THE CLOUD IN THE SKY
“Say, Isa, I’m perfectly sure something is bothering dad,” Mark said
drawing his brow into an anxious knot.
“So am I,” Isabel agreed. “He thinks and thinks, not pleasant thoughts.
He frowns and looks straight through you as if you were cheesecloth,
and he is pale. You don’t suppose he is sick, and knows it, and is
worrying about you and Motherkins?”
“Oh, no-o-o!” Mark shook his head so hard that the negative came out
in syllables. “There’s nothing like that the matter! I can always tell
when dad doesn’t feel well. It’s bother. I wonder what can be worrying
him now, when everything has come out so just right!”
Isabel and Mark were on their way to get certain flower seeds which
Motherkins needed to plant her old-fashioned flower garden with all the
kinds of flowers which she had grown in that same garden long before
Mark was born. Then this great house had been her home; in the meantime
it had been lost to her, and now that she had got it back through the
return of her lost son, with a modest fortune with which to buy the old
place back, she was happily restoring her beloved garden in its old
place, with its old flowers.
The children had offered to help Motherkins with her planting. Prue
stayed with Poppy, getting ready the seeds already on hand, while
Isabel and Mark went to supply deficiencies from the store and also to
buy a new hoe and rake “to tuck them into the bed,” Mark said.
They came back sooner than they were expected, each with a long-handled
tool over their shoulder, and quite breathless and heated from hurrying.
Their haste was explained by the pasteboard box which Mark carried by
its tape handle. It was a treat for the stay-at-homes--strawberry and
vanilla!--to square accounts; Isa and he had eaten their cream in the
drug store and did not want to take advantage of their friends.
Isabel and Mark sipped cold water and watched Prue and Poppy eat
their ice cream, recovering breath meanwhile. Then all four went out
and began to dig and hoe vigorously in the garden that lay under the
eastern wall of the house under the direct rays of the morning sun, in
the best possible place for the well-being of flowers.
It had grown warm as the sun mounted. The dining room windows were open
and Motherkins sat in one of them studying a seedsman’s catalogue when
her son came into the room.
She looked up to greet him, and must have been struck by the troubled
look on his face which the children had been seeing, for they, working
below the window in the garden, heard her exclaim in a startled voice:
“Why, Gilbert, dear, what is wrong? You look distressed!”
Mr. Hawthorne dropped wearily into a chair opposite to her and rumpled
his hair in a way he had when things went wrong. Then he rumpled Semp’s
hair; he had come after him and was leaning against him.
“Oh, distressed is a strong word, small mother!” he said laughing at
her with no sound of merriment in the laugh. “I’m all right.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me about it, Gilbert?” said Motherkins
quietly, as if he had said that he was not all right. “I have noticed
that you looked anxious, as if something were on your mind, for several
days, but when you came in just now you startled me. You’d better tell
me, dear.”
“You’re a great little woman for seeing what lies behind people’s
foreheads!” said her son. “When I was a child you always knew what I
didn’t tell you quite as well as what I told! I remember believing
firmly that you had a sort of X-ray wireless apparatus--only I couldn’t
have called it that--which looked through me and caught my thoughts.
Well, then, I’ll own up! I have been somewhat troubled for a few days
over what must prove to be nonsense, and to-day I had a letter that
increased the worry.”
“A letter from----?” Motherkins waited for him to complete her sentence.
“From a firm of lawyers of shady reputation as to honor, but with a
reputation for skill in winning cases by their tricks. I have been
keeping off telling you, but I suppose you’ve got to know.” Mr.
Hawthorne looked disgusted, but he settled back in his chair to tell
the story, pulling Semp’s ears as he talked.
“You know, mother, I saved the life of young Maurice Ditson. He was the
son of James Ditson, who was the wealthy manufacturer--you know all
that, and how to prove his gratitude Mr. Ditson left me all the money
Mark and I have, except Mark’s small inheritance from his mother. Well,
Maurice Ditson turned out so badly that I’m afraid if his father had
lived to know about it he’d have felt that it would have been better
if I hadn’t saved his son, that it would have been better if he had
died innocent rather than lived to disgrace his father’s honorable
name. In any case, Maurice could spend all that his father and several
other millionaires could give him, and he wants now to get away from
me the money his father left to me. He’s trumped up a tale that is too
long to go into, that would set aside the will, if it could be proved.
He’s engaged Sharp and Geiger to take the case, and they have plenty
of skill and no conscience at all. So I don’t know! It’s an outrageous
attempt, of course, but that’s not saying it may not succeed, and if it
does----” Gilbert Hawthorne paused and looked at his mother.
“If it does,” she said, “we shall lose this dear place and be poor
again?”
“Oh, mother dear, that’s exactly what would happen!” cried Gilbert.
“Let us hope and pray that the wickedness will be foiled. It would be
cruelly hard when we are so happy, so gratefully, cloudlessly happy
in our old home! Somehow I think the plot can’t succeed. But in any
case I have you, my son; nothing can take from me my greatest joy in
having you again. And with you our dear lad, who seems to give me you
again twice over! So at the worst I shall not be as I was before,
heartbroken, alone! You must do all that may be done to prevent this
dishonesty from succeeding, dear, and after that we will try not to
worry,” said the brave little mother.
“You little wonder!” cried her son, jumping up to pick his small mother
up bodily and hug her hard in his relief that she took his dreaded
revelation so quietly. “You may be sure I’ll do all I can to defeat
Maurice Ditson! Why, mother, the few thousands his father left me, and
which the fine old fellow wanted me to have--and more!--was nothing out
of the great fortune which he left Maurice, and which he has already
wasted!”
“No. Mr. Ditson was deeply indebted to you; it was justice to prove his
gratitude. Well, dear, in the meantime the garden is to be sown, I hope
for us to enjoy, but whatever is to come, to-day the garden is to be
sown and planted! Will you help us? Try to put this whole dismal matter
out of your mind. It is a lovely day to be making a garden!”
Little Mrs. Hawthorne arose as she spoke and crossed over to gather
up from the table the boxes into which Prue and Poppy had put the
envelopes of seeds which they had assorted. She was a tiny woman,
almost like a creature all soul and no body, but the spirit in that
little frame was high and brave; it knew how to meet prosperity or
misfortune.
The children beneath the window had clearly heard every word that had
been said by the mother and son. They had made no pretense of working,
but had stood listening, horror-stricken, to what had been said.
Now Mark, white-faced, with blazing eyes, threw down the hoe upon which
he had been leaning.
“It can’t happen, you know!” he whispered hoarsely. “It would be too
awful. It can’t possibly happen.”
“But you know, Jack-in-the-Box, the things too awful to happen are the
ones that do happen, quite often. It frightens me!” said Isabel, and
her dilated eyes showed that it did frighten her.
“If you had to leave this dear, dear old house----” began Prue, looking
grim, but Poppy interrupted her with a scream of rage, dancing up and
down in a frenzy.
“We won’t, we sha’n’t, we won’t!” she cried. “We’ll get guns and drag
’em up the secret passage! We’ll boil water and pour it on ’em! We’ll
chuck ’em in the cellar with straw on top ’em and set ’em afire! Let
’em try to take this house! And if they took it I’d earn money for
Mis’ Hawthorne, ’nough, too! I’ll get that nice glass bottle man,
what deals in ’em, over to Hertonsburg, what picked me up the day I
went off, long ago, last year, and took me home to his house, to show
me how to make money out of bottles, or something. His wife was awful
smart--and nice. I’ll take boarders. Oh, Mark, Mark--Oh, Motherkins,
Mr. Daddy, don’t let ’em take your money and your life!”
Poppy hurled herself upon little Motherkins and her son as they came
into the garden, ending her appeal with a form of words which she must
have somewhere heard and retained.
“Oh, dear, we forgot the children, especially Poppy!” said Mrs.
Hawthorne in dismay. “Of course they heard every word! Poppy, child,
it’s far better to be poor than not to be able to control yourself. You
must learn to be quiet. You are shaking and are cold! None of us is
excited. You never will be helpful, a useful, wise, strong woman, if
you fly off like a Fourth of July sparkler over everything that stirs
you. But I know it is because you love me.”
[Illustration: SO THEY WENT ON SOWING THE WHOLE GARDEN FULL OF
OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS.]
Motherkins stooped to stroke the frizzy, flaming hair and to kiss the
quivering face.
“All little Motherkins’ pills are sugar coated,” laughed Mark.
Poppy choked, and shook, and swallowed hard for a few moments, while
Motherkins continued to soothe and smooth her. Then she straightened
herself and said:
“I will, I will, honest to goodness, I will! I’ll keep the lid on. That
time I ran off and stopped over night to Mr. Thomas Burke’s, my nice
bottle man’s--906 North Street, Hertonsburg, is where ’tis--he told me
I’d be fine if I’d only keep the lid on, so I shall. I’d love to have
you poor if I could earn tons of money and give it to you, to sorter
pay back.”
“I shouldn’t be poor, Poppy dear, if you gave me tons of money,”
laughed Motherkins. “Don’t worry, child! You are too little a girl to
worry, and I’m sure we shall all be happy till the stars have eaten up
the moon because it is made of green cheese!”
The four children laughed over this suggestion, then Prue frowned and
began to say: “But it isn’t, you know, Mrs. Hawthorne,” when Mark
drowned her out, crying:
“They’ve begun to nibble at it already, Motherkins! There’s only a half
piece in the sky; I saw it last night. Does the Dog Star--Sirius--eat
the most?”
“Silly thing!” said Poppy, with a grown-up manner. “There’s terrible
much place for garden everywheres on this place. I wish I could have a
piece to raise stuff to sell, if we get poor.”
“Why, so you may!” cried Mr. Hawthorne, kindly refraining from pointing
out the fact that if they became poor the place would no longer be
theirs.
“Help yourself, Poppy! Pick out the spot you like best and I’ll have
it dug up for you and raked smooth and we’ll see what sort of a farmer
you’ll be.”
“I’ll be a very good raiser, I know that, because I ain’t lazy,” said
Poppy, with no mock modesty. “If you want to raise things you’ve got to
work like everything, that’s what you have. And I ain’t--am not lazy.”
“We could help you,” remarked Isabel wistfully, her eyes and voice
betraying how much she would like a share in this enterprise.
“Mr. Daddé,” as Isa used to call Mark’s father when she first knew
him because his name was a secret and she only knew Mark’s name for
him--Daddy, “Mr. Daddé” saw that Isabel envied Poppy her promised
garden, and he also saw what profitable pleasure there might be in a
garden apiece for them all.
“Instead of helping Poppy, why don’t each of you take a piece of land
and see what you can get out of it? I’ll spade the gardens myself, four
of them, each wherever its owner prefers it, and then do whatever you
like, each of you; plant what you please, make your garden the kind
you’d rather have. We’d have a sort of county fair of our own when they
all got bearing!” he said.
“Say, daddy!” cried Mark struck with admiration.
“I’d perfectly love it!” Isabel spoke with bated breath. Immediately
she added: “And I’d raise mignonette and sweet peas in mine----”
“Me for lettuce!” shouted Prue excitedly.
“Radishes! Red ’uns, like me!” shouted Poppy. “And peas--to eat, not
your no-good kind, Isa.”
“Well, string beans seem about all I can choose,” said Mark. “I suppose
as long as I’m Jack-in-the-Box I may as well be Jack and the Bean
Stalk, too.”
“Splendid!” cried Mr. Hawthorne. “No two alike, so each of you can be
first in your own class. Come along and pick out garden sites.”
“Oh, Gilbert, my poor flower seeds!” his mother remonstrated.
“Well, daddy!” cried Mark. “Walk right off like that and leave tiny
Motherkins to shift for herself! Come on, girls. I’ll make a trench and
you come over the top and take it, and fill it up with whatever our
General-in-chief, Motherkins, says. We’ll pick out gardens after we
plant this one. What’s in the front trench, General Motherkins? That’s
the most dangerous line.”
“Brave little dwarfs, Mark--candytuft. They’re not afraid of the
enemy,” said Motherkins entering into the play-work, and giving the
three little girls each a paper of seeds to scatter in the shallow
trench which Mark made with a stick and stood ready to cover as they
sowed.
So they went on sowing in rows, in squares, in circles, the entire
garden full of old-fashioned flowers, fragrant and modest, flaunting
and graceful, tall and short, “Just as I used to have it years ago!”
sighed Motherkins contentedly. Then she sighed again anxiously,
remembering that Gilbert had said that it was possible that she might
lose again this beautiful old place, and that if it did happen the
parting from it would this time be final.
At last the garden was sown and all the seeds “tucked into their beds,”
Isabel said. Dirty and tired, but with their enthusiasm unabated, the
four children followed Mr. Hawthorne across the grass to inspect the
various sites for possible gardens. Semp--Semper Fidelis, living up to
his name--Bunkie, and round, gray Pincushion, who adored Bunk, all of
whom had superintended the laying out of Motherkins’ garden, marched
behind their human friends to seek for more gardens to lay out.
There was considerable difference of opinion as to the best spots. The
discussion stood in some danger of growing unpleasant because Poppy was
tired enough to be more than ordinarily inflammable, and Prue was tired
enough to have less patience with her than ordinarily--and at best Prue
had not great patience with excitable little Poppy.
The decision was made easier by Isabel, the peacemaker, who suggested
that it would be far pleasanter to have all four gardens close together.
“You see,” she said, in her sweet, soothing voice that always fell on
the ear like the soft touch of a cool hand on a fevered head, “we’d be
tired to death working and working when it got hot, all by ourselves,
where we couldn’t call over to one another, back and forth. If
Daddy-dear doesn’t mind, why not divide off that nicest easterly field
into quarters, and give us each a corner quarter?”
“Daddy-dear” did not mind; he cordially approved, and so it was done.
By the next day the ground was plowed, harrowed and raked fine, and
the gardens, one exactly as good as the other, were apportioned. Thus
the children were installed as gardeners, precisely as if there were no
threat of the Hawthorne place being lost to its owners.