CHAPTER XII

LIGHT

Leaving Mrs. Wilson, a neighbor and friend, in care of the house while David slept, Miss Eastman set out for Dr. Redfield's office. In her face was determination; in her hand a broken miniature. The gentleman was to be called upon to explain, if he could, why he had given that picture to her little boy.

"I have been his mother now for four years," she meant to tell the Doctor. "I have tried to be a good mother; I have tried my best. Why, then, should you even suggest to him that I am not really his mother? If you have done that I must tell you that I do not think it just. And, besides, I must ask you to make no further additions to his wardrobe without first consulting me. He does not look like my little boy any more. You have cut off his curls. You said nothing to me about it; you merely cut them off.

I did not want you to do that. I would not have consented to it, and I should like you to understand that hereafter he is to be solely in my care, or not at all."

As she rehea.r.s.ed these words in her mind, Miss Eastman went hurrying through the streets. Twilight had set in, close and sultry, with low grumblings of thunder, and there was that stillness in the air, that strange sense of waiting, which precedes the storm. Gray, scarf-like films were speeding across the black-purple sky, and were suddenly rent by a zig-zag quiver of blue-white fire. The trees along the walk flamed green, and then were dark again, and overhead a flight of pigeons clove the air with a rushing of swift wings. An instant later a whirling litter of straws, flapping newspapers, and dust came swishing down the pavement, and with the coming of this first strong gust of wind was a noise of slamming doors and the sound of windows being quickly lowered. With the swift and vigorous whiff of storm came the good, cooling smell of rain.

Miss Eastman paid no heed. She was too indignant and too hurt to think much about so trifling a matter as a shower, and when she reached the house of Dr. Redfield it further exasperated her that she should be kept waiting upon his doorstep. Twice, and a third time, she gave the bell an energetic pull, but no one answered.

The gush of water from the roof tinkled loudly in the tin drain-pipes, but throughout the dwelling there was a tomb-like silence. Presently, though, Miss Eastman heard a "squadgy" tread that was steadily drawing nearer. When the door was at last cautiously opened she caught a glimpse of the housekeeper, the discreet and red-faced Mrs. Botz. As the shiny countenance leisurely appeared, the woman revealed two flour-coated fingers pressed upon her heavy lips.

"Herr Doctor iss maybe gone to sleep already," she whispered; then she laughed a wheezy chuckle that shook her ponderous bust.

She pointed up the hallway to something under the light of the oil lamp which much resembled a fat rag doll. The queer object was shaking with strange contortions in the place where the hall-bell should have hung. "I play him one good trick, ain't it?" she added. "Mit a towel I tie up the bell-knocker--zo!" She ill.u.s.trated with her flour-dusted hands. "Den I wrap him round like one sore foot. _Hoffentlich_, nopody vill vake him up if he iss sleeping."

"But why, Mary, why should he be asleep? Is he so tired, then?"

"Ach, mein lieber Gott! Do you not know? It iss Duck Town. Vonce more yet a funeral. I know from his face it is this time maybe one little schildt. He carry them in his eyes, the little schildren, unt he is coming home, unt he say nudding; he cannot eat, unt zo I know vot iss it."

Although this announcement went to Miss Eastman's heart, it was not sufficient to outweigh her resolution. She would speak plainly to him. Glancing toward the office, she saw that a dim light was shining from an open door into the hallway.

"I think I shall have to go in," she said to Mrs. Botz, and started for the office.

Miss Eastman's determination was firmly fixed. Dr. Redfield must understand once for all that hers was the exclusive guardianship over David, and with that unwavering idea in her mind she looked into the room. She saw him seated under the shade of the lamp in his faded green house-robe, his shoulders more stooped than formerly, his s.h.a.ggy head sunk forward, and a greater weariness in his face than she had ever seen in it before.

All at once, as she stood looking at him, her grievances dwindled into pettiness. The words she had come to speak were dumb upon her lips, forgotten in a womanly impulse to go to him, to put her arms about that tired head, and to hold it as though he were nothing more than a little boy. So, presently, when he glanced up, it did not seem at all strange that she should be asking:--

"How is it down there? Very bad?"

One would have thought she had accused him of surrender. He turned upon her with fierce irritability.

"Who says we're not getting on?" he demanded. "Who says--who says nothing can do any good?"

He grasped the sides of the chair and struggled to his feet. He stood erect like a general, his eyes suddenly lighting up with the fire of inflexible will. Then he was seized with a trembling fit, and sank back in his chair. He rubbed his hands over his gray face; he clenched his fingers, and the knuckle of his thumb went to his eye and got wet in doing it. And it was all so awkward, and so boyish, and so funny, this movement of his fist and the tear-drop on his thumb, that Miss Eastman would have laughed if she had not been crying.

"Who was it, Doctor--who was it that died to-day?"

He told her who it was, and she could not believe him.

"Jim Lehman's child? Not Emma--surely not little Emma Lehman? How is that possible? Such a very short time ago it seems since I was lending her story-books! She couldn't speak English at all when she first came to school."

"You knew her, then?"

"Knew her? She was the only one who cried when I told them I would not teach school any more. She gave me a present once--a woeful, comical Christmas present, a big, clean-washed, smooth potato. That was all she had to give, and she had tied colored strips of tissue paper about it to make it good enough."

Miss Eastman inquired about other children, one by one, as though calling the roll. At first he evaded her questioning, giving such vague and equivocal replies that presently she clearly understood the situation.

"It is epidemic," she said, "and you have been keeping this from me. How long since it began?"

"The worst is over," he answered, with something of the old heartiness that made the sick take courage even in their hour of darkest trial. But he was reluctant to talk much of conditions in Duck Town; and presently, during a lull in the conversation, Miss Eastman laid the pieces of the broken miniature on the table before him.

"Was this David's mother?" she asked.

As the man took up the two parts of the broken portrait he glanced apprehensively toward the top of his desk. The picture which used to stand there was gone.

"Where did you get this?" he questioned.

"As soon as they get into trousers they get into mischief," she replied, and again she asked whether that was a picture of the little boy's mother.

With gentle fingers Dr. Redfield fitted the parts of the picture together, sorrowfully shook his head over them, and then, as a wan smile creased his tired face, he said:--

"David asked me if she was _my_ mother. Has the little rogue been claiming her for _his_?"

Miss Eastman slowly answered: "She does look a little like--"

"Yes," the doctor interrupted, "more than that, I should say--more than a little like David's mother. From the first time I saw that poor dear woman I thought so, and yet I was never quite sure that my fancy had not created the resemblance. It was an unaccountable likeness, and yet so strong a one that it meant much, very much to me."

"I must take this home again," she said, "for to-morrow David is to bring it back to you. He must tell you all about it--how he got into trouble. We shall come early in the morning, and he will stay here with Mrs. Botz, while I go with you."

"Go with me?" The bushy eyebrows of Dr. Redfield raised with inquiring astonishment.

"You cannot go on forever like this," she replied. "You must let others help. I think I can be rather useful down there in Duck Town. I shall be here early in the morning to go with you."

The Doctor said nothing. He merely clasped the woman's hand in his two hands, and the look in his face was the look of that little boy called David, when somebody has been good to him.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SUBSt.i.tUTE

To Mrs. Wilson, the neighbor who had spent the better part of two hours with David, Miss Eastman was saying, "_Must_ you go?"

Surely it is conclusive proof of superior intelligence in womankind that any of the s.e.x can understand when she is wanted and when she is not wanted, although the idea in either case is conveyed in precisely the same words.

Miss Eastman, for her part, was honestly grateful to Mrs. Wilson for having remained with David during the early part of the evening, but now Mrs. Wilson could go home and come again another day. Miss Eastman did not say that; of course not! What she did say was, "_Must_ you go?"

Mrs. Wilson saw she must. This, however, did not prevent her from apologizing for her departure, and on the door-step still another important subject was to be considered: the kindness of Mrs.

Wilson in staying with David. Mrs. Wilson averred that such trifles were not to be spoken of. It was nothing at all. It had been no trouble, indeed it had not; it had been a pleasure. Mrs.

Wilson said she believed in being neighborly.

Finally, when the merits of being neighborly had been exhaustively commented upon, the women again made preparation to bid each other good-evening.

"Come over and see us."