“No. It was not to take place until March, but now she writes that her mother is ill and must go to California for several months. Mr. Reddon wants to be married at once, or before they go West, at least; but she says she cannot consent while her mother requires so much of her. I don’t know how it will end, but I presume they will be married and all go to California. That seems the simple and just way, doesn’t it?”
“Any way seems just, I’d say,” he said. “They love one another, so what’s the odds? Do you know Reddon well?”
“I have seen him many times,” she replied with apparent evasiveness.
“He is a—” but here he stopped as if paralysis had seized him suddenly. The truth shot into his brain like a deadly bolt. Everything was as plain as day to him now. She stooped to pick up a slim, broken reed that crossed her path, and her face was averted. “God!” was the cry that almost escaped his lips. “She loves Reddon, and he is going to marry her best friend!” Cold perspiration started from every pore in his body. He had met the doom of love—the end of hope.
“He has always loved her,” said Rosalie so calmly that he was shocked by her courage. “I hope she will not ask him to wait.”
Rosalie never understood why Bonner looked at her in amazement and said:
“By Jove, you are a—a marvel, Rosalie!”
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Blind Man’s Eyes
Bonner went away without another word of love to her. He saw the futility of hoping, and he was noble enough to respect her plea for silence on the subject that seemed distasteful to her. He went as one conquered and subdued; he went with the iron in his heart for the first time—deeply imbedded and racking.
Bonner came twice from the place across the river. Anderson observed that he looked “peaked,” and Rosalie mistook the hungry, wan look in his face for the emaciation natural to confinement indoors. He was whiter than was his wont, and there was a dogged, stubborn look growing about his eyes and mouth that would have been understood by the sophisticated. It was the first indication of the battle his love was to wage in days to come. He saw no sign of weakening in Rosalie. She would not let him look into her brave little heart, and so he turned his back upon the field and fled to Boston, half beaten, but unconsciously collecting his forces for the strife of another day. He did not know it then, nor did she, but his love was not vanquished; it had met its first rebuff, that was all.
Tinkletown was sorry to see him depart, but it thrived on his promise to return. Every one winked slyly behind his back, for, of course, Tinkletown understood it all. He would come back often and then not at all—for the magnet would go away with him in the end. The busybodies, good-natured but garrulous, did not have to rehearse the story to its end; it would have been superfluous. Be it said here, however, that Rosalie was not long in settling many of the speculators straight in their minds. It seemed improbable that it should not be as they had thought and hoped. The news soon reached Blootch Peabody and Ed Higgins, and, both eager to revive a blighted hope, in high spirits, called to see Rosalie on the same night. It is on record that neither of them uttered two dozen words between eight o’clock and ten, so bitterly was the presence of the other resented.
March came, and with it, to the intense amazement of Anderson Crow, the ever-mysterious thousand dollars, a few weeks late. On a certain day the old marshal took Rosalie to Boggs City, and the guardianship proceedings were legally closed. Listlessly she accepted half of the money he had saved, having refused to take all of it. She was now her own mistress, much to her regret if not to his.
“I may go on living with you, Daddy Crow, may I not?” she asked wistfully as they drove home through the March blizzard. “This doesn’t mean that I cannot be your own little girl after today, does it?”
“Don’t talk like that, Rosalie Gray, er I’ll put you to bed ’thout a speck o’ supper,” growled he in his most threatening tones, but the tears were rolling down his cheeks at the time.
“Do you know, daddy, I honestly hope that the big city detective won’t find out who I am,” she said after a long period of reflection.
“Cause why?”
“Because, if he doesn’t, you won’t have any excuse for turning me out.”
“I’ll not only send you to bed, but I’ll give you a tarnation good lickin’ besides if you talk like—”
“But I’m twenty-one. You have no right,” said she so brightly that he cracked his whip over the horse’s back and blew his nose twice for full measure of gratitude.
“Well, I ain’t heerd anything from that fly detective lately, an’ I’m beginnin’ to think he ain’t sech a long sight better’n I am,” said he proudly.
“He isn’t half as good!” she cried.
“I mean as a detective,” he supplemented apologetically.
“So do I,” she agreed earnestly; but it was lost on him.
There was a letter at home for her from Edith Bonner. It brought the news that Wicker was going South to recuperate. His system had “gone off” since the accident, and the March winds were driving him away temporarily. Rosalie’s heart ached that night, and there was a still, cold dread in its depths that drove sleep away. He had not written to her, and she had begun to fear that their month had been a trifle to him, after all. Now she was troubled and grieved that she should have entertained the fear. Edith went on to say that her brother had seen the New York detective, who was still hopelessly in the dark, but struggling on in the belief that chance would open the way for him.
Rosalie, strive as she would to prevent it, grew pale and the roundness left her cheek as the weeks went by. Her every thought was with the man who had gone to the Southland. She loved him as she loved life, but she could not confess to him then or thereafter unless Providence made clear the purity of her birth to her and to all the world. When finally there came to her a long, friendly, even dignified letter from the far South, the roses began to struggle back to her cheeks and the warmth to her heart. Her response brought a prompt answer from him, and the roses grew faster than the spring itself. Friendship, sweet and loyal, marked every word that passed between them, but there was a dear world in each epistle—for her, at least, a world of comfort and hope. She was praying, hungering, longing for June to come—sweet June and its tender touch—June with its bitter-sweet and sun clouds. Now she was forgetting the wish which had been expressed to Anderson Crow on the drive home from Boggs City. In its place grew the fierce hope that the once despised detective might clear away the mystery and give her the right to stand among others without shame and despair.
“Hear from Wick purty reg’lar, don’t you, Rosalie?” asked Anderson wickedly, one night while Blootch was there. The suitor moved uneasily, and Rosalie shot a reproachful glance at Anderson, a glance full of mischief as well.
“He writes occasionally, daddy.”
“I didn’t know you corresponded reg’larly,” said Blootch.
“I did not say regularly, Blucher.”
“He writes sweet things to beat the band, I bet,” said Blootch with a disdain he did not feel.
“What a good guesser you are!” she cried tormentingly.
“Well, I guess I’ll be goin’,” exploded Blootch wrathfully; “it’s gittin’ late.”
“He won’t sleep much tonight,” said Anderson, with a twinkle in his eye, as the gate slammed viciously behind the caller. “Say, Rosalie, there’s somethin’ been fidgetin’ me fer quite a while. I’ll blurt it right out an’ have it over with. Air you in love with Wick Bonner?”
She started, and for an instant looked at him with wide open eyes; then they faltered and fell. Her breath came in a frightened, surprised gasp and her cheeks grew warm. When she looked up again, her eyes were soft and pleading, and her lips trembled ever so slightly.
“Yes, Daddy Crow, I love him,” she almost whispered.
“An’ him? How about him?”
“I can’t answer that, daddy. He has not told me.”
“Well, he ou
ght to, doggone him!”
“I could not permit him to do so if he tried.”
“What! You wouldn’t permit? What in tarnation do you mean?”
“You forget, daddy, I have no right to his love. It would be wrong—all wrong. Good-night, daddy,” she cried, impulsively kissing him and dashing away before he could check her, but not before he caught the sound of a half sob. For a long time he sat and stared at the fire in the grate. Then he slapped his knee vigorously, squared his shoulders and set his jaw like a vise. Arising, he stalked upstairs and tapped on her door. She opened it an inch or two and peered forth at him—a pathetic figure in white.
“Don’t you worry, Rosalie,” he gulped. “It will be all right and hunky dory. I’ve just took a solemn oath down stairs.”
“An oath, daddy?”
“Yes, sir; I swore by all that’s good and holy I’d find out who your parents are ef it took till doomsday. You shall be set right in the eyes of everybody. Now, if I was you, I’d go right to sleep. There ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I’ve got another clew.”
She smiled lovingly as he ambled away. Poor old Anderson’s confidence in himself was only exceeded by his great love for her.
At last June smiled upon Rosalie and she was off for Boston. Her gowns were from Albany and her happiness from heaven—according to a reverential Tinkletown impression. For two weeks after her departure, Anderson Crow talked himself hoarse into willing ears, always extolling the beauty of his erstwhile ward as she appeared before the family circle in each and every one of those wonderful gowns.
This humble narrative has not to do with the glories and foibles of Boston social life. It has to deal with the adventures of Anderson Crow and Rosalie Gray in so far as they pertain to a place called Tinkletown. The joys and pleasures that Rosalie experienced during that month of June were not unusual in character. The loneliness of Anderson Crow was not a novelty, if one stops to consider how the world revolves for every one else. Suffice to say that the Bonners, mère, fils and fille, exerted themselves to make the month an unforgetable one to the girl—and they succeeded. The usual gaiety, the same old whirl of experiences, came to her that come to any other mortal who is being entertained, fêted and admired. She was a success—a pleasure in every way—not only to her hosts but to herself. If there was a cloud hanging over her head through all these days and nights, the world was none the wiser; the silver lining was always visible.
Once while she was driving with the Bonners she saw a man whom she knew, but did not expect to ever look upon again. She could not be mistaken in him. It was Sam Welch, chief of the kidnapers. He was gazing at her from a crowded street corner, but disappeared completely before Bonner could set the police on his trail.
Commencement Day at Cambridge brought back hundreds of the old men—the men famous in every branch of study and athletics. Among them was handsome Tom Reddon. He came to see her at the Bonner home. Elsie Banks was to return in September from Honolulu, and they were to be married in the fall. Wicker Bonner eagerly looked for the confusion of love in her eyes, but none appeared. That night she told him, in reply to an impulsive demand, that she did not care for Reddon, that she never had known the slightest feeling of tenderness for him.
“Have you ever been in love, Rosalie?” he asked ruthlessly.
“Yes,” she said after a moment, looking him bravely in the eyes.
“And could you never learn to love any one else?”
“I think not, Wicker,” she said ever so softly.
“I beg your pardon,” he said humbly, his face white and his lips drawn. “I should not have asked.”
And so he remained the blind man, with the light shining full into his eyes.
CHAPTER XXIX
The Mysterious Questioner
July brought Rosalie’s visit to an end, and once more Tinkletown basked in her smiles and yet wondered why they were so sad and wistful. She and Bonner were much nearer, far dearer to one another than ever, and yet not one effort had been made to bridge the chasm of silence concerning the thing that lay uppermost in their minds. She only knew that Anderson Crow had not “run down” his clew, nor had the New York sleuth reported for weeks. Undoubtedly, the latter had given up the search, for the last heard of him was when he left for Europe with his wife for a pleasure trip of unknown duration. It looked so dark and hopeless to her, all of it. Had Bonner pressed his demands upon her at the end of the visit in Boston, it is possible—more than possible—that she would have faltered in her resolution. After all, why should she deprive herself of happiness if it was held out to her with the promise that it should never end?
The summer turned steaming hot in the lowlands about Tinkletown, but in the great hills across the river the air was cool, bright, and invigorating. People began to hurry to their country homes from the distant cities. Before the month was old, a score or more of beautiful places were opened and filled with the sons and daughters of the rich. Lazily they drifted and drove and walked through the wonderful hills, famed throughout the world, and lazily they wondered why the rest of the world lived. In the hills now were the Randalls, the Farnsworths, the Brackens, the Brewsters, the Van Wagenens, the Rolfes and a host of others. Tinkletown saw them occasionally as they came jaunting by in their traps and brakes and automobiles—but it is extremely doubtful if they saw Tinkletown in passing.
Anderson Crow swelled and blossomed in the radiance of his own importance. In his old age he was becoming fastidious. Only in the privacy of his own back yard did he go without the black alpaca coat; he was beginning to despise the other days, when he had gone coatless from dawn till dark, on the street or off. His badges were pinned neatly to his lapel and not to his suspenders, as in the days of yore. His dignity was the same, but the old sense of irritation was very much modified. In these new days he was considerate—and patronising. Was he not one of the wealthiest men in town—with his six thousand dollars laid by? Was he not its most honoured citizen, not excepting the mayor and selectmen? Was he not, above all, a close friend of the Bonners?
The Bonners were to spend August in the Congressman’s home across the big river. This fact alone was enough to stir the Crow establishment to its most infinitesimal roots. Rosalie was to be one of the guests at the house party, but her foster-sisters were not the kind to be envious. They revelled with her in the preparations for that new season of delight.
With the coming of the Bonners, Anderson once more revived his resolution to unravel the mystery attending Rosalie’s birth. For some months this ambition had lain dormant, but now, with the approach of the man she loved, the old marshal’s devotion took fire and he swore daily that the mystery should be cleared “whether it wanted to be or not.”
He put poor old Alf Reesling through the “sweat box” time and again, and worthless Tom Folly had many an unhappy night, wondering why the marshal was shadowing him so persistently.
“Alf,” demanded Anderson during one of the sessions, “where were you on the night of February 18, 1883? Don’t hesitate. Speak up. Where were you? Aha, you cain’t answer. That looks suspicious.”
“You bet I c’n answer,” said Alf bravely, blinking his blear eyes. “I was in Tinkletown.”
“What were you doin’ that night?”
“I was sleepin’.”
“At what time? Keerful now, don’t lie.”
“What time o’ night did they leave her on your porch?” demanded Alf in turn.
“It was jest half past ’leven.”
“You’re right, Anderson. That’s jest the time I was asleep.”
“C’n you prove it? Got witnesses?”
“Yes, but they don’t remember the night.”
“Then it may go hard with you. Alf, I still believe you had somethin’ to do with that case.”
“I didn’t, Anderson, so help me.”
“Well, doggone it, somebody did,” roared the marshal. “If it wasn’t you, who was it? Answer that, sir.”
“Why, consarn
you, Anderson Crow, I didn’t have any spare children to leave around on doorsteps. I’ve allus had trouble to keep from leavin’ myself there. Besides, it was a woman that left her, wasn’t it? Well, consarn it, I’m not a woman, am I? Look at my whiskers, gee whiz! I—”
“I didn’t say you left the baskit, Alf; I only said you’d somethin’ to do with it. I remember that there was a strong smell of liquor around the place that night.” In an instant Anderson was sniffing the air. “Consarn ye, the same smell as now—yer drunk.”
“Tom Folly drinks, too,” protested Alf. “He drinks Martini cocktails.”
“Don’t you?”
“Not any more. The last time I ordered one was in a Dutch eatin’ house up to Boggs City. The waiter couldn’t speak a word of English, an’ that’s the reason I got so full. Every time I ordered ‘dry Martini’ he brought me three. He didn’t know how to spell it. No, sir, Anderson; I’m not the woman you want. I was at home asleep that night. I remember jest as well as anything, that I said before goin’ to bed that it was a good night to sleep. I remember lookin’ at the kitchen clock an’ seein’ it was jest eighteen minutes after eleven. ’Nen I said—”
“That’ll be all for today, Alf,” interrupted the questioner, his gaze suddenly centering on something down the street. “You’ve told me that six hundred times in the last twenty years. Come on, I see the boys pitchin’ horseshoes up by the blacksmith shop. I’ll pitch you a game fer the seegars.”
“I cain’t pay if I lose,” protested Alf.
“I know it,” said Anderson; “I don’t expect you to.”
The first day that Bonner drove over in the automobile, to transplant Rosalie in the place across the river, found Anderson full of a new and startling sensation. He stealthily drew the big sunburnt young man into the stable, far from the house. Somehow, in spite of his smiles, Bonner was looking older and more serious. There was a set, determined expression about his mouth and eyes that struck Anderson as new.
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