Part 37 (1/2)
”They said last night that he's going to be married soon to that Ma.s.sachusetts 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sionate.
”Good-afternoon, Lettie. Nice day after the rain,” O'mie said, pleasantly.
She did not respond to his greeting, but stood before him with flas.h.i.+ng 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, das.h.i.+ng, 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. Pa.s.sing 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 n.o.body 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. n.o.body 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 n.o.body, poor as sin, living off of this town all these years; never knowing who your father nor mother is, nor n.o.body 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.