"AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS
It was almost dark when Jacky returned to the ranch. She had left "Lord"
Bill at the brink of the great keg, whence he had returned to his own
place. Her first thought, on entering the house, was for the letter
which she had left for her uncle. It was gone. She glanced round the
room uncertainly. Then she stood gazing into the stove, while she idly
drummed with her gauntleted fingers upon the back of a chair. She had as
yet removed neither her Stetson hat nor her gauntlets.
Her strong, dark face was unusually varying in its expression. Possibly
her thoughts were thus indexed. Now, as she stood watching the play of
the fire, her great, deep eyes would darken with a grave, almost anxious
expression; again they would smile with a world of untold happiness in
their depths. Again they would change, in a flash, to a hard, cold gleam
of hatred and unyielding purpose; then slowly, a tender expression, such
as that of a mother for Her new-born babe, would creep into them and
shine down into the depths of the fire with a world of sweet sympathy.
But through all there was a tight compression of the lips, which spoke
of the earnest purpose which governed her thoughts; a slight pucker of
the brows, which surely told of a great concentration of mind.
Presently she roused herself, and, walking to where a table-bell stood,
rang sharply upon it. Her summons was almost immediately answered by the
entry of a servant.
Jacky turned as the door opened, and fired an abrupt question.
"Has Uncle John been in, Mamie?"
The girl's face had resumed its usual strong, kindly expression.
Whatever was hidden behind that calm exterior, she had no intention of
giving a chance observer any clew to it.
"No, miss," the servant replied, in that awestruck tone which domestics
are apt to use when sharply interrogated. She was an intelligent-looking
girl. Her dark skin and coarse black hair pronounced her a half-breed.
Her mistress had said "blood is thicker than water." All the domestics
under Jacky's charge hailed from the half-breed camp.
"Was my message delivered to him?"
Unconcernedly as she spoke she waited with some anxiety for the answer.
"Oh, yes, miss. Silas delivered it himself. The master was in company
with Mr. Lablache and the doctor, miss," added the girl, discreetly.
"And what did he say?"
"He sent Silas for the letter, miss."
"He didn't say what time he would return, I suppose?"
"No, miss--" She hesitated and fumbled at the door handle.
"Well?" as the girl showed by her attitude that there was something she
had left unsaid.
Jacky's question rang acutely in the quiet room.
"Silas--" began the girl, with a deprecating air of unbelief--"you know
what strange notions he takes--he said--"
The girl stopped in confusion under the steady gaze of her mistress.
"Speak up, girl," exclaimed Jacky, impatiently. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing, miss," the girl blurted out desperately. "Only Silas said
as the master didn't seem well like."
"Ah! That will do." Then, as the girl still stood at the door, "You can
go."
The dismissal was peremptory, and the half-breed had no choice but to
depart. She had hoped to have heard something interesting, but her
mistress was never given to being communicative with servants.
When the door had closed behind the half-breed Jacky turned again
towards the stove. Again she was plunged in deep thought. This time
there could be no mistake as to its tenor. Her heart was racked with an
anxiety which was not altogether new to it. The sweet face was pale and
her eyelids flickered ominously. The servant's veiled meaning was quite
plain to her. Brave, hardy as this girl of the prairie was, the fear
that was ever in her heart had suddenly assumed the proportions of a
crushing reality. She loved her uncle with an affection that was almost
maternal. It was the love of a strong, resolute nature for one of a
kindly but weak disposition. She loved the gray-headed old man, whose
affection had made her life one long, long day of happiness, with a
tenderness which no recently-acquired faults of his could alienate.
He--and now another--was her world. A world in which it was her joy to
dwell. And now--now; what of the present? Racked by losses brought about
through the agency of his all-absorbing passion, the weak old man was
slowly but surely taking to drowning his consciousness of the appalling
calamity which he had consistently set to work to bring about, and which
in his lucid moments he saw looming heavily over his house, in drink.
She had watched him with the never-failing eye of love, and had seen, to
her horror, the signs she so dreaded. She could face disaster stoically,
she could face danger unflinchingly, but this moral wrecking of the old
man, who had been more to her than a father, was more than she could
bear. Two great tears welled up into her beautiful, somber eyes and
slowly rolled down her cheeks. She bowed like a willow bending to the
force of the storm.
Her weakness was only momentary, however; her courage, bred from the
wildness of her life surroundings, rose superior to her feminine
weakness. She dashed her gloved hands across her eyes and wiped the
tears away. She felt that she must be doing--not weeping. Had not she
sealed a solemn compact with her lover? She must to work without delay.
She glanced round the room. Her gaze was that of one who wishes to
reassure herself. It was as if the old life had gone from her and she
was about to embark on a career new--foreign to her. A career in which
she could see no future--only the present. She felt like one taking a
long farewell to a life which had been fraught with nothing but delight.
The expression of her face told of the pain of the parting. With a heavy
sigh she passed out of the room--out into the chill night air, where
even the welcome sounds of the croaking frogs and the lowing cattle were
not. Where nothing was to cheer her for the work which in the future
must be hers. Something of that solemn night entered her soul. The gloom
of disaster was upon her.
It was only a short distance to Dr. Abbot's house. The darkness of the
night was no hindrance to the girl. Hither she made her way with the
light, springing step of one whose mind is made up to a definite
purpose.
She found Mrs. Abbot in. The little sitting-room in the doctor's house
was delightfully homelike and comfortable. There was nothing pretentious
about it--just solid comfort. And the great radiating stove in the
center of it smelt invitingly warm to the girl as she came in out of the
raw night air. Mrs. Abbot was alternating between a basket of sewing and
a well-worn, cheap-edition novel. The old lady was waiting with
patience, the outcome of experience, for the return of her lord to his
supper.
"Well, 'Aunt' Margaret," said Jacky, entering with the confidence of an
assured welcome, "I've come over for a good gossip. There's nobody at
home--up there," with a nod in the direction of the ranch.
"My dear child, I'm so pleased," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, coming forward
from her rather rigid seat, and kissing the girl on both cheeks with
old-fashioned cordiality. "Come and sit by the stove--yes, take that
hideous hat off, which, by the way, I never could understand your
wearing. Now, when John and I were first en--"
"Yes, yes, dear. I know what you're going to say," interrupted the girl,
smiling in spite of the dull aching at her heart. She knew how this
sweet old lady lived in the past, and she also knew how, to a
sympathetic ear, she loved to pour out the delights of memory from a
heart overflowing with a strong affection for the man of her choice.
Jacky had come here to talk of other matters, and she knew that when
"Aunt" Margaret liked she could be very shrewd and practical.
Something in the half-wistful smile of her companion brought the old
lady quickly back from the realms of recollection, and a pair of keen,
kindly eyes met the steady gray-black orbs of the girl.
"Ah, Jacky, my child, we of the frivolous sex are always being forced
into considering the mundane matters of everyday life here at Foss
River. What is it, dear? I can see by your face that you are worrying
over something."
The girl threw herself into an easy chair, drawn up to the glowing stove
with careful forethought by the old lady. Mrs. Abbot reseated herself in
the straight-backed chair she usually affected. She carefully put her
book on one side and took up some darning, assiduously inserting the
needle but without further attempt at work. It was something to fix her
attention on whilst talking. Old Mrs. Abbot always liked to be able to
occupy her hands when talking seriously. And Jacky's face told her that
this was a moment for serious conversation.
"Where's the Doc?" the girl asked without preamble. She knew, of course,
but she used the question by way of making a beginning.
The old lady imperceptibly straightened her back. She now anticipated
the reason of her companion's coming. She glanced over the top of a pair
of gold _pince-nez_, which she had just settled comfortably upon the
bridge of her pretty, broad nose.
"He's down at the saloon playing poker. Why, dear?"
Her question was so innocent, but Jacky was not for a moment deceived by
its tone. The girl smiled plaintively into the fire. There was no
necessity for her to disguise her feelings before "Aunt" Margaret, she
knew. But her loyal nature shrank from flaunting her uncle's weaknesses
before even this kindly soul. She kept her fencing attitude a little
longer, however.
"Who is he playing with?" Jacky raised a pair of inquiring gray eyes to
her companion's face.
"Your uncle and--Lablache."
The shrewd old eyes watched the girl's face keenly. But Jacky gave no
sign.
"Will you send for him, 'Aunt' Margaret?" said the girl, quietly.
"Without letting him know that I am here," she added, as an
afterthought.
"Certainly, dear," the old lady replied, rising with alacrity. "Just
wait a moment while I send word. Keewis hasn't gone to his teepee yet. I
set him to clean some knives just now. He can go. These Indians are
better messengers than they are domestics." Mrs. Abbot bustled out of
the room.
She returned a moment later, and, drawing her chair beside that of the
girl, seated herself and rested one soft white hand on those of her
companion, which were reposing clasped in the lap of her dungaree skirt.
"Now, tell me, dear--tell me all about it--I know, it is your uncle."
The sympathy of her tone could never have been conveyed in mere words.
This woman's heart expressed its kindliness in voice and eyes. There was
no resisting her, and Jacky made no effort to do so.
For one instant there flashed into the girl's face a look of utter
distress. She had come purposely to talk plainly to the woman whom she
had lovingly dubbed "Aunt Margaret," but she found it very hard when it
came to the point, She cast about in her mind for a beginning, then
abandoned the quest and blurted out lamely the very thing from which she
most shrank.
"Say, auntie, you've observed uncle lately--I mean how strange he is?
You've noticed how often, now, he is--is not himself?"
"Whisky," said the old lady, uncompromisingly. "Yes, dear, I have. It is
quite the usual thing to smell' old man Smith's vile liquor when John
Allandale is about. I'm glad you've spoken. I did not like to say
anything to you about it. John's on a bad trail."
"Yes, and a trail with a long, downhill gradient," replied Jacky, with a
rueful little smile. "Say, aunt," she went on, springing suddenly to her
feet and confronting the old lady's mildly-astonished gaze, "isn't there
anything we can do to stop him? What is it? This poker and whisky are
ruining him body and soul. Is the whisky the result of his losses? Or is
the madness for a gamble the result of the liquor?"
"Neither the one--nor the other, my dear. It is--Lablache."
The older woman bent over her darning, and the needle passed, rippling,
round a "potato" in the sock which was in her lap. Her eyes were
studiously fixed upon the work.
"Lablache--Lablache! It is always Lablache, whichever way I turn.
Gee--but the whole country reeks of him. I tell you right here, aunt,
that man's worse than scurvy in our ranching world. Everybody and
everything in Foss River seems to be in his grip."
"Excepting a certain young woman who refuses to be ensnared."
The words were spoken quite casually. But Jacky started. Their meaning
was driven straight home. She looked down upon the bent, gray head as if
trying to penetrate to the thought that was passing within. There was a
moment's impressive silence. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of
the room. A light wind was whistling rather shrilly outside, round the
angles of the house.
"Go on, auntie," said the girl, slowly. "You haven't said enough--yet. I
guess you're thinking mighty--deeply."
Mrs. Abbot looked up from her work. She was smiling, but behind that
smile there was a strange gravity in the expression of her eyes.
"There is nothing more to say at present." Then she added, in a tone
from which all seriousness had vanished, "Hasn't Lablache ever asked you
to marry him?"
A light was beginning to dawn upon the girl.
"Yes--why?"
"I thought so." It was now Mrs. Abbot's turn to rise and confront her
companion. And she did so with the calm manner of one who is assured
that what she is about to say cannot be refuted. Her kindly face had
lost nothing of its sweet expression, only there was something in it
which seemed to be asking a mute question, whilst her words conveyed the
statement of a case as she knew it. "You dear, foolish people. Can you
not see what is going on before your very eyes, or must a stupid old
woman like myself explain what is patent to the veriest fool in the
settlement? Lablache is the source of your uncle's trouble, and,
incidentally, you are the incentive. I have watched--I have little else
to do in Foss River--you all for years past, and there is little that I
could not tell you about any of you, as far as the world sees you.
Lablache has been a source of a world of thought to me. The business
side of him is patent to everybody. He is hard, flinty, tyrannical--even
unscrupulous. I am telling you nothing new, I know. But there is another
side to his character which some of you seem to ignore. He is capable of
strong passions--ay, very strong passions. He has conceived a passion
for you. I will call it by no other name in such an unholy brute as
Lablache. He wishes to marry _you--he means to marry you_."
The silver-haired old lady had worked herself up to an unusual
vehemence. She paused after accentuating her last words. Jacky, taking
advantage of the break, dropped in a question.
"But--how does this affect my uncle?"
"Aunt" Margaret sniffed disdainfully and resettled the glasses which, in
the agitation of the moment, had slipped from her nose.
"Of course it affects your uncle," she continued more quietly. "Now
listen and I will explain." Once more these two seated themselves and
"Aunt" Margaret again plunged into her story.
"Sometimes I catch myself speculating as to how it comes about that you
have inspired this passion in such a man as Lablache," she began,
glancing into the somberly beautiful face beside her. "I should have
expected that mass of flesh and money--he always reminds me of a
jelly-fish, my dear--ugh!--to have wished to take to himself one of your
gaudy butterflies from New York or London for a wife; not a simple child
of the prairie who is more than half a wild--wild savage." She smiled
lovingly into the girl's face. "You see these coarse money-grubbers
always prefer their pills well gilded, and, as a rule, their matrimonial
pills need a lot of gilding to bring them up to the standard of what
they think a wife should be. However, it was not long before it became
plain to me that he wished to marry you. He may be a master of finance;
he may disguise his feelings--if he has any--in business, so that the
shrewdest observer can discover no vulnerable point in his armor of
dissimulation. But when it comes to matters pertaining
to--to--love--quite the wrong word in his case, my dear--these men are
as babes; worse, they are fools. When Lablache makes up his mind to a
purpose he generally accomplishes his end--"
"In business," suggested Jacky, moodily.
"Just so--in business, my dear. In matters matrimonial it may be
different. But I doubt his failure in that," went on Mrs. Abbot, with a
decided snap of her expressive mouth. "He will try by fair means or
foul, and, if I know anything of him, he will never relinquish his
purpose. He asked you to marry him--and of course you refused, quite
natural and right. He will not risk another refusal from you--these
people consider themselves very sensitive, my dear--so he will attempt
to accomplish his end by other means--means much more congenial to him,
the--the beast. There now, I've said it, my dear. The doctor tells me
that he is quite the most skilful player at poker that he has ever come
across."
"I guess that's so," said the girl, with a dark, ironical smile.
"And that his luck is phenomenal," the old lady went on, without
appearing to notice the interruption. "Very well. Your uncle, the old
fool--excuse me, my dear--has done nothing but gamble all his life. The
doctor says that he believes John has never been known to win more than
about once in a month's play, no matter with whom he plays. You know--we
all know--that for years he has been in the habit of raising loans from
this monumental cuttle-fish to settle his losses. And you can trust that
individual to see that these loans are well secured. John Allandale is
reputed very rich, but the doctor assures me that were Lablache to
foreclose his mortgages a very, very big slice of your uncle's worldly
goods would be taken to meet his debts.
"Now comes the last stage of the affair," she went on, with a sage
little shake of the head. "How long ago is it since Lablache proposed to
you? But there, you need not tell me. It was a little less than a year
ago--wasn't it?"
Her companion nodded her head. She wondered how "Aunt" Margaret had
guessed it. She had never told a soul herself. The shrewd little old
lady was filling her with wonder. The careful manner in which she had
pieced facts together and argued them out with herself revealed to her
a cleverness and observation she would never, in spite of the kindly
soul's counsels, have given her credit for.
"Yes, I knew I was right," said Mrs. Abbot, complacently. "Just about
the time when Lablache began seriously to play poker--about the time
when his phenomenal luck set in, to the detriment of your uncle. Yes, I
am well posted," as the girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. "The
doctor tells me a great deal--especially about your uncle, dear. I
always like to know what is going on. And now to bring my long
explanation to an end. Don't you see how Lablache intends to marry you?
Your uncle's losses this winter have been so terribly heavy--and all to
Lablache. Lablache holds the whip hand of him. A request from Lablache
becomes a command--or the crash."
"But how about the Doc," asked Jacky, quickly. "He plays with
them--mostly?"
Mrs. Abbot shrugged her shoulders.
"The doctor can take care of himself. He's cautious, and
besides--Lablache has no wish to win his money."
"But surely he must lose? Say, auntie, dear, it's not possible to play
against Lablache's luck without losing--some."
"Well, dear, I can't say I know much of the game," with some perplexity,
"but the doctor assures me that Lablache never hits him hard. Often and
often when the 'pot' rests between them Lablache will throw down his
hand--which goes to show that he does not want to take his money."
"An' I reckon goes to show that he's bucking dead against Uncle John,
only. Yes, I see."
The little gray head again bent over the darning, which had lain almost
untouched in her lap during her long recital. Now she resolutely drew
the darning yarn through the soft wool of the sock and re-inserted the
needle. The girl beside her bent an eager face before her, and, resting
her chin upon her hands, propped her elbows on her knees.
"Yes, auntie, I know," Jacky went on thoughtfully. "Lablache means to
put this marriage with me right through. I see it all. But say,"
bringing one of her brown hands down forcibly upon that of her
companion, which was concealed in the foot of the woolen sock, and
gripping it with nervous strength, "I guess he's reckoned without his
bride. I'm not going to marry Lablache, auntie, dear, and you can bet
your bottom dollar I'm not going to let him ruin uncle. All I want to do
is to stop uncle drinking. That is what scares me most."
"My child, Lablache is the cause of that. The same as he is the cause of
all troubles in Foss River. Your uncle realizes the consequences of the
terrible losses he has incurred. He knows, only too well, that he is
utterly in the money-lender's power. He knows he must go on playing,
vainly endeavoring to recover himself, and with each fresh loss he
drinks deeper to smother his fears and conscience. It is the result of
the weakness of his nature--a weakness which I have always known would
sooner or later lead to his undoing. Jacky, girl, I fear you will one
day have to marry Lablache or your uncle's ruin will be certainly
accomplished."
Mrs. Abbot's face was very serious now. She pitied from the bottom of
her heart this motherless girl who had come to her, in spite of her
courage and almost mannish independence, for that sympathy and advice
which, at certain moments, the strongest woman cannot do without. She
knew that all she had said was right, and even if her story could do no
material good it would at least have the effect of putting the girl on
her guard. In spite of her shrewdness Mrs. Abbot could never quite
fathom her _protégée_. And even now, as she gazed into the girl's face,
she was wondering how--in what manner--the narration of her own
observations would influence the other's future actions. The thick blood
of the half-breed slowly rose into Jacky's face, until the dark skin was
suffused with a heavy, passionate flush. Slowly, too, the somber eyes
lit--glowed--until the dazzling fire of anger shone in their depths.
Then she spoke; not passionately, but with a hard, cruel delivery which
sent a shiver thrilling through her companion's body and left her
shuddering.
"'Aunt' Margaret, I swear by all that's holy that I'll never marry that
scum. Say, I'd rather follow a round-up camp and share a greaser's
blankets than wear all the diamonds Lablache could buy. An' as for
uncle; say, the day that sees him ruined'll see Lablache's filthy brains
spoiling God's pure air."
"Child, child," replied the old lady, in alarm, "don't take oaths, the
rashness--the folly of which you cannot comprehend. For goodness' sake
don't entertain such wicked thoughts. Lablache is a villain, but--"
She broke off and turned towards the door, which, at that moment, opened
to admit the genial doctor.
"Ah," she went on, with a sudden change of manner back to that of her
usual cheerful self, "I thought you men were going to make a night of
it. Jacky came to share my solitude."
"Good evening, Jacky," said the doctor. "Yes, we were going to make a
night of it, Margaret. Your summons broke up the party, and for John's
sake--" He checked himself, and glanced curiously at the recurrent form
of the girl, who was now lounging back in her chair gazing into the
stove. "What did you want me for?"
Jacky rose abruptly from her seat and picked up her hat.
"'Aunt' Margaret didn't really want you, Doc. It was I who asked her to
send for you. I want to see uncle."
"Ah!"
The doctor permitted himself the ejaculation.
"Good-night, you two dear people," the girl went on, with a forced
attempt at cheerfulness. "I guess uncle'll be home by now, so I'll be
off."
"Yes, he left the saloon with me," said Doctor Abbot, shaking hands and
walking towards the door. "You'll just about catch him."
The girl kissed the old lady and passed out. The doctor stood for a
moment on his doorstep gazing after her.
"Poor child--poor child!" he murmured. "Yes, she'll find him--I saw him
home myself," And he broke off with an expressive shrug.