Part 8

But if the doctor refused to take the idea seriously, it was quite otherwise with Mother Cary. When Rosamund disclosed to her the half-formed plan--she had come to discuss nearly everything with that fount of human wisdom--the dear soul did not seem surprised at all, but at once made a thoroughly feminine mental leap into the very middle of arrangements.

"Why, of course, dearie, it will be just splendid! And you won't need so very many furnishin's. There's some cheers up in our loft you might take, and you can have things up from the city. Yetta's learned a good deal this summer. I can bake for you for a while, till the child gets more used to the work, and I reckon you can manage the rest of it betwixt you."

"Do you suppose," Rosamund asked, "that Grace Tobet would come, too?"

Mother Cary sat down in her little low rocking chair, and laid her crutch on the brick floor of the front walk, always a sign of her settling down for a real talk. Things had been going worse and worse with the Tobets; Rosamund and Yetta went down almost daily, but beyond their friendly visits there seemed little they could do. The Government's suspicions were centering on Joe, the big, born leader of rough elements, and on his band of four or five other men, who would follow him to death or worse. Jim Allen was one; but now, repentant and sobered by the baby's death, he was at home nursing his wife. Grace had sped through the woods in the night to warn Joe and his followers more than once; yet even to Ogilvie she denied any knowledge of Joe's business.

"It's squirrels he's after," she said, "and sometimes drink; all this talk of moonshine's jest foolishness. I'd know it ef 'twas so. It ain't so!"

"Well, Mrs. Tobet," the doctor replied, "your squirrel stew would not be to my liking! Better keep the lid on the pot while it's cooking!"

He saw too many evidences of the moonshine's work to believe her; but he had seen Joe Tobet come home, and he honored Grace, too familiar with human nature to marvel at her faithfulness. Mother Cary alone knew all that Grace Tobet knew; all secrets were safe in her kind old heart, and even from Pap she hid this one, for Father Cary was not one of those who hold councils of compromise with the Evil One. Therefore, when Rosamund suggested Grace Tobet, Mother Cary sat down to think it out.

After a few minutes' silent pondering, she said, "Honey, I've never been one to advise the partin' of husband and wife! Howsomever, if there's any good left in Joe Tobet, it may be the surest way o' bringin' him back to straight ways o' livin', ef we can coax Grace to leave him for a while."

"I'm afraid I can't give a thought to Joe's salvation," Rosamund declared. "But Grace--oh, she's too fine to be left there! I should like to give her one winter of comfort!"

"Well, you haven't got a holt of her yet," Mother Cary reminded her, "an' it wouldn't be but half comfort for her, the outside half, anyways, away from her man. But I can't see what anybody could do better than to keep little Tim and Yetta up here out o' harm's way, and maybe save Grace Tobet an' Joe, too. Land's sake, dearie, you must be quite well off!"

It seemed to come to Mother Cary suddenly, and was the first spark of curiosity Rosamund had ever known her to show. Until now her wisdom had seemed all-embracing; but that a young woman, that Rosamund, who had lived so quietly in her house all summer, could carry out a suddenly formed plan of buying a house and sheltering three people--this was evidently quite outside of her experience. She looked up with unwonted surprise in her face. Rosamund bent and kissed the wrinkled pink cheek.

"Dear, dear Mother Cary," she said, "I am so well off that I could probably buy every house at the Summit, and build as many more! I am so well off that I have never in all my life, until this summer, had a chance to find out how well off I am! I am so well off that I did not know how poor I have been, nor how much people can need the wretched mere money, nor how very, very little it can really do! I have only begun to find out what life is made of, and so I'm not well off at all!"

Tears came into her eyes as she spoke, and she turned her head away; but Mother Cary's hand was stretched towards her, instantly. Presently she said, in the low tone which was the tenderest and sweetest of all:

"Dearie child, when the young folks come an' tell me things like you're tellin' me now, I reckon there ain't anybody in the world as well off as me! An' I'll tell you jest what it is makes you do it--it's because I'm so happy! An' I'll tell you jest what makes me so happy. I let Pap take keer o' me, an' I try to take keer o' him an' jest as many other folks as I can! That's the whole of it!" After a pause she added, "You're goin' to do jest the same as me, both in keering for someone, an' in bein' took keer of!"

Rosamund's eyes opened wide; she paled a little and pressed her hand against her trembling lips. "I don't know," she whispered. "I'm afraid! Oh, I'm afraid!"

Mother Cary patted the hand she held, and knew too much to speak. Their thoughts, in the silence, wandered far; came back and dwelt upon the things that were, the things to be; there is no way of knowing whether they went hand in hand, but after a while Mother Cary said:

"Dearie, I wouldn't tell him, if I was you, about--about all you have, the money an'--you know!--I wouldn't tell the doctor yet a while!"

Rosamund drew her breath sharply, and her face flamed; she was too startled to answer, but in a moment she left her place on the bench and knelt beside the old woman, hiding her face on the knees where so many had found comfort. Mother Cary smoothed her hair, and after a while began to talk, almost as if to herself.

"There's a friend o' mine sometimes spends her summers up around here; she's married to a eye doctor--that's how come Yetta got sent up here to me. Her husband knew Doctor Ogilvie down in the city. She told me there never was one they thought more of, down there; they said he found out more about nerves than anybody else in the world, and he used to work day and night and in between times, trying to discover more. They said there never was such a one with little child'en; he could almost make 'em over new, seemed like. They said he never cared whether folks could pay him or not for what he did--all he cared for was the curin' of 'em. I can well believe it, too, for many's the time I see him almost starved without knowin' what's the matter with him, and he ain't a mite particler about his clo'es. Well, he worked an' he worked; and one day my friend's husband, that was one o' his friends, went into his little room where he kept his bottles and things, and found him layin' on the floor. They thought he surely would die, but praise the Lord, that wasn't to be; only, he had to give up his work down in the big horspital. I often think on what that must 'a' been to him. I reckon it must 'a' been worse than it would be for Pap to give up a raisin' them white hogs o' his he's so proud of. Anyway, he come up here, an' he got well! And now he says he hasn't got time to go back there again--there's too much for him to do up here all the time. So he jest rides around the country with that Rosy horse. Somebody asked him once why he didn't buy an automobile. He said for one thing he hadn't the money for it; and for another, he needed White Rosy to remind him where he was going!"

Mother Cary stopped to laugh; Rosamund raised her head, with an answering smile that was half tears.

"Land sakes," Mother Cary went on, "I do believe if it wasn't for Rosy he'd sometimes forget to come home! When they get to one o' the houses where he visits, Rosy stops and turns her head around; ef he don't say anything to her, there she stands; but if he tells her he don't have to get out there that day, Rosy jogs along to the next place! I'm real fond o' humans, but sometimes I do wish't they all knew as much as the doctor's Rosy!"

This time Rosamund joined in the laugh. But the old woman had more to tell. "Time was when I might 'a' wondered how come he stays on here, him bein' the great doctor he is; but I'm so old now that I know too much to wonder about anything any more! There's folks in this world that never can find any work to do, and there's folks that makes work for themselves, and then again there's folks that are so busy with the work right at hand that they never get time to find out whether they're workin' or not. That's Doctor Ogilvie's kind. He's so busy workin' up here in the mountings, that he never stops to think about whether he is doing the work he likes best or not; it's just work he has to do, because it's here to be done, and that's all there is to it for him. He works so hard at it, inside his own head, that he forgets most everything else. Land, I remember the time he sat up with me all night long, workin' over Milly Grate's baby that had the membranious croup--dipthery, he called it. Come mornin', an' he told Milly the baby'd get well, he suddenly went out and sat right down on the doorstep; come to find out, he'd brought two babies into the world the day before and driven twenty-two miles and walked about a dozen--and forgotten to take a bite to eat! Another time, somebody sent a little boy over the mounting for him in a hurry; he was at a house where a man had broke his leg, and White Rosy was waitin' for him at the gate; but when he heard how bad off the little girl was he'd been sent for, didn't he jest set out and run all the way there, forgettin' that there was such a thing as a wagon to ride in, and White Rosy still a waitin'!

"And he boards with the Widder Speers, where it ain't likely she can make him very comfortable, she bein' well past eighty; but he found out soon after he come up here that she would have to be moved to--the place where nobody likes to go!--she not having any support; so he boards there, an' she doesn't have to leave her home, that her husband built for her when they was married, and where her only son died. You might hunt the world over, honey-bird, without findin' any better man than Doctor Ogilvie! But, somehow or other, ef I was you, I wouldn't let on to him that I had as much money as you say you have. Money's a dreadful stumblin'-block to some people! And you never can tell which way men folks'll jump!"

It had been long since Rosamund, trained in self-control as she had been, was so keenly aware of intense embarrassment. Her first impulse was to feel affront at Mother Cary's taking so much for granted in her relations with the doctor; but no one could really be angry with Mother Cary. She was abashed that the old woman had divined more than she herself had been aware of; and then there arose the doubt that she had so often felt of the doctor's personal interest in herself or her affairs. She yielded to the maiden's inevitable longing for reassurance.

"What makes you think," she whispered, her cheek against Mother Cary's hand, "what makes you think that he--would be--interested?"

"Darlin'!" Mother Cary cried, "John Ogilvie thinks a heap o' you--but he ain't got hardly a suspicion of it yet--any more than you know how much you're goin' to care for him!"

Then, with the usual coincidence, the object of their talk came into view, driving White Rosy toward the little green gate, Yetta on one side of him and Tim on the other; they waved to the two in front of the house, but Rosamund sprang to her feet and fled indoors.

X

Rosamund awoke the next morning with her mind joyously full of her new plans; but it was little Tim who suggested that which crowned them. Tim was always the first member of the household, after Father Cary, to go out of doors in the mornings; to-day he brought back a tight handful of stemless blossoms to present to Rosamund. Dewy and rosy-cheeked, he had never before appeared as much the baby as on this morning, standing in front of her with his feet apart, holding up his floral offering.

"It was all ve pretty flowers 'at was awake," he announced. "Here--I 'ikes you!"

"Land! I hope he ain't been in my geraniums!" said Mother Cary, from the stove; but Rosamund grasped the chubby hand, with its blossoms, and kissed it.

"They are beautiful, Tim! I 'ike you, too! And Tim, how would you like to live with me all the time?"

He stared at her for a moment. "Oh! O-o-oh! Is you gonin' to 'dopt me?"

Mother Cary, with an exclamation, turned quickly to watch the two; Rosamund met her eyes over the boy's head. Her plan was coming to birth.

"Do you want me to, Tim?" she asked.

The child's lips began to quiver. Then he dumped himself down upon the floor, and howled. "Want my White Lady!" he cried. "Want to 'dopt my White Lady!"

Swiftly he was lifted in Rosamund's arms. "Good for you, Tim! Good for you, old man! I'm glad you know your own mind!" she cried.

She gathered him up, threw herself into a big rocking chair, set him astride on her knees and rocked him wildly back and forth, down until his curls nearly touched the floor, then up again, up in a bubble of laughter and kisses, Timmy forgetting his tears to shout with glee, down and up again, down and up, the child screaming with joy. Father Cary and Yetta coming in from the barn to breakfast, stood in the doorway laughing, Yetta wondering a little at Miss Rose's unwonted exuberance. Mother Cary had already taken her place at the table, and was laughing in sympathy with them.

When Rosamund stopped, breathless, with aching arms, Tim still demanded "More! More! do it 'den!"

"Land's sakes, honey-bird, what ails ye?" Mother Cary cried. "I never suspected you _could_ be so lively!"

For reply Rosamund looked at Yetta. "When Tim adopts the 'White Lady,' and I go to live with them, will you come, too, Yetta?" she asked.

"Is that a conundrum? I ain't much good at riddles!" Yetta declared.

Rosamund laughed; she would have laughed at anything to-day. "Not a riddle--an answer, Yetta! You and Timmy, Mrs. Reeves and I, are all going to live together in the brown house at the Summit! What do you think of that?"

"Sho', now! That's the very ticket!" said Mother Cary. "How come you didn't think o' Mis' Reeves yesterday, lamb? But--ain't she held by that Mis' Hetherbee?"

"Yes, she is; but I think we can persuade Mrs. Hetherbee to let her come."

"Gee! I'd be glad to get away from that old one, if 'twas me!" said Yetta, in an aside which the others thought best to ignore.

"Pap," said Mother Cary, "if so be you'll put the harness on Ben, Miss Rose and me'll drive over an' begin cleanin' the house this mornin'!"

The old man put down his knife and fork, looked from his wife to Miss Randall, and back again. "It do beat all how you women-folks jump into the middle o' things the minute you get started," he said. "The house ain't even empty yet!"

"Land, I forgot all about them Marvens," said Mother Cary. "No matter! It gives us all the more time to get good an' ready, honey-bird!"

Rosamund very soon began to realize that she needed time. First of all, she sent for her man of business, an excellent person who lacked imagination, and was later found to disapprove of purchases of little brown houses or of anything else that could never bring interest or increase in value. But his disapproval of that investment was as nothing to the objections he made to another. It was not until Rosamund reminded him that her twenty-fifth birthday had come and gone, releasing the Randall property from all trust and making it now her own, and declared that if he refused to obey her directions she would be obliged to ask someone else to look after her interests, that he reluctantly consented to it.

Then there was the delicate matter of bringing Eleanor to consent to her plans.

DARLING ELEANOR [she wrote]: I have decided that Timmy must be adopted. I make the announcement first of all, because I know that if I did not mention him at once, you would skip all the first part of my letter until you found his name, and only read on from there. And I have a proposition which needs to be presented right end foremost. So--Tim _must_ be adopted. He has his heart set upon it; and he has turned out to be such a darling little boy. He cannot be sent back to the Charities, to be looked over and refused by people who would not appreciate him, anyway. Doctor Ogilvie says that he must stay here another year, if he is to be made entirely well; but unless he has the best of care after that, and is made happy, he will not live to be the good and useful man we should like to see him. Doctor Ogilvie is a great believer in the curative powers of happiness; and you know he is a very good doctor. Well--I have already made over to Tim some money, to be held in trust for him until he is twenty-five. The entire interest is to be given, until said time, to the adopted parent of said Tim, according to said agreement, for the use and maintenance of said parent and said Tim, the entire amount to be paid over to him twenty-one years after the execution of the deed of trust. I do hope you are properly impressed by that legal phraseology, Eleanor darling. I put in all the 'saids' I could, just as the lawyers do. I want you to see what a fine and wonderful thing it is for Timmy, Timmy the waif, to be the subject of anything so impressive; and the sum of money I have given him will provide simple comfort for him and his parent-by-adoption; only, of course, I must be sure that his parent is a person whom I can trust to spend it as it should be spent, and so to bring up the boy that he will be worthy of his--let's call it his inheritance--when he finally receives it. So it has all been done subject to one condition. Unless that condition should be fulfilled, the child will have to go back to the Charities; I had a great discussion about it all with Mr. Leeds, my lawyer; and he only consented to draw up the paper subject to that condition. It is that--oh, Eleanor, don't say 'no'!--it is that you will adopt little Tim, let him fill that empty place in your heart, teach him to be a good man, and--I shall spoil it if I write another word, dear White Lady, sweet White Lady, White Lady that Timmy loves! See this blur, Eleanor--it is where he has pressed a kiss, to send to his White Lady. R.

To this Eleanor replied, "I have your letter. I must think." Rosamund tried to be satisfied with that for a while; but as the days passed and Eleanor wrote nothing more, and as Cecilia must be persuaded and her trustees interviewed, she sent her sister a night letter, begging her to join her in New York immediately. She told Ogilvie and the others that she was going to buy furniture for the house, which was true enough.

There was that in the interview with the lawyers that put Cecilia into a most complaisant state of mind; when she thought of Rosamund's having put the greater part of the Randall income at her disposal she could not find it in her heart to show disapproval of anything else that Rosamund might choose to do. The only protest she made was at the gift to the little waif.

"Pure Quixotism, my dear, never gains you a thing. It is the most utter madness I ever heard of."

"Well, it will gain Timmy something, and Eleanor something; and you know very well, Cecilia, that I shall never miss it."

"We won't discuss it," Cecilia said, "but I am sure that not even Colonel Randall would have done anything so wildly impulsive."

Rosamund could find very little to say to that; she knew well enough that nothing but her faith in Eleanor could make it seem anything but a hazardous experiment. Mother Cary had seen nothing but good in the plan, but here in New York idealism seemed out of place; what had appeared fine there looked foolish here. She was beginning to doubt the excellence of her plan, when word came from Eleanor that Mrs. Hetherbee was back in town. Rosamund called at once, presenting Cecilia's cards with her own, as the first move in the little social campaign that she foresaw. Eleanor, in her white gown, looked strangely out of place in Mrs. Hetherbee's florid apartment that overlooked the Hudson, and had every splendor known to apartments, even to an up-and-down-stairs of its own.

Eleanor kissed her, then held her off for a long look.

"Rose, Rose! How can you tempt me so?" she cried. "It is only a scheme for giving the money to me!"

"Eleanor, tell me the truth. Did you and Tim fall in love with each other at first sight, or not?"

"Ah! Little Tim!"

"Precisely! Little Tim! Would you deprive him of such an opportunity as this?"

"Oh, you would never take the money away from him, Rose--now?"

"But it is not his, yet! It never can be, unless you will take him for your son--for your own little boy, Eleanor! Think of it!"

"I do think of it! I haven't thought of anything else."

"Except, my dear, that you, too, will benefit by the plan! So you are trying to refuse. Don't be selfish, Eleanor!"

"Selfish? To deny myself what I want most in the world?"

"You and Tim seem to know your own minds! When I asked him if _I_ should adopt him, he plumped down on the floor and yelled for his White Lady."

"Rose! Don't make it so hard!"

"It is you who are making it hard! I have grown very fond of Timmy, and I should hate, just hate to see him go back to the Charities. Think of the poor mite being scrubbed up and dressed in a clean striped gingham, and brought out to be inspected by possible adopters! Think how he will feel when they say, 'Oh, I don't think we want a little boy with hip disease!' or 'Haven't you any--er--prettier children?'

"Oh, Rose!" Eleanor put her hands over her eyes, while Rosamund drew her down to one of Mrs. Hetherbee's Louis Quinze settees.

"Eleanor," she said, seriously, "let us admit, if you want to, that I am giving the money to you. Of course it will be practically your own until you have had Tim twenty-one years. I have such faith in what you will do with him that I give the whole amount to Tim, outright, after then. I have such faith in the son he will be to you, that I am willing to let him have the joy of taking care of his mother after that time. Do you suppose I would give him money, if he were going to a stranger? Cecilia calls me Quixotic, but I assure you I am not as far gone as all that." Eleanor was weakening. "It is a great deal of money, Rosamund," she said.

"Oh, if that's all that's troubling you! It does not seem much to me. Besides, I owe the world something!"

"Ah!" Eleanor put her hand to the girl's cheek, turning her face until she could look into her eyes. "Rose, what else has the summer taught you?"

Rosamund's eyes widened a little. "We have no time to talk of that now while Timmy is waiting for his mother!"

"His mother! Oh, how you tempt me, Rose!"

"Listen, Eleanor! I have bought that little house at the Summit that the Marvens lived in. Mr. Marven is cured, and they have gone back to the city. I am going to live in it this winter, with you and Tim and Yetta; I have already sent down to Augusta for my old Mammy Susan and her husband, Matt, to meet me there two weeks from now. The Charities will not let you or me or anyone else adopt Timmy without a year's probation first. Come with me for this winter, and see how we all feel about it when the year is out. Come as my housekeeper. Put away your selfish pride, White Lady--and let your salary be what Timmy's interest would be if you had already adopted him. A year will help us all to wisdom perhaps."

Eleanor, with head bent, and hands clasped in her lap, thought for a long moment.

"I am asking you to take too much responsibility upon yourself, I suppose!" Rosamund said at last, slyly watching her friend. Eleanor turned at once, swift to deny.