“Hello,” she said. “Jump in. You act as though you were glad to see me.”
“Glad! Lady, you’re a lifesaver. Relations are sort of strained this morning at the old homestead. You’ll find it hard to believe, but P. J. Madden doesn’t love me.”
She let in the clutch. “The man’s mad,” she laughed.
“I’ll say he’s mad. Ever eat breakfast with a rattlesnake that’s had bad news?”
“Not yet. The company at the Oasis is mixed, but not so mixed as that. Well, what do you think of the view this morning? Ever see such colouring before?”
“Never. And it’s not out of a drugstore, either.”
“I’m talking about the desert. Look at those snow-capped peaks.”
“Lovely. But, if you don’t mind, I prefer to look closer. No doubt he’s told you you’re beautiful.”
“Who?”
“Wilbur, your fiancé.”
“His name is Jack. Don’t jump on a good man when he’s down.”
“Of course he’s a good man, or you wouldn’t have picked him.” They ploughed along the sandy road. “But even so—look here, lady. Listen to a man of the world. Marriage is the last resort of feeble minds.”
“Think so?”
“I know it. Oh, I’ve given the matter some thought. I’ve had to. There’s my own case. Now and then I’ve met a girl whose eyes said, ‘Well, I might.’ But I’ve been cautious. Hold fast, my lad—that’s my motto.”
“And you’ve held fast?”
“You bet. Glad of it, too. I’m free. I’m having a swell time. When evening comes, and the air’s full of zip and zowie, and the lights flicker round Union Square, I just reach for my hat. And who says, in a gentle, patient voice: ‘Where are you going, my dear? I’ll go with you’?”
“Nobody.”
“Not a living soul. It’s grand. And you—your case is just like mine. Of course there are millions of girls who have nothing better to do than marriage. All right for them. But you—why—you’ve got a wonderful job. The desert, the hills, the canyons—and you’re willing to give all that up for a gas-range in the rear room of an apartment?”
“Perhaps we can afford a maid.”
“Lots of people can—but where to get one nowadays? I’m warning you—think it over well. You’re having a great time now—that will end with marriage. Mending Wilbur’s socks—”
“I tell you his name is Jack.”
“What of it? He’ll be just as hard on the socks. I hate to think of a girl like you, tied down somewhere—”
“There’s a lot in what you say,” Paula Wendell admitted.
“I’ve only scratched the surface,” Eden assured her.
The girl steered her car off the road through an open gate. Eden saw a huge, rambling ranch-house surrounded by a group of tiny cottages. “Here we are at Doctor Whitcomb’s,” remarked Paula Wendell. “Wonderful person, the doctor. I want you two to meet.”
She led the way through a screen-door into a large living-room, not so beautifully furnished as Madden’s, but bespeaking even greater comfort. A grey-haired woman was rocking contentedly near a window. Her face was kindly, her eyes calm and comforting. “Hello, doctor,” said the girl. “I’ve brought someone to call on you.”
The woman rose, and her smile seemed to fill the room. “Hello, young man,” she said, and took Bob Eden’s hand.
“You—you’re the doctor?” he stammered.
“Sure am,” the woman replied. “But you don’t need me. You’re all right.”
“So are you,” he answered. “I can see that.”
“Fifty-five years old,” returned the doctor, “but I can still get a kick out of that kind of talk from a nice young man. Sit down. The place is yours. Where are you staying?”
“I’m down the road at Madden’s.”
“Oh, yes—I heard he was here. Not much of a neighbour, this P. J. Madden. I’ve called on him occasionally, but he’s never come to see me. Standoffish—and that sort of thing doesn’t go in the desert. We’re all friends here.”
“You’ve been a friend to a good many,” said Paula Wendell.
“Why not?” shrugged Doctor Whitcomb. “What’s life for, if not to help one another? I’ve done my best—I only wish it had been more.”
Bob Eden felt suddenly humble in this woman’s presence.
“Come on—I’ll show you round my place,” invited the doctor. “I’ve made the desert bloom—put that on my tombstone. You should have seen this neighbourhood when I came. Just a rifle and a cat—that’s all I had at first. And the cat wouldn’t stay. My first house here I built with my own hands. Five miles to Eldorado—I walked in and back every day. Mr. Ford hadn’t been heard of then.”
She led the way into the yard, in and out among the little cottages. Tired faces brightened at her approach, weary eyes gleamed with sudden hope.
“They’ve come to her from all over the country,” Paula Wendell said. “Brokenhearted, sick, discouraged. And she’s given them new life—”
“Nonsense,” cried the doctor. “I’ve just been friendly. It’s a pretty hard world. Being friendly—that works wonders.”
In the doorway of one of the cottages they came upon Martin Thorn, deep in converse with Shaky Phil Maydorf. Even Maydorf mellowed during a few words with the doctor.
Finally, when they reluctantly left, Doctor Whitcomb followed them to the gate. “Come often,” she said. “You will, won’t you?”
“I hope to,” answered Bob Eden. He held her great rough hand a moment. “You know—I’m beginning to sense the beauty of the desert,” he added.
The doctor smiled. “The desert is old and weary and wise,” she said. “There’s beauty in that, if you can see it. Not everybody can. The latchstring’s always out at Doctor Whitcomb’s. Remember, boy.”
Paula Wendell swung the car about, and in silence they headed home.
“I feel as though I’d been out to old Aunt Mary’s,” said Eden presently. “I sort of expected her to give me a cookie when I left.”
“She’s a wonderful woman,” said the girl softly. “I ought to know. It was the light in her window I saw my first night on the desert. And the light in her eyes—I shall never forget. All the great people are not in the cities.”
They rode on. About them the desert blazed stark and empty in
