CHAPTER IX
BERTHA MEETS BEN FORDYCE
For all her impassivity, Bertha was really elated by this invitation,for she liked Congdon, and had a very high opinion of his powers. Sheexperienced no special dread of the dinner, for it appeared to her atthe moment to be a simple sitting down to eat with some friendly people.She was not in awe of Mrs. Congdon, however much she might admire herhusband's skill, and she knew their home. It was a small house on a sidestreet, and did not compare for a moment with her own establishment, inwhich she had begun to take a settled pride.
As they rode away she was mentally casting up in her mind a choice ofclothes, when Haney remarked: "Bertie, I don't believe I'll go to thatdinner."
"Why not?"
"Well, I'm not as handy with a cold deck as I used to be, and I don'tthink I ought to put me lame foot into another man's lap."
"You're all right, Captain, and, besides, I'll be close by to help outin case you run up against a hard knock in the steak. Course you'llgo--I want you to get out and see the people. Why, you haven't taken ameal out of the house since we moved, except that one at the Casino. Youneed more doin'."
Haney was in a dejected mood. "So do you. I'm a heavy handicap to you,Bertie, sure I am. As I see ye settin' there bloomin' as a rose and feelme own age a-creepin' on me, I know I should be takin' me _conge_ out ofself-respect--just to give you open road."
"Stop that!" she warningly cried. "Hello, there's Ed! He seems in arush. Wonder what's eating him?"
Winchell, dressed in a new suit of clothes, darted from the sidewalk tothe carriage, his face shining. "Say, folks, I'm called East. Old mandied yesterday, and I've got to go home." He was breathing hard withexcitement.
"Get in and tell us about it," commanded Bertha.
He climbed up beside the driver, and turned on his seat to continue."Yes, I've got to go; and, say, the old man was well off. I don't do nomore barberin', I tell you that. I'm goin' to study law. I'm comin' backhere just as soon as things are settled up. I've been talking with afellow here--Lawyer Hansall; he says he'll take me in and give me achance. No more barberin' for me, you hear me!"
"'Tis a poor business, but a necessary," remarked Haney.
Bertha was sympathetic. "I'm glad you're goin' to get a raise. Ofcourse, I'm sorry about your father."
"I understand--so am I. But he's gone, and it's up to me to think ofmyself. I know you always despised my trade."
"No, I didn't. Men have to be shaved and clipped. It's likedish-washin', somebody has to do it. We can't all sit in the parlor."
Winchell acknowledged the force of this. "Well, I always felt sneakin'about it, I'll admit, but that was because I was raised a farmer, andbarbers were always cheap skates with us. We didn't use 'em much, infact. Well, it's all up now, and when I come back I want you to forget Iever cut hair. A third of the old farm is mine, and that will pay myboard while I study."
Neither Haney nor his young wife was surprised by this movement on hispart any more than he was surprised at their rise to wealth and luxury;both were in accordance with the American tradition. But as they rodedown the street certain scornful Easterners (schooled in Europeanconventions) smiled to see the wife of an Irish millionaire gambler inearnest conversation with a barber.
Mrs. Crego, driving down-town with Mrs. Congdon, stared in astonishment,then turned to Lee. "And you ask me to meet such a woman at dinner!" sheexclaimed, and her tone expressed a kind of bewilderment.
Lee laughed. "You can't fail me now. Don't be hasty. Trust in Frank."
"I'd hate to have my dinner partners selected by Frank Congdon. I drawthe line at barbers."
"You're a snob, Helen. If you were really as narrow as you sound I'd cutyou dead! Furthermore, the barber isn't invited."
"I can't understand such people."
"I can. She don't know any better. You impute a low motive where thereis nothing worse than ignorance. As Frank says, the girl is a perfectlynatural outgrowth of a little town. I hope our dinner won't spoil her."
Mrs. Congdon had put the dinner-hour early, and when the Haneys drove upin their glittering new carriage, drawn by two splendid black horses,she too had a moment of bewilderment, but her sense of humor prevailed."Frank," she said, "you can't patronize a turnout like that--not in mypresence."
"To-night art's name is mud," he replied, with conviction, and hasteneddown the steps to help Haney up.
The gambler waved his proffered arm aside. "I'm not so bad as all that,"said he. "I let me little Corporal help me--sometimes for love of it,not because I nade it."
He was still gaunt and pale, but his eyes were of unconquerable fire,and the lift of his head from the shoulders was still leopard-like. Hewas dressed in a black frock-coat, with a cream-colored vest and graytrousers, and looked very well indeed--quite irreproachable.
Bertha was clad in black also--a close-fitting, high-necked gown whichmade her fair skin shine like fire-flushed ivory, and her big seriouseyes and vivid lips completed the charm of her singular beauty. Herbosom had lost some of its girlish flatness, but the lines of her hipsand thighs still resembled those of a boy, and the pose of her head waslike that of an athlete.
"Won't you come in and take off your hat?" asked Mrs. Congdon. And shefollowed without reply, leaving the two men on the porch.
Without appearing to do so she saw everything in the house, which washardly more than an artistic camp, so far as the first floor wasconcerned. Navajo rugs were on the floor, Moqui plaques starred thewalls, and Acoma ollas perched upon book-shelves of thick plank. Thechairs were rude, rough, and bolted at the joints. The room made apleasant impression on Bertha, though she could not have told why. Theceiling was dark, the walls green, the woodwork stained pine, and yet ithad charm.
Mrs. Congdon explained meanwhile that Frank had made the bigcentre-table of plank, and the book-shelves as well. "He likes to tinkerat such things," she said. "Whenever he gets blue or cross I set him toshifting the dresser or making a book-shelf, and he cheers up like mad.He's a regular kid anyway--always doing the things he ought not to do."
In this way she tried to put her guest at her ease, while Bertha satlooking at her in an absent-minded way, apparently neither frightenednor embarrassed--on the contrary, she seemed to be thinking of somethingelse. At last, to force a reply, Mrs. Congdon asked: "How do you like myhusband's portrait of Mr. Haney?"
"I don't know," she slowly replied. "It looks like him, and then againit don't. I guess I'm not up to hand paintin's. Enlarged photographs areabout my size."
"You're disappointed, then?"
"Well, yes, I don't know but I am. I didn't think it was going to lookjust that way. Mr. Congdon says blue shadows are under anybody's ears inthe light, but I can't see 'em on the Captain, and I do see 'em in thepicture; that's what gets me twisted. When I look at the picture I can'tsee nothin' else."
Her hostess laughed. "I know just how you feel, but that's the insolenceof the painter--he puts on canvas what _he_ sees, not what his patronsees. The more money you pay for a portrait the more insolent theartist."
At this moment Mrs. Crego came in, and (as she said afterwards) waspresented to the gambler's wife "as though I were a nobody and she avisiting countess." Bertha rose, offered her hand, like a boy, insilence; she stood very straight, with very cold and unmistakablysuspicious face. And Alice Heath, who entered with Mrs. Crego, sharedthis chill reception.
Bertha, in truth, instantly and cordially hated Mrs. Crego; but shepitied the younger woman, in whom she detected another fugitive fightinga losing battle with disease. Miss Heath was very fair and very frail,with burning deep-blue eyes and a lovely mouth. She greeted Bertha withsuch sincere pleasure that the girl inclined to her instantly, and theywent out on the porch together. Alice put her hand on Bertha's arm,saying: "I've wanted to meet you, Mr. Congdon has told us so much ofyou. Your life seems very romantic to me."
The men all rose to meet Mrs. Congdon, and before Bertha had time torecover from the effect of the girl's wo
rds she found herself confrontedby Ben Fordyce, who looked like a college boy, athletic and smiling. Hewas tall and broad-chested, with a round blond face and yellow hair. Hismanner was frank, and his voice deep. His hand, broad and strong, washardened by the tennis-racket and calloused by the golf-stick, andsomehow its leathery clasp pleased the girl. The roughness of his palmmade him less alien than either Congdon or Crego.
They went out to dinner immediately, and as she walked beside Mart shefelt the young athlete's eyes resting upon her face, and the knowledgeof this troubled her unaccountably. Mrs. Congdon seated him opposite herat the table, and he continued to stare at her with the frankestcuriosity. She returned his gaze at last with a certain defiance, butfound no offence in his eyes, which were round as his face, and of asincere, steady gray. He was smooth-shaven, and his blond hair wasrather short. All these peculiarities appeared one by one in theintervals between her attentions to Mart and her study of thefurnishings of the table, which was decorated with candles and flowersin a way quite new to her.
Fordyce was as fine as he looked. Nothing equivocal was in "thatmagnificent boy," as his friends called him, and his interest in littleMrs. Haney was that of the Easterner who, having been told that strangethings take place in the West, is disappointed if they do not happenunder his nose. He had heard much of the Haneys from Congdon, and hadbeen especially impressed with the story of Bertha's midnight ride tothe bedside of the dying gambler. The wedding in the saloon, herdevotion to the wounded man, their descent upon the Springs, and theirdomestication in a stone palace--all appealed to his imagination. Suchthings could not happen in Chester; they were of the mountain West, andmost satisfying to his taste.
Bertha, on her part, had to admit that the people at the table were mostkindly, even considerate. They made her husband the centre of interest,and passed politely over all his disastrous attempts to use his lefthand. There were no awkward pauses, for, excepting one or two slips oftongue, Haney rose to the occasion. He was big enough and self-containedenough not to apologize for what he had been or what he was, and underCongdon's skilful guidance told of his experiences as amateur miner andgambler, growing humorous as the wine mellowed and lightened hisreminiscences. He felt the sympathy of his audience. All listeneddelightedly with no accusation in their eyes--except in the case of Mrs.Crego, who still breathed, so it seemed to Bertha, a certain contemptand inner repugnance.
Young Fordyce glowed with delight in these tales, reading beneath theterse lines of Haney's slang something epic, detecting a perfectwillingness to take any chance. The fact that his bravery led to nothingconventionally noble or moral did not detract from the inherent interestof the tale; on the contrary, the young fellow, being of unusualimaginative reach and freedom, took pleasure in the thought that a manwould risk his life again and again merely for the excitement of it.Occasionally he glanced at Judge Crego, to find him looking upon Haneywith thoughtful glance. It was a little like listening to a prisoner'sconfession of guilt (as he afterwards said), but to him, as to Congdon,it was a most interesting monologue.
It added enormously to the romance, so far as Ben Fordyce was concerned,to look across the table at the grave, watchful face of the girl whounfolded her husband's napkin or cut up his roast with deft hand--alwayscareful not to interrupt his talk.
As he thought of the quiet Quaker neighborhood from which he came, andcontrasted these singular and powerfully defined personalities with the"men of weight" and the demure maidens of his acquaintance, Ben's bloodtingled with a sense of the bigness and strangeness of the greaterAmerica. The West was no longer a nation; it was a world. To be in it atlast was a delight as well as an education.
Bertha, on her part, felt no strangeness in her position. Her marriagewas a logical outcome of her life and surroundings. The incomprehensiblelay in the shining women about her. Their ideas of life, their comment,puzzled her. Their clothes were of a kind which her own money could buy,but their manners, their grace of speech, their gestures, came ofsomething besides money. Mrs. Crego was especially formidable, and madeher feel the inadequacy of the black gown which she had thought veryfine when she selected it, ready made, in a Denver store. She did notknow that Mrs. Crego had dressed "very simply," at the suggestion of herhostess; but she did feel a certain condescension of manner, even inAlice, and was glad the Captain absorbed so much of the table-talk.
Her time of trial came when the ladies rose and, at Mrs. Congdon'ssuggestion, returned to the porch, leaving the men to finish theircigars. Not one of Ben's little courtesies towards the women escapedher. His acquiescence, Congdon's tone of exaggerated respect, Crego'scompliments, were all new to her, and in a certain sense she resentedthem. She doubted their sincerity a little, notwithstanding theirgrateful charm.
Alice took her to herself and this was a great relief; for she fearedMrs. Crego's sharp tongue, and was not entirely sure of her hostess.
Laying a slim hand on her arm, the Eastern girl began: "I am fascinatedby you, Mrs. Haney. You have had such an interesting life, and you havesuch an opportunity for doing good."
Bertha looked at her in blank surprise. "What do you mean?"
"With your great wealth you can accomplish so much. Had you thought ofthat?"
"No, I hadn't." The answer was blunt. "I've been so busy getting settledand looking after the Captain, I haven't had time to think of anythingelse."
"Oh, of course; but by and by you'll begin to look about you for thingsto help--I mean hospitals and charities, and all that. The only timewhen I envy great wealth is when I see some wrong which money can right.Mr. Fordyce is a lawyer, but not a very famous one--he's onlytwenty-eight; and while we are likely to have all we really need, wecan't begin to do what we'd like to do for others. I suppose Mrs.Congdon has told you of us?"
"Where do you live?"
"We live in Chester, but Mr. Fordyce has an office in Philadelphia. Wehave been engaged a long time, but I couldn't think of marrying while Iwas so ill. I'm afraid I stayed so long that not even this climate canhelp me."
This was indeed Bertha's conviction, and her untactful silence said asmuch. Therefore, Alice hastened on to other more general topics. She wasvery sprightly, but Bertha maintained a determined silence through itall, quite unable to understand the girl's confidences.
When the men came out Alice took Haney to herself, and they seemed toenjoy each other's society very keenly; indeed, their mutual absorptionbecame so complete that Ben remarked upon it to Bertha. "Miss Heath hasbeen crazy to meet your husband, Mrs. Haney. His adventurous lifeappeals to her, as to me, very deeply. We don't mean to be offensive,but to us you seem typical of the West."
What he said at this time made less impression on her than the way inwhich he spoke. The light of an electric street-lamp fell upon his face,revealing its charming lines. On his fine hand a ring gleamed. Autumninsects were singing sleepily in the grass and from the trees. Thelaughter of girls came from the dusk of neighboring lawns, and over alldescended the magical light of a harvest moon, flecking the surface ofthe little garden with shadows almost as definite as those cast by theflaming white globes of the street-lamps. It is on such nights that theheart of youth expands with longing and sadness.
Crego and Congdon fell into hot argument (their usual method ofconversation), leaving the young people to themselves, and, Ben withintent to provoke the grave little wife to laughter, told a funny storywhich reflected on Congdon's improvidence.
Bertha was really grateful, for she felt herself at a great disadvantageamong these fluent and interesting folk, who talked like the charactersin novels. Their jests, their comment, meant little to her; but theirgestures, their graceful attitudes, their courtesies to each other,meant much. They were something more than polite; they were consideratein a way which showed their thoughtfulness to be deeply grounded inhabitual action. They used slang, but they used it as a garnish, not asa habit of speech. Expressions which she had read in books, but hadnever before heard spoken, flowed from their lips. Their sentences werebuil
t up for effect; in Crego's case this was more or less expected, butthe phrases of Fordyce and Congdon were still more disconcerting. Theart of their stories was a revelation of the neatness and precision ofcultivated speech.
When Mrs. Congdon led the way back into the house Ben stepped to Alice'sside, saying, in a low tone: "I hope you haven't taken a chill. I begyour pardon, dearest; I should have watched you more closely."
Once within-doors Mrs. Congdon insisted on Ben's singing, which he didwith smiling readiness, expressing, however, a profound ignorance ofmusic. "I never take my songs as seriously as my friends seem to do," heexplained to Bertha. "Music with me is a gift rather than anacquirement."
His voice was indeed fresh and sweet, and he sang--as Bertha had neverheard any one sing--certain love ballads, whose despairing cadences weremade the more profoundly piercing, someway, by his happy boyish face andhandsomely clothed and powerful figure. "'But I and my True Love WillNever Meet Again!'" seemed to be a fatalistic cry rather than a wail ofsadness as it came from his lips, but its melody sank deep into thegirl's heart. She sat in rigid absorption, her eyes fixed upon thesplendid young singer as a child looks upon some new and complicatedtoy. The grace with which he pronounced his words, the spread of hissplendid chest, his easy pose, his self-depreciating shrugs enthralledher. Surely this was one of the young princes of the earth. His voicecame to her freighted with the passion of ideal manhood.
He sang other songs--tunes not worthy of him--but ended with a balladcalled "Fair Springtide," by MacDowell--a song so stern, so strange, soinexorably sad that the singer himself grew grave at last and rose tohis best. Bertha was thrilled to the heart, saddened yet exalted by hisvoice. Her horizon--her emotional horizon--was of a sudden extended, andshe caught glimpses of strange lands and dim peaks of fabled mountains;and when the singer declared himself at an end she sat benumbed whilethe others cheered--her hands folded on her lap. It seemed a profanationto applaud.
Haney gloomed in silence also, but not for the same reason. "I mighthave sung like that once," he thought, for he had been choir-boy in hisragamuffin youth, and had regained a fine tenor voice at eighteen. Ageand neglect had ruined it, however. For ten years he had not attemptedto sing a note. This youth made him dream of the past--as it causedBertha to forecast the future.
While young Fordyce was putting away his music the Captain struggled tohis feet, and Bertha, seeing a sudden paleness overspread his face,hastened to him.
"I reckon we'd better be going," she said to Mrs. Congdon, with bluntdirectness.
"It's early yet," replied her hostess.
Haney replied: "Not for cripples. Time was when I could sit all night inthe 'lookout's chair,' but not now. Ten o'clock finds me wishful towardsthe bed." He said this with a faint smile. But the pathos of it, thetruth of it, went to Bertha's heart, as it did to Mrs. Congdon's. Notmerely was his body maimed, but his mind had correspondingly beenweakened by that tearing charge of shot.
Something of his native Celtic gallantry came back to him as he said:"Sure, Mrs. Congdon, we've had a fine evening. You must come to see ussoon."
Ben was addressing himself to Bertha. "Do you ever ride?"
"I used to--I don't now. You see, the Captain can't stand the jolt of ahorse, so we mostly drive."
"I was about to say that Alice and I would be glad to have you join us.We ride every morning--a very gentle pace, I assure you, for I'm norough-rider, and, besides, she sets the pace."
Bertha's face was pale and her eyes darkly luminous as she falteringlyanswered. "I'd like to--but--Perhaps I can some time. I'm much obliged,"and then she gave him her hand in parting.
Mrs. Congdon was subtly moved by something in the girl's face as shesaid good-night, and to her invitation to come and see her cordiallyresponded: "I certainly shall do so."
* * * * *
Little Mrs. Haney rode away from her first dinner party in the silenceof one whose thoughts are too swift and too new to find speech. Herbrain, sensitive as that of a babe, had caught and ineffaceably retaineda million impressions which were to influence all her after life. Themost vivid and most powerful of these impressions rose from the glowingbeauty of young Fordyce, whose like she had never seen; but asbackground to him was the lovely room, the shining table, the grace andcharm of the conversation, and, dominating all, the music--quite thebest she had ever heard. The evening--so simple, almost commonplace, toher hostess--was of unspeakable significance to the uncultured girl.
She did not wish to talk, and when Haney spoke she made no reply to hiscomment. "A fine bunch of people," he repeated. "They sure treated usright. Crego's the fine man--we do well to make him our lawyer." AsBertha again failed to respond he resumed, with a little chuckle: "ButMrs. Crego is saying, 'I dunno--them Haneys is queer cattle.' And thelittle sick lady, sure she was as interested in me talk as PatsyMcGonnigle. She drug out o' me some of me wildest scrapes. Poor littlegirl, 'twill soon be all up with her.... It's a fine young fellow shehas. A Quaker by training, she says. My! my! What a prizefighter he'dmake if his mind ran that way! Think of a Quaker with a chest likethat--'tis something ferocious! He can sing, too, can't he? A finelad--as fine as iver I see. Think of shoulders like his all wasted on aman of peace. I'm afraid the little lady will never put on the ring ifshe waits till she gets well."
To this Bertha listened intently, but gave out no sign of interest. Shewas eager to be alone, eager to review all that had happened--all thathad been said.
For the first time since her marriage she felt Haney's presence to bejust the least bit of a burden; and when they entered the house sheurged his immediate retirement, though he was disposed to sit in thelibrary and talk. "They were high-class," he said, again. "I neversupposed I could make easy camp with such people. They sure treated usnoble. They made us feel at home.... We must have some liquor like that.I've always despised wine and those that took it; but, bedad! I seethere are two sides to that question. 'Tis not so thin as I thought it."
Bertha at last got him safely bestowed, and was free to seek her ownapartment, which she did at once. Her chamber, which adjoined herhusband's to the west (he liked the morning sun), was a big room, andthe young wife looked like a doll as she dropped into a broad tuftedchair which stood in a square bay-window, and with folded hands lookedout upon the ghostly shapes of the great peaks, snow-covered andmoonlit.
A thousand revelations of character as well as of manners lay in thatshort evening's contact with cultivated and thoughtful people. It arguedmuch for her ancestry, for her own latent powers, that she respondedwith such bewildering readiness to the suggestions which rose likesparks of fire from that radiant hour.
She had been made to feel dimly, vaguely, but multitudinously, thefibres and reaches of another world--the world of art, and thatindefinable thing which the books call culture; and finally, in thatsplendid young Quaker, she was brought to know a man who could bejocular without being coarse, and whose glance was as sincere as it wasflattering and alluring.
She did not think of him as husband to Alice Heath, who seemed so mucholder in spirit as in body (more like an elder sister than a brideelect), and his consideration of her was that of brother rather than thedevotion of a lover. How far he stood removed from Ed Winchell and theyoung fellows of Sibley! "And yet I can understand him," she thought."He ain't funny, like Mr. Congdon. He don't say queer things, and hedon't make game of people. And he don't orate like Judge Crego. He isn'tlaughing at us now, the way the others are. I bet they're havin' a goodtime over our blunders."
She saw Marshall Haney in a new light also. For the first time he seemedlike an old man, sitting there, supine, garrulous, in the midst of thoseself-contained people. "Gosh! how he did talk! He took too much wine, Ireckon, but that didn't make all the difference." In truth, hisimperiousness, his contempt, had been melted and charmed away by thegenial smiles of his auditors. Even Mrs. Crego had listened with a showof interest. It was as if a lonely old man had at last foundcompanionship.
/> What did all this mean? "Are they interested in him only because he'swhat they call a desperado? Did they ask us there to hear him tellstories of his wild life?" Questions of this kind also troubled her.
The moon slid behind the mountain range while still the girl sat withpale face and wide dark eyes thinking, thinking, the wings of herexpanding soul fluttering with vague unrest. Only once in a lifetime cansuch an experience come to a human being. Her swift ride to MarshallHaney's side that summer night--now so far away--was momentous, but itsimport was simple compared with the experiences through which she hadjust passed.
She rose at last, chilled and stiffened, and went to her bed with asense of foreboding rather than of new-found happiness.
* * * * *
Mart rose late next morning. "I had a bad night," he explained. "Themixed liquors I tuck got into me wound, I guess. It woke me twice,achin' and burnin'. You're lookin' tired yersilf, little girl. This highlife seems to be wearin' on the both of us."
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