Jocelyn’s eyes were averted. “How dare he!” she went on, trembling. “We are not beggars! If we have nothing, it is his father’s shame—and his shame! Oh, father, father! I never thought—I never for one instant thought—”
“Don’t, Jess!” said Jocelyn, hoarsely.
Then he rose and laid a heavy hand on the table. “I took his cows and his ploughs and his seed. What of it? He owes me more! I took them for your sake—to try to find a living in this bit of flint and sand—for you. Birds are scarce. They’ve passed a law against market-shooting. Every barrel of birds I send out may mean prison. I’ve lived my life as a market-hunter; I ain’t fitted for farming. But you were growing, and you need schooling, and between the game-warden and young Gordon I couldn’t keep you decent—so I took his damned cattle and I dug in the ground. What of it!” he ended, violently. And, as she did not speak, he gave voice to the sullen rage within him—“I took his cattle and his ploughs as I take his birds. They ain’t his to give; they’re mine to take—the birds are. I guess when God set the first hen partridge on her nest in Sagamore woods he wasn’t thinking particularly about breeding them for young Gordon!”
He picked up his gun and started heavily for the door. His eyes met the eyes of his daughter as she drew the frosty latch for him. There was a pause, then he pulled his cap over his eyes with a long grunt.
“Dear dad,” she said, under her breath.
“I guess,” he observed unsteadily, “you’re ashamed of me, Jess.”
She put both arms around his neck and laid her head against his.
“I think as you do,” she said; “God did not create the partridges for Mr. Gordon—but, darling dad, you will never, never again take even one grain of buckwheat from him, will you?”
“His father robbed mine,” said Jocelyn, with a surly shrug. But she was content with his answer and his rough kiss, and when he had gone out into the gray morning, calling his mongrel setter from its kennel, she went back up the stairs and threw herself on her icy bed. But her little face was hot with tearless shame, and misery numbed her limbs, and she cried out in her heart for God to punish old Gordon’s sin from generation to generation—meaning that young Gordon should suffer for the sins of his father. Yet through her torture and the burning anger of her prayer ran a silent undercurrent, a voiceless call for mercy upon her and upon all she loved, her father and—young Gordon.
After a while she fell asleep dreaming of young Gordon. She had never seen him except Sundays in church, but now she dreamed he came into her pew and offered her a hymn-book of ivory and silver; and she dreamed they sang from it together until the church thrilled with their united voices. But the song they sang seemed to pain her, and her voice hurt her throat. His voice, too, grew harsh and piercing, and—she awoke with the sun in her eyes and the strident cries of the blue-jays in her ears.