DEEP WATERS
The dispatch in the New York paper was dated from a Texan city on the
day before. It was brief, but seemed of enough importance to have the
place of honor on the front page of the great daily.
There were all the details of a night advance, a bloody attack and a
fearful repulse in which General Juan Dicampa's force had been nearly
wiped out.
The half thousand captured with the famous guerrilla chief were
reported to have been hacked to pieces when they cried for quarter, and
Juan Dicampa himself was given the usual short shrift connected in most
people's minds with Mexican justice. He had been shot three hours
after his capture.
It was an awful thing--and awful to read about. The whole affair had
happened a long way from that part of Chihuahua in which daddy's mine
was situated; but Janice immediately realized that the "long arm" of
Dicampa could no longer keep Mr. Broxton Day from disaster, or punish
those who offended the American mining man.
The very worst that could possibly happen to her father, Janice
thought, had perhaps already happened.
That was a very sorrowful evening indeed at the old Day house on
Hillside Avenue. Although Mr. Jason Day and Janice's father were half
brothers only, the elder man had in his heart a deep and tender love
for Broxton, or "Brocky," as he called him.
He remembered Brocky as a lad--always. He felt the superiority of his
years--and presumably his wisdom--over the younger man. Despite the
fact that Mr. Broxton Day had early gone away from Polktown, and had
been deemed very successful in point of wealth in the Middle West,
Uncle Jason considered him still a boy, and his ventures in business
and in mining as a species of "wild oat sowing," of which he could
scarcely approve.
"No," he sighed. "If Brocky had been more settled he'd ha' been better
off--I snum he would! A piece o' land right here back o' Polktown--or
a venture in a store, if so be he must trade--would ha' been safer for
him than a slather o' mines down there among them Mexicaners."
"Don't talk so--don't talk so, Jason!" sniffed Aunt Almira.
"Wal--it's a fac'," her husband said vigorously. "There may be some
danger attached ter store keepin' in Polktown; it's likely ter make a
man a good deal of a hawg," added Uncle Jason. "But I guess the life
insurance rates ain't so high as they be on a feller that's determined
ter spend his time t'other side o' that Rio Grande River they tell
about."
"I wonder," sighed Aunt Almira, quite unconscious that she spoke aloud,
"if I kin turn that old black alpaca gown I got when Sister Susie died,
Jason, an' fashion it after one o' the new models?"
"Heh?" grunted the startled Mr. Day, glaring at her.
"Of course, we'll hafter go inter black--it's only decent. But I did
fancy a plum-colored dress this Spring, with r'yal purple trimmins. I
seen a pattern in the fashion sheet of the Fireside Love Letter that
was re'l sweet."
"What's eatin' on you, Maw?" demanded her son gruffly. "Whatcher
wanter talk that way for right in front of Janice? I reckon we won't
none of us put on crêpe for Uncle Brocky yet awhile," he added, stoutly.
On Monday arrived another letter from Mr. Broxton Day. Of course, it
was dated before the dreadful night attack which had caused the death
of General Juan Dicampa and the destruction of his forces; and it had
passed through that chieftain's hands and had been remailed.
Janice put away the envelope, directed in the sloping, clerkly hand,
and sighed. Daddy was in perfect health when he had written this last
epistle and the situation had not changed.
"But no knowing what has happened to poor daddy since he wrote,"
thought Janice. "We can know nothing about it. And another whole
month to wait to learn if he is alive."
The girl was quite well aware that she could expect no inquiry to be
made at Washington regarding Mr. Broxton Day's fate. The
administration had long since warned all American citizens to leave
Mexico and to refrain from interference in Mexican affairs. Mr. Day
had chosen to stay by his own, and his friends', property--and he had
done this at his peril.
"Oh, I wish," thought the girl, "that somebody could go down there and
capture daddy, and just make him come back over the border! As Uncle
Jason says, what's money when his precious life is in danger?"
In almost the same breath, however, she wished that daddy could send
her more money. For Lottie Drugg had gone to Boston. Her father had
given over the violin to Joe Bodley, and that young speculator paid the
storekeeper the remainder of the hundred dollars agreed upon. With
this hundred dollars Hopewell started for Boston with Lottie, leaving
his wife to take care of the store for the few days he expected to be
absent. Janice went over to stay with Mrs. Drugg at night during
Hopewell's absence.
Perhaps it was just as well that Janice was not at home during these
few days, as it gave her somebody's troubles besides her own to think
about. And the Day household really, if not visibly, was in mourning
for Broxton Day. Uncle Jason's face was as "long as the moral law,"
and Aunt 'Mira, lachrymose at best, was now continuously and deeply
gloomy. Marty was the only person in the Day household able to cheer
Janice in the least.
'Rill and Hopewell were in deep waters, too. Had Lottie not been such
an expense, the little store on the side street would have made a very
comfortable living for the three of them. They lived right up to their
income, however; and so Hopewell was actually obliged to sell his
violin to get Lottie to Boston.
Mrs. Scattergood was frequently in the store now that her son-in-law
was away. She was, of course, ready with her criticisms as to the
course of her daughter and her husband.
"Good Land o' Goshen!" chirped the little old woman to Janice, "didn't
I allus say it was the fullishest thing ever heard of for them two to
marry? Amarilly had allus airned good money teachin' and had spent it
as she pleased. And Hope Drugg never did airn much more'n the salt in
his johnny-cake in this store."
Meanwhile she was helping herself to sugar and tea and flour and butter
and other little "notions" for her own comfort. Hopewell always said
that "Mother Scattergood should have the run of the store, and take
what she pleased," now that he had married 'Rill; and, although the
woman was not above maligning her easy-going son-in-law, she did not
refuse to avail herself of his generosity.
"An' there it is!" went on Mrs. Scattergood. "'Rill was fullish enough
to put the money she'd saved inter a mortgage that pays her only five
per cent. An' ter git th' int'rest is like pullin' eye-teeth, and I
tell her she never will see the principal ag'in."
Mrs. Scattergood neglected to state that she had urged her daughter to
put her money in this mortgage. It was on her son's farm, across the
lake at "Skunk's Hollow," as the place was classically named; and the
money would never have been tied up in this way had her mother not
begged and pleaded and fairly "hounded" 'Rill into letting the
shiftless brother have her savings on very uncertain security.
"Them two marryin'," went on Mrs. Scattergood, referring to 'Rill and
Hopewell, "was for all the worl' like Famine weddin' with Poverty. And
a very purty weddin' that allus is," she added with a sniff. "Neither
of 'em ain't got nothin', nor never will have--'ceptin' that Hopewell's
got an encumbrance in the shape of that ha'f silly child."
Janice was tempted to tell the venomous old woman that she thought
Hopewell's only encumbrance was his mother-in-law.
"And him fiddlin' and drinkin' and otherwise wastin' his substance,"
croaked Mrs. Scattergood.
At this Janice did utter an objection:
"Now, that is not so, Mrs. Scattergood. You know very well that that
story about Hopewell being a drinking man is not true."
"My! is that so? Didn't I see him myself? And you seen him, too,
Janice Day, comin' home that night, a wee-wawin' like a boat in a heavy
sea. I guess I see what I see. And as for his fiddlin'----"
"You need not be troubled on that score, at least," sighed Janice.
"Poor Hopewell! He's sold his violin."
Walky Dexter came into the store that same evening, chuckling over the
sale of the instrument.
"I wouldn't go for ter say Hopewell is a sharper," he grinned; "but
mebbe he ain't so powerful innercent as he sometimes 'pears. If so,
I'm sartainly glad of it."
"What do you mean, Mr. Dexter?" asked 'Rill, rather sharply.
"Guess Joe Bodley feels like he'd like ter know whether Hopewell done
him or not. Joe's condition is suthin' like the snappin' turtle's when
he cotched a-holt of Peleg Swift's red nose as he was stoopin' ter git
a drink at the spring. He didn't durst ter let go while Peke was
runnin' an' yellin' 'Murder!' but he was mighty sorry ter git so fur
from home. Haw! haw! haw!"
"What is the matter with Joe Bodley now, Walky?" asked Nelson, who was
present. "Didn't he make a good thing out of the violin transaction?"
"Why--haw! haw!--he dunno yit. But I b'lieve he's beginnin' ter have
his doubts--like th' feller 't got holt of the black snake a-thinkin'
it was a heifer's tail," chuckled Walky, whose face was very red and
whose spicy breath--Joe Bodley always kept a saucer of cloves on the
end of the bar--was patent to all in the store.
"Joe's a good sport; he ain't squealin' none," pursued Dexter; "but
there is the fiddle a-hangin' behint th' bar an' Joe's beginnin' ter
look mighty sour when ye mention it to him."
"Why, Mr. Dexter!" 'Rill said, in surprise, "hasn't he turned it over
to the man he said he bought it for?"
"Wal--not so's ye'd notice it," Walky replied, grinning fatuously. "I
dunno who the feller is, or how much money he gin Joe in the fust place
to help pay for the fiddle--some, of course. But if Joe paid Hopewell
a hundred dollars for the thing you kin jest bet he 'spected to git
ha'f as much ag'in for it.
"But I reckon the feller's reneged or suthin'. Joe ain't happy about
it--he! he! Mebbe on clost examination the fiddle don't 'pear ter be
one o' them old masters they tell about! Haw! haw! haw!"
Janice started to say something. "Why don't they look inside----"
"Inside o' what?" demanded Walky, when the girl halted.
"I am positive that Hopewell would never have sold it for a hundred
dollars if he hadn't felt he must," broke in the storekeeper's wife,
and Janice did not complete her impulsive observation.
"Ye can't most allus sometimes tell!" drawled Walky. "Mebbe Hopewell
had suthin' up his sleeve 'sides his wrist. Haw! haw! haw!
"Shucks! talk about a fiddle bein' wuth a hunderd dollars!
Jefers-pelters! I seen one a-hangin' in a shop winder at Bennington
once 't looked every whit as good as Hopewell's, and as old, an' 'twas
marked plain on a card, 'two dollars an' a ha'f.'"
"I guess there are fiddles and _fiddles_," said 'Rill, a little tartly
for her.
"No," laughed Nelson. "There are fiddles and _violins_. Like the word
'vase.' If it's a cheap one, plain 'vase' is well enough to indicate
it; but if it costs over twenty-five dollars they usually call it a
'vahze.' I have always believed Hopewell's instrument deserved the
dignity of 'violin.'"
"Wal," declared Walky. "I guess ye kin have all the dignity, _and_ the
vi'lin, too, if you offer Joe what he paid for it. I don't b'lieve
he'll hang off much for a profit--er--haw! haw! haw!"
"I wish I were wealthy enough to buy the violin back from that fellow,"
whispered Janice to the schoolmaster.
"Ah! I expect you do, Janice," he said softly, eyeing her with
admiration. "And I wish I could give you the money to do so. It would
give you more pleasure, I fancy, to hand Hopewell back his violin when
he returns from Boston than almost anything we could name. Wouldn't
it?"
"Oh, dear me! yes, Nelson," she sighed. "I just wish I were rich."
Just about this time there were a number of things Janice desired money
for. She had a little left in the bank at Middletown; but she dared
not use it for anything but actual necessities. No telling when daddy
could send her any more for her own private use. Perhaps, never.
The papers gave little news of Mexican troubles just now. Of course,
Juan Dicampa being dead, there was no use watching the news columns for
_his_ name.
And daddy was utterly buried from her! She had no means of informing
herself whether he were alive or dead. She wrote to him faithfully at
least once each week; but she did not know whether the letters reached
him or not.
As previously advised, she addressed the outer envelope for her
father's letters in care of Juan Dicampa. But that seemed a hollow
mockery now. She was sending the letters to a dead man.
Was it possible that her father received the missives? Could Juan
Dicampa's influence, now that he was dead, compass their safety? It
seemed rather a ridiculous thing to do, yet Janice continued to send
them in care of the guerrilla chieftain.
Indeed, Janice Day was wading in deep waters. It was very difficult
for her to carry a cheerful face about during this time of severe trial.
But she threw herself, whole-heartedly, into the temperance campaign,
and strove to keep her mind from dwelling upon her father's peril.