DANNIE'S RENUNCIATION
So they stretched Jimmy's length on Five Mile Hill beside the three
babies that had lacked the "vital spark." Mary went to the Dolans for
the winter and Dannie was left, sole occupant of Rainbow Bottom.
Because so much fruit and food that would freeze were stored there, he
was even asked to live in Jimmy's cabin.
Dannie began the winter stolidly. All day long and as far as he could
find anything to do in the night, he worked. He mended everything about
both farms, rebuilt all the fences and as a never-failing resource, he
cut wood. He cut so much that he began to realize that it would get too
dry and the burning of it would become extravagant, so he stopped that
and began making some changes he had long contemplated. During fur time
he set his line of traps on his side of the river and on the other he
religiously set Jimmy's.
But he divided the proceeds from the skins exactly in half, no matter
whose traps caught them, and with Jimmy's share of the money he started
a bank account for Mary. As he could not use all of them he sold
Jimmy's horses, cattle and pigs. With half the stock gone he needed
only half the hay and grain stored for feeding. He disposed of the
chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese that Mary wanted sold, and placed
the money to her credit. He sent her a beautiful little red bank book
and an explanation of all these transactions by Dolan. Mary threw the
book across the room because she wanted Dannie to keep her money
himself, and then cried herself to sleep that night, because Dannie had
sent the book instead of bringing it. But when she fully understood the
transactions and realized that if she chose she could spend several
hundred dollars, she grew very proud of that book.
About the empty cabins and the barns, working on the farms, wading the
mud and water of the river bank, or tingling with cold on the ice went
two Dannies. The one a dull, listless man, mechanically forcing a
tired, overworked body to action, and the other a self-accused murderer.
"I am responsible for the whole thing," he told himself many times a
day. "I always humored Jimmy. I always took the muddy side of the road,
and the big end of the log, and the hard part of the work, and filled
his traps wi' rats from my own; why in God's name did I let the Deil o'
stubbornness in me drive him to his death, noo? Why didna I let him
have the Black Bass? Why didna I make him come home and put on dry
clothes? I killed him, juist as sure as if I'd taken an ax and broken
his heid."
Through every minute of the exposure of winter outdoors and the torment
of it inside, Dannie tortured himself. Of Mary he seldom thought at
all. She was safe with her sister, and although Dannie did not know
when or how it happened, he awoke one day to the realization that he
had renounced her. He had killed Jimmy; he could not take his wife and
his farm. And Dannie was so numb with long-suffering, that he did not
much care. There come times when troubles pile so deep that the edge of
human feeling is dulled.
He would take care of Mary, yes, she was as much Jimmy's as his farm,
but he did not want her for himself now. If he had to kill his only
friend, he would not complete his downfall by trying to win his wife.
So through that winter Mary got very little consideration in the
remorseful soul of Dannie, and Jimmy grew, as the dead grow, by leaps
and bounds, until by spring Dannie had him well-nigh canonized.
When winter broke, Dannie had his future well mapped out. And that
future was devotion to Jimmy's memory, with no more of Mary in it than
was possible to keep out. He told himself that he was glad she was away
and he did not care to have her return. Deep in his soul he harbored
the feeling that he had killed Jimmy to make himself look victor in her
eyes in such a small matter as taking a fish. And deeper yet a feeling
that, everything considered, still she might mourn Jimmy more than she
did.
So Dannie definitely settled that he always would live alone on the
farms. Mary should remain with her sister, and at his death, everything
should be hers. The night he finally reached that decision, the
Kingfisher came home. Dannie heard his rattle of exultation as he
struck the embankment and the suffering man turned his face to the wall
and sobbed aloud, so that for a little time he stifled Jimmy's dying
gasps that in wakeful night hours sounded in his ears. Early the next
morning he drove through the village on his way to the county seat,
with a load of grain. Dolan saw him and running home he told Mary. "He
will be gone all day. Now is your chance!" he said.
Mary sprang to her feet, "Hurry!" she panted, "hurry!"
An hour later a loaded wagon, a man and three women drew up before the
cabins in Rainbow Bottom. Mary, her sister, Dolan, and a scrub woman
entered. Mary pointed out the objects which she wished removed, and
Dolan carried them out. They took up the carpets, swept down the walls,
and washed the windows. They hung pictures, prints, and lithographs,
and curtained the windows in dainty white. They covered the floors with
bright carpets, and placed new ornaments on the mantle, and comfortable
furniture in the rooms. There was a white iron bed, and several rocking
chairs, and a shelf across the window filled with potted hyacinths in
bloom. Among them stood a glass bowl, containing three wonderful little
gold fish, and from the top casing hung a brass cage, from which a
green linnet sang an exultant song.
You should have seen Mary Malone! When everything was finished, she was
changed the most of all. She was so sure of Dannie, that while the
winter had brought annoyance that he did not come, it really had been
one long, glorious rest. She laughed and sang, and grew younger with
every passing day. As youth surged back, with it returned roundness of
form, freshness of face, and that bred the desire to be daintily
dressed. So of pretty light fabrics she made many summer dresses, for
wear mourning she would not.
When calmness returned to Mary, she had told the Dolans the whole
story. "Now do you ixpict me to grieve for the man?" she asked.
"Fiftane years with him, through his lying tongue, whin by ivery right
of our souls and our bodies, Dannie Micnoun and I belanged to each
other. Mourn for him! I'm glad he's dead! Glad! Glad! If he had not
died, I should have killed him, if Dannie did not! It was a happy thing
that he died. His death saved me mortal sin. I'm glad, I tell you, and
I do not forgive him, and I niver will, and I hope he will burn----"
Katy Dolan clapped her hand over Mary's mouth. "For the love of marcy,
don't say that!" she cried. "You will have to confiss it, and you'd be
ashamed to face the praste."
"I would not," cried Mary. "Father Michael knows I'm just an ordinary
woman, he don't ixpict me to be an angel." But she left the sentence
unfinished.
After Mary's cabin was arranged to her satisfaction, they attacked
Dannie's; emptying it, cleaning it completely, and refurnishing it from
the best of the things that had been in both. Then Mary added some new
touches. A comfortable big chair was placed by his fire, new books on
his mantle, a flower in his window, and new covers on his bed. While
the women worked, Dolan raked the yards, and freshened matters outside
as best he could. When everything they had planned to do was
accomplished, the wagon, loaded with the ugly old things Mary despised,
drove back to the village, and she, with little Tilly Dolan for
company, remained.
Mary was tense with excitement. All the woman in her had yearned for
these few pretty things she wanted for her home throughout the years
that she had been compelled to live in crude, ugly surroundings;
because every cent above plainest clothing and food, went for drink for
Jimmy, and treats for his friends. Now she danced and sang, and flew
about trying a chair here, and another there, to get the best effect.
Every little while she slipped into her bedroom, stood before a real
dresser, and pulled out its trays to make sure that her fresh, light
dresses were really there. She shook out the dainty curtains
repeatedly, watered the flowers, and fed the fish when they did not
need it. She babbled incessantly to the green linnet, which with
swollen throat rejoiced with her, and occasionally she looked in the
mirror.
She lighted the fire, and put food to cook. She covered a new table,
with a new cloth, and set it with new dishes, and placed a jar of her
flowers in the center. What a supper she did cook! When she had waited
until she was near crazed with nervousness, she heard the wagon coming
up the lane. Peeping from the window, she saw Dannie stop the horses
short, and sit staring at the cabins, and she realized that smoke would
be curling from the chimney, and the flowers and curtains would change
the shining windows outside. She trembled with excitement, and than a
great yearning seized her, as he slowly drove closer, for his brown
hair was almost white, and the lines on his face seemed indelibly
stamped. And then hot anger shook her. Fifteen years of her life
wrecked, and look at Dannie! That was Jimmy Malone's work.
Over and over, throughout the winter, she had planned this home-coming
as a surprise to Dannie. Book-fine were the things she intended to say
to him. When he opened the door, and stared at her and about the
altered room, she swiftly went to him, and took the bundles he carried
from his arms.
"Hurry up, and unhitch, Dannie," she said. "Your supper is waiting."
And Dannie turned and stolidly walked back to his team, without
uttering a word.
"Uncle Dannie!" cried a child's voice. "Please let me ride to the barn
with you!"
A winsome little maid came rushing to Dannie, threw her arms about his
neck, and hugged him tight, as he stooped to lift her. Her yellow curls
were against his cheek, and her breath was flower-sweet in his face.
"Why didn't you kiss Aunt Mary?" she demanded. "Daddy Dolan always
kisses mammy when he comes from all day gone. Aunt Mary's worked so
hard to please you. And Daddie worked, and mammy worked, and another
woman. You are pleased, ain't you, Uncle Dannie?"
"Who told ye to call me Uncle?" asked Dannie, with unsteady lips.
"She did!" announced the little woman, flourishing the whip in the
direction of the cabin. Dannie climbed down to unhitch. "You are goin'
to be my Uncle, ain't you, as soon as it's a little over a year, so
folks won't talk?"
"Who told ye that?" panted Dannie, hiding behind a horse.
"Nobody told me! Mammy just SAID it to Daddy, and I heard," answered
the little maid. "And I'm glad of it, and so are all of us glad. Mammy
said she'd just love to come here now, whin things would be like white
folks. Mammy said Aunt Mary had suffered a lot more'n her share. Say,
you won't make her suffer any more, will you?"
"No," moaned Dannie, and staggered into the barn with the horses. He
leaned against a stall, and shut his eyes. He could see the bright
room, plainer than ever, and that little singing bird sounded loud as
any thunder in his ears. And whether closed or open, he could see Mary,
never in all her life so beautiful, never so sweet; flesh and blood
Mary, in a dainty dress, with the shining, unafraid eyes of girlhood.
It was that thing which struck Dannie first, and hit him hardest. Mary
was a careless girl again. When before had he seen her with neither
trouble, anxiety or, worse yet, FEAR, in her beautiful eyes?
And she had come to stay. She would not have refurnished her cabin
otherwise. Dannie took hold of the manger with both hands, because his
sinking knees needed bracing.
"Dannie," called Mary's voice in the doorway, "has my spickled hin
showed any signs of setting yet?"
"She's been over twa weeks," answered Dannie. "She's in that barrel
there in the corner."
Mary entered the barn, removed the prop, lowered the board, and
kneeling, stroked the hen, and talked softly to her. She slipped a hand
under the hen, and lifted her to see the eggs. Dannie staring at Mary
noted closer the fresh, cleared skin, the glossy hair, the delicately
colored cheeks, and the plumpness of the bare arms. One little wisp of
curl lay against the curve of her neck, just where it showed rose-pink,
and looked honey sweet. And in one great surge, the repressed stream of
passion in the strong man broke, and Dannie swayed against his horse.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he caught at the harness
to steady himself, while he strove to grow accustomed to the fact that
Hell had opened in a new form for him. The old heart hunger for Mary
Malone was back in stronger force than ever before; and because of him
Jimmy lay stretched on Five Mile Hill.
"Dannie, you are just fine!" said Mary. "I've been almost wild to get
home, because I thought iverything would be ruined, and instid of that
it's all ixactly the way I do it. Do hurry, and get riddy for supper.
Oh, it's so good to be home again! I want to make garden, and fix my
flowers, and get some little chickens and turkeys into my fingers."
"I have to go home, and wash, and spruce up a bit, for ladies," said
Dannie, leaving the barn.
Mary made no reply, and it came to him that she expected it. "Damned if
I will!" he said, as he started home. "If she wants to come here, and
force herself on me, she can, but she canna mak' me."
Just then Dannie stepped in his door, and slowly gazed about him. In a
way his home was as completely transformed as hers. He washed his face
and hands, and started for a better coat. His sleeping room shone with
clean windows, curtained in snowy white. A freshly ironed suit of
underclothing and a shirt lay on his bed. Dannie stared at them.
"She think's I'll tog up in them, and come courtin'" he growled. "I'll
show her if I do! I winna touch them!"
To prove that he would not, Dannie caught them up in a wad, and threw
them into a corner. That showed a clean sheet, fresh pillow, and new
covers, invitingly spread back. Dannie turned as white as the pillow at
which he stared.
"That's a damn plain insinuation that I'm to get into ye," he said to
the bed, "and go on living here. I dinna know as that child's jabber
counts. For all I know, Mary may already have picked out some town dude
to bring here and farm out on me, and they'll live with the bird cage,
and I can go on climbin' into ye alone."
Here was a new thought. Mary might mean only kindness to him again, as
she had sent word by Jimmy she meant years ago. He might lose her for
the second time. And again a wave of desire struck Dannie, and left him
staggering.
"Ain't you comin', Uncle Dannie?" called the child's voice at the back
door.
"What's your name, little lass?" inquired Dannie.
"Tilly," answered the little girl promptly.
"Well, Tilly, ye go tell your Aunt Mary I have been in an eelevator
handlin' grain, and I'm covered wi' fine dust and chaff that sticks me.
I canna come until I've had a bath, and put on clean clothing. Tell her
to go ahead."
The child vanished. In a second she was back. "She said she won't do
it, and take all the time you want. But I wish you'd hurry, for she
won't let me either."
Dannie hurried. But the hasty bath and the fresh clothing felt so good
he was in a softened mood when he approached Mary's door again. Tilly
was waiting on the step, and ran to meet him. Tilly was a dream.
Almost, Dannie understood why Mary had brought her. Tilly led him to
the table, and pulled back a chair for him, and he lifted her into
hers, and as Mary set dish after dish of food on the table, Tilly
filled in every pause that threatened to grow awkward with her chatter.
Dannie had been a very lonely man, and he did love Mary's cooking.
Until then he had not realized how sore a trial six months of his own
had been.
"If I was a praying mon, I'd ask a blessing, and thank God fra this
food," said Dannie.
"What's the matter with me?" asked Mary.
"I have never yet found anything," answered Dannie. "And I do thank ye
fra everything. I believe I'm most thankful of all fra the clean
clothes and the clean bed. I'm afraid I was neglectin' myself, Mary."
"Will, you'll not be neglected any more," said Mary. "Things have
turned over a new leaf here. For all you give, you get some return,
after this. We are going to do business in a businesslike way, and
divide even. I liked that bank account, pretty will, Dannie. Thank you,
for that. And don't think I spint all of it. I didn't spind a hundred
dollars all togither. Not the price of one horse! But it made me so
happy I could fly. Home again, and the things I've always wanted, and
nothing to fear. Oh, Dannie, you don't know what it manes to a woman to
be always afraid! My heart is almost jumping out of my body, just with
pure joy that the old fear is gone."
"I know what it means to a mon to be afraid," said Dannie. And vividly
before him loomed the awful, distorted, dying face of Jimmy.
Mary guessed, and her bright face clouded.
"Some day, Dannie, we must have a little talk," she said, "and clear up
a few things neither of us understand. 'Til thin we will just farm, and
be partners, and be as happy as iver we can. I don't know as you mean
to, but if you do, I warn you right now that you need niver mintion the
name of Jimmy Malone to me again, for any reason."
Dannie left the cabin abruptly.
"Now you gone and made him mad!" reproached Tilly.
During the past winter Mary had lived with other married people for the
first time, and she had imbibed some of Mrs. Dolan's philosophy.
"Whin he smells the biscuit I mane to make for breakfast, he'll get
glad again," she said, and he did.
But first he went home, and tried to learn where he stood. WAS HE TRULY
RESPONSIBLE FOR JIMMY'S DEATH? Yes. If he had acted like a man, he
could have saved Jimmy. He was responsible. Did he want to marry Mary?
Did he? Dannie reached empty arms to empty space, and groaned aloud.
Would she marry him? Well, now, would she? After years of neglect and
sorrow, Dannie knew that Mary had learned to prefer him to Jimmy. But
almost any man would have been preferable to a woman, to Jimmy. Jimmy
was distinctly a man's man. A jolly good fellow, but he would not deny
himself anything, no matter what it cost his wife, and he had been very
hard to live with. Dannie admitted that. So Mary had come to prefer him
to Jimmy, that was sure; but it was not a question between him and
Jimmy, now. It was between him, and any marriageable man that Mary
might fancy.
He had grown old, and gray, and wrinkled, though he was under forty.
Mary had grown round, and young, and he had never seen her looking so
beautiful. Surely she would want a man now as young, and as fresh as
herself; and she might want to live in town after a while, if she grew
tired of the country. Could he remember Jimmy's dreadful death, realize
that he was responsible for it, and make love to his wife? No, she was
sacred to Jimmy. Could he live beside her, and lose her to another man
for the second time? No, she belonged to him. It was almost daybreak
when Dannie remembered the fresh bed, and lay down for a few hours'
rest.
But there was no rest for Dannie, and after tossing about until dawn he
began his work. When he carried the milk into the cabin, and smelled
the biscuit, he fulfilled Mary's prophecy, got glad again, and came to
breakfast. Then he went about his work. But as the day wore on, he
repeatedly heard the voice of the woman and the child, combining in a
chorus of laughter. From the little front porch, the green bird warbled
and trilled. Neighbors who had heard of her return came up the lane to
welcome a happy Mary Malone. The dead dreariness of winter melted
before the spring sun, and in Dannie's veins the warm blood swept up,
as the sap flooded the trees, and in spite of himself he grew gladder
and yet gladder.
He now knew how he had missed Mary. How he had loathed that empty,
silent cabin. How remorse and heart hunger had gnawed at his vitals,
and he decided that he would go on just as Mary had said, and let
things drift; and when she was ready to have the talk with him she had
mentioned, he would hear what she had to say. And as he thought over
these things, he caught himself watching for furrows that Jimmy was not
making on the other side of the field. He tried to talk to the robins
and blackbirds instead of Jimmy, but they were not such good company.
And when the day was over, he tried not to be glad that he was going to
the shining eyes of Mary Malone, a good supper, and a clean bed, and it
was not in the heart of man to do it.
The summer wore on, autumn came, and the year Tilly had spoken of was
over. Dannie went his way, doing the work of two men, thinking of
everything, planning for everything, and he was all the heart of Mary
Malone could desire, save her lover. By little Mary pieced it out.
Dannie never mentioned fishing; he had lost his love for the river. She
knew that he frequently took walks to Five Mile Hill. His devotion to
Jimmy's memory was unswerving. And at last it came to her, that in
death as in life, Jimmy Malone was separating them. She began to
realize that there might be things she did not know. What had Jimmy
told the priest? Why had Father Michael refused to confess Jimmy until
he sent Dannie to him? What had passed between them? If it was what she
had thought all year, why did it not free Dannie to her? If there was
something more, what was it?
Surely Dannie loved her. Much as he had cared for Jimmy, he had vowed
that everything was for her first. She was eager to be his wife, and
something bound him. One day, she decided to ask him. The next, she
shrank in burning confusion, for when Jimmy Malone had asked for her
love, she had admitted to him that she loved Dannie, and Jimmy had told
her that it was no use, Dannie did not care for girls, and that he had
said he wished she would not thrust herself upon him. On the strength
of that statement Mary married Jimmy inside five weeks, and spent years
in bitter repentance.
That was the thing which held her now. If Dannie knew what she did, and
did not care to marry her, how could she mention it? Mary began to grow
pale, and lose sleep, and Dannie said the heat of the summer had tired
her, and suggested that she go to Mrs. Dolan's for a weeks rest. The
fact that he was willing, and possibly anxious to send her away for a
whole week, angered Mary. She went.