SANDERS TELLS HIS STORY
The evening before the day set for the election of United States
senator Lemuel Fogg received this message from Sibyl Dudley:
“Remember our agreement. I am prepared to do what I promised. I shall
not fail, and you must not.”
At a late hour that same evening a messenger handed Justin a note. It
was from Sibyl. She was waiting for him in the lobby, and had a
carriage in the street.
“I want to take you home with me,” she said, in her pleasantest
manner.
“Is Lucy there?” was his eager question.
“What a mind reader you are!” She laughed playfully. “She is there,
and if you are good I will permit you to have a look at her.”
She led the way to the carriage.
“You may see her, after you have seen some one else who is there,” she
supplemented, as the carriage moved away from the hotel.
“Who may that be?”
Justin did not desire to see any one else.
“Wait!” she said, mysteriously.
Justin thought of Mary, of Ben, and even of Doctor Clayton. But he
thought most of Lucy. But for his desire to see Lucy he would not have
gone with Mrs. Dudley.
When he arrived and was shown into the parlor he beheld William
Sanders. He could not believe that he had been summoned to meet
Sanders, and glanced about the room to ascertain if it held any one
else. Sanders was alone. Sibyl, following hard on Justin’s heels, came
in while he was greeting Sanders. The latter, having risen to take
Justin’s hand, moved his jaws nervously. At home he would have chewed
a grass blade or a broom straw. His cunning little eyes glanced away
from Justin’s, instead of meeting them squarely.
“I have come upon the strangest piece of information!” said Sibyl,
speaking to Justin with simulated sympathy. “I could have brought you
the news, or told you about it as we drove up, but I wanted you to
hear it from Mr. Sanders himself. It is really the strangest and most
romantic thing I ever listened to. I simply couldn’t believe it when
Mr. Sanders told it to me first, but when he explained fully I saw
that it must be true.”
“And it come about in a mighty curious way; that is, my bein’ hyer
did. ’Twas through a fortune teller. I’ve gone to a good many of ’em
in my time, but this was the best one I ever found.”
Sanders had dropped back into his chair, where he sat limply, his
loose shabby garments contrasting strangely with the furnishings of
the room. He clicked his teeth together, with a chewing motion, when
he was not speaking, and looked at Justin with shifting gaze. He was
not easy in his unfamiliar surroundings, and his manner showed it. Now
and then he glanced at Sibyl, as if for help, as he proceeded with his
narrative.
“I ain’t been feelin’ jist right toward Philip Davison, as you know,
and you an’ me had some trouble one’t; but you know I voted fer ye, er
I reckon you know it. Anyway, I did. Well, I come up to Denver not
long ago, and this fortune teller I spoke of told me all about that
trouble I had with Davison, and about how I was put out that time by
you, and everything. She was a clairvoy’nt; went into a trance an’
seen the whole thing, and a lot more that I can’t tell you now, and
when she come out of the trance we had a long talk and she give me
some good advice. Charged me two dollars, but it was worth ten, and
I’d 'a’ paid that ruther than missed it. And when Mrs. Dudley called
on her——”
Sibyl affected a very clever confusion.
“I suppose you will think me very foolish, Mr. Wingate, and we women
are foolish! I have always refused to believe in fortune tellers, but
a friend of mine who had visited this one heard such strange things
that——”
“That she went, too,” said Sanders, with an expression of
gratification, “and I reckon she’ll be believin’ in fortune tellin’
from this on.”
“Well, it was very strange,” Sibyl admitted with apparent hesitation.
“The things she told me caused me to write to Mr. Sanders, and now he
is here to tell you what he knows.”
“And it’s a sing’lar story. And not so sing’lar either, when you look
it up one side and down t’other. I’d 'a’ told you all about it long
ago, but fer certain things that took place.”
Justin, thinking of Lucy and disappointed at not seeing her
immediately, had not listened with much attention at first, but now he
was becoming interested. It began to dawn on him that this story
concerned him. So he looked at Sanders more attentively, with a glance
now and then at Sibyl Dudley. He had never admired Mrs. Dudley and he
did not admire her now; recalling the things he knew and the things he
guessed about her and Clayton, he almost felt at times that he hated
her. She was a handsome woman, but even his ignorance discounted the
assumed value of rouge and fine raiment. He wondered some times that
Clayton could ever have cared for her. He was sure he never could have
done so; for, compared with Sibyl, Lucy Davison was as a modest violet
to a flaunting tiger lily.
“I set out to ask Doc Clayton some questions about you, the first time
I come to his house. You’ll remember that time, fer me and Fogg come
together. But Clayton made me mad, when he told me that lie about his
crooked arm; instid of answerin’ me, he made fun of me, and I went
away without sayin’ anything.”
He chewed energetically on this old memory.
“I didn’t come back fer a good while after that, you’ll reck’lect; I
got land at Sumner, an’ farmed there a spell. Finally I sold out, an’
thought I’d take another look at Paradise Valley. I’d been thinkin’
about it all that time, and allowin’ I’d go back when I got ready. I
might have writ to you, but I wasn’t any hand to write in them days;
and I hadn’t got over bein’ mad at Doc Clayton.”
Sibyl, turning her rings on her shapely fingers, was anxious that he
should reach the real point, but she withheld any manifestation of
impatience. In the school of experience she had learned to wait.
Justin was also anxious, and he had not learned so well how to conceal
it. But Sanders went on unheeding, stopping now and then to masticate
a fact before proceeding further.
“When I come back, intendin’ to tell you all I knowed, which I’d begun
to feel was due ye, I got into that quarrel with Davison about the
fence before I could; and then you and me had that trouble. After that
I wouldn’t tell; and I wouldn’t tell it now but fer certain things.
But I reckon you’d ought to know. I dunno whether you’ll be pleased er
not when you do know; but I’m calculatin’ that Davison won’t be
pleased, and that suits me. I don’t make any bones of sayin’ that I
don’t like Davison; but Davison is your paw!”
After all this slow preliminary, the revelation came like a shot from
a rifle. Not realizing this, Sanders twisted round in his chair and
began to draw from his hip pocket a grimy memorandum book of ancient
appearance. Justin was too astonished to speak. He could hardly
believe that he had heard aright, and he was prepared to dispute the
assertion, for it seemed incredible.
[Illustration: “Sanders twisted round in his chair and began to draw
from his pocket a grimy memorandum book”]
“Do you mean that Mr. Davison is my father?” he cried.
“That’s jist what I mean!”
Sanders chewed again, and putting the memorandum book on his knee
opened it carefully. Sibyl Dudley, though she had seen the book
before, came forward softly from her chair to look. Her dark eyes had
kindled. Justin stared at Sanders and the book. The shock of
astonishment was still on him. He did not know what to think or say.
Sanders appeared the least concerned of all.
“That’s jist what I mean, and hyer’s the little book in which your
mother writ down the things I know about it; you can see it yerself,
and you needn’t believe me. You was brought to that preacher, Mr.
Wingate, by me, and left there. I took you and your mother into my
wagon. She was too sick to walk even, and she died in it; and then,
not knowin’ what to do with you, fer you was jist a baby, and I was
only a kid myself, I took you to the preacher. I had left this
mem’randum book behind, through a mistake; but I give him the Bible,
and some other things, and calc’lated to bring this to him. But I
didn’t right away, and then I lost track of him.”
Justin was trembling now. Though still unable to grasp the full
meaning of this revelation, he saw that Sanders was recounting things
he knew. There was no deception. He took the book in his shaking
hands, when Sanders passed it to him. It was grimy and disreputable in
appearance, but if Sander’s story were true it had been hallowed by
his mother’s touch.
“When I heard the name of Wingate the first time that I come to the
valley and stopped all night at Clayton’s I was goin’ to ask him all
about you and tell him what I knowed; but he made me mad, when he cut
me off that way, and I didn’t. 'Tain’t no good excuse fer not tellin’,
I reckon, an’ you may think I hadn’t any better excuse later on, but
that’s why I didn’t, anyway. Davison’s treatin’ me the way he did and
that trouble I had with you made me keep my head shet till now. But
that fortune teller, when I seen her the second time, said fer me to
tell you the whole thing, and so I’m doin’ it, though mebbe it won’t
please you.”
Sander’s tone was apologetic.
Justin heard in amazed bewilderment. Philip Davison his father! The
thing was incredible, impossible. But he opened the memorandum book
with reverent fingers, as Sanders wandered on with his explanations
and excuses. This little diary at least was real. The first glance
showed him the familiar handwriting which he knew to be his mother’s.
He knew every curve and turn of the letters penned in the little
Bible, which at that moment was in his trunk at the hotel. There she
had written:
“Justin, my baby boy, is now six months old. May God bless and
preserve him and may he become a good man.”
Here was the same handwriting, a portion of it in pencil so worn in
places as to be almost illegible. Hardly hearing what Sanders was now
saying Justin began to read. The dates were far apart. Some of the
things set down had been written before Justin was born; others must
have been penciled shortly before her death. Many were unrelated and
told of trivial things. Others concerned her husband and her child.
The details were more complete in the later pencilled notes, where she
had sought to make a record for the benefit of her boy in the event of
her death, which she seemed to foresee or fear. There was sadness here
and tears and the story of a pitiful tragedy; and here also in full
were the names of her husband and her son.
She was the wife of Philip Davison, and her son Justin was born a year
after her marriage. Davison was then a small farmer, with a few
cattle, living in a certain valley, which she named. Davison, as
Justin knew, had come from that valley to the valley of Paradise.
Davison’s habit of occasional intoxication was known to her before her
marriage, as was also his violent outbursts of temper; but love had
told her the old lie, that she could save him from himself. The result
had been disaster. In a fit of drunken rage he had so abused her that
she had fled from him in the night with her child. A terrible storm
arose as she wandered through the foothills. But she had stumbled on,
crazed by fear and more dead than alive. How she lived through the
week that followed she declared in this yellowed writing that she did
not know, but she had lived. She was journeying toward the distant
railroad. Now and then some kind-hearted man gave her a seat in his
wagon, and now and then she found shelter and food in the home of some
lonely settler. She would not return to Davison, and she hoped he
believed she had died in the storm.
The brief record ended in a blank, which had never been filled.
Sanders—his name was not mentioned by her—had taken her into his
prairie schooner—he was but a fatherless boy himself—and there she
had died, worn out by suffering and exhaustion. But her baby had
lived, and was now known as Justin Wingate.
A deep sense of indignation burned in Justin’s breast against Philip
Davison, as he read the pathetic story. Against Sanders he could not
be indignant, in spite of the wrong the man had done him by
withholding this information through all the years; for Sanders had
soothed the last moments of his mother, and Sanders’ wagon had given
her the last shelter she had known. Justin’s fingers shook, and in his
eyes there was a blinding dash of tears.
Sanders was still drawling on, stopping occasionally to chew at an
unwilling sentence. It was an old story to him, and so had lost
interest. Sibyl was standing expectantly by, watching Justin with
solicitude for her plans. His feelings did not reach her.
“So I am Philip Davison’s son!”
Justin drew a long breath. His voice was choked and the words sounded
hoarse and strange.
“I reckon I ought to 'a’ told you a good while ago,” Sanders
apologized; “but I kinder felt that it would please Davison, and after
that trouble you an’ me had I didn’t want to tell it; and, so, I
didn’t.”
His cunning gray eyes shone vindictively.
“I don’t mind sayin’ to you that I wouldn’t turn my hand over to save
Davison from the pit, if he is your father; he didn’t do right by me,
an’ you didn’t do right by me. It won’t please him to know that you’re
his son, fer you’re fightin’ him teeth an’ nail; and so I’m willin’ to
tell it now.”
Sanders’ ulterior motive was exposed. First and last hatred of Philip
Davison and of Justin had guided him.
“It must be a pleasure to you to know who your father really is,” said
Sibyl, sweetly.
Justin regarded her steadily, without actually seeing her. His
faculties were turned inward.
“Yes, that is true; I am glad to know who my father is. I have
wondered about it many times. But I never dreamed it could be Mr.
Davison. It doesn’t seem possible now.”
Yet in his hands he held the unimpeachable record.
Sanders rose, shuffling and awkward.
“I’ll turn the mem’randum over to you; I reckon it belongs by rights
more to you than to Davison, and I don’t keer even to speak to him;
he’s never done right by me.”
Justin aroused as Sanders moved toward the door.
“Sanders,” he said, “I’m obliged to you for this. I recognize this as
my mother’s handwriting. You ought to have given it to me long ago,
but I’m glad to get it now. And I thank you from the bottom of my
heart for what you did for her. I shall never forget it.”
“Oh, ’twasn’t nothin’ at all,” Sanders declared, glad to escape the
denunciation he had feared.
“And I want you to tell me more about my mother,” Justin urged; “what
she said when she came to you, and how she looked, and everything.”
Sanders sat down again, chewing the quid of reflection, and gave the
details Justin demanded, for they had held well in his tenacious
memory. Justin, listening with breathless interest, asked many
questions, while Sibyl sat by in silent attention and studied his
strong beardless face. He thanked Sanders again, when the story was
ended.
Sanders appeared anxious to depart, now that he had performed his
mission, and Sibyl was glad to have him go. Justin remained in the
room. He was thinking of Lucy and desired to see her.
“When I got on the track of that story and understood what it meant, I
felt it to be my duty to bring you and Mr. Sanders together and let
you hear it from his own lips,” said Sibyl, regarding Justin
attentively. “And I told him to be sure to bring that diary, for I
knew you would want to see it and would prize it highly.”
It was in Justin’s pocket, but he took it out again, still handling it
reverently.
“I thank you for that, Mrs. Dudley,” he said with deep sincerity. “The
whole thing is so new, so unexpected, that I am not yet able to adjust
myself to it; but it was a kindness on your part, and this book I
shall hold beyond price.”
He studied again the yellowed writing.
“It is beyond price, for my mother wrote it!”
He put the book away and looked at Sibyl.
“The way I chanced to hear of the story was very queer,” Sibyl
explained. “And the way it has turned out justifies the superstitious
spasm which took me to that fortune teller. Sanders was coming out of
her room as I went in. I had seen him in Paradise Valley, and so
recognized him, though he did not notice me. When I passed in I spoke
to the woman about him, telling her that I knew him; and then she gave
me the story she had drawn from him, or which in a confidential moment
he had told her. I saw the value of it to you, if true. I had an
interview with him for the purpose of verifying it; and then I
arranged this meeting, for I thought you ought to receive it straight
from him.”
Justin thanked her again.
“I think I should like to see Lucy now,” he said, “if you have no
objection.”
Sibyl seemed embarrassed, as she answered:
“I’m sorry to have to say that the servants inform me that she has
gone out with Mary to spend the night with a friend in another part of
the city. I thought she would be here, and I was sure you would want
to have a talk with her after that.”
Justin was disappointed.
“I might as well be going then. It is late; too late I suppose to call
on her at the place where she is stopping. I will see her to-morrow
evening.”
He got out of his chair unsteadily. His emotions had been touched so
strongly that he felt exhausted, though he had not realized it until
he arose. Then he took his hat and went out, after again thanking
Sibyl for her kindness.