The Little Lady of the Big House

by Jack London

  Nor was Dick ever to know that Paula had come so near to him with her need and gone away. Again, not aimlessly, but to run through for the last time the notes of the scribble pad by his bed, he was out on his sleeping porch. His house was in order. There was nothing left but to sign up the morning's dictation, answer several telegrams, then would come lunch and the hunting in the Sycamore hills. Oh, he would do it well. The Outlaw would bear the blame. And he would have an eye– witness, either Froelig or Martinez. But not both of them. One pair of eyes would be enough to satisfy when the martingale parted and the mare reared and toppled backward upon him into the brush. And from that screen of brush, swiftly linking accident to catastrophe, the witness would hear the rifle go off.

  Martinez was more emotional than the sculptor and would therefore make a more satisfactory witness, Dick decided. Him would he maneuver to have with him in the narrow trail when the Outlaw should be made the scapegoat. Martinez was no horseman. All the better. It would be well, Dick judged, to make the Outlaw act up in real devilishness for a minute or two before the culmination. It would give verisimilitude. Also, it would excite Martinez's horse, and, therefore, excite Martinez so that he would not see occurrences too clearly.

  He clenched his hands with sudden hurt. The Little Lady was mad, she must be mad; on no other ground could he understand such arrant cruelty, listening to her voice and Graham's from the open windows of the music room as they sang together the «Gypsy Trail.»

  Nor did he unclench his hands during all the time they sang. And they sang the mad, reckless song clear through to its mad reckless end. And he continued to stand, listening to her laugh herself merrily away from Graham and on across the house to her wing, from the porches of which she continued to laugh as she teased and chided Oh Dear for fancied derelictions.

  From far off came the dim but unmistakable trumpeting of Mountain Lad. King Polo asserted his lordly self, and the harems of mares and heifers sent back their answering calls. Dick listened to all the whinnying and nickering and bawling of sex, and sighed aloud: «Well, the land is better for my having been. It is a good thought to take to bed.»

  CHAPTER XXXI

  A ring of his bed 'phone made Dick sit on the bed to take up the receiver. As he listened, he looked out across the patio to Paula's porches. Bonbright was explaining that it was a call from Chauncey Bishop who was at Eldorado in a machine. Chauncey Bishop, editor and owner of the San Francisco Dispatch , was sufficiently important a person, in Bonbright's mind, as well as old friend of Dick's, to be connected directly to him.

  «You can get here for lunch,» Dick told the newspaper owner. «And, say, suppose you put up for the night… Never mind your special writers. We're going hunting mountain lions this afternoon, and there's sure to be a kill. Got them located… Who? What's she write?… What of it? She can stick around the ranch and get half a dozen columns out of any of half a dozen subjects, while the writer chap can get the dope on lion-hunting… Sure, sure. I'll put him on a horse a child can ride.»

  The more the merrier, especially newspaper chaps, Dick grinned to himself—and grandfather Jonathan Forrest would have nothing on him when it came to pulling off a successful finish.

  But how could Paula have been so wantonly cruel as to sing the «Gypsy Trail» so immediately afterward? Dick asked himself, as, receiver near to ear, he could distantly hear Chauncey Bishop persuading his writer man to the hunting.

  «All right then, come a running,» Dick told Bishop in conclusion. «I'm giving orders now for the horses, and you can have that bay you rode last time.»

  Scarcely had he hung up, when the bell rang again. This time it was

  Paula.

  «Red Cloud, dear Red Cloud,» she said, «your reasoning is all wrong. I think I love you best. I am just about making up my mind, and it's for you. And now, just to help me to be sure, tell me what you told me a little while ago—you know—' I love the woman, the one woman. After a dozen years of possession I love her quite madly, oh, so sweetly madly.' Say it to me, Red Cloud.»

  «I do truly love the woman, the one woman,» Dick repeated. «After a dozen years of possession I do love her quite madly, oh, so sweetly madly.»

  There was a pause when he had finished, which, waiting, he did not dare to break.

  «There is one little thing I almost forgot to tell you,» she said, very softly, very slowly, very clearly. «I do love you. I have never loved you so much as right now. After our dozen years you've bowled me over at last. And I was bowled over from the beginning, although I did not know it. I have made up my mind now, once and for all.»

  She hung up abruptly.

  With the thought that he knew how a man felt receiving a reprieve at the eleventh hour, Dick sat on, thinking, forgetful that he had not hooked the receiver, until Bonbright came in from the secretaries' room to remind him.

  «It was from Mr. Bishop,» Bonbright explained. «Sprung an axle. I took the liberty of sending one of our machines to bring them in.»

  «And see what our men can do with repairing theirs,» Dick nodded.

  Alone again, he got up and stretched, walked absently the length of the room and back.

  «Well, Martinez, old man,» he addressed the empty air, «this afternoon you'll be defrauded out of as fine a histrionic stunt as you will never know you've missed.»

  He pressed the switch for Paula's telephone and rang her up.

  Oh Dear answered, and quickly brought her mistress.

  «I've a little song I want to sing to you, Paul,» he said, then chanted the old negro 'spiritual':

  «'Fer itself, fer itself,

  Fer itself, fer itself,

  Every soul got ter confess

  Fer itself.'

  «And I want you to tell me again, fer yourself, fer yourself, what you just told me.»

  Her laughter came in a merry gurgle that delighted him.

  «Red Cloud, I do love you,» she said. «My mind is made up. I shall never have any man but you in all this world. Now be good, and let me dress. I'll have to rush for lunch as it is.»

  «May I come over?—for a moment?» he begged.

  «Not yet, eager one. In ten minutes. Let me finish with Oh Dear first. Then I'll be all ready for the hunt. I'm putting on my Robin Hood outfit—you know, the greens and russets and the long feather. And I'm taking my 30-30. It's heavy enough for mountain lions.»

  «You've made me very happy,» Dick continued.

  «And you're making me late. Ring off.—Red Cloud, I love you more this minute—»

  He heard her hang up, and was surprised, the next moment, that somehow he was reluctant to yield to the happiness that he had claimed was his. Rather, did it seem that he could still hear her voice and Graham's recklessly singing the «Gypsy Trail.»

  Had she been playing with Graham? Or had she been playing with him?

  Such conduct, for her, was unprecedented and incomprehensible. As he

  groped for a solution, he saw her again in the moonlight, clinging to

  Graham with upturned lips, drawing Graham's lips down to hers.

  Dick shook his head in bafflement, and glanced at his watch. At any rate, in ten minutes, in less than ten minutes, he would hold her in his arms and know.

  So tedious was the brief space of time that he strolled slowly on the way, pausing to light a cigarette, throwing it away with the first inhalation, pausing again to listen to the busy click of typewriters from the secretaries' room. With still two minutes to spare, and knowing that one minute would take him to the door without a knob, he stopped in the patio and gazed at the wild canaries bathing in the fountain.

  When they startled into the air, a cloud of fluttering gold and crystal droppings in the sunshine, Dick startled. The report of the rifle had come from Paula's wing above, and he identified it as her 30-30 as he dashed across the patio. She beat me to it, was his next thought, and what had been incomprehensible the moment before was as sharply definite as the roar of her rifle.

  And across
the patio, up the stairs, through the door left wide-flung behind him, continued to pulse in his brain: She beat me to it. She beat me to it.

  She lay, crumpled and quivering, in hunting costume complete, save for the pair of tiny bronze spurs held over her in anguished impotence by the frightened maid.

  His examination was quick. Paula breathed, although she was unconscious. From front to back, on the left side, the bullet had torn through. His next spring was to the telephone, and as he waited the delay of connecting through the house central he prayed that Hennessy would be at the stallion barn. A stable boy answered, and, while he ran to fetch the veterinary, Dick ordered Oh Joy to stay by the switches, and to send Oh My to him at once.

  From the tail of his eye he saw Graham rush into the room and on to

  Paula.

  «Hennessy,» Dick commanded. «Come on the jump. Bring the needful for first aid. It's a rifle shot through the lungs or heart or both. Come right to Mrs. Forrest's rooms. Now jump.»

  «Don't touch her,» he said sharply to Graham. «It might make it worse, start a worse hemorrhage.»

  Next he was back at Oh Joy.

  «Start Callahan with the racing car for Eldorado. Tell him he'll meet Doctor Robinson on the way, and that he is to bring Doctor Robinson back with him on the jump. Tell him to jump like the devil was after him. Tell him Mrs. Forrest is hurt and that if he makes time he'll save her life.»

  Receiver to ear, he turned to look at Paula. Graham, bending over her but not touching her, met his eyes.

  «Forrest,» he began, «if you have done—»

  But Dick hushed him with a warning glance directed toward Oh Dear who still held the bronze spurs in speechless helplessness.

  «It can be discussed later,» Dick said shortly, as he turned his mouth to the transmitter.

  «Doctor Robinson?… Good. Mrs. Forrest has a rifle-shot through lungs or heart or maybe both. Callahan is on his way to meet you in the racing car. Keep coming as fast as God'll let you till you meet Callahan. Good-by.»

  Back to Paula, Graham stepped aside as Dick, on his knees, bent over her. His examination was brief. He looked up at Graham with a shake of the head and said:

  «It's too ticklish to fool with.»

  He turned to Oh Dear.

  «Put down those spurs and bring pillows.—Evan, lend a hand on the other side, and lift gently and steadily.—Oh Dear, shove that pillow under—easy, easy.»

  He looked up and saw Oh My standing silently, awaiting orders.

  «Get Mr. Bonbright to relieve Oh Joy at the switches,» Dick commanded. «Tell Oh Joy to stand near to Mr. Bonbright to rush orders. Tell Oh Joy to have all the house boys around him to rush the orders. As soon as Saunders comes back with Mr. Bishop's crowd, tell Oh Joy to start him out on the jump to Eldorado to look for Callahan in case Callahan has a smash up. Tell Oh Joy to get hold of Mr. Manson, and Mr. Pitts or any two of the managers who have machines and have them, with their machines, waiting here at the house. Tell Oh Joy to take care of Mr. Bishop's crowd as usual. And you come back here where I can call you.»

  Dick turned to Oh Dear.

  «Now tell me how it happened.»

  Oh Dear shook her head and wrung her hands.

  «Where were you when the rifle went off?»

  The Chinese girl swallowed and pointed toward the wardrobe room.

  «Go on, talk,» Dick commanded harshly.

  «Mrs. Forrest tell me to get spurs. I forget before. I go quick. I hear gun. I come back quick. I run.»

  She pointed to Paula to show what she had found.

  «But the gun?» Dick asked.

  «Some trouble. Maybe gun no work. Maybe four minutes, maybe five minutes, Mrs. Forrest try make gun work.»

  «Was she trying to make the gun work when you went for the spurs?»

  Oh Dear nodded.

  «Before that I say maybe Oh Joy can fix gun. Mrs. Forrest say never mind. She say you can fix. She put gun down. Then she try once more fix gun. Then she tell me get spurs. Then… gun go off.»

  Hennessy's arrival shut off further interrogation. His examination was scarcely less brief than Dick's. He looked up with a shake of the head.

  «Nothing I can dare tackle, Mr. Forrest. The hemorrhage has eased of itself, though it must be gathering inside. You've sent for a doctor?»

  «Robinson. I caught him in his office.—He's young, a good surgeon,» Dick explained to Graham. «He's nervy and daring, and I'd trust him in this farther than some of the old ones with reputations.—What do you think, Mr. Hennessy? What chance has she?»

  «Looks pretty bad, though I'm no judge, being only a horse doctor.

  Robinson'll know. Nothing to do but wait.»

  Dick nodded and walked out on Paula's sleeping porch to listen for the exhaust of the racing machine Callahan drove. He heard the ranch limousine arrive leisurely and swiftly depart. Graham came out on the porch to him.

  «I want to apologize, Forrest,» he said. «I was rather off for the moment. I found you here, and I thought you were here when it happened. It must have been an accident.'»

  «Poor little kid,» Dick agreed. «And she so prided herself on never being careless with guns.»

  «I've looked at the rifle,» Graham said, «but I couldn't find anything wrong with it.»

  «And that's how it happened. Whatever was wrong got right. That's how it went off.»

  And while Dick talked, building the fabric of the lie so that even Graham should be fooled, to himself he was understanding how well Paula had played the trick. That last singing of the «Gypsy Trail» had been her farewell to Graham and at the same time had provided against any suspicion on his part of what she had intended directly to do. It had been the same with him. She had had her farewell with him, and, the last thing, over the telephone, had assured him that she would never have any man but him in all the world.

  He walked away from Graham to the far end of the porch.

  «She had the grit, she had the grit,» he muttered to himself with quivering lips. «Poor kid. She couldn't decide between the two, and so she solved it this way.»

  The noise of the racing machine drew him and Graham together, and together they entered the room to wait for the doctor. Graham betrayed unrest, reluctant to go, yet feeling that he must.

  «Please stay on, Evan,» Dick told him. «She liked you much, and if she does open her eyes she'll be glad to see you.»

  Dick and Graham stood apart from Paula while Doctor Robinson made his examination. When he arose with an air of finality, Dick looked his question. Robinson shook his head.

  «Nothing to be done,» he said. «It is a matter of hours, maybe of minutes.» He hesitated, studying Dick's face for a moment. «I can ease her off if you say the word. She might possibly recover consciousness and suffer for a space.»

  Dick took a turn down the room and back, and when he spoke it was to

  Graham.

  «Why not let her live again, brief as the time may be? The pain is immaterial. It will have its inevitable quick anodyne. It is what I would wish, what you would wish. She loved life, every moment of it. Why should we deny her any of the little left her?»

  Graham bent his head in agreement, and Dick turned to the doctor.

  «Perhaps you can stir her, stimulate her, to a return of consciousness. If you can, do so. And if the pain proves too severe, then you can ease her.»

  * * * * *

  When her eyes fluttered open, Dick nodded Graham up beside him. At first bewilderment was all she betrayed, then her eyes focused first on Dick's face, then on Graham's, and, with recognition, her lips parted in a pitiful smile.

  «I… I thought at first that I was dead,» she said.

  But quickly another thought was in her mind, and Dick divined it in her eyes as they searched him. The question was if he knew it was no accident. He gave no sign. She had planned it so, and she must pass believing it so.

  «I… was… wrong,» she said. She spoke slowly, faintly, in evident pain, with a pau
se for strength of utterance between each word. «I was always so cocksure I'd never have an accident, and look what I've gone and done.»

  «It's a darn shame,» Dick said, sympathetically. «What was it? A jam?»

  She nodded, and again her lips parted in the pitiful brave smile as she said whimsically: «Oh, Dick, go call the neighbors in and show them what little Paula's din.

  «How serious is it?» she asked. «Be honest, Red Cloud, you know me,» she added, after the briefest of pauses in which Dick had not replied.

  He shook his head.

  «How long?» she queried.

  «Not long,» came his answer. «You can ease off any time.»

  «You mean…?» She glanced aside curiously at the doctor and back to

  Dick, who nodded.

  «It's only what I should have expected from you, Red Cloud,» she murmured gratefully. «But is Doctor Robinson game for it?»

  The doctor stepped around so that she could see him, and nodded.

  «Thank you, doctor. And remember, I am to say when.»

  «Is there much pain?» Dick queried.

  Her eyes were wide and brave and dreadful, and her lips quivered for the moment ere she replied, «Not much, but dreadful, quite dreadful. I won't care to stand it very long. I'll say when.»

  Once more the smile on her lips announced a whimsey.

  «Life is queer, most queer, isn't it? And do you know, I want to go out with love-songs in my ears. You first, Evan, sing the 'Gypsy Trail.'—Why, I was singing it with you less than an hour ago. Think of it! Do, Evan, please.»

  Graham looked to Dick for permission, and Dick gave it with his eyes.

  «Oh, and sing it robustly, gladly, madly, just as a womaning Gypsy man should sing it,» she urged. «And stand back there, so, where I can see you.»

  And while Graham sang the whole song through to its:

  «The heart of a man to the heart of a maid, light of my

  tents be fleet,

  Morning waits at the end of the world and the world is