Drusilla grew more and more to feel that she was a part of her little
world, where everything revolved around her and her wishes were law. It
was only natural that she gained confidence in herself. She lost her
awe of the servants, and even found courage to speak shortly to James,
who, she learned from Jeanne, was relegating most of his duties to
William, thinking Miss Doane would not know the difference.
But after the excitement of the first few weeks was past she found the
time heavy on her hands. She had no duties, she did not read, there was
no sewing nor mending for her, and she could not always work in the
conservatories among the flowers; consequently she began to long for
something with which to occupy her thoughts and, above all, her hands.
One morning when she was wandering aimlessly around the house she went
into the pastry room. There she looked in delight at all the shining
pans and the bowls arranged in graduated sizes on their shelves.
"My, ain't it nice, and everything so handy!"
She looked around for a minute; then a thought began to take shape in
Drusilla's mind. She looked at the chef thoughtfully; then, evidently
deciding, she gave her head a little toss and with a light laugh left
the room, soon to return with a big gingham apron covering her pretty
dress. The chef looked at her inquiringly.
"Cook," Drusilla said, "I'm hungry for some home cookin' and I want to
do it myself. I ain't cooked none fer a good many years, and my fingers
is jest itchin' to git into the flour. Where's your flour and things to
make cake?"
The chef was shocked.
"_Mais_, Madame."
"Yes, Madame may, and she's goin' to; so show me where the things is."
She rolled up her sleeves. "Now you git me that big yellow bowl, and
give me the lard. I'm goin' to make doughnuts--fried cakes I used to
call 'em, tho' it's more stylish to say doughnuts these days. I don't
like them that's bought in the store with sugar sprinkled on top; sugar
don't belong on fried cakes. It takes away their crispiness and you
might jest as well be eatin' cake."
Drusilla kept the chef busy waiting on her until she had all the
articles needed. Then she turned upon him.
"Now, you go away. Go up to your room, or down to James. I don't want
you standin' round lookin' as if you was goin' to bust every minute.
You got to git used to this. I'm goin' to have a bakin' day once a
week, same as I did for forty year."
Drusilla spent a happy morning. The "fried cakes" finished, she decided
to make some cookies--the "old-fashioned kind that my mother's sister
Jane give me the receipt of; I kind o' want to see if I have lost my
hand."
But the hand had not lost its cunning if the great dish of brown, crisp
doughnuts, and the cookies and the gingerbread were a test. After they
were baked and in a row on the table, she stepped back and surveyed her
handiwork, with a proud expression on her kindly old face.
"Now if I only had some one to come in and say, 'Drusilla, is them
fresh fried cakes?' and I'd laugh and say, 'Yes; do try 'em,' and
they'd eat three or four. Or if I only had some neighbors--"
Drusilla stopped suddenly.
"Now, why _shouldn't_ I! I've got neighbors that's all been tryin' to
be neighborly to me in their way; why shouldn't I be neighborly in _my_
way? I can't be neighborly jest leavin' a card, or drinkin' tea with my
gloves on--Yes, I will! Drusilla'll be neighborly in _Drusilla's_ way."
She was as delighted as a child at the thought. She hurried into the
pantry and returned with some plates and napkins. She piled a few of
her confections upon each plate, carefully covered it with a napkin,
then called William.
"William," she said, "you take that plate o' cookies over to Mis'
Gale's, and tell her that I sent 'em, bein' it was my bakin' day. See
she gets 'em and they don't stop in the kitchen. And take that plate o'
gingerbread to Mis' Cairns; and them fried cakes to Mis' Freeman; and
tell 'em all I sent 'em with my love. Tell 'em I made 'em myself."
William looked at her but did not move.
"What you lookin' at me fer? Take 'em as I said. Put 'em in a basket if
you can't carry 'em, or have one of the girls help you."
"But, ma'am, but--"
"But what? Ain't you never took cookies to one before?"
"Why--why--no, ma'am. Never in the houses where I've served--"
"Now that'll do, William. Don't begin that. That's what James always
says when he specially wants to be disagreeable. If you haven't ever
took a neighbor a plate o' cookies or some gingerbread, right hot out
of the oven, you've missed a lot. So do as I say!"
"But--ma'am--I'm sure they have all the cakes they need. Mr. Cairns is
a--very--very rich man, and they have a cook, a French cook. Why, he
has an income of more than a million dollars a year, and--and--"
Drusilla looked at him over her glasses.
"Land o' Goshen, has he? That's a heap o' money; but I'm sure that if
he has a French cook like mine, he'll be mighty glad to have an
old-fashioned fried cake; so take that plate to him too, and I'll fix
another for Mis' Freeman. He ain't never sence he was a boy set his
teeth in better fried cakes. Perhaps the cookies won't be so much to
his taste; but you tell 'em they're nice fer the children to slip in
their apron pockets to eat at recess."
William executed his errand, although with a feeling that the dignity
of the place was not being upheld. There was a luncheon party at the
Cairns mansion, and when the butler brought in the plate of cookies and
the doughnuts and delivered the message, trying his best not to smile,
Mrs. Cairns looked at them in dismay.
"What did you say, John?"
"Miss Doane sent them to you with her love. She said that it was her
baking day, and that she had made them herself. The cookies are for the
children to slip in their apron pockets and eat at recess," recited the
butler with an immobile face.
Mrs. Cairns raised the napkins and surveyed the cakes; then she looked
at her husband and her guests. They laughed; that is, the guests did,
but not Mr. Cairns.
"Take them to the kitchen, John," Mrs. Cairns ordered. "The servants
may have them."
"No; bring them here, John," Mr. Cairns said sharply. "You may go and
say that Mrs. Cairns thanks Miss Doane very much for her thoughtfulness
in remembering her on her baking day, and that she is sure she will
enjoy the doughnuts--and the cookies will be given to the children."
The servant left the room, and Mr. Cairns sat very quietly looking at
the plates before him. He took up one of the doughnuts, studied it,
then finally took a bite of it.
"Hot," he said, "and crispy."
He was quiet a moment, with a far away look in his eye; then, as if
noticing the silence of his guests, he said with a quiet laugh:
"It takes me back--back--. Bless her old soul! I understand. And it
takes me back--and--well, I'm a boy again and I can see Mother standing
over the stove, and I can smell the hot cakes when I come in from
school, and hear her say, 'Jimmie, take your hands out of that crock!
No, you can't have but one. Well, two, but no more. Now take that plate
over to Mis' Fisher and that one to Miss Corbin--'"
He was quiet again for a few moments; then, as if coming back to the
world beside him, he said in his usual even tones:
"Shall we go into the library?"
And the guests did not laugh again.
Drusilla was neighborly in other ways besides that of sending cakes and
cookies on her baking day. One day she heard that Mrs. Beaumont, who
lived in the first house below her, was ill. "She has a bad cold," Miss
Lee told her, "and they are afraid it might develop into pneumonia.
But, between you and me, she's just bored to death and doesn't have
enough to interest her."
As soon as her visitor left, Drusilla went upstairs, and came down with
a little package in her hand and an old-fashioned sunbonnet on her
head. She went out of the gate and down the road until she came to the
great gates that guarded the home of the multi-millionaire who lived
there.
She was told at the door that Mrs. Beaumont was not receiving, but she
told the man to tell his mistress that she had something special for
her and would not detain her but a moment. The man rather unwillingly
took her message, and returning in a few moments conducted Drusilla
into a luxurious bedroom, where a very beautiful woman was lying upon a
chaise lounge, dressed in an elaborate peignoir, her hair covered by a
marvelous creation that went by the name of boudoir cap. She languidly
gave her hand to Drusilla.
"You want to see me?" she murmured in a low, languid voice. "Won't you
please sit down? And excuse my appearance. I am not
receiving--but--but--I thought I would see _you_."
Drusilla sat down.
"Now that's real nice of you to see me. I heard you was sick--had a bad
cold; and I thought I'd come in and see if I couldn't help you. I brung
some boneset. I nursed a lot when I was younger, and I found that
boneset is the best thing in the world fer a cold. Jest make a tea of
it and drink it hot. It's kind of bitter, but you can put milk and
sugar in it if you want to--though, to my notion, that makes it worse.
Then git right into bed and cover up and sweat. It's the best thing in
the world fer a cold--jest sweat it out of you. If you should put a hot
brick or a hot flatiron at your back and another at your feet, it'd
help. By to-morrow you won't know you got a cold."
The woman's face was a study; but the doctor entered at that moment and
saved her. She said:
"Dr. Hodman, this is Miss Doane, my nearest neighbor."
Drusilla shook his hand heartily.
"I'm real glad to see you. I've brung Mis' Beaumont some herbs. A
little boneset. I told her to make a good strong cup o' tea of it, and
drink it hot, then git into bed and cover up warm, and sweat, and by
to-morrow she wouldn't know she had a cold."
The doctor looked from Drusilla to Mrs. Beaumont, hardly knowing what
to say. This little old lady, with her sunbonnet and her boneset tea,
was not the usual visitor he encountered in the homes of his
fashionable patients.
"Yes," said Mrs. Beaumont, "and--and--Miss Doane was telling me that a
hot brick--what was it you said, Miss Doane?"
"I was a tellin' her that a hot brick or a flatiron at her feet and
another at the small of her back would help. It ain't comfortable jest
at first, but she can have the hired girl wrap it in a piece o flannel,
and after a while it feels real comfortin'. But I must be goin'. I see
you're a lookin' at my bunnet, Mis' Beaumont. It don't look much like
what you got on your head, but I work a lot in the garden, and if I
don't have somethin' on my head my hair gets all frouzy. A hat don't
seem to be the right thing to work in the garden with, and if I do wear
one the sun burns the back of my neck when I stoop down; so I got me a
bunnet, like I used to wear, and it makes me feel real to home.
Good-by, good-by, doctor."
She turned to Mrs. Beaumont:
"Now, if the boneset tea don't do you no good, let me know. Perhaps
your liver is teched a little and it makes you feel bad all over. I got
some camomile leaves that's real good fer that. If you want any, I'll
be real glad to bring 'em over."
She was gone.
The doctor looked at his patient and the patient looked at the doctor.
Then Mrs. Beaumont put back her head and burst into a gale of laughter,
in which the dignified doctor soon joined. They laughed and laughed,
the woman wiping her tear-filled eyes. Finally, when she could stop
long enough to talk, she said:
"Did you ever hear of anything so funny in all your life--a hot
brick--or a hot flatiron"--a peal of laugher--"at my feet--another one
at the small of my back--Oh, I shall die, I shall surely die!" And she
went off into another paroxysm of laughter.
When the laughter ceased and the doctor returned to his professional
manner, asking her how she felt and starting to feel her pulse, she
said:
"Doctor, she's cured me. I haven't had a laugh like that for years.
It's better than all your medicine. Boneset tea--" and again she was
off.
Finally, when she had quieted, the doctor said:
"I don't know but that her boneset tea is as good as anything else. All
you need is a little quiet. You seem better than you were yesterday."
"I tell you that I am well! All my system needed was a little shaking
up, and Miss Doane has done it for me."
The doctor rose to go.
"I think that I shall take Miss Doane as a partner. Her herbs or her
prescriptions seem to have a better effect than my medicines. Shall I
come to-morrow?"
"Yes; this may not last. Come to-morrow if you are near, though I am
sure I won't need you."
As the doctor's hand was on the door he turned:
"If I were you, Mrs. Beaumont, I'd send for those camomile leaves."
But with all her little acts of neighborliness, and her "baking day"
and her attempts to find duties to fill the hours, time began to hang
heavily upon the hands of active Drusilla. If she had been of a higher
station in life she would have said that she was bored or was suffering
from that general complaint of the rich--"enuyee."
Here Providence stepped in. One morning when she was dressing she heard
a peculiar little wailing cry. She listened. The cry was repeated. She
listened again, but could not locate the sound. Then, thinking she
might be mistaken, she continued with her dressing; but again that
piercing wail was borne to her ears. She opened her window and then she
heard it distinctly--a baby's cry. She listened in amazement. There was
no baby on the place except the gardener's, and his cottage was too far
from the big house to have his children's wails heard in that place
given over to aristocratic quiet. Drusilla tried to see around the
comer of the house, but she could not; so she rang for Jeanne.
"Jane, I heard a baby cry. Go and find out where it is," she said.
Jeanne was gone a long time, it seemed to Drusilla; and then she
returned, with big frightened eyes, followed by the butler carrying a
large basket. He stopped at the door.
"Come in, James. What you standing there for? What you got?"
Just then the wailing cry came from the basket, and Drusilla dropped
the brush in her hand.
"For the land's sake, what's in the basket? Come here!"
James gingerly deposited the basket upon a chair.
"It's a baby, ma'am--a live baby."
"Well, upon my soul! Of course it is! You wouldn't expect it to not be
alive. Let's see it."
She went over to the basket and looked down at the lively little bundle
that seemed to be protesting in its feeble way against the injustice of
the world in leaving it at a chance doorstep. Drusilla looked at it
admiringly.
"Why, ain't it cunning, the pore little thing! It's done up warm. How'd
it get here?"
"I don't know, ma'am. It must 'a' been left early this morning after
the gates was opened. I'll ask the gardeners if they saw any one come
in."
"Never mind now, James. Here's a letter. It'll tell us all about it.
Where are my glasses, Jane?"
Drusilla put on her glasses and read the inscription on the letter.
"_Miss Drusilla Doane_. Well, they know my name."
She tore open the envelope and read aloud:
"I read in the paper that you have no one and are alone and rich. My
baby has no one but me, and I can't get work. Won't you take him? His
name is John--that's all."
"JOHN'S MOTHER."
Drusilla pushed the glasses up on her forehead and used a slang
expression that almost drew a smile from solemn James.
"Now _what_ do you know about that!"
She looked at James as if he should have an answer, and he said:
"I'm sure, Miss Doane, I don't know anything about it at all."
Drusilla looked down at the baby in the basket, and again at the
letter, not knowing what to do; but, the little wail again rising, she
reached down to take the baby into her arms, and found it securely
pinned into the basket.
"Poor little mother!" she said. "She didn't want you to get cold."
As she took out the safety-pins and lifted the baby into her arms, she
dislodged a bottle of milk.
"Why, she thought of everything! She must 'a' loved you, little John,
even though she left you on my doorstep."
The baby, a healthy little youngster about eight months old, blinked up
at Drusilla in a friendly manner, then clutched her hair. Drusilla
laughed, as she drew her head away.
"That's the first thing all babies make for, my hair. Bless his little
heart, he's gettin' familiar already."
James interrupted.
"What'll I do with it, Miss Doane?"
Drusilla looked up from the baby.
"Do with what? The basket? Take it away."
"No, ma'am; I meant _it_"--pointing to the baby.
"James, it is not an _it_. It's a _he_. But you're right, James;
what'll we do with it?" And she looked down at the little body in her
arms.
"Why--why--" stammered James, who plainly showed that disposing of
babies left by chance at doorsteps was entirely out of the usual line
of a well trained butler's duties, "I don't know, ma'am. It never
happened before where I've served." Here he had an inspiration and his
face cleared. "Perhaps we'd better send for Mr. Thornton."
Drusilla looked up at him in a relieved way.
"That's the first glimmer of sense you've ever showed, James; though
what he knows about babies I don't see. I'm sure he never was one
himself. Now I'll set down--this baby's heavy--and you go and
telephone."
"What'll I tell him, ma'am?"
"Tell him? Why, tell him we've got a baby unexpected and we don't know
what to do with it."
James almost smiled again.
"I'll break the news to him careful, ma'am," he said.
When he was gone Drusilla scrutinized the baby's hood and coat.
"Jane," she said, "his clothes is pretty---his mother must 'a' made
'em; and his socks is knit, not bought ones."
She examined each article of his clothing as carefully as would a
mother inspecting her firstborn's wardrobe.
"He's dressed real nice.... Did you get him?" as James entered the
room. "What did he say?"
"I did not speak to him, Miss Doane, but to Miss Daphne. She acted
rather--well--rather excited, and said she would be over immediately
with her father."
"We'll wait in patience, I suppose. I'll lay this young man down. My
arms must be a gettin' old because I feel him."
She laid the baby on the couch and he protested with legs and arms and
voice against being again laid upon his back. Drusilla took him up and
he was happy again.
"Well," laughed Drusilla, "I guess I've found somethin' to do with my
hands."
The baby stared at Drusilla for a few moments; then his wails commenced
again. Drusilla trotted him, but that did not stop his cries.
"Perhaps he is hungry, Miss Doane," Jeanne suggested.
"Give me that bottle."
Drusilla felt the bottle and found it cold.
"It's cold, James. Go warm some milk and scald the bottle."
James went away, his head held high, disapproval expressed in every
line of his back. Within a few moments a motor was heard at the door
and Daphne's young voice was calling:
"Can we come in, Miss Doane? Where is the baby?"
Daphne entered, interested and excited, followed by her father, stiff,
erect, the correct lawyer troubled by unnecessary and petty affairs of
the women world.
Daphne came to the baby, who stopped his wails long enough to stare at
the new visitor with round, wondering eyes.
"Oh, _isn't_ he a dear! How did you find him?"
Drusilla handed her the letter. "Read that, and then you'll know as
much as me."
Daphne read the note out loud.
"Isn't it romantic, Father!" she exclaimed. "Just like you read about
in books. Oh, look at James with the bottle!"
James looked neither to the right nor to the left but handed the bottle
to Drusilla. She felt it to test its warmth and gave it to the
squirming baby, who settled down into the hollow of her arm with a
little gurgle of content. The four stood around the baby and watched it
for a few moments in silence. Soon its lids began to droop and it was
off to slumberland.
"What are you going to do with it, Miss Doane?" whispered Daphne.
"I'm sure I don't know. That's why I sent for your father."
"It's clearly a case for the police," Mr. Thornton said dryly. "I will
telephone them."
Drusilla looked at him inquiringly.
"What did you say? Telephone the police? Why?"
"I will ask them to call and take the child in charge."
"Why, what's the baby done?"
"Nothing, of course; but they will understand how to dispose of it."
"What'll they do with it?"
"They will get into connection with the proper authorities, and if the
mother cannot be found, they will have the child committed to some
institution."
"Some institution. What kind of an institution?"
"An orphan asylum--a home for waifs of this kind."
Drusilla caught the word "home" and she sat up so suddenly that the
bottle fell to the floor and the blue eyes opened and looked into
Drusilla's face appealingly and the little wail arose again. Drusilla
bent over and picked up the bottle, and when she arose her eyes were
hard and two bright spots colored her wrinkled cheeks.
"You said 'home.' What do you mean? I don't like the word."
Mr. Thornton was plainly irritated.
"A home for foundlings, where the proper care will be given it."
"Yes, but how?" queried Drusilla. "What kind of care?"
Daphne interrupted her father, who was plainly trying to find words to
explain the exact meaning of an orphan asylum.
"Oh, Father, that's horrid. It'll be put in with hundreds of other
babies, all dressed alike, and all brought up on rules and bells and
things--"
"I know now what your father means--an orphan asylum. Just the same
thing as an old ladies' home, only backwards. No, I lived in one o'
them and I know what it is and," she settled back in her chair, "my
baby ain't goin' there."
"But," objected Mr. Thornton, looking helplessly at the obstinate face
before him, "that is the only possible way to dispose of him."
"But think of his poor mother, how she'd feel if she read in the paper
that he'd been put in a home. She could 'a' done that herself."
"She should have thought of that before leaving him," Mr. Thornton said
dryly. "She should not have deserted the child, and does not deserve
any consideration."
"Well, we all do things we oughtn't to do. Even you do, 'cause I can
see, lookin' closely at you, that you oughtn't to drink so much coffee,
but you _do_; and the mother hadn't ought to have _had_ the baby in the
first place, which she did, and she oughtn't 'a' left it on my stoop,
but it's done. Now can't you think of something else to do with it
except send it to a home? Ugh, that word makes a pizen in my blood!"
Mr. Thornton clearly was exasperated that his very sensible advice was
not acted upon immediately.
"I have told you the only thing to do, and we are wasting time. I must
go into the city. James, telephone the police."
Drusilla sat up very erect.
"James, you'll do nothing of the kind! I've decided. _I'll_ take the
baby."
_"What!"_ said Mr. Thornton, his exasperated look changing to one of
consternation. "_What_!" said Daphne in delight. _"Quoi!"_ said Jeanne.
James did not speak, but he stopped on his way to the telephone and
expressed his astonishment as well as a well trained servant may
express astonishment at the actions of an employer.
Drusilla settled back in the chair and rocked back and forth with the
sleeping baby in her arms, showing that she was enjoying the little
explosive she had dropped in the midst of her family circle. There was
silence for a few moments; then Mr. Thornton cleared his throat.
"I really don't believe I understood you, Miss Doane," he said.
Drusilla looked up at him with a twinkle in her eyes.
"I said in plain English that I'd take the baby."
Mr. Thornton looked at her, evidently at a loss for words to express
his disapproval. Drusilla watched him, waiting for him to speak; and
then, finding that he was silent, she said.
"Now you take that chair, and set down in front of me. Jane, go away.
James, go downstairs. Now, Mr. Thornton, fix yourself real comfortable
and we'll talk."
"But Miss Doane--"
"Now don't _but_ me, Mr. Thornton, 'cause I'm goin' to _talk_. I ain't
used my voice much sence I been here, and it's gettin' tired o' doin'
nothin', jest like I am. Now I've done everything you told me to. I've
made visits I didn't like, I've talked with women who come here who
didn't like me, and I've tried hard to live up to this house and be a
lady and do nothin', and have nothin' to look after and no one to do
for and worry about, and nothin' to think of; and I'm tired of it. I've
done somethin' all my life, and took care of some one. I nussed my
mother for most forty years, then I took care of the sick in all our
county, and I looked after the old ladies in the home who wasn't able
to look after themselves and now I can't jest _set_. I'm too old to
learn new ways, and I got to have something or some one to do for, and
the good Lord knowed I was gettin' restless and sent this here baby.
Now--no, wait a minute--I ain't through yet," as Mr. Thornton tried to
interrupt her. "I'm goin' to have my say, then your turn'll come,
though it won't do you much good, as my mind is made up, and when a
woman's mind is made up it's jest as foolish to try to change it as it
is to try to set a hen before she begins to cluck."
She stopped a moment and looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms.
"I ain't a-thinkin' of myself alone and jest how good it'll be for me,
but I'm a-thinkin' of the baby and I want to give him a chance like
other babies."
"But," said Mr. Thornton, "it's quite impossible! A home for such as he
is the proper place for him."
"Don't say that word _home_ to me. Mr. Thornton, I hate the word. I've
et charity bread and it's bitter, and charity milk'd be the same."
Mr. Thornton threw out his hands with an exasperated gesture.
"But it is impossible, I tell you, quite impossible!"
"Why impossible?" asked Drusilla. "Why, ain't the house big enough?"
"But my late client, Mr. Elias Doane--"
"Have you forgot the letter he wrote me: 'Spend the money your own way,
Drusilla.'"
"But he certainly did not mean--"
"How do you know what he meant? He said spend it, and I ain't spent
nothin' yet except on some foolish clothes. First thing I know I might
die, then it wouldn't be spent, and I know I'd pass my days worryin'
St. Peter to find out what had become of it."
Mr. Thornton threw up his hands again.
"Well, I don't know what to say more than I have said," he declared.
"Have you decided on its disposition?"
Drusilla, seeing that the lawyer was surrendering, said quite meekly:
"I ain't figured out what is to be done jest now--"
Here Daphne came to her rescue.
"Why don't you give him to the gardener's wife until you find out what
to do?"
Drusilla reached over and patted Daphne's hand.
"Daphne, there's some sense under them curls. Your father ought to take
you in business with him. That's what we'll do. She has four already,
but there's always room in a house where there's babies for one more.
Send for her."
"Should it not be medically examined before being placed with other
children?" Mr. Thornton suggested.
"Medically examined, stuff and nonsense! Why?"
"A child left in the manner in which this infant was left may come from
extremely unsanitary surroundings, and may carry disease with it. It is
more than probable."
"Disease nothin'!" said Drusilla, looking down at the baby. "I never
saw a healthier child."
At the word medical Daphne rose and went to a part of the room where
she could be seen by Drusilla and not by her father, and when Drusilla
looked up from inspecting the baby she caught sight of Daphne, who
seemed to be staring at her fixedly with a meaning in her eye.
Mr. Thornton, still intent upon the one subject where he saw a chance
of having his advice acted upon, and consequently of retaining at least
a semblance of authority, said: "I think a doctor should be sent for
and the child medically examined."
Drusilla commenced: "It's nonsense. There ain't--" but here she again
caught Daphne's eye and saw a slight movement of the head which seemed
to mean, "Say yes." Drusilla looked at her a moment uncomprehendingly;
then, the nod being repeated more vigorously, she said:
"Well--well--yes, if you believe it should be done, though for the life
of me I don't see no sense in it. Who'll I send for?"
"I would suggest Dr. Rathman. He is--"
"Oh, Father!" interrupted Daphne. "He is so old and slow. He'd _never_
get here. Why don't you ask Dr. Eaton? He lives near here."
Mr. Thornton pursed up his lips.
"He is far too young. He has not the experience of Dr. Rathman."
"But, Father, the baby isn't dying."
Drusilla's shrewd old eyes looked keenly at Daphne's flushed face, and
she laughed.
"I think Daphne is right. A young doctor's better. I don't think old
doctors have a hand with babies."
"But Dr. Eaton is very young," remonstrated Mr. Thornton.
"The younger the better, then perhaps he ain't forgot how the
stomach-ache feels himself. You telephone him, Daphne."
"No," said Daphne, a little embarrassed. "I think James had better do
that. Oh, here's Mrs. Donald."
The baby was given into the motherly arms of Mrs. Donald; and Mr.
Thornton drew on his gloves and said very coldly, feeling that he had
lost ground on every point, "Come, Daphne; we will go. When you have
decided upon the final disposition of the child, you may, as always,
command my services, Miss Doane. Come, Daphne."
"But, Father, I'll stay a while with Miss Doane."
"No, Daphne; you will go with me. Your mother needs you."
Daphne cast an imploring glance at Drusilla.
"Can't Daphne stay a while? I'd like to talk with her," Drusilla said.
"No," said her father, with a finality in his tone that caused Daphne
to go with him meekly, if unwillingly; "Daphne must return with me."
Drusilla looked at the set face a moment, and then at the rebellious
face of Daphne, and her own face broke into the tiny wrinkles that
accompanied her smiles.
"Oh, I see! Well, never mind, child. There are lots of other days and
this baby may need the services of a doctor often." And she accompanied
them to the hall with a little light of understanding in her eyes as
she watched Daphne's pouting face disappear in the motor.
The young doctor came. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young athlete,
not yet thirty, and his merry blue eyes and his cheery voice won
Drusilla at once. They went to the gardener's cottage and inspected the
baby. The doctor patted it and tickled it and tossed it in his arms
until it was all gurgles of delight.
"He's as sound as a dollar, Miss Doane," he said. "Couldn't be in
better condition. He could run a Marathon this minute if his legs were
long enough."
Drusilla watched the proceedings with twinkling eyes.
"Well, that's a new way to medically examine an ailin' child," she
commented; "but it seems to work."
"Ailing! He isn't ailing, Miss Doane. If he keeps this fit Mrs. Donald
won't have to send for me often."
"That's what I told Mr. Thornton; but he said I must have you."
Dr. Eaton stopped tossing the baby and looked at Miss Doane in
astonishment.
"Are you telling me that Mr. Thornton asked you to send for me?"
"Well," and Drusilla laughed, "he didn't exactly mention your name, but
he said I should have a doctor for the baby."
"I thought Mr. Thornton wasn't recommending me. Didn't he mention Dr.
Rathman?"
"Perhaps he did, but Miss Daphne seemed to feel that he was too old to
answer a hurry call like this, so we sort of compromised, at least
Daphne and me did, on you."
There was a slight flush on the young man's face that did not miss the
keen eyes of Drusilla.
"Oh," he said, "I see." And then, in an attempt to change the subject:
"Is this a new baby of Donald's? I haven't seen him around here before."
"No," said Drusilla; "this is _my_ baby."
Dr. Eaton looked at her, and then laughed with her.
"Now what should I say, Miss Doane--many happy returns of the day, or--"
"You jest say, Dr. Eaton, 'This _is_ a fine baby.' But come up to the
house and have breakfast with me. I clean forgot it. And we'll talk it
all over."
They went slowly up the graveled walk to the breakfast-room, and over
the coffee and the cakes Drusilla explained the unexpected arrival of
the baby.
"Now you know as much about it as I do," she ended; "and I suppose
you'll say with Mr. Thornton that I'm a foolish old woman to say I'll
take it. But it won't do you no good. I'm goin' to have my way, and
I've found out in the last few weeks that I can get it, and I'm afraid
it's spoilin' me. I'm goin' to keep the baby."
The doctor leaned back in his chair. "May I light a cigarette? Thanks.
That breakfast was corking. Now, about the baby. I think you are right.
Why shouldn't you keep the baby?"
"That's what I said--why shouldn't I?"
"No reason in the world why you shouldn't."
"I like you, Dr. Eaton. I like you more and more; and I see you
understand how I feel. Here I am, an old woman all alone in this big
house, with nothin' to do, and a lot of pesky servants that stand
around and don't earn their salt, jest a-waitin' on me. I've always
wanted babies, but never had a chance to have 'em, and I've jest spent
my heart lovin' other people's, and seein' 'em in other people's arms
and mine empty. Now I git a chance to have a baby most my own and I
ain't goin' to lose it."
The doctor looked at her face for a few moments in silence, and beneath
the lines he saw the loneliness of the heart-hungry little old woman
and he understood.
"You are perfectly right, Miss Doane. There's nothing like a baby in
all the world. It'll give you something to do and think about and it'll
bring sunshine into the house. I envy you. Every time I go down to the
'home' where I look after the health of some kiddies, I wish I could
bundle every one of them up and take them to a real home with me."
"That's what Mr. Thornton wanted me to do with it--put it in a home.
I've lived in a home, Dr. Eaton, and though I wasn't treated bad and
had all the comforts of four walls and enough to eat, such as it was,
it ain't a place to die in, and it sure ain't a place to grow up in."
"You're right again, Miss Doane. The kiddies up at our place get a bed
and clothes and plenty of food; but there's something they don't get
and that something is going to count in their life. They grow up
without love, and are turned out on the world just little machines that
have been taught that the world goes round at the tap of a bell.
They've missed something that they can never get, and if they win out
in life it's because they've got something pretty big inside of them
which they've had to fight for all by themselves. And any fight is hard
when it is made alone without a little tenderness to help over the hard
places. Why, when I see the girls all in checked aprons, hair braided
in two braids tied with a blue cord, all the boys in blue with hats
just exactly alike with blue bands on them--all going to dinner at a
regular time--all eating oatmeal out of a blue bowl, all just part of a
thing that turns babies into a lot of little jelly-molds like a hundred
other little jelly-molds--well, Miss Doane, it hurts something way deep
inside of me. Keep the baby, Miss Doane, for your own sake and for the
baby's."
"I'm glad you see it my way. I'd made up my mind already, but you make
it easier for me. I wonder that I'll do with it at first?"
"Why don't you let the gardener's wife keep it until you can find out
what you really want to do. You can pay her and she'll be glad to earn
the extra money. It won't cost much."
"I ain't thinkin' about the cost. I'm jest glad to get a chance to
spend some money. Mr. Thornton come to me the other day and talked most
an hour about the investment of my income, and when I got it through my
head what he meant, I learnt that he has to hunt up ways to put out the
money that's comin' to me all the time, so's it'll make more money. Now
I don't want to invest my income, or save it. I want to spend it, and I
don't see no better way than taking babies."
She laughed softly.
"I wouldn't mind a few more, Dr. Eaton, jest to keep that one company.
But I guess I'll git along. Most people commence with one at a time."
"Do you want more babies, Miss Doane?" asked Dr. Eaton, leaning forward
interestedly. "I can get you as many as you want. I run across them
every day--babies that lose their mothers in the hospitals, babies that
are deserted. Why, babies that need homes are as thick as fleas, in New
York."
Drusilla put up her hand.
"Now, I don't mean I want 'em all at once, Dr. Eaton. We won't be what
you might call impulsive, 'cause if there's as many as you say, they
can wait until I know about 'em. I'd rather like to pick and choose my
family. Now I'll go upstairs and think a little about this one, and
what we're goin' to do with him. It's all been rather sudden, you know,
and I ain't used to so much excitement--though I think it is good fer
me. I think it's going to keep me from dyin' of dry rot, which I've
always been afeard of. I want to _wear_ out, not rust out, like so many
old women do."
Dr. Eaton rose to go and Miss Drusilla looked up at him as he stood
straight and strong before her. She smiled, with the merry little
wrinkles playing around the corners of her mouth.
"I believe I'm rather ailin' myself, and will need to have a family
doctor. You might look in every once in a while and see if my health is
good."
The doctor laughed as he said: "Well, I hope you won't ever need me
professionally, but I'd like nothing better than to drop in and have a
chat with you. Think over the baby question, Miss Doane. You'll find it
the greatest question in the world to keep you up and coming. Good-by.
Thank you for sending for me. Good-by."
Drusilla watched him as he swung with his long stride down the drive
and out of the gate, and then she chuckled to herself.
"I can see now why Daphne is interested in the medical profession. I
don't blame her; if I was fifty years younger, I'd be myself."