For a moment, he felt impelled to go to his wife, to tell her how sorry he was for all his ugly moods. He blamed himself bitterly for Elsie's disappearance. If her mother had been home, the little girl would not have gone away.
In the servant's quarters, he gave orders that a doctor should be sent for. As he came back to the reception hall, he saw Helen looking down up him,--and she was smiling. How could she smile when the world was no longer glad, no longer beautiful? But a few hours before he had left her in tears, almost insane. Now she stood quietly, happily, as if joy unlimited were hers.
Mrs. Waldstricker placed her fingers on her lips.
"Come up, dear heart," she whispered.
Ebenezer mounted the stairs.
"I'm so miserable, Helen," he said. "I don't know what to say."
Helen stood on tiptoe and put one arm around his neck. She drew the massive head down and pressed her face to her husband's cheek.
"I don't think there's anything much to say," she said softly, "but to thank her for bringing her back."
Waldstricker straightened himself impatiently.
"Brought who back?" he demanded. "What do you mean? My God, Helen, the whole house has gone mad."
"Didn't you see Tessibel in the library?" Helen asked. "She--"
"Well, I should say I did," Ebenezer snorted, "and I cleared her out of there. How dare the impudent huzzy come to my house?"
"Great Heavens! Ebenezer!" exclaimed Helen. "She carried Elsie all the way from the lake!"
When these words fell upon Waldstricker's ears, he couldn't comprehend their import entirely. Elsie was found! But--Then, the full horror of his impetuous action burst upon him. The squatter girl had brought her back! Oh! Brute and fool that he was! He groaned and started to speak but his wife's voice interrupted him.
"Elsie's in here. Come see her! Won't you come, dear?"
The husband followed his wife through the nursery door, and as he centered his eyes upon the little bed in which his baby lay, life turned over for Ebenezer Waldstricker. He bent down and placed a reverent kiss upon the flushed, sleeping face. Then, he turned to Helen.
"I'm going to find Tessibel Skinner," he said, and, abruptly turning, went out.
Deforrest Young forced his foaming horse into Waldstricker's gateway and galloped up to the porch. It took him but one brief moment to fling himself to the ground, and up the steps into the house. Andy had told him Tess had gone to Ebenezer's with little Elsie. To know his darling was out in such a night nearly drove him mad. It hadn't taken him long to decide to go after her.
Meeting Ebenezer coming down the stairs, the lawyer's first demand was,
"Where's Tessibel--" and Waldstricker's reply came low and self-accusing.
"I sent her home, but, Deforrest, I didn't know about her bringing Elsie, then."
The lawyer didn't wait to ask anything more. Sick at heart and apprehensive, he went from the mansion and into his saddle and once more out between the great stone gate posts.
When the church elder pushed her through the doorway, into the winter night, Tessibel stood one moment swaying, back and forth, in an effort to steady her mind enough to plan her next action. She knew the long, wintry road to the lake must again be traversed before she could lie down and rest. A sob came to her lips. She was so tired, so wearily unable to think. She had wanted to stay where it was warm, to wait until Deforrest came after her; but Mr. Waldstricker had almost thrown her into the snow. He had told her she couldn't stay, so, of course, she couldn't go back. How cruel he had looked and how strong his hands were!
Once, some one had said Waldstricker's hands were stronger than God's.
But, no, that wasn't true! She and Andy had proved it false. It was just that Waldstricker didn't like her; he didn't like any of the squatters, that's why he made her go away. Probably, he wasn't as glad as she thought he'd be to get his baby back. She drew her coat closer about her shoulders and stepped from the porch. The snow had ceased to fall, and the wind had quieted its turbulent raging. Very cold and quiet, the whole white night-world seemed. Of a sudden, the solitude was pierced by a hoarse sound from a sleepy fowl in the great barn below in the meadows. A night bird uttered a shrill, belligerent cry and sank to silence in his tree top. Tess turned her head sharply. These life-sounds out of the dusky beyond came from her friends. She wasn't afraid, only cold and chilled to her body's depths. Slowly, she went down the drifted driveway to the Trumansburg road and turned lakeward. She wondered if it was safe to return home cross-lots when she was so tired. It was shorter through the fields, but her legs seemed almost unable to bear up her weight in the deep snow.
At the top of the hill, opposite the Stebbins' homestead, she crouched down to rest a moment. Once, she thought she heard a horse. It might have been, but if so, the animal had passed, for no longer could she hear the thud of hoofs upon the snow road. Then, something touched her, and she turned her eyes upward. There, in the sky, was a moon--Was it her moon, that pale riding thing, taking its way through the white clouds? How cold it looked, and how cold it was! She shivered, settled a little in her coat and closed her eyes. A moment later, something brushed her hand. Slowly, the long red-brown lashes lifted and the red-brown eyes settled upon a figure bending over her, a figure, white like one of Mother Moll's conjured ghosts. Tessibel wanted to go to sleep. Why had the night stranger touched her, just then? Oh, she was out in the snow. A person ought never to lie down in the snow. Daddy Skinner had told her so many times. She mustn't sleep. She must get up instantly--but--her legs were too stiff, too difficult to move. Then, the figure faded slowly from her vision. How heavy her chest felt. A moonbeam lay slant-wise across it. That couldn't be so heavy, just a bit of the moonlight. Why, of course, something else was cradled in the white beam. Tess looked closer. A babe, as fair as an unblemished rose leaf, lay straight across her breast and considered her with unfathomable, interested eyes.... It was Boy--her Boy--she had him back again. Then, he hadn't been put in a little box in the ground beside Daddy Skinner. She managed to raise one arm and drop it across the small body. How lovely he was, this moonbeam babe, so white, so gentle and dark-haired.
Tessibel was warmer since he had come to her; her arms no longer trembled, but her legs seemed to have lost their desire to walk. She felt glad of that, too, because she was too tired to walk, anyway, and the baby was very sweet. Then, once more, a long shadow came between her and the moon and someone bent over her. Ah, 'twas Daddy Skinner, the same beloved, heavy humped-shoulders--the same precious face, and he was fondling the moon baby, and twice kissed _her_ with tender, twitching lips. She smiled happily and moved a little in the snow. She tried to catch Daddy's hand, tried to call his dear name, but only a little sound came from her tightened, frozen throat. Then, smiling, Daddy Skinner went back to the moon, and Tess, drowsily, cuddled the white babbling closer, and went to sleep.
Deforrest Young brought his horse to an abrupt standstill. Had he heard a faint sound off there in the path? With a sudden spring, he dismounted. Over near the fence, he thought he had seen through the streak of light a human hand move upward and then sink into the snow. He paused a moment and shuddered. Had he lost his senses through the suffering the week had brought him? He shook himself and turned to his horse again. No silly vision should drag him across a snowdrift on such a night. He was going home to Tessibel. In hesitant quandary, he still stood staring west to the rail fence. Then, something impelled him to do the very thing he had decided would be fruitless.
One bound took him through the piles of snow at the side of the road.
The lawyer bent down, his heart tightening with fear. A human being lay close to the fence. Young quickly pulled the face into the moonlight.
The quiet, death-like form was Tessibel Skinner.
A huge sob tore its way from the lawyer's throat, and burst fiercely through his teeth. Was she dead, his dearest who had received evil, perhaps death, for the good she had done?
Above his head the limbs of a great tree sang their song of winter to the night. Deforrest remembered Tess had always loved the whispering of the wind. A low cry followed by words fell from his lips.
"Love air everywhere the hull time," he sobbed. "Oh, Love, Divine, merciful Love, protect my pretty child!"
In another sixty seconds he was pounding through the snow road toward the lake with a sleeping red-haired girl in his arms.
It was broad day when Tessibel opened her eyes. She lay for some time looking at the ceiling, then around her. She was alone in the room, yes, in her own room at the lake. Something had hurt her dreadfully, for even her arms ached so she couldn't move them. She wondered where Andy was, and Mother Moll, and if Deforrest were home.
She tried to sit up, but the pains shooting through her body made her content to be quiet.
Later, by a few moments, when Deforrest Young opened the door and stole in, she smiled wanly at him.
"My little girl's had a good sleep," he said softly, coming forward.
Then, he took her hand and stood looking down upon her, his whole soul in his eyes.
"Tessibel," he hesitated, "do you remember what happened last night?"
Tess stared at him, a little pucker between her eyes. Last night? What about last night?
Oh, yes, she did remember. Elsie Waldstricker at the squatters; her own struggle through the snow to the mansion on the hill; how Waldstricker had turned her away.
"Yes, I remember," she whispered. "Did you find me, Uncle Forrie?"
Sudden tears swept away Young's vision. He nodded his head.
"And my brother-in-law's downstairs and wants to speak to you, Tessibel," said he.
Tess made a negative shake with her head, and a look of fear crept into her eyes.
Through Waldstricker's baby she had measured the height of God's love and forgiveness, and through his own unrighteous arrogancy she had plumbed the depths of human woe. She thrilled at the thought of little Elsie, of Helen's joy this birthday of Jesus, the tender teacher of her youth. She would have welcomed them, but she didn't want to see Waldstricker. By the crack of his whip, he had destroyed her love-life, as a bubble from a child's pipe is broken by a gust of wind. But before she could frame her refusal, Ebenezer Waldstricker appeared in the doorway. He came forward to the bed and held out his hand.