Chapter VI

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.

“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’!”