Sunday morning Katherine woke in dread. Tomorrow, Donnie would leave
her. The child now realized the truth and his grief had torn her heart.
His eyes followed her in mute appeal.
Breakfast was eaten in silence. Afterward Glendon mounted his horse and
rode from the ranch alone. He spoke not a word to Juan or Katherine, and
Donnie watching furtively, kept out of his father's sight as much as
possible.
Through a window Katherine watched her husband ride away. A look of
determination shone in her eyes when she turned back to the work of
clearing the dining-table. The look grew, while she washed the dishes
and straightened the house. Juan was chopping wood and Donnie sat
quietly on the steps of the front porch, his troubled eyes clouded with
tears that he would not let his mother see.
"Juan," called Katherine suddenly from the kitchen window.
The Mexican let the ax fall from his hand and trotted to her, "Si,
Senora," he smiled.
"I'm going to write a letter. Can I trust you with it?"
She did not need words to assure her of his faithfulness but he
answered, as he made the Sign of the Cross, "On my heart I swear it,
Senora!"
He went back to his wood-chopping, while Katherine seated herself at the
dining-table and began writing. It was a desperate hope. Only the
thought of her boy could have forced her to such a step.
When Katherine Courtney had been left an orphan at the age of ten, the
only legacy had been unblemished reputations of her parents. An aunt of
her mother's had come forward with an offer to educate the girl until
she could support herself. It was distinctly stated that no further
benefits were to be expected, and this was done only to prevent the
possibility of even a remote family connection becoming a public charity
charge, as was possible.
The sum allowed yearly did not tend to affluence or extravagance, and
Katherine had felt the obligation from the very first day, she and "Aunt
Jane Grimes" had an interview. The old lady's grim, aggressive manner
had repressed the lonely child's inclination to fling herself upon the
one human being who took any interest in her. Aunt Jane was wealthy, an
old maid--and proud of it--energetic, economical to the verge of
penuriousness, she recognized three great factors in the universe--her
church, her country's flag and Prohibition.
The one meeting ended all communication between the child and old lady,
until Katherine was graduated with the highest honours, and wrote Aunt
Jane that she was now fitted to make her own way in the world as a
teacher, and would soon begin paying back the heavy obligation of the
years in school.
To her surprise, Aunt Jane invited her to come for a visit to the
old-fashioned homestead in Maine. "I'd like to see what sort of a person
I am responsible for," the old lady wrote. "Your reports from school
regarding marks and deportment are satisfactory; but you can't wear
these placarded on your breast for the rest of your life. So I'd like to
have a look at you."
The inspection proved sufficient for the old lady to unbend and become
almost human. Katherine's gratitude and her sincere desire to avoid
being a burden, won Aunt Jane's silent approbation. After two weeks,
when Katherine spoke again of plans to start earning her own living, the
old lady had turned on her fiercely.
"Do you call that gratitude?" she demanded glaring through her
steel-rimmed glasses. "Leaving me alone in this big house with only Ann,
and she's a fool!"
Ann was the one maid employed, she refused to share her responsibilities
with any other servant. Ann was a family heirloom, but despite her age
she clung tenaciously to life. In fact, it had become a grim
determination on the part of Ann, and likewise on the part of Aunt Jane,
not to die first.
"Ann's just itching to see me buried," averred Aunt Jane, "and every
morning when I go to breakfast she watches to see whether I eat all the
boiled egg, or two full pieces of toast. I'm tired of being shut up
alone with her all winter."
So Katherine remained, and for a wonder, Ann, too, approved.
"Miss Grimes is just waitin' for me to die," Ann grumbled, "but her
Paw's will says I'm to have a home here as long as I live. And I'll be
here long after I hear 'em singing over her coffin. I'm glad you're
going to stay here. The winters are terrible when we're snowed in so
long, just her and me, and she's awful old and crotchetty."
Companion, housekeeper, peacemaker between the two old women; nurse to
each in turn; secretary for Aunt Jane's large business correspondence
and charities, Katherine paid her debt cheerfully for three years, and
nothing broke the monotony of her life.
During the winter months the seaside village hibernated, but in the
summer it woke as a resort for wealthy society people who wished to
avoid what they termed "the rabble." It was only for a short period; and
during that time, Aunt Jane shut her front blinds tightly, and with
Katherine and various old-fashioned trunks containing her feather bed
and own linen, hied to a still more remote farm inland; only returning
when the gay, social whirl was a thing of the past.
But, the third summer, Aunt Jane succumbed to a touch, of gout, and had
not the courage to go away from the old doctor who had attended her
family for two generations. He had presided at the advent of Aunt Jane
into this world of troubles. "I don't mind his seeing my bare foot and
ankle," she announced, "but I'm not going around showing it to any
strange man at my age, even if he is a doctor."
So the trunks and feather mattress were not disturbed, the green blinds
were not fastened, and the wide porch become a place of habitation after
Katherine had installed chairs, a couch, books, and at last a tiny table
which was used in the afternoons for a cup of tea out of the
old-fashioned blue and white china--the pride of Aunt Jane's heart.
Ann's austere face relaxed, and on one memorable occasion, Katherine
found the erstwhile foes, laughing together over long-forgotten jokes.
Then, the unexpected happened. While in a store, a former classmate
recognized Katherine, and insisted on calling. Aunt Jane succumbed to
the wiles of the newcomer, whose sympathy at Katherine's isolation
resulted in various invitations to a "bite of lunch with just me,
alone." Thus it was that Jim Glendon saw her one day, obtained an
introduction and lost no time in his determination to marry her.
Aunt Jane, when the young man called, listened grimly to his family
social assets and financial standing, then she looked him up and down
appraisingly, and announced calmly, "I don't like you. There's your
hat."
Glendon retreated in confusion to report to Katherine and her chum.
Between his insistence and the urging of the girl friend, the affair
terminated in a hasty marriage. When Katherine broke the news to her
aunt, she was informed that Katherine Courtney was dead. "I've never
been acquainted with any one named Katherine Glendon, and I don't care
to meet such a person," was Aunt Jane's ultimatum.
Each month, for several years, Katherine had written her aunt, but none
of the letters had been answered. Then she wrote to Ann, and received
the letter endorsed, DEAD! The writing was that of Aunt Jane, and
Katherine had shed bitter tears; for she now understood that these two
old women had given her their affection, and shown it in the only way
they knew how.
Today she wrote again to Aunt Jane. The letter told without reserve or
palliation, the conditions at the Circle Cross, the plan of Glendon to
rob her of Donnie, and that the law gave men such rights. She reminded
Aunt Jane of their last interview, "You said then, 'When you wish the
shelter of my home from the man you have married, you will be
welcome--but not till then!' I beg sanctuary for my boy and myself. I
will work till the flesh wears from my fingers, if you will try to help
me someway now. I cannot give him up. If you ever loved any one in your
entire life, Aunt Jane, try to remember it now, for my boy is the only
thing that makes me try to live."
The letter was splashed with tears. It was her last hope.
She gave it to Juan; "Take it to the Hot Springs and ask them to please
send it to town by the first person who goes from there." Juan's eyes
looked into hers, "Si, Senora, I understand." He tucked the letter into
his shirt, mounted his waiting pony and loped down the canyon.
He did understand, and what he told Doctor Powell and Limber caused the
cowpuncher to saddle Peanut, take the letter and ride to Willcox at
once. Juan went back to the Circle Cross and reported, "Leember, he was
ready to start to Weelcox, so he took the letter with heem, Senora."
Juan knew that the Priest told him it was a mortal sin to lie; but he
did not count this any lie--Limber had taken the letter to Willcox.
Katherine wondered at herself, planning surreptitiously to oppose her
husband for the first time in the years of their married life; but, when
her eyes went to the boy, she felt she had done right. Aunt Jane, if
favourably disposed, would use all her wits to circumvent Glendon, whom
she hated. If Glendon knew that Aunt Jane was ready to take her part
and the boy's, he probably would not press the matter of sending Donnie
away. Glendon's father had refused further financial aid, or to even
communicate with his son, and Aunt Jane was wealthy. This might
influence Glendon.
In her anxiety to get the letter off, Katherine had omitted mentioning
her complete isolation from all mail facilities. Even, now she forgot
it.
Night fell. Two hours after dark Glendon reached home. The horse from
which he dismounted was worn and weary; the hair was stiff with dried
sweat and lather, its flanks drawn.
Without a word, Glendon ate the belated supper. Donnie watched him with
frightened eyes. Juan hovered in the kitchen on various excuses, until
Glendon went to bed.
Monday morning broke. Breakfast was a silent meal. Katherine's face was
pallid, deep circles of black lay under her eyes, her lips quivered. The
morning passed. Glendon loafed about the ranch all day, coming into the
house at frequent intervals. Each time he did so, his wife started
nervously, and Donnie's breath came more quickly. Glendon scrutinized
them with a malignant smile. He knew they were both suffering with
dread, but was determined he would not relieve their fears. He gloated
at their mental torture.
When a boy, Glendon had revelled in tearing the wings from butterflies,
so that their delicate flight in the sunshine must end in creeping
mutilated upon the ground. Though his wife was not responsible for his
thwarted plans, still he gloried in his power to torture her for his
humiliation by Powell and Limber.
Monday passed, and Tuesday followed. She dared not hope, for she did not
know what hour Glendon might decide to start. She feared to ask any
question that might precipitate the crisis she dreaded. She felt like a
prisoner condemned to death who is kept in ignorance of the day or hour
of his execution, and each passing moment, dies a new death.
Glendon studied the dumb agony in her face. It gave a new zest to his
life. He knew that neither Powell nor Limber would tell her of the paper
he had signed, so long as Donnie was not sent away; but, neither Powell
nor Limber had thought they were giving him a weapon to use upon
her--the torture of uncertainty that drives to madness.
So the days passed into weeks, but not once did Glendon allow her a
glimmer of hope. All the while she waited for an answer to the letter
she had written Aunt Jane. But, at last she gave that up in despair.
For three months the situation remained unchanged. Katherine grew
haggard, her movements listless, and Donnie still watched his father's
goings and comings with frightened eyes and beating heart.
The drouth was telling on Glendon's small herd, but he had more
important things to think about now. His trips to Willcox were frequent;
his periods in town stretched over many days. Katherine might have
wondered, had she not been occupied with her own anxiety--Donnie.
Each time Glendon made preparations to drive to Willcox, she waited the
command that would tear the boy from her. When trip after trip was made
without the ordeal, her heart began to take courage.