_ It was two weeks after this that Fletcher, looking up from his
coffee and cakes one morning, demanded querulously "Whar's Will,
Saidie? It seems to me he sleeps late these days."
"Oh, he was up hours ago," responded Miss Saidie, from behind the
florid silver service. "I believe he has gone rabbit hunting with
that young Blake. "
Fletcher laid down his knife and fork and glowered suspiciously
upon his sister, the syrup from his last mouthful hanging in
drops on his coarse gray beard.
"With young Blake! Why, what's the meaning of that?" he inquired.
"It's only that Will's taken to him, I think. Thar's no harm in
this hunting rabbits that I can see, and it keeps the child out
of doors, anyway. Fresh air is what the doctor said he needed,
you know."
"I don't like it; I don't like it," protested Fletcher; "those
Blakes are as mad as bulldogs, and they've been so as far back as
I can remember. The sooner a stop's put to this thing the better
it'll be. How long has it been going on, I wonder?" "About ten
days, I believe, and it does seem to give the boy such an
interest. I can't help feeling it's a pity to break it up."
"Oh, bother you and your feelings!" was Fletcher's retort. "If
you'd had the sense you ought to have had, it never would have
started; but you've always had a mushy heart, and I ought to have
allowed for it, I reckon. Thar're two kind of women in this
world, the mulish and the pulish, an' when it comes to a man's
taking his pick between 'em, the Lord help him. As for that young
Blake--well, if I had to choose between him and the devil, I'd
take up with the devil mighty fast, that's all."
"Oh, Brother Bill, he saved the child's life!"
"Well, he didn't do it on purpose; he told me so himself. I tried
to settle that fair and square with him, you know, and he had the
face to tear my check in half and send it back. Oh, I don't like
this thing, I tell you, and I won't have it. I've no doubt it's
at the bottom of all Will's cutting up about school, too. He was
not well enough to go yesterday, he said, and here he's getting
up this morning at daybreak and streaking, heaven knows whar,
with a beggar. You may as well pack his things--I'll ship him off
to-morrow if I'm alive."
"I hope you won't scold him, anyway; he's not strong, you know,
and it's good for him to have a little pleasure. I'm sure I can't
see what you have against the Blakes, as far as that goes. I
remember the old gentleman when I was a child--so fine, and
clean, and pleasant, it was a sight just to see him ride by on
his dappled horse. He always lifted his hat to me, too, when he
passed me in the road, and once he gave me some peaches for
opening the red gate for him. I never could help liking him, and
I was sorry when he lost his money and they had to sell the
Hall."
Fletcher choked over his coffee and grew purple in the face.
"Hang your puling!" he cried harshly. "I'll not stand it, do you
hear? The old man was a beggarly, cheating spendthrift, and the
young one is a long sight worse. I'd rather wring Will's neck
than have him mixed up with that batch of paupers."
Miss Saidie shrunk back, frightened, behind the silver service.
"Of course you know best, brother," she hastened to acknowledge,
with her unfailing good-humour. "I'm as fond of the child as you
are, I reckon--and of Maria, too, for that matter. Have you seen
this photograph she sent me yesterday, taken at some outlandish
place across the water? I declare, I had no idea she was half so
handsome. She has begun to wear her hair low and has filled out
considerable."
"Well, there was room for it," commented Fletcher, as he glanced
indifferently at the picture and laid it down. "Get Will's
clothes packed to-day, remember. He starts off tomorrow morning,
rain or shine."
Pushing back his chair, he paused to gulp a last swallow of
coffee, and then stamped heavily from the room.
At dinner Will did not appear, and when at last the supper bell
jangled in the hall and Fletcher strode in to find the boy's
place still empty, the shadow upon his brow grew positively
black. As they rose from the table there were brisk, light steps
along the hall, and Will entered hurriedly, warm and dusty after
the day's hunt. Catching sight of his grandfather, he started
nervously, and the boyish animation he had brought in from the
fields faded quickly from his face, which took on a sly and
dogged look.
"Whar in the devil's name have you been, suh?" demanded Fletcher
bluntly.
The boy hesitated, seeking the inevitable defenses of the weak
pitted against the strong. "I've been teaching my hounds to hunt
rabbits," he replied, after a moment. "Zebbadee was with me."
"So you were too sick to start for school this morning, eh?"
pursued Fletcher, hurt and angry. "Only well enough to go
traipsing through the bushes after a pack of brutes?"
"I had a headache, but it got better. May I go up now to wash my
hands?"
For an instant Fletcher regarded him in a brooding silence; then,
with that remorseless cruelty which is the strangest
manifestation of wounded love, he loosened upon the boy's head
all the violence of his smothered wrath.
"You'll do nothing of the kind! I ain't done with you yet, and
when I am I reckon you will know it. Mark my words, if you warn't
such a girlish looking chap I'd take my horsewhip to your
shoulders in a jiffy. So this is the return I get, is it, for all
my trouble with you since the day you were born! Tricks and lies
are all the reward I'm to expect, I reckon. Well, you'll learn--
once for all, now--that when you undertake to fool me it's a
clear waste of time. I've found out whar you've been to-day, and
I know you've been sneaking across the county with that darn
Blake!"
The boy looked at him steadily, first with speechless terror,
then with a cowed and sullen rage. The glare in Fletcher's eyes
fascinated him, and he stood motionless on his spot of carpet as
if he were held there in an invisible vise. Weakling as he was,
he had been humoured too long to bear the lash submissively at
last, and beneath the tumult of words that overwhelmed him he
felt his anger flow like an infusion of courage in his veins. The
greater share of love was still on his grandfather's side, and
the knowledge of this lent a sullen defiance to his voice.
"You bluster so I can't hear," he said, blinking fast to shut out
the other's eyes. "If I did go with Christopher Blake, what's the
harm in it? I only lied because you make such a fuss it gives me
a headache."
"It's the first fuss I ever made with you, I reckon," returned
Fletcher, softening before the accusation. "If I ever fussed with
you before, sonny, you may make mighty certain you deserved it."
"You frighten me half to death when you rage so," persisted the
boy, snatching craftily at his advantage.
"There, there, we'll get it over," said Fletcher, quieting
instantly. "I didn't mean to scare you that way, but the truth is
it put me in a passion to hear of you mixing up with that scamp
Blake. Jest keep clear of him and I'll ask nothing more of you.
You may chase all your rabbits between here and kingdom come for
aught I care, but if I ever see you alongside of Christopher
Blake again, I tell you, I'll lick you until you're black and
blue. And now hurry up and git your supper and go to bed, for you
start to school to-morrow morning at sunrise."
Will flushed, and stood blinking his eyes in the lamplight.
"I don't want to go to school, grandpa," he said persuasively.
"That's a pity, sonny, because you've got to go whether you like
it or not. Your Aunt Saidie has gone and packed your things, and
I'll give you a month's pocket money to start with."
"But I'd rather stay at home and study with Mr. Morrison. Then I
could follow after the hounds in the afternoon and keep out in
the fresh air, as the doctor said I must."
"Now, now, we've had enough of this," said Fletcher decisively.
"You'll do what I say, mind you, and you'll do it quick. No
haggling over it, do you hear?"
Will looked at him sullenly, nerved by that reckless anger which
so often passes for pure daring.
"If you make me go you'll be sorry, grandpa," he said, choking.
Fletcher swallowed an uneasy laugh, strangled over it, and
finally spat it out with a wad of tobacco.
"Why, what blamed maggot have you got in your head, son?" he
inquired, laying his heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "You
didn't use to hate school so, and, as sure as you're born, you'll
find it first rate sport when you get back. It's this Blake
business, that's what it is--he's gone and stuffed you plum full
of notions. Look here, now, you don't want to grow up to be a
dunce like him, do you?"
He had touched the raw at last, and Will broke out passionately
in revolt, inflamed by a boyish admiration for his own bravado.
"He's got a lot more sense than anybody about here, "he cried,
backing against the door and holding tightly to the handle; "and
if he doesn't know that plaguey Greek it's because he says there
isn't any use in it. Why, he can shoot a bird on the wing over
his shoulder, and mount a horse at full gallop, and tell stories
that make you creep all over. He's not a dunce, grandpa; he's my
friend, and I like him!"
The last words came in a sudden spurt, for, feeling his
artificial courage ooze out of him, the boy had started in a run
from the room. He had barely crossed the threshold, however, when
Fletcher reached out with a strong grip and pulled him back,
swinging him slowly round until the two stood face to face.
"Now, here's one thing flat," said the man in a husky voice, if I
ever see or hear of you opening your mouth to that rascal again,
I'll thrash you until you haven't a sound bone in your body.
You'd better go up now and say your prayers."
As he released his grasp, the boy struck out at him with a
nerveless gesture and then shot like an arrow through the hall
and out into the twilight. At the moment his terror of Fletcher
was forgotten in the paroxysm of his anger. Short sobs broke from
him as he ran, and presently his breath came in pants like those
of an overdriven horse; but still, without slackening his pace,
he sped on to the old ice-pond and then wheeled past the turning
into the sunken road. Not until he had reached the long gate
before the Blake cottage did he stop short suddenly and stand,
grasping his moist shirt collar, in an effort to quiet his
convulsed breathing.
The hounds greeted him with a single bay, and at the noise
Cynthia came out upon the porch and then down into the gravelled
path between the old rose-bushes.
"What do you wish?" she demanded stiffly, standing severe and
erect in her faded silk.
"I must speak to Christopher--I must!" gasped the boy, breathing
hard. "I am going away tomorrow, and this is my last chance."
"Well, he's in the stable, I believe," replied Cynthia coolly.
"If you want him, you must go there to look for him, and be sure
not to make a noise when you pass the house." Then, as he darted
away, her eyes followed him with a weary aversion.
Will passed the kitchen and the woodpile and, turning into a
little path that led from the well, came to the open door of the
rudely built stable. A dim light fell in a square across the
threshold, and looking inside he saw that a lantern was hanging
from a nail above the nearest stall and that within the circle of
its illumination Christopher was busily currying the old gray
mare.
At the boy's entrance he paused for an instant, glanced
carelessly over the side of the stall, and then went on with his
work.
"Playing night-owl, eh?" he remarked indifferently. "There's no
rubbing-down for you to do, I reckon."
"There's a darn sight worse," returned the boy, throwing out the
oath with a conscious swagger as he braced himself against the
ladder that ran up to the loft.
His tone arrested Christopher's hand, and, lifting his head, the
young man stood attentively regarding him, one arm lying upon the
broad back of the old mare.
"Why, what's up now?" he questioned with a smile. Some fine
chaff, which he had brought down from the loft, still clung to
his hair and clothes and darkened his upper lip like a mustache.
"Grandpa's found it out and he's hopping," said the boy. "I
always told you he would be, you know, and now it's come. If he
ever catches me with you again he swears he'll give it to me like
hell. He pressed tightly against the ladder and wagged his head
defiantly. "But he needn't think he can bully me like that--not
if I know it!"
"Well, he mustn't catch you again," returned Christopher, not
troubling to soften his scorn of such cheap heroics; "we must
manage better next time. Did you think to remind him, by the way,
that I once took the trouble to save your life?"
"That's a fact, I didn't think of it. What would he have said, I
wonder?"
Christopher raised his eyebrows. "Knocked your front teeth out,
perhaps. He's like that, isn't he?"
"Oh, he's awfully fond of me, you know," protested the boy; "but
it's his meddling ways that I can't stand. What business is it of
his who my friends are? He hasn't got to take up with 'em, has
he? Why, what he hates is for me to want to be with anybody but
himself or Aunt Saidie. He'd like to keep me dangling all day to
his coat tails, but it's not fair, and I won't have it. I'll show
him whether I'm to be kept a kid forever or not!"
"There's spirit for you!" drawled Christopher with a laugh, as he
applied the currycomb to the mare's flank.
"You just wait till you hear the worst," returned the other, with
evident pride in the thunderbolt about to be delivered. "He
swears he's going to send me to school tomorrow at sunrise."
"You don't say so?" ejaculated Christopher.
"Oh, but he'll do it, too--the only way to get around him is to
fall ill, and I can't work that tomorrow. I played the trick last
week and he saw through it. I've got to go, that's certain; but
I'm going to make him sorry enough before he's done. Why couldn't
he let me keep on studying with Mr. Morrison, as the doctor said
I ought to? What's the use of this blamed old Latin and Greek,
anyway? Nobody about here knows them, and why should I set myself
up for a precious numbskull of a scholar? I'd rather be a crack
shot like you any day! I tell you one thing," he finished,
sucking in his breath in a way that had annoyed Christopher from
the first, "I've half a mind to run away or fall ill after I get
there!"
Christopher turned suddenly, slapped the mare on the flank, and
came out of the stall, the currycomb still in his hand. His shirt
sleeves were rolled above his elbows, and the muscles of his arms
stood out like cords under the sunburned skin, which showed a
paler bronze from the wrists up. He was flushed from leaning
over, and his clothes smelled strongly of the stable.
"If you do, come to me, " he said lightly, "and I'll hide you in
the barn till the storm blows over. It wouldn't last long, I
reckon."
"Bless you, no; when he's scared I can do anything with him. Why,
he was as soft as mush after the horses ran away with me, though
he'd threatened to thrash me if I touched the reins. Oh, I say
it's a shame we never had that 'possum hunt!"
Christopher turned down his shirt sleeves and brushed the chaff
from his face.
"What do you say about to-night?" he inquired, with something
like a sneer. "We couldn't go far, of course, and we'd have to
borrow Tom Spade's hounds--mine are tired out--but we might have
a short run about midnight, get a 'possum or so, and be in our
beds before daybreak. Shall we try it?"
The boy wavered, struggling between his desire for the chase and
his fear of Fletcher.
"Of course, if you're afraid--" added Christopher slowly.
"I'm not afraid," broke out Will angrily. "I'm not afraid and you
know it. You be at the store by eleven, and I'll get out of the
window and join you. Grandpa will never know, and if he
does--well, I'll settle him!"
"Then be quick about it," was Christopher's retort, and as the
boy ran out into the darkness he followed him to the door and
stood gazing moodily down upon the yellow circle that his lantern
cast on the bare ground. A massive fatigue oppressed him, and his
hands and feet had become like leaden weights. There was a
heaviness, too, about his head, and his eyeballs burned as if he
had looked too long at a bright light. At the moment he felt like
a man who, being bound upon a wheel, is whirled so rapidly around
that he is dazed by the continuous revolutions. What did it all
mean, anyway--the boy, Fletcher, himself, and the revenge which
he now saw so clearly before him? Was it a great divine judgment
or a great human cruelty?
Question as he would, the wheel still turned, and he knew that
for good or evil he was bound upon it until the end. _