MEG AS BENEFACTRESS
Dan and the children had gone on a hike, and Jane, being quite alone,
rose and confronted the mountain girl with a cold stare that would have
caused Meg at another time to have whirled about and departed, but for
the sake of the other three she was willing to be treated unkindly.
"Miss Abbott," she said, holding out the newspaper, and pretending not to
notice the unfriendly expression, "there is news in here which may be of
great importance to you. May I show it to your brother?"
Suddenly Jane found herself trembling from some unnamed fear. Instantly
she had thought of the taxes. Perhaps, without really being conscious of
it, she had read the word somewhere on that outheld paper.
She sank back into her chair, saying, almost breathlessly, "Dan isn't
here. What is it, Miss Heger? Is something wrong?"
The mountain girl pointed to the paragraph and was amazed at the effect
the reading of it had upon the proud girl. There was an expression of
terror in the dark eyes that were lifted.
"Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" she implored helplessly. "Our
father gave us the money. He told us the taxes must be paid, but I
thought another two weeks would do as well as now. Dan did not know the
need of haste."
Meg, seeing that the girl, unused to deciding matters of importance, was
more helpless than even Julie would have been, felt a sudden compassion
for her and so she said: "If you can get the money to the county seat
before five o'clock you will not lose your property."
A dull flush suffused the dark face. "I--I haven't the money! I--I
borrowed it for something I wanted. It was in that letter that Julie gave
you this morning to mail."
Then looking up eagerly, hopefully, "Miss Heger, perhaps you forgot to
post it. Oh, how I hope that you did!"
But the mountain girl shook her head. "I sent it by Mr. Bently to the
eastbound train, which was due about noon. He said that he himself would
put it in the mail car."
"Then there is nothing that I can do!" The proud girl burst into sudden
tears. "Father has lost everything but our home in the East, and now, now
I have been the cause of his losing the cabin he so loved." Lifting a
tear-stained face to the girl who was watching her, troubled and
thoughtful, she implored: "Oh, isn't there something I can do? If I tell
them I will pay it in two weeks, when my birthday money comes, won't that
do as well as now?"
Meg shook her head. "No," she said. "This is final. They notified your
father some time ago."
Jane nodded hopelessly. "Oh, if only brother were here! But the worry
would start him to coughing."
Again the girl, who scorned tears in others, began to sob helplessly. How
vain and foolish she had been to want that necklace, hoping that it would
make her appear more beautiful in the eyes of Jean Sawyer.
Meg stood for one moment deep in thought. Then she said: "Miss Abbott,
find your papers. Have them ready for me when I return. I'll try to save
your place."
With that she turned and ran back to her pony, leaped upon it and
galloped out of sight up around the bend.
"What does she mean?" Jane sat, almost as one stunned, for a moment, then
as the command of the mountain girl recalled itself to her, she arose and
went indoors to locate the papers their father had given Dan.
These being fastened with a rubber band into a neat packet, she held
closely while she ran out to the brook calling Dan's name frantically,
but there was no response. Soon she heard the musical yodeling which had
so filled her heart with wrath a short half hour before. Now it was to
her a sound sweeter than any she had ever heard. It brought a faint hope
that her father's cabin might yet be saved. Down the stone steps she
went, holding out the papers. Then and for the first time she thought of
something: "But the money--I haven't any to give you."
Meg's answer was: "I am loaning you twenty-five dollars from my savings,
but don't hope too much. It will be very hard for me to make Scarsburg by
five o'clock, but for Julie's sake I'll do my best."
"For Julie's sake!" The words drifted back to Jane as she stood watching
the pony hurtling itself down the mountain road until the cloud of dust
hid it from view. She, Jane, had never done anything for Julie's sake,
and why, pray, should this mountain girl loan her own money to strangers
who might never repay her, and risk her life and that of her pony, as it
was evident she was doing?
Jane looked out into the heat-shimmering valley. Many times the mountain
road reappeared to her as it zigzagged down to Redfords. Again and again
a rushing cloud of dust assured her that Meg was still racing with time.
Returning to the porch, Jane sank down in the deep chair, keenly
conscious of her own uselessness.
"Oh, what a vain, worthless creature I am! I don't see why Dan cares for
me so much; why he risked his health that I might finish my course in
that seminary where everyone, everything, conspired to make me more proud
and helpless."
Then before her arose a mental picture. Meg, clear-eyed, eager to be of
service in an hour of need, and more than that, capable of being, and
she, Jane, had snubbed her, but for Julie's sake the mountain girl had
persevered in her desire to be neighborly.
Unable to sit still, Jane went again to the brook to call, but the
children, with Dan, had climbed higher than usual and had found so much
to interest them that they had failed to note the passage of time.
As there was no answer to her calling, Jane went back to the house, and,
because she had to do something (she had entirely lost interest in her
book), she wandered out into the kitchen. She saw on the table a pan of
potatoes with the paring knife near.
Hardly knowing what she was about, Jane took the pan to the porch, and,
seating herself on the step, she began most awkwardly to pare. She had
heard her grandmother say that the peeling should be as thin as possible
as the goodness was next to the skin. It took a very long time for Jane
to pare the half dozen potatoes and she had almost resolved not to tell
Dan about the taxes until she knew the worst or the best, when she heard
him hallooing from the brook. Placing the pan on the step, she ran to
meet him. One glance at her white, startled face assured him more than
words could have done that something of an unusual nature had occurred
during their absence. Catching her in his arms, he felt her body tremble.
He led her back to the porch before he asked, "Jane, tell me. What has
happened? Has that Slinking Coyote frightened you?"
Julie and Gerald, wide-eyed and wondering, crowded near. "Dan," Jane
clung to him as she had not since the long ago childhood, when she had so
often been frightened and had turned to him for protection, "please send
the children away. I want to tell you alone."
Gerald needed no second bidding. "Come on, Julie," he called. "Let's go
and practice on our pine tree rifle range." He was carrying the small
gun, and so away they raced. Although they were almost overcome with
natural curiosity, they neither of them desired to stay where they were
not wanted.
When they were gone, Jane leaned against her brother and told the story
between sobs that were almost hysterical. "Oh, brother, brother! If only
this cabin is saved for Dad, I will never, never again be so vain and
selfish. Oh, Dan, tell me, say that you think Meg will reach the county
seat before five."
The lad found that his heart was filled with conflicting emotions. The
scorn his sister's pride and selfishness would have aroused in him at
another time was crowded out by pity for her. She had suffered enough
without his rebuke. Then there was the dread that the cabin might not be
saved, for well he knew the sorrow its loss would bring to his father,
but, above all, there was something in his heart he had never felt
before, a warm glow of admiration for a girl who was not his sister. What
he said was, "Jane, dear, quiet yourself. We can do nothing but wait."
And a long, long wait they were destined to have. The hands of the clock
moved slowly to four, then five and then six. Jane's poor efforts at
paring the potatoes received much comment from the children alone in the
kitchen.
"Gee," Gerald confided to his small sister, "something must have happened
if it upset Jane so she didn't know what she was doing. She surely
didn't, or she wouldn't have tried to pare potatoes and stain those lily
hands of hers."
Try as the small boy might, he could not keep the scorn out of his voice.
But Julie was more forgiving. "Gerry, don't be too hard on Jane. She acts
awfully worried about something. I don't believe she saw a bear or
anything that scared her. I think it's something in her heart that's
troubling her. I think she's sorry about something she's done."
"Well, she sure ought to be." The boy was less sympathetic. "She's been
dirt mean to us ever since she's been home from that hifalutin' seminary,
and what's more, she's none too good to Dan. I'd hate her, that's what,
if she wasn't my sister, and if she didn't look just like our mother. But
even for all of that, I'm going to let myself hate her hard if she isn't
better to you, Jule. The way she lets you do the work, and she setting
around reading novels to keep her hands white so's folks will admire
them! Aren't you the same family as she is, and shouldn't your hands be
kept just as white? Tell me that now!"
The boy, who was holding the bread knife, whirled with such an indignant
expression on his freckled face that Julie laughed merrily, which broke
the spell.
"Oh, Gerry, you do look so funny! If I had time, I'd find some riggins to
make you into a pirate. It could be done easy, 'cause your face looks
just like their pictures and that knife would do for a dagger."
Meanwhile, on the front porch, the two who had long watched and waited,
were getting momentarily more anxious, and often Dan walked to the top of
the steep stairway, down which he gazed at the zig-zagging mountain road.
At last he saw a pony climbing, oh, so slowly, as though it could hardly
take another step; and at its side there walked a girl. Dan leaped back
to the porch and snatched up his hat. "Jane," he said, "you and the
children have your supper. I'm going up to the Heger cabin and get one of
their horses. Meg's pony is worn out, and I'm not going to have that
brave girl walk all the way up the mountain, just to serve us."
Jane did not try to detain him, and the lad fairly leaped up the road to
the Heger cabin. He found the trapper, who had just returned from a ride
over the other side of the mountain. "Take this hoss," he said, when he
had heard the story which fairly tumbled from Dan's mouth. "Ol'
Bag-o'-Bones ain't a bit tired, and he's the best hoss I have on the
place."
Then the man held out a strong hand as he said: "Dan, boy, I hope my gal
made it! She would if anyone could."
Dan silently returned the clasp, then he mounted the horse, that was not
at all what its name might suggest, but lean and wiry, as were all of the
mustangs of the West, with hard muscles and a loping step that carried it
down the road, sure-footed and with great rapidity. Jane heard the halloo
when he passed, but she did not stir. She felt that she never could move
again until she had learned the news that Meg would have for them.
And Meg, far down the mountain, looked up and saw Bag-o'-Bones, her
foster-father's favorite horse, descending with speed, and, believing it
to be ridden by Mr. Heger, she wondered why, at that hour, he was in such
haste. But at a lower turn of the road, she saw that the figure on the
horse was that of the lad from the East, who as yet did not know how to
ride as they did in the West.
Then she knew why he was coming, and for the first time in her lonely,
isolated life, there was a sudden warmth in her heart. She had a real
friend, she knew that instinctively, and his name was Dan Abbott.