CHAPTER XVThe Search
Burnett wiped his hand across his eyes to efface the vision which so unexpectedly impeded his official progress. It was the sight of a girl, nestled on a cot, and over the pillow upon which her head rested was strewn in a wild, magnificent disarray, a profusion of tawny curls, such as he never had seen. For a moment the corpulent deputy from Auburn, the terror of all the criminals in the country around, forgot his delegated obligation to the state. Tessibel Skinner's two slender arms huddled a small, speckled hoot owl; and as in a dream, Burnett noted the girl's red lips touched the bird affectionately in a hasty little caress. Another thing he noted was the unflinching and prolonged questioning glance with which the red-brown eyes met his. Tess couldn't speak a word at first, now that she was actually face to face with the man after Andy. He was even sterner than she had imagined he would be.
Quite gravely she considered his big frame from head to foot, took hasty account of the firm setting of his jaw, and the deep, clean-cut lines from his eyes to his chin. Then, she smiled a rare, enchanting smile, the deepening dimples around the red moist lips suffusing the deputy warden with a warm, welcoming glow.
"I heard ye talkin' to Daddy, mister," she said, gulping. "I air awful glad ye came in to see me too. I'd a been hurt if ye'd gone without my gettin' a peep at ye."
During each infinitesimal space of time, Burnett stood in the sunshine of Tessibel's smile, his austere churlishness was slipping from him like a loosened garment. As if forced by an unseen hand, he took one step nearer her.
"Set down, sir," invited Tess, clutching the owl with one hand, and making an elaborate sweep with theother. "That air Daddy's chair—ye air awful handsome and big, but the chair'll hold ye all right."
Burnett caught his breath and sank into the indicated seat. He'd intended to turn that shanty over from top to bottom, to rip it almost to the ground. But the sight of the red-headed sprite on the cot fondling a woodland owl, and the effect of her smile upon the beating of his heart, dissolved his rage and stayed his action.
"Well, I'll be damned!" was all he said, and Tess smiled again. She didn't mind if he swore. The one thing she desired was to get rid of him as soon as possible. She was conscious of the gyrations of Andy Bishop curled in the straw under her slender body, and she knew her curls were shrouding a face distorted with anxiety.
"Are you sick, kid?" questioned Burnett, when he could draw a natural breath.
"Well, ye see," acknowledged Tess, "I ain't 'xactly sick, but I got my ankle all packed up. Sometimes girls hurt their ankles an' they have to put a rag 'round 'em."
Tessibel was very careful not to say she'd hurt hers in this explanation to Burnett's question.
"An' then ye see, sir," she pursued, "if ye turn yer foot over an' can't walk, ye have to go to bed a spell, huh?"
"Well, I should say so!" asseverated Burnett, mustering the manner he always used with ladies. "Say, by George, I didn't know Orn Skinner had a pretty kid like you."
"My, didn't ye?" gurgled Tess, with shy lids drooping and her color mounting. "I thought everybody in the hull world knew I were Daddy's brat. He air had me fer ever so long. I been growed up for a lot of years." She shifted the owl in her arms. "This owl air named Deacon.... Want to pet 'im a minute, huh?"
The warden threw back his head and roared. He felt as if he'd been hung up for days by the thumbs—that this girl had mercifully cut the ropes and let him down once more to peace and happiness.
"No, thanks, I'll let you keep your pet," he laughed good-humoredly. "Queer play fellow for a girl, that's my opinion."
After a few more compliments, through which Tessibel flirted her way into the big man's regard, the officer rose to his feet.
"Little lady, I came here for a specific reason," he announced. Unquenchable mischief shone upon him from smiling, enquiring eyes.
"Oh," giggled Tess, "anyway, I air awful glad ye come."
The grim lips of the deputy curled upward again. Tess adored his mouth twisted at the corners like that.
"I might as well get it over first as last," ventured Burnett. "But I'm more'n anxious you shouldn't be mad at me. The fact is we've traced a man down from Auburn—"
Tessibel interrupted him, startled; at least she acted so.
"From Auburn!" she gasped.
"Yes, ma'am, a murderer! Andy Bishop. Little man like this," the warden explained, measuring a short space from the floor. "By some means or other he wriggled his way out of prison—"
Tessibel's lips trembled and she turned her eyes away. Old memories rushed over her, memories of the cold winter when she'd been alone in the shack.
"An' ye thought 'cause Daddy'd been up there once, the man must a run right straight here, huh?" she accused, with a sob in her voice.
"Well, I'll admit till I saw you I thought—I thought, but now—," a negative gesture with his hand finished his answer.
Tessibel turned withering, tear-wet eyes on her visitor.
"I 'spose ye air thinkin' my Daddy even had something to do with his flyin' the coop?" she flared up. "Air that it?"
"No! No! I didn't think that at all," the under-warden made haste to deny. "I just couldn't think that aboutyourfather."
Tessibel dimpled, suddenly glowing like a vivid poppy.
"Thank ye," she whispered, wiping away the tears. "Why! My Daddy wouldn't do nothin' bad for anythin' in the world. He's the best old Daddy livin'."
"Of course he is," vouched the warden, placatingly, "but what I want to know is would you mind, or would it hurt your feelings—The fact is, I came to search this house."
Tess had expected this, and without demurring, flashed forth,
"Ye mean ye want to go 'round it, don't ye, lookin' in all the corners an' places; air that it, sir?"
Burnett acknowledged this by a nod.
"Sure, search it if ye want to, I don't mind. Ye'll 'scuse me not gettin' up, won't ye? There ain't much to search, but ye can go in the garret if ye want to. It air only a cubby hole; even the weest man in the hull world couldn't stand up in it."
Andy stirred perceptibly beneath her.
"Then there air Daddy's room," Tess continued, "an' this room air the kitchen an' the dinin' room an' the parlor, an' all the other rooms.... An'—an' it air my room, too."
"My God, but you're a cute kid!" he chuckled.
Tessibel's laugh rang out deliciously fresh and free, and Burnett caught it up and sent it back in one loud guffaw. Then the girl lifted one of her curls and spread it out to its extreme length. Tess had been born possessing all the arts of her sex, and used them effectively, upon an occasion like this.
"I wish my ankle wasn't wrapped up," she smiled hospitably. "I'd show ye 'round the shanty myself. Ye noticed the hedge when ye come in, didn't ye? Well—I planted that an' all the flowers—and this owl belongs to me an' I keep 'im in the garret,—an'—I almost got a dog once, but not quite! Job Kennedy owns 'im, an his name air Pete, but he likes to live here better'n he does to Job's." Tess gasped for breath and flushed rosily. "But I air keepin' ye, sir," she excused, "an I mustn't do that. You go on and look in Daddy Skinner's room an'—then ye go up in the garret, an' then ye can look behind the chairs an' behind the stove, an' ye can look under the bed—"
She paused dramatically and held up a warning finger.
"Please don't scare none of my bats nor my uther owls in the garret. They be awful nice bats an' awful nice owls too! Ye wouldn't hurt 'em, would ye, mister?"
"I won't do anything you don't want me to, kid," the infatuated man promised. "Honest, I won't search the house if you say not."
"Oh, sure, search it," insisted Tess. "Then ye'll be pretty sure there ain't nobody hidin' 'round."
Burnett walked toward Daddy Skinner's room.
"I wouldn't mind havin' a daughter like you," he vowed, looking back. "I got two nice boys to home, but I tell you a man misses a lot in the world, if he doesn't have a girl. Why, kiddie, I've had a better time in the past five minutes than I've had in the past five years." He paused, his hand on the latch of the door into Daddy Skinner's room.
Tessibel gurgled and giggled, and giggled and gurgled, as if she hadn't a care in the world although she felt a paralyzing pain in her heart for the dwarf beneath her. Then she threw a mischievous glance into the man's face and offered,
"While ye air searchin' the shanty, I'll sing to ye, huh?"
"Now, can ye sing?" interrogated Burnett, smilingly.
"Oh, Golly, sir, I been singin' since I weren't no bigger'n this owl," replied Tess. "I'll begin now."
She knew Andy must be numb with fright and the weight of her body, and remembered how many times when he had been kept in the garret long periods together, while people were coming and going, and danger ran high, she had sung to him—it had soothed his pains, allayed his agony.
So as Burnett disappeared from sight into the little back room, Tessibel began to sing the old, but ever newly encouraging song,
"Rescue the Perishin';Care for the Dyin'."
And in the fleeting moment during which the officer from Auburn was searching Daddy's room, her handwent backward quickly and reassuring fingers touched the dwarf's face concealed by her curls, and still she sang,
"Rescue the Perishin';Care for the Dyin'."
Then Tess felt Andy's body relax and heard the faintest possible sigh.
When Burnett came forth unsuccessful but cheerful, her fingers were toying with her curls, and she broke off her song, question him with her eyes.
"There ain't a soul in there," laughed the man. "I might a'known Bishop wasn't around here; in fact, I did know it the minute I looked at you, kid. Now, just as a matter of law and order, I'll take a peep in the garret and under the bed, and then I'm done ... Say, you got some voice, ain't you, kid?"
"It can holler good and loud," grinned Tess.
"And you're some religious, I bet, according to the hymn you've been singin'," went on the warden. "Now ain't you?"
Tess sobered instantly. She was always very careful not to be irreverent about sacred things.
"You can bet your boots, I air someawfulreligious," she acquisced earnestly. "I've knowed about God and Jesus ever so long."
"That's nice," responded Burnett, becoming grave in his turn.
Oh, would he never go! Would he never finish?
When Burnett walked toward the ladder, she sighed dolefully.
"Does your foot hurt you, kid?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"Nope," faltered Tess. "I guess I were a thinkin' what'd happen to the little man when ye get 'im."
The warden was trying the strength of the ladder.
"Oh, I'll hike him back up state quicker'n scat when I get my fingers on 'im," said he, his head disappearing in the hole in the ceiling.
In less than thirty seconds he was down again and had taken a squint under the bed.
"There isn't any dwarf under there either," he said,amusement in his tones. He stretched forth his hand, reaching down to the girl on the cot.
"Now, don't hold nothing against me, kiddie, for comin' here, will ye? Just shake hands with a feller and say it's all right, eh?"
Tessibel lifted the owl high in the air and opened her fingers. There was a small ghostly flutter and in another instant Deacon had disappeared into the garret.
She gave the warden both her hands, and for the little minute Burnett stood by the bed holding them in his and assuring her of his good will. Tessibel sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. Her little Andy, Daddy Skinner's friend, was saved!
When Burnett reached the door, he looked back at her. The girl's lips were parted in a brilliant, farewell smile. He whirled about and came toward her again.
"Kid," he said huskily, "I'm a hard-headed old cuss, harder'n brass tacks. I been made so by just such men as Andy Bishop—" He paused, and during his short hesitation, pregnant with meaning, Tessibel kept her eyes on him. "I was wonderin', little one," he finished, shame-faced, "when you say your prayers, if you'd pipe one for me. I need it, so help me God, I do."
In another moment he was at the door, and in response to the hasty glance he sent her, Tess flung him a misty, loving smile.
"Sure, sir, sure I will," she called, "an' thank ye for bein' so kind."
Burnett strode out; Tessibel rolled off the dwarf's body to one side of the cot, and Andy gave an audible grunt.
"I air gee-danged glad that air over," sighed Tess. And as she lay very still, the warden's hearty voice came floating to her.
"That's a mighty fine girl you got, Skinner."
Tess also heard her father's husky reply. "Bet yer life, she air.... Good day to ye, sir."
Shortly after, the anxious listeners in the shanty heard the click of the horse's shoes and the rumble of the departing wheels on the stones amid the wagon's creaking complaints against the steepness of the hill.
CHAPTER XVITessibel's Secret
Tessibel Skinner had been married to Frederick Graves for six long weeks: She had become somewhat accustomed to the deception practiced on Daddy Skinner, and Frederick was constantly allaying her fears and misgivings by telling her that she belonged to him now; that she was his darling, his joy, the better part of his life. Many times he assured her between kisses that it wouldn't be necessary to keep the marriage secret long. Each day, each hour, each minute, the girl-wife basked in the thought of her young husband's love. She unfolded the hidden beauties of her nature to him as spontaneously as the opening flower responds to the genial warmth of the rising sun.
Early one morning Tessibel arose, a new light shining in her eyes. Because Daddy Skinner was still abed, she started to the shore for water. It was a glad, shining, diamond-studded earth that greeted the view of the expectant girl; there was wonderful stillness everywhere, and for some minutes she stood contemplating the scene before her. South from the Hog Hole to the northern curve at Lansing, the lake was dappled, its surface broken here and there by little capfuls of breeze, which dimpled in the light, while the smooth spots reflected the blazing glory of the morning sun. The leaves of the weeping willow tree swept the rapt, upraised face, and Tess drew down about her head and shoulders one of the thickest branches. These century-old trees were really a vital part of her life—old loves to Tessibel, loves that had kept watch over her since the day of her birth in the shanty.
"I WAS WONDERIN', LITTLE ONE, WHEN YOU SAY YOUR PRAYERS, IF YOU'D PIPE ONE FOR ME""I WAS WONDERIN', LITTLE ONE, WHEN YOU SAY YOUR PRAYERS, IF YOU'D PIPE ONE FOR ME"
A brilliant flame flooded her face.... Frederick stood with her in spirit nearness. What she would tell him that evening would be whispered so low that not even the nesting birds could hear. She imagined the tenderness with which he'd clasp her in his arms, and thrilled, visualizing the darkening of his eyes. Tessibel was painting pictures—her exalted soul running the gamut of joy.
What a wonder-world it was! What a glad, peaceful, new day, her first real day of living—the beginning of life itself; Frederick's life and her life! Now, of course, he would tell his mother they were married—would take her to Daddy Skinner, and—and—She could plan no farther just then. Her whole being was God-lifted. Even the waves lapping at her feet seemed to speak the language of a world to come.
She dipped the pail into the lake slowly, filling it with water. Then with a last sweeping glance over the golden-tinted waves, she returned to the shanty. Daddy Skinner by this time was seated in his chair, his grey face wearing an expression of misery.
"Ye air sicker this morning, honey, huh?" asked Tess anxiously, lifting the pail to the table.
"Yep, brat, awful sick, but mebbe I'll feel better after a while."
"Yer coffee'll be ready quicker'n scat, dear," said the girl. "Flop on my bed an' stretch out a minute. Tessibel'll get her daddy's breakfast."
Five minutes later she had fried the fish and made the coffee.
"I air goin' to give Daddy his eatin's first, Andy," she called up through the hole in the ceiling.
"All right; sure, do, kid," assented the dwarf.
Daddy Skinner gradually felt better, and during the morning Tessibel's youthful spirits rose by leaps and bounds. All through the day she warbled out her happiness, lovingly bantering the two crippled men. Thus the minutes crept on to eventide, to that hour on the ragged rocks with Frederick.
She left the shanty early, that she might commune undisturbed for a time with her dear wild world. Through the gloaming the dull sound of the cow bells came distinctly from Kennedy's farm. The roosters were crowing a last good-night to the sun. The monstrous shadows of the great forest trees were going tosleep in the earth for another night. While the daylight was fading, the girl sat relaxed against the rocks, her unfathomable eyes contemplating the purple-spanned lake. She had drifted into a reverie ... blissfully dreaming, with Frederick the foremost figure of her dreams. The solemn descent of night ever signified the mystery of his love to her. Now, from the fullness of her unalloyed joy, she glanced up at the sky and blessed the whole world. In imagination she deciphered the words the stars were forming. Stretched from pole to pole, they lettered the heavens with the wonders of infinitude. In a diadem of gold, "God is love" was written; from the unsearchable north to the south where in their turn the slender rimming clouds sent it on to the world beyond. "God is love," whispered the swaying trees, and "God is love" came softly to the ear of the sensitive girl, as an echo is flung back from the rocks and is sent home to its maker.
And even as Tess dreamed, the passion stars in their invisible courses bent toward her. Impulsively she lifted her arms upward toward those twinkling participants of her secret, emblems of the immeasurable glory of her love for Frederick. By a simple turn, she could see the tree of her old-time fancies, the familiar figure in the tall pine, with swaying, majestic head and beckoning arms.
At that moment, she perceived Frederick making his way along the ragged rocks. She could hear her heart's blood pulsing madly, striking at her wrists, throbbing at her temples, making a race the length of her quivering body. Now, she could see him plainly in the dim light, and a smile deepened the dimple at each corner of her mouth. An indefinable shyness kept her from running to him to tell her glad tidings. But what made him walk so slowly and with hanging head? It wasn't like Frederick. Something unusual had happened or he would not lag so in coming to her.
She was even more mystified at the peculiarity of his greeting. With nerves as tautly drawn as fiddle strings, she remained very still. In his own time he would tell her all about it. She lifted her arms, but Frederick, unheeding, sank to the rocks beside her. Shelaid her hand on his, expressing her love to him by the simple contact.
"Don't!" he said shortly. He drew away from the caressing fingers impatiently. "I've come to tell you something."
"Well, here I air," answered Tess, quietly.
There was an exquisite tenderness in the young voice. In the white light of the early evening Tessibel could see Frederick's brows fiercely drawn together. Probably his mother was worse and that accounted for the change in him. She became instantly all devotion.
"Air ye goin' to tell me about it, honey?" she entreated softly. "It'll make ye feel better.... Tell Tessibel."
He turned away, and moved nervously until his shoulders were fitted into a rock cavity; then, he dropped his head back with a prolonged sigh. It was even more difficult than he had imagined.
"Of course I needn't tell you ... that I love you, need I, Tess?" he stammered, after a while.
He could not assure her too many times of his affection. She leaned against him, adoring, wrapped in the delight of his love as a water lily is wrapped in its green sepals.
"I know it, dearest!" she murmured, much moved. "Ye tell me that every day. But what else air ye—"
"You'll forgive me, and not be ... too unhappy?" Frederick interrupted her anxiously.
Unhappy, while her whole being was transfused with ecstasy! Unhappy, when his life and hers intermingled in one glad, glorious song of inseparable unity! There never could be a diminution of her joy. Frederick loved her! That was enough.
"There ain't nothin' I wouldn't forgive," she vowed, misty-eyed.
"But, Tess, I feel as though you won't forgive me this," sighed Frederick. "But if you'll promise me—"
"I do—I will," she interjected, sitting up. "Why, of course, I'd forgive ye anything."
Frederick dared not look at her. Even in the twilight he could feel her eyes searching his face for an explanation.
"I need you to help me, Tessibel," he said at length.
Help him! Hadn't she ever been ready to help him? He had but to ask her. She dropped her head against his arm again.
"Tell Tessibel," she urged, smiling.
One slender, girlish arm slipped lovingly about him. A set of small fingers took his cold hand in a firm grasp.
"Tess loves ye, dear," came soothingly. "Now tell 'er, an' then ye'll be happier."
Shame rose rampant in the boy's breast.
"I can't do it," he muttered under his breath.
But he knew all the time he would. The events of yesterday, culminating with Waldstricker's brilliant offer, closed every other path. He groaned, catching his lips tensely between his teeth. Some one had to suffer, but the sacrifice must not touch his mother nor estrange the Waldstrickers. That Madelene would be wronged by his action gave him little concern. But at that moment to hurt the girl at his side; oh, how he hated the bitter necessity! Conscious of the despicable part he was playing, but having really decided, he drew himself from the girl's arms. To gain a little more time, he thrust his fingers several times through his damp hair.
"Tess," he hesitated, "you've promised you'd never tell about our being married."
An encouraging touch turned the boy's twitching face to hers.
"An' I ain't never goin' to till ye let me," she asserted soothingly. "Ye ain't lettin' that worry ye, darlin', eh?"
She encouraged him to answer by the tender cadence on the end of her question.
"No, no, Tess!" Then desperately, "Oh, in God's name, how am I ever going to get it out?"
Tessibel became suddenly terror-stricken. It must be something very serious to force from him such language in such heart-rending tones. She shivered nervously.
"You mustn't think for a moment, Tess," the boy burst forth, with renewed courage, "that I don't love you! I shall love you always, always."
"Always," echoed Tess, reassured. If Frederick loved her, nothing else mattered. Perhaps his mother was—Her thought snapped in two at an ejaculation from Frederick.
"And what I do is because—well, because—I must," he stammered. "You understand that, don't you, sweetheart?"
"Sure," agreed Tess, puzzled.
"And nothing will ever be changed between you and me—"
"Nothin' can ever hurt us, Frederick," she interrupted quickly.
And Tess believed this to be the eternal truth. Faith the size of a grain of mustard seed had piloted her through severe storms. Since Daddy Skinner had been restored to her, that faith had grown to the size of the mountain itself.
"I won't let it," went on the student, swiftly. "Neither must you. You must trust me—you must believe! No, don't put your arms around my neck till I've finished!... And then, oh, my little girl, I shan't let you out of my arms, ever! ever!"
Greatly moved, he suddenly reached forth and drew her unresistingly to him, smothering her hair, her eyes with kisses, clinging to her, as if he would never, never let her go.
Her heart beat wildly against his.... And she loved him more than all the world, and loved God more because of him.
But he released her almost immediately, and Tessibel sank back, sighing. She was no longer nervously eager to divulge her secret. She waited almost mechanically, as one waits for an advancing joy—as a hungry man watches abundant preparation for the appeasing of his hunger. Hearing him groan, she turned troubled eyes up to his.
"Daddy always says for to tell bad things quick!"
But this only served to call forth another deep breath of misery. After a lapse of what seemed ages to the waiting girl, Frederick gathered courage, and began,
"Tess, I've told you how very ill my mother is, haven't I?"
"Yes, an' I air awful sorry, dearie," she murmured.
The compassion he aroused subdued her voice to a whisper.
"And she's asked me to do something for her and I've—got to do it, Tessibel," faltered Frederick.
"Sure ye have," Tess agreed.
"I didn't decide to do it, honey,"—Frederick was avoiding the vital part—"until I saw how I could not let it make any difference to us. It won't make any difference, dear heart!"
And Tess, already living in some distant day with full heart and full arms, breathed.
"No, darlin', no difference to us.... 'Course not!"
"Oh, I'm glad, so glad to hear you say that!" said Frederick, relief in his voice. "It won't be so dreadful, my sweet, if you trust me. And it won't be long—perhaps a year, perhaps two years—"
Tessibel's muscles grew suddenly rigid.
"Years, ye say?" she repeated, stupefied. "What years? Why years?"
The resigned and submissive Tess changed instantly to an intense, resolute woman, with compelling, fear-clouded eyes. Frederick, alarmed, hastened to explain.
"You remember Madelene Waldstricker, don't you?"
Did she remember Madelene Waldstricker? Would she ever forget that one night when he had treated her, his own wife, as though she were a stranger?
"Sure, I remember 'er," she admitted, flushing. "What about 'er?"
Before replying, Frederick snatched her hand and kissed it.
"My mother.... Oh, Tessibel, it'll be all right—" He paused, then finished despairingly, "My mother wants me to marry her!"
Tess caught the picture his words suggested; then recoiled as if death in monstrous guise had appeared before her, open-armed. Incredulous horror leapt alive in her eyes. He had said, "My mother wants me to marry Madelene Waldstricker." But even though his mother had demanded it, he couldn't! He wouldn't.... But he'd said he must!
Tess clenched her hands until the nails pressed intothe flesh of her palms. Her throat refused to yield a speaking voice, but something screamed aloud within her as if a giant hand had clutched and torn her soul.
"But ye air married to me," she got out at last, piteously.
Frederick put his arms about her.
"I know it, girlie dear!... I'm not denying that, but no one knows it but us, just you and me, and I'm afraid ... I've got to do ... this ... Mother ..."
"Oh, God, no!" shuddered Tess.
Oh, he couldn't mean to desert her now when she needed him so—needed him more than she had even in those days when the shadow of the hateful rope hung over her beloved father; even when Teola's child had been thrust upon her, and Ben Letts had daily menaced her desolate life.
She was still for so long a time Frederick feared she'd fainted.
"Tess!" he spoke sharply.
"What?"
But it didn't sound like Tessibel's voice answering.
"Will you hear me out, dearest?" he pleaded. "Oh, won't you listen to me?"
Surely she was listening intently. He had never spoken when she had not given loving heed, if she were within the sound of his voice. Frederick attempted to raise her face to his, but with a pathetic little word of protest, she slipped from his arms, and fell face downward to the rocks. The tortured boy would rather have had her scream, strike at him, anything, than sink into that accusing, forlorn prostration!
"Tessibel! Tess!" he cried. "Whatever I do can't separate you and me. It can't! I swear not to let it!"
He stooped and drew her gently to a sitting posture.
"No, I won't let it!" he reiterated excitedly. "I won't! No other womancouldever take your place. Can't you see, Tessibel? Can't you understand what I'm telling you?"
"Nope," whispered Tess. "I ain't able to understand. Oh—" She lifted a white, twitching face. "Oh, don't go 'way an' leave me! Not now—not just yet!"
"But you said," he entreated, "you've always said, honey, you'd stand by me, and you will, won't you? This is the only way you can help. You will, dear, please!"
"I 'spose I air got to," she stammered, shivering. "Course I do everything ye want me to. But—but—tell me ... why."
"It's just like this," Frederick explained reluctantly. "My mother needs—money. She's got to have it. She's already borrowed a lot of Waldstricker and ... even our lake place is mortgaged to him. His sister loves me—"
The speaker felt the slender body recoil as from a blow.
"Tess!" he cried, "I don't love her. Oh, can't I get you to understand anything? If you tremble that way, you'll drive me mad. I'm only going to marry her.... Well, to pay the money, that's all."
He cut and clipped the words as though he hated them, yet finished his explanation determinedly. As keenly as a darting flame, it burned into Tessibel's soul.
"Tell me ... more," she breathed dizzily.
"It'll only mean you and I will be apart for a little while, Tess," stated Frederick. "When I get back home, I'm coming straight to you, and—"
"She air lovin' ye, ye said?" interrupted Tess, huskily.
"But I don't loveher, Tess!... I love only you!... You know that, sweetheart!... You hear me, darling?"
"Yep, I hear," whispered the girl.
Frederick settled back against the rocks, drawing her into his arms.
"My father," he proceeded more calmly, "left us without any money. I suppose I didn't realize how hard it's been for mother. She's only just told me she'd mortgaged the lake place to Waldstricker and had borrowed money from him. In a way I've been awfully selfish.... I've only thought of you, dear."
Of course, now she couldn't tell him that intimate secret! If he knew, he couldn't, he just couldn't do the thing his mother demanded; and she had promisedto help him. He had said it was the only way she could be of any service, and her great love rose up and demanded the sacrifice. Tess scarcely recognized her own voice when she next spoke.
"Did ye tell Madelene—I mean Miss Waldstricker—ye'd marry her?" she asked.
"Well ... yes," stammered Frederick.
"And ye—ye—ye kissed 'er?... Oh, say ye didn't kiss 'er!... Ye didn't, did ye?"
It was a plea to which Frederick would have given worlds to truthfuly answer, "No." But his conscience, evidently sensitive in small matters, compelled an almost inaudible, "Yes."
Raging jealousy, unendurable pain, arose within her.
"But ye couldn't—be married—to 'er, Frederick. It ain't possible, it ain't!"
"I know I'm married to you," the boy assured her, swiftly. "I'd only be married to her in the eyes of the world!"
The eyes of the world, the world through which she had so far walked with proudly lifted head! Her dearly cherished love seemed to be tumbling in ignominious ruins, and that very love had left her defenseless. No one would ever know he belonged to her; that she belonged to him. She would have to creep with bowed head in assumed shame and disgrace even among the squatters.
"I'll die," she shivered, thinking of the coming spring.
His burning kisses stung her lips, through which his words tumbled one over the other.
"You can't!... You shan't die!... Tess, you shan't! I'm only going away for a little while.... You're mine, Tess, do you hear?... You've got to live and love me always! You're mine! Oh, my love! Don't cry like that!..."
The crushing strength of his arms hurt her. Suddenly another picture shot across her brain, like a searing rocket. She clung to his arm as if she feared that minute would snatch him from her. Then suppliantly she lifted not only her face, but also her hands.
"Oh, she won't be like I air been to ye—like—like—"
Frederick heard the anguish in the agonized, girlish voice.
"Not like—not like I air been to ye, darlin'. Oh, God, not that!" she cried again.
She waited in panting suspense for a fierce denial. Then she struggled frantically in his embrace. All that was alive within her—all the super-vitalized part of her soul—seemed scorched by the picture his significant silence had painted.
"Let me go!" she demanded.
Frederick tightened his arms about her.
"Not yet, not yet! Stay here, rest here, my sweet."
But again seeing that image of the small woman in her place, Tess struggled and freed herself.
"I air goin' to Daddy now," she whispered. "An' you can go home too, please."
But he caught her again to his breast.
"You belong to me!" he cried intensely. "I won't go!—I'm going to stay, Tessibel! I will—I will stay!"
Tess wrenched herself free.
"Ye c'n come again," she promised. "Some other time afore—"
Frederick caught her broken sentence and finished it.
"Yes, yes, Tessibel," he exclaimed. "I'll come back soon, very soon!"
"Sure, soon," quivered Tess, swaying, "go on, please!"
She flung up her hands, crying low in suppressed agony, as Frederick whirled from her and walked rapidly away. He had not taken ten steps before he was moved to go back, to take her again in his arms, but thinking over all that had happened, of how hard it had been to flounder through his explanation, he shut his teeth and went on.
With super-hearing, Tess listened until the sound of his footsteps died in the lane.
He had gone—Frederick—her husband! Gone to another woman! No, that couldn't be! He was hers always and forever. She sank down on the rocks—on the dear, ragged rocks, where she had watched for himand prayed for him, where life had been at its highest and best.
She tried to recall all he had said. Oh, yes, he was coming back. What did he mean by coming back? When? She dully wondered if it would be tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Three days, perhaps, three long, interminable days to think of him and to long for him. Could she live three days? She sprang to her feet. She must see him again—now—this minute; hear him unsay that awful thing. Why, he couldn't belong to Madelene Waldstricker! Like a deer, Tess sped along the rocks in the direction of the lane. A night bird brushed a slender wing against her curls as he shot by her. To him she paid no heed save to swerve a little.
Wildly, twice, three times she cried, "Frederick!"
An owl hooted a mocking response from the willow tree nearby.
"Frederick! Frederick!" rang through the night, out over the lake, unanswered. He was gone! The realization of this brought the girl crouching, shivering to the shore, where her feet were lapped by the incoming waves. And there she lay, until as in a dream, a bewildered dream, she heard Daddy Skinner's voice calling her. By a supreme effort she gathered her senses together.
"I air comin', Daddy."
She stumbled through the night back to the shanty, her secret locked in her breast.
CHAPTER XVIITessibel's Prayer
For four lingering days, hour after hour, Tess of the Storm Country waited for Frederick. He had promised to return, and so each day when her household duties were completed, she hastened to the ragged rocks at the edge of the forest. But her eager hope passed into sick apprehension as the lingering twilights of successive evenings deepened into the darkness of night and he did not come. Tess grew paler and more dejected, so that even Daddy Skinner's fading sight remarked it.
"Ain't feelin' quite pert, be ye, brat?" he inquired.
Tessibel started nervously.... It was habitual now if any one spoke to her quickly.
"I ain't sick, daddy," she assured him. "I guess it air the hot day makin' me tired."
"Nuff to bake the hair off a cast iron pup," observed Andy, from the garret hole.
"I'll bet it air some warm up there, pal," sympathized Orn.
"Ye bet yer neck," agreed Andy cheerfully.
Then Tessibel hopefully started for the rocks in search of the sunshine which had left her life with Frederick four days before.
Deforrest Young, too, had noticed the change in his little friend ... had observed her extreme nervousness and unusual shyness when she recited her lessons. Today, moreover, she had not appeared at all. Late that afternoon he called at the Skinner home to find the reason.
Daddy Skinner occupied his customary seat on the bench in front of the shack, watching with listless, dull eyes the restless waves. He greeted the professor with his twisted smile, as the latter called to him from the lane.
"Where's Tessibel?" asked Young, after they had remarked upon the weather and the health of themselves and their friends.
"Well, I don't know just where she air gone," replied Orn, "but seems to me's if she went off toward the rocks. Shall I call her, eh?"
"No, no! I'll go look for her," answered the professor.
He found her sitting pensively on the rocks, her hand resting on the head of Kennedy's brindle bulldog, and in the moment he stood there gazing at the girl, he felt unaccountably saddened.
When Tess became conscious of his presence, she gave him a shadowy, fleeting smile, which vanished almost before it had fully appeared. Her eyes were heavy and dim with unshed tears, and she was as pale as the mist clouds that drifted slowly across the sky and away over the eastern hills. Perhaps it was the melancholy of that smile appealing to his deep love that made Professor Young hurry toward her, holding out his hands.
Pete greeted him with a welcoming whine, wagging his whole body, in default of the tail he had lost.
"Your father said you were here, child," Young said in a low voice. "May I sit down?"
Tess acquiesced by a nod of her head, and he settled himself comfortably on the rock. Crouching down on the other side of her, Pete put his head in the girl's lap. Her hands rested upon his broad back, while the man played with him, pulling and poking his heavy jowls and hanging lips, and the dog uttered delighted growls at the attention.
"I'm afraid my little girl hasn't been quite well of late," Young began presently.
The red-brown eyes fell and a flushed, lovely face bent beneath a shower of bronze curls.
"Has she?" he queried again, with tender sympathy.
Lower and lower bent the auburn head until the man could no longer see the troubled face.
"I knew there was something wrong with my little pupil," said he softly. "Now tell me about it."
"I can't," whispered Tessibel. "I ain't able."
Oh, if she only could! At that moment it seemed thatall of her troubles would take wing if this thoughtful, solemn-eyed friend shared the burden of her heart. When she lifted her face again and repeated, "I can't tell," Deforrest Young placed his fingers under her chin and kept his eyes steadily upon her until the transparent lids drooped and the long lashes rested on her cheeks.
"Is it something you'll tell me some time?" he asked.
Tessibel shuddered, and made no reply, although there was a slight negative shake of her head.
"Then I'll ask you another question, Tess dear," insisted Young. "Isn't there something I can do to help you?"
Tessibel shook her head, a violent blush suffusing her face. Tears gathered thickly in the brown eyes. To see her thus was agony.... His great love sought to share and bear her suffering, yet he could not force her confidence.
"I'm going to exact one promise from you," he continued, much moved.
"I'll be awful glad to promise what I can," she murmured humbly.
"Then it's this." Compassion for her abject misery was expressed in the very tones of his deep voice. "If at any time in the future you need me ... for anything, no matter what, will you—will you come to me and tell me? Will you let me help you?"
Impetuous appreciation of his sincerity caused Tess to touch his arm.
"Nobody were ever so good to me in all the world," she said brokenly.
Never had Deforrest Young so keenly desired the right to care for her as he did then. The impulse to take her in his arms, to tell her, as he had once, that he loved her, almost unnerved him; but he could not. Tess seemed of late to have grown away from him, to be no longer the light-hearted child she had been, even in that dark time when her father was in prison.
"You haven't promised me yet, Tessibel," he insisted seriously.
"I promise ... sure!" said Tess, swallowing hard.
In the silence that followed, Pete, as though consciousthat all was not well with his adored mistress, rose on his haunches, and tried to kiss her face. The dog's sympathy was sweet. She wanted Frederick so badly! Oh, she thought, if she dared ask Deforrest. She would! She could not bear another night of this uncertainty, this suspense.
"I air wishin' to ask ye somethin'," she stammered. "Don't tell anybody, will ye?"
"Certainly not," declared Young, quickly.
"Do ye—do ye happen to know where—the student Graves air—today?"
Young considered the long curls falling over each shoulder and the anxious eyes. She was staring fixedly at him. Was the student somehow connected with her present distress? Frederick's marked attention of late to Madelene Waldstricker was, he supposed, generally known. He had not seen him with Tess for a long time. He had concluded the young man's interest in the squatter girl had passed. Was it possible that Tess still cared for him?
"Well, that's hard to tell," he told her presently, looking out over the lake. "But if they've had good luck, I suppose the young people are quite well on their way to Paris by now. The ceremony, one of those hasty affairs, was performed yesterday. They took the night train to New York."
Tessibel's breath caught in her throat.... The heavens seemed to tumble into the lake.... An awful booming sounded in her ears. She grew limp, sick at heart, ... dizzy, but she made no outcry, only, unconscious of its pain, bit her lip until it bled. The hope she had nursed, that he would not do this awful thing was lost.
Pete stirred uneasily. Restrained by Tessibel's hand on his head, he laid down again making whining noises in his throat, inarticulate expressions of his love for the suffering girl.
"Didn't you know he was going to marry Miss Waldstricker?" asked Young.
"Yep,—I knew," whispered Tess, when she could breathe, "but—tell me—about it."
"There's not much to tell," explained the Professor,reluctant to distress her. "It seems the young lady didn't want a large wedding and did want to start abroad immediately, so they had a private affair—no one present but the relatives."
Tess made an effort to control herself.
"Graves won't go back to college any more," went on Young. "He's going into business with his brother-in-law, Mr. Waldstricker. I understand when they return from abroad they will live with my sister the rest of the winter."
There was no response from the drooping little figure at his side.
Tess was thinking of the winter without Frederick. She sickened as she pictured him away off in that foreign land. It seemed he must be at the very end of the world. It bewildered her to think of his being with another woman than herself. She could not think of them as married—He was her husband. She was silent so long that Young spoke to her softly. "Shall I take you home, my dear?"
Numb and dazed, she sat dumbly enduring the hurt.
"Nope, I air goin' to stay here awhile." 'Twas only a trembling breath that wafted the man his answer.
Young hesitated. Then rising he walked away along the rocks, leaving Tess and the brindle dog amid the falling shadows.
Spent with emotion, the squatter girl heard the retreating footsteps of her friend die away in the twilight. Then she pushed the dog gently from her lap and laid herself down upon the rocks and pillowed her aching head upon his body.
Gradually the tender melancholy of the dying day touched her mood with subtle sympathy and soothed her troubled spirit. Rapt in rueful revery, she followed mechanically the flight of a flock of birds. Like swift shadows flitting over the water, they dipped and winged upward and away, out of her vision.
Frederick had gone from her life almost as completely and as suddenly as those birds had disappeared from her sight. How mercilessly short had been her days of happiness, those days threaded and inter-threaded with her husband's love.
The sun had set and the purples and reds were fading from the fleecy clouds in the eastern sky. The gloaming grew in caressing cadences up from the limpid lake to the ragged rocks. The night winds blew gently down the hill side, the swaying leaves were whispering "hush, hush," and the surface of the lake, shimmering in the mellow light of the rising moon, was flecked here and there into silvery sparkles. The airs of evening fluttered the ringlets upon her forehead and enveloped her hot body in cooling comfort. Responsive to the quiet beauty about her, the turmoil of her thoughts subsided. The sharp anguish which had at first stunned her was becoming but a dull ache, permitting her to think connectedly.
This place and this hour held the most vital associations of her young life. Here in the gathering gloom, Frederick had wooed and won her, and had spent with her many of the too few hours of her wedded bliss. Upon such another evening, she had made him the promises that had led to her only deceptions of Daddy Skinner, and here, four short days ago, her husband had murdered her joy.
Reflecting upon her plight, its hopelessness well nigh overwhelmed her. Through the utter desolution of her life rang the haunting, words of the Cantata she'd heard sung last Eastertide in the Big Ithaca Church.
"Oh, was there ever loneliness like this?"
Over and over the melody repeated itself, insistently recalling the Master's agony in the garden, and lifting her thoughts slowly upward away from herself to His ultimate triumph and glory.
Betrayed and deserted by the man that loved her, she fixed her attention instinctively upon the Divine Love "with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning" and sought courage from the words of Him "who spake as never man spake." His command, "Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you and pray for them which despitefully use you," came to her tortured heart, a healing inspiration.
Immediately she got to her feet. The dog, tired of the enforced inactivity, jumped up and ran to and fro on the rocks, barking. She had given her husband upto another woman—he had said it was all she could do for him. But she loved him and her love rejoiced in giving. Pete, puzzled that the girl did not join him in his play as usual, came back and stood in front of her and looked up into her face. She turned to the old pine tree, her familiar friend, and extended her arms to the God of her exalted faith.
"Goddy, dear, goodest Goddy," she prayed, "bless my Frederick wherever he air—an'—help Tessibel to die—in—in the spring."