CHAPTER X
"AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS
It was almost dark when Jacky returned to the ranch. She had left "Lord"Bill at the brink of the great keg, whence he had returned to his ownplace. Her first thought, on entering the house, was for the letterwhich she had left for her uncle. It was gone. She glanced round theroom uncertainly. Then she stood gazing into the stove, while she idlydrummed with her gauntleted fingers upon the back of a chair. She had asyet removed neither her Stetson hat nor her gauntlets.
Her strong, dark face was unusually varying in its expression. Possiblyher thoughts were thus indexed. Now, as she stood watching the play ofthe fire, her great, deep eyes would darken with a grave, almost anxiousexpression; again they would smile with a world of untold happiness intheir depths. Again they would change, in a flash, to a hard, cold gleamof hatred and unyielding purpose; then slowly, a tender expression, suchas that of a mother for Her new-born babe, would creep into them andshine down into the depths of the fire with a world of sweet sympathy.But through all there was a tight compression of the lips, which spokeof the earnest purpose which governed her thoughts; a slight pucker ofthe brows, which surely told of a great concentration of mind.
Presently she roused herself, and, walking to where a table-bell stood,rang sharply upon it. Her summons was almost immediately answered by theentry of a servant.
Jacky turned as the door opened, and fired an abrupt question.
"Has Uncle John been in, Mamie?"
The girl's face had resumed its usual strong, kindly expression.Whatever was hidden behind that calm exterior, she had no intention ofgiving a chance observer any clew to it.
"No, miss," the servant replied, in that awestruck tone which domesticsare apt to use when sharply interrogated. She was an intelligent-lookinggirl. Her dark skin and coarse black hair pronounced her a half-breed.Her mistress had said "blood is thicker than water." All the domesticsunder Jacky's charge hailed from the half-breed camp.
"Was my message delivered to him?"
Unconcernedly as she spoke she waited with some anxiety for the answer.
"Oh, yes, miss. Silas delivered it himself. The master was in companywith Mr. Lablache and the doctor, miss," added the girl, discreetly.
"And what did he say?"
"He sent Silas for the letter, miss."
"He didn't say what time he would return, I suppose?"
"No, miss--" She hesitated and fumbled at the door handle.
"Well?" as the girl showed by her attitude that there was something shehad left unsaid.
Jacky's question rang acutely in the quiet room.
"Silas--" began the girl, with a deprecating air of unbelief--"you knowwhat strange notions he takes--he said--"
The girl stopped in confusion under the steady gaze of her mistress.
"Speak up, girl," exclaimed Jacky, impatiently. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing, miss," the girl blurted out desperately. "Only Silas saidas the master didn't seem well like."
"Ah! That will do." Then, as the girl still stood at the door, "You cango."
The dismissal was peremptory, and the half-breed had no choice but todepart. She had hoped to have heard something interesting, but hermistress was never given to being communicative with servants.
When the door had closed behind the half-breed Jacky turned againtowards the stove. Again she was plunged in deep thought. This timethere could be no mistake as to its tenor. Her heart was racked with ananxiety which was not altogether new to it. The sweet face was pale andher eyelids flickered ominously. The servant's veiled meaning was quiteplain to her. Brave, hardy as this girl of the prairie was, the fearthat was ever in her heart had suddenly assumed the proportions of acrushing reality. She loved her uncle with an affection that was almostmaternal. It was the love of a strong, resolute nature for one of akindly but weak disposition. She loved the gray-headed old man, whoseaffection had made her life one long, long day of happiness, with atenderness which no recently-acquired faults of his could alienate.He--and now another--was her world. A world in which it was her joy todwell. And now--now; what of the present? Racked by losses brought aboutthrough the agency of his all-absorbing passion, the weak old man wasslowly but surely taking to drowning his consciousness of the appallingcalamity which he had consistently set to work to bring about, and whichin his lucid moments he saw looming heavily over his house, in drink.She had watched him with the never-failing eye of love, and had seen, toher horror, the signs she so dreaded. She could face disaster stoically,she could face danger unflinchingly, but this moral wrecking of the oldman, who had been more to her than a father, was more than she couldbear. Two great tears welled up into her beautiful, somber eyes andslowly rolled down her cheeks. She bowed like a willow bending to theforce of the storm.
Her weakness was only momentary, however; her courage, bred from thewildness of her life surroundings, rose superior to her feminineweakness. She dashed her gloved hands across her eyes and wiped thetears away. She felt that she must be doing--not weeping. Had not shesealed a solemn compact with her lover? She must to work without delay.
She glanced round the room. Her gaze was that of one who wishes toreassure herself. It was as if the old life had gone from her and shewas about to embark on a career new--foreign to her. A career in whichshe could see no future--only the present. She felt like one taking along farewell to a life which had been fraught with nothing but delight.The expression of her face told of the pain of the parting. With a heavysigh she passed out of the room--out into the chill night air, whereeven the welcome sounds of the croaking frogs and the lowing cattle werenot. Where nothing was to cheer her for the work which in the futuremust be hers. Something of that solemn night entered her soul. The gloomof disaster was upon her.
It was only a short distance to Dr. Abbot's house. The darkness of thenight was no hindrance to the girl. Hither she made her way with thelight, springing step of one whose mind is made up to a definitepurpose.
She found Mrs. Abbot in. The little sitting-room in the doctor's housewas delightfully homelike and comfortable. There was nothing pretentiousabout it--just solid comfort. And the great radiating stove in thecenter of it smelt invitingly warm to the girl as she came in out of theraw night air. Mrs. Abbot was alternating between a basket of sewing anda well-worn, cheap-edition novel. The old lady was waiting withpatience, the outcome of experience, for the return of her lord to hissupper.
"Well, 'Aunt' Margaret," said Jacky, entering with the confidence of anassured welcome, "I've come over for a good gossip. There's nobody athome--up there," with a nod in the direction of the ranch.
"My dear child, I'm so pleased," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, coming forwardfrom her rather rigid seat, and kissing the girl on both cheeks withold-fashioned cordiality. "Come and sit by the stove--yes, take thathideous hat off, which, by the way, I never could understand yourwearing. Now, when John and I were first en--"
"Yes, yes, dear. I know what you're going to say," interrupted the girl,smiling in spite of the dull aching at her heart. She knew how thissweet old lady lived in the past, and she also knew how, to asympathetic ear, she loved to pour out the delights of memory from aheart overflowing with a strong affection for the man of her choice.Jacky had come here to talk of other matters, and she knew that when"Aunt" Margaret liked she could be very shrewd and practical.
Something in the half-wistful smile of her companion brought the oldlady quickly back from the realms of recollection, and a pair of keen,kindly eyes met the steady gray-black orbs of the girl.
"Ah, Jacky, my child, we of the frivolous sex are always being forcedinto considering the mundane matters of everyday life here at FossRiver. What is it, dear? I can see by your face that you are worryingover something."
The girl threw herself into an easy chair, drawn up to the glowing stovewith careful forethought by the old lady. Mrs. Abbot reseated herself inthe straight-backed chair she usually affected. She carefully put herbook on one side and took up some darning,
assiduously inserting theneedle but without further attempt at work. It was something to fix herattention on whilst talking. Old Mrs. Abbot always liked to be able tooccupy her hands when talking seriously. And Jacky's face told her thatthis was a moment for serious conversation.
"Where's the Doc?" the girl asked without preamble. She knew, of course,but she used the question by way of making a beginning.
The old lady imperceptibly straightened her back. She now anticipatedthe reason of her companion's coming. She glanced over the top of a pairof gold _pince-nez_, which she had just settled comfortably upon thebridge of her pretty, broad nose.
"He's down at the saloon playing poker. Why, dear?"
Her question was so innocent, but Jacky was not for a moment deceived byits tone. The girl smiled plaintively into the fire. There was nonecessity for her to disguise her feelings before "Aunt" Margaret, sheknew. But her loyal nature shrank from flaunting her uncle's weaknessesbefore even this kindly soul. She kept her fencing attitude a littlelonger, however.
"Who is he playing with?" Jacky raised a pair of inquiring gray eyes toher companion's face.
"Your uncle and--Lablache."
The shrewd old eyes watched the girl's face keenly. But Jacky gave nosign.
"Will you send for him, 'Aunt' Margaret?" said the girl, quietly."Without letting him know that I am here," she added, as anafterthought.
"Certainly, dear," the old lady replied, rising with alacrity. "Justwait a moment while I send word. Keewis hasn't gone to his teepee yet. Iset him to clean some knives just now. He can go. These Indians arebetter messengers than they are domestics." Mrs. Abbot bustled out ofthe room.
She returned a moment later, and, drawing her chair beside that of thegirl, seated herself and rested one soft white hand on those of hercompanion, which were reposing clasped in the lap of her dungaree skirt.
"Now, tell me, dear--tell me all about it--I know, it is your uncle."
The sympathy of her tone could never have been conveyed in mere words.This woman's heart expressed its kindliness in voice and eyes. There wasno resisting her, and Jacky made no effort to do so.
For one instant there flashed into the girl's face a look of utterdistress. She had come purposely to talk plainly to the woman whom shehad lovingly dubbed "Aunt Margaret," but she found it very hard when itcame to the point, She cast about in her mind for a beginning, thenabandoned the quest and blurted out lamely the very thing from which shemost shrank.
"Say, auntie, you've observed uncle lately--I mean how strange he is?You've noticed how often, now, he is--is not himself?"
"Whisky," said the old lady, uncompromisingly. "Yes, dear, I have. It isquite the usual thing to smell' old man Smith's vile liquor when JohnAllandale is about. I'm glad you've spoken. I did not like to sayanything to you about it. John's on a bad trail."
"Yes, and a trail with a long, downhill gradient," replied Jacky, with arueful little smile. "Say, aunt," she went on, springing suddenly to herfeet and confronting the old lady's mildly-astonished gaze, "isn't thereanything we can do to stop him? What is it? This poker and whisky areruining him body and soul. Is the whisky the result of his losses? Or isthe madness for a gamble the result of the liquor?"
"Neither the one--nor the other, my dear. It is--Lablache."
The older woman bent over her darning, and the needle passed, rippling,round a "potato" in the sock which was in her lap. Her eyes werestudiously fixed upon the work.
"Lablache--Lablache! It is always Lablache, whichever way I turn.Gee--but the whole country reeks of him. I tell you right here, aunt,that man's worse than scurvy in our ranching world. Everybody andeverything in Foss River seems to be in his grip."
"Excepting a certain young woman who refuses to be ensnared."
The words were spoken quite casually. But Jacky started. Their meaningwas driven straight home. She looked down upon the bent, gray head as iftrying to penetrate to the thought that was passing within. There was amoment's impressive silence. The clock ticked loudly in the silence ofthe room. A light wind was whistling rather shrilly outside, round theangles of the house.
"Go on, auntie," said the girl, slowly. "You haven't said enough--yet. Iguess you're thinking mighty--deeply."
Mrs. Abbot looked up from her work. She was smiling, but behind thatsmile there was a strange gravity in the expression of her eyes.
"There is nothing more to say at present." Then she added, in a tonefrom which all seriousness had vanished, "Hasn't Lablache ever asked youto marry him?"
A light was beginning to dawn upon the girl.
"Yes--why?"
"I thought so." It was now Mrs. Abbot's turn to rise and confront hercompanion. And she did so with the calm manner of one who is assuredthat what she is about to say cannot be refuted. Her kindly face hadlost nothing of its sweet expression, only there was something in itwhich seemed to be asking a mute question, whilst her words conveyed thestatement of a case as she knew it. "You dear, foolish people. Can younot see what is going on before your very eyes, or must a stupid oldwoman like myself explain what is patent to the veriest fool in thesettlement? Lablache is the source of your uncle's trouble, and,incidentally, you are the incentive. I have watched--I have little elseto do in Foss River--you all for years past, and there is little that Icould not tell you about any of you, as far as the world sees you.Lablache has been a source of a world of thought to me. The businessside of him is patent to everybody. He is hard, flinty, tyrannical--evenunscrupulous. I am telling you nothing new, I know. But there is anotherside to his character which some of you seem to ignore. He is capable ofstrong passions--ay, very strong passions. He has conceived a passionfor you. I will call it by no other name in such an unholy brute asLablache. He wishes to marry _you--he means to marry you_."
The silver-haired old lady had worked herself up to an unusualvehemence. She paused after accentuating her last words. Jacky, takingadvantage of the break, dropped in a question.
"But--how does this affect my uncle?"
"Aunt" Margaret sniffed disdainfully and resettled the glasses which, inthe agitation of the moment, had slipped from her nose.
"Of course it affects your uncle," she continued more quietly. "Nowlisten and I will explain." Once more these two seated themselves and"Aunt" Margaret again plunged into her story.
"Sometimes I catch myself speculating as to how it comes about that youhave inspired this passion in such a man as Lablache," she began,glancing into the somberly beautiful face beside her. "I should haveexpected that mass of flesh and money--he always reminds me of ajelly-fish, my dear--ugh!--to have wished to take to himself one of yourgaudy butterflies from New York or London for a wife; not a simple childof the prairie who is more than half a wild--wild savage." She smiledlovingly into the girl's face. "You see these coarse money-grubbersalways prefer their pills well gilded, and, as a rule, their matrimonialpills need a lot of gilding to bring them up to the standard of whatthey think a wife should be. However, it was not long before it becameplain to me that he wished to marry you. He may be a master of finance;he may disguise his feelings--if he has any--in business, so that theshrewdest observer can discover no vulnerable point in his armor ofdissimulation. But when it comes to matters pertainingto--to--love--quite the wrong word in his case, my dear--these men areas babes; worse, they are fools. When Lablache makes up his mind to apurpose he generally accomplishes his end--"
"In business," suggested Jacky, moodily.
"Just so--in business, my dear. In matters matrimonial it may bedifferent. But I doubt his failure in that," went on Mrs. Abbot, with adecided snap of her expressive mouth. "He will try by fair means orfoul, and, if I know anything of him, he will never relinquish hispurpose. He asked you to marry him--and of course you refused, quitenatural and right. He will not risk another refusal from you--thesepeople consider themselves very sensitive, my dear--so he will attemptto accomplish his end by other means--means much more congenial to him,the--the beast. There now, I've said it, my dear. The doc
tor tells methat he is quite the most skilful player at poker that he has ever comeacross."
"I guess that's so," said the girl, with a dark, ironical smile.
"And that his luck is phenomenal," the old lady went on, withoutappearing to notice the interruption. "Very well. Your uncle, the oldfool--excuse me, my dear--has done nothing but gamble all his life. Thedoctor says that he believes John has never been known to win more thanabout once in a month's play, no matter with whom he plays. You know--weall know--that for years he has been in the habit of raising loans fromthis monumental cuttle-fish to settle his losses. And you can trust thatindividual to see that these loans are well secured. John Allandale isreputed very rich, but the doctor assures me that were Lablache toforeclose his mortgages a very, very big slice of your uncle's worldlygoods would be taken to meet his debts.
"Now comes the last stage of the affair," she went on, with a sagelittle shake of the head. "How long ago is it since Lablache proposed toyou? But there, you need not tell me. It was a little less than a yearago--wasn't it?"
Her companion nodded her head. She wondered how "Aunt" Margaret hadguessed it. She had never told a soul herself. The shrewd little oldlady was filling her with wonder. The careful manner in which she hadpieced facts together and argued them out with herself revealed to hera cleverness and observation she would never, in spite of the kindlysoul's counsels, have given her credit for.
"Yes, I knew I was right," said Mrs. Abbot, complacently. "Just aboutthe time when Lablache began seriously to play poker--about the timewhen his phenomenal luck set in, to the detriment of your uncle. Yes, Iam well posted," as the girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Thedoctor tells me a great deal--especially about your uncle, dear. Ialways like to know what is going on. And now to bring my longexplanation to an end. Don't you see how Lablache intends to marry you?Your uncle's losses this winter have been so terribly heavy--and all toLablache. Lablache holds the whip hand of him. A request from Lablachebecomes a command--or the crash."
"But how about the Doc," asked Jacky, quickly. "He plays withthem--mostly?"
Mrs. Abbot shrugged her shoulders.
"The doctor can take care of himself. He's cautious, andbesides--Lablache has no wish to win his money."
"But surely he must lose? Say, auntie, dear, it's not possible to playagainst Lablache's luck without losing--some."
"Well, dear, I can't say I know much of the game," with some perplexity,"but the doctor assures me that Lablache never hits him hard. Often andoften when the 'pot' rests between them Lablache will throw down hishand--which goes to show that he does not want to take his money."
"An' I reckon goes to show that he's bucking dead against Uncle John,only. Yes, I see."
The little gray head again bent over the darning, which had lain almostuntouched in her lap during her long recital. Now she resolutely drewthe darning yarn through the soft wool of the sock and re-inserted theneedle. The girl beside her bent an eager face before her, and, restingher chin upon her hands, propped her elbows on her knees.
"Yes, auntie, I know," Jacky went on thoughtfully. "Lablache means toput this marriage with me right through. I see it all. But say,"bringing one of her brown hands down forcibly upon that of hercompanion, which was concealed in the foot of the woolen sock, andgripping it with nervous strength, "I guess he's reckoned without hisbride. I'm not going to marry Lablache, auntie, dear, and you can betyour bottom dollar I'm not going to let him ruin uncle. All I want to dois to stop uncle drinking. That is what scares me most."
"My child, Lablache is the cause of that. The same as he is the cause ofall troubles in Foss River. Your uncle realizes the consequences of theterrible losses he has incurred. He knows, only too well, that he isutterly in the money-lender's power. He knows he must go on playing,vainly endeavoring to recover himself, and with each fresh loss hedrinks deeper to smother his fears and conscience. It is the result ofthe weakness of his nature--a weakness which I have always known wouldsooner or later lead to his undoing. Jacky, girl, I fear you will oneday have to marry Lablache or your uncle's ruin will be certainlyaccomplished."
Mrs. Abbot's face was very serious now. She pitied from the bottom ofher heart this motherless girl who had come to her, in spite of hercourage and almost mannish independence, for that sympathy and advicewhich, at certain moments, the strongest woman cannot do without. Sheknew that all she had said was right, and even if her story could do nomaterial good it would at least have the effect of putting the girl onher guard. In spite of her shrewdness Mrs. Abbot could never quitefathom her _protegee_. And even now, as she gazed into the girl's face,she was wondering how--in what manner--the narration of her ownobservations would influence the other's future actions. The thick bloodof the half-breed slowly rose into Jacky's face, until the dark skin wassuffused with a heavy, passionate flush. Slowly, too, the somber eyeslit--glowed--until the dazzling fire of anger shone in their depths.Then she spoke; not passionately, but with a hard, cruel delivery whichsent a shiver thrilling through her companion's body and left hershuddering.
"'Aunt' Margaret, I swear by all that's holy that I'll never marry thatscum. Say, I'd rather follow a round-up camp and share a greaser'sblankets than wear all the diamonds Lablache could buy. An' as foruncle; say, the day that sees him ruined'll see Lablache's filthy brainsspoiling God's pure air."
"Child, child," replied the old lady, in alarm, "don't take oaths, therashness--the folly of which you cannot comprehend. For goodness' sakedon't entertain such wicked thoughts. Lablache is a villain, but--"
She broke off and turned towards the door, which, at that moment, openedto admit the genial doctor.
"Ah," she went on, with a sudden change of manner back to that of herusual cheerful self, "I thought you men were going to make a night ofit. Jacky came to share my solitude."
"Good evening, Jacky," said the doctor. "Yes, we were going to make anight of it, Margaret. Your summons broke up the party, and for John'ssake--" He checked himself, and glanced curiously at the recurrent formof the girl, who was now lounging back in her chair gazing into thestove. "What did you want me for?"
Jacky rose abruptly from her seat and picked up her hat.
"'Aunt' Margaret didn't really want you, Doc. It was I who asked her tosend for you. I want to see uncle."
"Ah!"
The doctor permitted himself the ejaculation.
"Good-night, you two dear people," the girl went on, with a forcedattempt at cheerfulness. "I guess uncle'll be home by now, so I'll beoff."
"Yes, he left the saloon with me," said Doctor Abbot, shaking hands andwalking towards the door. "You'll just about catch him."
The girl kissed the old lady and passed out. The doctor stood for amoment on his doorstep gazing after her.
"Poor child--poor child!" he murmured. "Yes, she'll find him--I saw himhome myself," And he broke off with an expressive shrug.
The Story of the Foss River Ranch: A Tale of the Northwest Page 10
