LIGHT
Leaving Mrs. Wilson, a neighbor and friend, in care of the house
while David slept, Miss Eastman set out for Dr. Redfield's
office. In her face was determination; in her hand a broken
miniature. The gentleman was to be called upon to explain, if he
could, why he had given that picture to her little boy.
"I have been his mother now for four years," she meant to tell
the Doctor. "I have tried to be a good mother; I have tried my
best. Why, then, should you even suggest to him that I am not
really his mother? If you have done that I must tell you that I
do not think it just. And, besides, I must ask you to make no
further additions to his wardrobe without first consulting me. He
does not look like my little boy any more. You have cut off his
curls. You said nothing to me about it; you merely cut them off.
I did not want you to do that. I would not have consented to it,
and I should like you to understand that hereafter he is to be
solely in my care, or not at all."
As she rehearsed these words in her mind, Miss Eastman went
hurrying through the streets. Twilight had set in, close and
sultry, with low grumblings of thunder, and there was that
stillness in the air, that strange sense of waiting, which
precedes the storm. Gray, scarf-like films were speeding across
the black-purple sky, and were suddenly rent by a zig-zag quiver
of blue-white fire. The trees along the walk flamed green, and
then were dark again, and overhead a flight of pigeons clove the
air with a rushing of swift wings. An instant later a whirling
litter of straws, flapping newspapers, and dust came swishing
down the pavement, and with the coming of this first strong gust
of wind was a noise of slamming doors and the sound of windows
being quickly lowered. With the swift and vigorous whiff of storm
came the good, cooling smell of rain.
Miss Eastman paid no heed. She was too indignant and too hurt to
think much about so trifling a matter as a shower, and when she
reached the house of Dr. Redfield it further exasperated her that
she should be kept waiting upon his doorstep. Twice, and a third
time, she gave the bell an energetic pull, but no one answered.
The gush of water from the roof tinkled loudly in the tin
drain-pipes, but throughout the dwelling there was a tomb-like
silence. Presently, though, Miss Eastman heard a "squadgy" tread
that was steadily drawing nearer. When the door was at last
cautiously opened she caught a glimpse of the housekeeper, the
discreet and red-faced Mrs. Botz. As the shiny countenance
leisurely appeared, the woman revealed two flour-coated fingers
pressed upon her heavy lips.
"Herr Doctor iss maybe gone to sleep already," she whispered;
then she laughed a wheezy chuckle that shook her ponderous bust.
She pointed up the hallway to something under the light of the
oil lamp which much resembled a fat rag doll. The queer object
was shaking with strange contortions in the place where the
hall-bell should have hung. "I play him one good trick, ain't
it?" she added. "Mit a towel I tie up the bell-knocker--zo!" She
illustrated with her flour-dusted hands. "Den I wrap him round
like one sore foot. _Hoffentlich_, nopody vill vake him up if he
iss sleeping."
"But why, Mary, why should he be asleep? Is he so tired, then?"
"Ach, mein lieber Gott! Do you not know? It iss Duck Town. Vonce
more yet a funeral. I know from his face it is this time maybe
one little schildt. He carry them in his eyes, the little
schildren, unt he is coming home, unt he say nudding; he cannot
eat, unt zo I know vot iss it."
Although this announcement went to Miss Eastman's heart, it was
not sufficient to outweigh her resolution. She would speak
plainly to him. Glancing toward the office, she saw that a dim
light was shining from an open door into the hallway.
"I think I shall have to go in," she said to Mrs. Botz, and
started for the office.
Miss Eastman's determination was firmly fixed. Dr. Redfield must
understand once for all that hers was the exclusive guardianship
over David, and with that unwavering idea in her mind she looked
into the room. She saw him seated under the shade of the lamp in
his faded green house-robe, his shoulders more stooped than
formerly, his shaggy head sunk forward, and a greater weariness
in his face than she had ever seen in it before.
All at once, as she stood looking at him, her grievances dwindled
into pettiness. The words she had come to speak were dumb upon
her lips, forgotten in a womanly impulse to go to him, to put her
arms about that tired head, and to hold it as though he were
nothing more than a little boy. So, presently, when he glanced
up, it did not seem at all strange that she should be asking:--
"How is it down there? Very bad?"
One would have thought she had accused him of surrender. He
turned upon her with fierce irritability.
"Who says we're not getting on?" he demanded. "Who says--who says
nothing can do any good?"
He grasped the sides of the chair and struggled to his feet. He
stood erect like a general, his eyes suddenly lighting up with
the fire of inflexible will. Then he was seized with a trembling
fit, and sank back in his chair. He rubbed his hands over his
gray face; he clenched his fingers, and the knuckle of his thumb
went to his eye and got wet in doing it. And it was all so
awkward, and so boyish, and so funny, this movement of his fist
and the tear-drop on his thumb, that Miss Eastman would have
laughed if she had not been crying.
"Who was it, Doctor--who was it that died to-day?"
He told her who it was, and she could not believe him.
"Jim Lehman's child? Not Emma--surely not little Emma Lehman? How
is that possible? Such a very short time ago it seems since I was
lending her story-books! She couldn't speak English at all when
she first came to school."
"You knew her, then?"
"Knew her? She was the only one who cried when I told them I
would not teach school any more. She gave me a present once--a
woeful, comical Christmas present, a big, clean-washed, smooth
potato. That was all she had to give, and she had tied colored
strips of tissue paper about it to make it good enough."
Miss Eastman inquired about other children, one by one, as though
calling the roll. At first he evaded her questioning, giving such
vague and equivocal replies that presently she clearly understood
the situation.
"It is epidemic," she said, "and you have been keeping this from
me. How long since it began?"
"The worst is over," he answered, with something of the old
heartiness that made the sick take courage even in their hour of
darkest trial. But he was reluctant to talk much of conditions
in Duck Town; and presently, during a lull in the conversation,
Miss Eastman laid the pieces of the broken miniature on the table
before him.
"Was this David's mother?" she asked.
As the man took up the two parts of the broken portrait he
glanced apprehensively toward the top of his desk. The picture
which used to stand there was gone.
"Where did you get this?" he questioned.
"As soon as they get into trousers they get into mischief," she
replied, and again she asked whether that was a picture of the
little boy's mother.
With gentle fingers Dr. Redfield fitted the parts of the picture
together, sorrowfully shook his head over them, and then, as a
wan smile creased his tired face, he said:--
"David asked me if she was _my_ mother. Has the little rogue been
claiming her for _his_?"
Miss Eastman slowly answered: "She does look a little like--"
"Yes," the doctor interrupted, "more than that, I should
say--more than a little like David's mother. From the first time
I saw that poor dear woman I thought so, and yet I was never
quite sure that my fancy had not created the resemblance. It was
an unaccountable likeness, and yet so strong a one that it meant
much, very much to me."
"I must take this home again," she said, "for to-morrow David is
to bring it back to you. He must tell you all about it--how he
got into trouble. We shall come early in the morning, and he will
stay here with Mrs. Botz, while I go with you."
"Go with me?" The bushy eyebrows of Dr. Redfield raised with
inquiring astonishment.
"You cannot go on forever like this," she replied. "You must let
others help. I think I can be rather useful down there in Duck
Town. I shall be here early in the morning to go with you."
The Doctor said nothing. He merely clasped the woman's hand in
his two hands, and the look in his face was the look of that
little boy called David, when somebody has been good to him.