Shandon Waters
"For mercy's sakes, here comes Shandon Waters!" said Jane Dinwoodie,of the post-office, leaving her pigeonholes to peer through the onesmall window of that unpretentious building. "Mother, here's ShandonWaters driving into town with the baby!" breathed pretty MaryDickey, putting an awed face into the sitting-room. "I declare thatlooks terrible like Shandon!" ejaculated Johnnie Larabee,straightening up at her wash-tubs and shading her eyes with herhand. "Well, what on earth brought her up to town!" said allDeaneville, crowding to the windows and doorways and halting themarch of the busy Monday morning to watch a mud-spattered cart comebumping up and down over the holes in the little main street.The woman--or girl, rather, for she was but twenty--who sat in thecart was in no way remarkable to the eye. She had a serious, evensullen face, and a magnificent figure, buttoned just now into a tanulster that looked curiously out of keeping with her close, heavywidow's bonnet and hanging veil. Sprawled luxuriously in her lap,with one fat, idle little hand playing above her own gauntleted oneon the reins, was a splendid child something less than a year old,snugly coated and capped against the cool air of a CaliforniaFebruary. She watched him closely as she drove, not moving her eyesfrom his little face even for a glance at the village street.Poor Dan Waters had been six months in his grave, now, and this wasthe first glimpse Deaneville had had of his widow. For an unbrokenhalf year she had not once left the solitude of the big ranch downby the marsh, or spoken to any one except her old Indian womanservant and the various "hands" in her employ.She had been, in the words of Deaneville, "sorta nutty" since herhusband's death. Indeed, poor Shandon had been "sorta nutty" all herlife. Motherless at six, and allowed by her big, half civilizedfather to grow up as wild as the pink mallow that fringed the homemarshes, she was regarded with mingled horror and pity by the well-ordered Deaneville matrons. Jane Dinwoodie and Mary Dickey couldwell remember the day she was brought into the district school, hermutinous black eyes gleaming under a shock of rough hair, her clumsylittle apron tripping her with its unaccustomed strings. The lonelychild had been frantic for companionship, and her direct, evenforceful attempts at friendship had repelled and then amused theDeaneville children. As unfortunate chance would have it, it wasshy, spoiled, adored little Mary Dickey that Shandon instantlyselected for especial worship, and Mary, already bored byadmiration, did not like it. But the little people would haveadjusted matters in their own simple fashion presently had they beenallowed to do so. It was the well-meant interference of the teacherthat went amiss. Miss Larks explained to the trembling littlenewcomer that she mustn't smile at Mary, that she mustn't leave herseat to sit with Mary: it was making poor Mary cry.Shandon listened to her with rising emotion, a youthful titter ortwo from different parts of the room pointing the moral. When theteacher had finished, she rose with a sudden scream of rage, flungher new slate violently in one direction, her books in another, anddeparted, kicking the stove over with a well-directed foot as sheleft. Thus she became a byword to virtuous infancy, and as the yearswent by, and her wild beauty and her father's wealth grew apace,Deaneville grew less and less charitable in its judgment of her.Shandon lived in a houseful of men, her father's adored companionand greatly admired by the rough cattle men who came yearly to buyhis famous stock.When her father died, a little wave of pity swept over Deaneville,and more than one kind-hearted woman took the five-mile drive downto the Bell Ranch ready to console and sympathize. But no one sawher. The girl, eighteen now, clung more to her solitude than ever,spending whole days and nights in lonely roaming over the marsh andthe low meadows, like some frantic sick animal.Only Johnnie Larabee, the warm-hearted little wife of the villagehotel keeper, persevered and was rewarded by Shandon's bitterconfidence, given while they rode up to the ridge to look up someroaming steer, perhaps, or down by the peach-cutting sheds, whileShandon supervised a hundred "hands." Shandon laughed now when sherecounted the events of those old unhappy childish days, but Johnniedid not like the laughter. The girl always asked particularly forMary Dickey, her admirers, her clothes, her good times."No wonder she acts as if there wasn't anybody else on earth buther!" would be Shandon's dry comment.It was Johnnie who "talked straight" to Shandon when big Dan Watersbegan to haunt the Bell Ranch, and who was the only witness of theirlittle wedding, and the only woman to kiss the unbride-like bride.After that even, Johnnie lost sight of her for the twelve happymonths that Big Dan was spared to her. Little Dan came, welcomed byno more skillful hands than the gentle big ones of his wonderingfather and the practised ones of the old Indian. And Shandon boughthats that were laughed at by all Deaneville, and was tremulouslyhappy in a clumsy, unused fashion.And then came the accident that cost Big Dan his life. It was all ahideous blur to Shandon--a blur that enclosed the terrible, swifttrip to Sacramento, with the blinking little baby in the hollow ofher arm, and the long wait at the strange hospital. It was youngDoctor Lowell, of Deaneville, who decided that only an operationcould save Dan, and Doctor Lowell who performed it. And it wasthrough him that Shandon learned, in the chill dawn, that thegallant fight was lost. She did not speak again, but, moving like asleepwalker, reached blindly for the baby, pushed aside the handsthat would have detained her, and went stumbling out into thestreet. And since that day no one in Deaneville had been able to getclose enough to speak to her. She did not go to Dan's funeral, andsuch sympathizers as tried to find her were rewarded by onlydesolate glimpses of the tall figure flitting along the edge of themarshes like a hunted bird. A month old, little Danny accompaniedhis mother on these restless wanderings, and many a time his littlemottled hand was strong enough to bring her safely home when noother would have availed.Her old Chinese "boy" came into the village once a week, and paidcertain bills punctiliously from a little canvas bag that wasstuffed full of gold pieces; but Fong was not a communicativeperson, and Deaneville languished for direct news. Johnnie,discouraged by fruitless attempts to have a talk with the forlornyoung creature, had to content herself with sending occasionaldelicacies from her own kitchen and garden to Shandon, and only aweek before this bright February morning had ventured a note, pinnedto the napkin that wrapped a bowl of cream cheese. The note read:Don't shorten Danny too early, Shandy. Awful easy for babies toketch cold this weather.Of all the loitering curious men and women at doors and windows andin the street, Johnnie was the only one who dared speak to her to-day. Mrs. Larabee was dressed in the overalls and jersey thatsimplified both the dressing and the labor of busy Monday mornings;her sleek black hair arranged fashionably in a "turban swirl." Sheran out to the cart with a little cry of welcome, a smile on herthin, brown face that well concealed the trepidation this unheard-ofcircumstance caused her. "Lord, make me say the right thing!" prayedJohnnie, fervently. Mrs. Waters saw her coming, stopped the bighorse, and sat waiting. Her eyes were wild with a sort of savageterror, and she was trembling violently."Well, how do, Shandon?" said Mrs. Larabee, cheerfully. Then hereyes fell on the child, and she gave a dramatic start. "Never youtell me this is Danny!" said she, sure of her ground now. "Well,you--old--buster--you! He's immense, ain't he, Shandon?""Isn't he?" stammered Shandon, nervously."He's about the biggest feller for nine months I ever saw," saidMrs. Larabee, generously. "He could eat Thelma for breakfast!""Johnnie--and he ain't quite seven yet!" protested Shandon, eagerly.Mrs. Larabee gave her an astonished look, puckered up her forehead,nodded profoundly."That's right," she said. Then she dragged the wriggling small bodyfrom Shandon's lap and held the wondering, soft little face againsther own."You come to Aunt Johnnie a minute," said she, "you fat old muggins!Look at him, Shandon. He knows I'm strange. Yes, 'course you do! Hewants to go back to you, Shandy. Well, what do you know about that?Say, dearie," continued Mrs. Larabee, in a lower tone, "you've got aterrible handsome boy, and what's more, he's Dan's image."Mrs. Waters gathered the child close to her heart. "He's awful likeDan when he smiles," said she, simply. And for the first time theireyes met. "Say, thank you, for the redishes and the custard pie andthat cheese, Johnnie," said Shandon, awkwardly, but her eyes thankedthis one friend for much more."Aw, shucks!" said Johnnie, gently, as she dislodged a drying clodof mud from the buggy robe. There was a moment's constrainedsilence, then Shandon said suddenly:"Johnnie, what d'you mean by 'shortening' him?""Puttin' him in short clothes, dearie. Thelma's been short sinceGran'ma Larabee come down at Christmas," explained the other,briskly."I never knew about that," said Mrs. Waters, humbly. "Danny's thefirst little kid I ever touched. Lizzie Tom tells me what theIndians do, and for the rest I just watch him. I toast his feet goodat the fire every night, becuz Dan said his mother useter toast his;and whenever the sun comes out, I take his clothes off and leave himsprawl in it, but I guess I miss a good deal." She finished with awistful, half-questioning inflection, and Mrs. Larabee did not failher."Don't ask me, when he's as big and husky as any two of mine!" saidshe, reassuringly. "I guess you do jest about right. But, Shandy,you've got to shorten him.""Well, what'll I get?" asked Shandon.Mrs. Larabee, in her element, considered."You'll want about eight good, strong calico rompers," she beganauthoritatively. Then suddenly she interrupted herself. "Say, whydon't you come over to the hotel with me now," she suggestedenthusiastically. "I'm just finishing my wash, and while I wrenchout the last few things you can feed the baby; than I'll show youThelma's things, and we can have lunch. Then him and Thel can taketheir naps, and you 'n' me'll go over to Miss Bates's and see whatwe can git. You'll want shoes for him, an' a good, strong hat--""Oh, honest, Johnnie--" Shandon began to protest hurriedly, in herhunted manner, and with a miserable glance toward the home road."Maybe I'll come up next week, now I know what you meant--""Shucks! Next week nobody can talk anything but wedding," saidJohnnie, off guard."Whose wedding?" Shandon asked, and Johnnie, who would havepreferred to bite her tongue out, had to answer, "Mary Dickey's.""Who to?" said Shandon, her face darkening. Johnnie's voice was verylow."To the doc', Shandy; to Arnold Lowell.""Oh!" said Shandon, quietly. "Big wedding, I suppose, and whitedresses, and all the rest?""Sure," said Johnnie, relieved at her pleasant interest, and warmingto the subject. "There'll be five generations there. Parker's makingthe cake in Sacramento. Five of the girls'll be bridesmaids--MaryBell and Carrie and Jane and the two Powell girls. Poor Mrs. Dickey,she feels real bad. She--""She don't want to give Mary up?" said Shandon, in a hard voice. Shebegan to twist the whip about in its socket. "Well, some people haveeverything, it seems. They're pretty, and their folks are crazyabout 'em, and they can stand up and make a fuss over marrying a manwho as good as killed some other woman's husband,--a woman whodidn't have any one else either.""Shandy," said Johnnie, sharply, "ain't you got Danny?"Something like shame softened the girl's stern eyes. She dropped herface until her lips rested upon the little fluffy fringe that markedthe dividing line between Danny's cap and Danny's forehead."Sure I have," she said huskily. "But I've--I've always sort of hadit in for Mary Dickey, Johnnie, I suppose becuz she is so perfect,and so cool, and treats me like I was dirt--jest barely sees me,that's all!"Johnnie answered at random, for she was suddenly horrified to seeDr. Lowell and Mary Dickey themselves come out of the post-office.Before she could send them a frantic signal of warning, the doctorcame toward the cart."How do you do, Mrs. Waters?" said he, holding out his hand.Shandon brought her startled eyes from little Danny's face. Thechild, with little eager grunts and frowning concentration, was busywith the clasp of her pocketbook, and her big, gentle hand had beenguarding it from his little, wild ones. The sight of the doctor'sface brought back her bitterest memories with a sick rush, at amoment when her endurance was strained to the utmost. He had decreedthat Dan should be operated on, he had decided that she should notbe with him, he had come to tell her that the big, protecting armand heart were gone forever--and now he had an early buttercup inhis buttonhole, and on his lips the last of the laughter that he hadjust been sharing with Mary Dickey! And Mary, the picture ofcomplacent daintiness, was sauntering on, waiting for him.Shandon was not a reasonable creature. With a sound between a snarland a sob she caught the light driving whip from its socket andbrought the lash fairly across the doctor's smiling face. As hestarted back, stung with intolerable pain, she lashed in turn thenervous horse, and in another moment the cart and its occupants wereracketing down the home road again."And now we never will git no closer to Shandon Waters!" saidJohnnie Larabee, regretfully, for the hundredth time. It was tendays later, and Mrs. Larabee and Mrs. Cass Dinwoodie were high up onthe wet hills, gathering cream-colored wild iris for the Dickeywedding that night."And serve her right, too!" said Mrs. Dinwoodie, severely. "A greatgirl like that lettin' fly like a child.""She's--she's jest the kind to go crazy, brooding as she does," Mrs.Larabee submitted, almost timidly. She had been subtly pleadingShandon's cause for the past week, but it was no use. The lastoutrage had apparently sealed her fate so far as Deaneville wasconcerned. Now, straightening her cramped back and looking offtoward the valleys below them, Mrs. Larabee said suddenly:"That looks like Shandon down there now."Mrs. Dinwoodie's eyes followed the pointing finger. She coulddistinguish a woman's moving figure, a mere speck on the road farbelow."Sure it is," said she. "Carryin' Dan, too.""My goo'ness," said Johnnie, uneasily, "I wish she wouldn't takethem crazy walks. I don't suppose she's walking up to town?""I don't know why she should," said Mrs. Dinwoodie, dryly, "with thehorses she's got. I don't suppose even Shandon would attempt tocarry that great child that far, cracked as she seems to be!""I don't suppose we could drive home down by the marsh road?"Johnnie asked. Mrs. Dinwoodie looked horrified."Johnnie, are you crazy yourself?" she demanded. "Why, child, Mary'sgoing to be married at half-past seven, and there's the five-o'clocktrain now."The older matron made all haste to "hitch up," sending not evenanother look into the already shadowy valley. But Johnnie's thoughtswere there all through the drive home, and even when she startedwith her beaming husband and her four young children to the weddingshe was still thinking of Shandon Waters.The Dickey home was all warmth, merriment, and joyous confusion.Three or four young matrons, their best silk gowns stretched tobursting over their swelling bosoms, went busily in and out of thedining-room. In the double parlors guests were gathering with thelaughter and kissing that marked any coming together of these hard-working folk. Starched and awed little children sat on the laps ofmothers and aunts, blinking at the lamps; the very small babies wereupstairs, some drowsily enjoying a late supper in their mothers'arms, others already deep in sleep in Mrs. Dickey's bed. Thedownstairs rooms and the stairway were decorated with wilting smilaxand early fruit-blossoms.To Deaneville it seemed quite natural that Dr. Lowell, across whoseface the scar of Shandon Waters' whip still showed a dull crimson,should wait for his bride at the foot of the hall stairway, and thatMary's attendants should keep up a continual coming and goingbetween the room where she was dressing and the top of the stairs,and should have a great many remarks to make to the young men below.Presently a little stir announced the clergyman, and a moment laterevery one could hear Mary Dickey's thrilling young voice from theupper hallway:"Arnold, mother says was that Dr. Lacey?"And every one could hear Dr. Lowell's honest, "Yes, dear, it was,"and Mary's fluttered, diminishing, "All right!"Rain began to beat noisily on the roof and the porches. JohnnieLarabee came downstairs with Grandpa and Grandma Arnold, andRosamund Dinwoodie at the piano said audibly, "Now, Johnnie?"There was expectant silence in the parlors. The whole house was sosilent in that waiting moment that the sound of sudden feet on theporch and the rough opening of the hall door were a startlingly loudinterruption.It was Shandon Waters, who came in with a bitter rush of storm andwet air. She had little Dan in her arms. Drops of rain glittered onher hanging braids and on the shawl with which the child waswrapped, and beyond her the wind snarled and screamed like adisappointed animal. She went straight through the frightened,parting group to Mrs. Larabee, and held out the child."Johnnie," she said in a voice of agony, utterly oblivious of hersurroundings, "Johnnie, you've always been my friend! Danny's sick!""Shandon,--for pity's sake!" ejaculated little Mrs. Larabee,reaching out her arms for Danny, her face shocked and protesting andpitying all at once, "Why, Shandy, you should have waited for meover at the hotel," she said, in a lower tone, with a glance at theincongruous scene. Then pity for the anguished face gained mastery,and she added tenderly, "Well, you poor child, you, was this whereyou was walking this afternoon? My stars, if I'd only known! Why onearth didn't you drive?""I couldn't wait!" said Shandon, hoarsely. "We were out in thewoods, and Lizzie she gave Danny some mushrooms. And when I lookedhe--his little mouth--" she choked. "And then he began to have sortacramps, and kinda doubled up, Johnnie, and he cried so queer, and Ijest started up here on a run. He--Johnnie!" terror shook her voicewhen she saw the other's face, "Johnnie, is he going to die?" shesaid."Mushrooms!" echoed Mrs. Larabee, gravely, shaking her head. And ascore of other women looking over her shoulder at the child, who laybreathing heavily with his eyes shut, shook their heads, too."You'd better take him right home with me, dearie," Mrs. Larabeesaid gently, with a significant glance at the watching circle. "Weoughtn't to lose any time."Dr. Lowell stepped out beside her and gently took Danny in his arms."I hope you'll let me carry him over there for you, Mrs. Waters,"said he. "There's no question that he's pretty sick. We've got ahard fight ahead."There was a little sensation in the room, but Shandon only looked athim uncomprehendingly. In her eyes there was the dumb thankfulnessof the dog who knows himself safe with friends. She wet her lips andtried to speak. But before she could do so, the doctor's mothertouched his arm half timidly and said:"Arnold, you can't very well--surely, it's hardly fair to Mary--""Mary--?" he answered her quickly. He raised his eyes to where hiswife-to-be, in a startled group of white-clad attendants, wasstanding halfway down the stairway.She looked straight at Shandon, and perhaps at no moment in theirlives did the two women show a more marked contrast; Shandon muddy,exhausted, haggard, her sombre eyes sick with dread, Mary's alwaysfragile beauty more ethereal than ever under the veil her mother hadjust caught back with orange blossoms. Shandon involuntarily flungout her hand toward her in desperate appeal."Couldn't you--could you jest wait till he sees Danny?" shefaltered.Mary ran down the remaining steps and laid her white hand onShandon's."If it was ten weddings, we'd wait, Shandon!" said she, her voicethrilling with the fellowship of wifehood and motherhood to come."Don't worry, Shandon. Arnold will fix him. Poor little Danny!" saidMary, bending over him. "He's not awful sick, is he, Arnold?Mother," she said, turning, royally flushed, to her stupefiedmother, "every one'll have to wait. Johnnie and Arnold are going tofix up Shandon's baby.""I don't see the slightest need of traipsing over to the hotel,"said Mrs. Dickey, almost offended, as at a slight upon herhospitality. "Take him right up to the spare room, Arnold. Thereain't no noise there, it's in the wing. And one of you chil'ren runand tell Aggie we want hot water, and--what else? Well, go ahead andtell her that, anyway.""Leave me carry him up," said one big, gentle father, who had tuckedhis own baby up only an hour ago. "I've got a kimmoner in my bag,"old Mrs. Lowell said to Shandon. "It's a-plenty big enough for you.You git dry and comfortable before you hold him." "Shucks! Lloydyate a green cherry when he wasn't but four months old," said oneconsoling voice to Shandon. "He's got a lot of fight in him," saidanother. "My Olive got an inch screw in her throat," contributed athird. Mrs. Larabee said in a low tone, with her hand tight uponShandon's shaking one, "He'll be jest about fagged out when thedoctor's done with him, dearie, and as hungry as a hunter. Don't yougit excited, or he'll be sick all over again."Crowding solicitously about her, the women got her upstairs and intodry clothing. This was barely accomplished when Mary Dickey cameinto the room, in a little blue cotton gown, to take her to Danny."Arnold says he's got him crying, and that's a good sign, Shandon,"said Mary. "And he says that rough walk pro'bly saved him."Shandon tried to speak again, but failed again, and the two girlswent out together. Mary presently came back alone, and the lessenedbut not uncheerful group downstairs settled down to a vigil. Variousreports drifted from the sick-room, but it was almost midnightbefore Mrs. Larabee came down with definite news."How is he?" echoed Johnnie, sinking into a chair. "Give me a cup ofthat coffee, Mary. That's a good girl. Well, say, it looks like youcan't kill no Deaneville child with mushrooms. He's asleep now. Butsay, he was a pretty sick kid! Doc' looks like something the catbrought home, and I'm about dead, but Danny seems to feel realchipper. And eat! And of course that poor girl looks like she'dinherited the earth, as the Scriptures say. The ice is what youmight call broken between the whole crowd of us and Shandon Waters.She's sitting there holding Danny and smiling softly at any one whopeeks in!" And, her voice thickening suddenly with tears on the lastwords, Mrs. Larabee burst out crying and fumbled in her unaccustomedgrandeur for a handkerchief.Mary Dickey and Arnold Lowell were married just twenty-four hourslater than they had planned, the guests laughing joyously at thewilted decorations and stale sandwiches. After the ceremony thebride and bridegroom went softly up stairs, and the doctor had alast approving look at the convalescent Danny.Mary, almost oppressed by the sense of her own blessedness on thisday of good wishes and affectionate demonstration, would have gentlydetached her husband's arm from her waist as they went to the door,that Shandon might not be reminded of her own loss and aloneness.But the doctor, glancing back, knew that in Shandon's thoughts to-day there was no room for sorrow. Her whole body was curved aboutthe child as he lay in her lap, and her adoring look was intent uponhim. Danny was smiling up at his mother in a blissful interval, hissoft little hand lying upon her contented heart.
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