CHAPTER XXI
MARY BLOSSOM
To Pippin the last month had passed like a watch in the night; sayrather in the day, a watch on a hillside under a clear sky, with thesound of flutes in the air. But at Cyrus Poor Farm it had been a longmonth, and things had gone rather heavily. Brand, weaving baskets in hiscorner, thought it one of the longest months he had ever known. Therehad been many wet, cold days when the barn had been too chilly to workin, and though he loved the big kitchen, he preferred solitude for hiswork hours,--solitude, that is, enlivened by snatches of cheery talk asJacob Bailey came and went about his own work, by whiffs of fragrantclover and hay, by the sunlight that lay warm upon him as he sat in thewide doorway, by the friendly whinnying of Molly, the pretty black mare,in her loose box close by.
Then Flora May would come drifting in, and would sit down beside him,and rub her smooth cheek against his, and coo and murmur like a whitepigeon. They were intimate, the blind man and the simple girl. He wasUncle Brand, she was his little gal. They spoke little as they sattogether, but now and then he would pat her fair head and say, "Weknowed it, little gal!" and she would nestle closer and repeat, "Weknowed it!" That was all the speech they needed.
But now Flora May seldom came to the barn; she seemed almost to avoidhim, Brand thought. Maybe it was just the bad weather; she was apt to bemoody in bad weather. But even in the house she was changed, somehow.She used always to give him a pat or a coo when she passed him; now--buthe must not be demanding. Blind folks were apt to be demanding, he hadonce been told, and had resolved no one should have cause to say it ofhim.
There were other trials, too, that month. Some tramps came, askingshelter for the winter, pleading illness, promising work. Jacob Baileyhad taken them in, not too willingly, but feeling it his duty to do so;and had thereby roused the indignation of all his other "boarders,"except Brand. For three days the usually cheerful house had seethed likea witches' cauldron; then the tramps departed by night, carrying withthem such small personal property as they could lay hands on, and peacereigned again.
Meantime Old Man Blossom was growing weaker day by day. The poor oldbody, sodden with drink and worse than drink, was nearly worn out. Themachine worked feebly; at any moment it might run down and stop. Onething only, Mrs. Bailey thought as she watched beside the bed, kept himalive: the longing for his child. She spent every moment she couldspare, good soul, sitting beside him, knitting in hand, ready to answerthe inevitable question when it came. He would lie for hours motionless,apparently sleeping. Then the lids would flutter open, the hands beginto wander and pluck at the bedclothes; the dim eyes, after rollingvacantly, would fix themselves on her, and recognition creep into them.
"Ain't he come yet?"
"Not yet, Mr. Blossom. He'll be here soon."
"You don't think--"
"Yes, Mr. Blossom?"
"You don't think he's slipped one over on me?"
"I think he will come as soon as he can; that is, as soon as he findsyour daughter, you know. You don't want him to come without her, doyou?"
"If he does--" the voice dies into a whisper, faint yet vehement.Bending to catch his words, Lucy Bailey listens a moment, thenstraightens herself with compressed lips. Mr. Blossom is consistent, andexpresses himself in his usual manner.
Presently he finds his voice again, a whimper in it this time. "Butain't it hard luck, lady? I ask you, lady, if it ain't hard luck that Ihave to get a crook to fetch me my little gal. I ain't a con, lady!Booze was all my trouble--that an' not havin' the stren'th to work. Inever got no longer jolt than a year. Now Pippin's a crook, born andbred. If he slips one over on me--" The voice sinks again into a hoarsemutter, and so lapses into silence. The face, puckered into sharpwrinkles of anxiety, seems to flatten and smooth itself till it lieslike an old wax mask, ugly but peaceful. He will be quiet now for sometime; Mrs. Bailey settles the bedclothes tidily and steals away.
Her faithful attendance on the dying vagrant has not been fortunate forthe other inmates; her firm gentle hand is missed everywhere in thehouse. Her husband confides to her, in the quiet hour before bedtime,that things have been kind of cuterin'. Aunt Mandy was some fractiousto-day; she made Miss Pudgkins cry at dinner, callin' her a greedy oldhaddick; no way to talk to Miss Pudgkins, Lucy knew.
Miss Pudgkins ought not to mind Aunt Mandy, Mrs. Bailey said; she knewfull well what Aunt Mandy was. Pepper grass had to grow the way it grew;you couldn't expect it to be sweet gale, nor yet garden blooms. Yes, Mr.Bailey expected she knew that, but still, 'twas provoking, and in theface and eyes of the whole table. 'Twas true Miss Pudgkins had takenBrand's dish of prune sauce and put her empty one in its place.
"The mean old thing!" Mrs. Bailey spoke sharply, and a spark came intoher kind eyes. She could not bear to see the blind man "put upon." "NowI am glad Aunt Mandy spoke out. I hope you took the dish right straightaway from her, Jacob!"
Jacob looked troubled. "I couldn't do that, Lucy; women-folks, youknow!"
"No, you couldn't. I wish I'd been there."
"But I give Brand another dish, and filled it plumb up, so he got morethan she did after all." He looked up, and received a cheerful nod ofapproval.
"That's good. Brand likes prune sauce, and he has so few pleasures. Notthat he's anyways greedy or lick-lappin'; far from it; but he tastesmore than others do. Did he finish the two-bushel basket? He aimed tofinish it to-day."
Jacob's brow clouded again. "He would have, but he couldn't lay his handon his splints, and I was out of the way, so he had to wait aconsiderable time."
"Where was Flora May? Didn't she help him? I told her be sure to!"
"That was the trouble!" Jacob spoke reluctantly. "Flora May had an oddspell, and she--fact is, she took and carried the splints up chamber,and run out and hid in the haymow till dinner."
"She did! now, Jacob! Why didn't you call me? You can't cope with FloraMay in her odd spells, nor it isn't right you should. Why didn't youcall me?"
"I set out to, Lucy. I came to the door to speak to you, but I heard theOld Man mournin' and I--it didn't appear as if I could go in just then."
"No, you couldn't!" said his wife again. Then she sighed. "I don'thardly know what to do with Flora May," she said. "She's havin' thoseodd spells right along, sometimes two or three a week. She's been havin''em ever since--Jacob--" She looked around and lowered her voice. "Idon't hardly know about his comin' back here--to stay any time, that'sto say."
Jacob Bailey also glanced around apprehensively and spoke almost in awhisper. "You mean--Pippin?"
"Hush! Yes! She hasn't been the same girl since he was here. I'm scaredfor her, Jacob."
"Lucy, Pippin is as good as gold. There couldn't no father nor brotherhave handled her better than what he did that day."
"Hush! What was that?" She went quietly to the door that led to the backstairs, and opened it with a quick, noiseless motion. In the dusk of thestairway a board creaked, something white glimmered. "Who's there?" Noanswer. "Flora May, is that you? Answer when I speak to you!"
The voice was gentle, but compelling; the answer came, half sullen, halffrightened. "I want a drink of water, Aunt Lucy."
"You go right back to bed, Flora May! I'll bring you a drink when I comeup. Let me hear your door shut now!" She waited till a door closedupstairs; then latching the one she held in her hand, beckoned herhusband, and stole to the other side of the room. "Like as not she'llbe down again!" she whispered. "I've caught her listenin' here and thereany time this past week. She thinks she'll hear when he's comin', orhear about him anyway. Jacob--whisper! I know Pippin's good; it isn'thim I'm afraid of. It's her. It isn't a father that poor thing wants,nor yet a brother!"
"Flora May's a good girl!" Jacob spoke as if in defense of the girl whoso short a time ago had been his little pet, his pretty kitten-likechild plaything. "She's always been a good innocent girl, Lucy."
"Oh, good!" Lucy Bailey, sixty years old, New England born and bred,made an almost impatient gesture. "Who's to say good or bad, wh
en folkshaven't their reason? I tell you there's things workin' inside that poorchild that knows nothing about good or bad, things that's stronger thanher. I hate to say it, but she ought not to be here any longer, Jacob."
"Now, Lucy!"
"There ought to be places for such as her--there is, I b'lieve, if webut knew--places where they can be kep' and cared for and learned allthey can learn. Yes, I know we've done our best--" in answer to a murmurof protest--"but our best ain't good enough, that's all. There! We mustgo to bed, father; 'tis late, and I promised that child a drink ofwater. Poor lamb! She was so happy till this come up! Let Rover in, willyou? He's scratchin' all that nice new paint off the door. I'll putkitty down cellar. Here, kitty, kitty! The stove is all right, father;you lock up and come right up to bed, won't you? You've had a tirin' daywith all them potatoes to dig."
She was tired too, good Lucy Bailey! Every part of her strong bodyseemed to ache; yet she lay awake long after Jacob's deep breathinggave her comfortable assurance of his sleeping. It did seem strange, howtheir quiet life was all jolted up, she thought, as she lay staring atthe elm shadows that tossed in the moonlight. So long it had run on alevel, as you might say, day by day, month by month, year by year. Forher the years had been marked chiefly by the growth of the two youngcreatures, her nephew and the "simple" girl who had been a town chargefrom early childhood. Such a contrast! Myron so bright and quick; howhis eyes would light up when he laughed! And poor Flora May; well! theLord knew best! And now Myron was doing so well over at Kingdom, and sohappy! Those nice Baxters! she must certainly ask them over to spend theday! If only they didn't spoil her boy, making of him so! But he wasgone from Cyrus Poor Farm whose light he had been; and now came this oldman whom Mrs. Bailey could not like, try as she might, sorry as she wasfor him; and then came Pippin, like a wandering flame, setting fire--soto say--where before was just straw or like that.
Sleep came at last, deep and sweet; from the quiet chamber it seemed topass through the old house, laying a quiet hand on every living thing.The dog slept beside the stove, the cat in her cushioned basket in thecellar, the bird on his swinging perch; only in the attic chamber FloraMay lay broad awake, staring through the dark, tossing to and fro on hernarrow bed.
* * * * *
Mary Blossom started on her journey with a heavy heart. Duty might leadher by the hand, but could not lighten her burden. She had slept ill forthe past few nights, had eaten little; her head ached, and even Mr.Hadley's cheerful talk could hardly bring a smile to her lips. Once inthe train, however, the swift motion, the rushing panorama before hereyes, roused and interested her in spite of herself. The chaplain notedwith delight her brightening eyes, and the faint color that crept intoher pale cheek. Thank God, she was young, and joy was always taggingafter youth, trying to keep hold of her hand, even when things pushed inbetween.
It was the first time she had ever gone far from the city. The yearlyexcursion of the Home children had been to a grove not ten miles off;since she grew up and went to work there had been no time to think aboutgoing "any place else," as Mary would have expressed it. She watchedwith delight as the swift miles sped by, and responded eagerly when thechaplain pointed out this or that object of interest. That was TankardMountain, was it? My! wasn't it high? Mary had never seen a realmountain before. (She called it "mounting," but then so did Pippin; somepeople will, strive as you may to teach them otherwise.) And that wasBlue Lake? Mary wanted to know! Well, it surely _was_ blue, wasn't it?Did Mr. Hadley know what _made_ water blue like that? 'Twas the skyreflected in it? He didn't say so! Well, creation was curious, wasn'tit?
Lawrence Hadley enjoyed the journey, too; the familiar landscape took onfresh beauty for him, and he began to recall bits of half-forgottenlegend and tale to adorn it. "You see that steep rock, Mary, overhangingthe lake? There, where the big pine is? They say an Indian maiden threwherself from that rock, long ago, into the lake, and was drowned. Herlover was false to her, I believe, poor thing!"
"Poor thing!" The shadow darkened again over the girl's face, and shelooked earnestly at the dark cliff. "But I wouldn't have given him thatsatisfaction. I'd never have let on that I cared--that much!"
She spoke low, but with suppressed energy. Hadley glanced at her; seemedabout to speak, but checked himself, and presently called her attentionto another object. They were still skirting Blue Lake, a ten-milestretch of dimpling, crinkling sapphire.
"That little pile of rocks is Lone Man Island. It got its name from ahermit who lived there twenty-five years and never spoke to a soul inall that time but just once."
"My! he was a caution! What did he say, sir, the time he did speak? Itought to be worth hearing."
The chaplain laughed. "The story is, Mary, that his wife talked so muchhe couldn't stand it, and ran away. His house--it's gone now--stood onthe shore, just opposite the island. He took the boat so she couldn'tcome out after him, but every day, they say, for a long time, she wouldstand on the shore and scream to him, till her voice was gone, tellinghim to come back. He would sit on a stone by the water's edge, rockingback and forth, rubbing his knees and never saying a word. When this hadgone on for a year, more or less, the minister in the village overyonder--" he pointed to where a white spire twinkled among thetrees--"thought it was his duty to interfere; so he came with his boat,and took the woman over to the island."
He paused and his eyes twinkled.
"Well, sir?" Mary's face was bright with eager interest. "It was thenthat he spoke? He freed his mind, I suppose?"
"She spoke first, and then the minister spoke. They both had a good dealto say, I have been told. And while they were talking, JothamWildgoose--yes, that was his actual name--sat on his stone, rockingback and forth, rubbing his hands on his knees, saying never a word. Atlast, when both of them were out of breath and out of patience, the oldman spoke. 'Get out!' he said; and never said another word as long as helived."
"The _i_dea! Why, I never heard of such a thing, Mr. Hadley. Why, howdid he live? How did he do his marketing?" The practical mind of theScientific General pounced at once on the main issue. Man need not talk,but he must eat.
"He lived mostly on fish; he had his boat, you see, and he was a goodfisherman. When he wanted other supplies, he took a string of fish tothe nearest village and got what he wanted in exchange. He was veryclever in making signs; he could write, too. Yes, I believe JothamWildgoose lived to a good old age, and counted himself a fortunate man."
"And what became of his wife?"
"Poor thing! They say she scolded herself to death. She was a sad shrew,from all accounts. Of course, I am not excusing Jotham," he addedhastily; "I am only explaining."
Mary pondered. "'Tis a queer story!" she said at last. "'Twas strange hewouldn't listen to the minister, though. You'd thought he would!"
The chaplain's eyes twinkled.
"They are taken that way sometimes!" he said.
"I'll bet he'd have minded if _you_ had told him to go home!" Mary spokewith conviction, but the chaplain shook his head.
"Don't be too sure, Mary! Did you ever hear about Mr. Bourne and hiswife? No, how should you! It was an old song when my father was a boy.Listen, now!
"Mr. Bourne and his wife One evening had a strife. He wanted bread and butter with his tea, But she swore she'd rule the roast And she'd have a piece of toast, So to loggerheads with him went she, she, she, So to loggerheads with him went she.
"Now there was a Mr. Moore Lived on the second floor, A man very strong in the wrist. He overheard the splutter About toast and bread and butter And he knocked down Mr. Bourne with his fist, fist, fist, And he knocked down Mr. Bourne with his fist.
"Quoth Moore, 'By my life, You shall not beat your wife. It is both a sin and disgrace.' 'You fool,' said Mrs. Bourne, ''Tis no business of yourn!' And she dashed a cup of tea in his face, face, face, And she dashed a cup of tea in his face.
"Quoth poor Mr. Moore,
As he sneaked to the door, 'I'm clearly an ass without brains. For, when married folks are flouting, If a stranger pokes his snout in. He is sure to get it tweaked for his pains, pains, pains, He is sure to get it tweaked for his pains.'"
"And that is a pretty accurate statement of the case, I believe!" saidthe chaplain. "But here we are at Cyrus, my dear, and there, fromPippin's description, is Jacob Bailey himself waiting for us."
Mary shrank, and drew in her breath with a sob. The journey, the cheerytalk, had dulled for the time the pain at her heart, the suffocatingdread of what was before her; now both awoke and clutched at her. Sheclung to the chaplain's arm, trembling and sobbing, dry-eyed.
"I'm afraid!" she said. "I'm afraid!"
"Yes!" said Lawrence Hadley. "Yes, you are afraid, Mary, but that doesnot signify. What signifies is that you are bringing light into a darkplace. Light, and warmth, and joy. Be thankful, my child; be thankful!"
He led her forward, and Jacob Bailey did the rest. His hearty, "Well!well! Here's the folks I'm downright glad to see," restored Mary'sbalance in an instant. "Elder Hadley, I presume?" he went on. "And thisis Miss Blossom? Well, I _am_ pleased to meet you! Step right this way,the team's waitin'."
* * * * *
It was dusk when they drove up to the door of Cyrus Poor Farm. Mary wasstiff after the four-mile drive--she was not used to driving--and even alittle chilly; at least, she was trembling, though the evening was mild.The cheerful rays that streamed from the opening door struck warm to herheart which was still throbbing painfully. She could not speak, couldonly return the warm pressure of Mr. Hadley's hand as he helped her toalight. Jacob Bailey held the other little cold hand and led herforward.
"This way!" he said heartily. "Here she is, Lucy. Make you 'quaintedwith m' wife, Miss Blossom. Reverend Mr. Hadley, make you 'quainted withMis' Bailey. Walk in! walk in! I expect they're famished with hunger,Lucy; supper ready, hey?"
Ever since word had come that morning of the impending arrival,curiosity had run rampant through the house. Miss Mandy Whetstone's nosehad been pressed against the window glass so often that Mr. Wisk (he wasthe fat old gentleman with the hoarse voice; his friends called himWhiskey, for reasons best known to themselves) asked her if she wasn'tafraid of wearin' a hole in the glass. Miss Mandy, resenting this,replied that at least she hadn't been out the gate seventeen times--Mr.Wisk needn't say a word, she had counted!--to look down the road to seeif they was any one coming. _She_ had uses for her time, let it be withothers as it might. Miss Lucilla Pudgkins, anxiously forecasting,presumed likely they would bring good appetites with them, traveling allthe ways from the city. She took occasion, when the table was set forsupper, to count the doughnuts on the plate, and with prudentforethought, Mrs. Bailey's back being turned, slipped two plump onesinto a drawer of the table conveniently near her seat.
Now they were actually here, and the inmates took their fill of staring,open-eyed and unashamed; all except Brand in his corner, polishing abasket handle, and Flora May, rocking in her chair, crooning listlesslyto the cat in her lap.
Pale and weary though she was, Mary's beauty shone in the doorway like alamp, as Pippin would have said--poor Pippin, who was not there to see.Mr. Wisk rose to his feet and struck an attitude of respectfuladmiration; the two elderly women who had been plain all their livesuttered little whimpering moans of surprise. "What right has thedaughter of that horrid old tramp to look like this?" they seemed toask.
"I expect she's stuck-up!" whispered Aunt Mandy to Miss Pudgkins. "Lookat that hat!"
It was the simplest possible hat, but it had an air, as all Mary's hatshad. She trimmed them herself, and I believe the ribbons curved intopretty shapes for pure pleasure when she patted them.
Mrs. Bailey took no note of the hat; she looked straight into Mary'seyes, as clear and honest as her own, and answered hastily the unspokenquestion in them.
"Yes, he's livin', my dear, though feeble. I'm _real_ glad you've come!"
"Thank you! Oh, thank you! So am I!"
The words came from her lips unbidden, and the girl marveled even as shespoke them. She _was_ glad! What did it mean?
"She'd better have her supper before she goes in, Lucy," said hospitableJacob, "seein' it's all ready, and she come so far!"
But his wife, still holding Mary's hand, shook her head, again inresponse to a mute appeal. "No, Jacob! She's goin' right in. I'll takeher in a cup o' tea and a mite of something, and she can eat while she'ssittin' there. This way, dearie!"
The door closed, and the inmates drew a long breath; it was as if thedrop curtain had descended between the acts of a drama. It was cruel toshut them off from what was going on in that other room. Miss Whetstoneeven discovered that she had left her pocket handkerchief up chamber,and had her hand on the door when Mrs. Bailey, returning, intervenedwith the offer of a spandy clean one just ironed, and a bland but firmgesture toward the table.
"We'll set right down, if you please!" said the mistress of Cyrus PoorFarm. "Reverend Mr. Hadley, will you ask a blessin'?"
Pippin; A Wandering Flame Page 21
