sharply. He had never seen just this look in her face; no, nor
anything approaching that look. There was an answer, but Bill shut his
mind against it. And then, as if a devil had prompted the words, Doris
turned and spoke a sentence which Bill recognized.
"I was always scared to dream I'd ever actually be here," she said,
and her voice was hushed. "Oh, Bill-dear, I'm so happy my heart just
_aches_!"
"Are you, honey?" Bill bit his lips and hid something away where even
his own heart must never find it. She had elaborated on his broken
speech there at Parowan Number One, but Bill set that down to a more
versatile vocabulary. He too had been so happy his heart had ached;
but he had not been able to find those words to say.
Desert tan and mail-order trousseau hurt her pride terribly. She
insisted upon a quiet hotel until the defects could be remedied but
Bill only laughed at her vanity. He could call it that now, though he
loved the trait,--since he could gratify it.
"When you've got a million dollars in your fist nobody's going to mind
if you walk into the Palace in a gingham dish apron," he told her
shrewdly. "And besides, if you had everything you think you need,
you'd lose the fun of buying." He paused, glancing from the window of
the taxi,--there were not so many, in those days. "What do you like
best, little lady, diamonds, pearls or rubies?"
"All of them," Doris stated solemnly.
They laughed together, and Doris squeezed Bill's arm and said she was
happy.
Mrs. William Gordon Dale proved herself a capable young woman who
could adapt herself quickly to changed circumstances and surroundings.
Once she discovered that desert tan can scarcely be distinguished from
the carefully cultivated tan of ocean beaches, her self-consciousness
melted into calm assurance. Likewise merged the mail-order trousseau
into the almost-latest fashion of gowns, hats, cloaks, of a restrained
elegance and a clever adaptation to that indefinable thing she called
her "style" and clung to with firmness in the face of gorgeous
temptations.
Wherefore, she arrived in Santa Barbara (Bill accompanying her, of
course) with only five trunks and the sophisticated air of a girl who
was born to luxury.
"You sure don't look as if you've ever had your hands in dough," was
Bill's way of putting it. "I never noticed your hands so much before.
I always loved them, but now I keep looking at them for their beauty."
"There are arts and wiles, Bill-dear, that make a heap of difference.
It just takes time and money--and I have loads of both. Weren't those
people lovely, that we met on the beach?"
"Baker Cole and his wife? Yes, he struck me just about right. Human
cuss, that you can slip an improper remark to without wishing you had
kept your darn mouth shut and concealed your ignorance. I'm sick of
being made to think that desert words put me in the natural-curiosity
class. Darn 'em, I've had more education than half the Johnnies that
give me the tolerant look. There are men in this hotel with more
money than I've got, that say, 'They told he and I----' and never turn
a hair. But if I forget to stand up when a woman comes within rifle
shot, they look as if I had insulted their wives. Lord, little lady,
I've lived too long where there weren't any women! A fellow gets out
of practice."
Doris came over and rumpled his hair with her meticulously manicured
fingers that had won his astonished admiration.
"You know, Bill-dear, there's another thing you forget. You must take
soup from the _side_ of the spoon; and peas, dear man, are eaten with
a fork--out here."
"I know it--but darn it, I like the juice. If I ain't wealthy enough
to take mine with a spoon, I'll get out and rake in more money. Funny,
isn't it, Doris? In the desert I felt myself a Beau Brummel--as I
understand that term--amongst the miners and prospectors I came in
contact with. I was as good as anybody--better than some. Out here,
they make me feel like a cave man with his first clothes on."
"I'm sure your manners are very good, Bill-dear," Doris comforted him
absently. "Just a few little points to remember--things one never
encounters in the desert. If you watch the others --at table, you
know--and do as they do about which fork----"
"Not on your life!" (After six weeks of hotel honeymoon and their
clothes inextricably mixed in the dresser drawers, and Bill constantly
on the alert lest he hurt Doris' feelings, he could argue with his
divinity quite as if she were human.) "I'm not going to make a monkey
of myself, copying the fellow who sits across the table. I'll do
what's comfortable for me and the rest of the bunch, and let it go at
that. I don't aspire to be any lady's man, Doris, nor any society
bird. Men like Baker Cole don't grin behind their hands if you go
first into the dining room and let your wife follow. I know--I saw you
blush for shame last night, honey. But your old Bill wants to break
trail for you all his life. It's second nature for me to go first and
see what's ahead of us, and put it out of your way if it's dangerous."
Doris laughed at him, showing the dimple in her left cheek,--with a
faint film of powder distinguishable there nowadays.
"You dear old silly, just take this view of the matter, and it'll help
you remember the rules, maybe: I might be kidnaped behind your back,
and you wouldn't know it, stalking ahead of me the way you do. You're
supposed to shoo a lady gently before you down the aisle, and see
that handsome villains don't cut in behind you." Her hand slipped
down and patted his lean, freshly shaven jaw.
"Dear man, is the money holding out?" she asked suddenly, coming at
last to the thing that was foremost in her mind.
Bill let his head drop back against the cushioned chair and laughed at
her, his eyes half-closed and feasting on her face.
"You never wanted to ask that question as long as you lived," he
reminded her teasingly.
"I know, dear. I don't mean that I think we're running short. I can't
begin to spend my share that John sends me. But you know, dear, we're
needing more and more, as we get the hang of it. We keep finding out
about things rich people have and do, that I'm sure I never dreamed
of, in the desert. Most of them have things that date back to their
fathers and grandfathers, and we naturally have to spend a lot, just
bringing ourselves up to date. For instance, Mrs. Baker Cole is
thinking about a new automobile and wondering what kind she had better
have. And Bill-dear--_we_ haven't even had our first, yet!"
"Lord, what a world!" chuckled Bill. "And you're wondering if we can
have one. Honey, you wait and see what kind of an automobile Mrs.
Baker Cole buys, and then you buy two just like it. Or else you find
one that costs just twice as much as hers."
"Don't tease so, Bill. But really, I _do_ want one. And I--miss Little
Dorrit, sort of. There are beautiful trails here, winding around
through trees, and I've noticed that the really nicest people ride
every morning. I've wished, when I saw them starting out or coming
back, that I could go, too."
"Do you want Little Dorrit, honey?" Bill lifted the necklace of
Parowan gold spun into the finest of twisted threads and set with
emeralds that made her skin look whiter. Bill had stood over the
jeweler while that necklace was being made, and the result was a happy
one.
"Oh, no--Little Dorrit hasn't got the style. I was wondering if we
couldn't buy a couple of saddle horses. I'm crazy about Mrs.
Burlingame's riding habit, Bill--and I've got one planned that would
beat it. And I know the tailor who made hers. And Bill, couldn't
we--no, I don't want to take a house, either. Not yet. I don't know
enough of the nicest people, and couldn't entertain. I'd rather just
stay here for awhile longer. Wouldn't you?"
Bill secretly loathed hotel life, and his heart had given a great
thump when she almost wanted a house like the Burlingame's. But he did
not mention either his loathing or his desire. Why should he? His
business was to keep Doris happy, to gratify every passing whim,
except when the whim changed before gratification was humanly
possible.
They went together next day and chose an automobile, and hired a
chauffeur warranted to give satisfaction and promised a speedy demise
if ever he forgot to drive cautiously when his mistress was in the
car.
In the new automobile they drove out to a famous horsebreeder's place,
and bought two saddle horses, and Doris ordered her riding habit and
was deliciously happy for several hours. Then she awoke to the fact
that it was a sheer waste of money, time and energy to have no maid to
look after her clothes and do her hair and fetch and carry. Besides,
Bill was getting acquainted with men and wanted to go here and there,
looking up what he called "propositions," and Doris felt that it would
look much better, and give her more real freedom, if she had a maid to
accompany her on drives and at the beach----
"And then I wouldn't have to keep an eye on my parasol and purse and
book and bathrobe, and everything, Bill-dear," she detailed,
unconsciously justifying what she instinctively felt would not meet
with Bill's approval. "My maid would look after everything while I
was in the surf. That would be her business." She was talking to
Bill's back, which made her uncomfortable. She wished he would not
stand staring out of the window, like that, while she talked things
over with him. It was getting to be a regular habit. She always liked
to see a person's face when she talked.
"You don't mind, do you, Bill--if I have a maid? All the nicest----"
"Anything your little heart desires!" Bill said, turning abruptly and
smiling steadfastly down at her where she was sitting on the floor, on
a purple silk cushion, trying on a pair of satin slippers that didn't
seem to want to go on at the heel. He watched her, his eyes studying
her flushed face and tousled hair.
"I reckon you do need help," he said, a dryness in his tone of which
he was not quite aware, and which Doris missed altogether in her
absorption. "If you had somebody to do all the things you spend your
time on, maybe we could enjoy life--better," he added hastily. "We
could be together more, couldn't we?"
"Together more?" Doris looked up, the silver shoehorn poised in her
hand. "Good gracious! Aren't we together every single minute, almost?
Bill, see if you can get this pesky slipper on; the other one's all
right; they're half a size too small, but they're the only pair that
just matches that new lace gown." (Doris had already learned to say
gown and frock, and to avoid the word dress except as a verb.)
Bill knelt and lifted the foot, thrilling again at the touch of her
slim ankle.
"Do you remember the night you came to camp, all wet and cold,
and--you let me unlace your boots?" He smiled wistfully into her eyes.
"I was all a-tremble, honey--I had to keep my lip between my teeth,
and bite down hard to steady me. I was so happy----"
"What about? The privilege of handling wet boot laces?" Doris leaned
and tried to push her toes farther into the slipper.
"They were _your_ boot laces." Bill's soul withdrew from her
matter-of-factness, much as Sister Mitchell used to draw into her
shell at the first blast on the saxophone.
"I wonder if the housekeeper won't have something to stretch this
slipper on," said Doris. "Can you find out, dear? I simply _must_ make
them do for to-night, or I can't wear that gown."
"Why can't you wear something else, then, and be comfortable?" Bill
set her foot on the floor and got up. "You'd better take these back
and change them."
"I can't," Doris said shortly. "I've ordered our table decorated to
harmonize with this particular outfit. You don't understand,
Bill-dear. Men get the effect, all right, and call a woman beautiful
or ugly or just so-so, and never dream that it's because the details
have been thought out, or haven't. I've noticed things. I know exactly
how women get that carelessly beautiful effect. It doesn't just happen
so, dear man. They spend _hours_, just thinking up the careless
touches.
"Now, just to show you," she expanded graciously for Bill's education,
"I have fallen into the habit of telling the head waiter that I'd like
certain flowers, or whatever it is I choose, on our table for dinner.
Then I dress accordingly. Nobody knows it's planned, but I'll bet you,
dear, they get the effect just the same. The stupid ones pile it all
on their persons and merely look new-rich. You've never seen _me_ look
new-rich, have you, Bill?"
"Not on your life." Bill was startled into a fresh appraisal of his
bride. Heretofore he had looked on, amused at her plunge into the
pleasures of fashionable hotel life. Now it struck him suddenly that
the slim, competent desert girl who could break a horse to the saddle
or rope and brand a calf, bake pies and bread to make a chef envious,
was bringing that clever brain into action in a field entirely new to
her, and was demonstrating the same clever competence which had
distinguished her on the ranch.
With a new respect for her intelligence he saw to the detail of having
the slipper stretched. Afterward he observed that Doris had really
achieved a small triumph of harmonious beauty. The table decoration
did add something indefinable to her own sweet self; something which
caused the eyes of others to turn their way in unconscious tribute to
her beauty, as one looks and looks again at any other charming
picture. As a votary of wealth and fashion Mrs. William Gordon Dale
was beyond criticism, destined to become a high priestess of the art
of effective extravagance.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BAKER COLE
Baker Cole was a man who did his own thinking and was willing that the
other fellow should do the same; indeed, he was tolerantly disdainful
when the other fellow failed to do the same. He was so rich that he
did not think much about money, or judge a man by his Bradstreet
rating. Money flowed toward Baker Cole apparently of its own volition.
He had started life with a fortune for his birthright, and he had gone
on his way with a humorous philosophy which armored him against
flattery, abuse or the deliberate attacks of other men whose fortunes
equalled his but who were not content with another man's well-being.
Baker Cole's interest was first attracted to Bill's straight
suppleness in the surf, and by the fact that, brown though he was to
shoulders and chest, Bill was just learning to swim. Because of this
incongruity, Baker Cole was given the opportunity of grabbing Bill by
the hair and saving him from a vicious undertow. He wondered a bit,
until he discovered that a man working in a sleeveless, low-necked
undershirt under a desert sun may have the mark of a beach lounger
burned into his skin.
"That accounts for your legs not being tanned." Baker Cole hauled
himself out of the surf like a big, good-looking seal, and lay puffing
and looking Bill over. "Wish I had muscles like yours," he remarked,
crooking his finger toward a young man who immediately hurried up with
cigarettes and matches. Bill accepted a smoke, and the two began to
talk.
An hour later, they went toeing deep in the fine, loose sand to where
a huge, striped umbrella hid all but a shapely, canvas-shod foot. Bill
helped Doris to her feet and introduced Baker Cole, who appraised her
shrewdly with one glance and decided that his wife would like her.
That began the acquaintance. In a week, the Baker Coles and the
William Gordon Dales (Doris had quietly insisted upon full names from
the first hotel register,--and had put it over with complete success)
were pairing off together quite naturally and without deliberate
intent; which is the test of congeniality the world over.
From a surreptitiously acquired paid teacher, Doris had learned
bridge. She succeeded in teaching Bill, chiefly because he couldn't
bear to disappoint her and because it gave him an opportunity to
watch her hands without betraying a fatuous admiration. He had learned
that Doris considered open love-making bad form, and was acquiring a
more restrained manner of worship in accordance with her expressed
wish. Wherefore, Bill willingly learned bridge after hours in their
rooms, when he was dead tired, and watched unobtrusively for some sign
of weariness in the sweet face opposite him. The reward for that was a
more complete intimacy between the Baker Coles and the William Gordon
Dales.
Bill could not remember afterwards just when or how Doris first found
her pleasures apart from him. He saw that "nice" women were becoming
her friends, and of course there were little parties and purely
feminine gatherings to which Doris went with avid enjoyment. She would
sit and tell Bill all about them afterwards, and Bill would listen
bewilderingly to detailed descriptions of gowns and refreshments and
scores and prizes, and to gossip not quite so harmless.
Sometimes his thoughts would wander to certain experiences of his
own,--innocent experiences, though he did not tell her about them
always. Baker Cole was at present amused with the spectacle of money
flowing out of crude oil pumped from the ground. It amazed even him
to see how fast the oil could turn into money. He called Bill's
attention to the phenomenon, and Bill was immediately interested, and
for reasons which he kept to himself.
Through Baker Cole's shrewd acquaintance with the game of directing
and augmenting the flow of money, Bill turned tiny trickles toward his
own bank account, and was amazed at the speed with which they became
swift-moving streams.
"Lord, I thought Parowan was a miracle I'd never see repeated," he
confided one day to Baker Cole. "Money commenced piling up before we
started to move the gold. We laid out a town site, and people came in
droves to buy lots and start building. It used to give me a chill at
the chances they were taking. What if there wasn't a real mine there?
Where would the town get off? Baker, if those men had lost on the
gamble, who'd be responsible--me?"
Baker Cole rolled a fragrant cigar between his lips and regarded Bill
meditatively through half-closed eyes.
"Depends on what or who induced them to speculate," he said bluntly.
"How did you work it, Bill?"
Bill shook his head and looked away to where breakers were beating
white foam against a segment of cliffs.
"Hell, I dunno," he confessed helplessly. "I found the mine. Then some
government men came along and advised me to incorporate and to lay out
a town site. I got them to resign their positions and take hold of it.
We laid out the town site, and took some gold up to Goldfield and
showed it, and that started the parade. Folks tromped each other's
feet to get in."
"What did you do then? Sell out?" Perhaps Baker Cole knew, since he
was an exceedingly well-informed man. But he waited for Bill to tell
him.
"No, I'm president of the company. They fixed things so I wouldn't
have to be on the ground, and we came out here to play around awhile."
Bill started to explain that he had not wanted to leave, but shut his
teeth upon the words. That would be unfair to Doris.
"How are things going, with you out here? Got any idea?"
Bill grinned, with a worried look back of his eyes.
"Two railroads are busting a lung trying to see which one will whistle
first at the depot," he detailed laconically. "I guess that tells the
tale, doesn't it?"
"Several." Baker Cole took out his cigar and looked it over carefully
before he put it back in his mouth.
"The money keeps coming in," Bill went on. "Everything's fine. We're
building a mill and that employs a good many men. A lot of companies
have sprung up, claiming to have discovered gold--which I guess they
have. The _Parowan Record_ comes out every Saturday, and there's a
bank and hotel--you know. It's a _town_. I feel like a loafer," he
admitted ruefully. "But the boys are doing all I could do, I guess.
They say everything is running smooth, and the town's a dandy--for a
boom town. Soon as the railroads get there, so as to haul material
faster, there'll be some fine buildings go up. Contracts are let and
all."
He sighed and looked around at Baker Cole, seeking understanding.
"Parowan kind of rides my neck," he said simply. "It's all right--our
mine is rich enough to hold it up till other mines get to
producing--but I can't help feeling responsible for it, just the same.
I feel as if I ought to be on the job myself."
"The wife likes it here," Baker Cole stated calmly.
"Yes. She hates the desert. I wouldn't take her back there into that
raw mining town--I wouldn't think of such a thing."
Baker Cole finished his cigar. Very deliberately he put out his hand,
drew the ash tray closer and laid the cigar butt exactly in the middle
of the tray, moving it twice, fractions of an inch to the center.
Bill, his eyes fixed upon him, knew that Baker Cole was not conscious
of tray, cigar, or mathematical measurements.
"Bill, I've made money all my life," he said, drawing a long breath as
if an important matter had been successfully accomplished. "As far as
it's possible to make money honestly, I've made it. Silver in Mexico,
copper in Michigan and Montana and Colorado, crude petroleum here in
California; I've taken more millions from the ground, Bill, than you'd
dare believe if I told you. Had half a million when I was born. Then I
was taught how to take care of what I had--and I learned how to make
more.
"This Parowan of yours, now, would be something in my line; only, I'd
want to take it in the start and handle it myself. I wouldn't invest a
dime in the other fellow's game--not if he were my own brother. I'm
not afraid of losing money--I _can't_ lose money, seems like. It's the
game. I see a chance to get something out of the ground that the world
has use for, and I go after it like a dog after a ground squirrel.
Money piles up when I've got it--but I've had the fun of the getting.
And of course the money helps to play again. Dollars, you know, are
mostly what you dig with. Dollars are the master tool of industry--and
I don't see why the working men howl so about the man that can furnish
that master tool. You take Parowan, now. Leaving out the gamblers that
are risking their money, you've helped many a poor man to a job at top
wages. Ain't that so?"
"I reckon it is," Bill assented perfunctorily. "There's always big
wages where there's a boom, and many a man got his start that way. But
you've hit the spot that hurts. It's the fun of doing things that I
want. The money's coming in fast enough for all we want, but I'm a
loafer for the first time in my life, Baker. My Lord! Think of a grown
man putting in day after day just taking a horseback ride in the
morning and a swim in the afternoon; and calling that exercise!
"When I was prospecting, Baker, I put in my time from dawn to dusk,
hiking over the hills or swinging a pick. I ate because I was hungry.
Now, by gosh, folks don't get hungry--they don't give themselves a
chance. They eat because somebody's paid a big price to make grub
taste good! This is a mighty pretty place to play around in,
Baker--but I can't make a business of doing nothing." He made himself
a cigarette--rolling his own whenever he was not under Doris' watchful
eye--and lighted it absently. "Doris likes this sort of thing," he
added pensively. "It's all right for women--but I'll be damned if it's
any kinda life for a man!"
Baker Cole chuckled somewhere down in his chest and laid an impressive
forefinger on Bill's arm.
"You come on and play with _me_, in my game," he invited. "I can't
promise you won't make money at it--but you'll have fun."
"I bet I would, at that," said Bill. "But my wife doesn't want me to
get into business. She wants me to run along and play." It was the
nearest that Bill had ever come to uttering a complaint. He did not
realize that it was even distantly related to a protest against the
future which Doris had mapped out for them.
But as he spoke, he saw a swift, mental panorama of cities and shops
and long, pillared, hotel corridors and suites furnished in velvet
upholstery. He felt his feet sinking into the sickish softness of
deep-piled carpets, and boys with bright buttons and little caps and
silver trays dogging him with the prematurely calculating smirk. He
saw long, shaded avenues down which he was carried swiftly on
cushions,--always cushions and carpets and a smothery, scented
atmosphere that sometimes nauseated him with its cloying sweetness.