CHAPTER VIII.

"Running for her life" is not too strong an expression to describe Flea's flight. She had had experience of the temper of the man she had injured to the extent of her ability. She believed that he would kill her, in his fury, if he overtook her. With the instinct of a hunted hare she made for the thickest part of the woods, tearing through matted jungles of cat-briers and saplings, redoubling her speed as she heard a shout behind her. She had run a mile when she stopped for breath. Her hat was gone, and the muslin spencer worn under a sleeveless jacket, because of the late warm weather, was torn into ribbons. Her arms and face were bleeding; her heart beat so loudly that she could hear nothing else distinctly; but she fancied, presently, that she distinguished from afar off the noise of somebody crashing through the undergrowth. She bethought herself instantly that her flight must have left a wide trail in the forest. Winged by terror, she dashed on, but she no longer ran straight. With an undefined idea, gained from reading Cooper's novels, of losing trail in the water, she directed her course toward the swamp lying on both sides of the creek near where it emptied into the river. She could wade for a mile there, if necessary. Once in the depths of the swamp, she could defy anybody to find her unless he had a blood-hound to guide him. She had read and heard of blood-hounds, but had never seen one.

In her blind haste she miscalculated distances and direction, becoming aware of the blunder as the woods grew lighter. Long level lines of light from the early sunsetting hit her like arrows shot from behind the leafless trees. Where was she going? If she kept on, where would she come out?

A new sound smote her ears. It was not the shout of the pursuer or the bay of the hound which her imagination had conjured up. As it arose and wailed upon the still air, she fancied something familiar in it. Creeping cautiously nearer the road, which she espied through the brushwood, she saw first the white top of a "tumbler-cart" crossing a bridge laid over an arm of the creek, then the long ears of a mule, lastly her father's one man-servant, Dick, walking alongside of the mule, his hand on the thill of the cart. As he walked he uplifted voice and soul in sacred song:

"An' mus' dis body die? Dis martial frame de-cay? An' mus' dese actyve lim's o' mine--"

"Min' yo' eye dar, y'u ole buzzard!" as the mule touched the driver's cowhide boots with his hoof--

"Lie mould-ing in de clay?"

The truth flashed upon Flea. Chaney's sister, who had belonged to a planter living ten miles further down the river, had died a week ago, and word had been sent to Chaney that "a right smart chance o' clo'es an' blankets an' things" had been left to her by the deceased. Mrs. Grigsby had asked her husband that morning at breakfast if Dick could have a mule and a cart and a day's holiday, in order to fetch home his wife's legacy. The master had given his consent readily, and Dick was now on his way home, bearing his goods with him. He was, likewise, charged with all the particulars of his sister-in-law's sickness and death, with which he had it in his mind to regale his faithful Chaney. Behind him were the fertile low grounds; before him the road stretched straight into the heart of swamp and forest.

"I'm goin' home!"

wailed the chorus.

"I'm going home! I'm goin' ho-o-me! I'm goin' ho-o-oome, to die no mo'!"

Crouching low, and treading as lightly as a panther, Flea quitted the bushes, stole up behind the cart as Dick threw up his head, to open his mouth back to the ears in the final howl of "ho-o-o-ome," and crept in over the backboard, unseen and unsuspected by the musician.

A feather bed filled the body of the cart, and into this the fugitive sank, pulling the "things" over her. How soft and how safe it felt! and how tired! tired! _tired!_ she was, now that she had stopped running and need not fear pursuit. She had eaten nothing since breakfast, and was giddy and faint. She was very wet, too. In emptying the bucket upon her tormentor she had drenched herself to the skin.

Flea had not thought of going home when she ran out of the school-house. She would have said that she dared not meet her father and mother after what she had done. Maddened by her wrongs, she was conscious of but two impulses--to revenge herself upon the guilty party, and then to get out of sight of everybody. The best thing that could happen to her, she told herself, would be to die in the woods, of starvation and exposure, and to be found there by a search party sent out by her parents. Everybody would cry over her lifeless remains, and the wicked cause of her death would be driven out of the county. Perhaps he might be hanged for her murder. He would certainly be the victim of remorse all the rest of his days.

These thoughts had shot through her mind in little bits at a time while she pushed through the thickets. There had been no time for connected plans or expectations. But now, lying secure in her dark and downy nest, she concluded that, after all, home was the only refuge for her. Her shoulders and arms were naked, her skirts were wringing wet, her shoes heavy with swamp mud, her legs were torn by briers and thorns, and her head began to feel queer. Her brain swam and swung; her skull seemed to be filled with boiling water which was trying to get out at her ears. They were deafened by the sound of the boiling, and the steam pressed on the back of her eyes. Her mouth was so dry that the surface of her tongue "crazed," as crockery goes into tiny cracks when overheated.

Yes, home was the place for her. She would meet with punishment there. In a strange half-sleep she heard herself whispering, "Not knowing the things that shall befall me there, save that bonds and afflictions await me." Rest and comfort could never be hers again. But home was better than the wide, wide, wicked world.

Awaking herself with an effort, she set in order what she should say when she got home. Her father would not believe that she had lied and cheated. But what would he say to the revenge that began to taste less sweet than at first? He would have to pay for Mr. Tayloe's spoiled clothes. She might even have to go to court to answer for her misdeed. Her spirit leaped up again at the thought. She would tell her story boldly to judge and jury, and show what had been done by "the wretch who was a disgrace to his cloth."

That sounded fine; but did "cloth" always mean a broadcloth coat? She had a notion that it was only "cloth" when black and on a clergyman's back. At any rate, she would defy the little monster. The memory of his grinning face and insulting tone stirred up the mire and dirt anew.

The cart had no springs. It jolted and bumped over the rough road, and rocked up and down: but she was used to the ways of the tumbler-cart, and Dick's singing was making her drowsy again. She would put off thinking until she got rested. Perhaps by then her ears would roar less and her head stop aching.

Creak and rumble! Seesaw! and fainter and further away sounded Dick's monotonous wail--

"We'll pass over Jerdan! How happy we shall be! We'll pass over Jerdan, And shout de jubilee."

Snail Snead was singing that tune yesterday to what the girls said were "wicked words." They got into Flea's head now, and would not get out:

"We'll pass over Jerdan, An' drink sweeten'd tea; We'll passa over Jerdan, An' climb the 'simmon-tree."

She smiled foolishly in saying them over.

Cart and song had come to a halt. Flea put her eye to a crevice in the cover. It was Miss Em'ly on horseback, a mounted groom leading a third horse. Dick pulled off his whity-brown wool hat, and scraped his foot.

"Howdy, Uncle Dick!" called the sweet, shrill voice. "Have you seen Mr. Tayloe anywhere?"

"Naw, my mistis, I 'ain' see him nowhar. Is you los' him? I moughty sorry."

His eyes twinkled, and Miss Em'ly snapped her whip at him, blushing and laughing.

"Shut your mouth, Uncle Dick! He was to go riding with me, and he isn't at the school-house. If you should see him, tell him I couldn't wait for him. Good-by."

She gave her horse a smart cut and galloped down the road.

"He is looking for me all this time!" thought Flea, fearfully. Her teeth chattered, and she pulled a blanket up over her.

Another adventure was in store for her at the next turn of the highway. Mr. Tayloe stepped out of the edge of the woods and hailed Dick. Flea could have thought his eye met hers as she peeped through the hole in the cover. He stood within six feet of the cart. His hat was the only dry thing he had on. His blue coat, buff waistcoat, and gray trousers were discolored and streaked with wet. "Beggars' ticks" and "Spanish needles," sticking to his clothes, told of a tramp through marsh and field. He looked cross and ugly and fierce.

"Aren't you Grigsby's man?" he asked, harshly.

Dick touched his hat, but did not take it off. "Yas, suh. I has de honor for to be Mister Grigsby's body-sarvant! At yo' sarvice, suh!"

The superior quality of his manners did not impress the white man. His tone was more offensive than before.

"You tell him he must come up to the house to-night. I want to see him on particular business. Do you hear?"

"Yas, suh!" Dick's roving gaze took in all the details of the forlorn figure, and he grew exasperatingly polite. "You been fall in de creek, 'ain' you, suh? Carn't I give you a lif' home, suh? You mought happen to meet somebody 'long de road. Miss Em'ly Duncombe, she done parss 'long hyur, jes now, a-lookin' fur you. It's more'n likely she'll tu'n back at de cross-roads. Lordy! dar's a moughty big dus' down yonder," arching his hand over his eyes to make sure they did not deceive him. "Hit looks mightily like dat's her now."

Flea had never heard the teacher swear until he flung a round and abusive oath at the negro and plunged back into the woods. Sly Dick had been morally certain that the fine gentleman would never in any circumstances demean himself to become a passenger in a tumbler-cart. He had not risked dampening his Chaney's "things" by the invitation, or it would never have been given. Flea, half dead with dread lest it might be accepted, felt the blood rush wildly from her heart to her head in the relief of the escape, sank back upon the feather bed, and fainted away.

Dick plodded along the highway too full of wicked glee to sing any more hymns. Twice he stopped in the middle of the road to laugh--a regular darky "Ki-_yi_!" enjoyed by every atom of his being. Mr. Tayloe was very unpopular with the Greenfield servants, and tales of his "high-handed, low-down ways," had been repeated throughout the colored community. The fall moon was high above the horizon when the tumbler-cart was driven up to the kitchen door. Chaney bustled out with importance, becoming an heiress in her own right, but with a decent show of indifference to her own interests where those of her employers were concerned.

"'Ain' no time fur to tech dem things now!" she declared. "Marster's sister done come from Philadelphy or Pennsylvany, or wharever 'tis. De big pot's got to be put in de little one, you better b'lieve. Did you git de baid [bed]?"

"Yas, an' a pyar o' blankets, an' a counterpin, an' a shawl, an' two linsey-woolsey coats Dorkis never had on her back--an' I don' know what else beside. Dars a chaney tea-pot an' sugar-dish. Jes you take a peep in dar!"--leading the way to the back of the cart. "Put yo' han' inter dat 'ar baid. Dem's fedders as is fedders!"

"The chamber" of the Grigsby house was ablaze with three candles and a great fire upon the hearth. To escape from the heat of this last the visitor, Mrs. McLaren, had drawn her chair to an open window. She was two years older than her brother, and had worn black for ten years for her only child, who had borne her name--Jean. Her husband, who had been an invalid for fifteen years, had died only six months before this, her first visit to Virginia. Her brother, of whom she was very fond, had been to Philadelphia for a few days every summer since her marriage. Against his wife's wish he had slipped "Jean" in after the high-sounding name bestowed by her upon their second child. Mrs. Grigsby considered her sister-in-law "right down hard favored," and indeed her reddish hair, high cheek-bones, and prominent mouth robbed her of all claim to beauty. She had, however, a sensible, kindly face, and looked and spoke like a refined lady. She had arrived from Norfolk at three o'clock that afternoon, and had seen all the children except her namesake.

"She had to stay for a while after school to do a sum, poor thing!" Bea explained, with amiable unwillingness.

Mrs. Grigsby heaved her usual sigh over Flea's shortcomings. Good woman and good mother though she was, she would not have been sorry to see Bea in high favor with her rich aunt, even at the expense of her less attractive sister. Bea would do her mother's training credit anywhere. "Poor Flea," as her mother often lamented, "was nobody's pretty child, and too odd for anything."

"Is she often out as late as this?" asked Mrs. McLaren. "Is it quite safe for her to come home alone from school after sunset?"

Mrs. Grigsby repeated her sigh. "Flea takes after her father in headiness," she remarked, in sickly jest.

Her husband paid no heed to the fling.

"If she is not in soon, I shall go to look after her," he said, peering through the window at the darkening landscape. "Mr. Tayloe is an excellent teacher, but, as you say, Jean, it is not right to keep a girl out after dark. She wasn't kept in over the sum she did last night, was she?"--looking at Bea. "I know that was right."

Bea was discreet and mysterious. "I didn't ask any questions, sir. I only heard Mr. Tayloe say she must stay in for an hour after school."

Mrs. McLaren glanced at Dee. He sat upon a cricket in a corner near her, apparently asleep; but at Bea's reply he unclosed his eyes in languid surprise upon his sister.

"The laddie knows something he could tell, if he would," said his aunt, laying her hand upon the bullet head.

"'Twould be tellin' tales out o' school," muttered the boy, reddening bashfully. "If 'twouldn't, I could tell a heap o' things."

Mrs. McLaren's hand, passing gently over his head, was checked by something she felt there.

"How came this big bump here?" she inquired. "Have you had a fall?"

"Naw,'m."

"A fight, perhaps, then?"

"Naw,'m."

She raised his chin to search his eyes.

"Would it be telling tales out of school to answer _that_ question?"

Dee nodded, got redder and more bashful.

"Ef you had a tole me, I'd 'a' rubbed it with operdildoc," said the mother. "Boys that won't steddy mus' look for hard knocks."

"Does Felicia study?" pursued the visitor.

"I can't exac'ly say she don't steddy," returned the mother. "But she is the greatest one fur gittin' inter scrapes--"

Her husband interrupted her again, as if he had not heard what she said.

"Study! She's the best scholar of her age I or you or anybody else ever saw. She has more brains than all the rest of them put together. You'll be proud of your name-child some of these days, Jean."

"How happens it then that she was kept in?" was the next and natural question. "Perhaps she is not industrious?"

"She works like a horse!" came from Dee, who had laid his head back against the wall, and sighed and turned white behind his freckles. The boy looked ill.

Mr. Grigsby was troubled.

"I have had thoughts," he said, more hesitatingly than he was accustomed to speak, "about Mr. Tayloe's management of that child. She's high-strung and sensitive, and so little like most girls of her age, that an ordinary teacher would not know how to get on with her. But she learns so fast under him, and is so eager about her lessons, that it doesn't seem wise for me--"

A piercing yell from without broke the sentence in the middle. Another and another, with never a breath between, drew the whole party to the back door, from which direction the screams had come.

The moonlight showed the cart and mule at the door of the kitchen, which was built twenty yards or so from the house. The moon also showed Chaney jumping up and down like a crazy thing at the back of the cart, and screeching at the top of her lungs. Two children clutched her skirts and screeched in sympathy.

"What is to pay out there?" shouted the master, angrily. "Stop that noise!"

"Dar's somefin' 'live in dar, suh!" Dick called back in trembling accents.

Mr. Grigsby stepped back into the house for a candle; his sister followed him with another. He pulled aside the cover of the cart. Mrs. McLaren held the light above his head, and leaned forward with him to look in.

When Chaney had thought to thrust her hand into her feather bed, it had encountered something that moved and moaned. That something now sat upright and stretched out two naked arms encrusted with dried blood. A voice nobody there would have known cried out: "Father! father! don't let that man get me! He wants to _kill_ me."

Such was Mrs. McLaren's introduction to the namesake of whom she would some day be proud.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

RICK DALE.

BY KIRK MUNROE.