The Secret
The first minute I heard that the Canneziano girls were coming to the
Desert Moon, I was certain that they were not coming for the peace of
the mountains and the deserts. Going on from there, I questioned
myself as to what reason any Canneziano had ever had for coming to the
ranch, or for writing to the ranch. The answer was, to get money. I
tried to think that they would stay a few months, long enough to put
themselves in Sam’s good graces, ask him for a tidy sum, and leave.
But they had not been on the place two days before I knew that, though
that might be a minor part of their plan, it was not the major part;
that there was something far less simple, something, probably,
treacherous and sinister at the root of this visit of theirs to the
Desert Moon.
On the evening of their arrival the girls had unpacked their trunks in
their bedrooms. The next morning the boys carried their trunks to the
attic. Going through the upper hall, later that same morning, I saw
one of the empty drawers that had fitted into their new-fangled
trunks, lying beside the door to the attic stairway.
I hate clutter. I picked it up and carried it upstairs. I went in all
good faith: but I wear rubber-soled shoes around the house, and the
stairs are thickly carpeted; so the girls, who were up there, did not
hear me coming. Just before I got to the turn in the stairs, I heard
one of them say:
“I am sure that there is no use in searching the house. In the first
place, he never could have gotten it into the house without being
seen.”
“You are too sure of everything, when you are unsure of anything,” the
other girl answered, and I thought, since the voice was louder and,
somehow, richer, that it was Gaby’s. “Stop being sure, and try being
sensible. We must find it. We have very little time. How do you know
whether he could have brought it into the house or not? There is a
back stairway.”
Fool that I was, I kept right on going up the stairs. It took me a
while to develop the poll-prying, eavesdropping, sneaking, and
generally despicable character that I did develop later.
“Did you girls lose something?” I asked, when my head had poked up to
where I could see them.
Danny jumped, from being startled, but Gaby never turned a hair.
“Only a trinket of Dan’s,” she said. “Possibly she never packed it at
all.”
I gave them the trunk drawer and came back downstairs, wracking my
brain with questions.
Who was the “he” who had, or who had not, gotten something into the
house? The something that they must find, and had very little time in
which to find it. And, land’s alive, what was the something?
I resolved to say nothing, but to watch those two girls, like a hawk,
from then on. I did so. But it was three weeks before I heard anything
more at all, though I saw a great deal.
I saw those girls searching, searching everlastingly, the entire
place. I saw them go to the cabin, and stay inside of it for hours. I
saw them in the barnyards, and in the barns, searching. I saw them
down in the outfit’s quarters when the men were all away. I heard them
get up late at night, and sneak out of the house, and come back in the
early hours of the morning. And, once or twice, I thought that I saw
them seeing me, as I watched them, and then I was afraid.
It was during these three weeks that Danny and John announced their
engagement. My own opinion is that they got themselves engaged the
first five minutes they were alone together; but that they had
gumption enough to wait for ten days before telling it.
Sam gave them his blessing. That is to say, he said that any agreement
they wanted to make was all right with him, if Danny was sure she
would be satisfied to live on the Desert Moon, and if they would wait
a year to be married. They agreed to this, the year of waiting,
reluctantly. Sam, whose one bad habit, not counting his pipe, is using
suitable and unsuitable quotations on all suitable and unsuitable
occasions, assured them that a year was as a day on the Desert Moon;
but that didn’t seem to make them any happier. The only people who
were downright pleased with Sam’s decision were Gaby and myself. I,
for certain reasons of my own. Gaby, because she was choosing to
consider herself also in love with John.
I realize that this is crowding pretty fast what the books call “love
interest.” I realize, too, that I have not given any description of
John that would account for two traveled ladies coming to the Desert
Moon and, at once, falling in love with him.
He had, as I guess I’ve signified, a heap more than his share of
masculine good looks. Outside of hat and collar advertisements, I
don’t know that I’ve ever seen even pictures of men that were any
better looking than John was. The way he lived, and dressed, and rode,
made him sort of romantic, too, I suppose. A Santa Fe man, who met him
once when he was taking cattle back east for Sam, offered him a
surprising salary to come to the Grand Canyon and live around there,
in order to impress and delight the eastern young lady tourists. John
was simple-hearted, and slow spoken; but I guess most women don’t mind
that in men. Too, he was a good boy, all the way through. And, of
course, he had plenty of money, now, and would have a million or more,
not counting the ranch, when Sam died.
Gaby made no bones about her feelings for John. I did not do as John
did, and set all of her open advances toward him down to
sister-in-lawly affection. Still, I didn’t believe that she really
thought she was in love with John, until I hid in the clothes-closet
that evening and heard Danny and her talking together.
The closet arrangement was a fortunate one for my purposes. It was
between the girls’ rooms, with heavily curtained doorways leading into
each room, and a door at the end with a transom for ventilation,
leading into the hall. This closet had originally been a part of the
hall, going down between the two rooms. But, in 1912, when Sam had had
the ranch-house remodeled, inside, they had turned the closet spaces
for these rooms into two bathrooms, necessitating the present
arrangement of a double closet.
The dozens of gowns and frocks—nothing so ordinary as mere
dresses—that the girls had brought with them, hanging on padded
hangers from the long rods, made as good a hiding place as anyone
could ask for; especially, since I always took care to unscrew the
light globe in the closet when I went in, so that it seemed to be all
right, but would not light when the wall switches were pressed.
I had gone in there so many evenings, during the past three weeks, and
had heard nothing for my pains that it was a wonder I had decided to
try it again that evening. It was not luck, though. Gaby’s actions,
that evening, toward John had been so downright disgusting, sitting on
the arm of his chair, and trying to coax him out of the house to see
the mountains by moonlight, and hanging herself around his neck when
they danced together, and so on, that I had a notion Danny might have
a little conversation ready for her when she could get her alone.
I had waited about ten minutes when I heard the door of Gaby’s room
open. I was so tickled I all but squealed, when I heard that Danny had
come in with her, instead of going on down the hall to her own room.
Evidently they had begun their conversation in the hall, for Gaby’s
first words were, “Jealous, my dear Dan?”
“I don’t know. But it is silly for you to act as you do. John is in
love with me.”
“Since you are so certain of that, why do you object to my poor little
efforts?”
“I’ve told you. Because they are silly. And—not kind. Why should you
try to take him away from me, when you don’t want him yourself?”
“Are you sure of that, too?”
“Yes, I am. His good looks fascinate you, and so does his
unsophistication. You’d like the fortune he is to inherit. But you
would never be satisfied to marry him and live right here for the
remainder of your life.”
“No, I would not. I’d marry him, if he didn’t have a penny—it is you
who are always thinking about his fortune—but I wouldn’t allow him to
bury himself, and his beauty, and charm in this God-forsaken country.
I’d get him out into the world, and have him take his place there.
With his ability and energy, and with me to help him, what a place it
might be! For you to have him is—waste. Waste. You don’t know anything
about love. You’ll never learn. I—I tell you I can’t bear it. It isn’t
fair——” She began to cry, hollow sounding sobs, that seemed to catch
in her throat and wrench free from it.
“Gaby. Gaby, dear. Please don’t. I am sorry——”
“Waste. Waste. Waste. You are not sorry. Don’t touch me!”
“I am sorry, Gaby. But what can I do? I couldn’t give John to you, if
I wished to.”
“You could give me a chance.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“You are a coward.”
“Perhaps. I love him. He means to me, too, peace, and security, and
decent living—the things I want most for my life. Why should I risk it
all?”
“Coward! Coward! Peace and security! He means life to me. All of it;
full and complete. Love, and passion, and adventure and attainment,
for him and for me, too. Do you think I’ll stand by, and allow you to
have him, to bury his wonder in your peace, and smother his
possibilities with your security and decent living?”
“I think,” Danny answered, “that you will have to. John and I love
each other; and we are going to keep each other. You, nor anyone, can
change that.”
“Suppose I should tell John why we came here?”
“You won’t do that. You can’t harm me without harming yourself. But,
if you threaten that, just once more, I will go straight to John and
tell him the truth——”
“You promised——”
“I haven’t broken my promise. I shan’t, if you don’t. But you must
know that I haven’t any interest left in the thing.”
“What about your desire for revenge?”
“That desire was yours, not mine. I never considered that side of it
at all.”
“Coward! Quitter! Stool-pigeon——”
“That isn’t fair, Gaby. I’ll help if I can. I have been helping,
haven’t I? I won’t hinder in any way. But the time is short now.
Remember that.”
“Danny——” There was a new tone in Gaby’s voice, sweet like, and
appealing. I did not trust it for a minute; but I think Danny did, for
she answered, gently, “Yes, dear?”
“Forgive me. Let’s be twinny again. Friends?” I could hear the
treachery in that as plainly as I could hear the words. I think Danny
did not hear it, for she answered, “I do want to be friends, Gaby. I
do, truly. Only—please, dear, won’t you leave my man alone?”
“And you’ll help me. And you won’t tell him—anything?”
“Of course I won’t tell, Gaby. It is really your secret, now; not
mine. And I’ll help you all I can.”