When the last thing was done that required her personal attention, Kate went to a nearby hotel recommended by one of the employees of the stockyard. It was third-rate and shabby, unpretentious even in its prime, but it looked imposing to Kate, who never had seen anything better than the Prouty House.
The loose tiling clacked as she walked across the office to the clerk’s desk. That person eyed her dubiously as she laid the flour sack containing her belongings on the counter and registered. He saw in Kate only a woman peculiarly dressed, with a tanned and not too clean face, dishevelled hair, weary-eyed, and alone at a late hour. He missed altogether the indefinable atmosphere of character and substantiality which a more discerning and experienced person would have recognized at once.
“Baggage?” curtly, as she returned him the pen.
She indicated the grimy flour sack.
A supercilious eyebrow went up.
“You’ll have to pay in advance. Six bits.”
Kate reddened.
“Is that customary, or because you don’t like my looks?”
Taking umbrage at the asperity of her tone, he replied impudently:
“Well—I don’t know you from a crow, do I?”
Kate’s eyes flashed.
“You will before I leave Omaha.”
He laughed incredulously as he took a key from the rack.
Kate followed him up the dirty stairway through a dingy hall to a still dingier room in the back of the house. Long and narrow, it looked like a kalsomined cave illumined by a lightning bug in a bottle when he turned the electric switch. She was too tired, however, to be critical and in her utter weariness lost consciousness as soon as her head touched the pillow and slept dreamlessly until the dawn came feebly through the coarse lace curtain that, stiff and gray with dust, hung at the one window of the room.
She rubbed her eyes and looked in bewilderment at the unfamiliar surroundings. Then she remembered, and the trip with all its attendant circumstances came back. She speculated as to the probable amount the sheep had shrunken on the way, how they would compare with other consignments in the yards, whether the market conditions were favorable or otherwise, what the commission agents whom she had known through correspondence for many years would be like.
Her experience with the night clerk came to mind and her frown at the recollection of his insolence changed to a puzzled look as she thought of her retort. Whatever had prompted her to make the empty boast that he would know her before she left Omaha? It was as unlike her as anything she could imagine, but it had seemed to say itself.
She had a subconscious feeling that there was still something else of which she wished to think before getting up, and as she searched her mind it flashed upon her—the stranger who had bumped into her in the dark. Of course, that was it! She heard his pleasant voice plainly and saw his face with great distinctness as revealed by the brakeman’s light. While she recalled his features individually—his eyes, his mouth, his chin, and the meaning they conveyed, his manner with its mixture of friendliness and reserve, she mechanically rubbed her forehead with her finger tips as though the action might assist in catching some elusive memory that was just beyond her reach. Her brows knit in perplexity and she murmured finally:
“He didn’t seem a stranger, somehow—and yet—he was, of course. It would not be possible for me ever to forget a man like that. It seemed as if—” there was bewilderment in her face as she laid her hand upon her heart—“as if, somehow, I knew him here.”
Kate’s belief that no better sheep of their class than hers would be found in the stockyards was justified by subsequent events. Her shipment not only “topped the market,” but she received for her yearling lambs fourteen dollars and sixty-five cents a head—the highest paid since the Civil War. This high rate was due not only to European disturbances, but to the quality and condition of the sheep; and, therefore, apart from the attention which she naturally would have attracted, she was, as the owner, an object of interest in the yards as well as in the stock exchange offices and the bank.
Basking in the reflected sunshine of his employer’s success, Bowers came as near strutting as was possible for one of his retiring temperament.
Kate was finding a new experience in her meeting with the members of the firm to which she had consigned her sheep, and others with whom her business brought her in contact about the crowded Exchange. These prosperous, clean-cut men, alert, incisive of speech and thought, were an unfamiliar type. Their undisguised approbation, their respect, their eagerness to be kind brought a new sensation to Kate, who had grown up and lived in an atmosphere of prejudice. There were moments when the tears were absurdly close to her eyes.
Aside from the circumstances which in any event would have attracted more than a little attention to Kate, the extent of the recognition and the courtesy extended to her was a personal triumph. Her simplicity and good sense, her reserve, together with a kind of timid, questioning friendliness, her unconsciousness of being in any way unusual, made her an instantaneous and complete success with those she met the following day, and a celebrity in the yards.
Her business was finished within a few hours and when she made her adieu, Kate looked for Bowers to tell him that she was leaving for Prouty on a night train, presuming that he would wish to do likewise. But Bowers appeared to have vanished as entirely as though he had been shanghaied and was a hundred miles at sea. It was singular that he had not first learned her plans before leaving the stockyards.
The omission hurt Kate, for they had talked much of what they would do and see when they reached Omaha. Bowers, with his superior knowledge of city life, was to show her about; they were to dine together in one of the best restaurants, to see a play and look in the shops. Kate never had been on a street car or in a “machine,” so she had counted on him to pilot her from South Omaha to the city proper. Disappointed and hurt by Bowers’s neglect, she wandered aimlessly about the streets in the vicinity of her hotel, stopping occasionally to look at the cheap wares displayed in the windows of the small shops of South Omaha.
The hurrying passersby slackened their steps to stare at her in candid interest, and she wondered if it were possible that her conspicuousness had anything to do with Bowers’s mysterious disappearance. It seemed an ungenerous thought, but how else account for it, knowing as she did that he had no friends, no business in Omaha, and in the past there never had been a time when he had not preferred her society to that of everyone else?
The elation consequent upon her day of triumph gradually oozed out, to be replaced by the sense of dreariness that comes from being alone in a crowd. Then, too, she had a feeling of contempt for herself for the swift dreams of something different aroused by the day’s events. Optimism had come to be synonymous with weakness to Kate. Now, as she stared indifferently at a display of tawdry blouses, she was asking herself if she had not yet learned her lesson, but that upon the strength of a little ephemeral happiness she must needs begin and build air castles again.
The waning day was cloudy, the crossings deep with slush, the pavements damp, and the chill of her wet soles made her shiver, adding the last touch to her forlornness and the depression which Bowers’s desertion had induced. She dreaded returning to her cheerless room, but she could not walk the streets indefinitely, so she bought a magazine to read until it was time to dine alone in some one of the neighborhood’s cheap restaurants. The night clerk was already on duty and through the fly-specked plate-glass window of the office saw her coming. Dashing from behind the desk, he skated recklessly across the tiles to open the door.
“Say—you’re all right!” His tone was emphatic and sincere.
Kate eyed him without enthusiasm.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
“Tell you what?”
He held up the afternoon newspaper that he had in his hand.
Kate’s own face looked back at her from the front page and her name in the headlines met her astonished eyes. The picture, whic
h had been made from a snapshot, was excellent, and the text was a highly colored recital of her achievements obtained from Bowers.
The clerk’s tone conveyed his admiration as he confessed:
“Looks like you knew what you was talkin’ about when you said I’d know who you was before you left Omaha.”
Sitting on the edge of her bed Kate read the article again, but her first feeling of elation did not return. With her hands clasped about one knee, in her characteristic attitude, she stared at a festoon of dusty cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and there gradually crept over her a feeling of lassitude.
She had established a record price with the best trainload of range sheep that ever had come into the stockyards; she had been accepted as an equal in achievement and intelligence by every one of the worthwhile men with whom she had come in contact; and as a climax to the day’s events she was proclaimed a successful woman in the public prints. Yet, in the silence of the cheerless room, she was cognizant of the fact that nothing inside of her was changed thereby. There remained in her heart the same dreary emptiness.
Two tears slipped slowly down her cheeks. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, looked at her watch, and got up. She had no appetite, but ordering food in a restaurant would help the time to pass. After rubbing such mud as she could from her boots, she smoothed her hair before the mirror and put on her hat. The sheep woman was the cynosure of the respectful gaze of many eyes as she came down the stairs.
Outside all the world was going home with eager, hurrying feet and she paused, looking indifferently up and down the street. The nearest restaurant was not inviting, but it answered well enough. After a few mouthfuls, Kate crumpled the paper napkin, paid her bill, and walked dispiritedly back to the hotel.
More often than not, the momentous happenings in life come without warning, and with no stage-setting to enhance the dramatic effect. Certainly there was nothing in the announcement of the now too friendly clerk that “she had a visitor who looked like new money,” to prognosticate that once Kate had crossed the threshold of the red-plush parlor, her life would never be the same again.
It was Bowers, of course—she thought—Bowers come too late to take her to the restaurant whose delectable “grub” was one of his boasted memories of Omaha. Her conclusion was correct that Bowers was there, wearing his new clothes like a disguise, his eyes shining with eagerness. But it was not Bowers that Kate saw in the dim light as she stepped through the doorway—it was the man who at intervals had been strongly in her thoughts all day, for whom she had unconsciously kept a lookout, impelled by an inexplicable desire to see him again and remove that perplexing, haunting sense of having seen him somewhere before.
Kate felt herself trembling when the man arose from the sofa facing the door. As if by divination she recognized some impending event of importance to herself. He was no casual caller brought by idle curiosity, she was sure of that.
There was in his eyes a tremendous hope, and a yearning tenderness in his face which seemed to draw her into his arms. It required an effort of will to remain passive as he approached.
Without explanation or apology, he put his hand under her chin and raised it with all gentleness, studying meanwhile every lineament of her face.
Kate watched the light of conviction grow in his eyes. Then she felt an arm about her shoulder and herself being drawn close against her father’s heart as he exclaimed brokenly:
“My baby-girl, grown up! My Kate!”
* * *
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE SURPRISE OF MR. WENTZ'S LIFE
After an absence from Prouty of several weeks, Kate stepped off the train alone one afternoon and furnished the town with the liveliest sensation of its kind that it had known since the Toomeys had gone “on East.”
Through the cooperation of the telephone and of breathless ladies dashing across lots and from house to house, the town, by night, had a detailed description of the clothes which had altered Kate’s appearance beyond belief.
Mrs. Abram Pantin expressed the opinion that Kate’s Alaskan-seal coat which, in reality, represented the price of a goodly band of sheep, was merely native muskrat rather skilfully dyed.
This verdict rendered before the Thursday afternoon session of the Y. A. K.’s, which had gathered to hear a paper by Mrs. Sudds upon the Ming Dynasty, afforded its members immense relief. Their fears, too, that the smart ear-rings Kate wore might be real pearls were assuaged by Mrs. Neifkins, who declared she had seen their counterpart in Butte for seventy-five cents.
But the fact had soaked into the average citizen that Kate had “arrived.”
Among those who admitted this was Mrs. Toomey, who lingered at the breakfast table the morning after Kate’s return, thinking of many things while she absently clinked her spoon against the edge of her cup. Jap had just left after an animated argument as to whether policy demanded the entertainment at dinner of the barber and his wife, who contemplated buying a sewing machine of a make for which Toomey was now the agent. Recalling the time when they had refused invitations right and left because there was no one in Prouty whom they had cared to know, a smile of bitterness came to her lips. Since then, she had eaten the pie of humbleness to the last crumb. She had become a self-acknowledged toady, a spineless sycophant, and for what? For the privilege of being invited to teas, bridge whists, of being sure of a place in the local social life.
This morning she was doubting the wisdom of her choice. Kate’s sincere unswerving friendship might have been compensation enough for the anguish of being “left out.” Yet she could not exactly blame herself, for who could have foreseen that things would turn out like this? It was not remorse that Mrs. Toomey felt, but regret for not arraying herself on the side which ultimately would have brought her the most benefits.
Mrs. Toomey never had been able to gather anything from Kate’s expression upon the few occasions that they had met since the girl had called her a “Judas Iscariot” and left the house, but she recalled that at each later encounter she had experienced the same sense of uneasiness.
Was the feeling due to a guilty conscience, she asked herself, or was an implacable hatred that was biding its time, concealed by Kate’s enigmatic face?
Mrs. Toomey concluded that this theory was farfetched—that it was not human nature to retain resentment for even a real wrong through such a lapse of years. Time took the keen edge off of everything, including the bitterest enemy. And yet, in spite of this comforting reassurance, there remained an inexplicable feeling of disquietude when she thought of the woman to whom she had proved an ingrate and a cowardly friend.
While Mrs. Toomey’s mind was thus engrossingly occupied, Jasper was having his own troubles in the Security State Bank.
Stimulated by three cups of strong coffee, Toomey had left the house full of hustle and hope—a state which was apt to continue until about eleven o’clock when the effect wore off, and then he might be expected home with another iridescent bubble punctured, and himself gloomy to the point of suicide.
To-day Toomey’s feet as a means of locomotion seemed all too slow as he covered the distance intervening between his home and the bank. His black eyes were brilliant with caffeine and the excitement attendant upon a large and highly satisfactory idea which had come to him in the night.
Having obtained a hearing, he rolled a cigarette with tremulous fingers while he unfolded his plan to Mr. Wentz. The banker listened with equanimity as he sat on the back of his neck with his fingers interlaced across his smart bottle-green waistcoat. Wentz’s lack of enthusiasm only increased Toomey’s eagerness. He leaned forward and declared with all vehemence:
“Look at the territory I could cover, if I had an automobile! With a sideline of fruit trees, I can get an order of some kind out of every family in the northern part of the state. It’s a cinch, Wentz. I’m giving you a chance to make a good loan that you can’t afford to let pass.”
Mr. Wentz yawned with marked weariness.
“W
hat’s a bank for if not to encourage legitimate enterprises in the community upon which it depends for its business? There isn’t a flaw in this proposition, Wentz! Can you show me one?”
“It’s perfect from your side,” Wentz agreed, “but where would we get off if every family in the northern part of the state didn’t happen to need fruit trees or a sewing machine? We’d have a worn automobile on our hands and another of your familiar signatures on our already too large collection of promissory notes. Can’t see it, Jap.”
Disappointment as well as Wentz’s words stung Toomey more deeply than he had been touched for a long time. A rush of blood dyed his sallow face as he grabbed his hat and started for the door. Opening it partly, he turned and flung a retort over his shoulder.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Vermin!” Mr. Wentz winced. This perversion of his name had darkened his childhood days and he never had outgrown his antipathy to it. “I think,” Toomey went on, “that you’re shaky as the devil—that Neifkins’ big loss put such a crimp in you that an honest bank examiner could close your doors! I’ll bet my hat against a white chip that even a boys'-size ‘run’ could shut your little two by twice bank up tight as a drum!”
It was a random shot, but the president’s face showed that it went home. He gathered himself immediately, but not before Kate who, on coming in brushed shoulders with the departing Toomey, had heard the speech and noted its effect.
So Neifkins had had a big loss! She grasped the full significance of it at once and exultation filled her heart.
Wentz looked at the “Sheep Queen” hard as she advanced. Astonishment and admiration were in his eyes when he recognized her at last. It was beyond belief that a mere matter of clothes could effect such a transformation as this. She looked the last word in feminine elegance. Filled with the wonder of it, he forgot for a moment the specter which had been his sleeping and waking companion for some weeks past and which had confronted him with the substance of reality at Toomey’s taunt.
The Fighting Shepherdess Page 29
