by B. M. Bower
Dorman took two bites while he considered. “Rupert’ll want my little wheels, for my feet, what Mr. Cam’ron gave me—but he can’t have ’em, dough. I ’spect he’ll be mad. I wonder what’ll Peggy say bout my two puppies. I’ve got to take my two puppies wis me. Will dey get sick riding on de water, auntie? Say, will dey?”
“I—I think not, dear,” ventured his auntie cautiously. His auntie was a conscientious woman, and she knew very little about puppies.
“Be’trice will help me take care of dem if dey’re sick,” he remarked comfortably.
Then something in his divinity’s face startled his assurance. “You’s going wis us, isn’t you, Be’trice? I want you to help take care of my two puppies. Martha can’t, ’cause she slaps dere ears. Is you going wis us, Be’trice?”
This, at the dinner table, was, to say the least, embarrassing—especially on this especial evening, when Beatrice was trying to muster courage to give Sir Redmond the only answer it was possible to give him now. It was an open secret that, in case she had accepted him, the home-going of Miss Hayes would be delayed a bit, when they would all go together. Beatrice had overheard her mother and Miss Hayes discussing this possibility only the day before. She undertook the impossible, and attempted to head Dorman off.
“Perhaps you’ll see a whale, honey. The puppies never saw a whale, I’m sure. What do you suppose they’d think?”
“Is you going?”
“You’d have to hold them up high, you know, so they could see, and show them just where to look, and—”
“Is you going, Be’trice?”
Beatrice sent a quick, despairing glance around the table. Four pairs of eyes were fixed upon her with varying degrees of interest and anxiety. The fifth pair—Dick’s—were trying to hide their unrighteous glee by glaring down at the chicken wing on his plate. Beatrice felt a strong impulse to throw something at him. She gulped and faced the inevitable. It must come some time, she thought, and it might as well be now—though it did seem a pity to spoil a good dinner for every one but Dick, who was eating his with relish.
“No, honey”—her voice was clear and had the note of finality—“I’m not going—ever.”
Sir Redmond’s teeth went together with a click, and he picked up the pepper shaker mechanically and peppered his salad until it was perfectly black, and Beatrice wondered how he ever expected to eat it. Mrs. Lansell dropped her fork on the floor, and had to have a clean one brought. Miss Hayes sent a frightened glance at her brother. Dick sat and ate fried chicken.
“Why, Be’trice? I wants you to—and de puppies’ll need you—and auntie, and—” Dorman gathered himself for the last, crushing argument—“and Uncle Redmon’ wants you awf’lly!”
Beatrice took a sip of ice water, for she needed it.
“Why, Be’trice? Gran-mama’ll let you go, guess. Can’t she go, gran’mama?”
It was Mrs. Lansell’s turn to test the exquisite torture of that prickly chill along the spine. Like Beatrice, she dodged.
“Little boys,” she announced weakly, “should not speak until they’re spoken to.”
Dick came near strangling on a shred of chicken.
“Can’t she go, gran’mama? Say, can’t she? Tell Be’trice to go home wis us, gran’mama!”
“Beatrice”—Mrs. Lansell swallowed—“is not a little child any longer, Dorman. She is a woman and can do as she likes. I”—she was speaking to the whole group—“I can only advise her.”
Dorman gave a squeal of triumph. “See? You can go, Be’trice! Gran’mama says you can go. You will go, won’t you, Be’trice? Say yes!”
“No!” said Beatrice, with desperate emphasis. “I won’t.”
“I want—Be’trice—to go-o!” Dorman slid down upon his shoulder blades, gave a squeal which was not triumph, but temper, and kicked the table till every dish on it danced.
“Dorman sit up!” commanded his auntie. “Dorman, stop, this instant! I’m ashamed of you; where is my good little man? Redmond.”
Sir Redmond seemed glad of the chance to do something besides sit quietly in his place and look calm. He got up deliberately, and in two minutes, or less, Dorman was in the woodshed with him, making sounds that frightened his puppies dreadfully and put the coyotes to shame.
Beatrice left the table hurriedly to escape the angry eyes of her mother. The sounds in the woodshed had died to a subdued sniffling, and she retreated to the front porch, hoping to escape observation. There she nearly ran against Sir Redmond, who was staring off into the dusk to where the moon was peering redly over a black pinnacle of the Bear Paws.
She would have slipped back into the house, but he did not give her the chance. He turned and faced her steadily, as he had more than once faced the Boers, when he knew that before him was nothing but defeat.
“So you’re not going to England ever?”
Pride had squeezed every shade of emotion from his voice.
“No.” Beatrice gripped her fingers together tightly.
“Are you sure you won’t be sorry—afterward?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Beatrice had never done anything she hated more.
Sir Redmond, looking into her eyes, wondered why those much-vaunted sharpshooters, the Boers, had blundered and passed him by.
“I don’t suppose it matters much now—but will you tell me why? I believed you would decide differently.” He was holding his voice down to a dead level, and it was not easy.
“Because—” Beatrice faced the moon, which threw a soft glow upon her face, and into her wonderful, deep eyes a golden light. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sir Redmond! But you see, I didn’t know. I—I just learned today what it means to—to love. I—I am going to stay here. A new company—is about to be formed, Sir Redmond. The Maltese Cross and the—Triangle Bar—are going to cast their lot together.” The golden glow deepened and darkened, and blended with the red blood which flushed cheek and brow and throat.
It took Sir Redmond a full minute to comprehend. When he did, he breathed deep, shut his lips upon words that would have frightened her, and went down the steps into the gloom.
Beatrice watched him stride away into the dusky silence, and her heart ached with sympathy for him. Then she looked beyond, to where the lights of the Cross ranch twinkled joyously, far down the coulee, and the sweet egotism of happiness enfolded her, shutting him out. After that she forgot him utterly. She looked up at the moon, sailing off to meet the stars, smiled good-fellowship and then went in to face her mother.
CABIN FEVER (Part 1)
CHAPTER ONE
THE FEVER MANIFESTS ITSELF
There is a certain malady of the mind induced by too much of one thing. Just as the body fed too long upon meat becomes a prey to that horrid disease called scurvy, so the mind fed too long upon monotony succumbs to the insidious mental ailment which the West calls “cabin fever.” True, it parades under different names, according to circumstances and caste. You may be afflicted in a palace and call it ennui, and it may drive you to commit peccadillos and indiscretions of various sorts. You may be attacked in a middle-class apartment house, and call it various names, and it may drive you to cafe life and affinities and alimony. You may have it wherever you are shunted into a backwater of life, and lose the sense of being borne along in the full current of progress. Be sure that it will make you abnormally sensitive to little things; irritable where once you were amiable; glum where once you went whistling about your work and your play. It is the crystallizer of character, the acid test of friendship, the final seal set upon enmity. It will betray your little, hidden weaknesses, cut and polish your undiscovered virtues, reveal you in all your glory or your vileness to your companions in exile—if so be you have any.
If you would test the soul of a friend, take him into the wilderness and rub elbows with him for five months! One of three things will surely happen: You will hate each other afterward with that enlightened hatred which is seasoned with contempt; you will emerge with the contempt tinged with a pityin
g toleration, or you will be close, unquestioning friends to the last six feet of earth—and beyond. All these things will cabin fever do, and more. It has committed murder, many’s the time. It has driven men crazy. It has warped and distorted character out of all semblance to its former self. It has sweetened love and killed love. There is an antidote—but I am going to let you find the antidote somewhere in the story.
Bud Moore, ex-cow-puncher and now owner of an auto stage that did not run in the winter, was touched with cabin fever and did not know what ailed him. His stage line ran from San Jose up through Los Gatos and over the Bear Creek road across the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains and down to the State Park, which is locally called Big Basin. For something over fifty miles of wonderful scenic travel he charged six dollars, and usually his big car was loaded to the running boards. Bud was a good driver, and he had a friendly pair of eyes—dark blue and with a humorous little twinkle deep down in them somewhere—and a human little smiley quirk at the corners of his lips. He did not know it, but these things helped to fill his car.
Until gasoline married into the skylark family, Bud did well enough to keep him contented out of a stock saddle. (You may not know it, but it is harder for an old cow-puncher to find content, now that the free range is gone into history, than it is for a labor agitator to be happy in a municipal boarding house.)
Bud did well enough, which was very well indeed. Before the second season closed with the first fall rains, he had paid for his big car and got the insurance policy transferred to his name. He walked up First Street with his hat pushed back and a cigarette dangling from the quirkiest corner of his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. The glow of prosperity warmed his manner toward the world. He had a little money in the bank, he had his big car, he had the good will of a smiling world. He could not walk half a block in any one of three or four towns but he was hailed with a “Hello, Bud!” in a welcoming tone. More people knew him than Bud remembered well enough to call by name—which is the final proof of popularity the world over.
In that glowing mood he had met and married a girl who went into Big Basin with her mother and camped for three weeks. The girl had taken frequent trips to Boulder Creek, and twice had gone on to San Jose, and she had made it a point to ride with the driver because she was crazy about cars. So she said. Marie had all the effect of being a pretty girl. She habitually wore white middies with blue collar and tie, which went well with her clear, pink skin and her hair that just escaped being red. She knew how to tilt her “beach” hat at the most provocative angle, and she knew just when to let Bud catch a slow, sidelong glance—of the kind that is supposed to set a man’s heart to syncopatic behavior. She did not do it too often. She did not powder too much, and she had the latest slang at her pink tongue’s tip and was yet moderate in her use of it.
Bud did not notice Marie much on the first trip. She was demure, and Bud had a girl in San Jose who had brought him to that interesting stage of dalliance where he wondered if he dared kiss her good night the next time he called. He was preoccupiedly reviewing the she-said-and-then-I-said, and trying to make up his mind whether he should kiss her and take a chance on her displeasure, or whether he had better wait. To him Marie appeared hazily as another camper who helped fill the car—and his pocket—and was not at all hard to look at. It was not until the third trip that Bud thought her beautiful, and was secretly glad that he had not kissed that San Jose girl.
You know how these romances develop. Every summer is saturated with them the world over. But Bud happened to be a simple-souled fellow, and there was something about Marie—He didn’t know what it was. Men never do know, until it is all over. He only knew that the drive through the shady stretches of woodland grew suddenly to seem like little journeys into paradise. Sentiment lurked behind every great, mossy tree bole. New beauties unfolded in the winding drive up over the mountain crests. Bud was terribly in love with the world in those days.
There were the evenings he spent in the Basin, sitting beside Marie in the huge campfire circle, made wonderful by the shadowy giants, the redwoods; talking foolishness in undertones while the crowd sang snatches of songs which no one knew from beginning to end, and that went very lumpy in the verses and very much out of harmony in the choruses. Sometimes they would stroll down toward that sweeter music the creek made, and stand beside one of the enormous trees and watch the glow of the fire, and the silhouettes of the people gathered around it.
In a week they were surreptitiously holding hands. In two weeks they could scarcely endure the partings when Bud must start back to San Jose, and were taxing their ingenuity to invent new reasons why Marie must go along. In three weeks they were married, and Marie’s mother—a shrewd, shrewish widow—was trying to decide whether she should wash her hands of Marie, or whether it might be well to accept the situation and hope that Bud would prove himself a rising young man.
But that was a year in the past. Bud had cabin fever now and did not know what ailed him, though cause might have been summed up in two meaty phrases: too much idleness, and too much mother-in-law. Also, not enough comfort and not enough love.
In the kitchen of the little green cottage on North Sixth Street where Bud had built the home nest with much nearly-Mission furniture and a piano, Bud was frying his own hotcakes for his ten o’clock breakfast, and was scowling over the task. He did not mind the hour so much, but he did mortally hate to cook his own breakfast—or any other meal, for that matter. In the next room a rocking chair was rocking with a rhythmic squeak, and a baby was squalling with that sustained volume of sound which never fails to fill the adult listener with amazement. It affected Bud unpleasantly, just as the incessant bawling of a band of weaning calves used to do. He could not bear the thought of young things going hungry.
“For the love of Mike, Marie! Why don’t you feed that kid, or do something to shut him up?” he exploded suddenly, dribbling pancake batter over the untidy range.
The squeak, squawk of the rocker ceased abruptly. “’Cause it isn’t time yet to feed him—that’s why. What’s burning out there? I’ll bet you’ve got the stove all over dough again—” The chair resumed its squeaking, the baby continued uninterrupted its wah-h-hah! wah-h-hah, as though it was a phonograph that had been wound up with that record on, and no one around to stop it
Bud turned his hotcakes with a vicious flop that spattered more batter on the stove. He had been a father only a month or so, but that was long enough to learn many things about babies which he had never known before. He knew, for instance, that the baby wanted its bottle, and that Marie was going to make him wait till feeding time by the clock.
“By heck, I wonder what would happen if that darn clock was to stop!” he exclaimed savagely, when his nerves would bear no more. “You’d let the kid starve to death before you’d let your own brains tell you what to do! Husky youngster like that—feeding ’im four ounces every four days—or some simp rule like that—” He lifted the cakes on to a plate that held two messy-looking fried eggs whose yolks had broken, set the plate on the cluttered table and slid petulantly into a chair and began to eat. The squeaking chair and the crying baby continued to torment him. Furthermore, the cakes were doughy in the middle.
“For gosh sake, Marie, give that kid his bottle!” Bud exploded again. “Use the brains God gave yuh—such as they are! By heck, I’ll stick that darn book in the stove. Ain’t yuh got any feelings at all? Why, I wouldn’t let a dog go hungry like that! Don’t yuh reckon the kid knows when he’s hungry? Why, good Lord! I’ll take and feed him myself, if you don’t. I’ll burn that book—so help me!”
“Yes, you will—not!” Marie’s voice rose shrewishly, riding the high waves of the baby’s incessant outcry against the restrictions upon appetite imposed by enlightened motherhood. “You do, and see what’ll happen! You’d have him howling with colic, that’s what you’d do.”
“Well, I’ll tell the world he wouldn’t holler for grub! You’d go by the book if it told yuh to stand �
��im on his head in the ice chest! By heck, between a woman and a hen turkey, give me the turkey when it comes to sense. They do take care of their young ones—”
“Aw, forget that! When it comes to sense—-”
Oh, well, why go into details? You all know how these domestic storms arise, and how love washes overboard when the matrimonial ship begins to wallow in the seas of recrimination.
Bud lost his temper and said a good many things should not have said. Marie flung back angry retorts and reminded Bud of all his sins and slights and shortcomings, and told him many of mamma’s pessimistic prophecies concerning him, most of which seemed likely to be fulfilled. Bud fought back, telling Marie how much of a snap she had had since she married him, and how he must have looked like ready money to her, and added that now, by heck, he even had to do his own cooking, as well as listen to her whining and nagging, and that there wasn’t clean corner in the house, and she’d rather let her own baby go hungry than break a simp rule in a darn book got up by a bunch of boobs that didn’t know anything about kids. Surely to goodness, he finished his heated paragraph, it wouldn’t break any woman’s back to pour a little warm water on a little malted milk, and shake it up.
He told Marie other things, and in return, Marie informed him that he was just a big-mouthed, lazy brute, and she could curse the day she ever met him. That was going pretty far. Bud reminded her that she had not done any cursing at the time, being in his opinion too busy roping him in to support her.
By that time he had gulped down his coffee, and was into his coat, and looking for his hat. Marie, crying and scolding and rocking the vociferous infant, interrupted herself to tell him that she wanted a ten-cent roll of cotton from the drug store, and added that she hoped she would not have to wait until next Christmas for it, either. Which bit of sarcasm so inflamed Bud’s rage that he swore every step of the way to Santa Clara Avenue, and only stopped then because he happened to meet a friend who was going down town, and they walked together.