Chapter THIRTEEN

During the next two weeks, while Flukey was fighting with death, and the great Shellington mansion was as silent as a tomb, Scraggy Peterson was tramping back to the squatter country. When she reached Ithaca, she was almost too ill to start up the Lehigh Valley tracks toward her hut. The black cat clung to her tattered jacket, his wizard-eyes shining green, as Screech Owl passed under the gas-lamps. It was almost ten o'clock at night when she unlatched her shanty door and kindled a fire. The larder was bare, save for some crusts of hard bread. These the woman soaked in hot water and shared with the cat. Then, in a state of great exhaustion, she picked up Black Pussy, blew out the candle, and, for the first time in many days, slept in her own hut.

On the shore below Lem Crabbe's scow was drawn up near the Cronk hut. The squatter and scowman were conversing in the dim light of a lantern that swung from Lem's hook.

"Did ye make any hauls while ye was gone, Lem?" asked Lon.

"Nope, only sold the lumber. I ain't trying nothin' alone."

"It was cussed mean I couldn't go along with ye," Lon said; "but I had to stay to hum. Did ye know that Mammy were dead?"

"Nope!"

"Yep, and buried, too! She fretted over the brats, and kep' a sayin' they was dead in the lake. But I know they jest runned off some'ers."

"I know it, too," Lem grunted savagely. "The gal didn't have no likin' for me."

"I jest see Scraggy come hum," ventured Lon. "She's been gone for a long while. She were a comin' down the tracks."

Lem muttered a savage oath, and faced the scow preparatory to entering. Looking back over his shoulder, he asked:

"Be ye comin' in, Lon?"

"Nope; I'm goin' to bed. Say, Lem, while ye was away, ye didn't get ear of no good place to make a haul soon, did ye?"

"Yep; I tied up to Tarrytown goin' down. There be heaps of rich folks there. Middy Burnes what runs the tug says as how there be a feller there richer than the devil.... Hell! I've forgot his name!"

Lem halted on the gangplank and thought for a moment.

"Nope, I ain't; I jest thought of it!... Shellington! That's him, and he's a fine house, and many's the room filled with--"

Lon broke in upon Lem with a growl:

"Then we'll separate him from some of his jewjaws. I bet we has a little of his pile afore another month goes by!"

"That's what I bet, too," muttered Lem. "Night, Lon."

"Night," repeated Lon, walking away.

* * * * *

Lem placed the lantern on the table and sat down to think. Ever since the day Screech Owl had told him of the boy he had wounded so many years before his mind had worked constantly with the thought that he must find the home where his son was. Scraggy was the only human being to tell him. She must tell him! He would make her, if he had to choke the woman to death to get her secret! He remembered how she had mocked at him when she had told him that strange bit of news. Realizing that Scraggy's malady made her difficult to coerce, he decided to try cajolery at once.

Lent rose and took a bit of bread from the cupboard shelf. He slipped it into a bag, caught up the lantern with his hook, and left the scow. He halted in front of Scraggy's dark hut and pounded on the door. The cat, scrambling to the floor inside, was Lem's answer. He knocked again.

"Scraggy! Scraggy!" he called. "It be Lemmy! Open the door!"

Through her deep sleep came the voice Screech Owl had loved, and still loved. She sat up in bed, trembling violently, pushing back with a pathetic gesture the gray hair from her eyes. She had been dreaming of Lem--dreaming that she had heard his voice. But black pussy couldn't have dreamed also. He was perched in the small window, lashing his great tail from side to side. She slid from the bed, stretched out a bony hand, and clutched the cat.

"Did ye hear him, too, black pussy?"

"Scraggy!" called Lem again, "Open the door! I brought you something to eat."

It was the thought of the time when he had loved her so, and not of the food he had brought, that forced Scraggy to the door. She flung it open, and the scowman entered.

"I thought ye might be hungry, Scraggy; so I brought ye this bread," said Lem, lifting the hook and sending a ray from the lantern upon the woman. "Can I set down?"

Could he, this king among men to her, could he sit down in her hut? He could have had her heart's blood had he asked it! Had she not crowned him that day, when he had stood awkwardly by, as she tendered him a dark-haired baby boy? Scraggy's happiness knew no bounds. She forgot her fatigue and set forth a chair for Lem.

"Be ye glad to see me, Scraggy?" asked he presently, crossing his legs and watching her as she lighted some candles.

"More'n glad," she replied simply. "But what did ya come for, Lemmy?"

Lem remained silent for some seconds; then said:

"Do ye want to come back to the scow, Scraggy?"

"Ye mean to live?"

Lem shoved out his hairy chin.

"Yep, to live," said he.

"Did ye come to ask me back, Lemmy?"

"Yep, or I wouldn't have been here. I've been thinkin' our fambly oughter be together."

"Fambly!" echoed Screech Owl wonderingly.

"Yep, Scraggy. We'll get the boy again, and all of us'll live on the scow."

His swarthy face went yellow in the candlelight, and the huge goiter under his chin evidenced by its movements the emotion through which he was passing. Scraggy had sunk to the floor. Now she crawled nearer him, staring at his face with wonder-widened eyes.

"Do ye mean, Lemmy, that ye love yer pretty boy brat well enough to want him on the scow, and that he can eat all he wants?"

"That's what I mean," grunted Lem.

"And that ye mean me to tell him what ye says, Lemmy, and that ye want me to bring him back?"

"Yep."

Scraggy had drawn closer and closer to Lem, her sad face wrinkling into deeper lines. With each uttered word Lem had seen that he had conquered her. Suddenly he dropped his heavy left hand down on the gray head and kept it there.

For the first time in many weary years Scraggy Peterson was kneeling before her man. Now he wanted her! He had asked her to come again to that precious haven of rest, and to bring the child! Scraggy forgot that the babe she had passed through the barge window was grown to be a man, forgot that he might not want to come back to the scow with her and his father.

Lem drew her close between his heavy knees and touched her withered chin with his fingers.

"Where be the brat, Scraggy?" he wheedled.

Screech Owl lifted her head and drew back frightened. Something warned her that she must not tell him where his son lived.

"I'll get him for ye," she said doggedly.

"Where be he?" demanded the scowman.

"I ain't tellin' ye where he be now, Lem." Scraggy's tone was sulky.

"Why?"

"'Cause I'll go and get him. I'll bring him to the scow lessen--lessen--"

"Lessen what?" cried Lem darkly.

"Lessen a month," replied Scraggy, "and ye'll kiss the brat, and he'll call ye 'Daddy,' and he'll love ye like I do, Lemmy dear."

Lem was rigid, as the woman smoothed down his shaggy gray hair and patted his hard face. Suddenly he started to his feet.

"Ye say, Scraggy, that ye'll bring the boy lessen a month?"

"Yep, lessen a month. And, Lemmy, he be a beautiful baby! Ye'll love him, will ye, Lemmy?"

"Yep. And now ye take yer cat, Screechy, and get back to bed, and when ye get the boy bring him to the scow." He hesitated a moment; then said, "Ye don't know, do ye, where Flea and Flukey run to?"

Scraggy's face dropped.

"Be they gone?" she stammered, rising.

"Yep, for a long time; and Granny Cronk be dead."

"Then ye didn't get Flea, Lem?"

"Nope. And I don't want the brat, Scraggy; I only want the boy." He spoke with meaning, and when he stood on the hut steps he turned back to finish, "Ye'll bring him, will ye, Owl?"

"Yep, Lemmy love, lessen a month."

Scraggy greedily watched the shadowy form move away in the light of the lantern. "Pussy, Pussy," she muttered, as she closed the door, "black Pussy, come a beddy; yer ole mammy be that happy that her heart's a bustin'."

When Screech Owl, although the happiest woman in the squatter settlement, fell asleep with the cat in her arms, her pillow was wet with tears.

* * * * *

Through long days of anxious waiting for Flukey's recovery, Flea struggled with the Bible lessons Ann set for her each day. Yet she could not grasp the meaning of faith. She prayed nightly; but uttered her words mechanically, for the Savior in the blue sky seemed beyond her conception. In spite of Miss Shellington's tender pleading, in spite of the fact that Flukey believed stanchly all that Ann had told them, Flea suffered in her disbelief. Many times she sought consolation in Flukey's faith.

"Ye see, Flea, can't ye," he said, one morning, "that when Sister Ann says a thing it's so? Can't ye see it, Flea?"

"Nope, I can't. I don't know how God looks. I can't understand how Jesus ruz after he'd been dead three days."

"He did that 'cause He were one-half God," explained Flukey, and then, brightening, added, "Sister Ann telled me that if He hadn't been a sufferin' and a sufferin', and hadn't loved everybody well enough, God wouldn't have let Him ruz. 'Twa'n't by anything He did after He were dead that brought Him standin' up again."

"Then who did it?" queried Flea.

"God did--jest as how He said 'way back there when there wasn't any world, 'World, come out!' and the world came. He said, 'Jesus, stand up!' and Jesus stood up. That's as easy as rollin' off a log, Flea."

She had heard Ann explain it, too; but it seemed easier when Flukey interpreted it.

"If I could see and speak to Him once," she mourned, "I could make Sister Ann glad by tellin' her that I knowed He'd answer me."

"Ask Him to let ye see Himself," advised Flukey, "He'll do it, I bet! Will ye, Flea?"

"Nope! I'd be 'fraid if He came and stood near me. I'm 'fraid even now when I think of Him; but 'cause I can't believe 'tain't no reason why you can't, Fluke."

She turned her head toward the door and listened.

"Brother Horace ain't like Sister Ann," she whispered.

"Nobody ain't like her, Flea. She's the best ever!"

"Yep, so she is. But I wish as how--" She paused, and a burning blush spread over her face. "I wish as how Brother Horace had Sister Ann's way of talking to me. I could--"

"Brother Horace ain't nothin' to do with yer believin', Flea."

"Yep, he has, and when he says as how he believes like Miss Shellington, then I'll believe, too. See?"

Then Flea fell into a stubborn silence.

One afternoon in December, Ann and Horace sat conversing in the library.

"I don't see how Mrs. Vandecar can refuse to help you get that child into school, Ann."

"I don't believe she will; but Everett thinks she ought."

"Everett's getting some queer notions lately," Horace said reluctantly.

Ann's heart ached dully--the happiness she had had in her lover had diminished of late. Constantly unpleasant words passed between them on subjects of so little importance that Ann wondered, when she was alone, why they should have been said at all. Several times Brimbecomb had refused to further his acquaintance with the twins.

"I only wish he would like those poor children," said she. "I care so little what our other friends think!"

Shellington pondered a moment. He reflected on Flea's beseeching face as she pleaded for Flukey, and he decided that the censure of all his acquaintances could not take his protection from her.

"No, I don't care for the opinion of any of them," he replied deliberately. "I want only your happiness, Sis, and--theirs."

"Wouldn't it be nice if we could find respectable names for them?" Ann said presently. "One can't harmonize them with 'Flea' and 'Flukey.'"

After a silence of a few moments, Horace spoke:

"What do you think about calling them Floyd and Fledra, Ann?"

"Oh, but would we dare do that, Horace?"

"Why not? It wouldn't harm the Vandecars, and the children might be better for it. We could impress upon them what an honor it would be."

"But the Vandecars' own little lost children had those names."

"That's true, too; but I haven't the least idea that either one of them will take offense, if you explain that we think it will help the youngsters."

"Shall I speak with Mrs. Vandecar about it this afternoon?" asked Ann.

"Yes, just sound her, and see what she says."

"I might as well go to her right away, then, Horace. You talk with the little girl about going to school while I'm gone. You can do so much more with her than I can."

"All right," said Horace, "and I feel very sure that we won't have any trouble with her."

After seeing his sister depart, he returned to the library and, before settling himself in a chair, sent a summons to Flea.

When the girl appeared, Horace rose and cast smiling eyes of approval over her.

"That's a mighty pretty dress you have on," said he. "Was it Sister's idea to put that lacy, frilly stuff on it?"

Flea crimsoned at his praise, as she nodded affirmation.

"Sit here in this chair," invited Shellington. "I want to have a little chat with you this afternoon."

Unconsciously Flea put herself into an attitude of graceful attention and gazed at him worshipfully. At that moment Horace felt how very much he desired that she grow into a good woman.

"How do you think your brother is today?" he questioned kindly.

"He's awful sick," replied Flea.

"I fear, too, that he will be very ill for a long time. He was filled with the fever when he came here. Now, my sister and I have been talking it over--"

Flea rose half-hesitantly.

"And ye wants me to take him some'ers else?" she questioned.

Horace motioned again for her to be seated.

"Sit down, child," said he; "you're quite wrong in your hasty guess. No, of course, you're not to go away. But my sister and I desire that while you are here you should study, and that you should come in contact with other girls of your own age. We want you to go to school."

"Study--study what?"

"Why, learn to read and write, and--"

"Ye mean I have to leave Flukey, and--and you?"

She had risen and had come close to him, her eyes filled with burning tears. Horace felt his throat tighten: for any emotion in this girl affected him strangely.

"Oh, no! You won't go away from home--at least, not at night; only for a few hours in the daytime. I'm awfully anxious that you should learn, Flea."

She came even closer as she said:

"I'll do anything you want me to--'cause ye be the best ole duffer in New York State!" Then she whirled and fled from the room.

* * * * *

Ann Shellington rang the Vandecar doorbell, and a few minutes later was ushered upstairs. Mrs. Vandecar was in a negligée gown, and Katherine was brushing the invalid's hair.

"Pardon me, Ann dear," said Mrs. Vandecar, "for receiving you in this way; but I'm ill today."

"I'm so sorry! It's I who ought to ask pardon for coming. But I knew that no one could aid me except you in the particular thing I am interested in."

"I shall be glad to help you, if I can, Ann.... There, Katherine, just roll my hair up. Thank you, Girly."

Ann had seated herself, and now spoke of her errand:

"You've heard of our little charges who came so strangely to us not long ago?"

Mrs. Vandecar nodded.

"Horace and I wish to do something for them. It seems as if they had been sent to us by Providence. The lad is very ill, and the girl ought to go to school. We were wondering if you could have her admitted for special lessons to Madame Duval's. The school associations would do such a lot for her." As Ann continued, she marked Mrs. Vandecar's hesitation. "I know very well, Dear, that I am asking you a serious thing; but Brother and I think that it would do her a world of good."

Mrs. Vandecar thoughtfully received the shawl Katherine brought her. Then she looked straight at Ann and said:

"Everett doesn't approve of your work, does he, Ann?"

Miss Shellington colored, and fingered her engagement ring.

"No," she replied frankly; "but it's because he refuses to know them. They're little dears! I've explained to him our views, and have promised that they shall not interfere with any plans he and I may make. I've never seen Horace vitally interested before, or at least so much so. Now, do you think that you would be willing to do this for us? Mildred's going to the school, and you being a patroness will make Madame Duval listen to such a proposal from you."

Mrs. Vandecar turned upon her visitor searchingly.

"Are you doing right, Ann, in taking these children into your home life? I appreciate your good-heartedness; but--"

"Horace and I have talked it all over," interjected Ann, "and we are both assured that we are doing what is right. Won't you think it over, and let us know what you decide? If you find you can't do it--why, we'll arrange some other way."

The plan of naming the children came into her mind; but she hesitated before broaching it. Mrs. Vandecar was a type of everything high-bred and refined. Would it offend her aristocratic sense to have the children named after her and her husband? Ann overcame her timidity and spoke:

"Fledra, there's another thing I wanted to speak of. The children came to us without proper names, and Horace suggested that we call them Floyd and Fledra. Would you mind?"

Mrs. Vandecar drew back a little, a shade passing over her face. A painful memory ever present seized her. Long ago two babies had been called after their father and mother--after her and her strong husband. Could she admit that she did not care? Could she consent to Ann's request? Ann noted her struggle, and said quickly:

"I'm sorry--forgive me, Dear!"

Mrs. Vandecar's face brightened, and she smiled.

"I thought at first that I didn't want you to; but I won't be foolish. Of course, call them whatever you wish. Floyd won't mind, either."

* * * * *

Horace met his sister expectantly.

"Did you ask her about the names, Ann?"

"Yes. At first she was not inclined to either of our plans; but she has such a tender heart."

"So she has," responded Horace.

"She consented about the names; but said that she would send me word about the school."

"And she didn't give a ready consent?"

"No; but I'm almost sure that she will do it. And now about Flea. Did you talk with her?"

"Yes. She consented to go to school, and said--that I was the best old duffer in New York State."

"Oh, Horace! She must be taught not to use such language. It's dreadful! Poor little dear!"

"It'll take sometime to alter that," replied Horace, shaking his head. "They've had a fearful time, and she's been used to talking that way always; she's heard nothing else. You can't alter life's habits in a day."

"But Madame Duval won't have her if she's impudent," said Ann.

"Oh, but she's scarcely that," expostulated Horace; "she doesn't understand. I'll try to correct her sometime."

But he felt the blood come up to his hair as he promised; for it seemed almost impossible to approach the girl with a matter so personal. For the present, he dismissed the thought.

"What about the names, Ann?" he asked.

"As you wish, Dear; Fledra doesn't care."

From that moment, the boy, struggling with fever, and the gray-eyed girl, so like him, were called Floyd and Fledra Cronk.

* * * * *

One morning in January, the day before Flea was to begin her school work, she was passing through the hall that led to the front door. Her face was grave with timidity; although for hours Ann had been trying to fortify the young spirit against the ordeal that was to confront her the following day. Only once had Flea faltered a request that she be allowed to stay at home; but Horace had melted her objections without expelling her fear. To Ann's instructions concerning conduct she had listened with a heavy heart.

Everett Brimbecomb opened the front door as Flea approached it. She stopped short before him, and he drew in a sharp, quick breath. Flea was uncertain just what to do. She knew that he was going to marry Ann, and was also aware that he hated her brother and herself. Ann, however, had taught her to bow, and she now came forward with hesitant grace, and inclined her head slightly. The beauty of Flea made Everett regret that his objections to the twins had been so strenuous; but he would immediately establish a friendship with her that would please both Ann and Horace. He vowed that at the same time he would get some amusement out of it.

"Well! You've blossomed into a girl at last," he said banteringly, "and a mighty pretty one, too! I swear I shouldn't have known that you were one of those boys!"

Flea threw her peculiar eyes over him; but did not speak.

"You're going to school tomorrow, I hear. How do you like that?"

Flea shook her head.

"I don't want to go," she admitted; "but my Prince says as how I have to."

"Your what?"

"My Prince!"

"Your Prince! Who's your Prince?" demanded Brimbecomb.

"Him, back in there," replied Flea, casting her head backward in the direction of the library.

"You mean Mr. Shellington?"

"Yep!"

Everett burst into a loud laugh. At the sound, Horace stepped to his study-door and looked out. His face darkened as he discerned Flea standing against the wall and Brimbecomb looking down at her. He came forward and stationed himself at the girl's side, placing one hand upon her shoulder.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Why, little Miss--I'm sure I don't know the child's name," cried Everett breaking into merriment again, "she says you're a--Prince, Horace."

Shellington lowered his eyes to Flea, who was gazing up at him fearfully. She did not look at Everett; but made an uneasy gesture with her hand toward Horace. She had never seemed so appealingly adorable, and inwardly Everett cursed the stupidity that had allowed so many weeks to pass by without his having become Flea's friend.

There was silence, during which the girl locked and unlocked her fingers. Then she relieved it with the frank statement:

"This man here didn't seem to know nothin' about ye; so I told him ye was a Prince."

Ann's voice from the drawing-room caused Everett to turn on his heel, leaving Horace alone with Flea.

For a moment they were both quiet. Flea considered the toe of her slipper. A tear dropped to the front of her dress as Horace took her hand and led her into the library.

"Fledra," he said, using the new name with loving inflection, "what are you crying for?"

"I thought you was mad at me," she shuddered. "That bright-eyed duffer what I hate laughed when I said ye was a Prince. I hate his eyes, I do, and I hate him!"

Shellington did not correct her mistakes in English as he had done so often of late. With shaded remonstrance in his tone, he said:

"Fledra, he is going to marry my sister, and he's my friend."

"He ain't good enough for Sister Ann," muttered Flea stubbornly.

"She loves him, though, and that is enough to make us all treat him with respect."

Turning the subject abruptly, he continued:

"I'm expecting you to work very hard in school, Fledra. You will, won't you?"

"Yes," replied Flea, making sure to pronounce the word carefully.

Horace smiled so tenderly into her eyes that she grew frightened at the thumping of her heart and fled precipitately.