The two figures amid the rows of the marked garden paused, in the
enveloping dusk, and leaned on their hoes, and listened--a low, peevish
whistle, like the call of a night-jar, on the plain, came to them.
Presently the call repeated itself--three wavering notes--and they
shouldered their hoes and moved toward the little house.
The old man emerged from the gloom, coming toward them. “What was it?”
asked one of the figures quickly.
The old man chuckled. “Stole a racer--that’s about all _they_
knew--_you_ got off easy!” He was peering toward them.
The larger of the two figures straightened itself. “I am sick of it--I
tell you!--my back’s broke!” He moved himself in the dusk, stretching
out his great arms and looking about him vaguely.
The old man eyed him shrewdly. “You’re earning a good pile,” he said.
“Yes, one-seventy-five a day!” The man laughed a little.
The other man had not spoken. He slipped forward through the dusk.
“Supper ready?” he asked.
They followed him into the house, stopping in an entry to wash their
hands and remove their heavy shoes. Through the door opening to a room
beyond, a woman could be seen, moving briskly, and the smell of cooking
floated out. They sniffed at it hungrily.
The woman came to the door. “Hurry up, boys--everything’s done to
death!”
They came in hastily, with half-dried hands, and she looked at them--a
laugh in her round, keen face. “You _have_ had a day!” she said. She
was tall and angular, and her face had a sudden roundness--a kind of
motherly, Dutch doll, set on its high, lean frame. Her body moved in
soft jerks.
She heaped up the plates with quick hands, and watched the men while
they ate. For a time no one spoke. The old man went to the cellar and
brought up a great mug of beer, and they filled their pipes and sat
smoking and sipping the beer stolidly. The windows were open to the
air and the shades were up. Any one passing on the long road, over the
plain, might look in on them. The woman toasted a piece of bread and
moistened it with a little milk and put it, with a glass of milk, on a
small tray. The men’s eyes followed her, indifferent. They watched
her lift the tray and carry it to a door at the back of the room, and
disappear.
They smoked on in silence.
The old man reached out for his glass. He lifted it. “Two weeks--and
three more days,” he said. He sipped the beer slowly.
The larger of the two men nodded. He had dark, regular features and
reddish hair. He looked heavy and tired. He opened his lips vaguely.
“Don’t talk here!” said the younger man sharply--and he gave a quick
glance at the room--as a weasel returns to cover, in a narrow place.
The big man smiled. “I wa’n’t going to say anything.”
“Better not!” said the other. He cleared his pipe with his little
finger. “_I_ don’t even think,” he added softly.
The woman had come back with the tray and the men looked up, smoking.
She set the tray down by the sink and came over to them, standing with
both hands on her high hips. She regarded them gravely and glanced at
the tray. The milk and toast were untouched.
The old man removed his pipe and looked at her plaintively. “Can’t ye
_make_ her, Lena?” he said. His high voice had a shrill note.
She shook her head. “_I_ can’t do anything--not anything more.”
She moved away and began to gather up the dishes from the table,
clearing it with swift jerks. She paused a moment and leaned over--the
platter in her hand half-lifted from its place. “She needs the air,” she
said, “and to run about--she’s sick--shut up like that!” She lifted
the platter and carried it to the sink, a troubled look in her eyes. “I
won’t be responsible for her--not much longer,” she said slowly, as she
set it down, “not if she doesn’t get down in the air.”
The men looked at each other in silence. The old man got up. “Time to go
to bed--” he said slowly.
They filed out of the room. The woman’s eyes followed them. Presently
the door opened and the younger man returned, with soft, quick steps. He
looked at her. “I want to talk,” he said.
“In a minute,” she replied. She nodded toward the cellar. “The lantern’s
down there--you go along.”
He opened the door and stepped cautiously into blackness, and she heard
a quick, scratching match on the plaster behind the closed door, and his
feet descending the stairs.
She drew forward the kettle on the stove and replenished the fire, and
blew out the hand lamp on the table. Then she groped her way to the
cellar door, opening it with noiseless touch.
The young man waited below, impatient. On a huge barrel near by, the
lantern cast a yellow circle on the blackness.
The woman approached it, her high-stepping figure flung in shadowy
movement along the wall behind her.
“You can’t back out _now_!” He spoke quickly. “You’re weakening! And
you’ve got to brace up--do you hear?”
The woman’s round face smiled--over the light on the barrel. “_I’m_ all
right,” she said. She hesitated a minute.... “It’s the child that’s
not all right,” she added slowly. “And tonight I got scared--yes--” She
waited a breath.
“What’s the matter?” he said roughly.
She waited again. “She wasn’t like flesh and blood to-night,” she said
slowly. “I felt as if a breath would blow her out--” She drew her hand
quickly across her eyes. “I’ve got fond of the little thing, John--I
can’t seem to have her hurt!”
“Who’s hurting her?” said the man sharply. “_You_ take care of her--and
she’s all right.”
“I can’t, John. She needs the outdoors. She’s like a little bird up
there--shut up!”
“Then let her out--” said the man savagely. “Let her out--up there!” His
lifted hand pointed to the plain about them--in open scorn. He leaned
forward and spoke more persuasively, close to her ear--“We can’t back
out now--” he said, “_the child knows too much_!” He gave the barrel
beside them a significant tap. “We couldn’t use _this_ plant again--six
years--digging it--and waiting and starving!” He struck the barrel
sharply. “I tell you we’ve _got_ to put it through! You keep her out of
sight!”
“Her own mother wouldn’t know her--” said the woman slowly.
He met the look--and waited.
“I tell you, I’ve done everything,” she said with quick passion. “I’ve
fed her and amused her and told her stories--I don’t _dare_ keep her any
longer!” She touched the barrel beside them--“I tell you, you might as
well put her under that.... You’ll put her under for good--if you don’t
look out!” she said significantly.
“All right,” said the man sullenly, “what do you want?”
She was smiling again--the round, keen smile, on its high frame. “Let
her breathe a bit--like a child--and run out in the sun. The sun will
cure her!” she added quickly.
“All right--if you take the risk--a hundred-thousand-dollars--and your
own daughter thrown to the devil--if we lose--!... You know _that_!”
“I know that, John--I want the money--more than you want it!” She spoke
with quick, fierce loyalty. “I’d give my life for Mollie--or to keep
her straight--but I can’t kill a child to keep her straight--not _this_
child--to keep her straight!” Her queer, round face worked, against the
yellow light.
He looked at it, half contemptuously, and turned to the barrel.
“See if everything’s all right,” he said. “If we’re going to take
risks--we’ve got to be ready.”
The woman lifted the lantern, and he pushed against the barrel. It
yielded to his weight--the upper part turning slowly on a pivot.
Something inside swashed against the sides as it turned. The man bent
over the hole and peered in. He stepped down cautiously, feeling with
his foot and disappearing, inch by inch, into the opening. The woman
held the light above him, looking down with quick, tense eyes... a hand
reached up to her, out of the hole, beckoning for the lantern and she
knelt down, guiding it toward the waving fingers. A sound of something
creaking--a hinge half turned--caught her breath--and she leaned
forward, blowing at the lantern. She got quickly to her feet and groped
for the swinging barrel, turning it swiftly over the hole--the liquid
chugged softly against its side--and stopped. Her breath listened up
into the darkness. The door above creaked again softly--and a shuffling
foot groped at the stair. “You down there--Lena?” called an old voice.
She laughed out softly, moving toward the stair. “Go to bed, father.”
“What you doing down there?” asked the old voice in the darkness.
“Testing the barrel,” said the woman. “John’s gone down.” She came to
the foot of the stair. “You go to bed, father--”
“_You_ better come to bed--all of ye,” grumbled the old man.
“We’re coming--in a minute.” She heard his hand fumble at the door--and
it creaked again--softly--and closed.
She groped her way back to the barrel, waiting beside it in the
darkness.