EXPECTING "KIT"
Mr. Robbins had answered the first letter from Delphi, under Kit's careful
supervision, and the acceptance was couched in language ambiguous enough
to please even her.
It aroused no suspicions whatever in the minds of Dean Peabody or Miss
Daphne. The only question was, who was to meet the child in Chicago. The
through express would leave _him_ there, and in order to connect with the
Wisconsin trains it was necessary to make the change over to the
Northwestern Depot.
Miss Daphne was far more perturbed over it than her brother. One of the
latter's favorite mottoes was inscribed in old English lettering over his
desk:
"_Never set in motion forces which
you cannot control_."
Having set in motion the coming guest, he believed firmly that an
unfaltering Fate would direct his footsteps safely to Delphi. Cassius Cato
Peabody had been peculiar all his life. He had been a peculiar boy,
unsettled, studious, impractical. Miss Daphne was his younger sister, and
ever since her girlhood had tried to give him all the love and
encouragement that others refused. She had trotted after him faithfully
and happily on all of his exploring expeditions. Perhaps one reason why
these had been so successful was because somehow she had always managed to
surround him with home comforts, even in the wilds of the upper Nile. The
Dean had had his regular meals and clean changes of clothing in the shadow
of Nineveh's ruins in far Chaldea, just as though he had been in his own
domicile.
And perhaps the quaintest thing about it all was that Miss Daphne herself,
no matter on what particular point of the globe she had happened to pitch
her tent, had always retained her courage, although she had faced dangers
that the average woman would have fled from. Perhaps she carried in her
heart an unfailing faith that Providence could not deny her protection
when she was enabling the Dean to give the benefit of his great gifts to
the world.
Their house stood on the same hill as Hope College, the highest point in
the rising ridge of bluffs along the Lake Shore at Delphi. It was built of
dark red brick, a square double edifice, with long French windows and two
rotunda shaped wings, somewhat in the French style. A grove of pine trees
almost hid it from view on its street side, the stately Norway pines that
Kit always loved. The back of the house looked directly out over the lake,
and the land here was frankly left to nature. Trees, grass and underbrush
rioted at will, until they suddenly ended on the brow of the bluff, where
there was a sheer declivity of sand to the beach. Looking at it from
below, Kit afterwards thought it was like a miniature section of the
Yosemite, the sand had hardened into such fantastic shapes, and the strata
in places was so plainly visible.
Mrs. Robbins' telegram arrived the night before Kit herself. It was brief
and non-committal.
"Kit arrives Union Station, Chicago, Thursday, 10:22 A.M."
"Kit," repeated the Dean. "Humph! Nickname. Superfluous and derogatory."
Miss Daphne took the telegram from his desk with a little smile that was
almost tremulous with excitement.
"It's probably the diminutive for Christopher, brother," she said. "I
think it's a nice name. I always liked the legend of St. Christopher.
Somebody'll have to meet him down in Chicago. He might lose his head and
take the wrong train."
"He's about fourteen, isn't he? Old enough to change from one train to
another, and use his tongue if he's in doubt. When I was fourteen, Daphne,
I was earning my own living working on a farm, summers, and going to a
school in the winter time where we all had to work for our board. Never
hurt us a bit. The greatest trait of character you can inculcate in a
child is self-reliance."
Miss Daphne had a little way of appearing to listen while her brother
expatiated on any of his favorite topics. It had grown to be a loving
habit with her, and she had a way of answering absently.
"Yes, dear, I'm quite sure of it," which always satisfied him that he had
her attention. But now, she sat looking out the window and thinking, a
perplexed expression on her face. It had not altogether been her desire
that the coming child should be a boy, although not one word had she
breathed of this to Dean Peabody. Their lives had run in tranquil grooves.
Everything about their daily routine was as St. Paul suggested, "Decently
and in order."
The determination to take one of the Greenacre brood had been a sudden
one. The Dean had been reading somebody's theory about the obligations of
age to youth.
"Daphne, my dear," he had remarked one evening, as the two sat quietly in
the old library, "we have been leading very narrow, selfish lives, and we
will suffer for it as we grow older. We have shut ourselves away from
youth. I am seventy-four now, and what heritage am I leaving to the world
beyond a few books of reference, and my collections? What I should do is
to take some child, still in the impressionable stage, and impart to it
all I know."
Miss Daphne glanced up with a little amused twinkle in her eyes.
"But, brother, what about the child? Surely you would require an
exceptional child for such an experiment. One who would have the mentality
to grasp all that you were trying to impart to it."
The Dean cogitated over this, pursing his lips and tapping his knuckles
with his rimless eye-glasses.
"Possibly," he granted, "and yet, Daphne, surely there would be far more
credit attached to planting the seed of knowledge where it needed much
cultivating. It has surprised and amazed me up at the college to find that
usually the children who appreciate an education are the farmer boys, and
very often the foreign element."
Miss Daphne rocked to and fro gently. She knew her brother well enough to
understand that this had become a fixed idea with him, and the easiest way
out was to find him an impressionable child. And then, it happened that
she thought of Elizabeth Ann Robbins, their niece, and all her nestful of
young mouths to be satisfied with life's gifts and privileges. She
remembered having one letter after the breaking up of the home on Long
Island. This had told them of Mr. Robbins' illness and breakdown. But with
the optimism that was inherent in every one of the family, there had been
no appeal for aid or cry of despondency over the sudden change in their
fortunes.
Several times the Dean had written to Mr. Robbins but always on
archaeological topics. Some little point of controversy upon which he
desired confirmation. Somehow material needs never seemed to suggest
themselves to the Dean. Blessed with absolute self-reliance from his
boyhood, he had educated and made a success of himself, and he could not
understand how any one could falter or repine in the race. Particularly,
if Nature had granted them any precious ratio of Peabody blood.
"Do you know, brother," began Miss Daphne, in the bright, abrupt little
way she had, "I think it would be the right thing if we took one of the
Robbins' children. There are four or five of them----"
"Boys or girls?" interrupted the Dean.
"Well, now I'm not quite sure, but if my memory serves me, I think there's
a boy amongst them. I know the eldest girl is named Jean Daphne, because
I've always sent her a silver spoon on her birthday since she was born.
They're all of them over ten, I am sure. Why don't you just write to
Jerrold and make known your willingness? I am sure they would take it in
the spirit in which it was offered."