In an angle of the wood the dust-covered policeman and the white-capped man came upon the racer, turned a little from the road, and waiting their arrival. It had a stolid, helpless look—with its nose buried deep in underbrush and the hind wheels tilted a little in air. Once might almost fancy it gave a little, subdued hiccough, as they approached.
The white-capped man bent above it and ran a quick hand along the side, and leaped to the vacant seat. The beast beneath gave a little snort and withdrew its nose and pranced playfully at the underbrush and backed away, feeling for firm ground behind. The man at the wheel pressed hard, leaning—with quick jerk—and wheels gripped ground and trundled in the road. It stopped beside the service car and the two men gazed doubtfully at the wood. Dusty leaves trembled at them in the light air, and beckoned to them—little twigs laced across and shut them out. Anywhere in the dark coolness of the wood, the Greek lurked, hiding away. They could not trace him—and the wood reached far into the dusk. He was undoubtedly armed. Only a desperate man would have made a dash like that—for life. Better go back to town for reinforcements and send the word of his escape along the line. He would not get far—on foot! They gave another glance at the wood and loosed their cars to the road, gliding smoothly off. The wood behind them, under its cover of dust, gave no sign of watching eyes; and the sun, travelling toward the west, cast their long, clean shadows ahead as they went. In the low light, the little, white house in the distance had a rosy, moody look. As they drew nearer, little pink details flashed out. An old man behind the picket fence looked up, and straightened himself, and gazed—under a shading hand. Then he came along the driveway and stood in the white gate, waiting their approach. He had a red, guileless face and white hair. The face held a look of childish interest as they drew up. “You got him?” he asked.
The service man shook his head, jerking his thumb at the racer that came behind. “Got the car,” he said. “He got off—took to the woods.”
“That so?” The old man came out to the road and looked with curious eyes at the big racing-machine coming up. “What’d he do?” he asked.
“He stole my machine,” said the white-capped man quickly. He was holding the wheel with a careful touch.
The old man looked at him with shrewd, smiling eyes—chewing at some invisible cud. The service man nodded to him, “There’ll be a reward out for him, Jimmie—keep a watch out. You may have a chance at it. He’s hiding somewhere over there.” He motioned toward the distant wood.
The old man turned a slow eye toward the west. “I don’t own no telescope,” he said quaintly. He shifted the cud a little, and gazed at the plain around them—far as the eye could see, it stretched on every side. Only the little, white house stood comfortably in its midst—open to the eye of heaven. It was a rambling, one story and a half house, with no windows above the ground floor—except at the rear, where one window, under a small peak, faced the north. Beyond the house, in that direction, lay lines of market garden—and beyond the garden the wide plain. Two men, at work in the garden, hoed with long, easy strokes that lengthened in the slanting light. The service man looked at them with casual eye. “Got good help this year?” he asked.
The old man faced about, and his eye regarded them mildly. “Putty good,” he said, “they’re my sister’s boys. She died this last year—along in April—and they come on to help. Yes, they work putty good.”
“They drove in ahead of us, didn’t they?” asked the service man, with sudden thought.
The old man smiled drily. “Didn’t know’s you see ’em. You were so occupied. Yes—they’d been in to sell the early potatoes. I’ve got a putty good crop this year—early potatoes. They went in to make a price on ’em. We’ll get seventy-five if we take ’em in to-morrow—and they asked what to do—and I told ’em they better dig.” He chuckled slowly.
The service man smiled. “You keep ’em moving, don’t you, Jimmie!” He glanced at the house. “Any trade? Got a license this year?”
The old man shook his head. “Bone dry,” he said, chewing slowly. “Them cars knockedmeout!” He came and stood by the racer, running his hand along it with childish touch.
The service man watched him with detached smile. The old man’s silly shrewdness amused him. He suspected him of a cask or two in the cellar. In the days of bicycles the old man had driven a lively trade; but with the long-reaching cars, his business dribbled away, and he had slipped back from whiskey to potatoes. He was a little disgruntled at events, and would talk socialism by the hour to anyone who would listen. But he was a harmless old soul. The service man glanced at the sun. It had dipped suddenly, and the plain grew dusky black. The distant figures hoeing against the plain were lost to sight. “Hallo!” said the service man quickly, “we must get on—” He looked again, shrewdly, toward the old man in the dusk. “You couldn’t find a drop of anything, handy—to give away—Jimmie?” he suggested.
The old man tottered a slow smile at him and moved toward the house. He came back with a long-necked bottle grasped tight, and a couple of glasses that he filled in the dimness.
The service man held up his glass with quick gesture—“Here’s to you, Jimmie!” he said, throwing back his head. “May you live long, and prosper!” He gulped it down.
The old man’s toothless smile received the empty glasses; and when the two machines had trundled away in the dimness, it stood looking after them—the deep smile of guileless, crafty old age—that suffers and waits—and clutches its morsel at last and fastens on it—without joy, and without shame.
The two figures amid the rows of the marked garden paused, in the enveloping dusk, and leaned on their hoes, and listened—a low, peevish whistle, like the call of a night-jar, on the plain, came to them. Presently the call repeated itself—three wavering notes—and they shouldered their hoes and moved toward the little house.
The old man emerged from the gloom, coming toward them. “What was it?” asked one of the figures quickly.
The old man chuckled. “Stole a racer—that’s about alltheyknew—yougot off easy!” He was peering toward them.
The larger of the two figures straightened itself. “I am sick of it—I tell you!—my back’s broke!” He moved himself in the dusk, stretching out his great arms and looking about him vaguely.
The old man eyed him shrewdly. “You’re earning a good pile,” he said.
“Yes, one-seventy-five a day!” The man laughed a little.
The other man had not spoken. He slipped forward through the dusk. “Supper ready?” he asked.
They followed him into the house, stopping in an entry to wash their hands and remove their heavy shoes. Through the door opening to a room beyond, a woman could be seen, moving briskly, and the smell of cooking floated out. They sniffed at it hungrily.
The woman came to the door. “Hurry up, boys—everything’s done to death!”
They came in hastily, with half-dried hands, and she looked at them—a laugh in her round, keen face. “Youhavehad a day!” she said. She was tall and angular, and her face had a sudden roundness—a kind of motherly, Dutch doll, set on its high, lean frame. Her body moved in soft jerks.
She heaped up the plates with quick hands, and watched the men while they ate. For a time no one spoke. The old man went to the cellar and brought up a great mug of beer, and they filled their pipes and sat smoking and sipping the beer stolidly. The windows were open to the air and the shades were up. Any one passing on the long road, over the plain, might look in on them. The woman toasted a piece of bread and moistened it with a little milk and put it, with a glass of milk, on a small tray. The men’s eyes followed her, indifferent. They watched her lift the tray and carry it to a door at the back of the room, and disappear.
They smoked on in silence.
The old man reached out for his glass. He lifted it. “Two weeks—and three more days,” he said. He sipped the beer slowly.
The larger of the two men nodded. He had dark, regular features and reddish hair. He looked heavy and tired. He opened his lips vaguely.
“Don’t talk here!” said the younger man sharply—and he gave a quick glance at the room—as a weasel returns to cover, in a narrow place.
The big man smiled. “I wa’n’t going to say anything.”
“Better not!” said the other. He cleared his pipe with his little finger. “Idon’t even think,” he added softly.
The woman had come back with the tray and the men looked up, smoking.
She set the tray down by the sink and came over to them, standing with both hands on her high hips. She regarded them gravely and glanced at the tray. The milk and toast were untouched.
The old man removed his pipe and looked at her plaintively. “Can’t yemakeher, Lena?” he said. His high voice had a shrill note.
She shook her head. “Ican’t do anything—not anything more.”
She moved away and began to gather up the dishes from the table, clearing it with swift jerks. She paused a moment and leaned over—the platter in her hand half-lifted from its place. “She needs the air,” she said, “and to run about—she’s sick—shut up like that!” She lifted the platter and carried it to the sink, a troubled look in her eyes. “I won’t be responsible for her—not much longer,” she said slowly, as she set it down, “not if she doesn’t get down in the air.”
The men looked at each other in silence. The old man got up. “Time to go to bed—” he said slowly.
They filed out of the room. The woman’s eyes followed them. Presently the door opened and the younger man returned, with soft, quick steps. He looked at her. “I want to talk,” he said.
“In a minute,” she replied. She nodded toward the cellar. “The lantern’s down there—you go along.”
He opened the door and stepped cautiously into blackness, and she heard a quick, scratching match on the plaster behind the closed door, and his feet descending the stairs.
She drew forward the kettle on the stove and replenished the fire, and blew out the hand lamp on the table. Then she groped her way to the cellar door, opening it with noiseless touch.
The young man waited below, impatient. On a huge barrel near by, the lantern cast a yellow circle on the blackness.
The woman approached it, her high-stepping figure flung in shadowy movement along the wall behind her.
“You can’t back outnow!” He spoke quickly. “You’re weakening! And you’ve got to brace up—do you hear?”
The woman’s round face smiled—over the light on the barrel. “I’mall right,” she said. She hesitated a minute.... “It’s the child that’s not all right,” she added slowly. “And tonight I got scared—yes—” She waited a breath.
“What’s the matter?” he said roughly.
She waited again. “She wasn’t like flesh and blood to-night,” she said slowly. “I felt as if a breath would blow her out—” She drew her hand quickly across her eyes. “I’ve got fond of the little thing, John—I can’t seem to have her hurt!”
“Who’s hurting her?” said the man sharply. “Youtake care of her—and she’s all right.”
“I can’t, John. She needs the outdoors. She’s like a little bird up there—shut up!”
“Then let her out—” said the man savagely. “Let her out—up there!” His lifted hand pointed to the plain about them—in open scorn. He leaned forward and spoke more persuasively, close to her ear—“We can’t back out now—” he said, “the child knows too much!” He gave the barrel beside them a significant tap. “We couldn’t usethisplant again—six years—digging it—and waiting and starving!” He struck the barrel sharply. “I tell you we’vegotto put it through! You keep her out of sight!”
“Her own mother wouldn’t know her—” said the woman slowly.
He met the look—and waited.
“I tell you, I’ve done everything,” she said with quick passion. “I’ve fed her and amused her and told her stories—I don’tdarekeep her any longer!” She touched the barrel beside them—“I tell you, you might as well put her under that.... You’ll put her under for good—if you don’t look out!” she said significantly.
“All right,” said the man sullenly, “what do you want?”
She was smiling again—the round, keen smile, on its high frame. “Let her breathe a bit—like a child—and run out in the sun. The sun will cure her!” she added quickly.
“All right—if you take the risk—a hundred-thousand-dollars—and your own daughter thrown to the devil—if we lose—!... You knowthat!”
“I know that, John—I want the money—more than you want it!” She spoke with quick, fierce loyalty. “I’d give my life for Mollie—or to keep her straight—but I can’t kill a child to keep her straight—notthischild—to keep her straight!” Her queer, round face worked, against the yellow light.
He looked at it, half contemptuously, and turned to the barrel.
“See if everything’s all right,” he said. “If we’re going to take risks—we’ve got to be ready.”
The woman lifted the lantern, and he pushed against the barrel. It yielded to his weight—the upper part turning slowly on a pivot. Something inside swashed against the sides as it turned. The man bent over the hole and peered in. He stepped down cautiously, feeling with his foot and disappearing, inch by inch, into the opening. The woman held the light above him, looking down with quick, tense eyes... a hand reached up to her, out of the hole, beckoning for the lantern and she knelt down, guiding it toward the waving fingers. A sound of something creaking—a hinge half turned—caught her breath—and she leaned forward, blowing at the lantern. She got quickly to her feet and groped for the swinging barrel, turning it swiftly over the hole—the liquid chugged softly against its side—and stopped. Her breath listened up into the darkness. The door above creaked again softly—and a shuffling foot groped at the stair. “You down there—Lena?” called an old voice.
She laughed out softly, moving toward the stair. “Go to bed, father.”
“What you doing down there?” asked the old voice in the darkness.
“Testing the barrel,” said the woman. “John’s gone down.” She came to the foot of the stair. “You go to bed, father—”
“Youbetter come to bed—all of ye,” grumbled the old man.
“We’re coming—in a minute.” She heard his hand fumble at the door—and it creaked again—softly—and closed.
She groped her way back to the barrel, waiting beside it in the darkness.
When the man’s head reappeared, he came up briskly.
“All right?” she asked.
“All right,” he responded.
“Did you test the other end?”
“Right enough—” said the man. “Safe as a church! The water barrel in the garden stuck a little—but I eased it up—” He looked back into the hole, as he stepped out. “Too bad we had to takeherdown,” he said regretfully.
“The policemight’a’ stopped,” said the woman. “You couldn’t tell.”
They swung the barrel in place, and blew out the lantern, and the man ascended the stair. After a few minutes the woman came up. The kitchen was empty. The fire burning briskly cast a line of light beneath the hearth, and on the top of the stove the kettle hummed quietly. She lighted a lamp and lifted the kettle, filling her dishpan with soft steam.... Any one peering in at the open window would have seen only a tall woman, with high shoulders, bending above her cloud of steam and washing dishes, with a quiet, round face absorbed in thought.
When she had finished at the sink and tidied the room, she took the lamp and went into the small hall at the rear, and mounted the steep stairs. At the top she paused and fitted a key and entered a low room. She put down the lamp and crossed to the door on the other side—and listened. The sound of low breathing came lightly to her, and her face relaxed. She came back to the bureau, looking down thoughtfully at the coarse towel that covered it, and the brush and comb and tray of matches. There was nothing else on the bureau. But on a little bracket at the side the picture of a young girl, with loose, full lips and bright eyes, looked out from a great halo of pompadour—with the half-wistful look of youth. The mother’s eyes returned to the picture and her keen face softened.... She must save Mollie—and the child in the next room—she must save them both.... She listened to the child again, breathing beyond the open door. She looked again at the picture, with hungry eyes. Her own child—her Mollie—had never had a chance—she had loved gay things—and there was no money—always hard work and wet feet and rough, pushing cars.... No wonder she had gone wrong! But she would come back now. There would be money enough—and they would go away—together. Twenty-five thousand dollars. She looked long at the pitiful, weak, pictured face and blew out the light and crept into bed.... And in the next room the child’s even breathing came and went... and, at intervals, across it in the darkness, another sound—the woman’s quick, indrawn breath that could not rest.
In the morning the woman was up with the first light. And as the men came grumbling in to breakfast, the round face wore its placid smile. They joked her and ate hastily and departed for the open field. It was part of a steady policy—to be always in the open, busy, hard-working men who could not afford to lose an hour. The excursion had been a quick, restless revolt—against weeks of weeding and planting and digging.... But they had had their lesson. They were not likely to stir from their strip of market garden on the plain—not till the time was up.
As the woman went about her work, she listened, and stopped and went to the door—for some sound from upstairs. Presently she went up and opened the door... and looked in.
The child lay with one hand thrown above her head—a drawn look in the softly arched brow and half-parted lips. The woman bent over her, listening—and placed her hand on the small wrist and counted—waiting. The eyes flashed open—and looked at her. “I thought you were Nono,” said the child. A wistful look filled her face and her lip quivered a little—out of it—and steadied itself. “You are Mrs. Seabury,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” said the woman cheerfully. “Time to get up, dearie.” She turned away and busied herself with the clothes hanging from their hooks.
The child’s eyes followed her—dully. “I don’t think I care to get up,” she said at last.
The woman brought the clothes and placed them by the bed, and smiled down at her. “There’s something nice to-day,” she said casually. “We’re going outdoors to-day—”
“CanI?” said the child. She flashed a smile and sat up. “CanIgo out-of-doors?” It was a little cry of waiting—and the woman’s hand dashed across her eyes—at the keenness of it. Then she smiled—the round, assuring smile, and held up the clothes. “You hurry up and dress and eat your breakfast,” she said, “—a good, big breakfast—and we are going—out in the sun—you and me.” She nodded cheerfully and went out.
The child put one foot over the edge of the bed and looked down at it—a little wistfully—and placed the other beside it. They were very dark, little feet—a queer, brown colour—and the legs above them, were the same curious brown—and the small straight back—as she stepped from the bed and slipped off her nightgown and bent above the clothes on the chair. The colour ran up to her throat—around it, and over the whole sunny face and hands and arms—a strange, eclipsing, brown disguise. There had been a quick, sharp plan to take her abroad and they prepared her hastily against risks on board the steamer. The plan had been abandoned as too dangerous. But the colour clung to the soft skin; and the hair, cropped close to the neck, had a stubby, uncouth look. No one seeking Betty Harris, would have looked twice at the queer, little, brownie-like creature, dressing itself with careful haste. It lifted a plaid dress from the chair—large squares of red and green plaid—and looked at it with raised brows and dropped it over the cropped head. The skirt came to the top of the rough shoes on the small feet. Betty Harris looked down at the skirt—and smoothed it a little... and dropped on her knees beside the bed—the red and green plaids sweeping around her—and said the little prayer that Miss Stone had taught her to say at home.
She came down the stairs with slow feet, pausing a little on each stair, as if to taste the pleasure that was coming to her.She was going out-of-doors—under the sky!
She pushed open the door at the foot and looked into the small hall—she had been here before. They had hurried her through—into the kitchen, and down to the cellar. They had stayed there a long time—hours and hours—and Mrs. Seabury had held her on her lap and told her stories.
She stepped down the last step into the hall. The outside door at the end was open and through it she could see the men at work in the garden—and the warm, shimmering air. She looked, with eager lip, and took a step forward—and remembered—and turned toward the kitchen. Mrs. Seabury had said she must have breakfast first—a good, big breakfast—and then.... She opened the door and looked in. The woman was standing by the stove. She looked up with a swift glance and nodded to her. “That’s right, dearie. Your breakfast is all ready—you come in and eat it.” She drew up a chair to the table and brought a glass of milk and tucked the napkin under her brown chin, watching her with keen, motherly eyes, while she ate.
“That’s a good girl!” she said. She took the empty plate and carried it to the sink. “Now you wait till I’ve washed these—and then—!” She nodded toward the open window.
The child slipped down and came over to her and stood beside her while she worked, her eyes full of little, wistful hope. “I’ve most forgot about out-of-doors,” she said.
“Oh, you remember it all right. It’s just the same it always was,” said the woman practically. “Now I’ll stir up some meal and we’ll go feed the chicks. I’ve got ten of ’em—little ones.” She mixed the yellow meal and stirred it briskly, and took down her sun-bonnet—and looked at the child dubiously. “You haven’t any hat,” she said.
The child’s hand lifted to the rough cropped hair. “I did have a hat—with red cherries on it,” she suggested.
The woman turned away brusquely. “That’s gone—with your other things—I’ll have to tie a handkerchief on you.”
She brought a big, coloured kerchief—red with blue spots on it—and bound it over the rough hair—and stood back and looked at it, and reached out her hand. “It won’t do,” she said thoughtfully. The small face, outlined in the smooth folds, had looked suddenly and strangely refined. The woman took off the handkerchief and roughened the hair with careful hand.
The child waited patiently. “I don’t need a hat, do I?” she said politely.
The woman looked at her again and took up the dish of meal. “You’re all right,” she said, “we shan’t stay long.”
“I shouldliketo stay a long,longtime!” said Betty.
The woman smiled. “You’re going out every day, you know.”
“Yes.” The child skipped a little in the clumsy shoes, and they passed into the sunshine.
The woman looked about her with practical eyes. In the long rows of the garden the men were at work. But up and down the dusty road—across the plain—no one was in sight, and she stepped briskly toward an open shed, rapping the spoon a little against the side of the basin she carried, and clucking gently.
The child beside her moved slowly—looking up at the sky, as if half afraid. She seemed to move with alien feet under the sky. Then a handful of yellow, downy balls darted from the shed, skittering toward them, and she fell to her knees, reaching out her hands to them and crooning softly. “The dear things!” she said swiftly.
The woman smiled, and moved toward the shed, tapping on the side of her pan—and the yellow brood wheeled with the sound, on twinkling legs and swift, stubby wings.
The child’s eyes devoured them. “They belong to you, don’t they?” she cried softly. “They’re yourown—your very own chickens!” Her laugh crept over them and her eyes glowed. “See the little one, Mrs. Seabury! Justseehim run!” She had dropped to her knees again—breathless—beside the board where they pushed and pecked and gobbled the little, wet lumps of the meal, and darted their shiny black bills at the board.
The woman handed her the pan. “You can feed them if you want to,” she said.
The child took the basin, with shining eyes, and the woman moved away. She examined the slatted box—where the mother hen ran to and fro, with clucking wings—and gave her some fresh water and looked in the row of nests along the side of the shed, and took out a handful of eggs, carrying them in wide-spread, careful fingers.
The child, squatting by the board, was looking about her with happy eyes. She’d almost forgotten the prisoned room up stairs and the long lonesome days. The woman came over to her, smiling. “I’ve found seven,” she said. The child’s eyes rested on them. Then they flitted to the sunshine outside.... A yellow butterfly was fluttering in the light—across the opening of the shed. It lighted on a beam and opened slow wings, and the child’s eyes laughed softly... she moved tiptoe... “I saw abeautifulbutterfly once!” she said. But the woman did not hear. She had passed out of the shed—around the corner—and was looking after the chickens outside—her voice clucking to them lightly. The child moved toward the butterfly, absorbed in shining thought. “It was abeautifulbutterfly—” she said softly, “in a Greek shop.” The wings of the butterfly rose and circled vaguely and passed behind her, and she wheeled about, peering up into the dark shed. She saw the yellow wings—up there—poise themselves, and wait a minute—and sail toward the light outside.... But she did not turn to follow its flight—Across the brown boards of the shed—behind a pile of lumber, against the wall up there—a head had lifted itself and was looking at her. She caught her breath—“I saw a butterfly once!” she repeated dully. It was half a sob—The head laid a long, dark finger on its lip and sank from sight.... The child wheeled toward the open light—the woman was coming in, her hands filled with eggs. “I must carry these in,” she said briskly. She looked at the child. “You can stay and play a little while—if you want to. But you must not go away, you know.”
“I will not go away,” said the child, breathless.
So the woman turned and left her—and the child’s eyes followed her.
“Can you hear me, little Miss Harris?” The voice came from the dusky shed, high up against the wall.
But the child did not turn her head. “Yes—Mr. Achilles—I can hear you very well,” she said softly.
“Don’t look this way,” said the voice. “Get down and look at the chickens—and listen to what I tell you.”
The child dropped obediently to her knees, her head a little bent, her face toward the open light outside.
The woman, going about her work in the kitchen, looked out and saw her and nodded to her kindly—
The child’s lips made a little smile in return. They were very pale.
“I come to take you home,” said the voice. It was full of tenderness and Betty Harris bent her head, a great wave of homesickness sweeping across her.
“I can’t go, Mr. Achilles.” It was like a sob. “I can’t go. They will kill you. I heard them. They will killanybody—that comes—!” She spoke in swift little whispers—and waited. “Can you hear me say it?” she asked. “Can you hear me say it, Mr. Achilles?”
“I hear it—yes.” The voice of Achilles laughed a little. “They will not kill—little lady, and you go home—with me—to-night.” The voice dropped down from its high place and comforted her.
She reached out little hands to the chickens and laughed tremulously. “I am afraid,” she said softly, “I am afraid!”
But the low voice, up in the dusk, steadied her and gave her swift commands—and repeated them—till she crept from the dim shed into the light and stood up—blinking a little—and looked about her—and laughed happily.
And the woman came to the door and smiled at her. “You must come in,” she called.
“Yes—Mrs. Seabury—” The child darted back into the shed and gathered up the spoon and basin from the board and looked about her swiftly. In the slatted box, the mother hen clucked drowsily, and wise cheeps from beneath her wings answered bravely. The child glanced at the box, and up at the dusky boards of the shed, peering far in the dimness. But there was no one—not even a voice—just the high, tumbled pile of boards—and the few nests along the wall and the mother hen clucking cosily behind her slats—and the wise little cheeps.
The child lay with her hands clasped, breathing lightly. The sound of voices came drowsily from the kitchen... she must not go to sleep! She sat up and leaned toward the little window that looked out to the north. Through the blackness the stars twinkled mistily, and she put her foot carefully over the edge of the bed and slipped down. The window was open—as far as the small sash allowed—and a warm, faint breeze came across the plain to her. She leaned against the sill, looking out. It was not far to the ground.... But she could see only vague blackness down there, and she looked again up to the twinkling stars.... They were little points of light up there, and she looked up trustfully while the warm wind blew against her. Her heart was beating very hard—and fast—but she was not afraid.... Mr. Achilles had said—not to be afraid—and he was waiting—down there in the blackness to take her home. She crept back to bed and lay down—very still. In the room below there was a scraping of chairs and louder words—and footsteps.... Someone had opened the door under her window and the smell of tobacco came up. Her little nose disdained it—and listened, alert. Footsteps went out into the night and moved a little away on the gravel and came back, and the door closed. She could hear the bolt click to its place and the footsteps shuffle along the hall. The voices below had ceased and the house was still—she was very sleepy now. But he had said—Mr. Achilles had said.... She winked briskly and gave herself a little pinch under the clothes—and sat up. It was a sharp little pinch—through many thicknesses of clothes. Under the coarse nightgown buttoned carefully to the throat, she was still wearing the red and green plaids and all her day clothes. Only the clumsy shoes, slipped off, stood by the bed, waiting for her. Her hand reached down to them cautiously, and felt them—and she lay down and closed her eyes. There was a step on the stairs—coming slowly. Betty Harris grew very still. If Mrs. Seabury came in and stood and looked at her... she must cry out—and throw her arms around her neck—and tell hereverything! She could not hurt Mrs. Seabury.... Mr. Achilles had said they would not hurt her. She had asked him that—three times, herself—and Mr. Achilles had said it—no one should hurt Mrs. Seabury—if Betty went away.... She held her breath.... The footsteps had come across the room—to her door—they waited there... then they moved on—and she drew a free breath. Her heart thumped to the vague movements that came and went in the next room—they pottered about a little, and finally ceased and a light, indrawn breath blew out the lamp—a hand was groping for the handle of her door—and opening it softly—and the bare feet moved away. The bed-springs in the next room creaked a little and everything was still. Betty Harris had a quick sense of pain. Mrs. Seabury was kind to her! She had been so kind that first day, when they brought her in out of the hot sun, and she had stumbled on the stairs and sobbed out—Mrs. Seabury had picked her up and carried her up the stairs and comforted her... and told her what it meant—these strange harsh men seizing her in the open sunshine, as they swept past—covering her mouth with hard hands and hurrying her out of the city to this stifling place. She loved Mrs. Seabury. Perhaps they would put her in prison... andneverlet her out—and Mollie would not get well. The child gave a little, quick sob, in her thought, and lay very still. Mollie had been good once, and wicked men had hurt her... and now her mother could not help her.... But Mr. Achilles said—yes—he said it—no one should hurt her.... And with the thought of the Greek she lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the night.... There was a long, light call somewhere across the plain, a train of heavy Pullmans pushing through the night—the sound came to the child like a whiff of breath, and passed away... and the crickets chirped—high and shrill. In the next room, the breathing grew loud, and louder, in long, even beats. Mrs. Seabury was asleep! Betty Harris sat up in bed, her little hands clinched fast at her side. Then she lay down again—and waited... and the breathing in the next room grew loud, and regular, and full.... Mrs. Seabury was very tired! And Betty Harris listened, and slipped down from the bed, and groped for her shoes—and lifted them like a breath—and stepped high across the floor, in the dim room. It was a slow flight... tuned to the long-drawn, falling breath of the sleeper—that did not break by a note—not even when the brown hand released the latch and a little, sharp click fell on the air.... “Wake up, Mrs. Seabury! Wake up—for Mollie’s sake—wake up!” the latch said. But the sleeper did not stir—only the long, regular, dream-filled, droning sleep. And the child crept down the stair—across the kitchen and reached the other door. She was not afraid now—one more door! The men would not hear her—they were asleep—Mrs. Seabury was asleep—and her fingers turned the key softly and groped to the bolt above—and pushed at it—hard—and fell back—and groped for it again—and tugged... little beads of sweat were coming on the brown forehead. She drew the back of her hand swiftly across them and reached again to the bolt. It was too high—she could reach it—but not to push. She felt for a chair, in the darkness—and lifted it, without a sound, and carried it to the door and climbed up. There was a great lump in her throat now. Mr. Achilles did not know the bolt would stick like this—she gave a fierce, soft tug, like a sob—and it slid back. The knob turned and the door opened and she was in the night.... For a moment her eyes groped with the blackness. Then a long, quiet hand reached out to her—and closed upon her—and she gave a little sob, and was drawn swiftly into the night.
“Is that you, Mr. Achilles?” she asked—into the dark.
And the voice of Achilles laughed down to her. “I’m here—yes. It’s me. We must hurry now—fast. Come!”
He gripped the small hand in his and they sped out of the driveway, toward the long road. Up above them the little stars blinked down, and the warm wind touched their faces as they went. The soft darkness shut them in. There was only the child, clinging to Achilles’s great hand and hurrying through the night. Far in the distance, a dull, sullen glow lit the sky—the city’s glow—and Betty’s home, out there beneath it, in the dark. But the child did not know. She would not have known which way the city lay—but for Achilles’s guiding hand. She clung fast to that—and they sped on.
By and by he ran a little, reaching down to her—and his spirit touched hers and she ran without fatigue beside him, with little breathless laughs—“I—like—to run!” she said.
“Yes—come—” He hurried her faster over the road—he would not spare her now. He held her life in his hand—and the little children—he saw them, asleep in their dreams, over there in the glow.... “Come!” he said. And they ran fast.
It was the first half hour he feared. If there was no pursuit, over the dark road behind them, then he would spare her—but not now. “Come!” he urged, and they flew faster.
And behind them the little house lay asleep—under its stars—no sign of life when his swift-flashing glance sought it out—and the heart of Achilles stretched to the miles and laughed with them and leaped out upon them, far ahead.... He should bring her home safe.
Then, upon the night, came a sound—faint-stirring wings—a long-drawn buzz and rush of air—deep notes that gripped the ground, far off—and the pulse of pounding wheels—behind them, along the dark road.... And Achilles seized the child by the shoulder, bearing her forward toward the short grass—his quick-running hand thrusting her down—“Lie still!” he whispered. The lights of the car had gleamed out, swaying a little in the distance, as he threw his coat across her and pressed it flat. “Lie still!” he whispered again, and was back in the road, his hand feeling for the great banana knife that rested in his shirt—his eye searching the road behind. There was time—yes—and he turned about and swung into the long, stretching pace that covers the miles—without hurry, without rest. The roar behind him grew, and flashed to light—and swept by—and his eye caught the face of the chauffeur, as it flew, leaning intently on the night; and in the lighted car behind him, flashed a face—a man’s face, outlined against the glass, a high, white face fixed upon a printed page—some magnate, travelling at his ease, sleepless... thundering past in the night—unconscious of the Greek, plodding in the roadside dust.
Achilles knew that he had only to lift his hand—to cry out to them, as they sped, and they would turn with leaping wheel. There was not a man, hurrying about his own affairs, who would not gladly stop to gather up the child that was lost. Word had come to Philip Harris—east and west—endless offers of help. But the great car thundered by and Achilles’s glance followed it, sweeping with it—on toward the city and the dull glow of sky. He was breathing hard as he went, and he plunged on a step—two steps—ten—before he held his pace; then he drew a deep, free breath, and faced about. The knife dropped back in his breast, and his hand sought the revolver in his hip pocket, crowding it down a little. He had been sure he could face them—two of them—three—as many as might be. But the car had swept on, bearing its strangers to the city... and the little house on the plain was still asleep. He had a kind of happy superstition that he was to save the child single-handed. He had not trusted the police... with their great, foolish fingers. They could not save his little girl. She had needed Achilles—and he had held the thread of silken cobweb—and traced it bit by bit to the place where they had hidden her. He should save her!
He glanced at the stars—an hour gone—and the long road to tramp. He ran swiftly to the child in the grass and lifted the coat and she leaped up, laughing—as if it were a game; and they swung out into the road again, walking with swift, even steps. “Are you tired?” asked Achilles. But she shook her head.
His hand in his pocket, in the darkness, had felt something and he pressed it toward her—“Eat that,” he said, “you will be hungry.”
She took it daintily, and felt of it, and turned it over. “What is it?” she asked. Then she set her small teeth in it—and laughed out. “It’s chocolate,” she exclaimed happily. She held it up, “Will you have a bite, Mr. Achilles?”
But Achilles had drawn out another bit of tin-foil and opened it. “I have yet more,” he said, “—two—three—six piece. I put here in my pocket, every day—I carry chocolate—till I find you. Every day I say, ’she be hungry, maybe—then she like chocolate’—”
She nibbled it in happy little nibbles, as they walked. “I didn’t eat any supper,” she said. “I was too happy—and too afraid, I guess. That was a long time ago,” she added, after a minute.
“A long time ago,” said Achilles cheerfully. He had taken her hand again, and they trudged on under the stars.
“Nobody must hurt Mrs. Seabury!” said the child suddenly.
“I tell you that,” said Achilles—he had half stopped on the road. “Nobody hurt that good lady—she, your friend.”
“Yes, she is my friend. She was good to me....Shehad a little girl once—like me—and some bad men hurt her.... I don’t think they stole her—” She pondered it a minute—“I don’t seem to understand—” she gave a little swift sigh. “But Mrs. Seabury is going to take her a long, long way off—and keep her always.”
Achilles nodded. “We help her do that,” he said. “They don’t hurt that good lady.”
His eyes were on the stars, and he lifted his face a little, breathing in the freshness. A swift star shot across the sky, falling to earth, and he pointed with eager finger. The child looked up and caught the falling flash, and they ran a little, as if to follow the leaping of their hearts. Then they went more slowly, and Achilles’s long finger traced the heavens for her—the Greek gods up there in their swinging orbits... the warm, August night of the world. Betty Harris had never known the stars like this. Safe from her window, she had seen them twinkle out. But here they swept about her—and the plain reached wide—and close, in the darkness, a hand held her safe and the long finger of Achilles touched the stars and drew them down for her... Orion there, marching with his mighty belt—and Mars red-gleaming. The long, white plume of the milky way, trailing soft glory on the sky—and the great bear to the north. The names filled her ears with a mighty din, Calliope, Venus, Uranus, Mercury, Mars—and the shining hosts of heaven passed by. Far beyond them, mysterious other worlds gleamed and glimmered—without name. And the heart of the child reached to them—and travelled through the vast arches of space, with her dusty little feet on the wide plain, and a hand holding hers, safe and warm down there in the darkness. Her eyes dropped from the stars and she trudged on.
When Achilles spoke again, he was telling her of Alcibiades and Yaxis and of the long days of waiting and the happiness their coming would bring—and of her father and mother, asleep at Idlewood—and the great house on the lake, ready always, night and day, for her coming—
“Do they know—?” she asked quickly, “that we are coming?”
“Nobody knows,” said Achilles, “except you and me.”
She laughed out, under the stars, and stood still. “We shall surprise them!” she said.
“Yes—come!” They pressed on. Far ahead, foolish little stars had glimmered out—close to the ground—the fingers of the city, stretching toward the plain.
Her glance ran to them. “We’re getting somewhere—?” she said swiftly. “We’re getting home!” Her hand squeezed his, swinging it a little.
“Not yet—” said Achilles, “not yet—but we shall take the car there. You need not walk any more.”
She was very quiet and he leaned toward her anxiously. “You are not tired?” he asked.
“No—Mr. Achilles—I don’t think—I’m tired—” She held the words slowly. “I just thought we’d go on forever, walking like this—” She looked up and swept her small hand toward the stars. “I thought it was a dream—” she said softly—“Like the other dreams!” He felt a little, quick throb run through her, and he bent again and his fingers touched her cheek.
“I am not crying, Mr. Achilles,” she said firmly, “I only just—” There was a little, choking sound and her face had buried itself in his sleeve.
And Achilles bent to her with tender gesture. Then he lifted his head and listened. There was another sound, on the plain, mingling with the sobs that swept across the child’s frame.
He touched her quietly. “Someone is coming,” he said.
She lifted her face, holding her breath with quick lip.
The sound creaked to them, and muffled itself, and spread across the plain, and came again in irregular rhythm that grew to the slow beat of hoofs coming upon the road.
Achilles listened back to the sound and waited a minute. Then he covered the child, as before, with his coat and turned back, walking along the road to meet the sound. It creaked toward him and loomed through the light of the stars—a great market wagon loaded with produce—the driver leaning forward on the seat with loose rein, half asleep. Suddenly he lifted his head and tightened rein, peering forward through the dark at the figure down there in the road. Achilles held his way.
“Hello!” said the man sharply.
Achilles paused and looked up—one hand resting lightly on his hip, turned a little back—the other thrust in his breast.
The man’s eyes scanned him through the dimness. “Where you bound for?” he asked curtly.
“I walk,” said Achilles.
“Want a job?” asked the man.
“You got job for me?” asked Achilles. His voice had all the guileless caution of the foreigner astray in a free land. The man moved along on the seat. “Jump up,” he said.
Achilles looked back and forth along the road. “I think I go long,” he said slowly.
The man gave an impatient sound in his throat and clicked to the horses. The heavy wagon creaked into motion, and caught its rhythm and rumbled on.
Achilles’s ears followed it with deepest caution. The creaking mass of sound had passed the flat-spread coat without stop, and gathered itself away into a slow rumble, and passed on in the blurring dark.
Beyond it, the little, low lights still twinkled and the suburb waited with its trailing cars.
But when he lifted the coat she had fallen asleep, her face resting on her arm, and he bent to it tenderly, and listened.