CHAPTER XXII

The news was not so very surprising to Malcolm Petrie. In his years of practice as a solicitor many similar cases had come to his notice. He had often remonstrated at the folly of sending the younger son of a great family to these lands, and at the unwisdom of parents who found the problem of guiding a wayward boy too hard, and so let him go to the West, to be left to the mercy of its desolation and to the temptation of such entanglements. But that it would be a new difficulty he foresaw, and as he took the child's out-stretched hand he remembered the proud woman waiting at Fort Duchesne. To him, as a man of the world, the affair was understandable, but to Diana! He began to regret that she had come. There was no suggestion of these thoughts in his manner as he kindly said:

"How do you do, my little man?"

"How do you do, Mr. Petrie?" the child answered, and then ran back to his father's side.

The dark head with its faint trace of the Indian blood was extremely beautiful, but Malcolm Petrie noticed a much stronger predominance of the Wynnegate features.

With his hand on the child's head, Jim said, "You see, Petrie, we have to-day and to-morrow—but never yesterday." In the man's voice was so much despair that Petrie found it impossible to understand it.

"I don't quite follow you," he said.

Turning in the direction in which the Indian girl had disappeared, Jim answered, "That was Hal's mother."

"Indeed!" And still Petrie was puzzled at Jim's attitude.

"There isn't any place in England for Nat-u-ritch." Then, as Jim bent over the boy, he held him close and said, "Kiss me, dear, and now run in and help your mother." Jim followed the boy to the cabin door.

Malcolm Petrie said, tentatively, "And that Indian squaw—woman, I mean—is your—"

But Jim stopped the word that he felt Petrie was about to speak.

"My wife," he said. Petrie dropped his glasses and turned sharply to Jim. "My wife," Jim said again. "You don't suppose I'd let my boy come into the world branded with illegitimacy, do you?"

To this Petrie gave no answer. Under Jim almost defiant gaze he found it impossible to argue, but there must be a solution to this problem. He moved away as he almost lightly said, "An awkward situation, Mr. Carston—quite an awkward situation," but the words conveyed no idea that he felt there was a finality about the matter. His lawyer's brain would unravel the knot. Jim could still have his freedom. Then he said, "But these matters can be arranged. You will be in a position to settle an income on her which will make her comfortable for life, and some good man will eventually marry her."

Jim almost smiled. There was so much of the conventional standard in Petrie's speech.

"Wait a bit. You don't understand." He motioned Petrie to be seated again. He hesitated, then determined to tell his story. It might as well be done now; it would save further discussion.

"I first saw Nat-u-ritch at a bear-dance at the agency. The Indians reverse our custom, and the women ask the men to dance. Nat-u-ritch chose me for her partner. We met again at Maverick, where she killed a desperado to save my life." These words Jim almost whispered to Petrie, who leaned forward to catch every syllable. "The next time I saw her—Oh, well, why tell of the months that followed? One day I found myself lying in her wickyup. I had been at death's door fighting a fever. Searching for strayed cattle, I had tumbled into Jackson's Hole and had been abandoned for dead. Nat-u-ritch went in alone, on snow-shoes, and dragged me back to her village. It was a deed no man, red or white, would have attempted to do. When I grew well enough she brought me here to my own ranch, where I had a relapse. Again she nursed me back to life."

He paused. How should he tell this man of the days of blinding temptation the loneliness of his life had brought with it? Petrie waited. Jim moved a little closer to him as he went on:

"When I grew stronger, I tried my best to induce her to leave the ranch, but she would not go. She loved me with a devotion not to be reasoned with. I almost tried to ill-treat her. It made no difference." Again the despair that Petrie had noticed before crept into Jim's voice. "I was a man—a lonely man—and she loved me. The inevitable happened. You see, I cannot go back home."

No, this was not the usual case, Malcolm Petrie told himself. Even he had been impressed by Jim's recital of the story. It was this man's attitude towards the woman that gave him more cause for anxiety than the squaw's position in the case, so he said:

"Don't you think you take rather too serious a view of the case? You can explain the situation to her and she will be open to reason."

But Jim interrupted him. "I wouldn't desert a dog that had been faithful to me. That wouldn't be English, would it? The man who tries to sneak out of the consequences of his own folly—"

"Believe me," the lawyer protested, "I would advise nothing unbecoming a gentleman. But aren't you idealizing Nat-u-ritch a little?"

Jim's answer was not reassuring. "On the contrary, we never do these primitive races justice. I know the grief of the ordinary woman. It doesn't prevent her from looking into the mirror to see if her bonnet is on straight; but Nat-u-ritch would throw herself into the river out there, and I should be her murderer as much as if I pushed her in."

Then Petrie devised a new scheme to test Jim's resolution.

"Why not take her with you to England?" he asked.

"Impossible!" Jim answered. "We'd both be much happier here. Even here I am a squaw man—that means socially ostracized." A bitter laugh broke from him. "You see, we have social distinctions out here."

"How absurd!"

"Social distinctions usually are," and Jim laid his arm on Petrie's. He was growing tired of the discussion. Petrie felt that Jim wished to dismiss it, so he determined to play his trump card. This sacrifice of a splendid fellow was madness. Years from now, Jim would thank him that he had urged him to abandon this life to which he clung with his mistaken sense of right.

"I think I am justified in violating my instructions," Petrie began. "You were not to know that Lady Kerhill accompanied me to this country."

Jim's hands tightened on Petrie. "Diana here?" Furtively he looked about him, as though fearful of seeing her. "In America?" He waited to be quickly reassured that there was no danger of her coming to the ranch.

"I left them at Fort Duchesne—her ladyship and her cousin, Sir John Applegate. I was to bring you there and give you what was intended to be an agreeable surprise—but—"

"Thank God you did not bring her here."

Jim moved away, with his hands clinched behind him. Petrie followed as he urged. "She will be disappointed, deeply disappointed; she is still a young and beautiful woman."

If there was temptation in the words, Jim did not betray it. Quite simply he said, "She must be."

"With many admirers, it is only natural that she should marry again."

And Jim answered, fully aware of the torturing methods used by the man who wished to conquer him, "It is inevitable."

This time Petrie's quiet voice rose in an almost impatient intolerance as he questioned, "And yet you feel—"

But Jim stopped him. There was agony in his voice. "Petrie, don't tempt me. I cannot go. My decision is made and nothing on earth can change it." He walked towards the house as he felt the sudden need of comfort. He wanted to feel his boy's arms about him; that would be his solace. At the window he saw Hal, and a nod brought the child to him.

As he watched him, Petrie said, more to himself than to Jim, "The sentimental man occasions more misery in this world than your downright brutally selfish one." To Jim he put the direct question, "Your decision is final?"

"Final."

"Too bad. Too bad. You are condemning yourself to a living death."

"Oh no; I have my boy. Thank God, I have my boy."

And in those words Petrie knew that the child meant more than all the rest of life to Jim. He knew the type—a type that prevails more especially among Englishmen, perhaps, in whom the need of fatherhood is strongly dominant. Almost prophetically the lawyer laid his hand on the head of the boy, who was standing on the bench playing with his father's kerchief. "The future Earl of Kerhill."

Jim answered, defiantly, "My boy is my boy."

If Jim persisted in refusing to accept the position as the head of his house, then this child was the stake to play for, Petrie decided.

"Well, think of him—of his future. He has the right to the education of a gentleman, to the surroundings of culture and refinement."

As Petrie spoke, his glances took in the shabby little chaps, the feet in their worn moccasins, the coarse flannel shirt; and Jim saw the look and understood. He almost hurt the boy, so tight was his grasp as he lifted him down and held him in his arms.

"One moment, Mr. Petrie. I see your drift," he savagely answered. "But you sha'n't do it, sir. You sha'n't. I won't listen."

But Petrie now knew that he had touched Jim's vulnerable point, and that he was capable of making the sacrifice for the boy.

"I speak as the trusted friend of your family, as the advocate of your child." He told himself he was justified in asking what he did.

"Before you came," Jim said, "I was a ruined man—stone broke, as we say out here. I had to begin my life all over again. But I had Hal, his love and his life to live in day by day, and now you want that, too. I can't do it. I know it's selfish, but life owes me something, and that's all I ask. I can't let him go. I can't—I can't!"

But Malcolm Petrie persisted. "You're responsible for that child's future. You don't want him to grow up to blame you—to look back to his youth and his father with bitterness, perhaps hate."

Jim, as he held the boy from him and studied the tiny face, cried, "You'll never do that, will you, Hal, my boy?"

"What, daddy?"

"Think badly of your father?"

"No, daddy, no," and the child's arms were thrown about Jim's shaking body.

Petrie touched Jim's arm quietly. "You're robbing your child of his manifest destiny."

"What do you want?"

"Send the little man home with me."

With eyes almost blinded with emotion, Jim looked into Petrie's face. "Have you any children, Petrie?"

The solicitor shook his head, and in Jim's words, "I knew it—I knew it," he understood what he meant.

Like a father who sympathizes, yet must be firm in his efforts to convince his son of his wisdom, Petrie spoke.

"I am thinking of Hal's future, as the friend and adviser of your family. I am thinking coldly, perhaps, but, believe me, kindly."

Jim could not doubt his sincerity. He buried his head against the child. "You don't know what a lonely life I led until Hal was born, and how lonely I'll be when he is gone."

Gone! Could he agree to this separation? The word frightened him. "Gone! Oh, my God, no!" He could not.

Then Petrie appealed to Jim's conscience. "You know the trite old saying, 'England expects that every man this day shall do his duty.'" So simply, so seriously did Petrie quote the well-worn phrase, that its shaft went home.

Duty! Duty! Ah, one might squander control of one's own destiny, but for another, for the child whom the parent has brought into life—how answer that? It was the duty of the parent to the child—in that lay the whole definition of the word. He held the tiny face in his hands as he whispered: "Well, Hal, old chap, it's a tough proposition they've put up to your daddy, son. But what must be must be. You'll be braver than I am, I hope." He forgot that the child could not understand him. Sobs shook him as he held the boy tight against his breast. Hal sought to comfort his father with soft, loving pats.

Jim raised his head. "Petrie, you've nailed me to the cross. He goes back with you."

"You'll never regret this," and Petrie laid his hand on Jim's shoulder.

"Ask them to teach him that I did this for his sake; but he'll forget me—you'll see. Some one else will take my place, and he will learn to love them better than he loves me."

Petrie tried to comfort him. "No, he shall hold you in his memory always—always."

Suddenly Jim remembered. "What about his mother?"

"If you can make the sacrifice, she must. They say Indians are stoics."

"I can understand the reason for it, Petrie, man. It will seem a needless cruelty to her. She's almost as much of a child as Hal. I'll try—I'll try."

Holding Hal by the hand, he walked to the cabin and called: "Nat-u-ritch, Nat-u-ritch, come here, little woman. I want you."