|WHEN Billy Geary could reorganize himself, as it were, after the shock
incident to his discovery that the cablegram was not for him after all,
he turned his attention to Mother Jenks. Without quite realizing why he
did so, Billy decided that fear and not grief was at the bottom of the
good creature's distress, and in his awkward, masculine way he placed
his arm around Mother Jenks's shoulders, shook her gently, and bade her
remember that chaos might come and go again, but he, the said William
Geary, would remain her true and steadfast friend in any and all
emergencies that might occur.
“Gor' bless yer heart, Willie,” Mother Jenks sniffled. “If this was only
somethink I could hentrust to a man! But it ain't.”
“Well, suppose you tell me what it is and let me be the judge,” Billy
suggested. “I haven't got one _centavo_ to rub against the other, and
on present form and past performances I'm the last man in the world to
handle an affair between two women, but--I have a head on my shoulders,
and nobody ever had reason to suspect that head of being empty. Perhaps,
if you care to give me your confidence, I may be of service to you,
Mother.”
“Willie,” his landlady wailed, “I dunno wot in 'ell yer ever goin' to
think o' me w'en I tell ye wot I've been up to this past fifteen year.”
“Whatever you've been up to, Mother, it was a kind and charitable
deed--of that much I am certain,” Billy replied loftily and--to his own
surprise--sincerely.
“As Gord is my judge, Willie, it started out that w'y,” moaned Mother
Jenks, and she squeezed Billy's hand as if from that yellow, shaking
member she would draw aid and comfort. “'Er nyme is Dolores Ruey.”
“Any relation to the Ruey family of Buenaventura?”
“A first cousin, Willie. 'Er father was Don Ricardo Ruey, _présidente_
av this blasted 'ell on earth w'en me an' my sainted 'Enery first come
to Buenaventura. 'E was too good for the yeller-bellied beggars; 'e
tried to do somethink for them an' run the government on the square, an'
they couldn't hunderstand, all along o' 'avin' been kicked an' cuffed
by a long line of bloody rotters. It was Don Ricardo as gives my sainted
'Enery 'is commission as colonel in the hartillery.
“That was all very well, you know, Willie, only Don Ricardo didn't go
far enough. If 'e'd only 'arkened to 'Enery's advice an' imported a lot
o' bloomin' Tommies to serve 'Enery's guns, 'im an' 'Enery never would
'ave faced that firin'-squad. Many's the time 'Enery's said to
me: ''Enrietta, me 'art's broke tryin' to myke gunners out o' them
blackamoors Don Ricardo gives me to serve the screwguns. They've been
born without a sense o' distance!' Gor' bless you, Willie, my sainted
'Enery 'ad no bloomin' use for a range-finder. 'E'd cast 'is eye over
the ground an' then try a shot for distance. M'ybe'e'd be a bit short.
'A bit more elevation, _amigos_,' says 'Enery, an' tries again. This
time 'e's a bit over it, m'ybe, but the third or fourth shot 'e 'as the
range an' stays right on the target. But then, Willie, as 'Enery used
to s'y to me: ''Enrietta, how in blazes can I serve six guns? How can a
colonel of hartillery come down off 'is 'orse an do a gunner's work? It
ain't dignified.'”
Billy nodded. He had heard that story so often in the past that he knew
it by heart; from all he could learn the sainted 'Enery quite resembled
a horse, in that he had room in his head for but one thought at a time.
As a gunner-sergeant he was doubtless a loss to the British service, but
as a colonel of So-brantean artillery he had tried to forget that once
he had been a gunner-sergeant!
“You've 'eard me tell,” Mother Jenks continued, “'ow the rebels got
'arf a dozen Hamerican gunners--deserters from the navy--an' blew
'Enery's battery to bits, 'ow the Government forces fell back upon
Buenaventura, an' as 'ow w'en the dorgs begun to wonder if they mightn't
lose, they quit by the 'undreds an' went over to the rebel side, leavin'
Don Ricardo an' 'Enery an' m'ybe fifty o' the gentry in the palace. In
course they fought to a finish; 'ristocrats, all of them, they 'ad to
die fightin' or facin' a firin'-squad.”
Again Billy nodded. He had heard the tale before, including the recital
of the sainted 'Enery's gallant dash from the blazing palace in an
effort to save Don Ricardo's only child, a girl of seven, and of his
capture and subsequent execution.
“That ended the revolution,” Mother Jenks concluded. “But 'ere's
somethink I've never told a livin' soul. Shortly before 'Enery was
hexecuted, 'e told me where 'e'd 'id the youngster--in a culvert out on
the Malecon; so I 'ired a four-wheeler an' went out an' rescued the pore
lamb. She'd been 'idin' there thirty-six hours an' was well-nigh dead,
an' as there ain't no tellin' what a mob o' these spiggoties 'll do when
they're excited, I 'id 'er until the harrival o' the next fruit steamer,
w'en I shipped 'er to New Orleans in care o' the stewardess. Hi 'ad 'er
put in the Catholic convent there, for as 'Enery said: ''Enrietta, keep
an eye on the little nipper, an' do yer damndest to see she's raised a
lydy. 'Er father was a gentleman, an' you never want to forget 'e
made you Mrs. Colonel Jenks.' So Hi've made a lydy out o' her, Willie:
education, pianner lessons, paintin', singin', an' deportmint. After she
graduated from the convent, I 'ad her take a course in the Uniwersity o'
California--New Orleans wasn't 'ealthy for'er, an' she needed a chynge
o' climate--an' for the last two years she's been teachin' in the 'igh
school in Los Angeles.”
“And you haven't seen her in all these years?” Geary demanded.
“Not a look, Willie. She's been after me ever since she graduated from
the convent to let her come 'ome an' wisit me, but Hi've told'er to
wyte--that I'd be comin' soon to wisit her. An' now, s'help me, she
won't wait no longer; she's cornin' to wisit me! Gor', Willie, she's on
her w'y!”
“So this cablegram would indicate,” Geary observed. “Nevertheless,
Mother, I'm at a loss to know why you should feel so cut up over the
impending visit.”
There was real fear in Mother Jenks's tear-dimmed eyes. “I cawn't
let'er see me,” she wailed. “I wasn't this w'y w'en my sainted 'Enery
hentrusted the lamb to me; it wasn't until awfter they hexecuted 'Enery
that I commenced to slip--an' now look at me. Look at me, Willie Geary;
look at me, I s'y. Wot do yer see? Aw, don't tell me I'm young an'
'andsome, for I knows wot I am. I'm a frowsy, drunken, disreputable
baggage, with no heducation or nothink. I've raised'er a lydy on
account of 'er bein' born a lydy an' her father bein' good to me an my
'Enery--an' all along, hever since she learned to write me a
letter, I've been 'Enrietta Wilkins to'er, an' Mother Jenks to every
beach-combin' beggar in the Caribbean tropics. I've lied to'er, Willie.
I've wrote 'er as 'ow 'er fawther, before 'e died, give me enough money
to heducate'er like a lydy----”
Again Mother Jenks's grief overcame her. “An' wot lovin' letters my
darlin' writes me,” she sobbed. “Calls me 'er lovin' Aunt 'Enrietta,
an' me--Gor', Willie, I ain't respectable. She's comin' to see me--an'
I cawn't let'er. She mustn't know 'ow I got the money for 'er
heducation--sellin' 'ell-fire to a pack of rotten dorgs an' consortin'
with the scum of this stinkin' 'ole! Oh, Willie, you've got to 'elp me.
I cawn't 'ave'er comin' to El Buen Amigo to see me, an' I cawn't ruin
'er reputation by callin' on 'er in public at the 'Otel Mateo. Oh, Gor',
Willie, Mother's come a cropper.”
Willie agreed with her. He patted the sinful gray head of his landlady
and waited for her to regain her composure, the while he racked his
agile brain for a feasible plan to fit the emergency. He realized it
would be quite useless to argue Mother Jenks into the belief that she
might pull herself together, so to speak, and run the risk of meeting
with her ward; for the old woman had been born in the slums of London
and raised a barmaid. She knew her place. She was not a lady and could
never hope now to associate with one, even in a menial capacity, so
there was an end to it! During the past fifteen years, the lower
Mother Jenks had sunk in the social scale, even of free-and-easy old
Buenaventura, the higher had she raised the one sweet note in her sordid
life; not until the arrival of that cablegram did she realize that
during those fifteen years she had been raising a barrier between her
and the object of her stifled maternal yearnings--a barrier which, to
her class-controlled mind, could never be swept away.
“She's been picturin' me in 'er mind all these years, Willie--picturin'
a fraud,” wailed Mother Jenks. “If she sees me now, wot a shock she'll
get, pore sweetheart--an' 'er the spittin' himage of a hangel.
And oh, Willie, while she don't remember wot I looked like, think o' the
shock if she meets me! In 'er lawst letter she said as 'ow I was the only
hanchor she had in life. Ho, yes. A sweet-lookin' hanchor I am--an'
Hi was 'opin' to die before she found hout. I've got a hanuerism in my
'eart, Willie, so the surgeon on the mail boat tells me, an' w'en I go,
I'll go like--that!” Mother Jenks snapped her cigarette-stained fingers.
“I 'ad the doctor come ashore the last time _La Estrellita_ was in,
on account o' 'im bein' a Hamerican an' up to snuff. An' Hi've got
'ardenin' of the harteries, too. I'm fifty-seven, Willie, an' since
my sainted 'Enery passed away, I 'aven't been no bloomin' hangel.” She
wrung her hands. “Oh, w'y in 'ell couldn't them harteries 'ave busted in
time to save my lamb the 'umiliatin' knowledge that she's be'oldin' to
the likes o' me for wot she's got--an' 'ow I got it for'er.”
Billy Geary had a bright idea. “Well,” he said, “why not
die--temporarily--if you feel that way about it? You could come back
from the grave after she's gone.”
But Mother Jenks shook her head. “No,” she declared. “While Dolores is
self-supportin' now, still, if anythink 'appened an' she was to need
'elp, 'elp is somethin' no ghost can give. Think again, Willie. Gor',
lad, w'ere's yer brains--an' you with your stummick filled to bustin'
with a breakfast fit for a knight o' the bawth.”
“Well,” Billy countered thoughtfully, “apparently there's no way of
heading her off before she takes the steamer at New Orleans, so we'll
take it for granted she'll arrive here in due course. About the time
she's due, suppose you run up to San Miguel de Padua for a couple of
weeks and leave me to run El Buen Amigo in your absence. I'll play fair
with you, Mother, so help me. I'll account for every _centavo_. I'll
borrow some decent clothes from Leber the day the steamer gets in; then
I'll go aboard and look over the passenger-list, and if she's aboard,
I'll tell her you closed your house and started for California to visit
her on the last northbound steamer--that her cablegram arrived just
after you had started; that the cable company, knowing I am a friend of
yours, showed me the message and that I took it upon myself to call and
explain that as a result of your departure for the United States it will
be useless for her to land--useless and dangerous, because cholera is
raging in Buenaventura, although the port authorities deny it----”
“Willie,” Mother Jenks interrupted impressively, a ghost of her old
debonair spirit shining through her tears, “yer don't owe me a bloomin'
sixpence! Yer've syved the day, syved my reputation, an' syved a lydy's
peace o' mind. Kiss me, yer precious byby.”
So Billy kissed her--gravely and with filial reverence, for he had long
suspected Mother Jenks of being a pearl cast before swine, and now he
was certain of it.
“I'll send her back to the United States and promise to cable you to
await her there,” Billy continued. “Of course, we can't help it if you
and the cablegram miss connections, and once the young lady is back
in the United States, I dare say she'll have to stay there a couple of
years before she can save the price of another sea voyage. And in the
meantime she may marry----”
“Or that haneurism or my bally harteries may 'ave turned the trick
before that,” Mother Jenks suggested candidly but joyously. “In course
she'll be disappointed, but then disappointment never lays 'eavy on a
young 'eart, Willie; an' bein' disappointed at not seein' a person you
ain't really acquainted with ain't as bad as some disappointments.”
“I guess I know,” Billy Geary replied bitterly. “If that cablegram
had only been for me! The only thing worth while I have done in my
twenty-six years of life was to accumulate the best friend a man ever
had--and lose him again because I was a fool and couldn't understand
things without a blueprint! Mother, if my old partner could, by some
miracle, manage to marry this Dolores girl, your arteries and your
aneurisms might bust and be damned, but the girl would be safe.”
“M'ybe,” Mother Jenks suggested hopefully, “yer might fix it up for her
w'en I'm gone. From all haccounts 'e's no-end a gentleman.”
“He's a he-man,” Mr. Geary declared with conviction. He sighed. “John
Stuart Webster, wherever you are, please write or cable,” he murmured.