AN INNOCENT SERPENT IN EDEN
Donald turned his appraising gaze upon the child, and here the illusion
yielded to another, quite different.
Even her primitive dress, her unbound hair, her crude forms of speech
and soft, drawling intonation--such as the throaty, unvarying
pronunciation of "the" as though it were "ther," and "a" like
"er"--which sounded so deliciously odd to his New England ears, could
not erase from his mind the impression that she did not belong in the
picture. To be sure he had, during his tramps, already seen many a wild
mountain flower so delicately sweet that it seemed out of place amid its
stern environment. But Rose affected him differently, although the
difference was subtle, indefinable.
In the company of the men he was conscious of the reserve which one of
his type instinctively feels when first in the presence of people of
another race or class. With her he was already wholly at his ease.
Donald finally attributed this to the fact that she was, after all,
merely a child--one of a class which is akin the world over, and which
he understood better than any other.
As the simple meal progressed, Big Jerry began to ply the visitor with
questions, and press him to talk on many subjects connected with the
wide world of men; and, as Donald's natural reticence yielded to the
naive interrogations, he answered with a readiness which somewhat
surprised even himself. The child ate little; but sat with her elbows on
the table, her firmly rounded chin resting on her clasped hands, and
drank in his words. Her luminous eyes were fixed on his face, and
expressions of wonder and delight chased each other across her own
countenance, like wavering light and shade on a placid pool.
Judd, too, remained silent, ill at ease, and his dark, morose eyes ever
shifted from the face of the man to that of the girl. Once, while Donald
and his host were engaged in an animated discussion, he awkwardly
attempted to draw Rose into personal conversation; but he relapsed again
into moody silence when he received a frank, though smiling, rebuff.
Clearly the meal was not an enjoyable one for him.
All things of human invention come to an end, and at last Big Jerry
lifted his towering frame from his chair to indicate that the supper was
over. With obvious relief Judd crossed to the door and, opening it,
announced that the storm had nearly passed. It was still raining,
however.
"Ef yo' air goin' back ter the village, stranger, I'll be pleased ter
sot ye on yo'r way," he announced as he drew on his coat, and to
Donald's mind the sentence carried an unmistakable _double entente_.
Nevertheless he answered promptly, "Thanks, I'd be much obliged if you
would. Perhaps Mr. Webb can spare me a lantern, too, since these paths
are unfamiliar to ..."
"Sho, yo haint a-goin' out er this house ter-night, friend," broke in
the old man. "Leastwise, ef yo'r willin' ter put up with sech
accommodations as the loft room offers ye. Thar haint no sense of yer
takin' er five-mile walk through them drenched bushes, an' gittin'
soaked yerself."
"In course yer goin' ter stay," echoed the girl, with childlike delight.
"Besides, I wants ter hear lots more erbout the city an' city folks."
"But I have already imposed enough on your hospitality," protested
Donald, hesitatingly, since the invitation held a strong appeal for him.
"Yo' haint imposed at all. Set yo'rself down. I shore appreciates yo'r
company."
Judd scowled from the doorway, then flung back over his shoulder a
short, "Wall, I reckon I'll be startin' home now," and, without further
words, he went out, closing the door behind him with unnecessary
violence. Donald said nothing, but he was frankly amused; for it was
very apparent that the young mountaineer felt that he had a proprietary
interest in Rose, and was undisguisedly jealous of the stranger who was
held in such high favor.
Rose, however, lost no time thinking of her lover,--if lover she regarded
him,--but flew about the final household duties, humming happily, and
now and then breaking into unfinished snatches of song like a wild wood
bird. Evidently the slight burn no longer troubled her and was already
forgotten.
Her work finished, she joined the two men, who were smoking their pipes
before the blazing fire, and seated herself crosslegged at her
grandfather's feet. Mike got up leisurely from his post beneath his
master's chair, stretched forward and back, yawned prodigiously, and
then lay down with his shaggy head on the girl's bare legs. As Donald
talked, Rose played with the dog, rolling him over and rubbing his
underbody until his mouth opened in a grotesque animal imitation of her
own wonderful smile, which constantly flashed to her lips like a ray of
light, only to vanish as swiftly, and leave its slowly fading afterglow
in her deep eyes.
"Dr. Mac," said the child timidly, during a moment of contented silence,
her natural use of his intimate nickname, both startling and pleasing
Donald, "yo-all allowed thet yo' doctored children mostly. I loves
babies more'n anything else in the world, 'ceptin' only grandpap;
they're so purty an' sweet an' helpless-like, thet I reckon the Lord
loves 'em powerful, an' the' haint nothin' finer then takin' keer of
'em."
Donald nodded with pleasure, and the girl continued, dreamily:
"I allows thet, when God made people an' put the breath o' life inter
them, he hadn't quite got outer his mind what he done on an earlier day,
an' was jest improvin' on hit; fer hit sorter seems ter me thet big men
an' women air like growin' trees, fashioned fer ter stand up agin ther
eliments an' storms most times; but babies air like tiny leetle
flowers--so weak an' tender thet we hev ter take mighty good keer of
'em. Don't yo' never feel, somehow, like yo' was tendin' a gyarden of
purty flowers, an' a-drivin' away the grubs an' bugs what would make 'em
wilt an' die?"
"To be sure I do, my child," he answered, wondering if she realized how
apt was her simile, since most disease is, indeed, caused by "bugs an'
grubs." "And many people, with imaginations like yours, have felt
exactly the same. Did you ever read a poem called 'The Reaper'? No, I
suppose not," he added, as the girl shook her curls, while a wistful
look crept into her eyes.
"It was written by Longfellow, a very famous poet who used to live near
my home city of Boston, and no man ever loved little children better
than he did. I had to learn the verses years ago when I was a schoolboy,
and I remember the first of them still:--
"'There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.'
"For--he has the Reaper say--the Lord has need of the pretty flowers to
make his garden in Heaven more bright and fair."
"I never thought er thet," said the girl seriously, "but I reckon hit's
so. Grandpap's bearded like the grain, but somehow he 'pears ter me more
like er big pine tree, fer grain bends before ther wind, an' he haint
never bent ter no storm."
"And I? Am I a tree, too," queried Donald with amusement.
She studied him judiciously and then answered with quiet assurance,
"Yo're the oak. Hit don't bend, neither."
"And yourself?"
"Why," she laughed, "I'm jest a rose like my name. A rose jest growrn'
inter er bush."
"To be sure you are. Except that roses have thorns."
"I hev thorns, too," she said with conviction, and Donald doubted
it--then.
"I should plumb love ter take keer of babies an' make 'em well an'
strong like yo' do," she went on pensively.
"Perhaps you may, someday. You'll have babies of your own."
"Yes," was her simple reply, "I shall have babies ter love an' keer for,
but I meant thet I wanted ter help all little children."
"A children's nurse, perhaps, like those who work with me," and he went
on to tell her graphically of the wonderful things done at the
Children's Hospital, upon the staff of which he was.
Rose listened, as enchanted as a child with a fairy story,--and indeed
such it was, a modern fairy tale wherein medicine was a magic potion,
and the merciful knife a magic wand. Told in simple language which she
could understand, his story of the work in which his very life was bound
up seemed to her like an epic, and, when he paused, she drew her breath
with a sigh of keen delight, and cried, "Oh, granddaddy. Haint thet a
wonderful thing fer ter do? I shorely wants ter be a trained nurse like
thet when I grows up."
"Perhaps you will, some day, who knows?" said Donald thoughtlessly.
"An' what would this hyar old pine do without the rosebush blossomin'
close beside him? What would the leetle wild mountain flowers hyarabouts
do without thar Smiles ter take keer o' them?" asked the old man
tenderly, but with a hidden undercurrent of distress.
"But ef I could larn ter take _better_ keer o' them ..." began the girl.
The old man moved uneasily, then said, "Wall, yo're only a leetle
rosebud yerself now, an' hit's more'n time yo' closed up fer the night.
Run erlong ter bed, hon."
Obedient, but a little rebellious, Rose got up slowly, kissed the
strong, weather-scarred cheek of the old man and turned toward the door
of her room.
"Good night, Smiles," called Donald. She hesitated a moment, then ran
back to him with childish impetuosity, flung her slender arms about his
neck and kissed him, too, whispering, "I loves ye, Dr. Mac, fer thet yo'
loves little children."
The frank embrace embarrassed him a little, and he felt the thrill of an
almost unknown glow in his heart. Many a time his patients--even those
as old as Rose--had kissed him thus; but something in her act left a new
impression. Judged by the standards of the mountain folks she was almost
a woman, and he knew it.
Mike pattered to her door as it closed, scratched upon it with a low
whine, and then lay down close against it.
There was a moment's silence in the room as the men, each busy with his
own thoughts, puffed steadily. Then Big Jerry carefully knocked the
ashes from his pipe and remarked, "Hit haint no fault er yourn,
stranger; but I haint altergether pleased at ther thoughts yo'r comin'
hes placed in my leetle gal's head. She won't easy ferget what yo' done
told her, an' ... an' I couldn't bear fer ter lose her."
"I'm sorry. I spoke without thinking that it might result in her
becoming discontented," answered Don. "To-morrow I'll try to make her
understand--what is a fact--that although her loving heart might be ever
so eager, her ways and those of the city are so utterly different that
she couldn't possibly hope to go there and become a nurse such as I
described. You understand what I mean."
"Yes, an' I'd be powerful obleeged ter ye, friend," replied the old man
with evident relief. "Hit's es yo' say. Rose air er mountain gal by
bringin' up, ef not by birth, an' 'tis hyar thet she rightfully belongs
now."