CHAPTER IX

The Village Queen

The spring of 1903 brought Rosalie back to Tinkletown after her second

and last year with Miss Brown in New York City. The sun seemed brighter,

the birds sang more blithely, the flowers took on a new fragrance and

the village spruced up as if Sunday was the only day in the week. The

young men of the town trembled when she passed them by, and not a few of

them grew thin and haggard for want of food and sleep, having lost both

appetite and repose through a relapse in love. Her smile was the same as

of yore, her cheery greetings the same, and yet the village swains stood

in awe of this fine young aristocrat for days and days. Gradually it

dawned upon them that she was human, after all, despite her New York

training, and they slowly resumed the old-time manner of courting, which

was with the eyes exclusively.

A few of the more venturesome--but not the more ardent--asked her to go

walking, driving, or to the church "sociables," and there was a rivalry

in town which threatened to upset commerce. There was no theatre in

Tinkletown, but they delighted in her descriptions of the gorgeous

play-houses in New York. The town hall seemed smaller than ever to them.

The younger merchants and their clerks neglected business with charming

impartiality, and trade was going to "rack and ruin" until Rosalie

declined to marry George Rawlins, the minister's son. He was looked upon

as the favoured one; but she refused him in such a decisive manner that

all others lost hope and courage. It is on record that the day after

George's _congé_ Tinkletown indulged in a complete business somersault.

Never before had there been such strict attention to customers;

merchants and clerks alike settled down to the inevitable and tried to

banish Rosalie's face from the cost tags and trading stamps of their

dull, mercantile cloister. Even Tony Brink, the blacksmith's 'prentice,

fell into the habits of industry, but with an absent-mindedness that got

him kicked through a partition in the smithy when he attempted to shoe

the fetlock of Mr. Martin's colt instead of its hoof.

The Crow family took on a new dignity. Anderson gave fifty dollars to

the Foreign Missionary Society of the Presbyterian Church, claiming that

a foreign education had done so much for his ward; and Mrs. Crow

succeeded in holding two big afternoon teas before Rosalie could apply

the check rein.

One night Anderson sat up until nearly ten o'clock--an unheard-of

proceeding for him. Rosalie, with the elder Crow girls, Edna and Susie,

had gone to protracted meeting with a party of young men and women. The

younger boys and girls were in bed, and Mrs. Crow was yawning

prodigiously. She never retired until Anderson was ready to do likewise.

Suddenly it dawned upon her that he was unusually quiet and

preoccupied. They were sitting on the moonlit porch.

"What's the matter, Anderson? Ain't you well?" she asked at last.

"No; I'm just thinkin'," he responded, rather dismally. "Doggone, I

cain't get it out of my head, Eva."

"Can't get what out?"

"About Rosalie."

"Well, what about her?"

"That's jest like a woman--always fergittin' the most important things

in the world. Don't you know that the twenty years is up?"

"Of course I know it, but 'tain't worryin' me any. She's still here,

ain't she? Nobody has come to take her away. The thousand dollars came

all right last February, didn't it? Well, what's the use worryin'?"

"Mebbe you're right, but I'm skeered to death fer fear some one will

turn up an' claim her, er that a big estate will be settled, er

somethin' awful like that. I don't mind the money, Eva; I jest hate to

think of losin' her, now that she's such a credit to us. Besides, I'm up

a stump about next year."

"Well, what happens then?"

"Derned if I know. That's what's worryin' me."

"I don't see why you--"

"Certainly you don't. You never do. I've got to do all the thinkin' fer

this fambly. Next year she's twenty-one years old an' her own boss,

ain't she? I ain't her guardeen after that, am I? What happens then, I'd

like to know."

"You jest have to settle with the court, pay over to her what belongs to

her and keep the thousand every spring jest the same. Her people,

whoever they be, are payin' you fer keepin' her an' not her fer stayin'

here. 'Tain't likely she'll want to leave a good home like this 'un, is

it? Don't worry till the time comes, Anderson."

"That's jest the point. She's lived in New York an' she's got used to

it. She's got fine idees; even her clothes seem to fit different. Now,

do you s'pose that fine-lookin' girl with all her New York trimmin's 's

goin' to hang 'round a fool little town like this? Not much! She's goin'

to dig out o' here as soon's she gits a chance; an' she's goin' to live

right where her heart tells her she belongs--in the metropolees of New

York. She don't belong in no jim-crow town like this. Doggone, Eva, I

hate to see 'er go!"

There was such a wail of bitterness in the old constable's remark that

Mrs. Crow felt the tears start to her own eyes. It was the girl they

both wanted, after all--not the money. Rosalie, coming home with her

party some time afterward, found the old couple still seated on the

porch. The young people could not conceal their surprise.

"Counting the stars, pop?" asked Edna Crow.

"He's waiting for the eclipse," bawled noisy Ed Higgins, the grocer's

clerk. "It's due next winter. H'are you, Anderson?"

"How's that?" was Anderson's rebuke.

"I mean Mr. Crow," corrected Ed, with a nervous glance at Rosalie, who

had been his companion for the evening.

"Oh, I'm jest so-so," remarked Anderson, mollified. "How was the party?"

"It wasn't a party, Daddy Crow," laughed Rosalie, seating herself in

front of him on the porch rail. "It was an experience meeting. Alf

Reesling has reformed again. He told us all about his last attack of

delirium tremens."

"You don't say so! Well, sir, I never thought Alf could find the time to

reform ag'in. He's too busy gittin' tight," mused Anderson. "But I guess

reformin' c'n git to be as much a habit as anythin' else."

"I think he was a little woozy to-night," ventured 'Rast Little.

"A little what?"

"Drunk," explained 'Rast, without wasting words. 'Rast had acquired the

synonym at the business men's carnival in Boggs City the preceding fall.

Sometimes he substituted the words "pie-eyed," "skeed," "lit up," etc.,

just to show his worldliness.

After the young men had departed and the Crow girls had gone upstairs

with their mother Rosalie slipped out on the porch and sat herself down

upon the knee of her disconsolate guardian.

"You are worried about something, Daddy Crow," she said gently. "Now,

speak up, sir. What is it?"

"It's time you were in bed," scolded Anderson, pulling his whiskers

nervously.

"Oh, I'm young, daddy. I don't need sleep. But you never have been up as

late as this since I've known you."

"I was up later'n this the time you had the whoopin'-cough, all right."

"What's troubling you, daddy?"

"Oh, nothin'--nothin' at all. Doggone, cain't a man set out on his own

porch 'thout--"

"Forgive me, daddy. Shall I go away and leave you?"

"Gosh a'mighty, no!" he gasped. "That's what's worryin' me--oh, you

didn't mean forever. You jest meant to-night? Geminy crickets, you did

give me a skeer!" He sank back with a great sigh of relief.

"Why, I never expect to leave you forever," she cried, caressing his

scanty hair. "You couldn't drive me away. This is home, and you've been

too good to me all these years. I may want to travel after a while, but

I'll always come back to you, Daddy Crow."

"I'm--I'm mighty glad to hear ye say that, Rosie. Ye see--ye see, me an'

your ma kinder learned to love you, an'--an--"

"Why, Daddy Crow, you silly old goose! You're almost crying!"

"What's that? Now, don't talk like that to me, you little

whipper-snapper, er you go to bed in a hurry. I never cried in my life,"

growled Anderson in a great bluster.

"Well, then, let's talk about something else--me, for instance. Do you

know, Daddy Crow, that I'm too strong to live an idle life. There is no

reason why I shouldn't have an occupation. I want to work--accomplish

something."

Anderson was silent a long time collecting his nerves. "You wouldn't

keer to be a female detective, would you?" he asked drily.