Money Magic: A Novel

by Hamlin Garland

  CHAPTER XXV

  BERTHA'S DECISION

  It was good to wake in her old room and see the morning light breakingin golden waves against the peaks, to hear her dogs bay and to listen tothe murmuring voice of the fountains on the lawn. It was deliciouslyluxurious to sit at breakfast on the vine-clad porch with the shiningnew coffee-boiler before her, while Miss Franklin expressed heradmiration of the napery and china which the Mosses had helped her toselect.

  It was glorious to go romping with the dogs about the garden, and mostintoxicating to mount her horse and ride away upon the mesa, mad withspeed and ecstatic of the wind. No one could have kept pace with herthat first day at home. She ran from one thing to the other. Sheunpacked and spread out all her treasures. She telegraphed her motherand 'phoned her friends. She gave direction to the servants and examinedevery thing from the horses' hoofs to the sewing-machine. She went overthe house from top to bottom to see that it was in order. She was crazywith desire of doing. Her mid-day meal was a mere touch-and-go lunch,but when at last she was seated in her carriage with Haney and MissFranklin she fell back in her seat, saying, "I feel kind o' sleepy andtired."

  "I should think you would!" exclaimed her teacher.

  "Of all the galloping creatures you are the most wonderful. I hopeyou're not to keep this up."

  Haney put in a quiet word. "She will _not_. Sure, she cannot. There'llbe nothin' left for to-morrow."

  Their ride was in the nature of a triumphal progress. Many people whohad hesitated about bowing to them hitherto took this morning to unbend,and Mart observed, with a good deal of satisfaction: "The town seemspowerful cordial. I think I'll launch me boom for the Senate."

  At the bank-door, where the carriage waited while Bertha transacted somebusiness within, he held a veritable reception, and the swarmingtourists, looking upon the sleek and shining team and the graymustached, dignified old man leaning from his seat to shake hands,wondered who the local magnate was, and those who chanced to look in atthe window were still more interested in the handsome girl in whosehonor the president of the bank left his mahogany den.

  In truth, Bertha had won, almost without striving for it, therecognition of the town. Those who had never really established anythingagainst her seized upon this return as the moment of capitulation. Therewas no mystery about her life. She was known now, and no one really knewanything evil of her--why should she be condemned?

  In such wise the current of comment now set, and Mrs. Haney foundherself approached by ladies who had hitherto passed her without so muchas a nod. She took it all composedly, and in answer to their invitationsbluntly answered: "The Captain ain't up to going out much, and I don'tlike to leave him alone. Come and see us."

  She was composed with all save Fordyce, who now produced in her a kindof breathlessness which frightened her. She longed for, yet dreaded, hiscoming, and for several days avoided direct conversation with him. Herespected this reserve in her, but was eager to get her comment on theEast.

  "How did you like New York," he asked one night as they were all in thegarden awaiting dinner.

  "It scared me," she answered. "Made me feel like a lady-bug in aclover-huller; but it never phased the Captain," she added, with asmile. "'There's nothin' too good for the Haneys,' says he, and we surewent the pace. We turned Lucius loose. We spent money wicked--enough tobuy out a full-sized hotel."

  Her quaint, shrewd comment on her extravagances amused Ben exceedingly,and by keeping to a line of questioning he drew from her nearly all hersalient experiences--excepting, of course, her grapple with thedegenerate artist.

  "Lucius turned out the jewel they said he was?"

  She responded with enthusiasm. "I should say he did! He knew everythingwe wanted to know and more too. We'd have wandered around like a coupleof Utes if it hadn't been for him. _When in doubt ask Lucius_, was ourmotto."

  She told stories of the elder Haney and the McArdles, and described thetrials of the children in their new home till Ben laughingly said: "It'shard to run somebody else's life--I've found that out."

  And Haney admitted with a chuckle that Mac was "a little bewildered,like a hen with a red rag on her tail--divided in his mind like. As forDad, he still thinks me a burglar on an improved plan."

  They also talked of Bertha's studies, for Miss Franklin began at once togive her daily instruction in certain arts which she considerednecessary to women of Mrs. Haney's position, and always at the moment ofmeeting they spoke of Alice--that is to say, Haney with invariablepoliteness asked after her health, and quite as regularly Ben replied:"Not very well." Once he added: "I can hardly get her out any more. Sheseems more and more despondent."

  This report profoundly troubled Bertha, and the sight of Alice's drawnand tragic face made her miserable. There was something in the sickwoman's gaze which awed her, and she was careful not to be left alonewith her. The thought of her suffering and its effect on Ben threw adark shadow over the brightness of her world. She was filled, also, witha growing uneasiness by reason of Mart's change of attitude towardsherself. In the excitement of his home-coming he seemed about to regaina large part of his former health and spirits. His eyes brightened, hissmile became more frequent, the appealing lines of his brow smoothedout, and save for an occasional shortening of the breath his conditionappeared to be improving.

  This access of vitality was apparent to Bertha, and should have broughtjoy to her as to him; but it did not, for with returning vitality hisattitude towards her became less of the invalid and more of the lover.He said nothing directly--at first--but she was able to interpret alltoo well the meaning of his jocular remarks and his wistful glances.Once he called her attention to the returning strength in his arm. "Theould man is not dead yet," he exulted, lifting his disabled arm andclinching his fist. "I feel younger than at any time since me accident,"and as he spoke she perceived something of the lion in the light of hiseyes.

  One night as she was passing his chair he reached for her and caught herand drew her down upon his knee. "Sit ye down a wink. Ye're always onthe move like a flibberty-bidget."

  She struggled free of his embrace, her face clouded with alarm andanger. "Don't be a fool," she said, harshly.

  He released her, saying, humbly: "Don't be angry, darlin', 'tis foolishof me, an ould crippled wolf, to be thinking of matin' with a fawn likey'rself. I don't blame ye. Go your ways."

  She went to her room, with his voice--so humbly penitent andresigned--lingering in her ears, trembling with the weight of the burdenwhich his amorous mood had laid upon her.

  She resented his action the more because life at the moment was so fullof joy. Each morning was filled with pleasant duties, and each afternoonthey drove to the office to discuss the mines with Ben, and in theevening he called to sit for an hour or two on the porch, smoking,talking, till Mart grew sleepy and yawned. These meetings weredeliciously, calmly delightful, for Mrs. Gilman or Miss Franklin wasalways present, and, though the talk was general, Ben talked for herears at times, but always impersonally, and she honored him for hisdelicacy, his reserve, his respect for her position as a married woman,recognizing the care with which he avoided everything which mightembarrass her.

  And now, by force of Mart's humble suing, her half-forgotten scrupleswere revived. Her uneasiness began again. A decision was finally anddefinitely thrust upon her. Instantly she was beset by all her doubtsand desires, and the sky darkened with clouds of trouble.

  To make Mart happy was still her wish, but the way was not so easy ofchoice, nor so simple to follow as it had once seemed. The briers werethick before her feet. There was so much of personal gratification, somuch of selfish pleasure, in remaining his companion, warmed anddefended by all the comfort and dignity which his wealth had brought toher, that it seemed a kind of treachery to halt with her duty half done.To be his spouse, to become the mother of his children, this alone wouldentitle her to his bounty. "I can't do it!" she cried out--"I can't, Ican't!" And yet not to do his will was to remain a pensioner and to beunder i
ndictment as an adventuress.

  She had read somewhere these words from a great philosopher: "The womanwho bears a child to any man should instantly be lawfully seized ofone-half his goods, for by that sublime act she takes her life in herhand as truly as the soldier who charges upon an invading host. Theanguish of maternity should sanctify every woman."

  On the other side of her hedge lay enticing freedom. It seemed at timesas though to be again in the little office of the Golden Eagle Hotelwould be a more perfect happiness than this she now enjoyed--but that,too, was illusory. How could she repay the money she had used? Themoment she left Marshall Haney she would not only be poor, she would beprofoundly in his debt. Where could she find the money to repay him andto make her schooling possible?

  Perplexity was in her darkened eyes. Happiness and sorrow, doubt anddelight grew along each path--thickly interwoven--and decision becameeach day more difficult. It was hateful to lie under the charge ofhaving married merely for a gambler's money, and yet to plunge hermother and herself back into poverty would seem to others the act of oneinsane. As she pondered the problem of her life she lost all of hergirlish lightness of heart and lay in her luxurious bed a brooding,troubled woman.

  She could have gone on indefinitely with the half-filial, half-fraternalrelationship into which she and Mart had fallen, but the thought of thatother most intimate, most elemental union which his touch had made moredefinite than ever before produced in her a shudder of repulsion, ofpositive loathing. She could no longer endure the clasp of his hand, andin spite of herself she was forced, by contrasting experience, toacknowledge the allurement which lay in Ben Fordyce's handsome face andstrong and graceful body.

  "I must go away--for a while at least. I'll go back to the ranch andthink it over."

  And yet even the ranch was partly Haney's! How could she escape from herindebtedness to him? To what could she turn to make a living? To leavethis big house and her horses, her garden, her dresses and jewels,required heroic resolution, but what of the long days of toil anddulness to which she must return?

  Worn with the ceaseless alternations of these thoughts, she fell into adream that was half a waking vision. She thought she had just packed abag with the gown she wore the night she came to Haney's rescue, when hecame shuffling into her room and said: "Where are you goin', darlin'?"

  She replied: "To the ranch--to think things over."

  The tears came to his eyes, and he said: "'Tis the sun out of me skywhen ye go, Bertie. Do not stay long."

  She promised to be back soon, but rode away with settled intent never toreturn.

  No one knew her on the train, for she had drawn her veil close and satvery still. It seemed that she went near the mine in some strange way,and at the switch Williams got on the train to stop her and persuade herto return. He was terribly agitated. "Didn't you know Mart is sick?" hesaid, in a tone of reproach. It seemed as if a broad river of yearsflowed between herself and the girl who used to see this queer littleman enter her hotel door--but he was unchanged. "You can't do thisthing!" he went on, his lips trembling with emotion.

  "What thing?" she asked.

  "Fordyce tells me you're going to throw poor old Mart overboard."

  "That's my notion--I can't be his wife, and so I'm getting out," sheanswered.

  "But, girl, you can't do that!" and he swore in his excitement. "Martneeds you--we all need you. It'll kill him."

  "I can't help it!" she answered, with infinite weariness in throat andbrain. "I pass it up, and go back to my brother."

  "I don't see why."

  "Because I've no right to Mart's money."

  "You're crazy to think of such a thing. You a queen! Who's goin' tocatch the money when you drop it?" he asked, and helplessly added: "Idon't believe you. You're kiddin', you're tryin' us out."

  "I'm doing nothing to earn this luxury."

  "Doing nothing! My God, you've made Mart Haney over new. You'veconverted him--as they say, you've redeemed him. Let me tell yousomething, little sister, Mart worships you. It does him good just to_see_ you. You don't expect the moon to fry bacon, do you? Stars don'trun pumps! Mart is satisfied. Every time you speak to him or pass by himhe gets happy all the way through--I know, for I feel just the same."

  There was something in his eloquence that went to the heart of thedreaming girl. If any one in her world was to be trusted it was thisugly little man, who never presumed to ask even a smile for himself, andwhose unswerving loyalty to Mart made her own flight a base and cruelact; and yet even as he pleaded his face faded and she fancied herselfstepping from the train in Sibley, unnoticed by even the hackmen, whoused to bring the humbler passengers of each train to the door of theGolden Eagle Hotel.

  She walked up the sidewalk, surprised to find it changed to brick. Thehotel was gone, and in its place stood a saloon marked, "Haney's Place."This hardened her heart again. "That settles it!" she said, bitterly."He's gone back to his old business."

  The road out to the ranch seemed very long and hot, but she had nomoney, not a cent left with which to hire a carriage, and she keptsaying to herself: "If Mart knew this, he'd send Lucius and the machine.I reckon he'd be sorry to see me walking in this dust. It's a good thingI have my old brown dress on." She passed lovingly, regretfully over thesplendid gowns which hung in her wardrobe. "What will become of them?"she asked. "Fan can't wear them." This called up a vision of Fan and hereldest daughter, sweeping about in her splendor, her opera-cloak onlyhalf encompassing the mother, while the girl swished over the floor inthe gown she had worn at her last dinner in the East. She laughed andcried at the same time--it was painful to see them thus abused.

  Then she seemed suddenly to enter the grove of twisted, hag-like cedarswhich stood upon the mesa back of the ranch-house. "By-and-by I willlook like this," she dreamed, and laid her hand on one that was raggedand gnarled and gray with a thousand years of sun and wind, and even asshe stood there, with the old crones moaning round her, Ben suddenlyconfronted her.

  Her first impulse was for flight, so sad and bitter was his face. Shebegan to pity him. His boyhood seemed to have slipped from him like agay cloak, revealing the stern man beneath.

  He met her gravely, self-containedly, yet with restrained passion, andhis voice was sternly calm as he began: "I have come to ask you what youwish to do with Marshall Haney's inheritance? I will not be a party toyour action. I helped him plan out his will, and he said he could trustyou to do the right thing, and I have come to tell you that his willmust be yours."

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "He is dead!" he replied.

  Her heart turned to ice at the sound of his words, so clear, succinct,and piercing; then the cedars began to wail and wail, and sway ineldrich grief, but she who felt most remorse could not utter a sound toprove her own despair; and in the tumult her dream ended abruptly, andshe woke to hear the night wind whistling weirdly through the screen ofher open window.

  She lay in silence, shuddering with the subsiding terror of her vision,till she came to a full realization of the fact that it was all but anight terror and that Mart was still alive and her decision not yetirrevocably made.

  She shuddered again--not in grief, but in terror--as she relived thevivid hour of self-chosen poverty which her dream had brought her. Yes,the magic of wealth had spoiled her for Sibley and the ranch. To go backthere was impossible. "I will try the East," she said. "The Mosses willhelp me." And yet to return to Chicago--after having played the grandlady--would be bitterly hard. Suppose her friends should meet her withcold eyes and hesitating words? Suppose they, too, had loved her moneyand not herself? Suppose even Joe, who seemed as true as Williams,should prove to be a selfish sycophant. Ah yes, it would be a differentcity with the magic of Haney's money no longer hers to command.

  In this hour of deepest misery and despair the sheen of his goldreturned like sunlight after a storm; and yet, even as she permittedherself to imagine how sweetly the new day would dawn with herdetermination to remain the mistress of this g
reat house, the old fear,the new disgust, returned to plague her. Her love for Ben Fordyce camealso--and the knowledge that Alice was dying of a broken heart becauseof Ben's growing indifference--all these perplexities made the coming ofsunlight a mockery.

  She rose to the new day quite as undecided as before and more deeplysaddened. One thing was plain--Ben should come no more to visit her--forAlice's sake he must keep the impersonal attitude of the legal adviser.In that way alone could even the semblance of peace be won.