Cupids Understudy

CUPID'S UNDERSTUDY
by Edward Salisbury Field
Chapter One
If Dad had been a coal baron, like Mr. Tudor Carstairs, or a stock-
watering captain of industry, like Mrs. Sanderson-Spear's husband, or
descended from a long line of whisky distillers, like Mrs. Carmichael
Porter, why, then his little Elizabeth would have been allowed the to sit
in seat of the scornful with the rest of the Four Hundred, and this story
would never have been written. But Dad wasn't any of these things; he
was just an old love who had made seven million dollars by the luckiest
fluke in the world.
Everybody in southern California knew it was a fluke, too, so the seven
millions came in for all the respect that would otherwise have fallen to
Dad. Of course we were celebrities, in a way, but in a very horrid way.
Dad was Old Tom Middleton, who used to keep a livery-stable in San
Bernardino, and I was Old Tom Middleton's girl, "who actually used to
live over a livery-stable, my dear!" It sounds fearfully sordid, doesn't
it?
But it wasn't sordid, really, for I never actually lived over a stable.
Indeed, we had the sweetest cottage in all San Bernardino. I remember
it so well: the long, cool porch, the wonderful gold-of- Ophir roses, the
honeysuckle where the linnets nested, the mocking birds that sang all
night long; the perfume of the jasmine, of the orange-blossoms, the
pink flame of the peach trees in April, the ever-changing color of the
mountains. And I remember Ninette, my little Creole mother, gay as a
butterfly, carefree as a meadow-lark. 'Twas she who planted the
jasmine.
My little mother died when I was seven years old. Dad and I and my
old black mammy, Rachel, stayed on in the cottage. The mocking-birds

still sang, and the linnets still nested in the honeysuckle, but nothing
was ever quite the same again. It was like a different world; it was a
different world. There were gold-of-Ophir roses, and, peach blossoms
in April, but there was no more jasmine; Dad had it all dug up. To this
day he turns pale at the sight of it--poor Dad!
When I was twelve years old, Dad sold out his hardware business,
intending to put his money in an orange grove at Riverside, but the
nicest livery-stable in San Bernardino happened to be for sale just then,
so he bought that instead, for he was always crazy about horses.
To see me trotting about in Paquin gowns and Doucet models, you'd
never think I owed them to three owlish little burros, would you? But
it's a fact. When Dad took over the livery-stable, he found he was the
proud possessor of three donkeys, as well as some twenty-odd horses,
and a dozen or so buggies, buckboards and surries. The burros ate their
solemn heads off all winter, but in May it had been the custom to send
them to Strawberry Valley in charge of a Mexican who hired them out
to the boarders at the summer hotel there. Luckily for us, when Fortune
came stalking down the main street of San Bernardino to knock at the
door of the Golden Eagle Stables, both dad and the burros were at
home. If either had been out, we might be poor this very minute.
It is generally understood that when Fortune goes a-visiting, she goes
disguised, so it's small wonder Dad didn't recognize her at first. She
wasn't even a "her"; she was a he, a great, awkward Swede with
mouse-colored hair and a Yon Yonsen accent--you know the kind--
slow to anger; slow to everything, without "j" in his alphabet--by the
name of Olaf Knutsen.
Now Olaf was a dreamer. Not the conventional sort of a dreamer, who
sees beauty in everything but an honest day's work, but a brawny,
pick-swinging dreamer who had dug holes in the ground at the end of
many rainbows. That he had never yet uncovered the elusive pot of
gold didn't seem to bother him in the least; for him, that tender plant
called Hope flowered perennially. And now he was bent on following
another rainbow; a rainbow which; arching over the mountains, ended
in that arid, pitiless waste known in the south country as Death Valley.

He wouldn't fail this time. No, by Yimminy! With Dad's three burros,
and plenty of bacon and beans and water--it was to be a grub-stake, of
course--he would make both their fortunes. And the beautiful part about
it was, he did.
No doubt you have heard of the famous Golden Eagle mine. Well,
that's what Olaf and the three burros found in Death Valley. Good old
Olaf! He named the mine after Dad's livery-stable in San Bernardino,
and he insisted on keeping only a half interest, even