MARY’S DESPAIR
Justin had found Sloan Jasper one of the most troublesome of the water
users. Jasper was almost as hard to please as William Sanders; and
only the day before Sanders had denounced Justin as being in league
with the company to defraud the farmers. For these reasons Justin
always approached the farms of these men with trepidation. Trouble was
brewed on each visit.
The trouble which brewed at Sloan Jasper’s on this particular occasion
was, however, wholly unexpected, and of quite a different kind. Jasper
came out to the trail with an anxious air.
“Mary is in the house and wants you to stop in and see her.”
Justin dismounted to enter the house. He had not known that Mary was
at home.
“It’s about Ben,” said Jasper, “and I wish he was in hell! The way he
is carryin’ on is killin’ my girl by inches.”
With this stout denunciation of Ben ringing in his ears Justin went in
to see Mary. She had been crying. Jasper followed him into the house
and stood within the doorway, in an uneasy, angry attitude, holding
his soiled hat in his hands.
“I wanted to see you about Ben,” said Mary, rising to greet Justin.
Her cheeks were pale and her eyes lacked lustre. With that rose-leaf
color gone, her face was so pallid that it deepened by contrast the
darkness of her eyes and her hair. She was rather handsome, in spite
of all, in one of those Denver dresses chosen by Sibyl Dudley, which
served to make her look taller and more stately than she was.
Mary’s desire was to have Justin do something to induce Ben to let
liquor alone. She acknowledged that she had lost all control over him,
if she had ever had any. More than once he had treated her brutally
while in a fit of intoxication. Yet she had clung to him. Having won
her girlish love, he still held it. She had long hoped that he would
abandon his wild ways after awhile and become a sober, sensible man,
to whom she could trust her life and happiness. She admitted that the
hope was growing faint.
“I don’t see what I can do,” said Justin, touched by her unhappiness,
and perplexed. “If I go to Ben and say anything to him he will only
insult me. He hasn’t liked me for a long time, as you know.”
“Perhaps if you would speak to Mr. Davison,” Mary urged, with pathetic
persistence.
Justin was sure that would present almost as many difficulties. He
knew that Philip Davison had long reasoned with Ben, and raved at him,
in vain.
“Since it’s known that you are his half-brother, I thought possibly
you could do something. I’ve tried until I don’t know what to try
next.”
“Give the scamp the go-by,” said Jasper hotly. “Throw him over. Have
some spunk about you, can’t ye? Why, if I was a woman, and a man
should treat me as he has you, I’d send him hummin’ in a jiffy; I
wouldn’t stand it.”
“But you don’t understand, father.”
“Don’t I? I understand too tarnal well. If I had my way I’d kick his
ornery carcass out of this house, if he ever ventured to set foot in
it ag’in. That’d be my way. Any other way is a fool’s way, and you
ought to know it.”
“Don’t listen to him, Justin,” said Mary, tearfully. “You must know
how I feel, even if he doesn’t. And if you can do anything to get Ben
to stop drinking and running around with Clem Arkwright I wish you
would.”
Never more than at that moment did Justin long for some influence with
Ben. He knew he had none. He made what promises he could, but they
were not very assuring. Mary followed him to the door, still urging
him.
Riding on, thinking of Mary, Justin encountered Lucy. She joined him,
and they rode together along the homeward trail. When she rallied him
on his depressed manner, he told her of Mary’s appeal.
“Yes,” she admitted, “I had heard she was at home, and I know only too
well that Ben has been drinking more than ever of late. I can see that
it is hurting Uncle Philip very much. He has always believed that when
Ben sows what he calls his wild oats he will change and be a man, but
I’ve doubted it. There isn’t anything you can do, not a thing; but I
shall go to see Mary, and try to make her feel better.”
She looked earnestly at Justin, riding beside her. He had put aside
the checked business suit of gray, and was clad roughly, as became his
muddy calling. Yet how manly he was, however he dressed; how broad his
shoulders, how sturdy and well-knit his frame, how clear and open his
countenance, and how intelligent and attractive the flash of his eyes,
as he conversed with her! She knew that she loved him more than ever.
“One would never dream that you are related to Ben!”
“I hope I am not like him, even though he is my half-brother.”
“You aren’t, not in the least; I don’t think I could like you so well
as I do if you were.”
“Then you do like me?”
He looked at her, smiling.
“It would be only natural for me to like the man I have promised to
marry, wouldn’t it?”
“I was merely hoping that you love me; like is too mild a word.”
Then they began to talk again of that delightful day, ever hastening
nearer, as they believed, when they should be not merely lovers, but
husband and wife. It was a pleasant dream, and they lingered by the
way, as they contemplated its beauties.
As they thus talked and loitered, Ben Davison came driving by in his
clog-cart, with Clem Arkwright. Arkwright’s pudgy form was not quite
so pudgy, for he had not lived as well of late, but his face and nose
were as red as ever, and his old manner had not forsaken him. He bowed
elaborately to both Lucy and Justin.
“A great day,” he called, “a glorious day, and the old mountain is
grand; just take a glance at it now and then as you ride along; you’ll
never see anything finer!”
Ben did not look at Justin; but to Lucy he shouted:
“I’m going to town to sell the horse and dogcart. I told you I would.
Arkwright knows a man who will buy them.”
When Lucy called on Mary, she heard details of a story which Mary had
not ventured to hint to Justin. Mary had made a discovery too long
delayed. Ben’s frequent visits to Denver were not merely to see her;
the real attraction was Sibyl Dudley. Sibyl was the recipient of most
of the money Ben had been able to wring from his father or gain at
gambling. Her calls for money had increased his recklessness. Sibyl
was the horse-leech’s daughter, crying ever for more, and Ben was
weak.
Mary had pedestaled Sibyl and believed in her, refusing to see aught
but goodness, until her foolish belief became no longer possible.
Then, with her eyes opened, she marveled at her almost incomprehensible
blindness. Why had she not seen before? If she had seen before she
might have saved Ben, she thought. She recalled the genial Mr.
Plimpton. Had Sibyl, by incessant demands for money, wrought the
financial overthrow of Plimpton? Every suggestion that came to her now
was sickening and horrible. Such an awakening is often disastrous in
its results. Doubt of humanity itself is a fruit of that tree of
knowledge, and that doubt had come to Mary.
Lucy took the unhappy girl in her arms. She was herself grieved and
shocked.
“You poor dear!” was all she was able to say at first.
“And, oh, I am to blame for it all!” Mary sobbed, putting her arms
about the neck of her comforter. “I can see what a fool I was, and it
was pride that made me a fool. I went up there as ignorant as a child;
I thought it would be fine to live in a city and be a lady and drive
round in a carriage. How I hate that carriage! And that coachman. I
know even he must have thought horrid things about me. And Plimpton! I
know what Plimpton was now, and I hate him. It seems to me I could
stamp on him if I saw him fall down in the street. And I—I hate—oh,
there isn’t a word strong enough to tell how I hate Mrs. Dudley! I
thought she was an angel, and she is—is—a brute!”
“You poor dear!” said Lucy, smoothing back the dark hair from the
fevered and tear-wet face. “You poor dear! You have been cruelly
deceived and abused. It doesn’t seem possible! I was as much deceived
as you, for I thought Mrs. Dudley a very pleasant woman. There were
some things about her I didn’t like, about the way she dressed and
painted, yet I never thought but that she was a good woman. I didn’t
suspect anything, for you told me she was rich.”
“And that’s what she told me, but she lied; she’s been getting her
money from fools like Plimpton and Ben. And I used her money, and
lived in her house, and rode about in her carriage with all Denver
gaping at me, and never knew a thing. Even this dress I have on was
bought with her money. I want to tear it off and stamp it into the
mud; but I haven’t a thing to wear that she didn’t get for me, not a
thing. And my—my silly pride is to blame—is to blame for Ben, and
everything. If I hadn’t gone with her Ben might never have met her.
But if Ben could only be induced to quit drinking, something could be
done with him yet. I almost wish he would get sick; anything to keep
him away from that woman.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Yes, he did, when I hinted at what I had discovered and told him I
had left Denver for good and all; he told me I was a little idiot. But
I didn’t mind that; I’ve got so used to his harsh words that I don’t
mind them; but this I couldn’t stand, this about Sibyl. So then I put
aside my shame, and I told him right to his face that I was a silly
idiot or I would never speak to him again; and he confessed to me that
he had been going there to see Mrs. Dudley more than me, and said he
would go as often as he pleased, and that I could help myself; and he
said, too, that he intended to marry her. But I know that isn’t so; he
would never marry her now. I told him he wouldn’t, and begged him to
remember his promises to me and keep away from her; and he told me to
shut my mouth and mind my own business. As if that isn’t my own
business!”
She began to cry again; and Lucy, holding her tightly, rocked her as
if she were a child.
“And, oh, I was so happy! So happy, until I knew that! It was a
selfish happiness I see now but I thought it was true happiness. I
thought everything of Mrs. Dudley—just everything; and I thought she
loved me as much as I loved her; and to have this come! It breaks my
heart, it breaks my heart! Oh, Ben, Ben!”
She lay in Lucy’s arms. Their tears flowed together. But what could be
said to comfort her?
“Did Mrs. Dudley say anything?”
“When I reproached her she was indignant and denied it; she cried, and
said I was an ungrateful girl and did not deserve to have a friend.
She declared that Ben came only to see me; but in her very confusion I
could see that she was lying, for when my eyes began to open they
became sharp as needles. Oh, I could see through her, after that! I
told her she had stolen Ben from me, and all for his money, and that
she was ruining him, and that it would kill me. I don’t know what I
said, for I was crazy, and I was crying so that I thought my heart
would break. And just as soon as I could get out of the house I did,
and I came right down here; but even then I had to use her money, a
little money she had given me, to pay car fare, for I hadn’t any
other. But just the thought of it made me want to jump off that train
and kill myself.”
“You poor dear!”
And Lucy, holding her in a close embrace, kissed the tear-stained
face.