When Everett arrived in Ithaca he made arrangements with the conductor
of the local train running to Geneva to have it slow down at Sherwoods
Lane.
A sudden jerk of the engine as it halted at the path that led to Lon's
hut brought Brimbecomb to his feet, and he hurried from the car with
muttered thanks and a substantial consideration to the conductor. While
the train rumbled away in the distance, he stood in the shadow of a
large pine tree by the track and looked about to get his bearings.
Suddenly he heard not far from him the faint, weird cry of an owl.
Instantly he was on the alert; for there was something familiar in the
melancholy sound. It took him back to a night in Tarrytown, when he had
cast a woman into the cemetery, and he remembered that she had said she
lived in Ithaca. Superstition sent him deeper into the shadow for a
moment; but he recovered himself and, shaking his shoulders, went his
way toward the lake with a muttered oath.
So dense was the woodland bordering the path, and so dark was the shadow
of the bushes in the twilight, that he had almost to feel his way down
the dark lane. He had not proceeded more than fifty yards when he saw a
light gleaming through the underbrush from the opposite side of the
gulch that ran parallel with the narrow road. He came to a path that
branched in the direction of the light, and picked his way along it.
Soon he crossed a primitive bridge and, climbing a little incline,
paused before a dilapidated shanty. He knocked peremptorily on the door;
but only a droning voice humming a monotonous tune made answer. Again
he knocked, this time harder. The singing ceased, and after a shuffling
of feet the door opened.
Standing before him, her hair bedraggled as it had been the first time
he saw her, was the woman who had claimed to be his mother, the woman he
had thrown into Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Brimbecomb, in his astonishment,
almost fell back into the gulch. But he quickly gathered his scattered
wits and, forcing a face of effrontery, doffed his hat.
"Can you tell me," his agitation did not allow him to speak
calmly,--"can you tell me, please, where Lon Cronk lives?"
Although his question was low and broken, Scraggy caught each word.
"Down to the edge of the lake, Mister," she replied. "It's a goin' to be
a dark night to be out in, ain't it?"
In his relief, Brimbecomb drew a long breath. She had not recognized
him! The dim light of the candle showed him that the same dazed
expression still remained in her faded eyes. The smirk on her face, the
crouch of her emaciated figure, about which the rags swirled in the
wind, the dismal hut, and the loneliness of her surroundings, made such
a picture of woe that Everett shuddered and hastened to get the
information, that he might hurry away from the awful place.
"Is there a scow down there that belongs to--"
"That there scow belongs to Lem Crabbe," broke in Scraggy. "Yep, it
comed in this mornin'. Lem be a good man, a fine man, the bestest man ye
ever see."
Brimbecomb took some money from his pocket and, placing it in her
fingers, hurried away.
* * * * *
Fledra heard Everett when he came to Lon's shanty door and knocked. She
heard the squatter call him by name. She knew now that the only hope
for Ann's love for Brimbecomb was that Lem would keep his word and
insist upon Lon's holding faith with him.
Cronk ordered her roughly to come to him. When she appeared, the two men
looked at her keenly. As she evinced no surprise at his presence, the
lawyer knew that she had been told of his coming. He made an attempt to
take her hand; but, as once before, Fledra flung her arms behind her.
"I 'low as she don't like ye, young feller," said Lon, with a laugh.
"Does it matter to you, Cronk?" retorted Brimbecomb.
"Not a damned bit!"
"Then go and make your arrangements with your one-armed friend and leave
your daughter here with me."
"Ye be in too big a hurry, my fine buck! Lem ain't as willin' as I be;
but I'll jest go down to the scow and speak with him."
"I want to go with you, Pappy Lon," cried Fledra.
"Ye stay right here, gal," commanded Cronk. Full in her face he slammed
the door and left her alone with Brimbecomb.
Everett stood looking at her for fully a minute, and as steadily she
eyed him back.
"I have come for you," he said quietly. "I could not leave you with
these persons."
Fledra curled her lip scornfully.
"I lived with them a long time before I saw any of you folks," she said
bitterly.
The girl did not reason now. She knew that she must send him back, that
this was her only way to repay the woman who had saved her brother. So
she went up to Brimbecomb appealingly, her eager eyes gleaming into
his.
"I want you to go back to Tarrytown," she said, "and go to
Shellingtons', and see Sister Ann. She's dying to have you back. And you
belong to her, because you promised her, and she promised you. Will you
go back?"
"When I wish to, I will; but not yet," muttered Everett. He had been
taken aback at her words, and at that moment could think of no way to
compromise with her. She was so near that he threw out his hands and
caught her. Forcibly he drew her face close to his, his lips whitening
under the spell of her nearness.
"Never, never will I let you go away from me again!" he was saying
passionately, when Cronk opened the door and stepped in.
The squatter gave no evidence that he had seen Everett's action. He left
the door open, through which the breeze flung the dust and the dead
leaves.
"Lem'll see ye in the scow," he said. "I ain't got nothin' to say 'bout
this--only as how Flea goes to one or the other of ye."