THE doctor came early the next morning and he rendered me incredibly favorable reports of both his patients; so that I was able to buoy myself up with the hope of seeing Haidee before many days had passed. She sent me a series of charming messages by Wanza throughout the day. The first message was to the effect that the room was delicious and the bed like down. Again—the air through the open windows and door was sweet as the breath of asphodel. And the last message said that the outlook through the windows was so sylvan that almost she expected to hear the pipes of Pan, or see a faun perched upon the rocks, or a Psyche at the pool.
I hugged these gracious words to my heart, and began work at once on a reclining-chair in which Haidee could rest during her convalescence, and the fashioning of two little crutches of cedar, the doctor having confided to me that when Haidee left her bed she would require the support of crutches for a week or two.
The second day, the message from the cedar room thrilled me: “Tell Mr. Dale that I have been lifted high on my pillows where I can watch Joey at work in the Dingle.” Later on the question came: “Joey is making something. What is it?”
Joey was passing through the kitchen when I received this message. I called to him: “What are you doing in the Dingle, Joey?”
“Pooh,” he said, puffing out his cheeks, “I’m not doing anything!”
“Nothing at all, Joey?”
“I’m just covering a cedar round for a—a hassock for her—Bell Brandon’s feet when she sits up. I’m covering it with the skin of that mink you trapped last fall.”
I duly reported this to Wanza. She looked at me, tossed her head, and went quickly back to the cedar room. I began to think Mrs. Olds’ pessimism was infecting her. Certainly my bright, insouciant Wanza seemed changed to me since her installation at Haidee’s bedside.
I received messages too, from the sick man, but disjointed, vague outbursts that showed his mind was still wandering in the realms of fantasy.
“Tell my host,” he begged Mrs. Olds, “that I’m a sick man—a very sick man. Tell him I say I’m a gentleman—a perfect gentleman. Tell him he’s a gentleman, too. Noblesse oblige—and all that sort of thing, you know.”
Mrs. Olds gathered that he was a mining man from Alaska, with interests in the Cœur d’Alenes, and that his name was Bailey. She had discovered a leather wallet in his coat pocket with the name in gold letters on the flap, and his linen was marked with a B. Pending absolute certainty that his name was Bailey, we all, with the exception of Mrs. Olds, continued to designate him “the big man”; and as days went on, Joey added to this and called him the big bad man, for his language waxed coarser. He was almost violent at times, and I was glad that the tiny corridor separated Haidee’s room from the one in which he lay.
The doctor diagnosed his case as typhoid, and promised us a speedy convalescence. He looked at me significantly and added: “He’ll recover. But when he goes to that unknown bourne, finally, he may not depart by a route as respectable by far. He’s a periodical drinker—about all in. Can’t stand much more.”
A few days after this I received an unexpected order for a cedar chest from a writer who signed herself Janet Jones, and directed that the chest when completed, should be sent to Spokane.
“I have seen your cedar chests,” she wrote. “And how I want one! I am a shut in—and I want the beauty chest in my boudoir, because it will remind me of the cool, green cedars in the depth of the forest, of wood aisles purpling at twilight, of ferns and grass and all the plushy, dear, delightful things that bend and blow and flaunt themselves in the summer breeze. When I look at it, I am sure I can hear again the voice of the tortuous, swift-running, shadowy river on whose banks it was made. And I long to hear that sound again.”
The check she enclosed was a generous one. The letter seemed almost a sacred thing to me. I folded it carefully and laid it away, and not even to Joey did I mention the order I had received. But I began work at once on the cedar chest. And I labored faithfully, and with infinite relish. The check was a material help to me, and something prompted me to lay bare my heart and tell my new friend so in the note of thanks I penned her that night.
“The wood paths are overrun with kinnikinic, lupine, and Oregon grape just now,” I wrote, “and the woods are in their greenest livery. The paint brushes are just coming into bloom and the white flowers on the salmon berry bushes were never so large before, or the coral honeysuckle so fragrant. My senses tell me this is so; but there is a deeper green in the heart of the woods, a tenderer purple on the mountains, because of one who bides temporarily beneath my roof. And because of her—oh, kind benefactress, I thank you for your order, for your praise, and for your check! I am poor—miserably poor. And for the first time in eight years ashamed of it.”
The answer came back in a few days:
“Don’t be ashamed! Tell me of her, please.”
Because the hour of Haidee’s convalescence when I could greet her face to face, was postponed from day to day, and because my thoughts were full of her, I was glad to answer this letter. But after all I told Janet Jones very little of Haidee, except that she was my guest, and that Joey and I called her our Wonder Woman, and that my own name for her was Haidee.
Each day that followed was well rounded out with work. The workshop proved to be a veritable house of refuge to Joey and me, whither we fled to escape Mrs. Olds’ whining voice and bickering, and the big man’s unsavory language. Here with windows wide to the breeze that swept cool and clean from the mountains we labored side by side, forgetting the discord within the cabin, realizing only that it is good to live, to labor and to love.
In addition to my work on the cedar chest I was carving a design of spirea on a small oak box, which when completed was to hold Joey’s few but highly prized kickshaws. As the design approached completion I observed the small boy eyeing it almost with dissatisfaction from time to time.
I was unused to this attitude in Joey, and one day I asked, “Don’t you like it, lad?”
A spray of the graceful spirea lay on my work bench. He picked it up, caressed it gently, and laid it aside.
“Oh, Mr. David,” he said, “I do think spirea, the pink kind, is the cunningest bush that grows!”
“I had reference to the box, Joey.”
His eyes met mine honestly. A flush crept up to his brow through the tan.
“I almost say Gracious Lord! every time I look at it, and you asked me not to say that any more, Mr. David. It must be ’most as beautiful as that fairy box you told me about one day, that the girl carried in her arms when the boatman poled her across that black river. I do think you’re most too good to me.”
I knew then that my boy liked the box beyond cavil.
But I reached the heart of his feeling with regard to the trifle the following day. As I bent over my work he said tentatively:
“I think we ought to do something for Wanza. She’s doing a lot for us, isn’t she, Mr. David?”
I glanced up. Joey was sitting cross-legged on my work bench, engaged in putting burrs together in the shape of a basket.
“Yes,” I replied, “Wanza is very kind.”
“Then if you don’t mind, Mr. David—really truly don’t mind—I’d like to give the kickshaw box to her.”
The brown eyes that came up to mine were imploring, the small tanned face was suddenly aquiver with emotion. I laid my tools aside, and looked thoughtfully out of the window.
“Wanza’s awfully good to me, Mr. David,” the small boy continued. “She’s put patches on my overalls, and sewed buttons on my shirts, and darned my stockings—and the other day she made me a kite. And she plays cat’s cradle with me, and brings me glass marbles. And when she gets rich she’s going to buy me a gold-fish.”
“What a formidable list of good deeds. The box is Wanza’s,” I declared, facing around. “We will present it to her this evening.”
“Do you ’spose she has any kickshaws to put in it, Mr. David?”
“Why—I don’t know, lad, I don’t know,” I replied musingly. “It seems to me very probable.”
“Do girls have kickshaws, Mr. David?”
“Almost every one has some sort of keepsake, Joey lad.”
He surveyed his burr basket with disfavor, tore it apart and began hurriedly to build it over.
“Say the kickshaw verse for me, Mr. David, please, and after that the ‘Nine Little Goblins,’ and after that a little bit of ‘Tentoleena.’”
It was very pleasant there in the shop. The perfume of summer was about us, and bird-song and bee-humming and the mellow sound of the brook blended into a delicate wood symphony. I looked out upon the swift-running, sparkling, clear river. To dip boyishly in it was my sudden desire. The leafy green of the banks was likewise inviting. Across the river the grey-blue meadows stretched away to meet the purple foot hills. I hung halfway out of the window and recited the tuneful little rhyme for Joey:
“Oh, the tiny little kickshaw that Mither sent tae me,
’Tis sweeter than the sugar-plum that reepens on the tree,
Wi’ denty flavorin’s o’ spice an’ musky rosemarie,
The tiny little kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.
Oh I love the tiny kickshaw, and I smack my lips wi’ glee,
Aye mickle do I love the taste o’ sic a luxourie,
But maist I love the lovin’ hands that could the giftie gie
O’ the tiny little kickshaw that Mither sent tae me.”
Joey was a rare listener, his face had a sparkle in concentration seldom seen. It was an inspiration to the retailer. Wherever this is found, to my notion, it gives to a face an unusual distinction and charm. As I finished he drew a deep breath.
“Mothers gives kickshaws to their girls and boys ’most always, I ’spose,” he murmured questioningly. His eyes were wistful, and hurt me in a strange way.
“Almost always, I think, Joey.”
I smiled at him, and he smiled back bravely.
“I’m your boy—almost really and truly your boy—ain’t I, Mr. David?”
I nodded.
“Pooh,” he said with a swagger, “I’d liever be your boy than—than anything! You give me kickshaws and make me magpie cages, and—and flutes and bow-guns, and you builded me a bed—”
He broke off suddenly, and without seeming to look at him I saw that his eyes were tear filled, and that he was winking fast and furiously to keep the drops from falling.
“Now then,” I said, speaking somewhat huskily, “I shall give you ‘Nine Little Goblins.’” Clearing my throat I began:
“They all climbed up on a high board fence,
Nine little goblins with green-glass eyes—
Nine little goblins who had no sense
And couldn’t tell coppers from cold mince pies.”
I finished the poem and went on to “Tentoleena,” saying:
“I think Mr. Riley has intended this a bit more for girls than for boys, however, we love its tinkle, don’t we, Joey?”
“Up in Tentoleena Land—
Tentoleena! Tentoleena!
All the dollies, hand in hand,
Mina, Nainie, and Serena,
Dance the Fairy fancy dances,
With glad songs and starry glances.”
“If I was a girl—and had a doll—I’d never let her get up alone at Moon-dawn and go out and wash her face in those great big dew-drops with cream on ’em. Why—she might get drownded! I wouldn’t call her Christine Braibry, anyway—” Joey delivered himself of this ultimatum quite in his usual manner. And feeling somewhat relieved I inquired:
“What name would you choose, boy—Wanza or—”
“Not Wanza—no girl’s name! I wouldn’t have a girl-doll! I’d fix it up in pants and call it Mr. David.”
After supper that evening I asked Wanza to come to the workshop with Joey and me. She gave me a laughing glance as I held open the kitchen door for her, and stood teetering in indecision at the sink with Joey clinging to her skirt.
“There are the dishes to be washed, and Mrs. Batterly’s tea to be carried to her, and the milk pans to scald, and—”
“Wanza,” Joey cried, “you must come! It’s a surprise.”
She danced across the room, tossed her apron on to a chair, and rolled down her sleeves. Her eyes glowed suddenly black with excitement, her red lips quirked at the corners. She tossed her head, and all her snarled mop of hair writhed and undulated about her spirited face. She sprang outside with the lightness of a kitten followed by Joey, and I closed the door carefully at Mrs. Olds’ instigation, and followed her to the yew path.
The heavy-blossomed service bushes hedged the path like a flowered wall, silver shadows lay around us, but through the fretwork of tree branches we saw a mauve twilight settling down over the valley. The river was a twisting purple cord. In the violet sky a half-lit crescent moon was swimming like a fairy canoe afloat on a mythical sea. All objects were soft to the sight—thin and shadowy. The spike-like leaves above our heads glistened ghostily, the trunks of trees bulked like curling ominous shapes in the vista before us. Puffs of wind caused the maples to make faint, pattering under-breaths of sound.
We stood on the miniature bridge for a moment. The reeds were shooting up in the bed of the spring; and as we stood on the bridge they were almost waist high about us. A tule wren flew from among them, perched on a nearby cottonwood, and gave a series of short wild notes for our edification. It flirted about on its perch, with many a bob and twitch as we watched it, apparently scolding at us for daring to approach so close to its habitat.
And we stood there in the musical, colorful twilight, my thoughts flew to Haidee, and I asked Wanza how she was faring.
“Well enough,” she retorted, with a swift back flinging of her blonde head.
“Well enough means very well, does it, Wanza?”
“If you can’t make me out, Mr. Dale, I guess I better quit talking. Seems like you never used to have no trouble.”
“I believe I am growing obtuse,” I replied lightly. And led the way across the bridge to the shop without further ado.
Had I dreamed that Wanza would have been so affected by the simple gift I tendered, I doubt if I would have had sufficient temerity to present it to her. I did this with a flourish, saying:
“You have been so kind to Joey and me, Wanza, that we beg you to accept this little kickshaw case in token of our appreciation. Joey hunted out the finest specimens of spirea for me, and I carved the lid, as you see, and cut your initials here in the corner.”
Ah, the light in the brilliant deep blue eyes raised to mine! the smile on the tender lips, the sobbing breath with which she spoke. I was stirred and vaguely abashed.
“You did this for me—for me,” she repeated, laughing, and shaking her head, and all but weeping. She clasped the box close to her girlish breast with a huddling movement of her arms, sank her chin upon it, caressed the smooth wood with her cheek. “It’s beautiful, beautiful! Oh, thank you, Mr. Dale, thank you!” Joey was cuddling against her shoulder and she put her arm out after a moment, took him into her embrace and kissed him with a soft lingering pressure of her lips against his.
When she stood upright at length her face was wreathed in smiles, and though I spied a tear on her lashes, it was with a ringing laugh that she said:
“I know what a box is, and I guess I know a case when I see it, but you’ll have to tell me what a kickshaw is, Mr. Dale.”
I laughed heartily. And then Joey would have me recite Riley’s delicious little rhyme. The evening ended pleasantly for us all. But it left me with food for musing. Yes, I said to myself, Wanza was kind—she had ever been kind to Joey and me. Had I been too cavalier in my treatment of her? Remembering her sudden softening, her appreciation of my small gift, I decided this was so. In future, I assured myself, I would show her every consideration. Wanza was growing up. She was no child to be hectored, and bantered, cajoled and then neglected. No! My treatment of her must be uniformly courteous hereafter.