Part 8

There was but one drawback to Miss Sophy’s happiness. In the new confidence which now existed between her and Zeph, she learned more fully than she had done before the depth of his affection for his children. She found that during all these months it had been his habit to see them frequently,—sometimes by clandestine watchings, sometimes by Rushy’s consent that Zephie should on a Sunday take his little sister to their father’s house. By this means Zeph had kept himself constantly in relation with them and retained strong influence over the boy. Separation from them was going to be a terrible thing to him; there were times when he even doubted if it were right for him to go away and leave them entirely in the control and at the mercy of their stepfather. Only his unshaken confidence in the strength of Rushy’s maternal affection enabled him to think of it.

“She’s just like a wildcat ’bout the chillen,” he said, “an’ always was; if Nat Leeson should so much’s raise his hand to ’em, she’d leave him quicker ’n lightnin’. I ain’t a mite afraid of his ever doin’ ’em any harm that way. But if she should come to want any way,—Sophy, I don’t see it clear just how to fix that. Ye know, Sophy, I’d always feel myself bound to those children.”

“Of course!” replied Miss Sophy. “And so do I. I wish to goodness we had ’em both here this minute to take ’em with us! That’s what I’d like!”

“Would ye, Sophy?” cried Zeph. “Would ye really? Oh, Sophy, ye’re real good!”

“I don’t suppose there’d be any chance o’ gettin’ ’em, or either one on ’em,” said Miss Sophy. “Would there?”

“Oh, Lord!” cried Zeph, catching his breath at the very idea. “That’s all ye know about Rushy! She’d rather kill ’em than let anybody else have ’em! She’s fierce, Rushy is. There isn’t the least use thinkin’ o’ such a thing.”

But the doctrine that there was no use in thinking of a thing was not in Miss Sophy’s creed. The more obstacles lay in the way, the more her native obstinacy allied itself with her indomitable courage to surmount them. And in this instance a passion greater than either the courage or the obstinacy came in, making a triple alliance strong enough to move mountains. Her love for Zeph was so great that its instincts were preternaturally keen.

“He’ll never be happy long away from them children o’ his,” she said, “an’ he’s got to have ’em,—or at least the baby; she’d be more to him than the boy; he’d get along if he had her; an’ if we got her, the boy ’d be big enough to come before long if he wanted to.”

Plan after plan, all visionary and impracticable, Miss Sophy revolved in her head. Actual kidnapping of the child would not have seemed to her wrong; but her common sense told her that it would involve dangers not to be thought of. Cautiously she sounded Gammer Stein as to the possibility of Rushy’s being induced, by the prospects of superior advantages to her daughter, to give her to be adopted by a stranger. No suspicion crossed Gammer’s mind as to Miss Sophy’s personal interest in the matter, any further than her benevolent interest in Zeph explained it.

“Some o’ yer folks wantin’ to ’dopt a child?” she said. “Wall, I allow ef they know what’s fur thar good they’ll keep shy o’ proposin’ it to Rushy Riker,—Leeson, I s’pose her name is naow, but I sha’n’t never call her nothin’ but Riker, not outen Zeph wuz ter git married, an’ I allow thet’s ther furthest off from his thoughts ’t ever wuz. He seems ter be reel settled naow. ’Twuz luck fur him a gittin’ yeour place.”

“Then you think that Mrs. Leeson would not give up the little girl?” interrupted Miss Sophy, who found the conversation both disagreeable and embarrassing.

“Not she!” said Gammer. “I’ll say thet much fur Rushy Riker. Money couldn’t buy one o’ her young uns, I allaow ’t couldn’t. She’s fierce fur ’em allers, an’ reel good ter ’em, tew. She’s a hussy, aout an’ aout, an’ allers wuz, I be bound; but she’s a good mother t’ her young uns ser fur’s lovin’ ’em goes. She’d run round ’n’ leave ’em fur frolics an’ sech, an’ she ain’t no great hand ter tidy ’em up; but she loves ’em more ’n most women doos thar young uns, I allaow she doos. Thet’s one thing made me ser sure Nat’d never marry her ’n ther livin’ world, kase I allowed he wouldn’t be bothered ’th ther young uns; but ’twuz young uns ’n’ all, ’r else not ’t all, ’n’ it doos look ez ef he wuz bound ter hev Rushy. He’s workin’ her ’most ter death tew; thet’s what some says; ’twuz jest fur her cookin’ he wanted her. He’s took the restaurant now,—the Star restaurant, whar he wuz a cookin’, ’n’ he ’n’ her ez runnin’ it, ’n’ er takin’ in money like greased lightnin’, they say. She’s an orful good cook, Rushy ez. She’s smart; nothin’ she can’t do ef she wants ter, ’cept be decent; I allow she could do thet tew, ef she wanted ter. She don’t want ter. But she don’t do no gaddin’ naow, don’t yer furgit it! She’s got er marster naow ’stead o’ er slave; thet’s what she hed afore,—er reg’lar slave, thet Zeph wuz. She’ll be sick o’ her bargain, I allaow, ’fore she’s through with it. I know a reel likely young un I allaow them folks could git,—it’s a boy, though. ’Twuz a gal yer said they wuz wantin’?”

“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, feeling guilty, but playing her game boldly. “It is a girl these parties want. I dare say they’ll find one, though; children are plenty enough.”

“More ’n enough, whar they ain’t wanted,” replied Gammer. “I allaow thet’s anuther queer thing ther Lawd doos. Hyar’s these yer folks o’ yourn huntin’ fur a child ter ’dopt, ’n’ hyar daown ’n this yer very flairt I could p’int yer ter ’s many ’s twenty houses whar they’d be glad ’n’ thankful ef thar wuz fewer chillen ter feed ’n’ clothe. Thet’s ther way ’tis. I allaow ’t ’s cur’us. But I couldn’t never see haow ’tis folks wants ter ’dopt chillen. I allaow I couldn’t dew no sech thing ’s thet.”

“Why not?” asked Miss Sophy, so sharply that Gammer looked up in surprise.

“Wall, I allaow I couldn’t jest say why not,” she replied. “It’s er kind er feelin’ I hev; ’pears like ’twould be a kinder cheatin’ natur’, somehow, thet wouldn’t work.”

“I don’t think so at all,” answered Miss Sophy. “It seems to me the most natural thing in the world for folks that haven’t got any child o’ their own, to adopt one.”

“I expect it’s hevin’ chillen o’ yer own makes ’doptin’ ’em seem so cur’us,” replied Gammer, placidly; “arter ye’ve hed ’em, I allaow yer don’t think much o’ ’doptations. ’S fur ’s I’m concerned, I wouldn’t durst trust myself with other folks’s chillen. Chillen ez tryin’.”

“I should think they must be,” said Miss Sophy, turning to go, glad to escape from the conversation which booted nothing and made her uncomfortable.

Slowly, reluctantly, she abandoned her project as impracticable. It grieved her sorely, and it disquieted her anticipations of the future. But she saw no means, which she dared use, of bringing about the desired end. She did not stop thinking about it, however; that was out of her power. Many a night she lay awake far into the morning hours vainly pondering, wishing, regretting.

Her arrangements for leaving were nearly complete; so quietly and judiciously had she made them, that few persons in the town knew of her contemplated change; and to no one except her minister had she confided her intention of marrying Zeph.

“There’s been talk enough about his affairs,” she said, “an’ it’s nobody’s business but his and mine what we’re going to do.” The marriage was to take place at the minister’s house, with only the necessary witnesses, on the evening of their departure from town, and would not be known until she and Zeph were many miles away. They were going to take the long overland journey in their own wagon, in company with a party of emigrants who were about setting off from a mining town a few hours by rail south of Pendar Basin. This was Zeph’s plan. He had long desired such a journey. When he proposed it to Miss Sophy, her first reply was, “Mercy, Zeph, it’d take forever!”

“Only about two months, Sophy,” he said pleadingly. “Two months out o’ doors every minute.”

“Two months!” echoed Miss Sophy. “Is that all? Well, I suppose that’d be two honeymoons ’stead o’ one!” And in this view the prospect of the journey grew more and more pleasing to her.

It only lacked a week of the day fixed for starting. Greenhills was sold, and well sold, and the money in the bank,—quite enough to buy the new ranch in California, or wherever they might determine to live. The people who had bought Miss Sophy’s boarding-house, furniture, good-will, and so forth, had arrived and taken possession, the transfer being made with surprisingly little jar to the household. “It’s easy enough to do anything if you once set about it,” said Miss Sophy, never suspecting how uncommon was the executive force within her which made all the difference in the world in the way of “setting about” things. It seemed odd to her to be a boarder in her own home; and the hours hung so heavily on her hands that she more than once wished that she was at liberty to go into the kitchen and cook the dinner. Zeph was away. He had gone to make the arrangements for their wagon journey, to have everything in readiness, so that their wagons might be in waiting for them at the railway station where they would leave the cars. When this plan was made, it had not occurred to Miss Sophy that it would distress her to be separated from Zeph for a few days; but she was finding it intolerable. Except for sheer shame, she would have followed him. Her mind continually reverted to the grief of her youth, the death of her first lover. “Folks that belongs to each other hain’t got any business takin’ such risks,” she soliloquized. “If there was anythin’ to happen to Zeph, an’ me not there, I’d never get over it, never. If I was to lose him as I did Robert, I do believe it would kill me dead.” Fiercely she taunted herself with being silly; but her heart got the better of her common sense in every such argument, and she grew unhappier hour by hour. In this morbid mood her thoughts also dwelt more and more on the separation which was coming between Zeph and his children, and her doubts grew stronger and stronger as to the possibility of his being happy away from them. “And if he ain’t, that’d be worse than seein’ him dead, a long ways,” said the miserable Miss Sophy, torturing herself to no purpose, and fighting vainly against the pricks on all sides. “I’d lots better gone off an’ left him here to shift for himself. Well, there’s one thing; if worst comes to worst, he can come back. I sha’n’t keep any man from doin’ what he thinks ’s right.”

But fate had better things in store for Miss Sophy than she dreamed. One night, as she had just fallen into an uneasy sleep after lying awake for hours grappling with these anxieties, she was roused by the sharp ringing of the fire-bells. Springing from her bed, she saw the whole southern sky aglow, heard the sounds of trampling feet and hoarse cries. In a moment she was dressed and at her door. Men and women were running breathlessly past. In Pendar Basin everybody went to fires; it was simply a duty of good-fellowship, for their one fire-engine was none too good, and the company but poorly trained; and every hand, even a woman’s hand, counted, when it came to passing up buckets in line.

“Where is it? What is it?” cried Miss Sophy.

Nobody knew. “The depot,” said one. “The hotel,” said another. Nobody stopped to make sure, or to answer again; the ruddy sheets of flame rolled up fiercer and faster; the bells rang harder. A terrible thing is a midnight fire, even where the best appliances of a city are close at hand; but in a country village it seems far crueller,—almost like a personal enemy come to slay the helpless in their sleep.

Suddenly Miss Sophy caught sound of another word. “The Star restaurant’ll go, sure,” said one of the panting runners as he went by.

“My God!” cried Miss Sophy aloud; and clasping her hands she ran bareheaded into the street and looked up to the reddening sky. At that instant she felt her arm grasped violently.

“Thet restaurant’s a gwine, whar she ez; it ez er judgment on ’em, I allow ’tis!” cried Gammer Stein. “Come on, come on! I expect thet Zeph’s thar; he’ll gin his life fur her ef she’s in ther fire!”

“He won’t do any such thing!” cried Miss Sophy, angrily, forgetting herself, and turning on Gammer. “He ain’t here; he’s been gone three days!” and a prayer of thanksgiving went up from her heart. What a mercy was this! How should she be thankful enough! “Thank God, thank God!” she said in her heart, as hand in hand with Gammer she ran towards the fire.

It was indeed the Star restaurant that was “going,”—going fast. The flames had already burst out of one spot in the roof; figures like black imps were seen flying past the windows; the crowd surged around the house, helplessly; shrieks, oaths, commands, confused calls,—all were blent in a terrible din, which heightened the horror of the black rolling columns of smoke and fire pouring from the windows. Vainly the little engine threw its feeble stream into the blazing mass. It quelled the flame for a second, only to let it leap up fiercer in a new spot.

In a terrible fascination Miss Sophy and Gammer pressed closer, nearer,—Miss Sophy clutching Gammer’s hand in a frenzy of excitement. “Oh, where are the children? Who’s seen the children? Has anybody seen the children?” she shrieked.

“Burnt in their beds, I reckon,” said one. “’Tain’t ten minutes since the fire burst out, ’n’ look ’t that roof; it’s ready to fall in now!”

“Thet’s him! thet’s Nat,” said Gammer, pointing to a man, blackened with smoke, leaping from the door, bearing a desk in his hands; back again into the flames, spite of the warning cries of the crowd; back, and out again,—not a drop of coward blood in Nat Leeson’s bad heart! At that moment, just as Miss Sophy had fastened her eyes on his face, a scream rang out close beside her,—a scream that no one who heard it ever forgot: “Nat! Nat! where’s the baby?” And more like some swift flying creature than like a human being there came, parting the crowd right and left, as if they had been straws in her way, the figure of a woman, uttering shriek after shriek. Men tried to grasp her by the arm to hold her back. They could no more grasp her than they could grasp the flames themselves. “Nat! Nat! where’s the baby?” she shrieked. “Oh, God! save my baby! Zephie! Zephie!” Over and above all the din Nat heard the cry; and maddened as he was by terror and loss, the words seemed to turn him into a fiend. As she reached him he pushed her back, shouting hoarsely, “Damn your brat! let it burn! Good riddance!” A cry of “Shame! shame!” went up, but there was time for no further retribution. The flames were licking out of the windows now, and running up the outside walls. A few minutes would see all over. The crowd swept back a little.

“Mam, here’s baby,” cried a shrill, quavering voice; and out of the smoke, out of the flame, past the raging Nat, who did not even see him, tottered Zephie, bearing the baby in his arms. There went up a cheer, a short one, indeed, for the men’s voices broke. They closed round the boy, took the baby, lifted her; took Zephie, lifted him. Nobody thought any longer of the burning house; let it go; here were the children. But where was the mother? It was some minutes before she was found. As she tossed her arms in despair at her husband’s brutal answer to her cry, merciful unconsciousness had seized her, and she wavered and fell,—fell, by the strangest of chances, into the arms of Gammer Stein, who had pressed on closely after her, expecting, as she afterwards confessed, to see her plunge into the burning building and be devoured by the flames.

“An’ I allaow I wuz er thinkin’ ez haow the Lawd hed erpinted thet ther fire ez er jedgment,” she said, “’n’ the next I knowed, thar she wuz, ther pore cretur, a settlin’ down agen me, ’n’ er swayin’ back ’n’ forth, ’n’ ’s soon ’s I ketched her I seen she wuz in er dead faint; ’n’ I allaow ter yeow it kind er fetched me raound, skeered, ’s ef ther Lawd hed tuk me ter witness he wa’n’t plum done aout wi’ Rushy Riker yit!”

It was surely a strange chance which put into the hands of Gammer Stein and Miss Sophy the joint labor of restoring the woman to consciousness. When at last she opened her eyes and saw Zephie in a chair opposite her, with the child in his arms, she put her hand to her head, and cried out pitifully, “Be we dead? Where’s Nat?”

“No, no, mam,” cried Zephie, holding the baby out to her, “we ain’t none of us dead! The house ’s all burnt up, but we got out. I brought Rushy downstairs myself, ’n’ the stairs was a blazin’ under me; donno how I ever did it; but she never so much ’s kicked nor hollered. If she had, I’d a dropped her sure.”

“Your husband is safe too,” said Miss Sophy, with a not wholly kindly emphasis. Miss Sophy was very human.

Snatching the baby from Zephie’s arms and straining it to her bosom, rocking herself to and fro, looking up into Gammer Stein’s face wildly, Rushy exclaimed, “I wish he’d burned up! I never want to set my eyes on him again!”

“’Sh, ’sh!” exclaimed Gammer; “ye donno what ye’re sayin’.”

“Did ye hear what he said to me, then?” cried Rushy, bursting into a flood of hysterical crying. “He meant to let the children burn up. He set it afire hisself. That’s what he sent me out o’ the house for last night.”

Horror-stricken, Gammer threw up her hands. Miss Sophy stood at the foot of the bed, listening intently. They were alone with her.

“I wish God may strike me dead,” cried the raving woman, “if I don’t believe it! I’ll never go nigh him again, never! ’Twas to get rid o’ the children he did it!”

“Rushy Riker!” exclaimed Gammer, and the old woman drew herself up till her gaunt figure seemed preternaturally tall, and, spite of her uncouth language, her utterance had the dignity of inspiration,—“Rushy Riker! yeow jest shet yer mouth, an’ don’t yeow tempt ther Lawd ter strike yer dead, blasphemin’ thet way. Yeow air plum crazy, thet’s what yer air. Yer know Nat Leeson, bad’s he ez, never done nothin’ er ther kind. The Lawd’s gin yer both yer chillen safe ’n’ sound, ’n’ ye’d better git daown ’n yer knees ’n’ be thankful, ’n’ begin ter lead ther life ye’d oughter. ’Tain’t tew late yit. Yer young; ’n’ I allaow the Lawd’s er dealin’ ’th yeow powerful.”

Rushy’s great black eyes fastened on Gammer’s face fiercely; the tears stopped; sobs shook her, but she did not speak. The baby, terrified, began to cry. Hushing her tenderly, cooing over her, caressing her, Rushy, with a swiftly changing face, began again to weep, but softly, as if she feared to terrify the child.

“I expect I was kind o’ crazy,” she muttered, “but ’taint strange.”

“No,” said Gammer gently, “’tain’t strange! We’ll be gwine naow; yer better alone. Ther folks ’n this house said yer could hev this room till yer got time ter look raound, yeow ’n’ yer—yeow ’n’ Nat!” Gammer could not bring herself to speak the word “husband” in that connection. “Come, Miss Burr,” she added, touching Miss Sophy on the shoulder, “we’ll be gwine; we can’t do nothin’ more fur ’er.”

Miss Sophy did not stir. She was gazing fixedly at Zephie. The child had thrown himself on the floor, and was lying with his eyes shut. “Look at him!” she whispered.

“Dew yer feel bad, Zephie?” asked Gammer. He did not answer. Bending over him, she exclaimed: “Ef thet ain’t cur’us! He’s sleepin’! Ain’t thet a mercy, naow, he kin?” And again she drew Miss Sophy away.

Shaking off the old woman’s hand, Miss Sophy stepped nearer to the bed, and said, “Mrs. Leeson, I’d like to see you to-morrow morning. Will you be here?”

“Who be ye?” asked Rushy, half defiantly, with a distrustful glance. “I s’pose I’ll be here.”

“My name is Burr,” answered Miss Sophy, slowly. “You do not know me, I suppose.”

“That keeps boarders?” asked Rushy.

“Yes,” said Miss Sophy, trembling.

“I know where yer place is,” answered Rushy, indifferently, “’n’ my husband that was, he’s been workin’ for you, I heered. You was the fust one ’t ever got any work out o’ him, I heered say.”

Miss Sophy’s face grew hard. It was well that the light was dim. She clenched her hands as she replied coldly, nerving herself by the thought of the purpose she had in view, “He did all the work which he did for me very well.”

“Ain’t he workin’ on your ranch now?” asked Rushy.

“No,” said Miss Sophy, thankful for the form of the question. “I’ve sold my ranch.”

“A good while ’fore Zeph Riker’ll get such another job!” said Rushy, vindictively.

Again Miss Sophy clenched her hands and held herself calm. For Zeph’s sake nothing was too much to be borne. For the stake for which she was playing now she could afford to strain every nerve.

“Yes,” she said, under all her excitement taking a certain grim satisfaction in the artful wording of her reply. “Yes, I think it will be. But I will see you in the morning, Mrs. Leeson. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“All right,” said Rushy, without a gleam of curiosity in her face. The reaction after her terrible shock was setting in; a stupor was fast stealing over her.

Miss Sophy’s heart was beating high. She had hard work to keep from telling her project to Gammer Stein, but she refrained.

“Time enough if it succeeds,” she said. “But it will! I know it will!”

Miss Sophy had watched Rushy’s face closely while Gammer was upbraiding her for her accusation against Nat. She had seen the swift look of terror there, followed by dogged resolve, as she regained partial composure. Miss Sophy did not believe that the woman had been crazy when she uttered that accusation, or that she thought herself to have been so. Miss Sophy believed it true; and if this were so, the very strength of the poor creature’s maternal affection, which had hitherto been the barrier to the carrying out of Miss Sophy’s project, would be its surest aid.

Minute by minute all through the lingering darkness Miss Sophy watched for the dawn. As soon as it was fairly light, she took her way to the house. She reckoned, and rightly, that she would find Rushy alone. As she passed the still smouldering ruins of the restaurant she recognized Nat working there with a hopeless sort of fury in his motions, dragging out bits of iron and half-burnt timbers. It seemed a mockery that the chimney was left standing, and projecting from it a grate half full of coal and ashes, the remains of the last home-fire lighted on that ill-fated hearth. While she stood gazing at this, Nat pried the grate out with an iron bar; as it fell, his face was convulsed with rage, and he poured out a volley of oaths which made Miss Sophy’s heart stand still.

“It was true! I believe it!” she gasped, as she quickened her pace, and did not once look back till she reached Rushy’s bedside.

In the white, haggard face which looked up from the pillow half-inquiring, half-alarmed, at Miss Sophy, there were few traces left of the beauty which had been so fatal a lure to Zeph in days gone by. The year of hard work, and still more of suffering which she had been too proud to betray, had told upon Rushy sadly. And this last night with its anguish, its dire secret, its shock,—this had completed the wreck. She had almost the look of a dying woman. Placid, rosy, fast asleep on her arm, lay the child over whose destiny forces strangely conflicting were now coming together.

Miss Sophy was a keen reader of faces. As she met Rushy’s first glance she perceived in it a defined terror. Rushy was indeed in an agony of apprehension lest the words she had spoken in her frenzy would be used to work harm to Nat. She was rent between her still passionate love for him and her mighty love for her children.

On the instant Miss Sophy changed her entire plan of approach. This terror should be made to play into her hands.