Some of the boys climbed upon seats to look, and there was
confusion. A baby or two in the mothers' class began to cry, but the
mothers themselves soon understood what was taking place, and forgot
the decorum of Sunday-school, to crowd up to Mrs. Tracy.
“The child is hers,” one said to another. “It must have been lost.
Who brought it in here?”
The fortunate messenger who had been successful in his undertaking,
talked in undertones to the superintendent, telling the whole story
with an air of playing the most important part in it. In return, the
superintendent mentioned the notice he had taken of those two
strangers, his attempt to induce the woman to go to the mothers'
class, her restlessness and the child's lassitude.
The smart young man stood close by, receiving the correct version of
the affair, and holding his tuning-fork and book behind him; and all
the children, following their elders, flocked to seats around Mrs.
Tracy, gazing over one another's shoulders, until she looked up
abashed at the chaos her excitement had made.
“It's really your child?” said Grandma Padgett, sitting down beside
the mother with a satisfied and benevolent expression.
“Oh, indeed, yes! Don't you know mamma, darling?”
For reply, the little girl was clinging mutely to her mother's neck.
Her curls were damp and her eyes very dark-ringed. But there was
recognition in her face very different from the puzzled and crouching
obedience she had yielded to the one who claimed her before.
“They've been dosing her again,” pronounced Grandma Padgett severely.
“And she's all beat out tramping, poor little thing!” said one of
the neighborhood mothers. “Look at them dusty feet!”
Mrs. Tracy gathered the dusty feet into her lap and wiped them with
her lace handkerchief.
Word went forth to the edge of the crowd that the little girl needed
water to revive her, and half a dozen boys raced to the nearest house
for a tin pailful.
With love-feast tenderness the neighborhood mothers administered the
dripping cup to little Rose Tracy when the boys returned. Her face
and head were bathed, and hands and feet cooled. The old women all
prescribed for her, and her mother listened to everybody with
distended eyes, but fell into such frequent paroxysms of kissing her
little girl that some of the boys ducked their heads to chuckle. This
extravagant affection was more than they could endure.
“But where's that woman?” inquired Robert Day. He stood up on the
seat behind his grandmother and Mrs. Tracy, and could see all over
the house, but his eyes roamed unsuccessfully after the English
player. The people having their interest diverted by that question,
turned their heads and began to ask each other where she was. Nobody
had noticed her leave the church, but it was a common thing to be
passing in and out during Sunday school. She had made her escape.
Half the assembly would have pursued her on the instant; she could
not be far away. But Mrs. Tracy begged them to let her go; she did
not want the woman, could not endure the sight of her, and never
wished to hear of her again. Whatever harm was done to her child, was
done. Her child was what she had come in search of, and she had it.
So the group eager to track a kidnapper across fields and along
fence-corners, calmed their zeal and contented themselves with going
outdoors and betting on what direction the fugitive from punishment
had taken.
Perhaps she had grown to love little Rose, and was punished in
having to give her up. In any case, the Pig-headed man and the
various people attached to his show, no more appeared on the track
followed by Grandma Padgett's caravan. Mrs. Tracy would not have him
sought out and arrested, and he only remained in the minds of Robert
and aunt Corinne as a type of monster.
When they left the meeting-house, the weather had changed. People
dismissed from Sunday-school with scanter ceremony than usual, got
into their conveyances to hurry home, for thunder sounded in the
west, and the hot air was already cooled by a rush of wet fragrance
from the advancing rain.
[Illustration: THEY BADE FAIRY CARRIE GOOD-BY.]
It proved to be a quick shower, white and violent while it lasted,
making the fields smoke, and walling out distant views. Spouts of
water ran off the carriage top down the oil cloth apron which
protected Robert and his grandmother. Mrs. Tracy held her little girl
in her lap, and leaned back with an expression of perfect happiness.
The rain came just as her comfort had come, after so much parching
suspense. Aunt Corinne wondered in silence if anything could be nicer
than riding under a snug cover on which the sky-streams pelted,
through a wonderland of fragrance. Every grateful shrub and bit of
sod, the pawpaw leaves and spicewood stems, the half-formed hazel-nuts
in fluted sheaths, and even new hay-stacks in the meadows, breathed
out their best to the rain. The world never seems so fresh and lovable
as after a June shower.
Presently the sun was shining, and the ground-incense steaming with
stronger sweetness, and they came to the wet 'pike stretching like a
russet-colored ribbon east and west, and turned west toward
Indianapolis.
On the 'pike they met another of the men sent out by Mrs. Tracy and
the lawyer. His horse's coat was smoking. Mrs. Tracy took up a gold
pencil attached to her watch, and wrote a note to the lawyer. She was
going on to the city, and would return directly home with her child.
The note she sent by the men, after thanking them, and paying them in
what Robert and his aunt considered a prodigal and wealthy manner.
So large a slice out of the afternoon had their trip to the meeting-house
taken, that it was quite dark when the party drove briskly into
Indianapolis.
It was a little city at that date. Still, Bobaday felt exalted by
clanging car-bells and railroad crossings. It being Sunday evening,
the freights were making up. The main street, called Washington, was
but an extension of the 'pike, stretching broad and straight through
the city. He noticed houses with balconies, set back on sloping
lawns. Here a light disclosed a broad hall with dim stairs at the
back. And in another place children were playing under trees; he
could hear their calls, and by straining his eyes, barely discern
that they wore sumptuous white city raiment. The tide of home-makers
and beautifiers had not then rolled so far north of East Washington
street as to leave it a mere boundary line.
Grandma Padgett and her party stopped at a tavern on Illinois
street. Late in the night they were to separate, Mrs. Tracy taking
the first train for Baltimore. So aunt Corinne and Robert, before
going to bed, bade good-by to the child who had scarcely been a
playmate to them, but more like a delicate plaything in whose
helplessness they had felt such interest.
Rose, obeying her mamma, put her arms around their necks and kissed
them, telling them to come and see her at home. She looked brighter
than hitherto, and remembered a dollhouse and her birds at mamma's
house; yet, her long course of opiates left her little recognition of
the boy and girl she had so dimly seen.
Her mamma hugged them warmly, and Bobaday endured his share of the
hugging with a very good grace, though he was so old. Then it seemed
but a breath until morning, and but another breath until they were
under way, the wagon creaking along the dewy 'pike ahead of them, an
opal clearness growing through the morning twilight, and no Fairy
Carrie asleep, like some tiny enchanted princess, on the back seat.
“The rest of the way,” observed Robert Day to his aunt, “there won't
be anything happening--you see if there will. Zene says we're half
across the State now. And I know we'll never see J. D. Matthews
again. And nobody will be lost and have to be found, and there's no
tellin' where that great big crowd Jonathan and his folks moved with,
are.”
“I feel lonesome,” observed aunt Corinne somewhat pensively. “When
Mrs. Tracy was sending back word to the Quaker tavern man, I wished
we's going back to stay awhile longer. Some places are so nice!”
“Now it's a pretty thing for you to begin at your time of life,”
said Grandma Padgett, “to set your faces backward and wish for what's
behind. That's a silly notion. Folks that encourage themselves in
doin' it don't show sound sense. The One that made us knew better
than to let us stand still in our experience, and I've always found
them that go forward cheerfully will pretty generally keep the land
of Beulah right around them. Git up, Hickory!”
Thus admonished, the children entered the lone bridge over White
River, or that branch of White River on which Indianapolis is
situated. The stream, seen between chinks in the floor, appeared
deep, but not particularly limpid. How the horses' feet thundered on
the boards, and how long they trod before the little star at the
other end grew to an opening quite large enough to let any vehicle
out of the bridge!