That shadow under the elm did create a dreadfully potent illusion of humanity—almost-real legs in abandoned collapse.
Ben gasped and clawed open the bedroom door.
Anna Lloyd was pottering downstairs with a candle. At Ben's noise she jumped, shielding the flame. "Oh, it's you. What's up?"
"Someone in the yard—" Ben shoved past her. She followed trembling, covering the candle so that it gave little help.
He reached the back door of the kitchen. The key jammed; Anna Lloyd shuffled up behind him wheezing: "Now what's all this, boy?"
The key gave way. Ben ignored her, running out across slush that had frozen crisp and hard.
Jesse's face was recognizable. In the twist of his bluish open mouth one could imagine an apologetic smile. Ben clutched his arm; the whole body moved with it, stiff as a dead branch.
Behind Ben Anna Lloyd wailed thinly. She was gripping her candle though it had blown out; morning light gave Ben her ugly peering face, more peevish than sad. "Land of mercy! Oh, law, the Mist'ess'll be terrible put out! Why, 'tis old Plum."
"Yes, he came with us from Deerfield. He must have been trying to reach the stable, find some way to get in where it was warm without troubling my grandmother. Fell and couldn't rise with the liquor in him—oh, when the singing stopped I did think some friend——"
"Singing? Ooh!—he done all that commotion last night?" Ben did not answer; she seemed useless, not open to communication, like a tiresome dog. "Must call the Mist'ess immediate. She'll be terrible put out—well, it a'n't my fault, no one can say...."