OWN FOLK
“Little Windows,” Mount Hebron,
October 22nd.
_Carin dear_:
I was not quite so well after writing you. Aunt Lorena says I mustn’t
write so much at one time again till I am stronger. This is just to say
that Mother McBirney has been sent for, though I can’t see how she is to
leave home. Who will look after the men? Oh, how I am needed in that
little house! And here I lie in this beautiful room, idle, of no use to
anyone. And so sleepy! I never dreamed anyone could be so sleepy.
When I dream now, it is all about my grandmother. To think of an own
grandmother! In my dreams she comes creeping softly into the room and
strokes my hair. I do not believe a word they say about her being proud.
I am sure she is gentle. At least, her dream-hand on my head is so.
I am writing to Mary Cecily Rowantree, and she can send the letter on to
Keefe O’Connor—to “brother” as she always calls him. Have you noticed
that she almost never speaks his name? That is, I suppose, because he
does not bear the one that was given him when he was christened. What a
strange story is his!
_Good-bye_, _yellow-haired one_,
_Azalea_.
* * * * *
October 24th.
_Dear old Carin_:
Mother McBirney has come. I have been alone with her. Of course she had
been told everything by Uncle David on the way over.
“Mother-heart, mother-heart,” I said to her, “tell me what I shall do.
Here we are alone, we two, and no one is listening. Whatever you decide
on shall be done. No matter what anyone says, we shall do it.”
“Zalie,” she said in that lovely drawling voice of hers, “I reckon the
time has come for me and you to go our separate ways.”
“Mother, do you know what I have been told? I am rich. I shall have
money to spend. All at once, in one lump, right now, I can have the
money that would have been mine all during the years since my father
died. I have asked them, and they say that though I am not of age, I may
do what I please with that money. So, mother-heart, you and Father
McBirney can go to the Springs, and Jim can go to school. You can rent
out the horses and the cattle or sell them. Perhaps Annie Laurie will
add them to her stock. You can sell the chickens and the bees, or take
them to Annie Laurie’s too.”
“Oh, Zalie,” cried Ma, “how can you go on talking about chickens and
bees?”
“Because,” said I, “sooner or later that is what the three of you will
sit up late at night talking about. I’m trying to arrange it so that you
will not say ‘no.’ For I can’t stand it to have Father McBirney
suffering the way he is, and you going sad and poor and Jim not having
school. I knew all the time that I couldn’t stand it—that I’d have to do
something about it. And now here, along comes Accident—whom I shall make
my goddess—and she brings me among my own folk, and gives me a fortune.”
“And parts us, Zalie.”
“No, Mother McBirney. I say no! You shall go to the Springs, you shall
see Father get well. I shall visit you from time to time. Then you will
go back to your own home, perhaps, and some day I shall build on that
lovely spot on the little bench, halfway up the mountain-side. You
remember that place with the three great tulip trees and the spring of
cold water? I’ll build me a little house there, and all the mountain
people and all the valley people shall visit me. It will be near you, so
that every time you go to town you will be obliged to stop and have
something to eat and to get a drink at my spring. You shall not lose me,
no, no, no.”
I gave her such a hug that she gasped. Though she is so gentle I think
she always rather liked my fierce ways.
“Will you be living in that house alone, Zalie?” she asked me, looking
just like Jim when he teases. And though there wasn’t a thing to make me
blush—not one thing—I got to blushing and couldn’t stop. I was perfectly
furious with myself. How is it that sensible people are sometimes so
silly?
“Mother McBirney,” I said at last, “is it nice of you to peer into the
future like that? Don’t you think you are prying and—and—”
She wouldn’t let me finish. Anyway, I didn’t know _how_ to finish.
“Don’t you do some of that kind of prying yourself?” she asked.
Would you have thought Ma McBirney could have been so naughty?
You will remember, Carin, that when your dear father and mother asked me
to live with them and be a sister to you, I refused because I could not
bring myself to leave Mother McBirney. But then she was all sore and
suffering from the loss of her Molly; she had done the one wild and
lawless thing of her life in stealing me from the terrible people who
claimed me. I _had_ to stay with her then. But now I am a young woman.
I must make my own way, and I must help the McBirney family. Moreover,
the people who now take me are my kin. In going with them I do my duty
to my own family, to my grandmother; I can make amends to her for all my
father made her suffer. Do you not see how different it is?
I explained it all to Mother McBirney. She is reconciled—very quiet and
rather strange, but reconciled. She will get happier as time goes on.
Oh, I mean to make her very happy.
It is interesting to see her and my uncle and aunt together. My uncle
and aunt are very grand people, Carin, but they have no better manners
than little Ma McBirney. You and I always said she had the nicest
manners in the world. They begin and end with kindness, and gentleness
and thoughtfulness, and with it all, she is so self-respectful, as if she
felt it her duty to cherish her own soul and mind and body because they
were God’s gift to her.
Did I tell you that Mrs. Babb, the moon-shiner’s mother, was over taking
care of Father McBirney and Jim? That fierce mother of wild sons! I
remember describing her that way to myself long ago. But you know how
kind and nice she can be. She always was an obliging neighbor, and so,
for the matter of that, were her sons. You have heard about the time her
son set Hi Kitchell’s arm and was good to Jim. That was when I was
kidnapped, and the whole countryside was searching for little Azalea.
The funniest thing happened to Uncle David and Mother McBirney when they
were coming over here together. Uncle David knew, of course, about my
going into the little cabin and warming myself before the fire and
helping myself to soup, so he was watching out for the place. And sure
enough he came to it, and he and Mother McBirney went in. There were two
women there, a mother and daughter, and both were very nice looking,
though one, of course, was no longer young. They seemed different from
most of the mountaineers; not inclined to tell much about themselves.
They showed the picture of me, and they said they had enjoyed the things
I left. They talked about me quite a little, and were polite, though
cold and offish. Uncle David had his camera with him, and he wanted to
take pictures of them to bring to me, but they objected to that. Wasn’t
that queer of them? Some day I am going to call on them, unless indeed I
leave this part of the country forever and ever. I suppose I may.
Aunt Lorena doesn’t want me to go to Mallowbanks—that is the name of the
old Knox place—all in my homespun. She wants to dress me out as Queen
Guinevere did Enid. I have asked her to wait, but she is not very well
content to do so.
“If you are presented to your grandmother in homespun,” she says, “she
will remember it to the last day of her life. Your grandmother is very
old, Azalea, so that she is inclined to pay too much attention to little
matters. She will say to everyone who comes to the house: ‘This is
Azalea, the daughter of my dear Jack. She came to me in homespun, but I
have clothed her in silk—as becomes her.’ Oh, it is so easy to imagine
her saying it. Truly, she will never forget the homespun nor let you
forget it. What is worse, she will insist on dressing you herself, and
she will probably do it out of the cedar chests in the lumber room.”
“Out of the cedar chests?” said I.
“Yes, the famous, terrible cedar chests. They are filled with loot from
all over the world—old shawls and crepes and brocades and laces. Never
was there such an expensive and unusable mess. Ever since David married
me she has wanted me to make over these things—”
“And very lovely you would look in them,” broke in my Uncle David in
gentle rebuke.
“Lovely, indeed,” cried Aunt Lorena. “I would look like a romantic
scarecrow. No, David, the ladies who wore those gowns dressed in the
fashion of their day, and I mean to dress in the fashion of mine. I warn
Azalea right now that if she doesn’t let me send to Charleston for fit
and proper clothing for her, she’ll be wearing those stiff old things to
the day of her—marriage.”
“Oh, I’d be certain to have my wedding dress made out of the chests, I
should think,” I said, perfectly delighted with the idea. “Hasn’t
grandmother saved her wedding dress?”
“Of course she has, and her wedding chemise and slippers and veil and
fan.”
“Oh,” I cried, “just let me lie still and think about it awhile. Isn’t
it like a fairy tale?”
So I did. I lay still quite a while looking at the fire, and wondering
if it could be true that I, Azalea Knox, who had believed myself to be
little more than a waif, was coming into a home all mellow and beautiful
with old customs and memories and loves—and hates, too, I suppose. Then
I seemed to feel that something was wrong, and looking up I saw my new
Uncle David frowning at me—distinctly frowning.
So I said:
“Why do you frown, Uncle David?”
And he said:
“Why are you so interested in bridal dresses?”
“Aren’t all girls interested in bridal dresses?”
“Not when they are infants like yourself, miss.”
“I am eighteen and over,” I said. “If you don’t have daydreams when you
are eighteen, when will you have them?”
“True for you, Azalea,” cried my aunt with her high laugh. “Pay no
attention to him. I was just turned seventeen when we became engaged.”
“The circumstances were peculiar,” said my uncle, rather red in the face.
“They were,” said my aunt. “You wanted me, and you were afraid I
might—want someone else.”
“But we waited,” said my uncle, “a long, long time.”
“Two years and three months,” said my aunt.
“Few, however, would be justified in marrying so young,” said my uncle.
“But we were peculiarly suited to each other. Both families approved.
You, my dear Azalea, have not been so situated as to see much of people
in your own station of life, so it will probably be many years before you
will have any occasion to ask my mother for her old white satin wedding
gown.”
I said nothing at all but just smiled at the fire. I could feel Uncle
David still watching me. At last he said:
“Why are you smiling?”
“I am happy.”
“Are you still thinking of the wedding gown?”
“Only vaguely.”
“Azalea, have you any secret to tell us?”
“None.”
“Could Mrs. McBirney throw any light on that peculiar smile of yours?”
“Ask her.”
But would dear old Ma go back on me? You know she would not.
“Zalie is like my Jim,” she drawled, “a good deal of a tease.”
I threw her a kiss. And Uncle David shook his fist at me.
Ah, Carin, why are you not here? Why can we not slip in bed side by side
each night as we used up at Sunset Gap? I have so many things to tell
you, and I cannot begin to make them clear merely writing them like this.
Though I find I like to write. I have been reading and reading for years
and thinking how hard it must be to write, and now, for the first time, I
am really trying my hand at it, and I find it about as easy as breathing.
Of course, writing to you, who understand me and my ways so well, makes
it particularly easy. I do not say that I would dare to write for
strangers or that I would like to do it. And yet, I wonder, Carin, if
one were to write a book just as if one were talking to a friend, showing
all one’s heart and counting on the readers to understand and sympathize,
if it would not be a good book.
A book has to be human to be good, doesn’t it? And writing that way,
frankly, even lovingly, I may say, letting people feel that you who are
writing are really a friend, although unknown, would make a book human,
wouldn’t it?
I suppose there are a great many lonely folk in the world who have not
had the good fortune to make friends, or even to find their own home, in
any true and deep sense of the word, and that to such, a friendly book is
a great boon. It is something to take down off the shelf at night in the
quiet hours, and to read over and over again. It helps them to forget
their troubles and even themselves, and they go to bed comforted and
warmed at the heart, remembering that the old world is a pretty kind and
genial place after all.
If I could write, it is such a book as that which I would choose to make.
And do you know, the last few days as I have been lying here thinking and
thinking, I’ve wondered if I might not write a little. It would do such
pleasant things to my life. It would be like planting little gardens of
flowers all about me. Haven’t we a right to plant flowers if we have a
taste for them? Planting flowers and writing, like everything else that
one does, is largely a matter of habit, don’t you think so?
To-morrow Mother McBirney is going home. Uncle David is going to take
her. She is to close up the house, send Jim to school, and betake
herself and Father McBirney to Bethal Springs for the winter. Uncle
David has written down to engage a cosy little furnished cottage for
them. He has given me a check for them. I am very happy, Carin.
I told you I was going to make Accident my goddess. I like Accident.
Just turning around the corner may bring one face to face with—with
something glorious. I feel all the time now as if something delightful
and surprising were going to happen.
_Lovingly_,
_Your Azalea_.
* * * * * * * * *
“Little Windows,” Oct. 29.
Carin, we are off. The “little windows” are all boarded up. The
servants have been driven to the station. Outside the door the touring
car is standing, silent but eager. I swear it looks eager, and that I am
horribly afraid of it. I expect to have a chill. My teeth chatter at
this moment at the thought of riding in that long, raging, rushing thing
around these winding mountain roads. I feel as if this might be the last
letter I shall ever write to you. I said I loved Accident, but that
depends on how she looks. To-day I do not like the looks of her. I cut
her acquaintance. If you never hear from me again, remember how I loved
you.
Aunt Lorena and Uncle David are putting the last touches to things, and I
am sitting on the porch scribbling in my notebook. From here we can see
thirty peaks and many valleys and rivers. The rivers are silver threads
in the purple distance, winding and winding. There is an eagle just
above the house, probably come to see that we get safely away. I wish he
would teach me how to fly so that I wouldn’t have to ride in that
terrible machine.
The only thing that cheers me up is the thought that I am really going
home. After so many homeless years, or years in which I had a home only
by the kindness of others, I am going to my own home, to my own
grandmother, blood of my blood, the mother of my father.
Do you suppose those who love us and are dead, know what is happening to
us? Is my own little mother seeing me this day? Is she glad I am going
to the home which never opened its doors to her? Am I loyal to her in
going? These questions are too hard for me to answer. I only know that
my uncle and aunt would be shocked and deeply offended if I did not go
with them, and I remember that to the last my mother loved my father.
When she lay dead that day in dear Mother McBirney’s house, they found in
the leather pocket book she carried, a little piece of dark hair which
must have been his, with her “wedding lines,” as Mother McBirney called
them, and a little blurred picture which was, no doubt, of him. But her
tears or the rain had dimmed it so we could barely see it.
Your letter was brought me last night, Carin, and was the greatest sort
of a comfort. Oh, I knew you would understand.
Aren’t you taking too many studies? You mustn’t wear yourself out.
Never forget that you are going to be an artist and that you have to
consider your talent above everything else. So be careful not to use
yourself up on mathematics and physics and all those things.
I am glad you are having some good times. That young man who sent you
flowers is a Southerner, is he? From Charleston? Why didn’t you tell me
his name? Perhaps I shall be meeting him. For I am to meet people. I
mean, I am to meet them the way you do. Aunt Lorena will give a “coming
out” party for me. It rather amuses me. Poor Azalea, with her boots
covered with red mud and her hands scratched with briars and burned with
cooking and pricked with sewing, and her hair tumbled every which way,
Azalea who can whistle through her fingers as well as Jim or Hi or any of
the boys, who can climb a fence in a jiffy and shin up a tree if
necessary, to stand all perfumed and proper, in a wonderful old
drawing-room, saying: “Thank you, madam, you are very good to say so.”
“Thank you, sir, indeed I am very much honored to meet my grandmother’s
old friends.” Can you hear me? I wish you could in reality. Perhaps I
can get my aunt to put off the party till Thanksgiving. If so, could you
dash down to Mallowbanks? It is not far from Charleston. You could take
a few extra days from college, couldn’t you?
The very thought of it puts new courage into me. You will find my new
address within. Write me at once. I shall insist that Annie Laurie come
to my party also. What a reunion that would be! To have the old friends
and the new together would be something to remember always.
Maybe the young-man-who-sent-the-roses will be home for Thanksgiving.
Then he could come too, and I would see if he was nice enough to—to be
allowed to send you roses.
Do you suppose Keefe could come? But he wouldn’t, would he? At least,
not unless I got an order for him to paint a portrait. And how could I
do that? But maybe I can insist that he shall paint a portrait of my
grandmother for me. My own grandmother!
There, Uncle David is cranking that terrible machine. I must go. Carin,
we who go to die salute thee!
I will you my amber beads.
_Tremblingly_,
_Azalea_.