CHAPTER XVII
JONES-DEXTER PRIDE
THE snow came down by four o'clock, soft, and as thick as if the dullgray sky of the day had been a blanket full of feathers of which someone had suddenly dropped the four corners. It was a snow-storm thatbegan in the middle, not working up to severity, and Miss Keren feltforebodings of unbroken roads and difficult getting to the station onthe following day.
In the meantime it was delightful to sit by the gray stone hearth, withthe logs burning cheerfully and odorously, young voices chattering andlaughing around her, feeling the white silence that wrapped the earthoutside while within all was rosy and noisy.
Happie did not contribute greatly to the cheerful sounds. She sat,rather quiet, watching the flames, close to Aunt Keren's side, not sadbut thoughtful.
Aunt Keren, glancing at her, thought that her girlish face looked olderas well as more serious, pensive too, as if it were a maturing andsobering thing to know that one of the Scollards was actually betrothed.
Margery and Robert, on the other side of the hearth, were merry.Margery's face had a deeper sweetness of expression, the look ofone who felt herself consecrated to something noble as well asblissful--which was precisely how one would have expected Margery tofeel on the day of her betrothal. Margery was always serious, not thegirl to make lightly a solemn promise. Robert had no room for any otherfeeling but light-hearted rapture. He talked gaily and steadily, tillthe hymn hour came. Laura went to the piano, and with the others stillin their places around the hearth, played for them to sing hymn afterhymn while the evening wore away. New logs had twice replaced the firstones, and supper hour struck.
The entire party helped Rosie bring in the steaming chocolate, thefoamy schmier-case, the white bread in its big slices, the delicioushomemade butter, and the cake, so golden and perfect that Happie'slayers of fudge between the yellow were almost intrusive.
"Isn't this great?" Robert demanded of no one in particular, stretchingout his legs to the snapping fire, and receiving a large spark on hisknee as a reward.
"Look out there! You have to watch that fire a little. I put in somepine sticks to hurry it a while," cried Rosie. "A big spark flew overacrosst to where Dundee was layin' by the door there a coupler weeksago and he'd have took fire on his tail if I hadn't happened to be inhere."
Dundee, whose pleasure in getting his family back had been beautifulto behold, wagged the great plume of a tail in question and hitchedhimself along nearer to Bob, thrusting his nose into the empty handon the boy's knee, as if to say: "I eat cake." Bob gave the collie agenerous mouthful. It had no effect except to bring Dundee up one shorthitch nearer, and Bob pulled his ear.
"We don't want you cremated, you braw, bonny Scotsman you! But neithercan I give you all my cake," he said. "I think this is great, brotherRobert. We sat around the fire like this before we went away, for westayed up till December, you know--or didn't Margery write you?"
"It's much nicer to eat supper this way than it is to have three propermeals a day. Everything tastes so especially good," said Margery,frowning at Bob.
"I always liked to eat a piece at night," said Rosie.
"'Eat a piece' means to take a light lunch, in Madison Countyese,"Margery explained in a whisper to Robert.
"But Mahlon always wants to set up and eat--thinks he's gittin' more,"Rosie continued. "The thinner a body is the more victuals he seems toeat. My days, I often think to myself it's a lucky thing buckwheatcakes is so indigestible. They give a body a chancet to git somethingdone in the forenoon without havin' Mahlon in and out every couplerminutes askin' when a body's goin' to git dinner over."
"I've eaten a great many pieces--of bread, and cake, and jam,"announced Snigs.
"We are going to bed early, dear children," said Aunt Keren. "It maybe that we shall be obliged to take a morning train. We can't stay hereuntil Tuesday, because of Bob's business, and the tea room, and I amtold by Rosie and Gretta that the road to the station may be impassableby to-morrow afternoon if this snow keeps up. Will you all promise towaken early? All waken together, at the same moment, and waken oneanother?"
"We solemnly swear," said Ralph, in a sepulchral voice. "That's justour kind of a pledge."
"It seems a pity to go to bed," said Happie. "We have had three suchpleasant days----"
"That you want to sit up all night?" Miss Keren finished for her, witha hand on the second Keren-happuch's shoulder.
"It does seem a pity to shorten this blessed day," said Robert. "Therenever comes again the first day in Eden, you know."
He smiled down at Margery, who said: "If we go to sleep we can wakento the second day, and think how glad we shall be to find we had notdreamed to-day!"
"When this little girl's grandmother helped her husband to die, he toldher that the last day was the happiest of their happy married life,"said Miss Keren.
There was silence for a moment. Robert broke it by rising and sayinggravely: "Sing one more hymn, and then good-night! Let's sing thesplendid old long metre doxology, the Old Hundredth. I think there'snothing quite like it when you feel no end grateful and not fit to havehalf you've got."
"Let me play it, for I can't sing," said Miss Keren unexpectedly.
She took Laura's place and played the glorious old choral. The freshyoung voices' sang with heart in them, and the harmony rose up thefireplace of the old Ark and floated out from the chimney upon thesnow-storm, blanketing the once desolate house with beauty and warmth,symbolical of its interior change.
"Now, good-night, Miss Keren. You ought to have good nights and happydays, for you've made us all happy," said Robert.
"Good-night, children. Remember your promise to waken early!" said MissKeren. "Happie, come to my room for a while. I want you."
The Archaics fulfilled their promise and aroused early. They wakened toa world in which only the higher objects survived. The snow had fallensteadily all night, fences were gone, shrubs stood huddled in shapelessobtrusion above the fields, and roads were not--a uniformly undefinedsurface made road and stonerow equal.
"Snowbound, by John G. Whittier!" exclaimed Bob coming into the diningroom. He used the Quaker poet's name as if it were an affirmatory oath.
"BOB, GRETTA AND DON DOLOR BROKE THEIR WAY THROUGH THESNOW"]
"Nothing of the sort, Bob!" cried Happie. "We can't be snowbound, notby anybody--not even by snow. We must get to the station--don't youthink we can?" she added with an anxious change of tone.
"I think if we must--and you are right that we must--we ought tostart this morning," said Bob. "If this began to drift all the king'shorses and all the king's men couldn't get us through it. And knowingCrestville, it is safe to 'look for wind about this time,' as thealmanacs say."
"Aunt Keren is ready to leave on the 11:26, if it is better," saidHappie. "You will have to drive down to Jake's to let him know. And,oh, Bob, sit with me going down, for I've something to tell you,and I can't wait--besides they would all hear if I told you in thePatty-Pans."
"I shall consider myself engaged for the final act. If I'm going downto Shale's, I must take a sort of lunch counter breakfast and start.And I'm going to get Gretta to 'go along,' as they say here. I'll gotalk to Aunt Keren and find out if she wants me to go."
Bob went off whistling "The stormy winds do blow, blow, blow," andHappie ran to meet Margery, whom she did treat, as Ralph said, "as ifshe were damaged and liable to drop into nothing before her eyes."
Bob, Gretta and Don Dolor broke their way through the heavy snow, notyet drifted, and fetched back Jake Shale's Aaron, with the blue sledand the Kuntz horses, to take the Archaics to the station. Already thewind was lightly stirring; by afternoon there would be impassabledrifts, very possibly, between the Ark and the station.
Rosie bade them all a gruff good-bye, but it was not a dismal one, forin a little more than two months, in May, the Scollards would comeback, all of them as they supposed, not knowing what changes wereawaiting them.
r /> Mahlon swung his arm and leg together in his usual feeble-mindedfashion, but the boys chose to construe it this time as a farewell.
"Yes, ta-ta, Mahlon. Good-bye! Shake a day-day back again to Mahlon,Penny!" said Ralph with his solemn face unsmiling as he waved his handto Mahlon, a salute that Rosie took to herself and returned with awaving apron.
In the train the party no longer divided evenly, augmented as it was byMiss Bradbury. Gretta joined her, after glancing around and seeing thatBob had dropped into a seat with Happie, at a little distance from anyof the others. Happie wondered if she imagined Gretta's face fell everso slightly as she saw that her companion of the journey up had failedher. Sometimes Happie fancied that Gretta liked to be with Bob as wellas she liked to be with Happie herself. She wondered if at some futureday when handsome Gretta had grown into a splendid and well-educatedwoman, Bob might--she shook herself mentally. "Just now she is fifteen!This is what comes of Margery's getting herself engaged so young. Iam beginning to be silly about all of us--the others." Happie quicklycorrected this slip in the thoughts she was thinking. Perhaps Ralph'sslender gold bangle of Christmas came down over her hand at that momentto remind her to except herself from her dreams of the future.
"Now then, Hapsie, let her go! What is this that you want to tell me?"asked Bob, bringing her to the immediate present.
"Aunt Keren called me into her room last night," began Happie. "Bob,she said a good deal that I don't know how to repeat. She told me inthe Patty-Pans, some three or four weeks ago, why she cares for us asshe does. We are her children, because--it is a dear story, and I'dlike to tell it to you nicely, but you can't in a car! She met ourgrandfather before grandma did, and she thought he was going to carefor her, but grandma came, and it was she he loved. And the two girlseach cared most for the other to be happy. But it was grandma whomarried, and dear auntie who didn't. They were devoted friends always,you know. Aunt Keren feels as though mother were her very own, becauseshe was not only her two dear friends' child, but if grandpa had caredmost for auntie she would have been auntie's daughter, not grandma's.So, she says, we are her nearest of kin. She wants to adopt me legally,so that there will be no chance of some very horrid nieces breaking herwill when she leaves me nearly all her money, by and by. I never toldyou about those nieces calling and being perfectly outrageous up at thePatty-Pans. I didn't tell even mother. Aunt Keren wants me to have mostof her money when she dies. And she wants us to give up the Patty-Pans,and let her take a house somewhere, and come to live with her. We areto come up to Crestville for the summer, and in the autumn she wants usto begin this new plan. Of course I was not to decide it, we shall allhave to talk it over together, and it will be as mother says, but thatis Aunt Keren's desire. It took my breath away."
"I should rather say so!" exclaimed Bob with a low whistle. "Why, Hap,I never heard such a story, so full of several surprises! you to belegally adopted? And to be an heiress? Has Aunt Keren much money? Weall thought her poor."
"Yes, she has a good deal, she says. I don't know how much. I neverthought to ask--to wonder, I mean; of course I wouldn't ask about it,"said Happie. "I wanted to talk about this to you alone first, becauseyou always were my Rock of Gibraltar, Bobby. Besides, I never knowwhat I think about anything until I talk about it, then I find I haveunexpected opinions, for I begin to express them."
The brother and sister talked over Aunt Keren's amazing announcementall the way down to Hoboken, which they reached sooner than any of theothers, in a sense, owing to the absorbing interest of their topic.The train was late, impeded by the snow. It was five o'clock before theparty reached the Patty-Pans.
They found Mrs. Gordon watching for them with the door of her flat openand Jeunesse Doree, whom she looked after during the day while he wasdeserted, in her arms.
"Oh, Ralph, I'm so glad you are here at last!" cried his mother. "I wasso relieved when I got Miss Bradbury's telegram this morning saying youwould take the earlier train! Dear people, the most wonderful thing hashappened! Mrs. Jones-Dexter, my unfortunate Aunt Lucinda, has been herethis morning."
"Caesar's ghost! What for?" cried Ralph. But Margery instantly guessed.
"Serena's ill!" cried Margery.
"Serena is ill," assented Mrs. Gordon. "Poor little Serena isdesperately ill, so ill that you must not take off your coat, Ralph,but must go down to the Jones-Dexter house as fast as you can. I onlyhope you may be in time. The poor little blossom has been begging foryou, for her 'kind big boy,' for 'Ralph,' but she did not know anyother name for you, and Aunt Lucinda was frantic because she did notknow where to find you, while the Scollards were gone. She would doanything to gratify little Serena at any time, but how when she is soill, it might make a great deal of difference, affect her recovery,if her wishes could be granted. Mrs. Jones-Dexter remembered that theCharlefords might know who Happie's friends were, so she went to them.Mrs. Charleford did know who you were, and told her, Ralph. Then,putting under foot her bitterness of so many years' standing, and herJones-Dexter pride, the unhappy old lady came here this morning to begus to take pity on little Serena and send you to her. And she found yougone! Needless to say I promised that you should go to her house themoment you arrived. So go at once, Ralph dear, and stay as long as youare helpful and do all that you can for the child. Strange, that shehas taken this violent fancy to her distant and unknown cousin! Hurry,dear Ralph. If you comfort Serena stay, but send me a message if youfind you can't come home to-night."
Ralph went away at once. Robert said good-night, and accompanied him.The Scollards closed their door and went into the Patty-Pans feelingthat their holiday was indeed over, and that events were rolling uparound them faster than an incoming tide. For Margery had come homebetrothed, Happie in demand for a legal adoption, and now here wasRalph summoned to the sick bed of his little third cousin, with afamily reconciliation and all sorts of possible good results loomingup ahead through the mediation of the child. It was saddening to thinkof little Serena lying dangerously ill, her flower-like little bodya prey to fever and to pain. The girls would not think of the otherpossibility at which Mrs. Gordon had hinted--that Ralph might come toolate.
But Laura reveled in grief and fully realized that here was anopportunity. She immediately took possession of the piano, and whileMargery and Gretta busied themselves with the household dutiesinvolved in a return after a three days' absence, and Happie, witha sober face, went out to the delicatessen shop to supplement thedeficiencies of their larder, Laura played dismal music, at the sametime composing words for it. Tears of distress rained down her facewhile she artistically steeped herself in misery of the keenest painfulenjoyment, because she was "making little Serena's funeral hymn," shesaid.
The announcement was too much for Polly. That good little girl, whorarely was cross and never in a passion, flew into one now under thestress of feeling far too strong for her.
"It's not her funeral hymn! Stop that horrid playing Laura Scollard!"she screamed, throwing down Phyllis Lovelocks, her beloved doll, withsuch violence that the petted creature must have been amazed. "Serenaisn't going to have a funeral! She shan't die. I love her, I love her!She's the dearest of all the dancing school children. Stop, Laura!Laura, stop! It's just like a--just like a--just like a _cannibal_, todo what you're doing, that awful music and those horrid, horrid words!"
Polly's voice had risen to an hysterical shriek, and Margery flew in tocalm her.
"Really, Laura, I agree with Polly," she said, gathering the excitedchild in her arms. "Please don't regard everything as an opportunityfor your talents. It may be artistic, but it seems somewhat inhuman."
It was after ten that night when Ralph came home. His mother and Snigswere waiting for him in the Scollard flat. A message had told them thatthere was no hope of Serena's living till midnight, and that he wouldreturn before many hours.
He came at last, a very tired, solemn-looking Ralph, to whom Margery,Happie and Gretta brought hot chocolate and sandwiches, and to whomMrs. Scollard gave the most comf
ortable chair.
"I'm not hungry, thanks, Happie," said Ralph. "Yes, I'm glad of thechocolate, Gretta; it's cold out. My little new-found cousin is dead.Poor baby! She looked so frail and sweet. She was a dear littlecreature. She seemed touchingly glad to see me. She was restless, and Icarried her up and down the room, and through the other rooms on thatfloor until just before--the end. Her grandmother had told her that Iwas coming, and that I was her cousin. She was very loving. She seemedto be delighted that I was hers, that she had a claim on me. She kissedme and patted my cheek when she could no longer see. Well--we'd betternot talk about Serena. I am awfully sorry for Mrs. Jones-Dexter. Thechild was the one soft spot, the one devotion of her wilful life. Everyone else she intended to compel to live for her, but she lived forSerena, and lived IN her. She is an old, broken-down womanto-night. She talked to me in a way that was pretty hard for a boylike me to hear from a woman of her age, but I knew she was crushedunder this blow, and that it made her feel better to talk, so I satstill. She wants us to forgive her, mother. And she wants somethingelse. Serena asked her to take care of 'Ralphy' once to-night whileI was walking with her, and she said, 'I will do anything for Ralphthat he will let me do.' While she was talking to me she told me thatshe felt as if little Serena had given me to her, in a sense. And shereminded me that she was your own aunt, mother. She begs me to allowher to settle an income on me during her life. It would have been moreif it had been given to Serena, she said, but this will be Serena'sgift to me. She said--with just a glimpse of her old manner--that sheknew we needed money, she had seen our Harlem flat this morning! Ihesitated, because I didn't want to take it, mother, and I thought thatyou wouldn't want it either, and when she saw that I was trying to sayno gently, she almost went on her knees to me. It really was awful.She begged me not to be hard on her, to punish her for all her cruel,wilful life--that was what she called it. She said the Jones-Dexterpride had cost her all that made life worth living, and how God hadstricken her in her old age. She said I had no right to refuse hera slender comfort, I in whose arms little Serena had died. LittleSerena, all that she had! It would go hard with me one day, as it wasgoing hard with her now, if I, with my life all before me, was cruel toan old woman. Mercy on us, you don't know what it was to hear her, andI couldn't speak to tell her that she had misunderstood. As though Iwanted to keep up a row that was never mine, nor mother's either, forthat matter! Finally she broke down from sheer exhaustion, and then Imade her understand that I was not quite the proud, headstrong fellowshe thought, and that I would take the gift if mother would allow meto, and that I hoped I might be some comfort to her because my littlecousin had loved me. And at last I got away. Talk about pride! If anyone could have seen that poor, broken, stiff-necked old lady to-night,desolate, all alone through her own fault, her son dead whom she hadquarreled with and driven away, and now this flower-like little idol ofher last years dead up-stairs, I think if he were tempted to pride thesight of the Jones-Dexter pride in the dust would humble him! I don'twant to go through another such scene. When Serena lay in my arms,gasping, dying, so gentle, so affectionate, I cried like a baby--Idon't mind owning it. But it was a sweet sort of grief; the dear littlecreature seemed so safe and peaceful when we laid her on the pillowsat last. But desolate old age, and a proud old woman crushed, that'sanother sort of pathos."
The circle around him had listened to Ralph without once interruptinghim. No one there had ever seen him so stirred and carried beyond hisAmerican-boyish self-consciousness and false shame under emotion.
"Dear Ralph, this child's death seems like a providence to soften herhard grandmother. By and by she will be more at peace, if not happier,that Serena left her," said Mrs. Gordon. "Ralph, does this gift helpyou to college, dear?"
"It would more than solve our problem, mother. If we take the allowanceour troubles are over," said Ralph.
"You must take it, of course," said Miss Keren quickly. "No one but abrute would refuse that poor soul a chance to make some amends beforeshe dies, and to feel that she still is doing something for Serena."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Gordon quietly. "It would be cruel to AuntLucinda, and not fair to Ralph to refuse it. Little Serena's love willwork him immense good. Margery, dear, this was your bringing about."
"I hoped for something, but I did not foresee this," said Margerythrough her tears.