CHAPTER XXVII
One day in the following July, Tessibel was going to Mrs. Longman's hut, with a list of Bible words she did not understand. She stopped at the edge of the forest, and listened to a curious sobbing sound she thought issued from beyond the gorge. Then, thinking herself mistaken, she ran nimbly on, avoiding the long thorns that lay in her path. The noise came more distinctly through the clear air, making the squatter girl lift her head and pause again. There was no mistake this time.
"It ain't no pup," she said aloud, "'cause a pup don't snivel like that."
Raising the red head, she tore long threads of hair loose from the briars, and, drawing the masses of curls about her shoulders, broke into the opening of the forest. Some one was crying, and any sign of suffering brought an immediate response from Tess. It might be Myra, or it might be some little lost child. Spurred on by sympathy, she bounded over a bed of dead chestnut burrs, waded through the water to the other side of the creek, and struggled up the rocks.
Teola Graves, crouched in an attitude of suffering and despair, was seated on the gnarled root of a huge tree. Tessibel watched her for an instant. Here was a holy personage to the squatter, touched with the finger of the mysterious God the student worshiped. And was she not the sister of Frederick, and had not Teola given hercoffee from her own cup that winter night? Tessibel had not spoken to the minister's daughter since her father had been taken away to Auburn, and some of the intensity Tess had felt upon that one great day of her life came back to her as she stood hesitant, watching the student's sister.
Perhaps the girl was weeping for some pleasure denied her—perhaps for a jewel to wear about her neck. She went forward impulsively, and laid her hand upon the rounded shoulder.
"What be ye blattin' over?" she stammered, with a tinge of awe in her voice.
Teola struggled to her feet, suppressing her grief. The question stopped the flow of tears, and the two girls, so differently situated, the one the daughter of an eminent minister, and the other a squatter, wonderingly eyed each other.
"I thought I was alone," was Teola's answer.
"So ye was," replied Tess. "I heard ye cryin' from the lower ledge of the rocks. What air the matter?"
Infinite pity and tenderness in the coarse words, spoken in a sweet, persuasive voice, brought a fresh burst of tears from Teola.
"I'm—I'm ill to-day."
"Ye'll be all right to-morry.... 'T'ain't much, air it?"
"It is very much to me," whispered Teola. "I'm so lonely, and so afraid!"
Tessibel sat silently down beside the other girl, twining one arm about the twisted root of the tree. She was used to sorrow, used to watching the agony of human souls without hope. A bird in the top of the tree above them sent a plaintive note into the hot air. Anotheranswered from the forest, and Tessibel raised her head and saw a scarlet bird take wing and disappear into the branches of the wood trees.
She waited for Teola to speak, but at last, seeing there was no cessation of tears, she leaned over and touched her.
"Be ye lonely for yer ma?" she murmured.
Teola shook her head in the negative.
"Then for yer pa?"
"No!"
Ah! Tess had forgotten. Had she not seen Frederick go away weeks before, in a boat filled with pots and kettles and food for a camping expedition? Had he not smiled at her brightly as she passed him on her way to the fish line? She could remember the tense feeling in her throat, and felt again the hot blood rushing madly into her face. Of course, the girl was weeping for her brother!
"Then air ye blattin' for the student?"
She could scarcely utter the last word, scarcely let Teola hear her voice use that beloved name.
"Yes, I was crying for him," replied Teola. "He is dead, you know."
For one instant Tess thought the world had lost its sun. Her face creased into lines, which tightened rope-like under the tanned skin. How could Frederick have died, and she not have known? She rose unsteadily to her feet, uttering one grunt significant of her suffering.
"Were he drowned?" she asked, in a voice so pained that Teola raised her head and looked at her. She did not understand the meaning of the whitened lips nor of the tense drawing-down of the long red-brown eyes.
"No," she replied slowly, "he was killed in the fire on the hill last winter."
The muscles relaxed in the squatter's face. Her legs refused to bear the slender body, and Tessibel dropped again at Teola's side. The kiss she had cherished burned hot upon her lips. Her student lived. The minister's daughter cried for the other one, for him who had called her Miss Skinner, and who afterward helped her smuggle Frederick into the opera-house.
"Why! he air been dead a long time, ain't he?"
"Yes; six months."
"And ye air a-lovin' him yet?"
"Yes."
"But he air dead," philosophized Tess. "He ain't with no other girl."
Teola shivered violently.
"Oh, I know that; I know that. But I—I need him. I want him so!"
"But he air dead," said Tess again steadily.
For many minutes neither spoke. For Teola's new burst of agony settled a solemnity upon Tess which she could not throw off. Forgetting her squatter position, she slipped her hand between the white fingers of the weeper. Teola did not care if the girl's finger-nails were filled with black soot, did not care if the squatter were covered with a dirty, ragged dress, or if her bare feet were calloused from the rocks. Tess was a human being who sympathized with her, and sympathy was as necessary to Teola's soul at that moment as breath was to her body. In the spasmodic whitening of the other girl's face Tess realized a desperate heart agony.
"THEN YE AIR COMIN' HOME WITH ME TO THE SHANTY.""THEN YE AIR COMIN' HOME WITH ME TO THE SHANTY."
"Ye air sick," she said at last, an enlightened expression widening her lids. "A woman's kind of sick, ain't it? Eh?"
"Yes," answered Teola, flushing deeply; "yes."
"Then ye air a-comin' home with me to the shanty." Tess muttered this in a sly voice, almost in a whisper.
Teola raised her glance, and read in the eyes bent upon her that her whole secret was known. Tessibel Skinner, her father's foe, the daughter of a murderer, was helping her to her feet.
"I'm too sick to walk," she wept, in a barely audible voice. "I tried to throw myself from the rocks, over there, but the water was so silent, blue and terrible, that I couldn't."
"Ye be comin' with me," insisted Tess stolidly.
She was urging her forward, holding Teola by both arms.
"I can't! I can't! Leave me here—I am so ill! I am going to die!"
"Ye air to come," commanded Tess. "And, if ye will, I'll lug ye when ye can't walk. Women like ye don't die, and Mother Moll will come to the hut to-day."
"Mother Moll!" echoed Teola. "Mother Moll! Oh, you mean the witch? And will she—oh, will she help me so they will never know?"
"Yep. And now shut up. Ye air a woman, and was borned for things like this. If ye walks a spell, then I lugs ye across the gully."
"And my father and mother—"
"Shut up, I says," ordered Tess. "It ain't no time to think of fathers and mothers. They don't know nothin' about it, does they?"
"No," said Teola. "They have been in Europe withmy little sister for nearly four months. I've been alone all summer, with Rebecca, our maid, and Frederick, my brother—"
Her lips closed over a moan of pain, and she did not continue her sentence.
Through the forest, over the gullies, and down toward the Skinner hut the two girls went slowly, Teola whimpering in her agony of soul, and Tess carrying her when she could not walk. Only once did Tessibel stop.
"Hold a minute," she said gruffly, releasing Teola. "One of the dum thorns went clean through my toe.... It air out now.... Come along! What does I care, if it does bleed!"
Teola drew a sigh of relief when they crept under the willow tree. The hut was in its usual dirty condition, the Bible in the accustomed place on the stool. The suffering girl did not notice that the table was littered with the remains of the dinner, and Tess put her in Daddy's bed, and said, with a compelling, forceful glance:
"Ye air to stay there till I gets back.... And remember we air a woman, and women, when they loves men, keep their mouths shet.... Even if their man air dead.... Ye won't let anyone hear ye a-yelpin' while I air gone, will ye?"
"No, no! Go quickly, Tessibel," murmured Teola. "Go quickly!"
This time the briars and thorns pierced the squatter's bare feet without avail. Tess was rushing away upon an errand of love. Was she not perhaps saving the sister of the student from death—keeping from him a knowledge that would rend his heart? Since that night when Daddy Skinner had been taken to prison, Tess had butonce visited Mother Moll. In her impatience, she did not wait to reach the hut.
"Mother Moll!" she shouted, bounding across the gully. "Come out! Tess air here!"
"Come in," commanded a cracked voice.
Tessibel entered the shanty, finding Mother Moll stretched out on the bed, with a corn-cob pipe between her shriveled lips.
"Get up from there, Ma Moll," ordered Tess, "and come to my hut. I wants ye."
"It air too hot," muttered the witch. "I ain't a-movin' from the bed to-day."
Tessibel bent over the wrinkled face, and looked determinedly into the blood-shot eyes.
"I got someone what air sick," she exclaimed, grasping the hag's arm forcibly. "Ye air to come with me.... See? And if ye does come, I gives ye a mess of eels every week for a year—and more'n that. I'll pick yer berries from yer own patch, if ye can't pick them yerself."
"Who air a-ailin'?" asked the old woman, crawling out of bed.
"Never mind. Come along."
It was a strange couple, forging the gorges and gullies, pushing aside the brambles to the lane almost opposite Minister Graves' home. In the summer's quietude, the squatter girl could mark the long chairs on the Dominie's front porch, and the hammock sagging from the hooks in the corner. No one saw the witch and Tessibel enter the hut; no one heard the girl slip the night lock into its fastening. Teola, frightened and miserable, raised her head, and looked once at Mother Moll, then dropped it again.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Dusk had fallen over the lake, closing the shanty within the shadows of the weeping willows. Mother Moll had departed before sunset. Tessibel had four candles streaming their twinkling light upon the bare floor of the hut, and was busying herself at the stove. A voice from the bed faintly whispered:
"Did you tell Rebecca what I told you to? Tell me again what you said to her."
"I telled that ye was to stay to-night with a girl below the ragged rocks, and she didn't give a dum. She air only a workin' girl; she ain't yer own flesh and blood."
"And the baby, Tessibel? May I see my baby?"
"Nope, not to-night."
"Please, Tessibel! Please! Are his eyes grey, and has he dark hair on his head?"
"If ye don't shut up, I takes the brat to Ma Moll.... Now, then, drink this tea, and eat this bread. To-morry ye has to go home, ye know."
"But my baby, Tess! What shall I do about my baby?"
The nervous whining in Teola's voice brought Tess over to her. The squatter forced the soiled blanket over the young shoulders.
"If ye sleeps to-night, I tells ye in the mornin' about the brat.... Sleep, now."
For more than an hour Tessibel sat with Teola Graves'baby clasped tightly in her arms, moving back and forth silently in the wooden rocker. A broken board squeaked now and then under the girl's weight, but she slipped the chair into other positions, and rocked on.
She marveled at the child born but that afternoon. The eyes were large and grey. Locks of damp hair fell over a wrinkled, broad brow, giving the infant the expression of an old, old man. In the light Tess could mark every feature. She had never seen a babe so small, and so sickly-looking. She ran her fingers over the right cheek, tenderly, rubbing down a livid mark that extended from the dark hair to the upper part of the breast. It was the birth-mark of fire, red and gleaming crimson as the brightest blood, and it had been because of this mark that Tess had refused the young mother's request to see her child. Perhaps in the morning it would be gone. If not, Teola would be stronger and better able to bear the shock. After wrapping the infant closely in a warm cloth, Tess took it in her arms, and laid herself down beside Teola; and the trio slept as all youth sleeps, until the morning sun had been shining long in the window.
"Be ye better now?" asked Tess, trying to stand Teola on her feet.
"I am dreadfully ill yet," was the whispered answer. "But I want to see my baby.... And what shall I do with him? Oh, what shall I do?"
"He air a-sleepin' now," replied the squatter. "And he stays here with me, ye hear? Ye can't take him to yer pa's house, and the hut air good enough for him to live in, if it was good enough for him to be borned in."
"You mean, Tessibel, that you will care for my baby,until I can arrange something for him?—So that my father and mother may not know—"
"Er the student," broke in Tess.
"My brother! Tess, my brother Frederick! He must not know. It would kill him—and me. You, Tess,—you swear that you won't tell him?"
"I ain't a-tellin' him nothin'. I swears it, ye hear? I swears I won't tell the student nothin' about the little kid."
"Of course you won't," answered Teola weakly. "I trust you, Tessibel."
There was a deep questioning in the squatter girl's eyes as they rested upon the quiet bundle on the foot of the bed. How could a mother leave her child in the care of a stranger?—leave him in a squatter's hut, where the rats scurried hungrily about the floor, and the bats fluttered among the ceiling rafters!
"Don't look like that, Tessibel!" Teola burst in. "You understand, don't you, that I can't tell them?—that I can't take him home? My brother loves me better than any other person in the world, and I love him as much as he does me."
The blood suffused the drawn face to the hair line.
"And I want to see my baby before I go," she pleaded.
Tess shook her shoulders, and hesitated awkwardly.
"He air to sleep.... And ye ain't no business a-wakin' him up, nuther."
Suddenly a dread flashed into Teola's mind.
"Tessibel, he is.... There is something the matter with him!" She was fully dressed, tremblingly holding the post of the bed for support. "There is something the matter with him!" she gasped again.
"Nothin' that air a-hurtin' him," soothed Tess. "He air marked with the fire what killed his pa, that air all.... See, t'ain't much."
She lifted the babe from the bed and held him up. The covering dropped from the shoulder, exposing the brilliant scar.
"Not much," moaned Teola. "Not much! Poor little baby Dan!"
The mark gleamed out on the wizened old face, the deep veins in the thin skin showing darkly. To Tess it looked more horrible than in the night before. But she had to reassure the mother—the little mother who, before that year, had never known one twinge of agony.
"It sure goes away sometime," said Tess.
Teola took the infant in her arms for a moment only. Moving the child caused the large grey eyes to open, the mouth widening into a yawn.
"Take him, Tess!" mourned the mother. "Oh, I—I want to die. Dear God! Dear, good God! Dan!... Dan, I want to come to you!"
In the presence of such grief Tessibel was silent.
She covered the infant again, and for some minutes she sat by the bed, with her fingers tightly pressed in those of Teola. It was a tragedy with which Tess could not cope. So she remained there until Teola cried herself into a quietude that left an expression of wonder, knowledge and sorrow. As Tess led her up the hill to the minister's cottage, she saw that tears would come no more; that the mother would never know the emotions of a girl again. Teola resembled the squatter, Myra, with her pain-drawn face.
"She falled from the rocks," glibly lied Tess, asRebecca placed the pale girl in a chair. "Better put her in bed.... She has a bad ankle.... She couldn't walk much."
The frightened maid quickly responded to the advice of the squatter.
"She found me," pleaded Teola, "and you will let her come once in a while to see me?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"Your mother and father—"
"They are not here yet, and I am so lonely and ill. Let Tessibel come once in a while!"
"I have my doubts," said the maid, and she followed Tess down the long stairs, just to see that the fisher-girl did not steal anything. Let that dirty squatter come into a minister's home! No, not again, vowed Rebecca inwardly. It was only the girl's duty to save a human being from a fall over the rocks. Tess turned and faced the woman when they were alone.
"I air a-comin' again," she said slyly, "and I ain't one what tells that ye slides from the house every night to the lake with Deacon Hall's coachman, I ain't. I has a tongue in my head, I has, but it ain't a-waggin' 'bout no coachman and yerself."
Tess saw instantly that her point was gained. That anyone had seen her meet the man by the light of the summer's moon had never entered Rebecca's head for one moment.
"And I don't steal from the minister's house, nuther," assured Tess, with a smile. "I brings ye some berries to-morry, and gives them to ye. And ye can keep the Dominie's money for a rag of a ribbon to light the coachman's eyes with."
She smiled again, and left Rebecca, with wide-open mouth, gaping after the scurrying figure.
In the hut Tessibel lifted the blanket from the scarred face, and contemplated it earnestly. She had forgotten all save the babe and the student. She knew that the Longman brat had sugar rags—she had arranged them herself many a time. Tearing a piece from the cloth that was wrapped about the child, she went to the shore, and washed it clean in the blue lake water. Filling it with bread and a liberal amount of sugar, Tessibel soaked it in some warm milk, and put the sop-rag into the small, gaping mouth. She must make a place for him to sleep during his stay in the shanty. Daddy would not need all the old coats hanging about the wall, and the blankets were longer than was necessary. From the back of the stove the squatter dragged a small box, and turned the splinters of wood into the fire. This, too, she washed in the lake, setting it in the sun to dry. From one of the hooks among the rafters she took a large-sized grape-basket, which also received its cleansing treatment. After a bit of blanket had been cut from those on Skinner's bed, Tess slipped the infant into the basket, to see if it were long enough. The tiny feet did mot reach the bottom.
"Ye air to sleep many a day in it," she said aloud, "for yer legs ain't as big as a rabbit's, and yer face ain't any beautifuller than Ma Moll's.... But ye air a livin' and that air somethin'."
Hardly had she got the words from her lips and fitted the cover securely before the door opened, and Ezra Longman stepped into the hut. Tessibel's clear hearing could detect an unmistakable smack from the babe.
"What did ye come for, Ezy?" she asked. "Air Myry all right, and yer ma?"
"Yep. I come to see ye to-day. Ben Letts says as how ye air a-goin' to marry him some time. Did ye tell him that?"
"Did he tell yer that?" asked Tess, instead of answering the boy's question.
"Nope. Jake Brewer says as how Ben telled him one night that when yer daddy air dead ye air goin' to his shanty. Ye ain't, air ye, Tess?" The pale eyes of the young squatter boy darkened under the emotion that rose in his breast. He looked at the girl he had loved since she had taken her first step. Every wicked act he had committed he laid fretfully at the door of her refusal to marry him.
Tessibel watched Ezra, waiting for him to speak again. She feared the child would cry out—feared that the dark secret of the improvised cradle would get into the hands of her enemies.
"Daddy ain't a-goin' to die," she said, quietly giving the grape-basket a touch with her foot, and deftly shoving it under the bed. Another smack told her that the infant was awake.
"And, what air more, Ezy, I ain't a-goin' to marry Ben Letts, or nobody else, for a lot of years.... I air a-goin' to wait here for Daddy."
"And if yer Daddy goes dead?" inquired Ezra longingly.
"If he goes dead," she interrupted, lifting her unfathomable eyes, "if he air hanged, then I comes to the Longman shanty and marries yer.... Now go, dum quick!"
She had quieted one of her enemies with a promisewhich she would never be forced to keep. For was not the student's God going to save Daddy Skinner? And wasn't she going to Auburn prison to see him? That clean skirt in the corner, washed and dried in the sun, Tess was going to wear. She was going with the great man from the hill. Suddenly came the thought of the babe. With whom could she leave it? Her face whitened with grief.... Of course she could not go now.
She turned again to Ezra, who was loitering at the door.
"Ye go now, Ezy, and tell Myra I ain't a-comin' this evenin', and I hopes her brat won't be yelping too much."
The next day Tess appeared at the back of the minister's cottage, with a basket slung over her arm. Rebecca ushered her up the stairs to the pretty blue room. Teola moved her head languidly, but, recognizing her visitor, brightened a little.
"I am so glad you came. Tell me how he is.... I have nearly died to see him."
"He air well. Have ye had a doctor?"
"Yes, and I have told him all about it, for I was so sick. I told him about you, and he ordered Rebecca to let you come and see me. He is a friend of my father's, and will never tell anyone."
Tess walked to the door, and listened; then laid her finger on her lips. She raised the basket from the floor, slipped back the cover, and Teola Graves was peeping in upon a tiny sleeping face.
"He air a-goin' with me wherever I has to go.... I ain't a-comin' here again with him, fearin' some onewill know.... I think ye be happier, now that ye hes seen his bed—eh? Now I air a-goin', and when ye gets well ye can come to the hut to see him. He air gettin' powerful hungry. He can smack louder than a dog can holler.... Poor little devil!"
That night, a small figure left the Skinner shanty bent upon an act of theft. Up through the lane to the tracks, with a small pail in her hand, Tessibel went. The brindle bull capered about her as she slid through the wires. Without the slightest compunction, Tessibel returned to the shanty with the warm milk which she had taken from one of the fine cows at Kennedy's; then by the light of the candle she filled the tin cup, and warmed it over the fire. This, too, would have to be sweetened. Spoonful after spoonful she emptied into the smacking lips, and, when the babe slept, Tess placed it under the blankets, and took up the Bible to read of the promises of the student's God.
CHAPTER XXIX
During the illness of Teola, Tessibel had forgotten that she had promised Professor Young she would come some morning to his office in Morril Hall on the hill. Two weeks after the birth of the baby, Tess filled his small stomach with warm milk, shoved the sugar rag into his mouth, hung the child's bed over her arm, and made off toward the tracks. The sun was far in the heavens before she stopped at the building in which Deforest Young had his office. He was looking from the window, and saw her glance about hastily, settling the cover to her basket a little closer.
"That child will be my ruination," he muttered, seating himself at the desk. "She affects me so strangely that I can't get her out of my mind. To bring her to a place of safety.... But what can I do? She won't let me help her!"
The thought of Frederick Graves came over him with torture. Was it possible for her to love a lad who could not, and did not aid her? If he could but guide the girl, he would know who her companions were. Tessibel stood in the door, the red curls covering the burden upon her arm—one would have thought it was purposely done, if she had not placed it carefully in the corner. She awkwardly seated herself in the chair Young had placed for her near him.
"I thought you were never coming," said he. "I have been looking for you for many days."
"I were a comin', but I couldn't.... And I can't go with ye to see Daddy."
Her eyes filled with tears, but she hastily wiped them away with her sleeve.
"Of course you are going," replied the professor. "I suppose you think you can't go in with bare feet. But I will get you a pair of shoes."
"I could get a pair good 'nough for a squatter," Tess assured him, "but I can't go."
"Why?"
"'Cause I can't! I has somethin' to do."
"Can't you do it after you return? Your father will be so disappointed if you do not go to him when you have promised."
He was gazing at her keenly. Her eyes dropped upon her folded hands in her lap.
"I knows that," she breathed, "but I can't go, just the same."
Young did not persist in the argument.
"It is almost a certainty that your father will get another trial," he went on presently. "I shall act as his lawyer, and, little girl, when the snow flies again, your father will be home in the cabin with you."
She flashed him a radiant smile through the tears which still clung to her lashes. He loved to watch the color coming and going swiftly, and the glints thrown into her eyes by the sun.
"It air the student's God what will bring him." She bent eagerly toward him, with a quick motion. "Be ye one of the prayin' kind what tells God all ye needs? Daddy would have been a-hung by the neck till he was dead, only the student telled me how to pray and he air a-prayin', too."
She finished the sentence in a low tone. Young leaned back in his chair, grasping at the arms to hide his emotion. The girl was so close to him that he could feel her warm, swift-coming breath upon his face. How long would he have to suffer over this primitive child? But he loved her, and the only course left him was to snatch her from young Graves while there was opportunity to see her now and then. Her brown eyes were piercing his very soul. The childish excitement upon the upturned face almost tempted him to force her into his arms, to awaken the soul beneath the soiled jacket, to make the girl into a woman in spite of her environment.
"You are still determined to live in the hut?" he said, after clearing his throat, and overlooking her question.
"Yep, till Daddy comes home. And then I's a-goin' to make him get offen that land, 'cause it ain't his'n. It air Minister Graves'."
"But your father has his squatter's right," put in the lawyer, feeling that he was giving the student less chance if he said this. "No one can take the place from him."
"He ain't got no right there," she insisted again, "'cause I asks the student, and he says as how Daddy can have the ground by the law, but that it air a-belongin' to his pappy."
Her face was perfectly grave and serious, and she spoke slowly.
Would the name of Frederick Graves always be flaunted in his face? Deforest Young believed that he was beginning to hate the boy. Suddenly he leaned over, and touched the bell. It pealed loudly throughthe building. Tess sat up. The bell disturbed her, and she cast her eye upon the basket, with a shifting, darting glance. The janitor appeared at the door.
"Hyram," said Young, "could you find a vessel which would hold berries or fish? I would like to take some home with me."
"I ain't got no fish nor berries," said Tess, rising with a burning blush.
"Then what have you in your basket?" asked the lawyer, getting up also. "Child, you need not feel badly over the money I give you for the food you sell." He was standing beside her when his eyes fell upon the waiting janitor. "Never mind, Hyram," he exclaimed, "Miss Tessibel says she hasn't anything to sell."
Hyram closed the door before Young spoke again.
"Why won't you let me help you, poor little girl?"
Tess stepped between the professor and the babe, lifting the child's bed in one hand.
"I ain't got nothin' to-day," she muttered sullenly. "And when I says I ain't got nothin', I ain't."
"Then why did you bring that with you?" insisted Young, with a motion of his hand. "It is certainly heavy, or you would not have laid it down so carefully.... Child, if you won't let me give you anything, please allow me to buy the food which you work so hard to get."
His hand fell upon the handle of the grape-basket, but Tessibel's remained obstinately on the other side.
"I's a-wantin' ye to help Daddy Skinner," she whispered, with drooping lids. "I don't need no help."
At that moment a wail from the infant startled them both. Professor Young's hand dropped as if it had been struck. Tess only grasped the basket more firmly.Her secret was out. Without a word, she slipped the cover from the child's face, and pushed the sugar rag into its mouth.
"Ye can see it ain't no fish," she said stolidly.
"A child!" murmured Young. "Where did you get that baby, Tessibel Skinner?"
"He air a little bloke without no one to take care of him, and I has him in the basket—that's all."
It seemed for a long time to the man that his brain would burn from the fire kindled in his heart. The sight of the marked baby horrified him, but he took the basket from her hands, and placed her forcibly in a chair. Tess allowed him to do so without speaking.
Young set his teeth fiercely.
"Tessibel Skinner, do you want to save your father—from hanging?"
"Yep," she answered, her eyes roving toward the babe.
"Then listen to me. Is that child yours?"
Her glance sought his for a twinkling, as if she thought he had lost his mind.
She shook her head.
"Nope."
She was not disloyal to Teola in saying this.
"I have offered you all the help a man can give to another human being." Here his voice broke a little. "All I have offered to do for you, you have refused. Now, if you want me to continue to help your father, you are to tell me whose child it is."
Before the vivid mind of the girl rose the handsome, manly face of the student. Her labor for the child and its mother had been wholly for Frederick's sake—not for anything in the world would she have consentedto do what she had done, if it had not been to save him pain.
"Well, 'tain't mine," she drawled after a time, "and it ain't belonging to anyone ye know. It air only a brat what ain't nothin' but a grape-basket to sleep in. And now ye says that if I wants my Daddy saved from the rope, I must tell yer whose it air. I says it ain't mine. And I says as how ye knows a new little bloke when ye sees one. Here it air! And if ye don't know that it ain't mine, then ye air a bigger fool lawyer than I thinks ye air."
She was speaking rapidly, and had again slipped the cover from the babe, lifting it from its bed. The fire scar was uppermost, and the loud smacking of the half-naked child caused the man to sink into his seat. The blood-red cheeks of the squatter denoted perfect health. The eyes were wide, confiding and entreating. Young held out his hands and took it from her. Then, for the second time in her life, Tess noted emotion in a man. Once in Daddy Skinner, in the jail—she had given way before it. And now in the strong friend of her father, who laid his face on the body of the infant, and sobbed.
In an instant Tess was on her knees before him.
"Air ye a-blattin' 'cause ye thinks it air my brat? Aw, ye knows it ain't. Ye knows I air but a-takin' care of it till its ma can. If I swears by the student's God, will ye believe?"
Young rose, white and nervous, from his chair. With tender fingers he placed the little one in the receptacle, set the rag securely between its lips, and turned to Tess.
"I believe you, child," he said wearily. "I thoughtat first—oh, it was an awful thought for me ... because I love you, Tessibel."
Tess blinked her eyes as if she were looking into a powerful sun. The strong form of the lawyer was bending over her. She lifted her face to his, not realizing the greatness of his love. She only knew that he was her friend—Daddy's friend. She grasped his hands in hers, kissed them tearfully, and took up the basket.
"I were a-goin' with ye on Thursday, but I can't now. Thank ye for believin' me, and I'll work as hard as ye says I must, and if I air a bad brat, then I air sorry."
She had gone out, crying bitterly, before he could say another word; but a happier feeling was in his heart than had been for many weeks. She had promised to work, and in that promise had failed, for the first time, to utter the name of Frederick Graves.
"Tess air a-gettin' stylish," said Mrs. Longman, rattling the newspaper one Sunday morning. "Her name air right here, in print."
"What do it say, Mammy?" asked Ezra, lighting his pipe with a piece of burning paper.
"As how Tessie air a-goin' to see her Daddy, with the big man on the hill."
Ben Letts shoved his big boots from one side to the other, plainly disturbed by the news.
"Folks on the hill air a-doin' better if they minds their own business, I air a-sayin'," grumbled he. "There ain't no reason why Orn Skinner can't go dead, like other squatters has before him."
His red bandana handkerchief sought the blurred blue eye. A pair of pale gray ones from above the smoking pipe of Ezra Longman settled upon Ben Lett's face, with a tightening of the thick lids.
"Tessibel air so sure that her father air innocent that I hopes they prove it," Myra Longman said, trundling her babe to and fro, in the huge wooden rocker.
"There be some folks as knows more than they'll tell," put in Ezra, keeping his eyes upon the squatter Ben.
"And there air folks what thinks they knows a dum sight more than they can prove," replied Ben.
The great white eye jerked open, the crossed blue one twisting to bring Ezra Longman within its vision.
An expression of deadening hate flashed for a moment across the red face, and the white eye closed again. Myra had seen the by-play, and sat up with a gasp. What was there between Ben and her brother?
Placing the child upon her mother's lap, she stirred the stew bubbling in the pot on the stove.
"Scoot, and get an armful of wood, Ezy," ordered she; and no sooner had the tall boy disappeared than she slipped after him.
She stood beside him at the wood pile, staring down upon the crouched form.
"Hold a minute, Ezy," commanded she.
Ezra stood up.
"What air the matter with yer and Ben Letts?"
"Nothin' ain't the matter."
"There air," insisted Myra, "and it air Tess what air a-doin' it. Ben Letts air a-lovin' Tessibel. And ye hates him."
"Yep."
"Tess ain't for none of ye! She ain't like other squatters. The man from the hill says as how Tess can read better'n most gals can, and she has done it all herself."
"Don't care," grunted Ezra, stooping again. "Ben Letts can keep his hands offen her, or I tells what I knows."
This was Myra's chance. She grasped the boy's arm, and twisted him about so that he faced her.
"What can ye tell?"
"Somethin'."
"About Skinner?"
"Yep."
"Ye'd hang Ben Letts if ye could. But ye won't, ye see? Ye'd not hang a man what ought to be in yer own fambly, would ye?"
"If I tells Pa Satisfied that ye said that, Myry," muttered the boy, "he wouldn't wait for the law to handle Ben Letts—he'd shoot his dum head offen him quicker than a cat can blink."
"I knows a hull lot about you, Ezy," warned Myra, "and if ye tells on Ben, I tells on yer, too. I loves Ben Letts, I does!"
"Bid him keep from Tess, then," answered Ezra sulkily, filling his arms with wood. Myra looked after him fearfully.
The trouble between her child's father and her brother had come upon her so suddenly that she had given Ezra another hold upon the man she loved, by telling him her secret.
That afternoon she followed Letts a short distancealong the shore toward his cabin. When out of sight of her own home, she ran forward.
"Ben! Ben!" she called.
The fisherman turned impatiently.
"What air ye wantin', Myry?"
"Be you and Ezy hatin' each other?"
"He ain't nothin' but a brat," replied Ben scornfully. "Let him keep out of my way, or I fixes him."
"He air a-sayin' the same thing," cautioned Myra. "Ye air a-seekin' Tess? He says as how ye air to keep from her."
She was walking beside him, her red hands rolled in her gingham apron. The hot sun shone on her colorless hair, which was drawn back from the plain face.
"Ye air a-helpin' him with Tess," Ben grunted presently. "If ye ever wants me to come to yer hut, keep yer mouth shet, and let me and Ezy fight it out. Do ye hear?"
"Yep."
"Then scoot home now."
Myra turned, and then stopped.
"Ben," she called softly again.
"What be ye a-wantin' now?"
"If I keeps Ezy away from Tess, will ye—?"
"Ye air a-wantin' me to do somethin' for ye, Myry?" Ben answered, coming toward her eagerly.
"Yep."
"What?"
"If ye'll kiss the brat when Mammy and Satisfied ain't a-lookin'—"
"Scoot home, I says. Scoot home," shot from Ben's lips.
And home she went, this girl of but eighteen with anold woman's face, a tired young heart beating lovingly for the brat in the box and—for its father.
Her mother was still spelling from the paper when she returned. Satisfied was stretched on the long wooden bench outside the door. Ezra, with his cap pulled over his nose, sat sulking in the corner. Ben was a powerful enemy. The boy knew that the fisherman would stop at nothing to gain an end. But Tess had told him that she wouldn't marry Ben, and Myra had as good as told him that the squatter was the cause of her trouble. He knew another secret that would bring a halt upon Ben's pursuance of Tessibel Skinner. He had told Myra to warn him. Suddenly he rose from his chair, set his cap far back on his head, and disappeared into the underbrush that lay thick back of the hut.
The cause of the hatred between Ezra Longman and Ben Letts was quietly eating her dinner. Teola's child lay smacking the sugar from the wet rag. The large, knowing gray eyes were directed toward the sunlight upon the wall, the blood-red scar shining more crimson in its rays.
Tess was picking the flesh from the spine of a fish, throwing the bones on the floor. Youthful as she was, she was already beginning to show fatigue from staying awake nights, and caring for her dark secret in the daytime.
With the alertness of an Indian she heard the crackling of twigs in the underbrush. She closed the door, slipped the lock and tucked the babe in the basket, and waited. Somebody was coming from the hill above, breaking the branches as he ran. It was Ben Letts,probably. A light tap came upon the door. To Ben she would not open, but, glancing at the window, she saw Ezra Longman's face pressed against the pane.
Slipping back the lock, she flung open the door.
"Ezy, ye air allers a-comin' when I wants to read the Bible. I tells ye to stay away from the shanty, and ye won't!"
Would the babe remain quiet until the pale squatter boy had departed?
"Ben Letts air a-comin' to see ye to-day," Ezra returned sulkily, "and I comed, too."
"Did he tell ye as how he was a-comin'?"
"Nope; but I knowed."
"He can't come in," replied Tess, crossly. "I ain't no notion for company, nohow.... Air the men a-nettin' to-night?"
"Yep."
"Air Ben a-goin' with ye?"
"Yep; Ben has a heavy hand, and nets air hard to haul."
Scarcely had the words fallen from his lips before Letts appeared at the door. Both boy and girl saw him, and Tessibel rose up.
"Sunday ain't a good day for ye to be comin' here, Ben," she said sullenly. "I air a-wishin' to be alone to-day."
In spite of the girl's flashing eyes, Ben stepped in, glared at Ezra, and took the stool, from which he moved the Bible with trembling hands. Tess had never been quite so frightened—never so fearful of her own squatter men-folk. Ben and Ezra had come to stay a long time, for each had dragged off his cap,leaving his dirty head exposed. Still the babe slept on, no tell-tale smack coming from it. Tess lifted the Bible, determined to let the men sit as she read, curled up in the wooden rocker, humming as she swung to and fro. A shadow dropped long upon the shanty floor. In the doorway stood Teola Graves, tall, thin, and distressingly pale. Tessibel had not seen her since the day she had carried the babe to the hill-house. That was three whole weeks ago. Tess moved awkwardly from the chair, motioned for Ezra Longman to get up, and stuttered out an invitation for the girl to be seated.
Teola shook her head, and Tess noted her quick survey of the hut.
"I can't sit down," she said weakly, although she allowed Tess to place her in the chair. "I have been ill for some time, but I could not forget how kind you were to me when you found me on the rocks, with my ankle sprained."
The white eye of Ben followed the blue one in its twisting search for the minister's daughter. Teola Graves had lost her sparkling beauty; had lost the vivid coloring and the shy expression of youth that had rested in the dark eyes until the death of Dan Jordan. From her face Ben's one eye turned to the beautiful squatter, and he settled back with a firmer resolve that she should be his. Tess stood thinking rapidly. She made no attempt to introduce the strange trio.
Then she allowed her fingers to come in contact with Teola's shoulder, pressing into the girl's mind some message.
"Ye be a-goin' to see the sick woman to-day, ain't ye?"
Tess could scarcely utter the words. Would Teola understand what she wanted to impress upon her? Her fingers sought the shoulder again.
"Yes," came the low answer.
"Might I ask ye to take her a bit of fish, what I promised her? I has company now, and can't go. And I thought as how if you was a-goin', ye might do it for me."
She stooped and raised the grape-basket in her hand, tendering it to Teola. The white lips became paler—the young mother understood.
"It air a nice day, and the sun will do ye a heap of good," explained Tess. "If I didn't have company, I wouldn't ask ye."
Ben Letts stared sharply. Ezra Longman stupidly shuffled his feet upon the floor. Teola accepted the basket, and answered Tess with meaning:
"I'll take it for you, if you will wait until I return with the money. The fish are to be paid for, aren't they?"
"Yep; come back when ye can. I allers need the money."
For some minutes Tessibel stood in the door, watching the tall figure of the Dominie's daughter as she struggled through the brambles surrounding the mud-cellar creek, until she was lost to view.
Tess took a long breath. Ben and Ezra must go before the babe returned. She set herself to rid the shanty of the two men. Without speaking, she took the Bible, and repeated slowly aloud some of the passages she knew best. Both fishermen stared at her in admiration. To read and not spell out almost everyword was more than Ezra's own mother could do, and she was the best-educated person in the settlement.
"'But I know ye that ye have not the love of God in ye,'" read Tess.
Ben Letts broke in upon the girl's voice:
"Tessie, will ye row on the lake after the goin' down of the sun? I'll take my fiddle.... Ye like my fiddlin', don't ye, Tess?"
"Nope," she replied, her eyes still upon the book. "'I am come in my Father's name, and ye—'"
Ezra interrupted the unfinished verse.
"Tessibel, will ye go to the meetin' at Haytes'? The man says as how the squatters air welcome."
"Nope.... 'receive me not,'" read Tess. "'If another shall come—'"
Ben burst forth with an eager invitation:
"Will ye come to Glenwood for some ice-cream, Tessie? It air gooder'n pie on hot nights; and ye like my fiddlin', don't ye, Tess?"
"Nope.... 'In His own name, ye will—'"
"Ye don't like no ice-cream, do ye, Tessie?" put in Ezra Longman.
"And ye don't like no meetin's on the hill, eh, Brat?" chuckled Ben.
Suddenly the Bible flew into the corner, and the girl, with an oath, jumped to her feet. Neither man had ever seen her in such a temper. She grasped the broom.
"Get out of here!" she screamed. "I don't want nothin' but to be let alone! See? Scoot! Or I'll bang hell out'n both of ye."
She virtually swept her callers into the sun, and slammed the door in their faces. With remorse in herheart, she sought the place where she had thrown the beloved Bible. One page was quite torn, across—the back badly bent.
"It do beat the devil how I could be such a bad brat as to hurt ye like that," she cogitated, smoothing out the crumpled pages with loving fingers. "That damn Ezy and Ben air worser than fleas. But I air a-believin' that they won't be comin' back just yet."