"Confession?"
"By Jove! he might have done that."
"His late lordship died very suddenly."
But Jim waited for no further details. "So he died without a word. He
died leaving me a fugitive from justice. So they still think me--"
Then quickly the real facts of the case began to straighten themselves
in Jim's mind. If Henry had not spoken--had left no confession--how and
why had Petrie sought him? Then he asked:
"Why have you come here?"
Petrie, who was constantly watching the effect of his every word on the
man who more and more confused and interested him, slowly answered, "I
am here because your cousin, Lady Kerhill--"
"Diana?" Jim softly breathed the name, but said no more.
Petrie continued: "Believes that if you will speak--if you will break
the silence of years, you can return to England and assume your proper
place at the head of your house, and in the world."
So it was to Diana he owed this. "Then there is one who still believes
in me. God bless her!" All restraint fell from Jim as he sat himself
beside the solicitor and said, simply, "I did it for her sake, Petrie."
Then, as though unconscious of the other man's presence, he sat staring
ahead of him.
His surmise had been right, Petrie thought. This man was not guilty.
The case began to assume new interest and new complications. He must
hear more. Jim roused himself. From an inside pocket of his shirt he
drew a small bag which held a sheet of faded paper.
"You are familiar with the late Kerhill's writing. You are also familiar
with his character and life. I have never allowed this paper to leave my
body." As he spoke he handed the paper to Petrie. "But death has
cancelled this agreement."
Petrie read the document. Jim sat motionless. As the sun dropped lower
and lower towards the west, bolts of scarlet and purple seemed to be
hurled from its blazing brilliance down on the cabin and the yard.
Petrie broke the silence.
"So you took upon your shoulders his guilt?" In his tone there was no
great surprise.
"Not for him, Petrie--for her. It was too late for her to find
out--well, what he was." The rebellion against the dead man seemed to
choke him. Then he added, "I did it for her sake, Petrie."
A restlessness took possession of Jim. All the old memories and sorrows
began to lay their withering hands upon him. He crossed to the
hitching-post and leaned against it as he watched with unseeing eyes the
purple-and-red rays tipping the Uinta peaks.
Petrie read the document again, and as he did so he wondered how much of
this Lady Elizabeth had known--how much Diana suspected. He could see
now why she had decided to come with him to America. He thought of her
as he had seen her a few days ago at Fort Duchesne, of her eyes as she
had asked him not to fail in his search, and of her disappointment when
her cousin, Sir John Applegate, who accompanied her, had protested
against her riding out with Petrie on a venture which might take days,
to end only in disappointment.
He went to Jim's side. "Lady Kerhill," he said, "will be more grateful
than you know, for I am here as her ambassador to beg you to come back
home."
Into the face of Jim came a wistful longing, so tender and yet so tragic
that Petrie turned away from this glimpse into a hurt soul. He only
dimly saw the man as he heard Jim's whispered words:
"Home, eh? Go back home! By Jove! what that would mean!" Then, as
though a panorama were passing before him of his life on the ranch, he
went on: "And I've been away all those awful years in this God-forsaken
place." There was a break in the low voice and the echo of a sob as Jim
turned his back on Petrie.
Again the unlovely surroundings, with their evidences of pinched means,
their stamp of neglect through want, impressed the solicitor. Very
quietly he said, "It does look a bit desolate, Mr. Carston."
Jim, now master of himself, turned, and as he looked at the dusty
plains, the sun-baked cabin, the parched, feverish land about him,
cried: "Desolate! It doesn't look much like Maudsley Towers, with its
parks and turrets, and oaks that go back to William the Conqueror, does
it?" Before his eyes there came a picture of the home of his youth, of
the place of his manhood's joy. The word seemed to burn and tear at him
with its possibilities. "Home, eh? I love old England as only an exile
can--"
He forgot the West, with its disappointments, its scars, and its days of
pain, when memories of the past would not be stilled. He came over to
Petrie, and in a burst of almost boyish confidence poured out his inmost
feelings. "I love the English ways of doing things"--laughingly he
looked at Petrie, and added--"even when they're wrong. The little
ceremonies--the respectful servants--the hundred little customs that pad
your comfort and nurse your self-respect. Home, eh?" The word was like
a minor chord that he wished to dwell upon, so lovingly did he repeat
it. "Home, eh? And I love old London. I think I am even prepared to
like the fogs."
Amazed at the change in the man before him, Petrie sat spellbound as Jim
jumped to his feet.
"Do you know what I'll do when I get back? I'll ride a week at a time
on top of the 'buses, up and down the Strand, Piccadilly Circus, Regent
Street, Oxford Street. And the crowds!" Before his excited eyes came
the rush, the very smell of the smoky city with its out-pouring of
humanity. "How I love the crowds--the endless crowds! And, Petrie,
I'll go every night to the music-halls, and what's left of the nights to
the clubs--and, by Jove, I'll come into my own at last!"
Carried away with the enthusiasm that was inspiring Jim, Petrie entered
into the spirit of his joy as he cried, "The king is dead--long live the
king!"
"Into my own at last! And I'm still young enough to enjoy
life--life--_life_!" Into Jim's slender figure, with its arms
out-stretched to the past, which was to be his future, there leaped the
fire of immortal youth. It was his moment of supreme exaltation.
Suddenly from the stable door opposite came a glad cry of "Daddy!
daddy!" as Hal, attracted by the loud voice of Jim, peered from behind
the door. Then the child darted across to his father, who still stood
with his arms out-stretched to his dream, and clasped his knees.
Frightened at the stranger's presence, Hal quickly buried his face
against his father's body.
The ecstasy faded from Jim's eyes as the cry of the child brought him
back from his dreams to the affairs of earth. Slowly and with infinite
tenderness his eyes rested on the bent head of the child. The twilight,
which is short in the Green River country, had slipped away, and the
angry sun disappeared behind the mountains. Petrie noticed the chill in
the air that comes at evening on the plains.
The cry of the child revealed a new phase of the situation. Silently he
watched Jim, whose glance went towards the stable. He saw the figure of
a beautiful Indian girl emerge, carrying a pail of milk. He saw the
shudder that passed over Jim as Nat-u-ritch, unconscious that she was
the central figure in a tragic moment, moved slowly before them to the
cabin opposite. Her master was busy with the white man, so her eyes
were lowered; she did not even call to the child to follow her. Jim's
glance never left her until the door had closed. Then his eyes rested
again tenderly on the little head which nestled against him, and a sigh
broke from his lips. He stooped and drew the little hand in his as he
turned the child towards Malcolm Petrie. The words of his glad dream
seemed still filling the air as Jim said: "Petrie, you've come too late.
That's what would have happened; it can never happen now."
Gently he urged the child forward as he said; "Hal, shake hands with Mr.
Petrie. This is my son, Petrie."
*CHAPTER XXII*
The news was not so very surprising to Malcolm Petrie. In his years of
practice as a solicitor many similar cases had come to his notice. He
had often remonstrated at the folly of sending the younger son of a
great family to these lands, and at the unwisdom of parents who found
the problem of guiding a wayward boy too hard, and so let him go to the
West, to be left to the mercy of its desolation and to the temptation of
such entanglements. But that it would be a new difficulty he foresaw,
and as he took the child's out-stretched hand he remembered the proud
woman waiting at Fort Duchesne. To him, as a man of the world, the
affair was understandable, but to Diana! He began to regret that she
had come. There was no suggestion of these thoughts in his manner as he
kindly said:
"How do you do, my little man?"
"How do you do, Mr. Petrie?" the child answered, and then ran back to
his father's side.
The dark head with its faint trace of the Indian blood was extremely
beautiful, but Malcolm Petrie noticed a much stronger predominance of
the Wynnegate features.
With his hand on the child's head, Jim said, "You see, Petrie, we have
to-day and to-morrow--but never yesterday." In the man's voice was so
much despair that Petrie found it impossible to understand it.
"I don't quite follow you," he said.
Turning in the direction in which the Indian girl had disappeared, Jim
answered, "That was Hal's mother."
"Indeed!" And still Petrie was puzzled at Jim's attitude.
"There isn't any place in England for Nat-u-ritch." Then, as Jim bent
over the boy, he held him close and said, "Kiss me, dear, and now run in
and help your mother." Jim followed the boy to the cabin door.
Malcolm Petrie said, tentatively, "And that Indian squaw--woman, I
mean--is your--"
But Jim stopped the word that he felt Petrie was about to speak.
"My wife," he said. Petrie dropped his glasses and turned sharply to
Jim. "My wife," Jim said again. "You don't suppose I'd let my boy come
into the world branded with illegitimacy, do you?"
To this Petrie gave no answer. Under Jim almost defiant gaze he found
it impossible to argue, but there must be a solution to this problem.
He moved away as he almost lightly said, "An awkward situation, Mr.
Carston--quite an awkward situation," but the words conveyed no idea
that he felt there was a finality about the matter. His lawyer's brain
would unravel the knot. Jim could still have his freedom. Then he
said, "But these matters can be arranged. You will be in a position to
settle an income on her which will make her comfortable for life, and
some good man will eventually marry her."
Jim almost smiled. There was so much of the conventional standard in
Petrie's speech.
"Wait a bit. You don't understand." He motioned Petrie to be seated
again. He hesitated, then determined to tell his story. It might as
well be done now; it would save further discussion.
"I first saw Nat-u-ritch at a bear-dance at the agency. The Indians
reverse our custom, and the women ask the men to dance. Nat-u-ritch
chose me for her partner. We met again at Maverick, where she killed a
desperado to save my life." These words Jim almost whispered to Petrie,
who leaned forward to catch every syllable. "The next time I saw
her--Oh, well, why tell of the months that followed? One day I found
myself lying in her wickyup. I had been at death's door fighting a
fever. Searching for strayed cattle, I had tumbled into Jackson's Hole
and had been abandoned for dead. Nat-u-ritch went in alone, on
snow-shoes, and dragged me back to her village. It was a deed no man,
red or white, would have attempted to do. When I grew well enough she
brought me here to my own ranch, where I had a relapse. Again she
nursed me back to life."
He paused. How should he tell this man of the days of blinding
temptation the loneliness of his life had brought with it? Petrie
waited. Jim moved a little closer to him as he went on:
"When I grew stronger, I tried my best to induce her to leave the ranch,
but she would not go. She loved me with a devotion not to be reasoned
with. I almost tried to ill-treat her. It made no difference." Again
the despair that Petrie had noticed before crept into Jim's voice. "I
was a man--a lonely man--and she loved me. The inevitable happened.
You see, I cannot go back home."
No, this was not the usual case, Malcolm Petrie told himself. Even he
had been impressed by Jim's recital of the story. It was this man's
attitude towards the woman that gave him more cause for anxiety than the
squaw's position in the case, so he said:
"Don't you think you take rather too serious a view of the case? You
can explain the situation to her and she will be open to reason."
But Jim interrupted him. "I wouldn't desert a dog that had been
faithful to me. That wouldn't be English, would it? The man who tries
to sneak out of the consequences of his own folly--"
"Believe me," the lawyer protested, "I would advise nothing unbecoming a
gentleman. But aren't you idealizing Nat-u-ritch a little?"
Jim's answer was not reassuring. "On the contrary, we never do these
primitive races justice. I know the grief of the ordinary woman. It
doesn't prevent her from looking into the mirror to see if her bonnet is
on straight; but Nat-u-ritch would throw herself into the river out
there, and I should be her murderer as much as if I pushed her in."
Then Petrie devised a new scheme to test Jim's resolution.
"Why not take her with you to England?" he asked.
"Impossible!" Jim answered. "We'd both be much happier here. Even here
I am a squaw man--that means socially ostracized." A bitter laugh broke
from him. "You see, we have social distinctions out here."
"How absurd!"
"Social distinctions usually are," and Jim laid his arm on Petrie's. He
was growing tired of the discussion. Petrie felt that Jim wished to
dismiss it, so he determined to play his trump card. This sacrifice of
a splendid fellow was madness. Years from now, Jim would thank him that
he had urged him to abandon this life to which he clung with his
mistaken sense of right.
"I think I am justified in violating my instructions," Petrie began.
"You were not to know that Lady Kerhill accompanied me to this country."
Jim's hands tightened on Petrie. "Diana here?" Furtively he looked
about him, as though fearful of seeing her. "In America?" He waited to
be quickly reassured that there was no danger of her coming to the
ranch.
"I left them at Fort Duchesne--her ladyship and her cousin, Sir John
Applegate. I was to bring you there and give you what was intended to
be an agreeable surprise--but--"
"Thank God you did not bring her here."
Jim moved away, with his hands clinched behind him. Petrie followed as
he urged. "She will be disappointed, deeply disappointed; she is still
a young and beautiful woman."
If there was temptation in the words, Jim did not betray it. Quite
simply he said, "She must be."
"With many admirers, it is only natural that she should marry again."
And Jim answered, fully aware of the torturing methods used by the man
who wished to conquer him, "It is inevitable."
This time Petrie's quiet voice rose in an almost impatient intolerance
as he questioned, "And yet you feel--"
But Jim stopped him. There was agony in his voice. "Petrie, don't
tempt me. I cannot go. My decision is made and nothing on earth can
change it." He walked towards the house as he felt the sudden need of
comfort. He wanted to feel his boy's arms about him; that would be his
solace. At the window he saw Hal, and a nod brought the child to him.
As he watched him, Petrie said, more to himself than to Jim, "The
sentimental man occasions more misery in this world than your downright
brutally selfish one." To Jim he put the direct question, "Your
decision is final?"
"Final."
"Too bad. Too bad. You are condemning yourself to a living death."
"Oh no; I have my boy. Thank God, I have my boy."
And in those words Petrie knew that the child meant more than all the
rest of life to Jim. He knew the type--a type that prevails more
especially among Englishmen, perhaps, in whom the need of fatherhood is
strongly dominant. Almost prophetically the lawyer laid his hand on the
head of the boy, who was standing on the bench playing with his father's
kerchief. "The future Earl of Kerhill."