A Daughter of the Rich

"Chi is worried, children; you must n't mind if he is a little cross now and then. He feels dreadfully about the prospect of this war, as we all do, and that's his way of showing it."

"Well, if he's going to be so cross at us, I wish he 'd clear out an' go to war!" retorted Budd, smarting under the unjust treatment.

"I 'm only afraid he will if we have one," said Mrs. Blossom, sadly. "But, oh, I hope and pray we may be spared that!"

But Budd continued to grumble, and Cherry to be suspiciously sniffy, until their father's return; and then at the supper table they listened greedily to all the talk of their elders, that had for its absorbing theme the prospective war.

As the spring days lengthened, and the sun drew northward, the tiny cloud on the country's peaceful horizon grew larger and darker, until it cast its shadow throughout the length and breadth of the land, and men's faces grew stern and troubled and women prayed for peace.

With the lengthening days Chi showed signs of increasing restlessness. "It ain't any use, Ben," he said, one soft evening in early May, as the family, with the exception of the younger children, sat on the porch discussing the latest news, "I 've got to go."

"Oh, Chi!" broke from Mrs. Blossom and Rose. They cried out as if hurt. Mr. Blossom grasped Chi's right hand, and March wrung the other.

"I can't stand it," he went on; "we 've been sassed enough as a nation, 'n' some of us have got to teach those foreigners we ain't goin' to turn the other cheek just coz we're slapped on one. When I wasn't higher than Budd, my great-grandfather–you remember him, Ben, lived the other side of the Mountain–put his father's old Revolution'ry musket (the one, you know, Rose-pose, as I 've used in the N.B.B.O.O.) into my hands, 'n' says: 'Don't you stand no sass, Malachi Graham, from no foreigners.–Just shoot away, 'n' holler, "Hands off" every time, 'n' they 'll learn their lesson easy and early, 'n' respect you in the end.' And I ain't forgot it."

"Chi," Mrs. Blossom's voice was tremulous, "you won't go till you 're asked, or needed, will you?"

"I ain't goin' to wait to be asked, Mis' Blossom; I 'd rather be on hand to be refused. That's my way. So I thought I 'd be gettin' down along this week–"

"This week!" Rose interrupted him with a cry and a half-sob. "Oh, Chi! dear old Chi! must you go? What if–what if–" Rose's voice broke, and Chi gulped down a big lump, but answered, cheerily:

"Well, Rose-pose, what if? Ain't I Old Put? 'n' ain't you Molly Stark? 'n' ain't Lady-bird Barbara Frietchie?–There, just read that–" he handed a letter to March, who gave it back to him, saying, in a husky voice, that it was too dark to read.

"Well, then we 'll adjourn into the house, 'n' light up.–There now," he said, as he lighted the lamp and set it on the table beside March, "here's your letter, Markis, read ahead."

March read with broken voice:

4 EAST –TH STREET, NEW YORK,

May 5, 1898.

DEAR FRIEND CHI,–I never thought when I joined the N.B.B.O.O. Society, that I 'd have to be really brave about real war;–and now dear old Jack is going off to Cuba with Little Shaver and all those cow-boys,–and it's dreadful! Uncle John is about sick over it, for, you know, Jack is all he has. Papa is going to keep the house open all summer; he says there is no telling what may happen.

We have made no plans for the summer, for our hearts are so heavy on Jack's account–his last year in Harvard, too! He told me to tell you he would find out if there is a chance for you in the new cavalry regiment he has joined. He looked so pleased when I told him; he read your letter, and I told him how you wanted to go with him, and he said: "Dear old Chi, I'd like to have him for my bunkie"–and told me what it meant. He told me to tell you to be prepared for a telegram at any moment.

I must stop now; papa wants me to go out with him. Give my love to all, and tell Mother Blossom and Rose I will write them more particulars in a few days.

If you come to New York, you know a room will be ready for you in the home of your

Loving friend,

HAZEL CLYDE.

There was silence for a while in the room; then Mr. Blossom spoke:

"How are you going, Chi?"

"I 'm goin' to jog along down with Fleet, 'n' take it kind of easy–thought I 'd cross the Mountain, 'n' strike in on the old post-road; 'n' follow on down by old Ticonderogy,–I 've always wanted to see that,–then across to Saratogy 'n' Albany, 'n' foller the river. You can't go amiss of New York if you stick to that."

Again there was a prolonged silence. Chi hemmed, and moved uneasily on his chair, while he fumbled about in his trousers' pocket. He pulled out a piece of crumpled, yellow paper.

"S'pose I might just as well make a clean breast of it." He tried to laugh, but it was a failure. "Jack's telegram came along last night, 'n' I thought, maybe I 'd better be gettin' my duds together to-night, Mis' Blossom, as 't will be a mighty early start–before any of you are up," he added, hastily.

The two women broke down then, and Mr. Blossom and March followed Chi out to the barn.

The household, save for the younger children, was early astir–before sunrise. Mrs. Blossom had prepared a hearty breakfast, and Rose was rolling up a few pairs of her father's stockings to put in the netted saddle-bag which Chi was wont to use in hunting.

"Tell March to call Chi, Rose," said her mother. "His breakfast is ready, I hear him in the barn."

Rose ran out in the dawning light to find her father and March just coming towards the house.

"Why, where 's Chi?" she cried.

For answer, her father pointed to the woodlands. She looked just in time to see in the soft gray of the early morn the horse and rider rise to the three-railed fence that separated the pasture from the woodlands. He was following the trail he had indicated to Jack–"through the woods 'n' acre or two of brush, 'n' then some pretty steep sliding down the other side, 'n' a dozen rods or so of swimmin', 'n' a tough old clamber up the bank–"

Some ten days afterward, late on a warm afternoon in May, there rode into New York City by the way of the Bronx and Harlem, a middle-aged man on a bright bay horse. The animal's gait was a noticeable one, a long, loping gallop, that covered the ground in a manner that roused the admiration of the drivers on the speedway. The tall, loose-jointed body of the rider apparently loped along with the horse–their movements were identical. The saddle was an old-fashioned cavalry one of the early sixties. A netted saddle-bag and a rolled rubber coat were fastened to the crupper. A light-weight hunting rifle was slung on a strap over the man's shoulder. At the northern entrance to the Park he drew rein beside a mounted policeman.

"Can you tell me if I 'm on the right track to this house?"

He took a card from the pocket of his dusty blue flannel shirt and handed it to the policeman.

The city guardian nodded assent. "But you can't take that gun along with you; you 're inside city limits and liable to arrest."

"'Gainst the law, hey? Well, I 've come from a pretty law-abiding state, 'n' ain't goin' to get into rows with you fellers–" He laid a brown, knotty, work-roughened finger on the policeman's immaculate blue coat–"I 'd trust that color as far as I could see. Where shall I leave the rifle?"

The city guard unbent as the kindly voice yielded such undefiant obedience to his demand. "You can leave it with me now,–I 'm off my beat by seven, and live over east of this–" he handed back the card–"and I 'll leave it at the house if you 're going to be there."

"All right, that 'll suit me. Yes, I 'm goin' to put up there for a day or two, maybe."

"Off on a hunting trip?"

"You bet–goin' on a big, old, U.S.A. hunt for a lot of darned foreigners in Cuby."

The policeman held out his hand and grasped the stranger's. "You're one of them?"

"Yes, I come down to join a cavalry regiment. Jack Sherrill, he belongs, too. Great rider–can't be beat. Ever seen him round here on Little Shaver?"

The policeman smiled. "No, but I 'd like to see you again–"

"Maybe you will; but I 'd better be getting along before sundown,–'gainst the law to ride this horse a piece through those woods?" He pointed into the Park.

"Oh, no, that's all right. Keep along till you come to Seventieth Street, and inquire; and then turn into Fifth Avenue–east–and you're there."

"Much obliged. Like to show you a trail or two up in Vermont when you come that way. Get, Fleet." The animal set forward into a long, loping gallop.

The brilliant, light green of the May foliage was enhanced by the level rays of the setting sun, as the man turned his horse into Fifth Avenue and drew rein to a rapid walk. Many a one paused to look at him as he paced over the asphalt. He was looking up at the mansions of the Upper East Side. Soon he halted at the corner of a side street and gazed up at the first house, the end of which, with the conservatory, was on the Avenue, but the entrance on the side street. "That's the place," he spoke to himself,–"don't see a hitchin'-post handy, so I 'll just have to tie up to this electric light stand. Iron, by thunder!–Well, there ain't any risk so long as 't isn't lit, 'n' there ain't a tempest."

Leaving his horse firmly tied to the standard he stepped up on the low, broad stoop of "Number 4," and looked for the bell. Not finding any he knocked forcibly on the carved iron grill that protected the plate-glass doors.

The great doors flew open, and a face–"blacker 'n thunder"–as the man said to himself, scowled on the interloper.

"Wha' fo' yo' come hyar, yo'–" He got no further. A horny hand was extended, and a cheery voice, that broke into a laugh, spoke the assuaging words:

"Guess you 're Wilkins, ain't you? I 've heard Lady-bird tell 'bout you till I feel as if we 'd been pretty well acquainted goin' on nigh two year now."

By this time Wilkins' face was one broad beam. He slapped his free hand on his knee:

"Yo 's Mister Chi, for sho'–dere ain't no need yo' tellin'. Yo' jes' come straight in, Mister Chi; Marse John an' little Missy jes' gone fo' ah drive in de Park. Dey 'll be in any minute. Yo' room 's all ready, an' little Missy put de flow'rs in fresh dis yere mornin'–''Case,' she say, 'Wilkins, dere ain't no tellin' when Chi's comin'.'"

"Sho'," Chi interrupted him, brushing the back of his hand hastily across his eyes. "I can't come in now, Wilkins, coz I 've got to stay here 'n' watch my horse–I 'll sit here on the steps a spell 'n' cool off till Mr. Clyde gets home, 'n' he 'll help me see to puttin' up Fleet for the night. His legs are a little mite swollen near the hocks, 'n' I 'm goin' to rub him down myself."

"De coachman jes' tend to yo' hoss like 's ef 't wor yo'se'f, Mister Chi. I 'll jes' call up de stable bo', 'n' he 'll rub him down wif sp'r'ts, an' shine him up till he look jes' lake new mahog'ny. Jes' yo' come–dere dey come now!"

Chi was at the curbstone to welcome them.

"Chi! O Chi!" Hazel rose up in the trap at sight of the well-known figure, and Chi, laying his hand firmly on Martin's shoulder, put him aside as he sprang to open the door and let down the steps, reached up both arms, and took Hazel out as tenderly as on the night of her first arrival at the farmhouse on the Mountain. And then and there Hazel gave him a kiss, and Mr. Clyde grasped his hands in both his, and the wide hall doors that Wilkins had thrown open to their fullest extent closed upon the reunited friends.

"'E 's a 'ansome 'oss," Martin remarked to the coachman, as he mounted Fleet to take him to the stable; "Hi 'ave n't seen a 'ansomer since Hi 've bean in the States."

A few days after the hall doors were again flung wide, but not to their fullest extent, and Wilkins' face grew strangely tremulous when he heard Hazel and Mr. Clyde, Jack and Chi coming down the broad hall stairs. Martin was proudly leading Fleet and Little Shaver up and down in front of the house.

"Jack! O Jack! I can't bear to have you go–but I will be brave." Hazel smiled through the raining tears. She clung to him and kissed him. He put her aside, ran out to Little Shaver, and flung himself on before Chi had said good-bye.

"Take care of Jack, Chi," she whispered, patting his hand.

"I will, Barbara Frietchie." He pointed to the flag that, in the east wind blowing in from the Sound, was waving over the entrance, gripped Mr. Clyde's hand, then Wilkins', and, apparently, stepped into the saddle.

"Quick, quick, Wilkins! lower the flag, and let me have it." Wilkins sprang to obey. Hazel seized it, and rushed up stairs to the drawing-room, the windows of which overlooked the Avenue. One of them was open; she leaned out; and as Fleet and Little Shaver turned the corner, their riders, looking up, saw the young girl's figure in the opening. She was waving the symbol of their Country's life and their manhood's loyalty.

They halted, baring their heads for a moment–then without once looking back, galloped down the Avenue.

XXV

SAN JUAN

Notwithstanding it was a hot day in the first week of July, Mrs. Spillkins had decided to have a "quilting-bee." Having made up her mind, after consulting with Miss Melissa and Miss Elvira, she lost no time in summoning Uncle Israel from the barn, and making known her plans. Uncle Israel mildly objected.

"Kinder hot fer er quiltin'-bee, ain't it, Hannah?"

"'Tis pretty hot," Mrs. Spillkins admitted, wiping the perspiration from her face with her apron, "but we 'll have it to-morrow 'long 'bout four. You get the frames and rollers out, Israel, from the back garret, an' then I want you to go up to Mis' Blossom's an' ask 'em to come, an' get word to the other folks on the Mountain."

"I 'll go, Hannah, but I dunno 'bout Mis' Blossom 'n' Rose comin' ter er quiltin'-bee jest 'bout this time. They 're feelin' pretty low 'bout Chi off thar in Cuby; news hez come thet ther 's ben fightin'–"

"I know that, Israel; I 've thought of that, too; but, mebbe, it 'll do 'em good, just to change the scene a little. Anyway, you ask 'em."

"Jest ez ye say, Hannah."

The sun was setting when Uncle Israel made his appearance on the porch where the whole family was assembled with Alan Ford. They had but one topic for conversation.

Uncle Israel gave his invitation, and added: "Hannah thought ye 'd better come 'n' change the scene a leetle–she knowed ye 'd be kinder low-spereted 'bout now."

Mrs. Blossom held out her hand. "Thank you, Uncle Israel. Tell Mrs. Spillkins we will both come."

"Hannah wants your folks ter come, tew, Alan."

"Much obliged, Uncle Israel. I 'll tell mother and Ruth; I 'm sure they will enjoy it. Ruth said the other day she wished she might have a chance to see a quilting-bee while we are here. Shall I take your message over to Aunt Tryphosa?"

"Much obleeged, Alan. Thank ye, Rose,"–as Rose brought out the large arm-chair and placed it for him; "I 'll set a spell 'n' rest me."

It was a typical northern midsummer night. Across the valley the mountains loomed, softly luminous, against the pale green translucent stretch of open sky in the west. There were no clouds; but high above and around there swept a long trail of motionless mist, flame-colored over the mountain tops, but darkening, with the coming of the night, into gray towards the east. The stars were not yet out. The veeries were choiring antiphonally in the woodlands.

An hour afterwards Alan Ford rose to go, and Uncle Israel soon followed his example.

"I 'll go down the woods'-road a piece with you, Uncle Israel," said Rose.

As she came back up the Mountain a cool breath drew through the pines, and the spruces gave forth their resinous fragrance upon the dewless night. The stars were brilliant in the dark blue deeps.

A midsummer night among the mountains of New England! And far away in the sickening heat and wet, the fever-laden exhalations of the tropics rose into the nostrils of a man, who sat motionless in the rude field-hospital, hastily improvised on the slope of San Juan, watching, with his knees drawn up to his chin and his hands clasping them, for some faint tremor in the still face on the army blanket spread upon the ground.

The lantern cast its light full upon that still face. Suddenly the watcher bent forward; his keen eyes had detected a twitch of an eyelid–a flutter in the muscles of the throat. "Don't move him," the surgeon had said; "the least movement will cause the final hemorrhage."

There was a catch of the breath–the eyes opened, partly filmed.

"Jack!" The watcher spoke, bending lower; his ear over the other's lips.

"Chi–" it was a mere breath, but the man heard–"I'm–done for."

The watcher's hand, muscular, toil-hardened, sought the nerveless one that was lying on the other's breast, and closed upon it with a brooding pressure. There was silence for a few minutes. Then the horny hand felt a feeble stirring of the fingers beneath the hardened palm–they were fumbling weakly at a button.

The strong hand undid the button, gently–very gently, without apparent movement. There was a motion of the nerveless fingers towards the place. Another breath:–

"Give–love–"

A long silence fell.

Mrs. Spillkins heaved a sigh of satisfaction: "We 've done an awful sight of work," she said, surveying the five quilts "run" and "tacked" and "knotted" in even rows and mathematically true squares; "but it seems as if they did n't eat a mite of supper, an' that strawberry shortcake was enough to melt in your mouth."

"What'd I tell ye, Hannah? They're worretin' 'bout Chi," said Uncle Israel. "They've fit agin; Ben told me while he wuz waitin' with the team fer the womin-folks. He hed the mail, 'n' er telegram thet thet young feller, we see ridin' 'roun' here las' summer, wuz mortal wounded. He did n't want the womin-folks ter know it till he got 'em hum. They sot er sight by him."

Mrs. Spillkins threw up her hands: "Dear suz'y me!" she exclaimed in a distressed voice. "What 'll they do! I hope an' pray Malachi Graham ain't hurt none. I feel as if I ought to go right up there, an' see if there 's anything I can do."

"Better wait till the Cap'n comes hum, Hannah; he 'll hev the papers."

"I guess 't would be better," and Mrs. Spillkins proceeded to fold up her quilts and "clear up" the best room.

The hot July days warmed the breast of the Mountain. Over in the corn-patch the stalks had spindled and the swelling ears were ready to tassel. By word or look Rose had given no sign–and her mother wondered. The days wore on; the routine of daily work and life went on; but the younger children's voices were subdued when they spoke lovingly and longingly of Chi, and Rose sang no longer when she kneaded bread. They were days of suspense and heart misery for them all.

Two weeks had passed since that evening when Mr. Blossom had read to them the fatal despatch. No word had come from anyone save Hazel, who wrote that her father and Uncle John had started at once for Cuba, and that she hoped to be with the Blossoms the third week in July, for by that time they would know the whole truth.

They had been making ready Hazel's little bedroom, for she was expected in a few days. Rose was tacking up a white muslin curtain at the small window, when she heard her father call:

"Rose, come here a minute."

"Yes, father."

She went out on the porch with the hammer in her hand. "What is it, Popsey dear?–Why, father, what–oh what–!"

With shaking hand her father held out a letter to her. Rose looked once–it was from Chi!

"I wish mother were here, daughter–but she'll be back soon. Let me know how it is with them all–." Mr. Blossom could say no more, for Malachi Graham was as near to him as a brother, and he was agonizing for his child. He went off to the barn, leaving Rose standing on the porch, staring as if fascinated at the superscription of the letter:

To Miss Rose Blossom,

Mill Settlement,

Barton's River,

Vermont.

N.B.B.O.O.–To be opened by nobody but her.

Rose laid down the hammer mechanically, opened the envelope, and unfolded the piece of brown paper from out of which fluttered to the floor another and thicker slip, stained almost beyond recognition. With staring eyes and face as white as driven snow she read the few words scrawled in pencil on the brown slip:–

DEAR ROSE-POSE,–I ain't no wish to meddle with anybody's business–but I 'm just obeying orders. The last words I heard Jack Sherrill speak, was "Give–love," and he fumbled at his breast to get out this enclosed. I ain't read it–but it's his heart's blood that's on it. Give my love to all.

Yours forever,

CHI.

"His heart's blood!" For a moment the words conveyed no meaning. She picked up the iron-rusty brown slip from the floor; unfolded it; read–Barry Cornwall's love-song in her own handwriting!

"His heart's blood!" She pressed one hand hard upon her own heart, crushing with the other the dark-stained slip. Then, with one wild look around her as if searching for help, she ran down the steps, across the mowing, over into the pasture and up into the woodlands. Deep, deep into the heart of them she made her way, as her mother, Mary Blossom, had done before her; but now there was no kneeling, no prayer, no petition to take from her the intolerable pain.

She was young, and she loved as the young love. It was not God whom she wanted; it was "Jack! Jack! Jack!" She cast herself face down upon the ground, and moaned in her agony: "His heart's blood–his heart's blood." She pressed the stained paper to her lips, over and over again. Then she opened her blouse and baring her bosom, laid the love-song against it–"His heart's blood–his heart's blood!"

So her mother found her.

XXVI

MARIA-ANN'S CRUSADE

Of late Aunt Tryphosa had been growing suspicious of Maria-Ann, and the latter felt she was being watched; to use her own words, "it nettled her."

One afternoon, late in August, her grandmother, coming upon her rather suddenly in the pasture as she sat under the shade of a patriarchal butternut, ostensibly watching Dorcas, asked her sharply:

"What you doin', Maria-Ann?"

"'Tendin' to my own business," retorted Maria-Ann, with an unwonted snap in her voice, and hurriedly folded something out of sight beneath the Hearthstone Journal which lay upon her lap.

This was the signal of open revolt on the part of her granddaughter, and the like had occurred but once before in all the time of her up-bringing with Aunt Tryphosa. The old dame's lips drew to a thinner line than usual, as she fired the second shot into the hostile camp:

"You been cryin', Maria-Ann."

"What if I be?" demanded her granddaughter, with a flash of indignation from beneath her reddened eyelids. "S'pose I have a right to have feelin's same as other folks."

Suddenly Aunt Tryphosa swooped like a hen-hawk upon a small piece of bright scarlet flannel, that the breeze had caught away from the protecting folds of the Hearthstone Journal, and landed in the covert of sweet fern just at her feet.

"What's that?" She held up the glowing bit of color, dangling it before Maria-Ann's eyes.

Upon poor Maria-Ann's inflamed sense of injustice, it had much the same effect as a red rag waved before the eyes of an infuriated bull.

She sprang to her feet, snatched the bit of cloth from between her grandmother's thumb and fore-finger, and thrust it into her dress waist, crying out shrilly in her unwonted excitement:

"You let that be, Grandmarm Little! It's my cross and I 'm going on a crusade–so now!"

Aunt Tryphosa sat down rather suddenly in the middle of the sweet-fern patch. Was Maria-Ann going crazy? Her breath came short and sharp; she drew her thin lips still more tightly, and, although really alarmed, braced herself for the combat.

"What 'd you say you was goin' on, Maria-Ann?"

"I never knew you was growin' deef before, grandmarm; I said a crusade." She had raised her voice to a still higher pitch, as she stooped to gather up the Hearthstone Journal, the bits of red cloth, her scissors, and thimble which had fallen from her lap as she sprang to her feet.

"Is that the thing you read me about last winter in the Journal, with the soldiers with crosses on their backs on hosses startin' out for Jerusalem?" demanded the old dame, but in a strangely agitated voice.