Edna, half paralysed with astonishment, opened the kitchen door just in time. Mr. Hawkshaw was not so drunk but he could recognise disaster when it hovered near. As she lifted the steaming kettle from the stove he made a flying leap for the door. The rush of air that followed him as he shot through the aperture almost swept Edna from her feet. In ten seconds the tattered Hawkshaw was scrambling over the garden fence and making lively if inaccurate tracks through last year’s cabbage patch.
CHAPTER VII
The Mysterious Visitor
The entire Crow family watched him in stupefaction until he disappeared down the lane that led to Hapgood’s grove. It was then, and not until then, that Anderson Crow took a breath.
“Good Lord, Eva, what do you mean?” he gasped.
“Mean?” she almost shrieked. “Anderson Crow, didn’t you recognise that feller? He ain’t no more detective than you er me. He’s the self-same tramp that you put in the calaboose last week, and the week before, too. I thought I’d seen his ugly face before. He’s—”
“Great jumpin’ geeswax!” roared the town marshal. “I recollect him now. He’s the one that said he’d been exposed to smallpox an’ wanted to be kept where it was warm all winter. Well, I’ll be—I’ll be—”
“Don’t say it, pa. He said it fer you when he clumb over that barb-wire fence out there,” cried Edna gleefully.
Several days of anxiety and energy followed this interesting episode. In that time two tramps attempted to obtain food and shelter at Crow’s home, one on the plea that he was the father of the unfortunate child, the other as an officer for the Foundlings’ Home at Boggs City. Three babies were left on the doorstep—two in one night—their fond mothers confessing fessing by letters that they appreciated Anderson’s well-known charitable inclinations and implored him to care for their offspring as if they were his own. The harassed marshal experienced some difficulty in forcing the mothers to take back their children.
In each instance he was reviled by the estimable ladies, all of whom accused him of being utterly heartless. Mrs. Crow came to his rescue and told the disappointed mothers that the scalding water was ready for application if they did not take their baskets of babies away on short order. It may be well for the reputation of Tinkletown to mention that one of the donors was Mrs. Raspus, a negro washerwoman who did work for the “dagoes” engaged in building the railroad hard by; another was the wife of Antonio Galli, a member of the grading gang, and the third was Mrs. Pool, the widow of a fisherman who had recently drowned himself in drink.
It is quite possible that Anderson might have had the three infants on his hands permanently had not the mothers been so eager to know their fate. They appeared in person early the next morning to see if the babies had frozen to death on the doorstep. Mrs. Pool even went so far as to fetch some extra baby clothes which she had neglected to drop with her male. Mrs. Raspus came for her basket, claiming it was the only one she had in which to “tote” the washing for the men.
After these annoying but enlivening incidents Anderson was permitted to recover from his daze and to throw off symptoms of nervous prostration. Tinkletown resumed its tranquil attitude and the checker games began to thrive once more. Little Rosalie was a week older than when she came, but it was five weeks before anything happened to disturb the even tenor of the foster-father’s way. He had worked diligently in the effort to discover the parents of the baby, but without result. Two or three exasperated husbands in Tinkletown had threatened to blow his brains out if he persisted in questioning their wives in his insinuating manner, and one of the kitchen girls at the village inn threw a dishpan at him on the occasion of his third visit of inquiry. A colored woman in the employ of the Baptist minister denied that Rosalie was her child, but when he insisted, agreed with fine sarcasm to “go over an’ have a look at it,” after his assurance that it was perfectly white.
“Eva, I’ve investigated the case thoroughly,” he said at last, “an’ there is no solution to the mystery. The only thing I c’n deduce is that the child is here an’ we’ll have to take keer of her. Now, I wonder if that woman really meant it when she said we’d have a thousand dollars at the end of each year. Doggone, I wish the year was up, jest to see.”
“We’ll have to wait, Anderson, that’s all,” said Mrs. Crow. “I love the baby so it can’t matter much. I’m glad you’re through investigatin’. It’s been most tryin’ to me. Half the women in town don’t speak to me.”
It was at the end of Rosalie’s fifth week as a member of the family that something happened. Late one night when Anderson opened the front door to put out the cat a heavily veiled woman mounted the steps and accosted him. In some trepidation he drew back and would have closed the door but for her eager remonstrance.
“I must see you, Mr. Crow,” she cried in a low, agitated voice.
“Who are you?” he demanded. She was dressed entirely in black.
“I came to see you about the baby.”
“That won’t do, madam. There’s been three tramps here to hornswoggle us an’ I—”
“I must see her, Mr. Crow,” pleaded the stranger, and he was struck by the richness of her voice.
“Mighty queer, it seems to me,” he muttered hesitatingly. “Are you any kin to it?”
“I am very much interested.”
“By giminy, I believe you’re the one who left her here,” cried the detective. “Are you a typewriter?”
“I’ll answer your questions if you’ll allow me to step inside. It is very cold out here.”
Anderson Crow stood aside and the tall, black figure entered the hall. He led her to the warm sitting-room and gave her a chair before the “base-burner.”
“Here, Mr. Crow, is an envelope containing two hundred and fifty dollars. That proves my good faith. I cannot tell you who I am nor what relation I bear to the baby. I am quite fully aware that you will not undertake to detain me, for it is not an easy matter to earn a thousand dollars a year in this part of the world. I am going abroad next week and do not expect to return for a long, long time. Try as I would, I could not go without seeing the child. I will not keep you out of bed ten minutes, and you and your wife may be present while I hold Rosalie in my arms. I know that she is in good hands, and I have no intention of taking her away. Please call Mrs. Crow.”
Anderson was too amazed to act at once. He began to flounder interrogatively, but the visitor abruptly checked him.
“You are wasting time, Mr. Crow, in attempting to question my authority or identity. No one need know that I have made this visit. You are perfectly secure in the promise to have a thousand dollars a year; why should you hesitate? As long as she lives with you the money is yours. I am advancing the amount you now hold in order that her immediate wants may be provided for. You are not required to keep an account of the money paid to you. There are means of ascertaining at once whether she is being well cared for and educated by you, and if it becomes apparent that you are not doing your duty, she shall be removed from your custody. From time to time you may expect written instructions from—from one who loves her.”
“I jest want to ast if you live in Tinkletown?” Anderson managed to say.
“I do not,” she replied emphatically.
“Well, then, lift your veil. If you don’t live here I sha’n’t know you.”
“I prefer to keep my face covered, Mr. Crow; believe me and trust me. Please let me see her.” The plea was so earnest that Anderson’s heart gave a great thump of understanding.
“By ginger, you are her mother!” he gasped. Mrs. Crow came in at this juncture, and she was much quicker at grasping the situation than her husband. It was in her mind to openly denounce the woman for her heartlessness, but her natural thriftiness interposed. She would do nothing that might remove the golden spoon from the family mouth.
The trio stole upstairs and into the warm bedchamber. There, with Anderson Crow and his wife looking on from a remote corner of the room, the tall woman in black knelt besid
e the crib that had housed a generation of Crows. The sleeping Rosalie did not know of the soft kisses that swept her little cheek. She did not feel the tears that fell when the visitor lifted her veil, nor did she hear the whisperings that rose to the woman’s lips.
“That is all,” murmured the mysterious stranger at last, dropping her veil as she arose. She staggered as she started for the door, but recovered herself instantly. Without a word she left the room, the Crows following her down the stairs in silence. At the bottom she paused, and then extended her hands to the old couple. Her voice faltered as she spoke.
“Let me clasp your hands and let me tell you that my love and my prayers are forever for you and for that little one up there. Thank you. I know you will be good to her. She is well born. Her blood is as good as the best. Above all things, Mrs. Crow, she is not illegitimate. You may easily suspect that her parents are wealthy or they could not pay so well for her care. Some day the mystery surrounding her will be cleared. It may not be for many years. I can safely say that she will be left in your care for twenty years at least. Some day you will know why it is that Rosalie is not supposed to exist. God bless you.”
She was gone before they could utter a word. They watched her walk swiftly into the darkness; a few minutes later the sound of carriage wheels suddenly broke upon the air. Anderson Crow and his wife stood over the “base-burner,” and there were tears in their thoughtful eyes.
“She said twenty years, Eva. Let’s see, this is 1883. What would that make it?”
“About 1903 or 1904, Anderson.”
“Well, I guess we c’n wait if other people can,” mused he. Then they went slowly upstairs and to bed.
CHAPTER VIII
Some Years Go By
Tinkletown as a unit supported Anderson in his application for guardianship papers. They were filed immediately after the secret visit of the mysterious woman; the Circuit Court at Boggs City, after hearing the evidence, at once entered the appointment of Mr. Crow. When the court asked in mild surprise why he did not adopt the child, Anderson and Eva looked at each other sheepishly and were silent for a full minute. Then Anderson spoke up a bit huskily:
“Well, you see, judge, her name would have to be Crow, an’ while it’s a good name an’ an honoured one, it don’t jest seem to fit the young ’un. She ’pears to be more of a canary than a crow, figuratively speakin’, and Eva an’ me jest decided we’d give her a different sort of a last name if we could find one. Seems to me that Rosie Canary would be a good one, but Eva an’ the childern are ag’in me. They’ve decided to call her Rosalie Gray, an’ I guess that about settles it. If you don’t mind, I reckon that name c’n go in the records. Besides, you must recollect that she’s liable to have a lot of property some time, an’ it seems more fit fer me to be guardian than foster-father if that time ever comes. It’ll be easier to say good-bye if she keers to leave us.”
That same day Anderson deposited two hundred and fifty dollars to his credit in the First National Bank, saying to his wife as he walked away from the teller’s window, “I guess Rosalie cain’t starve till the bank busts, an’ maybe not then.”
Of course Tinkletown knew that a sum of money had been paid to Anderson, but no one knew that it had been handed to him in person by an interested party. Had Anderson and his wife even whispered that such a visit had occurred, the town would have gone into a convulsion of wrath; the marshal’s pedestal would have been jerked out from under him without compunction or mercy. Eva cautioned him to be more than silent on the subject for the child’s sake as well as for their own, and Anderson saw wisdom in her counselling. He even lagged in his avowed intention to unravel the mystery or die in the attempt. A sharp reminder in the shape of an item in the Banner restored his energies, and he again took up the case with a vigour that startled even himself. Anything in the shape of vigour startled his wife.
Harry Squires, the reporter, who poked more or less fun at Anderson from time to time because he had the “power of the press behind him,” some weeks later wrote the following item about the “baby mystery,” as he called it, in large type:
“There is no news in regard to the child found upon the doorstep of our esteemed fellow-citizen Anderson Crow, last February. The item concerning its discovery first appeared in the columns of the Banner, as will be remembered by our many readers. Detective Crow promised developments some time ago, but they have not showed up. It is rumoured that he has a new clew, but it cannot be substantiated. The general impression is that he does not know whether it is a boy or girl. We advise Mr. Crow to go slow. He should not forget the time when he arrested Mr. John Barnes, two years ago, for the murder of Mr. Grover, and afterward found that the young gent was merely eloping with Judge Brewster’s daughter, which was no crime. We saw the girl. Those of our readers who were alive at the time doubtless recall the excitement of that man-hunt two years ago. Mr. Barnes, as innocent as a child unborn, came to our little city engaged in the innocent pastime of getting married. At the same time it was reported that a murder had been committed in this county. Mr. Crow had his suspicions aroused and pursued Mr. Barnes down the river and arrested him. It was a fine piece of detective work. But, unfortunately for Mr. Crow, the real murderer had been caught in the meantime. Mr. Barnes was guilty only of stealing judge Brewster’s daughter and getting married to her. The last heard of them they were happy in New York. They even forgave Mr. Crow, it is reported. It is to be hoped that our clever detective will soon jump down upon the heartless parents of this innocent child, but it is also to be hoped that he think at least four times before he leaps.”
To say that the foregoing editorial disturbed the evenness of Mr. Crow’s temper would be saying nothing at all. In the privacy of his barn lot Anderson did a war dance that shamed Tecumseh. He threatened to annihilate Harry Squires “from head to foot,” for publishing the base slander.
“Doggone his hide,” roared poor Anderson, “fer two cents I’d tell all I know about him bein’ tight up at Boggs City three years ago. He couldn’t walk half an inch that time without staggerin’. Anyhow, I wouldn’t have chased Mr. Barnes that time if it hadn’t been fer Harry Squires. He egged me on, doggone his hide. If he didn’t have that big typesetter from Albany over at the Banner office to back him up I’d go over an’ bust his snoot fer him. After all the items I’ve give him, too. That’s all the thanks you git fer gittin’ up news fer them blamed reporters. But I’ll show him! I wonder what he’d think if I traced that baby right up to his own—What’s that, Eva? Well, now, you don’t know anything about it neither, so keep your mouth shet. Harry Squires is a purty sly cuss. Mebby it’s his’n. You ain’t supposed to know. You jest let me do my own deducin’. I don’t want no blamed woman tellin’ me who to shadder. An’ you, too, Edner; get out of the way, consarn ye! The next thing you’ll be tellin’ me what to do—an’ me your father, too!”
And that is why Anderson Crow resumed his search for the parents of Rosalie Gray. Not that he hoped or expected to find them, but to offset the pernicious influence of Harry’s “item.” For many days he followed the most highly impossible clews, some of them intractable, to supply a rather unusual word of description. In other words, they reacted with a vigour that often found him unprepared but serene. Consequences bothered Anderson but little in those days of despised activity.
It is not necessary to dwell upon the incidents of the ensuing years, which saw Rosalie crawl from babyhood to childhood and then stride proudly through the teens with a springiness that boded ill for Father Time. Regularly each succeeding February there came to Anderson Crow a package of twenty dollar bills amounting to one thousand dollars, the mails being inscrutable. The Crow family prospered correspondingly, but there was a liberal frugality behind it all that meant well for Rosalie when the time came for an accounting. Anderson and Eva “laid by” a goodly portion of the money for the child, whom they loved as one of their own flesh and blood. The district school lessons were followed later on by a boarding-school
education down State, and then came the finishing touches at Miss Brown’s in New York.
Rosalie grew into a rare flower, as dainty as the rose, as piquant as the daisy. The unmistakable mark of the high bred glowed in her face, the fine traces of blue blood graced her every movement, her every tone and look. At the time that she, as well as every one else in Tinkletown, for that matter, was twenty years older than when she first came to Anderson’s home, we find her the queen of the village, its one rich human possession, its one truly sophisticated inhabitant. Anderson Crow and his wife were so proud of her that they forgot their duty to their own offspring; but if the Crow children resented this it was not exhibited in the expressions of love and admiration for their foster-sister. Edna Crow, the eldest of the girls—Anderson called her “Edner”—was Rosalie’s most devoted slave, while Roscoe, the twelve-year-old boy, who comprised the rear rank of Anderson’s little army, knelt so constantly at her shrine that he fell far behind in his studies, and stuck to the third reader for two years.
Anderson had not been idle in all these years. He was fast approaching his seventieth anniversary, but he was not a day older in spirit than when we first made his acquaintance. True, his hair was thinner and whiter, and his whiskers straggled a little more carelessly than in other days, but he was as young and active as a youth of twenty. Hard times did not worry him, nor did domestic troubles. Mrs. Crow often admitted that she tried her best to worry him, but it was like “pouring water on a duck’s back.” He went blissfully on his way, earning encomiums for himself and honours for Tinkletown. There was no grave crime committed in the land that he did not have a well-defined scheme for apprehending the perpetrators. His “deductions” at Lamson’s store never failed to draw out and hold large audiences, and no one disputed his theories in public. The fact that he was responsible for the arrest of various hog, horse, and chicken thieves from time to time, and for the continuous seizure of the two town drunkards, Tom Folly and Alf Reesling, kept his reputation untarnished, despite the numerous errors of commission and omission that crept in between.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 289