“It’s a great country. It astonishes me at every turn, madam; but it’s too stirring for me. One gets used to things, I know, but this,” with a wave of the arm in the direction of the Reservations, “these hair-raising Indians! Bless me, and you live so close to them!”
The crisp-faced, gray-headed little lawyer smiled in a sharp, angular manner in Ma Sampson’s direction. The farmwife, arrayed in her best mission-going clothes, was ensconced in her husband’s large parlor chair, which was sizes too big for her, and smiled back at him through her glasses.
Mr. Charles Irvine, the junior partner of the firm of solicitors, Rodgers, Son, and Irvine, of London, had made his final statement with regard to Rosebud, and had now given himself up to leisure.
There had been no difficulty. Seth’s letter had stated all the facts of which he had command. It had been handed on to these solicitors. And what he had told them had been sufficient to bring one of the partners out to investigate. Nor had it taken this practical student of human nature long to realize the honesty of these folk, just as it had needed but one glance of comparison between Rosebud and the 185 portrait of Marjorie Raynor, taken a few weeks before her disappearance, and which he had brought with him, to do the rest. The likeness was magical. The girl had scarcely changed at all, and it was difficult to believe that six years had elapsed since the taking of that portrait. After a long discussion with Seth the lawyer made his final statement to the assembled family.
“You quite understand that this case must go through the courts,” he said gravely. “There is considerable property involved. For you, young lady, a long and tedious process. However, the matter will be easier than if there were others fighting for the estate. There are no others, because the will is entirely in your favor, in case of your mother’s death. You have some cousins, and an aunt or two, all prepared to welcome you cordially; they are in no way your opponents; they will be useful in the matter of identification. The only other relative is this lost uncle. In taking you back to England I assume sole responsibility. I am convinced myself, therefore I unhesitatingly undertake to escort you, and, if you care to accept our hospitality, will hand you over to the charge of Mrs. Irvine and my daughters. And should the case go against you, a contingency which I do not anticipate for one moment, I will see that you return to your happy home here in perfect safety. I hope I state my case clearly, Mr. Sampson, and you, Mr. Seth. I,” and the little man tapped the bosom of his shirt, “will personally 186 guarantee Miss—er—Marjorie Raynor’s safety and comfort.”
Mr. Irvine beamed in his angular fashion upon Rosebud, in a way that emphatically said, “There, by that I acknowledge your identity.”
But this man who felt sure, that, at much discomfort to himself, he was bringing joy into a poor household, was grievously disappointed, for one and all received his assurances as though each were a matter for grief. Seth remained silent, and Rube had no comment to offer. Rosebud forgot even to thank him.
Ma alone rose to the occasion, and she only by a great effort. But when the rest had, on various pretexts, drifted out of the parlor, she managed to give the man of law a better understanding of things. She gave him an insight into their home-life, and hinted at the grief this parting would be to them all, even to Rosebud. And he, keen man of business that he was, encouraged her to talk until she had told him all, even down to the previous night’s work on the banks of the White River. Like many women who trust rather to the heart than to the head, Ma had thus done for Rosebud what no purely business procedure could have done. She had enlisted this cool-headed but kindly lawyer’s sympathies. And that goes far when a verdict has to be obtained.
In response to the lawyer’s horrified realization of the dangerous adjacency of the Reservations, Ma laughed in her gentle, assured manner. 187
“Maybe it seems queer to you, Mr. Irvine, but it isn’t to us. We are used to it. As my Rube always says, says he, ’When our time comes ther’ ain’t no kickin’ goin’ to be done. Meanwhiles we’ll keep a smart eye, an’ ther’s allus someun lookin’ on to see fair play.’”