“Of course, Mr. Dale, it is not for me to say all I think—not for me to say whose is the fault. But I must say I am surprised and disappointed—yes, and shocked—shocked, Mr. Dale, that Mrs. Batterly, a married woman, should proclaim herself a widow. When a woman will do that—why, what is one to think! I can’t abide duplicity. To my notion there is absolutely no excuse for that, Mr. Dale. And if she did not know her husband was alive—well, I have no words.”
I was sullen-hearted enough, God knows, and Mrs. Olds’ inane, arrogant drivel was like tinder on a blown fire. I was wild as an enraged bull who has the red scarf flaunted in his long suffering face. I thrust out my chin and I squared my shoulders, and I know my face must have grown ugly with my red-eyed anger.
If I had spoken then, I am sure Mrs. Olds could have guessed most accurately at the state of my heart with regard to Haidee. But just at that moment the cedar waxwing left its cage, circled about my head, and descended to settle in the crook of my arm. I straightened my arm, and it hopped to my outspread palm, looking up at me with pert, bright eyes. In that short space during which the bird poised there, I thought of a hundred poignant things to say to Mrs. Olds. But the bird flew away and I said not one of them.
After I had bidden good-bye to Mrs. Olds there was Wanza still to be reckoned with. I had just seen from my window the flurried departure of the nurse and her patient on the afternoon stage when I heard a tentative voice at my elbow, murmur: “Mr. Dale.”
I am sure there must have been a certain fierceness in my bearing as I wheeled about. But I was all unprepared for the fervid face that my lips almost brushed as I turned, the depth of emotion in the burningly blue eyes.
“Don’t!” she breathed, as I faced her. “Don’t, please!”
“Don’t what, child?” I articulated.
“Don’t look at me so sharp—so awful!” Her voice thinned, as if she were going to cry. Her brown, pleading hands came out to me. “I only want to say good-bye.”
As I still stood woodenly, looking at her, she moved back with a swift jerk of her slim body and put her hands behind her. Her face altered. It whitened, and she let her lids droop over eyes suddenly hot with resentment. Feeling like a brute I made haste to intercept the hands. I slipped my arms about her, caught the hands, and drew them around against my chest. I think I had never liked Wanza better than at that moment in her hurt pride, and womanliness.
“Dear Wanza,” I said, “my dear child—”