Meg of Mystery Mountain Part 23

Then Merry also excused herself and followed her friend.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

JEAN SAWYER'S SECRET

Jane, going to the deserted ranch house, threw herself down on her bed and sobbed heart-brokenly. She did not hear the tap on the door, nor was she conscious that Merry had entered until she heard her voice: "Jane, dear, have I done anything to hurt you, to make you unhappy?" The tenderness in the tone of her best friend was unmistakable. All at once Jane felt ashamed of herself. Holding out a fevered hand, she said: "Indeed not, dear girl. It isn't your fault at all. Any boy would like you better than me. You are so sweet and unselfish and lovable." Merry's eyes widened, for she was indeed perplexed, "Jane, I don't understand,"

she said. "What boy likes me better than he does you?" Then, slowly a light dawned. Taking both hot hands in her own, she cried, her blue eyes glowing, "Oh, Jane, dearest Jane, _did_ you think that Jean Sawyer cared for me? Did you think for one moment that I, knowing how much you liked him, would even want him to care for me? Indeed not, Janey! But now that I think about it, I realize that you might misunderstand. Dear, it's a long story. Let's go out on the veranda in the moonlight. There is no one around. They all went up the foothill trail and will be gone for an hour."

Jane permitted herself to be led to a vine-sheltered corner of the veranda, where they sat close together in a hammock swing. Merry piled the soft cushions behind her friend, whose flushed face a.s.sured her that the head was really aching. Jane sighed as she sank back among them, but it was a sigh of relief. How wrong it had been to doubt for one moment the loyalty of this, her very best friend. But Merry was beginning the story. "Dear," she said, placing a cool hand on the hot one near her, "when you first introduced me to Jean Sawyer, did you notice that my brother Bob drew me away to whisper something to me before I could acknowledge the introduction?"

Jane nodded, both curious and interested. "Why did Bob do that? I wondered at the time." Merry continued: "I was just about to exclaim, 'Why, Jean Sawyer Willoughby, so this is where you disappeared to when you left home last February!' but I did not, for Bob gave me no time.

What he whispered was, 'Don't let on you know Jean. He wants his ident.i.ty kept in the dark. He is using his mother's maiden name. Get the cue?'

"Of course I got it, but as soon as I could I asked Jean to go for a canter with me that I might tell him how heart-broken his family was because he had disappeared as he did." Jane was no longer reclining among the cushions. She sat up, listening intently.

"You and Bob know Jean's family?"

"Yes, indeed, both his father and older brother Ken. We met them every summer on the coast of Maine, where our parents had cottages next to each other."

"Jean told me of that cottage where he went that summer, alone with his mother," Jane said. "I mean the summer she died."

"Poor boy! He never was happy in his home life after that," Merry replied. "Ken, his brother, is a commissioned officer on one of the war boats. He had little sh.o.r.e leave and that left Jean and his father quite alone in their big house in New York. They never had been congenial in their interests, but the final break came when the father entered into some oil deal which Jean considered dishonorable. He told his father exactly how he felt about it. He said that he refused to inherit money that was taken from the poor who had invested their savings in the wildcat scheme, believing the firm to be honest. Of course his father was angry, and Jean, refusing to take one penny of what he called 'tainted'

money, left home to make his own way in the world.

"The father did not seem to care at first, for he had always loved Ken more than he did Jean, but when Ken came home on a leave he took Jean's part, and also denounced his father's dishonorable business methods."

Jane was sitting very erect and her breath came hard. At last she interrupted. "Merry," she said in a voice she could hardly recognize as her own, "Jean's father, Mr. Willoughby, was my father's partner." Then she burst into unexpected tears. "Jean was n.o.bler than I! Oh, Merry, I never can be his friend again. I am not worthy of him. I want you to be his best friend. You are so good. I am sure that in his heart of hearts he must love you." Merry leaned over and kissed her friend tenderly. "I hope Jean does love me," she said simply. "He is to be my brother, for I am engaged to Ken Willoughby. His three years in the navy are nearly over. Ken is coming home for good on September first."

Jane's heart was filled with conflicting emotions. She was indeed happy when she heard the wonderful secret which Merry a.s.sured her she would have told her at once but Ken had wanted her to wait until he had given her the ring which he had bought for her in Paris. "But I just had to tell you, dear girl, when I realized that my friendship with Jean might lead you to believe that we cared for each other." Then, slipping an arm affectionately about her companion, Merry continued: "And now there is just one thing for which I am going to wish until it comes true, and that is that you and Jean may care for each other in the way Ken and I care.

Then, Jane, I will be your sister. Think what that would mean, for we would share all of the joy that the future holds."

But Jane, tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g her eyes, said sadly: "That can never be! If Jean knew the truth; if he knew that I wanted father to cheat those poor people who had trusted him, he would scorn me, even as I now scorn myself. I never knew father's partners except by name. We lived so very far apart and Dad always wanted to just rest when he reached our village home, and so, even when I was with him, which was seldom, we had no social life." Then, turning with a startled expression, Jane inquired, "Oh, do you suppose that Jean knows? Do you suppose he recognized our name as being the same as his father's partner?"

Merry replied thoughtfully: "There are a good many Abbotts in the world, dear, and just at first Jean did not suspect that your father was the one who had withdrawn from the firm, and who, by so doing, had incurred the hatred and wrath of Mr. Willoughby, but, when I happened to mention why your father had lost everything, as Dan had told him, Jean's face brightened. 'I am glad,' he said, 'that the father of Jane had the courage to do the honorable thing.' I noticed at the time that he said 'the father of Jane' and not of Dan. That means, dear, that you are often in his thoughts."

But Jane had again burst into tears, and rising, she hurried to her own room and begged Merry, who had followed her with tender solicitude, to leave her alone. "I never, never can be Jean's friend again, but don't tell him how dishonorable I have been, Merry. Promise me that you will not tell him."

"Of course I will not tell, but, oh, Jane, you are over-imaginative tonight. I am sure that you never wished your father to rob the poor that you might have luxury. But there, please don't answer me, dear. You are all worn out and your poor head is throbbing cruelly. Let me help you undress. Tomorrow morning when you awake you will see everything in a different light."

But Merry was wrong. Because of Jane, the young people did not start at sunrise as they had planned, but delayed until after Mr. and Mrs. Starr had been driven away to the Redfords station. Mr. Packard accompanied them. Bob was pleased indeed that he and his sister were to remain in the Rockies for another fortnight, and Merry was glad to be with Jane, who, more than ever, seemed to need her friendship.

When the young people were gathered at the corral, preparing to start, Jean glanced across at Jane and noting how pale and weary she looked, he strode over to her, saying: "Aren't you afraid the ride will be too hard for you? Suppose we let the others start now, if Meg feels that she must get home. You and I could follow them more leisurely, starting later, when you are rested."

There was a sad expression in the dark eyes that were lifted to his, but the girl's reply was: "Thank you, Jean, I would rather go now, with the others." Merry felt Jane's clasp tighten about her hand, and well knew that she was suffering cruelly, and that it was a mental, not a physical torture.

Jean a.s.sisted both of the girls to mount and then the string of horses started toward the mountain trail, for Bob was eager to visit the old deserted Crazy Creek mine. Jean Sawyer glanced often at the pale, beautiful face of the girl who seemed purposely to avoid him.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

AN UNCANNY EXPERIENCE

At the foot of the trail that led up the mountain, Dan, who had been in the lead with Meg, called: "Jean, we're waiting for you to go ahead, since you have so often ridden this trail."

The boy, who had been silently riding at Jane's side whenever it had been possible, turned to ask: "Will you ride on ahead with me?"

The girl tried to smile at him, but her lips quivered. "No, thank you, Jean. I think I will stay with Merry."

A boyish voice called, "Ask me and hear what I'll say." It was Bob, and before Jean could express a desire for his companionship, the black horse which the younger lad rode was scrambling up the rocky trail following the leader. Julie and Gerald, on their agile ponies, were next; Meg and Dan followed, while Jane and Merry rode more slowly, each putting her entire trust in the horse on which she was mounted. "We do not need to try to guide them," Merry had said. "Jean told me that the horses climb best without direction. Just pull up on the rein if it should happen to stumble."

Bob's enthusiasm over all he saw was given such constant expression that Jane's silence was not so noticeable. Dan, now and then, glanced back anxiously. He also had noted Jean's apparent devotion to Merry on the two days previous, and he wondered if it had saddened Jane, and yet she had never said that she really cared for Jean.

When they reached a wide rock plateau their guide whirled in his saddle to ask if any of the riders were tired and wished to rest for a while, but they all preferred to keep on. A few moments later they were pa.s.sing through the deserted mining camp. There was not a breath of wind stirring and the only sounds they heard were the humming of insects and now and then a bird song.

The cabins, many of them falling into ruins, looked as though they might be haunted with ghosts of the men who had given their lives trying to find gold. "Say, boy!" Bob drew rein to look about him. "This places gives one the shivers, all right! At any minute I expect to hear a ghost groan or----"

"Hark! What was that?" Merry interrupted. "I _did_ hear a groan! I am positive that I did." They all listened and there was no mistaking the fact that a groaning noise was coming from a cabin that stood near a deep pit beside which was a pile of red and yellow ore.

"What do you suppose it is, since we know there is no such thing as a ghost?" Dan turned toward Meg to inquire. Surely the mountain girl would know.

But it was Jean who replied: "Don't you believe that some wounded animal may have dragged itself into the cabin to die? They always _do_ try to hide away when they are hurt, don't they, Meg?"

The girl nodded, her sweet face serious as she said: "I will ride over and see what it is. A moan like that always means that some creature needs help."

"You must not go alone," Dan told her. "I will ride over there with you."

Meg turned to the others. "Please wait here," she said. "If it is a hurt animal, so many of us would frighten it."

In silence the group waited, watching the two who rode toward the yawning pit. When they were near the place, Meg dismounted and Dan did likewise.

Together they approached the door of the isolated cabin. Dan swung his gun from his shoulder and held it in readiness if harm were to threaten them. Meg glanced at the door, then turning, motioned the lad to put up his gun. Wondering what the girl had seen, the boy hastened to her side.

Meg entered the old cabin and Dan, standing at the door, saw on the rotting floor the twisted form of the old Ute Indian.

His wrinkled, leathery face showed how cruelly he was suffering, but when he saw Meg, who at once knelt at his side, his expression changed to one of eagerness, almost of gladness. He tried to reach out his shriveled arm, but groaned instead.

Dan stepped inside and looked down pityingly. Meg, glancing up with tears in her wonderful eyes, said, "Poor old Ute. He has had another stroke, and this one is his last." They both knew that the old Indian was making a great effort to speak, and the lad bent to whisper, "Perhaps he is trying to tell you something."

"Oh, if he only would! If he only could." Meg was rubbing the poor limp hand that was crusted with dirt in her own. Then, close to his ear, she asked clearly: "Could you tell me about my father?"

Again there was a lightening of the eyes that were beginning to dim.

"Fadder he die--hid box----. Dig, dig, no find box. _You_ find box, then you know----" The old Ute could say no more, for another contortion had seized him and it was the last.

Meg was trembling so that Dan had to a.s.sist her to rise. The others, having been eager to know what had happened, had approached the cabin and dismounted. Jane saw that, for the first time in their acquaintance, the mountain girl was nearly overcome with emotion, and going to her, she slipped an arm about her, saying sincerely, "Meg, dear, what is it? Can we help you?" But almost at once Meg regained at least outward composure.

"It is the old Ute Indian who has died," she told them. "How thankful I am that we came this way, for he has told me about my father. Perhaps I shall know more, but that much is enough."