“Call up Hennessy and Mendenhall,” he told Blake, when, at ten, the latter gathered up his notes and rose to go. “You ought to catch them at the stallion barn. Tell them not to come this morning but to-morrow morning.”
Bonbright entered, prepared to shorthand Dick’s conversations with his managers for the next hour.
“And—oh, Mr. Blake,” Dick called. “Ask Hennessy about Alden Bessie.— The old mare3 was pretty bad last night,” he explained to Bonbright.
“Mr. Hanley must see you right away, Mr. Forrest,” Bonbright said, and added, at sight of the irritated drawing up of his employer’s brows, “It’s the piping from Buckeye Dam. Something’s wrong with the plans—a serious mistake, he says.”
Once, in the middle of a hot discussion over sheep-dips with Wardman, he left his desk and paced over to the window. The sound of voices and horses, and of Paula’s laugh, had attracted him.
“Take that Montana report—I’ll send you a copy to-day,” he continued, as he gazed out. “They found the formula didn’t get down to it. It was more a sedative5 than a germicide. There wasn’t enough kick in it...”
Four horses, bunched, crossed his field of vision. Paula, teasing the pair of them, was between Martinez and Froelig, old friends of Dick, a painter and sculptor6 respectively, who had arrived on an early train. Graham, on Selim, made the fourth, and was slightly edged toward the rear. So the party went by, but Dick reflected that quickly enough it would resolve itself into two and two.
Shortly after eleven, restless and moody7, he wandered out with a cigarette into the big patio8, where he smiled grim amusement at the various tell-tale signs of Paula’s neglect of her goldfish. The sight of them suggested her secret patio in whose fountain pools she kept her selected and more gorgeous blooms of fish. Thither9 he went, through doors without knobs, by ways known only to Paula and the servants.
This had been Dick’s one great gift to Paula. It was love-lavish as only a king of fortune could make it. He had given her a free hand with it, and insisted on her wildest extravagance; and it had been his delight to tease his quondam guardians10 with the stubs of the checkbook she had used. It bore no relation to the scheme and architecture of the Big House, and, for that matter, so deeply hidden was it that it played no part in jar of line or color. A show-place of show-places, it was not often shown. Outside Paula’s sisters and intimates, on rare occasions some artist was permitted to enter and catch his breath. Graham had heard of its existence, but not even him had she invited to see.
It was round, and small enough to escape giving any cold hint of spaciousness11. The Big House was of sturdy concrete, but here was marble in exquisite12 delicacy13. The arches of the encircling arcade14 were of fretted15 white marble that had taken on just enough tender green to prevent any glare of reflected light. Palest of pink roses bloomed up the pillars and over the low flat roof they upheld, where Puck-like, humorous, and happy faces took the place of grinning gargoyles16. Dick strolled the rosy17 marble pavement of the arcade and let the beauty of the place slowly steal in upon him and gentle his mood.
The heart and key of the fairy patio was the fountain, consisting of three related shallow basins at different levels, of white marble and delicate as shell. Over these basins rollicked and frolicked life-sized babies wrought18 from pink marble by no mean hand. Some peered over the edges into lower basins, one reached arms covetously19 toward the goldfish; one, on his back, laughed at the sky, another stood with dimpled legs apart stretching himself, others waded20, others were on the ground amongst the roses white and blush, but all were of the fountain and touched it at some point. So good was the color of the marble, so true had been the sculptor, that the illusion was of life. No cherubs21 these, but live warm human babies.
Dick regarded the rosy fellowship pleasantly and long, finishing his cigarette and retaining it dead in his hand. That was what she had needed, he mused—babies, children. It had been her passion. Had she realized it... He sighed, and, struck by a fresh thought, looked to her favorite seat with certitude that he would not see the customary sewing lying on it in a pretty heap. She did not sew these days.
He did not enter the tiny gallery behind the arcade, which contained her chosen paintings and etchings, and copies in marble and bronze of her favorites of the European galleries. Instead he went up the stairway, past the glorious Winged Victory on the landing where the staircase divided, and on and up into her quarters that occupied the entire upper wing. But first, pausing by the Victory, he turned and gazed down into the fairy patio. The thing was a cut jewel in its perfectness and color, and he acknowledged, although he had made it possible for her, that it was entirely22 her own creation—her one masterpiece. It had long been her dream, and he had realized it for her. And yet now, he meditated23, it meant nothing to her. She was not mercenary, that he knew; and if he could not hold her, mere24 baubles25 such as that would weigh nothing in the balance against her heart.
He wandered idly through her rooms, scarcely noting at what he gazed, but gazing with fondness at it all. Like everything else of hers, it was distinctive26, different, eloquent27 of her. But when he glanced into the bathroom with its sunken Roman bath, for the life of him he was unable to avoid seeing a tiny drip and making a mental note for the ranch plumber28.
As a matter of course, he looked to her easel with the expectation of finding no new work, but was disappointed; for a portrait of himself confronted him. He knew her trick of copying the pose and lines from a photograph and filling in from memory. The particular photograph she was using had been a fortunate snapshop of him on horseback. The Outlaw30, for once and for a moment, had been at peace, and Dick, hat in hand, hair just nicely rumpled31, face in repose32, unaware33 of the impending34 snap, had at the instant looked squarely into the camera. No portrait photographer could have caught a better likeness35. The head and shoulders Paula had had enlarged, and it was from this that she was working. But the portrait had already gone beyond the photograph, for Dick could see her own touches.
With a start he looked more closely. Was that expression of the eyes, of the whole face, his? He glanced at the photograph. It was not there. He walked over to one of the mirrors, relaxed his face, and led his thoughts to Paula and Graham. Slowly the expression came into his eyes and face. Not content, he returned to the easel and verified it. Paula knew. Paula knew that he knew. She had learned it from him, stolen it from him some time when it was unwittingly on his face, and carried it in her memory to the canvas.
Paula’s Chinese maid, Oh Dear, entered from the wardrobe room, and Dick watched her unobserved as she came down the room toward him. Her eyes were down, and she seemed deep in thought. Dick remarked the sadness of her face, and that the little, solicitous36 contraction37 of the brows that had led to her naming was gone. She was not solicitous, that was patent. But cast down, she was, in heavy depression.
It would seem that all our faces are beginning to say things, he commented to himself.
“Good morning, Oh Dear,” he startled her.
And as she returned the greeting, he saw compassion38 in her eyes as they dwelt on him. She knew. The first outside themselves. Trust her, a woman, so much in Paula’s company when Paula was alone, to divine Paula’s secret.
Oh Dear’s lips trembled, and she wrung39 her trembling hands, nerving herself, as he could see, to speech.
“Mister Forrest,” she began haltingly, “maybe you think me fool, but I like say something. You very kind man. You very kind my old mother. You very kind me long long time...”
She hesitated, moistening her frightened lips with her tongue, then braved her eyes to his and proceeded.
“Mrs. Forrest, she, I think...”
But so forbidding did Dick’s face become that she broke off in confusion and blushed, as Dick surmised40, with shame at the thoughts she had been about to utter.
“Very nice picture Mrs. Forrest make,” he put her at her ease.
The Chinese girl sighed, and the same compassion returned into her eyes as she looked long at Dick’s portrait.
She sighed again, but the coldness in her voice was not lost on Dick as she answered: “Yes, very nice picture Mrs. Forrest make.”
She looked at him with sudden sharp scrutiny41, studying his face, then turned to the canvas and pointed29 at the eyes.
Her voice was harsh, touched with anger.
“No good,” she flung over her shoulder, more loudly, still more harshly, as she continued down the room and out of sight on Paula’s sleeping porch.
Dick stiffened43 his shoulders, unconsciously bracing44 himself to face what was now soon to happen. Well, it was the beginning of the end. Oh Dear knew. Soon more would know, all would know. And in a way he was glad of it, glad that the torment45 of suspense46 would endure but little longer.
But when he started to leave he whistled a merry jingle47 to advertise to Oh Dear that the world wagged very well with him so far as he knew anything about it.
The same afternoon, while Dick was out and away with Froelig and Martinez and Graham, Paula stole a pilgrimage to Dick’s quarters. Out on his sleeping porch she looked over his rows of press buttons, his switchboard that from his bed connected him with every part of the ranch and most of the rest of California, his phonograph on the hinged and swinging bracket, the orderly array of books and magazines and agricultural bulletins waiting to be read, the ash tray, cigarettes, scribble49 pads, and thermos50 bottle.
Her photograph, the only picture on the porch, held her attention. It hung under his barometers51 and thermometers, which, she knew, was where he looked oftenest. A fancy came to her, and she turned the laughing face to the wall and glanced from the blankness of the back of the frame to the bed and back again. With a quick panic movement, she turned the laughing face out. It belonged, was her thought; it did belong.
The big automatic pistol in the holster on the wall, handy to one’s hand from the bed, caught her eye. She reached to it and lifted gently at the butt48. It was as she had expected—loose—Dick’s way. Trust him, no matter how long unused, never to let a pistol freeze in its holster.
Back in the work room she wandered solemnly about, glancing now at the prodigious52 filing system, at the chart and blue-print cabinets, at the revolving53 shelves of reference books, and at the long rows of stoutly54 bound herd55 registers. At last she came to his books—a goodly row of pamphlets, bound magazine articles, and an even dozen ambitious tomes. She read the titles painstakingly56: “Corn in California,” “Silage Practice,” “Farm Organization,” “Farm Book-keeping,” “The Shire in America,” “Humus Destruction,” “Soilage,” “Alfalfa in California,” “Cover Crops for California,” “The Shorthorn in America"—at this last she smiled affectionately with memory of the great controversy57 he had waged for the beef cow and the milch cow as against the dual58 purpose cow.
She caressed59, the backs of the books with her palm, pressed her cheek against them and leaned with closed eyes. Oh, Dick, Dick—a thought began that faded to a vagueness of sorrow and died because she did not dare to think it.
The desk was so typically Dick. There was no litter. Clean it was of all work save the wire tray with typed letters waiting his signature and an unusual pile of the flat yellow sheets on which his secretaries typed the telegrams relayed by telephone from Eldorado. Carelessly she ran her eyes over the opening lines of the uppermost sheet and chanced upon a reference that puzzled and interested her. She read closely, with in-drawn brows, then went deeper into the heap till she found confirmation60. Jeremy Braxton was dead—big, genial61, kindly62 Jeremy Braxton. A Mexican mob of pulque-crazed peons had killed him in the mountains through which he had been trying to escape from the Harvest into Arizona. The date of the telegram was two days old. Dick had known it for two days and never worried her with it. And it meant more. It meant money. It meant that the affairs of the Harvest Group were going from bad to worse. And it was Dick’s way.
And Jeremy was dead. The room seemed suddenly to have grown cold. She shivered. It was the way of life—death always at the end of the road. And her own nameless dread63 came back upon her. Doom64 lay ahead. Doom for whom? She did not attempt to guess. Sufficient that it was doom. Her mind was heavy with it, and the quiet room was heavy with it as she passed slowly out.
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1
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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10
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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11
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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13
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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14
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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15
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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17
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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18
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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covetously
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| adv.妄想地，贪心地 | |
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20
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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22
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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23
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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24
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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25
baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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26
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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27
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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31
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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35
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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36
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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37
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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38
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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39
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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40
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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41
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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42
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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43
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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44
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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45
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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46
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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47
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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48
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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49
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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50
thermos
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| n.保湿瓶，热水瓶 | |
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51
barometers
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| 气压计，晴雨表( barometer的名词复数 ) | |
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52
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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53
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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54
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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55
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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56
painstakingly
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| adv. 费力地 苦心地 | |
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57
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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58
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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59
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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61
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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62
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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63
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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64
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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