"Well now, what do you think o' that! Ain't it the end o' the law? The
high-handed way he has o' doin' things! Think o' the likes o' _me_
closin' up my '_town-house' _an' takin' my fam'ly (includin' Flicker an'
Nixcomeraus) 'to the country-place'--for all the world like I was a
lady, born an' bred.--Sammy, you sit still in your seat, an' eat the
candy Mr. Blennerhasset brought you, an' quit your rubberin', or the
train'll start suddently, an' give you a twist in your neck you won't
get over in a hurry.... Ma, you comfortable?.... Cora an' Francie, see
you behave like little ladies, or I'll attend to you later. See how
quiet Sabina is--Say, Sabina, what you doin'? Now, what do you think o'
that! If that child ain't droppin' off to sleep, suckin' the red plush
o' the seat! For all the world like she didn't have a wink o' rest last
night, or a bite or a sup this mornin'--an' she slep' the clock 'round,
an' et a breakfast fit for a trooper. Say, Sabina--here, wake up! An'
take your tongue off'n that beautiful cotton-backed plush, d'you hear?
In the first place, the gen'l'men that owns this railroad don't want
their upholsterry et by little girls, an', besides, it's makin' your
mouth all red--an', second-place, the cars isn't the time to
sleep--leastwise, not so early in the mornin'. Miss Claire, child, don't
look so scared! You ain't committin' no crime goin' along with us, an'
_he_'ll never suspicion anyhow. He's prob'ly on the boundin' biller by
this time, an' Mr. Blennerhasset he don't know you from a hole in the
ground. Besides, whose business is it, anyway? You ain't goin' as _his_
guest, as I told you before. You're _my_ boarder, same's you've always
been, an' it's nobody's concern if you board down here or up there...
"Say, ain't these flowers just grand? The box looks kinder like a young
coffin, but never mind that...
"A body would think all that fruit an' stuff was enough of a send-off,
but Lor--_Mr_. Ronald, he don't do things by halves, does he? It
wouldn't seem so surprisin' now, if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' along
an' all this (Mr. Blennerhasset himself helpin' look after us, an' see
us off--as if I was a little tender flower that didn't know a railroad
ticket from a trunk-check), I say, it wouldn't seem so surprisin' if
he'd 'a' knew _you_ was comin' along. I'd think it was on your account.
What they calls _delicate attentions_. The sorter thing a gen'l'man does
when he's got his eye on a young lady for his wife, an' is sorter
breakin' it to her gently--kinder beckonin' with a barn-door, as the
sayin' is.
"But Mr. Ronald ain't the faintest notion but you've gone back to your
folks in Grand Rapids, an' so all these favors is for _me_, of course.
Well, I certainly take to luckshurry like a duck takes to water. I never
knew it was so easy to feel comfortable. I guess I been a little hard on
the wealthy in the past. Now, if _you_ should marry a rich man, I don't
believe--"
Claire sighed wearily. "I'll never marry anybody, Martha. And besides, a
rich man wouldn't be likely to go to a cheap boarding-house for a wife,
and next winter I--O, isn't it warm? Don't you _wish_ the train would
start?"
At last the train did start, and they were whirled out of the steaming
city, over the hills and far away, through endless stretches of sunlit
country, and the long, long hours of the hot summer day, until, at
night, they reached their destination, and found Sam Slawson waiting
there in the cool twilight to welcome them.
Followed days of rarest bliss for Martha, when she could marshal out her
small forces, setting each his particular task, and seeing it was done
with thoroughness and despatch, so that in an inconceivably short time
her new home shone with all the spotless cleanliness of the old, and
added comeliness beside.
"Ain't it the little palace?" she inquired, when all was finished. "I
wouldn't change my lodge for the great house, grand as it is, not for
anything you could offer me! Nor I wouldn't call the queen my cousin now
we're all in it together. I'm feelin' that joyful I'd like to have what
they calls a house-swarmin', only there ain't, by the looks of it, any
neighbors much, to swarm."
"No," said Ma regretfully, "I noticed there ain't no neighbors--to speak
of."
"Well, then, we can't speak o' them," returned Martha. "Which will save
us from fallin' under God's wrath as gossips. There's never any great
loss without some small gain."
"But we must have some sort of jollification," Claire insisted. "Doesn't
your wedding-day--the anniversary of it, I mean--come 'round about this
time? You said the Fourth, didn't you?"
Martha nodded. "Sam Slawson an' me'll be fifteen years married come
Fourth of July," she announced. "We chose that day, because we was so
poor we knew we couldn't do nothin' great in the line o' celebration
ourselves, so we just kinder managed it, so's without inconveniencin'
the nation any or addin' undooly to its expenses, it would do our
celebratin' for us. You ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feel
to be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with the
noise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! I'm like to miss it this
year, with only my own four young Yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' off
torpeders under my nose."
"You won't miss anything," said Claire reassuringly, "but you mustn't
say a word to Sam. And you mustn't ask any questions yourself, for what
is going to happen is to be a _wonderful_ surprise!"
"You betcher life it is!" murmured Martha complacently to herself, after
Claire had hastened off to confer with the children and plan a program
for the great day.
Ma to make the wedding-cake! Cora to recite her "piece." Francie and
Sammy to be dressed as pages and bear, each, a tray spread with the
gifts it was to be her own task and privilege to contrive. Sabina to
hover over all as a sort of Cupid, who, if somewhat "hefty" as to
avoirdupois, was in all other respects a perfect little Love.
It seemed as if the intervening days were winged, so fast they flew.
Claire never could have believed there was so much to be done for such a
simple festival, and, of course, the entire weight fell on her
shoulders, for Ma was as much of a child in such matters as any, and
Martha could not be appealed to, being the _bride_, and, moreover, being
away at the great house, where tremendous changes were in progress.
But at last came the wonderful day, and everything was in readiness.
First, a forenoon of small explosive delights for the children--then, as
the day waned, a dinner eaten outdoors, picnic-fashion on the grass,
under the spreading trees, beneath the shadows of the mighty
mountain-tops.
What difference if Ma's cake, crowning a perfect feast, had suffered a
little in the frosting and its touching sentiment, traced in snowy
lettering upon a bridal-white ground, _did_ read
FIFTEEN YEARS OF MARRED LIFE.
It is sometimes one's ill-luck to misspell a word, and though a
wedding-cake is usually large and this was no exception, the space was
limited, and, besides, no one but Sam senior and Miss Lang noticed it
anyhow.
A quizzical light in his eye, Mr. Slawson scrawled on a scrap of paper
which he passed to Claire (with apologies for the liberty) the words:
"She'd been nearer the truth if she'd left out the two _rr_s while she
was about it, and had it:
FIFTEEN YEARS OF MA'D LIFE."
Then came Cora's _piece_.
Her courtesy, right foot back, knees suddenly bent, right hand on left
side (presumably over heart, actually over stomach), chin diving into
the bony hollow of her neck--Cora's courtesy was a thing to be
remembered.
LADY CLARE
She announced it with ceremony, and this time, Martha noticed, the
recalcitrant garter held fast to its moorings.
"''Twas the time when lilies blow
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe--'"
_"His!"_ prompted Martha in a loud stage-whisper. _"His_--not 'a'--"
Cora accepted the correction obediently, but her self-confidence was
shaken. She managed to stammer,
"'Give t-to--his c-cousin, L-Lady C-Clare,'"
and then a storm of tears set in, drowning her utterance.
"Well, what do you think o' _that_?" exclaimed Martha, amazed at the
undue sensitiveness of her offspring. "Never mind, Cora! You done it
grand!--as far as you went."
To cover this slight mishap, Claire gave a hurried signal to the pages,
who appeared forthwith in splendid form, if a little overweighted by the
burdens they bore. In some strange way Claire's simple gifts had been
secretly augmented until they piled up upon the trays, twin-mountains of
treasure.
When the first surprise was past, and the wonders examined and exclaimed
over, Martha bent toward Claire, from her seat of honor on the grass.
"Didn't I think to tell you Mr. Blennerhasset come up on the early
train? Sammy, he drove down to the station himself to meet'm. Mr.
Blennerhasset brought up all them grand things--for Mr. Ronald. Ain't
he--I mean Mr. Ronald--a caution to 've remembered the day? I been so
took up with things over there to the great house, I musta forgot to
tell you about Mr. Blennerhasset. Ain't everything just elegant?--
"It's pretty, the way the night comes down up here. With the sharp
pin-heads o' stars prickin' through, one by one. They don't seem like
that in the city, do they? An' the moon's comin' up _great_!"
Claire's eyes were fixed on the grassy slope ahead.
"Who are those three men over there?" she asked. "What are they doing? I
can't make out in the dusk anything but shadow-forms."
"Sam, an' Mr. Blennerhasset, an'--an'--another fella from the
neighborhood. Mr. Blennerhasset he brought up some fire-works to
surprise the young uns, an' they're goin' to set 'em off. It's early
yet, but the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep. An' the kids has had
a excitin' day."
Up shot a rocket, drawing the children's breaths skyward with it in
long-drawn "A-ahs!" of perfect ecstasy.
Then pin-wheels, some of which, not to belie their nature, balked
obstinately, refusing to be coerced or wheedled into doing their duty.
"Say, now, mother," cried Francie excitedly--"that pin-wheel--in the
middle of it was a cork. When it got over spinning fast, I saw the
cork."
"Don't you never do that no more," cautioned Martha. "Never you see the
cork. It's the _light_ you want to keep your eye on!" which, as Claire
thought it over, seemed to her advice of a particularly shrewd and
timely nature.
She was still pondering this, and some other things, when she felt Mrs.
Slawson's hand on her shoulder.
"It's over now, an' I'm goin' to take the young 'uns in, an' put 'em to
bed. But don't you stir. Just you sit here a while in the moonlight, an'
enjoy the quiet in peace by yourself. You done a hard day's work, an'
you give me an' Sammy what we won't forget in a hurry. So you just stay
out here a few minits--or as long as you wanter--away from the
childern's clatter, an'--God bless you!"
Claire's gaze, following the great form affectionately, saw it pass into
the darker shadows, then forth--out into the light that shone from the
open door of the lodge.
"She's _home_--and they're _together_!" Unconsciously, she spoke her
grateful thought aloud.
"Yes, she's _home_--and they're _together_!"
The words were repeated very quietly, but there was that in the
well-known voice, so close at hand, that seemed to Claire to shake the
world. In an instant she was upon her feet, gazing up speechless, into
Francis Ronald's baffling eyes.
"You are kind to every one," he said, "but for me you have only a sting,
and yet--I love you."
* * * * *
Martha was still busy wrestling with the pyramid of dishes left over
from the feast, when at last Claire came in alone.
"Did you get a chance to compose yourself, an' quiet down some under the
stars?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "It's been a noisy day, with lots doin'.
I don't wonder you're so tired--your cheeks is fairly blazin' with it,
an' your eyes are shinin' like lit lamps."
"You knew--you knew he was here!" said Claire accusingly.
"_He?_ Who? O, you mean Mr. Ronald? Didn't I think to tell you, he come
up along with Mr. Blennerhasset? I been so flustrated with all the
unexpected surprises of the day, it musta slipped my mind."
"I've seen Mr. Ronald!" Claire said." I've spoken with him!"
"Now, what do you think o' that! Wonders never cease!"
"Do you know what I did?"
"Search me!"
"I told him--the _truth_."
"We-ell?"
"And--_I'm going to marry him!"_
Mrs. Slawson sat down hard upon the nearest chair, as if the happy shock
had deprived her of strength to support her own weight.
"No!" she fairly shouted.
"_Yes!" _cried Claire. "And, O, Martha! I'm _so_ happy! And--did you ever
_dream_ such a thing could possibly happen?"
"Well, you certaintly have give me a start. I often thought how I'd
_like_ to see Mr. Ronald your _financiay_ or your _trosso_, or whatever
they call it. But, that it would really come to pass--" She paused.
"O, you don't know how I dreaded next winter," Claire said, as if she
were thinking aloud. "I went over it--and I went over it, in my
mind--what I'd do--where I'd go--and now--_Now!_... I couldn't take that
fine job you had your eye on for me, not even if it had come to
something. Don't you remember? I mean, the splendid job you had the idea
about, that first night I was sick. I shan't need it now, shall I,
Martha?"
"You got it!" said Martha.
Claire's wide eyes opened wider in wonderment. She stared silently at
Mrs. Slawson for a moment. Then the light began to break in upon her
slowly, but with unmistakable illumination.
"You--don't--mean?" she stammered.
"Certaintly!" said Martha.
THE END