A MAN'S BUSINESS
Mankind was my business; the common welfare was my business;
charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business;
the dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the
comprehensive ocean of my business.
--DICKENS.
Every little community has its customs peculiar to itself. With the
people of Springvale the general visiting-time was on Sunday between the
afternoon Sabbath-school and the evening service. The dishes that were
prepared on Saturday for the next day's supper excelled the warm Sunday
dinner.
We come to know the heart and soul of the folks that fill up a little
town, and when we get into the larger city we miss them oftener than we
have the courage to say. Unselfishness and integrity and stalwart
principles of right are not confined to the higher circles of society. A
man may be hungry for friends on the crest of his popularity; he may
long for the strong right hand of Christian fellowship in the centre of
a brotherhood of churchmen. Cam Gentry and his good wife are among those
whom in all my busy years of wide acquaintance with people of all ranks
I account as genuine stuff. They were only common clay, generous,
unselfish, clean of thought and act. Uneducated, with no high ideals,
they gauged their way by the golden rule, and made the most of their
time. A journey to Topeka was their "trip abroad"; beyond the
newspapers they read little except the Bible; and they built their faith
on the Presbyterian Church and the Republican party. But the cosy
lighted tavern on winter nights, and its clean, cool halls and
resting-places in the summer heat, are still a green spot in the memory
of many a traveller. Transients and regulars at the Cambridge House
delighted in this Sabbath evening spread.
"Land knows," Dollie Gentry used to declare, "if ever a body feels
lonesome it's on Sunday afternoon between Sunday-school and evenin'
service. Why, the blues can get you then, when they'd stan' no show ary
other day er hour in the week. An' it stan's to reason a man, er woman,
either, is livin' in a hotel because they ain't got no home ner nobody
to make 'em feel glad to see 'em. If they're goin' to patronize the
Cambridge House they're goin' to get the best that's comin' to 'em right
then."
So the old dining-room was a joy at this time of the week, with all that
a good cook can make attractive to the appetite.
Mary Gentry, sweet-tempered and credulous as in her childhood, grew up
into a home-lover. We all wondered why John Anderson, who was studying
medicine, should fancy Mary, plain good girl that she was. John had been
a bashful boy and a hard student whom the girls failed to interest. But
the home Mary made for him later, and her two sons that grew up in it,
are justification of his choice of wife. The two boys are men now, one
in Seattle, and one in New York City. Both in high places of trust and
financial importance.
One October Sabbath afternoon, O'mie fell into step beside Marjie on the
way from Sabbath-school. Since his terrible experience in the Hermit's
Cave five years before, he had never been strong. We became so
accustomed to his little hacking cough we did not notice it until there
came a day to all of us when we looked back and wondered how we could
have been so inattentive to the thing growing up before our eyes. O'mie
was never anything but a good-hearted Irishman, and yet he had a keener
insight into character and trend of events than any other boy or man I
ever knew. I've always thought that if his life had been spared to
mature manhood--but it wasn't.
"Marjie, I'm commissioned to invite you to the Cambridge House for
lunch," O'mie said. "Mary wants to see you. She's got a lame arm, fell
off a step ladder in the pantry. The papers on the top shelves had been
on there fifteen minutes, and Aunt Dollie thought they'd better put up
clean ones. That's the how. Dr. John Anderson's most sure to call
professionally this evening, and Bill Mead's going to bring Bess over
for tea, and there's still others on the outskirts, but you're specially
wanted, as usual. Bud will be there, too. Says he wants to see all the
Andersons once more before he leaves town, and he knows it's his last
chance; for John's forever at the tavern, and Bill Mead is monopolizing
Bess at home; and you know, Star-face, how Clayton divides himself
around among the Whatelys and Grays over at Red Range and a girl he's
got up at Lawrence."
"All this when I'm starving for one of Aunt Dollie's good lunches. Offer
some other inducement, O'mie," Marjie replied laughingly.
"Oh, well, Tillhurst'll be there, and one or two of the new folks, all
eligible."
"What makes you call me 'Star-face'? That's what Jean Pahusca used to
call me." She shivered.
"Oh, it fits you; but if you object, I can make it, 'Moon-face,' or
'Sun-up.'"
"Or 'Skylight,' or 'Big Dipper'; so you can keep to the blue firmament.
Where's Bud going?"
Out of the tail of his eye O'mie caught sight of Judson falling in
behind them here and he answered carelessly:
"Oh, I don't know where Bud is going exactly. Kansas City or St. Louis,
or somewhere else. You'll come of course?"
"Yes, of course," Marjie answered, just as Judson in his pompous little
manner called to her:
"Marjory, I have invited myself up to your mother's for tea."
"Why, there's nobody at home, Mr. Judson," the girl said kindly; "I'm
going down to Mary Gentry's, and mother went up to Judge Baronet's with
Aunt Candace for lunch."
Nobody called my father's sister by any other name. To Marjie, who had
played about her knee, Aunt Candace was a part of the day's life in
Springvale. But the name of Baronet was a red rag to Judson's temper. He
was growing more certain of his cause every day; but any allusion to our
family was especially annoying, and this remark of Marjie's fired him to
hasten to something definite in his case of courtship.
"When she's my wife," he had boasted to Tell Mapleson, "I'll put a stop
to all this Baronet friendship. I won't even let her go there. Marjie's
a fine girl, but a wife must understand and obey her lord and master.
That's it; a wife must obey, or your home's ruined."
Nobody had ever accused Tell Mapleson's wife of ruining a home on that
basis; for she had been one of the crushed-down, washed-out women who
never have two ideas above their dish-pan. She had been dead some years,
and Tell was alone. People said he was too selfish to marry again.
Certainly matrimony was not much in his thoughts.
The talk at the tavern table that evening ran on merrily among the young
people. Albeit, the Sabbath hour was not too frivolous, for we were
pretty stanch in our Presbyterianism there. I think our love for Dr.
Hemingway in itself would have kept the Sabbath sacred. He never found
fault with our Sunday visiting. All days were holy to him, and his
evening sermons taught us that frivolity, and idle gossip, and scandal
are as unforgivable on week days as on the Sabbath Day. Somewhere in the
wide courts of heaven there must be reserved an abode of inconceivable
joy and peace for such men as he, men who preach the Word faithfully
through the years, whose hand-clasp means fellowship, and in whose
tongue is the law of kindness.
"Say, Clate, where's Bud going?" Somebody called across the table. Bud
was beside Marjie, whose company was always at a premium in any
gathering.
"Let him tell; it's his secret," Clayton answered. "I'll be glad when
he's gone"--he was speaking across to Marjie now--"then I'll get some
show, maybe."
"I'm going to hunt a wife," Bud sang out. "Can't find a thoul here
who'll thtay with me long enough to get acquainted. I'm going out Wetht
thomewhere."
"I'd stay with you a blamed sight longer if I wasn't acquainted with you
than if I was," Bill Mead broke in. "It's because they do get acquainted
that they don't stay, Bud; and anyhow, they can run faster out there
than here, the girls can; they have to, to keep away from the Indians.
And there's no tepee ring for the ponies to stumble over. Marjie, do you
remember the time Jean Pahusca nearly got you? I remember it, for when I
came to after the shock, I was standing square on my head with both
feet in the air. All I could see was Bud dragging Jean's pony out of the
muss. I thought he was upside down at first and the horses were walking
like flies on the ceiling."
Marjie's memories of that moment were keen. So were O'mie's.
"Well, what ever did become of that Jean, anyhow? Anybody here seen him
for five years?"
The company looked at one another. Bud's face was as innocent as a
baby's. Lettie Conlow at the foot of the table encountered O'mie's eyes
and her face flamed. Dr. John Anderson was explaining the happening to
Tillhurst and some newcomers in Springvale to whom the story was
interesting, and the whole table began to recall old times and old
escapades of Jean's.
"Wasn't afraid of anything on earth," Bill Mead declared.
"Yeth he wath, brother," Bud broke in, while Bess Anderson blushed
deeply at Bud's teasing name. Bill and Bess were far along the happy way
of youth and love.
"Why, what did he fear?" Judson asked Dave Mead at the head of the
table.
"Phil Baronet. He never would fight Phil. He didn't dare. He couldn't
bear to be licked."
And then the conversation turned on me, and my virtues and shortcomings
were reviewed in friendly gossip. Only Judson's face wore a sneer.
"I don't wonder this Jean was afraid of him," a recent-comer to the town
declared.
"Oh, if he was afraid of this young man, this boy," Judson declared, "he
would have feared something else; that's it, he'd been afraid of other
things."
"He was," O'mie spoke up.
"Well, what was it, O'mie?" Dr. John queried.
"Ghosts," O'mie replied gravely. "Oh, I know," he declared, as the crowd
laughed. "I can prove it to you and tell you all about it. I'll do it
some day, but I'll need the schoolhouse and some lantern slides to make
it effective. I may charge a small admission fee and give a benefit to
defray Bud's expenses home from this trip."
"Would you really do that, O'mie?" Mary Gentry asked him.
But the query, "Where's Phil, now?" was going the rounds, and the
answers were many. My doings had not been reported in the town, and
gossip still was active concerning me.
"Up at Topeka," "Gone to St. Louis," "Back in Massachusetts." These were
followed by Dave Mead's declaration:
"The best boy that ever went out of Springvale. Just his father over
again. He'll make some place prouder than it would have been without
him."
Nobody knew who started the story just then, but it grew rapidly from
Tillhurst's side of the table that I had gone to Rockport,
Massachusetts, to settle in my father's old home-town.
"Stands to reason a boy who can live in Kansas would go back to
Massachusetts, doesn't it?" Dr. John declared scornfully.
"But Phil's to be married soon, to that stylish Miss Melrose. She's got
the money, and Phil would become a fortune. Besides, she was perfectly
infatuated with him."
"Well," somebody else asserted, "if he does marry her, he can bring her
back here to live. My! but Judge Baronet's home will be a grand place to
go to then. It was always good enough."
Amid all this clatter Marjie was as indifferent and self-possessed as
if my name were a stranger's. Those who had always known her did not
dream of what lay back of that sweet girl-face. She was the belle of
Springvale, and she had too many admirers for any suspicion of the truth
to find a place.
While the story ran on Bud turned to her and said in a low voice,
"Marjie, I'm going to Phil. He needth me now."
Nobody except Bud noticed how white the girl was, as the company rising
from the table swept her away from him.
That night Dr. Hemingway's prayer was fervent with love. The boys were
always on his heart, and he called us all by name. He prayed for the
young men of Springvale, who had grown up to the life here and on whom
the cares of citizenship, and the town's good name were soon to rest;
and for the young men who would not be with us again: for Tell Mapleson,
that the snares of a great city like St. Louis might not entrap him; for
James Conlow, whose lines had led him away from us; for David Mead,
going soon to the far-away lands where the Sierras dip down the golden
slope to the Pacific seas; for August Anderson, also about to go away
from us, that life and health might be his; and last of all for Philip
Baronet. A deeper hush fell upon the company bowed in prayer.
"For Philip Baronet, the strong, manly boy whom we all love, the
brave-hearted hero who has gone out from among us, and as his father did
before him for the homes of a nation, so now the son has gone to fight
the battles of the prairie domain, and to build up a wall of safety
before the homes and hearthstones of our frontier." And then he offered
thanksgiving to a merciful Father that, "in the awful conflict which
Philip, with a little handful of heroes, has helped to wage against the
savage red man, a struggle in which so many lives have gone out, our
Philip has been spared." His voice broke here, and he controlled it by
an effort, as in calm, low tones he finished his simple prayer with the
earnest petition, "Keep Thou these our boys; and though they may walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, may they fear no evil, for
Thou art with them. Amen."
It was the first intimation the town had had of what I was doing.
Springvale was not without a regard for me who had loved it always, and
then the thought of danger to a fellow citizen is not without its
appeal. I have been told that Judge Baronet and Aunt Candace could not
get down the aisle after service until after ten o'clock that night and
that the tears of men as well as women fell fast as my father gave the
words of the message sent to him by Governor Crawford on the evening
before. Even Chris Mead, always a quiet, stern man, sat with head bowed
on the railing of the pew before him during the recital. It was noted
afterwards that Judson did not remain, but took Lettie Conlow home as
soon as the doxology was ended. The next day my stock in Springvale was
at a premium; for a genuine love, beside which fame and popularity are
ashes and dust, was in the heart of that plain, good little Kansas town.
Bud called to say good-bye to Marjie, before he left home.
"Are you going out West to stay?" Marjie asked.
"I'm going to try it out there. Clate'th got all the law here a young
man can get; he'th gobbled up Dave and Phil'th share of the thing. John
will be the coming M. D. of the town, and Bill Mead already taketh to
the bank like a duck to water. I'm going to try the Wetht. What word may
I take to Phil for you?"
"There's nothing to say," Marjie answered.
To his words, "I hoped there might be," she only said gayly, "Good-bye,
Bud. Be a good boy, and be sure not to forget Springvale, for we'll
always love your memory."
And so he left her. He was a good boy, nor did he forget the town where
his memory is green still in the hearts of all who knew him. His last
thought was of Springvale, and he babbled of the Neosho, and fancied
himself in the shallows down by the Deep Hole. He clung to me, as in his
childhood, and begged me to carry him on my shoulders when waters of
Death were rolling over him. I held his hand to the last, and when the
silence fell, I stretched myself on the brown curly mesquite beside him
and thanked God that He had let me know this boy. Ever more my life will
be richer for the remembrance it holds of him.
Bud left Springvale in one of those dripping, chilly, wet days our
Kansas Octobers sometimes mix in with their opal-hued hours of Indian
summer. That evening Tell Mapleson dropped into Judson's store and O'mie
was let off early.
The little Irishman ran up the street at once to the Whately home. Mrs.
Whately had retired. Eight o'clock was bed time for middle-aged people
in our town. Marjie sat alone by the fire. How many times that summer we
had talked of the long winter evenings we should spend together by that
fireplace in Marjie's cosy sitting-room. And now she was beside the
hearth, and I was far away. I might have been forgiven without a word
had I walked in that evening and found her, as O'mie did, alone with her
sad thoughts. Marjie never tried to hide anything from O'mie. She knew
he could see through any pretence of hers. She knew, too, that he would
keep sacred anything he saw.
"Marjie, I'm lonesome to-night."
Marjie gave him a seat beside the fire.
"What makes you lonesome, O'mie?" she asked gravely.
"The wrongs av the world bear heavily upon me."
Marjory looked at him curiously to see if he was joking.
"What I need to do is to shrive myself, I guess, and then get up an
inquisition, with myself as chief inquisitor."
Marjie, studying the pictures in the burning coals, said nothing. O'mie
also sat silent for a time.
"Marjie," he said at length, "when you see things goin' all wrong end
to, and you know what's behind 'em, drivin' 'em wrong, what's your rale
Presbyterian duty then? Let 'em go? or tend to somethin' else besides
your own business? Honest, now, what's what?"
"I don't know what you're up to, O'mie." She was looking dreamily into
the grate, the firelight on her young face and thoughtful brown eyes
making a picture tenderly sweet and fair. In her mind was the image of
Judge Baronet as he looked the night before, when he lifted his head
after Dr. Hemingway's prayer for his son. And then maybe a picture of
the graceless son himself came unbidden, and his eyes were full of love
as when they looked down into hers on the day Rachel Melrose came into
Judge Baronet's office demanding his attention. "What's the matter,
O'mie? Is Uncle Cam being imposed on? You'd never stand that, I know."
"No, little girl, Cambridge Gentry can still take care of Cam's interest
and do a kind act to more folks off-hand better than any other man I
know. Marjie, it's Phil Baronet."
Marjie gave a start, but she made no effort to hide her interest.
"Little girl, he's been wronged, and lied about, and misunderstood, by a
crowd av us who have knowed him day in and day out since he was a little
boy. Marjory Whately, did anybody iver catch him in a lie? Did he iver
turn coward in a place where courage was needed? Did he iver do a
cruelty to a helpless thing, or fight a smaller boy? Did he iver
decaive? Honestly, now, was there iver anything in all the years we run
together that wasn't square and clane and fearless and lovin'?"
Marjie sat with bowed head before the flickering fire. When O'mie spoke
again his voice was husky.
"Little girl, when I was tied hand and foot, and left to die in that
dark Hermit's Cave, it was Phil Baronet who brought in the sunlight and
a face radiant with love. When Jean Pahusca, drunk as a fury, was after
you out on the prairie with that cruel knife ready, the knife I've seen
him kill many a helpless thing with when he was drunk, when this Jean
was ridin' like a fiend after you, Phil turned to me that day and his
white agonized face I'll never forget. Now, Marjie, it's to right his
wrong, and the wrongs of some he loves that I'm studyin' about. The week
Phil came home from the rally I took a vacation. Shall I tell you why?"
Marjie nodded.
"Well, Star-face, it was laid on me conscience heavy to pay a part av
the debt I owe to the boy who saved me life. I ain't got eyes fur
nothin', and I see the clouds gatherin' black about that boy's head.
Back of 'em was jealousy, that was a girl; hate, that was a man whose
cruel, ugly deeds Phil had knocked down and trampled on and prevented
from comin' to a harvest of sufferin'; and revenge, that was a
rebel-hearted scoundrel who'd have destroyed this town but for Phil; and
last, a selfish, money-lovin' son of a horse-thief who was grabbing for
riches and pulling hard at the covers to hide some sins he'd never want
to come to the light, being a deacon in the Presbyterian Church. All
thim in one cloud makes a hurricane, and with 'em comes a shallow,
selfish, pretty girl. Oh, it was a sight, Marjie. If I can do somethin'
to keep shipwreck not only from them the storm's aimed at, but them
that's pilin' up trouble fur themselves, too, I'm goin' to do it."
Marjie made no reply.
"So I took a vacation and wint off on a visit to me rich relatives in
Westport."
Marjie could not help smiling now. O'mie had not a soul to call his next
of kin.
"Oh, yis, I wint," he continued, "on tin days' holiday. The actual start
to it was on the evenin' Phil got home from Topeka. The night of the
party at Anderson's Lettie Conlow comes into the store just at closin'.
I was behind a pile of ginghams fixin' some papers and cord below the
counter. And Judson, being a fool by inheritance and choice of
profession, takes no more notice of me than if I was a dog; says things
he oughtn't to when he knows I'm 'round. But he forgits me in the pride
of his stuck-uppityness. And I heard Judson say to her low, 'Now be sure
to go right after dark and look in there again. You're sure you know
just which crevice of the rock it is?' Lettie laughed and said, she'd
watched it too long not to know. And so they arranged it, and I arranged
my wrappin'-cord, and when I straightened up (I'm little, ye know), they
didn't see my rid head by the pile of ginghams; and so she went away.
When I got ready I wint, too. I trailed round after dark until I found
meself under that point av rock by the bushes in the steep bend
up-street. I was in a little corner full of crevices, when along comes
Lettie. She seemed to be tryin' to get somethin' out of 'em, and her
short fat arm couldn't reach it. Blamed inconvanient bein' little and
short! She tried and tried and thin she said some ugly words only a boy
has a right to say when he's cussin' somethin'. Just thin somethin' made
a noise between her and the steps, and she made a rush for 'em and was
gone. My eyes was gettin' catty and used to the dark now, and I could
make out pretty sure it was Phil who sails up nixt, aisy, like he knowed
the premises, and in his hand goes and he got out somethin' sayin' to
himself--and me:
"'Well, Marjie tucked it in good and safe. I didn't know that hole was
so deep.'
"Marjie, maybe if that hole's too deep for Lettie to reach clear in,
there might be somethin' she's missed. I dunno'. But niver moind. I took
me vacation, went sailin' out with Dever fur a rale splurge to Kansas
City. Across the Neosho Dever turns the stage aside, U. S. mail and all,
and lands me siven miles up the river and ferries me on this side again.
Dever can keep the stillest of any livin' stage-driver whose business is
to drive stage on the side and gossip on the main line. He never cheeped
a chirp. I come back that same day and put in tin days studyin' things.
I just turned myself into a holy inquisition for tin mortial days. Now,
what I know has a value to Phil's good name, who has been accused of
doing more diviltry than the thief on the cross. Marjie, I'm goin' to
proceed now and turn on screws till the heretics squeal. It's not
exactly my business; but--well, yes, it's the Lord's business to right
the wrongs, and we must do His work now and then, 'unworthy though we
be,' as Grandpa Mead says, in prayer meetin'."
"O'mie, you heard Dr. Hemingway's prayer last night?" Marjie asked, in a
voice that quivered with tears.
"Oh, good God! Marjie, the men that's fighting the battles on the
frontier, the fire-guards around them prairie homes, they are the salt
of the earth." He dropped his head between his hands and groaned.
Presently he rose to say good-night.
"Shall I do it, little sister? See to what's not my business at all, at
all, and start a fire in this town big enough to light the skies clear
to where Phil is this rainy night, and he can read a welcome home in
it?"
"They said last night that he's going to be married soon to that
Massachusetts girl. Maybe he wouldn't want to come if he did see it,"
Marjie murmured, turning her face away.
"Oh, maybe not, maybe not. Niver did want to get back when he was away.
But, say, Marjie Star-face, Fort Wallace away out on the Plains ain't
Rockport; and rich men's homes and all that gabble they was desecratin'
the Sabbath with at supper last night--" O'mie broke off and took the
girl's trembling hand in his. "Oh! I can look after that rascal's good
name, but I don't dare to fix things up for you two, no matter what I
know." So ran his thoughts.
The rain blew in a bitter gust as he opened the door. "Good-night,
Marjie. It's an ugly night. Any old waterproof cloak to lend me,
girlie?" he asked, but Marjie did not smile. She held the light as in
the olden time she had shown us the dripping path, and watched the
little Irishman trotting away in the darkness.
The Indian summer of 1868 in Kansas was as short as it was glorious. The
next day was gorgeous after the rain, and the warm sunshine and light
breeze drove all the dampness and chill away. In the middle of the
afternoon Judson left the store to O'mie and went up to Mrs. Whately's
for an important business conference. These conferences were growing
frequent now, and dear Mrs. Whately's usually serene face wore a deeply
anxious look after each one. Marjie had no place in them. It was not a
part of Judson's plan to have her understand the business.
Fortune favored O'mie's inquisition scheme. Judson had hardly left the
store when Lettie Conlow walked in. Evidently Judson's company on the
Sunday evening before had given her a purpose in coming. In our play as
children Lettie was the first to "get mad and call names." In her young
womanhood she was vindictive and passionate.
"Good-afternoon, Lettie. Nice day after the rain," O'mie said,
pleasantly.
She did not respond to his greeting, but stood before him with flashing
eyes. She had often been called pretty, and her type is always
considered handsome, for her coloring was brilliant, and her form
attractive. This year she was the best dressed girl in town, although
her father was not especially prosperous. Whether transplanting in a
finer soil with higher culture might have changed her I cannot say, for
the Conlow breed ran low and the stamp of the common grade was on
Lettie. I've seen the same on a millionaire's wife; so it is in the
blood, and not in the rank. No other girl in town broke the law as
Lettie did, and kept her good name, but we had always known her. The
boys befriended her more than the girls did, partly because we knew more
of her escapades, and partly because she would sometimes listen to us. A
pretty, dashing, wilful, untutored, and ill-principled girl, she was
sowing the grain of a certain harvest.
"O'mie," she began angrily, "you've been talking about me, and you've
been spying on me long enough; and I'm going to settle you now. You are
a contemptible spy, and you're the biggest rascal in this town. That's
what you are."
"Not by the steelyards, I ain't," O'mie replied. Passing from behind the
counter and courteously offering her a chair. Then jumping upon the
counter beside her he sat swinging his heels against it, fingering the
yard-stick beside the pile of calicoes. "Not by the steelyards, I ain't
the biggest. Tell Mapleson's lots longer, and James Conlow, blacksmith,
and Cam Gentry, and Cris Mead are all bigger. But if you want to settle
me, I'm ready. Who says I've been talking about you?"
"Amos Judson, and he knows. He's told me all about you."
O'mie's irrepressible smile spread over his face. "All about me? I
didn't give him credit for that much insight."
"I'm not joking, and you must listen to me. I want to know why you tag
after me every place I go. No gentleman would do that."
"Maybe not, nor a lady nather," O'mie interposed.
Lettie's face burned angrily.
"And you've been saying things about me. You've got to quit it. Only a
dirty coward would talk about a girl as you do."
She stamped her foot and her pudgy hands were clenched into hard little
knots. It was a cheap kind of fury, a flimsy bit of drama, but tragedies
have grown out of even a lesser degree of unbridled temper. O'mie was a
monkey to whom the ludicrous side of life forever appealed, and the
sight of Lettie as an accusing vengeance was too much for him. The
twinkle in his eye only angered her the more.
"Oh, you needn't laugh, you and Marjie Whately. How I hate her! but I've
fixed her. You two have always been against me, I know. I've heard what
you say. She's a liar, and a mean flirt, always trying to take everybody
away from me; and as good as a pauper if Judson didn't just keep her and
her mother."
"Marjie'd never try to get Judson away from Lettie," O'mie thought, but
all sense of humor had left his face now. "Lettie Conlow," he said,
leaning toward her and speaking calmly, "you may call me what you
please--Lord, it couldn't hurt me--but you, nor nobody else, man or
woman, praist or pirate, is comin' into this store while I'm alone in
controllin' it, and call Marjie Whately nor any other dacent woman by
any evil names. If you've come here to settle me, settle away, and when
you get through my turn's comin' to settle; but if you say another word
against Marjie or any other woman, by the holy Joe Spooner, and all the
other saints, you'll walk right out that door, or I'll throw you out as
I'd do anybody else in the same case, no matter if they was masculine,
feminine, or neuter gender. Now you understand me. If you have anything
more to say, say it quick."
Lettie was furious now, but the Conlow blood is not courageous, and she
only ground her teeth and muttered: "Always the same. Nobody dares to
say a word against her. What makes some folks so precious, I wonder?
There's Phil Baronet, now,--the biggest swindle in this town. Oh, I
could tell you a lot about him. I'll do it some day, too. It'll take
more money to keep me still than Baronet's bank notes."
"Lettie," said O'mie in an even voice, "I'm waitin' here to be settled."
"Then let me alone. I'm not goin' to be forever tracked 'round like a
thief. I'll fix you so you'll keep still. Who are you, anyhow? A nobody,
poor as sin, living off of this town all these years; never knowing who
your father nor mother is, nor nobody to care for you; the very trash of
the earth, somebody's doorstep foundling, to set yourself up over me!
You'd ought to 'a been run out of town long ago."
"I was, back in '63, an' half the town came after me, had to drag me
back with ropes, they was so zealous to get me. I wasn't worth it, all
the love and kindness the town's give me. Now, Lettie, what else?"
"Nothing except this. After what Dr. Hemingway said last night
Springvale's gone crazy about Phil again. Just crazy, and he's sure to
come back here. If he does"--she broke off a moment--"well, you know
what you've been up to for four months, trackin' me, and tellin' things
you don't know. Are you goin' to quit it? That's all."
"The evidence bein' in an' the plaintiff restin'," O'mie said gravely,
"it's time for the defence in the case to begin.
"You saved me a trip, my lady, for I was comin' over this very evenin'
to settle with you. But never mind, we can do it now. Judson's havin'
one of his M. E. quarterly conferences up at the Whately house and we
are free to talk this out. You say I'm a contemptible spy. Lettie, we're
a pair of 'em, so we'll lave off the adjective or adverb, which ever it
is, that does that for names of 'persons, places, and things that can be
known or mentioned.' Some of 'em that can be known, can't aven be
mentioned, though. Where were you, Lettie, whin I was spyin' and what
were you doin' at the time yoursilf?"
"I guess I had a right to be there. It's a free country, and it was my
own business, not somebody else's," the girl retorted angrily, as the
situation dawned on her.
"Exactly," O'mie went on. "It's a free country and we both have a right
to tend to our own business. Nobody has a right to tend to a business
of sin and evil-doin' toward his neighbor, though, my girl. If I've
tagged you and spied, and played the dirty coward, and ain't no
gintleman, it was to save a good name, and to keep from exposure a
name--maybe it's a girl's, none too good, I'm afraid--but it would niver
come to the gossips through me. You know that."
Lettie did know it. O'mie and she had made mud pies together in the days
when they still talked in baby words. It was because he was true and
kind, because he was a friend to every man, woman, and child there, that
Springvale loves his memory to-day.
"Second, I wish to Heaven I could make things right, but I can't. I wish
you could, but some of 'em you won't and, Lettie, some of 'em you can't
now.
"Third, you've heard what I said about you. Why, child, I've said the
worst to you. No words comin' straight nor crooked to you, have I said
of you I'd not say to yoursilf, face to face.
"And again now, girlie, you've talked plain here; came pretty near
callin' me names, in fact. I can stand it, and I guess I deserve some of
'em. I am something of a rascal, and a consummate liar, I admit; but
when you talk about a lot of scandal up your sleeve, more 'n bank notes
can pay by blackmail, and your chance of fixin' Phil Baronet's
character, Lettie, you just can't do it. You are too mad to be anything
but foolish to-day, but I'm glad you did come to me; it may save more 'n
Phil's name. Your own is in the worst jeopardy right now. You said, in
conclusion, that I was trackin' you, and you ask, am I goin' to quit it?
The defendant admits the charge, pleads guilty on that count, and throws
himself on the mercy av the coort. But as to the question, am I goin' to
quit it, I answer yes. Whin? Whin there's no more need fur it, and not
one minute sooner. I may be the very trash av the earth, with no father
nor mother nor annybody to care for me" (I can see, even now, the
pathetic look that came sometimes into his laughing gray eyes. It must
have been in them at that moment); "but I have sometimes been 'round
when things I could do needed doin', and I'm goin' to be prisent now,
and in the future, to put my hand up against wrong-doin' if I can."
O'mie paused, while that little dry cough that brought a red spot to
each cheek had its way.
"Now, Lettie, you've had your say with me, and your mind's relieved.
It's my time to say a few things, and you must listen."
Lettie sat looking at the floor.
"I don't know why I have to listen," she spoke defiantly.
"Nor do I know why I had to listen to what you said. You don't need to,
but I would if I was you. It may be all the better for you in a year if
you do. You spake av bein' tagged wherever you go. Who begun it? I'll
tell you. Back in the summer one day, two people drove out to the stone
cabin, the haunted one, by the river in the draw below the big
cottonwood. Somebody made his home there, somebody who didn't dare to
show his face in Springvale by day, 'cause his hand's been lifted to
murder his fellow man. But he hangs 'round here, skulkin' in by night to
see the men he does business with, and meetin' foolish girls who ought
never to trust him a minute. This man's waiting his chance to commit
murder again, or worse. I know, fur I've laid fur him too many times.
There's no cruel-hearted savage on the Plains more dangerous to the
settlers on the frontier; not one av 'em 'ud burn a house, and kill men
and children, and torture and carry off women, quicker than this
miserable dog that a girl who should value her good name has been
counsellin' with time and again, this summer, partly on account of
jealousy, and partly because of a silly notion of bein' romantic. Back
in June she made a trip to the cabin double quick to warn the varmint
roostin' there. In her haste she dropped a bow of purple ribbon which
with some other finery a certain little store-keeper gives her to do his
spyin' fur him. It's a blamed lovely cabal in this town. I know 'em all
by name.
"Spakin' of bein' paupers and bein' kept by Judson, Lettie--who is
payin' the wages of sin, in money and fine clothes, right now? It's on
the books, and I kape the books. But, my dear girl,"--O'mie looked
straight into her black eyes--"they's books bein' kept of the purpose,
price av the goods, and money. And you and him may answer for that. I
can swear in coort only to what Judson spends on you; you know what
for."
Lettie cowered down before her inquisitor, and her anger was mingled
with fear and shame.
"This purple bow was found, identified. Aven Uncle Cam, short-sighted as
he is, remembered who wore it that day; aven see her gallopin' into town
and noticed she'd lost it. This same girl hung around the cliff till she
found a secret place where two people put their letters. She comes in
here and tells me I've no business taggin' her. What business had she
robbin' folks of letters, stealin' 'em out, and givin' 'em into wicked
hands? Lettie, you know whose letter you took when you could reach far
enough to git it out, and you know where you put it.
"You said you could ruin Phil. It's aisy for a woman to do that, I
admit. No matter how hard the church may be on 'em, and how much other
women may cut 'em dead for doin' wrong things, a woman can go into a
coort-room and swear a man's character away, an' the jury'll give her
judgment every time. The law's a lot aisier with the women than the
crowd you associate with is." O'mie's speech was broken off by his
cough.
"Now to review this case a bit. The night av the Anderson's party you
tried to get the letter Marjie'd put up for Phil. You didn't do it."
"I never tried," Lettie declared.
"How come the rid flowers stuck with the little burrs on your dress?
They don't grow anywhere round here only on that cliff side. I pulled
off one bunch, and I saw Phil pull off another when your skirts caught
on a nail in the door. But I saw more 'n that. I stood beside you when
you tried to get the letter, and I heard you tell Judson you had failed.
I can't help my ears; the Almighty made 'em to hear with, and as you've
said, I am a contemptible spy.
"You have given hints, mean ugly little hints, of what you could tell
about Phil on that night. He took you home, as he was asked to do. But
what took you to the top of the cliff at midnight? It was to meet Jean
Pahusca, the dog the gallows is yappin' for now. You waited while he
tried to kill Phil. He'd done it, too, if Phil hadn't been too strong to
be killed by such as him. And then you and Jean were on your way out to
his cabin whin the boys found you. You know Bill and Bud was goin' to
Red Range, that night in the carriage when they overtook you. It was
moonlight, you remember; and ridin' on the back seat was Cris Mead,
silent as he always is, but he heard every word that was said. Bud come
all the way back with you to keep your good name a little while longer;
took chances on his own to save a girl's. It's Phil Baronet put that
kind of loyalty into the boys av this town. No wonder they love him.
Bud's affidavit's on file ready, when needed; and Bill is here to
testify; and Cris Mead's name's good on paper, or in coort, or prayer
meetin'. Lettie, you have sold yourself to two of the worst men ever set
foot in this town."
"Amos Judson is my best friend; I'll tell him you said he's one of the
two worst men in this town," Lettie cried.
"It's a waste av time; he knows it himself. Now, a girl who visits in
lonely cabins at dead hours av the night, with men she knows is
dangerous, oughtn't to ask why some folks are so precious. It's because
they keep their bodies and souls sacred before Almighty God, and don't
sell aither. You've accused me of tryin' to protect Phil, and of keepin'
Marjie's name out of everything, and that I've been spyin' on you. Good
God! Lettie, it's to keep you more 'n them. I was out after my own
business, after things other folks ought to a' looked after and didn't,
things strictly belongin' to me, whin I run across you everywhere, and
see your wicked plan to ruin good names and break hearts and get money
by blackmail. Lettie, it's not too late to turn back now. You've done
wrong; we all do. But, little girl, we've knowed each other since the
days I used to tie your apron strings when your short little fat arms
couldn't reach to tie 'em, and I know you now. What have you done with
Marjie's letter that you stole before it got to Phil?" His voice was
kind, even tender.
"I'll never tell you!" Lettie blazed up like a fire brand.
"Aren't you willing to right the wrongs you've done, and save yourself,
too?" His voice did not change.
"I'm going to leave here when I get ready. I'm going away, but not till
I am ready, and--" She had almost yielded, but evil desire is a strong
master. The spirit of her low-browed father gained control again, and
she raised a stormy face to him who would have befriended her. "I'm
going to do what I please, and go where I please; and I'll fix some
precious saints so they'll never want to come back to this town; and
some others'll wish they could leave it."
"All right, then," O'mie replied, as Lettie flung herself out of the
door, "if you find me among those prisent when you turn some corner
suddenly don't be surprised. I wonder," he went on, "who got that letter
the last night the miserable Melrose girl was here, or the night after.
I wonder how she could reach it when she couldn't get the other one.
Maybe the hole had something in it, one of Phil's letters to Marjie, who
knows? And that was why that letter did not get far enough back from her
thievin' fingers. Oh, I'm mighty glad Kathleen Morrison give me the
mitten for Jess Gray, one of them Red Range boys. How can a man as good
and holy as I am manage the obstreperous girls? But," he added
seriously, "this is too near to sin and disgrace to joke about now."