To Phœbe, Uncle Bob took on a new and intense interest. Heretofore, he
had been just Uncle Bob, stout and jolly and loving, with certain
unknown duties at the Court House, and his various homely pastimes at
home, such as gardening and puttering about the stable, and hunting
worms. But now all at once he seemed different. And Phœbe forgot his
stoutness and his baldness in remembering that he was the adoring, yet
unhappy, lover. And just as she had watched her father’s face for signs
of suffering, she now watched this uncle, discovering sadness in his
smiling blue eyes, and yearning even in his whistled tunes as he
hammered away at the chicken-coop.
“He loves Miss Ruth,” she pondered. She was doubly tender to him,
knowing his secret. And just as she had vowed to thwart any plan of her
father’s to marry a second wife, she now gave time to a plot that would
bring Miss Ruth to Grandma’s.
Sophie discouraged the idea. “You can’t make Miss Ruth love your Uncle
if she don’t,” she asserted. “And—she don’t.”
“I’m going to pray about it,” resolved Phœbe, stoutly.
It meant a new ending to her bedside devotions. First there was that
general plea to her Maker, which, she felt, kept her right in her own
conscience and in the sight of her fellow-beings. Next came her
whispered appeal to her mother, bringing that dear presence poignantly
near. The final prayer was as simple as it was heartfelt: “Oh, God,
please help Miss Ruth to love my Uncle Bob!”
Yet she never dared broach the matter to her uncle. Other things they
discussed most confidentially; for instance, Uncle John.
“When I get educated,” Phœbe wanted to know, “like Uncle John is, will I
talk to people like he does, and make them sleepy?”
Uncle Bob roared with laughter, and slapped his knee. “That’s a good
one!” he cried. “And down at the Court House, sometimes when I talk a
good deal _I_ can put a lawyer to sleep.”
“Lawyers are not nice people,” Phœbe declared. “At least they’re never
very nice on the screen.”
She asked him quite frankly about her program of work. “Public school is
out, and so is Miss Simpson’s,” she reminded him; “and here I am at
lessons every morning.”
“You’ll be just so much ahead of everybody else,” returned Uncle Bob.
“And why waste the time? Pile up the good work while Daddy’s gone. Now!
now! What’s that? A little tear?”
Phœbe nodded. “Lately, when I shut my eyes, I can’t see Daddy’s face any
more. He seems such a long way off. Just see where Peru is on the map!”
“I know, darling. It’s hard.”
She looked around—to make sure they were alone. “If—if I only had my
mother,” she whispered. “Uncle Bob, are there a lot of girls in the
world without mothers?”
He nodded. “Too many.”
“Sometimes it seems as if I can’t stand it,” she confessed. “My throat
twists up,—right here—and it aches. I wake in the night, and I pretend
that she’s close to me——”
“Maybe she is.”
“No; because I hold out my arms.”
Uncle Bob drew her close. “Ah, you’re lonely!”
“I want my mother,” whispered Phœbe. “Oh, Uncle Bob, I want my mother!”
“There! There!” he comforted.
“She died out there alone! Did you all hate her?”
“No! No!”
“What did my mother do that was so bad?”
He made her stand in front of him. “Phœbe,” he began solemnly, “shall I
tell you the truth?”
“I want to know.”
“And if I tell you the truth, you’ll never worry about it again?”
“No, I won’t, Uncle Bob.”
“The truth is this:”—looking at her squarely—“your mother just
_couldn’t_ do wrong.”
“I love you,” faltered Phœbe, glad and grateful and on the verge of
tears—all at the same time.
“If I could only give you back your mother!” went on Uncle Bob, huskily.
“To make you happy, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do—not anything.”
His big chin rested upon his tie. He lost himself in thought, his eyes
on the carpet,—they were in the library—his arm about Phœbe.
And then she was reminded all at once of that which could make him
happy. For Sophie burst in, her over-curled hair lifting with the speed
of her coming, and her eyes dancing with something like mischief.
“Miss Shepard’s callin’, Judge,” she announced.
“Ah!” Uncle Bob sprang up.
“Miss Ruth!” cried Phœbe, joyously.
“Ask Miss Shepard in here, Sophie,” bade Uncle Bob. Then, as Sophie
swung herself out, “You love Miss Ruth very much, don’t you, Phœbe?”
“Yes,” answered Phœbe. And then, before she could stop the words, for
she was thinking aloud, “So do you.”
“Wha-a-at?” exclaimed Uncle Bob.
“People say so,” defended Phœbe, a little frightened at her own
temerity.
Uncle Bob’s face grew suddenly stern. “That’s gossip,” he said shortly.
“I’m sorry.”
He strode to Uncle John’s table and back; then, “That’s all right, old
dumpling. Now you go in to Grandma. And remember that Uncle Bob’s going
to try to do something that’ll make his dear Phœbe happy. He’s going to
try right away—soon—today. For he’s got a plan—a wonderful plan——”
It was Miss Ruth who cut him short. She entered quickly, a little out of
breath. And she was pale. “Judge, I’m sorry to trouble you——”
“You never trouble me.” How deep Uncle Bob’s voice could be! Phœbe was
standing beside Miss Ruth, her hand in a firm, cool, loving clasp. She
watched her uncle narrowly, seeing that what Sophie had told her was
true.
“Judge, it’s Manila,” announced Miss Ruth.
“What’s wrong?” asked Uncle Bob.
“Mr. Botts is drinking again. And so—well, you know my neighbor on the
other side? She’s very close to the Botts’s. And they’ve got that child
locked up, in a room on this side——”
Phœbe drew away from Miss Ruth, and stared up at her. “In prison!” she
murmured. Here was another drama, more startling even than this one
which concerned Miss Ruth and Uncle Bob’s unrequited love.
Miss Ruth was appealing to Uncle Bob. “My neighbors can hear Manila
crying—they heard her in the night, and this morning, too, while it was
still dark. Oh, Judge, they say there’s no bed in that room——”
Uncle Bob straightened determinedly. “We’ve got to take that child,” he
declared.
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say that!” cried Miss Ruth. “Poor,
unhappy——”
But Phœbe heard no more. For an idea had come to her, and she had
decided to act upon it. Manila was locked up by her cruel
step-mother—exactly like some unfortunate waif in a moving-picture
story! Uncle Bob meant that Manila should be set free.
“And I’m going to do it,” vowed Phœbe.
She made for the hall door.