Part 6 (1/2)
Jane was thinking. ”Would three hundred dollars help you out?” she demanded. ”I've got that much. I've been saving it toward Lola's schooling next year.”
”What, have you been sending her to pay-school?” Keene looked surprised, and unexpectedly his eyes began to dim. ”I'd have been a better man if I'd had any luck,” he said, with apparent irrelevance.
Jane made no moral observations. She did not point out that a man's virtue ought not to depend altogether on his income. She said simply, ”Will that much do?”
Mr. Keene, controlling his emotion, said it would, and they parted upon the understanding that they should meet at Lynn two days later, for the transference of the fund.
Then Jane plodded wearily back to the pavilion, and mutely watched the cow-ponies rush and buck around the course. She beheld Valentino Cortes, a meteoric vision in white cotton trousers, girdled in crimson, flash by to victory amid the wild ”_Vivas!_” of his compatriots. She saw the burros trot past in their little dog-trot of a race.
But although she essayed a pleased smile at these things, and listened with enforced attention to the speeches and the music, there were present with her foreboding and unrest. For usually the Dauntless pursued no vigorous labor in summer, but merely kept the water out of its slope and ”took up” and sold to various smelters such ”slack” as it had made during the winter. There would be no royalties coming in to Jane, since no coal would be mined; and presently it would be September, and no money for Lola's school.
So Jane's cares were thickening. Not only did the mine soon enter on its summer inactivity, but worse befell. The mine boss came one day to tell Jane that, because of a certain ”roll” in the east entries, it was deemed inadvisable farther to work these levels.
”The coal over there makes too much slack, anyhow,” said the mine boss, ”so we intend hereafter to stick to the west.” Whereupon, unaware of leaving doom behind him, he went cheerfully away.
Jane's horizons had always lain close about her. She had never been one to scent trouble afar off. To be content in the present, to be trustful in the future, was her unformulated creed. And now, as she mused, it came to her swiftly that she need not despair so long as she had over her head a substantial dwelling. This abode, in its mere cubhood, had afforded her financial succor. It would be queer if such an office were beyond it now. Only this time the doctor must not be approached; his reasoning before had been too searching.
Jane therefore wrote to a lawyer in Trinidad, authorizing him to obtain for her a certain amount of money. She felt a.s.sured of the outcome of this letter, but presently there came a reply which stupefied her. The lawyer wrote that there happened to be in court a suit concerning the boundaries of an old Spanish land grant, which, it was claimed, extended north of the Purgatory River, and touched upon her own and other neighboring property. The lawyer wrote that matters would probably be settled in favor of the present landholders, but that, so long as litigation pended, all t.i.tles were so clouded as to make any questions of loans untenable.
Jane felt as if a ruthless destiny were pressing her home. She looked at Lola, and her heart sank at the girl's air of springlike happiness and hope. Must these sweet hours be broken upon with a tale of impending penury?
Lola of late had seemed gentler, and the silent, stony moods were leaving her, together with her childish impulse toward sudden anger. So much Jane saw. Lola herself was sensible of a changing sway of feeling which she did not seek to understand. To read of a n.o.ble deed brought swift tears to her eyes in these days of mutation, and stirred her to emulative dreams.
She did not know what power of action lay in her; but there seemed to be some vital promise in the eager essence of spirit which spread before her such visions of beautiful enterprise. Lola did not realize how favorable to ripening character was the atmosphere in which she lived. She could not yet know how she had been impressed by the simple page of plain, undramatic kindness and generosity which Jane's life opened daily to her eyes.
One day Jane spoke to her sadly.
”Lola,” she said, ”I'm afraid there won't be enough money to send you away to school this year.”
”But papa never denies me anything, _tia_.”
”I know, dear.”
”How funny you say that! Is--has he--lost his money, _tia_? You're keeping something from me!”
”Lola,” said Jane, in a moved voice, ”I don't know a great deal about your father's means. I can't say they're less than they were; but there's reasons--why I'm afraid you can't--go to Pueblo this coming fall. No, Lola--don't ask me any questions--I can't speak out! I've done wrong! I can't say any more!” and to Lola's surprise she hurried out of the room.
Never before had Lola witnessed in Jane such confusion and distress.
The sight bewildered and troubled her so sorely as for the moment to exclude from mind the bearing upon her own future of Jane's ambiguous, faltering words. Something was surely amiss; but the girl as yet fully realized only one fact--that tia, always so steadfast and strong and cheerful, had gone hastily from the room in the agitation of one who struggled with unaccustomed tears. Lola hesitated to follow Jane. Some inward prompting withheld her.
”She is like me,” mused the girl. ”She would rather be alone when anything troubles her. I will wait. Maybe she will come back soon and tell me everything.”
Outside it was as dry and bright as ever. The Peaks stood bald and pink against the flawless sky. Over in the Vigil yard Lola saw the smaller Vigil boys la.s.soing one another with a piece of clothes-line, while, dozing over her sewing, Senora Vigil herself squatted in the doorway. Propped against the house-wall, Diego Vigil sat munching a corn-cake and frugally dispersing crumbs to the magpies which hovered about him in short, blue-glancing flights.
Diego was two years old--quite old enough to doff his ragged frock for the ”pantalones” which his mother was still working upon, after weeks of listless endeavor. The senora's thread was long enough to reach half-way across the yard, and it took time and patience to set a st.i.tch. For very weariness the senora nodded over her labor, and made many little appeals to the saints that they might guide aright the tortuous course of her double cotton.
”Life is hard!” sighed the senora, pausing over a knot in her endless thread. ”Ten children keep the needle hot. Ay, but this knot is a hard one! There are evil spirits about.”
She laid down her work to wipe her eyes, and, observing two of her sons grappling in fraternal war at the house corner, she arose to cuff each one impartially, exclaiming, ”_Ea, muchachos!_ You fight before my very eyes, eh? Take that! and that!” Waddling reluctantly back to her sewing, she saw Lola standing in the white-pillared porch of the big adobe house beyond, and a gleam of inspiration crossed the senora's dark, fat face.