_GOOD WORKS._
The "Rajah" was delayed awhile, and when it sailed poor Mrs. Clara was
on board; for every thing was ready, all thought she had better go to
comfort her husband, and since her boy died she seemed to care very
little what became of her. So, with friends to cheer the long voyage,
she sailed away, a heavy-hearted woman, yet not quite disconsolate;
for she knew her mourning was excessively becoming, and felt sure that
Stephen would not find her altered by her trials as much as might have
been expected.
Then nothing was left of that gay household but the empty rooms,
silence never broken by a blithe voice any more, and pictures full of
promise, but all unfinished, like poor Charlie's life.
There was much mourning for the bonny Prince, but no need to tell of
it except as it affected Rose; for it is with her we have most to do,
the other characters being of secondary importance.
When time had soothed the first shock of sudden loss, she was
surprised to find that the memory of his faults and failings, short
life and piteous death, grew dim as if a kindly hand wiped out the
record, and gave him back to her in the likeness of the brave, bright
boy she had loved, not as the wayward, passionate young man who had
loved her.
This comforted her very much; and, folding down the last blotted leaf
where his name was written, she gladly turned back to reopen and
reread the happier chapters which painted the youthful knight before
he went out to fall in his first battle. None of the bitterness of
love bereaved marred this memory for Rose, because she found that the
warmer sentiment, just budding in her heart, had died with Charlie,
and lay cold and quiet in his grave. She wondered, yet was glad;
though sometimes a remorseful pang smote her when she discovered how
possible it was to go on without him, feeling almost as if a burden
had been lifted off, since his happiness was taken out of her hands.
The time had not yet come when the knowledge that a man's heart was in
her keeping would make the pride and joy of her life; and while she
waited for that moment she enjoyed the liberty she seemed to have
recovered.
Such being her inward state, it much annoyed her to be regarded as a
broken-hearted girl, and pitied for the loss of her young lover. She
could not explain to all the world, so let it pass, and occupied her
mind with the good works which always lie ready to be taken up and
carried on. Having chosen philanthropy as her profession, she felt
that it was high time to begin the task too long neglected.
Her projects were excellent, but did not prosper as rapidly as she
hoped; for, having to deal with people, not things, unexpected
obstacles were constantly arising. The "Home for Decayed Gentlewomen,"
as the boys insisted on calling her two newly repaired houses,
started finely; and it was a pleasant sight to see the comfortable
rooms filled with respectable women busy at their various tasks,
surrounded by the decencies and many of the comforts which make life
endurable. But, presently, Rose was disturbed to find that the good
people expected her to take care of them in a way she had not
bargained for. Buffum, her agent, was constantly reporting complaints,
new wants, and general discontent if they were not attended to. Things
were neglected, water-pipes froze and burst, drains got out of order,
yards were in a mess, and rents behindhand. Worst of all, outsiders,
instead of sympathizing, only laughed and said, "We told you so,"
which is a most discouraging remark to older and wiser workers than
Rose.
Uncle Alec, however, stood by her staunchly, and helped her out of
many of her woes by good advice, and an occasional visit of
inspection, which did much to impress upon the dwellers there the fact
that, if they did not do their part, their leases would be short ones.
"I didn't expect to make any thing out of it, but I did think they
would be grateful," said Rose, on one occasion when several complaints
had come in at once, and Buffum had reported great difficulty in
collecting the low rents.
"If you do this thing for the sake of the gratitude, then it _is_ a
failure: but if it is done for the love of helping those who need
help it is a success; for in spite of their worry every one of those
women feel what privileges they enjoy and value them highly," said Dr.
Alec, as they went home after one of these unsatisfactory calls.
"Then the least they can do is to say 'Thank you.' I'm afraid I _have_
thought more of the gratitude than the work; but if there isn't any I
must make up my mind to go without," answered Rose, feeling defrauded
of her due.
"Favors often separate instead of attracting people nearer to one
another, and I've seen many a friendship spoilt by the obligation
being all on one side. Can't explain it, but it is so; and I've come
to the conclusion that it is as hard to give in the right spirit as it
is to receive. Puzzle it out, my dear, while you are learning to do
good for its own sake."
"I know one sort of people who _are_ grateful, and I'm going to devote
my mind to them. They thank me in many ways, and helping them is all
pleasure and no worry. Come in to the hospital and see the dear
babies, or the Asylum and carry oranges to Phebe's orphans: _they_
don't complain and fidget one's life out, bless their hearts!" cried
Rose, clearing up suddenly.
After that she left Buffum to manage the "Retreat," and devoted her
energies to the little folks, always so ready to receive the smallest
gift, and repay the giver with their artless thanks. Here she found
plenty to do, and did it with such sweet good-will that she won her
way like sunshine, making many a little heart dance over splendid
dolls, gay picture-books, and pots of flowers, as well as food, fire,
and clothes for the small bodies pinched with want and pain.
As spring came, new plans sprung up as naturally as dandelions. The
poor children longed for the country; and, as the green fields could
not come to them, Rose carried them to the green fields. Down on the
Point stood an old farmhouse, often used by the Campbell tribe for
summer holidays. That spring it was set to rights unusually early,
several women installed as housekeeper, cook, and nurses; and, when
the May days grew bright and warm, squads of pale children came to
toddle in the grass, run over the rocks, and play upon the smooth
sands of the beach. A pretty sight, and one that well repaid those who
brought it to pass.
Every one took an interest in the "Rose Garden," as Mac named it; and
the women-folk were continually driving over to the Point with
something for the "poor dears." Aunt Plenty sowed gingerbread
broadcast; Aunt Jessie made pinafores by the dozen; while Aunt Jane
"kept her eye" on the nurses, and Aunt Myra supplied medicines so
liberally that the mortality would have been awful, if Dr. Alec had
not taken them in charge. To him this was the most delightful spot in
the world: and well it might be; for he suggested the idea, and gave
Rose all the credit of it. He was often there, and his appearance was
always greeted with shrieks of rapture, as the children gathered from
all quarters: creeping, running, hopping on crutches, or carried in
arms which they gladly left to sit on "Uncle Doctor's" knee; for that
was the title by which he went among them.
He seemed as young as any of his comrades, though the curly head was
getting gray; and the frolics that went on when he arrived were better
than any medicine to children who had never learned to play. It was a
standing joke among the friends that the bachelor brother had the
largest family, and was the most domestic man of the remaining four;
though Uncle Mac did his part manfully, and kept Aunt Jane in a
constant fidget, by his rash propositions to adopt the heartiest boys
and prettiest girls to amuse him and employ her.
On one occasion she had a very narrow escape; and the culprit being
her son, not her husband, she felt free to repay herself for many
scares of this sort by a good scolding; which, unlike many, produced
excellent results.
One bright June day, as Rose came cantering home from the Point on her
pretty bay pony, she saw a man sitting on a fallen tree beside the
road, and something in his despondent attitude arrested her attention.
As she drew nearer, he turned his head, and she stopped short,
exclaiming in great surprise,--
"Why, Mac! what _are_ you doing here?"
"Trying to solve a problem," he answered, looking up with a whimsical
expression of perplexity and amusement in his face, which made Rose
smile, till his next words turned her sober in a twinkling,--
"I've eloped with a young lady, and don't know what to do with her. I
took her home, of course; but mother turned her out of the house, and
I'm in a quandary."
"Is that her baggage?" asked Rose, pointing with her whip to the large
bundle which he held; while the wild idea flashed through her head
that perhaps he really _had_ done some rash deed of this sort.
"No, this is the young lady herself;" and, opening a corner of the
brown shawl, he displayed a child of three,--so pale, so thin, and
tiny, that she looked like a small scared bird just fallen from the
nest, as she shrunk away from the light with great frightened eyes,
and a hand like a little claw tightly clutching a button of Mac's
coat.
"Poor baby! where did it come from?" cried Rose, leaning down to look.
"I'll tell you the story, and then you shall advise me what to do. At
our hospital, we've had a poor woman who got hurt, and died two days
ago. I had nothing to do with her, only took her a bit of fruit once
or twice; for she had big, wistful sort of eyes that haunted me. The
day she died I stopped a minute, and the nurse said she'd been wanting
to speak to me, but didn't dare. So I asked if I could do any thing
for her; and, though she could hardly breathe for pain,--being almost
gone,--she implored me to take care of baby. I found out where the
child was, and promised I'd see after her; for the poor soul couldn't
seem to die till I'd given her that comfort. I never can forget the
look in her eyes, as I held her hand, and said, 'Baby shall be taken
care of.' She tried to thank me, and died soon after quite peacefully.
Well, I went to-day and hunted up the poor little wretch. Found her in
a miserable place, left in the care of an old hag, who had shut her up
alone to keep her out of the way, and there this mite was, huddled in
a corner crying, 'Marmar, marmar!' fit to touch a heart of stone. I
blew up the woman, and took baby straight away, for she had been
abused; and it was high time. Look there, will you?"
Mac turned the little skinny arm, and showed a blue mark which made
Rose drop her reins, and stretch out both hands, crying with a tender
sort of indignation,--
"How dared they do it? Give her to me; poor, little, motherless
thing!"
Mac laid the bundle in her arms, and Rose began to cuddle it in the
fond, foolish way women have,--a most comfortable and effective way,
nevertheless; and baby evidently felt that things were changing for
the better, when warm lips touched her cheeks, a soft hand smoothed
her tumbled hair, and a womanly face bent over her, with the
inarticulate cooings and purrings mothers make. The frightened eyes
went up to this gentle countenance, and rested there as if reassured;
the little claw crept to the girl's neck, and poor baby nestled to her
with a long sigh, and a plaintive murmur of "Marmar, marmar," that
certainly would have touched a stony heart.
"Now, go on. No, Rosa, not you," said the new nurse, as the
intelligent animal looked round to see if things were all right before
she proceeded.
"I took the child home to mother, not knowing what else to do; but she
wouldn't have it at any price, even for a night. She doesn't like
children, you know, and father has joked so much about the Pointers
that she is quite rampant at the mere idea of a child in the house.
She told me to take it to the Rose Garden. I said it was running over
now, and no room even for a mite like this. 'Go to the Hospital,' says
she. 'Baby isn't ill, ma'am,' says I. 'Orphan Asylum,' says she. 'Not
an orphan: got a father who can't take care of her,' says I. 'Take her
to the Foundling place, or Mrs. Gardener, or some one whose business
it is. I will _not_ have the creature here, sick and dirty and noisy.
Carry it back, and ask Rose to tell you what to do with it.' So my
cruel parent cast me forth; but relented as I shouldered baby, gave me
a shawl to put her in, a jumble to feed her with, and money to pay her
board in some good place. Mother's bark is always worse than her bite,
you know."
"And you were trying to think of the 'good place' as you sat here?"
asked Rose, looking down at him with great approval, as he stood
patting Rosa's glossy neck.
"Exactly. I didn't want to trouble you, for you have your house full
already; and I really couldn't lay my hand on any good soul who would
be bothered with this little forlornity. She has nothing to recommend
her, you see,--not pretty, feeble, and shy as a mouse; no end of care,
I dare say: yet she needs every bit she can get to keep soul and body
together, if I'm any judge."
Rose opened her lips impulsively, but closed them without speaking,
and sat a minute looking straight between Rosa's ears, as if forcing
herself to think twice before she spoke. Mac watched her out of the
corner of his eye, as he said, in a musing tone, tucking the shawl
round a pair of shabby little feet the while,--
"This seems to be one of the charities that no one wants to undertake;
yet I can't help feeling that my promise to the mother binds me to
something more than merely handing baby over to some busy matron or
careless nurse in any of our over-crowded institutions. She is such a
frail creature she won't trouble any one long, perhaps; and I _should_
like to give her just a taste of comfort, if not love, before she
finds her 'Marmar' again."
"Lead Rosa: I'm going to take this child home; and, if uncle is
willing, I'll adopt her, and she _shall_ be happy!" cried Rose, with
the sudden glow of feeling that always made her lovely. And,
gathering poor baby close, she went on her way like a modern
Britomart, ready to redress the wrongs of any who had need of her.
As he led the slowly stepping horse along the quiet road, Mac could
not help thinking that they looked a little like the Flight into
Egypt: but he did not say so, being a reverent youth,--only glanced
back now and then at the figure above him; for Rose had taken off her
hat to keep the light from baby's eyes, and sat with the sunshine
turning her uncovered hair to gold, as she looked down at the little
creature resting on the saddle before her, with the sweet
thoughtfulness one sees in some of Correggio's young Madonnas.
No one else saw the picture, but Mac long remembered it; and ever
after there was a touch of reverence added to the warm affection he
had always borne his cousin Rose.
"What is the child's name?" was the sudden question which disturbed a
brief silence, broken only by the sound of pacing hoofs, the rustle of
green boughs overhead, and the blithe carolling of birds.
"I'm sure I don't know," answered Mac, suddenly aware that he had
fallen out of one quandary into another.
"Didn't you ask?"
"No: the mother called her 'Baby;' the old woman, 'Brat.' And that is
all I know of the first name: the last is Kennedy. You can Christen
her what you like."
"Then I shall name her Dulcinea, as you are her knight, and call her
Dulce for short. That is a sweet diminutive, I'm sure," laughed Rose,
much amused at the idea.
Don Quixote looked pleased, and vowed to defend his little lady
stoutly, beginning his services on the spot by filling the small hands
with buttercups, thereby winning for himself the first smile baby's
face had known for weeks.
When they got home, Aunt Plenty received her new guest with her
accustomed hospitality, and, on learning the story, was as warmly
interested as even enthusiastic Rose could desire, bustling about to
make the child comfortable with an energy pleasant to see; for the
grandmotherly instincts were strong in the old lady, and of late had
been beautifully developed.
In less than half an hour from the time baby went upstairs, she came
down again on Rose's arm, freshly washed and brushed, in a pink gown
much too large, and a white apron decidedly too small; an immaculate
pair of socks, but no shoes; a neat bandage on the bruised arm, and a
string of spools for a plaything hanging on the other. A resigned
expression sat upon her little face; but the frightened eyes were only
shy now, and the forlorn heart evidently much comforted.
"There! how do you like your Dulce now?" said Rose, proudly displaying
the work of her hands, as she came in with her habit pinned up, and
carrying a silver porringer of bread and milk.
Mac knelt down, took the small, reluctant hand, and kissed it as
devoutly as ever good Alonzo Quixada did that of the Duchess; while he
said, merrily quoting from the immortal story,--
"'High and Sovereign Lady, thine till death, the Knight of the Rueful
Countenance.'"
But baby had no heart for play, and, withdrawing her hand, pointed to
the porringer, with the suggestive remark,--
"Din-din, _now_."
So Rose sat down and fed the Duchess, while the Don stood by and
watched the feast with much satisfaction.
"How nice she looks! Do you consider shoes unhealthy?" he asked,
surveying the socks with respectful interest.
"No: her shoes are drying. You must have let her go in the mud."
"I only put her down for a minute when she howled; and she made for a
puddle, like a duck. I'll buy her some new ones,--clothes too. Where
do I go, what do I ask for, and how much do I get?" he said, diving
for his pocket-book, amiably anxious, but pitiably ignorant.
"I'll see to that. We always have things on hand for the Pointers as
they come along, and can soon fit Dulce out. You may make some
inquiries about the father if you will; for I don't want to have her
taken away just as I get fond of her. Do you know any thing about
him?"
"Only that he is in State Prison for twenty-one years, and not likely
to trouble you."
"How dreadful! I really think Phebe was better off to have none at
all. I'll go to work at once, then, and try to bring up the convict's
little daughter to be a good woman; so that she will have an honest
name of her own, since he has nothing but disgrace to give her."
"Uncle can show you how to do that, if you need any help. He has been
so successful in his first attempt I fancy you won't require much,"
said Mac, picking up the spools for the sixth time.
"Yes, I shall; for it is a great responsibility, and I do not
undertake it lightly," answered Rose, soberly; though the
double-barrelled compliment pleased her very much.
"I'm sure Phebe has turned out splendidly, and you began very early
with her."
"So I did! that's encouraging. Dear thing, how bewildered she looked
when I proposed adopting her. I remember all about it; for uncle had
just come, and I was quite crazy over a box of presents, and rushed at
Phebe as she was cleaning brasses. How little I thought my childish
offer would end so well!" and Rose fell a musing with a happy smile on
her face, while baby picked the last morsels out of the porringer with
her own busy fingers.
It certainly had ended well; for Phebe at the end of six months not
only had a good place as choir-singer, but several young pupils, and
excellent prospects for the next winter.
"'Accept the blessing of a poor young man,
Whose lucky steps have led him to your door,'
and let me help as much as I can. Good-by, my Dulcinea," and, with a
farewell stroke of the smooth head, Mac went away to report his
success to his mother, who, in spite of her seeming harshness, was
already planning how she could best befriend this inconvenient baby.