WHEN CHRISTMAS CAME
ONE day close on to Christmas, Wanza was tried for the murder of
Randall Batterly, and after a record-breaking trial that lasted but
five hours, acquitted. The verdict said that Randall Batterly was
killed by the accidental discharge of a revolver dropped by his own
hand.
In the twilight of that strange day I drove Wanza to her home, where
old Grif Lyttle awaited her. It was a gray twilight, the snow was
drifted into gleaming heaps on either side of the road, the river
crawled darkly along between its fleecy banks. We found no words to say
at first, but when I heard a sob in Wanza’s throat I turned and put my
arm across her shoulders.
“There, there, Wanza!” I whispered, soothingly.
She wept quietly. Presently she said, between smiles and tears:
“It will soon be Christmas. I will try to give father a good Christmas,
Mr. Dale.”
“There, there, Wanza,” I said, again.
She drew away, and with both hands pushed back the hood that she had
drawn over her face on leaving the jail.
“Mrs. Batterly wants to send me away, soon after Christmas--away back
East to school--where I can forget,” she faltered.
Her blue eyes widened to great round wells of misery, the tears rained
down her altered cheeks.
“You will forget,” I soothed her; “it was an accident, my dear.”
“Oh, but Mr. Dale, I _felt_ that I could kill him--for being so
disrespectful to me--for speaking so bold--for kissing me! I had
murder in my heart! I remember one night in the woods when we were
gipsying--do you mind it, Mr. Dale?--you took my hands, and I thought
you was going to kiss me, you looked at me so long, but you didn’t--you
respected me too much! Why if you had ’a kissed me--not loving me--Mr.
Dale, it would’a killed me. And I think I could almost ’a killed you.”
I looked into her face, and suddenly I was back again in the
wind-stirred forest with the black elf-locks of a gipsy wench brushing
my lips, her hands held close, her eyes, burningly blue, lifted to
mine in the firelight. I heard her voice whispering: “If I was a gipsy,
and you was a gipsy things would be different.” I recalled the words of
the song I had sung:
“Marna of the wind’s will,
Daughter of the sea--”
I sighed. Marna of the wind’s will, indeed!
This conversation left a sore spot in my heart. I was dejected and
miserable for days. The day before Christmas arrived and late in the
afternoon I rode into Roselake. I purchased some bolts for a sled I was
making for Joey, got my mail, and returned home at dusk.
I built a fire at once in the fireplace in the front room, and went
over my mail eagerly by the light of my green-shaded lamp. One envelope
bore the New York postmark, and I opened it with nervous fingers. I
read the communication it contained, and sat, a warm, surging joy
transfusing my whole being. The publishing firm in New York had
accepted my novel for publication, and the terms mentioned were
generous beyond my wildest visionings.
There was another communication that I read over and over; and as I
read I knew that I was free at last--yes, free forever--free to ask
any woman in the world to be my wife; I knew that the search light of
justice could be turned on a folded page of my past that had long been
hidden, and that there would be no tarnish on the page. For the letter
said that my poor old father was dead, and in dying had confessed to a
forgery committed eight years ago--a crime which his son had tacitly
admitted himself to be guilty of when he had stolen away under cover of
the night and disappeared, rather than face an investigation.
The daily papers had blazoned abroad the shooting of Randall Batterly,
and the subsequent trial of Wanza Lyttle, and my name had appeared in
the account, the writer who was my father’s lawyer explained. A letter
to the postmaster at Roselake had resulted in further establishing my
identity.
The writer had the honor to inform me that my father had left a
snug little fortune--the result of some recent fortunate mining
ventures--that would accrue to me, and he begged me to come back to my
southern home and take my rightful place among the people. I shook my
head at this. Who was there in the old home who would welcome me? My
mother was long since dead--my father gone. There was no one belonging
to me left in the old place. It would be more strange and forlorn than
an entirely new community. I should like to visit it again. But that
was all.
I dropped the letter to the floor, and sat thinking of Haidee. And as
I thought I smiled tenderly. After a time I decided that Haidee should
see these important letters--that I should go to her. And on a sudden
impulse I rose up.
As I opened the door the snow was falling, and there was a ring around
the moon. I left the door open and stepped back into the house, going
to the cedar room to get my sweater. When I returned, a woman with
snow-powdered hair was stepping hesitatingly across the threshold.
Haidee!
“It is you! Out so late--alone!” I began. “And in this storm.”
But the big eyes only smiled at me, and she stood there like a
beautiful wraith in her long gray cloak.
“Let me take your cloak,” I said.
I went to her, and she put both hands on my shoulders impulsively.
“I haven’t thought of the weather. Ever since I saw you last I’ve
thought of you,--and thought, and thought. It’s Christmas Eve, you
know. I have come to wish you a Merry Christmas, and I have brought you
a Christmas gift--one to keep till spring, at least.”
“Come to the fire,” I urged.
She sat down and I sat down opposite her. The firelight caressed her,
played in her eyes, ruddied her cheeks that were glowing from her walk
through the wintry air.
“In all the time I have known you this is the first time I have ever
shared your fire,” she whispered.
There was a silence. I could hear my heart-beats. How fine of her to
come to me in this womanly fashion! I sat and watched her. A lock of
hair had fallen over her ivory brow. She had dropped her head forward
on to her hand, and her dewy lips were parted. I stooped closer, closer
still. A tear slipped down on her smooth cheek and glistened in the
firelight as I gazed. She turned her face away.
“What gift have you brought me?” I whispered.
There was a movement in the shadows beyond the circle of light cast
by the green-shaded lamp--a rustle and a stir--then a swift hurtling
of a small lithe figure across the open space--a pause--a swooping,
frantic clutch of young strong arms about my neck, and Joey, all wet
and steaming in his snowy coat, had me fast, shouting in my ear, over
and over again:
“I’m your Christmas gift, Mr. David! I’m your Christmas gift.”
He was in my arms, and Haidee had drawn back and was smiling at me, her
eyes like great luminous pools of fire.
“What a wonderful, wonderful present,” I responded shakily. “Now, who
could have sent me this very best present in the world?”
“Bell Brandon,” shrieked my little lad. “She did not send me--she
brought me.”
“Then--she must have another gift for me,” I said boldly, and held out
my hand to Haidee.
She shook her head, her eyes grave, but her lips still smiling.
“I have brought Joey to you--but--I cannot stay. I am going away. Will
you keep my boy until I return?”
“You are going away?”
She bent her head.
“I am going to take Wanza back East. I want to go away for a time--it
is best for me to go. But--you must not be separated from Joey all this
long winter, David Dale. My boy shall stay with you--and in the spring
I shall come for him--or come back to stay at Hidden Lake.”
“You are going away--soon--after Christmas?”
“To-morrow. We are going to-morrow--Wanza and I--we decided it only
to-day. I have some matters to attend to in New York. I must go at
once.”
“Christmas Day?”
“Yes.”
“Wait--do not go--stay with me as my wife, my wife! I have sold my
book--I am free too, of an old, old shadow. Oh, I have much to tell
you--much to talk over with you. Wait--let me read to you some letters.”
My voice was rough with emotion. She held up her hand.
“When I come back, David Dale, my friend--not now. We need to gain
perspective--you and I. I have been through an ordeal--I am shaken--I
am not myself. I don’t see clearly. And as for you--David Dale, there
is much for you to learn.”
“What do you mean?” I cried brusquely.
She smiled at me sweetly and a little sadly.
“Oh, you are a stupid blundering David.” She shook her head. “But--wait
till spring.”
“There is so much I want to say--explain,” I stammered.
“Wait till spring.”
“But I cannot keep Joey. I cannot let you go without your boy.”
“He will be better off with you.”
“I cannot accept such a sacrifice.”
On this point I remained firm. We argued. Haidee entreated, and Joey
begged to be allowed to stay. I would not listen to either voice. I
arose at last.
“Joey,” I said, speaking slowly, in order to steady my voice, “I have
one more bolt to put in the sled I am making for you. Will you come to
the workshop with me?”
And in the shop away from every eye, I said good-bye to my lad. And as
I kissed him the old doubt stirred. Was I so sure he was Haidee’s child?
Old Lundquist came for Haidee; and we said a conventional good-bye
beneath his prying eyes.
Until twelve I waited and watched for Wanza, expecting every instant to
hear Captain Grif’s voice at the door, and to see Wanza step over the
threshold. Surely she would not go without some last word to me. But
she came not.