An April Harvest
SPRING is an unknown season in Lakeville. But if one waits sufficiently
long, there comes at last a period known as the breaking of winter.
Since, owing to the heavy snows of January, February and March, there
is always a great deal of winter to break, the process is an extended
and--to the "overshoed" young--a decidedly trying one. But even in
northerly Lakeville there finally came an afternoon when the girls
decided that the day was much too fine to be spent indoors; and that
the hour had arrived when it would be safe to leave off rubbers. The
snow had disappeared except in very shaded spots and the Bay was free
of ice except for a line of white that showed far out beyond the
intense blue. The sidewalks were comparatively dry, but streams of
icy water gurgled merrily in the deep gutters that ran down all the
sloping streets. Although this abundant moisture was only the result of
melting snow in the hills back of Lakeville and possessed no beauty in
itself, these impetuous streams gave forth pleasant springlike sounds
and made one think sentimentally of babbling brooks, fresh clover and
blossoms by the wayside. Yet one needed to draw pretty heavily on one's
imagination to see either flowers or grass at that early date; but the
_feel_ of them, as Jean said, was certainly in the air.
"Let's walk down by Mrs. Malony's," suggested Mabel.
"She doesn't milk at this time of day, does she?" queried Henrietta,
cautiously.
"We needn't go in," assured Mabel. "We'll just run down one hill and up
the other; but it's always lovely to walk along the shore road. There's
a sort of a side-walk--if folks aren't too particular."
"Wouldn't it be beautiful," sighed Jean, "if Bettie could only come
too? This air would do anybody good."
"Yes," mourned Marjory, "nothing seems quite right without Bettie."
The girls, a trifle saddened, went slowly down the hill.
"We must certainly steer clear of Mrs. Malony," warned Henrietta, as
the egg-woman's house became visible. "Another dose of her hot milk
would drive me from Lakeville."
"There she is now!" exclaimed Mabel. "I recognize her by her cow; she's
driving it home."
"Perhaps it ran away to look for summer," offered Marjory. "The lady
seems displeased with her pet."
"An' how are the darlin' childer?" cried Mrs. Malony, greeting her
friends while yet a long way off. "'Tis a sight for a quane to see, so
manny purty lasses. But where's me little black-oiyed Bettie--there's
the swate choild for yez? Sure Oi heard she was loike to die, wan
while back. Betther, is ut? Thot's good, thot's good. An' wud yez
belave ut, Miss Mabel,--'tis fatter than iver yez are, Oi see--Oi had
yez in me moind all this blissid day."
"Why?" asked Mabel, rather coldly.
"Well, 'twas loike this, darlin'," explained Mrs. Malony, dropping her
voice to a more confidential tone and nodding significantly toward a
distant chimney. "'Twas siven o'clock the mornin' whin Oi seen smoke
risin' from the shanty beyant. All day Oi've been moinded to be goin'
acrost the p'int an' lookin' in at thot windy to see if 'twas thot
big-eyed Frinch wan come back wid the spring."
"You don't mean Rosa Marie's mother!" gasped Mabel.
"Thot same," proceeded Mrs. Malony, calmly. "But what wid Malony
white-washin' me kitchen, an' me pesky hins walkin' in me parlor and me
cow breakin' down me fince, sure Oi've had no toime to be traipsin'
about."
"Couldn't you go now?" queried Jean, eagerly. "If it _is_ that woman we
ought to know it."
"Wait till Oi toi up me cow," consented Mrs. Malony.
The four friends, with Mrs. Malony in tow, picked their way over the
badly kept path that led to the shanty.
"The door's been mended," announced observant Marjory.
"It doesn't seem quite proper," said gentle-mannered Jean, "to peek
into people's windows. Couldn't we knock and ask in a perfectly proper
way to see the lady of the house?"
"Sure we could thot," replied Mrs. Malony.
"Do hurry!" urged Mabel, breathlessly.
There was no response to Jean's rather nervous knock; but when Mrs.
Malony applied her stout knuckles to the door there were results. The
door was opened cautiously, just a tiny crack at first, then to its
full extent. A dark-eyed woman with two thick braids falling over her
shapely shoulders confronted them.
She swept a mildly curious glance over Mrs. Malony, over Jean, over
Marjory, over Henrietta. Then her splendid eyes fell upon Mabel; they
changed instantaneously.
In a twinkling the woman had brushed past the others to seize startled
Mabel by both shoulders and to gaze piercingly into Mabel's frightened
eyes. The woman tried to speak; but, for a long moment, her voice would
not come.
"You--you!" she gasped, clutching Mabel still more tightly, as if she
feared that the youngster might escape. "Ees eet you for sure? But
w'ere, w'ere----?"
No further words would come. The poor creature's evident emotion was
pitiful to see, and the girls were too overwhelmed to do more than
stare with all their might.
"Rosa Marie's all right," gulped Mabel, coming to the rescue with
exactly the right words. "She's safe and happy."
"Ma babee, ma babee," moaned the woman, her long-lashed eyes beaming
with wonderful tenderness, and expressive of intense longing. "Bring me
to heem queek--ah, so queek as evaire you can. Ma babee--I want heem
queek."
Then, without stopping for outer garments or even to close her door,
and still holding fast to the abductor of Rosa Marie, the woman
hurriedly led the way from the clearing.
Mrs. Malony would have remained with the party if she had not
encountered her frolicsome cow, a section of fence-rail dangling from
her neck, strolling off toward town.
On the way up the long hill the woman, who still possessed all the
beauty and the "mother-looks" that Mabel had described, talked volubly
in French, in Chippewa Indian and in broken English. As Henrietta was
able to understand some of the French and part of the English, the
girls were able to make out almost two-thirds of what she was saying.
On the day of Mabel's first visit the young mother had departed with
her new husband, who, not wanting to be burdened with a step-child,
had persuaded her to abandon Rosa Marie, for whom she had subsequently
mourned without ceasing. As might have been expected, the man had
proved unkind. He had beaten her, half starved her and finally deserted
her. She had worked all winter for sufficient money to carry her to
Lakeville and had waited impatiently--all that time without news of her
baby--for mild weather in order that the shanty, the only home that she
knew, might become habitable.
The hill was steep and long, but all five hastened toward the top.
Marjory ran ahead to ring the Black-Crane door-bell. Mabel piloted the
trembling mother straight to the nursery. Jean, learning from Martin
where to look for Mrs. Crane, ran to fetch her.
Rosa Marie, in her little chair and placidly stringing beads, looked
up as unconcernedly as if it were an ordinary occasion. The woman,
uttering broken, incoherent sounds sped across the big room, dropped to
her knees and flung her arms about Rosa Marie. Then, for many moments,
her face buried in Rosa Marie's neck, the only-half-civilized mother
sobbed unrestrainedly.
The child, however, gazed stolidly over her mother's shoulder at the
other visitors, all of whom were much more moved than she. Mrs. Crane,
indeed, was shedding tears and even Mr. Black seemed touched. As for
Mabel, that sympathetic young person was weeping both visibly and
audibly, without exactly knowing why.
Since the repentant mother, who refused to let her baby out of her arms
for a single moment, begged to be allowed to take Rosa Marie to the
shanty that very night, Mrs. Crane, aided by the willing girls and Mr.
Black, did what they could toward making the place comfortable.
After Martin and Mr. Black had carried a whole motor-carful of bedding,
food and fuel to the shanty, the now radiant mother, Rosa Marie, her
toys, her clothes and all her belongings, were likewise transported
to the humble lakeside dwelling. Everybody was so busy and the whole
affair was over so quickly that no one had time for regrets.
"I declare," said Mrs. Crane, wonderingly, "I ought to feel as if I'd
lost something. Instead, I'm all of a whirl."
"I said," Mabel triumphed, "that she'd come back."
Jean was commissioned to go the next morning to break the news to
Bettie. It seemed to Dr. Bennett and to the hopeful Cottagers that this
important happening would surely rouse the listless little maid if
anything could. Mr. Black, who arrived with a great bunch of violets
while Jean was telling the wonderful tale as graphically as she could,
expectantly watched Bettie's pale countenance. Her wistful, weary eyes
brightened for a moment and a faint, tender smile flickered across her
lips.
"I'm glad," said she. "Now Mrs. Crane won't have to have whooping cough
and all the other things."
"Mrs. Crane is going to find work for Rosa Marie's mother," announced
Jean, "and the shanty is to be mended."
"That's nice," returned Bettie, who, however, no longer seemed
interested in Rosa Marie's mother. "But my ears are tired now; don't
tell me any more."
After this failure, Mr. Black followed crestfallen Jean downstairs; he
drew her into the shabby Rectory parlor.
"Now, Jean," demanded he, sternly, "is there a solitary thing in this
whole world that Bettie wants? Is there anything that could _possibly_
happen that would wake her up and bring her back? I'm dreadfully afraid
she's slipping away from us, Jean; and she's far too precious to lose.
Now think--think _hard_, little girl. Has she _ever_ wanted anything?"
"Why," responded Jean, slowly, as if some outside force were dragging
the words from her, "right after Christmas there _was_ something, I
think. A big, impossible something that _nobody_ could possibly help.
She didn't talk about it--and yet--and yet---- Perhaps she did worry."
"Go on," insisted Mr. Black, "I want it all."
"She seemed to get used to the idea so--so uncomplainingly. Still, she
may have cared more than anybody suspected. She's _like_ that--never
cries when she's hurt."
"What idea?" demanded Mr. Black. "Cared for what? Make it clear,
child."
"You see," explained Jean, "all of us--Henrietta, Marjory, Mabel
and I--have been talking a great deal about going away to boarding
school--we're all going. But Bettie--Bettie, of course, knew that she
couldn't go. There was no money and her father said----"
"And why in thunder," shouted Mr. Black, forgetting the invalid and
striding up and down the room with his fists clenched, "didn't somebody
say so? What do folks think the good Lord _gave_ us money for? Why
didn't--Come upstairs. We'll settle this thing right now."
Impulsive Mr. Black, with dazed Jean at his heels, opened Bettie's door
and walked in. Bettie lifted her tired eyes in very mild astonishment.
"Bad pennies," she smiled, "always come back. What's all the noise
about?"
"Bettie," demanded Mr. Black, "do you want to go away to school with
those other girls next September?"
Bettie opened her eyes wide. Jean said afterwards that she "pricked up
her ears," too.
"Because," continued Mr. Black, keeping a sharp watch on Bettie's
awakening countenance, "you're going. And if _I_ say you're going, you
surely are. Now, don't worry about it--the thing's settled. You're
going with the others."
"Open the windows," pleaded Bettie, her face alight with some of the
old-time eagerness. "I want to see how it smells outdoors."
"I believe we've done it," breathed Jean. "She looks a lot brighter."
And they had. No one had realized how tender, uncomplaining Bettie had
dreaded losing her friends. And in her weakened state, both before and
after the fever, the trouble had seemed very big. The load had almost
crushed sick little Bettie. Now that it was lifted, and it was, for
Mr. Black swept everything before him, there was nothing to keep the
little girl from getting well with truly gratifying speed.
"Bettie," asked Dr. Bennett, the next evening, "are you sure this is
your own pulse? If it is, it's behaving properly at last."
"She ate every bit of her supper," said Mrs. Tucker, happily, "and she
asked, this afternoon, if she owned any shoes. She's really getting
well."
"I'm hurrying," laughed happy Bettie, "to make up for lost time. Do
give me things to make me fat--as fat as Mabel."
"She's certainly better," said the satisfied doctor. "By to-morrow
we'll have to tie her down to keep her from dancing. She's our own
Bettie, at last."
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation errors repaired. Varied hyphenation retained.
Front page description, "Scovill" changed to "Scovel" (Florence Scovel
Shinn)
Page 96, "Bennettt" changed to "Bennett" (Mrs. Bennett, rescuing)
Page 165, "shruddered" changed to "shuddered" ("Ugh!" shuddered Marjory)
Page 214, repeated word "a" removed from text. Original read (like a a
lobster's)