Corblay was dead, why in blue blazes didn't you or some other woman in this heartless village go down there and comfort that child? I've asked three of your neighbors already, but they're washin' or dustin' or cookin' or somethin'."

"I was so terrible shocked like when I heard it--"

"Well, if the shock's over, for decency's sake, Mrs. Pennycook, go down to the Hat Ranch and keep that little girl comp'ny till this afternoon."

"Who's talkin'?" demanded Mrs. Pennycook belligerently.

"I am."

"Who are you?"

"n.o.body!"

For several seconds Mrs. Pennycook shot questions into the transmitter, but receiving no response she hung up, furious at having been denied the inalienable right of her s.e.x to the last word. Shortly thereafter her worthy spouse, Dan Pennycook, came in for his lunch. To him Mrs.

Pennycook imparted the tale of the strange man who had rung her up, demanding that she go down to the Hat Ranch and see Donnie Corblay.

Pennycook's stupid good-natured face clouded.

"Then," he demanded, "why don't you do it? I've been workin' with that string of empties below town all mornin', an' if any woman in this charitable community pa.s.sed me goin' to the Hat Ranch I didn't see her.

It's a shame. Put on your other things right after lunch, Arabella, an'

go down. I'll go with you."

"But the gall o' the man, askin' me to do this! I intended goin' anyhow, but him ringin' me up so sudden like, I--"

"My dear," said Mr. Pennycook, "he paid you a compliment."

"Humph" responded Mrs. Pennycook. Then she sniffed. She continued to sniff at intervals during the meal; she was still sniffing when later she joined her husband at the front gate and set off with him down the tracks to the Hat Ranch.

Arrived at the Hat Ranch Mrs. Pennycook saw at once that Donna was "too upset like" to have any of the details of her mother's funeral thrust upon her. Here was a situation which required the supervision of a calm, executive person--Mrs. Daniel Pennycook, for instance. At any rate Mrs. Pennycook decided to take charge. She was first on the scene and naturally the task was hers, not only as a matter of principle but also by right of discovery.

Now, under the combined attentions of Donna, Mrs. Corblay and Soft Wind, the house, while primitive, had, nevertheless, been made comfortable and kept immaculate. But there is a superst.i.tion rampant in all provincial communities which dictates that the first line of action to be pursued when there is a death in the family is to scrub the house thoroughly from cellar to garret, and Mrs. Pennycook had been inoculated with the virus of this superst.i.tion very early in life. She tucked up her skirts, seized a broom and a mop, rounded up Soft Wind and proceeded to produce chaos where neatness and order had always reigned.

It was at this juncture that Donna Corblay first gave evidence of having a mind of her own. She dried her tears and gently but firmly informed Mrs. Pennycook that the house had been thoroughly cleaned and scrubbed three days previous. She begged Mrs. Pennycook to desist. Mrs. Pennycook desisted, for if Donna couched her request in the language of entreaty, her young eyes flashed a stern command, and Mrs. Pennycook was not deficient in the intuition of her s.e.x. So she composed herself in a rocking chair and by blunt brutal questioning presently ascertained that Mrs. Corblay had left her daughter two hundred and twenty-eight dollars and ninety-five cents.

This decided Mrs. Pennycook. She dilated upon the importance of having a clergyman come down from Bakersfield for the funeral, and suggested the services (at the metropolitan rates usually accorded such functionaries) of the local alleged quartette, which regularly made night hideous in San Pasqual's lone barber shop.

"It'll be kinder nice like, don't you think, Donna?" she queried.

Donna nodded dubiously.

"An' what was your poor dear mamma's church?" continued Mrs. Pennycook.

"She didn't have any" Donna answered, truthfully enough.

Again Mrs. Pennycook sniffed. "Well, then, I suppose Mr. Tillingham, of the Universal Church--"

Donna interrupted. "Mamma always knew she would be taken from me without warning, and she often told me not to give her an expensive funeral. I think she would have liked some services but I can't afford them."

"But, dearie, that's so barbarous like!" exclaimed the dismayed Samaritan. "There ought to be some one to say some prayers an' sing a hymn or two."

"Mamma always said she wanted to be buried simply. She thought it was sweet and beautiful to have services, but not essential. She was always skimping and saving for me, Mrs. Pennycook. She said I wasn't to wear mourning; that the--living needed more prayers than--the--dead. She--she said that when she was gone G.o.d would be good to her and that--I--she said I would need all the money we had."

"A-a-h-h-h!" breathed Mrs. Pennycook. She understood now. What a baggage the girl was! How heartless, begrudging her poor dead mother the poor comfort of a Christian burial, because she wanted the money for herself!

Privately Mrs. Pennycook prophesied a bad ending for Donnie Corblay. She winked knowingly at her husband, then with truly feminine sarcasm:

"Well, at _least,_ Donna, you'll _have_ to buy a coffin an' a _grave_ an' have the grave _dug_--"

"Sam Singer will attend to that. I'm going to bury mamma among the flowers at the end of our garden. I'll have a nice plain coffin made in San Pasqual--"

"Oh!" Mrs. Pennycook trembled.

"Mamma always said," Donna continued, "that undertakers preyed on the dead and traded in human grief, and for me not to engage one for her funeral. I'm going to do just what she told me to do, Mrs. Pennycook."

"Quite right, Donnie, quite right" interjected Mr. Pennycook. He was an impulsive creature and even under the hypnotic eye of Mrs. P. he sometimes broke out of bounds.

"Daniel! Come!"

_Daniel!_ At the mention of his Christian name Mr. Pennycook quivered.

He knew he was in for it now, but he didn't care. It occurred to him that he might as well, to quote a homely proverb, "be hanged for a sheep as a lamb." He had visited the Hat Ranch to tender aid and sympathy, and despite the impending visitation of his wife's wrath he resolved to be reckless for once and deliver the goods in bulk.

"Your poor mother was a sensible woman, Donnie girl," he told the orphan, "an' you're a dutiful daughter to follow out her last wishes under these--er--deplorable circ.u.mstances--er--er--I mean it's a terrible hard thing to lose your mother, Donnie, an'--damme, Donnie, I'm sorry. 'Pon my word, I'm sorry."

Mrs. Pennycook's lips moved, and while no sound issued therefrom, yet did Dan Pennycook, out of his many years of marital submission, comprehend the unspoken sentence:

"_Dan Pennycook, you're a fool!_"

"Ya-a-h" growled Mr. Pennycook, thoroughly aroused now and striving to appear belligerent. His wife silenced him with a look; then turned to Donna. She had a duty to perform. She was a great woman for "principle"

and the performance of what she conceived to be her duty. She was a well-meaning but misguided person ordinarily, who loved a fight with her own family on the broad general ground that it denoted firmness of character. Mrs. Pennycook was so long on virtue and character herself that half her life was spent disposing of a portion of these attributes to the less fortunate members of her household.

She entered now upon a calm yet stern discussion of the perfectly impossible proceeding of making a private cemetery out of one's back yard; but Mr. Pennycook had recovered his poise and decided that here was one of those rare occasions when it behooved him to declare himself--by the way, a very rare proceeding with Mr. Pennycook, he being known in San Pasqual as the original Mr. Henpeck.

"Mrs. Pennycook," he thundered, "you will please 'tend to your own business, ma'am. Donnie, my dear, I'm goin' to wire Los Angeles an'

order up a heap o' big red roses on 25--damme, Mrs. Pennycook, what the devil are _you_ lookin' at, ma'am?"

"Nothing" she retorted, although it is a fact that had she been Medusa a singularly life-like replica of Dan Pennycook in concrete might have been produced, upon which the posterity of San Pasqual might gaze and be warned of the dangers attendant upon mating with the Mrs. Pennycooks of this world.

Donna commenced to cry. Mr. Pennycook's sympathy, albeit checked and moderated to a great extent by the presence of his wife, was, nevertheless, the most genuine sample of that rare commodity which she had received up to that moment. His action had been so--brave--so spontaneous--he knew--he understood; Dan Pennycook had a soul. And besides he was going to wire for some red roses--and O, how scarce were red roses in San Pasqual!

"O Mr. Pennycook, dear Mr. Pennycook" she wailed, and sought instant refuge on his honest breast. She placed her arms around his neck and cried, and Mr. Pennycook cried also, until his single Sunday handkerchief was used up--whereat he pleaded dumbly with his wife for her handkerchief--and was refused. So, like some great blubbering boy, he used his fists, while Mrs. Pennycook looked coldly on, working her lower lip and the tip of her nose, rabbit-fashion, for all the world like one who, having antic.i.p.ated a sniff of the spices of Araby, has detected instead a shocking aroma of corned beef and cabbage.

It was a queer tableau, indeed; Donna weeping on Mr. Pennycook's breast, when every instinct of her s.e.x, even the vaguest acceptance of tradition and custom, dictated that she should have wept on Mrs. Pennycook's breast. Mrs. Pennycook realized the incongruity of the situation and was shrewd enough to attribute it to a strong aversion to her on the part of Donna Corblay. She resolved to make them both pay for her humiliation--Dan, within the hour, Donna whenever the opportunity should occur.

CHAPTER IV

When Donna and Mr. Pennycook had succeeded eventually in overcoming their emotions, the worthy yardmaster and his wife took their departure.

Mr. Pennycook was compelled to return to work and something told him that Donna would be happier alone than with Mrs. Pennycook; hence he made no objection to her leaving the Hat Ranch.