"You can't think of anybody who might like to take this little David
Allison, can you, my dear?" William King asked his wife at breakfast
the next morning.
"I certainly cannot," Martha said decidedly. "I think it's a very
dangerous thing to take unknown children into your family. I suppose
you think I ought to offer to do it? But in the first place, I'm very
tired, and in the second place, I don't like boys. If it was a girl it
might be different."
"No doubt we could find a girl," William began, but she interrupted him.
"Girls are a great expense. And then, as I said--unknown
children!--they might turn into anything. They might have evil
tendencies; they probably have. If the parents die early, it's a sign
of weakness of some sort. I've no doubt this boy's father drank. I
don't want to seem unkind, but I must say flatly and frankly that
considering how hard it is for us to make both ends meet--as you keep
up a sort of free practice--I don't think it's prudent to suggest any
new responsibilities and expenses."
"Oh, I wasn't making suggestions," William King said. "I guess we're
not the people to bring up a child. I'd spoil him, I've no doubt."
"I'm sure you would!" Martha said, greatly relieved. "It would be the
worst possible thing for him. But Willy, there's that Mrs. Richie?"
"You think his evil tendencies wouldn't hurt her?" the doctor said
dryly.
"I think she's a rich woman, so why shouldn't she do a thing like that?
I'll go and see her if you want me to--though she never makes you feel
welcome; and tell her about the boy?"
"You needn't bother; Dr. Lavendar will see her himself."
"I don't understand that woman," Mrs. King said. "She keeps herself to
herself too much. It almost looks as if she didn't think we were good
enough to associate with her!"
William made no reply.
"Willy, does she use perfumery?"
"How in the world should I know!"
"Well, there's a sort of fragrance about her. It isn't like cologne,
it's like--well, orris-root."
William made no comment.
"It's a kind of sachet, I guess; I'd like to know what it is. Willy,
Sam Wright's Sam went out walking with her yesterday. I met them on the
River Road. I believe the boy is in love with her!"
"He's got eyes," William agreed.
"_Tck!_" said Martha, "the idea of calling her good-looking! And I
don't think it speaks well for a woman of her age--she's forty if she's
a day--to let a boy trail round after her like that. And to fix herself
up with sachet-powders and things. And her Sarah told the Draytons'
Jean that she had her breakfast in bed every morning! I'd like to know
how my housekeeping would go on if _I_ had breakfast in bed, though
dear knows I'm very tired and it would be pleasant enough. But there's
one thing about me: I may not be perfect, but I don't do lazy things
just because they are pleasant."
The doctor made no defence of Mrs. Richie. Instead he asked for another
cup of coffee and when told that it would not be good for him, got up,
then paused patiently, his hand on the door-knob, to hear his Martha
out.
"William, what do you suppose is the last thing Sam Wright's Sam has
done?"
The doctor confessed his ignorance.
"Well, his father sent him to Mercer on Monday to buy supplies for the
bank. He gave him seventy-five dollars. Back comes my young gentleman
with--what do you suppose? A lot of pictures of actors and actresses!
And no supplies."
"What! you don't mean he spent the money on the pictures?"
"Every bit of it! His mother came in and told me about it last night.
She said his father was frantic. She was dreadfully upset herself. As
for Sam, he kept saying that the 'prints,' as he called them, were very
valuable. Though I'm sure I can't see why; they were only of actor
people, and they had all died sixty or seventy years ago."
"Actors!" the doctor said. "Poor Samuel! he hates the theatre. I do
believe he'd rather have pictures of the devil."
"Oh, but wait. You haven't heard the rest of it. It appears that when
the boy looked at 'em yesterday morning he found they weren't as
valuable as he thought--I don't understand that part of it," Martha
acknowledged--"so what does he do but march downstairs, and put 'em all
in the kitchen stove! What do you think of that?"
"I think," said William King, "that he has always gone off at half-cock
ever since he was born. But Martha, the serious thing is his spending
money that didn't belong to him."
"I should think it was serious! If he'd been some poor little clerk in
the bank, instead of Mr. Samuel Wright's only son, he would have found
it was serious! Willy, what do you make of him?"
"He is queer," William said; "queer as Dick's hatband; but that's all.
Sam wouldn't do a mean thing, or a dirty thing, any more than a girl
would."
"And now he thinks he's in love with this Richie woman," Martha went
on--but William made his escape. He had to go and hitch up, he said.
Before he took Jinny out of her stall he went into the harness-room and
hunted about on a shelf until, behind a rusty currycomb and two empty
oil-bottles, he found a small mirror. It was misty and flecked with
clear spots where the quicksilver had dropped away, but when he propped
it against the cobwebbed window he could see himself fairly well.
Staring into its dim depths he retied his necktie; then he backed the
buggy out of the carriage-house. But after he had put his mare between
the shafts he hesitated.... The buggy was very shabby; it sagged badly
on the right side and there was a rent in the faded cushion. The doctor
looked at his watch.... Then, hurriedly, led Jinny back to her stall,
got a bucket of water and a sponge, and washed off the dashboard and
wheels. After that he fumbled along a dusty beam to find a bottle of
oil with which he touched up the harness. But when all was done he
shook his head. The buggy was hopeless. Nevertheless, when he climbed
in and slapped Jinny's flank with the newly oiled rein he was careful
to sit in the middle of the seat to make the springs truer, and he
avoided the mud-puddles on the road up to the Stuffed Animal House.
There were a good many puddles, for it had rained the day before.
To-day the clouds had gathered up behind the hills into white domes,
but the sky was that faint April blue that dims easily into warm mists.
There was the smell of earth, the fainter scent of unopened buds, and
from the garden borders of the Stuffed Animal House came the pungent
odor of box.
Helena Richie, standing by a bed of crown-imperials, bareheaded, a
trowel in her gloved hand, her smooth cheek flushed with the unwonted
exertion of planting seeds, caught the exquisite breath of the box, and
sighed; then, listlessly, she turned to walk back towards the house.
Before she reached it the gate clicked and Dr. King came up the path.
She saw him and looked hurriedly about, as if seeking a way of escape,
but it was too late.
"Gardening?" he called to her.
"Yes," she said, and her smile like reluctant sunshine did not betray
to the doctor that he was not welcome.
"Don't work too hard," he cautioned her. It seemed to William King,
looking at her with wondering admiration, that she was too delicate a
creature to handle a trowel. There was a certain soft indolence in the
way she moved that was a delight to his eye. It occurred to him that he
would ask his Martha why she didn't wear gardening-gloves. Mrs. Richie
wore them, and as she pulled one off he saw how soft and white her hand
was....
"How's the patient?" he asked.
"Poor Maggie? Oh, she's pretty uncomfortable I'm afraid."
They had gone together to the front porch, and as she stood on the
lower step looking up at him, the sunshine suddenly filled her eyes
with limpid brown light. "Maggie is in her room in the ell--the first
door on the left. Shall I show you the way?"
"I know the way," he said.
Mrs. Richie sat down on the porch step to wait for him. She had nothing
else to do. She never had anything to do. She had tried to be
interested in the garden, and bought a trowel and some seeds and
wandered out into the borders; but a manufactured interest has no
staying quality--especially if it involves any hard work. She was glad
when William King came back and sat down beside her; sickness was not
an agreeable topic, but it was a topic.
"Maggie will be all right in two or three days, but don't let her go
into the kitchen before Monday. A bad throat pulls you down. And she's
had a good deal of pain."
"Oh, poor Maggie!" she said wincing.
"A sore throat is nothing so very dreadful," William assured her with
open amusement.
She drew a breath of relief. "Oh, I'm glad! I can't bear to think of
pain." Then she looked at him anxiously. "Don't you think she can cook
before Monday? I'm so tired of scrappy dinners.
"I'm afraid not," William King said. "I'm very sorry." But that his
sorrow was not for Maggie was evident.
"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Richie; and then her eyes crinkled with gayety at
his concern. "I don't really mind, Dr. King."
"I shouldn't blame you if you did. Nobody likes scrappy dinners. I wish
you would come down and have dinner with us?"
"Oh, thank you, no," she said. And the sudden shy retreat into her
habitual reserve was followed by a silence that suggested departure to
the doctor. As he got up he remembered Dr. Lavendar and the little boy,
but he was at a loss how to introduce the subject. In his perplexity he
frowned, and Mrs. Richie said quickly:
"Of course she sha'n't do any work. I'm not so bad-tempered as you
think; I only meant that I don't like discomfort."
"_You_ bad-tempered?" he said. "No, indeed! You're just the opposite.
That's why I suggested you when I heard about this boy."
"What boy?"
"Why, a little fellow of seven--David his name is--that Dr. Lavendar is
trying to find a home for. And I thought perhaps you--"
"--would take him?" cried Mrs. Richie in astonishment, and then she
laughed. "_I!_"
"Why, it occurred to me that perhaps you might be lonely, and--"
Helena Richie stopped laughing; she pulled off her other glove and
looked down at her white hands. "Well, yes, I'm lonely. But--I don't
like children, Dr. King."
"You don't?" he said blankly, and in his surprise he sat down again.
"Oh, I'm sure that's only because you don't know them. If you had ever
known a child--"
"I have," Mrs. Richie said, "one." Her voice was bleak; the gayety had
dropped out of it; for an instant she looked old. William King
understood.
"It died?"
She nodded. She began to pull her gloves on again, smoothing down each
finger carefully and not looking at him.
"A little girl?"
"Boy." She turned her face away, but he saw her chin tremble. There was
a moment's silence; then the doctor said with curious harshness.
"Well, anyhow, you know what it means to have owned your own."
"Better not have known!"
"I can't feel that. But perhaps I don't understand."
"You don't understand." Her head, with its two soft braids wound around
it like a wreath, was bent so that he could not see her face. "Dr.
King, his father--hurt him. Yes; hurt a little baby, eight months and
twelve days old. He died seven weeks later."
William drew in his breath; he found no words.
"That was twelve years ago, but I can't seem to--to get over it," she
said with a sort of gasp.
"But how--" Dr. King began.
"Oh, he was not himself. He was--happy, I believe you call it 'happy'?"
"How did you bear it!"
"I didn't bear it I suppose. I never have borne it!"
"Did he repent before he died?" William King said passionately.
"Before he--?" Her voice suddenly shook; she made elaborate pretence of
calmness, fastening her gloves and looking at them critically; then she
said: "Yes, Dr. King; he repented. He repented!"
"If there ever was excuse for divorce, you had it!"
"You don't think there ever is?" she asked absently.
"No," William said. "I suppose you'll think I'm very old-fashioned, but
I don't, unless--" he stopped short; he could not have put his
qualifying thought into words to any woman, especially not to this
woman, so like a girl in spite of her thirty-odd years. "You see," he
said, awkwardly, "it's such an unusual thing. It never happened in Old
Chester; why, I don't believe I ever saw a--a divorced person in my
life!"
"Well," she said, "anyhow, I didn't get a divorce."
"Mrs. Richie!" he said, blushing to his temples, "you didn't think I
thought of such a thing?"
But it was plain that she regretted her confidence; she rose with the
evident purpose of changing the subject. "I must go and put in some
more seeds. Why doesn't Dr. Lavendar keep this little boy? After all,
he's lonely himself."
"Well, he's an old man you know, and--"
"Dr. King," she broke in, "I don't mind having the child here for a
week while Dr. Lavendar is looking for somebody to take him. Not
longer. It wouldn't do. Really it wouldn't. But for a week, perhaps, or
maybe two!"
"That would be a great help," William King said. "Then Dr. Lavendar can
have plenty of time to find a home for him. I would have been glad to
take him myself, but just at present it happens that it is not--I
should say, Mrs. King is very tired, and--"
"It is perfectly convenient for me," Mrs. Richie said, "if you'll only
cure Maggie! You must cure Maggie, so that she can make cookies for
him."
"I'll cure Maggie," the doctor assured her smiling, and went away much
pleased with himself. But when he got into his shabby old buggy he
sighed.
"Poor soul!" he said. "Poor soul!"