“Having a good time, little beauty?” he said. He was puffing a little with the unwonted exercise.
Tessie tried some of her old-time pertness of speech. “Oh, good enough, considering the company.”
He laughed admiringly at that and said she was a sketch.
When the early evening came on they made a clumsy landing and had supper. This time Nap fed her the tidbits, though she protested.
“White meat for you,” he said, “with your skin like milk.”
“You must of read that in a book,” scoffed Tessie. She glanced around her at the deepening shadows. “We haven’t got much time.
It gets dark so early.”
“No hurry,” Nap assured her. He went on eating in a leisurely, finicking sort of way, though he consumed very little food, actually.
“You’re not eating much,” Tessie said once, halfheartedly. She decided that she wasn’t having such a very grand time, after all, and that she hated his teeth, which were very bad. Now, Chuck’s strong, white, double row–-
“Well,” she said, “let’s be going.”
“No hurry,” again.
Tessie looked up at that with the instinctive fear of her kind. “What d’you mean, no hurry! ‘Spect to stay here till dark?” She laughed at her own joke.
“Yes.”
She got up then, the blood in her face. “Well,
He rose, too. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t, that’s why.” She stooped and began picking up the remnants of the lunch, placing spoons and glass bottles swiftly and thriftily into the lunch box. Nap stepped around behind her.
“Let me help,” he said. And then his arm was about her and his face was close to hers, and Tessie did not like it. He kissed her after a little wordless struggle. And then she knew. She had been kissed before. But not like this. Not like this! She struck at him furiously. Across her mind flashed the memory of a girl who had worked in the finishing room. A nice girl, too. But that hadn’t helped her. Nap Ballou was laughing a little as he clasped her.
At that she heard herself saying: “I’ll get Chuck Mory after you—you drunken bum, you! He’ll lick you black and blue. He’ll–-“
The face, with the ugly, broken brown teeth, was coming close again. With all the young strength that was in her she freed one hand and clawed at that face from eyes to chin. A howl of pain rewarded her. His hold loosened. Like a flash she was off. She ran. It seemed to her that her feet did not touch the earth. Over brush, through bushes, crashing against trees, on and on. She heard him following her, but the broken-down engine that was his heart refused to do the work. She ran on, though her fear was as great as before. Fear of what might have happened—to her, Tessie Golden, that nobody could even talk fresh to. She gave a sob of fury and fatigue. She was stumbling now. It was growing dark. She ran on again, in fear of the overtaking darkness. It was easier now. Not so many trees and bushes. She came to a fence, climbed over it, lurched as she landed, leaned against it weakly for support, one hand on her aching heart. Before her was the Hatton summer cottage, dimly outlined in the twilight among the trees.
A warm, flickering light danced in the window. Tessie stood a moment, breathing painfully, sobbingly. Then, with an instinctive gesture, she patted her hair, tidied her blouse, and walked uncertainly toward the house, up the steps to the door. She stood there a moment, swaying slightly. Somebody’d be there.
The light. The woman who cooked for them or the man who took care of the place. Somebody’d–-
She knocked at the door feebly. She’d tell ‘em she had lost her way and got scared when it began to get dark. She knocked again, louder now. Footsteps. She braced herself and even arranged a crooked smile. The door opened wide. Old Man Hatton!
She looked up at him, terror and relief in her face. He peered over his glasses at her. “Who is it?” Tessie had not known, somehow, that his face was so kindly.
Tessie’s carefully planned story crumbled into nothingness. “It’s me!” she whimpered. “It’s me!”
He reached out and put a hand on her arm and drew her inside.
“Angie! Angie! Here’s a poor little kid–-“
Tessie clutched frantically at the last crumbs of her pride. She tried to straighten, to smile with her old bravado. What was that story she had planned to tell?
“Who is it, Dad? Who–-?” Angie Hatton came into the hallway. She stared at Tessie. Then: “Why, my dear!” she said. “My dear! Come in here.”
Angie Hatton! Tessie began to cry weakly, her face buried in Angie Hatton’s expensive shoulder. Tessie remembered later that she had felt no surprise at the act.
“There, there!” Angie Hatton was saying. “Just poke up the fire, Dad. And get something from the dining room. Oh, I don’t know. To drink, you know. Something–-“
Then Old Man Hatton stood over her, holding a small glass to her lips. Tessie drank it obediently, made a wry little face, coughed, wiped her eyes, and sat up. She looked from one to the other, like a trapped little animal. She put a hand to her tousled head.
“That’s all right,” Angie Hatton assured her. “You can fix it after a while.”
There they were, the three of them: Old Man Hatton with his back to the fire, looking benignly down upon her; Angie seated, with some knitting in her hands, as if entertaining bedraggled, tear-stained young ladies at dusk were an everyday occurrence; Tessie, twisting her handkerchief in a torment of embarrassment. But they asked no
