“I can’t believe it, Mr. Bonner. It is too much like a dream to me.”
“Well, doggone it, Rosalie, dreams don’t last forever!” broke in Anderson Crow. “You’ve got to wake up some time, don’t you see?”
CHAPTER XXV
As the Heart Grows Older
Bonner’s eagerness to begin probing into the mystery grew as his strength came back to him. He volunteered to interest his uncle in the matter, and through him to begin a systematic effort to unravel the tangled ends of Rosalie’s life. Money was not to be spared; time and intelligence were to be devoted to the cause. He knew that Rosalie was in reality a creature of good birth and worthy of the name that any man might seek to bestow upon her—a name given in love by a man to the woman who would share it with him forever.
The days and nights were teaching him the sacredness of a growing attachment. He was not closing his eyes to the truth. It was quite as impossible for big, worldly Wick Bonner to be near her and not fall a victim, as it was for the crude, humble youth of Tinkletown. His heart was just as fragile as theirs when it bared itself to her attack. Her beauty attracted him, her natural refinement of character appealed to him; her pureness, her tenderness, her goodness, wrought havoc with his impressions. Fresh, bright, as clear-headed as the June sunshine, she was a revelation to him—to Bonner, who had known her sex in all its environments. His heart was full of her, day and night; for day and night he was wondering whether she could care for him as he knew he was coming to care for her.
One day he received a telegram. It was from his mother and his sister, who had just reached Boston from Bermuda, and it carried the brief though emphatic information that they were starting to Tinkletown to nurse and care for him. Bonner was thrown into a panic. He realised in the instant that it would be impossible for them to come to Mr. Crow’s home, and he knew they could not be deceived as to his real condition. His mother would naturally insist upon his going at once to Bonner Place, across the river, and on to Boston as soon as he was able; his clever sister would see through his motives like a flash of lightning. Young Mr. Bonner loved them, but he was distinctly bored by the prospect of their coming. In some haste and confusion, he sent for “Doc” Smith.
“Doctor, how soon will I be able to navigate?” he asked anxiously.
“Right now.”
“You don’t say so! I don’t feel strong, you know.”
“Well, your leg’s doing well and all danger is past. Of course, you won’t be as spry as usual for some time, and you can’t walk without crutches, but I don’t see any sense in your loafing around here on that account. You’d be safe to go at any time, Mr. Bonner.”
“Look here, doctor, I’m afraid to change doctors. You’ve handled this case mighty well, and if I went to some other chap, he might undo it all. I’ve made up my mind to have you look out for me until this wound is completely healed. That’s all right, now. I know what I’m talking about. I’ll take no chances. How long will it be until it is completely healed?”
“A couple of weeks, I suppose.”
“Well, I’ll stay right here and have you look at it every day. It’s too serious a matter for me to trifle with. By the way, my mother is coming up, and I dare say she’ll want me to go to Boston. Our family doctor is an old fossil and I don’t like to trust him with this thing. You’ll be doing me a favour, doctor, if you keep me here until I’m thoroughly well. I intend to tell my mother that it will not be wise to move me until all danger of blood poisoning is past.”
“Blood poisoning? There’s no danger now, sir.”
“You never can tell,” said Bonner sagely.
“But I’d be a perfect fool, Mr. Bonner, if there were still danger of that,” complained the doctor. “What sort of a doctor would they consider me?”
“They’d certainly give you credit for being careful, and that’s what appeals to a mother, you know,” said Bonner still more sagely. “Besides, it’s my leg, doctor, and I’ll have it treated my way. I think a couple of weeks more under your care will put me straight. Mother has to consider me, that’s all. I wish you’d stop in tomorrow and change these bandages, doctor; if you don’t mind—”
“Doc” Smith was not slow. He saw more than Bonner thought, so he winked to himself as he crossed over to his office. At the corner he met Anderson Crow.
“Say, Anderson,” he said, half chuckling, “that young Bonner has had a relapse.”
“Thunderation!”
“He can’t be moved for a week or two.”
“Will you have to cut it off?”
“The leg?”
“Certainly. That’s the only thing that pains him, ain’t it?”
“I think not. I’m going to put his heart in a sling,” said Smith, laughing heartily at what he thought would be taken as a brilliant piece of jesting. But he erred. Anderson went home in a great flurry and privately cautioned every member of the household, including Rosalie, to treat Bonner with every consideration, as his heart was weak and liable to give him great trouble. Above all, he cautioned them to keep the distressing news from Bonner. It would discourage him mightily. For a full week Anderson watched Bonner with anxious eyes, writhing every time the big fellow exerted himself, groaning when he gave vent to his hearty laugh.
“Have you heard anything?” asked Bonner with faithful regularity when Anderson came home each night. He referred to the chase for the fugitives.
“Nothin’ worth while,” replied Anderson dismally. “Uncle Jimmy Borton had a letter from Albany today, an’ his son-in-law said three strange men had been seen in the Albany depot the other day. I had Uncle Jimmy write an’ ast him if he had seen anybody answerin’ the description, you know. But the three men he spoke of took a train for New York, so I suppose they’re lost by this time. It’s the most bafflin’ case I ever worked on.”
“Has it occurred to you that the real leader was in this neighbourhood at the time? In Boggs City, let us say. According to Rosa—Miss Gray’s story, the man Sam went out nightly for instructions. Well, he either went to Boggs City or to a meeting place agreed upon between him and his superior. It is possible that he saw this person on the very night of my own adventure. Now, the thing for us to do is to find out if a stranger was seen in these parts on that night. The hotel registers in Boggs City may give us a clew. If you don’t mind, Mr. Crow, I’ll have this New York detective, who is coming up tomorrow, take a look into this phase of the case. It won’t interfere with your plans, will it?” asked Bonner, always considerate of the feelings of the good-hearted, simple-minded old marshal.
“Not at all, an’ I’ll help him all I can, sir,” responded Anderson magnanimously. “Here, Eva, here’s a letter fer Rosalie. It’s the second she’s had from New York in three days.”
“It’s from Miss Banks. They correspond, Anderson,” said Mrs. Crow.
“And say, Eva, I’ve decided on one thing. We’ve got to calculate on gittin’ along without that thousand dollars after this.”
“Why, An—der—son Crow!”
“Yep. We’re goin’ to find her folks, no matter if we do have to give up the thousand. It’s no more’n right. She’ll be twenty-one in March, an’ I’ll have to settle the guardeenship business anyhow. But, doggone it, Mr. Bonner, she says she won’t take the money we’ve saved fer her.”
“She has told me as much, Mr. Crow. I think she’s partly right. If she takes my advice she will divide it with you. You are entitled to all of it, you know—it was to be your pay—and she will not listen to your plan to give all of it to her. Still, I feel that she should not be penniless at this time. She may never need it—she certainly will not as long as you are alive—but it seems a wise thing for her to be protected against emergencies. But I dare say you can arrange that between yourselves. I have no right to interfere. Was there any mail for me?”
“Yep. I almost fergot to fork it over. Here’s one from your mother, I figger. This is from your sister, an’ here’s one from your—your sweetheart, I r
eckon. I deduce all this by sizin’ up the—” and he went on to tell how he reached his conclusions, all of which were wrong. They were invitations to social affairs in Boston. “But I got somethin’ important to tell you, Mr. Bonner. I think a trap is bein’ set fer me by the desperadoes we’re after. I guess I’m gittin’ too hot on their trail. I had an ananymous letter today.”
“A what?”
“Ananymous letter. Didn’t you ever hear of one? This one was writ fer the express purpose of lurin’ me into a trap. They want to git me out of the way. But I’ll fool ’em. I’ll not pay any attention to it.”
“Goodness, Anderson, I bet you’ll be assassinated yet!” cried his poor wife. “I wish you’d give up chasin’ people down.”
“May I have a look at the letter, Mr. Crow?” asked Bonner. Anderson stealthily drew the square envelope from his inside pocket and passed it over.
“They’ve got to git up purty early to ketch me asleep,” he said proudly. Bonner drew the enclosure from the envelope. As he read, his eyes twinkled and the corners of his mouth twitched, but his face was politely sober as he handed the missive back to the marshal. “Looks like a trap, don’t it?” said Anderson. “You see there ain’t no signature. The raskils were afraid to sign a name.”
“I wouldn’t say anything to Miss Gray about this if I were you, Mr. Crow. It might disturb her, you know,” said Bonner.
“That means you, too, Eva,” commanded Anderson in turn. “Don’t worry the girl. She mustn’t know anything about this.”
“I don’t think it’s a trap,” remarked Eva as she finished reading the missive. Bonner took this opportunity to laugh heartily. He had held it back as long as possible. What Anderson described as an “ananymous” letter was nothing more than a polite, formal invitation to attend a “house warming” at Colonel Randall’s on the opposite side of the river. It read:
“Mr. and Mrs. D.F. Randall request the honour of your presence at a house warming, Friday evening, January 30, 190—, at eight o’clock. Rockden-of-the-Hills.”
“It is addressed to me, too, Anderson,” said his wife, pointing to the envelope. “It’s the new house they finished last fall. Anonymous letter! Fiddlesticks! I bet there’s one at the post-office fer each one of the girls.”
“Roscoe got some of the mail,” murmured the marshal sheepishly. “Where is that infernal boy? He’d oughter be strapped good and hard fer holdin’ back letters like this,” growled he, eager to run the subject into another channel. After pondering all evening, he screwed up the courage and asked Bonner not to tell any one of his error in regard to the invitation. Roscoe produced invitations for his sister and Rosalie. He furthermore announced that half the people in town had received them.
“There’s a telegram comin’ up fer you after a while, Mr. Bonner,” he said. “Bud’s out delivering one to Mr. Grimes, and he’s going to stop here on the way back. I was at the station when it come in. It’s from your ma, and it says she’ll be over from Boggs City early in the morning.”
“Thanks, Roscoe,” said Bonner with an amused glance at Rosalie; “you’ve saved me the trouble of reading it.”
“They are coming tomorrow,” said Rosalie long afterward, as the last of the Crows straggled off to bed. “You will have to go away with them, won’t you?”
“I’m an awful nuisance about here, I fancy, and you’ll be glad to be rid of me,” he said softly, his gaze on the blazing “back-log.”
“No more so than you will be to go,” she said so coolly that his pride suffered a distinct shock. He stole a shy glance at the face of the girl opposite. It was as calm and serene as a May morning. Her eyes likewise were gazing into the blaze, and her fingers were idly toying with the fringe on the arm of the chair.
“By George!” he thought, a weakness assailing his heart suddenly; “I don’t believe she cares a rap!”
CHAPTER XXVI
The Left Ventricle
The next day Mrs. Bonner and Miss Bonner descended upon Tinkletown. They were driven over from Boggs City in an automobile, and their advent caused a new thrill of excitement in town. Half of the women in Tinkletown found excuse to walk past Mr. Crow’s home some time during the day, and not a few of them called to pay their respects to Mrs. Crow, whether they owed them or not, much to that estimable lady’s discomfiture.
Wicker’s mother was a handsome, aristocratic woman with a pedigree reaching back to Babylon or some other historic starting place. Her ancestors were Tories at the time of the American Revolution, and she was proud of it. Her husband’s forefathers had shot a few British in those days, it is true, and had successfully chased some of her own ancestors over to Long Island, but that did not matter in these twentieth century days. Mr. Bonner long since had gone to the tomb; and his widow at fifty was quite the queen of all she surveyed, which was not inconsiderable. The Bonners were rich in worldly possessions, rich in social position, rich in traditions. The daughter, just out in society, was a pretty girl, several years younger than Wicker. She was the idol of his heart. This slip of a girl had been to him the brightest, wittiest and prettiest girl in all the world. Now, he was wondering how the other girl, who was not his sister, would compare with her when they stood together before him.
Naturally, Mrs. Crow and her daughters sank into a nervous panic as soon as these fashionable women from Boston set foot inside the humble home. They lost what little self-possession they had managed to acquire and floundered miserably through the preliminaries.
But calm, sweet and composed as the most fastidious would require, Rosalie greeted the visitors without a shadow of confusion or a sign of gaucherie. Bonner felt a thrill of joy and pride as he took note of the look of surprise that crept into his mother’s face—a surprise that did not diminish as the girl went through her unconscious test.
“By George!” he cried jubilantly to himself, “she’s something to be proud of—she’s a queen!”
Later in the day, after the humble though imposing lunch (the paradox was permissible in Tinkletown), Mrs. Bonner found time and opportunity to express her surprise and her approval to him. With the insight of the real aristocrat, she was not blind to the charms of the girl, who blossomed like a rose in this out-of-the-way patch of nature. The tact which impelled Rosalie to withdraw herself and all of the Crows from the house, giving the Bonners an opportunity to be together undisturbed, did not escape the clever woman of the world.
“She is remarkable, Wicker. Tell me about her. Why does she happen to be living in this wretched town and among such people?”
Whereupon Bonner rushed into a detailed and somewhat lengthy history of the mysterious Miss Gray, repeating it as it had come to him from her own frank lips, but with embellishments of his own that would have brought the red to her cheeks, could she have heard them. His mother’s interest was not assumed; his sister was fascinated by the recital.
“Who knows,” she cried, her dark eyes sparkling, “she may be an heiress to millions!”
“Or a princess of the royal blood!” amended her mother with an enthusiasm that was uncommon. “Blood alone has made this girl what she is. Heaven knows that billions or trillions could not have overcome the influences of a lifetime spent in—in Winkletown—or is that the name? It doesn’t matter, Wicker—any name will satisfy. Frankly, I am interested in the girl. It is a crime to permit her to vegetate and die in a place like this.”
“But, mother, she loves these people,” protested Bonner lifelessly. “They have been kind to her all these years. They have been parents, protectors—”
“And they have been well paid for it, my son. Please do not misunderstand me, I am not planning to take her off their hands. I am not going to reconstruct her sphere in life. Not by any means. I am merely saying that it is a crime for her to be penned up for life in this—this desert. I doubt very much whether her parentage will ever be known, and perhaps it is just as well that it isn’t to be. Still, I am interested.”
“Mamma, I think it would be very
nice to ask her to come to Boston for a week or two, don’t you?” suggested Edith Bonner, warmly but doubtfully.
“Bully!” exclaimed Wicker, forgetting in his excitement that he was a cripple. “Have her come on to stop a while with you, Ede. It will be a great treat for her and, by George, I’m inclined to think it maybe somewhat beneficial to us.”
“Your enthusiasm is beautiful, Wicker,” said his mother, perfectly unruffled. “I have no doubt you think Boston would be benefited, too.”
“Now, you know, mother, it’s not just like you to be snippish,” said he easily. “Besides, after living a while in other parts of the world, I’m beginning to feel that population is not the only thing about Boston that can be enlarged. It’s all very nice to pave our streets with intellect so that we can’t stray from our own footsteps, but I rather like the idea of losing my way, once in a while, even if I have to look at the same common, old sky up there that the rest of the world looks at, don’t you know. I’ve learned recently that the same sun that shines on Boston also radiates for the rest of the world.”
“Yes, it shines in Tinkletown,” agreed his mother serenely. “But, my dear—” turning to her daughter—”I think you would better wait a while before extending the invitation. There is no excuse for rushing into the unknown. Let time have a chance.”
“By Jove, mother, you talk sometimes like Anderson Crow. He often says things like that,” cried Wicker delightedly.
“Dear me! How can you say such a thing, Wicker?”
“Well, you’d like old Anderson. He’s a jewel!”
“I dare say—an emerald. No, no—that was not fair or kind, Wicker. I unsay it. Mr. Crow and all of them have been good to you. Forgive me the sarcasm. Mr. Crow is perfectly impossible, but I like him. He has a heart, and that is more than most of us can say. And now let us return to earth once more. When will you be ready to start for Boston? Tomorrow?”
“Heavens, no! I’m not to be moved for quite a long time—danger of gangrene or something of the sort. It’s astonishing, mother, what capable men these country doctors are. Dr. Smith is something of a marvel. He—he—saved my leg.”
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