# The Shorn Lamb/Chapter 16
### Chapter 16 MAJOR TAYLOR IN DOUBT

Aunt Pearly Gates was right. Spring had come to the heart of Spottswood Taylor. Rebecca rejoiced in the sunshine of his smile. He did not always answer her when she spoke to him, but at least he looked at her, and that not unkindly, and sometimes he smiled. More and more, he took her part against the aunts. Ever since he had come to her defense with what Rebecca designated as "that precious hell," she had been sure of a champion when those conscientious ladies felt in duty bound to correct her faults. They began to be careful not to admonish her in their brother's presence, unless they were quite sure of the justice of their point.
One restriction, to which they clung with pertinacity, was that Rebecca should not cross the river alone. They considered their side of the river safe for the child, but it was a well-known fact that the Bolling darkeys were a disreputable lot and they hinted vaguely at terrible things that might happen if she continued to cross the river alone to call on her friends. Then ​it was that Spot came manfully to her assistance when his father, for once, sided with his daughters.
"She can have Doctor to look after her. No darkey living would dare to come near her if Doctor has her in charge," said Doctor's master.
Major Taylor looked at his son quizzically, but refrained from bantering. He understood what it meant to Spot to offer his dog for the child's protection. Major Taylor well knew that his son, as well as his daughters, doubted Rebecca's claim to kinship. Certainly there was little in her favor. The fact that she had known about Aunt Pearly Gates, and her habit of hatching chickens in her bed, could hardly stand in a court of law as proof that she was Tom Taylor's daughter. Now that her hair was clipped close, Major Taylor fancied he could detect some resemblance to his dead son in the shape of her head and the way her ears were set, but he had to confess to himself that he was so eagerly looking for a likeness that it was easy to fool himself into finding one.
He was constantly seeing in Rebecca traits of character that reminded him of Tom, the same gallant fearlessness, the same philosophical way of accepting disappointment, the same faculty of seeing something amusing in the ​simplest things of life. She was certainly much more like his boy Tom in disposition than was his own brother, Spot. It was like Tom, however, to be so generous in offering his dog to protect a child. That was not much like Spot—not the Spot his father knew, at least. Could he have been mistaken in Spot? Anyhow, he was grateful to him for befriending his little Rebecca.
Whether she were his grandchild or not, the old man loved her fiercely. Usually he was sure she was of his own flesh and blood, but there were times of agonizing doubt. This he would hardly confess to himself, and he would have died rather than let his family know it. He had made a new will so worded that there would be no doubt about the child's inheriting what he intended her to have, whether she belonged to him or not. He was confident that she herself believed Tom Taylor was her father.
A few days after Rebecca's coming to Mill House, Robert Taylor had written to Mrs. O'Shea, but weeks had gone by with no answer from her. He had asked in language most courteous that she oblige him with any and all proofs of the identity of the little girl she had so kindly sent him, also that she should immediately forward to him the trunk of letters that had ​belonged to his son, any drawings or canvases executed by his son and the books left by Rebecca's stepfather, which he presumed would belong to the child if no other heir claimed them.
After three months his letters to Mrs. O'Shea had been returned to him, stamped "Not found." He was deeply thankful to Providence that he had been on hand to receive the mail the morning the letters were returned to him. While he scorned his daughters' intelligence and judgment, he dreaded their knowing that his inquiries concerning Rebecca had proved futile.
There was nothing to do now but put the matter in the hands of a detective agency. He would have gone to New York himself but for the fact that his hub factory was giving him a great deal of trouble. His manager had left and the labor question was annoying. He wished Spot might be relied upon to go to New York and attend to the matter for him, but he dreaded talking to his son about Rebecca. If the detective agency had nothing favorable to report, the old man had determined to keep it secret.
He awaited with deep anxiety the report from the New York agency. He lived in constant dread that Rebecca might learn that he had consulted detectives concerning the inhabitants of the studio on West Tenth Street. It seemed ​like disloyalty on his part to doubt for a moment that she was his own grandchild. She had accepted him on faith and he knew she thought he had done the same by her.
Rebecca also had written Mrs. O'Shea. Her letter was returned with those of her grandfather. He had decided that he would not let her know about it, not yet at least. It might cause his darling some sorrow to find that the woman who had played such an active part in her life and her destiny had vanished into thin air.
Finally the detective agency reported that two days after Rebecca left New York, Mrs. O'Shea had gone as stewardess on a vessel sailing for Calcutta. She had decided quite suddenly to accept the position, and had left sketchy orders concerning mail to be forwarded. The report added that it was difficult to ascertain much concerning the former inhabitants of the studio in West Tenth Street. The property had changed hands several times in the last fifteen years and the leases to the various tenants and the names of those tenants had not been traced. It was now owned by a man who lived in the house facing the street, where Mrs. O'Shea had been employed as janitress. This owner knew little of the journalist who had recently died in the ​studio. He had paid his rent irregularly, but always had paid it. He had seemed a quiet, refined person, a good tenant, in fact. There had been a child or stepchild—the owner of the property was not sure of the relationship. Mrs. O'Shea had cleaned the studio for them. That was about all he could tell about the dead man.
Several days after the funeral—the very day Mrs. O'Shea had quit her place as janitress to accept the job of stewardess on the ship sailing for Calcutta—a young woman had come to the studio demanding her property. Mrs. O'Shea had identified her as the wife of the journalist, although she had not lived with him for several years. The rent having been paid in advance before the tenant had died there was no reason for holding the studio furnishings, and they had been carted off by the pretty young woman. There was little of value left in the apartment, as the long illness of the tenant had necessitated the disposal of much of the furnishings. The owner had noted that there were a good many old books, some pictures and trunks and shabby divans. Where the van had carried the things he could not say. He remembered there had been a slight altercation between Mrs. O'Shea and the young woman concerning a missing ​bonnet which had been left in a closet of the studio. He gathered the bonnet was of crepe, the kind often worn by widows.
That was all. The neighbors who might possibly have known the journalist were not to be found. Some people named Mygatt had gone to Paris. If there were friends, which no doubt there were, the detectives had not been able to trace them.
"Stupid fools!" exclaimed Robert Taylor. "There must be some way to find out more about my child. Why don't they look up birth certificates?" Then he remembered Rebecca told him she had been born on shipboard and perhaps the birth had not been reported. He was ignorant of the regulations in such matters. He wondered what had been the name of the vessel. Did Rebecca know?
He asked her one day quite casually, having led the conversation to ships, but she did not know. Another time he asked her if she had any idea as to what had become of the dancing lady whom she had called Mamma—where she was and what her stage name might be, if she had one, but Rebecca had no idea.
"She used to call herself Nell Morgan before she married Papa but she dropped that name, which wasn't her real name, and called herself ​Madame Ernst Sorel," said Rebecca. "After she married Daddy of course she went by his name and when she left us I don't know what she called herself. She might have made a big name for herself if she hadn't have been so busy getting married. At least, that is what I heard one of the men say at the studio. He was talking to a painty girl and didn't know I heard him. I'm kind of sorry for poor Mamma. She had too much temperament for her sense."
The Misses Taylor had gathered from various sources that their father was in communication with persons in New York and were sure that, had he proof of Rebecca's parentage, he would have divulged it. Spot was uncertain what to think about the child, but he had begun to like her so much it made little difference to him whether she had Taylor blood in her veins or not.
Spot's feeling about Taylor blood was not so intense as his sisters'. In fact he rather preferred any other blood. Certainly his own family had never done anything to endear themselves to the young man. His sisters seemed to feel that he was merely someone who might fetch and carry for them, see to it that they had plenty of early vegetables and that the cows ​were kept up to the mark for milk and butter and that the hogs were properly fattened to the important end of being turned into good bacon. He respected and admired his father, but was always awkward and uneasy in his presence, feeling confident that the old man was finding something about him to cause extreme amusement.
The relations who occasionally visited at Mill House as a rule took very little notice of Spottswood. Some of them even made him feel that they regarded him as the man-of-all-work on the farm, whose business it was to see that their trunks got hauled over from the Court House. The one Taylor he had always loved and felt easy with had been his brother Tom. Tom had been an ideal big brother, kindly and friendly, never twitting him with being slow-witted. Spottswood was only a little boy when his brother went off to be an artist but he remembered with clearness his grief at his leaving home and then, when he was seventeen and the news came of Tom's death in New York, his poignant though silent suffering had left a mark on the shy, sullen boy.
He would have been glad to be certain that the little girl was his niece, but whether she was his brother's child or not she was a clever little ​kid, with plenty of spunk and a good sport to boot.
And so Rebecca's kinship rested—undetermined. Spottswood was passively friendly and his sisters were coldly hostile to the dark-haired little girl. And Major Taylor pondered and waited.