Ezra looked so like a wandering night-shade, so tall, wet and thin, that
Tess uttered a shriek. The lad pushed his way into the cabin, and
dropped on the floor. All thought of the student was driven from
Tessibel's mind by her superstition at the sight of the boy.
"Ezy, Ezy, air it yerself, or air it yer shade what air here? It air yer
own self, ain't it, Ezy?"
"Yep."
"Where air yer been?"
"I dunno. I air sick unto death, I air."
"Have ye seen yer mammy?"
"Nope."
"Nor Satisfied?"
"Nope."
"Then ye be a-goin' there now, ain't ye?"
"Yep."
"Was ye to Albany?"
"Nope. I were sick in a house, and the big man from the hill were
a-takin' care of me. I weren't a-goin' to stay no longer, so I runned
away. I air a-goin' home to Mammy."
"Yep, that air right," rejoined Tess with conviction, "for yer mammy air
a-grievin' every day for ye, and Satisfied air a-gettin' older and
older-lookin'. They thought as how ye might be in Albany."
Another loud cry caused Ezy to turn his head toward the infant.
"Ye air the same as Myry," he said slowly; but before he could say
another word, the girl interposed hastily:
"It ain't my brat.... It belongs to a woman on the hill. I gets paid for
it."
To every other man save to the one she loved was Tess able to deny the
motherhood that had been thrust upon her. To the student she stood
condemned of a sin he could not forgive. But to Ezra, Ben, and Professor
Young she had told the truth.
The weakness of the squatter as he sat on the floor, panting for breath,
aroused Tessibel's sympathy, and she proffered him a cup of little Dan's
milk.
"Drink it," she commanded, "and then scoot to yer mammy. And--and ye
needn't say as how I air a-carin' for another woman's brat, will ye,
Ezy?"
"Nope; I ain't a-sayin' nothin' ... I goes home to my mammy."
If Tess had never seen the hue of death upon a human face, she saw it
now. The boy rose totteringly, and Tessibel, with a tender expression in
her eyes, opened the door.
"Ezy, I's sorry for ye! I's sorry that I slicked the dirty dishrag in
yer face. Ye forgives me, don't ye, Ezy?"
"Yep." And Ezra stumbled away.
Tess watched him stagger along the shore through the rain, the shadows
of the weeping-willow trees at last swallowing him up.
She turned back into the hut, barred the door, and fed the child with
sweetened milk, forcing particles of bread into the yawning throat.
Teola had sent the student from her, never to return, yet she fed the
child tenderly, tucking it, with its sugar rag, in the warm blanket.
She snuffed the end from the candle, that it might burn brighter, took
the little Bible, and sat down to read.
"Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" she haltingly
spelled.
Her eyes sought the small outline of Dan Jordan's babe in the bed. She
hardly understood Paul's figurative words, but vaguely imagined that the
apostle was afflicted with something like the wizened child which had
been thrust upon herself.
Loud, impatient noises issued from the blanket. Tess rose, settled the
baby more comfortably, and sat down again. Her eyes sought another
verse.
"If ye have the faith of a grain of mustard-seed--"
The passage brought a vivid blush to her face. She rose silently, and
knelt by the window.
"Take this here body of my death," she prayed, "and give the poor brat
to the Christ! Make its ma tell the student, and give Tessibel faith
like a mustard-seed." Thus ended her prayer.
* * * * *
Ezra Longman, sick unto death, as he had said, floundered his way along
the wet path. The long walk through the storm from Ithaca had so
weakened him that he could hardly stand upright. He wanted to see his
mother once more, to be with Satisfied, and to warn Myra of the coming
evil. A conversation he had heard between the nurse and Professor Young
had decided him to go home if he could, for Ezra knew that his sister
loved the ugly fisherman who had tried to put him to death in the
Hoghole.
As he neared his cabin home, he saw the candle streaming its flickering
ray upon the path that led to the rocks. He saw his mother snuff the
flame and Satisfied take Myra's child up from the floor, but he did not
see his sister. As if in answer to this thought as to her whereabouts,
Myra appeared directly in front of him, carrying a pail of water from
the spring. She did not notice him until he pronounced her name in an
undertone. The pail dropped from her hand, splashing its contents over
her garments, and she uttered a little frightened cry. He whispered her
name again and Myra timidly put out her hand.
"Air it yerself, Ezy?" she implored.
"Yep, I air here. I comed to see Mammy and Satisfied, and to tell ye
that it air time for ye to be savin' Ben Letts if ye loves him. Ben
throwed me in the Hoghole, he did, but I know that ye loved him, and I
comed."
The boy staggered with weakness, and his sister threw an arm around him.
"Ye air to come to Mammy," she urged. "Mammy loves ye, Ezy dear."
"Wait," whispered the boy. "Ben Letts air to be arrested."
"What?"
The cry was sharp--the words hurt.
"Ben Letts air to be tooked to jail. It were him what killed the
gamekeeper. It weren't Orn Skinner."
"Who were a-sayin' it were Ben?" demanded Myra, her mouth hard and
lined.
"I says it," replied Ezy. "I seed him when he done it, and I comed to
tell ye, and to see Mammy and Satisfied."
"Then come in, and go to bed, for ye be sick."
A change gradually came over Myra: cunning grew in the faded eyes and
determination straightened the thin shoulders, as she led her brother
into the hut.
"Mammy," she called softly, opening the door, "here air Ezy!"
"Fetch him in," cried Satisfied.
Mrs. Longman sank weakly into a chair. The sight of her son, her only
son, white and emaciated, and the appearance of the livid scar on his
brow drew a painful cry from her lips.
"He air sick," continued Myra, "put him to bed."
"Where air ye been all this time, Ezy?" asked Longman, assisting him
into the small back room. But Ezra was too ill to tell the story, and
the mother hushed him to sleep just as she had in those childhood days
when he had been good, and always at home.
Meantime, Myra, pale and thoughtful, moved about the shanty. Her mind
was upon one subject--she must save Ben Letts from the dreaded rope. She
did not question the verity of her brother's statement, for she realized
that Ben was not only capable of killing the inspector, but also of
placing the guilt upon an innocent man. It did not, however, change her
squatter love. The more she thought of Ben's danger, the more she loved
and wanted to save him, the more determined she grew to take him away to
some place where the officers could not find him.
"Goin' to bed, Myry?" asked Longman, taking the candle and climbing the
ladder to the loft.
"Yep, but I air a-goin' to rock the brat a little while. Ye and Mammy go
to bed. I locks the door."
She settled herself in the wooden rocking-chair, trundling the child to
and fro, and murmuring a doleful tune. Her son was now almost two years
old, and beginning to toddle about upon a pair of crooked, thin legs. As
often as Ben had visited the hut he had never deigned to look at the
child, but Myra had a dull hope that, if she saved the fisherman, he
would show some affection for the little boy.
An hour later, the regular breathing of her father and mother told Myra
that they both slept. Ezra, too, was sleeping, for she had bent over him
but a little time before. The clock on the mantel pointed to midnight.
The girl rose, and fed the baby, dropping some paregoric into his milk
to keep him asleep, and then drew a large shawl about the little one,
rolling him gently in the warm folds. Finally, she took a piece of paper
and a pencil from the shelf.
"Mammy," she wrote, "I's a-goin' to save Ben Letts. Ezy tells ye about
it, as how Ben Letts killed the gamekeeper it werent Orn Skinner. I
takes the brat cause it air Bens I luves yer and Satisfied."
She pinned the note to the handle of the copper kettle upon the stove,
and, lifting the child in her arms, slipped through the door without a
sound.
The rain still fell steadily, the turbulent roll of the lake lost only
in thunder's roar. Once on the ragged rocks, Myra walked swiftly, afraid
of the shadowy objects and ghostly sounds that spectered her path. She
threw despairing glances about her, and shrank from the imaginary
sneaking figures haunting the dismal night. Almost running, she reached
the Letts' shanty.
How soon would the officers come for Ben? They might have been there
before her. The cabin was dark, and she tapped timidly upon the kitchen
door. Only a great snore from the sleeping Ben inside answered her.
Trying the latch, it lifted in her fingers, and she crept stealthily
through the narrow aperture, encircling the child with her left arm.
"Ben!" she whispered. "Ben!"
The squatter turned, muttering sleepily.
"Mammy! What be the matter, Mammy?" The fresh night air startled him.
"Who air it?" he demanded hoarsely.
"Myry," breathed the woman again. "Get up.... They air a-comin' to take
ye to prison for the killin' of the gamekeeper. I comed to help ye, Ben
Letts."
The words soaked slowly into the sluggish brain. Tired from the beating
Frederick had given him, and lazy by temperament, Ben did not at first
realize that Myra's message meant the hangman's rope for him. He turned
again in bed, and sat up. Were the officers of the law waiting for him?
"Ezy air home," resumed Myra rapidly, leaning tensely toward him. "He
walked through the rain from Ithacy. He says as how ye air goin' to be
tooked to prison. I has the brat here with me ... we air a-goin'
away.... Get up, Ben. Hustle yer bones!"
The blue-jeans breeches, streaked with the blood of many a fish, were
drawn on in a twinkling. The great squatter boots quickly covered the
horny feet, and trembling, Ben waited for Myra to lead him from the
cabin.
"Where be we a-goin'?" he asked in a whisper.
"I takes ye 'cross the lake to Ludlowville, and then we goes into the
hills. A awful storm air a-scootin' along from the north, but we can't
wait, for ye'll be took."
By this time they were nearing the shore. The autumn lightning shot out
from the sky, veering to the north and unmasking the black, raging lake
and the distant city. A heavy roll of awe-inspiring thunder followed the
flash. The man and woman did not speak until the flat boat topped the
breaking waves.
"The storm air a-goin' to be worse," shouted Ben, scanning the dark
clouds. "It air foolhardy to try it, ain't it, Myry?"
"Yep; but we go, all the same. I stays with ye, Ben!"
He did not answer to this, nor did he ask a question then about the
return of Ezra. He was satisfied that what he had supposed was the boy's
wraith--the disembodied spirit of the lad he had thrown into the
Hoghole--was the living Ezra Longman. On his way home from the Skinner
hut, Ben had planned a terrible revenge upon the student and Tessibel,
but the advent of this unforeseen discovery had placed his enemies
beyond his reach. The thought of Tess brought a rasp from his throat.
The creaking oars, under his experienced fingers, carried the boat far
from the shadowy shore. Through the frequent lightning he could plainly
see Myra in the stern, holding to the child. It was all ending
differently from what he had hoped. That he had killed the gamekeeper he
knew well, but, when Ezra Longman had disappeared into the Hoghole, Ben
thought it took from the earth the only witness of his deed.
On and on through the night sped the boat, until Myra and Ben could see
the lights on the college hill. Here and there in the valley beyond, the
lightning revealed a farmhouse, the inmates of which were quietly
sleeping.
Presently Ben spoke:
"What hes Ezy been a-sayin'?"
"Nothin' but that ye throwed him in the Hoghole, and tried to kill him,
and that ye killed the gamekeeper."
"Where hes he been all this time?"
"I dunno. He air awful sick, and Ma put him to bed."
Their voices rose high above the shrieking of the wind. Myra's last
words were screamed out. The boat tossed like a bit of tinder, but it
was in the hands of a fisherman: Ben knew how to keep it in and out of
the troughs of the waves. Once the boat lurched mightily, and Myra gave
a frightened cry, wedging the child between her knees. Higher and higher
rolled the waves.
"We hev got to bail the water out," yelled Ben. "Bail, Myry, while I
rows."
The mother grasped the sleeping child tighter between her knees, and
began to throw the water into the lake. Suddenly a great wave half
filled the boat.
"Ye can't do it, Ben," Myra screamed. "Ye can't keep the boat top up,
and we'll all die to once.... Does ye love yer brat, Ben Letts?"
The voice, prophetic and high-pitched, struck terror to the heart of the
fisherman. He stopped rowing, and shouted out over the waves for help.
The lightning made day of the inky night for an instant, and the
squatter Ben saw the woman, holding the child under one arm and clinging
to the side of the boat with the other, creep toward him.
"Keep away!" he bellowed. "Keep the boat top up!"
Another flash.... She was closer, her white face and her staring eyes
frightening him. He raised one great boot to ward her off, but she was
at his side before it touched her. A large wave lifted one oar from the
lock and bore it away on its crest. The boat, without pilot power,
tipped dangerously. Loosening her hand from the side of the boat, Myra
wound one arm about the knees of the squatter.
"Ben Letts," she cried, shrieking the words into his ear, "kiss yer brat
afore he dies with ye, will ye? Ye ain't so much as ever touched him."
A dark storm-cloud broke directly over their head--one brilliant sheet
flared the sky from the north to the south. The child, sleeping heavily
under the drug, was close to the squatter's face. A revulsion of feeling
overwhelmed Ben--approaching death aided the ghosts of his past bad
deeds in their attack upon his wretched, over-wrought soul.... With a
sob, he laid his lips upon the slumbering babe. A long kiss followed the
first; another, and then another.
Myra gasped, and drew the boy back to her. The boat reared high in the
boiling, seething waves, and the next whitecap wrenched the child from
her hands, snatching it into the water.
"Ben Letts, our brat air gone!... There he be!... God!... There! There!"
Through a sudden, resplendent flood of light, they saw the babe poised
for one brief instant on a huge, foaming shoulder of the lake. In her
frenzy the squatter woman was murmuring over and over strange,
inarticulate words which Ben did not heed. Their arms were locked
tightly about each other. Ben Letts slowly fixed his cold, shivering
lips on those of the girl, drawing her closer and closer into his
embrace. The majesty of death was upon them, this squatter father and
mother. Another glare of light showed them still clinging together, but
the one following failed to reveal either man, woman or boat.