The Chronicles of Rhoda Part 20

"You'll be good to me?" she questioned.

"Good!" Burton cried, with his arms about her.

He looked as if he could dare the whole world in her defense.

"If he isn't he'll have to answer to me," the minister declared, stoutly.

"And to me!" another voice cried, irately, and there was granddad Lawrence stalking, unexpectedly, into the room.

He was very much out of breath, and very angry. I don't believe that I ever saw granddad Lawrence so angry before. For one moment I thought that he was going to shake Burton; but after a bit he calmed down, and we all went home together, the bridal couple in their buggy in advance, and granddad and I behind in the dog-cart. Granddad seemed very sorrowful, and, at last, he unburdened his mind to me.

"This is all very well, Rhoda," he said, in a rueful fashion. "But who's going to break the news to your grandmother!"

He took off his hat, and rumpled up his gray hair until it stood up like quills all over his head.

"Who's going to tell _her_?" he asked, blankly.

It worried us both all the way home; but the question was settled in quite an unexpected manner, for it was grandmother Harcourt who went to tell grandmother Lawrence. She put on her best black silk, and her lace veil, and her cameo pin, and she held up her head very high in the air as she went out of the front gate.

"I shall tell her a few wholesome truths," she said, determinedly. "I shall speak as woman to woman."

"It is really not so bad after all," my father told my mother. "They talk of a concert tour for the boy, and he comes of a good old family, if it _has_ fallen on evil times."

He paused for a moment, his eyes searching the future.

"And if your father runs for mayor--I don't say that he will, but if he should be persuaded to run--why, that story would bring him in a great many votes. It's so pretty and romantic. All the world loves a lover you know."

My mother sighed blissfully, and motioned to him to peep in the parlor door.

There in the darkest corner sat Auntie May and Burton Raymond on a sofa together. They sat and looked at each other for hours and hours and hours.

VIII

THE GREEN DOOR

"OF all the childer I've iver seen he's the worst," Norah cried. "He's as sharp as tacks, and as bad as a young magpie."

She had come into the sitting room, and stood regarding my mother at her sewing.

"What is the matter, Norah?" my mother demanded, anxiously.

"It's d.i.c.k, ma'am. What else should it be? Ain't I been after making a grand gingerbread for your lunch? And ain't he under your own bed this blessed moment?"

She paused for breath, almost crying, and wringing her hands.

"He's eating the whole of it!" she exclaimed.

"What, a whole gingerbread?" my mother repeated, evidently startled.

"Yes, ma'am. I've been poking at him with a broom; but it's no use."

There was a quick procession up to my mother's room, my mother leading it, with her head thrown up in wrath, then little Trixie and I hand-in-hand, and Norah following behind us to see justice done. The room was dark and orderly; but there was a curious shuffling sound under the bed.

"d.i.c.k!" my mother cried. "Come out of there! d.i.c.k! Do you hear what I say? Richard!"

When my mother said "Richard" things were apt to be pretty serious.

Little d.i.c.k crawled out from under the bed very reluctantly. He was red and sticky; but he had a happy expression as if he had been having rather a good time. He brought a tin plate with him, and it was quite empty. There was not even so much as a crumb in it. My mother looked at him in horror, and grandmother, who had been attracted by the noise, looked at him, too, over my mother's shoulder, with strong disapprobation.

"If he were my son," she said, distinctly, "I'd give him a good thrashing. He richly deserves it."

It was a dreadful moment. Little Trixie and I stared at the scene fascinated, while my mother wavered between justice and mercy. When she finally spoke her voice was very cold and severe.

"I don't know what I ever did to have such a son," she said. "After this I am not going to be his mother any longer. I shall call him Master Richard, as if he were a stranger, and he shall call me Mrs. Harcourt.

Nothing else."

Trixie and I held each other closer. It was a terrible sentence. To be a stranger in one's own home! And not to have any mother! Little d.i.c.k's red, childish cheeks paled, and he looked frightened. He made a hurried movement forward, and caught hold of my mother's dress.

"Oh, mother!" he cried, beseechingly.

"Go away, Master Richard," she commanded. "I am not your mother."

"Oh, please, Mrs. Harcourt," d.i.c.k wailed. "Oh, please, Mrs. Harcourt, let me call you mother!"

But my mother was inexorable. She pushed away his hands, and walked out of the room, leaving him behind. They all went away, she, and grandmother, and Norah, and even little Trixie. I was the only one who remained.

I was very sorry for d.i.c.k, and I wanted to hug him badly. But I did not quite dare. d.i.c.k never liked anybody to hug him, and it was very seldom that he cried. He dug his fists into his eyes for a moment, and then he took them away, and looked at me, gloomily.

"All right," he said. "If she ain't my mother I ain't her little boy!"

Then he walked into the next room which was his own, and went down into the bottom bureau drawer, and got out a box with a red lining. In it was his Waterbury watch. That was the most valuable thing that d.i.c.k possessed. He always took it to bed with him at night, and he wound it up in the mornings, and sometimes, when he didn't mean to play very hard, sometimes he wore it. He put it on now, and he put two clean handkerchiefs in his pocket, and his knife, and a red ball, and the k.n.o.b off the machine drawer, and two rubber bands, and a wish-bone, and the little box out of a doll that makes her cry, and the stopper of a cologne bottle. And he opened his missionary box, and fished out ten pennies,--the ones which he was saving to educate a native child in India. When I saw that I knew that things were very serious. I went up close to him and touched him.

"d.i.c.k," I said. "d.i.c.k! What are you going to do? Oh, d.i.c.k!"

I said it timidly, for although little brother d.i.c.k was only six, and I was nine, he was nearly as big as I was. And he was always masterful.

But he didn't repulse me this time, so I kissed him on his ear, and rubbed my head against his shoulder, just to let him know that I loved him. Somehow I thought that he would like to be loved just then. And wonder of wonders he rubbed back!

"When I come home--" d.i.c.k said. "When I'm a rich man, sister, I'll buy you some nice things. I'll buy you some candy, and a pretty dress. And I'll buy you some guinea-pigs! I guess you'd like to have some guinea-pigs, wouldn't you, sister?"

I didn't care a rap for guinea-pigs, but I nodded at him just to comfort him. I felt that I should like an elephant if d.i.c.k bought it.

"And we'll build a nice house for them in the backyard," d.i.c.k went on, evidently cheering up at the prospect. "Under the walnut-tree. And there'll be fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers, and little weany, weany ones, all white and pink!"

"But where are you going, d.i.c.k?" I demanded.