A Daughter of the Rich

Chi, spent to exhaustion, had rallied at midnight, but knew that it was beyond human powers to attempt to reach Barton's or even Lemuel Wood's, their next neighbor, through the drifts.

So they waited, helpless–one day, two days. On the second day the white expanse showed no tracks. Then March began to wander, and clutch his breast, where his mother had found the telegram, which his father had sent to him from Ogdensburg:–

"Heavy blizzard. Roads blocked. Tell mother at once. Don't worry."

Chi walked the house night and day in his misery of helplessness. At last, on the third day, looking eastwards he descried a black blotch on the white,–it was a four-ox team breaking out from the Fords'. Later in the day, when the men were within two hundred yards of the house, he saw another black spot on the lower road. It was the Mill Settlement road-team, with a full equipment of men and tools, to cut a way through the drifts.

Soon there was help and to spare. Alan Ford was riding down the narrow way between high walls of glittering white to Barton's for aid, and bringing back telegrams of anxious inquiry from Mr. Blossom and Mr. Clyde. On the fourth day, the blockade was raised, and the south-bound express to Barton's River brought Mr. Blossom from the north, and another train brought Mr. Clyde from the south. Two days after all the Lost Nation knew that March would live.

XXI

A LITTLE DAUGHTER OF THE RICH

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 apron 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 sex.

"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 circumstances, such nobility 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 assured 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 gratitude. 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!"

He rolled over on the soft pasture turf, face downwards, his head resting on his arms.

"Why, March dear," said his mother, tenderly, "why can't you? I think it 's beautiful, so does father."

A sob shook the long, thin frame. His mother laid her hand on the back of the yellow head. "What is it, my dear boy? Can't you tell me?"

The head shook energetically beneath her hand, and muffled words issued from the grass.

"But, March, we thought it would please you to have such an opportunity. You have read what Mr. Clyde says–you can look upon it as a loan. I hope you won't have any false pride in this matter–"

"'Tis n't false, mother," came forth from the grass, "and I would like to accept his offer, if only it were n't just his."

"Why not his, March? Surely, Hazel has been like one of us–a real little sister–" Another vigorous wagging of the yellow head arrested his mother in the midst of her sentence.

"Hazel is n't my sister."

"Why, of course, you can't feel as near to her as to Rose, but then, you must see how dear she has become to us all–and Mr. Clyde has put it in such a way, that the most sensitive person could accept it without injury to any feeling of true pride. Take time and think it over, March. It has come upon you rather suddenly, and I have been thinking about it for two weeks."

"It's no use to think it over." Deep tragedy now made itself audible, as March rolled over and sat up, displaying eyes bright with excitement, flushed cheeks, and a generally determined air of having it out with himself.

"Well, I can't understand you, March."

"I wish you could."

His mother smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation. "Can't you tell me? or give me some clue to this mysterious determination of yours?"

March cast a despairing glance at his mother. "Mother, will you promise never to tell?"

"Not even your father, March?"

"No, father, nor any one–ever, mother."

"Very well; I promise, March, for I trust you."

"Oh, mother, have n't you seen?–don't you know, that I–that I love Hazel! And how can I take the money from her father, when I 'm going to try to make her love me and marry me sometime, when I get through studying, and–and–Oh, don't you see?"

And Mrs. Blossom did see–at last.

She spoke very gently, after a minute's silence, in which March's ears burned red to their tips, and his fingers were busy digging up a tiny strawberry-plant by the roots. "My son, I see, and I honor you for feeling as you do; but, March, have you thought of the difference between you and Hazel?"

"What difference, mother?"

Now Mary Blossom was not a worldly woman, neither was she a woman of the world–and she found it difficult to answer.

"You know how Hazel is placed in life, although you do not know with what luxury she is surrounded in her home. She has beauty, a large circle of friends, immense wealth. There will be many who will seek her hand in four years' time, for she has a wonderful charm of her own, for all who come close to her.–Is it worth while to attempt, even, to win this little daughter of the rich? You, a poor boy, with his way to make?"

"But, mother,"–there was strong protest in the voice–"she did n't have any beauty till she came up here to us–and if she was a rich girl, she was n't a healthy one till she lived up here, and I don't see the good of money and a lot of things, if you 're sick, and homely, too." March waxed eloquent in his desire to convince his mother of the justice of his cause. "And if she hadn't come up here she would n't have got well, and then she would n't have grown so beautiful–and she is beautiful, mother." (Mrs. Blossom nodded assent.) "And I don't see why I have n't just as much right to try to make her love me as any other fellow. You 've told us children, dozens of times, it's just character that counts, and not money, and if I try as hard as I can to keep straight and be a good man like father, I don't see why things would n't be all right in the end."

Mrs. Blossom was silenced,–"hoist with her own petard." "How can I destroy this lovely, young ideal? I dare not," was her thought. But aloud, she said:–"You 're right, March. Nothing but character counts. Make yourself worthy of this little love of yours. We 'll keep this in our own hearts, and when you are tempted to wrong-doing–and there are fearful temptations for every young man to meet, March,–temptations of which you can form no conception here in the shelter of your home–just remember this little talk of ours, and keep yourself unspotted by the world just by the thought of this dear girl whom you hope some day to win. There is nothing, March, that will keep a young man in the right way like his love for just 'the one girl in the world'–if only she be worthy of his love. And I think Hazel will be–even of you."

March flung his arms about her neck and kissed her heartily:

"Dear, little Mother Blossom, I 'll try, and even if I fail, just the thought of such a glorious-filorious mother that does n't laugh at a fellow–I was afraid you would, though,–will keep me straight enough. Why, Mother Blossom! I 'd be ashamed to look you in the eyes, if I did a down-right mean thing."

His mother laughed through her tears. "I wonder if many mothers get such a compliment? Come, dear, the dew is beginning to fall–it's been such a heavenly day, I had forgotten it is early spring. Do you feel chilly?"

"Not I," laughed March, and proceeded to relieve his feelings after his favorite method–by turning a double-back somersault down the pasture slope.

As Mrs. Blossom leaned over to kiss tired, sleepy Budd that night, she thought complacently to herself:–

"Well, thank fortune, here 's one who is heart-free," and laughed softly to herself. Chi had not told her of Budd's proposal.

"Wilkins, tell Miss Hazel to come down into the library when she is dressed for dinner."

"Yes, Marse Clyde." Wilkins sprang upstairs two steps at a time, and, knocking at Hazel's door, delivered his message.

"Tell papa I 'm going to dress early, for I 've some things to attend to about the table, Wilkins."

"Fo' sho', Miss Hazel," said Wilkins, with a broad smile of delighted surprise.

"And tell Mrs. Scott I 'll choose the service, if she will take out the linen, and I have ordered the flowers. Papa said I might."

Wilkins skipped downstairs, delivered his message to the amazed housekeeper, and then flew into the kitchen to impart his news to the cook, his confidante and co-worker for years in the Clyde household.

Minna-Lu was preparing a confection, and giving her whole soul to the making, when Wilkins made his appearance. She looked up grimly, the ebony of her countenance shining beneath the immaculate white of her turban:–

"Wa' fo' yo' hyar?"

Wilkins slapped both knees with the palms of his hands, and bent nearly double with noiseless laughter; then, straightening himself, approached Minna-Lu with boldness, despite the repelling wave of the cream-whip that she held suspended over the bowl, and confided to her the change of régime, to her edification and delight.

She put down the bowl and whip, stemmed her fists on her broad hips, and gurgled long and low. "'F little missus done take rale hol' er de reins, dere ain't no kin' er show fo' sech po' trash." She indicated with an upward movement of her thumb the upper regions where the housekeeper was supposed to be.

"When I wan's a missus, I wan's quality folks, an' little missus do take de cake. Nebber see sech er chile. Dem great, shinin' eyes, lookin' at yo' out o' all de do's, an' dat laff soun'in' jes' like de ol' mocker dat nebber knowed nuffin' 'bout bedtime–yo' recollecks?" Wilkins nodded emphatically, but was unprepared for Minna-Lu's next move:–

"Git out o' hyar, yo' good-fo'-nuffin' niggah. Huccome yo' stan'in' roun' wif yo' legs stiffer 'n de whites er dese yer eggs, an' yo' jaw goin' like de egg-beatah, an' de comp'ny comin' at rale sharp eight." Minna-Lu took up her bowl, and Wilkins beat a hasty retreat.

It was a warm first of May, and just about the hour when March and his mother were leaving the Wishing-Tree, that Hazel appeared in the dining-room. Wilkins gazed at her in a species of adoration. Her orders appeared to him revolutionary, but he obeyed them implicitly and unhesitatingly.

"Take off the candelabra, Wilkins, it is too warm to-night to have them on; besides, people don't have a nice time talking when they have to peek around them to get a glimpse of the people they 're talking to." Wilkins whisked off the candelabra as if they had been made of thistledown.

"Dat's so, fo' sho', Miss Hazel. I see de folks doan' talk when dey ain' comf'ble; but I nebber tink ob de can'les."

"When it's dark you can light all the sconces. I want you to use the pale green, Bohemian dinner set to-night; and I want just as little silver as possible."

Wilkins looked blank, and Hazel laughed. "Oh, we 'll make it up with some cut glass, I 'll manage it. I want the table to look cool and simple, just to-night."

Cool and simple. Wilkins failed to comprehend it, but such was his faith in "little Missy," that he carried out her orders to the letter, and the result was, according to Mrs. Fenlick, "a dream of beauty."

When she had made her preparations to her entire satisfaction, as well as Wilkins's, and the latter had called Minna-Lu from her culinary tug-of-war to witness "little Missy's" triumph, Hazel ran into the library.

Her father looked at her in amazement. Could this radiant, young girl be the same Hazel of a year ago? They had gone directly to North Carolina when Hazel had left Mount Hunger, and had been at home but two days. This little dinner was given to Mr. Clyde's intimate friends as an informal celebration and recognition of his daughter's return to the New York house.

Now, as she ran into the room and linked her arm in his, her father looked down upon her with such evident pride and love, that Hazel laughed joyfully, kid her cheek against his coat-sleeve and patted his hand.

"Do I look nice, Papa Clyde?"

"Nice! that's no word for it, Birdie." And thereupon he took her in his arms and gave her such a hug and a kiss, that the pretty dress must have suffered if it had not been made of the softest of white China-silk.

"Oh, my flowers! you 'll crush them!" she cried, shielding with both hands a bunch of flowers at her belt.

"Where did you get all this–this style, daughter mine? It's–why, you 're nothing but a little girl, but it's 'chic.'"

Hazel enjoyed her father's admiration to the full. She drew herself up, straight and tall, graceful and slender–her head was already above his shoulder–exclaiming:–

"Little girl! Well, your little girl designed this gown herself. I would n't have any fuss or frills about it; it's just plain and full and soft and clingy, and this sash of soft silk–is n't it a pretty, pale green?–feel–" She caught up a handful of the delicate fabric and crushed it in her hand, then smoothed it again, and it showed no wrinkles. "I 've put it on to match the dinner. I 've had it all my own way–Wilkins did just as I said–and it's all cool and green and springy. You 'll see."

"Where did you get these flowers?" Mr. Clyde touched the bunch of arbutus, that showed so delicately pink and white against the white of her dress and the green of her sash.

A wave of beautiful color shot up to the roots of the little crinkles of chestnut hair on her temples; she touched the blossoms caressingly. "I wrote March about this dinner-party, and how it was the first at which I had been hostess, and he wrote back and wanted to know what I was going to wear, and I told him–and this morning these lovely things came by mail all done up in cotton wool in a tin cracker-box, the kind Chi uses to put his worm-bait in, when he goes fishing. Are n't they lovely? And was n't March lovely to think of them, papa?"