The Daughter of Anderson Crow
"I understand," he interrupted. "Don't say it. I want to think that some
day you will feel like saying something else, and I want to hope,
Rosalie, that it won't always be like this. Let us talk about something
else." But neither cared to speak for what seemed an hour. They were in
sight of home before the stony silence was broken. "I may come over from
Bonner Place to see you?" he asked at last. He was to cross the river
the next day for a stay of a week or two at his uncle's place.
"Yes--often, Wicker. I shall want to see you every day. Yes, every day;
I'm sure of it," she said wistfully, a hungry look in her eyes that he
did not see, for he was staring straight ahead. Had he seen that look or
caught the true tone in her voice, the world might not have looked so
dark to him. When he did look at her again, her face was calm almost to
sereneness.
"And you will come to Boston in June just the same?"
"If your sister and--and your mother still want me to come."
She was thinking of herself, the nameless one, in the house of his
people; she was thinking of the doubts, the speculations--even the fears
that would form the background of her welcome in that proud house. No
longer was Rosalie Gray regarding herself as the happy, careless
foster-child of Anderson Crow; she was seeing herself only as the
castaway, the unwanted, and the world was growing bitter for her. But
Bonner was blind to all this; he could not, should not know.
"You know they want you to come. Why do you say that?" he asked quickly,
a strange, dim perspective rising before him for an instant, only to
fade away before it could be analysed.
"One always says that," she replied with a smile. "It is the penalty of
being invited. Your sister has written the dearest letter to me, and I
have answered it. We love one another, she and I."
"Rosalie, I am going to write to you," said he suddenly; "you will
answer?"
"Yes," she told him simply. His heart quickened, but faltered, and was
lost. "I had a long letter from Elsie Banks to-day," she went on with an
indifference that chilled.
"Oh," he said; "she is your friend who was or is to marry Tom Reddon, I
believe. I knew him at Harvard. Tell me, are they married?"
"No. It was not to take place until March, but now she writes that her
mother is ill and must go to California for several months. Mr. Reddon
wants to be married at once, or before they go West, at least; but she
says she cannot consent while her mother requires so much of her. I
don't know how it will end, but I presume they will be married and all
go to California. That seems the simple and just way, doesn't it?"
"Any way seems just, I'd say," he said. "They love one another, so
what's the odds? Do you know Reddon well?"
"I have seen him many times," she replied with apparent evasiveness.
"He is a--" but here he stopped as if paralysis had seized him suddenly.
The truth shot into his brain like a deadly bolt. Everything was as
plain as day to him now. She stooped to pick up a slim, broken reed that
crossed her path, and her face was averted. "God!" was the cry that
almost escaped his lips. "She loves Reddon, and he is going to marry her
best friend!" Cold perspiration started from every pore in his body. He
had met the doom of love--the end of hope.
"He has always loved her," said Rosalie so calmly that he was shocked by
her courage. "I hope she will not ask him to wait."
Rosalie never understood why Bonner looked at her in amazement and said:
"By Jove, you are a--a marvel, Rosalie!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Blind Man's Eyes
Bonner went away without another word of love to her. He saw the
futility of hoping, and he was noble enough to respect her plea for
silence on the subject that seemed distasteful to her. He went as one
conquered and subdued; he went with the iron in his heart for the first
time--deeply imbedded and racking.
Bonner came twice from the place across the river. Anderson observed
that he looked "peaked," and Rosalie mistook the hungry, wan look in his
face for the emaciation natural to confinement indoors. He was whiter
than was his wont, and there was a dogged, stubborn look growing about
his eyes and mouth that would have been understood by the sophisticated.
It was the first indication of the battle his love was to wage in days
to come. He saw no sign of weakening in Rosalie. She would not let him
look into her brave little heart, and so he turned his back upon the
field and fled to Boston, half beaten, but unconsciously collecting his
forces for the strife of another day. He did not know it then, nor did
she, but his love was not vanquished; it had met its first rebuff, that
was all.
Tinkletown was sorry to see him depart, but it thrived on his promise to
return. Every one winked slyly behind his back, for, of course,
Tinkletown understood it all. He would come back often and then not at
all--for the magnet would go away with him in the end. The busybodies,
good-natured but garrulous, did not have to rehearse the story to its
end; it would have been superfluous. Be it said here, however, that
Rosalie was not long in settling many of the speculators straight in
their minds. It seemed improbable that it should not be as they had
thought and hoped. The news soon reached Blootch Peabody and Ed Higgins,
and, both eager to revive a blighted hope, in high spirits, called to
see Rosalie on the same night. It is on record that neither of them
uttered two dozen words between eight o'clock and ten, so bitterly was
the presence of the other resented.
March came, and with it, to the intense amazement of Anderson Crow, the
ever-mysterious thousand dollars, a few weeks late. On a certain day the
old marshal took Rosalie to Boggs City, and the guardianship proceedings
were legally closed. Listlessly she accepted half of the money he had
saved, having refused to take all of it. She was now her own mistress,
much to her regret if not to his.
"I may go on living with you, Daddy Crow, may I not?" she asked
wistfully as they drove home through the March blizzard. "This doesn't
mean that I cannot be your own little girl after to-day, does it?"
"Don't talk like that, Rosalie Gray, er I'll put you to bed 'thout a
speck o' supper," growled he in his most threatening tones, but the
tears were rolling down his cheeks at the time.
"Do you know, daddy, I honestly hope that the big city detective won't
find out who I am," she said after a long period of reflection.
"Cause why?"
"Because, if he doesn't, you won't have any excuse for turning me out."
"I'll not only send you to bed, but I'll give you a tarnation good
lickin' besides if you talk like--"
"But I'm twenty-one. You have no right," said she so brightly that he
cracked his whip over the horse's back and blew his nose twice for full
measure of gratitude.
"Well, I ain't heerd anything from that fly detective lately, an' I'm
beginnin' to think he ain't sech a long sight better'n I am," said he
proudly.
"He isn't half as good!" she cried.
"I mean as a detective," he supplemented apologetically.
"So do I," she agreed earnestly; but it was lost on him.
There was a letter at home for her from Edith Bonner. It brought the
news that Wicker was going South to recuperate. His system had "gone
off" since the accident, and the March winds were driving him away
temporarily. Rosalie's heart ached that night, and there was a still,
cold dread in its depths that drove sleep away. He had not written to
her, and she had begun to fear that their month had been a trifle to
him, after all. Now she was troubled and grieved that she should have
entertained the fear. Edith went on to say that her brother had seen the
New York detective, who was still hopelessly in the dark, but struggling
on in the belief that chance would open the way for him.
Rosalie, strive as she would to prevent it, grew pale and the roundness
left her cheek as the weeks went by. Her every thought was with the man
who had gone to the Southland. She loved him as she loved life, but she
could not confess to him then or thereafter unless Providence made clear
the purity of her birth to her and to all the world. When finally there
came to her a long, friendly, even dignified letter from the far South,
the roses began to struggle back to her cheeks and the warmth to her
heart. Her response brought a prompt answer from him, and the roses grew
faster than the spring itself. Friendship, sweet and loyal, marked every
word that passed between them, but there was a dear world in each
epistle--for her, at least, a world of comfort and hope. She was
praying, hungering, longing for June to come--sweet June and its tender
touch--June with its bitter-sweet and sun clouds. Now she was forgetting
the wish which had been expressed to Anderson Crow on the drive home
from Boggs City. In its place grew the fierce hope that the once
despised detective might clear away the mystery and give her the right
to stand among others without shame and despair.
"Hear from Wick purty reg'lar, don't you, Rosalie?" asked Anderson
wickedly, one night while Blootch was there. The suitor moved uneasily,
and Rosalie shot a reproachful glance at Anderson, a glance full of
mischief as well.
"He writes occasionally, daddy."
"I didn't know you corresponded reg'larly," said Blootch.
"I did not say regularly, Blucher."
"He writes sweet things to beat the band, I bet," said Blootch with a
disdain he did not feel.
"What a good guesser you are!" she cried tormentingly.
"Well, I guess I'll be goin'," exploded Blootch wrathfully; "it's
gittin' late."
"He won't sleep much to-night," said Anderson, with a twinkle in his
eye, as the gate slammed viciously behind the caller. "Say, Rosalie,
there's somethin' been fidgetin' me fer quite a while. I'll blurt it
right out an' have it over with. Air you in love with Wick Bonner?"
She started, and for an instant looked at him with wide open eyes; then
they faltered and fell. Her breath came in a frightened, surprised gasp
and her cheeks grew warm. When she looked up again, her eyes were soft
and pleading, and her lips trembled ever so slightly.
"Yes, Daddy Crow, I love him," she almost whispered.
"An' him? How about him?"
"I can't answer that, daddy. He has not told me."
"Well, he ought to, doggone him!"
"I could not permit him to do so if he tried."
"What! You wouldn't permit? What in tarnation do you mean?"
"You forget, daddy, I have no right to his love. It would be wrong--all
wrong. Good-night, daddy," she cried, impulsively kissing him and
dashing away before he could check her, but not before he caught the
sound of a half sob. For a long time he sat and stared at the fire in
the grate. Then he slapped his knee vigorously, squared his shoulders
and set his jaw like a vise. Arising, he stalked upstairs and tapped on
her door. She opened it an inch or two and peered forth at him--a
pathetic figure in white.
"Don't you worry, Rosalie," he gulped. "It will be all right and hunky
dory. I've just took a solemn oath down stairs."
"An oath, daddy?"
"Yes, sir; I swore by all that's good and holy I'd find out who your
parents are ef it took till doomsday. You shall be set right in the eyes
of everybody. Now, if I was you, I'd go right to sleep. There ain't
nothin' to worry about. I've got another clew."
She smiled lovingly as he ambled away. Poor old Anderson's confidence in
himself was only exceeded by his great love for her.
At last June smiled upon Rosalie and she was off for Boston. Her gowns
were from Albany and her happiness from heaven--according to a
reverential Tinkletown impression. For two weeks after her departure,