Carlota of the rancho

“Patterson! Patterson!! Pat-ter—son!!!”

The cane in the old lady’s hand came down with a thump. It signified: “Attention!”

For a moment or more there was no response to the summons. Then the irate owner of the cane bounced out of her chair and rushed about the room, in a half-frantic manner. She picked up one article only to toss it aside and seize another; but all the time, she tightly clutched the newspaper she held. In her excitement she had once half-folded the paper and had then drawn her thin fingers down its folds as if to make it into a staff or mammoth taper.

Presently, the door opened and a stout woman entered this richly furnished bedchamber, whereupon the old lady rushed toward her and fairly flourished the paper in the newcomer’s face, who was not a whit disturbed by the onslaught and calmly advised:

“There, Mrs. Sinclair, that will do. I wouldn’t go for to put myself in a rage if I was you. You’d far better sit down and take your drops.”

“Patterson, where were you?”

“Eating my tea.”

“You’re always ‘eating your tea.’ I wonder how you manage the feat. It’s one beyond my wit.”

“Yes, ma’am. I dare say it is.”

“Patterson, you are impertinent.”

“Not meanin’ it, ma’am, I’m sure.”

“No. You never do mean anything. That’s the worst of you. If I hadn’t grown so accustomed to you—You know what would happen, I reckon.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’ve often told me,” answered the maid, still undisturbed.

“Well, I generally do mean something. Just now, it’s something which, probably, will astonish even you—if that is possible.”

“Yes, ma’am. I think I could be astonished if I tried.”

“Huh! I doubt it. But—try. It would be such a novel sensation. Why, woman alive, if it weren’t for my sensations I’d be as wooden-y as you are. Patterson, I’m going to Albuquerque.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh! you exasperating creature! But—I’ve just come from there. A few weeks ago, on our way back from California. That’s the name of that curious old town that’s so antique on one side and so horribly new on the other. Yes, I’m going to Al-bu-quer-que. Why don’t you ask me what for?”

“You’ll be sure to tell me, directly, ma’am.”

“Humph! You are impertinent. I have always known it. I consider you so when you don’t get excited.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“No, you’re not. Not a bit sorry. You didn’t get excited even when I told you I’d bought our tickets for a trip around the world. Nothing on the trip excited you. Even when I talked anarchy in Russia and had to keep my tongue so still afterward. You’re not excited now, yet—if I chose—I could say that which would make even your smooth hair stand up and ruffle itself.”

“I dare say so, ma’am.”

“Patterson, am I a happy woman?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

“Haven’t I done a lot of good in my life?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve had bitter sorrows. They’ve made me—disagreeable, eh? Well, listen. Once a man borrowed my money and died without paying it. Because of that debt, which I half-forgot, and their silly notions of honor his family have always been poor. I didn’t know they worried so—until it was too late. Then I let it go on. It was less trouble than the other way. And exertion is good for—other people. Patterson! leave tidying this room and sit down.”

“Yes, ma’am. It often is ‘too late’ in this world.”

“Why—Patterson! I say, leave tidying the room. You’re always at it when you aren’t ‘eating your tea,’ and I’ve something to tell you, Patterson! Sit down! I bid you. I’ve that to tell you that will, that must, wake you up at last.”

“Yes, ma’am,” and something in her mistress’s manner did catch the attention of this faithful old servant, of long service and short speech.

“Good Patterson—Do you remember Mary?”

Then, indeed, did the “worm turn.”

“Remember Mary? How can you ask me that? Wasn’t I her nurse? Wasn’t she the sweetest girl who ever lived? Didn’t I love her like my own soul? Ah! indeed, but I do remember Mary. It was I who dressed her for her wedding, which you’d forbidden. Do I—remember—Mary?”

“There, there. That was fine. Magnificent. I thought there was fire in you somewhere, if a body only had gunpowder enough about her to set it flashing. Well—I, too, remember Mary. Ah! Patterson! how well!”

Only one who knew the erratic Mrs. Sinclair, as Patterson knew her, could have understood that sudden change in her manner which bespoke a broken heart. “Mary.” The never forgotten, the always beloved, the forever mourned. In that love and in that self-reproachful memory, lay the secret of this strange and restless life.

The little old lady, whose face was wizened and wan, dropped into her chair and Patterson went and stood beside her.

“There, ma’am. I wouldn’t. It’s all past and gone. There’s still a heaven where you can meet her, even though, as you said, it’s too late for this world.”

Mrs. Sinclair bobbed her head, then looked up with a gleam in her eye. “It was you who said that, Patterson.”

“Was it, ma’am? I don’t remember that.”

“Listen. When I came home from the Pacific, as usual, I got out at all the stations to rest myself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“At one of them, called Tuttle, which was just a man or two, a water-tank and a house, with a few other folks thrown in—at this wretched spot I saw—two children.”

“So you said, ma’am.”

“Excuse me, I said nothing of the kind. I never mentioned it. Somebody said they were Indian captives, just rescued. When I looked at them something went through my heart like a shot. Those children made me think of Mary. They had eyes like Mary’s. And—Patterson, sit down. You’ll need support now.”

Patterson immediately dropped upon a lounge, but continued to dust little portions of the furniture near, with a silk rag she pulled from her pocket and went nowhere without. But she suddenly ceased her labor and—waked up entirely!

“Hear this Associated Press dispatch. I was right. Those little ‘captives’ I saw are my Mary’s children. It all fits together like a sliced puzzle—when once you start it right. Hark!”

Then in her clear tones, still unimpaired by age, and in an excitement that was now really healthful, Mrs. Sinclair read to her old attendant the same account of the famous “Discovery” which the hospital nurse had read to her convalescing patient.

She read it once at almost breakneck speed, then again, more slowly; and at its conclusion, Patterson stood beside the door leading into the dressing room, impatient to be gone.

“Patterson, where are you? What are you about? Why don’t you—sit down? Where can you be going in such frightful haste? Eh? What did you say?”

“To pack our trunks. I’m going to Albuquerque.”

“Ha! Wide awake at last! You’re right. We are going by the first express, to Mary’s children at Albuquerque!”