the snow came down by four o'clock, soft, and as thick as if the dull gray sky of the day had been a blanket full of feathers of which some one had suddenly dropped the four corners. it was a snow-storm that began in the middle, not working up to severity, and miss keren felt forebodings of unbroken roads and difficult getting to the station on the following day.
in the meantime it was delightful to sit by the gray stone hearth, with the logs burning cheerfully and odorously, young voices chattering and laughing around her, feeling the white silence that wrapped the earth outside 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 sad but thoughtful.
aunt keren, glancing at her, thought that her girlish face looked older as well as more serious, pensive too, as if it were a maturing and sobering 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 of one who felt herself consecrated to something noble as well as blissful—which [257]was precisely how one would have expected margery to feel on the day of her betrothal. margery was always serious, not the girl to make lightly a solemn promise. robert had no room for any other feeling but light-hearted rapture. he talked gaily and steadily, till the hymn hour came. laura went to the piano, and with the others still in their places around the hearth, played for them to sing hymn after hymn while the evening wore away. new logs had twice replaced the first ones, and supper hour struck.
the entire party helped rosie bring in the steaming chocolate, the foamy schmier-case, the white bread in its big slices, the delicious homemade butter, and the cake, so golden and perfect that happie's layers of fudge between the yellow were almost intrusive.
"isn't this great?" robert demanded of no one in particular, stretching out his legs to the snapping fire, and receiving a large spark on his knee as a reward.
"look out there! you have to watch that fire a little. i put in some pine sticks to hurry it a while," cried rosie. "a big spark flew over acrosst to where dundee was layin' by the door there a coupler weeks ago and he'd have took fire on his tail if i hadn't happened to be in here."
dundee, whose pleasure in getting his family back had been beautiful to behold, wagged the great plume of a tail in question and hitched himself along nearer to bob, thrusting his nose into the empty hand on the boy's knee, a[258]s if to say: "i eat cake." bob gave the collie a generous mouthful. it had no effect except to bring dundee up one short hitch nearer, and bob pulled his ear.
"we don't want you cremated, you braw, bonny scotsman you! but neither can i give you all my cake," he said. "i think this is great, brother robert. we sat around the fire like this before we went away, for we stayed 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 proper meals 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 to eat. my days, i often think to myself it's a lucky thing buckwheat cakes is so indigestible. they give a body a chancet to git something done in the forenoon without havin' mahlon in and out every coupler minutes 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 may be that we shall be obliged to take a morning tr[259]ain. we can't stay here until tuesday, because of bob's business, and the tea room, and i am told by rosie and gretta that the road to the station may be impassable by to-morrow afternoon if this snow keeps up. will you all promise to waken early? all waken together, at the same moment, and waken one another?"
"we solemnly swear," said ralph, in a sepulchral voice. "that's just our kind of a pledge."
"it seems a pity to go to bed," said happie. "we have had three such pleasant days——"
"that you want to sit up all night?" miss keren finished for her, with a hand on the second keren-happuch's shoulder.
"it does seem a pity to shorten this blessed day," said robert. "there never comes again the first day in eden, you know."
he smiled down at margery, who said: "if we go to sleep we can waken to the second day, and think how glad we shall be to find we had not dreamed to-day!"
"when this little girl's grandmother helped her husband to die, he told her 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 saying gravely: "sing one more hymn, and then good-night! let's sing the splendid old long metre doxology, the old hundredth. i think there's nothing quite like it when you feel no end grateful and not fit to h[260]ave half 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 fresh young voices' sang with heart in them, and the harmony rose up the fireplace of the old ark and floated out from the chimney upon the snow-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 happy days, for you've made us all happy," said robert.
"good-night, children. remember your promise to waken early!" said miss keren. "happie, come to my room for a while. i want you."
the archaics fulfilled their promise and aroused early. they wakened to a world in which only the higher objects survived. the snow had fallen steadily all night, fences were gone, shrubs stood huddled in shapeless obtrusion above the fields, and roads were not—a uniformly undefined surface made road and stonerow equal.
"snowbound, by john g. whittier!" exclaimed bob coming into the dining room. he used the quaker poet's name as if it were an affirmatory oath.
"nothing of the sort, bob!" cried happie. "we can't be snowbound, not by anybody—not even by snow. we must get to the station—don't you think we can?" she added[261] with an anxious change of tone.
"i think if we must—and you are right that we must—we ought to start this morning," said bob. "if this began to drift all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't get us through it. and knowing crestville, it is safe to 'look for wind about this time,' as the almanacs say."
"aunt keren is ready to leave on the 11:26, if it is better," said happie. "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 the patty-pans."
"i shall consider myself engaged for the final act. if i'm going down to 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 go talk to aunt keren and find out if she wants me to go."
bob went off whistling "the stormy winds do blow, blow, blow," and happie ran to meet margery, whom she did treat, as ralph said, "as if she were damaged and liable to drop into nothing before her eyes."
bob, gretta and don dolor broke their way through the heavy snow, not yet drifted, and fetched back jake shale's aaron, with the blue sled and the kuntz horses, to take the archaics to the station. already the wind was lightly stirring; by afternoon there would be impassable drif[262]ts, very possibly, between the ark and the station.
rosie bade them all a gruff good-bye, but it was not a dismal one, for in a little more than two months, in may, the scollards would come back, all of them as they supposed, not knowing what changes were awaiting them.
mahlon swung his arm and leg together in his usual feeble-minded fashion, 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 hand to mahlon, a salute that rosie took to herself and returned with a waving apron.
in the train the party no longer divided evenly, augmented as it was by miss bradbury. gretta joined her, after glancing around and seeing that bob had dropped into a seat with happie, at a little distance from any of the others. happie wondered if she imagined gretta's face fell ever so slightly as she saw that her companion of the journey up had failed her. sometimes happie fancied that gretta liked to be with bob as well as she liked to be with happie herself. she wondered if at some future day when handsome gretta had grown into a splendid and well-educated woman, bob might—she shook herself mentally. "just now she is fifteen! this is what comes of margery's getting herself engaged so young. i am beginning to be silly [263]about all of us—the others." happie quickly corrected this slip in the thoughts she was thinking. perhaps ralph's slender gold bangle of christmas came down over her hand at that moment to 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 in the patty-pans, some three or four weeks ago, why she cares for us as she does. we are her children, because—it is a dear story, and i'd like to tell it to you nicely, but you can't in a car! she met our grandfather before grandma did, and she thought he was going to care for her, but grandma came, and it was she he loved. and the two girls each cared most for the other to be happy. but it was grandma who married, and dear auntie who didn't. they were devoted friends always, you know. aunt keren feels as though mother were her very own, because she was not only her two dear friends' child, but if grandpa had cared most 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 her will when she leaves me nearly all her money, by and by. i never told you about tho[264]se nieces calling and being perfectly outrageous up at the patty-pans. i didn't tell even mother. aunt keren wants me to have most of 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 are to come up to crestville for the summer, and in the autumn she wants us to begin this new plan. of course i was not to decide it, we shall all have to talk it over together, and it will be as mother says, but that is 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 be legally adopted? and to be an heiress? has aunt keren much money? we all thought her poor."
"yes, she has a good deal, she says. i don't know how much. i never thought 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, because you always were my rock of gibraltar, bobby. besides, i never know what i think about anything until i talk about it, then i find i have unexpected opinions, for i begin to express them."
the brother and sister talked over aunt keren's amazing announcement all the way down to hoboken, which they reached sooner than any of the others, 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[265] the party reached the patty-pans.
they found mrs. gordon watching for them with the door of her flat open and jeunesse dorée, whom she looked after during the day while he was deserted, in her arms.
"oh, ralph, i'm so glad you are here at last!" cried his mother. "i was so relieved when i got miss bradbury's telegram this morning saying you would take the earlier train! dear people, the most wonderful thing has happened! mrs. jones-dexter, my unfortunate aunt lucinda, has been here this morning."
"cæsar's ghost! what for?" cried ralph. but margery instantly guessed.
"serena's ill!" cried margery.
"serena is ill," assented mrs. gordon. "poor little serena is desperately 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 only hope you may be in time. the poor little blossom has been begging for you, for her 'kind big boy,' for 'ralph,' but she did not know any other name for you, and aunt lucinda was frantic because she did not know where to find you, while the scollards were gone. she would do anything to gratify little serena at any time, but how when she is so ill, it might make a great deal of difference, affect her recovery, if her wishes could be granted. mrs. jones-dexter remembered that the charlefords might know who happie's friends were, so she went to them. mrs. charleford did know who you were, and [266]told her, ralph. then, putting under foot her bitterness of so many years' standing, and her jones-dexter pride, the unhappy old lady came here this morning to beg us to take pity on little serena and send you to her. and she found you gone! needless to say i promised that you should go to her house the moment you arrived. so go at once, ralph dear, and stay as long as you are helpful and do all that you can for the child. strange, that she has taken this violent fancy to her distant and unknown cousin! hurry, dear ralph. if you comfort serena stay, but send me a message if you find 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 feeling that their holiday was indeed over, and that events were rolling up around them faster than an incoming tide. for margery had come home betrothed, happie in demand for a legal adoption, and now here was ralph summoned to the sick bed of his little third cousin, with a family reconciliation and all sorts of possible good results looming up ahead through the mediation of the child. it was saddening to think of little serena lying dangerously ill, her flower-like little body a prey to fever and to pain. the girls would not think of the other possibility at which mrs. gordon had hinted—that ralph might come too late.
[267]
but laura reveled in grief and fully realized that here was an opportunity. she immediately took possession of the piano, and while margery and gretta busied themselves with the household duties involved in a return after a three days' absence, and happie, with a sober face, went out to the delicatessen shop to supplement the deficiencies of their larder, laura played dismal music, at the same time composing words for it. tears of distress rained down her face while she artistically steeped herself in misery of the keenest painful enjoyment, because she was "making little serena's funeral hymn," she said.
the announcement was too much for polly. that good little girl, who rarely was cross and never in a passion, flew into one now under the stress 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, with such violence that the petted creature must have been amazed. "serena isn'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, to do 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 to calm her.
"really, laura, i agree with polly," she said, gathering the excited child in her arms. "please don't regard everyt[268]hing as an opportunity for your talents. it may be artistic, but it seems somewhat inhuman."
it was after ten that night when ralph came home. his mother and snigs were waiting for him in the scollard flat. a message had told them that there was no hope of serena's living till midnight, and that he would return 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 whom mrs. scollard gave the most comfortable chair.
"i'm not hungry, thanks, happie," said ralph. "yes, i'm glad of the chocolate, gretta; it's cold out. my little new-found cousin is dead. poor baby! she looked so frail and sweet. she was a dear little creature. she seemed touchingly glad to see me. she was restless, and i carried her up and down the room, and through the other rooms on that floor until just before—the end. her grandmother had told her that i was coming, and that i was her cousin. she was very loving. she seemed to be delighted that i was hers, that she had a claim on me. she kissed me and patted my cheek when she could no longer see. well—we'd better not talk about serena. i am awfully sorry for mrs. jones-dexter. the child was the one soft spot, the one devotion of her wilful life. every one else she intended to compel to live for her, but she lived for serena, and lived in her. she is an old, broken-[269]down woman to-night. she talked to me in a way that was pretty hard for a boy like me to hear from a woman of her age, but i knew she was crushed under this blow, and that it made her feel better to talk, so i sat still. she wants us to forgive her, mother. and she wants something else. serena asked her to take care of 'ralphy' once to-night while i was walking with her, and she said, 'i will do anything for ralph that he will let me do.' while she was talking to me she told me that she felt as if little serena had given me to her, in a sense. and she reminded me that she was your own aunt, mother. she begs me to allow her to settle an income on me during her life. it would have been more if it had been given to serena, she said, but this will be serena's gift to me. she said—with just a glimpse of her old manner—that she knew we needed money, she had seen our harlem flat this morning! i hesitated, because i didn't want to take it, mother, and i thought that you wouldn't want it either, and when she saw that i was trying to say no 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-dexter pride had cost her all that made life worth living, and how god had stricken her in her old age. she said i had no right to refuse her a slender comfort, i in whose arms little serena had died. little serena, all that she had! it would go hard with me o[270]ne day, as it was going hard with her now, if i, with my life all before me, was cruel to an old woman. mercy on us, you don't know what it was to hear her, and i couldn't speak to tell her that she had misunderstood. as though i wanted to keep up a row that was never mine, nor mother's either, for that matter! finally she broke down from sheer exhaustion, and then i made her understand that i was not quite the proud, headstrong fellow she thought, and that i would take the gift if mother would allow me to, and that i hoped i might be some comfort to her because my little cousin had loved me. and at last i got away. talk about pride! if any one could have seen that poor, broken, stiff-necked old lady to-night, desolate, all alone through her own fault, her son dead whom she had quarreled with and driven away, and now this flower-like little idol of her last years dead up-stairs, i think if he were tempted to pride the sight of the jones-dexter pride in the dust would humble him! i don't want to go through another such scene. when serena lay in my arms, gasping, dying, so gentle, so affectionate, i cried like a baby—i don't mind owning it. but it was a sweet sort of grief; the dear little creature seemed so safe and peaceful when we laid her on the pillows at last. but desolate old age, and a proud old woman crushed, that's another sort of pathos."
the circle around him had listened to ralph without once interrupting him. no one there had ever seen him so stirred a[271]nd carried beyond his american-boyish self-consciousness and false shame under emotion.
"dear ralph, this child's death seems like a providence to soften her hard grandmother. by and by she will be more at peace, if not happier, that serena left her," said mrs. gordon. "ralph, does this gift help you to college, dear?"
"it would more than solve our problem, mother. if we take the allowance our troubles are over," said ralph.
"you must take it, of course," said miss keren quickly. "no one but a brute would refuse that poor soul a chance to make some amends before she dies, and to feel that she still is doing something for serena."
"oh, yes," said mrs. gordon quietly. "it would be cruel to aunt lucinda, and not fair to ralph to refuse it. little serena's love will work him immense good. margery, dear, this was your bringing about."
"i hoped for something, but i did not foresee this," said margery through her tears.
