THE IDES OF MARCH
In order to prepare for the defense, Miles Feversham, accompanied by his
wife, arrived in Seattle the first week in March. The month had opened
stormy, with heavy rains, and to bridge the interval preceding the trial,
Marcia planned an outing at Scenic Hot Springs where, at the higher
altitude, the precipitation had taken the form of snow, and the hotel
advertised good skeeing and tobogganing. "Make the most of it," she
admonished Frederic; "it's your last opportunity. If Lucky Banks forfeits
his bonus, and you can manage to keep your head and use a little
diplomacy, we may have the engagement announced before the case comes up."
Though diplomacy was possible only through suggestion, Frederic was a
willing and confident medium. He knew Mrs. Weatherbee had notified Banks
she was at Scenic and, watching her that day of the fifteenth, he was at
first puzzled and then encouraged that, as the hours passed and the
prospector failed to come, her spirits steadily rose.
Elizabeth betrayed more anxiety. At evening she stood at the window in
Beatriz's room, watching the bold front of the mountain which the Great
Northern tracks crosscut to Cascade tunnel, when the Spokane local rounded
the highest curve and dropped cautiously to the first snow-sheds. The
bluffs between were too sheer to accumulate snow, and against the dark
background the vague outlines of the cars passed like shadows; the
electric lights, blazing from the coaches, produced the effect of an
aërial, fiery dragon. Then, in the interval it disappeared, an eastbound
challenged from the lower gorge, and the monster rushed from cover,
shrieking defiance; the pawing clamp of its trucks roused the
mountainside. "There is your last westbound," she said. "If your option
man isn't aboard, he forfeits his bonus. But you will be ahead the three
thousand dollars and whatever improvements he may have made."
Mrs. Weatherbee stood at the mirror fastening a great bunch of violets at
her belt. There was a bouquet of them on the dresser, and a huge bowl
filled with them and relieved by a single red rose stood on the table in
the center of the room. "That is what troubles me," she replied, and
ruffled her brows. "It seems so unjust that he should lose so much; that I
should accept everything without compensating him."
Elizabeth smiled. "I guess he meant to get what he could out of the
investment, but afterwards, when he married and found his wife owned the
adjoining unreclaimed tract, it altered the situation. It called for
double capital and, if he hesitated and it came to a choice, naturally her
interests would swing the balance."
"No doubt," admitted Beatriz. "And in that case,"--she turned from the
mirror to watch the train--"I might deed her a strip of ground where it
was discovered her tract overlapped David's. That would be a beginning."
"See here." Elizabeth turned, and for an instant the motherhood deep in
her softened the masculine lines of her face. "Don't you worry about Lucky
Banks. Perhaps he did go into the project to satisfy his conscience, but
the deal was his, and he had the money to throw away. Some men get their
fun making over the earth. When one place is finished, they lose interest
and go looking for a chance to put their time and dollars into improving
somewhere else. Besides,"--and she took this other woman into her abrupt
and rare embrace--"I happen to know he had an offer for his option and
refused a good price. Now, come, Marcia and Frederic have gone down to the
dining-room, you know. They were to order for us."
But Beatriz was in no hurry. "The train is on the bridge," she said and
caught a quick breath. "Do you hear? It is stopping at the station."
Elizabeth, waiting at the open door, answered: "We can see the new
arrivals, if there are any, when we go through the lobby."
Mrs. Weatherbee started across the room, but at the table she stopped to
bend over the bowl of violets, inhaling their fragrance. "Aren't they
lovely and--prodigal enough to color whole fields?"
Elizabeth laughed. "Frederic must have ordered wholesale, or else he
forgot they were in season."
Beatriz lifted her face. "Did Mr. Morganstein send these violets?" she
asked. "I thought--but there was no card."
"Why, I don't know," said Elizabeth, "but who else would have ordered
whole fields of them?"
Mrs. Weatherbee was silent, but she smiled a little as she followed
Elizabeth from the room. When they reached the foot of the staircase, the
lobby was nearly deserted; if the train had left any guests, they had been
shown already to their rooms.
The Morganstein table was at the farther end of the dining-room, but
Frederic, who was watching the door when the young women entered, at once
noticed the violets at Mrs. Weatherbee's belt.
"Must have been sent from Seattle on that last eastbound," he commented,
frowning. "Say, Marcia, why didn't you remind me to order some flowers
from town?"
Marcia's calculating eyes followed his gaze. "You would not have
remembered she is fond of violets, and they seem specially made for her;
you would have ordered unusual orchids or imported azaleas."
Frederic laughed uneasily, and a purplish flush deepened in his cheeks. "I
always figure the best is never too good for her. Not that the highest
priced makes so much difference with her. Look at her, now, will you?
Wouldn't you think, the way she carries herself, that little gray gown was
a coronation robe? George, but she is game! Acts like she expects Lucky
Banks to drop in with a clear fifty thousand, when the chances are he's
gone back on his ten. Well," he said, rising as she approached, to draw
out her chair, "what do you think about your customer now? Too bad. I bet
you've spent his Alaska dust in anticipation a hundred times over. Don't
deny it," he held up his heavy hand in playful warning as he resumed his
chair. "Speculated some myself on what you'd do with it. George, I'd like
to see the reins in your hands for once, and watch you go. You'd set us a
pace; break all records."
"Oh, no, no," she expostulated in evident distress. "I shouldn't care to--
set the pace--if I were to come into a kingdom; please don't think that. I
have wanted to keep up, I admit; to hold my own. I have been miserably
afraid sometimes of being left behind, alone, crowded out, beaten."
"Beaten? You? I guess not. Bet anybody ten to one you'll be in at the
finish, I don't care who's in the field, even if you drop in your traces
next minute. And I bet if this sale does fall through to-night, you'll be
looking up, high as ever, to-morrow, setting your heart on something else
out of reach."
"Out of reach?" she responded evenly, arching her brows. "You surprise me.
You have led me to believe I am easy to please."
"So you are," he capitulated instantly, "in most ways. All the same, you
carry the ambitions of a duchess buttoned under that gray gown. But I like
you for it; like you so well I'm going to catch myself taking that
property off your hands, if Banks goes back on you."
He leaned towards her as he said this, smiling and trying to hold her
glance, but she turned her face and looked off obliviously across the
room. There were moments when even Frederic Morganstein was conscious of
the indefinable barrier beyond which lay intrenched, an untried and
repelling force. He straightened and, following her gaze, saw Lucky Banks
enter the door.
Involuntarily Elizabeth started, and Mrs. Feversham caught a quick breath.
"At the eleventh hour," she said then, and her eyes met her brother's.
"Yes or no?" they telegraphed.
It was the popular hour, an orchestra was playing, and the tables were
well filled, but the mining man, marshalled by a tall and important head
waitress, drew himself straight and with soldierly precision came down the
room as far as the Morganstein group. There, recognizing Mrs. Weatherbee,
he stopped and, with the maimed hand behind him, made his short, swift
bow. "I guess likely you gave me up," he said in his high key, "but I
waited long's I dared for the through train. She's been snowed under three
days in the Rockies. They had her due at Wenatchee by two-fifteen; then it
was put off to five, and when the local came along, I thought I might as
well take her."
Mrs. Weatherbee, who had started to rise, settled back in her chair with a
smile. "I had given you up, Mr. Banks," she said not quite steadily.
Then Morganstein said: "How do, Banks," and offered his hand. "Just in
time to join us. Ordered saddle of Yakima lamb, first on the market,
dressing of fine herbs, for the crowd. Suits you, doesn't it?"
To which the little prospector responded: "My, yes, first class, but I
don't want to put you out."
"You won't," Frederic chuckled; "couldn't do it if you tried."
But it was Elizabeth who rose to make room for the extra chair on her side
of the table, and who inquired presently after his wife.
"Mrs. Banks is fine," he answered, his bleak face glowing. "My, yes, seems
like she makes a better showing now than she did at the Corners seven
years back."
"Still driving those bays?" asked Frederic.
The mining man nodded with reluctance. "It's no use to try to get her to
let 'em alone long's they are on the place, and I couldn't sneak 'em away;
she was always watching around. She thinks Tisdale will likely sell when
he sees she can manage the team."
"So," laughed Morganstein, "you'll have to come up with that Christmas
present, after all."
"They will do for her birthday," replied Banks gravely. "I picked out a
new ring for Christmas. It was a first-class diamond, and she liked it all
right. She said," and a shade of humor warmed his face, "she would have to
patronize the new manicure store down to Wenatchee, if I expected her to
have hands fit to wear it, and if she had to live up to that ring, it
would cost me something before she was through."
"And did she try the parlors?" asked Elizabeth seriously.
"My, yes, and it was worth the money. Her hands made a mighty fine showing
the first trip, and before she used up her ticket, I was telling her she'd
have to wear mittens when she played the old melodion, or likely her
fingers would get hurt hitting the keys."
Banks laughed his high, strained laugh, and Morganstein echoed it deeply.
"Ought to have an establishment in the new town," he said.
"We are going to," the prospector replied; "as soon as the new brick block
is ready to open up. There's going to be manicure and hair-dressing
parlors back of the millinery store. Lucile, Miss Lucile Purdy of
Sedgewick-Wilson's, is coming over to run 'em both. She can do it, my,
yes."
"Now I can believe you have a self-respecting and wide-awake town,"
commented Mrs. Feversham. "But is the big department store backing Miss
Purdy?"
"No, ma'am. We ain't talking about it much, but Mrs. Banks has put up
money; she says she is the silent partner of the concern."
"Is that so?" questioned Morganstein thoughtfully. "Seems to me you are
banking rather heavy on the new town."
Banks' eyes gleamed appreciation, but the capitalist missed his
inadvertent pun. After a moment, the mining man said: "I guess the
millinery investment won't break us; but there's no question about
Weatherbee's being a live town, and Lucile can sell goods."
"I presume next," said Mrs. Feversham with veiled irony, "we shall be
hearing of you as the first mayor of Weatherbee."
Banks shook his head gravely. "They shouldered that on to Henderson
Bailey."
"I remember," said Frederic. "Man who started the orchard excitement,
wasn't he? Got in on the ground floor and platted some of his land in city
lots. Naturally, he's running for mayor."
"He's it," responded the mining man. "The election came off Tuesday, and
he led his ticket, my, yes, clear out of sight."
"Bet you ran for something, though," responded Morganstein. "Bet they had
you up for treasurer."
Banks laughed. "There was some talk of it--my wife said they were looking
for somebody that could make good if the city money fell short--but most
of the bunch thought my lay was the Board of Control. You see, I got to
looking after things to help Bailey out, while he was busy moving his
apples or maybe his city lots. My, it got so's when Mrs. Banks couldn't
find me down to the city park, watching the men grub out sage-brush for
the new trees, she could count on my being up-stream to the water-works,
or hiking out to the lighting-plant. It's kept me rushed, all right. It
takes time to start a first-class town. It has to be done straight from
bedrock. But now that Annabel's house up Hesperides Vale is built, and the
flumes are in, she thinks likely she can run her ranch, and I think
likely,"--the prospector paused, and his eyes, with their gleam of blue
glacier ice, sought Mrs. Weatherbee's. Hers clouded a little, and she
leaned slightly towards him, waiting with hushed breath--"I think likely,"
he repeated in a higher key, "seeing's the Alameda has to be finished up,
and the fountain got in shape at the park, with the statue about due from
New York, I may as well drop Dave's project and call the deal off."
There was a silence, during which the eyes of every one rested on Beatriz.
She straightened with a great sigh; the color rushed coral-pink to her
face.
"I am--sorry--about your loss, Mr. Banks," she said, then, and her voice
fluctuated softly, "but I shall do my best--I shall make it a point of
honor--to sometime reimburse you." Her glance fell to the violets at her
belt; she singled one from the rest and, inhaling its perfume, held it
lightly to her lips.
"You thoroughbred!" said Frederic thickly.