CHAPTER FOUR
On a fashionable street in Syracuse, Floyd Vandecar, district attorney of the city, lived in a new house, built to please the delicate fancies of his pretty wife. His career had been comet-like. Graduated from Cornell University and starting in law with his father, he had succeeded to a large practice when but a very young man. Then came the call for his force and strength to be used for the state, and, with a gratified smile, he accepted the votes of his constituents to act as district attorney. Then, as Lon Cronk had told, it came within the duty of the young lawyer to convict the thief of grand larceny committed three years before. After that Floyd married the lovely Fledra Martindale, and a year later his twin children were born—a sturdy boy and a tiny girl. The children were nearly a year old when Fledra Vandecar whispered another secret to her husband, and Vandecar, lover-like, had gathered his darling into his arms, as if to hold her against any harm that might come to her. This happened on the morning following the night when Silent Lon Cronk told the dark tale of suffering to his pals.
Just how Lon Cronk came to know the inner workings of the Vandecar household he never confided; but, biding his time, waited for the hour to come when the blow would be harder to bear. At last it fell, fell not only upon the brilliant district attorney, but upon his lovely wife and his hapless children.
One blustering night in March, Lem Crabbe's scow was tied at the locks near Syracuse. The day for the fulfilment of Lon Cronk's revenge had arrived. That afternoon Lon had come from Ithaca with his brother Eli to meet Lem.
"Be ye goin' to steal the kids tonight, Lon?" asked Lem.
"Yep, tonight."
"Why don't ye take just one? It'd make 'em sit up and note a bit to crib, say, the boy."
"We'll take 'em both," replied Lon decisively.
"And if we get caught?" stammered Crabbe.
"We don't get caught," assured Lon darkly, "'cause tonight's the time for 'em all to be busy 'bout the Vandecar house. I know, I do—no matter how!"
Wee Mildred Vandecar was ushered into the world during one of the worst March storms ever known in the western part of New York. As she lay snuggled in laces in her father's home, a tall man walked down a lane, four miles from Ithaca, with her sleeping sister in his arms. The dark baby head was covered by a ragged shawl; two tender, naked feet protruded from under a coarse skirt. Lon Cronk struggled on against the wind to a hut in the rocks, opened the door, and stepped inside.
A woman, not unlike him, in spite of added years, rose as he entered.
"So ye comed, Lon," she said.
"Course! Did Eli get here with the other brat?"
"Yep, there 'tis. And he's been squalling for the whole night and day. He wanted the other little 'un, I'm a thinkin'."
"Yep," answered Lon somberly, "and he wants his mammy, too. But, as I telled ye before, she's dead."
"Be ye reely goin' to live to hum, Lon?" queried the old woman eagerly.
"Yep. And ye'll get all ye want to eat if ye'lltake care of the kids. Be ye glad to have me stay to hum?"
"Yep, I'm glad," replied the mother, with a pathetic droop to her shriveled lips.
Just then the child on the cot turned over and sat up. The small, tear-stained face was creased with dirt and molasses. Bits of bread stuck between fingers that gouged into a pair of gray eyes flecked with brown. Noting strangers, he opened his lips and emitted a forlorn wail. The other baby, in the man's arms, lifted a bonny dark head with a jerk.
For several seconds the babies eyed each other. Two pairs of brown-shot eyes, alike in color and size, brightened, and a wide smile spread the four rosy lips.
"Flea! Flea!" murmured the baby on the bed; and "Flukey!" gurgled the infant in Lon's arms.
"There!" cried the old woman. "That's what he's been a cryin' for. Set him on the bed, Lon, for God's sake, so he'll keep his clack shet for a minute!"
The baby called "Flea" leaned over and rubbed the face of the baby called "Flukey," who touched the dimpled little hand with his. Then they both lay down on a rough, low cot in the squatter's home and forgot their baby troubles in sleep.
The kidnapping of the twins was discovered just after Fledra Vandecar had presented her husband with another daughter, a tiny human flower which the strong man took in his hands with tender thanksgiving. The three days that followed the disappearance of his children were eternal for Floyd Vandecar. The entire police force of the country had been called upon to help bring to him his lost treasures. So necessary was it for him to find them that he neither slept nor worked. He had had to tell the mother falsehood after falsehood tokeep her content. The children had suddenly become infected with a contagious disease, and the doctor had said that the new baby must not be exposed in any circumstances. After three long weeks of torture it devolved upon him to tell his wife that her children were gone.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his, "do you love and trust me very much indeed?"
The wondering blue eyes smiled upon him, and small fingers threaded his black hair.
"I not only love you, Dear, but trust you always. I don't want to seem obstinate and impatient, Floyd, but if I could see my babies just from the door I should be happy. And it won't hurt me. I haven't seen them in three whole weeks."
During the long, agonizing silence the young mother gathered something of his distress.
"Floyd, look at me!"
Slowly he lifted his white face and looked straight at her.
"Floyd, Floyd, you've tears in your eyes! I didn't mean to hurt you—"
She stopped speaking, and the pain in his heart reached hers.
"Floyd," she cried again, "is there anything the matter with—with—"
"Hush, Fledra darling, little wife, will you be brave for my sake and for the sake of—her?"
His eyes were still full of tears as he touched the bundle on the bed.
"But my babies!" moaned Mrs. Vandecar. "If there isn't anything the matter with my babies—"
"I want to speak to you about our children, Dear."
"They are dead?" Mrs. Vandecar asked dully. "My babies are dead?"
At first Vandecar could scarcely trust himself to speak; but, curbing his emotion with an effort, he answered, "No, no; but gone for a little while."
His arms were tightly about her, and time and again he pressed his lips to hers.
"Gone where?" she demanded.
"Fledra, you must not look that way! Listen to me, and I will tell you about it. I promise, Fledra. Don't, don't! You must not shake so! Please! Then you do not trust me to bring them back to you?"
His last appeal brought the tense arms more limply about his neck. She had believed him absolutely when he said they were not dead.
"Am I to have them tonight?"
"No, dear love."
"Where are they gone?"
"The cradles were empty after little Mildred—"
"They have been gone for—for three weeks!" she wailed. "Floyd, who took them? Were they kidnapped? Have you had any letters asking for money?"
Vandecar shook his head.
"And no one has come to the house? Tell me, Floyd! I can't bear it! Someone has taken my babies!"
She raised herself on her arm wildly, fever brightening the anguished eyes. The husband with bowed head remained praying for them and especially for her. Another cry from the wounded mother aroused him.
"Floyd, they have been taken for something besides money. Tell me, Dearest! Don't you know?"
Faithfully he told her that he could think of no human being who would deal him a blow like this; that he had thought his life over from beginning to end, but no new truth came out of his mental search.
"Then they want money! Oh, you will pay anythingthey demand! Floyd, will they torture my baby boy and girl? Will they?"
"Fledra, beloved heart," groaned Vandecar, "please don't struggle like that! You'll be very ill. I promised you that you should have them back some day soon, very soon. Fledra, sweet wife, you still have the baby and me—and Katherine."
"I want my little children! I want my boy and girl!" gasped Mrs. Vandecar. "I will have them, I will! No, I sha'n't lie down till I have them! I'm going to find them if you won't! I will not listen to you, Floyd, I won't ... I won't—"
Each time the words came forth they were followed by a moan which tore the man's heart as it had never been torn before. For a single instant he drew himself together, forced down the terrible emotion in his breast, and leaned over his wife.
"Fledra, Fledra, I command you to obey me! Lie down! I am going to bring you back your babies."
He had never spoken to her in such a tone of authority. She sank under it with parted lips and swift-coming breath.
"But I want my babies, Floyd!" she whispered. "How can I think of them out in the cold and the storm, perhaps being tortured—"
"Fledra, sweet love, precious little mother, am I not their father, and don't you trust me? Wait—wait a moment!"
He moved the babe from her mother's side, called the nurse, and in a low tone told her to keep the child until he should send for her. Then he slipped his arms about the wailing mother, lay down beside her, and drew her to his breast.
During the next few hours of darkness he watched her—watched her until the night gave way to a shadowydawn. And as she slept he still held her, praying tensely that he might be given power to keep his promise to her. When she started up he gathered her closer and hushed her to sleep as a mother does a suffering child. How gladly he would have borne her larger share, yet more gladly would he have convinced himself that by morning the children would be again under his roof!
At last Mrs. Vandecar awoke, calmer and with ready faith to acknowledge that she believed he would accomplish his task. At her own request, he brought their tiny baby.
"Will you see Katherine, too, Fledra," ventured Vandecar. "The poor child hasn't slept much, and she can't be persuaded to eat."
Misery, deep and pathetic, flashed in the blue eyes Mrs. Vandecar raised to his. At length she faltered:
"Floyd, I've never loved Katherine as I should. I'm sorry.... Yes, yes, I will see her—and you will bring me my babies!"
Vandecar stooped and kissed her; then, with a tightening of his throat, went out.
Five minutes later a small girl followed Mr. Vandecar in and stood beside the bed. Fledra Vandecar took the little girl-face in her hands and kissed it.
CHAPTER FIVE
The years went on, with the gap still left wide in the Vandecar household. As month after month passed and nothing was heard of her children, Mrs. Vandecar gradually gave up hope. Her despair left a shadow of pathetic pleading in her blue eyes. This constant silent appeal whitened Floyd Vandecar's hair and caused him to apply himself to business more assiduously than ever. Never once in all those bitter years did he connect Lon Cronk with the disappearance of his babies.
Meantime two sturdy children were growing to girlhood and boyhood in the Cronk hut on Cayuga Lake. So safely had the secret of the kidnapping been kept from Granny Cronk and the other squatters in the settlement that the twins were regarded by all as the son and daughter of the squatter.
The year following Flea's and Flukey's fourteenth birthday the boy was taken into his foster-father's trade of thieving. At first he was allowed only to enter the houses and deftly unbar the door for an easier egress for Eli Cronk and Lem Crabbe. Later he was commanded to snatch up anything of value he could. Many were the times he wept in boyish bitterness against the commands of Lon, revealing his sorrows to Flea, who listened moodily.
"I wouldn't steal nothin' if I was you," she said again and again. But Flukey one day silenced this reiteration by confiding to her that Pappy Lon had threatened to turn her to his trade if he rebelled.
One afternoon in late September, Flea left the hut and went out to the lake. Flukey, Lon Cronk, and Lem Crabbehad gone to Ithaca to buy groceries, and it was time for them to return. A chill wind swung the girl's skirt about her knees, and for some minutes she squatted on the beach, keeping her eyes upon the lighthouse in the distance.
For the last year Flea had been rapidly growing into a woman. Granny Cronk had proudly noted that the fair face had grown lovelier, that the ebony curls fell about her shoulders. The one dream the girl had had was a dream of long hair, ankle dresses, and girl's shoes. Until that year Lon had insisted that her hair be kept short, and had himself trimmed the ebony curls every month. Now, in the damp air, they twisted and turned in the wildest profusion. The coming of womanhood had thrown new light into the clear-gray, brown-flecked eyes. At this moment she was wondering what she and her brother would do if Granny Cronk died. She shivered as she thought of life in the hut without the protecting old woman.
Suddenly, from above the Lehigh Valley tracks, she heard the sound of horses' hoofs. Her attention taken from her meditations, she lifted her pensive gaze from the lake, wheeled about, and looked for the horseman. Flea knew that it was not a summer cottager; for many days before the last of them had taken his family to Ithaca. Perhaps some chance wayfarer had followed the wrong road. Just below the tracks she caught a glimpse of a black horse, and as it came nearer Flea noted the rider, a young man whose kindly dark eyes and white teeth dazzled her. His straight legs were incased in yellow boots, his fine form in a tightly fitting riding-coat. Flea had never seen just such a man, not even in the infrequent visits she made to Ithaca. Something in his smile, as he drew up his steed and looked down upon her, affected her with a curious thrill.
"Little girl, will you tell me if I am on the right road to Glenwood?"
Flea's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. His voice, cultivated and deep, made her forget for a moment the question he had asked her. Then she remembered; but instinctively she did not reply in her usual high squatter tones.
"Nope, ye got to go back, and turn to the right at the top of the hill. Ye can't go round the shore from here; the water's too high."
This impulsive desire to choose her words and to modulate her voice came from a sudden realization that there lived another class of people outside the squatter settlement of whom she knew little.
"Thank you very much," replied the questioner. "Now I understand that if I ride to the top of the hill and turn to the right, I'll reach Glenwood?"
"Yep," answered Flea.
Her embarrassment caused her lips to close over the one word. Wonderingly she watched the man ride away until the sight of his dark horse was lost in the trees above the tracks.
"It were a prince," she stammered in a low tone, "a real live prince!"
Flea contemplated the darkening hills with moody eyes. She counted slowly one by one the towers of the university buildings. This she did merely from habit; for the expression remained unchanged on her melancholy face. At length the gray eyes dropped to the water and fixed their gaze upon a fishing boat turning toward the shore. A few moments before it had been but a black speck near the lighthouse; but as it came nearer Flea distinctly saw the two men and the boy in it. Upon the bow of the boat was perched Snatchet, a yellow terrier, his short ears perked up with happiness at the prospect of supper. When the craft touched shore the girl rose and ran toward it. Almost in fear, she searched the face of the youth at the rudder with eyes so like his own that they seemed rather a reflection than another pair. She said no word until she took her position beside the boy on the shore, slipping her hand into his as she walked by his side toward the hut.
"Be ye back for the night, Flukey?" she asked.
"Nope."
"Where ye goin' after supper?"
"To Ithaca."
"Air ye leg a hurtin' ye much?"
"Yep."
"Granny Cronk says as how yer pains be rheumatiz. If ye stay in out of the night air, ye'll get well."
"Pappy Lon won't let me," sighed Flukey.
He sank down on the cabin threshold, and as he spoke drew a blue trouser leg slowly up.
"Damn knee!" he groaned. "It gets so twisted! And sometimes I can't walk."
"Be ye goin' to steal again tonight?" asked the girl, bending toward him.
"Yep, with Pappy Lon and Lem. I hate it all, I do!" he cried impetuously.
"What makes ye go? Take a lickin', an' I bet ye'll stay to hum. I would!"
With a spiteful shake of the black curls, she rubbed a bare toe over Snatchet's yellow back.
"I wish I was a boy," she went on. "While I hate stealin', I'd do it to have ye stay to hum, Flukey; then ye'd get well. And—"
She broke off abruptly and lowered her eyes to the shore, where Lem and Lon were in earnest conversation. At the same moment Lon looked up and shouted a command:
"Flea gal, Flea gal, come down here to me!"
Flea dropped the hand of her brother, moved directly to the water's edge, and stood quietly until Lon chose to speak.
Lem Crabbe's eyes devoured the slight young figure, his smile contorting the corners of his whiskered mouth. One hand rested on the bow of the boat, while the long, rusty hook, sharp at the point and thick ironed at the top, protruded from the other coat-sleeve.
At last Lon Cronk began to speak deliberately, and the girl gave him her attention.
"Flea, ye be a woman now, ain't ye?" he said "Ye be fifteen this comin' Saturday."
"Yep, Pappy Lon."
"And yer brother be fifteen on the same day, you bein' twins."
"Yep, Pappy Lon."
"Yer brother's been taken into my trade," proceeded the squatter, "and it ain't the wust in the world—that of takin' what ye want from them that have plenty. It's time for ye to be doin' somethin', too. Ye'll go to Lem's Scow, Flea."
"To Lem's scow?" exclaimed Flea. "That ain't no place for a kid, and nobody ain't a wantin' me, nuther! I know there ain't!"
"Ain't there nobody a wantin' her in yer scow, Lem Crabbe?" grinned Lon.
"Ye bet there be!" answered Lem, with an evil leer.
Flukey, who had approached the group, placed himself closer to his sister. "Who—who be wantin' Flea, Lem Crabbe?" he demanded.
"It's me, it's me!" replied Lem, wheeling savagely about.
LET ME—STAY A BIT—I'LL GO UP FOR TWICE MY TIME.LET ME—STAY A BIT—I'LL GO UP FOR TWICE MY TIME.
LET ME—STAY A BIT—I'LL GO UP FOR TWICE MY TIME.
For a short space of time nothing but the splash of the waves could be heard as they rolled white on the shore. A change passed over Flea, and she clutched fiercely at her brother's fingers. It was as if she had said, "Help me, Flukey, if ye can!" But she did not speak the words; only stared at the hook-armed man with strained eyes.
"Flea ain't no notion of goin' away right yet, Pappy Lon," burst out Flukey, catching his breath after the shock. "She's perferrin' to stay with us; and I'll work for her keep, if ye let her stay."
"Nope, I ain't no notion o' marryin'," repeated Flea, encouraged by her brother's insistence.
"Who said as how Lem wanted ye to marry him?" sneered Lon, eying her from head to foot. "Yer notions one way or nother ain't nothin' to me, my gal. Ye'll go with the man I choose for ye, and that's all there be to it!"
Dazed by his first words, she whispered, "I hate Lem Crabbe!"
As if by its own volition, the hook rose threateningly to within a short distance of the fair, appealing face. But it dropped again, as Lon repeated:
"That ain't nothin' to do with the thing, nuther, Flea. A man ain't a seekin' for a lovin' woman. He wants her to take care of his shanty and what he gets by hard work, he does, and he gives her victuals and drink for the doin' of it. That's enough for you, or for any gal what's a squatter."
So well did Flea realize the powerlessness of the rigid boy at her side to help her, that she dropped his hand and alone went nearer to the thief.
"Can't I stay with you and with Granny Cronk for another year? Can't I stay? Can't I, Pappy Lon?"
"Nope, I wouldn't keep ye in the shanty if ye had money for yer keeps. Ye go on a Saturday to Lem's boat to be his woman, ye see?"
The iron hook by this time was hanging loosely by Lem's side; but a cruel expression had gathered on the sullen face. A frown drew the crafty eyes together, bespeaking wrath at the girl's words.
That he would have her at the bidding of her father, Lem never doubted. During the last three years he had been resolved to take her home in due time to be his woman. To subdue the proud young spirit, to make her the mother of children like himself,—the boys destined to be thieves, and the girls squatter women,—was his one ambition. That he was old enough to be her father made no difference to him.
He was watching her as she stood in the darkening twilight, gloating over the thought that his vicious dreams were so near their fulfilment.
Flea was looking into the eyes of her father, and he looked back at her with an impudent smile.
"Ye don't like the thought of this comin' Saturday, Flea—eh?" he asked slowly. "But, as I said before, a gal hain't nothin' to do with the notions of her daddy. And Granny Cronk'll give ye a pork cake to take to Lem's, and he'll let ye eat it all to yerself. Eh, Lem?"
"Yep," grunted Lem. "She eats the pork cake if she will; but after that—"
Suddenly Lon silenced Lem's words with a wag of his head toward the girl. "Flea," he said, "I telled Lem as how ye'd kiss him tonight."
The words stunned the girl, they were so unexpected, so terrible. She turned her eyes upon Lem and fearfully studied his face. He was gazing back, his open lips showing his discolored, broken teeth. The coarse, red hair sprinkled with gray gave a fierce aspect to his whole appearance, and from the emotion through which he was passing the muscles under his chin worked to and fro. With a grin he advanced toward her. Flea fell backagainst Flukey. The boy steadied the trembling, slender body.
"I ain't a goin' to kiss ye," she muttered. "I hate yer kisses! I hate 'em!"
"Ye'll kiss him, jest the same!" ordered Lon.
Closer and closer Lem came toward the girl; then suddenly he sprang at her like a tiger, crushing the slim figure against his breast. For a moment Flea was encircled by his left arm. Then she turned fiercely to the ugly face so close to hers, and in another instant had bitten it through the cheek. He dropped her with a yelling oath, and Flea sprang back, turning flashing eyes upon Lon.
"That's how I kiss him afore I go to him," she screamed, "and worser and worser after he takes me!"
Lon laughed wickedly. He had not expected such a display of spirit. "I guess ye'll have to wait, Lem," he said; "fer—"
Flea did not hear the rest of the sentence; for she and Flukey were hurrying toward the hut.
Lem stood wiping the blood from his face. "The cussed spit-cat!" he hissed. "When I take her in hand—"
"When ye take her in hand, Lem," interrupted Lon darkly, "ye can do what ye like. Break her spirit! Break her neck, if ye want to! I don't care."
The children found Granny Cronk with bent shoulders and palsied hands toiling over the supper. About the withered neck hung a red handkerchief, and on top of the few gray whisps of hair rested a spotless cap. She grunted as the children entered the room like a whirlwind and climbed the long ladder to the loft, where for some time the low voice of Flukey and the sobs of Flea could be heard in the kitchen below.
It was not until her son had entered and hung his cap upon the peg that the old woman ventured to speak.
"Be Flea in a tantrum, Lon?"
"Yep, ye bet she be!"
"Have ye been a beatin' her?"
"Nope, I never teched her," replied the squatter; "but I will beat her, if she don't do what I tell her. No matter how she kicks ag'in' my notions, she has to do 'em, Granny!"
"Yep, I know that; but I asked ye what she was a blubberin' about."
"'Cause I says as how on Saturday she's got to go and be Lem's woman—that's what I says."
"Lem's woman! Do ye mean that she's got to go away?"
"Yep, with Lem Crabbe," replied Cronk; "he's to be her man on her next birthday. I bet he brings the kid to his likin'!"
"Lem's a bad man, Lon," replied Mrs. Cronk, "and ye be one, too, if ye be my own son, and Flea's your own flesh and blood, and I like her. It would be a good thing if ye let her stay to hum while I be a livin'; and I mean what I say, and I'm yer mammy, and that's the truth!"
"Mammy or no mammy," answered Cronk sullenly, "Flea goes to Lem, and ye makes her a pork cake, which she can hog down at one gulp, for all I care—the damn brat! I say it, and Lem says it. He'll dry her tears after she's left hum, I'm a guessin'!"
Seeing the futility of arguing the question, Mrs. Cronk placed the fish and beans on his plate and, with a shrill cry to Flea and Flukey, sat down to eat.
As he stumbled along the rocks to the scow, Lem Crabbe uttered dark threats against the girl who had bitten him. Her temper and the spontaneous deed that had marked his face did not lessen his longing to call her his woman, nor did it take the fever of desire from his veins. It hadstrengthened his passion to such a degree that he now determined to permit nothing to interfere with his plans. For at least three years he had lived on the promise of Lon Cronk that he should have the girl for weal or woe. Six months before he had offered Lon anything within his power to set the day of Flea's coming to him nearer; but the thief had shaken his head with the thought that Flea as a girl would not suffer through indignities as she would as a woman. He felt no remorse for the other girl that he had ruined so many years back; but he kept out of the way of the crazy woman who sometimes crossed his path.
Tonight Lem entered the living-room of his boat, muttering an oath that ended in a groan, dropped the basket on the table, and struck a match. He was touching it to the candle, when a sound in the corner startled him. He turned as he finished his task and saw the brilliant eyes of Scraggy's cat as the animal sat perched on the woman's shoulder. The presence of Screech Owl surprised him so that he did not move for a moment, and she spoke first:
"I hain't seed ye in such a long time, Lem, that I thought I'd come and let ye see my new kitty. He ain't but two years old."
Lem took a long breath. At first he thought that this must be Scraggy's wraith come to haunt him after some horrible lonely death. He had far rather deal with a living Scraggy than a dead one, and at once recovered his composure.
"I hain't sent for ye, have I?" he asked, hanging up his coat. "And if I ain't sent for ye, then ye needn't be sneakin' round."
"I've a lot to say to ye," sighed Scraggy mournfully, "and I thought as how the night was better than the day. It's dark now."
"Then ye'd better trot hum," put in Lem, "if ye don't want another beatin'."
"I ain't goin' to get no beatin' tonight," assured the woman, throwing one arm over the bristling cat, "'cause I comed to tell ye somethin'."
Lem turned on her sharply; for Scraggy seemed to speak sanely.
"The bats be gone from my brain, Lem, and I want to tell ye somethin' 'bout Flea—Flea Cronk—and to tell ye that I be hungry."
"What about Flea?" snapped Lem. "Ye're bein' hungry ain't nothin' to do with me. If ye got somethin' to tell me that I want to hear, lip it out, and then scoot; for I ain't no time to bother with ye. My time's precious, Scraggy—see?"
"Yep; but I ain't goin' to tell ye nothin' till ye give me somethin' to eat."
She cast ravenous eyes on the small bundles Lem was placing on the table.
"I'll give ye a piece of bread an' 'lasses," was the grudging answer. "And mind ye, I wouldn't do that but I want to hear what ye say 'bout Flea."
Avidly the woman ate the thick slice of bread and treacle, offering a bit now and then to the cat. When she had devoured it Lem spoke:
"Now wash it down with this here water and tell me yer tale—and if ye lie to me I'll kill ye!"
"I ain't a goin' to lie to ye—I'll tell ye the truth, I will!"
They both drank, the man from the bottle, the woman from a tin cup. Presently she asked:
"Be ye goin' to marry Flea Cronk?"
"Who's been carryin' tales to ye?" shouted Lem, bounding from his chair. "Ye better be a mindin' yerown affairs, or ye'll be havin' nothin' but bats in yer head till ye die. Scoot for hum! Ye hear?"
"Yep; but I ain't goin' jest yet. Ye want to hear 'bout Flea, don't ye?"
"Yep."
"Then set down an' I'll tell ye."
Lem, growling impatience, seated himself.
"Flea Cronk ain't for you, Lem!"
"Who said as how she ain't?" demanded Lem, starting up. The cat spat viciously, startled by the sudden movement. "I wish ye'd left that damn cat to hum! I hain't no notion to be bit by no cat."
"Kitty won't bite ye if ye let me alone—will ye, Kitty? I ain't never afeard of nothin' when I got him with me—be I, Kitty, pretty pussy?"
"Stop a cooin', ye bughouse woman," snarled Crabbe, "and tell me what ye got to!"
"I said Flea wasn't for you."
"Ye lie!"
He made a desperate move toward her; but the cat rose threateningly, its hair standing on end in a mound upon the humped back. Lem fell away with an oath, and Scraggy, smiling wanly, petted the vicious brute.
"I said ye was to keep away, Lem. Wait till I get done. Flea's got to be some 'un else's, not yers."
"Who's?" Lem's voice rose; but he did not advance toward her.
"I dunno; but I seed him. He rides a black horse, and has a fine, big body and wears yeller boots. This afternoon when the day was darkenin' I saw him from the railroad bed, and I saw Flea's spirit a travelin' with him. I know that ye cared for her this long time back; but ye can't have her."
"Who be the feller?" demanded Lem, frowning.
"I said I didn't know, and I don't."
"Were Flea with him?"
"Nope; not in her body, but jest in her spirit."
"Rats! Scoot along with ye, and take yer cat and get out!"
Scraggy had not noticed the blood oozing from Lem's, cheek until she had received her dismissal. She passed a long, red, bare arm about the animal and asked:
"Who bit yer cheek, Lem?"
"Who says it were bit?"
"I say it. I see white teeth a goin' in it. And I see red lips ag'in' it with deadly hate."
Lem glanced forbiddingly at the woman. "The bats be a comin' again," he muttered, "and there ain't no tellin' what she'll do. If it wasn't for that blasted cat, I'd chuck her in the lake!"
But he dared not carry out his threat; for Scraggy was muttering to herself, the cat rebuffing her rough handling.
In another minute she rose and made toward the steps. Her eyes fell upon Lem, and sanity flashed back into them.
"I gived the boy to the woman—with golden hair," she stammered, as if some power were forcing the words from her. "Ye would have killed him. Yer kid be a livin', Lem!"
Truth rang in her statement, and the man got to his feet abruptly. He had almost forgotten the black-haired little boy. Only when Scraggy's name was mentioned to him did he remember. But the woman's words awoke a new feeling in his heart, and mentally he counted back the years to the date of his son's birth. Scraggy was still looking at him in bewilderment, scarcely realizing that her story had been told to the enemy of her child. She battled with a desire to blurt out the whole truth; but the man's next words silenced her.
"Who be the golden-haired woman, Scraggy?" he wheedled.
"What woman—what golden-haired woman?"
"The woman who has our brat."
Like lightning a sudden joy filled Scraggy's heart. Her benumbed love for Lem Crabbe grew mighty in a moment and rushed over her. His words were softly spoken with an old-time inflection. She sank down with a cry. She was so near him that the cat rose and spat venomously. Lem's curses brought Scraggy out of her dreams.
"Chuck that damn cat to the bank," ordered Lem, "if ye want to stay with me! Do ye hear? Chuck him out!"
"Nope, I ain't a goin' to! I'm goin' hum."
"Not till ye tell me where the boy is. Didn't ye throw him in the river?"
"Nope."
"What did ye do with him?"
"Gived him away."
"Ye lie! That winder was open, and the river was dark as hell. Ye throwed him in, I tell ye!"
"Nope; I gived him to a woman—"
She stopped and edged toward the stairs, all her old fear of him returning. Reaching the short flight, she bounded up, the cat clinging to her sleeve. Lem did not follow; for the crazy woman had frightened him. He stood with hushed breath, holding grimly to the wooden table. A voice from the deck of the scow came down to him.
"I gived him to a rich woman on a yacht. He's rich with mints of money. Yer kid's a gentleman, Lem Crabbe!"
He sprang after her to the deck; but nothing greeted him save the cry of an owl from the ragged rocks and the glistening green of the cat's eyes as Scraggy hurried away.
CHAPTER SIX
After eating his supper, Lon, sullen and moody, looked out upon the lake, reviewing in his mind the terrible revenge he was soon to complete. He took his pipe slowly from his pocket and filled it with coarse tobacco. Soon gray rings lifted themselves to the ceiling and faded into the rafters. As the smoke curled upward, his mind became busy with the past, and so vivid was his imagination that outlined in the smoke rings that floated about him was a girlish face—a face pale and wan, but a loving, sweet one to him. He could see the fair curls which clung close to the head; the eyes, serious but kind, seemed to strike his memory in unforgotten glances. To another than himself the smoke-formed face would have been plain, perhaps ugly, the weakness of her race showing in every feature; but not to him. So intent was he with these thoughts that the present dissolved completely into the past, and beside him stood a small, fond woman. In his imagination she had risen from that grave which he had never been able to find in the Potter's Field. The personality of his dead wife called upon his senses and made itself as necessary to him then as in the moment of his first rapture when she had placed her womanly might upon his soul.
His revenge upon Floyd Vandecar would be finished when the gray-eyed Flea, so like her own father, went away with the one-armed man, to eke out her destiny amid the squalor of the thief's home.
For months he had been enthralled with the satisfaction of the last act in the one terrible drama of his life; forit had played with his rude fancy as a tigress does with her prey, inflaming his hatred and keeping alive his desire for retaliation. Flukey was a good thief, although obeying him at the end of the lash, and Flea would receive her portion of hate's penalty on her fifteenth birthday.
Cronk did not heed the pitter-patter of his mother's feet as she cleared the table, nor did he hear the droning of the twin's voices in the loft above. He was thinking of how the dead woman with her child—his child, the one small atom he would have loved better than himself—would be well avenged when Flea went away with Lem.
Lon had kept track of the doings of the young district attorney. He knew that he had gone to the gubernatorial chair but the year before. The squatter smiled gloomily as he remembered the words of a newspaper friendly to Vandecar, in which he had read that Syracuse was full of painful memories for the new governor, and that Floyd Vandecar had taken his family down the Hudson, to make another home at Tarrytown, where Harold Brimbecomb, a youthful friend, resided. Another expression of dark gratification flitted over Lon's heavy features as he reviewed again the purport of the article. It had plainly said that in the new home there would be fewer visions of a lost boy and girl to haunt the afflicted parents. Lon realized in his savage heart that the change of scene would not lessen the grief of the stricken family. It was his one satisfaction to brood over the bereaved father and mother, delighting in his part of the tragedy and enjoying every evidence of it. Never for a moment did he think gently of the children, but only of the woman sacrificed. On this night she stood so close that, with a groan, he put out his hand. His flesh tingled; for he felt that he could almost touch her, and his heart clamored for the warmth of the tender body he had never forgotten.
"God!" he moaned between his teeth, "if I could tech her once, jest for once, I'd let Flea stay to hum!"
"Did ye speak, Lon?" asked Granny Cronk.
"Nope; I were only a thinkin'."
"Have ye changed yer mind 'bout Flea?"
"Nope, Mammy, and ye keep yer mouth shet if ye want me to stay to hum! See?"
Granny Cronk grunted a reply, and passed into the back room. Five minutes later the rope cot creaked under her weight.
Wrapped in his somber musings, Lon did not hear Flea approach him until she was at his elbow. With her coming, the sweet phantom, to which he grimly held in his moments of solitude, fled back to its unknown grave. Never had his loved one been so near, so real; never before had she touched his writhing nature in all its primeval strength. The girl before him was so like the man who had withstood his agony that he clenched his fist and rose from his chair. Flea was looking at him in mute appeal; but before she could speak he had lifted his fist and brought it down upon the lovely, beseeching face. The blow stunned her; but only a smothered moan fell from her lips.
"I hate ye!" growled Lon. "Get back to the loft afore I kill ye!"
Slowly Flea was regaining her senses, and the squatter's curses struck her ears like a whiplash. Bitter, scalding tears blinded her as, holding her thin skirt to her bleeding nose, she stumbled up the ladder. With anger unappeased, Lon, staggering like one drunken, took his cap from the peg and went out.
When Lon called Flukey, Flea followed her brother into the night, while he arranged the thief's tools in the boat. There was a dull roar and rush of the wind, as it tossedthe lake into gigantic whitecaps, which added to the girl's suffering. Her young soul was smarting beneath the scathing injustice. As she watched Lem and Lon pull away, with Flukey at the rudder, Flea squatted on the beach, bent her head, and wept long and wildly.
A gentle, sympathetic touch of a warm tongue made her put out her arms and draw Snatchet into them. It comforted her to feel the faithful heart beating against her own. That Lon disliked to have her and Flukey about him, she knew; but she had not known until today that he hated her. He had never before told her so. Flea caught her breath in a gasp, and turned her eyes to a rift in a rock where the scow lay. Only a dark line distinguished it in the shadows. At the thought that it was to be forced upon her for a home, she cried again, and Snatchet, from his haven of rest, lifted his pointed yellow nose and wailed dismally, striving with all his dog's soul to assuage her unusual grief.
The distant sound of a hoot-owl startled Flea from her tears. It was a familiar sound to her and came as a call from a friend.
Creeping into the low woodshed, Flea took up a bundle of fagots from the corner, and, closing the door on Snatchet that he might not follow her, mounted the hill with the wood under her arm. Once at the top of the lane, she opened her lips and echoed the hoot. She passed through a thicket of sumac into a clearing where a number of sheep were huddled together in the cold night air. An answer came back almost instantly from the ragged rocks, and, squatting in a hollow, Flea sat patiently until the branches broke below her. A woman with tangled hair came creeping cautiously forward.
"Who be there?" she whispered.
"It's Flea, Screech Owl. Be the bats a runnin' in yer head?"
"Yep, child," the woman answered mournfully. "The fagots be given out, too, and I'm a huntin' of 'em. The night's cold."
"I was lookin' for ye this afternoon, Screechy," said Flea. "Set down."
The lean, half-starved woman dropped beside the girl. Flea put out her hand and smoothed down the rough hair on Scraggy's black cat. The animal, usually so vicious, purred in delight, rubbing his nose against the girl's hand.
"Air the little Flea wantin' the owl to tell her somethin'?"
"Yep," replied Flea doubtfully.
"And ye brought yer old Screechy a little present?"
"Yep."
"What?"
"Some fagots to keep ye warm, Screechy."
"Where be they?"
"Here by my side."
"Ye be a good Flea," cackled Screechy. "Be ye in trouble?"
"Yep. So be Flukey. Can ye tell me anything 'bout Flukey?"
The woman frowned. "Flukey, Flukey, yer brother," she repeated. "I ain't a likin' boys, 'cause they throw stones at me."
"Flukey never throwed no stones at ye, Screechy, an' he's unhappy now. He'll bring ye a lot more fagots sometime to heat yer bones by."
"Aye, I'm a needin' heat. My bones be stiff, and my blood's nothin' but water, and my eyes ain't seein' nothin'."
"Don't they see things in the dark," asked the girl, superstitiously, "ghosts and things?"
"Aye, Flea; and the things I see now I'll tell ye if they be good or bad—mind ye, good or bad!"
"Good or bad," repeated Flea.
At length, after a silence, the girl broke forth. "Air Flukey in yer eyes, Screechy?"
"Yep, Flea, and so be you; but there ain't much for ye, savin' that ye go a long journey lookin' for a good land."
Bending her head nearer, Flea coaxed, "What good land, Screechy dear?"
"Yer's and Flukey's, Flea."
"Where air it?"
"Down behind the college hill, many a stretch for yer short legs from the squatter's settlement, and many a day when bread's short and water's plenty, many a night when the cold'll bite yer legs, and many a tear—"
"Be we leavin' Pappy Lon?" demanded the girl.
"Yep."
"Forever and forever?"
"For Flukey, yep; but for yerself—"
Flea stared in speechless wonder and fright. "I don't want to stay without Flukey!" she cried.
"I ain't a tellin' ye what ye want to do; only how the shadders run. But that's a weary day off. The good land be yers and Flukey's for the seekin' of it."
"Air Flukey goin' to be catched a thievin'?"
"Yep, some day."
"With Pappy Lon?"
"Nope, with yerself, Flea."
"I ain't no thief," replied Flea sulkily. "I ain't never took nothin', not so much as a chicken! And Flukey wouldn't nuther if Pappy Lon didn't make him."
From behind Screech Owl's shrouding gray hair two black eyes glittered.
"The good land, the good land!" whispered the madwoman. "It be all comin' for yerself and Flukey."