I took her hand with shame and contrition. I reached home utterly miserable. Had Haidee changed or had I changed? What had come over us? The spontaneity and warmth had seeped from our friendship. There seemed to be a shadow between us that each was futile to lift.
I said to myself that when I heard from my novel—if the word was favorable—I should go to her—I could at least tell her of my hopes for the future—I could lay my love at her feet. All should be made plain; the cloud should be dispersed.
And so the weeks went past.
CHAPTER XXIII
WHEN CHRISTMAS CAME
ONE day close on to Christmas, Wanza was tried for the murder of Randall Batterly, and after a record-breaking trial that lasted but five hours, acquitted. The verdict said that Randall Batterly was killed by the accidental discharge of a revolver dropped by his own hand.
In the twilight of that strange day I drove Wanza to her home, where old Grif Lyttle awaited her. It was a gray twilight, the snow was drifted into gleaming heaps on either side of the road, the river crawled darkly along between its fleecy banks. We found no words to say at first, but when I heard a sob in Wanza’s throat I turned and put my arm across her shoulders.
“There, there, Wanza!” I whispered, soothingly.
She wept quietly. Presently she said, between smiles and tears:
“It will soon be Christmas. I will try to give father a good Christmas, Mr. Dale.”
“There, there, Wanza,” I said, again.