CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sunday morning Katherine woke in dread. Tomorrow, Donnie would leaveher. The child now realized the truth and his grief had torn her heart.His eyes followed her in mute appeal.
Breakfast was eaten in silence. Afterward Glendon mounted his horse androde from the ranch alone. He spoke not a word to Juan or Katherine, andDonnie watching furtively, kept out of his father's sight as much aspossible.
Through a window Katherine watched her husband ride away. A look ofdetermination shone in her eyes when she turned back to the work ofclearing the dining-table. The look grew, while she washed the dishesand straightened the house. Juan was chopping wood and Donnie satquietly on the steps of the front porch, his troubled eyes clouded withtears that he would not let his mother see.
"Juan," called Katherine suddenly from the kitchen window.
The Mexican let the ax fall from his hand and trotted to her, "Si,Senora," he smiled.
"I'm going to write a letter. Can I trust you with it?"
She did not need words to assure her of his faithfulness but heanswered, as he made the Sign of the Cross, "On my heart I swear it,Senora!"
He went back to his wood-chopping, while Katherine seated herself at thedining-table and began writing. It was a desperate hope. Only thethought of her boy could have forced her to such a step.
When Katherine Courtney had been left an orphan at the age of ten, theonly legacy had been unblemished reputations of her parents. An aunt ofher mother's had come forward with an offer to educate the girl untilshe could support herself. It was distinctly stated that no furtherbenefits were to be expected, and this was done only to prevent thepossibility of even a remote family connection becoming a public charitycharge, as was possible.
The sum allowed yearly did not tend to affluence or extravagance, andKatherine had felt the obligation from the very first day, she and "AuntJane Grimes" had an interview. The old lady's grim, aggressive mannerhad repressed the lonely child's inclination to fling herself upon theone human being who took any interest in her. Aunt Jane was wealthy, anold maid--and proud of it--energetic, economical to the verge ofpenuriousness, she recognized three great factors in the universe--herchurch, her country's flag and Prohibition.
The one meeting ended all communication between the child and old lady,until Katherine was graduated with the highest honours, and wrote AuntJane that she was now fitted to make her own way in the world as ateacher, and would soon begin paying back the heavy obligation of theyears in school.
To her surprise, Aunt Jane invited her to come for a visit to theold-fashioned homestead in Maine. "I'd like to see what sort of a personI am responsible for," the old lady wrote. "Your reports from schoolregarding marks and deportment are satisfactory; but you can't wearthese placarded on your breast for the rest of your life. So I'd like tohave a look at you."
The inspection proved sufficient for the old lady to unbend and becomealmost human. Katherine's gratitude and her sincere desire to avoidbeing a burden, won Aunt Jane's silent approbation. After two weeks,when Katherine spoke again of plans to start earning her own living, theold lady had turned on her fiercely.
"Do you call that gratitude?" she demanded glaring through hersteel-rimmed glasses. "Leaving me alone in this big house with only Ann,and she's a fool!"
Ann was the one maid employed, she refused to share her responsibilitieswith any other servant. Ann was a family heirloom, but despite her ageshe clung tenaciously to life. In fact, it had become a grimdetermination on the part of Ann, and likewise on the part of Aunt Jane,not to die first.
"Ann's just itching to see me buried," averred Aunt Jane, "and everymorning when I go to breakfast she watches to see whether I eat all theboiled egg, or two full pieces of toast. I'm tired of being shut upalone with her all winter."
So Katherine remained, and for a wonder, Ann, too, approved.
"Miss Grimes is just waitin' for me to die," Ann grumbled, "but herPaw's will says I'm to have a home here as long as I live. And I'll behere long after I hear 'em singing over her coffin. I'm glad you'regoing to stay here. The winters are terrible when we're snowed in solong, just her and me, and she's awful old and crotchetty."
Companion, housekeeper, peacemaker between the two old women; nurse toeach in turn; secretary for Aunt Jane's large business correspondenceand charities, Katherine paid her debt cheerfully for three years, andnothing broke the monotony of her life.
During the winter months the seaside village hibernated, but in thesummer it woke as a resort for wealthy society people who wished toavoid what they termed "the rabble." It was only for a short period; andduring that time, Aunt Jane shut her front blinds tightly, and withKatherine and various old-fashioned trunks containing her feather bedand own linen, hied to a still more remote farm inland; only returningwhen the gay, social whirl was a thing of the past.
But, the third summer, Aunt Jane succumbed to a touch, of gout, and hadnot the courage to go away from the old doctor who had attended herfamily for two generations. He had presided at the advent of Aunt Janeinto this world of troubles. "I don't mind his seeing my bare foot andankle," she announced, "but I'm not going around showing it to anystrange man at my age, even if he is a doctor."
So the trunks and feather mattress were not disturbed, the green blindswere not fastened, and the wide porch become a place of habitation afterKatherine had installed chairs, a couch, books, and at last a tiny tablewhich was used in the afternoons for a cup of tea out of theold-fashioned blue and white china--the pride of Aunt Jane's heart.Ann's austere face relaxed, and on one memorable occasion, Katherinefound the erstwhile foes, laughing together over long-forgotten jokes.
Then, the unexpected happened. While in a store, a former classmaterecognized Katherine, and insisted on calling. Aunt Jane succumbed tothe wiles of the newcomer, whose sympathy at Katherine's isolationresulted in various invitations to a "bite of lunch with just me,alone." Thus it was that Jim Glendon saw her one day, obtained anintroduction and lost no time in his determination to marry her.
Aunt Jane, when the young man called, listened grimly to his familysocial assets and financial standing, then she looked him up and downappraisingly, and announced calmly, "I don't like you. There's yourhat."
Glendon retreated in confusion to report to Katherine and her chum.Between his insistence and the urging of the girl friend, the affairterminated in a hasty marriage. When Katherine broke the news to heraunt, she was informed that Katherine Courtney was dead. "I've neverbeen acquainted with any one named Katherine Glendon, and I don't careto meet such a person," was Aunt Jane's ultimatum.
Each month, for several years, Katherine had written her aunt, but noneof the letters had been answered. Then she wrote to Ann, and receivedthe letter endorsed, DEAD! The writing was that of Aunt Jane, andKatherine had shed bitter tears; for she now understood that these twoold women had given her their affection, and shown it in the only waythey knew how.
Today she wrote again to Aunt Jane. The letter told without reserve orpalliation, the conditions at the Circle Cross, the plan of Glendon torob her of Donnie, and that the law gave men such rights. She remindedAunt Jane of their last interview, "You said then, 'When you wish theshelter of my home from the man you have married, you will bewelcome--but not till then!' I beg sanctuary for my boy and myself. Iwill work till the flesh wears from my fingers, if you will try to helpme someway now. I cannot give him up. If you ever loved any one in yourentire life, Aunt Jane, try to remember it now, for my boy is the onlything that makes me try to live."
The letter was splashed with tears. It was her last hope.
She gave it to Juan; "Take it to the Hot Springs and ask them to pleasesend it to town by the first person who goes from there." Juan's eyeslooked into hers, "Si, Senora, I understand." He tucked the letter intohis shirt, mounted his waiting pony and loped down the canyon.
He did understand, and what he told Doctor Powell and Limber caused thecowpuncher to saddle Peanut, take the letter and ride to Wi
llcox atonce. Juan went back to the Circle Cross and reported, "Leember, he wasready to start to Weelcox, so he took the letter with heem, Senora."
Juan knew that the Priest told him it was a mortal sin to lie; but hedid not count this any lie--Limber had taken the letter to Willcox.
Katherine wondered at herself, planning surreptitiously to oppose herhusband for the first time in the years of their married life; but, whenher eyes went to the boy, she felt she had done right. Aunt Jane, iffavourably disposed, would use all her wits to circumvent Glendon, whomshe hated. If Glendon knew that Aunt Jane was ready to take her partand the boy's, he probably would not press the matter of sending Donnieaway. Glendon's father had refused further financial aid, or to evencommunicate with his son, and Aunt Jane was wealthy. This mightinfluence Glendon.
In her anxiety to get the letter off, Katherine had omitted mentioningher complete isolation from all mail facilities. Even, now she forgotit.
Night fell. Two hours after dark Glendon reached home. The horse fromwhich he dismounted was worn and weary; the hair was stiff with driedsweat and lather, its flanks drawn.
Without a word, Glendon ate the belated supper. Donnie watched him withfrightened eyes. Juan hovered in the kitchen on various excuses, untilGlendon went to bed.
Monday morning broke. Breakfast was a silent meal. Katherine's face waspallid, deep circles of black lay under her eyes, her lips quivered. Themorning passed. Glendon loafed about the ranch all day, coming into thehouse at frequent intervals. Each time he did so, his wife startednervously, and Donnie's breath came more quickly. Glendon scrutinizedthem with a malignant smile. He knew they were both suffering withdread, but was determined he would not relieve their fears. He gloatedat their mental torture.
When a boy, Glendon had revelled in tearing the wings from butterflies,so that their delicate flight in the sunshine must end in creepingmutilated upon the ground. Though his wife was not responsible for histhwarted plans, still he gloried in his power to torture her for hishumiliation by Powell and Limber.
Monday passed, and Tuesday followed. She dared not hope, for she did notknow what hour Glendon might decide to start. She feared to ask anyquestion that might precipitate the crisis she dreaded. She felt like aprisoner condemned to death who is kept in ignorance of the day or hourof his execution, and each passing moment, dies a new death.
Glendon studied the dumb agony in her face. It gave a new zest to hislife. He knew that neither Powell nor Limber would tell her of the paperhe had signed, so long as Donnie was not sent away; but, neither Powellnor Limber had thought they were giving him a weapon to use uponher--the torture of uncertainty that drives to madness.
So the days passed into weeks, but not once did Glendon allow her aglimmer of hope. All the while she waited for an answer to the lettershe had written Aunt Jane. But, at last she gave that up in despair.
For three months the situation remained unchanged. Katherine grewhaggard, her movements listless, and Donnie still watched his father'sgoings and comings with frightened eyes and beating heart.
The drouth was telling on Glendon's small herd, but he had moreimportant things to think about now. His trips to Willcox were frequent;his periods in town stretched over many days. Katherine might havewondered, had she not been occupied with her own anxiety--Donnie.
Each time Glendon made preparations to drive to Willcox, she waited thecommand that would tear the boy from her. When trip after trip was madewithout the ordeal, her heart began to take courage.