Maddened by suffering, she drew herself impatiently, away from the dwarf.
"Don't, Andy! I don't want to hear! He let Waldstricker whip my baby."
Although the young mother could hear the muttered prayers of the dwarf, no answering faith came into her soul. Hot hatred of the man who'd struck her son surged through her. Never again would she think of him without the raging cry within her for revenge. Her anger barbed the shafts of his rancor and dulled her own understanding of Life and Love. Resentment inhibited every constructive effort. The courage, even the desire to fight against death's coming, was wanting.
"I hate 'im worse than anything in the world," she muttered.
"Yes, darlin'," soothed the dwarf.
"I'd like to kill him. Oh, I must do something--" She tried to get to her feet, but Andy held her tightly.
"Stay here!" was all he said, and Tess ceased to resist.
At midnight Boy died. He went away very quietly, without a cry or struggle. At the very last, he turned upon his side, looked into his mother's face, his eyes unshadowed and joyous. He smiled a little, sighed with the passing breath, "Mummy," and sank to sleep. So dazed was Tessibel that without protest she allowed Deforrest to pick her from her knees and carry her out of the room.
Mother Moll and Andy performed the necessary services to the mortal clay that'd been their darling. Loving fingers, tenderly touching the delicate body, made Boy ready for the grave. Through the stillness of the night, the sighing of the ceaseless wind of the Storm Country, soughing of death and desolation, called to their minds the weird superstitions of squatter lore. The old witch mumbled of signs, portends and warnings, and uttered dire prophecies in which her wrath at Waldstricker found expression.
* * * * * While Tess and her squatter friends were carrying Boy through the sullen cold to God's wind-swept half-acre, Ebenezer Waldstricker sat before the glowing hickory logs in his sumptuous library. Several letters in his morning mail required his presence in the city. On the table before him lay a list of things he intended to buy for little Elsie's Christmas.
Since the day he'd whipped Tessibel's son and forced his wife from his home he'd devoted himself to the little girl. In spite of his best efforts, the child's grief for her mother had driven him almost to his wits' end. He'd made up his mind to spare no expense to bring joy back to his darling.
Whenever his mind reverted to the scene at the lake he tried to justify his act in striking the little fellow, but the news of Boy's death had, for a moment, given him an uncomfortable turn. He hadn't intended anything like that. He wasn't to blame! Probably the little imp would have died anyway!