June 1. Cousin Mehitable is capable of surprises. She has written to
Deacon Richards to have my baby taken away from me.
The Deacon came in to-night, so amused that he was on the broad grin
when he presented himself, and chuckling even when he said good-evening.
"What pleases you?" I asked. "You seem much amused about something."
"I am," he answered. "I've been appointed your guardian."
"By the town authorities?" I demanded. "I should have thought I was old
enough to look after myself."
"It's your family," he chuckled. "Miss Privet has written to me from
Boston."
"Cousin Mehitable?" I exclaimed.
"Miss Mehitable Privet," he returned.
"She has written to you about me?" asked I.
He nodded, in evident delight over the situation.
My astonishment got the better of my manners so that I forgot to ask him
to sit down, but stood staring at him like a booby. I remembered Cousin
Mehitable had met him once or twice on her infrequent visits to
Tuskamuck, and had been graciously pleased to approve of him,--largely,
I believe, on account of some accidental discovery of his very
satisfactory pedigree. That she should write to him, however, was most
surprising, and argued an amount of feeling on her part much greater
than I had appreciated. I knew she would be shocked and perhaps
scandalized by my having baby, and she had written to me with sufficient
emphasis, but I did not suppose she would invoke outside aid in her
attempts to dispossess me of Thomasine.
"But why should she write to you?" I asked Deacon Daniel.
"She said," was his answer, "she didn't know who else to write to."
"But what did she expect you to do?"
The Deacon chuckled and caressed his beardless chin with a
characteristic gesture. When he is greatly amused he seizes himself by
the chin as if he must keep his jaw stiff or an undeaconical laugh would
come out in spite of him.
"I don't think she cared much what I did if I relieved you of that
baby," was his reply. "She said if I was any sort of a guardian of the
poor perhaps I could put it in a home."
"But you are not," I said.
"No," he assented.
"And you shouldn't have her if you were," I added.
"I don't want the child," Deacon Daniel returned. "I shouldn't know what
to do with it."
Then we both laughed, and I got him seated in Father's chair, and we had
a long chat over the whole situation. I had not realized how much I
wanted to talk matters over with somebody. Aunt Naomi is out of the
question, because she is so fond of telling things; Miss Charlotte
would be better, but she is not very worldly wise; and if I may tell the
truth, I wanted to talk with a man. The advice of women is wise often,
and yet more often it is comforting; but it has somehow not the
conclusiveness of the decision of a sensible man. At least that is the
way I felt to-night, though in many matters I should never think of
trusting to a man's judgment.
"I think I shall adopt baby legally," I said. "Then nobody could take
her away or bother me about her."
He asked me if her father would agree, and I said that I was sure he
would.
"It would make her your heir if you died without a will," he commented.
I said that nothing was more easy than to make a will, and of course I
should mean to provide for her.
"You are not afraid of wills, then?" Deacon Daniel observed, looking at
me curiously. "So many folks can't bear the idea of making one."
"Very likely it's partly because I am a lawyer's daughter," I said; "but
in any case making a will wouldn't have any more terrors for me than
writing a check. But then I never had any fear of death anyway."
Deacon Daniel regarded me yet more intently, clasping his great white
hands over his knee.
"I never can quite make you out, Miss Ruth," he said after a little.
"You haven't any belief in a hereafter that I know of, but you seem to
have no trouble about it."