The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine
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had come a collapse of his wonderful self-reliance, and against his will he was driven to seek support.
Rube removed his pipe from his mouth. His slow moving brain was hard at work. His sympathy was not easy for him to express.
"Guess it ain't easy, Seth, boy," he said judicially, at last. "Them things never come easy if a man's a man. I've felt the same in the old days, 'fore Ma an' me got hitched. Y' see the Injuns wus wuss them days--a sight. Guess I jest sat tight."
Though so gently spoken, the old man's words had instant effect. Already Seth was ashamed of his weakness. He knew, no one better, the strenuous life of single-hearted courage this old man had lived.
"I'm kind o' sorry I spoke, Rube. But I ain't jest thinkin' o' myself."
"I know, boy. You're jest worritin' 'cause you're sick. I know you. You an' me are goin' to set tight. Your eye 'll be on the gal; guess I'll figger on Ma. These sort o' troubles jest come and go. I've seen 'em before. So've you. It's the gal that makes the diff'rence fer you. Say, lad," Rube laid a kindly hand on the sick man's drooping shoulders, and his manner became lighter, and there was a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, "when I'd located that I wanted Ma fer wife I jest up an' sez so. I 'lows the job wa'n't easy. I'd a heap sooner 'a' let daylight into the carkises of a dozen Injuns. Y' see wimmin's li'ble to fool you some. When they knows you're fixed on 'em they jest makes you hate yourself fer a foolhead. It's in the natur' of 'em. They're most like young fillies 'fore they're broke--I sez it wi'out disrespec'. Y' see a wummin ain't got a roarin' time of it in this world. An' jest about when a man gets fixed on 'em is their real fancy time, an' they ain't slow to take all ther' is comin'. An' I sez they're dead right. An' jest when you're bustin' to tell 'em how you're feelin'--an' ain't got the savee--they're jest bustin' to hear that same. An' that's how I got figgerin' after awhiles, an' so I ups an' has it out squar'. Y' see," he finished, with an air of pride which brought a smile to Seth's face, "I kind o' swep' Ma off her feet."
The younger man had no reply to make. His mind went back to Ma's version of Rube's courtship. Rube, thoroughly enjoying his task of rousing the other's drooping spirits, went on, carried away by his own enthusiasm.
"Say, why has Rosie come back, boy, I'd like to know."
"She said as she couldn't endure a city no longer. She wanted the plains, the Injuns, Ma, you, an' the farm."
"Pshaw--boy! Plains! Farm! Injuns! Ha, ha! Say, Seth, you ain't smart, not wuth a cent. She come back 'cos she's jest bustin' to hear what you darsen't tell her. She's come back 'cos she's a wummin, an' couldn't stay away when you wus sick an' wounded to death. I know. I ain't bin married fer five an' twenty year an' more wi'out gittin' to the bottom o' female natur'--I----"
"But she didn't know I was sick, Rube."
"Eh?"
Rube stood aghast at what he had said. Seth's remark had, in his own way of thinking, "struck him all of a heap." He realized in a flash where his blundering had led him. He had run past himself in his enthusiasm, and given Ma's little scheme away, and, for the moment, the enormity of his offence robbed him of the power of speech. However, he pulled himself together with an effort.
"Guess I wus chawin' more'n I could swaller," he said ruefully. "Ma allus did say my head wus mostly mutton, an' I kind o' figger she has a power o' wisdom. An' it wus a dead secret--'tween her an' me. Say, Seth, boy, you won't give me away? Y' see Ma's mighty easy, but she's got a way wi' her, Ma has."
The old man's distress was painfully comical. The perspiration stood out on his rugged forehead in large beads, and his kindly eyes were full of a great trouble. Seth's next remark came in the form of an uncompromising question.
"Then Ma wrote an' told her?"
"Why, yes, if it comes to that I guess she must have."
Seth rose wearily from his seat, and ranged his lean figure beside the old man's bulk. "All right, dad," he said, in his quiet, sober way. "I'm glad you've told me. But it don't alter nothin', I guess. Meanwhile I'll git round, an' quit whinin'."
The arrival of Rosebud's cousin and her maid somewhat disorganized the Sampsons' simple household. Rosebud's love of mischief was traceable in this incongruous descent upon the farm. Her own coming was a matter which no obstacle would have stayed. Ma's letter had nearly broken her heart, and her anxiety was absolutely pitiable until the actual start had been made.
That Seth was ill--wounded--and she had not known from the first, had distracted her, and her mind was made up before she had finished reading the letter. Her obligations to her new life were set aside without a second thought. What if there were invitations to social functions accepted? What if her cousin's household were thrown into confusion by her going? These things were nothing to her; Seth might be dying, and her heart ached, and something very like terror urged her to hasten.
She had long since learned that Seth, and Seth alone, was all her world. Then the old mischievous leaning possessed her, and she resolved, willy-nilly, that Mrs. Rickards, whose love she had long since won, as she won everybody's with whom she came into contact, should accompany her.
This old lady, used only to the very acme of comfort, had welcomed the idea of visiting Rosebud's home in the wilds. Moreover, until the final stage of the journey, she thoroughly enjoyed herself. It was not until traveling from Beacon Crossing, and the camping out at the half-way house, that the roughness of the country was brought home to her. Then came the final miring of the wagon, and she reviled the whole proceeding.
But the ultimate arrival at the farm, and the meeting with its homely folk, soon restored her equanimity She at once warmed to Ma, whose gentle practical disposition displayed such a wealth of true womanliness as to be quite irresistible, and, in the confidence of her bedchamber, which she shared with Rosebud, she imparted her favorable impressions. She assured the girl she no longer wondered that she, Rosebud, with everything that money could purchase, still longed to return to the shelter of the love which these rough frontier-folk so surely lavished upon her.
"But, my dear," she added, as a warning proviso, and with a touch of worldliness which her own life in England had made almost part of her nature, "though Mrs. Sampson is so deliciously simple and good, and Mr. Sampson is such an exquisite rough diamond, this Seth, whose trouble has brought us out here, with such undignified haste, is not the man to make the fuss about that you have been doing all the journey. He's a fine man, or will be when he recovers from his illness, I have no doubt; but, after all, I feel it my duty by your dead father to warn you that I think you are much too concerned about him for a girl in your position."
"What on earth do you mean, auntie?" Rosebud exclaimed, pausing in the process of brushing out her obstinately curling hair. "What position have I but that which these dear people have helped me to--that Seth, himself, has made for me? I owe all I have, or am at this moment, to Seth. He saved me from a fate too terrible to contemplate. He has saved my life, not once, but half a dozen times; he found me my father's fortune, or the fortune which father has left for me when I marry. You are more unkind than ever I thought you could be. You wait, auntie, you may yet learn to--to appreciate Seth as I do. You see I know--you don't. You're good, and wise, and all that; but you don't know--Seth."
"And it's very evident that you think you do, dear," Mrs. Rickards said, wearily rolling over and snuggling down amidst the snowy sheets of the soft feather-bed.
"There is no question of thinking," Rosebud smiled mischievously into the looking-glass in the direction of her relative. "And if Seth were to ask me I would marry him to-morrow--there. Yes, and I'd make him get a special license to avoid unnecessary delay."
Of a sudden Mrs. Rickards started up in bed. For one moment she severely eyed the girl's laughing face. Then her anger died out, and she dropped back on the pillow.
"For the moment I thought you meant it," she said.
"And so I do," was the girl's swift retort. "But there," as a horrified exclamation came from the bed, "he won't ask me, auntie," the girl went on, with a dash of angry impatience in her voice, "so you needn't worry. Seth has a sense of honor which I call quixotic, and one that might reasonably shame the impecunious fortune-hunters I've met since I have