A Daughter of the Rich

But she left Chi grumbling.

That night, after the children were in bed, and Mrs. Blossom was sure they were all asleep except Rose, she went upstairs a second time and spoke softly at the door:

"Rose."

"Yes, Martie; oh, you 're coming! I 'm so glad." And as Mrs. Blossom knelt by the bed, whispering, "Now tell me all about it," Rose threw one arm over her mother's shoulder and whispered her confession.

"They were n't rude to you, dear, were they?"

"No, Martie," whispered Rose, "it was n't that, but I just hated them far a minute,–Hazel's cousin and all."

"That is n't like you, Rose dear, to hate anyone without reason."

"Oh, Martie, I 'm ashamed to tell you–" the arm came close about her mother's neck, "I 'm too old to have such feelings, but I could n't bear them because I looked as I did. I was ashamed of my looks and the children's; and I was ashamed even of Chi–dear, old Chi!–" there was a smothered sob and an effort to go on. "And they were all dressed so beautifully, and Hazel's cousin had on a lovely white flannel suit, and I was just a little rude to him; but it was nothing but my dreadful pride! I did n't know I had it till to-day,–oh, dear!" The head went under the counterpane to smother the sound of the sobs.

"But, my dear little girl–" (When Rose cried, which was seldom, Mrs. Blossom called her daughter who was as tall as herself, "little girl," and nothing comforted Rose more than that.) So now, hearing the loving words, the head emerged from the bedclothes, and a tear-wet face was meekly held over the side of the bed for a kiss.

"But, my dear little girl," Mrs. Blossom went on after the interruption, "surely you were courteous and thoughtful of Hazel's happiness, at least, to ask them all up here to tea. You have n't that to regret."

There was a fresh burst, smothered quickly under the sheet. "Oh, Martie, that's the worst part of it! I did n't ask them for Hazel's sake, but just for myself, because I knew–I knew–" Rose smothered the rising sob; "that if they came, I could have on my one pretty dress, and they 'd see that I–that I–" Rose was unable to finish.

"Could look as well as they did?" said Mrs. Blossom, completing the sentence.

"Yes," sighed Rose, "and I feel like a perfect hypocrite towards every one of them;–and, oh, Martie! the truth is, I was ashamed of being poor and selling berries–" again the head went under the coverlet, and Mrs. Blossom caught only broken phrases:–

"I am so proud of–of you and Popsey–poor Chi made it worse–they laughed–March was mad, too,–and Miss Seaton 's so pretty–clothes–Hazel's cousin tried to be polite–Hazel–just her dear own self–but she 's rich–and Cherry f-fell into his arms–and I know–and I know–I know he wanted to be out of the whole thing–oh dear!"

Mrs. Blossom patted the bunch under the clothes whence came the smothered, broken sentences, and smiled while a tear rolled down her cheek. After all, this was real grief, and she wished she might have shielded her Rose from just this kind of contact with the world. But she was wise enough not to say so.

"Well, Rose dear, let's look on the other side now the invitation has been given. I, for my part, shall be glad to see what they are like. I know you looked queer in those old clothes, but, after all, would n't it have been just as queer to have been all dressed up selling berries?"

"Yes, I think it would, Martie," said Rose, emerging from her retreat. "I 'm not such a goose as not to realize we must have looked perfectly comical."

"Well, now comfort yourself with the thought, that to-morrow you need only look just as nice as you can in honor of our guests. I 'm sure I shall," said Mrs. Blossom, laughing softly. "I 'm not going to be outdone by all those 'high-flyers,' as dear, old Chi calls them. We 'll put on our prettiest–and there is n't much choice, you know, for we have just one apiece–and we 'll set the table with grandmother's old china out on the porch, and we 'll give them of our best, and queens, Rose-pose, can do no more. That's our duty; we'll let the others look out for theirs. Now, what will be nice for tea?"

"Not preserves, Martie, for Chi said–" Her mother interrupted her,–

"Never mind what Chi said now, dear, but plan for the tea. We shall have to work as hard as we can jump to-morrow forenoon to get ready. I 'm sorry father can't be at home."

"Could n't we have blackberries and those late garden raspberries Chi has been saving?" said Rose.

"Yes, those will look pretty and taste good; and then hot rolls, and fresh sponge and plum cake, and tea, and cold chicken moulded in its jelly, the way we tried it last month–"

"Oh, that will be lovely, Martie," whispered Rose, eagerly.

"And if Chi and March have the time," went on Mrs. Blossom, entering heart and soul into the hospitable plan, "I 'll ask them to go trout-fishing and bring us home two strings of the speckled beauties, and if those served hot don't make them respect old clothes–then nothing on earth will," concluded Mrs. Blossom, with mock solemnity.

"Oh, Martie Blossom, you're an angel!" cried Rose, softly, rising in bed and throwing both arms about her mother's neck–"there!"–a squeeze, "and there–" another squeeze and a kiss, "and now you won't have to complain of me to-morrow."

"That's mother's own daughter Rose," said Mrs. Blossom, smoothing the sheet under the round chin. "Now, good-night–sleep well, for I depend upon you to make those rolls to-morrow forenoon."

XI

JACK

Jack Sherrill had always had a particularly warm interest in his Cousin Hazel. He, too, was motherless. The fifteen-year-old lad had gone into one of the great preparatory schools with the terrible mother-want in his heart and life. Like Hazel, he, too, was an only child, and consequently without the guidance and help of an elder brother or sister. His father was all that a man, absorbed in large business interests, could be to the son whom he saw in vacation time only.

"You are born a gentleman, Jack," he had said to him when he was about to enter Harvard; "remember to conduct yourself as such. You 'll not find it an easy matter at times–I did n't–but you will find it pays; and–and remember your mother." Then Mr. Sherrill had wrung his boy's hand, and hurried away.

It was the only time in the three years since she had been lost to him, that his father had borne to mention the lad's mother to him. To Jack it was like a last will and testament, and he wrote it not only in his memory, but on his heart.

He had tried, yes, honestly, amid the manifold temptations of his life and his "set," to live up to a certain ideal of his own, but it had been slow work; and the last three months of his sophomore year had been far from satisfactory to himself.

He was thinking this over as he rode slowly up the steep road to Mount Hunger. He had come up that morning to call on Mrs. Blossom, for he knew that the social law of hospitality demanded that he should pay his respects to Rose Blossom's mother and Hazel's guardian before his friends should break bread in the house.

That tall girl in the sunbonnet was a disappointment–but then, he had been a fool to expect anything else just because she happened to sing one of Barry Cornwall's love-songs. He rode out of the leafy woods'-road, and came unexpectedly upon the farmhouse. Chi saw him from the barn, and came out to meet him.

"Is Mrs. Blossom at home?" asked Jack, lifting his cap.

Chi patted Little Shaver's neck, shining like polished mahogany. "Yes, she 's home, 'n' she 'll be glad to see you. You 'll find her right in the kitchen, 'n' I 'll tend to this little chap–what's his name?"

"Little Shaver, he 's my polo pony."

"George Washington! He knows a thing or two. He most winked at me," laughed Chi.

"Oh, he knows a stable when he sees it," said Jack, smiling; "but where 's the kitchen?"

"Right off the porch.–There 's Rose singing now; guess that 'll be as good a guide-post as you could have. Come along, Little Shaver,–a good name for you."

Jack went up on the porch, but stopped short at the open door. Rose was at the kitchen table, patting out the dough for the rolls. Her sleeves were turned up above the elbows, and the round, yet delicate, white arms and the pretty hands were working energetically with the rolling-pin. She was singing from pure lightheartedness, and she emphasized the rhythm by substantial thumps with the culinary utensil.

"'I told thee when love was hopeless; (thump)But now he is wild and sings–(thump)That the stars above (thump! thump!!)Shine ever on Love–(thump–)'"

Jack knocked rather loudly, and Rose turned with a little "Oh!" and an attitude that made Jack long for a button-hole kodak.

"Come in, Mr. Sherrill," she said, cordially, but thinking to herself, "Caught again! well, I don't care."

"I hope I have n't come too early this morning to be received," said Jack, extending his hand.

"I can't shake, Mr. Sherrill," laughed Rose, "and if I stop to wash them, you won't have any rolls for tea."

"Do go on then," said Jack, eagerly, "only don't let me be a bother. I was afraid it might be too early and inconvenience you, but–"

"Not a bit," said Rose as she turned to the kneading-board again. "If you don't mind, I 'm sure I don't; only these rolls must be attended to."

"You 're very good to let me stay and watch the process," said Jack, humbly, deferentially taking his stand by the table. "I hope I shall not interfere so much with Mrs. Blossom; I forgot that–that–" Jack grew red and confused.

"That we did our own work?" Rose supplied the rest of his thought with such winning frankness, that Jack succumbed then and there to the delight of a novel experience.

"I 'll be out in a few minutes, Mr. Sherrill," called a cheery voice from the pantry behind him. Jack started,–then laughed.

"Am I interrupting you, too, Mrs. Blossom?" he said, addressing a crack in the pantry door.

"I don't mean to let you, or you will have no sponge cakes for tea; I 'm beating eggs and can't leave them or they 'll go down."

"Can't I help, Mrs. Blossom? I 've no end of unused muscle," said Jack, entering into the fun of the situation.

"No, thank you, I shall be but a few minutes. Rose dear, just feel the oven, will you?"

Jack began to think himself a nonentity in all this domesticity. "'Feel the oven,'" he said to himself. "Do girls do that often, I wonder." He watched Rose's every movement.

"Now, confess, Mr. Sherrill, have you ever seen anyone make biscuit before?" said Rose, cutting off a piece of dough, flouring it, patting it, cuddling it in both hands, folding it over with a little slap to hold a bit of butter, and tucking it into the large, shallow pan.

"No–" Jack drew a long breath, "I never have. You see I have always thought it a kind of drudgery, but this–" Jack sought for a word that should express his feelings in regard to the process as performed by Rose–"this is, why–it's poetry!" he exclaimed with a flashing smile that became his expressive face wonderfully, and caused Rose to fail absolutely in making a shapely poem of the next roll.

She laughed merrily. "There now, they 'll soon be done–in good shape too, if you don't compliment them too much."

"I 'll eat a dozen of them, I warn you now." Jack was waxing dangerous, for he was already possessed with an insane desire to become a piece of dough for the sake of having those pretty hands pat him into shape.

"Do you hear that, Martie?" cried Rose, flushing with pleasure.

"Yes. That's the best compliment you can pay them, Mr. Sherrill. I hope my cakes will fare as well," she said, coming from the pantry with extended hand.

It was strange! But when Jack Sherrill returned the cordial pressure of that same hand, small, shapely, but worn and hardened with toil, his eyes suddenly filled with tears. This, truly, was a home, with what makes the home–a mother in it.

Mrs. Blossom saw the tears, the struggle for composure, and, knowing from Hazel he was motherless, read his thought;–then all her sweet motherhood came to the surface.

"My dear boy," she said with quivering lip, "it is very thoughtful of you to come up and pioneer the way over the Mountain for all your city friends."

Jack found his voice. "Mrs. Fenlick wanted to come, too, Mrs. Blossom, but I managed to put it so she thought it would be better to wait until afternoon. They are all looking forward to it."

"I 'm sorry Hazel is n't here; she is out picking berries with the children. If Rose had n't so much to do, I 'd send her to hunt them up."

Jack protested. He had come to call on Mrs. Blossom and had detained them altogether too long.

"I don't want to go," he said laughingly, "but I know I ought. It seems almost an imposition for so many of us to come up here and put you to all this trouble. Why did you ask us, Miss Blossom?" At which question, Rose did not belie her name, for a sudden wave of color surged into her face, and she looked helplessly and appealingly at her mother.

"I 've put my foot into it now," was Jack's thought, as Mrs. Blossom responded quickly, "For more reasons than one, Mr. Sherrill."

They were out on the porch; Chi was bringing up Little Shaver.

"It will be a regular stampede this afternoon," said Jack, gayly, as he vaulted into the saddle. "Have you room enough for so many horses?" He turned to Chi.

"Plenty 'n' to spare, 'n' I 'm goin' to give 'em a piazzy tea of their own. Little Shaver knows all about it: I 've told him. I never saw but one horse before that could most talk, 'n' that's Fleet."

Little Shaver whinnied, and with a downward thrust and twist of his head tried to get it under Chi's arm.

"Did n't I tell you?" said Chi, delightedly.

"Can I get on to the main road by going over the Mountain?" Jack asked him.

"Yes, you can get over, if you ain't particular how you get," said Chi.

"No road?"

"Kind of a trail;–over the pasture 'n' through the woods, an acre or two of brush, 'n' then some pretty steep slidin' down the other side, 'n' a dozen rods of swimmin', 'n' a tough old clamber up the bank–'n' there you are on the river road as neat as a pin."

Jack laughed. "Just what Little Shaver glories in; I 'll try it, and much obliged to you, Mr.–" he hesitated.

"Call me, Chi."

"Chi," said Jack, in such a tone of good comradeship that it brought the horny hand up to his in a second's time.

Jack grasped it; "Good-bye till this afternoon." He spoke to Little Shaver, who ducked his head and fairly scuttled across the mowing, scrambled up the pasture, took the three-rail fence at the top in a sort of double bow-knot of a jump, and then disappeared in the woods, leaving the three gazing after him in admiration.

"That feller's got the right ring," said Chi, emphatically; "but if he had n't come up here this mornin', first thing, after that invite of Rose-pose's, I 'd have set him down alongside of that Miss Seaver–'n' a pretty low seat that would be!"

"I 'll put up some lunch, Chi, for you and March, and, if you can find him, you would do well to start now for the trout."

Mrs. Blossom turned to Rose. "Come, dear, we 've a hundred and one things to do to be ready in time. You may set the table on the porch, and we 'll all picnic for dinner to-day; I 've no time to get a regular one, and father is n't at home."

It was a perfect afternoon on that second of September. At a quarter of five Mrs. Blossom and Rose and Hazel were on the porch, looking down upon the lower road for the first glimpse of the party.

The table was set on the huge rough veranda that Mr. Blossom and Chi had built just off the kitchen long-room. Clematis and maiden-hair ferns, which abounded on the Mountain, were the decorations, and set off to good advantage Mrs. Blossom's mother's old-fashioned tea-set of delicate green and white china.

On one end was a large china bowl heaped with blackberries, on the other stood a common glass one filled with luscious, red raspberries. The sponge cakes gleamed, appetizingly golden, from plates covered with grape-vine leaves for doilies.

The chicken quivered in its own jelly on a platter wreathed with clematis. The delicious odor of fried trout floated out from the long-room, and the rolls were steaming hot in snow-white napkins.

"Oh, dear!" moaned Rose. "Everything will get cold, it's so late."

Just then there was a shout from the advance-guard of the twins, and the cavalcade came into view; Jack on Little Shaver, who, after his thirty-mile morning ride, was as fresh as a pastured colt–riding beside Maude Seaton on Old Jo.

There was a general dismounting, assisted by Chi; a gathering and looping up of riding habits; a bit of general brushing down among the men; then, with one accord they turned to the broad step of the porch.

Mrs. Fenlick, telling of it afterwards, said that, for a moment, she did nothing but look with all her eyes; for there on the porch step stood a woman still in the prime of life and beautiful. She was dressed in an India mull of the fashion of a quarter of a century ago, with a lace kerchief folded in a V about the open neck, and fastened with an old-fashioned brooch.

"At her side," said Mrs. Fenlick, "stood one of the loveliest girls off of canvas I have ever seen. She had on a gown of old-fashioned lawn–pale blue with a rose-bud border. She was tall and straight, and the skirt was a little skimpy, and so plain that had she designed it to set off the grace of her figure she could n't have succeeded better. And the face and head!" Mrs. Fenlick used to wax eloquent at this point–"were simply ideal. Hazel, of course, looked as handsome as a picture in her full, dark blue frock of wash silk trimmed with Irish lace, and with that rich color in her cheeks–but that girl's face was simply divine! Just imagine a complexion of pure white, and dark blue eyes–real violet color–black almost in her pretty excitement of welcoming us, and the loveliest golden brown hair just plaited and puffed a little at the temples, and a braid, that big–" Mrs. Fenlick generally put her two delicate wrists together at this point,–"that fell below her waist fully half a yard! I never saw such hair!"

Mrs. Fenlick used to pause for breath at this point, and then add, "Well, the whole thing was too lovely to be described. Of course, we ate–lots; for that ride and the air were enough to make a saint hungry in Lent, but I was only dimly conscious of ever so many good things I was eating, for that face fascinated me. And manners! Just as if those two women had had nothing to do all their lives but entertain royalty!

"I had sense enough, however, to notice that Jack Sherrill said very little and ate a great deal. I counted twelve rolls–of course they were small–for one thing; and I don't blame him,–I wanted more. Well, the whole thing was perfect–the valley and the great mountains were just in front of the porch, and everything harmonized. Even that lovely girl had a bunch of purple-blue pansies at her belt and a few in the bit of cotton lace at her throat; and the sunset and the mountains matched them–as if she had had the whole thing made to order."

Mrs. Fenlick always ended with, "I 've got one bone to pick with that dear Doctor Heath–a mountain sanatorium! I 'd be willing, almost, to get nervous prostration to be sent up there.

"But oh! you should have seen Maude Seaton!" And thereupon, Mrs. Fenlick would go off into a fit of laughter at the remembrance. "She was looking about for the 'rigid sunbonnet,' as she called it, of the day before, and did n't hear when Rose Blossom spoke to her; and when she did realize that the two were one and the same, her look was the kind 'Life' likes to get hold of, you know.

"As for Jack Sherrill," Mrs. Fenlick concluded in her most serious manner, "I have my own thoughts about some things." More than that she would not say, for fear it might get back to Maude Seaton's ears.

Jack, too, had his own thoughts about some things–and kept them to himself.

XII

RESULTS

It was the middle of November. A wild, cold wind was sweeping over the Mountain, and driving black clouds in quick succession across the tops of the woodlands. It howled around the farmhouse and, as now and again a more furious blast hurled itself against doors and windows, the children drew nearer together on the rug before the huge fireplace with a delightful sense of safety and cosiness.

A kettle of molasses was simmering on the stove, and Chi was wielding the corn-popper with truly professional skill before the open fire.

It was such fun to see the hurry, and scurry, and hustle, and rattle, and pop, and sudden white transformation of the heated kernels! A huge, wooden bowl received the contents of the popper, and March salted them. Oh, how good it smelt! And Rose was going to make molasses corn-balls to put aside for the next evening.

"It's just like having a party every night, there are so many of us," said Hazel, clapping her hands in delight.

"I should think you 'd miss some of your real parties, Hazel," said Rose, thoughtfully.

"Miss them! Not a bit; why, they are n't half so nice as this, and at home it's so lonesome when papa isn't there. Is n't it lovely to think he 's coming up Christmas? Even up here, you know, it would n't be quite Christmas for me without him. That makes me think, I must write him very soon about some things." Hazel looked mysterious.

"We hung up our stockings last year, but we did n't get what we wanted," said Cherry rather mournfully.

"Why not?" asked Hazel.

"Coz Popsey was so sick he could n't go out to the Wishing-Tree, and so he did n't know."

"What is the Wishing-Tree?" said Hazel, consumed with curiosity.

Cherry's mouth was full of corn, so Budd carried on the conversation between mouthfuls.

"I 'll show you to-morrow. It's a big butternut up in the corner of the pasture, an' there 's a little hollow in the trunk where the squirrels used to hide beech-nuts, but March has made a door to it with a hinge and put a little padlock on it–that's the key hanging up on the clock."

Hazel saw a tiny key suspended by a string from one of the pointed knobs that ornamented the tall clock.

"'N' nobody touches it till All-hallow-e'en," said Cherry, when the sound of her munching had somewhat diminished, although her articulation was by no means clear. "'N' then Chi goes up with us in the dark, 'n' we put in our wishes, 'n'–"

"Let me tell Hazel," said Budd. "You 've begun at the wrong end. You see, we write what we want for Christmas down on paper, an' seal it with beeswax, an' then don't tell anybody what we 've written; an' then Chi goes up there with us after dark, an' we 're all dressed up like Injuns–"

"Indians, Budd," corrected March.

"Well, Old Pertic'lar, Indians, then," said Budd, a little crossly, "an' then–

"Oh, you 've forgot the dish-pan and the little tub," Cherry's voice came muffled through the corn. "We take the dish-pan, Hazel, 'n' the little wash-tub, me 'n' Budd between us, 'n' beat on them with the iron spoon 'n' the dish-mop handle, 'n' play 'tom-toms'–"

"Yes, an' March gives an awful war-whoop–" Budd, in his earnestness, had risen and gone over to Chi's side, and now sat down by the big bowl, but, unfortunately, on the popper which Chi had just emptied. There was a smell of scorched wool, and, simultaneously, a wild, "Oh, gee-whiz!!" from Budd, who leaped as if shot, and stood ruefully rubbing the seat of his well-patched knicker-bockers, while the rest rolled over on the rug in their merriment.

"Oh, do go on, Budd!" cried Hazel, wiping the tears of mirth from her eyes. Cherry had laughed so hard that she was hiccoughing with outrageous rapidity; and March–forgetting May–chose that opportune moment to give forth a specimen of his best war-whoop, for the purpose, as he explained afterwards, of frightening her out of them.

By the time order had been restored, Cherry was able to take up the thread of the story;

"'N' we join hands–Chi 'n' all of us–'n' sing as loud as we can sing:

"'Intery, mintery, cutery corn,Apple seed, apple thorn;Wire, briar, limber lock,Five geese in a flock–Sit and sing by the spring;You are OUT.'

Then we all give a great shout and grunt like In-di-ans–," said Cherry, emphatically, looking at March; and March nodded approval.

"How's that?" asked Hazel, who was listening with all her ears.