The Sagebrusher: A Story of the West

by Emerson Hough

  CHAPTER VI

  RICH MAN--POOR MAN

  When spring came above the icy shores of the inland seas, Mary Warrenhad been out of work for more than three months. She was ill; ill ofbody, ill of mind, ill of heart. Her splendid, resilient courage hadat last begun to break. She was facing the thought that she could notcarry her own weight in the world.

  She sat alone once more one evening in the little room which after allthus far she and Annie had been able to retain. Her oculist had takenmuch from her scanty store of money. She held in her hand his lastbill--unpaid; and though she had paid a score of his bills, yet hereyesight now was nearly gone. Her doctor called it "retinal failure";and it had steadily advanced, whatever it was. Now she knew that therewas no hope.

  She greeted the homecoming of her room-mate each nightfall witheagerness. Annie by this time had found harder and worse paid work inanother factory. She came in with her hands scarred and torn, hernails broken and stained. She had grown more reticent of late.

  "Well, how are things coming along, Sis?" said she this evening on herreturn, after she had thrown her wrap across a chair back. "How muchmoney have you got left? You look to me like you was counting it."

  "Not very much, Annie--not very much. The doctor--you see, I can'ttake his time and not pay him."

  "You're too thin-skinned. What are doctors for?"

  "But, Annie, I don't know what to do. I'm scared. That's the truthabout it--I'm scared!"

  Her companion smiled, with her new slow and cynical smile. "Some of usgo to the lake--or to a man--or to men," said she, succinctly. "Lookover the stock of goods that's within your means. Bargains. Odds andEnds."

  "What could I _do_?"

  "Suppose you got married to your gentle and chivalrous rancher outWest. Maybe you'd be able to stand it after a while, even if he dyedhis hair, or had his neck shaved round. Mostly they have falseteeth--before they'll advertise. Probably he's a widower. Object:matrimony; that mostly is a widower's main object in life; and youcan't show 'em nothing except when you bury 'em."

  "I'd die before I'd answer that sort of a thing!" said Mary Warrenhotly.

  "You would," replied Annie. "I know that. I knew it all along.That's why I had to take it into my own hands." Again the cynicalsmile of Annie Squires, twenty-two.

  "Your own hands--what do you mean by that?"

  "I might as well tell you. I've been writing to him in your name!I've sent him a _picture_ of you--I got it in the bureau drawer. Andhe's crazy over you!"

  Mary Warren looked at her with wrath, humiliation and offended dignityshowing in her reddened cheeks.

  "You had the audacity to do that, Annie! How _dared_ you? How _could_you?"

  "Well, I was afraid of the lake for you, and I knew that something hadto be done, and you wouldn't do it. I've got quite a batch of lettersfrom him. He's got three hundred and twenty acres of land, eight cows,a horse and a mule. He has a house which is all right except it lacksthe loving care of a woman! Well, stack that up against this room.And we can't even keep this for very long.

  "Listen, Mary," she said, coming over and putting both her broken handson her friend's shoulders. "God knows, if I could keep us both going Iwould, but I don't make money enough for myself, hardly, let alone you.You don't belong where you've been--you wouldn't, even if you was welland fit, which you ain't. Mollie, Mollie, my dear, what is there aheadfor you? We _got_ to do some thinking. It's up to us right now.You're too good for the lake or the poor farm--or--why, you _belong_ ina home. Keep house? I wish't I knew as much as you do about that."

  "I'll tell you," she resumed suddenly. "I'll tell you what let's do!A stenographer down at our office does all these letters for me--she'sa bear, come to correspondence like that. Now, I'll have her get out aletter from you to him that will sort of bring this thing to a head oneway or the other. We'll say that you can't think of going out there tomarry a man sight-unseen----"

  "No," said Mary Warren. "The lake, first." She was wringing herhands, her cheeks hot.

  "But now, as a housekeeper----" After a long and perturbed silenceAnnie spoke again. "That's the real live idea, Sis! That's the dope!You might _think_ of going out there as a housekeeper, just to see howthings _looked_--just so that you could look things _over_, couldn'tyou? You wouldn't marry any man in a hurry. You could say you'd onlydo your best as a sincere, honest woman--why, I have to tell thatstenographer what to write, all the time. She's sloppy."

  "But _look_ at me, Annie--I wouldn't be worth anything as ahousekeeper." Mary Warren was arguing! "As to marrying that way----"

  --"Letter'll say you're not asking any pay at all. You don't promiseanything. You don't ask _him_ to promise anything. You don't want anywages. You don't let him pay your railroad fare out--not at all! Youain't taking any chances nor asking him to take any chances,--unlessshe falls in love with you for fair. Which I wouldn't wonder if hedid. You're a sweet girl, Mollie. Put fifteen pounds on you, andyou'd be a honey. You are anyway. Men always look at you--it's yourfigure, part, maybe. And you're so good--and you're a _lady_, Sis.And if I----"

  "Tell him," said Mary Warren suddenly, pulling herself together withthe extremest effort of will and in the suddenest and sharpest decisionshe had ever known in all her life, "tell him I'm square! Tell himI'll be honest all the time--all the time!"

  "As though you could be anything else, you poor dear!" said AnnieSquires, coming over and throwing a strong arm about Mary Warren'sneck, as though they both had done nothing but agree about this after adozen conversations. And then she wept, for she knew what MaryWarren's surrender had cost. "And game! Game and square both, yousweet thing," sobbed Annie Squires.

  "Give me fifteen pounds on you," she wept, dabbing at her own eyes,"and I wouldn't risk Charlie near you,--not a minute!"