AZALEA CHOOSES
“We might be eagles—or angels,” murmured Mrs. Carson, sinking into her
seat.
“We couldn’t stand it in the house any longer,” Carin explained. “We
made up our minds we’d have a ride even if the roads were bad.”
“The ford must have been pretty deep,” remarked Pa McBirney.
“I took the leading straps of the horses the ladies were riding, and we
made a rush for it together,” Mr. Carson explained.
Then silence fell. There certainly was something strange about the
night.
“We had other reasons for coming up here to-night,” Mr. Carson said at
last. “We came because we knew that we could sit out here with you all,
and that we could all look at this wonderful scene, and forget all about
our bodies, and our troubles, and our little human way of looking at
things. We could be, as my wife said, like eagles, or like angels. We
could realize that we really were spirits.”
It was Ma McBirney who murmured: “Yes.”
“We came,” went on Mr. Carson gently, “to ask Azalea to make a choice.
We are going to invite her to live with us and to be as our own daughter.
She will share equally with Carin in everything; at least as far as it is
possible for us to make an equal division. We know the story of her life
and that under more fortunate circumstances the home we live in would
have been hers. She would have been educated in the best manner and
fitted for the life of a lady of position. Now, of our four children
only one is left. So we offer her a share of our hearts and our
substance. Do you understand, Azalea?”
Carin threw an arm about Azalea’s waist.
“Oh, say yes, dear. We will be so happy.”
“We will make you welcome from our heart of hearts,” said Mrs. Carson.
But it seemed as if she were holding something back; and Azalea saw her
white hand laid upon Ma McBirney’s arms.
The moon had gone under a dense cloud, and they were left in the bland,
moist darkness. And in that darkness there gleamed before Azalea’s
mental gaze, the two homes—the great, beautiful manor, and the mountain
cabin. She knew little of the life in the former, but what she did know
of it came to her now with all its ease, its pleasure, and its promise.
She thought of the struggle there in the mountain home; of the sacrifice,
the hard work, the eternal “doing without.” Then, as if something above
and beyond her came to her to lift her out of herself, she glimpsed the
kind wishes and helpful affection of those in the manor; and over against
them she placed the tense and tender love of Mary McBirney who had
clasped her to her heart when she was motherless.
They did not need her at the manor; but she was greatly needed in the
cabin. Love demanded tribute of her. And suddenly, Azalea knew what she
must do. If Ma McBirney loved her like a mother, she, Azalea, gave back
a daughter’s love. There was, after all, nothing worth thinking of save
that—save love. A warm glow swept over her, and the deepest sense of
contentment she ever had known in all her restless, curious life of
change filled her heart.
“I’ve thought of everything,” she said. “And I thank you, thank you,
thank you—you dears!” She turned toward the Carsons, and they could see
that she was holding out her hands in the gloom. “But this is my home.
Ma McBirney is dearer to me than any one now on the earth. I’ll stay
with her—if she wants me.”
And then she suddenly remembered that Mrs. McBirney had not said a word
to oppose Mr. Carson’s arguments. Could it be, that because of their
poverty, they _wished_ her to go to The Shoals? Little cold tremors ran
over her, and her heart turned sick.
“But, ma, do you want me?” she cried with sharp agony.
“Want you!” sobbed ma, holding out her arms. “Want you, honey bird?”
The moon swam out again into the clear sky, transfiguring their world. A
mocking bird began to sing, whistling low, muffled notes of sad
sweetness.
“It is the word of truth you have spoken, Azalea,” said Mr. Carson
slowly, “and I thank you for your honesty, and for your nobility too, my
dear. We understand everything; don’t we Lucy, my love?”
“Everything,” replied Mrs. Carson.
“But now we have something to say which is not a request, but practically
a command. Next week Miss Parkhurst, a friend of mine and a teacher of
unusual ability, is coming to instruct Carin. You are to come daily,
Azalea, to share her lessons with her. And that the going and coming may
not be too much for you, we are sending a well-trained little horse to
you. Its feed and keep shall be, so far as possible, the care of my
stable boys, so that my good friend McBirney, who is so willing to take
other people’s burdens on him, may not have another one added. But I
promise you all, for myself and for Mrs. Carson and Carin, that you shall
be thought of, Azalea, as the daughter of this home here on the
mountains. And while we shall give you all you will take in the way of
schooling and development, we will not do one thing to win you away from
the life you have chosen.”
“Thank you, sir,” murmured Azalea. She could say no more.
“Oh, thank you,” added Ma McBirney, crushing down the tormenting little
doubts that would arise in her heart. Could she really keep this scarlet
tanager in her wren’s nest?
But no doubts troubled the others. Jim sat thinking and thinking. What
wonderful things came to Zalie! And he—he was a gawk—a dunce—a silly
hill billy! He wondered Azalea paid any attention to him! And yet,
somehow, she seemed to think of herself as his sister. Well, then, he’d
stick by her, sir, no matter what happened. Till he was an old man with
long white whiskers he’d stick by her, and if anyone did her any sort of
harm, he’d fix him. He almost leaped to his feet and stood there
straight and fierce with his own combat, beside the girl.
[Picture: He stood there, straight and fierce]
“I forgot to say,” observed Mr. Carson in his slow way, “that there will
be two little horses. They were a pair and the man didn’t want to sell
them singly. So the second one is for Jim.”
“No!” cried Jim, and his voice sounded almost defiant in his excitement.
“Yes!” cried Mr. Carson, mocking him. “Shake hands on it.” And he wrung
Jim’s hand in his own. Then the boy’s shyness came on him and made him
slip away in the darkness. Yet he was on hand to hold the horses when
the Carsons were ready to mount.
They rode away in the moonlight, with the bewitching world of cloud and
shine about them. The trees were transformed into enchanted silver
things amid which elves and dryads seemed to hide; the rushing water was
a torrent of dancing crystal where the water maidens played. The three
who rode away, went singing. But this time it was a song that Azalea did
not know. She said so to Ma McBirney with a troubled smile.
“What a lovely, lovely song! And I never so much as heard it before.”
Ma McBirney kissed her slowly, and said with meaning:
“But you see, Zalie, they are going to teach it to you.”
Azalea did not answer. She lighted her candle.
“’Night, Jim,” she called. “You couldn’t get rid of me, could you?”
“Could if I tried. Didn’t try.”
“Good night, Pa McBirney.”
“Good night, daughter.” It was the first time he ever had called her
that. She slipped over and bending above him, dropped a kiss on his brow
as he sat there in the open room—the queer two-sided chamber that divided
the closed rooms of the house.
“I reckon I’d better go to your room with you,” said Ma McBirney, “and
see you safe.”
So together they climbed the rude stairs to that cotelike chamber that
looked out on the transfigured mountain. All about them, save for the
throating of the mocking bird, was silence. And in silence the two
parted for the night. They had no need of words. Stronger than any mere
accident of relationship was the love and trust in their hearts.
* * * * *
THE END.