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.