University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE LION'S MOUTH SHUT.

“NOW, where a plague is that boy?” said Old Crab, suddenly
bearing down, as evil-disposed people are always apt to do,
in a most unforeseen moment.

The fact was that there had been a silent conspiracy among
Sol and Goody Smith and the hired men of Old Crab, to bring
about a meeting between the children. Miss Asphyxia had been
got to the country store and kept busy with various bargains
which Sol had suggested, and Old Crab had been induced to go
to mill, and then the boy had been sent by Goody Smith on an
errand to Miss Asphyxia's house. Of course he was not to find
her at home, and was to stay and see his sister, and be sure and
be back again by four o'clock.

“Where a plague is that lazy shote of a boy?” he repeated.

“What, Harry?”

“Yes, Harry. Who do you suppose I mean? Harry, — where
is he?”

“O, I sent him up to Sphyxy's.”

“You sent him?” said Old Crab, with that kind of tone which
sounds so much like a blow that one dodges one's head involuntarily.
“You sent him? What business you got interfering in
the work?”

“Lordy massy, father, I jest wanted Sphyxy's cards and
some o' that 'ere fillin' she promised to give me. He won't be
gone long.”

Old Crab stood at this disadvantage in his fits of ill-temper
with his wife, that there was no form of evil language or abuse
that he had not tried so many times on her that it was quite a
matter of course for her to hear it. He had used up the English
language, — made it, in fact, absolutely of no effect, — while his
fund of ill-temper was, after all, but half expressed.

“You 've begun with that 'ere boy just as you allers did with
all your own, gettin' 'em to be a waitin' round on you, — jest
'cause you 're a lazy good-for-nothin'. We 're so rich, I wonder
you don't hire a waiter for nothin' but to stan' behind your chair.
I 'll teach him who his master is when he comes back.”

“Now, father, 't ain't no fault o' his'n. I sent him.”

“And I sot him to work in the fields, and I 'd like to know if
he 's goin' to leave what I set him to do, and go round after your
errands. Here 't is gettin' to be 'most five o'clock, and the critters
want fodderin', and that 'ere boy a dancing 'tendance on you.
But he ain't a doin' that. He 's jest off, a berryin' or suthin' with
that trollopin' sister o' his'n, — jes' what you bring on us, takin'
in trampers. That 'ere gal, she pesters Sphyxy half to death.”

“Sphyxy 's pretty capable of takin' care of herself,” said
Goody Smith, still keeping busy with her knitting, but looking
uneasily up the road, where the form of the boy might be expected
to appear.

The outbreak that she had long feared of her husband's evil
nature was at hand. She knew it by as many signs as one foretells
the approach of hurricanes or rain-storms. She knew it by
the evil gleam in his small, gray eyes, — by the impatient pacing
backward and forward in the veranda, like a caged wild animal.
It made little matter to him what the occasion was: he had such
a superfluity of evil temper to vent, that one thing for his purpose
was about as good as another.

It grew later and later, and Old Crab went to the barn to attend
to his cattle, and the poor little old woman knitted uneasily.

“What could 'a' kep' him?” she thought. “He can't 'a' run
off.” There was a sudden gleam of mingled pleasure and pain in
the old woman's heart as this idea darted through her mind. “I
should n't wonder if he would, but I kind o' hate to part with
him.”

At last she sees him coming along the road, and runs to meet
him. “How could you be so late? He 's drefful mad with ye.”

“I did n't know how late it was. Besides, all I could do, Tina
would follow me, and I had to turn back and carry her home.
Tina has bad times there. That woman is n't kind to her.”

“No, dear, she ain't noways kind,” said the old woman; “it
ain't Sphyxy's way to be kind; but she 'll do middlin' well by
her, — anyway, she won't let nobody hurt her but herself. It 's
a hard world to live in; we have to take it as 't comes.”

“Well, anyway,” said the boy, “they must let us go to see
each other. It is n't right to keep us apart.”

“No, 't ain't, dear; but lordy massy, what can ye do?”

There was a great steady tear in the boy's large, blue eyes as
he stopped at the porch, and he gave a sort of dreary shiver.

“Halleoah you there! you lazy little cuss,” said Old Crab,
coming from the barn, “where you been idling all the afternoon?”

“I 've been seeing my sister,” said the boy, steadily.

“Thought so. Where 's them cards and the fillin' you was
sent for?”

“There was n't anybody at home to get them.”

“And why did n't you come right back, you little varmint?”

“Because I wanted to see Tina. She 's my sister; and my
mother told me to take care of her; and it 's wicked to keep us
apart so.”

“Don't you give me none of yer saace,” said Old Crab, seizing
the boy by one ear, to which he gave a vicious wrench.

“Let me alone,” said the boy, flushing up with the sudden irritation
of pain and the bitter sense of injustice.

“Let you alone? I guess I won't; talking saace to me that
'ere way. Guess I 'll show you who 's master. It 's time you
was walked off down to the barn, sir, and find out who 's your
master,” he said, as he seized the boy by the collar and drew
him off.

“O Lord!” said the woman, running out and stretching her
hands instinctively after them. “Father, do let the boy alone.”

She could not help this cry any more than a bird can help a
shriek when she sees the hawk pouncing down on her nest,
though she knew perfectly well that she might as well have
shouted a petition in the angry face of the northeast wind.

“Take off your jacket,” said Old Crab, as soon as he had
helped himself to a long cart-whip which stood there.

The boy belonged to that class of amiable, good-natured children
who are not easily irritated or often provoked, but who,
when moved by a great injustice or cruelty, are thrown into convulsions
of passion. The smallest and most insignificant animal,
in moments of utter despair, when every fibre of its being is
made vital with the energy of desperate resistance, often has a
force which will make the strongest and boldest stand at bay.
The boy retreated a pace or two, braced his back against the
manger, while his whole form trembled and appeared to dilate,
and it seemed as if blue streams of light glared from his eyes
like sparks struck from burning steel.

“Strike me if you dare, you wicked, dreadful man,” he
shouted. “Don't you know that God sees you? God is my
Father, and my mother is gone to God; and if you hurt me
He 'll punish you. You know I have n't done anything wrong,
and God knows it. Now strike me if you dare.”

The sight of any human being in a singular and abnormal
state has something appalling about it; and at this moment the
child really appeared to Old Crab like something supernatural.
He stood a moment looking at him, and then his eyes suddenly
seemed fixed on something above and beyond him, for he gazed
with a strange, frightened expression; and at last, pushing with
his hands, called out, “Go along; get away, get away! I
hain't touched him,” and, turning, fled out of the barn.

He did not go to the house again, but to the village tavern,
and, entering the bar-room with a sort of distraught air, called
for a dram, and passed the evening in a cowering state of quiet
in the corner, which was remarked on by many as singular.

The boy came back into the house.

“Massy to us, child,” said the old woman, “I thought he 'd
half killed ye.”

“No, he has n't touched me. God would n't let him,” said the
boy.

“Well, I declare for 't! he must have sent the angels that
shut the lion's mouth when Daniel was in the den,” said the
woman. “I would n't 'a' had him struck ye, not for ten dollars.”

The moon was now rising, large, white, and silvery, yet with a
sort of tremulous, rosy flush, as it came up in the girdle of a
burning autumn horizon. The boy stood a moment looking at it.
His eyes were still dilated with that unnatural light, and his little
breast heaving with waves of passion not yet tranquillized.

“Which way did he go?” said the woman.

“Up the road,” said the boy.

“To the tavern,” said the woman. “He 's been there before
this afternoon. At any rate, then, he 'll let us alone awhile.
There comes the men home to supper. Come in; I 've got a
turnover I made a purpose for ye.”

“No, I must bid you good by, now,” said the boy. “I can't
stay here any longer.”

“Why, where be ye going?”

“Going to look for a better place, where I can take care of
Tina,” said the boy.

“Ye ain't a going to leave me?” said the old woman. “Yet
I can't want ye to stay. I can't have nothin' nor nobody.”

“I 'll come back one of these days,” said the boy cheerfully, —
“come and see you.”

“Stay and get your supper, anyhow,” pleaded the old woman.
“I hate ter have ye go, drefful bad.”

“I don't want any supper,” said the child; “but if you 'll give
me a little basket of things, — I want 'em for Tina.”

The old soul ran to her buttery, and crammed a small splint
basket with turnovers, doughnuts, and ample slices of rye bread
and butter, and the boy took it and trudged off, just as the hired
men were coming home.

“Hulloah, bub!” shouted they, “where ye goin'?”

“Going to seek my fortune,” said the boy cheerfully.

“Jest the way they all go,” said the old woman.

“Where do you suppose the young un 'll fetch up?” said one
of the men to the other.

“No business of mine, — can't fetch up wus than he has ben
a doin'.”

“Old Crab a cuttin' up one of his shines, I s'pose?” said the
other, interrogatively.

“Should n't wonder; 'bout time, — ben to the tavern this arternoon,
I reckon.”

The boy walked along the rough stony road towards Miss Asphyxia's
farm. It was a warm, mellow evening in October.
The air had only a pleasant coolness. Everything was tender
and bright. A clump of hickory-trees on a rocky eminence before
him stood like pillars of glowing gold in the twilight; one
by one little stars looked out, winking and twinkling at the lonely
child, as it seemed to him, with a friendly, encouraging ray, like
his mother's eyes.

That afternoon he had spent trying to comfort his little sister,
and put into her soul some of the childlike yet sedate patience
with which he embraced his own lot, and the good hopes which
he felt of being able some time to provide for her when he grew
bigger. But he found nothing but feverish impatience, which
all his eloquence could scarcely keep within bounds. He had,
however, arranged with her that he should come evenings after
she had gone to bed, and talk to her at the window of her bedroom,
that she should not be so lonesome nights. The perfectly
demoniac violence which Old Crab had shown this night had
determined him not to stay with him any longer. He would
take his sister, and they would wander off, a long, long way, till
they came to better people, and then he would try again to get
work, and ask some good woman to be kind to Tina. Such, in
substance, was the plan that occurred to the child; and accordingly
that night, after little Tina had laid her head on her lonely
pillow, she heard a whispered call at her window. The large,
bright eyes opened very wide as she sat up in bed and looked
towards the window, where Harry's face appeared.

“It 's me, Tina, — I 've come back, — be very still. I 'm going
to stay in the barn till everybody 's asleep, and then I 'll come and
wake you, and you get out of the window and come with me.”

“To be sure I will, Harry. Let me come now, and sleep with
you in the barn.”

“No, Tina, that would n't do; lie still. They 'd see us. Wait
till everybody 's asleep. You just lie down and go to sleep. I 'll
get in at your window and waken you when it 's time.”

At this moment the door of the child's room was opened; the
boy's face was gone in an instant from the window. The child's
heart was beating like a trip-hammer; there was a tingling in
her ears; but she kept her little eyes tightly shut.

“O, here 's that brown towel I gin her to hem,” said Miss Asphyxia,
peacefully. “She 's done her stent this arternoon. That
'ere whipping did some good.”

“You 'll never whip me again,” thought the defiant little heart
under the bedclothes.

Old Crab came home that night thoroughly drunk, — a thing
that did not very often occur in his experience. He commonly
took only just enough to keep himself in a hyena's state of temper,
but not enough to dull the edge of his cautious, grasping,
money-saving faculties. But to-night he had had an experience
that had frightened him, and driven him to deeper excess as a
refuge from thought.

When the boy, upon whom he was meaning to wreak his diabolic
passions, so suddenly turned upon him in the electric fury
of enkindled passion, there was a sort of jar or vibration of the
nervous element in the man's nature, that brought about a result
not uncommon to men of his habits. As he was looking in a
sort of stunned, stupid wonder at the boy, where he stood braced
against the manger, he afterwards declared that he saw suddenly
in the dark space above it, hovering in the air, the exact figure
and form of the dead woman whom they had buried in the graveyard
only a few weeks before. “Her eyes was looking right at
me, like live coals,” he said; “and she had up her hand as if
she 'd 'a' struck me; and I grew all over cold as a stone.”

“What do you suppose 't was?” said his auditor.

“How should I know,” said Old Crab. “But there I was;
and that very night the young 'un ran off. I would n't have
tried to get him back, not for my right hand, I tell you. Tell
you what,” he added, rolling a quid of tobacco reflectively in his
mouth, “I don't like dead folks. Ef dead folks 'll let me alone,
I 'll let them alone. That 'ere 's fair, ain't it?”