Chapter 8

The two figures amid the rows of the marked garden paused, in the enveloping dusk, and leaned on their hoes, and listened--a low, peevish whistle, like the call of a night-jar, on the plain, came to them. Presently the call repeated itself--three wavering notes--and they shouldered their hoes and moved toward the little house.

The old man emerged from the gloom, coming toward them. “What was it?” asked one of the figures quickly.

The old man chuckled. “Stole a racer--that’s about all _they_ knew--_you_ got off easy!” He was peering toward them.

The larger of the two figures straightened itself. “I am sick of it--I tell you!--my back’s broke!” He moved himself in the dusk, stretching out his great arms and looking about him vaguely.

The old man eyed him shrewdly. “You’re earning a good pile,” he said.

“Yes, one-seventy-five a day!” The man laughed a little.

The other man had not spoken. He slipped forward through the dusk. “Supper ready?” he asked.

They followed him into the house, stopping in an entry to wash their hands and remove their heavy shoes. Through the door opening to a room beyond, a woman could be seen, moving briskly, and the smell of cooking floated out. They sniffed at it hungrily.

The woman came to the door. “Hurry up, boys--everything’s done to death!”

They came in hastily, with half-dried hands, and she looked at them--a laugh in her round, keen face. “You _have_ had a day!” she said. She was tall and angular, and her face had a sudden roundness--a kind of motherly, Dutch doll, set on its high, lean frame. Her body moved in soft jerks.

She heaped up the plates with quick hands, and watched the men while they ate. For a time no one spoke. The old man went to the cellar and brought up a great mug of beer, and they filled their pipes and sat smoking and sipping the beer stolidly. The windows were open to the air and the shades were up. Any one passing on the long road, over the plain, might look in on them. The woman toasted a piece of bread and moistened it with a little milk and put it, with a glass of milk, on a small tray. The men’s eyes followed her, indifferent. They watched her lift the tray and carry it to a door at the back of the room, and disappear.

They smoked on in silence.

The old man reached out for his glass. He lifted it. “Two weeks--and three more days,” he said. He sipped the beer slowly.

The larger of the two men nodded. He had dark, regular features and reddish hair. He looked heavy and tired. He opened his lips vaguely.

“Don’t talk here!” said the younger man sharply--and he gave a quick glance at the room--as a weasel returns to cover, in a narrow place.

The big man smiled. “I wa’n’t going to say anything.”

“Better not!” said the other. He cleared his pipe with his little finger. “_I_ don’t even think,” he added softly.

The woman had come back with the tray and the men looked up, smoking.

She set the tray down by the sink and came over to them, standing with both hands on her high hips. She regarded them gravely and glanced at the tray. The milk and toast were untouched.

The old man removed his pipe and looked at her plaintively. “Can’t ye _make_ her, Lena?” he said. His high voice had a shrill note.

She shook her head. “_I_ can’t do anything--not anything more.”

She moved away and began to gather up the dishes from the table, clearing it with swift jerks. She paused a moment and leaned over--the platter in her hand half-lifted from its place. “She needs the air,” she said, “and to run about--she’s sick--shut up like that!” She lifted the platter and carried it to the sink, a troubled look in her eyes. “I won’t be responsible for her--not much longer,” she said slowly, as she set it down, “not if she doesn’t get down in the air.”

The men looked at each other in silence. The old man got up. “Time to go to bed--” he said slowly.

They filed out of the room. The woman’s eyes followed them. Presently the door opened and the younger man returned, with soft, quick steps. He looked at her. “I want to talk,” he said.

“In a minute,” she replied. She nodded toward the cellar. “The lantern’s down there--you go along.”

He opened the door and stepped cautiously into blackness, and she heard a quick, scratching match on the plaster behind the closed door, and his feet descending the stairs.

She drew forward the kettle on the stove and replenished the fire, and blew out the hand lamp on the table. Then she groped her way to the cellar door, opening it with noiseless touch.

The young man waited below, impatient. On a huge barrel near by, the lantern cast a yellow circle on the blackness.

The woman approached it, her high-stepping figure flung in shadowy movement along the wall behind her.

“You can’t back out _now_!” He spoke quickly. “You’re weakening! And you’ve got to brace up--do you hear?”

The woman’s round face smiled--over the light on the barrel. “_I’m_ all right,” she said. She hesitated a minute.... “It’s the child that’s not all right,” she added slowly. “And tonight I got scared--yes--” She waited a breath.

“What’s the matter?” he said roughly.

She waited again. “She wasn’t like flesh and blood to-night,” she said slowly. “I felt as if a breath would blow her out--” She drew her hand quickly across her eyes. “I’ve got fond of the little thing, John--I can’t seem to have her hurt!”

“Who’s hurting her?” said the man sharply. “_You_ take care of her--and she’s all right.”

“I can’t, John. She needs the outdoors. She’s like a little bird up there--shut up!”

“Then let her out--” said the man savagely. “Let her out--up there!” His lifted hand pointed to the plain about them--in open scorn. He leaned forward and spoke more persuasively, close to her ear--“We can’t back out now--” he said, “_the child knows too much_!” He gave the barrel beside them a significant tap. “We couldn’t use _this_ plant again--six years--digging it--and waiting and starving!” He struck the barrel sharply. “I tell you we’ve _got_ to put it through! You keep her out of sight!”

“Her own mother wouldn’t know her--” said the woman slowly.

He met the look--and waited.

“I tell you, I’ve done everything,” she said with quick passion. “I’ve fed her and amused her and told her stories--I don’t _dare_ keep her any longer!” She touched the barrel beside them--“I tell you, you might as well put her under that.... You’ll put her under for good--if you don’t look out!” she said significantly.

“All right,” said the man sullenly, “what do you want?”

She was smiling again--the round, keen smile, on its high frame. “Let her breathe a bit--like a child--and run out in the sun. The sun will cure her!” she added quickly.

“All right--if you take the risk--a hundred-thousand-dollars--and your own daughter thrown to the devil--if we lose--!... You know _that_!”

“I know that, John--I want the money--more than you want it!” She spoke with quick, fierce loyalty. “I’d give my life for Mollie--or to keep her straight--but I can’t kill a child to keep her straight--not _this_ child--to keep her straight!” Her queer, round face worked, against the yellow light.

He looked at it, half contemptuously, and turned to the barrel.

“See if everything’s all right,” he said. “If we’re going to take risks--we’ve got to be ready.”

The woman lifted the lantern, and he pushed against the barrel. It yielded to his weight--the upper part turning slowly on a pivot. Something inside swashed against the sides as it turned. The man bent over the hole and peered in. He stepped down cautiously, feeling with his foot and disappearing, inch by inch, into the opening. The woman held the light above him, looking down with quick, tense eyes... a hand reached up to her, out of the hole, beckoning for the lantern and she knelt down, guiding it toward the waving fingers. A sound of something creaking--a hinge half turned--caught her breath--and she leaned forward, blowing at the lantern. She got quickly to her feet and groped for the swinging barrel, turning it swiftly over the hole--the liquid chugged softly against its side--and stopped. Her breath listened up into the darkness. The door above creaked again softly--and a shuffling foot groped at the stair. “You down there--Lena?” called an old voice.

She laughed out softly, moving toward the stair. “Go to bed, father.”

“What you doing down there?” asked the old voice in the darkness.

“Testing the barrel,” said the woman. “John’s gone down.” She came to the foot of the stair. “You go to bed, father--”

“_You_ better come to bed--all of ye,” grumbled the old man.

“We’re coming--in a minute.” She heard his hand fumble at the door--and it creaked again--softly--and closed.

She groped her way back to the barrel, waiting beside it in the darkness.

XXIX

UPSTAIRS

When the man’s head reappeared, he came up briskly.

“All right?” she asked.

“All right,” he responded.

“Did you test the other end?”

“Right enough--” said the man. “Safe as a church! The water barrel in the garden stuck a little--but I eased it up--” He looked back into the hole, as he stepped out. “Too bad we had to take _her_ down,” he said regretfully.

“The police _might_ ’a’ stopped,” said the woman. “You couldn’t tell.”

They swung the barrel in place, and blew out the lantern, and the man ascended the stair. After a few minutes the woman came up. The kitchen was empty. The fire burning briskly cast a line of light beneath the hearth, and on the top of the stove the kettle hummed quietly. She lighted a lamp and lifted the kettle, filling her dishpan with soft steam.... Any one peering in at the open window would have seen only a tall woman, with high shoulders, bending above her cloud of steam and washing dishes, with a quiet, round face absorbed in thought.

When she had finished at the sink and tidied the room, she took the lamp and went into the small hall at the rear, and mounted the steep stairs. At the top she paused and fitted a key and entered a low room. She put down the lamp and crossed to the door on the other side--and listened. The sound of low breathing came lightly to her, and her face relaxed. She came back to the bureau, looking down thoughtfully at the coarse towel that covered it, and the brush and comb and tray of matches. There was nothing else on the bureau. But on a little bracket at the side the picture of a young girl, with loose, full lips and bright eyes, looked out from a great halo of pompadour--with the half-wistful look of youth. The mother’s eyes returned to the picture and her keen face softened.... She must save Mollie--and the child in the next room--she must save them both.... She listened to the child again, breathing beyond the open door. She looked again at the picture, with hungry eyes. Her own child--her Mollie--had never had a chance--she had loved gay things--and there was no money--always hard work and wet feet and rough, pushing cars.... No wonder she had gone wrong! But she would come back now. There would be money enough--and they would go away--together. Twenty-five thousand dollars. She looked long at the pitiful, weak, pictured face and blew out the light and crept into bed.... And in the next room the child’s even breathing came and went... and, at intervals, across it in the darkness, another sound--the woman’s quick, indrawn breath that could not rest.

XXX

ASLEEP

In the morning the woman was up with the first light. And as the men came grumbling in to breakfast, the round face wore its placid smile. They joked her and ate hastily and departed for the open field. It was part of a steady policy--to be always in the open, busy, hard-working men who could not afford to lose an hour. The excursion had been a quick, restless revolt--against weeks of weeding and planting and digging.... But they had had their lesson. They were not likely to stir from their strip of market garden on the plain--not till the time was up.

As the woman went about her work, she listened, and stopped and went to the door--for some sound from upstairs. Presently she went up and opened the door... and looked in.

The child lay with one hand thrown above her head--a drawn look in the softly arched brow and half-parted lips. The woman bent over her, listening--and placed her hand on the small wrist and counted--waiting. The eyes flashed open--and looked at her. “I thought you were Nono,” said the child. A wistful look filled her face and her lip quivered a little--out of it--and steadied itself. “You are Mrs. Seabury,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” said the woman cheerfully. “Time to get up, dearie.” She turned away and busied herself with the clothes hanging from their hooks.

The child’s eyes followed her--dully. “I don’t think I care to get up,” she said at last.

The woman brought the clothes and placed them by the bed, and smiled down at her. “There’s something nice to-day,” she said casually. “We’re going outdoors to-day--”

“_Can_ I?” said the child. She flashed a smile and sat up. “Can _I_ go out-of-doors?” It was a little cry of waiting--and the woman’s hand dashed across her eyes--at the keenness of it. Then she smiled--the round, assuring smile, and held up the clothes. “You hurry up and dress and eat your breakfast,” she said, “--a good, big breakfast--and we are going--out in the sun--you and me.” She nodded cheerfully and went out.

The child put one foot over the edge of the bed and looked down at it--a little wistfully--and placed the other beside it. They were very dark, little feet--a queer, brown colour--and the legs above them, were the same curious brown--and the small straight back--as she stepped from the bed and slipped off her nightgown and bent above the clothes on the chair. The colour ran up to her throat--around it, and over the whole sunny face and hands and arms--a strange, eclipsing, brown disguise. There had been a quick, sharp plan to take her abroad and they prepared her hastily against risks on board the steamer. The plan had been abandoned as too dangerous. But the colour clung to the soft skin; and the hair, cropped close to the neck, had a stubby, uncouth look. No one seeking Betty Harris, would have looked twice at the queer, little, brownie-like creature, dressing itself with careful haste. It lifted a plaid dress from the chair--large squares of red and green plaid--and looked at it with raised brows and dropped it over the cropped head. The skirt came to the top of the rough shoes on the small feet. Betty Harris looked down at the skirt--and smoothed it a little... and dropped on her knees beside the bed--the red and green plaids sweeping around her--and said the little prayer that Miss Stone had taught her to say at home.

XXXI

A BUTTERFLY FLIGHT

She came down the stairs with slow feet, pausing a little on each stair, as if to taste the pleasure that was coming to her. _She was going out-of-doors--under the sky!_

She pushed open the door at the foot and looked into the small hall--she had been here before. They had hurried her through--into the kitchen, and down to the cellar. They had stayed there a long time--hours and hours--and Mrs. Seabury had held her on her lap and told her stories.

She stepped down the last step into the hall. The outside door at the end was open and through it she could see the men at work in the garden--and the warm, shimmering air. She looked, with eager lip, and took a step forward--and remembered--and turned toward the kitchen. Mrs. Seabury had said she must have breakfast first--a good, big breakfast--and then.... She opened the door and looked in. The woman was standing by the stove. She looked up with a swift glance and nodded to her. “That’s right, dearie. Your breakfast is all ready--you come in and eat it.” She drew up a chair to the table and brought a glass of milk and tucked the napkin under her brown chin, watching her with keen, motherly eyes, while she ate.

“That’s a good girl!” she said. She took the empty plate and carried it to the sink. “Now you wait till I’ve washed these--and then--!” She nodded toward the open window.

The child slipped down and came over to her and stood beside her while she worked, her eyes full of little, wistful hope. “I’ve most forgot about out-of-doors,” she said.

“Oh, you remember it all right. It’s just the same it always was,” said the woman practically. “Now I’ll stir up some meal and we’ll go feed the chicks. I’ve got ten of ’em--little ones.” She mixed the yellow meal and stirred it briskly, and took down her sun-bonnet--and looked at the child dubiously. “You haven’t any hat,” she said.

The child’s hand lifted to the rough cropped hair. “I did have a hat--with red cherries on it,” she suggested.

The woman turned away brusquely. “That’s gone--with your other things--I’ll have to tie a handkerchief on you.”

She brought a big, coloured kerchief--red with blue spots on it--and bound it over the rough hair--and stood back and looked at it, and reached out her hand. “It won’t do,” she said thoughtfully. The small face, outlined in the smooth folds, had looked suddenly and strangely refined. The woman took off the handkerchief and roughened the hair with careful hand.

The child waited patiently. “I don’t need a hat, do I?” she said politely.

The woman looked at her again and took up the dish of meal. “You’re all right,” she said, “we shan’t stay long.”

“I should _like_ to stay a long, _long_ time!” said Betty.

The woman smiled. “You’re going out every day, you know.”

“Yes.” The child skipped a little in the clumsy shoes, and they passed into the sunshine.

The woman looked about her with practical eyes. In the long rows of the garden the men were at work. But up and down the dusty road--across the plain--no one was in sight, and she stepped briskly toward an open shed, rapping the spoon a little against the side of the basin she carried, and clucking gently.

The child beside her moved slowly--looking up at the sky, as if half afraid. She seemed to move with alien feet under the sky. Then a handful of yellow, downy balls darted from the shed, skittering toward them, and she fell to her knees, reaching out her hands to them and crooning softly. “The dear things!” she said swiftly.

The woman smiled, and moved toward the shed, tapping on the side of her pan--and the yellow brood wheeled with the sound, on twinkling legs and swift, stubby wings.

The child’s eyes devoured them. “They belong to you, don’t they?” she cried softly. “They’re your _own_--your very own chickens!” Her laugh crept over them and her eyes glowed. “See the little one, Mrs. Seabury! Just _see_ him run!” She had dropped to her knees again--breathless--beside the board where they pushed and pecked and gobbled the little, wet lumps of the meal, and darted their shiny black bills at the board.

The woman handed her the pan. “You can feed them if you want to,” she said.

The child took the basin, with shining eyes, and the woman moved away. She examined the slatted box--where the mother hen ran to and fro, with clucking wings--and gave her some fresh water and looked in the row of nests along the side of the shed, and took out a handful of eggs, carrying them in wide-spread, careful fingers.

The child, squatting by the board, was looking about her with happy eyes. She’d almost forgotten the prisoned room up stairs and the long lonesome days. The woman came over to her, smiling. “I’ve found seven,” she said. The child’s eyes rested on them. Then they flitted to the sunshine outside.... A yellow butterfly was fluttering in the light--across the opening of the shed. It lighted on a beam and opened slow wings, and the child’s eyes laughed softly... she moved tiptoe... “I saw a _beautiful_ butterfly once!” she said. But the woman did not hear. She had passed out of the shed--around the corner--and was looking after the chickens outside--her voice clucking to them lightly. The child moved toward the butterfly, absorbed in shining thought. “It was a _beautiful_ butterfly--” she said softly, “in a Greek shop.” The wings of the butterfly rose and circled vaguely and passed behind her, and she wheeled about, peering up into the dark shed. She saw the yellow wings--up there--poise themselves, and wait a minute--and sail toward the light outside.... But she did not turn to follow its flight--Across the brown boards of the shed--behind a pile of lumber, against the wall up there--a head had lifted itself and was looking at her. She caught her breath--“I saw a butterfly once!” she repeated dully. It was half a sob--The head laid a long, dark finger on its lip and sank from sight.... The child wheeled toward the open light--the woman was coming in, her hands filled with eggs. “I must carry these in,” she said briskly. She looked at the child. “You can stay and play a little while--if you want to. But you must not go away, you know.”

“I will not go away,” said the child, breathless.

So the woman turned and left her--and the child’s eyes followed her.

XXXII

AND A VOICE

“Can you hear me, little Miss Harris?” The voice came from the dusky shed, high up against the wall.

But the child did not turn her head. “Yes--Mr. Achilles--I can hear you very well,” she said softly.

“Don’t look this way,” said the voice. “Get down and look at the chickens--and listen to what I tell you.”

The child dropped obediently to her knees, her head a little bent, her face toward the open light outside.

The woman, going about her work in the kitchen, looked out and saw her and nodded to her kindly--

The child’s lips made a little smile in return. They were very pale.

“I come to take you home,” said the voice. It was full of tenderness and Betty Harris bent her head, a great wave of homesickness sweeping across her.

“I can’t go, Mr. Achilles.” It was like a sob. “I can’t go. They will kill you. I heard them. They will kill _anybody_--that comes--!” She spoke in swift little whispers--and waited. “Can you hear me say it?” she asked. “Can you hear me say it, Mr. Achilles?”

“I hear it--yes.” The voice of Achilles laughed a little. “They will not kill--little lady, and you go home--with me--to-night.” The voice dropped down from its high place and comforted her.

She reached out little hands to the chickens and laughed tremulously. “I am afraid,” she said softly, “I am afraid!”

But the low voice, up in the dusk, steadied her and gave her swift commands--and repeated them--till she crept from the dim shed into the light and stood up--blinking a little--and looked about her--and laughed happily.

And the woman came to the door and smiled at her. “You must come in,” she called.

“Yes--Mrs. Seabury--” The child darted back into the shed and gathered up the spoon and basin from the board and looked about her swiftly. In the slatted box, the mother hen clucked drowsily, and wise cheeps from beneath her wings answered bravely. The child glanced at the box, and up at the dusky boards of the shed, peering far in the dimness. But there was no one--not even a voice--just the high, tumbled pile of boards--and the few nests along the wall and the mother hen clucking cosily behind her slats--and the wise little cheeps.

XXXIII

“WAKE UP, MRS. SEABURY!”