CHAPTER XII
Twenty young people had gathered for the toffy pull at Minister Graves'. Tess was the topic of conversation; every one was eager to talk of the unheard-of action in the court-room that day.
"My mother says," chimed in a pretty girl, "that when that Skinner girl walked up through the court room, she sounded like a horse trotting along."
"She had on a pair of man's boots, that's why," said another, "but she has a beautiful voice, hasn't she?"
This question was directed to Frederick Graves.
"Yes," he assented, flushing to his high-forehead line.
"And besides a beautiful voice," broke in Richard Hall, "she has a mighty pretty face—and such hair! If she hadn't been crying and had so many people around her, I should have spoken to her. She's worth consoling!"
A sharp pang of jealousy shot through Frederick's heart. That another should make lighter the burdens of the squatter girl filled him with unrest. A pleading face flashed across his vision and Tessibel's voice rang anew in his ears. He was living over again the moments spent in the cabin, and his heart thrilled at the memory of the momentary glance sent to him over the heads of the spectators in the crowded court-room.
Teola entered the drawing-room, turning the conversation from Tess to the pleasure of the evening.
"Will some one help me pull the toffy?" said she.
Her eyes were upon Dan Jordan—he rose quickly to his feet and followed the girl smilingly to the kitchen.
"I wanted you to help me get it ready," Teola said; coloring.
"I'm glad you chose me," replied Dan.
"I didn't ask you, did I?" The beautiful head hung low over the brown mixture in the kettle.
"Your eyes did," laughed Dan. "Didn't you notice that none of the other boys got up when you spoke." His glance filled with merriment as he went on: "I think, too, that I should have been a little—jealous if anyone else had—helped you."
"And your hands are so strong," murmured Teola.
"You only wanted my hands," queried the boy, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. "I wish you had wanted me for some other—"
Teola stood with the long wooden spoon twirling in her fingers.
"I did want you for yourself, Dan—"
And then she stopped and nothing could be heard but the click, click, click, of the toffy as it snapped to and fro in the huge fingers of the student.
"I'm mighty glad that I chose Cornell for my college," broke in the boy presently. "I thought first of going to Yale.... And you're pleased, too, Teola, that I came to Ithaca? Aren't you?"
"Very glad," came the low voice distinctly.
"And I've never been so ambitious in all my life as I have since I've been here, and known you, and I was wondering to-day if—if—"
Frederick's voice broke off the words; his big form loomed in the doorway before Dan could finish his sentence.
"Haven't you kids finished that toffy? Better let me help, too."
There was a noticeable tremor in Teola's voice as she replied:
"We've finished, Frederick, and you can carry the butter and those plates."
"I've something important to tell you, Teola," whispered Dan.
The girl did not answer, but the student knew that she would listen to him in some future time.
The drawing-room was festooned with evergreens and winter ferns, wound here and there with streamers of various-colored ribbons. Two large lamps, one in the window, and the other on a table near the dining-room door, sent forth their light through red shades. Glass dishes filled with apples and golden oranges decorated the top of the piano and surrounded the lamps.
When Dan and Teola left the kitchen, both flushed with the first emotions of their youthful hearts, there came to them gurgles of girlish laughter, intermingled now and then with the loud voice of some merry, happy boy.
After two hours of strenuous toffy-pulling the tired young revellers sat down to plates heaped with goodies.
Just at this juncture a ring of the door-bell pealed through the house. A silence fell over the company and a sound of altercation came to them distinctly. Suddenly the drawing-room door burst violently open and a spectacle, in strange contrast to the cheery scene about them, flashed upon the eyes of the young people. A red-haired girl, unkempt and dripping, wild anxiety portrayed upon her face, stood in the doorway. There was not the slightest embarrassment in her glance as her peculiar eyes traveled the lines of boys and girls, sitting round the wall. When at last they fell on Frederick, she took an impetuous step toward him, a brilliant smile lighting the wan face. Stupefaction rested upon the student as he recognized Tessibel Skinner.
"It air time—to pray," said she, looking straight at him, as he slowly rose from his chair. "Daddy Skinner air to be took away—unless yer God stops the rope."
Every word was distinct—unless God would stay the rope. The words repeated themselves over in the boy's brain and his face deepened in color. It was the beautiful faith of the wild, untaught young girl with the hot blood rushing in her veins that called forth the flush. His heart sickened with his own lack of confidence in God. He was to preach of a crucified Saviour, but no such faith and hope as this of Tessibel Skinner's would aid him. He was even now ashamed of the girl in cowhide boots and torn, thin skirt.
As these thoughts floated past him, he saw the young squatter wither under a giggle from a girl in the corner.
"Look at her feet," were the words that changed Tessibel's frankness to embarrassment, her eager pathos to wofulness.
Tessibel shrank close to the door, for the first time realizing how out of place she was.
"I were—I were—a fool to come, but—but—"
The earnestness of the vibrant voice, the proud, appealing young face moved Frederick to pity and self-reproach.
"It was right—you should have come," said he, gently taking her hands, "and no one dare question your privilege to ask a prayer for your father."
Still retaining her fingers in his, he turned, explaining:
"This is Miss Skinner whose father is suffering now from a stroke of the law. We, who have fathers and mothers whom we love, must wish her well."
Tessibel sank down, down, among her boots and rags, his words reducing her to tears. Teola came to her brother's side. She had never before been actually in the presence of a squatter, for, when they had brought fish and berries to the back door, her mother had always ordered the children to the front of the house; but now, filled with sympathy she stooped down and placed her hand upon Tessibel's head. The touch was so gentle that the fishermaid lifted her eyes to see who sorrowed with her.
The squatter covered the white fingers with tears and kisses. Then she struggled to her feet, the nails in Daddy's boots scraping the polished floor, making long white marks. To Tessibel there were no other persons in the room save Frederick and his beautiful sister. She made a queer upward movement with her head, wiping the tears away with the tattered sleeve.
"I was afeared ye'd forget Daddy Skinner," she murmured. "The big man from the hill said like you did. And I says it air prayin' time and I comed."
She had forgotten the tears of a few minutes before, forgotten that twenty pairs of searching youthful eyes watched her every movement and mentally criticized her, from the masses of long hair to the rock-torn boots on her feet. She only remembered the student—that he was smiling into her eyes, and that, his sister, too, Teola Graves, had sympathized with her.
With a radiant, grateful smile, she turned to go, the door opening under her eager grasp. It was here that Dan Jordan spoke:
"Won't Miss Skinner have some coffee?"
Tessibel looked at him with an incredulous glance. He, too, had come forward and stood with his kindly gray eyes fixed upon her face.
"Yes, yes, of course," hurriedly put in Teola, "pardon me—I forgot.... You shall have my cup.... Here, Tessibel! I may call you that, mayn't I? Please drink some of mine."
Teola held the cup invitingly to the shivering lips, and Tessibel swallowed it down in one gulp.
"I air goin' now," she said desperately, wiping away coffee drops that lingered upon her face, "and ye ain't goin' to forget?"
This last was to Frederick, and he shook his head emphatically. He would not forget again; he would make the girl's father a special medium to establish a line of faith between the God he professed to love and himself—the quality of which should be no less than the one that Tessibel had cultivated during her weary weeks of waiting.
No thought entered anyone's mind of asking the girl if she were afraid of the dark night—she seemed so much a part of the darkness, of the falling snow and thrashing trees, that she was allowed to depart without a question. As he stood on the Rectory steps, the clicking of the big boots came to Frederick long after the slender form had disappeared from sight.
After that the party broke up, for the merriment had died in Tessibel's grief. An impression had been made upon the thoughtless boys and girls, and a shadow rested on each face as they bade "good-night" to their young hostess.
"She's the prettiest girl I ever saw," confided Teola to Frederick afterward; "her eyes are the color of a marigold."
In her heart Teola was glad that she had gone to the squatter in sympathy, for, upon leaving, Dan Jordan had whispered words that had burned deep into her soul:
"You are an angel, Teola dear, and I—love—you."
For one instant the tall student had bent his head, laying his lips upon hers—and had gone without another word.