THE RENUNCIATION
The early morning sun was streaming in through the window of the sick
man's room when Tresler at last awoke to consciousness. And, curiously
enough, more than half an hour passed before Diane became aware of the
change in her patient.
And yet she was wide awake too. Sleep had never been further from her
eyes, and her mind never more alert. But for the first time since
Tresler had been brought in wounded, his condition was no longer first
in her thoughts. Something occupied her at the moment of his waking to
the exclusion of all else.
The man lay like a log. His eyes were staring up at the ceiling; he
made no movement, and though perfect consciousness had come to him
there was no interest with it, no inquiry. He accepted his position
like an infant waking from its healthy night-long slumber. Truth to
tell, his weakness held him prisoner, sapping all natural inclination
from mind and body. All his awakening brought him was a hazy,
indifferent recollection of a bad dream; that, and a background of the
events at Willow Bluff.
If the man were suffering from a bad dream, the girl's expression
suggested the terrible reality of her thought. There was something
worse than horror in her eyes, in the puckering of her brows, in the
nervous compression of her lips. There was a blending of terror and
bewilderment in the brown depths that contemplated the wall before
her, and every now and then her pretty figure moved with a palpable
shudder. Her thoughts were reviewing feverishly scenes similar to
those in her patient's dream, only with her they were terrible
realities which she had witnessed only a few hours before in that very
room. At that moment she would have given her life to have been able
to call them dreams. Her lover's life had been attempted by the
inhuman process of reopening his wound.
Should she ever forget the dreadful scene? Never! Not once, but time
and again her brain pictured each detail with a distinctness that was
in the nature of physical pain. From the moment she awoke, which had
been unaccountable to her, to find herself still propped against the
foot-rail of her bed, to the finish of the dastardly scene in the
sick-room was a living nightmare. She remembered the start with which
she had opened her eyes. As far as she knew she had heard nothing;
nothing had disturbed her. And yet she found herself sitting bolt
upright, awake, listening, intent. Then her rush to the lamp. Her
guilty feelings. The unconscious stealth of her tiptoeing to the
landing outside. Her horror at the discovery that her obstruction to
the staircase had been removed, and the chairs, as though to mock the
puerility of her scheming, set in orderly fashion, side by side
against the wall to make way for the midnight intruder. The closed
door of the sick-room, which yielded to her touch and revealed the
apparition of her father bending over her lover, and, with no
uncertainty of movement, removing the bandage from the wounded neck.
The terror of it all remained. So long as she lived she could never
forget one single detail of it.
Even now, though hours had passed since these things had happened, the
nervousness with which she had finally approached the task of
readjusting the bandage still possessed her. And even the thankfulness
with which she discovered that the intended injury had been frustrated
was inadequate to bring her more than a passing satisfaction. She
shuddered, and nervously turned to her patient.
Then it was that she became aware of his return to life.
"Jack! Oh, thank God!" she murmured softly.
And the sound of the well-loved voice roused the patient's interest in
the things about him.
"Where am I?" he asked, in a weak whisper, turning his eyes to the
face so anxiously regarding him.
But Diane's troubles had been lifted from her shoulders for the moment
and the nurse was uppermost once more. She signed to him to keep quiet
while she administered the doses Doc. Osler had prepared for him. Then
she answered his question.
"You are in the room adjoining mine," she said quietly.
Her woman's instinct warned her that no more reassuring information
could be given him.
And the result justified it. He smiled faintly, and, in a few moments,
his eyes closed again and he slept.
Then the girl set about her work in earnest. She hurried down-stairs
and communicated the good news to Joe. She went in search of Jake, to
have a man despatched for the doctor. For the time at least all her
troubles were forgotten in her thankfulness at her lover's return to
life. Somehow, as she passed out of the house, the very sunlight
seemed to rejoice with her; the old familiar buildings had something
friendly in their bald, unyielding aspect. Even the hideous corrals
looked less like the prisons they were, and the branding forges less
cruel. But greatest wonder of all was the attitude of Jake when she
put her request before him. The giant smiled upon her and granted it
without demur. And, in her gladness, the simple child smiled back her
heartfelt thanks. But her smile was short-lived, and her thanks were
premature.
"I'm pretty nigh glad that feller's mendin'," Jake said. "Say, he's a
man, that feller." He turned his eyes away and avoided her smiling
gaze, and continued in a tone he tried to make regretful. "Guess I was
gettin' to feel mean about him. We haven't hit it exac'ly. I allow
it's mostly temper between us. Howsum, I guess it can't be helped
now--now he's goin'."
"Going?" the girl inquired. But she knew he would be going, only she
wondered what Jake meant.
"Sure," the foreman said, with a sudden return to his usual manner.
"Say, your father's up against him good and hot. I've seen Julian
Marbolt mad--madder'n hell; but I ain't never seen him jest as mad as
he is against your beau. When Tresler gits right he's got to
quit--quick. I've been wonderin' what's fixed your father like that.
Guess you ain't been crazy enough to tell him that Tresler's been
sparkin' you?"
The girl's smile died out, and her pretty eyes assumed a look of stony
contempt as she answered with spirit. And Jake listened to her reply
with a smile on his bold face that in no wise concealed his desire to
hurt her.
"Whatever happens Mr. Tresler doesn't leave our house until Doc. Osler
gives the word. Perhaps it will do you good to further understand that
the doctor will not give that word until I choose."
"You're a silly wench!" Jake exclaimed angrily. Then he became
scornful. "I don't care that much for Tresler, now." Nevertheless he
gave a vicious snap with his fingers as he flicked them in the air. "I
wish him well enough. I have reason to. Let him stay as long as you
can keep him. Yes, go right ahead an' dose him, an' physic him; an'
when he's well he's goin', sure. An' when he's out of the way maybe
you'll see the advantage o' marryin' me. How's that, heh? There,
there," he went on tauntingly, as he saw the flushing face before him,
and the angry eyes, "don't get huffed, though I don't know but what
you're a daisy-lookin' wench when you're huffed. Get right ahead,
milady, an' fix the boy up. Guess it's all you'll ever do for him."
Diane had fled before the last words came. She had to, or she would
have struck the man. She knew, only too well, how right he was about
Tresler; but this cruelty was unbearable, and she went back to the
sick-room utterly bereft of the last shadow of the happiness she had
left it with.
The doctor came, and brought with him a measure of comfort. He told
her there was nothing to be considered now but the patient's weakness,
and the cleansing of the wound. In his abrupt manner he suggested a
diet, and ordered certain physic, and finally departed, telling her
that as her room adjoined her patient's there would be no further need
of sitting up at night.
And so three weeks passed; three weeks of rapid convalescence for
Tresler, if they were spent very much otherwise by many of the
settlers in the district. Truth to tell, it was the stormiest time
that the country had ever known. The check the night-riders had
received at Willow Bluff had apparently sent them crazy for revenge,
which they proceeded to take in a wholly characteristic manner.
Hitherto their depredations had been comparatively far apart,
considerable intervals elapsing between them, but now four raids
occurred one after the other. The police were utterly defied; cattle
were driven off, and their defenders shot down without mercy. These
monsters worked their will whithersoever they chose. The sheriff
brought reinforcements up, but with no other effect than to rouse the
discontent of the ranchers at their utter failure. It seemed as though
the acts of these rustlers was a direct challenge to all authority. A
reign of terror set in, and settlers, who had been in the country for
years, declared their intention of getting out, and seeking a place
where, if they had to pay more for their land, they would at least
find protection for life and property.
Such was the position when Tresler found himself allowed to move about
his room, and sit in a comfortable armchair in the delightful sunlight
at his open window. Nor was he kept in ignorance of the doings of the
raiders. Diane and he discussed them ardently. But she was careful to
keep him in ignorance of everything concerning herself and her father.
He knew nothing of the latter's objection to his presence in the
house, and he knew nothing of the blind man's threats, or that fearful
attack he had perpetrated in one of his fits of mad passion.
These days, so delightful to them both, so brimful of happiness for
him, so fraught with such a blending of pain and sweetness for her,
had stolen along almost uncounted, unheeded. But like all such
overshadowed delights, their end came swiftly, ruthlessly.
The signal was given at the midday meal. The rancher, who had never
mentioned Tresler's name since that memorable night, rose from the
table to retire to his room. At the door he paused and turned.
"That man, Tresler," he said, in his smooth, even tones. "He's well
enough to go to the bunkhouse. See to it."
And he left the girl crushed and helpless. It had come at last. She
knew that she could keep her lover no longer at her side. Even Doc.
Osler could not help her, and, besides, if she refused to obey, her
father would not have the slightest compunction in attending to the
matter in his own way.
So it was with a heavy heart she took herself up-stairs for the
afternoon. This _tete-a-tete_ had become their custom every day; she
with her sewing, and the sick man luxuriating in a pipe. Tresler was
still bandaged, but it was only lightly, for the wound was almost
healed.
The girl took up her position as usual, and Tresler moved his chair
over beside the little table she laid her work on, and sat facing her.
He loved to gaze upon the sad little face. He loved to say things to
her that would rouse it from its serious caste, and show him the
shadows dispelled, and the pretty smile wreathing itself in their
stead. And he had found it so easy too. The simplicity, the honesty,
the single-mindedness of this prairie flower made her more than
susceptible to girlish happiness, even amidst her troublous
surroundings. But he knew that these moments were all too passing,
that to make them enduring he must somehow contrive to get her away
from that world of brutality to a place where she could bask,
surrounded by love and the sunshine of a happy home. And during the
days of his convalescence he planned and plotted for the consummation
of his hopes.
But he found her more difficult to-day. The eyes were a shade more
sad, and the smile would not come to banish the shadows. The sweet
mouth, too, always drooping slightly at the corners, seemed to droop
more than usual to-day. He tried, in vain, every topic that he thought
would interest her, but at last himself began to experience the
depression that seemed to weigh so desperately on her. And strangely
enough this dispiriting influence conjured up in his mind a morbid
memory, that until then had utterly escaped him. It was the dream he
had the night before his awakening. And almost unconsciously he spoke
of it.
"You remember the day I woke to find myself here, Danny?" he said. "It
just occurs to me now that I wasn't unconscious all the time before. I
distinctly remember dreaming. Perhaps I was only asleep."
The girl shook her head.
"You were more than asleep," she said portentously.
"Anyhow, I distinctly remember a dream I had. I should say it was
'nightmare.' It was about your father. He'd got me by the throat,
and--what's the matter?"
Diane started, and, to Tresler's alarm, looked like fainting; but she
recovered at once.
"Nothing," she said, "only--only I can't bear to think of that time,
and then--then--father strangling you! Don't think of your dream.
Let's talk of something else."
Tresler's alarm abated at once; he laughed softly and leant forward
and kissed her.
"Our future--our little home. Eh, dearest?" he suggested tenderly.
She returned his embrace and made a pitiful attempt to smile back into
the eyes which looked so eagerly into hers. And now, for the first
time, her lover began to understand that there really was something
amiss with her. It was that look, so wistful, so appealing, that
roused his apprehension. He pressed her to tell him her trouble,
until, for sheer misery, she could keep it from him no longer.
"It's nothing," she faltered, with trembling lips.
Watching her face with a lover's jealousy he kept silence, for he knew
that her first words were only her woman's preliminary to something
she considered serious.
"Jack," she said presently, settling all her attention upon her work,
"you've never asked me anything about myself. Isn't that unusual?
Perhaps you are not interested, or perhaps"--her head bent lower over
her work--"you, with your generous heart, are ready to take me on
trust. However," she went on, before he could interrupt her, "I intend
to tell you what you refuse to ask. No," as he leant forward and
kissed her again, "now sit up and light your pipe. There are to be no
interruptions like that."
She smiled wistfully and gently pushed him back into his chair.
"Now," she began, as he settled himself to listen, "I must go back
such a long, long way. Before I was born. Father was a sea captain
then. First the captain of a whaler, afterward he bought a ship of his
own and traded round the East Indies. He often used to talk of those
days, not because he had any desire to tell me of them, but it seemed
to relieve him when he was in a bad temper. I don't know what his
trade was, but I think it was of an exciting nature. He often spoke of
the risks, which, he said, were amply compensated by the money he
made." Tresler smiled gravely. "And father must have made a lot of
money at that time, for he married mother, bought himself a fine house
and lands just outside Kingston, in Jamaica, and, I believe, he kept a
whole army of black servants. Yes, and he has told me, not once, but
a hundred times, that he dates all his misfortunes from the day he
married my mother, which always seems unfair to her anyway. Somehow I
can never think of father as ever having been a kind man, and I've no
doubt that poor mother had anything but an easy time of it with him.
However, it is not for me to criticize." She paused, but went on
almost immediately. "Let me see, it was directly after the honeymoon
that he went away on his last trading trip. He was to call at Java.
Jake was his mate, you know, and they were expecting to return in six
months' time with a rich harvest of what he calls 'Black Ivory.' I
think it was some native manufacture, because he had to call at the
native villages. He told me so. But the trip was abandoned after three
weeks at sea. Father was stricken down with yellow fever. And from
that day to this he has never seen the light of day."
The girl pushed her work aside and went on drearily.
"When he recovered from the fever he was brought home, as he said
himself, 'a blind hulk.' Mother nursed him back to health and
strength, but she could not restore his sight. I am telling you these
things just as I have gleaned them from him at such moments as he
chose to be communicative. I imagine, too, from the little things he
sometimes let fall when he was angry, that all this time he lived in a
state of impotent fury against all the world, against God, but
particularly against the one person to whom he should have been most
grateful--mother. All his friends deserted him in consequence of his
bitter temper--all, that is, except Jake. At last in desperation, he
conceived the idea of going to Europe. At first mother was going with
him, but though he was well able to afford the additional expense he
begrudged it, and, changing his mind, decided to go alone. He sold his
ship, settled his affairs, and went off, and for three years he
traveled round Europe, visiting every eye-doctor of note in all the
big capitals. But it was all no good, and he returned even more soured
than he went away. It was during his absence that I was born."
Again Diane paused. This time it was some moments before she
proceeded.
"To add to his troubles," she at last resumed, in a low tone, "mother
was seriously ill when he got back, and, the day of his return, died
in his presence. After that, whatever his disposition was before, it
seems to have become a thousand times worse. And when he is angry now
he takes a painful delight in discussing the hatred and abhorrence all
the people of Kingston held him in, and the hatred and abhorrence he
returns to mankind in general. By his own accounts he must have been
terrible. However, this has nothing to do with our history.
Personally, I remember nothing but this ranch, but I understand that
he tried to resume his old trade in the Indies. For some reason this
failed him; trouble occurred, and he gave it up for good, and came out
to this country and settled here. Again, to quote his words, 'away
from men and things that drove him distracted.' That," she finished
up, "is a brief sketch of our history."
"And just such a story as I should imagine your father had behind him.
A most unhappy one," Tresler observed quietly. But he was marveling at
the innocence of this child who failed to realize the meaning of
"black ivory."
For a little while there was a silence between them, and both sat
staring out of the window. At last Diane turned, and when she spoke
again there was an ominous quivering of the lips.
"Jack," she said, "I have not told you this without a purpose."
"No, I gathered that, dear," he returned. "And this profound purpose?"
he questioned, smiling.
Her answer was a long time in coming. What she had to do was so hard.
"Father doesn't like you," she said at last in desperation.
Tresler put his pipe aside.
"It doesn't seem to me he likes anybody very much, unless it's Jake.
And I wouldn't bet a pile on the affection between them."
"He likes Jake better than anybody else. At least he trusts him."
"Which is a fair equivalent in his case. But what makes you think he
dislikes me more than most people?"
"You remember that night in the kitchen, when you asked me to----"
"Marry? Yes. Could I ever forget it?"
Tresler had taken possession of one of the small hands lying in the
girl's lap, but she gently withdrew it.
"I was weeping, and--and you saw the bruises on my arms. Father
disapproved of my talking to you----"
"Ah! I understand." And he added, under his breath, "The brute!"
"He says I must give you up."
Tresler was looking straight before him at the window. Now he turned
slowly and faced her. His expression conveyed nothing.
"And you?"
"Oh, it is so hard!" Diane burst out, in distress. "And you make it
harder. Yes," she went on miserably, "I have to give you up. I must
not marry you--dare not----"
"Dare not?"
The question came without the movement of a muscle.
"Yes, he says so. Oh, don't you see? He is blind, and I--I am his
only--oh, what am I saying?"
Tresler shook his head.
"I'm afraid you are saying a lot of--nonsense, little woman. And what
is more, it is a lot of nonsense I am not going to take seriously. Do
I understand that you are going to throw me over simply because he
tells you to?"
"Not only because of that."
"Who told him about us?"
"I don't know."
"Never mind. Perhaps I can guess. You have grown tired of me already?"
"You know I haven't, Jack."
Diane put out a hand and gently laid it on one of his. But his
remained unresponsive. This sudden awakening from his dream of love
had more than startled him. It had left him feeling resentful against
somebody or something; at present he was not sure who or what. But he
meant to have it out, cost what it might.
"That's all right, then," he said. "Now, tell me this other reason."
Suddenly he leant forward and looked down into her eyes. His hands,
now thin and delicate, held hers tightly in a passionate clasp, and
his face was alight with the truth and sincerity of his love.
"Remember," he said, "this is no child's play, Danny. I am not the man
to give you up easily. I am weak, I know; but I've still got a fight
in me, and so long as I am assured of your love, I swear nothing shall
part us. I love you as I have never loved anybody in my life--and I
just want only you. Now tell me this other reason, dear."
But Diane still hesitated. Her evident distress wrung her lover's
heart. He realized now that there was something very serious behind it
all. He had never beheld anything so pitiful as the look with which
she turned toward him, and further tried to put him off.
"Father says you are to leave this house to-day. Afterward you will be
turned off the ranch. It is only through the sheriff backing the
doctor's orders that you were not turned out of here before."
Tresler made no response for a moment. Then he burst out into a hard,
mirthless laugh.
"So!" he exclaimed, his laugh dying abruptly. "Listen to me. Your
father can turn me out of this house--though I'll save him that
trouble--but he can't turn me off this ranch. My residence here is
bought and paid for for three years. The agreement is signed and
sealed. No, no, let him try another bluff." Then his manner changed to
one of gentle persuasion. "But you have not come to the real reason,
little one. Out with it. It is a bitter plum, I can tell. Something
which makes you dread not only its consequences, but--something else.
Tell it me, Danny. Whatever it is you may be sure of me. My love for
you is unalterable. Believe me, nothing shall come between us."
His voice was infinitely tender, and its effect on Diane was to set
two great tears rolling down her cheeks as she listened. He had driven
her to a corner, and there was no escape. But even so she made one
more effort to avoid her shameful disclosure.
"Will--will you not take me at my word, Jack?" she asked imploringly.
"Not in this, dearest," he replied.
He spoke inexorably, but with such a world of love in his voice that
the long-pent tears came with a rush. He let her weep. He felt it
would do her good. And, after a while, when her sobs had ceased, he
urged her again.
"Tell me," he whispered.
"I----"
The man waited with wonderful patience.
"Oh, don't--don't make me!" she cried.
"Yes, I must."
And at last her answer came in the faintest of whispers.
"I--I--father is--is only my legal father. He was away three years. I
was born three days before he returned."
"Well, well." Tresler sat quite still for a moment while the simple
girl sat cowering under the weight of her mother's shame. Then he
suddenly reached out and caught her in his arms. "Why, Danny," he
cried, pressing her to him, "I never felt so happy over anything in my
life as the fact that Julian Marbolt is not your father."
"But the shame of it!" cried the girl, imagining that her lover had
not fully understood.
"Shame? Shame?" he cried, holding her still tighter in his arms.
"Never let me hear that word on your lips again. You are the truest,
sweetest, simplest child in the world. You are mine, Danny. My very
own. And I tell you right here that I've won you and will hold you to
my last dying day."
Now she was kneeling beside him with her face pillowed on his breast,
sobbing in the joy of her relief and happiness. And Tresler kissed her
softly, pressing his cheek many times against the silky curls that
wreathed about her head. Then, after a while, he sat looking out of
the window with a hard, unyielding stare. Weak as he was, he was ready
to do battle with all his might for this child nestling so trustfully
in his arms.