UNCLE AND NIECE
"Poker" John's remorse came swiftly, but not swiftly or strongly enough
to make him give up the game. After Lablache had taken his departure the
old rancher sat drinking far into the night. With each fresh potation
his conscience became less persistent in its protest. He sought no bed
that night, for gradually his senses left him and he slept where he sat,
until, towards daybreak he awoke, partially sober and shivering with
cold. Then he arose, and, wrapping himself in a heavy overcoat, flung
himself upon a couch, where he again sought sobriety in sleep.
He awoke again soon after daylight. His head was racked with pain. He,
at first, had only a dim recollection of what had occurred the night
before. There was a vague sense of something unpleasant having happened,
but he did not attempt to recall it. He went to his bedroom and douched
himself with cold water. Then he set out for the kitchen in search of
coffee with which to slack his burning thirst. It was not until he had
performed his ablutions that the whole truth of his interview with
Lablache came back to him. Immediately, now that the effect of the
liquor had passed off, he became a prey to terrible remorse.
Possibly had Jacky been at hand at that moment, the whole course of
events might have been altered. Her presence, a good breakfast, and
occupation might have given him strength to carry out the rejection of
Lablache's challenge which his remorse suggested. However, none of these
things were at hand, and John Allandale set out, from force of habit, to
get his morning "Collins" down at "old man" Smith's. Something to pull
him together before he encountered his niece, he told himself.
It was a fatal delusion. "Old man" Smith sold drink for gain. The more
he sold the better he liked it. John Allandale's "Collins" developed, as
it always did now, into three or four potent drinks. So that by the time
he returned to the ranch for breakfast his remorse was pushed well into
the background, and with feverish craving he lodged for the fateful
game.
In spite of his devotion to the bottle John Allandale usually made a
hearty breakfast. But this morning the sight of Jacky presiding at his
table upset him, and he left his food almost untasted. Remorse was
deadened but conscience was yet unsilenced within him. Every time she
spoke to him, every time he encountered her piercing gray eyes he felt
himself to be a worse than Judas. In his rough, exaggerated way he told
himself that he was selling this girl as surely as did the old slave
owners sell their slaves in bygone days. He endeavored to persuade
himself that what he was doing was for the best, and certainly that it
was forced upon him. He would not admit that his mania for poker was the
main factor in his acceptance of Lablache's terms. Gradually, however,
his thoughts became intolerable to him, and when Jacky at last remarked
on the fact that he was eating nothing and drinking only his coffee, he
could stand it no longer. He pushed his chair back and rose from the
table, and, muttering an excuse, fled from the room.
Her uncle's precipitate flight alarmed Jacky. She had seen, as anybody
with half an eye could see, that he had had a heavy night. The bleared
eyes, the puffed lids, the working, nervous face were simple enough
evidence. She knew, too, that he had already been drinking this morning.
But these things were not new to her, only painful facts which she was
unable to alter; but his strange behavior and lack of appetite were
things to set her thinking.
She was a very active-minded girl. It was not her way to sit wondering
and puzzling over anything she could not understand. She had a knack of
setting herself to unravel problems which required explanation in the
most common-sense way. After giving her uncle time to leave the
house--intuition told her that he would do so--she rose and rang the
bell. Then she moved to the window while she waited for an answer to her
summons. She saw the burly figure of her uncle walking swiftly down
towards the settlement and in the direction of the saloon.
She turned with a sigh as a servant entered.
"Did any one call last night while I was out?" she asked.
"Not for you, miss."
"Oh!"
"No, miss, but Mr. Lablache was here. He was with your uncle for a long
time--in the office."
"Did he come in with Mr. Allandale?"
"Oh, no, miss, the master didn't go out. At least not that I know of.
Mr. Lablache didn't call exactly. I think he just came straight to the
office. I shouldn't have known he was there, only I was passing the door
and heard his voice--and the master's."
"Oh, that will do--just wait a moment, though. Say, is Silas around?
Just find him and send him right along. Tell him to come to the
veranda."
The servant departed, and Jacky sat down at a writing-table and wrote a
note to "Lord" Bill. The note was brief but direct in its tone.
"Can you see me this afternoon? Shall be in after tea."
That was all she put, and added her strong, bold signature to it. Silas
came to the window and she gave him the note with instructions to
deliver it into the hands of the Hon. Bunning-Ford.
The letter dispatched she felt easier in her mind.
What had Lablache been closeted with her uncle for? This was the
question which puzzled--nay, alarmed her. She had seen her uncle early
on the previous evening, and he had seemed happy enough. She wished now,
when she had returned from visiting Mrs. Abbot, that she had thought to
see if her uncle was in. It had become such a custom for him lately to
be out all the evening that she had long ceased her childhood's custom
of saying "Good-night" to him before retiring to bed. One thing was
certain, she felt her uncle's strange behavior this morning was in some
way due to Lablache's visit. She meant to find out what that visit
meant.
To this end several plans occurred to her, but in each case were
abandoned as unsuitable.
"No," she murmured at last, "I guess I'll tax him with it. He'll tell
me. If Lablache means war, well--I've a notion he'll get a hustling he
don't consider."
Then she left the sitting-room that she might set about her day's work.
She would see her uncle at dinner-time.
Foss River had not yet risen to the civilized state of late dinners and
indigestion. Early rising and hard work demanded early meals and hearty
feeding. Dinner generally occurred at noon--an hour at which European
society thinks of taking its _déjeuner_. By rising late society can thus
avoid what little fresh, wholesome air there is to be obtained in a
large city. Civilization jibs at early rising. Foss River was still a
wild and savage country.
At noon Jacky came in to dinner. She had not seen her uncle since
breakfast. The old man had not returned from the settlement. Truth to
tell he wished to avoid his niece as much as possible for to-day. As
dinner-time came round he grew nervous and uncomfortable, and was half
inclined to accept "old man" Smith's invitation to dine at the saloon.
Then he realized that this would only alarm Jacky and set her thinking.
Therefore he plucked up the shattered remains of his moral courage and
returned to the ranch. When a man looses his last grip on his
self-respect he sinks with cruel rapidity. "Poker" John told himself
that he was betraying his niece's affection, and with this assurance he
told himself that he was the lowest-down cur in the country. The natural
consequence to a man of his habit and propensity was--drink. The one
time in his life when he should have refrained from indulgence he drank;
and with each drink he made the fatal promise to himself that it should
be the last.
When Jacky saw him swaying as he came up towards the house she could
have cried out in very anguish. It smote her to the heart to see the old
man whom she so loved in this condition. Yet when he lurched on to the
veranda she smiled lovingly up into his face and gave no sign that she
had any knowledge of his state.
"Come right along, uncle," she said gayly, linking her arm within his,
"dinner is on. You must be good and hungry, you made such a poor
breakfast this morning."
"Yes, child, I wasn't very well," he mumbled thickly. "Not very
well--now."
"You poor dear, come along," and she led him in through the open window.
During the meal Jacky talked incessantly. She talked of everything but
what had upset her uncle. She avoided any reference to Lablache with
great care. But, in spite of her cheerfulness, she could not rouse the
degenerate old man. Rather it seemed that, as the meal progressed, he
became gloomier. The truth was the girl's apparent light-heartedness
added to his self-revilings and made him feel more criminal than ever.
He ate his food mechanically, and he drank glass after glass of ale.
Jacky heaved a sigh of relief when the meal was over. She felt that she
could not much longer have kept up her light-hearted talk. Her uncle was
about to move from the table. The girl stayed him with a gesture. He had
eaten a good dinner and she was satisfied. Now she would question him.
It is strange how a woman, in whatever relationship she may stand, loves
to see a man eat well. Possibly she understands the effect of a good
dinner upon the man in whom she centers her affection; possibly it is
the natural maternal instinct for his well-being.
"Uncle, what did Lablache come to see you for last night?"
The question was abrupt. It had the effect of bringing the rancher back
to his seat with a drunken lurch.
"Eh?" he queried, blinking nervously.
"What did he come for?" Jacky persisted.
The girl could be relentless even with her uncle.
"Lablache--oh--er--talk bus--bus'ness, child--bus'ness," and he
attempted to get up from his chair again.
But Jacky would not let him go.
"Wait a moment, uncle dear, I want to talk to you. I sha'n't keep you
long." The old man looked anywhere but at his companion. A cold sweat
was on his forehead, and his cheek twitched painfully under the steady
gaze of the girl's somber eyes. "I don't often get a chance of talking
to you now," she went on, with a slight touch of bitterness. "I just
want to talk about that skunk, Lablache. I guess he didn't pass the
evening talking of Retief--and what he intends to do towards his
capture? Say, uncle, what was it about?"
The old man grasped at the suggestion.
"Yes--yes, child. It was Retief."
He kept his eyes averted. The girl was not deceived.
"All the time?"
"Poker" John remained silent. He would have lied but could not.
"Uncle!"
Her tone was a moral pressure. The old man turned for relief to his
avuncular authority.
"I must go. You've no right--question me," he stuttered. "I refu--"
"No, uncle, you won't refuse me." The girl had risen and had moved round
to where the old man sat. She fondled him lovingly and his attempt at
angry protest died within him. "Come, dear, tell me all about it. You
are worried and I can help you. What did he threaten you with? I
suppose he wants money," contemptuously. "How much?"
The old drunkard was powerless to resist her loving appeal.
He was cornered. Another might have lied and so escaped, but John
Allandale's weakness was such that he had not the courage to resort to
subterfuge. Moreover, there was a faint spark of honor nickering deep
down in his kindly heart. The girl's affectionate display was surely
fanning that spark into a flame. Would the flame grow or would it
sparkle up for one brief moment and then go out from pure lack of fuel?
Suddenly something of the truth of the cause of her uncle's distress
flashed across Jacky's mind. She knew Lablache's wishes in regard to
herself. Perhaps she was the subject of that interview.
"Uncle, it is I who am causing you this trouble. What is it that
Lablache wants of me?" She asked the question with her cheek pressed to
the old man's face. His whisky-laden breath reeked in her nostrils.
Her question took him unawares, and he started up pushing her from him.
"Who--who told you, girl?" His bleared eyes were now turned upon her,
and they gazed fearfully into hers.
"I thought so," she exclaimed, smiling back into the troubled face. "No
one told me, uncle, I guess that beast wants to marry me. Say, uncle,
you can tell me everything right here. I'll help you. He's smart, but he
can't mate with me."
"But--but--" He struggled to collect his thoughts.
"No 'buts,' dear. I've refused Lablache once. I guess I can size up the
racket he thinks to play. Money--money! He'd like to buy me, I take it.
Say, uncle, can't we frolic him some? Now--what did he say?"
"I--can't tell you, child," the old man protested desperately. Then he
weakened further before those deep, steadfast eyes. "Don't--press me.
Don'--press me." His voice contained maudlin tears. "I'm a vill'n,
girl. I'm worse. Don'--look a' me--like that.
Ja'y--Ja'y--I've--sol'--you!"
The miserable old man flung himself back in his chair and his head bowed
until his chin sank heavily upon his chest. Two great tears welled into
his bloodshot eyes and trickled slowly down his seared old cheeks. It
was a pitiable sight. Jacky looked on silently for a moment. Her eyes
took in every detail of that picture of despair. She had heard the old
man's words but took no heed of them. She was thinking very hard.
Suddenly she seemed to arrive at a decision. Her laugh rang out, and she
came and knelt at her uncle's side.
"So you've sold me, you old dear, and not a bad thing too. What's the
price?"
Her uncle raised his bowed head. Her smiling face dried his tears and
put fresh heart into him. He had expected bitter invective, but instead
the girl smiled.
Jacky's task now became a simple one. A mere matter of pumping. Sharp
questions and rambling replies. Bit by bit she learned the story of
Lablache's proposal and the manner in which an acceptance had been
forced upon her uncle. She did not relinquish her task until the
minutest detail had been gleaned. At last she was satisfied with her
cross-examination.
She rose to her feet and passed her hand with a caressing movement over
her uncle's head, gazing the while out of the window. Her mind was made
up. Her uncle needed her help now. That help should be his. She condoned
his faults; she saw nothing but that which was lovable in his weakness.
Hers was now the strength to protect him, who, in the days of his best
manhood had sheltered her from the cruel struggles of a life in the
half-breed camp, for such, at the death of her impecunious father, must
otherwise have been her lot.
Now she looked down into that worn, old face, and her brisk,
business-like tones roused him into new life.
"Uncle, you must meet Lablache and play--the game. For the rest, leave
it to me. All I ask is--no more whisky to-day. Stay right here and have
a sleep. Guess you might go an' lie down. I'll call you for supper. Then
you'll be fit. One thing you must remember; watch that ugly-faced cur
when you play. See he don't cheat any. I'll tell you more before you
start out. Come right along now and have that sleep."
The old man got up and the girl led him from the room. She saw him to
his bedroom and then left him. She decided that, for herself, she would
not leave the house until she had seen Bill. She must get her uncle
sober before he went to meet Lablache.