After Everett's departure, Ann tripped into Floyd's room in a happier
state of mind than had been hers for several days. It had been her habit
to kneel beside the boy at night and send up a petition for his
recovery. Now she would thank God for his goodness to her,--Everett had
come to be more like himself, and Floyd's welcoming smile sent a thrill
of joy through her. As Ann entered, Fledra looked up from her book. Her
pale, beseeching face drew Miss Shellington to her.
"Fledra dear, you study too late and too hard. You don't look at all
well."
"I keep tellin' her that same thing, Sister Ann," said Floyd; "but she
keeps mutterin' over them words till I know 'em myself."
Miss Shellington turned Fledra's face up to hers, smoothing down the
dark curls.
"Go to bed, child; you're absolutely tired out. Kiss me goodnight,
Dear."
Fledra loitered in the hall until she heard Miss Shellington leave
Floyd; then she stole forward.
"Will you come to my room a little while, Sister Ann?"
Without a word, Ann took the girl's hand; together they entered the blue
room.
Fledra wheeled about upon Miss Shellington, when the door had been,
closed.
"Do you believe all those things you pray about, Sister Ann?" she
appealed brokenly.
Ann questioned Fledra with a look; the girl made clearer her demand by
adding:
"Do you believe that Jesus hears you when you ask Him something you want
very, very bad?"
She looked so miserable, so frail and lonely, that Ann put her arms
about her.
"Sit down here with me, Fledra. There! Put your little tired head right
here, and I'll tell you all I can."
"I want to be helped!" murmured Fledra.
"I've known that for sometime," Ann said softly; "and I'm so happy that
you've come to me!"
"It's nothin' you can do; but I was thinkin' that perhaps Jesus could do
it."
Ann pressed the girl closer.
"Is it something you can't tell me?"
Fledra nodded.
"And you can't tell my brother?"
The girl's nervous start filled Ann with dismay; for now she knew that
the trouble rested with Horace. She waited for an answer to her
question, and at length Fledra, crestfallen, blurted out:
"I can't tell anybody but--"
"Jesus?" whispered Ann.
"Yes; and I don't know how to tell Him."
Ann thought a moment.
"Fledra, if you wanted someone to do something for you, about which that
person knew nothing, wouldn't you have to tell it before it could be
granted?"
Fledra nodded.
"Then, that's what you are to do tonight. You are to kneel down here
when I am gone, and you are to feel positively sure that God will help,
if you ask Him in Jesus' name. Do you think you have faith enough to do
that?"
"I don't know what faith is," replied Fledra in a whisper.
"I'll tell you what it is, Dear. Now, then, don't you remember how my
brother and I prayed for Floyd?"
Fledra pressed Ann's arm.
"And don't you remember, Dear, that almost immediately he was helped?"
"You had a doctor," said Fledra slowly.
"Yes, for a doctor is God's agent for the good of mankind; but we had
faith, too. And in something like this--Is your trouble illness?"
"Only here," answered Flea, laying her hand upon her heart.
Ann could not force Flea's confidence; so she said:
"Then if it is impossible to confide in Horace, or in me, will you pray
tonight, fully believing that you will be answered? You must remember
how much Jesus loved you to come down to suffer and die for you."
"I don't believe I thought that story was true, Sister Ann." Fledra drew
back, and looked up into Ann's shocked face as she spoke, "I shouldn't
say I believed it if I didn't, should I?"
"No, Darling; but you must believe--you surely must! You must promise me
that you will pray first for faith, then for relief, and tomorrow you
will feel better."
"I promise," answered Fledra.
For many minutes after Ann had left her, the girl lay stretched out upon
the bed. Her heart pained her until it seemed that she must go directly
to Horace and confess her secret.
She got up slowly at last, and, kneeling, began a whispered petition. It
was broken by sobs and falling tears, by writhings that tore the tender
soul offering it.
Fledra prayed for Horace, and then stopped.
After a time she rose, having done all a girl could do for those she
loved, and, undressing, slowly crawled into bed. Through the darkness as
she lay looking upward she tried to imagine what kind of a being God
was, wondering if He were kindly visaged, or if, when His earthly
children sinned, He looked as Horace had looked when she confessed the
lie told to Ann. In her imagination, she framed the Savior of the world
like unto the man she loved when he smiled upon her, and then she
believed, and believed mightily. In likening Jesus to Horace--in
bringing the Savior nearer through the lineaments of her loved one--she
gathered out of her unbelief a great belief that He could, and would,
smooth away all the troubles that had arisen in her life.
* * * * *
That night she turned and tossed for several hours, praying and weeping,
weeping and praying, until from sheer fatigue she lay perfectly quiet.
Suddenly she sat up and listened. The stupor of slumber dulled her
hearing, and she struggled to catch again the sound that had awakened
her. From somewhere across the hall she heard a faint click, click,
which sounded as though some mechanic's tool were being used.
Fledra slipped from the bed and opened the door stealthily. She crept
along the hall in her bare feet, terrified by the muffled sound, and
stopped before the velvet curtains that were drawn closely across the
dining-room doorway. Someone was tampering with the silver chest.
For a moment terror almost forced Fledra back to her room without
investigating; but the thought that somebody was stealing Ann's precious
family plate caused her to slip her fingers between the curtains and
peep in.
The lock of the steel safe was lighted by the rays of a dark-lantern,
and Fledra could see two shadowy figures on the floor before it. One
held the light, while the other turned a small hammer machine containing
a slender drill. The girl did not have the courage to scream a warning
to Horace and the servants, and before she could move of a sudden one of
the men whispered:
"The damn thing is harder'n hell, Lem. I guess I'll take a crack at this
here hinge."
The name awoke the senses of the trembling girl, and instantly she knew
the man who had spoken to be Lon Cronk. A chill gathered round her heart
and froze the very marrow in her bones. She dropped the curtain and fled
back to her room. Standing against the door, she pressed her hands over
her face to stifle the loud breathing. Lem and Lon were robbing the
house! She would be forced then to let thieves have the contents of the
safe; for, if Pappy Lon knew that she and Flukey were housed there, he
would take them away. But, if he made off with the plate, no one would
ever know who had done it, and her sick brother would still be safe in
Ann's care.
"I won't go to 'em. I won't! I won't! They can take the whole thing for
all of me!"
She turned sharply as though she had heard a voice that had made answer
to her. With her faculties benumbed by the terror of the men in the
dining-room, and yet remembering that her grief had been subdued, she
turned her face upward, and fancied she saw the Christ-man, so like
Horace, descending into the room. But the face, instead of smiling at
her, looked melancholy and sad.
It was the dawn of a lasting belief in the Son of God, her first real
vision of Him. She gazed steadily at the beautiful apparition, and then
said haltingly:
"I'm goin' back to stop 'em, and if Pappy Lon takes me back to the
squatter settlement then help me if ye can, dear Jesus!"
The struggle was over, and with rigid desperation Fledra again opened
the door and stepped into the hall. Gliding swiftly along to the
entrance of the dining-room, she flung aside the curtains and appeared
like a shade before Lem and Lon.
The squatter saw her first; but in the semidarkness did not recognize
her. He lifted his arm, and a flash of steel sent her trembling
backward.
"Don't open yer mug, Kid, or I'll shoot yer head off!"
Then he recognized her, and stepped back to Lem's side.
"It's Flea, it's Flea Cronk!" he gasped.
The girl advanced into the room.
"What do you want here, Pappy Lon? Did you come to steal?"
She saw Lem grimacing at her through the rays of the lantern. The
scowman looked so evil, so awful, as he grinningly raised his steel
hook, that her faith very nearly fled. Crabbe's heavy face was working
with violent emotion. His full neck moved with horrid convulsions, while
a discord of low noises came from his throat. The girl, clad in her
white nightgown, under which he could trace the slender body, filled him
again with passionate longing.
"By God! it's little Flea!" he exclaimed at last.
"Yep," threw back Lon. "We found somethin' we didn't expect--eh, Lem?"
"Did you come to steal?" Fledra demanded again, this time looking at the
canalman.
"Yep; but we didn't know that you was here, Flea."
"Then you won't take anything--now, will you?"
"We don't go till you come with us, Flea!" Lon moved nearer her as he
spoke. "Ye be my brat, and ye'll come home with yer pappy!"
Fledra choked for breath.
"I can't go with you tonight," she replied, bending over in
supplication. "Flukey's sick here, and I have to stay."
"Sick! Sick, ye say?" Cronk exclaimed.
"Yes, he's been in bed ever since we left home, and he can't walk, and I
won't go without him."
"I'll take ye both," said Lon ferociously. "I'll come after ye, and I'll
kill the man what keeps ye away from me! I'm a thinkin' a man can have
his own brats!"
Fledra did not set up an argument upon this point. She wanted to get the
men out of the house, so that she might think out a plan to save her
brother and herself.
"Ye'll have to let Flukey stay until he gets well, and then mebbe we'll
come back."
"There ain't no mebbe about it," growled Lon. "Ye'll come when I say it,
and Lem ain't through with ye yet, nuther! Be ye, Lem?"
Never, since the children had left his hut, had Lon felt such a desire
to torture them. The dead woman seemed to call out to him for revenge.
The wish for the Shellington baubles and the money he might find was
nothing compared to the delight he would feel in dragging the twins back
to Ithaca. Granny Cronk was there no longer, and everything would go his
way! He put out his hand and touched Crabbe.
"We ain't goin' to steal nothin' in this house, Lem," he said sullenly;
"but I'll come tomorry and take the kids. Then we be done with this
town. Ye'll get yer brother ready by tomorry mornin'. Ye hear, Flea?"
"Yes," answered Flea dully.
"If Flukey be too sick to walk, he can ride. I've got the money, and all
I want be you two brats, and, if ye don't come when I tell ye to, then
it'll be worse for them what's harborin' ye. And don't ye so much as
breathe to the man what owns this house that we was here
tonight--or--I'll kill Flukey when I get him back to the shanty!"
His glance took in the beautiful room, and, unable to suppress a smile,
he taunted:
"I'm a thinkin' ye'll see a difference 'tween the hut and this
place--eh, Flea?"
"And between this and the scow," chuckled Lem.
"Yep, 'tween this an' the scow," repeated Lon. "Come on, Lem. We'll go
now, an' tomorry we'll come for ye, Flea. No man ain't no right to keep
another man's kids."
Fledra's past experiences with her squatter father were still so vivid
in her mind that she made no further appeal to him; for she feared to
suffer again the humiliation of a blow before Lem. She stood near the
table, shivering, her teeth chattering, and her body swaying with fright
and cold. To whom did she dare turn? Not to Ann or to Horace; for Lon
had forbidden it. To tell Flukey would only make him very ill again. Lon
was advancing toward her as these thoughts raced through her mind. She
drew back when he thrust out one of his horny hands.
"I ain't a goin' to hit ye, Flea; but I'm goin' to make ye know that I
ain't goin' to have no foolin', and that ye belong to me, and so does
Flukey, and that, when I come for ye, ye're to have yer duds ready."
Lem neared the open window, and Lon turned to follow him.
* * * * *
For fully three minutes after they had gone, the girl stood watching the
black hole through which they had disappeared, where now the snow came
fluttering in. Then she crept forward and lowered the window
noiselessly. With swift footsteps she ran back through the hall and into
the bedroom. After turning on the light, she drew on a dressing-gown and
slipped her feet into a pair of red slippers.
Somewhere from the story above came the sound of footfalls, and then
the creaking of stairs. The girl stood holding her hand over her beating
heart. A servant, or possibly Ann, had heard the noises and was coming
down. Suddenly into her mind came the prayer Floyd loved.
"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child."
She said the words over several times; but had ceased whispering when a
low knock came upon her door. She opened it, and saw Horace standing in
his dressing-gown and slippers. For a moment she looked at him with
almost unseeing eyes, and her lips moved tremulously, as if she would
speak and could not. Horace, noticing her agitation, spoke first.
"Fledra, I thought I heard you. I looked down and saw a light shining
from your window. Is anything the matter?"
Fledra could not find her voice to reply. She had not expected him, and,
locking her fingers tightly together, she stood wide-lidded and
trembling.
"Were you speaking to someone?" asked Horace.
"Yes, I was. I was speaking to Jesus just before you came. I was asking
Him to help me."
The man looked at the red gown hanging over her white nightrobe, the
tossed black curls, and the pale, sensitive face before he said:
"Fledra, whatever is the matter with you? Surely, there is something I
can do."
"Sister Ann said I would be happier, and we all would, if I asked Jesus;
and I was askin' Him jest now."
Horace eyed her dubiously.
"It is right to ask Him to help you, of course; but, child, it isn't
right for you to act toward me as you do."
Fledra was so desirous of his love and confidence that she made as if to
speak. She took two steps forward, then hesitated. Remembering Ann and
the care she had given Floyd, her hand fell convulsively on the door,
and she tried to close it. She dared not tell him of Lon's midnight
visit to the home, and wondered if he would give her up to her squatter
father, and let Flukey be taken back to the settlement.
"I told ye the truth when I said I was prayin'," she said; "but I was
thinkin', too, if it was right for a father to have his own children, if
he was to ask for 'em."
Horace, not understanding her enigmatical words, regarded her gravely.
"What a queer girl you are, anyway, Fledra!" he exclaimed. He spoke
almost irritably. He felt like grasping her up and shaking her as one
might an obstreperous child.
His moody silence made Fledra repeat her words.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Horace answered; "but, I suppose,
if a father's children were being kept from him, he could take them if
he wished. Fledra, look at me!"
She raised her gaze slowly, her somber eyes smiting the watching man as
might a blow. Her beseeching expression arrested the bitter speech that
rose to his lips. As the memory of her hard work gripped him, he bent
forward and took her slim, cold hand in his.
"Fledra, I want you to pay attention to what I am going to say. I feel
sure that you want to be a good girl. If I were not, I could not bear
it. Even if you don't trust me, I'm going to help you all I can,
anyway."
"And pray," gasped Fledra, "pray, Brother Horace, that I can be just
what you want me to be, and that I can stay with Floyd in your house!"
The girl closed the door quickly in his face, and Shellington moved
slowly away, racking his brain for some solution of the problem.
With their minds in a perturbed state, Lem and Lon passed silently back
into the cemetery. The shock of the girl's appearance had awed them
both. They were nearing the toolhouse before Scraggy came into Lem's
mind.
The whole situation was changed, now that Flea was coming to him. It was
the same to him whether she wanted to come or not; nor did it matter
that he had promised Screech Owl that she should be in the scow. He
still wanted his boy to help him with his work; but Scraggy was a person
wholly out of his life.
The two men halted in front of the shed.
"There be a woman in there," said Lem in a low voice.
"What woman?" asked Lon.
"Scraggy."
"Scraggy! How'd she come in here?"
"I took her in," said Lem. "She were the woman what that guy throwed
over the fence."
Lon pushed his companion aside and pressed through the small doorway. He
cast the light of the lantern about; but no Screech Owl was in sight.
"If Scraggy was over here, Lem," he said doubtfully, "then she's gone.
We'd better scoot and get a place to stay all night."