CHAPTER XX
A sense of embarrassment accompanied Dominie Graves to the breakfast table the next morning after the triumphant victory of Augusta Hall. He made no remark upon the disagreeable episode of the previous night, and ate silently amid the chatter of Babe and the monosyllabic answers of her mother. Teola to break the strain spoke of the sleigh-ride and dance coming off that evening.
"I fear it will be too cold," objected Mrs. Graves, in her fretful, weary voice.
"I can wrap up warmly," argued Teola. "All the girls in town are going and Dan will take care of me. We are going in separate sleighs to Slaterville. I'm going, mother, and that's all there is to it."
"It seems to me that you are growing rather friendly with that young Jordan, Teola," her father said. "He's been here every night for a week, hasn't he?"
Teola muttered sullenly that she wasn't the only girl in town who had callers, and looked pleadingly to Frederick for aid. The young student flashed her a smile.
"Teola will be perfectly safe to-night, father," he exclaimed.
"Are you going?"
"No," answered Frederick, "but sister would be no safer if I were. I have implicit confidencs in Dan Jordan and the country roads are perfect.... By theway, Dan would like to take a class of boys in the Sunday School. I told him to see you about it."
The mollified minister finished his meal without further comment.
The sleigh-ride was a thing of the past. That it had brought disaster to Teola Graves showed in the tired eyes as they rested on the sky, gray with the coming morning. She had stolen silently into the house, reaching her chamber without disturbing either father or mother. At the window she halted. Here and there a star sparkled, dying dim in the advancing sky. Teola's eyes rested upon the street below for several minutes, then dragged her gaze upward and beyond—beyond to the long road that led to the yard of the dead which stretched over the hillside, rearing its monuments among the leafless trees, like sentinels over sleeping soldiers. There was something alluring, something compelling to the pale girl, watching the birth of her first real day of living. The University frowned down upon the graveyard; in its turn the graveyard frowned menacingly upon the town. A snow-bird peeped a "good-morning" to its mate in the Rectory eaves. A bell pealed out twice, striking the air with its sonorous sound reverberating into the hills. And still the girl stood waiting for—she knew not what.
Yesterday girlhood offered Teola Graves happy hours of peaceful meditation—to-day, the new day brought the woman its ceaseless silent agony of regret and remorse, strong forces of which she had known nothing.
If Dan were only glad that she loved him, if he loved her in return. Suddenly tears welled into the dark eyes;Teola Graves hid her face from the new world of painful joy—and forgot in sleep.
Teola's next hour with her lover was the most embarrassing one of her life. Dan took her hands in silence, and the seriousness of his face bespoke his heart pain.
"Sweetheart, is there anything in all the world that I can say to you to make you love me more—precious, precious little darling!"
"Only say that you do love me, Dan," breathed Teola, "and—and—"
"Don't turn your eyes away from me, sweetheart—love you, Teola? I'll study so hard, dearest, and when I finish college we'll get married, and go away and have a home of our own. Teola, forgive me and have faith in me! Will you, sweet?"
"Yes," murmured the trembling lips—and Teola buried her flushed face upon the broad breast of Dan Jordan and was happy.
Frederick Graves had been made president of the freshman class, a short time after entering the "Cranium" fraternity. He was considered by most of his fellow students a serious, earnest worker and had been taken many times into consultation with the upper classmen concerning plans for the development of the society.
In past years at the end of every January, the freshmen had held a banquet in the opera-house of the city. This event called forth practical jokes of all descriptions upon the first-year men from the sophomores and seniors, giving many anxious and worried moments to the younger students over the outcome of the oneimportant event of the year. It had also been the custom to try to capture the president of the freshman class and hold him in seclusion until after the banquet, thereby making his opening speech impossible. The dread that they should lose their leader became more and more apparent among the banquet holders as the days advanced, and extensive plans had been made to protect Frederick Graves from his class enemies. For one whole month previous he had not been allowed to walk alone about the town, and it had been ordered that he should sleep at the fraternity house instead of at the Rectory, in order that the young president might be guarded against any surprise concocted by the sophomores.
One evening at the Cranium Society several freshmen were seated in the billiard-room.
"It's a great note," muttered Shorty Brown, "that we have to wait on those big lubbers of sophomores and seniors. I'd as soon die as to run down the hill after their letters."
"You might as well go, Shorts," put in Spuddy Preston; "you'll only get yourself disliked if you don't, and you'll be made to go in the end. The blessing of it all is that they did the same thing in their turn."
He took a slow measure of the distance between himself and the cuspidor, and shot a piece of gum into it.
"It doesn't make it any pleasanter," put in Swipes Dillon. "Just think of me, I haven't had a cent to spend on myself for weeks. Manchester's capacity for smoke is enormous. I wish I had knocked his head clean off his neck."
He looked gloomily out of the window as he muttered this, but instantly brightened as he finished:
"But I can stand almost anything if they don't get hold of Graves. That would spoil our fun altogether."
He unbent the small round body drawn up in a woful-looking ball, sitting up to hear what the others had to say.
"Just let them take him!" growled Shorty Brown. "We will make it warm for those sophs, but they're such sneaks that we can't put a moment's trust in them. Why don't you say something, Captain?"
"Nothing to say, Boy," replied Jordan musingly, "only that we must do all we can to shield Frederick. If they once get him we won't see him until after the banquet. I fear, too, they might hurt him, for he would be sure to put up a fight."
"So would I," boasted Spuddy. "You bet I would."
Swipes broke into a ringing laugh.
"You'd make a nice fighter, Spud," he chuckled; "you're not bigger than a minute with fifty seconds in it. Gosh, I wish something would happen. I'm tired sitting about doing nothing."
His words came to Dan Jordan through a dim maze of tangled thoughts. During all his short, happy life anxiety had never been his companion until now. It strangled his class ardor and made conscientious study impossible. Teola Graves' tearful, pain-stricken face rose constantly before him. His own eyes darkened at the thought. Oh, to go back to the toffy pull—to live over again those last few weeks—how different it all would be, and how repentant he was. He sighed and shook his great shoulders and rose to his feet.
"I wonder where Graves is now," he exclaimed. "I met Armstrong and Howe coming up the hill last night,talking with their heads close together. I noticed that they stopped suddenly when I came upon them."
The blood had crept accusingly into his face as he spoke Frederick's name. Never for one moment in the presence of Teola's brother had he forgotten—how could he ever forget! But he did love Teola Graves madly and wished with all his soul that he were through college. He had hoped that in the excitement of the banquet his remorse would be quieted a little, but his conscience lashed him so constantly with self-reproach that it seemed imperative for him to give up his studies, marry Teola, and take her away.
"Let's all go down town," cried Swipes in a loud tone with a side wink at Spuddy, "and get boiling drunk. If something doesn't happen—"
"Lordy," groaned Spuddy, "Swipes is always wanting something to happen. I bet it will before long. What you wish for you'll get, old horse! Don't forget that."
Spuddy went on tapping the window, staring out into the gloom.
"We'd better go down town and look for Graves and see that he is all right," said Dan. "That will be enough for you kids to do now. It's your evening anyway to guard him."
The four freshmen walked down the hill together. Dan separated from the three at the Ithaca Hotel with the injunction that they should keep their eyes open for the young president, guarding him while the other night watchers were having a play spell.
On the next corner Dan Jordan ran into Frederick with two of his own classmates.
"You fellows can go now," exclaimed Dan to Frederick's companions; "Brown, Preston and Dillon are just up there on the next corner, to protect Graves while you fellows go to supper. How are things going now, Frederick?"
A sinking sensation attacked his heart as he asked this question, and he remembered afterwards that he had expected Frederick to impart ill news to him. The fear had come from his over-burdened conscience.
"Everything is all right, but Teola wants to see you. Could you go down for a little while?"
Dan nodded and turned with a happier heart toward the Rectory, leaving Frederick looking for "Spuddy," "Shorts," and "Swipes."
CHAPTER XXI
Three hours afterwards the three little freshmen walked zig-zaggedly, arm in arm, up the long hill toward the University Campus.
Shorts had a shaky grasp of one arm of Dillon, and Spuddy the other. On through the cold night they dragged him, until they reached the broad white carriage way that led to the fraternity house. Here Swipes stumbled, loosening himself from the grasp of his companions.
"Well, ju—just look at him," growled Spuddy in a disgusted tone; "he ought to freeze stiff. Look how his le—legs wab—wabble! They lo—look like four—four—"
"Shut up, Spud," cried Shorts. "He's only got—got two legs. What the mat—matter with you?... You're as drunk as he is. Don't let him drop on those stones!"
"I ain't drunk," retorted Preston. "What's the mat—matter with you, yourself? I bet I can ge—get into—that—that fraternity without any of the fe—fellows seeing me!"
"I don't believe you will," returned Shorts in a more sober manner. "Look there, Spud, the whole house is alight. I say—Swipes—Swipes, it's after midnight, and the fraternity is all lighted up."
"I—I—I don't care if it is," grunted Swipes ina low, thick voice. "I—I want to go to bed. Tha—that's what I want to do."
He sank into a stupor again but the boys dragged him to his feet.
"Do you want Jordan and Graves to see you like this, Swipes?" demanded Shorts stopping in the center of the carriage drive. "If you don't—you take a mighty quick sneak up the back stairs, and—"
The sentence was never finished for the door opened and Dan Jordan's big form loomed up before their dazed eyes.
"Is that you, Shorts?" called Dan.
"Yes."
"Where have you been for the last three hours?"
"Down there," mumbled Shorts in a smothered tone, desiring to hide their plight if possible.
"For the love of all that's good, Shorts," groaned Spuddy, "let me get into the house and change my clothes.... There goes Swipes again in the snow. Get up, fool, here's the 'Captain.'"
"To—to the devil with the 'Captain,'" muttered Swipes.
But Dan's next sentence completely awoke the senses of all save Swipes. He only grasped it dimly through the cobwebs of his drunken brain.
"Where's Graves?" demanded Jordan, coming to the top step.
The silence that followed was as grim as the falling snow. Spuddy and Shorts were dragging the limp Swipes up the long steps.
"Graves?... We haven't seen him," interjected Shorty Brown, and Dan Jordan answered gravely:
"Then the sophomores have captured him, that's a certainty! He hasn't been here, and he hasn't been to the Rectory."
Shorts, now thoroughly sober, followed the big freshman into the drawing-room, where a dozen or more downcast-looking boys were curled up on divans. Swipes was being urged up the broad oak stairs, Spuddy now and then giving him a severe poke in the ribs. Preston perched the hapless boy against his chamber door with the injunction to get to bed the best he could. Swipes turned helplessly to his room-mate.
"Look here, Spuddy, help a fellow, will you? Just give me my pyjamas."
"Get them yourself!" retorted Preston, shoving Dillon into his bed-chamber. "It's a nice mess we're in with the 'Parson' gone."
With a disgusted kick at Swipes he left him reeling desperately once more. Dillon swayed forward from the center of the room toward the doorway. He had heard as in a dream Spuddy's parting shot about fellows getting drunk and forgetting how to act. Suddenly the floor rose up and hit him on the nose, but the polished boards, so bright that he could see his face in them, fell back politely, leaving Swipes standing, looking helplessly about him. Every piece of furniture, bed, bureau, table and chairs, flew around and around him in the wildest disorder.
His eyes reeled after them, in their flight through the room. Around and around past the bed to the door—once Swipes thought they would fly through. Bracing himself to catch the flying bed, he came up with a bang against the beveled mirror which broke andsplintered under his weight. He was lying in the ruins when some one came and put him to bed.
The regret of the little freshman the next morning when the dismal news of the missing president came to him was intensely genuine. They told him that the whole town had been searched, but that Graves had disappeared as completely as if he were no longer on the earth.
When Dan Jordan left Frederick Graves on the corner of Ithaca's main street, the young president began to search for his three classmates. Shorts and the other two must be somewhere near for Dan had told him so. He turned to the left, walking toward "Jay's" resort, where with his knowledge of the three little freshmen's habits, he would probably find them. It was a nuisance to be followed about and guarded as if he were a criminal, yet he would go through anything rather than be absent from the banquet.
Suddenly he felt a bag thrown over his head and he was dragged completely off his feet. Then with much force he was shoved into a carriage, a heavy hand held over his mouth. He heard a pair of horses whipped into rapid motion. Frederick could not imagine in which direction he was being driven, for the constant turning of corners made it seem to the smothered boy that they were tearing around in a circle.
Suddenly the vehicle came to a sharp standstill. During the ride his ankles and wrists had been tightly corded, and no sooner had the carriage halted than several pairs of hands carried him swiftly up a flight of stairs into a house and along a carpetless hall.
When the cloth was removed from his head, Frederickwas in the presence of two sophomores, Mathew Armstrong and Paul Howe.
"Hard luck," said Armstrong, looking at Frederick with a grin.
"Rather," he replied, glancing about. "But what can't be cured must be endured. If I am to stay here, I hope I am to be fed."
"Not with banquet cake, Freddy," laughed Howe; "you'll have plain bread—until after the banquet. Now just give us your coat and vest, old chap, and your collar and tie."
Frederick's ready obedience made Armstrong exclaim jovially:
"That's the right attitude, isn't it, Howe? No one would think to look at you, Graves, that you were so docile. You knew what you were saying when you said, 'what couldn't be cured must be endured,' and I say, 'all's fair in love and war,' so you stay here until after that grand supper."
Without answering, Frederick turned his eyes gloomily about his prison. The room was almost bare. In one corner was a bed, in another a cot with some blankets upon it. A long window ran nearly to the floor, minus a blind on one side while on the other a green shutter hung by one hinge, making a creaking noise as the wind swung it back and forth. Frederick reasoned that the window faced the street for he could hear crunching footsteps in the hard snow as pedestrians passed.
A wagon rolled squeakingly by and all was quiet.
In the night Frederick endeavored to plan his escape. He believed the house to be within the city limits, but during the long, dark drive he had lost all sense of direction.Through the flickering of the smoky lamp he saw Armstrong with a revolver in his hand, watching him intently. So the darkness passed and the daylight came in at the window, throwing long slant rays upon the dusty floor and lighting the faded paper on the wall.
CHAPTER XXII
Dominie Graves had a consultation with Dan Jordan over the disappearance of his son, and then climbed the University hill to Professor Young's office.
"I feel sure that Frederick has not been harmed," said Graves after greeting the professor, but there was question in his voice.
An expression of deep concern spread over Young's face.
"I heartily hope not," responded he, "for I know of no finer young man in the University."
"I think the boy would put up a great fight if he had a chance," resumed the minister, "but with a lot of fellows against him one chap can't do much. I hardly know what to think. There seems to be nothing to do but to await his return. Young Jordan said last night that they had searched every place where it was possible for him to be, but the boy was not to be found. His mother is growing anxious."
"I should think that she would be worried," replied Young. "It's a beastly practise this stealing of the freshman's president, and unworthy of such a college as this. I shall be glad when it is abolished. There is nothing during the year that creates such furore as this banquet."
A file of papers was under Professor Young's hand and as he spoke he toyed absent-mindedly with one ofthe long official envelopes. Dominie Graves caught a glimpse of some words that made the color rush hot into his face. The envelope contained an appeal for a new trial for Orn Skinner. He coughed slightly and opened a new topic.
"I see you are still interested in Skinner?"
"Yes!"
"Have you succeeded in getting him a new trial?"
"Not yet, but at any hour I expect to hear that the governor will give me an opportunity to defend him. I fully believe that the man is innocent, that he ought to have another chance for his life. As I said in the court-room the squatter trials are but farces. I don't approve of them."
"You're but a stranger in our town," interposed the Dominie. "When you've been here as long as I have, Professor Young, you will see that the strictest measures are necessary with these people. The rope is none too good for that man, Skinner."
"God forbid," ejaculated Young, "that I should live ever to wish away a man's life on any—personal motive."
Tessibel's sweet upturned face, shrouded in red-brown hair rose before him, but it did not obscure the dark flush that swept over the handsome face of the minister. The professor had intimated that he thought personal motives were being used to persecute the squatter. This tried the patience of Elias Graves as he sat gathering an argument to refute the accusation. He had even persuaded himself that it was for the good of the town to remove one after another of the loathsome fishermen either by the rope or imprisonment. Withouttheir men the squatter women also would disappear from the shores.
He rose with a sense of coming evil stealing over him for the man seated opposite was a tower of strength and his own position in the town had been weakened in the late church conflict. The reins of affairs were being swept from his hands. He could not speak out more emphatically than he had against Skinner. On all sides, friends were rising mushroom-like to rescue the fisherman from the hangman's noose.
If he himself could gain a few strong friends he would be able to sweep the squatter from the face of the earth.
As he walked toward the Rectory after leaving Professor Young he set his teeth hard, these thoughts rushing through his mind, and inflaming his desire to rule in Ithaca as he always had. Even his anxiety about Frederick was obscured by the multitudinous plans that one after another were born in his brain. He closed the library door of the Rectory with an annoyed air and dropped into an arm-chair to think.
Professor Young sat long after the departure of Dominie Graves, looking at the bundle of papers in his hand. He had not dared to venture to the Skinner hut, although his heart called constantly for the red-haired girl who was holding the shanty home against her enemies. He knew that Tess was living as best she could, existing on the meager fare allotted to her kind. Young had seen Tessibel but once since her father had been taken to Auburn Prison and his face flushed as he thought that in a few days he would be able to tell herthat her "Daddy" had received a stay upon his execution, that he honestly believed the shadowing rope would never seek the beloved head again.
It was only of late that Deforest Young would allow himself to admit that Tessibel Skinner had a stronger hold upon him than he ever thought possible for any woman to obtain, much less a child of such a race. He knew now that his life's interest lay in making a woman of her, a woman such as only Tess could make, with her deep primeval nature and splendid soul. If the girl could but return his love in part, it would place him in a position to help and educate her, but his great growing love gave birth to a fear that he might not be able to awaken in the squatter girl a soul affection for himself. Nevertheless he would spare nothing to elevate her. He expected a hard task to prove Skinner not guilty, and every hour he hoped to receive a letter from the Governor of the state giving him the desired year to gain the necessary evidence in favor of the fisherman.
He was still meditating in this strain when the Governor's letter was handed to him. For almost an hour he sat with his head in his hands, building an imaginary home, which he had never thought would be his, and in still sweeter imaginings he held close to his heart a fair, sweet girl, growing into her heritage of womanhood.
For two whole days Frederick Graves had been held a captive in his unfurnished prison. He knew that forty-eight hours marked the time before the banquet, also that if he could not escape before then he would have to be absent from the class dinner. Only once had Armstrong spoken to him that day and an expressionof fine scorn upon the handsome president's face had been the answer. The sophomore was stretched out upon the bed, the revolver still in his hand, and drumming with the fingers of his left hand upon the much soiled wall:
"Graves," he began, "if you think this is any snap for me or that I like my job you're mistaken. I hate to be cooped up here as much as you do."
Frederick might not have been within hearing of the words for all the attention he paid to the speaker. Armstrong sat up straight with a deep far-fetched yawn.
"Come on, Graves," implored he, "let's play cards. It's hanged dismal with nothing to do."
Still Frederick kept his dignified silence. He looked down upon his coatless arms and pondered, then raised his eyes to the long window, but settled them again upon his boots. From the corner of his eye he saw his jailer place the revolver upon the table—it roused him suddenly for he was getting desperate to escape. With lightning-like rapidity he made up his mind to action. Lunging forward he brought his right fist in heavy contact with his companion's nose while the strong left hand swept the revolver under the opposite bed.
Simultaneously with the sound of the falling weapon came the crash of broken glass—Frederick Graves had swept like a young hurricane through the long window. The falling of the heavy body, and running footsteps brought Armstrong hastily to his feet. He dazedly brushed back a lock of hair from his brow, scrambled back under the bed after the gun then rushed to the broken window.
"By gosh, that was brave," ejaculated he.
Three times he fired the pistol into the night—thesignal of trouble to give to his classmates—then sat down and waited disgustedly, nursing his bruised nose.
Frederick landed in the street, stunned for a single instant, but the snow was soft and the moment critical. He gathered himself up, rubbed off the blood that trickled from his fingers, and broke through the street on a run. He found himself in the lower portion of the town not far from the Leigh Valley tracks. To go eastward toward home would attract attention for he was without hat, coat, or vest, and it would probably lead to his recapture. He crossed the inlet bridge, passing a man here and there who stared after him as if he were a shade, which had risen from its grave seeking some kindred soul to haunt.
As Frederick passed the lighted squatter mission, the thought of the warmth within made his teeth chatter. He would have given much to have been able to place his cold hands over the fire which burned brightly in the room. Suddenly he stopped in his rapid flight for liberty for stepping to the tracks directly in front of him was the squatter girl. She had not noticed him and the student knew that she was homeward bound.
"Tessibel Skinner!"
The girl stopped, electrified, and tossed up her head.
"Tessibel Skinner!" called Frederick again.
When the girl recognized him, she came toward him with the awkward, conscious gait of a maid walking before the man she loved. Her eyes took in the half-clothed form of the student with one hasty glance.
"What air the matter?" she asked in an undertone.
Had the student been brought face to face with a dilemma like that of Daddy Skinner? With the instinctsof a squatter Tess could think of nothing that would intimidate but the law.
"I have just escaped," replied Frederick, shivering.
Then he was in danger. He needed her as she had needed him, and Tess had no doubt but that he was on his way to her shanty to ask her aid.
"Ye air runnin' from some bloke?" she demanded slyly.
"Yes."
"But ye air cold," said she, "ye can't walk four miles without a coat."
"Where are you going to take me?" Frederick scented a place of safety.
"To my hut," replied the squatter stoically. "Wait! Ye stop here a minute."
She bounded into the road from the railway tracks, leaving Frederick staring helplessly after her. At the door of the mission she halted with the slyness that had been taught her from the cradle, bending her head forward to ascertain if any person were witness of her action. She opened the door and fled like a young deer toward the organ, then, ripping the crimson cloth from the altar, she fled out again into the night, running pantingly toward the student.
"It air for you—put it on," she ordered, proffering him the embroidered spread.
"Where did you—?" hesitated Frederick.
"Put it on, I say. I'll fan it back some time if ye will. Ye can't freeze with that—and there air bacon, fish and bread in the hut."
Her voice was low and vibrant with untried emotions. Something uplifting in the criminal action of the girlso touched Frederick that the nearness of tears called a throb to his throat. Without expostulating he wrapped the brilliant covering about his head, the embroidered ends hanging to his waist. Frederick Graves appreciated for the first time in his short, shielded life the awful temptations that make these squatter people in their cold and misery take what did not belong to them. He followed Tessibel, with no spoken word; on and on, up past the lighted huts, to the gaping gorge under the trestle. Tessibel knew that the student could not traverse it without her help, and she also knew that to touch his hand would be the sweetest of happiness to her. At any other time her soul would have recoiled from such temerity, but the life and welfare of Daddy's deliverer were at stake. She halted abruptly. The night was so dark she could scarcely outline the student as he stood near her.
"Take hold of my hand," she ordered. "It air the trestle. It air a long one and the steps be far apart."
Without a demurring word, Frederick grasped the strong fingers she held out to him. A smile, obscured by the darkness, played about the girl's sensitive mouth. The young body was pulsing with life—with intense gratitude, for was not she, Tessibel Skinner, helping her friend? With halting steps the boy and girl commenced the most perilous part of their journey, Tessibel leading the way. The student stopped in the middle of the long trestle.
"Are we nearly over?" he asked in a low voice. The awful magnificence of the dark night, the rushing water tumbling and roaring over the rocks beneath them, awed him into what was almost timidity.
"Nope; come on, don't stop here," urged Tess. "'Taint a good place."
At the end of the gap Tess tried to draw her hand away, but it was a feeble motion and she ceased as she noted that Frederick was still clinging to it.
"Let me walk with your hand in mine," he said simply with no extra pressure of the fingers within his. "It is dark for us both."
During the rest of the journey a silence fell upon them. Kennedy's brindle bull, scenting a friend, capered madly for a word from Tess, but the squatter paid no heed to her dog chum.
She took her hand from Frederick's to unfasten the door and light the candle. While they were walking the tracks, the woman in her had tried to remember in what condition she had left the hut. She looked about hastily. Before lighting another candle she smuggled the frying pan from the floor and picked up the loaf of bread that had fallen behind the stove from the table. While Tessibel lighted the fire, Frederick sat huddled in the wooden rocking-chair, still wrapped in the crimson altar-cloth, and watched the girl, who, as she moved clumsily to and fro, uttered no sound save now and then a characteristic grunt. Instinct told the squatter that she would choke the sensitive throat of the student if she raised the dust by sweeping and she refrained from using a broom, but Frederick wished vaguely that she would gather up the fish bones and crumbs of bread from her path that they might not crunch so audibly under her heavy boots. An open Bible placed on Daddy Skinner's stool attracted his attention in his survey of the room. Through the flickeringlight he could see the passages Tessibel had marked. He must say something or his brain would burst.
"You have a Bible, I see?"
His words sounded strained and his voice foreign to his own.
"Yep."
"Can you read it?"
"I spells at it," Tess replied in tones a little surly.
"Where did you get it?" asked Frederick presently.
She waited a moment before answering, straightening up from the oven where she had placed the cold bacon left from her breakfast to heat.
"Where did I get what?" she demanded.
"The Bible," replied Frederick.
He had asked about the book in the first place for something to talk of, for the roaring of the wind through the hut's rafters distracted him. He desired to hear the squatter say something—it all seemed so much like a dream that he feared to awaken only to find himself in the empty house with the sophomore's revolver staring at him.
"I cribbed it from the mission," answered the girl, pronouncing her words plainly. She leaned toward him and finished abruptly. "I took it from the place that comed from."
She was pointing toward the warm red altar-cloth bound about Frederick's head. Alas, Tess had needed a Bible and had stolen it; he had needed warm covering and had accepted it. There was no difference between the minister's son and the squatter's daughter. Vicissitude had forced each into a like position, and somehow Frederick lost his sense of right and wrong, for he could not sit in judgment upon either action. Never beforein all of his short young life had he really needed anything for personal comfort—but the altar-cloth. Tess saw the struggle going on in his mind; she bent toward him, reasoning:
"I needed the Bible, didn't I? Didn't ye say that to save Daddy Skinner's life I had to have it? Ye needed that red rag what ye got round yer head. There air only one way in this world—" She was moving toward him inch by inch, the soles of the fisherman's boots dragging the bread crumbs and fish bones beneath them. "Ye takes what ye need to save yer life, or the life of yer Daddy. Folks mostly never steals what they ain't needin'."
The message went straight home to Frederick. He could not combat such reasoning. He knew well that he would have frozen but for the timely stealing of the altar-cloth—also, he knew that the Bible was as necessary to Tess as the altar-cloth was to him. He mentally lashed himself into a state of unrest. Why had he not thought of a Bible and given Tess one? It would have been so easy for him to have supplied her small needs!
He was watching the girl through the gloomy haze of the bacon smoke, but spoke no more until Tessibel ordered him to draw up to the table and eat.
"Have a piece of bacon," said she.
Frederick held up his plate, and Tess shoved a generous portion into it. She gave him a tempting brown fish, cut a slice of bread, placing it upon the side of his tin plate, and commenced to eat rapidly from her own.
Neither boy nor girl mentioned sleeping until the hands of the small nickel clock on the shelf in the corner pointed out the hour of eleven. Then Tessibel opened the subject without hesitation or embarrassment.
"It air time fer ye to turn in," said she, banking the embers in the stove for the night.
"I shall sit up," replied Frederick stiffly.
"There air two beds," commented Tess in simple ignorance of all law save necessity. "Mine air under Daddy's—see?"
She dragged the rope cot from under the larger bed—a cloud of dust rising white to the shanty's rafters and settling like a soft mist upon the student.
"I air goin' to sleep here," explained Tess with no mention of the lately exposed dirt. "I only slep' in Daddy's bed cause he wasn't here.... Ye go to bed while I gets the sticks fer the mornin'."
Frederick placed his hand on her arm almost timidly. She was so different from any girl he had ever known!
"Please allow me to get the wood for you."
Two rows of white teeth bared themselves in a frank smile.
"I's a squatter," she said, "and squatter women allers gets the wood. Scoot to bed."
When Tessibel came in from the mud cellar, Frederick lay with his face toward the wall, Orn Skinner's soiled blankets wrapped closely about his shoulders. Tessibel placed the leather strap over the staple in the door, and barred up for the night.
CHAPTER XXIII
For almost an hour Tessibel lay thinking deeply, her brain alive with the past rapid happening of events. That the student would ever sleep under her roof was more than she had dreamed. She could hear him breathing evenly; he was asleep with "Daddy's" blankets wrapped tightly about his finely shaped head. Through the dim light Tessibel could follow the outline of the great form stretched out on the roped bed. A feeling of thanksgiving swept over her—she was his protector. She had not thought of asking about his crime. Of course he was fleeing from the law, but he could have done nothing that would lessen her desire to aid him. If he had murdered, then it was necessary that he should; if he had stolen, it was the common lot of all men in need. The one thing to do was to keep him from the clutches of the law. She felt herself getting drowsy, and soon the even breathing of the squatter and the student told that both slept.
Tess would never know what time it happened. Suddenly her eyes flew open and through the light of a lantern she saw Ben Letts leering into her face. The frosty air was blowing in gusts through the window which the squatter Ben had forced open. The horror of the situation came slowly over her. For the instant she forgot the student sleeping in her father's bed, and Ben Letts had not noticed him.
Ben began to speak in low tones:
"If ye wants to live, don't holler ... Get up!"
Tess crawled out of bed, fully dressed. Frederick slept on, hearing no sound, for the cold room had compelled him nearly to cover his head. Suddenly the presence of the student came into the girl's mind; but she only threw a furtive glance at the sleeping youth.
"What do ye want?" she demanded vaguely.
"First ye air to come with me to the Brindle Bull at Kennedy's—I air got somethin' for him.... He air dead in the mornin' by the hand of the girl what loves him."
There was unlimitable sarcasm in the vile, low face as Ben hissed this out.
"And after that?" asked Tess, edging toward the lower part of "Daddy's" bed. There she could reach for the covering over Frederick, and he would save her. The feeling of the night before that she was his protector vanished. He would—
"Never mind after that," growled Ben. "Ye had yer chance at bein' hones' and ye wouldn't take it."
Tessibel slipped her feet into Daddy's boots—she was strangely buoyant and unafraid. It was the woman in her rising to that supreme moment when she should call upon the man she loved, and he would answer. Ben was leaning against the wall, his eyes having sought for no other person in the room.
With the agility of a hare, Tessibel dashed around him toward Frederick, and snatched the blankets from the bed. The workings of Ben's mind were so slow that the form of the student loomed up, before he realized that the minister's son was in Tessibel's cabin.
"Ye air here to save me, Frederick," cried Tess, thelight of the lantern sending a ray into the upturned widening eyes.
Letts dropped his under jaw, his body relaxing in fear. He was an arrant coward like the most of his downtrodden race. Then something shifted through his thick brain, and he smiled knowingly.
"So the high and the low air together—eh? The Dominie's son, and the fisherman's brat—the student—and the—"
Before he had finished the sneering words, Frederick had struck him full in the face. Boyish dignity—his father's position—God—everything was forgotten save Tess. He only knew that she was being maligned, and that her holy mission of rescuing him from the frost of a night like this was being turned into evil by a squint-eyed fisherman whom he had never seen before.
Into the man's fat flabby body crashed Frederick's strong fists. Tessibel stood looking on, her head bent forward alertly. One arm was clasped about her neck—excitement sparkling from the flushed face and panting lips. Once the throat sound that came when she was excited rolled forth; otherwise she was silent.
Thrashed from side to side, his ragged coat made worse by the severe shaking Frederick was administering, Ben Letts groaned audibly.
"Have you had enough?" demanded the student, standing over the fisherman.
"Yep, I's a goin' home."
Tess laughed low and wickedly. She loved to see the blood oozing from the mark in the ugly face. Every drop matched those dragged from the hearts of the brat's mother, who had suffered for Ben, and of the poorlittle miserable child himself, struggling for life in the Longman shanty.
"You'd better go home," ordered Frederick, "and I want to tell you something. If I ever hear you uttering a word about my being in this hut, I'll follow you to the ends of the earth, and flog the life out of you.... Don't try any of your tricks on me, either."
Frederick shivered as the wind swept cold from the frozen lake to his damp brow. Ben had lifted his lantern and was swaying toward the door.
"I'll go hum," said he, "but I ain't done with ye—some day—"
Frederick bounded forward like a whiplash, but Tess held him back. Ben gave a quick jump and was gone.
"He wasn't worth a-hurtin' any more," Tess commented, lighting a candle. "I know he air the man what killed my other Frederick."
The name slipped out with loving intonation.
Then the boy and the girl turned and faced each other. The shanty rocked in the wind like the cradle of a child. The willow mourned its tale of winter over the roof, scraping the broken tin in hollow groans, shrieking now and then as a gust roared through it.
For fully three minutes after the going of Ben, Tessibel stood looking at the student. He had saved her from Myra's fate, from a hated thing that made her teeth press hard together, and her eyes gather an expression of melting gratitude.
"It were—it were—"
But the halting tongue could not finish. Untutored as she was, Tess had read the message in the student's eyes. Love teaches in one night its dreadful longing and response. Its domineering power brought FrederickGraves nearer to Tess in her rags. It made them equal, even as all are equal in love—and in death. In an instant the girl in the fish-tainted tatters was clasped close to his heart, the bright, beautiful face lifted to his. Then came the kiss, the making of which blended two lives indissolubly together. The paleness of death settled over the boy; the strong muscles of his shoulders stood out beneath the whiteness of his shirt sleeves, while his fingers pressed the red-brown head closer to him, his kiss deepening the crimson richness in the squatter's face. It was the one supreme passionate moment of Tessibel's life. The sound of the whistling wind left her ears. The cold night blasts driving through the window were as the faint breezes of a summer's evening. The smoldering candle lifted its flame, blazing forth a glory that surrounded the student with a golden halo. Tessibel had experienced her first kiss. The nature in her demanded that she know the fullness of it—the pitying fullness which would bring to her that which it brings to all loving women dominated by the passion born within them. The blood of her race, her uneducated primeval race, rose and clamored for its own. In her untutored youth she could have crushed the lad in her wild longing for such another kiss.
Pantingly she drew herself from Frederick. Why? Tess could never tell why! Myra's love for Ben Letts rushed over her overwhelmingly.... The "brat's" mother knew the sweetness of a kiss, and in it had forgotten the blasting winter winds on the ragged rocks where Ben Letts had broken her arm.
Frederick, ashy-pale, struggled for control; a consciousness of the ignorance of the girl—and his own godly profession broke upon him; and he sank upon thestool with a sob. His face in his hands filled Tessibel's soul with remorse. Delicately, with the touch of a lady born, she rested her hand upon the student's dark head. The small fingers, used to the drudgery of a fisherwoman's life, lifted the damp hair from the high forehead. Her woman's sense of the fitness of things rose keenly to quiet the boy's grief over his indiscretion.
"It were good of ye to remember that Daddy were gone," she whispered. "He gives me kisses on the bill."
All passion had left her tones. Of course, thought the student, she was but a child—but a forlorn beautiful child born without—without what? If he could have known—
The next moment he did know. With abandon, complete and absolute, the hot blood coursing madly from her heart to her face, Tess threw herself upon the shanty floor. Frederick Graves drew her quickly to her feet.
"Tess ... Tessibel ... Tess ... Stand up, Tess!"
The last word came out in a shout. He had her in his arms, and she was clinging to him as ivy clings for life to an old church.
Tessibel made no effort to support herself. She was leaning limply against him with closed eyes.
"It air good to forget—sometimes," she stammered, "I air a forgettin' all but the—student."
As on that memorable day when "Daddy" had been taken to prison in Auburn, and she had planted herself in his arms not to be removed, so Tess hung to Frederick. Ben Letts was forgotten, the suffering child in the Longman shanty whom she loved was forgotten; even Daddy Skinner was forgotten. Tessibel had foundher man, and all the experiences of her kind could not help her in her hour of temptation.
"Tessibel, Tess, we can't forget, stand up." The boy's words spread through the dazed brain. Frederick dragged her arms from his neck, forcing her to the stool.
"Tessibel, have you forgotten—the Christ, your father and me?"
Had she forgotten him? Only him she had remembered—only his voice rang through her like the sweetest music. But she was so quiet now that the boy seated himself beside her, drawing her hands into his.
"Tess," he began, intensely, bending to look into the flushed face, "Tess—look at me!"
Slowly the brown eyes dragged their gaze upward until the boy and girl were staring wide-lidded directly at each other.
"Tess, have you ever thought that, some time, we might be more to each other—some time in the future when you have learned and studied much?"
Wonderingly she drew her hands from his, hiding them in the folds of the torn gingham skirt.
"I air a squatter," she got out at last. "You be high—I air low, as Ben Letts said.... But, but," she faltered, finishing her sentence brokenly, "But I's yer squatter."
For one bitter moment the Longman child with its old-man face flitted across her vision. She shivered, rose hastily, and went to the stove, scattering the lids from their openings before uttering another word.
Frederick was watching her critically.
"You ought to go to school, Tess," he said presently.
"I has to stay here," she replied beginning to stirthe embers. "If I left the hut alone yer pappy could fire it, and Daddy and me wouldn't have a home.... Ain't nice nights like this to be without a roof to cover ye."
Frederick realized this. Had he not been that very night with no place to lay his head, and no kindly hand save hers to give him something to eat? He flushed deeply at the mention of his father, and marveled that the squatter girl had not spoken with any hard feeling in her tone. It was what could be expected—so her voice implied; if she left the shanty alone, the rightful owner could then take back what the law would not allow if the squatters remained.
"Ye be a goin' to stay here to-morry?" asked Tess later by five minutes.
"If I may."
"Be ye goin' to tell me what ye air hidin' for?"
Frederick threw back his head and laughed. He had forgotten to tell her.
"Of course. You see I am the freshman class president.... The boys in the upper classes kidnaped me, and kept me prisoner in an unused house at the inlet.... I escaped last night, and you brought me here."
The story was so tame—so unlike what Tess had expected to hear that she drew a long, disappointed breath. There had been a vague wish within her heart that she were going to be of infinite benefit to him. It was such a little thing to lose a fine supper. His life had not been in danger as she had supposed.
"You understand, Tess, that it's a disgrace to our class not to have the president there," Frederick burstforth, "even if he is kept away by force. I would rather sacrifice anything than have it happen—only, I do not want to harm your good name, Tessibel."
Tess stared at him blankly.
"Squatter's brats don't have no names.... Ye can't do me any harm."
"Oh, yes, I could," insisted Frederick. "What if that scoundrel who was here a little while ago should say that I were here?... It would harm us both."
Tess paused in her breakfast preparations long enough to say simply,
"Yer Christ wouldn't let him harm ye, would He?"
The boy swept her with an incredulous glance.
Did she so thoroughly have faith in a miraculous interference in human affairs by divine power? The delicate face was lighted with exquisite coloring which came and went in the morning light like the tints of a sea-shell. The bright trustful eyes were shining into his, every motion of the lovely head and body bespeaking the blind faith in which the squatter girl lived. Frederick found himself wishing impetuously with all his soul that he could command a faith like hers. His own seemed so dead, so unlike a living faith that he sighed as he turned toward her.
"Tessibel," he said honestly, "you are a better girl than I am a boy ... I am learning many things from you." Then, looking up with a smile after a moment's thought, he finished: "No, I believe with you, that it is impossible for him to harm one of us if we have faith in God."
"So, I can help ye to-morry if ye ain't in Daddy's fix?"
Then Frederick understood that she would have saved him, even if he had been in danger of his life.
"Yes," he replied, "you can aid me.... Do you know where my fraternity is?"
Tess shook her head with a troubled expression.
"I can tell you where it is! I want you to go there and ask for Dan Jordan and tell him I am here. You must speak to no one else about me, or they will come and take me away, and I told you I would almost rather die than not be with my class at the banquet."
Tessibel's spirits rose high. She could help him—after all.
"How air ye goin' to get into the place where ye eats without gettin' took again?"
A flashing intelligence leaped into the brown eyes during her question.
"I knows how I can help ye." She lowered her voice and began to describe the escape and the final fulfillment of their plan.
Frederick chuckled when she had finished.
"That's capital. You tell Dan Jordan, then, to-morrow what you have told me. You see the banquet takes place to-morrow night."
"Yep, I tells him, so I will. I goes to town early to-morry and up to your house.... Come and eat now!"