There was but one drawback to Miss Sophy’s happiness. In the new
confidence which now existed between her and Zeph, she learned more fully
than she had done before the depth of his affection for his children.
She found that during all these months it had been his habit to see them
frequently,—sometimes by clandestine watchings, sometimes by Rushy’s
consent that Zephie should on a Sunday take his little sister to their
father’s house. By this means Zeph had kept himself constantly in
relation with them and retained strong influence over the boy. Separation
from them was going to be a terrible thing to him; there were times
when he even doubted if it were right for him to go away and leave them
entirely in the control and at the mercy of their stepfather. Only his
unshaken confidence in the strength of Rushy’s maternal affection enabled
him to think of it.
“She’s just like a wildcat ’bout the chillen,” he said, “an’ always was;
if Nat Leeson should so much’s raise his hand to ’em, she’d leave him
quicker ’n lightnin’. I ain’t a mite afraid of his ever doin’ ’em any
harm that way. But if she should come to want any way,—Sophy, I don’t see
it clear just how to fix that. Ye know, Sophy, I’d always feel myself
bound to those children.”
“Of course!” replied Miss Sophy. “And so do I. I wish to goodness we had
’em both here this minute to take ’em with us! That’s what I’d like!”
“Would ye, Sophy?” cried Zeph. “Would ye really? Oh, Sophy, ye’re real
good!”
“I don’t suppose there’d be any chance o’ gettin’ ’em, or either one on
’em,” said Miss Sophy. “Would there?”
“Oh, Lord!” cried Zeph, catching his breath at the very idea. “That’s all
ye know about Rushy! She’d rather kill ’em than let anybody else have
’em! She’s fierce, Rushy is. There isn’t the least use thinkin’ o’ such a
thing.”
But the doctrine that there was no use in thinking of a thing was not
in Miss Sophy’s creed. The more obstacles lay in the way, the more her
native obstinacy allied itself with her indomitable courage to surmount
them. And in this instance a passion greater than either the courage
or the obstinacy came in, making a triple alliance strong enough to
move mountains. Her love for Zeph was so great that its instincts were
preternaturally keen.
“He’ll never be happy long away from them children o’ his,” she said,
“an’ he’s got to have ’em,—or at least the baby; she’d be more to him
than the boy; he’d get along if he had her; an’ if we got her, the boy ’d
be big enough to come before long if he wanted to.”
Plan after plan, all visionary and impracticable, Miss Sophy revolved in
her head. Actual kidnapping of the child would not have seemed to her
wrong; but her common sense told her that it would involve dangers not to
be thought of. Cautiously she sounded Gammer Stein as to the possibility
of Rushy’s being induced, by the prospects of superior advantages to her
daughter, to give her to be adopted by a stranger. No suspicion crossed
Gammer’s mind as to Miss Sophy’s personal interest in the matter, any
further than her benevolent interest in Zeph explained it.
“Some o’ yer folks wantin’ to ’dopt a child?” she said. “Wall, I allow ef
they know what’s fur thar good they’ll keep shy o’ proposin’ it to Rushy
Riker,—Leeson, I s’pose her name is naow, but I sha’n’t never call her
nothin’ but Riker, not outen Zeph wuz ter git married, an’ I allow thet’s
ther furthest off from his thoughts ’t ever wuz. He seems ter be reel
settled naow. ’Twuz luck fur him a gittin’ yeour place.”
“Then you think that Mrs. Leeson would not give up the little girl?”
interrupted Miss Sophy, who found the conversation both disagreeable and
embarrassing.
“Not she!” said Gammer. “I’ll say thet much fur Rushy Riker. Money
couldn’t buy one o’ her young uns, I allaow ’t couldn’t. She’s fierce
fur ’em allers, an’ reel good ter ’em, tew. She’s a hussy, aout an’
aout, an’ allers wuz, I be bound; but she’s a good mother t’ her young
uns ser fur’s lovin’ ’em goes. She’d run round ’n’ leave ’em fur frolics
an’ sech, an’ she ain’t no great hand ter tidy ’em up; but she loves ’em
more ’n most women doos thar young uns, I allaow she doos. Thet’s one
thing made me ser sure Nat’d never marry her ’n ther livin’ world, kase I
allowed he wouldn’t be bothered ’th ther young uns; but ’twuz young uns
’n’ all, ’r else not ’t all, ’n’ it doos look ez ef he wuz bound ter hev
Rushy. He’s workin’ her ’most ter death tew; thet’s what some says; ’twuz
jest fur her cookin’ he wanted her. He’s took the restaurant now,—the
Star restaurant, whar he wuz a cookin’, ’n’ he ’n’ her ez runnin’ it, ’n’
er takin’ in money like greased lightnin’, they say. She’s an orful good
cook, Rushy ez. She’s smart; nothin’ she can’t do ef she wants ter, ’cept
be decent; I allow she could do thet tew, ef she wanted ter. She don’t
want ter. But she don’t do no gaddin’ naow, don’t yer furgit it! She’s
got er marster naow ’stead o’ er slave; thet’s what she hed afore,—er
reg’lar slave, thet Zeph wuz. She’ll be sick o’ her bargain, I allaow,
’fore she’s through with it. I know a reel likely young un I allaow
them folks could git,—it’s a boy, though. ’Twuz a gal yer said they wuz
wantin’?”
“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, feeling guilty, but playing her game boldly.
“It is a girl these parties want. I dare say they’ll find one, though;
children are plenty enough.”
“More ’n enough, whar they ain’t wanted,” replied Gammer. “I allaow
thet’s anuther queer thing ther Lawd doos. Hyar’s these yer folks o’
yourn huntin’ fur a child ter ’dopt, ’n’ hyar daown ’n this yer very
flairt I could p’int yer ter ’s many ’s twenty houses whar they’d be glad
’n’ thankful ef thar wuz fewer chillen ter feed ’n’ clothe. Thet’s ther
way ’tis. I allaow ’t ’s cur’us. But I couldn’t never see haow ’tis folks
wants ter ’dopt chillen. I allaow I couldn’t dew no sech thing ’s thet.”
“Why not?” asked Miss Sophy, so sharply that Gammer looked up in surprise.
“Wall, I allaow I couldn’t jest say why not,” she replied. “It’s er
kind er feelin’ I hev; ’pears like ’twould be a kinder cheatin’ natur’,
somehow, thet wouldn’t work.”
“I don’t think so at all,” answered Miss Sophy. “It seems to me the most
natural thing in the world for folks that haven’t got any child o’ their
own, to adopt one.”
“I expect it’s hevin’ chillen o’ yer own makes ’doptin’ ’em seem so
cur’us,” replied Gammer, placidly; “arter ye’ve hed ’em, I allaow yer
don’t think much o’ ’doptations. ’S fur ’s I’m concerned, I wouldn’t
durst trust myself with other folks’s chillen. Chillen ez tryin’.”
“I should think they must be,” said Miss Sophy, turning to go, glad
to escape from the conversation which booted nothing and made her
uncomfortable.
Slowly, reluctantly, she abandoned her project as impracticable. It
grieved her sorely, and it disquieted her anticipations of the future.
But she saw no means, which she dared use, of bringing about the desired
end. She did not stop thinking about it, however; that was out of her
power. Many a night she lay awake far into the morning hours vainly
pondering, wishing, regretting.
Her arrangements for leaving were nearly complete; so quietly and
judiciously had she made them, that few persons in the town knew of her
contemplated change; and to no one except her minister had she confided
her intention of marrying Zeph.
“There’s been talk enough about his affairs,” she said, “an’ it’s
nobody’s business but his and mine what we’re going to do.” The marriage
was to take place at the minister’s house, with only the necessary
witnesses, on the evening of their departure from town, and would not be
known until she and Zeph were many miles away. They were going to take
the long overland journey in their own wagon, in company with a party of
emigrants who were about setting off from a mining town a few hours by
rail south of Pendar Basin. This was Zeph’s plan. He had long desired
such a journey. When he proposed it to Miss Sophy, her first reply was,
“Mercy, Zeph, it’d take forever!”
“Only about two months, Sophy,” he said pleadingly. “Two months out o’
doors every minute.”
“Two months!” echoed Miss Sophy. “Is that all? Well, I suppose that’d
be two honeymoons ’stead o’ one!” And in this view the prospect of the
journey grew more and more pleasing to her.
It only lacked a week of the day fixed for starting. Greenhills was
sold, and well sold, and the money in the bank,—quite enough to buy the
new ranch in California, or wherever they might determine to live. The
people who had bought Miss Sophy’s boarding-house, furniture, good-will,
and so forth, had arrived and taken possession, the transfer being made
with surprisingly little jar to the household. “It’s easy enough to do
anything if you once set about it,” said Miss Sophy, never suspecting how
uncommon was the executive force within her which made all the difference
in the world in the way of “setting about” things. It seemed odd to her
to be a boarder in her own home; and the hours hung so heavily on her
hands that she more than once wished that she was at liberty to go into
the kitchen and cook the dinner. Zeph was away. He had gone to make the
arrangements for their wagon journey, to have everything in readiness,
so that their wagons might be in waiting for them at the railway station
where they would leave the cars. When this plan was made, it had not
occurred to Miss Sophy that it would distress her to be separated from
Zeph for a few days; but she was finding it intolerable. Except for sheer
shame, she would have followed him. Her mind continually reverted to the
grief of her youth, the death of her first lover. “Folks that belongs to
each other hain’t got any business takin’ such risks,” she soliloquized.
“If there was anythin’ to happen to Zeph, an’ me not there, I’d never
get over it, never. If I was to lose him as I did Robert, I do believe
it would kill me dead.” Fiercely she taunted herself with being silly;
but her heart got the better of her common sense in every such argument,
and she grew unhappier hour by hour. In this morbid mood her thoughts
also dwelt more and more on the separation which was coming between Zeph
and his children, and her doubts grew stronger and stronger as to the
possibility of his being happy away from them. “And if he ain’t, that’d
be worse than seein’ him dead, a long ways,” said the miserable Miss
Sophy, torturing herself to no purpose, and fighting vainly against the
pricks on all sides. “I’d lots better gone off an’ left him here to shift
for himself. Well, there’s one thing; if worst comes to worst, he can
come back. I sha’n’t keep any man from doin’ what he thinks ’s right.”
But fate had better things in store for Miss Sophy than she dreamed. One
night, as she had just fallen into an uneasy sleep after lying awake
for hours grappling with these anxieties, she was roused by the sharp
ringing of the fire-bells. Springing from her bed, she saw the whole
southern sky aglow, heard the sounds of trampling feet and hoarse cries.
In a moment she was dressed and at her door. Men and women were running
breathlessly past. In Pendar Basin everybody went to fires; it was simply
a duty of good-fellowship, for their one fire-engine was none too good,
and the company but poorly trained; and every hand, even a woman’s hand,
counted, when it came to passing up buckets in line.
“Where is it? What is it?” cried Miss Sophy.
Nobody knew. “The depot,” said one. “The hotel,” said another. Nobody
stopped to make sure, or to answer again; the ruddy sheets of flame
rolled up fiercer and faster; the bells rang harder. A terrible thing
is a midnight fire, even where the best appliances of a city are close
at hand; but in a country village it seems far crueller,—almost like a
personal enemy come to slay the helpless in their sleep.
Suddenly Miss Sophy caught sound of another word. “The Star restaurant’ll
go, sure,” said one of the panting runners as he went by.
“My God!” cried Miss Sophy aloud; and clasping her hands she ran
bareheaded into the street and looked up to the reddening sky. At that
instant she felt her arm grasped violently.
“Thet restaurant’s a gwine, whar she ez; it ez er judgment on ’em, I
allow ’tis!” cried Gammer Stein. “Come on, come on! I expect thet Zeph’s
thar; he’ll gin his life fur her ef she’s in ther fire!”
“He won’t do any such thing!” cried Miss Sophy, angrily, forgetting
herself, and turning on Gammer. “He ain’t here; he’s been gone three
days!” and a prayer of thanksgiving went up from her heart. What a mercy
was this! How should she be thankful enough! “Thank God, thank God!” she
said in her heart, as hand in hand with Gammer she ran towards the fire.
It was indeed the Star restaurant that was “going,”—going fast. The
flames had already burst out of one spot in the roof; figures like black
imps were seen flying past the windows; the crowd surged around the
house, helplessly; shrieks, oaths, commands, confused calls,—all were
blent in a terrible din, which heightened the horror of the black rolling
columns of smoke and fire pouring from the windows. Vainly the little
engine threw its feeble stream into the blazing mass. It quelled the
flame for a second, only to let it leap up fiercer in a new spot.
In a terrible fascination Miss Sophy and Gammer pressed closer,
nearer,—Miss Sophy clutching Gammer’s hand in a frenzy of excitement.
“Oh, where are the children? Who’s seen the children? Has anybody seen
the children?” she shrieked.
“Burnt in their beds, I reckon,” said one. “’Tain’t ten minutes since the
fire burst out, ’n’ look ’t that roof; it’s ready to fall in now!”
“Thet’s him! thet’s Nat,” said Gammer, pointing to a man, blackened
with smoke, leaping from the door, bearing a desk in his hands; back
again into the flames, spite of the warning cries of the crowd; back,
and out again,—not a drop of coward blood in Nat Leeson’s bad heart! At
that moment, just as Miss Sophy had fastened her eyes on his face, a
scream rang out close beside her,—a scream that no one who heard it ever
forgot: “Nat! Nat! where’s the baby?” And more like some swift flying
creature than like a human being there came, parting the crowd right
and left, as if they had been straws in her way, the figure of a woman,
uttering shriek after shriek. Men tried to grasp her by the arm to hold
her back. They could no more grasp her than they could grasp the flames
themselves. “Nat! Nat! where’s the baby?” she shrieked. “Oh, God! save my
baby! Zephie! Zephie!” Over and above all the din Nat heard the cry; and
maddened as he was by terror and loss, the words seemed to turn him into
a fiend. As she reached him he pushed her back, shouting hoarsely, “Damn
your brat! let it burn! Good riddance!” A cry of “Shame! shame!” went up,
but there was time for no further retribution. The flames were licking
out of the windows now, and running up the outside walls. A few minutes
would see all over. The crowd swept back a little.
“Mam, here’s baby,” cried a shrill, quavering voice; and out of the
smoke, out of the flame, past the raging Nat, who did not even see him,
tottered Zephie, bearing the baby in his arms. There went up a cheer,
a short one, indeed, for the men’s voices broke. They closed round the
boy, took the baby, lifted her; took Zephie, lifted him. Nobody thought
any longer of the burning house; let it go; here were the children. But
where was the mother? It was some minutes before she was found. As she
tossed her arms in despair at her husband’s brutal answer to her cry,
merciful unconsciousness had seized her, and she wavered and fell,—fell,
by the strangest of chances, into the arms of Gammer Stein, who had
pressed on closely after her, expecting, as she afterwards confessed, to
see her plunge into the burning building and be devoured by the flames.
“An’ I allaow I wuz er thinkin’ ez haow the Lawd hed erpinted thet ther
fire ez er jedgment,” she said, “’n’ the next I knowed, thar she wuz,
ther pore cretur, a settlin’ down agen me, ’n’ er swayin’ back ’n’ forth,
’n’ ’s soon ’s I ketched her I seen she wuz in er dead faint; ’n’ I
allaow ter yeow it kind er fetched me raound, skeered, ’s ef ther Lawd
hed tuk me ter witness he wa’n’t plum done aout wi’ Rushy Riker yit!”
It was surely a strange chance which put into the hands of Gammer Stein
and Miss Sophy the joint labor of restoring the woman to consciousness.
When at last she opened her eyes and saw Zephie in a chair opposite her,
with the child in his arms, she put her hand to her head, and cried out
pitifully, “Be we dead? Where’s Nat?”
“No, no, mam,” cried Zephie, holding the baby out to her, “we ain’t none
of us dead! The house ’s all burnt up, but we got out. I brought Rushy
downstairs myself, ’n’ the stairs was a blazin’ under me; donno how I
ever did it; but she never so much ’s kicked nor hollered. If she had,
I’d a dropped her sure.”
“Your husband is safe too,” said Miss Sophy, with a not wholly kindly
emphasis. Miss Sophy was very human.
Snatching the baby from Zephie’s arms and straining it to her bosom,
rocking herself to and fro, looking up into Gammer Stein’s face wildly,
Rushy exclaimed, “I wish he’d burned up! I never want to set my eyes on
him again!”
“’Sh, ’sh!” exclaimed Gammer; “ye donno what ye’re sayin’.”
“Did ye hear what he said to me, then?” cried Rushy, bursting into a
flood of hysterical crying. “He meant to let the children burn up. He set
it afire hisself. That’s what he sent me out o’ the house for last night.”
Horror-stricken, Gammer threw up her hands. Miss Sophy stood at the foot
of the bed, listening intently. They were alone with her.
“I wish God may strike me dead,” cried the raving woman, “if I don’t
believe it! I’ll never go nigh him again, never! ’Twas to get rid o’ the
children he did it!”
“Rushy Riker!” exclaimed Gammer, and the old woman drew herself up till
her gaunt figure seemed preternaturally tall, and, spite of her uncouth
language, her utterance had the dignity of inspiration,—“Rushy Riker!
yeow jest shet yer mouth, an’ don’t yeow tempt ther Lawd ter strike yer
dead, blasphemin’ thet way. Yeow air plum crazy, thet’s what yer air. Yer
know Nat Leeson, bad’s he ez, never done nothin’ er ther kind. The Lawd’s
gin yer both yer chillen safe ’n’ sound, ’n’ ye’d better git daown ’n yer
knees ’n’ be thankful, ’n’ begin ter lead ther life ye’d oughter. ’Tain’t
tew late yit. Yer young; ’n’ I allaow the Lawd’s er dealin’ ’th yeow
powerful.”
Rushy’s great black eyes fastened on Gammer’s face fiercely; the tears
stopped; sobs shook her, but she did not speak. The baby, terrified,
began to cry. Hushing her tenderly, cooing over her, caressing her,
Rushy, with a swiftly changing face, began again to weep, but softly, as
if she feared to terrify the child.
“I expect I was kind o’ crazy,” she muttered, “but ’taint strange.”
“No,” said Gammer gently, “’tain’t strange! We’ll be gwine naow; yer
better alone. Ther folks ’n this house said yer could hev this room till
yer got time ter look raound, yeow ’n’ yer—yeow ’n’ Nat!” Gammer could
not bring herself to speak the word “husband” in that connection. “Come,
Miss Burr,” she added, touching Miss Sophy on the shoulder, “we’ll be
gwine; we can’t do nothin’ more fur ’er.”
Miss Sophy did not stir. She was gazing fixedly at Zephie. The child had
thrown himself on the floor, and was lying with his eyes shut. “Look at
him!” she whispered.
“Dew yer feel bad, Zephie?” asked Gammer. He did not answer. Bending over
him, she exclaimed: “Ef thet ain’t cur’us! He’s sleepin’! Ain’t thet a
mercy, naow, he kin?” And again she drew Miss Sophy away.
Shaking off the old woman’s hand, Miss Sophy stepped nearer to the bed,
and said, “Mrs. Leeson, I’d like to see you to-morrow morning. Will you
be here?”
“Who be ye?” asked Rushy, half defiantly, with a distrustful glance. “I
s’pose I’ll be here.”
“My name is Burr,” answered Miss Sophy, slowly. “You do not know me, I
suppose.”
“That keeps boarders?” asked Rushy.
“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, trembling.
“I know where yer place is,” answered Rushy, indifferently, “’n’ my
husband that was, he’s been workin’ for you, I heered. You was the fust
one ’t ever got any work out o’ him, I heered say.”
Miss Sophy’s face grew hard. It was well that the light was dim. She
clenched her hands as she replied coldly, nerving herself by the thought
of the purpose she had in view, “He did all the work which he did for me
very well.”
“Ain’t he workin’ on your ranch now?” asked Rushy.
“No,” said Miss Sophy, thankful for the form of the question. “I’ve sold
my ranch.”
“A good while ’fore Zeph Riker’ll get such another job!” said Rushy,
vindictively.
Again Miss Sophy clenched her hands and held herself calm. For Zeph’s
sake nothing was too much to be borne. For the stake for which she was
playing now she could afford to strain every nerve.
“Yes,” she said, under all her excitement taking a certain grim
satisfaction in the artful wording of her reply. “Yes, I think it will
be. But I will see you in the morning, Mrs. Leeson. There’s something I
want to talk to you about.”
“All right,” said Rushy, without a gleam of curiosity in her face. The
reaction after her terrible shock was setting in; a stupor was fast
stealing over her.
Miss Sophy’s heart was beating high. She had hard work to keep from
telling her project to Gammer Stein, but she refrained.
“Time enough if it succeeds,” she said. “But it will! I know it will!”
Miss Sophy had watched Rushy’s face closely while Gammer was upbraiding
her for her accusation against Nat. She had seen the swift look of terror
there, followed by dogged resolve, as she regained partial composure.
Miss Sophy did not believe that the woman had been crazy when she uttered
that accusation, or that she thought herself to have been so. Miss Sophy
believed it true; and if this were so, the very strength of the poor
creature’s maternal affection, which had hitherto been the barrier to the
carrying out of Miss Sophy’s project, would be its surest aid.
Minute by minute all through the lingering darkness Miss Sophy watched
for the dawn. As soon as it was fairly light, she took her way to the
house. She reckoned, and rightly, that she would find Rushy alone. As she
passed the still smouldering ruins of the restaurant she recognized Nat
working there with a hopeless sort of fury in his motions, dragging out
bits of iron and half-burnt timbers. It seemed a mockery that the chimney
was left standing, and projecting from it a grate half full of coal
and ashes, the remains of the last home-fire lighted on that ill-fated
hearth. While she stood gazing at this, Nat pried the grate out with an
iron bar; as it fell, his face was convulsed with rage, and he poured out
a volley of oaths which made Miss Sophy’s heart stand still.
“It was true! I believe it!” she gasped, as she quickened her pace, and
did not once look back till she reached Rushy’s bedside.
In the white, haggard face which looked up from the pillow
half-inquiring, half-alarmed, at Miss Sophy, there were few traces left
of the beauty which had been so fatal a lure to Zeph in days gone by. The
year of hard work, and still more of suffering which she had been too
proud to betray, had told upon Rushy sadly. And this last night with its
anguish, its dire secret, its shock,—this had completed the wreck. She
had almost the look of a dying woman. Placid, rosy, fast asleep on her
arm, lay the child over whose destiny forces strangely conflicting were
now coming together.
Miss Sophy was a keen reader of faces. As she met Rushy’s first glance
she perceived in it a defined terror. Rushy was indeed in an agony of
apprehension lest the words she had spoken in her frenzy would be used to
work harm to Nat. She was rent between her still passionate love for him
and her mighty love for her children.
On the instant Miss Sophy changed her entire plan of approach. This
terror should be made to play into her hands.
“Mrs. Leeson,” she said gravely, “I came down so early to be sure of
seeing you before any one else did. I suppose you remember what you said
last night about your husband’s having set his place on fire? I think no
one heard you except Gammer and me; but we both heard you.”
Rushy’s eyes dilated with horror. “I was crazy!” she cried. “I was out o’
my head! I didn’t mean no such thing! Gammer said I was crazy. She knows
Nat wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“I suppose you did not know,” continued Miss Sophy, eying her
steadily,—no mercy in Miss Sophy’s heart now,—“that I owned the bakery
next your restaurant?”
“No! Did ye?” gasped Rushy. “Oh, Miss Burr, don’t ye tell on me! I swear
to God it wa’n’t true! I didn’t know I said it! Oh, have some mercy on
me, won’t ye? Nat ’d kill me in a minute if ever he was to hear ’t I’d
said such a word. He never did it, Miss Burr, never! Nat’s real good, he
is; only jest hasty, that’s all. Oh, for God’s sake, ma’am, don’t you go
to tell it!” And in anguish too great for tears Rushy threw herself back
on the bed and groaned aloud.
“I had no idea of telling it, Mrs. Leeson,” said Miss Sophy. “It was
not for that I came. The property was not much injured, and I am going
away. I didn’t care a fig for the building. But I’ll tell you what I did
come for.” Miss Sophy hesitated, bent over the bed, whispering low, “I
am certain you spoke the truth about Nat’s setting that fire. I’ll never
forget your scream, never; an’ I said to myself, ‘There’s a woman would
be glad to get her child out o’ that man’s way if she could.’” Again Miss
Sophy paused. Rushy’s eyes transfixed her. Confession, awe, yearning,
surrender, were in them.
“Oh! what be ye?” she said faintly. “Ye scare me! What d’ ye mean?”
Miss Sophy never could remember distinctly the rest of the
conversation,—how she gradually made clear to Rushy her own wish to
adopt a child; her sudden desire the night before to take the little
one whose life had been thus endangered by her stepfather’s crime; her
feeling that she had been sent to the fire for this very purpose. The
words seemed to come to her as from some power outside herself; and as
she spoke, the mother’s heart seemed melted; tears like rain ran down
her face. Wringing her hands, she said again and again, “I can’t! Oh, I
can’t never let her go; I’d die without her!” And yet again and again she
returned to the point, groaning, “But I darstn’t keep her! I darstn’t! I
donno why I trust ye so, ma’am, but I can’t help it! I know ye won’t do
me no harm; I’ve heard lots about ye, how good ye was to everybody, ’n’ I
know ye’re rich! Oh, I’ll never forgive myself if I stand ’n the child’s
light ’n’ keep her out o’ all ye’d do for her; ’n’ I’ll die if I let her
go out o’ my sight! ’n’ there ’tis!” It was a terrible struggle. More
than once Miss Sophy was on the point of abandoning it. All seemed lost.
Once she rose to go. But Rushy clutched her gown and cried, “Don’t ye
go! don’t go! I hain’t made my mind up! I can’t! If it wa’n’t for fearin’
she ain’t safe I couldn’t! But oh, if anythin’ did happen to her here,
I’d die! I donno why Nat hates her so; he’s real good to Zephie; allers
has been; but ever sence we was married he’s seemed to hate the sight o’
baby. I suppose it’s hard on a man to take to another man’s children; but
there’s Zephie, just the same, an’ he’s fond o’ him.”
Finally the storm-tossed creature said: “You send Gammer here; I’ll talk
it over with her. I’m spent. I can’t think no longer! Gammer knows ye
real well; if she says it’ll be right, I’ll do it! I’m thankful ye’re
goin’ way off; that’s the only way I’d stand it ’t all. It’ll be just
same ’s ef she was dead; ’n’ that’s the way I want it to be! I couldn’t
give her up no other way!”
Still the baby slept on, placid, unconscious. As Miss Sophy turned to go,
she bent down and kissed its forehead. “She is a most beautiful child,”
she said. “I love her already.”
“Oh, ye’d be good to her always, always, ’s long ’s ye live, and
leave her safe ’n’ comfortable! Oh, swear it, won’t ye?” cried Rushy,
hysterically. Then with a fresh outburst of crying, her words hardly
articulate, she sobbed, “Should ye want her to call ye mammy? She’s just
beginnin’ to say it this last month or two; p’r’aps ye might let her call
ye aunt, or suthin’ else besides mammy!”
The anguish in the mother’s voice as she said this touched a chord in
Miss Sophy’s breast that had never before vibrated. As tenderly and
understandingly as if she herself had borne children, she answered,
“Don’t you think it would be best for her to call me mother? You wouldn’t
want her to grow up thinking she had no mother!”
“No, no! I s’pose she must call ye mammy. Oh, I donno but I wish she was
dead now! Oh, ma’am, don’t ye be angry with me! You go away now. I can’t
talk to ye a minute longer. Send Gammer; she’ll come. She hates me, but
she’s good; she’ll come; she’ll tell me. When are ye going?”
“To-morrow night.”
“I’m glad it’s so soon,—that is, if I’m goin’ to do it. If I was to think
it over ’n’ over weeks, I shouldn’t know no better ’t the end; I’d ruther
she’d go ’t oncet. Gammer’ll bring her ter ye. She always goes to Gammer,
Zephie says. He takes her up there sometimes Sundays. I expect—” Rushy
paused. Miss Sophy’s instinct filled up the interval. It was of Zeph
Rushy was thinking. Spite of Miss Sophy’s steady nerves, she trembled
now. “He hain’t got no right, anyhow,” Rushy muttered to herself. “The
judge giv’ ’em to me.”
“Thar’d have to be papers, wouldn’t there?” she said, looking up
furtively, “so there couldn’t nobody else get her away from you?”
Miss Sophy’s heart bounded. She made a feint of stooping to pick up
something from the floor to hide her exultation. The words, “and mine
enemy was my helper,” flashed across her thoughts.
“Yes,” she replied, “that would be better. I will send them to you by
Gammer. I’ll have a lawyer draw them up, so they will be all right; and
if you make up your mind to do it, you can sign them, and give them to
Gammer with the baby, and I’ll have Gammer go with me part way till the
baby’s used to me.”
“Swear! swear!” shrieked Rushy, snatching Miss Sophy’s hand, fastening
her wild eyes on her face. “Oh, swear to me, here ’n’ now, she’d be t’ ye
the same ’s yer own! Swear!”
“So help me God,” said Miss Sophy, tears on her cheeks and her voice
faltering, “she shall be to me the same ’s my own.”
“I believe ye!” gasped Rushy, half fainting from her fierce struggle. “I
believe ye! I don’t never want to see ye agen, though! Don’t ye come
back here. Send Gammer. If I’ll do it, Gammer’ll bring the baby to your
house. If I don’t do ’t, I don’t never want to be asked no more! Be ye
sure ye’re goin’ to-morrow night?”
“Yes,” said Miss Sophy.
“South? The south-goin’ train?”
“Yes,” answered Miss Sophy, suddenly alive to a new danger, and
perceiving as suddenly how it could be averted. “Yes, I am going on the
south-bound train.”
“Send Gammer quick,” was Rushy’s only answer; and she closed her eyes
exhausted.
Even in this final crisis Miss Sophy did not confide to Gammer her
relation to Zeph. “What folks don’t know, they can’t let out,” had been
Miss Sophy’s motto all her life, and it stood her in good stead now.
Except for this reticence, her plans at the last moment might have
miscarried disastrously. All that Gammer knew when she set out on her
strange embassy was simply what had already been said by Miss Sophy
herself to Rushy. In her pocket she carried the papers, made out in due
form, by the signing of which the legal adoption of the child would be
put forever beyond question or revocal.
“An’ I allaow she’ll sign ’em fast enough, I allaow she will ef ’tis ez
she sez, accordin’ ter what I’d ’vise her ter dew. Ther ain’t no tew
sides ter ther thing; ther ez ter most things; but I allaow ther ain’t
ter this,” said Gammer, as she bade Miss Sophy good-by and set out on her
errand.
It was arranged between them that if Gammer obtained the child she
would pass Miss Sophy’s house on her way home, Miss Sophy watching at
the window to see if she had been successful. In that case Gammer was
to keep the child with her until the next evening, when she would bring
her to the train, joining Miss Sophy there at the last moment. Miss
Sophy’s brain ached with all this plotting and planning, so foreign
to her straightforward nature. She felt disgraced in her own eyes by
so much concealment. “Lord knows I’ll be thankful to get done with all
this coverin’-up business,” she reflected. “It’s a new trade for me; but
then, I’m takin’ up a new trade altogether,”—and her face softened into
a younger look at the very thought. “It’s all for his sake I’m doin’ it.
Once we’re out o’ this country ’n’ settled down, it won’t seem nothin’ at
all; ’n’ I know ’t ’s right! that’s one comfort.”
It was late in the afternoon before Gammer, equipped with the paper ready
for Rushy’s signature, and already signed by Miss Sophy, set out on
her exciting errand. Never before in Gammer’s life had she been called
upon to take part in such stirring events. But she bore herself like a
veteran, and had no misgivings as to the success of the enterprise. The
only thing that puzzled her was the mysterious secrecy in which Miss
Sophy insisted on wrapping the whole affair.
“Thar ain’t no disgrace ’n ’doptin’ er child,” she reflected. “I allaow
’t ’s ter ennybody’s cheeriterble credit ter feel ter dew it; but Miss
Burr ez fur coverin’ ’t up ez much ez ef ’twuz er case er stealin’. I
allaow she’s drefful afeard o’ folks talkin’, bein’ an old maid ’s she
ez; ’n’ thar’s plenty ’twould talk, ’n’ kinder larf; folks ez jest mean
enuf. It’s different, her bein’ ’n old maid. Naow ef ’twuz me, nobody’d
say er word. Old maids hez er hard time, ennyway; ’pears like thar shet
out er lots o’ things, ’sides not hevin’ no man o’ ther own.”
The minutes seemed hours to Miss Sophy as she sat at her window gazing
down the street by which Gammer would return. The sun went slowly down
toward the mountain-tops, reached them, seemed to linger a moment, then
sank, and was gone; then the slow twilight passed, and dusky gloom
settled on the little town. There was no moon; Miss Sophy could see but
a few paces beyond her gate. No Gammer yet!
She could not bear it. Throwing a shawl over her head, she stole out and
paced up and down in the path. At last she saw the tall figure looming up
in the distance, walking with a swift stride,—too swift to be the step of
one carrying the burden of a heavy child.
Miss Sophy stood still. As soon as she saw that the old woman’s arms were
empty, she ran forward, exclaiming under her breath, “Wouldn’t she do it?
Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!”
“Hesh, naow,” said Gammer, as composedly as if it were an every-day
transaction over which Miss Sophy excited herself unnecessarily. “Don’
git yerself inter er fever! She’s gwine ter; she’s signed; but she don’t
want ter giv her up till ther last minute; she wants ter fix her up; she
hain’t got no cloes fit ter go in, she sez. I declar ter yeow, Miss
Burr, I didn’t never allaow ter feel ez near kind ter Rushy Riker ez I
dew. Thet’s what’s kep’ me. ’T seemed ter kind er dew her sum good ter
talk. She sed she allers knowed I war daown on her, an’ I war; but she’s
broke naow. But ez I ben tellin’ her, she’s made her bed ’n’ she’s got
ter lay in ’t, this time; ’n’ I allaow it’s a hard un. She’s ’feard ’s
death o’ thet Nat,—’feard ’s death; ’n’ yit she kinder doos love him tew;
she won’t never leave him ser long ’s the breath er life’s in her body;
she darstn’t; she sez he’d kill ennybody in a minnit, ’n’ not mean ter,
nuther; when he’s inter his rages he donno nothin’. I allaow she’s got
inter hell afore her time, she hez! Thet’s the way ye’ve got ther baby;
she’d ha’ died afore she’d parted ’th her, ef ’t hedn’t been jest ’s
’tis. Yeow’d hev pitied her ef ye’d seen her tryin’ to sign thet paper,
yeow would. ’T seemed ’s ef she couldn’t do ’t. She’d put ther pen daown,
’n’ then she’d pick ’t up; ’n’ ther paper’s all riz up in blotches whar
she cried on ’t ’n’ tried ter wipe ’t off ’th her gown, ’n’ ’t made ’t
wuss. Yeow’d hev pitied her.”
“No, I wouldn’t!” replied Miss Sophy. “I haven’t got any pity for a woman
that does what she’s done.”
Gammer drew a long sigh. It was too dark for her to see Miss Sophy’s
face. They were standing close together in the shadow of a tree,
whispering like conspirators.
“Yeow’d hev ter, ef yer seen her,” she said; “not but what she’s reapin’
ez she sowed; I ain’t er gainsayin’ thet; ’n’ I allaow ther Lawd’s gwine
ter punish her wuss yit ’fore He’s done ’th her.”
“How?” said Miss Sophy.
“I allaow she’s gwine ter break all ter pieces. She’s jest ther
high-strung kind thet doos; she’s all uv er tremble; narves ez awful when
they gits broke up thet way. She sez she knows she’s gwine ter die, ’n’
she don’t care how soon; ’n’ I say, ther sooner ther better, tew; fur
thet Nat, he won’t keer fur her a minnit when she’s lost her looks ’n’
can’t cook,—not er minnit; he’s thet kind. Naow thet Zeph, he’d hev—”
“Are you sure she will give you the child to-morrow?” interrupted Miss
Sophy. She could not bear any reference to Zeph in this connection.
“Sure’s I am ’t I’m erlive,” answered Gammer. “She’s a gwine ter bring
her up ter-morrer arter she’s hed her supper, ’n’ she’ll git her ter
sleep ter my house. I allaow ter yeow I dread ter see her go ’n’ leave
her. I allaowed mebbe she’d better come down ter ther train; but—”
“Oh,” shrieked Miss Sophy, “don’t let her! She’d be sure to take it all
back at the last minute. Don’t let her!” And Miss Sophy actually quivered
with alarm.
“She won’t come thar,” answered Gammer. “She allaowed she couldn’t. She
allaowed she’d die when she heered the whistle, ’s ’twuz. She sez it’s
a comfort ter her I’m goin’ part way. Not thet she’s got enny kind er
distrust o’ yeow; but ther baby knows me, ’n’ she’s a sckeery little
thing. I allaow yeow’ll have trouble ’th her along fur a spell.”
“I think not,” said Miss Sophy, with a joy at her heart, thinking of the
baby nestled in its father’s arms. “I’m not afraid.”
After they had parted, Gammer turned back, calling cautiously, “Oh, Miss
Burr, I clar furgot! She’s powerful ’fraid Zeph’ll get wind on ’t somehow
’n’ interfere. I allaowed ter her he’d ruther yeow hed ther baby ’n enny
woman livin’; he knowed yer; but she ain’t easy ’bout it. Whar is Zeph
naow? D’ yer know? We hain’t seed him for a week back.”
“He went into the country on business for me,” replied Miss Sophy.
“’Ll he be back ’fore yer go?”
“I expect him to-morrow; at least, that was the plan. But he may be
detained,” said the guilty Miss Sophy.
“Ef he doos come, ye kin tell him all abaout it yerself,” replied the
unsuspecting Gammer, “’n’ he’ll be thankful ter ther Lawd, I allaow he
will.”
“I hope he will,” ejaculated Miss Sophy, fervently. And as she ran home
she said to herself, “I hope to the Lord that’s the last manouverin’ I’ll
have to do till my dyin’ day. It’s awful wearin’. I shouldn’t wonder if
it’s worse ’n out-’n’-out lyin’!”