CHAPTER XVIII
THE RENUNCIATION
The early morning sun was streaming in through the window of the sickman's room when Tresler at last awoke to consciousness. And, curiouslyenough, more than half an hour passed before Diane became aware of thechange in her patient.
And yet she was wide awake too. Sleep had never been further from hereyes, and her mind never more alert. But for the first time sinceTresler had been brought in wounded, his condition was no longer firstin her thoughts. Something occupied her at the moment of his waking tothe exclusion of all else.
The man lay like a log. His eyes were staring up at the ceiling; hemade no movement, and though perfect consciousness had come to himthere was no interest with it, no inquiry. He accepted his positionlike an infant waking from its healthy night-long slumber. Truth totell, his weakness held him prisoner, sapping all natural inclinationfrom mind and body. All his awakening brought him was a hazy,indifferent recollection of a bad dream; that, and a background of theevents at Willow Bluff.
If the man were suffering from a bad dream, the girl's expressionsuggested the terrible reality of her thought. There was somethingworse than horror in her eyes, in the puckering of her brows, in thenervous compression of her lips. There was a blending of terror andbewilderment in the brown depths that contemplated the wall beforeher, and every now and then her pretty figure moved with a palpableshudder. Her thoughts were reviewing feverishly scenes similar tothose in her patient's dream, only with her they were terriblerealities which she had witnessed only a few hours before in that veryroom. At that moment she would have given her life to have been ableto call them dreams. Her lover's life had been attempted by theinhuman process of reopening his wound.
Should she ever forget the dreadful scene? Never! Not once, but timeand again her brain pictured each detail with a distinctness that wasin the nature of physical pain. From the moment she awoke, which hadbeen unaccountable to her, to find herself still propped against thefoot-rail of her bed, to the finish of the dastardly scene in thesick-room was a living nightmare. She remembered the start with whichshe had opened her eyes. As far as she knew she had heard nothing;nothing had disturbed her. And yet she found herself sitting boltupright, awake, listening, intent. Then her rush to the lamp. Herguilty feelings. The unconscious stealth of her tiptoeing to thelanding outside. Her horror at the discovery that her obstruction tothe staircase had been removed, and the chairs, as though to mock thepuerility of her scheming, set in orderly fashion, side by sideagainst the wall to make way for the midnight intruder. The closeddoor of the sick-room, which yielded to her touch and revealed theapparition of her father bending over her lover, and, with nouncertainty of movement, removing the bandage from the wounded neck.The terror of it all remained. So long as she lived she could neverforget one single detail of it.
Even now, though hours had passed since these things had happened, thenervousness with which she had finally approached the task ofreadjusting the bandage still possessed her. And even the thankfulnesswith which she discovered that the intended injury had been frustratedwas inadequate to bring her more than a passing satisfaction. Sheshuddered, and nervously turned to her patient.
Then it was that she became aware of his return to life.
"Jack! Oh, thank God!" she murmured softly.
And the sound of the well-loved voice roused the patient's interest inthe things about him.
"Where am I?" he asked, in a weak whisper, turning his eyes to theface so anxiously regarding him.
But Diane's troubles had been lifted from her shoulders for the momentand the nurse was uppermost once more. She signed to him to keep quietwhile she administered the doses Doc. Osler had prepared for him. Thenshe answered his question.
"You are in the room adjoining mine," she said quietly.
Her woman's instinct warned her that no more reassuring informationcould be given him.
And the result justified it. He smiled faintly, and, in a few moments,his eyes closed again and he slept.
Then the girl set about her work in earnest. She hurried down-stairsand communicated the good news to Joe. She went in search of Jake, tohave a man despatched for the doctor. For the time at least all hertroubles were forgotten in her thankfulness at her lover's return tolife. Somehow, as she passed out of the house, the very sunlightseemed to rejoice with her; the old familiar buildings had somethingfriendly in their bald, unyielding aspect. Even the hideous corralslooked less like the prisons they were, and the branding forges lesscruel. But greatest wonder of all was the attitude of Jake when sheput her request before him. The giant smiled upon her and granted itwithout demur. And, in her gladness, the simple child smiled back herheartfelt thanks. But her smile was short-lived, and her thanks werepremature.
"I'm pretty nigh glad that feller's mendin'," Jake said. "Say, he's aman, that feller." He turned his eyes away and avoided her smilinggaze, and continued in a tone he tried to make regretful. "Guess I wasgettin' to feel mean about him. We haven't hit it exac'ly. I allowit's mostly temper between us. Howsum, I guess it can't be helpednow--now he's goin'."
"Going?" the girl inquired. But she knew he would be going, only shewondered what Jake meant.
"Sure," the foreman said, with a sudden return to his usual manner."Say, your father's up against him good and hot. I've seen JulianMarbolt mad--madder'n hell; but I ain't never seen him jest as mad ashe is against your beau. When Tresler gits right he's got toquit--quick. I've been wonderin' what's fixed your father like that.Guess you ain't been crazy enough to tell him that Tresler's beensparkin' you?"
The girl's smile died out, and her pretty eyes assumed a look of stonycontempt as she answered with spirit. And Jake listened to her replywith a smile on his bold face that in no wise concealed his desire tohurt her.
"Whatever happens Mr. Tresler doesn't leave our house until Doc. Oslergives the word. Perhaps it will do you good to further understand thatthe doctor will not give that word until I choose."
"You're a silly wench!" Jake exclaimed angrily. Then he becamescornful. "I don't care that much for Tresler, now." Nevertheless hegave a vicious snap with his fingers as he flicked them in the air. "Iwish him well enough. I have reason to. Let him stay as long as youcan keep him. Yes, go right ahead an' dose him, an' physic him; an'when he's well he's goin', sure. An' when he's out of the way maybeyou'll see the advantage o' marryin' me. How's that, heh? There,there," he went on tauntingly, as he saw the flushing face before him,and the angry eyes, "don't get huffed, though I don't know but whatyou're a daisy-lookin' wench when you're huffed. Get right ahead,milady, an' fix the boy up. Guess it's all you'll ever do for him."
Diane had fled before the last words came. She had to, or she wouldhave struck the man. She knew, only too well, how right he was aboutTresler; but this cruelty was unbearable, and she went back to thesick-room utterly bereft of the last shadow of the happiness she hadleft it with.
The doctor came, and brought with him a measure of comfort. He toldher there was nothing to be considered now but the patient's weakness,and the cleansing of the wound. In his abrupt manner he suggested adiet, and ordered certain physic, and finally departed, telling herthat as her room adjoined her patient's there would be no further needof sitting up at night.
And so three weeks passed; three weeks of rapid convalescence forTresler, if they were spent very much otherwise by many of thesettlers in the district. Truth to tell, it was the stormiest timethat the country had ever known. The check the night-riders hadreceived at Willow Bluff had apparently sent them crazy for revenge,which they proceeded to take in a wholly characteristic manner.Hitherto their depredations had been comparatively far apart,considerable intervals elapsing between them, but now four raidsoccurred one after the other. The police were utterly defied; cattlewere driven off, and their defenders shot down without mercy. Thesemonsters worked their will whithersoever they chose. The sheriffbrought reinforcements up, but with no other effect than to rouse thediscontent of the ranchers at their utt
er failure. It seemed as thoughthe acts of these rustlers was a direct challenge to all authority. Areign of terror set in, and settlers, who had been in the country foryears, declared their intention of getting out, and seeking a placewhere, if they had to pay more for their land, they would at leastfind protection for life and property.
Such was the position when Tresler found himself allowed to move abouthis room, and sit in a comfortable armchair in the delightful sunlightat his open window. Nor was he kept in ignorance of the doings of theraiders. Diane and he discussed them ardently. But she was careful tokeep him in ignorance of everything concerning herself and her father.He knew nothing of the latter's objection to his presence in thehouse, and he knew nothing of the blind man's threats, or that fearfulattack he had perpetrated in one of his fits of mad passion.
These days, so delightful to them both, so brimful of happiness forhim, so fraught with such a blending of pain and sweetness for her,had stolen along almost uncounted, unheeded. But like all suchovershadowed delights, their end came swiftly, ruthlessly.
The signal was given at the midday meal. The rancher, who had nevermentioned Tresler's name since that memorable night, rose from thetable to retire to his room. At the door he paused and turned.
"That man, Tresler," he said, in his smooth, even tones. "He's wellenough to go to the bunkhouse. See to it."
And he left the girl crushed and helpless. It had come at last. Sheknew that she could keep her lover no longer at her side. Even Doc.Osler could not help her, and, besides, if she refused to obey, herfather would not have the slightest compunction in attending to thematter in his own way.
So it was with a heavy heart she took herself up-stairs for theafternoon. This _tete-a-tete_ had become their custom every day; shewith her sewing, and the sick man luxuriating in a pipe. Tresler wasstill bandaged, but it was only lightly, for the wound was almosthealed.
The girl took up her position as usual, and Tresler moved his chairover beside the little table she laid her work on, and sat facing her.He loved to gaze upon the sad little face. He loved to say things toher that would rouse it from its serious caste, and show him theshadows dispelled, and the pretty smile wreathing itself in theirstead. And he had found it so easy too. The simplicity, the honesty,the single-mindedness of this prairie flower made her more thansusceptible to girlish happiness, even amidst her troubloussurroundings. But he knew that these moments were all too passing,that to make them enduring he must somehow contrive to get her awayfrom that world of brutality to a place where she could bask,surrounded by love and the sunshine of a happy home. And during thedays of his convalescence he planned and plotted for the consummationof his hopes.
But he found her more difficult to-day. The eyes were a shade moresad, and the smile would not come to banish the shadows. The sweetmouth, too, always drooping slightly at the corners, seemed to droopmore than usual to-day. He tried, in vain, every topic that he thoughtwould interest her, but at last himself began to experience thedepression that seemed to weigh so desperately on her. And strangelyenough this dispiriting influence conjured up in his mind a morbidmemory, that until then had utterly escaped him. It was the dream hehad the night before his awakening. And almost unconsciously he spokeof it.
"You remember the day I woke to find myself here, Danny?" he said. "Itjust occurs to me now that I wasn't unconscious all the time before. Idistinctly remember dreaming. Perhaps I was only asleep."
The girl shook her head.
"You were more than asleep," she said portentously.
"Anyhow, I distinctly remember a dream I had. I should say it was'nightmare.' It was about your father. He'd got me by the throat,and--what's the matter?"
Diane started, and, to Tresler's alarm, looked like fainting; but sherecovered at once.
"Nothing," she said, "only--only I can't bear to think of that time,and then--then--father strangling you! Don't think of your dream.Let's talk of something else."
Tresler's alarm abated at once; he laughed softly and leant forwardand kissed her.
"Our future--our little home. Eh, dearest?" he suggested tenderly.
She returned his embrace and made a pitiful attempt to smile back intothe eyes which looked so eagerly into hers. And now, for the firsttime, her lover began to understand that there really was somethingamiss with her. It was that look, so wistful, so appealing, thatroused his apprehension. He pressed her to tell him her trouble,until, for sheer misery, she could keep it from him no longer.
"It's nothing," she faltered, with trembling lips.
Watching her face with a lover's jealousy he kept silence, for he knewthat her first words were only her woman's preliminary to somethingshe considered serious.
"Jack," she said presently, settling all her attention upon her work,"you've never asked me anything about myself. Isn't that unusual?Perhaps you are not interested, or perhaps"--her head bent lower overher work--"you, with your generous heart, are ready to take me ontrust. However," she went on, before he could interrupt her, "I intendto tell you what you refuse to ask. No," as he leant forward andkissed her again, "now sit up and light your pipe. There are to be nointerruptions like that."
She smiled wistfully and gently pushed him back into his chair.
"Now," she began, as he settled himself to listen, "I must go backsuch a long, long way. Before I was born. Father was a sea captainthen. First the captain of a whaler, afterward he bought a ship of hisown and traded round the East Indies. He often used to talk of thosedays, not because he had any desire to tell me of them, but it seemedto relieve him when he was in a bad temper. I don't know what histrade was, but I think it was of an exciting nature. He often spoke ofthe risks, which, he said, were amply compensated by the money hemade." Tresler smiled gravely. "And father must have made a lot ofmoney at that time, for he married mother, bought himself a fine houseand lands just outside Kingston, in Jamaica, and, I believe, he kept awhole army of black servants. Yes, and he has told me, not once, buta hundred times, that he dates all his misfortunes from the day hemarried my mother, which always seems unfair to her anyway. Somehow Ican never think of father as ever having been a kind man, and I've nodoubt that poor mother had anything but an easy time of it with him.However, it is not for me to criticize." She paused, but went onalmost immediately. "Let me see, it was directly after the honeymoonthat he went away on his last trading trip. He was to call at Java.Jake was his mate, you know, and they were expecting to return in sixmonths' time with a rich harvest of what he calls 'Black Ivory.' Ithink it was some native manufacture, because he had to call at thenative villages. He told me so. But the trip was abandoned after threeweeks at sea. Father was stricken down with yellow fever. And fromthat day to this he has never seen the light of day."
The girl pushed her work aside and went on drearily.
"When he recovered from the fever he was brought home, as he saidhimself, 'a blind hulk.' Mother nursed him back to health andstrength, but she could not restore his sight. I am telling you thesethings just as I have gleaned them from him at such moments as hechose to be communicative. I imagine, too, from the little things hesometimes let fall when he was angry, that all this time he lived in astate of impotent fury against all the world, against God, butparticularly against the one person to whom he should have been mostgrateful--mother. All his friends deserted him in consequence of hisbitter temper--all, that is, except Jake. At last in desperation, heconceived the idea of going to Europe. At first mother was going withhim, but though he was well able to afford the additional expense hebegrudged it, and, changing his mind, decided to go alone. He sold hisship, settled his affairs, and went off, and for three years hetraveled round Europe, visiting every eye-doctor of note in all thebig capitals. But it was all no good, and he returned even more souredthan he went away. It was during his absence that I was born."
Again Diane paused. This time it was some moments before sheproceeded.
"To add to his troubles," she at last resumed, in a low tone, "motherwas seriously ill
when he got back, and, the day of his return, diedin his presence. After that, whatever his disposition was before, itseems to have become a thousand times worse. And when he is angry nowhe takes a painful delight in discussing the hatred and abhorrence allthe people of Kingston held him in, and the hatred and abhorrence hereturns to mankind in general. By his own accounts he must have beenterrible. However, this has nothing to do with our history.Personally, I remember nothing but this ranch, but I understand thathe tried to resume his old trade in the Indies. For some reason thisfailed him; trouble occurred, and he gave it up for good, and came outto this country and settled here. Again, to quote his words, 'awayfrom men and things that drove him distracted.' That," she finishedup, "is a brief sketch of our history."
"And just such a story as I should imagine your father had behind him.A most unhappy one," Tresler observed quietly. But he was marveling atthe innocence of this child who failed to realize the meaning of"black ivory."
For a little while there was a silence between them, and both satstaring out of the window. At last Diane turned, and when she spokeagain there was an ominous quivering of the lips.
"Jack," she said, "I have not told you this without a purpose."
"No, I gathered that, dear," he returned. "And this profound purpose?"he questioned, smiling.
Her answer was a long time in coming. What she had to do was so hard.
"Father doesn't like you," she said at last in desperation.
Tresler put his pipe aside.
"It doesn't seem to me he likes anybody very much, unless it's Jake.And I wouldn't bet a pile on the affection between them."
"He likes Jake better than anybody else. At least he trusts him."
"Which is a fair equivalent in his case. But what makes you think hedislikes me more than most people?"
"You remember that night in the kitchen, when you asked me to----"
"Marry? Yes. Could I ever forget it?"
Tresler had taken possession of one of the small hands lying in thegirl's lap, but she gently withdrew it.
"I was weeping, and--and you saw the bruises on my arms. Fatherdisapproved of my talking to you----"
"Ah! I understand." And he added, under his breath, "The brute!"
"He says I must give you up."
Tresler was looking straight before him at the window. Now he turnedslowly and faced her. His expression conveyed nothing.
"And you?"
"Oh, it is so hard!" Diane burst out, in distress. "And you make itharder. Yes," she went on miserably, "I have to give you up. I mustnot marry you--dare not----"
"Dare not?"
The question came without the movement of a muscle.
"Yes, he says so. Oh, don't you see? He is blind, and I--I am hisonly--oh, what am I saying?"
Tresler shook his head.
"I'm afraid you are saying a lot of--nonsense, little woman. And whatis more, it is a lot of nonsense I am not going to take seriously. DoI understand that you are going to throw me over simply because hetells you to?"
"Not only because of that."
"Who told him about us?"
"I don't know."
"Never mind. Perhaps I can guess. You have grown tired of me already?"
"You know I haven't, Jack."
Diane put out a hand and gently laid it on one of his. But hisremained unresponsive. This sudden awakening from his dream of lovehad more than startled him. It had left him feeling resentful againstsomebody or something; at present he was not sure who or what. But hemeant to have it out, cost what it might.
"That's all right, then," he said. "Now, tell me this other reason."Suddenly he leant forward and looked down into her eyes. His hands,now thin and delicate, held hers tightly in a passionate clasp, andhis face was alight with the truth and sincerity of his love."Remember," he said, "this is no child's play, Danny. I am not the manto give you up easily. I am weak, I know; but I've still got a fightin me, and so long as I am assured of your love, I swear nothing shallpart us. I love you as I have never loved anybody in my life--and Ijust want only you. Now tell me this other reason, dear."
But Diane still hesitated. Her evident distress wrung her lover'sheart. He realized now that there was something very serious behind itall. He had never beheld anything so pitiful as the look with whichshe turned toward him, and further tried to put him off.
"Father says you are to leave this house to-day. Afterward you will beturned off the ranch. It is only through the sheriff backing thedoctor's orders that you were not turned out of here before."
Tresler made no response for a moment. Then he burst out into a hard,mirthless laugh.
"So!" he exclaimed, his laugh dying abruptly. "Listen to me. Yourfather can turn me out of this house--though I'll save him thattrouble--but he can't turn me off this ranch. My residence here isbought and paid for for three years. The agreement is signed andsealed. No, no, let him try another bluff." Then his manner changed toone of gentle persuasion. "But you have not come to the real reason,little one. Out with it. It is a bitter plum, I can tell. Somethingwhich makes you dread not only its consequences, but--something else.Tell it me, Danny. Whatever it is you may be sure of me. My love foryou is unalterable. Believe me, nothing shall come between us."
His voice was infinitely tender, and its effect on Diane was to settwo great tears rolling down her cheeks as she listened. He had drivenher to a corner, and there was no escape. But even so she made onemore effort to avoid her shameful disclosure.
"Will--will you not take me at my word, Jack?" she asked imploringly.
"Not in this, dearest," he replied.
He spoke inexorably, but with such a world of love in his voice thatthe long-pent tears came with a rush. He let her weep. He felt itwould do her good. And, after a while, when her sobs had ceased, heurged her again.
"Tell me," he whispered.
"I----"
The man waited with wonderful patience.
"Oh, don't--don't make me!" she cried.
"Yes, I must."
And at last her answer came in the faintest of whispers.
"I--I--father is--is only my legal father. He was away three years. Iwas born three days before he returned."
"Well, well." Tresler sat quite still for a moment while the simplegirl sat cowering under the weight of her mother's shame. Then hesuddenly reached out and caught her in his arms. "Why, Danny," hecried, pressing her to him, "I never felt so happy over anything in mylife as the fact that Julian Marbolt is not your father."
"But the shame of it!" cried the girl, imagining that her lover hadnot fully understood.
"Shame? Shame?" he cried, holding her still tighter in his arms."Never let me hear that word on your lips again. You are the truest,sweetest, simplest child in the world. You are mine, Danny. My veryown. And I tell you right here that I've won you and will hold you tomy last dying day."
Now she was kneeling beside him with her face pillowed on his breast,sobbing in the joy of her relief and happiness. And Tresler kissed hersoftly, pressing his cheek many times against the silky curls thatwreathed about her head. Then, after a while, he sat looking out ofthe window with a hard, unyielding stare. Weak as he was, he was readyto do battle with all his might for this child nestling so trustfullyin his arms.
The Night Riders: A Romance of Early Montana Page 18