CHAPTER XLVIII.The Sins of the Parents
A few days after Sandy's tempestuous courting, Tessibel Skinner and her son left Ithaca to spend the remaining part of the summer in the North Woods. In September Young joined them for a few days and then brought them back to the hillside above Cayuga Lake.
Later in the fall, when the cold winds and driving rains of the lake began to find out the cracks in the shanties, Tessibel asked, and the lawyer consented, that old Mother Moll come from Brewer's to them. Tess gave her one of Andy's rooms. The dwarf had entered a school on College Hill and lived in the city most of the time, but was home now for the Christmas vacation.
The day after his return dawned bright and cold—one of those beautiful winter days occasionally seen in the Storm Country. Heavy snows had already fallen and made certain a white Christmas. Andy was helping Tessibel in order that she might have time to complete her Yuletide preparations. She'd filled her son's heart with delightful anticipations of the holiday, now but a few days distant, and he was eagerly looking forward to the Santa Claus who came to visit good little boys and fill their stockings with goodies.
At the north of the house Deforrest had made a little snow-hill for Boy. Many a happy hour the little fellow spent upon it with his sled. Oftimes his mother joined him in the sport, and the joyous laughter of the two children of nature rose high and clear in the winter air.
The morning's work finished, Tessibel wrapped up Boy and sent him out to play. She stood for some moments on the porch watching the sturdy little figure arrange the sled at the top of the hill.
How she loved him, and how good he was! Never since the day of his birth had he given her one sorrowful moment. She turned her eyes from Boy to the lake,and allowed them to rest upon the shanty near the shore. A disturbing thought pressed into her mind. They would not be long there now.
Deforrest had told her that his lease of the house expired the first of January, and Waldstricker had refused to renew it. If they moved away, she'd be lonely for the sight of her old friends and all the dear, familiar things that had met her eyes every day since she could remember.
She hoped her new home might be in the Storm Country. She loved the lake in its every mood. Dark and sullen, visitors had called it. But she'd seen it on summer days, a band of burnished blue cementing the harmonies of greens and browns into a picture of perfect beauty. She knew its deep, brooding peace when the light was fading and the evening breeze gently ruffled its surface. She'd skated over its shining bosom in the blinding glare of the unclouded sun and in the soft radiance of the shadow-filled moonlight. She knew the soft spots in the ice caused by flowing springs in the lake-bottom and had drunk their pure, cold water. Her lifelong intimacy had wooed from rockbound lake its inmost secrets. Today the water lay a gleaming jewel, huge by contrast to the myriad sparkles the sunbeams pricked out of the snow. She looked across to East Hill at the frosty veil of a ravine waterfall and sighed.
At a shout from Boy, she went to the far edge of the porch to watch him slide swiftly through the pear orchard toward the lane. Glancing along the line of his flight, she saw Waldstricker on his horse directly in Boy's path. Fear and horror held her dumb and motionless. Evidently the rider hadn't seen the swift-coming sled—but the horse had.
He reared and attempted to turn. At that point the ditches were deep and the rounded crown of the road covered with ice. The animal slipped and fell. At the proper moment the horseman jumped off and pulled the bridle rein over his mount's head.
Her muscles taut with fright, Tess jumped from the porch and ran down the hill to the scene of the accident. When she arrived Waldstricker was jerking his steed savagely.
"Get out of the way you little imp," he shouted, in the midst of his struggles with the animal. "What do you mean by riding in a public road scaring horses this way?"
"Mummy said Boy could ride down hill," answered the child, holding his ground staunchly.
"I'll mummy you!" The man's exasperation was increased by the child's resistance. "Get out of the way!"
"Boy, come straight here to me," Tess called, trying to pass the excited animal.
The child picked up the rope fastened to his sled, gave it a jerk and started toward his mother. Frightened by the flash of the sled in the snow, the horse reared and plunged anew.
"Drop that sled and get out of here!" Ebenezer thundered. "How many times must I tell you? Get out!"
Tess called again, but Boy flung up a red, angry face to the elder.
"Mummy said I could slide," he repeated stubbornly.
"I'll teach you to argue with me," snapped Waldstricker, and before Tess could reach him, he'd raised his arm and given the child a sharp cut with his riding whip. "Get out, I tell you!"
"Mover!" screamed Boy, jumping back and falling over the sled. "Oh, Mover! Mover!"
Like an enraged tigress, Tess threw herself upon Waldstricker, and tore at the upraised whip in his hand. The frantic horse, fairly beside himself with fear and excitement, pulled them both down the hill through the snow. By a strenuous effort Ebenezer threw off the girl's grip, and when he finally conquered the steed he was below the top of the lane near the Skinner hut.
Before Waldstricker could mount and ride back up the lane, Tess had picked up the boy from the snow where he had fallen. Without waiting an instant, she fled frantically toward the house.
"Andy! Andy!" she screamed.
Andy came downstairs as fast as his little legs could carry him.
"Waldstricker's killed Boy!" gasped Tess. "Andy, get something.... Tell Mother Moll.... Some water!"
She laid the baby on the divan in the sitting room and stood over him until old Moll came.
"He air got a spasm," croaked the old woman. "Poor little brat! Get some hot water."
For hours the child passed from one convulsion into another. When Deforrest came home, Tess was in a state of frantic despair.
"Waldstricker struck him," she explained. "He's going to die."
In response to his questions, the girl gave him the details, and hotter and hotter grew the listener's anger. He attempted to quiet Tessibel's fears while he got ready to go for the doctor, but she persisted in her claim that Boy wouldn't recover.
On his way home, the elder tried to make peace with himself. He was rather sorry he'd struck the boy; that he'd hurt the little imp, he poofed at. Anyway, he had taught Tess Skinner to keep her brat out of his way. His efforts to discipline her had resulted in an open breach with his brother-in-law and caused discord between himself and his wife. His disputes with Deforrest about the squatters had not turned out to his satisfaction. His efforts to drive the old witch off his lake-land by tearing down her shack had opened to her the house that he himself owned. He had had to pay Sandy Letts the $5,000 reward for the capture of Andy Bishop, and the whole city had laughed at the price paid for the little man's short imprisonment. He'd tried every way he knew to put an end to the situation. Helen ought to be able to do something with her brother. She should have saved her husband from the gossip Forrie was causing.
When he entered his home, Helen perceived that he'd acquired a new grievance and discreetly remained silent while he was preparing himself for dinner.
After a quiet meal, when they had seated themselves by the log fire in the library, Mrs. Waldstricker took up a doll's dress she was finishing for Elsie's Christmas. Her husband, stretched in an easy chair, glowered sullenly into the grate flames. The meditations of husband and wife were quite different. Helen wonderedwhat was bothering Ebenezer now. She wished they were more companionable; that things were pleasanter, more as it used to be when they were abroad. Since their return, he'd sit for hours in gloomy meditation. His fits of complete abstraction filled her with dread.
She brought back in sequenced retrospection the happy years of travel—how proud she'd always been of her handsome husband and of his courtly deference to her. She had never ceased to be grateful that Heaven had given her this man to love and cherish her. She couldn't tell how or when the change had come, but somehow they weren't happy together any more. He was so moody and quarrelsome lately. She missed her brother, too. Why those two men should get by the ears over the inhabitants of the Silent City she couldn't understand. But her thoughts were soon concentrated upon the work at hand and contemplating the joy she would have in Elsie's pleasure, she began to hum to herself.
Two or three times she peered at Ebenezer through her lashes. How moodily quiet he was! She wished Elsie were awake—the little girl always succeeded in dissipating the frown from her father's brows.
Suddenly, she held up the doll in all its newly-adjusted festive attire.
"There, now, dear, isn't the doll baby pretty?" she smiled.
Ebenezer didn't take his gaze from the burning logs.
"I'm not interested in dolls tonight." His tone was harsh and his manner studiously rude. Then, as though he'd finally determined to say something else, he looked around at her.
"I taught Tess Skinner a lesson today I don't believe she'll forget," he burst forth savagely.
The doll dropped from Helen's hands, its head striking sharply against the arm of her chair.
"What do you mean?" she gasped.
"You needn't get that expression on your face, my lady—"
"Oh, Ebenezer!" interjected Helen, drearily. "What makes you act so? One would think you spent your whole time trying to get even with somebody."
"I got even with my lady Skinner," smiled Waldstricker. "I gave her brat a whipping." The words came slowly, and the man watched their effect.
Helen was not able to sense the full meaning of his statement at first. Mechanically, she rescued the doll and laid it on the table. Beginning to see the picture he'd suggested, she opened her mouth, closed it again and at the next attempt spoke.
"Why, Ebenezer, Tessibel's baby is only a month or so older than Elsie!"
"Well, what of it! He's an impudent little whelp. Takes after his mother, I suppose."
"But you don't really mean you whipped him!" Helen exclaimed, still incredulous.
"That's just what I do. With my riding whip. What do you think of that?"
His words brought to Helen's recollection that other time he'd used his riding whip. Then it had been upon Mother Moll, and the old woman had screamed at him, "It air like ye to hit the awful young and the awful old." She recalled, too, the other mysterious words the witch woman had uttered. "Curls'll bring yer to yer knees—the little man air a settin' on yer chest!" The prophecy addressed to herself, that he'd make her life unhappy and that she'd leave him, she'd never before taken seriously. But the question hammered at her consciousness. Could it be that Moll had a second sight or something of the sort? Ebenezer's trouble about the squatters centered about Andy Bishop and the Skinner girl; the dwarf was certainly a little man and Tessibel had wonderful red curls. Her husband had made her life unhappy and his mood tonight was unusually ugly. She was touched with a superstitious half-conviction that the old woman's words would be fulfilled.
"I asked you a question, Mrs. Waldstricker," the wrathful voice interrupted her meditations. "Answer me, if you please."
Perhaps it was the recollection of Mother Moll's sibylline utterance; perhaps merely that her husband's hostile attitude aroused a corresponding feeling of animosity. At any rate, she sat erect in her chair andfixed her eyes upon his scowling face. Never had he seen her rounded chin so squarely set; never the red lips drawn into such determined lines.
"I think you're a brute, that's what I think!" she responded deliberately, as though stating a conclusion arrived at after due consideration. "Yes, worse than a brute!" The answer was as unexpected to the elder as though a lump of ice had suddenly boiled over. A quick fury took possession of him.
"Think I'm a brute, do you?... What's the matter with you? Are you getting soft on the squatters, too?"
Helen made a hasty gesture, indicative of denial.
"Well, you better not!" warned Ebenezer, angrily. "Your brother's conduct is disgraceful enough. I'm sick and tired of having my own townsfolk winking at each other every time his name's mentioned. Lawyer Young and his squatter women! Sounds nice, doesn't it?"
To be loyal to herself and Deforrest, she could not help but disagree with him.
"Now, Ebenezer, you oughtn't to say such a thing," she expostulated.
A flame of anger shot into the elder's steady stare.
"Don't you 'Now Ebenezer' me!" he snorted. "Young's making my lake property a disorderly house. It's positively indecent! I won't stand it any longer. I won't have those squatters there, and your brother can make up his mind to that!"
Helen tried to interrupt but her husband waved her to silence.
"Mother Moll and Andy Bishop!" he mocked. "An old witch and a jail-bird! Wouldn't it make a man tired?"
Helen leaned forward. An angry red spot burned on either cheek and her eyes flashed. Her gentle temper didn't take fire easily, but even to her endurance there were limits.
"You seem to forget, Mr. Waldstricker," she retorted sharply, "that your men tore down the old woman's home and your money procured the perjury that sent the dwarf to Auburn. It strikes me you'd better not throw stones at Forrie."
Waldstricker jumped to his feet and rushed to his wife's side.
"What!" he roared. "You dare that to my face! Some more of Deforrest's influence, I suppose. Nice family I married into, I must say."
Helen got up from her chair. The one thing that stirred her quickest was an attack upon her brother.
"Ebenezer Waldstricker, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Forrie minds his own business and you should mind yours." An hysterical sob brought her to a pause, but she struggled on. "I don't know how I've stood your temper so long. You must have lost your mind."
In view of the grievances he'd been nursing, his wife's sudden rebellion seemed almost too unreasonable to be credited. She'd joined his enemies! She was making common cause with her notorious brother and the squatters! Very well, he'd use her the same as he would them.
"You think rather well of me, don't you Mrs. Waldstricker?" he rasped. "Nice names you call me. Brute! Home destroyer! Procurer of perjury! Liar! Crazy!" His voice grew louder as he hurled the epithets at her and broke into a shriek upon the last one. "Get out of here before I teach you the same lesson I taught Tess Skinner!" He lifted his arm above his head; the great fist was clenched, and the cruel mouth was drawn at both corners. "Get out of here before I hit you!"
Helen stood petrified. The blow had fallen. Mother Moll was right! She retreated before his menacing gestures, but stopped near the door and held up her hand in entreaty. She'd make one more effort.
"But, Ebenezer," she began, "where shall I go?"
Advancing toward her, he fairly shouted:
"I don't know and I don't care. Go down and help your brother take care of his squatter baggage!"
He seemed fairly beside himself. Helen realized the hopelessness of further resistance.
"Then I'll go and take my baby," she cried. "Perhaps when we're gone—"
Her words only added fuel to the flame of his wrath.
"You'll not touch my daughter," he interrupted. "She'll stay with me."
He rushed at her, pushed her rudely aside, and hurried up the stairs to the nursery.
His wife followed as quickly as possible. At the nursery door Ebenezer met her and blocked her way.
"You needn't wake her up," he hissed. "Go on! Get out of here! You're worse than the Skinner woman!"
She could not go into the nursery. The angry man on the threshold effectually prevented her. Mrs. Waldstricker turned down the hall and went to her own room. She could hardly comprehend the untoward disaster that had destroyed the whole fabric of her life at one stroke. The blood was throbbing at her temples and pounding through her body. Her ears rang; her face burned and she was trembling all over. Mechanically, she fumbled for the matches on a nearby table, found one and struck it. She attempted to light the lamp but dropped the chimney and it rolled away under the bed.
Drearily, she tried to consider her course. Ebenezer had ordered her to go. Then she must go. She'd always done as he directed. But where? Her cheeks burned more fiercely as she recalled the brutal answer he'd given that question. No, she wouldn't go to Forrie! It would only make Ebenezer more angry and make more trouble for her brother. It didn't make much difference where she went anyway. Life without her husband and her baby wouldn't be life at all. She couldn't visualize her days without Elsie, the little one they'd both longed for and prayed over. Slowly, because each little act required a separate effort of volition, she dressed herself. Prepared at last to depart, she took a long look through the rooms. Past events went in giddy rapidity across her vision. How she'd loved and still loved Ebenezer! They'd been so happy together. She sighed and went through the hall to the nursery. Her movements had evidently been heard. When she approached the door, her husband stepped out and pulled the door to behind him. For a moment their eyes met. In his she saw the dull smoldering coals of hate. She bowed her head and silently went through the baleful glare he cast upon her down the stairs and out of the mansion to which she had been brought a happy bride.
CHAPTER XLIXTessibel and Elsie
Gloom lay over the Silent City. Bitter hatred burned in the simple heart of every squatter. Waldstricker's open enmity had expressed itself in a series of injuries, calculated to enrage them. The shanty folk resented his cruelty to Mother Moll. The destruction of her shack promised a similar fate to their homes. When the story of Waldstricker's attack upon Boy Skinner spread among them, fierce threats were muttered at the fishing holes and by the firesides. The wintry winds of the Storm Country, shrieking over the desolate masses of ice and snow, were not more fierce and cruel than the squatters' demand for vengeance. The daily bulletins of the little one's illness kept the interest alive and added to the growing excitement and indignation.
Day after day, the doctor had come to the Young home, each time shaking his head more gravely. To Deforrest, the helpless witness of the unfolding tragedy, the days and nights were but a continuing torture. Andy Bishop stole about the house like a small white ghost, waiting upon Tessibel and Mother Moll. One morning, a few days before Christmas, the doctor told Deforrest Young he considered Boy beyond earthly help. And now it devolved upon the lawyer to tell Tessibel she must lose her baby.
He went softly to the sick room. Whiter than the pillow upon which his cheek rested, Boy lay relaxed, breathing rapidly. Tess stood at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. Anxious eyes turned to greet Young. At the bedside the man stopped a moment and looked down upon the little figure. Shocked by the imminent signs of approaching dissolution, he went over and placed an arm around the girl.
"He's awful sick," Tess whispered. "What'd the doctor say?"
"I'm afraid, Tess—I'm afraid," he answered, unable to frame the medical man's decision.
Dawning comprehension and dismay struggled in the young mother's eyes, for the agonized tones of the well-loved voice and the tender solicitude of the supporting arms had put into Young's halting words the dread import of his message.
"You mean—you mean—?" she questioned.
"Tess, darling; my pretty child," Young murmured helplessly.
The red head dropped upon his chest and for a moment Tess clung to him as though to find protection from the menacing horror. Then she freed herself, dropped on her knees by the bedside, and rested her head on Boy's little hand. During the hours of watching she had striven to steel herself against this possibility. But she couldn't understand. Boy, her cherished bit of living joy and sunshine! What would become of him? Separation? Yes, but where was he going? She didn't know. She couldn't think. A sudden shudder, a kind of voiceless sob shook her.
Young stood quietly by the bedside, watching and waiting. His love for mother and son centered all his thoughts in them. He shared his darling's grief and desired above everything to console her; but the very depth of his sympathy prevented him. Hopeless himself, in this grim crisis, every human effort seemed futile.
Placing a tender hand on her shaking shoulder, he bent down.
"My poor little girl!" he breathed. "I wish I could help you some way."
"Nobody ... can." The hopeless despair of her voice made vocal the utter desolation she felt.
A gentle movement of the little hand against her face commanded Tessibel's immediate attention. She smoothed the pillow the while she whispered softly little words of love to Boy. Then she looked around at Young.
"Please tell Andy to fix the kitchen fire," she said, even at this time mindful of her domestic duties.
"I'll see to it myself," and he went out softly and down the stairs.
He found Andy in the sitting room.
"The doctor—what'd the doctor say?" the dwarf demanded.
"Go to 'er," trembled Young. "Brace her up all you can."
The little man went slowly upstairs and entered the sick chamber. Through the tears in his eyes, he saw the dying babe in the white bed and the young mother kneeling on the floor, the flaming red of the clustering curls an incongruous note of brilliant color.
Andy waddled across the room and knelt down beside Tessibel. Lifting his arm he let it fall across the girl's shoulders. His silent sympathy, always unselfish, never intruded. Tess stared at Andy a moment, and then buried her face in her hands upon the coverlet.
"He's going away," she got out through her fingers. "Andy, I can't let 'im go!"
"I've been prayin' for 'im, Tess," choked the dwarf.
The girl made no response, but to show her friend she'd heard, one of her hands sought and held his.
"If it air right for 'im to stay, dear," murmured Andy, "the good God'll help 'im.... Don't ye think so, Tess?"
"I don't know, Andy.... I'm afraid!... It's too awful!"
"Kid, ye know it air true. You've only to ask him," Andy insisted.
A hopeless shake of the bowed head accompanied the whispered answer.
"I can't, Andy! I can't!... I'm so afraid!"
"What you 'fraid of, brat, dear? Jesus air loving you same's He did in the shack. He got Daddy Skinner out of prison, an' he took care of me, didn't he, huh?"
Maddened by suffering, she drew herself impatiently, away from the dwarf.
"Don't, Andy! I don't want to hear! He let Waldstricker whip my baby."
Although the young mother could hear the muttered prayers of the dwarf, no answering faith cameinto her soul. Hot hatred of the man who'd struck her son surged through her. Never again would she think of him without the raging cry within her for revenge. Her anger barbed the shafts of his rancor and dulled her own understanding of Life and Love. Resentment inhibited every constructive effort. The courage, even the desire to fight against death's coming, was wanting.
"I hate 'im worse than anything in the world," she muttered.
"Yes, darlin'," soothed the dwarf.
"I'd like to kill him. Oh, I must do something—" She tried to get to her feet, but Andy held her tightly.
"Stay here!" was all he said, and Tess ceased to resist.
At midnight Boy died. He went away very quietly, without a cry or struggle. At the very last, he turned upon his side, looked into his mother's face, his eyes unshadowed and joyous. He smiled a little, sighed with the passing breath, "Mummy," and sank to sleep. So dazed was Tessibel that without protest she allowed Deforrest to pick her from her knees and carry her out of the room.
Mother Moll and Andy performed the necessary services to the mortal clay that'd been their darling. Loving fingers, tenderly touching the delicate body, made Boy ready for the grave. Through the stillness of the night, the sighing of the ceaseless wind of the Storm Country, soughing of death and desolation, called to their minds the weird superstitions of squatter lore. The old witch mumbled of signs, portends and warnings, and uttered dire prophecies in which her wrath at Waldstricker found expression.
While Tess and her squatter friends were carrying Boy through the sullen cold to God's wind-swept half-acre, Ebenezer Waldstricker sat before the glowing hickory logs in his sumptuous library. Several letters in his morning mail required his presence in the city. On the table before him lay a list of things he intended to buy for little Elsie's Christmas.
Since the day he'd whipped Tessibel's son and forcedhis wife from his home he'd devoted himself to the little girl. In spite of his best efforts, the child's grief for her mother had driven him almost to his wits' end. He'd made up his mind to spare no expense to bring joy back to his darling.
Whenever his mind reverted to the scene at the lake he tried to justify his act in striking the little fellow, but the news of Boy's death had, for a moment, given him an uncomfortable turn. He hadn't intended anything like that. He wasn't to blame! Probably the little imp would have died anyway!
Helen had sent every day to ask after Elsie, and the thought of his wife's anxiety pleased the elder. Perhaps, after a while, the squatters, as well as the members of his own household, would learn his word was law; that he would not allow any of them to go against his will. Again and again the corner curl of his lips showed his satisfaction.
Hearing the jingle of sleigh bells at the door, he rose from his chair and slipped on his great coat and cap.
"Daddy, bring mover back," quivered Elsie, when he kissed her good-bye.
Waldstricker stooped and gathered her into his arms.
"Daddy'll bring Elsie lots of pretty things, and so will Santa Claus. He's coming down the chimney tonight—"
"Elsie wants mover," sobbed the little one.
Ebenezer surrendered her to the nurse.
"Get her mind off crying," he said morosely. "Give her everything she asks for."
"I can't," muttered the woman, and when the door had closed, "There, there, child, don't cry! Your mother'll be comin' back some of these days."
In the early afternoon Waldstricker bought and packed into the sleigh all kinds of presents for his daughter. His spirits rose when he thought that her demands for her mother would be quieted on Christmas Day.
It was quite dark when his powerful team foughttheir way through the storm up to the porch of the house. While the man was coming for the horses he took the bundles from the sleigh. At the door he met several white-faced servants.
"What's the matter?" he queried, relieving his arms of their load.
"The baby!... We can't find her.... She's gone," said a voice.
"Gone! Gone where?" roared Waldstricker.
"Nobody knows, sir," gasped the nurse. "She was in the library looking at the pictures—"
Waldstricker brushed past the speaker. He rushed through the house calling his child frantically. In his wife's sitting room he stopped, arrested by an illuminating thought.
Helen had stolen the baby! He drew a long breath that hissed through his teeth. Of course, that was what had happened. Instant anger filled his mind. He'd show her. He wouldn't stand it. He went below and called the servants into his presence.
"Who was here this morning?" he questioned.
"Nobody." Not one of them had seen a person.
"Mrs. Waldstricker was here, wasn't she?" he insisted.
"No, Mrs. Waldstricker hasn't been home today."
The elder set his grim lips and went out again. Elsie was with her mother! That Helen hadn't been to the house didn't prove anything. She'd sent some one. Elsie wouldn't have gone away of her own accord.
When Ebenezer appeared at Madelene's home he was fuming with fury. His sister greeted him cordially and ushered him into the drawing room.
"I'm glad you've come, Ebenezer. Helen's been crying ever since she's been here."
"I'll make her cry more before I'm done with her," gritted Waldstricker.
"But, Ebenezer, she's sick. And you were so cruel to send her away like that."
Waldstricker turned savagely upon the speaker, hands working convulsively and face and eyes ugly from fear and anger.
"Never mind about that now—Where's Elsie?" he demanded. "I want her and I want her right away."
Madelene fell back a step, wax-white.
"Elsie!" she echoed. "Isn't she home?"
"Madelene," Ebenezer began in a deadening voice, "you know me well enough not to play with me like this. Where's my daughter?"
Madelene's hands came together.
"She's not here!... She's home, Ebbie, dear, she must be!"
"She's not!" fell from Waldstricker. "Call Helen!"
"Helen can't come down, Ebbie, she's in bed!"
"I'll see her." Low thunder rolled in his tones. His sister grasped his arm.
"Be kind to her, Ebbie, dear—"
"I'll see her," repeated Ebenezer, not changing the tone of his voice.
Without another word, Madelene whirled and went toward the stairs, the church elder following his sister with slow tread.
Helen turned her tired, white face to the visitors. At the sight of her husband she sat up straight.
"Where's Elsie?" the man shouted harshly from the door.
Something had happened to her little girl! Her husband was asking for the child! Mrs. Waldstricker jumped out of bed quickly.
"I haven't seen her," she answered. "Isn't she home?"
Then Waldstricker believed. Elsie had disappeared. She was not with her mother!
"She's gone," was all he said, and, wheeling, went out.
Not one of the servants could tell Madelene or the distracted mother any more than they had told the father.
The search began without the slightest clue of the child's whereabouts. Elsie had disappeared, as if she had been snatched into the sky. The storm, already very severe, had thickened the early twilight into dense darkness. The light snow that had fallen earlier inthe day to the depth of several inches drove in swirling clouds before the wind and piled in deep drifts, while the congealed air pelted icy particles of frozen moisture into the confused uproar upon forest and field. Fear that the child had started out to find her mother and had been overtaken by the blizzard obsessed Waldstricker. He sent messengers in all directions, and himself rode furiously through the snow inquiring everywhere. Finding no trace of her at the neighboring houses, he instituted a systematic search of the locality.
All the afternoon Young had sat with Tessibel, most of the time in silence. She showed no desire to talk, and he knew not what to say. Watching from the sitting room window, Tess seemed to find diversion in the wind-driven snow, as though the blizzard's riot met and matched the aching bewilderment in her own breast.
Nor did she pay any attention to a knock which resounded above the beating of the storm. Deforrest went to the door and carried on an undertoned conversation with some one outside. Then after dispatching the caller, he went back to the girl.
"Tess," he hesitated, but his voice broke and he was unable to complete his sentence. In responsive inquiry, she turned from the window and looked up at him. The deep dejection of her attitude depicted her despondency and despair. The brown eyes, dull and lustreless, staring out of the drawn white face, expressed the hopeless wonderment the man had seen in the glazing orbs of a stricken deer. A great wave of pity welled up in him. How could he break this frozen composure and bring to the overwrought heart the healing blessing of flowing tears?
"Tessibel," he continued, sitting down, "what were you thinking about?"
"I was wondering what I could do to ... hurt Waldstricker," she replied, gripping the arms of her chair. Then she rose suddenly, throwing up her head. The intensity of her emotion fanned the dull coals of hate in her eyes to a hard brilliance and touched herwhite cheeks with vermilion. Vivid, active, her beautiful face, passion-drawn and cruel, red curls writhing and twisting upon her shoulders, Tess seemed a veritable fury crying for vengeance. She lifted clenched hands.
"I'll hurt Waldstricker," she vowed. "God help me to do it!"
Springing to his feet, Young ejaculated:
"Don't, Tess! You mustn't!"
Turning away, she paced up and down the room, muttering imprecations. Her companion stood silent, unable to assuage her agony or rebuke her vindictive words.
At length Tess stopped directly in front of him.
"I know you don't like me to feel that way about Waldstricker, but I can't help it. I hate him so!"
Then she went to the window and stared out into the storm again.
After a moment's hesitation, Young touched her. Drawing her back, he held her in his arms, attempting to soothe and quiet her by murmured endearments.
"I'm awfully sorry, dear," he explained. "I must go to town. Helen's sent for me."
Tess nodded indifferently. It was all one to her now. She'd lost Boy, and she was willing to be alone to plan how she could punish his murderer.
"I'll send Andy to you," said Young, leading her to a chair.
He went in search of the dwarf and found the little man in his room huddled on the bed.
"Andy," said Deforrest, "come here."
Without a word the dwarf went to the lawyer.
"I'm going to Ithaca. Go down and stay with Tess until I get back."
He turned and went out, and Andy, silent and sick at heart, followed him down the stairs.
Andy was not able to persuade Tess to talk with him, but obeying Professor Young, he stayed very near her. The blizzard howled and banged outside, adding by its noisy commotion an element of dread to the grief within.
About nine in the evening footsteps sounded on the porch; the dwarf got up and went to the door. Jake Brewer entered and closed the door against the storm. The squatter took off his hat and shook the snow from the top of it. He looked, alternately, from the girl in the chair near the window to the little man staring up at him.
"I come to speak to the brat," he said.
"She ain't very well," answered Andy.
Tessibel looked around.
"Sit down, Jake," she invited. "The night's dreadful, isn't it?"
Brewer coughed and remained silent.
"Can I do anything, Jake?" inquired the dwarf, softly.
"Nope, it air only Tess can do it," replied the squatter.
Tessibel heard but remained in the same position.
"Tess air the only one can help," repeated Brewer.
The girl sank back in her chair, allowing her hands to drop in her lap.
"What is it?" she asked listlessly.
"Ma Brewer air sick," said the squatter. "She air knowin' ye air in trouble, but—but—"
It seemed to the girl as if this Christmas-tide had brought sorrow to everyone.
She rose to her feet, stiff from sitting in the same position for so long a time.
"I'll get her something, Jake," she said quickly.
"Ma an' me know ye got a lot of sorrow, brat," choked the man, "but Ma were a wonderin' if ye'd run to the shack fer a minute." Noticing the girl's hesitation, "She's awful sick an' mebbe if ye'd come, she'd feel better.'"
"I'll get your wraps, brat," Andy offered.
Both men helped Tessibel into her things. She stood very quiet until Andy held out her mittens.
"I'll only be gone a few minutes," she promised the dwarf. "Come on, Jake!"
And together they went out into the storm.
CHAPTER LTessibel's Vision
Tessibel and Jake Brewer made their way through the bleak, dark, pear orchard to the lane. The night held no terrors for the girl. All her winters, she'd battled with the cold and winds of the Storm Country. Now, through the lane to the lake, they struggled, heads bent against the blinding blizzard. Under the weeping willow trees stood the empty shanty which had housed her childhood days, and, mechanically, she turned her eyes toward it. She recalled, dully, the strange sequence of events that had transformed her from a squatter's brat and lifted her out of the bleak barrenness of life in the shack. She'd escaped the squalor, the horrid cold and the hardships, common to the women of the Silent City. She lived more comfortably and decently than the fishermen's wives. She'd learned many things, but all her efforts to improve herself had been centered in her ambitions for Boy. Now it was all wasted! She'd won for him nothing but Waldstricker's enmity. Her aspirations for him and for herself were buried in the little grave on the storm-swept hillside by Daddy Skinner. Like a borrowed mantle, the culture she'd gained under Professor Young's loving tuition slipped from her and the elemental passions of the primitive people that produced her assumed their sway. Subconsciously, the squatter's standards re-established themselves, and she hugged to her heart the hate she'd been cherishing.
On the ice-covered rocks, where they were sheltered from the wind, Jake began to talk.
"I wouldn't have asked ye to come, Tess," he apologized, "if we hadn't needed ye bad."
"I wasn't doing anything at home," the girl answered tonelessly.
"Mr. Young weren't there, were he?" asked Brewer.
"No," replied Tess. "His sister's sick and sent for him."
"I guess she air sick, all right," commented Jake, ominously.
If Tess heard, she didn't heed the sinister suggestion in the squatter's speech. She was busy, her whole attention devoted to plans for revenge upon Waldstricker.
The light from Brewer's hut, which was set back a little from the lake shore, in a frost-riven and water-worn niche in the precipitous cliff, shone mistily through the storm. Cut by slanting lines of driving snow-crystals, its milky radiance obscured rather than defined the drifted path. Breathless, from the blizzard's buffeting, they gained, at last, the hut door.
The fisherman lifted the latch and they stepped into the hut. Seated in chairs around the bare little room were several men, squatter friends of the neighborhood. Near the stove stood Ma Brewer, white-faced and anxious. As soon as she recognized the girl, she began to weep and gesticulate hysterically. Tess went to her and seized her hands.
"Why! Ma Brewer, what's the matter? What'd you want of me?"
Before she could answer, a rough voice broke the silence.
"We all wanted ye, Tess."
She wheeled about and looked from one to the other.
Jake was still standing near the door. The triumphant leer on his face was reflected in the several expressions of the other men.
"Then, Ma Brewer wasn't sick?" Tess demanded slowly.
"Nope," said Jake, "but I'll bet someone else air."
Tessibel allowed her eyes to rove about the shack. A slight movement in the corner attracted her attention. There, like a forlorn little lamb, a tight rag about her mouth, her curls matted and damp, crouched Elsie Waldstricker. Instantly, Tess recognized her and her heart pumped with joy. Surely, her prayer had been answered! Here was her opportunity! The child was suffering, she could see that, but the veryextremity of torture could hardly repay for the pain Boy'd endured. While Tess was pondering the penalties she'd inflict, a smile touched her lips. The frightened blue eyes searched the hard brown ones, but the child found no comfort or encouragement in the frowning face of the squatter girl.
"It's Waldstricker's brat," declared Jake, exultantly. "I were a snoopin' 'round Eb's place an' run on 'er down near the road by that there bunch of tamaracks. I says, 'What air the matter, Kid,' an' she says, 'I want my ma.' I says, 'Come along an' I'll git 'er fer ye,' an' the kid come jest like a lamb goes to the slaughterhouse." And Jake threw back his head and roared.
The other men joined in the grim laughter. After a minute, another voice sounded above the last ugly chuckles.
"Now, we got 'er, Tess, ye air to do anythin' ye want to with 'er."
Still, the blue eyes looked into the brown, and, still, Tessibel's heart raged its satisfaction. What were the squatters going to do with Waldstricker's daughter? The girl turned her head slowly and glanced at the row of dark men in their chairs against the wall. She cared nothing for the child on the floor, except that she was the one thing that Waldstricker loved best. Surely, to injure her would injure him! The little feet were tied and so were the small hands. This pleased Tess, too, for she remembered how they'd held Boy when he was imploring them to keep the big man away.
Waldstricker! Ungodly, wicked Waldstricker! His time had come! She'd go and leave the little girl with the squatters. Well she knew that a word from her and the baby would be seen no more.
"I guess when old Eb found out his kid were gone," grated Jake Brewer, "he got a wrench or two hisself."
The heavy voice brought Tess about.
"What'll we do with her?" She flung her hand toward the child in the corner.
"Yer say'll go, brat," put in Longman. "That rich duffer air had his way too long. Us squatters're a goin' to show 'im 'tain't so safe to ride rough shod over everybody."
"You're going to kill her?" asked Tessibel, dully.
"Yep," flung in Brewer, "if ye say so."
Mrs. Brewer was crying softly. Her husband turned fiercely upon her.
"Ma, here," said he, "air makin' some awful fuss over nothin'. She wants the kid took out of the state an' put some'ers. Us men says it air got to die."
"It air too awful, Tessie," sobbed Mrs. Brewer. "The baby ain't done nothin'."
Tessibel refrained from looking at the speaker. Her heart bled afresh at the woman's words. Boy hadn't done anything, either, but Waldstricker'd killed him. It was just, he should give his daughter for her son. It wouldn't bring Boy back, but surely he'd rest easier if Elsie joined him. The thought that her enemy would know the ache that tore her heart, was balm to her own heart. Yet something within her tugged her eyes to the baby on the floor. How Boy'd cried when the convulsive pain had tied his little limbs into cruel knots! She wanted to hear Elsie cry, too. The wails of her enemy's child might drive the shrieks of her own little one from memory.
"Take the rag off her mouth," said she, quickly.
"She'll cry like a sick cat, if ye do," warned a man.
Tess crossed the room to the corner where Elsie lay and kneeling by her, unfastened the cloth about her mouth. The baby held up her bound hands, blue and swollen from the tight ligature, and whimpered,
"Elsie's hands hurt."
The squatter girl had never voluntarily hurt a living thing. All her life quick sympathy had responded instinctively to helplessness and misery. Even the toads and bats knew her tender care. Waldstricker's child was to her, then, the most loathsome of breathing creatures. She might let the squatters kill her; she might even do it herself. But this was another thing! Face to face with the concrete case of pinching a baby's wrists, her instinct sent her fingers to the tight cords about the uplifted hands. Without conscious purpose, she, also, loosened the plump ankles. Elsie rolled in a whimpering, little heap on the floor.
"I want my Daddy," she whined.
"You can't have your Daddy," answered Tess. Lifting the child to her feet, she noted how like to Deforrest Young's were the little one's eyes.
"Your daddy air a dirty duffer," said Jake. "Give 'er a whack in the face, Tess."
He came forward from his place by the door and stopped near the two girls. The fisherman raised his own fist, and Tessibel moved a little aside. She regretted, now, that she'd loosened the little one's bonds or had done anything to relieve her suffering. She didn't care what they did to Waldstricker's girl. If they wanted to strike her, what affair was it of hers?
She turned her eyes upward, and, there, from among the rafters, she seemed to see Boy's face smiling down upon her. Love, shining from the dear eyes, radiated bliss and joy. How very sweet and peaceful he appeared! Then, Brewer's voice penetrated her consciousness. He was leaning over the rigid little girl.
"Brat," he was saying, "you air goin' to get the lickin' of yer life, an' don't ye ferget it."
"Pretty lady, help baby," mourned Elsie.
Tessibel shoved the squatter aside.
"Don't touch 'er yet," she said in low, distinct tones.
Jake took something from his pockets and thrust it into the girl's hands. It was a small, wiry, riding whip.
"It air the one her pa used on Boy," he muttered. "I stole it from 'is stable."
Tessibel uttered a cry and dropped the whip. The terrible scene in the lane, invoked by the speaker's words and the sight of the whip, poured into her mind a new flood of hate.
Yes! Elsie should be treated as her father had treated Boy! She stooped and picked up the whip. The men leaned forward, watching intently. Their heavy breathing and Ma Brewer's sobs mingled with the ticking of the clock and the storm's racket against the hut sides.
She studied the whip and tested its hissing pliability. That tip had stung Boy beyond endurance. The length of it had put him in his grave. Waldstricker's hands had tortured her son. She would make hisdaughter pay the reckoning. She drew a deep breath and raised her arm.
Elsie had crept unnoticed to her side, and as Tess glanced down, the child touched her hand with little fingers, marble-cold. The girl drew away from the suppliant touch, then, lowered the whip and stood considering the baby face.
"I hate you worse'n anyone in the whole world," she spat out.
"Then, lick 'er," growled Longman, and the other squatters muttered their approval.
Elsie dropped her head against Tessibel, and clung to her skirt.
"I want my—mover," she burst out, crying.
"Get even with Waldstricker, brat," said another voice.
Tess raised her arm and glancing along the uplifted whip, again, she looked into Boy's eyes, and, as she gazed, the little face in the rafters receded, grew dimmer.
She dropped the whip, and unmindful of the squatters, lifted her hands.
"Mummy's baby boy!" she called. The happy eyes faded last from her sight and it seemed to her they summoned her thence. A moment more, she stood shivering, staring into the shadows, and, then, she turned upon the dark-browed men.
"You said I could do anything I wanted to with 'er, eh?"
"Yep," Brewer assented. "Beat 'er, kill 'er, the more the better for us-uns."
"Then give me a blanket to wrap her in. I'll take her home where—where—Boy—died."
Brewer's lips fell apart and he laughed evilly.
"Good idee, brat," he said. "Ye can make it a thousand times worser for the kid if ye do.... Get a blanket, Ma."
Carefully, the girl wrapped the blanket around and around the little one. Elsie whimpered disconsolately but made no objection. Anything was better than being left with the men who tied her up. Lifting the bulky bundle, Tess started for the door, Jake picked up the whip from the floor, handed it to her.
"Ye're forgettin' somethin' ain't ye, brat? Ye'll be wantin' this, I'm thinkin'," he chuckled.
"I can't ever thank you all enough," she flung back hoarsely, tucking the whip into her coat pocket, "for giving me this chance at Waldstricker."
Longman got up and opened the door and Tess stepped out into the storm, carrying Waldstricker's daughter.
Deforrest Young was trying to calm his sister. Her frantic cries for her baby contrasted strangely with the icy despair of the other mother he'd tried to comfort. His heart, still sore from Boy's loss, bled in ready sympathy to his sister's mourning. He grasped Helen's hands which were tearing her hair.
"Don't!" he said. "We'll find her soon. By morning she'll be back home again. Ebenezer has nearly every man around looking for her, ... searching every barn and asking at every house.... Darling, do you think you could stay here with Madelene and let me go out, too?"
"Yes, yes, go, but Oh, God, I shall die if you don't find her!"
Hour after hour men on horseback and men on foot hunted through the hills and gullies for little Elsie Waldstricker.
It was almost twelve, when one by one Ebenezer's friends rode sorrowfully home after a useless search.