RENUNCIATION
JOEY and I slept that night at Cedar Dale, and the next morning as
early as might be I obtained permission to visit Wanza in the village
jail. We looked into each other’s eyes for a beating moment, and then I
had her hands in mine and was whispering, “Courage, courage, Wanza.”
The color surged into her white cheeks, and her eyes blazed.
“Do you think I did it, David Dale?” she whispered painfully.
“Wanza--child--what sort of confession have you made?”
“I told them I was the only one who knew anything about it. I told them
it was a shot from my revolver that killed Mr. Batterly. They showed me
the revolver Mrs. Batterly’s attorney had, that you found in the hollow
stump, and I swore it was mine. And so they put me in here to wait for
a trial. But they let her go. It was on her account that I told what I
did. I never said I killed him--never!”
“My poor, poor, girl!”
“Hush! Please don’t! Don’t say a word! Oh, I don’t want to break
down--I been through a lot--a lot! I’ll tell you all now--all, Mr.
Dale! It was like this. That day at Hidden Lake Randall Batterly found
me there alone. He was drunk--very drunk. I had just come in and I
thought Mrs. Batterly had gone to Roselake as she had intended. I told
him so when he asked for her. And--when he thought there was no one
about he began saying all sorts of silly things. Truly, Mr. Dale, I
had never spoken to him but just three times in the village--just to
be civil. But he said some downright disgusting things that day, and
he put his arms around me, and he held me tight, and he--he kissed me
twice--oh, so fierce like! though I struck him hard. I got frightened.
I saw he was so drunk he could scarcely stand. Mrs. Batterly’s revolver
was lying on the table. I motioned to it. ‘Don’t touch me again, Mr.
Batterly,’ I screamed, ‘or I’ll shoot myself.’ I think I was almost out
of my head with fright. I turned to run from the room when he caught
my arm. I had my own revolver in the pocket of my sweater coat, and I
pulled it out quick as a flash. ‘Come,’ he said, looking ugly, ‘give
me that revolver! Give it here! Don’t be a fool.’ We had a scuffle and
he had just wrenched the revolver away from me, when, oh, Mr. Dale,
it slipped from his hands and struck the floor hard, and went off. He
had been grinning at me because he had got the revolver in his own
hands, and he stood there still grinning for a second--oh, an awful
second--and then he just crumpled up and dropped on the floor at my
feet, dead, dead, dead!”
It was impossible for Wanza to go on for a moment or two. And when she
continued, at length, after a paroxysm of sobbing, my arm was around
her, and her poor drooping head was against my shoulder.
“When I saw that he was dead, Mr. Dale, I picked up my revolver, and I
ran as fast as I could out of the cabin and hid in the underbrush by
the lake. By and by I spied Mrs. Batterly’s canoe, and I got in and
paddled away as fast as I could. I remembered the hollow stump, because
I’d gone there for Mrs. Batterly with fudge for Joey; and when I saw
it I just popped the revolver inside. Then I hid the canoe among the
willows and started to walk to Roselake. I kept to the woods along the
river road until I heard the stage coming, and then I thought ‘I’ll go
to Sister Veronica at the Old Mission.’ And I ran out and hailed it,
and got in. When the stage got to De Smet that evening a man got in,
and I heard him tell the driver that Mrs. Batterly had been arrested
for the murder of her husband. So then I knew I had to tell the truth
and take the blame or they’d keep her in jail and drag her through an
awful trial, and I knew what that would mean to you, Mr. Dale.”
I pressed her head closer against my shoulder. “Wanza,” I said, “you
are a noble girl.”
The tears welled up in the cornflower blue eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Dale, you do believe that Mr. Batterly was most respectful
to me whenever I met him in the village! He was very polite and
respectful. I never spoke to him but three times. Once dad was with me,
and once Joey, and once I was alone.”
There was something piteous in her asseveration.
“I am sure he was respectful, child.”
“I wanted to die the minute he spoke too bold to me when he found me
there alone at Hidden Lake.”
“I well know that, Wanza.”
“Marna of the quick disdain,
Starting at the dream of stain!”
I cleared my throat and spoke as hopefully as I could. “Let us forget
as well as we can, little girl. Let us look forward to your release.
You will tell the truth at the trial, and you will be believed. And
then--you will forget--you will start all over again! You must let me
help you, Wanza, in many ways. I have a piece of good news for you even
now. I have found Joey.”
But I did not tell her Joey’s story, until my next visit.
I learned from Haidee’s attorney that Randall Batterly had been buried
in Roselake cemetery, and that Mrs. Olds had been sent for and was
staying with Haidee. That afternoon Buttons carried a double burden
over the trail to Hidden Lake. I went in alone to Haidee, leaving Joey
in the woods. My heart was too overcharged for free speech, but I told
Haidee that I had found Joey in an abandoned cabin and I told her all
that Wanza had told me of the part she had played in the accidental
shooting of Randall Batterly, and later I said to her:
“I have something strange to communicate to you. But first, I am going
to ask you if you will tell me the story of your life after you became
Randall Batterly’s wife.”
Haidee lifted her head at my request and straightened her shoulders
with an indrawn spasmodic breath. “I have always intended to tell you
my story, some day,” she answered. Lines of pain etched themselves upon
her brow.
“I think if you will tell me you will not regret it,” I replied.
“I have always intended to tell you,” she repeated. Her voice shook but
she lifted brave eyes to mine, and began her story.
“I married Randall Batterly eight years ago, when I was eighteen, soon
after my father died. He took me to Alaska, and--and Baby was born
there. When my little one was two years old, I had a very severe attack
of pneumonia. While I was still ill Mr. Batterly was obliged to make a
trip to Seattle, and it was decided that Baby was to go with him, and
be left with my mother there until I was stronger,--I think the good
nurse I had scarcely expected me to recover. Mr. Batterly had always
been a drinking man, though I was unaware of this when I married him.
On the steamer he drank so heavily that he was in his stateroom in a
drunken stupor most of the time, he afterwards confessed. Then--there
was a storm and a collision in the night--and the ship Mr. Batterly
was on went down off Cape Flattery. Mr. Batterly was rescued by a man
who shared his stateroom--a man he had known for years. But my little
boy--my Baby--was never seen again.”
In the silence that followed, Haidee shuddered and closed her eyes,
biting her lips that were writhing and gray. After a short interval she
went on in a low, strained tone:
“Mr. Batterly and I parted soon after. My mother died that summer and
I went to Paris to study art. While in Paris last winter, in a Seattle
paper, I read of Mr. Batterly’s death at Nome. His name was probably
confused with that of his partner. I did not know he had a partner.
This spring I returned to America, and with a sudden longing for the
West I came out to visit Janet Jones in Spokane. It was then I was
obsessed with the desire to paint this beautiful river country. Janet
Jones aided and abetted me. I purchased a riding horse and went to
board on a ranch near Kingman. It was deadly. When I walked into your
workshop I had ridden all day, fully determined to find a habitation of
my own.”
I had glanced at Haidee once or twice to find that her eyes were still
closed. But now, as she finished, she opened them wide, and at the look
of misery I saw in them I cried out quickly:
“Don’t tell me any more--please--please--”
“There is nothing more to tell,” she answered dully.
“Thank you for your confidence. Before I told you all I have to tell I
thought it best to ask it of you.”
“You have something to tell me? For you things are righting--you have
found your boy! For me everything seems wrong in the world--everything!
But now--may I see Joey, please, before long?”
“Mrs. Batterly,” I asked, “may I tell you Joey’s short history?”
At my abrupt tone she turned her eyes to mine, wonderingly. “Surely,”
she replied.
“It is a pitifully meagre one. I found him sobbing on the doorstep of
a humble cabin, one night, four years ago last June. I took him in my
arms and entered the place, to find within a dying woman. She told me
that the child was a waif, picked up on the beach after a storm on
Puget Sound, by her brother, who was a fisherman, a year before. Her
brother had died six months previous and she had taken the child.
The woman passed away that night, and I carried the child home. Mrs.
Batterly, your husband gleaned this story from Wanza. He took Joey and
secreted him in a cabin, thinking the lad his child and yours--”
Haidee broke in on my recital with a gasping cry: “My child--mine?”
“Mrs. Batterly, was there a mark on your baby’s chest--a mark you could
identify him by?”
“Yes, yes!--a bright red mark--oh, not large--the size of a
quarter--just over his heart.”
“Joey has such a mark, though it is a mark considerably larger than a
quarter--and it is higher than his heart.”
A doubt that I was ashamed of stirred my breast, seeing the eagerness
on the face before me. A doubt that returned later during forlorn
hard days to haunt me. I said to myself that I knew not even on what
shore of the great Sound Joey was discovered. But Haidee was speaking
impetuously:
“He has grown--the mark has grown too, and is higher up! I have a scar
on my forehead almost hidden by my hair that was much lower down when
I was a child.” She rose, her face working, her whole slight figure
quivering. “Oh, Mr. Dale, give me my child!”
I went to the door and gave my whistle and Joey responded. Haidee took
him in her arms, and he told his story to her much as he had told it to
me. But when he finished, he looked up in her face questioningly:
“I won’t have to leave Mr. David, will I?” he queried. “He’s my only
really, truly daddy. He’d be terrible lonesome without me. Why, I most
guess he couldn’t get along without me, Bell Brandon!”
“Dear, dear little boy, don’t you understand? You have a mother, now.”
Haidee’s arms held him close. Her cheek rested against his. Looking at
her I hated myself for the pang I felt.
And so my little lad went out of my keeping. I left him with Haidee and
went back to take up my niggardly existence at Cedar Dale.
Anxious days ensued. My heart was heavy with thoughts of Wanza, I
could not eat nor sleep. And every day Griffith Lyttle and I consulted
together, and held wearing conclaves in the office of Wanza’s attorney.
And someway I found myself distrait and unnatural in Haidee’s presence
and consumed with bitter melancholy when alone.
What had come over me? When I was with Haidee all my speech was of
Wanza. When I was alone all my thoughts were of her. Haidee was
free--but I realized this but dimly. The thought of Wanza’s position
was paramount. In the long night vigils I saw her face. I recalled
the look I had surprised on it once--the secret never intended for my
reading--and my compassion and wonder overpowered me. That Wanza should
care for me!--I felt like falling on my knees in humbleness.
My loneliness was intense. I began to realize that Joey had gone out of
my life--that his place was henceforth not with me--never with me again.
The love of a man for a small boy is composed of various ingredients,
it has spice in it, and tenderness, and pride, and hope, and
fellowship--and a lilt of melody goes through it that lightens the most
rigid days of discipline. So when the small boy goes out of the home,
the man is bereft of joy and inspiration and companionship. At first
I went daily to Hidden Lake, and Joey came daily to Cedar Dale. But
one day when Joey was begging me to make him a bow-gun I surprised a
wistful gleam in Haidee’s soft eyes. She drew the lad into her arms.
“Mother will buy you a wonderful gun,” she promised.
“But I’d rather have Mr. David make it, Bell Brandon. I guess women
don’t know what boys like--just.”
The hurt look in the purple-black eyes went to my heart. After that I
went not so often to Hidden Lake.
I took to using Joey’s room as a sort of study. I fitted up a desk near
the window, and here I wrote on my novel, and wrought at wood carving
for the Christmas trade. Finding me here one day carving a frame for an
old photograph of Wanza, Haidee looked at me oddly, turned swiftly and
went from the room, while Joey stared eagerly, and whispered:
“Oh, Mr. David, some day I’m coming back to stay in my dear old room.
Tain’t nice at Bell Brandon’s for a boy. They’s a white spread on the
bed, and blue ribbons to tie back the curtains. And when the coyotes
holler Bell Brandon’s frightened too.”
Later on the porch at parting, Haidee said to me:
“Have you worked long on the frame you are carving for Wanza’s picture?”
“Since--oh, I began it about the time Joey was lost,” I answered.
She looked at me curiously.
“Wanza is very lovely in that picture.”
“She is. She is growing more beautiful every day,” I answered
thoughtfully; “her soul shines in her face. I realize each time I see
her how her character is rounding--how sturdy and fine she is in her
trouble.”
After Haidee had gone I recalled the look she had flung at me as she
turned and went down the steps, saying:
“Wanza is very fortunate to have you for a friend, very fortunate
indeed.”
I asked myself what her look had meant.
Another week passed. I finished my novel. And one day soon after I rode
to Roselake, expressed the manuscript to a publishing firm, and rode
homeward feeling that my affairs were on the knees of the gods.
Not far from Cedar Dale I left the road and took the trail that led
through the woods. In the woods I dismounted and went forward slowly,
my horse’s bridle on my arm. It was a gray day, lightened by a yellow
haze. I was enraptured with the peculiar light that came through the
trees. The foliage about me was copper and flame. Presently I heard
voices, and looking through the trees I saw Haidee and Joey. They were
kneeling in a little open space, gathering pine cones. Haidee was
bareheaded and her sleeves were rolled back, exposing her round, white
arms. Her figure was lithe and supple as she knelt there, her drooping
face full of witchery and charm.
I had an opportunity to observe Joey well. His face was thinner, his
carriage not so gallant as formerly. There was less buoyancy in his
voice. Something sprightly was missing in his whole aspect,--a certain
confidence and dare. He was not the Cedar Dale elf I had known. What
had changed him so?
I went forward and Joey cried out and hurled himself into my arms.
Haidee stood up and drew the lad to her with a nervous motion.
“Joey,” I said, “run away and see what Jingles is barking at so
furiously. A fat rabbit has just escaped him.”
Joey bounded away shrieking with excitement. I studied Haidee
deliberately as her eyes followed the childish figure. Her eyes were
brooding and solemn and sweet as she watched, but there was a shadow on
her brow.
“Too bad,” I said speaking out my thought, “for Joey’s mother to be
jealous of me.”
“Do you think that of me?” she faltered.
“He is all yours--no one on the face of the earth has the slightest
claim on him excepting yourself.”
Our eyes met; hers were startled yet defiant; and I am afraid mine were
a trifle accusing.
“Do not speak to me like this--do not dare!” Then suddenly she
softened. “But you are right--perhaps. When I think of the days and
months you had him and I was bereft--when I think how much you mean to
him--more than I mean--oh, it hurts! I am a wretch.”
“No, no,” I said hastily. “I did not understand, that is all.”
“You have not understood--and it has altered your manner to me, that is
it, is it not? You have thought me weak, and selfish, and ungrateful.
Well, I am not ungrateful; but I have been selfish. I have thought not
enough of you and Joey. But now I have confessed, and I shall be more
considerate.” Her hand came out to me. “Let us shake hands.” Tears were
in her eyes.
I took her hand with shame and contrition. I reached home utterly
miserable. Had Haidee changed or had I changed? What had come over us?
The spontaneity and warmth had seeped from our friendship. There seemed
to be a shadow between us that each was futile to lift.
I said to myself that when I heard from my novel--if the word was
favorable--I should go to her--I could at least tell her of my hopes
for the future--I could lay my love at her feet. All should be made
plain; the cloud should be dispersed.
And so the weeks went past.