MARY BLOSSOM
To Pippin the last month had passed like a watch in the night; say
rather in the day, a watch on a hillside under a clear sky, with the
sound of flutes in the air. But at Cyrus Poor Farm it had been a long
month, and things had gone rather heavily. Brand, weaving baskets in his
corner, thought it one of the longest months he had ever known. There
had been many wet, cold days when the barn had been too chilly to work
in, and though he loved the big kitchen, he preferred solitude for his
work hours,--solitude, that is, enlivened by snatches of cheery talk as
Jacob Bailey came and went about his own work, by whiffs of fragrant
clover and hay, by the sunlight that lay warm upon him as he sat in the
wide 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 white
pigeon. They were intimate, the blind man and the simple girl. He was
Uncle Brand, she was his little gal. They spoke little as they sat
together, but now and then he would pat her fair head and say, "We
knowed it, little gal!" and she would nestle closer and repeat, "We
knowed it!" That was all the speech they needed.
But now Flora May seldom came to the barn; she seemed almost to avoid
him, Brand thought. Maybe it was just the bad weather; she was apt to be
moody 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--but
he must not be demanding. Blind folks were apt to be demanding, he had
once been told, and had resolved no one should have cause to say it of
him.
There were other trials, too, that month. Some tramps came, asking
shelter for the winter, pleading illness, promising work. Jacob Bailey
had 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 like
a witches' cauldron; then the tramps departed by night, carrying with
them such small personal property as they could lay hands on, and peace
reigned again.
Meantime Old Man Blossom was growing weaker day by day. The poor old
body, sodden with drink and worse than drink, was nearly worn out. The
machine worked feebly; at any moment it might run down and stop. One
thing only, Mrs. Bailey thought as she watched beside the bed, kept him
alive: the longing for his child. She spent every moment she could
spare, good soul, sitting beside him, knitting in hand, ready to answer
the inevitable question when it came. He would lie for hours motionless,
apparently sleeping. Then the lids would flutter open, the hands begin
to wander and pluck at the bedclothes; the dim eyes, after rolling
vacantly, 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 finds
your daughter, you know. You don't want him to come without her, do
you?"
"If he does--" the voice dies into a whisper, faint yet vehement.
Bending to catch his words, Lucy Bailey listens a moment, then
straightens herself with compressed lips. Mr. Blossom is consistent, and
expresses himself in his usual manner.
Presently he finds his voice again, a whimper in it this time. "But
ain't it hard luck, lady? I ask you, lady, if it ain't hard luck that I
have 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. I
never got no longer jolt than a year. Now Pippin's a crook, born and
bred. If he slips one over on me--" The voice sinks again into a hoarse
mutter, and so lapses into silence. The face, puckered into sharp
wrinkles of anxiety, seems to flatten and smooth itself till it lies
like an old wax mask, ugly but peaceful. He will be quiet now for some
time; Mrs. Bailey settles the bedclothes tidily and steals away.
Her faithful attendance on the dying vagrant has not been fortunate for
the other inmates; her firm gentle hand is missed everywhere in the
house. Her husband confides to her, in the quiet hour before bedtime,
that things have been kind of cuterin'. Aunt Mandy was some fractious
to-day; she made Miss Pudgkins cry at dinner, callin' her a greedy old
haddick; no way to talk to Miss Pudgkins, Lucy knew.
Miss Pudgkins ought not to mind Aunt Mandy, Mrs. Bailey said; she knew
full 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 the
face and eyes of the whole table. 'Twas true Miss Pudgkins had taken
Brand'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 into
her kind eyes. She could not bear to see the blind man "put upon." "Now
I am glad Aunt Mandy spoke out. I hope you took the dish right straight
away from her, Jacob!"
Jacob looked troubled. "I couldn't do that, Lucy; women-folks, you
know!"
"No, you couldn't. I wish I'd been there."
"But I give Brand another dish, and filled it plumb up, so he got more
than she did after all." He looked up, and received a cheerful nod of
approval.
"That's good. Brand likes prune sauce, and he has so few pleasures. Not
that he's anyways greedy or lick-lappin'; far from it; but he tastes
more than others do. Did he finish the two-bushel basket? He aimed to
finish it to-day."
Jacob's brow clouded again. "He would have, but he couldn't lay his hand
on his splints, and I was out of the way, so he had to wait a
considerable 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 odd
spell, 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 Flora
May in her odd spells, nor it isn't right you should. Why didn't you
call me?"
"I set out to, Lucy. I came to the door to speak to you, but I heard the
Old 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't
hardly know what to do with Flora May," she said. "She's havin' those
odd spells right along, sometimes two or three a week. She's been havin'
'em ever since--Jacob--" She looked around and lowered her voice. "I
don't hardly know about his comin' back here--to stay any time, that's
to say."
Jacob Bailey also glanced around apprehensively and spoke almost in a
whisper. "You mean--Pippin?"
"Hush! Yes! She hasn't been the same girl since he was here. I'm scared
for her, Jacob."
"Lucy, Pippin is as good as gold. There couldn't no father nor brother
have handled her better than what he did that day."
"Hush! What was that?" She went quietly to the door that led to the back
stairs, and opened it with a quick, noiseless motion. In the dusk of the
stairway a board creaked, something white glimmered. "Who's there?" No
answer. "Flora May, is that you? Answer when I speak to you!"
The voice was gentle, but compelling; the answer came, half sullen, half
frightened. "I want a drink of water, Aunt Lucy."
"You go right back to bed, Flora May! I'll bring you a drink when I come
up. Let me hear your door shut now!" She waited till a door closed
upstairs; then latching the one she held in her hand, beckoned her
husband, and stole to the other side of the room. "Like as not she'll
be down again!" she whispered. "I've caught her listenin' here and there
any time this past week. She thinks she'll hear when he's comin', or
hear about him anyway. Jacob--whisper! I know Pippin's good; it isn't
him 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 who
so short a time ago had been his little pet, his pretty kitten-like
child 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, when folks
haven't their reason? I tell you there's things workin' inside that poor
child that knows nothing about good or bad, things that's stronger than
her. 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 we
but knew--places where they can be kep' and cared for and learned all
they can learn. Yes, I know we've done our best--" in answer to a murmur
of protest--"but our best ain't good enough, that's all. There! We must
go to bed, father; 'tis late, and I promised that child a drink of
water. Poor lamb! She was so happy till this come up! Let Rover in, will
you? He's scratchin' all that nice new paint off the door. I'll put
kitty 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' day
with all them potatoes to dig."
She was tired too, good Lucy Bailey! Every part of her strong body
seemed to ache; yet she lay awake long after Jacob's deep breathing
gave her comfortable assurance of his sleeping. It did seem strange, how
their quiet life was all jolted up, she thought, as she lay staring at
the elm shadows that tossed in the moonlight. So long it had run on a
level, as you might say, day by day, month by month, year by year. For
her the years had been marked chiefly by the growth of the two young
creatures, her nephew and the "simple" girl who had been a town charge
from early childhood. Such a contrast! Myron so bright and quick; how
his eyes would light up when he laughed! And poor Flora May; well! the
Lord knew best! And now Myron was doing so well over at Kingdom, and so
happy! Those nice Baxters! she must certainly ask them over to spend the
day! If only they didn't spoil her boy, making of him so! But he was
gone from Cyrus Poor Farm whose light he had been; and now came this old
man whom Mrs. Bailey could not like, try as she might, sorry as she was
for him; and then came Pippin, like a wandering flame, setting fire--so
to say--where before was just straw or like that.
Sleep came at last, deep and sweet; from the quiet chamber it seemed to
pass 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 the
cellar, the bird on his swinging perch; only in the attic chamber Flora
May lay broad awake, staring through the dark, tossing to and fro on her
narrow bed.
* * * * *
Mary Blossom started on her journey with a heavy heart. Duty might lead
her by the hand, but could not lighten her burden. She had slept ill for
the 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 in
the train, however, the swift motion, the rushing panorama before her
eyes, roused and interested her in spite of herself. The chaplain noted
with delight her brightening eyes, and the faint color that crept into
her pale cheek. Thank God, she was young, and joy was always tagging
after youth, trying to keep hold of her hand, even when things pushed in
between.
It was the first time she had ever gone far from the city. The yearly
excursion 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 about
going "any place else," as Mary would have expressed it. She watched
with delight as the swift miles sped by, and responded eagerly when the
chaplain pointed out this or that object of interest. That was Tankard
Mountain, was it? My! wasn't it high? Mary had never seen a real
mountain before. (She called it "mounting," but then so did Pippin; some
people will, strive as you may to teach them otherwise.) And that was
Blue 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 sky
reflected in it? He didn't say so! Well, creation was curious, wasn't
it?
Lawrence Hadley enjoyed the journey, too; the familiar landscape took on
fresh beauty for him, and he began to recall bits of half-forgotten
legend and tale to adorn it. "You see that steep rock, Mary, overhanging
the lake? There, where the big pine is? They say an Indian maiden threw
herself from that rock, long ago, into the lake, and was drowned. Her
lover was false to her, I believe, poor thing!"
"Poor thing!" The shadow darkened again over the girl's face, and she
looked earnestly at the dark cliff. "But I wouldn't have given him that
satisfaction. I'd never have let on that I cared--that much!"
She spoke low, but with suppressed energy. Hadley glanced at her; seemed
about to speak, but checked himself, and presently called her attention
to another object. They were still skirting Blue Lake, a ten-mile
stretch of dimpling, crinkling sapphire.
"That little pile of rocks is Lone Man Island. It got its name from a
hermit who lived there twenty-five years and never spoke to a soul in
all that time but just once."
"My! he was a caution! What did he say, sir, the time he did speak? It
ought to be worth hearing."
The chaplain laughed. "The story is, Mary, that his wife talked so much
he couldn't stand it, and ran away. His house--it's gone now--stood on
the shore, just opposite the island. He took the boat so she couldn't
come out after him, but every day, they say, for a long time, she would
stand on the shore and scream to him, till her voice was gone, telling
him to come back. He would sit on a stone by the water's edge, rocking
back and forth, rubbing his knees and never saying a word. When this had
gone on for a year, more or less, the minister in the village over
yonder--" he pointed to where a white spire twinkled among the
trees--"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 then
that he spoke? He freed his mind, I suppose?"
"She spoke first, and then the minister spoke. They both had a good deal
to say, I have been told. And while they were talking, Jotham
Wildgoose--yes, that was his actual name--sat on his stone, rocking
back and forth, rubbing his hands on his knees, saying never a word. At
last, when both of them were out of breath and out of patience, the old
man spoke. 'Get out!' he said; and never said another word as long as he
lived."
"The _i_dea! Why, I never heard of such a thing, Mr. Hadley. Why, how
did he live? How did he do his marketing?" The practical mind of the
Scientific 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 good
fisherman. When he wanted other supplies, he took a string of fish to
the nearest village and got what he wanted in exchange. He was very
clever in making signs; he could write, too. Yes, I believe Jotham
Wildgoose 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 added
hastily; "I am only explaining."
Mary pondered. "'Tis a queer story!" she said at last. "'Twas strange he
wouldn'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 spoke
with conviction, but the chaplain shook his head.
"Don't be too sure, Mary! Did you ever hear about Mr. Bourne and his
wife? 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!" said
the chaplain. "But here we are at Cyrus, my dear, and there, from
Pippin's description, is Jacob Bailey himself waiting for us."
Mary shrank, and drew in her breath with a sob. The journey, the cheery
talk, had dulled for the time the pain at her heart, the suffocating
dread of what was before her; now both awoke and clutched at her. She
clung 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 does
not signify. What signifies is that you are bringing light into a dark
place. 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's
balance in an instant. "Elder Hadley, I presume?" he went on. "And this
is 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 was
stiff after the four-mile drive--she was not used to driving--and even a
little chilly; at least, she was trembling, though the evening was mild.
The cheerful rays that streamed from the opening door struck warm to her
heart which was still throbbing painfully. She could not speak, could
only return the warm pressure of Mr. Hadley's hand as he helped her to
alight. Jacob Bailey held the other little cold hand and led her
forward.
"This way!" he said heartily. "Here she is, Lucy. Make you 'quainted
with m' wife, Miss Blossom. Reverend Mr. Hadley, make you 'quainted with
Mis' 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 nose
had been pressed against the window glass so often that Mr. Wisk (he was
the fat old gentleman with the hoarse voice; his friends called him
Whiskey, for reasons best known to themselves) asked her if she wasn't
afraid 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 see
if they was any one coming. _She_ had uses for her time, let it be with
others as it might. Miss Lucilla Pudgkins, anxiously forecasting,
presumed likely they would bring good appetites with them, traveling all
the ways from the city. She took occasion, when the table was set for
supper, to count the doughnuts on the plate, and with prudent
forethought, Mrs. Bailey's back being turned, slipped two plump ones
into 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 a
basket handle, and Flora May, rocking in her chair, crooning listlessly
to the cat in her lap.
Pale and weary though she was, Mary's beauty shone in the doorway like a
lamp, as Pippin would have said--poor Pippin, who was not there to see.
Mr. Wisk rose to his feet and struck an attitude of respectful
admiration; the two elderly women who had been plain all their lives
uttered little whimpering moans of surprise. "What right has the
daughter of that horrid old tramp to look like this?" they seemed to
ask.
"I expect she's stuck-up!" whispered Aunt Mandy to Miss Pudgkins. "Look
at that hat!"
It was the simplest possible hat, but it had an air, as all Mary's hats
had. She trimmed them herself, and I believe the ribbons curved into
pretty shapes for pure pleasure when she patted them.
Mrs. Bailey took no note of the hat; she looked straight into Mary's
eyes, as clear and honest as her own, and answered hastily the unspoken
question 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 she
spoke them. She _was_ glad! What did it mean?
"She'd better have her supper before she goes in, Lucy," said hospitable
Jacob, "seein' it's all ready, and she come so far!"
But his wife, still holding Mary's hand, shook her head, again in
response to a mute appeal. "No, Jacob! She's goin' right in. I'll take
her in a cup o' tea and a mite of something, and she can eat while she's
sittin' there. This way, dearie!"
The door closed, and the inmates drew a long breath; it was as if the
drop curtain had descended between the acts of a drama. It was cruel to
shut them off from what was going on in that other room. Miss Whetstone
even discovered that she had left her pocket handkerchief up chamber,
and had her hand on the door when Mrs. Bailey, returning, intervened
with the offer of a spandy clean one just ironed, and a bland but firm
gesture toward the table.
"We'll set right down, if you please!" said the mistress of Cyrus Poor
Farm. "Reverend Mr. Hadley, will you ask a blessin'?"