Meg of Mystery Mountain Part 15

Then apropos of nothing (or so it seemed), Jean said: "What a beautiful girl your sister is. What a pity that she has not had the love and direction of a mother. I had such a wonderful mother myself, Dan, I well know what girls and boys have missed when they lost their mothers while they were very young."

Dan grew serious at once. Then he confessed:

"Jean, I feel as though I had known you for a long time, and so I am going to tell you my greatest problem. My sister Jane is beautiful, and before she went away to that fashionable Highacres Seminary she was as sweet and lovable a girl as any you could find, but for some reason she learned there much that was not in the curriculum. Pride of family, sn.o.bbishness, and because of our father's position, many of her companions were so differential to her that she has come to expect it from everyone. How I wish I knew how to save Jane from herself."

It was just as Jean had feared. He surprised himself by saying: "If she would chum with Meg Heger a while, I believe it would help her to overcome those artificially acquired qualities, for Meg is sincerely natural. But your sister would have to make the advances. Meg never will.

She keeps apart by herself, and will probably continue doing so until it is proven that she is not that Ute Indian's daughter. I know that you have met Meg, for I overheard your little sister saying that you had been there this morning."

"Yes, we were. The children pleaded so hard that I go and see their baby lions."

Then he told the story of the death of the mother lion to an interested listener. "I wondered why Meg Heger disappeared directly after having saved my life. Nor would she come to her home while she know that I was there. It is too bad that she shuts herself away from people who would gladly be her friends."

Jean nodded. "That is just what she does. Last year, as I was telling Gerald, Mr. Packard's daughter, Mrs. Delbert, and her young son were with us. When Mrs. Delbert heard the story of Meg's devotion to her foster-parents and how she is trying to become a teacher that she might make life easier and pleasanter for them, she at once wished to make Meg's acquaintance. We hiked up to the Heger cabin one Sat.u.r.day morning, and although Meg willingly showed Mrs. Delbert her botany gardens, and her hurt animal hospital, she was so reserved and shut away from us, that we realized at once that she did not wish our friendship. Mrs. Delbert invited Meg to spend a day with her at the ranch, but the girl never came, nor have I seen her since."

The other lad understood.

"With me she is also distant and reserved," he said, "but when she talks to Julie and Gerald she is very different."

Then, returning to a remark made earlier, he concluded: "My sister Jane would be greatly helped if she could see how much more naturalness is admired than cultivated poses, but she will never learn from Meg Heger, whom she considers greatly beneath her." Then, stopping, he held out his hand. "Jean," he said seriously, "I hope I have not given you a wrong opinion of my beautiful sister. I honestly believe that the girl she used to be still lives beneath all this artificial veneer that she has acquired at the fashionable seminary and my most earnest wish is to find a way by which that other girl, who was my dearly loved sister-pal, can be returned to me. I would not have spoken of this were it not that I am as greatly troubled for Jane's sake as my own."

"I am glad you told me, Dan. I, too, have faith in her. Goodbye till next Sunday."

Dan walked slowly back to the cabin, pleased, indeed, with his new friend.

Dan found his sister Jane alone with her book on the front porch of their cabin. She looked up with a smile of welcome. "I was agreeably surprised in our guest," she began at once, "and so, before you tease me for having described him as raw-boned and illiterate, I will make the confession that I never met a better looking or nicer mannered youth."

"Tut! Tut!" her brother, sinking to the doorstep where earlier in the day Jean had sat, merrily shook a finger at his sister, "That is extreme praise, and I may take offense, since I consider myself good looking and nice mannered."

The girl laughed happily. Her brother reflected that, not in many a day, had he seen her brow unclouded with frown or fretfulness.

Suddenly he said: "Jane, have you changed your mind about going East next Tuesday?" He looked up inquiringly, eagerly.

The girl flushed, then said with an effort at indifference: "I thought perhaps it is hardly fair to decide that I do not like the mountain life, after having been here for such a few days. Shall you mind if I postpone my departure until a week from Tuesday?" The lad caught the hand that hung near him and pressed it with sudden warmth to his cheek. "Jane," he said, "I'm desperately lonesome for the comrade that my sister used to be. Won't you give up all thought of going away and try once again to be that other girl?"

Jane looked puzzled, then she drew her hand away, saying coldly: "You are evidently not satisfied with me. I suppose that you also admire a girl who prefers to pare potatoes and stain her hands, than you do one who keeps herself attractive."

Dan was astonished at the outburst, but wisely made no comment, though his thoughts were busy. Evidently Jean Sawyer had told his sister that he admired a girl who could be useful as well as ornamental. What would the result be, he wondered. But on the following day Jane permitted the other three to do all of the work of the cabin while she idled hours away at letter writing to her many girl friends in the East; finished her book, and started a bit of lace making which had been the popular pastime at the seminary.

At nine o'clock on Monday the stage drew up in front of their stone stairway and the discordant sound from a horn seemed to be calling them, and so Gerald hopped down to receive from Mr. "Sourface" Wallace a packet of newspapers and letters. "Oh, thanks a lot, Mr. Wallace!" the boy shouted, knowing that the stage driver was deaf, and then up the stairway he scrambled to distribute the mail. There was a letter for each of the Abbotts from their father and a tiny note inclosed from grandmother with good advice for each, not excluding Jane, whose lips took their favorite scornful curve when it was read.

But a glance at her other two letters sent her to her own room, where she could read them undisturbed. One was from Merry Starr and, instead of containing enthusiastic descriptions of the gay life at Newport, which it was her good fortune to be living, the epistle was crammed full of longing to see the wonderful West.

"Tastes are surely different!" Jane thought as she opened the second epistle, which was from Esther Ballard. In it she read a news item which pleased her exceedingly. "Jane, old dear"--was the very informal beginning.

"Put on your remembering cap and you will recall that you told me, if ever I could find another string of those semi-precious cardinal gems that you so greatly admired, to buy them at once, notify you and you would send me the money. Well, the deed is done. I have found the necklace, and, honestly, Jane, it holds all of the glory of the sunset and sunrise melted into one. They will set off your dark beauty to perfection. But I'll have to confess that I haven't a penny. Always broke, as you know, and so, if you want them, you'll have to mail me twenty-five perfectly good dollars by return post.

"Yours in great haste, E. B."

Jane sat looking thoughtfully out of the window. In about two weeks she would have a birthday, and on that occasion her aunt, after whom she was named, always sent her the amount needed for the gems, but in a postscript Esther had said that she had asked to have the chain held one week, feeling sure that by that time Jane would have sent the money.

Taking from her purse two bills, she put them in an envelope addressed to Esther, added a hurried little letter, stamped it and was just wondering how she would get it to the post when she saw Meg Heger coming down the road on her pony. Although she herself would not ask a favor of the mountain girl, she called Julie and requested that she hail Meg and ask her to mail the letter. Not until it was done did Jane face her conscience. Had she any right to use the tax money for a necklace? She shrugged her shoulders. What would two weeks more or less matter?

CHAPTER XX.

MEG AS SCHOOL-MISTRESS

Upon arriving in Redfords, Meg Heger had at once given the letter which had been marked "Important! Rush!" to the innkeeper, who was about to start for the station to meet the eastbound train. He promised the girl to attend to putting the letter on the train himself, and thus a.s.sured that she had served her neighbors to the best of her ability, Meg went across the road to the school, only to find that her good friend, Teacher Bellows, was not to be there that day as he had been sent for by a dying mountaineer in his capacity as preacher, and had left word that he wished Meg to hear the younger children recite, and dismiss them at two, which was an hour earlier than usual.

Nothing pleased the girl more than to have an opportunity to practice the art of instruction, since that was to be her chosen life work, and a very happy morning she had with the dozen and one pupils, queer little specimens of childhood, although, indeed, several of them were beyond that, being long, lanky boys and girls in their teens. They, one and all, loved Meg devotedly and considered it a rare treat to have her in charge of the cla.s.s. This happened quite often, as, in his double capacity as preacher as well as teacher, the kindly old man had various calls upon his time; some of them taking him so far into the mountains that he was obliged to be gone for days at a time.

Meg had a charming way, quite her own, of teaching, with story and word pictures. Even the master had to concede that she was more fitted by nature than he was to instruct the child mind. At two o'clock, when the young teacher dismissed her cla.s.s, they flocked about her as she crossed the road to the inn.

The tallest among her pupils, a rancher's daughter, who was indeed as old as Meg, put an arm lovingly about her as she said, "When yer through with yer schoolin', don't I hope yo'll come back to Redfords an' be our teacher."

The mountain girl laughed. "Why, Ann Skittle!" she teased. "You will be married, with a home of your own, by the time that I am ready to teach.

You are seventeen, now, aren't you?"

Ann's sunburned face flushed suddenly and her unexpected embarra.s.sment caused Meg to believe that she had guessed more accurately than she had supposed. "Yeah, I'm seventeen. But I'll be eighteen before snowfall, an'

then Hank Griggs an' me's goin' to be married. He's pa's hired man. A new one from Arizony."

"Then why should you care whether or not I teach the Redford school?" Meg turned at the lowest step of the inn porch to inquire. Her dark eyes seemed always to hold a kindly interest in whatever they looked upon, were it a hurt little animal or, as at that moment, a girl who had not been endowed with much natural intelligence.

Ann Skittle, again visibly embarra.s.sed, stood looking down, twisting one corner of her ap.r.o.n as she said in a low voice: "Me an' Hank is like to have kiddies an' I'd be wishin' you could teach 'em."

Suddenly Meg leaned over and impulsively kissed the flushed face of her surprised companion. "Of course you'll have little ones, dear," she said, and in her voice there was a note of tenderness. "No greater happiness can come to any girl than just that; to be a mother and to have a mother." She turned away to hide the tears that, mist-like, always rose to her own eyes when she thought of the mother whom she never knew. Ann, calling goodbye, walked away toward the corral back of the school where her pony had been for hours awaiting her.

When Meg entered the front room of the inn, her smile was as bright as ever. Mrs. Bently often said that it didn't matter how gloomy the day might be, when Meg appeared with "that lighten' up" smile of hers, somehow it seemed as though the sun had burst through, and even if things had been going wrong, they began to go right then and there. "Mrs.

Bently," the girl said, "Pa Heger told me not to come home today without the County Weekly News. It's days overdue."

The comely woman's face brightened.

"Wall, I've found that newspaper at last," she announced. "That man of mine didn't have on his specks when he was sortin' the mail, I reckon.

Anyhow he stuck that paper o' yer pa's 'way over into Mr. Peters' box.

'Twas fetched clear out to his ranch and fetched back agin."

"Thanks." Meg said brightly, as she took the paper. "It won't matter any.

I don't suppose there's any startling news in it."

Half way up the mountain road Meg drew rein and listened. There was not a breath of wind stirring. The sun beat down relentlessly and heat shimmered from the red-gold dust of the road ahead. The only sounds were the humming, buzzing and wing-whirring of the mult.i.tudinous insects all about her. Then again she heard the sound which had first attracted her attention. A pitiful little gasping cry. Leaping from her pony, she commanded: "Pal, stand still for a moment. One of our little brothers is calling for help."

Although the faint cry had instantly ceased, Meg remembered the direction from which it had come and climbed agilely down the rocks to find that one, having been dislodged, had caught a Douglas squirrel's tail and had held it captive so long that the creature was nearly starved.

"You poor little mite," Meg said with tender sympathy as she stooped, and, after removing the heavy stone, lifted the small creature in her hands. She held it, unresisting, for a moment against her cheek, then put it into one of her saddle bags. Peering in, she said a.s.suringly, "Don't be frightened. I'm going to take you to the hospital, but as soon as you are stronger, you shall have your freedom." The bead-like eyes that looked up out of the dark depths of the bag seemed to be more appreciative than fearful. There was a quality in Meg's voice when she spoke to the sad and wounded that soothed and comforted even though the words were not understood. "I'll take the newspaper out," she thought; "then his bed will be more comfortable." And, as she did so, she chanced to see a name which attracted her attention. It was a name which had come, within the last three days, to mean much of possible comradeship to her. It was "Daniel Abbott." Opening the paper, the girl expected merely to read an article telling of the arrival of the Abbott family at their cabin on Redfords Peak, but, to her dismay, the story that newspaper contained was of an entirely different nature. It was a list of the properties in the county that were tax delinquents. Meg learned from the short paragraph that the ten acres and "cabin thereon" belonging to one Daniel Abbott, having been for three weeks advertised as delinquent, was to be sold for taxes on August the tenth at five o'clock unless the aforesaid taxes, amounting to the sum of twenty-five dollars, should be paid before that hour.

The girl stared at the printed page, unable at first to comprehend its meaning. Then she glanced at the sun. It was at least two-thirty. But what could it mean? Surely the young man with whom she was talking but yesterday, when the children had brought him to see the baby lions, surely he had known of this and had paid the taxes. Refolding the paper, Meg started leisurely up the mountain road, but something seemed to be urging her to at least tell Dan Abbott what she had seen. Perhaps he had not paid the back taxes, and, if not, she might be instrumental in saving his cabin home for him, and yet, even as she thought of it, she was a.s.sailed with doubt. It would be impossible to reach Scarsburg, the county seat, before five unless one rode at top speed, and the Abbotts had neither car nor horse.