Ewing's Lady Part 6

"Clarence," she began directly, "I've been thinking over that old affair of Randall Teevan and his wife, Kitty Lowndes, you know. Do you happen to recall the name of the man--the man Kitty went away with?"

"Lord, no! That was before I'd learned to remember anything. If you want to rake that affair up, ask Randy Teevan himself. I'll wager he hasn't forgotten the chap's name. But why desecrate the grave of so antique a scandal? Ask me about something later. I remember he had a cook once, when I was six----"

"Because--because I was thinking, just thinking. Are you certain you remember nothing about it, not even the man's name, nor what sort of man he was, nor what he did, nor anything?"

"I only know what you must know. Randall Teevan's wife decided that the Bishop had made two into the wrong one. I doubt if I ever heard the chap's name. I seem to remember that they took Alden with them--he was a baby of four or five, I believe, and that Randy scurried about and got him back after no end of fuss. I've heard dad speak of that."

"Did Kitty and that man ever marry?"

"No; you can be sure Teevan saw to that. He took precious good care not to divorce her. They manage those things more politely nowadays; everything formal, six months' lease of a furnished house in Sioux Falls, with the chap living at a hotel and dropping in for tea every day at five; and felicitations from the late husband when the decree is granted in the morning and the new knot tied in the afternoon--another slipknot like the first, so that the merest twitch at a loose end will----"

"Please don't! And did you never know anything more about them, where they lived or how they ended?"

"Never a thing, Sis. It's all so old, everybody's forgotten it, except Teevan. Of course he'd not forget the only woman who ever really put a lance through his s.h.i.+rt-of-mail vanity."

"You forget Kitty's mother. She remembers."

"That's so, by Jove. Teevan got what was coming to him, he got his 'cone-uppance' as the boys say; but old Kitty--yes, it was rough on her.

But she's always put a great face on it. No one would know if they _didn't_ know."

"She's proud. Even though she's been another mother to me she rarely lets me see anything, and she's tried so hard to find comfort in Kitty's boy, in Alden. She's failed in that, though, for some reason."

Her brother glanced sharply at her. "I'll tell you why she's failed, Nell. Alden Teevan wasn't designed to be a comfort to anyone, not even to himself. There was too much Teevan in him at the start, and too much Teevan went into his raising."

"They're back in town, you know."

"Yes; Teevan must have realized that old Kitty is getting on in years, and has a bit of money for Alden. Say, Sis, I hate to seem prying, but you don't--you're not thinking about Alden Teevan seriously, are you?

Come, let's be confidential for twenty seconds."

She mused a moment, then faced him frankly.

"There's something I like in Alden, and something I don't. I know what I like and I don't know what I don't like--I only feel it. There!"

He reached over to take one of her hands.

"Well, Sis, you trust to the feeling. You couldn't be happy there. And you deserve something fine, poor child! You deserve to be happy again."

His inner eye looked back six years to see the body of poor d.i.c.k Laithe carried into the Adirondack camp by two silent guides who had found him where a stray bullet left him.

She turned a tired, smiling face into the light.

"I _was_ happy, so happy; yet I wonder if you can understand how vague it seems now. It was so brief and ended so terribly. I think the shock of it made me another woman. d.i.c.k and I seem like a boy and girl I once knew who laughed and played childish games and never became real. I find myself sympathizing with them sometimes, as I would with two dear young things in a story that ended sadly."

He awkwardly stroked and patted the hand he still held.

"Come and live with me, Nell. There's only a one-room cabin at that place now, with a carpet of hay on the dirt floor. But I'll have a mansion there next summer that will put the eye out of this shack at Bar-7. I believe in getting back to Nature, but I don't want to land clear the other side of her. You'd be comfy with me. And it's a great life; not a line of dyspepsia in it. And think of _feeling_ yourself sliding off to sleep the moment you touch the pillow, as plainly as you feel yourself going down in an elevator. That reminds me, I'm going to bed down with the boys in the bunkhouse to-night. I'm afraid to trust myself in that bed upstairs again--I've lain awake there so many nights."

For a time she lost the thread of his rambling talk, busied with her own thoughts. She was faintly aware that for luncheon he had been eating a biscuit, a thick, soggy, dangerous biscuit, caught up in the hurry of the morning's packing, wrenched in half and sopped in bacon grease.

There was a word about shooting. He was learning to "hold down" the Colt's 44, and had almost hit a coyote. Later, words reached her of a cold night on the divide, when ice formed in the pail by the cooking fire. What at last brought her back was a yawn and his remark that he must "hole up" for the night.

"Clarence," she began, looking far into a little white-hot chamber between two half-burned logs, "listen, please, and advise me. If you were going to do something that might, just possibly, and not by any means certainly, rake up rather an ugly mess, in a sort of remote way--that might make some people uncomfortable, you understand--I mean if you saw something that ought to be done, because the person deserved it, and it was by no means that person's fault, not in the least, and the person didn't even know about it nor suspect anything, would you stop because it might be painful to some one else--just possibly it might--or to a number of people, or even to the person himself, after he knew it? Or would you go ahead and trust to luck, especially when there's a chance that it mightn't ever come out?--though I'm quite sure it's true, you see, and that's what makes it so hard to know what to do."

She looked up at him with bright expectancy. Clutching his head with both hands, he stared at her, alarm leaping in his eyes.

"Would you mind repeating that slowly?" he began, in hushed, stricken tones. "No, no--I shouldn't ask that. One moment, please--now it all comes back to me. I see in fancy the dear old home, and hear faithful Rover barking his glad welcome. Ah, now I have the answer; I knew it would come. It's because one is a toiler of the sea and the other is a soiler of the tea--then the ball is snapped back for a run around the end and the man on third must return to his base."

"I might have known you couldn't understand," she said regretfully; "but I can't possibly be more explicit. I thought if I stated the case clearly in the abstract--but I dare say it's a waste of time to ask advice in such matters."

"You've wasted yours, my child, if that's the last chance I get. Do you really want help about something?"

"No, dear, it wasn't anything. Never mind."

"All right, if you say so. And now, me for the blankets!"

When he had gone she stepped out into the night under the close, big stars. She breathed deeply of the thin, sharp air and looked over at the luminous pearl of a moon that seemed to hang above the cabin where Ewing's kid would doubtless be dreaming. Her lips fell into a little smile, half cynical, half tender.

"I'll do it anyway!" The inflection was defiant, but the words were scarcely more than a whisper. She said them again, giving them tone.

CHAPTER VI

THE LADY AND THE PLAN

They were chatting the next morning over the late breakfast of Mrs.

Laithe. Her brother, summoned from the branding pen, where tender and terrified calves were being marked for life, had come reluctantly, ill disposed to forego the vivacity of that scene. He had rushed in with the look of a man hara.s.sed by large affairs. His evil beard was still unshorn, his dress as untidy as care could make it. He drew a chair up to the oilcloth covered table and surveyed the meager fare of his sister with high disapproval.

"What you need is food, Nell," he began abruptly. "Look at me. This morning I ate two pounds of oatmeal, three wide slices of ham, five chunks of hot bread, about two thousand beans, and drank all the coffee I could get--and never foundered. How's that, against one silly gla.s.s of malted milk two weeks ago? And I slept till seven. I woke up for just eight seconds at four-thirty to hear the boys turning out. Oh, it was gray and cold in that bunkhouse--with me warm in the blankets. That was the one moment of real luxury I've ever known--not to turn out if I didn't choose. And I did _not_ choose--if anyone should ride up hastily and inquire of you. When we were on the drive I had to turn out with the rest of the bunch and catch horses and unbuckle frosty hobbles with stiff fingers, and fetch pails of ice water and freeze and do other things, but this morning I just grinned myself asleep again. That was worth living for, my girl."

But his sister was for once unresponsive. She had not seemed to hear him.

"Clarence," she began, as if reciting lines she had learned, "there's a chap over on the next ranch--Ewing's his name--that ought to have something done for him. He's young, twenty-four, I believe, and boyish even for that age, but he draws; draws well. His father was a painter who died here years ago, and the boy has lived in these mountains ever since. His father taught him to draw, but he has had no chance to study, and he's reached a point where he must learn more or lose all he has.

I'm almost certain he can make something of himself. He ought to go to New York, where he can study and see pictures and find out things. Now, please advise me about it."

"How's his health--his stomach?"

"I believe we've never spoken of it. That's hardly the point."

"Well, I call it a big point. Suppose he went off to New York and got plumb ruined, the way I did--no eats, no sleeps. If you want my advice, he ought to stay right here where everybody's healthy. He shouldn't be foolish."

"Clarence!" Her eyes shone with impatience. "It isn't whether he's to go or not. He's _going_, and he's to have money to keep him there till he makes himself known. It's on that point I need advice."

"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't savvy at first. You're to tell me what to advise and I'm to advise it? Well, tell me what to say."

"Don't be stupid, dear--just for a moment, please. You're bound to agree with me when you see his work. And you might offer to lend him the money--my money, though he's not to know that. Or perhaps you ought to buy his pictures. I'm sure you'll want some of those things he has. Of course that's the better way. It will let him feel independent. There, it's fixed. It was simple, after all." She flashed him a look of grat.i.tude. "You're a help after all, dear, when you choose to be."

"But--one moment, my babe! Perhaps after listening to my advice so meekly you'll let the poor chap say a word for himself. Perhaps he'd rather stay right here in G.o.d's own country if he eats and sleeps well now."