A Daughter of the Rich Part 19

it's a-goin' to make you an awful sight of work, but, by George Was.h.i.+n'ton! that pesky girl--Miss Seaver, or somethin' like it--riled me so, that I ain't got over it yet, 'n' I 'd backed up Rose if she 'd offered to take the whole of 'em to board for a week. I just b'iled when I heard her laugh, 'n' she can't hold a candle to our Rose; 'n'

she's that sa.s.sy--although you can't put your finger on anything special--that you can't sa.s.s back; the worst kind every time; 'n' she 's set her cap for the straightest sort of chap--that's Hazel's cousin--there is goin', 'n', by George Was.h.i.+n'ton! I 'm afraid he 's fool enough to catch at that bait.

"There!" said Chi, stopping to draw breath, "I 've had my blow-out 'n' I feel better. Now, what are we goin' to do about it?"

"We 'll manage it, Chi," said Mrs. Blossom, smiling in spite of herself at Chi's wrath. "After all, the children have been carefully guarded in our home up here, and, sometimes, I think too much,--it won't hurt them to take a p.r.i.c.k now and then. Besides, Chi," she added, laughing outright as she turned to go into the house, "the children did look perfectly ridiculous in those old berry-picking rigs. I laughed myself when I saw you drive off with them."

But she left Chi grumbling.

That night, after the children were in bed, and Mrs. Blossom was sure they were all asleep except Rose, she went upstairs a second time and spoke softly at the door:

"Rose."

"Yes, Martie; oh, you 're coming! I 'm so glad." And as Mrs. Blossom knelt by the bed, whispering, "Now tell me all about it," Rose threw one arm over her mother's shoulder and whispered her confession.

"They were n't rude to you, dear, were they?"

"No, Martie," whispered Rose, "it was n't that, but I just _hated_ them far a minute,--Hazel's cousin and all."

"That is n't like you, Rose dear, to hate anyone without reason."

"Oh, Martie, I 'm ashamed to tell you--" the arm came close about her mother's neck, "I 'm too old to have such feelings, but I could n't bear them because I looked as I did. I was ashamed of my looks and the children's; and I was ashamed even of Chi--dear, old Chi!--" there was a smothered sob and an effort to go on. "And they were all dressed so beautifully, and Hazel's cousin had on a lovely white flannel suit, and I was just a little rude to him; but it was nothing but my dreadful pride! I did n't know I had it till to-day,--oh, dear!" The head went under the counterpane to smother the sound of the sobs.

"But, my dear little girl--" (When Rose cried, which was seldom, Mrs.

Blossom called her daughter who was as tall as herself, "little girl,"

and nothing comforted Rose more than that.) So now, hearing the loving words, the head emerged from the bedclothes, and a tear-wet face was meekly held over the side of the bed for a kiss.

"But, my dear little girl," Mrs. Blossom went on after the interruption, "surely you were courteous and thoughtful of Hazel's happiness, at least, to ask them all up here to tea. You have n't that to regret."

There was a fresh burst, smothered quickly under the sheet. "Oh, Martie, that's the worst part of it! I did n't ask them for Hazel's sake, but just for myself, because I knew--I knew--" Rose smothered the rising sob; "that if they came, I could have on my one pretty dress, and they 'd see that I--that I--" Rose was unable to finish.

"Could look as well as they did?" said Mrs. Blossom, completing the sentence.

"Yes," sighed Rose, "and I feel like a perfect hypocrite towards every one of them;--and, oh, Martie! the truth is, I was ashamed of being poor and selling berries--" again the head went under the coverlet, and Mrs.

Blossom caught only broken phrases:--

"I am so proud of--of you and Popsey--poor Chi made it worse--they laughed--March was mad, too,--and Miss Seaton 's so pretty--clothes--Hazel's cousin tried to be polite--Hazel--just her dear own self--but she 's rich--and Cherry f-fell into his arms--and I know--and I know--I know he wanted to be out of the whole thing--oh dear!"

Mrs. Blossom patted the bunch under the clothes whence came the smothered, broken sentences, and smiled while a tear rolled down her cheek. After all, this was real grief, and she wished she might have s.h.i.+elded her Rose from just this kind of contact with the world. But she was wise enough not to say so.

"Well, Rose dear, let's look on the other side now the invitation has been given. I, for my part, shall be glad to see what they are like. I know you looked queer in those old clothes, but, after all, would n't it have been just as queer to have been all dressed up selling berries?"

"Yes, I think it would, Martie," said Rose, emerging from her retreat.

"I 'm not such a goose as not to realize we must have looked perfectly comical."

"Well, now comfort yourself with the thought, that to-morrow you need only look just as nice as you can in honor of our guests. I 'm sure I shall," said Mrs. Blossom, laughing softly. "I 'm not going to be outdone by all those 'high-flyers,' as dear, old Chi calls them. We 'll put on our prettiest--and there is n't much choice, you know, for we have just one apiece--and we 'll set the table with grandmother's old china out on the porch, and we 'll give them of our best, and queens, Rose-pose, can do no more. That's _our_ duty; we'll let the others look out for theirs. Now, what will be nice for tea?"

"Not preserves, Martie, for Chi said--" Her mother interrupted her,--

"Never mind what Chi said now, dear, but plan for the tea. We shall have to work as hard as we can jump to-morrow forenoon to get ready. I 'm sorry father can't be at home."

"Could n't we have blackberries and those late garden raspberries Chi has been saving?" said Rose.

"Yes, those will look pretty and taste good; and then hot rolls, and fresh sponge and plum cake, and tea, and cold chicken moulded in its jelly, the way we tried it last month--"

"Oh, that will be lovely, Martie," whispered Rose, eagerly.

"And if Chi and March have the time," went on Mrs. Blossom, entering heart and soul into the hospitable plan, "I 'll ask them to go trout-fis.h.i.+ng and bring us home two strings of the speckled beauties, and if those served hot don't make them respect old clothes--then nothing on earth will," concluded Mrs. Blossom, with mock solemnity.

"Oh, Martie Blossom, you're an angel!" cried Rose, softly, rising in bed and throwing both arms about her mother's neck--"there!"--a squeeze, "and there--" another squeeze and a kiss, "and now you won't have to complain of me to-morrow."

"That's mother's own daughter Rose," said Mrs. Blossom, smoothing the sheet under the round chin. "Now, good-night--sleep well, for I depend upon you to make those rolls to-morrow forenoon."

XI

JACK

Jack Sherrill had always had a particularly warm interest in his Cousin Hazel. He, too, was motherless. The fifteen-year-old lad had gone into one of the great preparatory schools with the terrible mother-want in his heart and life. Like Hazel, he, too, was an only child, and consequently without the guidance and help of an elder brother or sister. His father was all that a man, absorbed in large business interests, could be to the son whom he saw in vacation time only.

"You are born a gentleman, Jack," he had said to him when he was about to enter Harvard; "remember to conduct yourself as such. You 'll not find it an easy matter at times--I did n't--but you will find it pays; and--and remember your mother." Then Mr. Sherrill had wrung his boy's hand, and hurried away.

It was the only time in the three years since she had been lost to him, that his father had borne to mention the lad's mother to him. To Jack it was like a last will and testament, and he wrote it not only in his memory, but on his heart.

He had tried, yes, honestly, amid the manifold temptations of his life and his "set," to live up to a certain ideal of his own, but it had been slow work; and the last three months of his soph.o.m.ore year had been far from satisfactory to himself.

He was thinking this over as he rode slowly up the steep road to Mount Hunger. He had come up that morning to call on Mrs. Blossom, for he knew that the social law of hospitality demanded that he should pay his respects to Rose Blossom's mother and Hazel's guardian before his friends should break bread in the house.

That tall girl in the sunbonnet was a disappointment--but then, he had been a fool to expect anything else just because she happened to sing one of Barry Cornwall's love-songs. He rode out of the leafy woods'-road, and came unexpectedly upon the farmhouse. Chi saw him from the barn, and came out to meet him.

"Is Mrs. Blossom at home?" asked Jack, lifting his cap.

Chi patted Little Shaver's neck, s.h.i.+ning like polished mahogany. "Yes, she 's home, 'n' she 'll be glad to see you. You 'll find her right in the kitchen, 'n' I 'll tend to this little chap--what's his name?"

"Little Shaver, he 's my polo pony."

"George Was.h.i.+ngton! He knows a thing or two. He most winked at me,"

laughed Chi.

"Oh, he knows a stable when he sees it," said Jack, smiling; "but where 's the kitchen?"

"Right off the porch.--There 's Rose singing now; guess that 'll be as good a guide-post as you could have. Come along, Little Shaver,--a good name for you."

Jack went up on the porch, but stopped short at the open door. Rose was at the kitchen table, patting out the dough for the rolls. Her sleeves were turned up above the elbows, and the round, yet delicate, white arms and the pretty hands were working energetically with the rolling-pin.

She was singing from pure lightheartedness, and she emphasized the rhythm by substantial thumps with the culinary utensil.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Rose was at the kitchen table, patting out the dough for the rolls"]