A Daughter of the Rich Part 38

It was days before March himself was aware of that fact.

Budd and Cherry were at the Fords'. May was with Aunt Tryphosa and Miss Alton at Lemuel Wood's. Maria-Ann had come over to help Mrs. Blossom with the work, and Chi had taken care of the stock. Rose and her mother watched and waited in the sick room, relieved on alternate nights by Mr.

Blossom and Chi.

The great storm was a thing of the past. The sun shone in a deep blue heaven, and the white world of the Mountain showed daily life and movement. The teamsters were at work loading the sledges with logs, and the ponderous drags squeaked and grated as they slid down the crisping highway.

A crow cawed loudly on the first of March, and the hens came out to find a warm nook in the south-east corner of the barn-yard, where a heap of sodden straw was thawing.

All in the farmhouse were rejoicing, for March had spoken in his weakness--a few words, but clear, coherent, for the frost and fever, both, had left his brain. When he spoke the second time it was to ask for Chi; and Chi had tiptoed into the room in his stocking-feet and laid his hand on March's thin, white one, gulped down the tears and the rising sob that was choking him, and--spoke of the weather!

The next day March turned to his mother, who was sitting by the bed, brooding him with her great love, and asked suddenly, but in a clear and much stronger voice:

"Where 's Hazel?"

Mrs. Blossom hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly:--"Hazel is at home with her father for a few weeks."

March turned his face to the wall and was silent for several hours.

When he was stronger Mrs. Blossom gave him the little note Hazel had left for him, and, with mother-tact, knowing March's reserve of nature, went out of the room while he read it. She saw no signs of it when she returned and asked no questions, but March's gray eyes spoke a language for which there was but one interpretation. With his rare smile, he held out his hand for his mother's, and clasped it closely.

Soon he was able to be up and about, and the children were again at home. Life in the farmhouse resumed its old course--but with a difference. Just what it was no one attempted to define. But each felt it in his own way. March was more gentle with Budd and Cherry, more often with his mother and Chi, more companionable for his father. Rose was quieter, but, if possible, more loving towards all. Budd was at times wholly disconsolate, and wasted sheets of his best Christmas note-paper in writing letters to Hazel which were never sent.

Chi went oftener to the small house "over eastwards," where he was sure of willing ears and sympathetic hearts when he unburdened himself in regard to his "Lady-bird."

"Fact is," he said to Maria-Ann, as she stood with her ap.r.o.n over her head watching him plough their garden plot (that was his annual neighborly offering), "she 's left a great hole in that house, 'n' there is n't one of us that don't know it 'n' feel it;--kind of empty like in your heart, you know, just as your stomach feels when you 've ploughed an acre of sidlin' ground, before breakfast--Get up, Bess, whoa--back!--you don't hear that laugh of hers in the barn, nor out in the field, nor up in the pasture; 'n' you don't see those great eyes lookin' up at you when you 're harnessin', nor peekin' round the corner of the stall to see if you 're most through milkin'. 'N' you don't hear a fiddle makin' it lively after supper, 'n' the children ain't danced once in the barn this spring." Chi sighed heavily.

"Don't Mr. Ford go over there pretty often?" queried Maria-Ann. "I see him gallopin' by two or three times a week."

"Well, what if you do?" Chi answered grumpily, much to Maria-Ann's surprise. "He can't fiddle the way Ladybird does, 'n' they all sit 'n'

jabber some kind of lingo--French, they call it, but I call it, good, straight Canuck--'n' act as if they were at a party,--Rose, 'n' Miss Alton, 'n' the whole of 'em. 'T ain't much company for me. I get off to bed about dark. 'N' the worst of it is, when he isn't to our house, they're all to his--Come around!" Chi jerked the reins, to Bess's resentful surprise.

"They say he's payin' attention to Rose," ventured Maria-Ann, her eyes following the furrow, which was running not quite true.

"They 're a parcel of fools," growled Chi, eyeing the furrow with a dissatisfied air, "Rose need n't look Alan Ford's way for attention.

She can have all she wants most anywheres.--Get up, Bess! what you backin' that way for!--'n' folks tongues can be measured by the furlong 'twixt here and Barton's."

"Well, there ain't any harm in Rose's havin' attention, Chi," said Maria-Ann with some spirit, and ready to stand up for her s.e.x.

"Did n't say there was," retorted Chi, in mollified tones. "There ain't no more harm in Rose's havin' attention than in your havin' it."

"Me!" exclaimed Maria-Ann, pleasantly surprised out of her momentary resentment. "I ain't had any chance to have any."

"Ain't you?" said Chi, busying himself with the plough preparatory to leaving. "Well, that ain't any sign you won't have--Get along, Bess!--I 'll leave this plough here till to-morrow; I ain't drawn those last two furrers straight, 'n' I 've got too much pride to have any man see that--Malachi Graham, his mark.--No, sir-ee," said Chi, emphatically, "straight or starve is my motto every time, just you remember that, Marier-Ann Simmons."

"I will, Chi," laughed Maria-Ann, and went back to her washing, singing joyfully to her rubbing accompaniment:--

"Come, sinners all, repent in time, The Judgment Day is dawning; Sun, moon, and stars to earth incline, The trumpet sounds a warning."

Meanwhile letters were coming to every member of the family from Hazel.

As March regained his strength there came as special gifts to him, books and magazines, and from time to time a beautiful photograph of an old-world cathedral--Canterbury, or York; a stately castle like Warwick, or Heidelberg; a peasant's chalet, or an English cottage to gladden his artist soul and eye, and transform the walls of his room into dwelling-places for his ideals.

"Mother," he said rather wistfully to Mrs. Blossom, on the first May day as they sat together under the old Wishing-Tree, talking over the plans for his future, "how can I go to work to make it all come true?"

He held in his hand a large photograph of the interior of Cologne Cathedral, which Hazel had given him.

"There are many ways, dear, which are most unexpectedly opened at times.

No boy with health and perseverance has much to fear."

"But, mother, father had both, and he was n't able to go through college. He told me all about it the other day, and how he had missed it all through his life."

"I know, March, father failed in attaining to that which was his great desire, but he succeeded so immeasurably in another direction, that I think, sometimes, it must have been all for the best."

"Why, mother, father is poor now--how do you mean he has succeeded?"

"My dear boy, you are only in your seventeenth year, and I don't know that I can make it plain to you because you _are_ young; but when your father conquered every selfish tendency in him, put aside what he had striven so hard for and what was just within his reach, and turned about and did the duty that the time demanded of him;--when he took his dead father's place as provider for the family, and, by his own exertions, placed his mother and sisters beyond want, before he even allowed himself to tell me he loved me, he proved himself a successful man; for he developed, in such hard circ.u.mstances, such n.o.bility of character, that he is rich in love and esteem,--and that, March, and only _that_, is true wealth."

"I see what you mean, mother, but it does n't help me to see how I 'm to get through college, and get the training I need in my profession."

March uttered the last word with pride. "There is so much a man has to have for that. Look at that now," he continued, holding up the photograph; "I need all that, and that means Europe, and Europe means money and time, and where is it all to come from?"

His mother smiled at the despairing tone. "As for time, March, you are only in your seventeenth year. That means ten years before you can begin to work in your profession; and as for the means--" she hesitated--"I think it is time to tell you something I 've been keeping and rejoicing over these last two weeks." She drew a letter from her dress-waist and handed it to him. "Read this, dear, and tell me what you think of it." Wondering, March took it and read:--

HAWKING VALLEY, NORTH CAROLINA, April 15, 1897.

MY DEAR MRS. BLOSSOM,--Just a year ago to-day I sent my one child to you, trusting the judgment of my dear friend, Doctor Heath, in a matter which he felt concerned the future welfare of my daughter. My home has been very lonely without her. You, as a parent, can know something of what this separation has entailed.

It seemed wise to me, and I know you concurred in my opinion, to take her away from the conditions, in which she has thriven so wonderfully, while you were burdened, both in heart and hands, by such a critical illness as your son's. The result confirms the wisdom of my action, for March's convalescence has been slow and long; I am thankful to be a.s.sured it is sure. The burden of an extra member in your family at this time would, in the long run, prove too heavy for you.

I cannot tell you how I appreciate what you have done for Hazel. I have no words to express it. She returns to me full of life and joy, with no apparent unwillingness to take up her life again with me, which must seem dull to her in contrast to that which she had with you. Yet I know in her loyal little heart she belongs to you, is a part of your family henceforth--and I am glad to know it is so, for she needs, and will need, as a young girl, your motherly influence at all times.

I 'm not taking her away from you for good. Oh, no! That would be her loss as well as mine; but I am testing her a little. I have said I had no words with which adequately to express my grat.i.tude. I am your debtor for my child's physical well-being--for much else which I do not find it easy to define. Will you allow me to make some compensation for your year of devotion? I do not care what form it take, providing you will permit me to try to discharge something of the debt--the whole can never be repaid. Will you not let me send that splendid son of yours through college? and give him two years of Europe afterwards? That future profession of his has always been of great interest to me. If the boy is too proud, as I suspect is the case, to accept the necessary amount other than as a loan, make it plain to him that I will even yield a point there--a pretty bad state of affairs for me as a debtor to find myself in. If he won't do this for me--won't Rose help me out by permitting me to aid her in cultivating that voice of hers? I know your magnanimity, and depend upon you to help me in this.

Hazel does not know I am writing to you, or she would send loving messages.

My kindest regards to Mr. Blossom, with hearty congratulations for March, and all sorts of neighborly remembrances for all others of the Lost Nation.

Sincerely your friend, JOHN CURTIS CLYDE.

_To Mrs. Benjamin Blossom._

"Oh, mother!"

A wave of crimson surged into March's pale face, and the sensitive nostrils quivered; then two big drops plashed down upon the letter which he handed to his mother.

"Oh, mother! if only I could--but I can't!"