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,

Anderson Crow talked himself hoarse into willing ears, always extolling

the beauty of his erstwhile ward as she appeared before the family

circle in each and every one of those wonderful gowns.

This humble narrative has not to do with the glories and foibles of

Boston social life. It has to deal with the adventures of Anderson Crow

and Rosalie Gray in so far as they pertain to a place called Tinkletown.

The joys and pleasures that Rosalie experienced during that month of

June were not unusual in character. The loneliness of Anderson Crow was

not a novelty, if one stops to consider how the world revolves for every

one else. Suffice to say that the Bonners, _mère, fils_ and _fille_,

exerted themselves to make the month an unforgetable one to the

girl--and they succeeded. The usual gaiety, the same old whirl of

experiences, came to her that come to any other mortal who is being

entertained, fêted and admired. She was a success--a pleasure in every

way--not only to her hosts but to herself. If there was a cloud hanging

over her head through all these days and nights, the world was none the

wiser; the silver lining was always visible.

Once while she was driving with the Bonners she saw a man whom she knew,

but did not expect to ever look upon again. She could not be mistaken in

him. It was Sam Welch, chief of the kidnapers. He was gazing at her from

a crowded street corner, but disappeared completely before Bonner could

set the police on his trail.

Commencement Day at Cambridge brought back hundreds of the old men--the

men famous in every branch of study and athletics. Among them was

handsome Tom Reddon. He came to see her at the Bonner home. Elsie Banks

was to return in September from Honolulu, and they were to be married in

the fall. Wicker Bonner eagerly looked for the confusion of love in her

eyes, but none appeared. That night she told him, in reply to an

impulsive demand, that she did not care for Reddon, that she never had

known the slightest feeling of tenderness for him.

"Have you ever been in love, Rosalie?" he asked ruthlessly.

"Yes," she said after a moment, looking him bravely in the eyes.

"And could you never learn to love any one else?"

"I think not, Wicker," she said ever so softly.

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly, his face white and his lips drawn.

"I should not have asked."

And so he remained the blind man, with the light shining full into his

eyes.