The Life of Nancy Part 13

"I'll make some nice pound-cake to-morrow, and we'll ask her next day," said Maria cheerfully, as they turned into the lane.

Maria Haydon's life had been spent in trying to make other people comfortable, and so she succeeded, oftener than she knew, in making them happy. Every day she seemed to forget herself, and to think of others more; and so, though old Mrs. Ch.e.l.lis missed her friend when she came to tea the next day but one, she soon forgot the sadness of the first few minutes, and began to enjoy the kind welcome of Mr. Haydon and his present companion.

A little later Mr. Haydon was coming back from one of his fields to look after some men whom he and his son had set to work at ditching.

Most of the talk that afternoon had naturally been connected with his first wife, but now everything along his path reminded him of Maria.

Her prosperous flock of young turkeys were heading northward at a little distance out across the high gra.s.s land; and below, along the brook, went the geese and goslings in a sedate procession. The young pear-trees which she had urged him to set out looked thrifty and strong as he pa.s.sed, and there were some lengths of linen bleaching on a knoll, that she had found yellowing in one of the garret chests. She took care of everything, and, best of all, she took great care of him.

He had left the good creature devoting herself to their guest as if she were an old friend instead of a stranger--just for his sake and his wife's sake. Maria always said "your wife" when she spoke of her predecessor.

"Marthy always said that Maria Durrant was as kind and capable a woman as she ever set eyes on, an' poor Marthy was one that knew," said Mr. Haydon to himself as he went along, and his heart grew very tender. He was not exactly satisfied with himself, but he could not have told why. As he came near, the house looked cheerful and pleasant; the front door was wide open, and the best-room blinds. The little garden was in full bloom, and there was a sound of friendly voices. Conversation was flowing on with a deep and steady current.

Somehow the old man felt young again in the midst of his sober satisfaction and renewed prosperity. He lingered near the door, and looked back over his fields as if he were facing life with a sense of great security; but presently his ears caught at something that the two women were saying in the house.

Maria was speaking to Mrs. Ch.e.l.lis, who was a little deaf.

"Yes'm, he does look well," she said. "I think his health's a good sight better than it was a year ago. I don't know's you ever saw anybody so pitiful as he was for a good while after he lost his wife.

He took it harder than some o' those do that make more talk. Yes, she certain was a lovely woman, and one that knew how to take the lead for him just where a man don't want to be bothered--about house matters and little things. He's a dear, good, kind man, Mr. Haydon is. I feel very grateful for all his kindness. I've got a lovely home, Mis'

Ch.e.l.lis," said Maria impulsively; "an' I try to do everything I can, the way he an' Mis' Haydon always had it."

"I guess you do," agreed the guest. "I never see him look better since he was a young man. I hope he knows how well off he is!"

They both laughed a little, and Mr. Haydon could not help smiling in sympathy.

"There, I do enjoy spending with him," said the younger woman wistfully; "but I can't help wishin' sometimes that I could have been the one to help him save. I envy Mis' Haydon all that part of it, and I can't help it."

"Why, you must set a sight by him!" exclaimed Mrs. Ch.e.l.lis, with mild surprise. "I didn't know but what marryin' for love had all gone out of fashion in Atfield."

"You can tell 'em it ain't," said Maria. At that moment Israel Haydon turned and walked away slowly up the yard. His thin black figure straightened itself gallantly, and he wore the look of a younger man.

Later that evening, when the guests were gone, after a most cheerful and hospitable occasion, and the company tea things were all put away, Maria was sitting in the kitchen for a few minutes to rest, and Mr. Haydon had taken his own old chair near the stove, and sat there tapping his finger-ends together. They had congratulated each other handsomely, because everything had gone off so well; but suddenly they both felt as if there were a third person present; their feeling toward one another seemed to change. Something seemed to prompt them to new confidence and affection, to speak the affectionate thoughts that were in their hearts; it was no rebuking, injured presence, for a sense of great contentment filled their minds. Israel Haydon tapped his fingers less regularly than usual, and Maria found herself unable to meet his eyes.

The silence between them grew more and more embarra.s.sing, and at last Mr. Haydon remembered that he had not locked the barn, and rose at once, crossing the kitchen with quicker steps than usual. Maria looked up at him as he pa.s.sed.

"Yes, everything went off beautifully," she repeated. "Mis' Ch.e.l.lis is real good company. I enjoyed hearing her talk about old times. She set everything by Mis' Haydon, didn't she? You had a good wife, Mr. Haydon, certain," said Maria, wistfully, as he hesitated a moment at the door.

Israel Haydon did not answer a word, but went his way and shut the door behind him. It was a cool evening after the pleasant day; the air felt a little chilly. He did not go beyond the doorsteps, for something seemed to draw him back, so he lifted the clinking latch and stepped bravely into the kitchen again, and stood there a moment in the bright light.

Maria Haydon turned toward him as she stood at the cupboard with a little lamp in her hand. "Why Mr. Haydon! what's the matter?" She looked startled at first, but her face began to shine. "Now don't you go and be foolish, Isr'el!" she said.

"Maria," said he, "I want to say to you that I feel to be very thankful. I've got a good wife _now_."

LITTLE FRENCH MARY.

The town of Dulham was not used to seeing foreigners of any sort, or to hearing their voices in its streets, so that it was in some sense a matter of public interest when a Canadian family was reported to have come to the white house by the bridge. This house, small and low-storied, with a bushy little garden in front, had been standing empty for several months. Usually when a house was left tenantless in Dulham it remained so and fell into decay, and, after some years, the cinnamon rose bushes straggled into the cellar, and the dutiful gra.s.s grew over the mound that covered the chimney bricks. Dulham was a quiet place, where the population dwindled steadily, though such citizens as remained had reason to think it as pleasant as any country town in the world.

Some of the old men who met every day to talk over the town affairs were much interested in the newcomers. They approved the course of the strong-looking young Canadian laborer who had been quick to seize upon his opportunity; one or two of them had already engaged him to make their gardens, and to do odd jobs, and were pleased with his quickness and willingness. He had come afoot one day from a neighboring town, where he and his wife had been made ill by bad drainage and factory work, and saw the little house, and asked the postmaster if there were any work to be had out of doors that spring in Dulham. Being a.s.sured of his prospects, he reappeared with his pale, bright-eyed wife and little daughter the very next day but one. This startling promptness had given time for but few persons to hear the news of a new neighbor, and as one after another came over the bridge and along the road there were many questions asked. The house seemed to have new life looking out of its small-paned windows; there were clean white curtains, and china dogs on the window-sills, and a blue smoke in the chimney--the spring sun was shining in at the wide-open door.

There was a chilly east wind on an April day, and the elderly men were gathered inside the post-office, which was also the chief grocery and dry-goods store. Each was in his favorite armchair, and there was the excuse of a morning fire in the box stove to make them form again into the close group that was usually broken up at the approach of summer weather. Old Captain Weathers was talking about Alexis, the newcomer (they did not try to p.r.o.nounce his last name), and was saying for the third or fourth time that the more work you set for the Frenchman the better pleased he seemed to be. "Helped 'em to lay a carpet yesterday at our house, neat as wax," said the Captain, with approval. "Made the garden in the front yard so it hasn't looked so well for years. We're all goin' to find him very handy; he'll have plenty to do among us all summer. Seems to know what you want the minute you p'int, for he can't make out very well with his English. I used to be able to talk considerable French in my early days when I sailed from southern ports to Havre and Bordeaux, but I don't seem to recall it now very well.

He'd have made a smart sailor, Alexis would; quick an' willing."

"They say Canada French ain't spoken the same, anyway"--began the Captain's devoted friend, Mr. Ezra Spooner, by way of a.s.surance, when the store door opened and a bright little figure stood looking in. All the gray-headed men turned that way, and every one of them smiled.

"Come right in, dear," said the kind-hearted old Captain.

They saw a charming little creature about six years old, who smiled back again from under her neat bit of a hat; she wore a pink frock that made her look still more like a flower, and she said "_Bonjour_"

prettily to the gentlemen as she pa.s.sed. Henry Staples, the storekeeper and postmaster, rose behind the counter to serve this customer as if she had been a queen, and took from her hand the letter she brought, with the amount of its postage folded up in a warm bit of newspaper.

The Captain and his friends looked on with admiration.

"Give her a piece of candy--no, give it to me an' I'll give it to her," said the Captain eagerly, reaching for his cane and leaving his chair with more than usual agility; and everybody looked on with intent while he took a striped stick of peppermint from the storekeeper and offered it gallantly. There was something in the way this favor was accepted that savored of the French court and made every man in the store a lover.

The child made a quaint bow before she reached out her hand with childish eagerness for the unexpected delight; then she stepped forward and kissed the Captain.

There was a murmur of delight at this charming courtesy; there was not a man who would not have liked to find some excuse for walking away with her, and there was a general sigh as she shut the door behind her and looked back through the gla.s.s with a parting smile.

"That's little French Mary, Alexis's little girl," said the storekeeper, eager to proclaim his advantage of previous acquaintance.

"She came here yesterday and did an errand for her mother as nice as a grown person could."

"I never saw a little creatur' with prettier ways," said the Captain, blushing and tapping his cane on the floor.

This first appearance of the little foreigner on an April day was like the coming of a young queen to her kingdom. She reigned all summer over every heart in Dulham--there was not a face but wore its smiles when French Mary came down the street, not a mother who did not say to her children that she wished they had such pretty manners and kept their frocks as neat. The child danced and sang like a fairy, and condescended to all childish games, and yet, best of all for her friends, she seemed to see no difference between young and old. She sometimes followed Captain Weathers home, and discreetly dined or took tea with him and his housekeeper, an honored guest; on rainy days she might be found in the shoemaker's shop or the blacksmith's, as still as a mouse, and with eyes as bright and quick, watching them at their work; smiling much but speaking little, and teaching as much French as she learned English. To this day, in Dulham, people laugh and repeat her strange foreign words and phrases. Alexis, the father, was steady at his work of gardening and haying; Marie, the elder, his wife, washed and ironed and sewed and swept, and was a helper in many households; now and then on Sunday they set off early in the morning and walked to the manufacturing town whence they had come, to go to ma.s.s; at the end of the summer, when they felt prosperous, they sometimes hired a horse and wagon, and drove there with the child between them. Dulham village was the brighter and better for their presence, and the few old-fashioned houses that knew them treasured them, and French Mary reigned over her kingdom with no revolt or disaffection to the summer's end. She seemed to fulfill all the duties of her childish life by some exquisite instinct and infallible sense of fitness and propriety.

One September morning, after the first frost, the Captain and his friends were sitting in the store with the door shut. The Captain was the last comer.

"I've got bad news," he said, and they all turned toward him, apprehensive and forewarned.

"Alexis says he's going right away" (regret was mingled with the joy of having a piece of news to tell). "Yes, Alexis is going away; he's packing up now, and has spoke for Foster's hay-cart to move his stuff to the railroad."

"What makes him so foolish?" said Mr. Spooner.

"He says his folks expect him in Canada; he's got an aunt livin' there that owns a good house and farm, and she's gettin' old and wants to have him settled at home to take care of her."

"I've heard these French folks only desire to get forehanded a little, and then they go right back where they come from," said some one, with an air of disapproval.

"He says he'll send another man here; he knows somebody that will be glad of the chance, but I don't seem to like the idea so well," said Captain Weathers doubtfully. "We've all got so used to Alexis and his wife; they know now where we keep every thing and have got to be so handy. Strange they don't know when they're well off. I suppose it's natural they should want to be with their own folks. Then there's the little girl."

At this moment the store door was opened and French Mary came in. She was dressed in her best and her eyes were shining.

"I go to Canada in ze cars!" she announced joyfully, and came dancing down between the two long counters toward her regretful friends; they had never seen her so charming.

Argument and regret were impossible--the forebodings of elderly men and their experience of life were of no use at that moment, a gleam of youth and hope was theirs by sympathy instead. A child's pleasure in a journey moves the dullest heart; the captain was the first to find some means of expression.

"Give me some o' that best candy for her," he commanded the storekeeper. "No, take a bigger piece of paper, and tie it up well."

"Ain't she dressed a little thin for travelin'?" asked gruff Mr. Spooner anxiously, and for his part he pointed the storekeeper to a small bright plaid shawl that hung overhead, and stooped to wrap it himself about the little shoulders.

"I must get the little girl something, too," said the minister, who was a grandfather, and had just come in for his mail. "What do you like best, my dear?" and French Mary pointed shyly, but with instant decision, at a blue silk parasol, with a white handle, which was somewhat the worse for having been openly displayed all summer. The minister bought it with pleasure, like a country boy at a fair, and put into her hand.

French Mary kissed the minister with rapture, and gave him her hand to shake, then she put down the parasol and ran and climbed into the old captain's lap and hugged him with both arms tight round his neck. She considered for a moment whether she should kiss Mr. Ezra Spooner or not, but happily did not decide against it, and said an affectionate good-by to him and all the rest. Mr. Staples himself came out from behind the counter to say farewell and bestow a square package of raisins. They all followed her to the door, and stood watching while she tucked her bundles under her arm and raised the new parasol, and walked away down the street in the chilly autumn morning. She had taken all her French gayety and charm, all her childish sweetness and dignity away with her. Little French Mary had gone. Fate had plucked her like a flower out of their lives.