promise--and at times she scolded him soundly
in the secrecy of her own mind for his negligence through all these
years--but she was young, with no desire for a decisive step, and while
she chafed under his apparent neglect she felt a sort of tingling dread
of the day when he should neglect her no longer. One thing she knew;
he had implanted in her soul a fine contempt for men of the set which
Carlton typified. They would have thought Dave ignorant; but she knew
that if Dave and Carlton were thrown into the wilderness on their own
resources Dave would thrive and Carlton would starve. Perhaps Dave's
education, although not recognized by any university save the
university of hard knocks, was the more real and valuable of the two.
Notwithstanding her contempt for him, the girl found herself
encouraging Carlton's advances, or at least not meeting them with the
rebuffs which had been her habit toward all other suitors, and Mrs.
Hardy's hopes grew as the attachment apparently developed. But they
were soon to be shattered.
Irene had gone with Carlton to the theatre; afterwards to supper. It
was long past midnight when she reached home; she knocked at her
mother's door and immediately entered. She was splendidly gowned, but
her hair was dishevelled and her cheeks were flushed, and she walked
unsteadily across the room.
"What's the matter, Irene? What's the matter, child? Are you sick?"
cried her mother, springing from her bed. "Oh, dear me, and the doctor
is out!"
"No, I'm not sick," said the girl, brutally. "I'm drunk!"
"Oh, don't say that," said her mother, soothingly. "Proper people do
not become drunk. You may have had too much champagne, and to-morrow
you will have a headache--"
"Mother! I have had too much champagne, but not as much as that
precious Carlton of yours had planned for. I just wanted to see how
despicable he was, and I floated down stream with him as far as I
dared. But just as the current got too swift I struck for shore. Oh,
we made a scene, all right, but nobody knew me there, so the family
name is safe and you can rest in peace. I called a taxi and when he
tried to follow me in I slapped him and kicked him. Kicked him,
mother. Dreadfully undignified, wasn't it? . . . And that's what you
want me to marry, in place of a man!"
Mrs. Hardy was chattering with mortification and excitement. Her plans
had miscarried. Irene had misbehaved. Irene was a difficult,
headstrong child. It was useless to argue with her in her present
mood. It was useless to argue with her in any mood. No doubt Carlton
had been impetuous. Nevertheless, he stood high in his set, and his
father was something of a power in the financial world. As the wife of
such a man Irene might have a career before her--a career from which at
least some of the glory would reflect upon the silvering head of the
mother of Mrs. Carlton. And now Irene, by her folly and her
ungovernable temper, had spoiled all the carefully laid plans. Mrs.
Hardy was a very badly used woman.
"Go to your room," she said, at length. "You are in no condition to
talk to-night. I must say it is a shame that you can't go out for an
evening without drinking too much and making a scene. . . . In a
public place, too. . . . What will Mr. Carlton think of you?"
"If he remembers all I told him about himself he'll have enough to
think of," the girl blazed back. "You know--what I have told you--and
still _Mister_ Carlton stands as high in your sight as ever. _I_ am
the one to blame. Very well. I've tried your choice, and I've tried
my own. Now I am in a position to judge. There will be nothing to
talk about in the morning. Mention Carlton's name to me again and I
will give the whole incident to the papers. With photographs. And
names. Fancy the feature heading, 'Society girl, intoxicated, kicks
escort out of taxi.' Good night."
But other matters were to demand the attention of mother and daughter
in the morning. While the scene was occurring in Mrs. Hardy's bed-room
her husband, clad in white, toiled in the operating room to save the
life of a fellow being. It was an emergency operation, performed by
artificial light, and without adequate assistance. There was a slip of
an instrument, but the surgeon toiled on; he could not, at that
juncture, pause; the life of the patient was at stake. When the
operation was finished he found his injury deeper than he supposed, and
Irene was summoned from her heavy sleep that morning to attend his
bedside. He talked to her as a philosopher; said his life's work was
done, and he was just as glad to go in the harness; the estate should
yield something, and there was his life insurance--a third would be for
her. And when Mrs. Hardy was not at his side he found opportunity to
whisper, "And if you really love that boy out west, _marry him_."
The sudden bereavement wrought a reconciliation between Mrs. Hardy and
her daughter. Mrs. Hardy took her loss very much to heart. While
Irene grieved for her father, Mrs. Hardy grieved for herself. It was
awful to be left alone like this. There was something in her demeanour
that suggested that Andrew had been rather unkind in departing as he
did. And when the lawyers found that instead of a hundred thousand
dollars the estate would yield a bare third of that sum she spoke
openly of her husband's improvidence. He had enjoyed a handsome
income, upon which his family had lived in luxury. That it was unequal
to the strain of providing for them in that fashion and at the same
time accumulating a reserve for such an eventuality as had occurred was
a matter which his wife could scarcely overlook.
About this time it came to the notice of Mrs. Hardy that when the late
Mr. Deware had departed this life Mrs. Deware, with her two daughters,
had gone on a trip to England to dull the poignancy of their
bereavement. The Dewares moved in the best circles, Mr. Deware having
amassed a considerable fortune in the brewing business. It was obvious
that whatever Mrs. Deware might do under such circumstances would be
correct. Upon arrival at this conclusion Mrs. Hardy lost no time in
buying two tickets for London.
Her health, however, had suffered a severe shock, for beneath her
ostentation she felt as deep a regard for her late husband as was
possible in one who measured everything in life by various social
formulae. On the ocean voyage she contracted a cough, which the fogs
of London did little to dispel, and February found her again on the
Atlantic, with her mind occupied by more personal affairs than a seat
at the captain's table. The voyage was a particularly unhappy one, and
the widow's first concern upon reaching home was to consult a
specialist who had enjoyed a close professional acquaintanceship with
Dr. Hardy. The specialist gave her a careful, meditative, and solemn
examination.
"Your condition is serious," he told her, "but not alarming. You must
have a drier climate, and, preferably, a higher altitude. Fortunately,
your heart is good, or I should have to keep you at sea level; that is,
I should have had to sacrifice your lungs for your heart." The doctor
spoke as though the sacrifice would have been all his, after the manner
of a specialist. "As it is, I am convinced that the conditions your
health demands are to be found in. . ." He named the former cow-town
from which Irene's fateful automobile journey had had its start, and
the young woman, who was present with her mother, felt herself go
suddenly pale with the thought of a great prospect.
"Oh, I could never live there," Mrs. Hardy protested. "It is so crude.
Cow _punchers_, you know, and all that sort of thing."
The specialist smiled. "You will probably not find it so crude,
although I daresay some of its customs may jar on you," he remarked,
dryly. "Still, I would recommend you to take your best gowns along.
And it is not a case of not being able to live there. It is a case of
not being able to live here. If you take my advice you should die of
old age, so far, at least, as your present ailment is concerned. If
you don't"--and he dropped his voice to just the correct note of
gravity, which pleased Mrs. Hardy very much--"if you don't, I can't
promise you a year."
Confronted with such an alternative, the good lady had no option but to
suppress her repugnance toward cow punchers. Irene had expected
opposition born of a more subtle reason, but it soon became evident
that so deeply was her mother concerned with her own affairs that she
had quite failed to associate the proposed change with any possibility
of a re-opening of Irene's affair with the young rancher. It was years
since they had discussed him, and the probability was that, although
the incident remained in the back of Mrs. Hardy's memory, even his name
had been forgotten.
Arrangements for the journey were made with the despatch which
characterized Mrs. Hardy. She was a stickler for precedent; any
departure from the beaten paths was in her decalogue the unpardonable
sin, but when she had arrived at a decision she was no trifler. She
accepted the situation with the resignation which she deemed to be
correct under such circumstances, but the boundless prairies were to
her so much desolation and ugliness. It was apparent that dwellers in
the little four-cornered houses of the plains must be sadly lacking in
any sense of the artistic, and as Mrs. Hardy gazed from the car window
she acquired a habit of making with her tongue a sound which, owing to
the limitations of the alphabet, cannot be represented to the reader,
but which Irene understood to be an expression of mingled surprise,
pity, and contempt. Irene gathered that her mother did not approve of
prairies. They were something new to her life, and it was greatly to
be suspected that they were improper.
With very different emotions did the girl find herself speeding again
toward the scene of the first great event of her conscious life. For
her the boundlessness, the vastness, the immeasurable sweep of the eye,
suggested an environment out of which should grow a manhood and
womanhood that should weigh mightily in the scales of destiny of a
great nation; a manhood and womanhood defiant of the things that are,
eager for the adventure of life untrammeled by traditions. She had a
mental vision of the type which such a land must produce; her mind ran
to riots of daring as it fashioned a picture which should fairly
symbolize this people. . . . The day was drawing to a close, and a
prairie sunset glowed upon them in a flush of colouring that stirred
her artist soul. A cloudless sky, transparent as an ocean of glass;
fathomless, infinite, save when in the west inverted islands of gold
and brass and ruddy copper floated in a sea that gently deepened from
saffron to opal; and under that sky the yellow prairies; ever, forever,
and ever. . . . Up from the East came the night, and large, bright
stars stood out, and the click-clack of the car wheels came louder and
louder, and mimic car lamps raced along against the darkness outside.
And then the settlers' lights began to blink across the prairie, and
Irene's eyes were wet with an emotion she could not define; but she
knew her painting had missed something; it had been all outline and no
soul, and the prairies in the night are all soul and no outline; all
softness and vagueness and yearning unutterable. . . .
"How tiresome it is," said her mother. "Ask the porter to make up the
berths."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mrs. Hardy accepted the surroundings she found in the city that was to
be her home with not a little incredulity. For some days she treated
the city as a deep rascal which had disguised its true nature in order
to deceive her. She smiled at the ease with which she saw through all
disguises. One of these days the cloak of respectability would be
thrown off, and the shouting and shooting of the cow punchers would
proclaim the West as it really was.
Very slowly it dawned upon Mrs. Hardy that this respectable, thriving
city, with its well dressed, properly mannered people, its public
spirit, its aggressiveness, its churches and theatres and schools, its
law and order--and its afternoon teas ("My dear, who would have thought
it possible?" She half expected a cowboy to ride in and overthrow the
china)--very slowly it dawned upon her that this, after all, was the
real West; sincere, earnest; crude, perhaps; bare, certainly; the scars
of its recent battle with the wilderness still fresh upon its person;
lacking the finish that only time can give to a landscape or a
civilization; but lacking also the mouldiness, the mustiness, the
insufferable artificiality of older communities. And the atmosphere!
Day after day brought its cloudless sky, the weather, for once, having
failed to observe the rule of contraries; evening after evening flooded
valley and hilltop with its deluge of golden glory; night after night a
crisp temperature sent her reaching for comforters. Sleep? She felt
that she had never slept before. Eat? Her appetite was insatiable;
all day long she lived in a semi-intoxication born of an unaccustomed
altitude. And, best of all, something had happened to her cough; she
did not know just what or when, but presently she discovered it was
gone. Even Mrs. Hardy, steeped for sixty years in a life of precedent
and rule and caste, began to catch the enthusiasm of a new land where
precedent and rule and caste are something of a handicap.
"We must buy a home," she said to Irene. "We cannot afford to continue
living at an hotel, and we must have our own home. You must look up a
responsible dealer whose advice we can trust in a matter of this kind."
And was it remarkable that Irene Hardy should think at once of the firm
of Conward & Elden? It was not. She had, indeed, been thinking of a
member of that firm ever since the decision to move to the West. She
had felt a peculiar hesitation about enquiring openly for Dave Elden,
but, upon meeting a newspaper woman in the person of Miss Morrison she
had voiced the great question with an apparent unconcern which did not
in the slightest mislead the acute Roberta. It is the business of
newspaper people to know things and people, and it seemed to Irene that
she could ask such a question of Miss Morrison in a sort of
professional way. But she had not been prepared for the reply.
The fact is Irene had not been at all sure that she wanted to marry
Dave Elden. She wanted very much to meet him again; she was curious to
know how the years had fared with him, and her curiosity was not
unmixed with a finer sentiment; but she was not at all sure that she
should marry him. She had tried to picture him in the eye of her
imagination; she was sure he had acquired a modest education; he had
probably been reasonably successful in business, either as an employee,
or, in a small way, on his own account. She was moderately sure of all
this; but there were pessimistic moods in which she saw him slipping
back into the indifference of his old life soon after the inspiration
of her presence had been withdrawn; perhaps still living with his
bibulous father on the ranch in the foothills, or perhaps following the
profession of cow puncher, held in such contempt by her mother. And in
such moods she was sorry, but she knew she could never, never marry him.
"What, Dave Elden, the millionaire?" Bert Morrison had said.
"Everybody knows him." And then the newspaper woman had gone on to
tell what a figure Dave was in the business life of the city, and to
declare that he might be equally prominent in the social life, did his
fancies lead him in that direction. "One of our biggest young men,"
Bert Morrison had said. "Reserved, a little; likes his own company
best; but absolutely white."
That gave a new turn to the situation. Irene had always wanted Dave to
be a success; suddenly she doubted whether she had wanted him to be so
big a success. And with that doubt came another and more disturbing
one, which, if it had ever before crossed her mind, had found no
harbourage there. She had doubted whether she should wish to marry
Dave; she had never allowed herself to doubt that Dave would wish to
marry her. Secretly, she had expected to rather dazzle him with her
ten years' development--with the culture and knowledge which study and
travel and life had added to the charm of her young girlhood; and
suddenly she realized that her lustre would shine but dimly in the
greater glory of his own. . . . She became conscious of a very great
desire to renew with Dave the intimacy of her girlhood.
It was easy to locate the office of Conward & Elden; it stood on a
principal corner of a principal street, and the name was blazoned to
the wayfarer in great gilt letters. Thence she led her mother, and
found herself treading on the marble floors of the richly appointed
waiting room in a secret excitement which she could with difficulty
conceal. She was, indeed, very uncertain about the next
development. . . . Her mother had to be reckoned with.
A young man asked courteously what could be done for them. "We want to
see the head of the firm," said Mrs. Hardy. "We want to buy a house."
It occurred to Irene that in some respects her mother was extremely
artless, but the issue was for the moment postponed.
They were shown into Conward's office. Time had been when they would
have seen no further than a head salesman; but times were changing, and
real estate dealers were losing the hauteur of the days of their great
success. Conward gave them the welcome of a man who expects to make
money out of his visitors. He placed a very comfortable chair for Mrs.
Hardy; he adjusted the blinds to a nicety; he discarded his cigarette
and beamed upon them with as great a show of cordiality as his somewhat
beefy appearance would permit. The years had not been over kind to
Conward's person. His natural tendency to corpulence had been abetted
by excessive eating; his face was red and flabby, his lips had no more
colour than his face; and nature, in deciding to deprive him of a
portion of his hair, had very unkindly elected to take it in patches,
giving his head a sort of pinto effect. These imperfections were
quickly appraised by Irene, but his manner appealed to Mrs. Hardy, who
outlined her life history with considerable detail, dwelling more than
once upon the perfections of the late Dr. Hardy--which perfections she
now showed a disposition to magnify, as implying a certain distinction
unto herself--and ended with the confession that the West was not as
bad as she had feared, and anyway it was a case of living here or dying
elsewhere, so she would have to make the best of it. And here they
were. And might they see a house?
Conward appeared to be reflecting. As a matter of fact, he saw in this
inexperienced buyer an opportunity to reduce his holdings in
anticipation of the impending crash. His difficulty was that he had no
key to the financial resources of his visitors. They had lived in good
circumstances; they were the family of a successful professional man,
but, as Conward well knew, many successful professional men had a
manner of living that galloped hard on the heels of their income. The
only thing was to throw out a feeler.
"You are wanting a nice home, I take it, that can be bought at a
favourable price for cash. You would consider an investment of
say----."
He paused, and Mrs. Hardy supplied the information for which he was
waiting. "About twenty-five thousand dollars," she said.
"We can hardly invest that much," Irene interrupted, in a whisper. "We
must have something to live on."
"People here live on the profits of their investments, do they not, Mr.
Conward?" Mrs. Hardy inquired. "I have been told that that is the way
they live, and they seem to live very well indeed."
"Oh, certainly," Conward agreed, and he plunged into a mass of
incidents to show how profitable investments had been to other clients
of the firm. He emphasized particularly the desirability of buying
improved property--preferably residential property--and suddenly
recalled that he had something very choice in which they might be
interested. At this juncture Conward's mood of deliberation gave way
to one of briskness; he summoned a car, and in a few minutes his
clients were looking over the property which he had recommended. Mrs.
Hardy, who, during her husband's lifetime had never found it necessary
to bear financial responsibilities or make business decisions, was an
amateurish buyer, her tendency being alternately to excess of caution
on one side and recklessness on the other. Conward's manner pleased
her; the house he showed pleased her, and she was eager to have it over
with. But he was too shrewd to appear to encourage a hasty decision.
He realized at once that he had sold Mrs. Hardy, but Irene was a
customer calling for more tactful handling. Conward's eye had not
failed to appraise the charm of the young woman's appearance. He would
gladly have ingratiated himself with her, but he was conscious of a
force in her personality that held him aloof. And that consciousness
made him desire the more to gain her confidence. . . . However, this
was a business transaction. He did not seize upon Mrs. Hardy's remark
that the house seemed perfectly satisfactory; on the contrary, he
insisted on showing other houses, which he quoted at such impossible
figures that presently the old lady was in a feverish haste to make a
deposit lest some other buyer should forestall her.
Back in Conward's office, while the agreement was being drawn, Irene
was possessed of a consuming desire to consult with Dave Elden. She
was uneasy about this transaction in which her mother proposed so
precipitately to invest the greater part of their little fortune. But
the more she thought over the situation the more its difficulties
became apparent. She had no personal knowledge or experience which
could be summoned for such an occasion. She would like to have asked
Dave's advice; instinctively she distrusted Conward. Yet, . . . .
Conward was Dave's partner. It was impossible to attribute honest
motives to one half of the firm and deny them to the other. And it was
unreasonable to expect that Dave's advice would conflict with
Conward's. And, in the event that an issue did arise between the two
partners, it was quite certain that her mother would side with Conward.
Meanwhile the agreement neared completion, and Mrs. Hardy had produced
her cheque book.
Irene's excitement at length reached the point where she could no
longer remain silent. "I think I would hesitate, mother," she cried.
"If you buy this house we will have only a few thousand dollars left.
I am not thinking of myself. Your health may demand other
expenditures----"
"My health was never better," Mrs. Hardy interrupted. "And I'm not
going to miss a chance like this, health or no health. You have heard
Mr. Conward tell how many people have grown wealthy buying property and
selling it again. And I will sell it again--when I get my price," she
ended, with a finality that suggested that large profits were already
assured.
"It is as your mother says," Conward interjected. "There are many
rapid increases in value. I would not be surprised if you should be
offered an advance of ten thousand dollars on this place before Fall.
It is really a very exceptional investment."
"There must be an end somewhere," Irene murmured, rather weakly. But
her mother was writing a cheque. "I shall give you five thousand
dollars now," she said, "and the balance when you give me the deed, or
whatever it is. That is the proper way, isn't it?"
"Well, it's done," said Irene, with an uneasy laugh, which her
excitement pitched a little higher than she had intended.
In an adjoining room Dave Elden heard that laugh, and it stirred some
remembrance in him. Instantly he connected it with Irene Hardy. The
truth was Irene Hardy had been in the background of his mind during
every waking hour since Bert Morrison had dropped her bombshell upon
him. How effectively she had dropped it! What a hit she had scored!
Dave had ricochetted ever since between amusement and chagrin at her
generalship. She had deliberately created for him opportunities--a
whole evening full of them--to confess about Irene Hardy, and when he
had refused to admit that he had anything to confess she had confounded
him with an incident that admitted no explanation. For a moment he had
stood speechless, overcome with the significance of what she had said;
the next, he reached out to detain her, but she was already on the
stairs of her apartment and waving him a laughing good-night. And now
that voice--
Dave had no plan. He simply walked into Conward's office. His eye
took in the little group, and the mind behind caught something of its
portent. Irene's beauty! What a quickening of the pulses was his as
he saw in this splendid woman the girl who had stirred and returned his
youthful passion! But Dave had poise. Upon a natural ability to take
care of himself in a physical sense, environment and training had
imposed a mental resourcefulness not easily taken at a disadvantage.
He walked straight to Irene.
"I heard your voice," he said, in quiet tones that gave no hint of the
emotion beneath. "I am very glad to see you again." He took the hand
which she extended in a firm, warm grasp; there was nothing in it, as
Irene protested to herself, that was more than firm and warm, but it
set her finger-tips a-tingling.
"My mother, Mr. Elden," she managed to say, and she hoped her voice was
as well controlled as his had been. Mrs. Hardy looked on the
clean-built young man with the dark eyes and the brown, smooth face,
but the name suggested nothing. "You remember," Irene went on. "I
told you of Mr. Elden. It was at his ranch we stayed when father was
hurt."
"But I thought he was a cow _puncher_," exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, with no
abatement of the contempt which she always compressed into the one
western term which had smuggled into her vocabulary.
"Times change quickly in the West, madam," said Dave. There was
nothing in his voice to suggest that he had caught the note in hers.
"Most of our business men--at least, those bred in the country--have
thrown a lasso in their day. You should hear them brag of their
steer-roping yet in the Ranchmen's Club." Irene's eyes danced. Dave
had already turned the tables; where her mother had implied contempt he
had set up a note of pride. It was a matter of pride among these
square-built, daring Western men that they had graduated into their
office chairs from the saddle and the out-of-doors.
"Oh, I suppose," said her mother, for lack of a better answer.
"Everything is so absurd in the West. But you were good to my
daughter, and to poor, dear Andrew. If only he had been spared. Women
are so unused to these business responsibilities, Mr. Conward. It is
fortunate there are a few reliable firms upon which we can lean in our
inexperience."
"Mother has bought a house," Irene explained to Dave. "We thought this
was a safe place to come----"
A look on Elden's face caused her to pause. "Why, what is wrong?" she
said.
Dave looked at Conward, at Mrs. Hardy, and at Irene. He was instantly
aware that Conward had "stung" them. It was common knowledge in inside
circles that the bottom was going out. The firm of Conward & Elden had
been scurrying for cover; as quietly and secretly as possible, to avoid
alarming the public, but scurrying for cover nevertheless. And Dave
had acquiesced in that policy. He had little stomach for it, but no
other course seemed possible. Conward, he knew, had no scruples. Bert
Morrison had been caught in his snare, and now this other and dearer
friend had proved a ready victim. As Conward was wont to say, business
is business. And he had acquiesced. His position was extremely
difficult.
"I don't think I would be in a hurry to buy," he said, slowly turning
his eyes on his partner. "You would perhaps be wiser to rent a home
for awhile. Rents are becoming easier."
"But I _have_ bought," said Mrs. Hardy, and there was triumph rather
than regret in her voice. "I have paid my deposit."
"It is the policy of this firm," Elden continued, "not to force or take
advantage of hurried decisions. The fact that you have already made a
deposit does not alter that policy. I think I may speak for my partner
and the firm when I say that your deposit will be held to your credit
for thirty days, during which time it will constitute an option on the
property which you have selected. If, at the end of that time, you are
still of your present mind, the transaction can go through as now
planned; and if you have changed your mind your deposit will be
returned."
Conward shifted under Dave's direct eye. He preferred to look at Mrs.
Hardy. "What Mr. Elden has told you about the policy of the firm is
quite true," he managed to say. "But, as it happens, this transaction
is not with Conward & Elden, but with me personally. I find it
necessary to dispose of the property which I have just sold to you at
such an exceptional price"--he was looking at Mrs. Hardy--"I find it
necessary for financial reasons to dispose of it, and naturally I
cannot run a chance of having my plans overturned by any possible
change of mind on your part. Not that I think you will change your
mind," he hurried to add. "I think you are already convinced that it
is a very good buy indeed."
"I am entirely satisfied," said Mrs. Hardy. "The fact that Mr. Elden
wants to get the property back makes me more satisfied," she added,
with the peculiarly irritating laugh of a woman who thinks she is
extraordinarily shrewd, and is only very silly.
"The agreement is signed?" said Dave. He walked to the desk and picked
up the documents, and the cheque that lay upon them. His eye ran down
the familiar contract. "This agreement is in the name of Conward &
Elden," he said. "This cheque is payable to Conward & Elden."
He was addressing Conward. Conward's livid face had become white, and
it was with difficulty he controlled his anger. "They are all printed
that way," he explained. "I am going to have them endorsed over to me."
"You are _not_," said Dave. "You are charging this woman twenty-five
thousand dollars for a house that won't bring twenty thousand on the
open market to-day, and by Fall won't bring ten thousand. The firm of
Conward & Elden will have nothing to do with that transaction. It
won't even endorse it over."
A fire was burning in the grate. Dave walked to it, and very slowly
and deliberately thrust the agreement and the cheque into the flame.
For a moment the printed letters stood out after the body of the paper
was consumed; then all fell to ashes.
"Well, if that doesn't beat all!" Mrs. Hardy ejaculated. "Are all cow
_punchers_ so discourteous?"
"I mean no discourtesy," said Dave. "And I hope you will let me say
now, what I should have said before, that it was with the deepest
regret I learned from your conversation of the death of Dr. Hardy. He
was a gentleman who commanded my respect, as he must have commanded the
respect of all who knew him. If my behaviour has seemed abrupt I
assure you I have only sought to serve Dr. Hardy's widow--and his
daughter."
"It is a peculiar service," Mrs. Hardy answered curtly. She felt she
had a grievance against Dave. He had not lived down to her conception
of what a raw Western youth should be. Even the act of burning the
agreement and the cheque, dramatic though it was, had a poise to it
that seemed inappropriate. Dave should have snatched the papers--it
would have been better had the partners fought over them--he should
have crumpled them in rage and consigned them to the fire with curses.
Mrs. Hardy felt that in such conduct Dave would have been running true
to form. His assumption of the manners of a gentleman annoyed her
exceedingly.
"I can only apologize for my partner's behaviour," said Conward. "It
need not, however, affect the transaction in the slightest degree. A
new agreement will be drawn at once--an agreement in which the firm of
Conward & Elden will not be concerned."
"That will be more satisfactory," said Mrs. Hardy. She intended the
remark for Dave's ears, but he had moved to a corner of the room and
was conversing in low tones with Irene.
"I am sorry I had to make your mother's acquaintance under
circumstances which, I fear, she will not even try to understand," he
had said to Irene. "I am sure she will not credit me with unselfish
motives."
"Oh, Dave--Mr. Elden, I mean--that is--you don't know how proud--you
don't know how much of a _man_ you made me feel you are."
She was flushed and excited. "Perhaps I shouldn't talk like this.
Perhaps----"
"It all depends on one thing," Dave interrupted.
"What is that?"
"It all depends on whether we are Miss Hardy and Mr. Elden, or whether
we are still Reenie and Dave."
Her bright eyes had fallen to the floor, and he could see the tremor of
her fingers as they rested on the back of a chair. She did not answer
him directly. But in a moment she spoke.
"Mother will buy the house from Mr. Conward," she said. "She is like
that. And when we are settled you will come and see me, won't
you--Dave?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When the Hardys had gone Conward turned to Elden. "We had better try
and find out where we stand," he said, trying to speak dispassionately,
but there was a tremor in his voice.
"I agree," returned Elden, who had no desire to evade the issue. "Do
you consider it fair to select inexperienced women for your victims?"
Conward made a deprecating gesture. "There is nothing to be gained by
quarreling, Dave," he said. "Let us face the situation fairly. Let us
get at the facts. When we have agreed as to facts, then we may agree
as to procedure."
"Shoot," said Dave. He stood with his shoulder toward Conward,
watching the dusk settling about the foothill city. The streets led
away into the gathering darkness, and the square brick blocks stood in
blue silhouette against a champagne sky. He became conscious of a
strange yearning for this young metropolis; a sort of parental brooding
over a boisterous, lovable, wayward youth. It was his city; no one
could claim it more than he. And it was a good city to look upon, and
to mingle in, and to dream about.
"I think," said Conward, "we can agree that the boom is over. Booms
feed upon themselves, and eventually they eat themselves up. We have
done well, on paper. The thing now is to convert our paper into cash."
Dave turned about. "You know I don't claim to be any great moralist,
Conward," he said, "and I have no pity for a gambler who deliberately
sits in and gets stung. Consequently I am not troubled with any
self-pity, nor any pity for you. And if you can get rid of our
holdings to other gamblers I have nothing to say. But if it is to be
loaded on to women who are investing the little savings of their
lives--women like Bert Morrison and Mrs. Hardy--then I am going to have
a good deal to say. And there is that man--what's his name?--Merton, I
think; a lunger if there ever was one; tuberculosis written all over
him; a widower, too, with a little boy, sent out here as his last
chance--you loaded him with stuff where he can't see the smoke of the
city, and you call it city property. That's what I want to talk
about," said Dave, with rising heat. "If business has to be done that
way, then I say, to hell with business!"
"I asked you not to quarrel," Conward returned, with remarkable
composure. "I suggested that we get at the facts. That seems to be a
business suggestion. I think we are agreed that the boom is over.
Values are on the down grade. The boomsters are departing. They are
moving on to new fields, as we should have done a year or two ago, but
I confess I had a sort of sentiment for this place. Well--that is the
price of sentiment. It won't mix with business. Now, granting that
the boom is over, where do we stand?
"We are rated as millionaires, but we haven't a thousand dollars in the
bank at this moment. This," he lifted Mrs. Hardy's cheque, "would have
seen us over next pay day, but you say the firm must have nothing to do
with it. And which is the more immoral--since you have spoken of
morality--to accept labour from clerks whom you can't pay, or to sell
property to women who say they want it and are satisfied with the
price? We make our income by selling property. As soon as the sales
stop, the income stops. Well, the sales have stopped. But the expense
goes on. We have literally thousands of unsettled contracts. We must
keep our staff together. We have debts to pay, and we owe it to our
creditors to make collections so that we can pay those debts, and we
can't make collections without staff. I sympathize with your feelings
on this matter, Dave, but what's a man to do? It's like war; we must
kill or be killed. Business is war, of a kind. Why, on the property
we are now holding the taxes alone will amount to twenty thousand
dollars a year. And I put it up to you; if we are going to stand on
sentiment, who's going to pay the taxes?"
"I know; I know," said Dave, whose anger over the treatment of the
Hardys was already subsiding. "We are in the grip of the System. As
you have said, it is kill or be killed. Still--in war they don't
usually kill women and non-combatants. That is the point I'm trying to
make. I've no sentiment about others who are in the game as we are.
If you limit your operations to them----"
"The trouble is, you can't. They're wise. They see the bottom going,
and they quit. Most of them have already moved on. A few firms, like
ourselves, will stay and try to fight it out; try, at least, to close
up with a clean sheet, if we must close up. But we can't wind up a
business without selling the stock on hand, and to whom are we to sell
it, if not to people who want it? That is what you seem to object to."
"You place me in rather an unfair light," Dave protested. "What I
object to is taking the life savings of people--people of moderate
circumstances, mainly--in exchange for property which we know to be
worth next to nothing."
"Yet you admit that we must clean up, don't you?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"And there's no other way, Dave," said Conward, rising and placing an
arm on his partner's shoulder, "I sympathize with your point of view,
but, my boy, it's pure sentiment, and sentiment has no place in
business. And you remember the terms of our partnership, don't you?"
Dave hesitated a few moments, as he threw his mind back over the years
that had gone by since the day when Conward proposed a partnership to
him. He saw again his little office where he ground out "stuff" for
_The Call_, the littered desk and floor, the cartoons on the walls, the
big shears, and the paste pot--yes, the paste pot, and the lock he had
installed to protect it, and his select file of time copy, from
depredation. And the smell of printer's ink; even yet, when business
took Dave into a printing office, the smell of ink brought back those
old, happy days. Happy days? When he worked more hours than a man
should work, for less salary than a man should get; when the glorious
out-of-doors called him and his soul rebelled against the despotism of
fate! Yes, surely they were happy days. He smiled a moment as he
thought of them; paused to dally with them on his way to an answer for
Conward; then skimmed quickly down the surface of events to this
present evening. More wonderful had the years been than any dream of
fiction; no wizard's wand had ever worked richer magic. . . .
"You remember, don't you?" Conward repeated.
"Oh, about the coal?" Dave laughed. The moment of reminiscence had
restored his good humour. "Yes, I suppose it was a bargain. You have
held me to it pretty well."
"Let it remain a bargain to the end," said Conward. "It is the only
way we can finish up."
Dave dropped the subject. There appeared to be nothing to gain from
pursuing it further. They were in the grip of a System--a System which
had found them poor, had suddenly made them wealthy, and now, with
equal suddenness, threatened to make them poor again. It was like
war--kill or be killed. It occurred to Dave that it was even worse
than war. War has in it the qualities of the heroic; splendid bravery;
immeasurable self-sacrifice; that broad spirit of devotion to a vague
ideal which, for lack of a better name, is called patriotism. This
System had none of that. It was more like assassination. . . .
Night had settled when Dave left the office. The champagne sky had
deepened into a strip of copper; the silhouettes were soft and black;
street lights studded the bank of foothills to the west like setting
stars. Darkness had tucked the distance that lay between the city and
the Rockies in the lap of night, and the great ridge stood up close and
clear, prodding its jagged edge into the copper pennant of the day's
farewell. A soft wind blew from the south-west; June was in the air.
June, too, was in Dave's heart as he walked the few blocks to his
bachelor quarters. What of the drab injustice of business? Let him
forget that; now it was night . . . and she had called him Dave. He
climbed the steps to his room with energy and life tingling in his
limbs; then he stood in his window and for a long while watched the
traffic in the street below. That is, his eyes were directed to the
traffic, but what he saw was a merry girl in a brown sweater, showering
her glances of admiration upon a raw youth of the ranges whose highest
ambition was to break six bottles with six bullets. And she had even
held that to be a worthy ambition. She had said, "Perhaps the day is
coming when our country will want men who can shoot and ride more than
it will want lawyers or professors." He smiled at the recollection of
her words. The romantic days of youth! like the mirage of sunrise they
fade and are lost in the morning of life. . . . And their young
philosophies! The night they found the dead calf; he had propounded
the wisdom that it is always the innocent thing that suffers; that the
crittur that can't run gets caught. Well, that seemed to hold good.
Wasn't that what Conward had argued to him this very afternoon, and he
had found no answer? He wondered what Reenie's experience had
been. . . . And then the compact under the spruce trees. . . . "Come
to me--like that--" she had said, "and then--then we'll know." And
to-day she had called him Dave.
He dressed with care. The Chinese boy was never more obsequious in his
attentions, and Dave never presented a more manly appearance. It was
not until he was about to leave his rooms that he remembered he must
dine alone; he had been dressing for her, unconsciously. The
realization brought him up with something of a shock. "This will never
do," he said, "I can't eat alone to-night. And I can't ask Reenie, so
soon after the incident with her mother. I know--Bert Morrison." He
reached for the telephone and rang her number. Had anyone charged Dave
with fickleness in his affections he would have laughed at the
absurdity. Had he not remained true to one great passion through the
dangerous decade of his life? A man always thinks of the decade just
ended as the dangerous decade. And Bert Morrison was a good friend.
As he waited at the telephone he recalled the impulse which had seized
him when they had last parted. But the recollection brought only a
glow of friendship for Bert. There was no hint of danger in it.
Her number did not answer. He thought of Edith Duncan. But Edith
lived at home, and it was much too late to extend a formal dinner
invitation. There was nothing for it but to eat alone. He suddenly
became conscious of the great loneliness of his bachelor life. After
all, he was quite as much alone in the city as he had been in his
boyhood in the hills. He began to moralize on this subject of
loneliness. It was very evident to him now that his life had been
empty and shallow. It was rather evident that any single life is empty
and shallow. Nature had made no mistake in decreeing that humans
should live in pairs. Dave had never thought much on that point
before, but now it struck him as so obvious that none could fail to see
its logic. The charm of bachelorhood was a myth which only needed
contact with the gentle atmosphere of feminine affection to be exposed.
The Chinese boy coughed deferentially, and Dave was recalled from his
reverie. He took his hat and coat and went into the street. It was
his custom to take his meals at a modest eating-place on a side avenue,
but to-night he directed his steps to the best hotel the city afforded.
There was no wisdom in dressing for an event unless he were going to
deflect his course somewhat from the daily routine.
The dining hall was a blaze of light; the odour of early roses blended
with imported perfumes, and strains of sweet, subdued music trembled
through the room in accompaniment to the merry-making of the diners.
Dave paused for a moment, awaiting the beck of a waiter, but in that
moment his eye fell on Conward, seated at a table with Mrs. Hardy and
Irene. Conward had seen him, and was motioning to him to join them.
The situation was embarrassing, and yet delightful. He was glad he had
dressed for dinner.
"Join us, Elden," Conward said, as he reached their table. "Just a
little dinner to celebrate to-day's transaction. You will not refuse
to share to that extent?"
Dave looked at Mrs. Hardy. Had he been dealing with Conward and Mrs.
Hardy alone he would have excused himself, but he had to think of
Irene. That is, he had to justify her by being correct in his manners.
And as he looked from mother to daughter he realized that Irene had not
inherited all her beauty from her father. In their dinner gowns Mrs.
Hardy was sedate and even beautiful, and her daughter ravishing. Dave
thought he had not before seen so much womanly charm in any figure.
"_Do_ join us," said Mrs. Hardy. It was evident to Mrs. Hardy that it
would be correct for her to support Mr. Conward's invitation.
"You are very kind," said Dave, as he seated himself. "I had not hoped
for this pleasure." And yet the pleasure was not unmixed. He felt
that Conward had out-played him. It was Conward who had done the
gracious thing. And Dave could not prevent Conward doing the gracious
thing without himself being ungracious.
He was aware of being under the close scrutiny of Mrs. Hardy. True,
Conward sought to monopolize her attention. He had an ingratiating way
with strangers; he struck a confidential note that quickly called forth
confidence in return, and Dave was chagrined to see that not only was
his partner creating the intended impression upon Mrs. Hardy, but his
sallies and witticisms were gradually winning response from Irene. And
the more he was annoyed at this turn of affairs the less was he able to
arrest it. As Conward's guest he could not quarrel, and his fear of
over-stepping the mark if he engaged in discussion induced a silence
which might easily have been mistaken for mental inanition. He
contented himself with being punctiliously correct in his table
etiquette.
Perhaps he could have followed no wiser course, Dave's manners had an
effect upon Mrs. Hardy similar to that which she had experienced from
the decent civilization of the western city. To her it seemed
impossible that a raw youth, bred on the ranges--a cow puncher--could
conduct himself correctly in evening dress at a fashionable table. It
was more than impossible--it was heterodox; it was a defiance of all
the principles upon which caste is based, and to Mrs. Hardy caste was
the one safe line of demarkation between refinement and vulgarity. So
she noted Elden's correct deportment, even to--as it seemed to her--his
correct modesty in taking little part in the conversation, with a sense
that all this was a disguise, and that presently he would,
figuratively, burst forth from his linen and broadcloth and stand
revealed in schaps and bandana. But the meal progressed with no such
development, and Mrs. Hardy had a vague sense that this young man was
not dealing fairly with her. He was refusing to live up to her
preconceived ideas of what his part should be. Had Mrs. Hardy been
capable of analyzing her own emotions correctly, she would have known
that Dave was undermining her belief in caste, and without caste there
could be no civilization! But Mrs. Hardy was not a deep self-analyst.
Those who accept all distinctions as due to external causes have no
occasion to employ any deep mental subtlety in classifying their
acquaintances. So, as has been stated, the impression created upon her
mind by Elden's proper conduct was one of vague annoyance that proper
conduct should be found in one not reared within the charmed circle of
the _elite_.
After dinner they sat in the lounge-room, and Conward beguiled the time
with stories of sudden wealth which had been practically forced upon
men who were now regarded as the business frame-work of the country.
As these worthies strolled through the richly furnished room leisurely
smoking their after-dinner cigars Conward would make a swift summary of
their rise from liveryman, cow puncher, clerk or labourer to their
present affluence, occasionally appealing to Dave to corroborate his
statements. It was particularly distasteful to Elden to be obliged to
add his word to Conward's in such matters, for although Conward
carefully refrained from making any direct reference to Mrs. Hardy's
purchase, the inference that great profits would accrue to her
therefrom was very obvious.
A tall man passed by with a richly gowned woman on his arm. "Jim
Farley," Conward explained. "Plasterer by trade. Began dabbling in
real estate. Now rated as a millionaire."
Conward paused to light another cigarette. "Interesting case,
Farley's," he continued, after a pause. "You remember it, Elden?"
Dave nodded. "Farley blew in here from Scotland, or some such place,
looking for work with his trowel. That was about the time of the
beginning of things, as things are reckoned here. Some unscrupulous
dealer learned that Farley had three hundred dollars--it goes to show
what has happened even when the motive of the seller could hardly be
endorsed as honest business. Well, this dealer learned that Farley had
three hundred dollars, and by means of much conviviality he induced him
to invest that amount in a pair of lots on a cut-bank in the most
outlandish place you can imagine. When Farley came to himself he was
so sick over it he moved on to the Coast, and took up his trade of
plastering.
"Well, in a couple of years things had happened. The principal thing,
so far as Farley's fortunes were concerned, was the decision of a new
transcontinental railway to build into this centre. Now it so happened
that nature or geology or topography or whatever it is that controls
such matters had decreed that the railway must cross Farley's lots.
There was no other way in. It became the duty of Conward & Elden to
buy those lots. We ascertained his address and wired him an offer of
two thousand dollars. There was no time to lose, and we felt that that
offer would cinch it. But we had overlooked the fact that Farley was
Scotch. Did he accept our offer? He did not. He reasoned like this:
'If I am worth two thousand dollars I can afford a little holiday.' So
he threw up his job and in a couple of days he walked into our office.
Would he listen to reason? He would not. He knew that an eagle would
scarcely choose his property as a building site. He knew that whoever
was going to buy those lots was going to buy them because he had to
have them--because they were essential to some project. And he simply
sat tight.
"To make the story short--how much do you think we paid for them? Ten
thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars cash. And he made us pay the
cost of the transfer. You remember that, Elden? We laughed over it at
the time. Then he immediately re-invested his little fortune, and
to-day-- It's the story of hundreds."
Elden was glad when Mrs. Hardy remembered that she must not remain up
late. Her physician had prescribed rest. Early to bed, you know.
Still, Mr. Conward's anecdotes were so refreshing, so suggestive of
that--what is it you call it?--that spirit of the West, etc. Dave had
opportunity for just a word with Irene before they left.
"How did this happen--to-night?" he asked, with the calm assumption of
one who has a right to know.
"Oh, Mr. Conward telephoned an invitation to mother," she explained.
"I was so glad you happened in. You have had wonderful experiences; it
must be inspiring--ennobling--to take such part in the building of a
new city; something that will be here forever as a monument to the men
of this generation. Mr. Conward is charming, isn't he?"
Dave did not know whether the compliment to Conward was a personal
matter concerning his partner, or whether it was to be taken as a
courtesy to the firm. In either case he rather resented it. He
wondered what Irene would think of this "ennobling" business in the
drab days of disillusionment that must soon sweep down upon them. But
Irene apparently did not miss his answer.
"We shall soon be settled," she said, as Mrs. Hardy and Conward were
seen approaching. "Then you will come and visit us?"
"I will--Reenie," he whispered, and he was sure the colour that mounted
in her cheeks held no tinge of displeasure.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Elden lost no time in making his first call upon the Hardys. He had
discussed the matter with Irene over the telephone. "We are hardly in
order yet," she had explained. "We are in a chaos of house-furnishing,
but you will be welcome. And there may be boxes to lift, and carpets
to lay, and heavy things to shove about."
He found, however, that very fine order had already been established in
the Hardy home, or, at any rate, in that part of it available to
visitors. Mrs. Hardy would have barred, with her own robust body if
necessary, his admission into any such surroundings as Irene had
pictured. Irene received him cordially, but Mrs. Hardy evinced no more
warmth than propriety demanded. Elden, however, allowed himself no
annoyance over that. A very much greater grievance had been thrust
upon his mind. Conward had preceded him, and was already a guest of
the Hardys.
Dave had accepted the fact of Conward's dinner party as a natural
enough occurrence, and after Irene's explanation he had dismissed it
from his mind. Conward's presence in the Hardy home was a more serious
matter. He knew Conward well enough to know that purpose always lay
behind his conduct, and during the small talk with which they whiled
away an hour his mind was reaching out acutely, exploring every nook of
possibility, to arrive, if it could, at some explanation of the sudden
interest which Conward was displaying in the Hardys. These
explanations narrowed down to two almost equally unpalatable. Conward
was deliberately setting about to capture the friendship, perhaps the
affection, of either Mrs. Hardy or Irene. Strangely enough, Elden was
more irritated by the former alternative than by the latter. He felt
that if Conward's purposes were directed towards Irene that was at
least fair warfare; he could not bring himself to think similarly of a
suit that involved Mrs. Hardy. Perhaps this attitude was due to
subconscious recognition of the fact that he had much more to fear from
Conward as a suitor for the hand of Mrs. Hardy than as a rival for that
of Irene. On the latter score he had no misgivings; he was confident
of his ability to worst any adversary in that field, and competition
would lend a piquancy to his courtship not altogether without
advantages; but he had no such confidence in the case of an assault
upon the heart of the elder woman. He could not become Conward's rival
in such a case, and, repugnant as the idea was to him, he felt no
assurance that such a match might not develop. And Conward, as a
prospective father-in-law, was a more grievous menace to his peace of
mind than Conward as a defeated rival.
The more he contemplated this aspect of the case the less he liked it.
He would not do Conward the compliment of supposing that he had, or
might develop, a genuine attachment for Mrs. Hardy. It was true that
Mrs. Hardy, notwithstanding her years and her eccentricities, had a
certain stateliness of manner through which at times protruded a
reckless frankness that lent a unique charm to her personality, but it
was impossible to suppose that Conward had been captivated by these
interesting qualities. To Conward the affair could be nothing more
than an adventure, but it would give him a position of a sort of
semi-paternal authority over both Irene and Elden. Fortunately for his
train of thought, which was floundering into more and more difficult
travel, the prospect of having to appeal to Conward for the honour of
Irene's hand in marriage touched Dave's sense of humour, and he
suddenly burst into inappropriate laughter in the course of Mrs.
Hardy's panegyric upon the life and morals of her late husband.
Mrs. Hardy contracted her eyebrows.
"I beg your pardon," said Dave. "I have to confess I allowed my wits
to go rambling, and they stumbled upon a--upon a very amusing
absurdity." Elden's mind was engaged with Mrs. Hardy and Conward, and,
unintentionally, he allowed his eyes to embrace them both in his
remark. One more astute than Mrs. Hardy might have had a glimmer of
the absurdity which had provoked Dave's untimely mirth, but she was a
woman who took herself with much seriousness. If Conward guessed
anything he concealed his intuition behind a mask of polite attention.
Mrs. Hardy addressed a severe gaze at Elden. "You should keep your
wits better in hand, young man. When you find them rambling it might
be well to--ah--_lasso_ them. Ha, ha, Mr. Conward. That's the word,
is it not? _Lasso_ them." This unexpected witticism on Mrs. Hardy's
part had the fortunate effect of restoring that lady's good humour, and
Elden found an easy way out of the situation by joining in the general
laughter.
"I fear a thought would be a somewhat elusive thing to get a rope on,"
he ventured.
"But if it could be done, Dave would do it," Irene interjected. "You
remember----"
"Dave?" said Mrs. Hardy, sharply. "You mean Mr. Elden."
The colour rose in the young woman's cheeks, but she stood by her guns.
"He was Dave in those days," she said. "It would be impossible to
think of a _mister_ galloping about over the foothills, swinging his
lariat, or smashing bottles with his six-shooter. Mister fits in with
the conventions; with tailors and perfume and evening dress, but it
doesn't seem to have any place in the foothills."
"You're right," Conward agreed. "Mister has no place on horseback. If
you were to go out on the ranges and begin mistering the cow-punchers,
like as not they'd lead you into camp at a rope-end. No man really
makes much of a hit in this country until everybody calls him by his
first name."
"Well, Mr. Elden seems to have made a hit, as you call it, with some of
his acquaintances," said Mrs. Hardy, with a touch of acidity. "I
think, Irene, you would do well to remember that we are not out on the
ranges, and that Mr. Elden no longer pursues his living with a lariat."
"It may be a point of view I have acquired in the West," Irene
persisted. "But I think it a greater courtesy to address a man by his
Christian name than by any artificial title. It is something like
admitting a guest into the kitchen--a privilege not extended to the
casual visitor. It seems like taking him into the family----"
"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Mrs. Hardy. "Have we come to that?"
Irene's cheeks and eyes grew brighter still. "Oh, I didn't mean that,"
she protested. "I was--I was employing a figure of speech."
So the talk drifted on, sometimes safely, sometimes through tortuous
channels that threatened at any moment to over-turn their little shell
of convention. But no such catastrophe occurred, and when, at length,
Mrs. Hardy began to show signs of weariness, Irene served coffee and
cake, and the two men, taking that as an intimation that their welcome
had run down, but would re-wind itself if not too continually drawn
upon, left the house together. On their way they agreed that it was a
very beautiful night.
Dave turned the situation over in his mind with some impatience. Irene
had now been in the city for several weeks, and he had had opportunity
for scarce a dozen personal words with her. Was he to be baulked by
such an insufferable chaperonage as it seemed the purpose of Mrs. Hardy
and Conward to establish over his love affair? No. In the act of
undressing he told himself No, suiting to the word such vigour of
behaviour that in the morning he found his shoes at opposite corners of
the room. No! He who, as a boy, had not hesitated to assert a sort of
proprietorship over Irene, would not hesitate now-- He was keyed to
the heroic.
Several days passed without any word from Irene, and he had almost made
up his mind to attempt another telephone appointment, when he met her,
quite accidentally, in the street. It was a beautiful afternoon; warm,
but not hot, with a fresh breeze from the mountains flowing through the
unclouded heavens, and a radiant sun pouring down upon all. But Irene
looked more radiant still. She had been shopping, she said. The duty
of household purchases fell mainly upon her. Her mother rested in the
afternoons----
"How about a cup of tea?" said Dave. "And a thin sandwich? And a
delicate morsel of cake? One can always count on thin sandwiches and
delicate morsels of cake. Their function is purely a social one,
having no relation to the physical requirements."
"I should be very glad," said Irene.
They found a quiet tea-room. When they were seated Dave, without
preliminaries, plunged into the subject nearest his heart.
"I have been wanting an opportunity to talk to you--wanting it for
weeks," he said. "But it always seemed----"
"Always seemed that you were thwarted," Irene completed his thought.
"You didn't disguise your annoyance very well the other night."
"Do you blame me for being annoyed?"
"No. But I rather blame you for showing it. You see, I was annoyed
too."
"Then you had nothing to do with--with bringing about the situation
that existed?"
"Certainly not. Surely you do not think that I would--that I would----"
"I beg your pardon, Reenie," said Dave, contritely. "I should have
known better. But it seemed such a strange coincidence."
She was toying with her cup, and for once her eyes avoided him. "You
should hardly think, Dave," she ventured,--"you should hardly conclude
that--what has been, you know, gives you the right--entitles you----"
"To a monopoly of your attentions. Perhaps not. But it gives me the
right to a fair chance to win a monopoly of your attentions." He was
speaking low and earnestly, and his voice had a deep, rich timbre in it
that thrilled and almost frightened her. She could not resent his
straightforwardness. She felt that he was already asserting his claim
upon her, and there was something tender and delightful in the sense of
being claimed by such a man.
"I must have a fair chance to win that monopoly," he repeated. "How
did it happen that Conward was present?"
"I don't know. It just happened. A little after you telephoned me he
called up and asked for mother, and the next I knew she said he was
coming up to spend the evening. And then I said you were coming."
"And what did she say?"
Irene hesitated. "Please don't make me tell you," she whispered at
length.
"Don't hesitate from any fear of hurting me," he said, with a laugh.
"I know I have failed to make a hit with your mother. On your account
I could wish I had been more successful, but perhaps she will be fairer
when she knows me better. What did she say?"
"She just said, 'That cow _puncher_.' And I just told her that you
were the man who put the punch in the Conward & Elden firm--you see I
am learning your slang--and that everybody says so, and a few more
things I told her, too."
But Dave had dropped into a sudden reverie. It was not so remarkable
as it seemed that Conward should have telephoned Mrs. Hardy almost
immediately after he had used the line. Conward's telephone and Dave's
were on the same circuit; it was a simple matter for Conward, if he had
happened to lift the receiver during Dave's conversation with Irene, to
overhear all that was said. That might happen accidentally; at least,
it might begin innocently enough. The fact that Conward had acted upon
the information indicated two things; first, that he had no very
troublesome sense of honour--which Dave had long suspected--and second,
that he had deliberately planned a confliction with Dave's visit to the
Hardy home. This indicated a policy of some kind; a scheme deeper than
Dave was as yet able to fathom. He would at least guard against any
further eavesdropping on his telephone.
He took a card from his pocket, and made some figures on it. "If you
should have occasion to call me at the office at any time, please use
that number, and ask for me," he said. "It is the accountant's number.
'There's a reason.'"
It flattered his masculine authority that she put the card in her purse
without comment. She did not ask him to explain. Dave knew that when
a woman no longer asks for explanations she pays man her highest
compliment.
The cups were empty; the sandwiches and cake were gone, but they
lingered on.
"I have been wondering," Dave ventured at length, "just where I
stand--with you. You remember our agreement?"
She averted her eyes, but her voice was steady. "You have observed the
terms?" she said.
"Yes--in all essential matters. I come to you now--in accordance with
those terms. You said that we would know. Now _I_ know; know as I
have always known since those wonderful days in the foothills; those
days from which I date my existence. Anything worth while that has
ripened in my life was sown by your smile and your confidence and your
strange pride in me, back in those sunny days. And I would repay it
all--and at the same time double my debt--by returning it to you, if I
may."
"I realize that I owe you an answer, now, Dave," she said, frankly.
"And I find it very hard to make that answer. Marriage means so much
more to a woman than it does to a man. I know you don't think so, but
it does. Man, after the honeymoon, returns to his first love--his
day's work. But woman cannot go back. . . . Don't misunderstand me,
Dave. I would be ashamed to say I doubt myself, or that I don't know
my mind, but you and I are no longer boy and girl. We are man and
woman now. And I just want time--just want time to be _sure_
that--that----"
"I suppose you are right," he answered. "I will not try to hurry your
decision. I will only try to give you an opportunity to know--to be
sure, as you said. Then, when you are sure, you will speak. I will
not re-open the subject."
His words had something of the ring of an ultimatum, but no endearments
that his lips might have uttered could have gripped her heart so
surely. She knew they were the words of a man in deadly earnest, a man
who had himself in hand, a man who made love with the same serious
purpose as he had employed in the other projects of his successful
life. She raised her eyes to his fine face. Decision was stamped all
over it; from the firm jaw to the steady eyes that met her own.
Suddenly she began to tremble. It was not fear. Afterwards she knew
it to have been pride--pride in his great masterly manfulness; in a
judgment so sure of itself that it dallied not a moment in stating the
terms upon which all future happiness might hang. For if Dave had
misread Irene's heart he had deliberately closed the only door through
which he might hope to approach it. But Irene instinctively knew that
he had not misread her heart; it seemed that this bold, daring
manoeuvre had captured the citadel at a stroke. Had it not been for
some strange sense of shame--some fear that too ready capitulation
might be mistaken for weakness--she would have surrendered then.
"I think that is best," she managed so say. "We will let our
acquaintanceship ripen."
He rose and helped her with her light wrap. His fingers touched her
hand, and it seemed to him the battle was won. . . . But he had
promised not to re-open the subject.
In the street he said, "If you will wait a moment I will take you home
in my car." Their eyes met, and each of them knew what it meant. It
meant announcement to her mother that she had met Dave down town. It
meant, perhaps, a supposition on her mother's part that she had gone
down town for that purpose. It was far-reaching. But she said simply,
"I should enjoy driving home with you."
On the way they planned that the following Sunday they would drive into
the foothills together. Of course they would ask Mrs. Hardy to
accompany them. Of course. But it might happen that Mrs. Hardy would
be indisposed. She was tired with the numerous duties incident to
settling in a new home. Irene was of the opinion that what her mother
needed now was rest.
As it happened, Mrs. Hardy was at the gate. She greeted Dave cordially
enough; it was not possible for Mrs. Hardy to quite forget her
conventional training, just as it was not possible for her to quite
forget that Dave was a one-time cow puncher. Encouraged by her mood
Irene determined to settle the Sunday programme at once.
"Dave was good enough to bring me up in his car," she said. "And just
think! He invites us to drive into the foothills with him next Sunday.
Will you come? It will be delightful. Or are you feeling----"
"Mr. Elden is very kind," said Mrs. Hardy, with dignity. "I have no
doubt Mr. Conward will accompany us. He is to call this evening, and I
will ask him. . . . Yes, I think it very likely we will go."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The summer wore on, and autumn followed on its heels. The processes
which had been discerned by Conward and other astute operators were now
apparent to the mob which forever follows in the wake of the
successful, but usually at such a distance as to be overwhelmed in the
receding flood. The forces which had built up fabulous fortunes were
now in reverse gear, and the same mechanism that had built up was now
tearing down. As the boom had fed upon itself, carrying prices to
heights justifiable only to the most insane optimism, so did the
subsequent depression bear down upon values until they reached depths
justifiable only to the most abandoned despondency. Building
operations came to a standstill. Carpenters, masons, brick-layers,
painters, plumbers, labourers found themselves out of employment. As,
in most instances, they had lived to the extent of their income in the
prosperous period, or had invested their surpluses in the all-alluring
real estate, they were promptly confronted with the necessity of
finding work; if not at home, elsewhere. Their exodus left vacant
houses; the reduced volume of trade necessary for a smaller and more
frugal population was speedily reflected in empty shops and office
buildings. With houses, shops, and office buildings empty or rented at
prices which did not pay interest on the investment there was no
inducement to build more houses, shops, or office buildings. With no
inducement to build houses, shops, or office buildings there was no
demand for vacant lots. With no demand for vacant lots, no value
attached to them. The rosy bubble, inflated with the vapours of
irresponsible speculation, had dissolved in thin air.
It could not be called a collapse. There was no panic, no crash.
There was no wild rush to sell. One cannot sell without buyers, and
there were no buyers. A certain latent optimism, justified in part by
the undeniable natural advantages of the city, kept the flame of hope
alive in the hearts of investors, or, perhaps, suffered it to be
gradually diminished rather than extinguished by one icy blast of
despair.
Mrs. Hardy was among the last to admit that she had bought on an ebbing
tide. She contended that her house was well worth the price she had
paid; what if speculation had come to a stop? So much the better; her
house was still worth its price. She would stand firm. It was not
until the Metfords, whose ostentation had brought them before her
notice, attempted to sell their home at a tremendous sacrifice, and had
found it impossible to get an offer, that Mrs. Hardy began seriously to
consider her predicament. Mrs. Metford had sold the car and discharged
the "chiffonier," and Mr. Metford had returned to his ancient and
honourable calling of coal freighter.
Mrs. Hardy consulted Conward. It had grown to be her habit to consult
Conward on all matters in which she found an interest. Conward had
gone out of his way to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Hardy and her
daughter, with, in the case of the former, considerable success. His
status with Irene was not so well defined, but the frequency of his
visits to the Hardy home afforded the opportunity for an attachment to
be developed by insensible degrees, and the day was nearing when
Conward would wish to trade upon that attachment.
"How is it, Mr. Conward," Mrs. Hardy said to him one evening over her
fancy work, for she practised an indefatigable industry in matters of
no importance,--"How is it that there is no demand for property? You
are a real estate expert; you should be able to answer that."
"It is simple enough," Conward answered. "It is all a matter of
confidence. So long as confidence was maintained, prices continued to
advance. When confidence began to be shaken, prices hesitated. If
confidence should disappear, values would follow suit."
"But why should confidence disappear? Isn't this city as good to-day
as it was a year ago? Doesn't it occupy the same site? Are not the
farms still producing?"
"That's just it, dear Mrs. Hardy. Why, indeed? Simply because the
booster has given way to the calamity howler. Its psychological
explanation is simple enough. The world lives by faith. Without faith
there would be neither seed-time nor harvest. That is true of raising
cities, as well as raising crops. But there are always those who
ridicule faith; always were, always will be. And as soon as faith
disappears, things begin to sink. Just like John, or whoever it was,
on the water----"
"Peter, I think," corrected Mrs. Hardy. "Yes, yes, I begin to
understand."
"Well, it's just like that. I may be a little off colour on my
scripture, but I have the principle of it, and that's the main thing.
And as soon as a city loses faith it begins to sink, just like Peter in
the Red Sea."
"I don't think it was the Red Sea," said Mrs. Hardy gently. "But that
is a matter of detail. As you say, the principle is the main thing.
So we owe all this--these empty houses and shops, unsalable property,
and everything, to those who have lost faith--or never had it. To men
like Mr. Elden, for instance. You remember how he tried to discourage
me from the very first--tried to break down my faith--that was it, Mr.
Conward--I see it all very plainly now--and he and others like him have
brought things to their present pass. Well, they have a great
responsibility."
Conward, practised though he was in the arts of simulation, found
difficulty in maintaining a serious appearance. It had not occurred to
him that when a woman conceives a dislike for a man, her mind may lend
itself to processes of deductions that will ultimately saddle the
unfortunate offender with the responsibility for circumstances with
which he is not in the most remote manner connected. It was the most
natural thing in the world for a mind like Mrs. Hardy's, quite without
premeditated injustice, to find in Dave Elden the cause of effects as
far removed as was the collapse of the boom from the good advice he had
given her that day in Conward's office. Conward found the experience
an illuminating one. It was rich with hints of the possibilities that
might arise from apparently innocent sentences dropped at opportune
moments. It was proof that the danger of consequences lies, not in
wronging your neighbour, but in allowing your neighbour to suspect that
you wrong him.
As a result of this discussion, Dave found himself rather less popular
with Mrs. Hardy than before. She treated him with distant civility,
showing such courtesies as convention demanded as an honour, not to
Elden, but to herself. Dave accepted her displeasure with a
light-heartedness that was extremely trying to the good woman's temper.
Had it not been for his desire to spare Irene any unhappiness, he would
have treated it with open flippancy. He was engaged in a much more
serious business than the cajolery of an old woman's whims. He was
engaged in the serious business of capturing the heart of Irene
Hardy--a task made none the easier by the self-imposed condition that
he must conduct no offensive, but must await with such patience as he
could command the voluntary capitulation of the besieged. On the
whole, he told himself he had no reason to be dissatisfied with the
progress of events. He and Irene often motored together, frequently
accompanied by Mrs. Hardy, sometimes by Conward as well, but
occasionally alone. And Irene made no secret of the fact that she
preferred the trips in which only she and Dave participated. On such
occasions the warm summer afternoons found them wandering far over the
prairies, without thought of the homeward trail until the setting sun
poured its ribbon of gold along the crest of the Rockies. The country,
with its long, rolling sweeps of prairie, its clusters of dark green
poplars; its rugged foothills from which grey roots of rock protruded,
and the blue background of the mountains, afforded a scene to charm her
artist soul, and daring and more daring were the splashes of colour
which she committed to canvas in her attempt to catch the moods of
light and shade that played over such a landscape. And if she did not
speak of love with her lips, she had eyes. . . .
The gradual shrinkage of values to the vanishing point imposed upon
Dave many business duties which he would very gladly have evaded. The
office of Conward & Elden, which had once been besieged by customers
eager to buy, was now a centre of groups no less eager to sell; and
when they could not sell they contrived to lay the blame upon the firm
which had originally sold to them. Although, for the most part, these
were men and women who had bought purely from the gambler's motive,
they behaved toward the real estate dealer as though he had done them
an injustice when the finger of fortune turned up a loss instead of a
profit. For such people Dave had little sympathy, and if they
persisted in their murmurings he told them so with becoming frankness.
But there were cases that could not be turned away with a sharp answer.
Bert Morrison, for instance. Bert had never mentioned her "investment"
since the occasion already recorded; she greeted Dave with the
sociability due to their long-standing friendship; and her calm
avoidance of the subject hurt him more than the abuse of all his irate
patrons. Then there was Merton, the widower with the sick lungs and
the motherless boy, who had brought his little savings to the West in
the hope of husbanding out his life in the dry, clear atmosphere, and
saving his son from the white death that had already invaded their
little family. With a cruelty almost unbelievable, Conward had talked
this man into the purchase of property so far removed from the city as
to possess no value except as farm land; and the little savings, which
were to ward off sickness and death, or, if that could not be, minister
modest comfort in the declining hours of life, had been exchanged for
property which, even at the time of the transaction, was valueless and
unsalable.
Merton had called on Dave with respect to his investment. Dave had at
first been disposed to tell him frankly that the property, for which he
had paid twenty dollars a foot, was barely worth that much an acre.
But a second look at the man changed his purpose.
"I know you were stung, Merton," he said, "shamelessly stung. You are
one of those unsuspecting fellows who think everybody is going to play
fair with them. You belong to the class who keep all kinds of rogues
and scoundrels in easy circumstances. You might almost be charged with
being accessories. Now, just to show how I feel about it--how much did
you pay for these lots?"
"Three thousand dollars. It was all I had."
"Of course it was. If you had had more you would have paid more. I
suppose Conward justified himself with the argument that if he didn't
take your easy money some one else would, which is doubtless true. But
just to show how I feel about it--I'll buy those lots from you, for
three thousand dollars."
"I can't do it, Mr. Elden; I can't do it," said Merton, and there was
moisture on his cheeks. "That would be charity--and I can't take it.
But I'm much obliged. It shows you're square, Mr. Elden, and I hold no
illwill to _you_."
"Well, can I help you in some way you _will_ accept? I'm afraid--I
don't mean to be unkind, but we may as well be frank--I'm afraid you
won't need help very long."
Merton answered as one who has made up his mind to the inevitable, and
Dave thought better of him. This little wreck of a man--this child in
business matters--could look death in the face without a quiver.
"Not so long," he said. "I felt ever so much better when I came here
first; I thought I was really going to be well again. But when I found
what a mistake I had made I began to worry, not for myself, you know,
but the boy, and worry is just what my trouble lives on. I have been
working a little, and boarding out, and the boy is going to school.
But I can't do heavy work, and work of any kind is hard to get. I find
I can't keep going that way."
Merton looked with dreamy eyes through the office window, while Dave
was turning over the hopelessness of his position, and inwardly cursing
a system which made such conditions possible. Society protects the
physically weak from the physically strong; the physical highwayman
usually gets his deserts; but the mental highwayman preys upon the weak
and the inexperienced and the unorganized, and Society votes him a good
citizen and a success.
"I had a plan," Merton continued, half-apologetically, as though his
plan did him little credit; "I had a plan, but it can't be worked out.
I have been trying to raise a little money on my lots, but the mortgage
people just look at me."
"What is your plan?" said Dave, kindly. "Any plan, no matter how bad,
is always better than no plan."
"I thought," said Merton, timidly,--"I thought if I could build a
little shack on the lots I could live there with the boy and we could
raise a very fine garden. The soil is very fertile, and at least we
should not starve. And the gardening would be good for me, and I could
perhaps keep some chickens, and work out at odd jobs as well. But it
takes money to build even a very small shack."
"How much money?" demanded Dave.
"If I had a hundred dollars----"
"Bring your title to me to-morrow; to me, personally, you understand.
I'll advance you five hundred dollars."
Merton sprang up, and there was more enthusiasm in his eyes than had
seemed possible "You will? But I don't need that much----"
"Then use the surplus to live on."
So the Merton affair was straightened away in a manner which left Dave
more at peace with his conscience. But another event, much more
dramatic and far-reaching in its effects upon his life, was already
ripe for the enacting.
Business conditions had necessitated unwonted economy in the office
affairs of Conward & Elden, as a result of which many old employees had
been laid off, and others had been replaced by cheaper and less
experienced labour. Stenographers who had been receiving a hundred
dollars a month could not readily bring themselves to accept fifty, and
some of them had to make way for new girls, fresh from the business
colleges. Such a new girl was Gladys Wardin; pretty, likeable,
inexperienced. Her country home had offered no answer to her
ambitions, and she had come to the city with the most dangerous
equipment a young woman can carry--an attractive face and an
unsophisticated confidence in the goodness of humanity. Conward had
been responsible for her position in the office, and Dave had given
little thought to her, except to note that she was a willing worker and
of comely appearance.
Returning to the office one Saturday evening Dave found Miss Wardin
making up a bundle of paper, pencils, and carbon paper. She was
evidently in high spirits, and he smilingly asked if she intended
working at home over Sunday.
"Oh, didn't Mr. Conward tell you?" she answered, as though surprised
that the good news had been kept a secret. "He is going to spend a day
or two at one of the mountain hotels, and I am to go along to do his
correspondence. Isn't it just lovely? I have so wanted to go to the
mountains, but never felt that I could afford it. And now I can
combine business with pleasure."
The smile died out of Dave's eyes, and his face became more set and
stern than she had ever seen it. "Why, what's the matter, Mr. Elden?"
she exclaimed. "Is anything wrong?"
He found it hard to meet her frank, unsuspecting eyes; hard to draw
back the curtains of the world so much that those eyes would never
again be quite so frank and unsuspecting. . . . "Miss Wardin," he
said, "did Conward tell you that?"
"What? About going to the mountains? Of course. He said he was
taking some work with him, and he wondered if I would mind going along
to do it, and he would pay the expenses, and--and----"
There was a quick hard catch in her voice, and she seized Elden's arm
violently. Her eyes were big and round; her pretty face had gone
suddenly white.
"Oh, Mr. Elden, you don't think--you don't think that I--that he--you
wouldn't believe _that_?"
"I think you are absolutely innocent," he said, gravely, "but--it's the
innocent thing that gets caught." Suddenly, even in that tense moment,
his mind leaped over the gulf of years to the night when he had said to
Irene Hardy, "I don't know nothin' about the justice of God. All I
know is the crittur 'at can't run gets caught." It was so of Irene's
pet; it was so of poor, tubercular Merton; it was to be so of pretty
Gladys Wardin----
But the girl had broken into violent tears. "Whatever shall I do--what
can I do?" she moaned. "Oh, why didn't somebody tell me? What _can_ I
do----"
He let her passion run on for a few minutes, and then he sought, as
gently as he could, to win her back to some composure. "Some one _has_
told you," he said,--"in time. You don't have to go. Don't be afraid
of anything Conward may do. _I_ will settle this score with him."
She controlled herself, but when she spoke again her voice had fear and
shame in it. "I--I hate to tell you, Mr. Elden, but I must tell
you--I--I took--I let him give me some money--to buy things--he said
maybe I was short of money, and I would want to buy some new
clothes--and he would pay me extra, in advance--and he gave me fifty
dollars--and--and--_I've spent it_!"
Elden swung on his heel and paced the length of the office in quick,
sharp strides. When he returned to where Miss Wardin stood, wrapped
about in her misery, his fists were clenched and the veins stood out on
the back of his hands. "Scoundrel," he muttered, "scoundrel. And I
have been tied to him. I have let him blind me; I have let him set the
standards; I have let him _weigh the coal_. Well, now I know him."
There was a menace in his last words that frightened even Gladys
Wardin, well though she knew the menace was not to her, but ranged in
her defence.
"Here," he said, taking some bills from his pocket. "You must tell him
you can't go--tell him you _won't_ go; you must return his money; I
will lend you what you need. Don't be afraid; I will go with you----"
"But I can't take _your_ money, either, Mr. Elden," she protested. "I
can't stay here any longer; I will have no job, and I can't pay you
back. You see I can't take it even from you. What a fool I was! For
a few clothes----"
"You will continue to work--for me," he said.
She shook her head. "No. I can't. I can't work anywhere near him."
"You won't need to. The firm of Conward & Elden will be dissolved at
once. I have always felt that there was something false in
Conward--something that wouldn't stand test. I thought it was in his
business life; and yet that didn't quite seem to give the answer. Now
I know."
There was the sound of a key in the street door, and Conward entered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Conward paused as he entered the room. He had evidently not expected
to find Elden there, but after a moment of hesitation he nodded
cordially to his partner.
"Almost ready, Miss Wardin?" he asked, cheerily. "Our train goes
in----" He took his watch from his pocket and consulted it.
Dave's eyes were fixed on the girl. He wondered whether, in this
testing moment, she would fight for herself or lean weakly on him as
her protector. Her answer reassured him.
"It makes no difference when it goes, Mr. Conward. I'm not going on
it." Her voice trembled nervously, but there was no weakness in it.
The money which Dave had given her was still crumpled in her hand. She
advanced to where Conward stood vaguely trying to sense the situation,
and held the bills before him. "Here is your money, Mr. Conward," she
said.
"Why, what does this mean?"
"Here is your money. Will you take it please?"
"No, I won't take it, until you explain----"
She opened her fingers, and the bills fell to the floor. "All right,"
she said.
Conward's eyes had shifted to Dave. "You are at the bottom of this,
Elden," he said. "What does it mean?"
"It means, Conward," Dave answered, and there was steel in his
voice--"it means that after all these years I have discovered what a
cur you are--just in time to baulk you, at least in this instance."
Conward flushed, but he maintained an attitude of composure. "You've
been drinking, Dave," he said. "I meant no harm to Miss Wardin."
"Don't make me call you a liar as well as a cur."
The word cut through Conward's mask of composure. "Now by God I won't
take that from any man," he shouted, and with a swing of his arms threw
his coat over his shoulders. Dave made no motion, and Conward slowly
brought his coat back to position.
"I was right," said Dave, calmly. "I knew you wouldn't fight. You
think more of your skin than you do of your honour. Well--it's better
worth protection."
"If this girl were not here," Conward protested. "I will not fight----"
"Oh, I will leave," said Miss Wardin, with alacrity. "And I hope he
soaks you well," she shot back, as the door closed behind her. But by
this time Conward had assumed a superior attitude. "Dave," he said, "I
won't fight over a quarrel of this kind. But remember, there are some
things in which no man allows another to interfere. Least of all such
a man as you. There are ways of getting back, and I'll get back."
"Why such a man as me? I know I haven't been much of a moralist in
business matters--I've been in the wrong company for that--but I draw
the line----"
"Oh, you're fine stuff, all right. What would your friend Miss Hardy
think if I told her all I know?"
"You know nothing that could affect Miss Hardy's opinion----"
"No?"
"No, you don't. You're not bluffing a tenderfoot now. I call you. If
you've any cards--play them."
"It's too bad your memory is so poor," Conward sneered. "Why were your
lights off that night I passed your car? Oh, I guess you remember.
What will Miss Hardy think of that?"
For a moment Dave was unable to follow Conward's thought. Then his
mind reached back to that night he drove into the country with Bert
Morrison, when on the brow of a hill he switched off his lights that
they might the better admire the majesty of the heavens. That Conward
should place an evil interpretation upon that incident was a thing so
monstrous, so altogether beyond argument, that Dave fell back upon the
basic human method reserved for such occasions. His fist leapt
forward, and Conward crumpled up before it.
Conward lay stunned for a few minutes; then with returning
consciousness, he tried to sit up. Dave helped him to a chair. Blood
flowed down his face, and, as he began to realize what had occurred, it
was joined with tears of pain, rage, humiliation.
"You got that one on me, Elden," he said, after awhile. "But it was a
coward's blow. You hit me when I wasn't looking. Very well. Two can
play at that game. I'll hit you when you're not looking . . . where
you don't expect it . . . where you can't hit back. You interfere with
me--you strike me--you that I took out of a thirty-dollar-a-week job
and made you all you are. I did it, Dave; gave you the money to start
with, coached you all the way. And you hit me . . . when I wasn't
looking." He spoke disjointedly; his throat was choked with
mortification and self-pity. "Very well. I know the stake you're
playing for. And--I'm going to spoil it."