A Cry in the Wilderness Part 41

"So 't ain't, so 't ain't, poor little soul." I heard a catch in his voice, but I did not spare him.

"How old was I when you left home?"

"'Bout three months, if I remember right."

"Did you ever see me--then?"

"No."

"You did n't have any interest in me?"

"Not much, I 'll own up." Then he added weakly, for he wanted to spare me the truth by gently lying out of it, "I 've heard men don't take to new-born babies as women do; they 're kinder soft ter handle."

"And you saw me for the first time in my life at the steamboat landing?"

"Yes--an' my knees fairly give way beneath me, for I saw Happy standin'

before me an' speakin' in the voice I remember so well."

"A long while, twenty-six years, Cale?"

"Don't, Marcia, don't rub it in so!" He was half resentful; and I, having brought him to this point, was satisfied to relent.

"Cale," I said, withdrawing my hand and facing him, as well as I could with my new foot appendages to steer, "I 'll forgive you for not paying any attention to me for twenty-six years, on one condition--"

"What is thet?" His eagerness was almost pathetic.

"That you 'll take me for just what I am, who I am, Marcia Farrell--not Happy Morey; if you don't I shall be unhappy. And you 're to love me for myself, do you hear? Just for myself, and not because I 'm the living image of my mother. Now don't you forget. I give you warning, I shall be insanely jealous if you love me for anybody but myself--and I take it for granted you _do_ love me, don't you, Cale?"

"You know I do, Marcia."

I had him at my mercy and I was merciful.

"Well, then, if I did n't have all this paraphernalia on my feet, I would venture to throw my arms around your neck and give you a good hug--Uncle Cale. As it is I might flop suddenly and fall upon your breast."

"Guess I could stand it if you did,"--he smiled happily, the creases around his eyes deepening to wrinkles,--"but 'twixt you and me, this ain't exactly the place nor the weather for any palaverin'--"

"Palavering! Well, you are ungallant, Cale; I don't dare to call you 'Uncle' now, for fear I might make a slip before the entire family, and that would complicate matters, would n't it?"

"Guess 't would," he replied earnestly; "complicate 'em in a way 't would take more 'n a lawyer's wits ter uncomplicate."

"Then let's go home and see what the Doctor is doing."

"He 's great!"

"Wait till I tell you sometime a secret about him--and me: you 'll think he is greater."

"You don't mean thet, Marcia!"

"Mean what?" I asked a little shortly, for I felt annoyed at his tone of protest and resentment.

"Mean? Wal, thet the Doctor 's sweet on you--"

"Silas C. Marstin, I am angry with you, yes, angry! Do you want to spoil all my fun,--yes, and my happiness,--by just mentioning such an impossible thing?"

"G.o.d knows I don't." He spoke, as it seemed, almost on the verge of tears.

"Then never, never--do you hear?--think or mention such a thing again.

Promise me."

"I won't, so help me--"

"That 'll do; that's right. Now be sensible and get these skis off, so I can walk to the house like a woman instead of a penguin."

"You ain't goin' to lay it up against me?" he pleaded, as we neared the house.

"No, of course not; only, remember, you 're under oath. I mean all this." I nodded at him gravely.

"An' I mean it too; you won't have nothing to complain of so fur as I 'm concerned."

"Dear old Cale!" I whispered to him as I entered the house, where I found Jamie in a state of suppressed excitement for I had given him no opportunity to advance his theories about what he had heard the night before from Cale.

"I say, Marcia, come on into the office and let's talk; the Doctor is in the living-room, writing for all he is worth."

"I can't; I 'm busy." At which he went off in a huff.

XXII

"Let me take your mail out to little Pete," I said to the Doctor, who was superscribing his last letter, when I came in from the morning's sport.

"Thanks, very much."

He spoke abstractedly; ran over the addresses on several envelopes and handed them to me. I could not help seeing that the one on top was addressed to Delia Beaseley. I fancy he intended I should see it. I felt sure he had written to her for some of the forgotten details of that night in December more than twenty-six years ago.

"He's on the track of that child--me! Cale's story has given him the clew," I said to myself, on noticing his absorption in his own thoughts during dinner and his preoccupation in the afternoon. In the evening he drove over with Cale to meet Mr. Ewart.

I rather enjoyed the course events were taking; it would interest me to watch developments of the Doctor's detective work. In a way, it had all the fascination of a drama of which I felt myself no longer to be an actor, but a spectator.

Jamie cornered me, after the Doctor and Cale drove off to the junction.

"No, you don't!" he said, laughing, as he extended his long arms across the doorway of the living-room to bar my exit. "You will act like a Christian and love your neighbor as yourself this time. Sit down and talk--or I sha'n't be able to finish my last chapter."

Of course I sat down, knowing perfectly well what I was about to hear--at least, I thought I did.

"Marcia--"

"Yes?"