DADDY SKINNER’S DEATH
It was Saturday evening, three days
after Tessibel Skinner had been churched from Hayt’s
Chapel. The night wind called forth moaning complaints
from the willow trees. The rasping of their bare
limbs against the tin roof of the cottage did not
disturb Daddy Skinner struggling for breath in the
room below. All the familiar night-noises kept
a death vigil with the squatter girl.
A sound outside made her lift her
head. Kennedy’s brindle bull was scratching
to come in. She rose, went to the door and opened
it. Pete ambled over the threshold and curled
down by the stove.
“Anythin’ the matter, brat?” whispered
Andy.
“No, I were lettin’ in
the dog,” explained Tess, resuming her seat
beside Daddy Skinner who was stretched, dying, on her
cot. She had moved him from the back room into
the warm kitchen, and at that moment he was sleeping
restlessly. The sight of his working face brought
a quick hand to Tessibel’s lips, and her white
teeth set deeply into the upraised knuckles to help
stifle the groans. Every trouble of her own sank
into insignificance before the calamity facing her.
Many times Tess had viewed death afar off, but not
until the past three days had it threatened her own
loved ones. In that hour she was experiencing
the extremity of sorrow, and each aching nerve in
her body seemed to possess a stabbing volition of
its own, for again and again the torturing points
stung her flesh like whips.
For three long days she had managed
somehow to uphold the dear, dying father. No
word had come from Deforrest Young, and Tess felt sure
he had returned twenty-four hours before. Perhaps
Waldstricker had robbed her of her dearest friend.
Bitterly pained, the girl realized what the loss would
mean to her. Yet she had no censure in her heart
for Deforrest Young; indeed no bitterness for Frederick
Graves; only a deep, deep gratitude to the one, and
a great, overwhelming love for the other. And
while thinking of what an empty void her life was becoming,
Tess saw her father’s head turn and his lids
lift heavily.
“Daddy!” she murmured,
but if he heard, he did not heed. He was gazing
steadily at something over and beyond her head, and
then he smiled at it. In superstitious dread,
the squatter girl glanced where the faded eyes were
directed. What had he seen? A face, perhaps,
or the passing shade that always haunted a squatter
shanty when some one was dying, but then, many times
she, too, had seen faces in the rafters up there among
the dry nets.
“My pretty brat,” were
the words that brought her startled eyes back to her
father. Her throat filling with heavy sobs, she
went over and kissed him stormily. The horny,
stiff fingers gathered a few of her red curls and
drew them slowly upward until parched lips touched
them, while tears stole from under withered lids,
and Tess cried out in sharp anguish.
“Daddy Skinner, I can’t
live without ye!” she moaned, cupping his face
with her hands. “Take Tessibel with ye;
take ’er, please!”
She cuddled at his side, lifted one
of his heavy arms and put it around her in pleading
anguish. Just then it seemed as if it would put
off the approach of death if she insisted on staying
within the broad grasp of Daddy Skinner’s arms.
She was wiping away his tears, tenderly
touching the dying face with faltering fingers.
“I saw yer ma,” choked
Skinner thickly, and he smiled again.
Tess turned her head, a dreadful sinking
in her soul. Her mother’s face, then, was
what Daddy had seen away off up there among the rafters.
The mother who had died so long ago had come after
her dear one. Drawing one tense set of fingers
backward across her cheek, Tess stood up quickly.
Perhaps perhaps
She threw a glance at the ceiling.
Daddy Skinner had seen her mother. They were
going away together. If they would but take her
with them! She turned unsteadily to go she knew
not where, but the sound of her father’s voice
brought her quickly back.
“Brat,” he faltered, “lean
down I want to tell ye somethin’.”
Tess bent her ear close to the thick blue lips.
“I air here, Daddy! Tess air here,”
she mourned.
Long, laboring breaths moved the red
curls hanging about the girl’s rigid face.
“I said as how I air here, Daddy,” she
murmured again, touching him.
But Daddy Skinner was once more gazing
into the dark rafters, his jaws apart, the greyness
of death settling about his mouth.
“Daddy! Daddy!” screamed
Tess. “Don’t look like that!
Don’t go away oh, Daddy, please!...
Andy! Andy!”
The dwarf slipped down the ladder,
and dropped at the side of the bed. The dog roused
from his nap by the stove was already there, nuzzling
his tawny head against his distressed friend, while
he made inarticulate sounds of sympathy in his deep
throat.
“Pal Skinner!” Andy cried,
white with apprehension. “Give us a word,
old horse.”
Placing his hand upon Pete’s
collar, the dwarf drew him, with a word of command,
to the floor beside him.
The dying fisherman looked from his
prison friend to his daughter. He lifted a limp
hand, and it rested upon the girl’s bowed head.
The other he dropped heavily on Andy Bishop’s
shoulder. It was as if he were giving to them
both his parting benediction. In mechanical sequence
the dwarf counted the dying man’s mouth open
and shut five times before the struggling voice came
forth.
“I were goin’ to say somethin’
to ye, Tess,” he then gasped, moistening his
lips. “Gimme a drink of
water.”
Andy held the cup while Orn drank.
He struggled to swallow, belching forth hot breath.
“When I air gone, brat dear,”
he articulated huskily, “stay in the shanty
an’ take care of Andy till there ain’t
no more danger fer ’im. Ye’ll
promise me, Tess?”
She enclosed his hand in hers and held it to her lips.
“I were a wantin’ to go
with you and Mummy, Daddy,” she sobbed.
“I air always lonely in the shanty without ye but
if ye say, ‘Stay with Andy,’ then I stays.”
“That air what I says, brat, darlin’,”
panted Skinner.
Then for many minutes he was lost
in the terrible struggle of strong life against the
grip of death. Tess wound her arms about his neck
and lifted the great head to her breast. She
stared at his changing face as at an advancing ghost.
He seemed to be slipping slowly into
the great beyond, and she was powerless to hold him
back.
How many times had Daddy Skinner spoken
of dying! How many times had she heard him agree
with Andy that death was better than life any day!
But at those times she had beaten back the muttered
words of her father and the dwarf. Ah, in those
days, death had been far away, kept off by happiness
unsurpassed!
“It air hard fer some folks
to die,” wailed the fisherman. “An’
so easy fer uthers. Me now me Oh,
God, oh, brat-love, let me go! I hurt so!
I hurt awful let me go!”
The heart of the tortured, sobbing
girl seemed to be bursting from its pain and suspense.
Her beloved father wanted to go away to
follow the wraith mother beckoning from the rafters.
How could she open her arms and allow him to leave
her alone in the shanty!
“Help me, brat-love,”
sighed Daddy Skinner once more. “Help yer
old sick daddy!”
Help him! How could she?
Hitherto Tessibel’s faith had loyally responded
to every demand upon her. But she couldn’t
help her daddy die! She knew not how! Then,
as if drawn by some invisible power, her eyes lifted,
piercing the shadows among the time-dried nets.
And there, for one small moment, she saw she
saw a face, a young, girlish face, infinitely sweet,
smiling down upon her.
“It air the Mummy!” she
cried, her voice vibrant with love. “I air
goin’ to help ’im, darlin’.”
Buoyantly her mind gripped the old-time
faith, the redoubtable faith that had opened wide
Auburn Prison, that had restored to her arms this
same adored father. She had helped him then and
oh, to help him now! His great cry, “God,
Tessibel, let me be goin’!” rang in her
ears. Her gaze was glued to his face. Terror
and pain were strangling his throat until his eyes
grew death-dark in the struggle. Tessibel lifted
her ashen face, wildly working in entreaty. Oh,
for a little faith! Faith the size of a grain
of mustard seed! And Daddy Skinner would be gone
to that place beyond the clouds and the blue, where
suffering is not. Did he, could he, believe?
Did she, could she, believe, too? Then in a blinding
flash, she remembered the mysterious dawning of her
own faith. Enduring sublime suffering, she bent
once more and drew her father’s heavy head to
her breast.
“Daddy! Darlin’ old,
good Daddy, look at yer dear brat, an’ listen
to ’er.”
“I air a listenin’, my
girl,” he said between set teeth. She put
her head directly in line with her father’s
vision.
“Look at me, Daddy,” she
craved tremulously, “an’ listen to me.
Can’t ye remember how ye came back from Auburn
like the innercent man ye were?”
“Yep,” whispered Skinner.
“‘Twere the Christ on
the cross helped ye, Daddy. Ye air wishin’
to go away now with my mummy, huh?”
“Yep,” groaned Skinner.
“God, aw kind, merciful God, let me go!”
Tess laid him gently back on the pillow.
A bright light flashed into her soul. The red
in her eyes turning almost to black.
“Then go, my darlin’!
Go, Daddy,” she moaned, rising and looking upward.
“Take ’im, Mummy, little love-mummy, take
’im back to Heaven with ye.”
Inspired by that smiling face in the
rafters, Tessibel opened her lips and began to sing,
“Rescue the Perishin’;
Care for the Dyin’.”
It was a glorious strain that echoed
and reechoed around and around the shanty kitchen.
It gathered within its heavenly power the moaning of
the wind and the haunting noises of the tin-rusted
roof. Even the weeping willows, bowing their
mournful heads in sympathy, could no longer be heard
in their endless chant.
Strangely stirred, Pete struggled
up, disregarding the dwarf’s desire to detain
him. He placed his forefeet on the edge of the
bed, lifting his head to the girl’s shoulder.
Responsive to the pressure of his body, she threw
her arm around him. Gravely the golden eyes of
the great dog regarded his suffering master on the
cot as the tender melody of the song continued to
fill the shanty.
Tessibel ever afterwards remembered
Daddy Skinner’s eyes as for those last few moments
he lay looking at her. They were kindly, tender,
smiling, as he watched her lips moving in the song
he’d always loved to hear her sing.
He seemed to realize that she was
singing him into the very presence of the Savior of
the world into the presence of Him who was
leading Tessibel Skinner and her squatter father through
their garden of Gethsemane.
“Rescue the Perishin’;
Care for the Dyin’.”
On and on she sang, and on and on
the dying man gropingly felt his way to Eternity.
Sometimes he smiled at her; sometimes at the wraith
in the rafters. But not for one moment did the
voice of the little singer cease its insistent cry
for a complete rescue.
The dwarf was silent, his shining
face reflecting the peace and security of which the
squatter girl sang.
“Rescue the Perishin’;
Care for the Dyin’.”
The beautiful voice did not falter.
Suddenly the powerful lungs of the fisherman gathered
in one long, last breath, and when it came forth to
meet Tessibel’s song, the broad shoulders dropped
back, the chest receded, the smile faded from the
gray eyes and Daddy Skinner was dead.
He had died listening to those appealing,
melodious words, “Rescue the Perishin’;
Care for the Dyin’.” That sudden collapsing
change in the gaunt figure seemed to freeze the very
song on Tessibel’s lips. Her voice trailed
to a limp wail, as if an icy hand had caught her throat.
Silence succeeded silence. Even the storm seemed
for an instant to still its raging roar, then Pete
threw back his head and howled his grief. As
his resonant cries filled the shack and mingled with
the turmoil of the elements, Tess clung to the dog,
staring with horrified eyes at the huge beloved form
crushed and crumpled upon the cot. Death had come
and gone. The mystery in the shadowy rafters
had taken Daddy Skinner away.
The dwarf raised his head and looked
at Tess. Slowly he leaned over and pressed his
lips to Orn Skinner’s brow, and as he rose, he
lifted the girl’s rigid arm from the tawny back
and seized the dog by the collar to quiet him.
Then came one of those unthinkable,
weird cries, a nightmarish cry from the girl’s
throat, and as God tempereth the wind to
the shorn lamb, so in Divine pity he covered Tess
of the Storm Country with mental oblivion.