The Girl from Sunset Ranch Part 28

Then, with the aid of some questioning, Helen heard the whole sad story of Mary Boyle, who was a nurse girl in the family of the older generation of Starkweathers. It was in her arms the last baby of the family had panted his weakly little life out. She, too, had watched by the bed of the lady of the mansion, who had borne these unfortunate children only to see them die.

And Mary Boyle was one of that race who often lose their own ident.i.ty in the families they serve. She had loved the lost babies as though they had been of her own flesh. She had walked the little pa.s.sage at the back of the house (out of which had opened the nursery in those days) so many, many nights with one or the other of her fretful charges, that by and by she thought, at night, that she had them yet to soothe.

Mary Boyle, the weak-minded yet harmless ex-nurse, had been cherished by her old master. And in his will he had left her to the care of Mr.

Cornelius, the heir. In turn she had been left a life interest in the mansion--to the extent of shelter and food and proper clothes--when Willets Starkweather became proprietor.

He could not get rid of the old lady. But, when he refurnished the house and made it over, he had banished Mary Boyle to the attic rooms. The girls were ashamed of her. She sometimes talked loudly if company was about. And always of the children she had once attended. She spoke of them as though they were still in her care, and told how she had walked the hall with one, or the other, of her dead and gone treasures the very night before!

For it was found necessary to allow Mary Boyle to have the freedom of that short corridor on the chamber floor late at night. Otherwise she would not remain secluded in her own rooms at the top of the house during the daytime.

As the lower servants came and went, finally only Mrs. Olstrom and Mr.

Lawdor knew about the old lady, save the family. And Mr. Starkweather impressed it upon the minds of both these employes that he did not wish the old lady discussed below stairs.

So the story had risen that the house was haunted. The legend of the "ghost walk" was established. And Mary Boyle lived out her lonely life, with n.o.body to speak to save the housekeeper, who saw her daily; Mr.

Lawdor, who climbed to her rooms perhaps once each week, and Mr.

Starkweather himself, who saw and reported upon her case to his fellow trustees each month.

It was, to Helen, an unpleasant story. It threw a light on the characters of her uncle and cousins which did not enhance her admiration of them, to say the least. She had found them unkind, purse-proud heretofore; but to her generous soul their treatment of the little old woman, who must be but a small charge upon the estate, seemed far more blameworthy than their treatment of herself.

The story of the old butler made Helen quiver with indignation. It was like keeping the old lady in jail--this shutting her away into the attic of the great house. The Western girl went back to Madison Avenue (she walked, but the old butler rode) with a thought in her mind that she was not quite sure was a wise one. Yet she had n.o.body to discuss her idea with--n.o.body whom she wished to take into her confidence.

There were two lonely and neglected people in that fine mansion. She, herself, was one. The old nurse, Mary Boyle, was the other. And Helen felt a strong desire to see and talk with her fellow-sufferer.

CHAPTER XVII

A DISTINCT SHOCK

That evening when Mr. Starkweather came home, he handed Helen a sealed letter.

"I have ascertained," the gentleman said, in his most pompous way, "that Mr. Fenwick Grimes is in town. He has recently returned from a tour of the West, where he has several mining interests. You will find his address on that envelope. Give the letter to him. It will serve to introduce you."

He watched her closely while he said this, but did not appear to do so.

Helen thanked him with some warmth.

"This is very good of you, Uncle Starkweather--especially when I know you do not approve."

"Ahem! Sleeping dogs are much better left alone. To stir a puddle is only to agitate the mud. This old business would much better be forgotten. You know all that there is to be known about the unfortunate affair, I am quite sure."

"I cannot believe that, Uncle," Helen replied. "Had you seen how my dear father worried about it when he was dying----"

Mr. Starkweather could look at her no longer--not even askance. He shook his head and murmured some commonplace, sympathetic phrase. But it did not seem genuine to his niece.

She knew very well that Mr. Starkweather had no real sympathy for her; nor did he care a particle about her father's death. But she tucked the letter into her pocket and went her way.

As she pa.s.sed through the upstairs corridor Flossie was entering one of the drawing-rooms, and she caught her cousin by the hand. Flossie had been distinctly nicer to Helen--in private--since the latter had helped her with the algebra problems.

"Come on in, Helen. Belle's just pouring tea. Don't you want some?" said the youngest Starkweather girl.

It was in Helen's mind to excuse herself. Yet she was naturally too kindly to refuse to accept an advance like this. And she, like Flossie, had no idea that there was anybody in the drawing-room save Belle and Hortense.

In they marched--and there were three young ladies--friends of Belle--sipping tea and eating macaroons by the log fire, for the evening was drawing in cold.

"Goodness me!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Belle.

"Well, I never!" gasped Hortense. "Have _you_ got to b.u.t.t in, Floss?"

"We want some tea, too," said the younger girl, boldly, angered by her sisters' manner.

"You'd better have it in the nursery," yawned Hortense. "This is no place for kids in the bread-and-b.u.t.ter stage of growth."

"Oh, is that so?" cried Flossie. "Helen and I are not kids--distinctly _not_! I hope I know my way about a bit--and as for Helen," she added, with a wicked grin, knowing that the speech would annoy her sisters, "Helen can shoot, and rope steers, and break ponies to saddle, and all that. She told me so the other evening. Isn't that right, Cousin Helen?"

"Why, your cousin must be quite a wonderful girl," said Miss Van Ramsden, one of the visitors, to Flossie. "Introduce me; won't you, Flossie?"

Belle was furious; and Hortense would have been, too, only she was too languid to feel such an emotion. Flossie proceeded to introduce Helen to the three visitors--all of whom chanced to be young ladies whom Belle was striving her best to cultivate.

And before Flossie and Helen had swallowed their tea, which Belle gave them ungraciously, Gregson announced a bevy of other girls, until quite a dozen gaily dressed and chattering misses were gathered before the fire.

At first Helen had merely bowed to the girls to whom she was introduced.

She had meant to drink her tea quietly and excuse herself. She did not wish now to display a rude manner before Belle's guests; but her oldest cousin seemed determined to rouse animosity in her soul.

"Yes," she said, "Helen is paying us a little visit--a very brief one. She is not at all used to our ways. In fact, Indian squaws and what-do-you call-'ems--Greasers--are about all the people she sees out her way."

"Is that so?" cried Miss Van Ramsden. "It must be a perfectly charming country. Come and sit down by me, Miss Morrell, and tell me about it."

Indeed, at the moment, there was only one vacant chair handy, and that was beside Miss Van Ramsden. So Helen took it and immediately the young lady began to ask questions about Montana and the life Helen had lived there.

Really, the young society woman was not offensive; the questions were kindly meant. But Helen saw that Belle was furious and she began to take a wicked delight in expatiating upon her home and her own outdoor accomplishments.

When she told Miss Van Ramsden how she and her cowboy friends rode after jack-rabbits and roped them--if they could!--and shot antelope from the saddle, and that the boys sometimes attacked a mountain lion with nothing but their lariats, Miss Van Ramsden burst out with:

"Why, that's perfectly grand! What fun you must have! Do hear her, girls!

Why, what we do is tame and insipid beside things that happen out there in Montana every day."

"Oh, don't bother about her, May!" cried Belle. "Come on and let's plan what we'll do Sat.u.r.day if we go to the Na.s.sau links."

"Listen here!" cried Miss Van Ramsden, eagerly. "Golf can wait. We can always golf. But your cousin tells the very bulliest stories. Go on, Miss Morrell. Tell some more."

"Do, do!" begged some of the other girls, drawing their chairs nearer.

Helen was not a little embarra.s.sed. She would have been glad to withdraw from the party. But then she saw the looks exchanged between Belle and Hortense, and they fathered a wicked desire in the Western girl's heart to give her proud cousins just what they were looking for.

She began, almost unconsciously, to stretch her legs out in a mannish style, and drop into the drawl of the range.

"Coyote running is about as good fun as we have," she told Miss Van Ramsden in answer to a question. "Yes, they're cowardly critters; but they can run like a streak o' greased lightning--yes-sir-ree-bob!" Then she began to laugh a little. "I remember once when I was a kid, that I got fooled about coyotes."