A dim light shone in the two front office windows of the inn, but the shades were drawn so that they could not see within. Other than the lamplight, there seemed to be a flickering, uncertain, intermittent gleam, or variation of the light, indicating probably a fire in the open hearth.
The boys waited now for a moment, till Henry Burns, who had volunteered, went quietly up toward the hotel, to reconnoitre. He came back presently, saying that there was a side window, shaded only by a blind, half-closed on the outside, through which he had been able to make out old Granny Thornton and Colonel Witham seated by the fire.
"Run up the pumpkin," he said; "I'll go back there again and keep watch. If Witham starts to come out, I'll whistle, and we'll cut and run."
He went back to the window, and took up his place there.
"Cracky!" exclaimed Young Joe; "who's going to shin that pole? It's a high one. Wish I hadn't eaten that last piece of pie. How about you, Tim?"
"I can do it," asserted Tim, stoutly.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Harvey. "There's the halyards. What more do you want? You cut a hole through the pumpkin, George, clear through the middle, so we can pass an end of the rope, and I'll see that it goes up, and stays."
The pumpkin being duly pierced, one free end of the halyard was passed through the hole. Then Harvey proceeded to tie a running knot, through which he passed the other free end of rope. They took hold with a will, and hoisted. Quickly, the golden pumpkin was borne aloft; when it brought up at the top of the pole, the running knot drew tight, and the pumpkin was fast—with the difficulty presenting itself to whomever should seek to get it down, that the harder one pulled on the loose end of rope, the tighter he would draw the knot that held the thing high in air.
Now it shone forth in the darkness like an evil sort of beacon, its silly grotesque face grinning like a true hobgoblin of Hallowe'en; for, having scooped out its pulp and seeds, they had set a candle therein and lighted it just before they sent it aloft.
"Great, isn't it?" chuckled Young Joe. "Now let's get Henry Burns, and give Colonel Witham notice." But, strangely enough, Henry Burns did not respond to their whistles, low at first, then repeated with louder insistence.
"That's funny," said George Warren. "Wait here a minute and I'll go and get him." But, to his surprise, when he had approached the corner of the inn, where he could see Henry Burns, still crouching by the half-opened blind, the latter youth turned for a moment and motioned energetically for him to keep away.
"Come on," whispered George Warren, "the thing's up; we want to get Witham out to see it."
But Henry Burns only turned again and uttered a warning "sh-h-h," then resumed his place at the window.
George Warren crept up, softly.
It was not surprising that Henry Burns had been interested by what he saw in the old room of the inn, and by what he at length came to hear. At first glance, there was Colonel Witham, fat and red-faced, strangely aroused, evidently labouring under some excitement, addressing himself vigorously to the old woman who sat close by. His heavy fist came down, now and then, with a thump on the arm of the chair in which he sat; and each time this happened poor old Granny Thornton jumped nervously as though she had been struck a blow. Her thin, peaked face was drawn and anxious; her eyes were fixed and staring; and she shook as though her feeble old frame would collapse.
Henry Burns, surprised at this queer pantomine, gazed for a moment, unable to hear what was being said. Then, the voice of Colonel Witham, raised to a high pitch, could be clearly distinguished. What he said surprised Henry Burns still more.
"I tell you I'll have her," cried Colonel Witham; "you've got to give her to me. What are you afraid of? I won't starve her. Where'll she go when you die, if you don't? Let her go to the poorhouse, will you?"
And he added, heartlessly, "You can't live much longer; don't you know that?"
Old Granny Thornton, half lifting herself from her chair, shook her head and made a reply to Colonel Witham, which Henry Burns could not hear. But what she said was perhaps indicated by Colonel Witham's reply.
"Yes, I do like her," he said. "She's a flyaway and up to tricks, but I'll take that out of her. I'll bring her up better than you could. I need her to help take care of the place."
Again the woman appeared to remonstrate. She pointed a bony finger at Colonel Witham and spoke excitedly. Colonel Witham's face flushed with anger.
"I tell you you've got to give her to me," he cried. "I'll swear you put her in my charge. I'll take her. It's that, or I'll pack you both off to the poorhouse. I'll make out the papers for you to sign. You'll do it; you've got to."
Old Granny Thornton sprang from her chair with a vigour excited by her agitation. She clutched an arm of the chair with one hand, while she raised the other impressively, like a witness swearing to an oath in court. And now, her voice keyed high with excitement, these words fell upon the ears of Henry Burns:
"You'll never get her, Dan Witham. You can't have her. She's been here too long already. She's going back, now. I can't give her away, because—because she's not mine to give. She's not mine, I tell you. She's not mine!"
Then, her strength exhausted by the utterance, she sank back once more into her seat.
Colonel Witham, his face blank with amazement, sought now to rouse her once more. He arose and grasped her by an arm. He shook her.
"Whose is she, then, if she's not yours?" he asked. "Whom does she belong to?"
What answer Granny Thornton made—if any—to this inquiry, was lost to Henry Burns; for, at this moment, George Warren, stealing to the window, tripped over a running vine and fell with a crash, amid a row of milk pans that Henry Burns had carefully avoided.
Henry Burns got one fleeting glimpse of the two by the fire springing up in alarm, as he and George Warren fled from the spot. A moment more, the others had joined them in flight, whooping and yelling to bring Colonel Witham to the door.
Looking back, as they ran, they saw presently a square patch of light against the dark background of the house, where Colonel Witham had thrown wide the front door; and, in the light that streamed forth from within, the figure of the colonel stood disclosed in full relief. He was gesticulating wildly, with angry gaze directed toward the grinning face of the pumpkin.
Colonel Witham strode down from the piazza and walked rapidly to the foot of the flag-staff. He seized the one end of the halyards that dangled within reach, and jerked hard upon it, endeavouring to shake the pumpkin from its lofty position. But it was of no avail. Every tug upon the rope served only to tighten the knot. The colonel glared helplessly for a moment, and then returned into the inn.
Again he emerged, bearing something in his hand, which he raised and aimed directly at the gleaming face. A report rang out. The echoes of the sound of Colonel Witham's shotgun startled the crows in all the nests around. But the pumpkin stayed. The shot had only buried itself within its soft shell. The colonel would not give up so easily, however. Again and again he fired, hoping to shatter the pumpkin, or to sever the rope that held it.
Presently a shot extinguished the light within; and it was no longer an easy mark to see. Breathing vengeance upon all the boys for miles around, Colonel Witham finally gave it up, and retired, vanquished, to the inn, to await another day. The pumpkin was still aloft.
"Say, Henry," asked George Warren, as they started off up the hill again, "what did you see in there, anyway? What did you want me to keep away for?"
Henry Burns, sober-faced and puzzled, gave a groan of disappointment. "Oh, if you'd only kept away for a moment," he exclaimed. "I can't tell you now; wait till by and by."
"Jack," he added, addressing his friend, "I'm going down to Benton. Tell John I couldn't come back. I've got something to do." And, to the surprise of his companions, Henry Burns left them abruptly, and went down the road at a rapid pace.
He had something to think over, and he wanted to be alone. What he had heard puzzled and astounded him. There was a mystery in the old inn, of which he had caught a fleeting hint. What could it all mean? He turned it over in his mind a hundred different ways as he walked along; as to what he had best do; whom he should tell of his strange discovery—what was the mystery of Bess Thornton's existence?
Certainly the air was full of mystery and strange surprises, this Hallowe'en night; and the old Ellison house up on the hill was not free from it. An odd thing happened, also, there. For, passing by the old cabinet where Benny Ellison hoarded his treasures, something impelled Mrs. Ellison to pause for a moment, open the doors and look within.
She smiled as she glanced over the shelves, with the odds and ends of boyish valuables arranged there; a book of stamps; some queer old coloured prints of Indian wars; birds' nests; fishing tackle; a collection of birds' eggs and coins. There were some two score of these last, set up endwise in small wooden racks. She glanced them over—and one, bright and shiny, attracted her attention. She took it up and held it to the light. Then she uttered a cry and sank down on the floor.
Strangely enough, when John and Benny Ellison rushed in, at the sound of her voice, she was sitting there, sobbing over the thing; and they thought her taken suddenly ill. But she started up, at the sight of Benny Ellison, and asked, in a broken voice, how he had come by it. And when he had told her, she seemed amazed and strangely troubled.
"Then someone must have dropped it there recently," she exclaimed. "How could that be? It must be the same. I never saw another like it. Oh, what can it mean?"
Strangest of all to Benny Ellison, she would not return the coin to his collection; but held it fast, and only promised that she would recompense him for it. He went to bed, sullen and surly over the loss of his treasure. Mrs. Ellison held the coin in her hand, gazing upon it as though it had some curious power of fascination, as she went to her room and shut the door.
The second day following these happenings, Tim Reardon sat on a bank of the stream, a short distance above the Ellison dam, fishing. There was no off-season in the matter of fishing, for Little Tim. Nobody else thought of trying for the pickerel now. But Tim Reardon fished the stream from early spring until the ice came; and, in the winter, he chopped through the ice, and fished that way, in the deep holes that he knew.
He was no longer barefoot, for the days were chilly. A stout pair of shoes protected his feet, which he kicked together as he dangled a long pole out from the shore. He was fishing in deep water now, with a lead sinker attached to his line; and, beside him, was a milk-can filled with water and containing live shiners for bait. These he had caught in the brook.
The fish weren't biting, but Little Tim was a patient fisherman. He was so absorbed, in fact, in the thought that every next minute to come he must surely get the longed-for bite, that he failed to note the approach of a man from the road. And when, all at once, a big hand closed upon his coat collar, he was so surprised and gave such a jump that he would have lost his balance and gone into the stream, if the hand had not held him fast. Squirming about, in the firm grasp of the person who held him, Tim turned and faced Colonel Witham.
"Well, I reckon I've got yer," was Colonel Witham's comment. "No use in your trying to wriggle away."
The fact was quite evident, and Tim's face clouded.
"I haven't done anything to hurt," he said. "Lemme go."
"Who said you had," replied Colonel Witham, grimly. "I didn't say you had—and I didn't say you hadn't. I wouldn't take chances on saying that you hadn't done a whole lot of things you oughtn't to. You've got to come along with me, though. I'm not going to hurt yer. You needn't be scared."
He changed his grip on the boy, from the latter's collar to one wrist, which he held firmly.
"Pick up your stuff," he said, "and come along with me. No use jumping that way. I've got you, all right."
Little Tim, thinking over his sins, reached down and picked up the can of bait.
"I haven't done anything to hurt," he repeated.
"Hm!" exclaimed the colonel. "Reckon you've done a lot of things to hurt, if people only knew it. Here, I'll take that can. You carry your pole. Now come along."
"What for?" asked Tim, obeying the colonel's command to "come along" with him.
"I'll show you what I want," replied Colonel Witham. "You know well enough, I guess, without any of my telling. Oh, I know you'll say you don't; but I don't care anything about that. Just come along."
They proceeded out to the road, whence they turned and went in the direction of the inn. Tim thought of the pumpkin, and his heart sank. He was going to "catch it" for that, he thought.
They came up to the flag-staff presently, and Tim repressed a chuckle with difficulty; for there, as on the night they had sent it aloft, hung the big pumpkin, grinning down on them both.
"There," said Colonel Witham, "you didn't have any hand in that—oh, no! You wouldn't do it, of course. You never did nothing to hurt. I know you. But see here, youngster"—and he gave a twist to Tim's wrist—"you've got to get it down, do you understand?"
Tim gave a sigh of relief. It wasn't a "whaling," after all.
"Now," continued Colonel Witham, eying him sharply, "perhaps you had a hand in that, and perhaps you didn't. I don't know and I don't care. What I want is, to get it down. You needn't say you didn't do it, because I wouldn't believe any of you boys, anyway. But I'm going to do the right thing." The colonel hesitated a moment. "I'm going to be handsome about it. You get that down and I'll give you a quarter—twenty-five cents, do you hear?"
Little Tim nodded.
"Well," Colonel Witham went on, "you give me that fish-pole. I'm not going to have you cut and run. I'm too smart for that."
So saying, the colonel seized the boy's fish-pole, and relinquished his grasp of his wrist.
"Reckon you won't run away long as I've got this," he said. "Now can you shin that pole?"
"Sure," replied Tim. He glanced up at the lofty peak of the flag-staff, then began removing his shoes and stockings. He was up the pole the next moment like a squirrel, clinging fast with arms and bare toes. Half-way up he rested, by clutching the halyard and twisting it about his arm.
"Little monkey!" ejaculated Colonel Witham; "I'd give a dollar to know if he put it up there. Well, reckon I've got to give him that quarter, though, as long as I said I would."
Tim did the topmost length of the pole cautiously. It was a high one, with a slim topmast spliced on with iron bands. He knew how to climb this like a sailor; careful to hold himself close in to the slender stick, and not throw his weight out, so as to put a strain on it that might cause it to snap and let him fall; careful not to get it to swaying.
Then, almost at the very top, he rested again for a moment, sustaining part of his weight by the halyards, as before. When he had got his breath, he drew himself up close to where the big pumpkin hung, on the opposite side; dug his toes in hard, and held on with them and one hand. He reached his other hand into a trousers' pocket, and drew forth a knife that he had opened before he began the ascent.
Holding fast to the pole, he cut the rope that held the pumpkin. It fell, grazing one of his knees, and would have dislodged him had he not guarded against it. The next moment, it landed with a crash at the base and was shattered into fragments.
Little Tim laboriously loosened the knot Harvey had tied, and let the halyard run free. A moment more, and he was on the ground with Colonel Witham.
The colonel eyed the wreck of the hobgoblin with satisfaction. Then he turned to Tim.
"You're a smart little rascal," he said, "and a plucky one. I'll say that for you. There's your fish-pole and your can."
Colonel Witham paused, and reluctantly put his hand in his trousers pocket. With still greater reluctance, he drew forth a twenty-five cent piece and tendered it to the boy.
"Here," he said, "it's a lot of money, but I won't say as you haven't earned it."
To Colonel Witham's astonishment, however, the boy shook his head.
"I don't want any money," he said. "I wouldn't take it for that."
Another moment, he had slipped into shoes and stockings, snatched up his pole and can, and was walking quickly down the road.
Little Tim had a conscience.
"Well, if that don't beat me!" exclaimed the amazed Colonel Witham, as he stood staring at the boy. "Who'd ever have thought it?"
But soon a great light dawned upon him.
"Aha!" he exclaimed. "The little rascal! He stuck it up there, or my name's not Witham. That's why he wouldn't take the money for getting it down. Reckon I ought to have given him a taste of that stick, instead of offering him a quarter."
But even Colonel Witham, when he came to think upon it, knew deep down in his heart that he had a sort of admiration for Little Tim.
In the meantime, Henry Burns, turning over in his mind the secret that had been partly revealed to him, through the words of Grannie Thornton, could not make up his mind just what to do about it. He had almost decided to entrust what he knew to Lawyer Estes, for him to unravel, when the lawyer was called out of town for several weeks, on an important case. Again, another event intervened to cause delay. Miss Matilda Burns made a visit to her home in Massachusetts, and took Henry Burns with her; and it was well into November, close upon Thanksgiving, in fact, when they returned to Benton. By this time early winter had set in, and some heavy snow falls had buried all the country around and about Benton deep under drifts.
"You're just in time," said Harvey, as he and Tom Harris greeted Henry Burns on the latter's return. "We've got a week's holiday, and look what I've made for us."
Harvey proudly displayed a big toboggan, some seven feet in length, in the making of which he had expended the surplus time and energy of the last two weeks. "No easy job steaming those ends and making 'em curl up together even," he added; "but she'll go some. Say, you ought to see the slide we've got, down the mountain above Ellison's. Well go up this afternoon, if you like."
They were up there, all of them, early in the afternoon, George and Young Joe Warren driving one of the Warren horses hitched to a sleigh, and drawing a string of toboggans after. Blanketing the horse some distance above the Ellison dam, they proceeded up the surface of the frozen stream to the slide.
It was, as Henry Burns said, enough to make the hair on one's fur cap stand on end, to look at it. From the summit of what might almost be termed a small mountain—certainly, a tremendous hill—to the base, down a precipitous incline, the boys had constructed a chute, by banking the snow on either side. This chute led down on to the frozen stream, where a similar chute had been formed for a half-mile or more down stream.
Moreover, a temporary thaw, with a fall of sleet, had coated the bed of the chute with a glassy surface, like polished steel, or glare ice. Henry Burns, standing beside the slide, half-way up the mountain, saw a toboggan with four youths dash down the steep incline, presently. Little Tim sat in front, yelling like an Indian at a war-dance. They fairly took Henry Burns's breath away as they shot past him. He looked at Harvey and shrugged his shoulders.
"Guess that's pretty near as exciting as cruising in Samoset bay, isn't it?" he remarked. "Well, you hold the tiller, Jack, and I'm game; though it's new sport to me. I never spent a winter in Maine before."
"Oh, there isn't much steering to do here," replied Harvey; "you only have to keep her in the chute, and not let her get to swerving. It's easy. You'll like it."
It certainly did seem a risky undertaking, to a novice, standing at the very summit of the mountain and looking along down the icy plunge of the chute, far below to the stream. It took all of Henry Burns's nerve, to seat himself at the front end of the toboggan, while Jack Harvey gave a shove off. For the first moment, it was almost like falling off a steeple. Then he caught the exhilaration of the sport, as the toboggan gathered speed and shot down the incline at lightning speed.
Henry Burns had hardly time to gather his thoughts, and to glory in the excitement, when they were at the foot of the descent, and gliding swiftly along the surface of the stream.
"My, but that's great!" he exclaimed. "It's next to sailing, if it isn't as good. Come on, let's try it again."
The mountain was admirably situated for such a sport; for it rose up from the shore where the stream made a sharp bend in its course, forming a promontory that overlooked the surrounding land. Thus the chute, after leaving the base of it, continued in a straight line down stream.
The sport, thrilling as it was, however, grew tame for Young Joe. He wanted something different. He had brought along, also, a steel-shod sled, known to the boys as a "pointer," because its forward ends ran out to sharp points, protected by the turning up of the steel runners. He declared himself ready to make the descent on that.
"Don't be a fool, Joe," remonstrated his elder brother; "you can't handle that here. You'll go so fast you can't steer it."
If Young Joe had had any misgivings and doubts upon the matter before, however, this remonstrance settled them. A little opposition was all that was needed to set him off. Modestly calling the attention of all the others to the fact that he was about to attempt a feat never before tried, Young Joe lay at full length upon the sled and pushed off.
Certainly, never before had any object shot down the mountain side at the speed Young Joe was travelling. Fortunately for him, the sides of the chute were sufficiently high to keep the sled within bounds, and on its course. The sled made the descent in safety and darted out across the surface of the stream, still within the chute. Then something unexpected happened.
The chute had been designed for toboggans, and continued only as far as the fastest one of them would travel. Watching Young Joe's daring feat, the boys saw him make the descent and speed along the level, until he reached the spot where the toboggans usually stopped. And there, also, Young Joe's sled did stop, its sharp points digging into the crust and sticking fast.
But not Young Joe. Like an arrow fired from a crossbow, he left the sled and continued on over the icy surface of the crust downstream. It was a smooth, glare surface, and he slid as though it were greased. Far down stream, they saw him finally come to a stop—the most astonished youth that ever slid down a hill. He ended in a little drift of snow blown against a projecting log, and arose, sputtering.
Strangely enough, thanks to thick mittens, and a cap drawn down to cover his face, he was not even scratched. He picked himself up, looked about him, dazed for a moment, and then walked slowly back.
And after all, the upshot of Young Joe's experiment was, that sleds became popular on the chute, and almost came to exclude the toboggan; only the boys continued the chute for fully a mile down stream, shovelling away to the glare ice. Young Joe had introduced a new and more exciting form of sport.
The next two days afforded rare enjoyment, for the slide was at its best, and the weather clear and bracing. But the afternoon of the third day was not so propitious. It began to grow cloudy at midday, and some light flakes of snow fell, as they ate their luncheon and drank their coffee, beside a fire of spruce and birch at the summit of the mountain, near the head of the slide.
They continued till about five in the afternoon, however, when the snow began falling steadily, and they took their last slide. A party of three of them, Harvey and Henry Burns and George Warren, had proceeded nearly to the Ellison dam, on their way to Benton, when Henry Burns suddenly stopped, with an exclamation of annoyance.
"I've got to go back," he said; "I've left my buckskin gloves and Tom's hatchet up by the fire."
"Oh, let 'em go till to-morrow," said Harvey, who was feeling hungry.
"No, it won't do," replied Henry Burns, looking back wearily to where the faint smoke of the day's fire still showed through the light snow-fall. "You fellows needn't wait, though. Keep on, and perhaps I'll catch up."
He started back, plodding slowly, for he was tired with the frequent climbing of the mountain throughout the day. The others, thinking of the supper awaiting them, continued on the way home.
It was a little more than a mile that Henry Burns had to go; and, by the time he was half-way there, it was snowing hard. The storm had increased perceptibly; and, moreover, the wind was rising, and it blew the snow into his eyes so that he could hardly see. He kept on stubbornly, however.
Presently, there came a gust that reminded him of a quick squall on the water. It seemed to gather a cloud of the driving snow and fairly bury him under it. He staggered for a moment and stood still, holding his hands to his face for protection.
"That's a three-reef blow, all right," he muttered, and went on again, finally beginning the ascent of the mountain. But there he found himself suddenly assailed by a succession of gusts that made it impossible to try to climb. Moreover, the air was rapidly becoming so thick with snow that he saw he was in danger of being lost.
He made up his mind quickly, realizing the danger he was in, and started back down stream. He must gain shelter soon, or he would be unable to find his way. He was not any too hasty in his decision. In a few minutes the outlines of the stream and its banks were blended into a blurred white mass. Then he could no longer see the shore at any distance, and even the path was being blotted out.
He found, too, it was with difficulty that he could breathe, for the incessant flying of the snow into his nostrils. Estimating, as best he could, where the Half Way House must lie, he struck off from the stream and headed for that. He stumbled on blindly, till his progress was suddenly arrested by his bumping into an object that proved, most fortunately, to be Colonel Witham's flag-pole. Even at that short distance, the inn was now hidden; but he knew where it must be, and presently stood safe upon its piazza.
It was an odd situation for Henry Burns. Once before, had Colonel Witham refused him shelter under this roof, and that, too, in a storm. But he knew there was no help for it now. He had got to enter—and he had got to stay. No human being could go on to-night. He hesitated only for a moment, and then opened the door and stepped within.
The office was vacant, and the air was chilly. The remains of a wood fire smouldered, rather than burned, in the fireplace. There was no lamp lighted, although it was quite dark, with the storm and approaching evening. The place seemed deserted.
Henry Burns stepped to the desk, took a match from a box and lighted the lamp that hung there. It cast a dismal glow, and added little to the cheer of the place, although it enabled him to distinguish objects better. He turned to the hearth, raked the embers together, blew up a tiny blaze and replenished the fire from the wood-box. He threw off his outer garments, and drew a chair toward the blaze.
But now, from an adjoining room, the door of which was slightly ajar, there came unexpectedly a thin, querulous voice that startled him. He recognized, the next moment, the tones of old Granny Thornton.
"Is that you, Dan?" she asked.
Henry Burns opened the door and answered. She seemed afraid, until he had told her who he was, begging him to go away from the place and not harm a poor, lone woman. But she recognized him, when he had spoken again, and had lighted another lamp and held it for her to look at him.
She sat in an arm-chair, in which she had been evidently sleeping, propped up with pillows; and looked ill and feeble.
"I'm cold," she said, and shivered.
Henry Burns dragged her chair out into the office, by the fire, while she clung to the arms of it, as though in terror of tumbling out on to the floor. And, in that brief journey from room to room, it flashed over Henry Burns that the time and opportunity had come for him to know the secret she possessed.
"Dan won't like to find you here," she muttered. "He ought to be here—leaving me all alone. My, how it blows! How'd you get here, anyway? Don't mind what Dan says; you'll have to stay."
"He'll not be here to-night, with this storm keeping up," answered Henry Burns, "Where is he?"
"He went to town with Bess," said she. "Why don't she come? I'm lonesome without her. I'm hungry, too. She ought to make me a cup of tea."
"I'll make it," said Henry Burns; "and I'll get something for myself, too. I'll pay for it, so Witham won't lose by it."
He made his way to the kitchen and the pantry; lighted a fire in the kitchen stove, and made tea for himself and Granny Thornton; and toasted some bread for her. Then he foraged for himself and ate a hearty meal, for he was ravenously hungry. And, all the while, he was thinking what he should do and say to the old woman, nodding in the chair out in the office.
He returned there, and put more wood on the fire, so that it blazed up brightly, and the sparks shot up the flue with a roar. The roar was more than answered by the wind outside. It rattled the glass in the windows, and dashed the snow against them as though it would break them in. It found a hundred cracks and crevices about the old inn, to moan and shriek through, and blew a thin film of snow under the door.
Old Granny Thornton shook and quivered, as some of the sharper blasts cried about the corners of the house. She seemed frightened; and once she spoke up in a half whisper, and asked Henry Burns if he believed there were ever spirits out on such a night as this. He would have laughed away her fears, under ordinary circumstances; but it suited his purpose better now to shake his head, and answer, truthfully enough, that he didn't know.
Presently, the old woman started up in her chair and stared anxiously at one of the snow-covered windows.
"They might be lost!" she cried, hoarsely. "They could be lost to-night in this storm, like folks were in the great blizzard twenty years ago. Oh, Bess"—she uttered the girl's name with a sob—"I hope you're safe. You'd die in this snow. Say, boy, do you suppose they've got shelter? It's not Dan Witham I care for, whether he's dead or not, but Little Bess."
Henry Burns stepped in front of the old woman, and looked into her eyes.
"What do you care whether Bess is lost or not?" he asked. "She don't belong to you. She's not yours. You're not her grandmother."
At the words, so quick and unexpected, Granny Thornton shrank back as though she had received a blow. Her eyes rolled in her head, and she seemed to be trying to reply; but the words would not come. She gasped and choked, and clutched at her throat with her shrunken hands.
Henry Burns spoke again, grasping one of her hands, and compelling her to listen.
"Somebody else wants her home more than you do," he said. "Why don't you give her back? She's too smart and bright to go to the poorhouse, when you die. Why do you keep her here?"
He spoke at random, knowing not whether he was near the secret or not, but determined that he would make her speak out.
But she sank down in her chair, huddled into an almost shapeless, half-lifeless heap. Her head was buried in her hands. She rocked feebly to and fro. Once she roused herself a bit, and strove to ask a question, but seemed to be overcome with weakness. Henry Burns thought he divined what she would ask, and answered.
"I know it's so," he said. "You can't hide it any longer. I've found it out."
It seemed as though she would not speak again. The minutes went by, ticked off in clamorous sound, by a big clock on the wall. Granny Thornton still crouched all in a heap in her chair, moaning to herself. Henry Burns remained silent and waited.
Then when, all at once, the old woman brought herself upright, with a jerk, and spoke to him, the sound of her voice amazed him. It was not unlike the tone in which she had answered Colonel Witham, the night Henry Burns overheard her. It was shrill and sharp, though with a whining intonation. What she said was most unexpected.
"Have you been to school?" she queried.
Henry Burns stared hard. He thought her mind wandering. But she continued.
"Don't stare that way—haven't you any wit? Can you write? Hurry—I'm afeared Dan will be here."
Henry Burns understood, in a flash. He sprang to the desk, got the pen and ink there and a block of coarse paper, the top sheet of which had some figuring on it. He returned to the old woman's side and sat down, with the paper on his knees. She stared at him blankly for a few moments—then said abruptly:
"Write it down just as I tell you. I'm going to die soon—Don't stare like that—write it down. Dan Witham can't harm me then, and I'm going to tell. Her name isn't Bess Thornton—it's Bess Ellison."
Henry Burns's hand almost refused to write. But he controlled himself, and followed her.
"Dan shan't have her," she continued. "I'll give her up, first. Twelve years ago last June she was born. And she weren't as pretty as my girl's baby, that was born the same day—though they looked alike, too.
"My girl's name was Elizabeth, but she's dead. She was a sight prettier than Lizzie Anderson that married Jim Ellison. But my girl married Tom Howland, and he ran away and left her, and that just before the baby was born. And her baby, Elizabeth Howland, was born the same day, I tell you, as Lizzie Ellison's baby. That one was named Elizabeth, too—Elizabeth Ellison. That's Bess.
"And when the two babies were born, why we were poor and Jim Ellison was well-to-do. The Thorntons got in debt, and he bought up the mortgages. And when Bess Ellison was born, her mother was so ill she didn't see the baby for many weeks; and my girl went up to the house in about three weeks to nurse both babies, we being poor. And I went up, too, to look after things.
"I guess my girl was wild, too, though I won't blame her now. One day she went to town and didn't come back; and she left me a note, saying she wouldn't ever come back, anyway. And I could bring up the baby—which I didn't like to do, because I'd brought up one, and now she'd run away.
"So I was getting ready to go back to the house and take the baby with me; and I took care of both babies for a day or two. And just as I was planning to go back, there lay the two, side by side in the bed; and I could hardly tell which was which—they looked so much alike.
"Then what put it into my head, I don't know. But I thought that, if I changed the two, nobody'd know, because Bess Ellison's mother hadn't seen her. And I thought of how the property would come back to the Thorntons that way, if I put my girl's Bess in the other's place. And I up and did it, quick.
"Then, when I got home with Lizzie Ellison's baby, why I found I'd been so hasty I'd brought away a chain and bit of money, that they'd put about her neck. It was an old coin that had been in the family for years, and was thought to carry good luck—so I learned afterwards. I meant to take it back, but I couldn't, right away, and then I lost the coin. Oh, how I hunted for it! But I never could find it.
"Now are you putting it all down? Be quick, or Dan might come in. It was all for nothing—what I did—for my girl's baby died two years later. Let me look what you've got there. I know school-writing. I went to school once. Give me the pen. I'll put my name down to that. Hold my hand, so it won't shake. That's my name. It don't look like much, I guess. But that's it."
Tremblingly, the old woman took the pen and, guided by Henry Burns, subscribed her name to what he had written. Then she spoke again:
"Go into that bed-room and look in the top drawer. There's a key there. That's the key to the old house."
Henry Burns followed her instructions, and brought forth the key. She bade him keep it, and go the next day and get the stuff in the attic: the chain, minus its locket; the little dress, and a pair of shoes. She mourned the loss of the coin, lest her strange story might not be believed by Mrs. Ellison, without that evidence—not knowing that the coin had even now come into Mrs. Ellison's own hands.
She sank into a doze not long after; and Henry Burns also slept, on a couch in the office, with a buffalo robe over him. He woke early next day, waded through the drifts to the old house, and got the things from the drawer. Then he went down the road.
Below the old mill, near the road that ran up to the Ellison farm, a horse and sledge came in sight, travelling slowly. Henry Burns's pulse beat quicker as he recognized Colonel Witham and Bess coming up from Benton, where they had passed the night. Colonel Witham scowled upon him, but the girl smiled.
"Hello," she said. "Isn't everything pretty, all covered with snow? Where'd you come from so early?"
Henry Burns could hardly answer her. He faced Colonel Witham.
"Granny Thornton's got an errand up at the Ellisons' for Bess," he said. "I just came from the inn, I left the money for my lodging, too. Mrs. Ellison wants to see Bess."
Colonel Witham grumbled. "I won't wait for her," he said. "She'll have to foot it up through the snow."
"I don't care," exclaimed the girl, and sprang lightly out.
Henry Burns never did remember what was said on that walk up to the farm. His mind was taken up with one subject. He had a vague remembrance, after it was all over, of knocking at the door, and of their being both admitted; of his almost ignoring the greeting of the brothers; of his finding himself and Bess somehow in the parlour with Mrs. Ellison.
He remembered, afterward, of handing the writing he had done, at old Granny Thornton's bidding, to Mrs. Ellison, and of her starting to read it and breaking down suddenly; of her asking him many questions about it, and of his answering them almost in a daze. He remembered that Mrs. Ellison resumed the reading, the tears streaming down her cheeks; of how he laid down the little bundle of stuff he had brought from the attic, and pointed it out to Mrs. Ellison.
He remembered that Mrs. Ellison sprang up and seized the child in her arms—and just about that time Henry Burns stole out and left the two together; so that he never did know just what happened next.
Henry Burns, slipping quietly away from the farmhouse on the hill, tramped joyously through the snowdrifts to the highway, "caught a ride" on a sledge going in to Benton and started homeward. He had not ridden far, however, when a double-seated sleigh appeared in sight, which seemed even at a distance to be familiar. It became more so when, at length, he made out clearly a white horse belonging to Tom Harris's father, and, occupying the two seats, his friends Tom and Bob, Jack Harvey and George Warren.
Perhaps they didn't give three cheers and a tiger when they espied Henry Burns! Jack Harvey and George Warren, struggling down the road through the storm of the afternoon before, had worried not a little about him, and would have gone back to his aid, if they could have done so. But the wind and snow had been too fierce; and they could only plod on, hoping that his usual luck and cleverness would not desert him, and that he would gain shelter in time.
They seized Henry Burns now and tumbled him into the sleigh, in rough and hearty fashion; and they turned about and drove back to Benton at the very best pace that the big horse could make through the snow. Henry Burns told the story of the night, as they proceeded.
"Say, that's like a story out of the library," remarked George Warren. "Just think of it! Little Bess a sister of the Ellison fellows. What did they say, Henry, when you told them?"
"Nothing," replied Henry Burns. "I didn't give 'em a chance. I got out quick."
"Well, I'm mighty glad for her," exclaimed Jack Harvey, heartily. "She's the pluckiest little thing I ever saw. I'm glad she's got a good home at last."
It was some time before Henry Burns spoke again. He seemed to be considering something soberly. Finally he said, "Yes, and they need the mill now, more than ever, with her to care for. I wonder if they'll ever get it."
The mill passed out of mind, however, for some time, when there fell still another great snow on the following day, heavier than the preceding storm. It piled drift upon drift, and made the roads about Benton, for miles in every direction, impassible. It shut each farmhouse in upon itself; the Ellisons in their home; Colonel Witham and Granny Thornton alone in the Half Way House. The old mill was silent for a whole week.
Then there came a magazine to Tom Harris, bringing a timely suggestion to the boys of Benton. It told of the snowshoe of the Norwegians, the ski, with which a runner could travel through the deep drifts of loose snow, and coast down the steep hills, as easily as on a toboggan. Soon, working in spare hours, each youth had fashioned himself a pair. They got the long, thin strips of hard wood, steamed the ends and curled them like sled runners, sand-papered and polished them, and put on the straps of leather to hold the toe.
They learned how to go through the drifts with these, sliding the shoe along through the loose snow, instead of lifting the foot, as with the Canadian snowshoe. They got each a long pole, to steady one's self with, and practised sliding down the terraces of Tom Harris's garden, standing erect and doing their best to keep on their feet.
When they had had their preliminary tumbles, and were proficient in the sport, they started off one day and went along up stream; tried the steep banks that led down on to that, and found it more exciting than tobogganning.
Tim Reardon used his skis to get up above the dams, where the spring-holes in the stream were. And, through the Christmas holidays, he made his headquarters at the cabin that belonged to the canoeists, which he kept hot by a rousing fire. Day after day, he set out from there, skiing his way up stream, dragging after him a toboggan on which was loaded a pail half filled with water. In this swam his live bait, winnows that he had caught through the ice in the brook. Also he carried an axe, a borrowed ice chisel, some lines and other stuff.
One might have seen him there, through the afternoons, watching sharply the five lines that he tended, and varying the monotony of waiting by an occasional ski slide down the neighbouring bank.
He had five holes chopped through the ice, and a line set in each, baited with a live minnow. This line was attached to a strong, limber switch of birch, set up slant-wise over the hole, with the butt stuck fast in a hole chopped in the ice and banked with snow. And this switch flew a little streamer of coloured calico; so that Tim had only to see the streamer bobbing up and down, at any distance, to know that there was a pickerel fast on the hook.
He had famous sport there for ten days or more, for the fish were hungry, and bigger ones came to the bait than in summer. Every third day he went back in to Benton with his catch, which he had kept packed in snow, sold them at the market, and was fairly rolling in wealth; and when, one afternoon, he hooked and landed an eight-pound fish, and travelled to town with it, and saw it set up in the market, with a sign on it to the effect that it had been caught by Timothy Reardon of Benton, he was the proudest boy to be found anywhere.
Then, just following Christmas, there was a glorious dinner up at the Ellison farm for Henry Burns and his friends, in honour of Little Bess. Tim got an invitation to that, too, through his loyal friends, Henry Burns and Jack Harvey; and he and Joe Warren ate more than any four others, and Young Joe, who had absconded with the most of a huge mince pie, left over from the dinner, was found afterward groaning on the kitchen sofa, and had to be dosed with ginger and peppermint, so that he could partake of cornballs and maple candy later on.
And there was Bess Ellison—Bess Thornton no longer—looking remarkably pretty and uncommonly mischievous, dressed no more in dingy gingham, but in the best Mrs. Ellison could buy and make up for her; and she held out her hand to Henry Burns and took him in to Mrs. Ellison, who said something to him that made him come very near blushing, and nearly lose his customary self-control.
There was Benny Ellison, also, who was dragged in by Bess, and made to shake hands with Henry Burns, and call old scores off; so that even he warmed into enthusiasm, and enjoyed himself with the others.
Then, somewhere about that time, there was a lawyer's visit to the Half Way House, where there were certain papers drawn up, and signed by Granny Thornton, with a trembling hand; which made it sure that Little Bess would no more be uncertain of her home and her parentage, but would remain where she belonged, up at the big farmhouse.
So the winter passed and the spring came in. Its days of thaw made the old stream groan and crack, as the great ice fields split here and there, and seams opened. There were nights when the water, that had overflowed at the edge of the ice fields, close by the shore, and formed a narrow stream on either side, froze fast again; so that there was a glare thoroughfare for miles and miles up the stream into the country, of ice just thick enough to bear the boys of Benton.
They made excursions far up along shore this way, skating at furious speed; pausing now and then to set fire to the bunches of tall dried grasses and reeds, that protruded through the ice in the midst of the stream. These flamed fiercely at the mere touch of a match.
Then, as it grew later, this overflow at the edges of the ice field froze no more; but lay, several feet deep of clear water, over that part of the ice. They could get on to the stream then only at certain points, where the ledges made out, or by throwing planks across. Soon the water began to pour with a louder and louder roar over the old Ellison dam, and a stretch of clear, swift-flowing water opened up for some distance back of it.
It became rare and dangerous sport, in these days, to get out on the ice field and work at a seam with planks and poles, prying loose a great sheet of the still thick ice, and watch it go over the dam. It had a most spectacular and awe-inspiring way of making the plunge. A great block of the ice, several yards square, would drift swiftly down, shoot far over the edge, then break apart of its own weight, the huge chunks falling with a mighty splash and commotion into the boiling pool below. Down they would go, like monsters of the sea, borne by the momentum of their plunge from the height. Then they would shoot upward, lift themselves out with a dull roar amid the seething mass of water and smaller ice, rise above the surface, fall again, and, caught in the embrace of the swift current, go tossing and crunching down toward Benton.
Little Tim's sheer delight in this sport exceeded that of all others. He displayed a recklessness that brought upon him the assertion by Jack Harvey that he was "a double-dyed little idiot;" and Henry Burns gave him solemn warning that some day he would go over the dam, if he didn't stop taking chances. But they couldn't check Tim's ardour. He was the hardest worker, with ice-chisel or pole, and the last to leave a sheet of ice that had broken loose and started down stream. For, not always did the ice sever at the point where they were working, but sometimes above them; so that a sharp watch had to be kept against the danger of being caught on an ice patch, and carried along with it.
Then, through the days of working thus at the field, and by the natural wearing away with the spring thaw, the water gained its freedom more and more; so that there was now a quarter of a mile of black open water between the dam and the edge of the ice.
There came, then, a memorable afternoon, which had been preceded by a day of rain, loosening up the bands of winter far and wide, raising the water in the stream by the inrush of countless little brooks all along its course; whereby the whole ice jam, and in some places, fields of logs that had been stored shingle-fashion for the winter, creaked and groaned and snapped, and the whole valley of the stream was filled with the noise of the dissolution. Farmers and mill men eyed the scene with some apprehension, and talked of freshet. Tim Reardon eyed it with delight, forecasting days of warmth and fishing in store.
The boys from Benton were upon the stream, that afternoon, though they knew, deep in their hearts, they had no business there; that it was dangerous; that the whole ice field was shaky. They worked at the ice with might and main, and cheered lustily when some great cake went tumbling over the dam.
Then, of a sudden, there came a cry, that started somewhere on shore, ran all along the banks of the stream and came down to the boys at their play—a cry of alarm and warning. They looked about quickly. What was the danger? Persons on shore were pointing far up stream. The next instant, they discerned the whole great ice field, as far as they could see, in motion; crumbling about the shores and heaving up into hummocks here and there. Then they felt the ice beneath their feet moving. The deliverance of the stream from winter was at hand. The ice was going out.
The wild scramble for shore was a thing not to be forgotten. Some of the boys had travelled away up beyond the vicinity of the dam, where the logs were stored within a boom. It was perilous footing across these, for the few moments that it took to regain the shore. The water opened here and there, in which the logs churned and slipped dangerously.
It was every one for himself, then, and lucky to gain the bank without bruises, or a ducking—or worse. It was all so sudden, so terrifying, so confusing, that no one paused to see who else was in danger.
But when Henry Burns and Jack Harvey and George Warren, Tom and Bob and John Ellison had gained the shore, a cry came in that turned them. Away over toward the other shore, they espied Little Tim and Bess Ellison scrambling desperately. Where the girl had come from, they did not know—only that she was there now, and in peril.
There was no hope of their regaining the farther shore. Already the ice had opened up to such an extent that a great gap of running water lay between the two and that bank. Would they be able to make the flight across?
A cry of horror went up from shore now; for, even as the boy and girl seemed to be nearing safety, a part of the field on which they stood separated from the rest, and began its journey down stream. But, with this, there was added to the dread and dismay of those who gazed the fact that the sheet of ice held two more captives. Henry Burns and Harvey had rushed across the ice to the rescue, only in time to be trapped with Tim and Bess.
They could all swim, but the attempt must have been fatal. The open water that now lay between them and the shore was filled with small blocks of ice, ground by the larger masses. One could not make headway through that. Was there any chance? Little Tim saw one.
Grasping Harvey by an arm, he pointed to a seam in the ice. "Chop there, Jack!" he cried. "Here, Henry, take my ice-chisel; you're stronger than I am. If we can cut loose, perhaps we can work in shore on the small piece."
They saw the chance—a desperate one—and took it. Holding in his hands the chisel he had been working with, Harvey began chopping furiously at the seam in the ice. Henry Burns, with Tim's chisel, did likewise. A few moments' work sufficed. The section on which they stood, already half broken away, yielded to the efforts of the two. It cracked, severed from the larger part, teetered dangerously and drifted away. The four were floating on a junk of ice that would just support them.
The cry went up to get a rope; and John Ellison and George Warren darted down along shore toward the mill. Using the blades of the heavy long-handled chisels, as best they could, for paddles, Henry Burns and Harvey strove to force the heavy block of ice toward shore. They succeeded in a measure, but they were going steadily and surely down stream.
It seemed ages before John Ellison and George Warren emerged from the mill. They had encountered Colonel Witham there, just as they had gathered up a long coil of light rope. He, anxious for the fate of his mill in the impending freshet, had not heard the cries farther up shore, and knew nothing of what was going on. He darted after them, as he saw them hurrying toward the door, demanding to know what they would do with his rope. They had no time to explain. Colonel Witham found himself shouldered out of the way, and sent spinning, by John Ellison; and when he caught himself they were rods away.
Standing now upon the shore, opposite the drifting cake, John Ellison handed one end of the rope to George Warren. Taking the other end, he separated the line into two coils, whirled one about his head and threw it far out. It fell short, splashing into the water. He tried again, and failed.