CHAPTER XXIX
During the illness of Teola, Tessibel had forgotten that she had promised Professor Young she would come some morning to his office in Morril Hall on the hill. Two weeks after the birth of the baby, Tess filled his small stomach with warm milk, shoved the sugar rag into his mouth, hung the child's bed over her arm, and made off toward the tracks. The sun was far in the heavens before she stopped at the building in which Deforest Young had his office. He was looking from the window, and saw her glance about hastily, settling the cover to her basket a little closer.
"That child will be my ruination," he muttered, seating himself at the desk. "She affects me so strangely that I can't get her out of my mind. To bring her to a place of safety.... But what can I do? She won't let me help her!"
The thought of Frederick Graves came over him with torture. Was it possible for her to love a lad who could not, and did not aid her? If he could but guide the girl, he would know who her companions were. Tessibel stood in the door, the red curls covering the burden upon her arm—one would have thought it was purposely done, if she had not placed it carefully in the corner. She awkwardly seated herself in the chair Young had placed for her near him.
"I thought you were never coming," said he. "I have been looking for you for many days."
"I were a comin', but I couldn't.... And I can't go with ye to see Daddy."
Her eyes filled with tears, but she hastily wiped them away with her sleeve.
"Of course you are going," replied the professor. "I suppose you think you can't go in with bare feet. But I will get you a pair of shoes."
"I could get a pair good 'nough for a squatter," Tess assured him, "but I can't go."
"Why?"
"'Cause I can't! I has somethin' to do."
"Can't you do it after you return? Your father will be so disappointed if you do not go to him when you have promised."
He was gazing at her keenly. Her eyes dropped upon her folded hands in her lap.
"I knows that," she breathed, "but I can't go, just the same."
Young did not persist in the argument.
"It is almost a certainty that your father will get another trial," he went on presently. "I shall act as his lawyer, and, little girl, when the snow flies again, your father will be home in the cabin with you."
She flashed him a radiant smile through the tears which still clung to her lashes. He loved to watch the color coming and going swiftly, and the glints thrown into her eyes by the sun.
"It air the student's God what will bring him." She bent eagerly toward him, with a quick motion. "Be ye one of the prayin' kind what tells God all ye needs? Daddy would have been a-hung by the neck till he was dead, only the student telled me how to pray and he air a-prayin', too."
She finished the sentence in a low tone. Young leaned back in his chair, grasping at the arms to hide his emotion. The girl was so close to him that he could feel her warm, swift-coming breath upon his face. How long would he have to suffer over this primitive child? But he loved her, and the only course left him was to snatch her from young Graves while there was opportunity to see her now and then. Her brown eyes were piercing his very soul. The childish excitement upon the upturned face almost tempted him to force her into his arms, to awaken the soul beneath the soiled jacket, to make the girl into a woman in spite of her environment.
"You are still determined to live in the hut?" he said, after clearing his throat, and overlooking her question.
"Yep, till Daddy comes home. And then I's a-goin' to make him get offen that land, 'cause it ain't his'n. It air Minister Graves'."
"But your father has his squatter's right," put in the lawyer, feeling that he was giving the student less chance if he said this. "No one can take the place from him."
"He ain't got no right there," she insisted again, "'cause I asks the student, and he says as how Daddy can have the ground by the law, but that it air a-belongin' to his pappy."
Her face was perfectly grave and serious, and she spoke slowly.
Would the name of Frederick Graves always be flaunted in his face? Deforest Young believed that he was beginning to hate the boy. Suddenly he leaned over, and touched the bell. It pealed loudly through the building. Tess sat up. The bell disturbed her, and she cast her eye upon the basket, with a shifting, darting glance. The janitor appeared at the door.
"Hyram," said Young, "could you find a vessel which would hold berries or fish? I would like to take some home with me."
"I ain't got no fish nor berries," said Tess, rising with a burning blush.
"Then what have you in your basket?" asked the lawyer, getting up also. "Child, you need not feel badly over the money I give you for the food you sell." He was standing beside her when his eyes fell upon the waiting janitor. "Never mind, Hyram," he exclaimed, "Miss Tessibel says she hasn't anything to sell."
Hyram closed the door before Young spoke again.
"Why won't you let me help you, poor little girl?"
Tess stepped between the professor and the babe, lifting the child's bed in one hand.
"I ain't got nothin' to-day," she muttered sullenly. "And when I says I ain't got nothin', I ain't."
"Then why did you bring that with you?" insisted Young, with a motion of his hand. "It is certainly heavy, or you would not have laid it down so carefully.... Child, if you won't let me give you anything, please allow me to buy the food which you work so hard to get."
His hand fell upon the handle of the grape-basket, but Tessibel's remained obstinately on the other side.
"I's a-wantin' ye to help Daddy Skinner," she whispered, with drooping lids. "I don't need no help."
At that moment a wail from the infant startled them both. Professor Young's hand dropped as if it had been struck. Tess only grasped the basket more firmly. Her secret was out. Without a word, she slipped the cover from the child's face, and pushed the sugar rag into its mouth.
"Ye can see it ain't no fish," she said stolidly.
"A child!" murmured Young. "Where did you get that baby, Tessibel Skinner?"
"He air a little bloke without no one to take care of him, and I has him in the basket—that's all."
It seemed for a long time to the man that his brain would burn from the fire kindled in his heart. The sight of the marked baby horrified him, but he took the basket from her hands, and placed her forcibly in a chair. Tess allowed him to do so without speaking.
Young set his teeth fiercely.
"Tessibel Skinner, do you want to save your father—from hanging?"
"Yep," she answered, her eyes roving toward the babe.
"Then listen to me. Is that child yours?"
Her glance sought his for a twinkling, as if she thought he had lost his mind.
She shook her head.
"Nope."
She was not disloyal to Teola in saying this.
"I have offered you all the help a man can give to another human being." Here his voice broke a little. "All I have offered to do for you, you have refused. Now, if you want me to continue to help your father, you are to tell me whose child it is."
Before the vivid mind of the girl rose the handsome, manly face of the student. Her labor for the child and its mother had been wholly for Frederick's sake—not for anything in the world would she have consented to do what she had done, if it had not been to save him pain.
"Well, 'tain't mine," she drawled after a time, "and it ain't belonging to anyone ye know. It air only a brat what ain't nothin' but a grape-basket to sleep in. And now ye says that if I wants my Daddy saved from the rope, I must tell yer whose it air. I says it ain't mine. And I says as how ye knows a new little bloke when ye sees one. Here it air! And if ye don't know that it ain't mine, then ye air a bigger fool lawyer than I thinks ye air."
She was speaking rapidly, and had again slipped the cover from the babe, lifting it from its bed. The fire scar was uppermost, and the loud smacking of the half-naked child caused the man to sink into his seat. The blood-red cheeks of the squatter denoted perfect health. The eyes were wide, confiding and entreating. Young held out his hands and took it from her. Then, for the second time in her life, Tess noted emotion in a man. Once in Daddy Skinner, in the jail—she had given way before it. And now in the strong friend of her father, who laid his face on the body of the infant, and sobbed.
In an instant Tess was on her knees before him.
"Air ye a-blattin' 'cause ye thinks it air my brat? Aw, ye knows it ain't. Ye knows I air but a-takin' care of it till its ma can. If I swears by the student's God, will ye believe?"
Young rose, white and nervous, from his chair. With tender fingers he placed the little one in the receptacle, set the rag securely between its lips, and turned to Tess.
"I believe you, child," he said wearily. "I thought at first—oh, it was an awful thought for me ... because I love you, Tessibel."
Tess blinked her eyes as if she were looking into a powerful sun. The strong form of the lawyer was bending over her. She lifted her face to his, not realizing the greatness of his love. She only knew that he was her friend—Daddy's friend. She grasped his hands in hers, kissed them tearfully, and took up the basket.
"I were a-goin' with ye on Thursday, but I can't now. Thank ye for believin' me, and I'll work as hard as ye says I must, and if I air a bad brat, then I air sorry."
She had gone out, crying bitterly, before he could say another word; but a happier feeling was in his heart than had been for many weeks. She had promised to work, and in that promise had failed, for the first time, to utter the name of Frederick Graves.
"Tess air a-gettin' stylish," said Mrs. Longman, rattling the newspaper one Sunday morning. "Her name air right here, in print."
"What do it say, Mammy?" asked Ezra, lighting his pipe with a piece of burning paper.
"As how Tessie air a-goin' to see her Daddy, with the big man on the hill."
Ben Letts shoved his big boots from one side to the other, plainly disturbed by the news.
"Folks on the hill air a-doin' better if they minds their own business, I air a-sayin'," grumbled he. "There ain't no reason why Orn Skinner can't go dead, like other squatters has before him."
His red bandana handkerchief sought the blurred blue eye. A pair of pale gray ones from above the smoking pipe of Ezra Longman settled upon Ben Lett's face, with a tightening of the thick lids.
"Tessibel air so sure that her father air innocent that I hopes they prove it," Myra Longman said, trundling her babe to and fro, in the huge wooden rocker.
"There be some folks as knows more than they'll tell," put in Ezra, keeping his eyes upon the squatter Ben.
"And there air folks what thinks they knows a dum sight more than they can prove," replied Ben.
The great white eye jerked open, the crossed blue one twisting to bring Ezra Longman within its vision.
An expression of deadening hate flashed for a moment across the red face, and the white eye closed again. Myra had seen the by-play, and sat up with a gasp. What was there between Ben and her brother?
Placing the child upon her mother's lap, she stirred the stew bubbling in the pot on the stove.
"Scoot, and get an armful of wood, Ezy," ordered she; and no sooner had the tall boy disappeared than she slipped after him.
She stood beside him at the wood pile, staring down upon the crouched form.
"Hold a minute, Ezy," commanded she.
Ezra stood up.
"What air the matter with yer and Ben Letts?"
"Nothin' ain't the matter."
"There air," insisted Myra, "and it air Tess what air a-doin' it. Ben Letts air a-lovin' Tessibel. And ye hates him."
"Yep."
"Tess ain't for none of ye! She ain't like other squatters. The man from the hill says as how Tess can read better'n most gals can, and she has done it all herself."
"Don't care," grunted Ezra, stooping again. "Ben Letts can keep his hands offen her, or I tells what I knows."
This was Myra's chance. She grasped the boy's arm, and twisted him about so that he faced her.
"What can ye tell?"
"Somethin'."
"About Skinner?"
"Yep."
"Ye'd hang Ben Letts if ye could. But ye won't, ye see? Ye'd not hang a man what ought to be in yer own fambly, would ye?"
"If I tells Pa Satisfied that ye said that, Myry," muttered the boy, "he wouldn't wait for the law to handle Ben Letts—he'd shoot his dum head offen him quicker than a cat can blink."
"I knows a hull lot about you, Ezy," warned Myra, "and if ye tells on Ben, I tells on yer, too. I loves Ben Letts, I does!"
"Bid him keep from Tess, then," answered Ezra sulkily, filling his arms with wood. Myra looked after him fearfully.
The trouble between her child's father and her brother had come upon her so suddenly that she had given Ezra another hold upon the man she loved, by telling him her secret.
That afternoon she followed Letts a short distance along the shore toward his cabin. When out of sight of her own home, she ran forward.
"Ben! Ben!" she called.
The fisherman turned impatiently.
"What air ye wantin', Myry?"
"Be you and Ezy hatin' each other?"
"He ain't nothin' but a brat," replied Ben scornfully. "Let him keep out of my way, or I fixes him."
"He air a-sayin' the same thing," cautioned Myra. "Ye air a-seekin' Tess? He says as how ye air to keep from her."
She was walking beside him, her red hands rolled in her gingham apron. The hot sun shone on her colorless hair, which was drawn back from the plain face.
"Ye air a-helpin' him with Tess," Ben grunted presently. "If ye ever wants me to come to yer hut, keep yer mouth shet, and let me and Ezy fight it out. Do ye hear?"
"Yep."
"Then scoot home now."
Myra turned, and then stopped.
"Ben," she called softly again.
"What be ye a-wantin' now?"
"If I keeps Ezy away from Tess, will ye—?"
"Ye air a-wantin' me to do somethin' for ye, Myry?" Ben answered, coming toward her eagerly.
"Yep."
"What?"
"If ye'll kiss the brat when Mammy and Satisfied ain't a-lookin'—"
"Scoot home, I says. Scoot home," shot from Ben's lips.
And home she went, this girl of but eighteen with an old woman's face, a tired young heart beating lovingly for the brat in the box and—for its father.
Her mother was still spelling from the paper when she returned. Satisfied was stretched on the long wooden bench outside the door. Ezra, with his cap pulled over his nose, sat sulking in the corner. Ben was a powerful enemy. The boy knew that the fisherman would stop at nothing to gain an end. But Tess had told him that she wouldn't marry Ben, and Myra had as good as told him that the squatter was the cause of her trouble. He knew another secret that would bring a halt upon Ben's pursuance of Tessibel Skinner. He had told Myra to warn him. Suddenly he rose from his chair, set his cap far back on his head, and disappeared into the underbrush that lay thick back of the hut.
The cause of the hatred between Ezra Longman and Ben Letts was quietly eating her dinner. Teola's child lay smacking the sugar from the wet rag. The large, knowing gray eyes were directed toward the sunlight upon the wall, the blood-red scar shining more crimson in its rays.
Tess was picking the flesh from the spine of a fish, throwing the bones on the floor. Youthful as she was, she was already beginning to show fatigue from staying awake nights, and caring for her dark secret in the daytime.
With the alertness of an Indian she heard the crackling of twigs in the underbrush. She closed the door, slipped the lock and tucked the babe in the basket, and waited. Somebody was coming from the hill above, breaking the branches as he ran. It was Ben Letts, probably. A light tap came upon the door. To Ben she would not open, but, glancing at the window, she saw Ezra Longman's face pressed against the pane.
Slipping back the lock, she flung open the door.
"Ezy, ye air allers a-comin' when I wants to read the Bible. I tells ye to stay away from the shanty, and ye won't!"
Would the babe remain quiet until the pale squatter boy had departed?
"Ben Letts air a-comin' to see ye to-day," Ezra returned sulkily, "and I comed, too."
"Did he tell ye as how he was a-comin'?"
"Nope; but I knowed."
"He can't come in," replied Tess, crossly. "I ain't no notion for company, nohow.... Air the men a-nettin' to-night?"
"Yep."
"Air Ben a-goin' with ye?"
"Yep; Ben has a heavy hand, and nets air hard to haul."
Scarcely had the words fallen from his lips before Letts appeared at the door. Both boy and girl saw him, and Tessibel rose up.
"Sunday ain't a good day for ye to be comin' here, Ben," she said sullenly. "I air a-wishin' to be alone to-day."
In spite of the girl's flashing eyes, Ben stepped in, glared at Ezra, and took the stool, from which he moved the Bible with trembling hands. Tess had never been quite so frightened—never so fearful of her own squatter men-folk. Ben and Ezra had come to stay a long time, for each had dragged off his cap, leaving his dirty head exposed. Still the babe slept on, no tell-tale smack coming from it. Tess lifted the Bible, determined to let the men sit as she read, curled up in the wooden rocker, humming as she swung to and fro. A shadow dropped long upon the shanty floor. In the doorway stood Teola Graves, tall, thin, and distressingly pale. Tessibel had not seen her since the day she had carried the babe to the hill-house. That was three whole weeks ago. Tess moved awkwardly from the chair, motioned for Ezra Longman to get up, and stuttered out an invitation for the girl to be seated.
Teola shook her head, and Tess noted her quick survey of the hut.
"I can't sit down," she said weakly, although she allowed Tess to place her in the chair. "I have been ill for some time, but I could not forget how kind you were to me when you found me on the rocks, with my ankle sprained."
The white eye of Ben followed the blue one in its twisting search for the minister's daughter. Teola Graves had lost her sparkling beauty; had lost the vivid coloring and the shy expression of youth that had rested in the dark eyes until the death of Dan Jordan. From her face Ben's one eye turned to the beautiful squatter, and he settled back with a firmer resolve that she should be his. Tess stood thinking rapidly. She made no attempt to introduce the strange trio.
Then she allowed her fingers to come in contact with Teola's shoulder, pressing into the girl's mind some message.
"Ye be a-goin' to see the sick woman to-day, ain't ye?"
Tess could scarcely utter the words. Would Teola understand what she wanted to impress upon her? Her fingers sought the shoulder again.
"Yes," came the low answer.
"Might I ask ye to take her a bit of fish, what I promised her? I has company now, and can't go. And I thought as how if you was a-goin', ye might do it for me."
She stooped and raised the grape-basket in her hand, tendering it to Teola. The white lips became paler—the young mother understood.
"It air a nice day, and the sun will do ye a heap of good," explained Tess. "If I didn't have company, I wouldn't ask ye."
Ben Letts stared sharply. Ezra Longman stupidly shuffled his feet upon the floor. Teola accepted the basket, and answered Tess with meaning:
"I'll take it for you, if you will wait until I return with the money. The fish are to be paid for, aren't they?"
"Yep; come back when ye can. I allers need the money."
For some minutes Tessibel stood in the door, watching the tall figure of the Dominie's daughter as she struggled through the brambles surrounding the mud-cellar creek, until she was lost to view.
Tess took a long breath. Ben and Ezra must go before the babe returned. She set herself to rid the shanty of the two men. Without speaking, she took the Bible, and repeated slowly aloud some of the passages she knew best. Both fishermen stared at her in admiration. To read and not spell out almost every word was more than Ezra's own mother could do, and she was the best-educated person in the settlement.
"'But I know ye that ye have not the love of God in ye,'" read Tess.
Ben Letts broke in upon the girl's voice:
"Tessie, will ye row on the lake after the goin' down of the sun? I'll take my fiddle.... Ye like my fiddlin', don't ye, Tess?"
"Nope," she replied, her eyes still upon the book. "'I am come in my Father's name, and ye—'"
Ezra interrupted the unfinished verse.
"Tessibel, will ye go to the meetin' at Haytes'? The man says as how the squatters air welcome."
"Nope.... 'receive me not,'" read Tess. "'If another shall come—'"
Ben burst forth with an eager invitation:
"Will ye come to Glenwood for some ice-cream, Tessie? It air gooder'n pie on hot nights; and ye like my fiddlin', don't ye, Tess?"
"Nope.... 'In His own name, ye will—'"
"Ye don't like no ice-cream, do ye, Tessie?" put in Ezra Longman.
"And ye don't like no meetin's on the hill, eh, Brat?" chuckled Ben.
Suddenly the Bible flew into the corner, and the girl, with an oath, jumped to her feet. Neither man had ever seen her in such a temper. She grasped the broom.
"Get out of here!" she screamed. "I don't want nothin' but to be let alone! See? Scoot! Or I'll bang hell out'n both of ye."
She virtually swept her callers into the sun, and slammed the door in their faces. With remorse in her heart, she sought the place where she had thrown the beloved Bible. One page was quite torn, across—the back badly bent.
"It do beat the devil how I could be such a bad brat as to hurt ye like that," she cogitated, smoothing out the crumpled pages with loving fingers. "That damn Ezy and Ben air worser than fleas. But I air a-believin' that they won't be comin' back just yet."