The Rajah was delayed awhile, and when it sailed poor Mrs. Clara was
on board, for everything 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 heavyhearted 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 anymore, 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 the memory of his faults and failings, short life and piteous
death, grew dim, as if a kindly hand had wiped out the record and given
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
brokenhearted 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 very neglected,
water pipes froze and burst, drains got out of order, yards were in
a mess, and rents behind-hand. 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 anything 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 these 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 into 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, cheering 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 goodwill 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 sprang 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.
Everyone took an interest in the “Rose Garden,” as Mac named it, and the
womenfolk were continually driving over to the Point for 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 Aunt Jane 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 shrank
away from the light with great frightened eyes and a hand like a little
claw tightly clutched 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 anything 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 today 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 at the woman and took
the baby straightaway, for she had been abused. 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 around 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 someone 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; shy as a mouse; no end of care, I daresay
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 eyes as he said, in a musing tone, tucking the shawl around 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 overcrowded
institutions. She is such a frail creature she won't trouble anyone
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 caroling 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,' and the old woman, 'Brat.' And that
is all I know of the first name the last is Kennedy. You may 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
pocketbook, 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 anything 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-barreled
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-bye, 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.