Part 9

“Mrs. Leeson,” she said gravely, “I came down so early to be sure of seeing you before any one else did. I suppose you remember what you said last night about your husband’s having set his place on fire? I think no one heard you except Gammer and me; but we both heard you.”

Rushy’s eyes dilated with horror. “I was crazy!” she cried. “I was out o’ my head! I didn’t mean no such thing! Gammer said I was crazy. She knows Nat wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“I suppose you did not know,” continued Miss Sophy, eying her steadily,—no mercy in Miss Sophy’s heart now,—“that I owned the bakery next your restaurant?”

“No! Did ye?” gasped Rushy. “Oh, Miss Burr, don’t ye tell on me! I swear to God it wa’n’t true! I didn’t know I said it! Oh, have some mercy on me, won’t ye? Nat ’d kill me in a minute if ever he was to hear ’t I’d said such a word. He never did it, Miss Burr, never! Nat’s real good, he is; only jest hasty, that’s all. Oh, for God’s sake, ma’am, don’t you go to tell it!” And in anguish too great for tears Rushy threw herself back on the bed and groaned aloud.

“I had no idea of telling it, Mrs. Leeson,” said Miss Sophy. “It was not for that I came. The property was not much injured, and I am going away. I didn’t care a fig for the building. But I’ll tell you what I did come for.” Miss Sophy hesitated, bent over the bed, whispering low, “I am certain you spoke the truth about Nat’s setting that fire. I’ll never forget your scream, never; an’ I said to myself, ‘There’s a woman would be glad to get her child out o’ that man’s way if she could.’” Again Miss Sophy paused. Rushy’s eyes transfixed her. Confession, awe, yearning, surrender, were in them.

“Oh! what be ye?” she said faintly. “Ye scare me! What d’ ye mean?”

Miss Sophy never could remember distinctly the rest of the conversation,—how she gradually made clear to Rushy her own wish to adopt a child; her sudden desire the night before to take the little one whose life had been thus endangered by her stepfather’s crime; her feeling that she had been sent to the fire for this very purpose. The words seemed to come to her as from some power outside herself; and as she spoke, the mother’s heart seemed melted; tears like rain ran down her face. Wringing her hands, she said again and again, “I can’t! Oh, I can’t never let her go; I’d die without her!” And yet again and again she returned to the point, groaning, “But I darstn’t keep her! I darstn’t! I donno why I trust ye so, ma’am, but I can’t help it! I know ye won’t do me no harm; I’ve heard lots about ye, how good ye was to everybody, ’n’ I know ye’re rich! Oh, I’ll never forgive myself if I stand ’n the child’s light ’n’ keep her out o’ all ye’d do for her; ’n’ I’ll die if I let her go out o’ my sight! ’n’ there ’tis!” It was a terrible struggle. More than once Miss Sophy was on the point of abandoning it. All seemed lost. Once she rose to go. But Rushy clutched her gown and cried, “Don’t ye go! don’t go! I hain’t made my mind up! I can’t! If it wa’n’t for fearin’ she ain’t safe I couldn’t! But oh, if anythin’ did happen to her here, I’d die! I donno why Nat hates her so; he’s real good to Zephie; allers has been; but ever sence we was married he’s seemed to hate the sight o’ baby. I suppose it’s hard on a man to take to another man’s children; but there’s Zephie, just the same, an’ he’s fond o’ him.”

Finally the storm-tossed creature said: “You send Gammer here; I’ll talk it over with her. I’m spent. I can’t think no longer! Gammer knows ye real well; if she says it’ll be right, I’ll do it! I’m thankful ye’re goin’ way off; that’s the only way I’d stand it ’t all. It’ll be just same ’s ef she was dead; ’n’ that’s the way I want it to be! I couldn’t give her up no other way!”

Still the baby slept on, placid, unconscious. As Miss Sophy turned to go, she bent down and kissed its forehead. “She is a most beautiful child,” she said. “I love her already.”

“Oh, ye’d be good to her always, always, ’s long ’s ye live, and leave her safe ’n’ comfortable! Oh, swear it, won’t ye?” cried Rushy, hysterically. Then with a fresh outburst of crying, her words hardly articulate, she sobbed, “Should ye want her to call ye mammy? She’s just beginnin’ to say it this last month or two; p’r’aps ye might let her call ye aunt, or suthin’ else besides mammy!”

The anguish in the mother’s voice as she said this touched a chord in Miss Sophy’s breast that had never before vibrated. As tenderly and understandingly as if she herself had borne children, she answered, “Don’t you think it would be best for her to call me mother? You wouldn’t want her to grow up thinking she had no mother!”

“No, no! I s’pose she must call ye mammy. Oh, I donno but I wish she was dead now! Oh, ma’am, don’t ye be angry with me! You go away now. I can’t talk to ye a minute longer. Send Gammer; she’ll come. She hates me, but she’s good; she’ll come; she’ll tell me. When are ye going?”

“To-morrow night.”

“I’m glad it’s so soon,—that is, if I’m goin’ to do it. If I was to think it over ’n’ over weeks, I shouldn’t know no better ’t the end; I’d ruther she’d go ’t oncet. Gammer’ll bring her ter ye. She always goes to Gammer, Zephie says. He takes her up there sometimes Sundays. I expect—” Rushy paused. Miss Sophy’s instinct filled up the interval. It was of Zeph Rushy was thinking. Spite of Miss Sophy’s steady nerves, she trembled now. “He hain’t got no right, anyhow,” Rushy muttered to herself. “The judge giv’ ’em to me.”

“Thar’d have to be papers, wouldn’t there?” she said, looking up furtively, “so there couldn’t nobody else get her away from you?”

Miss Sophy’s heart bounded. She made a feint of stooping to pick up something from the floor to hide her exultation. The words, “and mine enemy was my helper,” flashed across her thoughts.

“Yes,” she replied, “that would be better. I will send them to you by Gammer. I’ll have a lawyer draw them up, so they will be all right; and if you make up your mind to do it, you can sign them, and give them to Gammer with the baby, and I’ll have Gammer go with me part way till the baby’s used to me.”

“Swear! swear!” shrieked Rushy, snatching Miss Sophy’s hand, fastening her wild eyes on her face. “Oh, swear to me, here ’n’ now, she’d be t’ ye the same ’s yer own! Swear!”

“So help me God,” said Miss Sophy, tears on her cheeks and her voice faltering, “she shall be to me the same ’s my own.”

“I believe ye!” gasped Rushy, half fainting from her fierce struggle. “I believe ye! I don’t never want to see ye agen, though! Don’t ye come back here. Send Gammer. If I’ll do it, Gammer’ll bring the baby to your house. If I don’t do ’t, I don’t never want to be asked no more! Be ye sure ye’re goin’ to-morrow night?”

“Yes,” said Miss Sophy.

“South? The south-goin’ train?”

“Yes,” answered Miss Sophy, suddenly alive to a new danger, and perceiving as suddenly how it could be averted. “Yes, I am going on the south-bound train.”

“Send Gammer quick,” was Rushy’s only answer; and she closed her eyes exhausted.

Even in this final crisis Miss Sophy did not confide to Gammer her relation to Zeph. “What folks don’t know, they can’t let out,” had been Miss Sophy’s motto all her life, and it stood her in good stead now. Except for this reticence, her plans at the last moment might have miscarried disastrously. All that Gammer knew when she set out on her strange embassy was simply what had already been said by Miss Sophy herself to Rushy. In her pocket she carried the papers, made out in due form, by the signing of which the legal adoption of the child would be put forever beyond question or revocal.

“An’ I allaow she’ll sign ’em fast enough, I allaow she will ef ’tis ez she sez, accordin’ ter what I’d ’vise her ter dew. Ther ain’t no tew sides ter ther thing; ther ez ter most things; but I allaow ther ain’t ter this,” said Gammer, as she bade Miss Sophy good-by and set out on her errand.

It was arranged between them that if Gammer obtained the child she would pass Miss Sophy’s house on her way home, Miss Sophy watching at the window to see if she had been successful. In that case Gammer was to keep the child with her until the next evening, when she would bring her to the train, joining Miss Sophy there at the last moment. Miss Sophy’s brain ached with all this plotting and planning, so foreign to her straightforward nature. She felt disgraced in her own eyes by so much concealment. “Lord knows I’ll be thankful to get done with all this coverin’-up business,” she reflected. “It’s a new trade for me; but then, I’m takin’ up a new trade altogether,”—and her face softened into a younger look at the very thought. “It’s all for his sake I’m doin’ it. Once we’re out o’ this country ’n’ settled down, it won’t seem nothin’ at all; ’n’ I know ’t ’s right! that’s one comfort.”

It was late in the afternoon before Gammer, equipped with the paper ready for Rushy’s signature, and already signed by Miss Sophy, set out on her exciting errand. Never before in Gammer’s life had she been called upon to take part in such stirring events. But she bore herself like a veteran, and had no misgivings as to the success of the enterprise. The only thing that puzzled her was the mysterious secrecy in which Miss Sophy insisted on wrapping the whole affair.

“Thar ain’t no disgrace ’n ’doptin’ er child,” she reflected. “I allaow ’t ’s ter ennybody’s cheeriterble credit ter feel ter dew it; but Miss Burr ez fur coverin’ ’t up ez much ez ef ’twuz er case er stealin’. I allaow she’s drefful afeard o’ folks talkin’, bein’ an old maid ’s she ez; ’n’ thar’s plenty ’twould talk, ’n’ kinder larf; folks ez jest mean enuf. It’s different, her bein’ ’n old maid. Naow ef ’twuz me, nobody’d say er word. Old maids hez er hard time, ennyway; ’pears like thar shet out er lots o’ things, ’sides not hevin’ no man o’ ther own.”

The minutes seemed hours to Miss Sophy as she sat at her window gazing down the street by which Gammer would return. The sun went slowly down toward the mountain-tops, reached them, seemed to linger a moment, then sank, and was gone; then the slow twilight passed, and dusky gloom settled on the little town. There was no moon; Miss Sophy could see but a few paces beyond her gate. No Gammer yet!

She could not bear it. Throwing a shawl over her head, she stole out and paced up and down in the path. At last she saw the tall figure looming up in the distance, walking with a swift stride,—too swift to be the step of one carrying the burden of a heavy child.

Miss Sophy stood still. As soon as she saw that the old woman’s arms were empty, she ran forward, exclaiming under her breath, “Wouldn’t she do it? Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!”

“Hesh, naow,” said Gammer, as composedly as if it were an every-day transaction over which Miss Sophy excited herself unnecessarily. “Don’ git yerself inter er fever! She’s gwine ter; she’s signed; but she don’t want ter giv her up till ther last minute; she wants ter fix her up; she hain’t got no cloes fit ter go in, she sez. I declar ter yeow, Miss Burr, I didn’t never allaow ter feel ez near kind ter Rushy Riker ez I dew. Thet’s what’s kep’ me. ’T seemed ter kind er dew her sum good ter talk. She sed she allers knowed I war daown on her, an’ I war; but she’s broke naow. But ez I ben tellin’ her, she’s made her bed ’n’ she’s got ter lay in ’t, this time; ’n’ I allaow it’s a hard un. She’s ’feard ’s death o’ thet Nat,—’feard ’s death; ’n’ yit she kinder doos love him tew; she won’t never leave him ser long ’s the breath er life’s in her body; she darstn’t; she sez he’d kill ennybody in a minnit, ’n’ not mean ter, nuther; when he’s inter his rages he donno nothin’. I allaow she’s got inter hell afore her time, she hez! Thet’s the way ye’ve got ther baby; she’d ha’ died afore she’d parted ’th her, ef ’t hedn’t been jest ’s ’tis. Yeow’d hev pitied her ef ye’d seen her tryin’ to sign thet paper, yeow would. ’T seemed ’s ef she couldn’t do ’t. She’d put ther pen daown, ’n’ then she’d pick ’t up; ’n’ ther paper’s all riz up in blotches whar she cried on ’t ’n’ tried ter wipe ’t off ’th her gown, ’n’ ’t made ’t wuss. Yeow’d hev pitied her.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” replied Miss Sophy. “I haven’t got any pity for a woman that does what she’s done.”

Gammer drew a long sigh. It was too dark for her to see Miss Sophy’s face. They were standing close together in the shadow of a tree, whispering like conspirators.

“Yeow’d hev ter, ef yer seen her,” she said; “not but what she’s reapin’ ez she sowed; I ain’t er gainsayin’ thet; ’n’ I allaow ther Lawd’s gwine ter punish her wuss yit ’fore He’s done ’th her.”

“How?” said Miss Sophy.

“I allaow she’s gwine ter break all ter pieces. She’s jest ther high-strung kind thet doos; she’s all uv er tremble; narves ez awful when they gits broke up thet way. She sez she knows she’s gwine ter die, ’n’ she don’t care how soon; ’n’ I say, ther sooner ther better, tew; fur thet Nat, he won’t keer fur her a minnit when she’s lost her looks ’n’ can’t cook,—not er minnit; he’s thet kind. Naow thet Zeph, he’d hev—”

“Are you sure she will give you the child to-morrow?” interrupted Miss Sophy. She could not bear any reference to Zeph in this connection.

“Sure’s I am ’t I’m erlive,” answered Gammer. “She’s a gwine ter bring her up ter-morrer arter she’s hed her supper, ’n’ she’ll git her ter sleep ter my house. I allaow ter yeow I dread ter see her go ’n’ leave her. I allaowed mebbe she’d better come down ter ther train; but—”

“Oh,” shrieked Miss Sophy, “don’t let her! She’d be sure to take it all back at the last minute. Don’t let her!” And Miss Sophy actually quivered with alarm.

“She won’t come thar,” answered Gammer. “She allaowed she couldn’t. She allaowed she’d die when she heered the whistle, ’s ’twuz. She sez it’s a comfort ter her I’m goin’ part way. Not thet she’s got enny kind er distrust o’ yeow; but ther baby knows me, ’n’ she’s a sckeery little thing. I allaow yeow’ll have trouble ’th her along fur a spell.”

“I think not,” said Miss Sophy, with a joy at her heart, thinking of the baby nestled in its father’s arms. “I’m not afraid.”

After they had parted, Gammer turned back, calling cautiously, “Oh, Miss Burr, I clar furgot! She’s powerful ’fraid Zeph’ll get wind on ’t somehow ’n’ interfere. I allaowed ter her he’d ruther yeow hed ther baby ’n enny woman livin’; he knowed yer; but she ain’t easy ’bout it. Whar is Zeph naow? D’ yer know? We hain’t seed him for a week back.”

“He went into the country on business for me,” replied Miss Sophy.

“’Ll he be back ’fore yer go?”

“I expect him to-morrow; at least, that was the plan. But he may be detained,” said the guilty Miss Sophy.

“Ef he doos come, ye kin tell him all abaout it yerself,” replied the unsuspecting Gammer, “’n’ he’ll be thankful ter ther Lawd, I allaow he will.”

“I hope he will,” ejaculated Miss Sophy, fervently. And as she ran home she said to herself, “I hope to the Lord that’s the last manouverin’ I’ll have to do till my dyin’ day. It’s awful wearin’. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s worse ’n out-’n’-out lyin’!”

VII.

The simple ceremony which had made Miss Sophy and Zeph “man and wife,” as the customary phrase strangely words it, was over. The minister and his wife, who had known Miss Sophy ever since her coming into the town, respected her, and trusted her as a stanch friend, were nevertheless disquieted by this last act of hers, and by the seemingly clandestine way in which she had insisted upon having it performed.

“If she wa’n’t ashamed of it, what’d she want to come in here to be married, just like a servant-girl?” said the wife. “I’d never believed it o’ Sophy Burr, never!” And the minister had replied thoughtfully, “It does seem queer; but Miss Sophy’s always got some good reason for what she does; that poor Riker’s been through such dreadful troubles here, I don’t wonder she doesn’t want it talked about.”

“She’s just thrown herself away, that’s what it is,” said the wife.

“I hope not,” replied the minister, still more thoughtfully. “There’s something noble in the man’s look, sad as ’tis. He’ll come up yet. Sophy Burr’s no fool.”

Meantime the two thus being discussed were standing hand in hand just outside the parsonage gate. Strange words to be spoken by bride and bridegroom within five minutes of the ceremony which had made them one were passing between them.

“Zeph,” said Sophy, the instant they had passed the gate,—“Zeph, I’ve got to do something now that’ll try you considerable; but you must trust me. You’ve got to let me walk alone down to the depot and get into the cars by myself, and you get into the last car and stay there till I come t’ ye. ’Twon’t be long—”

“Sophy!” interrupted Zeph, half alarmed, half angry, “what notion’s taken ye to do that? I don’t think it’s decent, Sophy. What’ll folks think? It’s dark; ye needn’t be afraid o’ folks seein’ us ’s we go along. They’ve got to know it to-morrow morning; they might as well know it to-night.”

It had been a sore point to Zeph already, the secrecy in which their plans had been shrouded. Humble-minded and self-distrustful as he was, he was also sensitive to a fault; and he had spent many a wretched hour, needlessly torturing himself with the question if it could be that the faithful and devoted Sophy felt shame of having linked her fortunes with his.

“If you’d heard me through,” retorted Sophy, brusque even in this supreme moment of her life, “you’d have seen that it wasn’t any notion, nor nothin’ like a notion. It’s got to be done, Zeph, an’ you’ve got to trust me. I’ve got a reason, an’ if you knew it you wouldn’t ask me to do different. You’d help me all you could, an’ not make me feel bad either. Can’t ye trust me ’s long ’s one hour, Zeph? I’d do it for you. Trust me, Zeph. I’m your wife now, you know!”

“Of course I’ll trust ye, Sophy,” replied Zeph, half appeased, but only half. “It wasn’t no question o’ trustin’, an’ I’ll do jest as you want me to; hain’t I always? But I don’t see why ye can’t tell me what ’tis, Sophy.”

“Oh, dear!” she cried hysterically, “we haven’t got any time to lose, standin’ here; it’s ’most train-time now. I can’t tell you! an’ when you know what ’tis, you’ll see I couldn’t tell you. You’ll be real glad I didn’t, Zeph. Oh, do trust me! you’ve got to!”—she was crying now,—“for I’m goin’ right off this minute!” And with a convulsive clasp of her husband’s hand she turned and walked away at the top of her speed. Tears ran down her cheeks, and in her excitement she talked aloud to herself as she ran: “If she should take it into her head to come down there! If she was to see Zeph, she might suspect! Perhaps she’s backed out already! Perhaps Gammer won’t get down there in time! Supposin’ Zeph didn’t take notice o’ my tellin’ him to get into the last car!”

The fast-multiplying terrors so unnerved her, that she felt for the first time in her sturdy life faint,—which but added another alarm. “If I should be fool enough to go an’ faint, I should give up!” she said. The self-contempt she felt at this thought proved the best of tonics, and by the time she reached the railway station she was almost herself again.

It wanted only ten minutes of the train-time, but there was a sleepy expression about everybody and everything at the station which struck fear to her heart. “Train’s late, I’ll be bound,” she thought.

Yes, the train was late; only an hour, though. That would soon pass. In a few moments she saw a tall figure, much wrapped and encumbered, coming over a low hill to the north of the station. A short cross-cut from Gammer Stein’s house would run that way. Her breath coming thick and fast, Miss Sophy stepped towards the figure. It was Gammer, and she held the child in her arms. At the sight, Miss Sophy felt herself again in danger of fainting. “I didn’t know I’d got it in me to be so upset,” she thought, as she laid her hand on Gammer’s shoulder, and tried to speak. “You’ve got her!” was all she could say.

“Yes,” whispered Gammer, “she’s asleep. I jest giv’ her ther leastest bit er paregoric; ’twon’t hurt her er mite; ’n’ I put er li’le bottle on ’t inter ther bundle, already sweetened. Yer needn’t be er mite afeerd ter give it ter her ef she hollers.”

“The train’s late!” said Miss Sophy, clutching Gammer’s arm. “We’ll have to walk about. Keep out here ’n the shade.”

“Ain’t thet drefful, naow,” said Gammer. “I allaowed ter git hyar jest on ther minnit, five minnits erhead er time, so ’s ter git right on board. It’s lucky I giv’ her the paregoric. But she’s powerful heavy. I allaow ter yeow my arm’s plum broke!”

“Let me take her,” said Miss Sophy; and a warm glow kindled in her breast as the unconscious little creature was laid in her arms.

Zeph was peering anxiously in every direction. He too had discovered that the train was late; but that did not console him for his wife’s non-appearance, since she could not have known that fact, and ought long before this to have been on the platform. Dire anxiety consumed him. Where was she? What did it mean? He saw the two dimly outlined figures pacing up and down in the distance; but in contrast with Gammer’s great height, Sophy’s figure looked so short, he did not dream of its being hers; and besides, that figure was carrying a child. He did not give it a second look.

The hour had nearly passed. The sleepy, waiting passengers outside on the benches and in the waiting-room were beginning to bestir themselves; trucks were being wheeled, luggage moved, carriages driving up. Walking boldly forward now, Zeph scrutinized all. No Sophy to be seen! Just as he was on the point of turning away, with the resolve that come what might he would not get into the train till he had seen her, his eye was arrested by a swift-running figure,—a woman, crossing the track a few rods from the station and turning towards it. A signal-lantern, hung high on a derrick, flashed its light full upon her as she passed. It was Rushy, her face wild, her hair dishevelled.

“My God!” gasped Zeph. “That’s what Sophy was afraid of! That’s Rushy, and she’s drunk! I’ll hide, ’n’ do jest’s Sophy told me to. She’s got some plan o’ gettin’ aboard herself; she had a reason, sure enough! But she might ha’ told me!”

Beyond the track, on the side farthest from the station, was a gulch thick grown with weeds and young cottonwood trees. Into this Zeph leaped, and stood waiting for the train; as soon as it pulled in he sprang to the platform of the rear car, and entering it, sank into a seat. Whatever came now, he at least had fulfilled to the letter his wife’s request. But the suspense was beyond his endurance.

“It’d kill Sophy if she was to make a row ’n’ insult her,” he said, “’n’ me not there to stand by her!” And going out on the platform, he leaned out, straining his eyes forward along the train, just in time to see Sophy standing back from the steps of the forward car and assisting an elderly woman burdened with a child in her arms to get in before her.

“Just like Sophy,” he thought, “always helpin’ somebody! Oh, why don’t she jump in quick? Where’s Rushy? She was a lookin’ to see me, I expect, an’ so she’s missed her!”

It had been but five minutes,—only an insignificant way-station stop; but it had settled the life-destiny of more than one human being.

The unfortunate Rushy was coming to the station on a very different errand from that which Zeph had suspected. In fact, she did not reach the station at all. If he had watched for a moment longer he would have seen her pause, look attentively at the crowd gathered there, and then, retreating into the darkness, seat herself on the ground at the base of a telegraph-pole, against which she leaned in an attitude of despair.