Part 16

"But there's one thing I 'd stake my life on--she would n't marry a man for his money. A man 's got to be loved for himself--not for what he can give a woman, or do for her, but just for himself, if it's going to be the real thing, and _last_. And what am I that a girl like that should love me--" Jack was growing very humble. He pulled himself together: "Anyhow, I'll send the flowers and the sentiment, _I mean it_; I don't care what she thinks!" Jack's courage rose as he began to feel something like defiance of Fate.

Just then his chum came in.

"There's no use, Sherrill," he said, flinging himself down upon the cushioned seat Jack had just vacated; "we can't have the theatricals unless you take the girl's part. It won't put you out any--smooth face and no scrub. You 've been it once, and it will be a dead failure if you aren't in it now."

"I don't see how I can," replied Jack, shortly, for this intrusion on his mood irritated him. "I told you, all of you, at the Club last year, that I would n't play after I was a Junior."

"Well, what if you did?" rejoined his chum, a little crossly. "You 're not so uncompromisingly steadfast in other things that you can't afford to change your mind in such a trifle as this."

"Come, don't be touchy," said Jack, good-humoredly. "Hit right out from the shoulder, old man, and tell me what you mean."

Dawns smiled, clasped his hands under his head, and raised his merry blue eyes to Jack, who was lighting up.

"They say over at the Club that you have thrown Maude Seaton over, but Grayson took up the Seaton cudgels and made the statement that she had thrown you over, and you won't take the girl's part in the play because she is coming on for it."

Jack hesitated. He hated to play at any comedy of love when his heart was throbbing with the genuine article. But, after all, it might be the best way to silence the Club's tongues as well as some others in Boston and New York.

"I 'll help you out this once, Dawns, but I tell you plainly I won't have anything more to do with the Club theatricals while I 'm in college," he replied, ignoring both of Dawns' statements, which omissions his chum noticed, and made his own thoughts: "Just like Sherrill. You can't get any hold of him to know what he really feels and thinks."

Jack played his part accordingly, repeating the success of the year before, and scoring new triumphs. He was glad when it was over, and he could go back to his room "dead tired," as he said to himself, but with the conviction that he had settled matters to his own satisfaction if not to that of one other.

The room was in such disorder! Evidently, Dawns had been having a little spree before Jack's late return, and the smoke had left the air heavy.

Jack dropped his paraphernalia in the middle of the floor--peeling himself as he stood yawning and thanking his lucky star that he was not born a woman to be handicapped by such things!--_decollete_ white satin waist, long-trained satin gown, necklace--Jack gave the string a twitch, for it had knotted, and the Roman pearls rolled into unreachable places all over the floor. Off flew one white satin slipper--number ten, broad at the toes!--with a fine "drop kick" hitting the ceiling and landing on the book-shelves; the other followed suit. White fan with chain, white elbow gloves, corsage bouquet--all dropped in a promiscuous heap. A general stampede loosened silk under-skirt and dainty muslin petticoat, lace-trimmed. A wrench,--corset-cover and corsets were torn from their moorings. Jack groaned--or something worse--at the flummery, and, leaving everything as it had dropped, rushed off into his bedroom, only to find that he had forgotten to take off the blonde wig and wash off the rouge.

At last, however, he was asleep, and slept the sleep of the justified.

He slept both soundly and late, but when he awoke the next morning his first thought was of the flowers for Mount Hunger and the appropriate sentiment. Accordingly, having reckoned the arrival of train, departure of stage, etc., to a minute, he selected the flowers, wrote the sentiment, not without forebodings of the usual kind, and despatched both to Mount Hunger with high hopes, notwithstanding prescient feelings. Then, metaphorically, he sat down to await an answer. He waited just two months, and during that time had turned emotionally black and blue more than once at the thought of his temerity in sending such a message.

Hazel had written him at once from North Carolina to tell him of March's illness, and on the same day she sent a penitent note to Rose, confessing her shame at her attempt at deception, and explaining that it was because she loved her cousin so dearly she could not bear to see his gift slighted.

When March was out of danger, Rose had written to Hazel a frank, loving letter, blaming herself for her want of self-control, and begging Hazel's forgiveness for her harsh words:

"It's all my old pride, Hazel dear," she wrote, "that I have to fight very often. It was most kind of Mr. Sherrill to remember me when he has so many, many other friends whom he has known longer, and I shall write and tell him so. Now that my heart is lighter on account of dear March, I can write more easily.

"We miss you so! when are you coming back to us? Chi looks perfectly disconsolate, and we all feel a great deal more than we care to say.

"I wish you were here to have the fun of the French evenings, three times a week. You speak it so beautifully, Mr. Ford says, and I thank you so much for all the help you gave me in teaching me. Mr. Ford speaks it very well, too, so Miss Alton says. We all meet at our house once a week on March's account, and then one evening in the week, Miss Alton and I (she 's lovely) go over to the Fords' for music. He has sent for some lovely songs for me--old English ones, and we're going to have a little celebration for March's birthday in May. How I wish you were to be here!

"March is lying on the settle, dreaming over that exquisite photograph of Cologne Cathedral you sent him; I've just asked him if he had any messages for you, and he smiled--oh, it's so good to see his dear smile again! You can't think how tall he's grown since his illness, and he's so thin--and said, 'I sent one to her this morning myself; she can't have two a day.' But you know March's ways.

"Now I must stop; Mr. Ford is coming over on horseback and I am riding Bob now. I wear an old riding-habit of Martie's--it fits fine! I have more to tell you, but will finish after I get back from the ride--there comes Mr. Ford--"

This letter Hazel duly forwarded to her cousin. "He 'll know by what she says in it that she really was pleased, for all she acted so queer," she said to herself as she enclosed it in one to Jack, in which she took special pains to inform him that he had never told her whether he had given those verses Rose sang to Miss Seaton.

"I told Rose I was sure they were for Miss Seaton, and Rose said she did n't mind copying them herself for you if you wished them. Do tell me if you gave them to her. I told Rose your valentine to her last year was a rose-heart. I hope you don't mind my telling, for, you know, Jack, all our family think you are engaged to her--"

Jack dropped Hazel's letter at this point and gave a decided groan.

"What luck!" he muttered. "It's all up with the whole thing now. No girl of any spirit would stand all that--and Hazel meddling so! thinking she is doing her level best to explain matters;--What an ass I was to send that flower-valentine to Maude--and she thinks I gave her those verses! and there 's this Ford skulking round and having it all his own way; he 's just the kind a girl would care for--those musical cranks are no end sentimental. Hang it all!"

Jack thrust his hands deep into his pockets, took several decided turns up and down the room, squared his shoulders, pursed his lips, cut his two classroom lectures, ordered up Little Shaver and rode out to the polo grounds, where, finding himself alone, he put the little fellow through his best paces, ignoring the fact that snow and ice wore on the pony's nerves--and had a game out to himself.

When just two months had passed, he received a note from Rose, his first, and it was accorded the reception due to first notes in particular. After this, Jack developed certain wiles of diplomacy, he had thus far, in his various experiences, held in abeyance. He wrote sympathetic notes to Mrs. Blossom; commissioned Chi to find him another polo pony--Morgan, if possible--among the Green Hills; sent March a set of illustrated books on architecture, and complained to Doctor Heath of a pain that racked his chest; at which the Doctor's eyes twinkled. He said he would examine him later, but he was convinced it was heart trouble, the symptoms were apt to mislead and confuse. He added gravely: "Too much hard polo riding, Jack; get away into the country--mountains if you can, and you 'll recuperate fast enough. I 'll make an examination in the fall."

Jack obeyed to the letter, and what a month of September that was!

There were glorious rides with Rose along the beautiful river valley and over the mountain roads. There were delightful evenings at the Fords', and silent, beatific walks with Rose homewards beneath the harvest moon. There were morning rambles with Rose up over the pastures and deep into the woodlands for late ferns and hooded gentians. There were adorable hours of doing nothing but adore, while Rose was busy about her work, setting the table for tea (Jack paid his board at the inn, but he lived at the Blossoms'), or laying the cloth for dinner, or on Saturday morning even making rolls for the tea to which the whole party at the inn were invited.

Chi was in his glory. Little Shaver came trotting regularly every day up through the woods'-road, and whinnied "Good-morning" first to Fleet, then to Chi. There were general coaching-parties to Woodstock and Brandon, in which Mrs. Blossom was guest, and a grand tea at the Fords' for all the guests, with a musicale for a finish, and an informal dance in the Blossoms' barn to which all the Lost Nation were invited.

They accepted, one and all. Captain Spillkins was in his element, so he said. He and Mrs. Fenlick danced a two-step in a manner to win the commendation of the entire assembly. Miss Elvira and Miss Melissa went through the square dance escorted by Jack and Uncle Jo. There were round dances and contra dances. Uncle Israel contributed an "1812" jig, and Mr. Clyde passed round the hat for his sole benefit. There were waltzes for those who could waltz, and polkas for those who could polka, and schottische and minuet. "There never was such a dance since before the Deluge!" declared Mrs. Fenlick, when Captain Spillkins escorted her to a seat on a sap-bucket; and then they all went at it again in a grand finale, the Virginia Reel--Chi and Hazel, Mr. Clyde and Aunt Tryphosa for head and foot couple; Maria-Ann with Jack; Alan Ford with Mrs. Fenlick; the Colonel with Mrs. Blossom whom he admired greatly; March and Miss Alton--such a double row of them!

Poor Reub sat in one of the empty stalls and watched the fun with slow, half-understanding smile, and Ruth Ford reclined in a rocking-chair in the corner, and with merry laughter and sparkling wit soothed the dull ache in her heart that the knowledge that she was henceforth to be a "Shut-out" from all that life had at first given her.

The next day after the dance there was a grand dinner given at the inn by the Newport party to all the Lost Nation; and, later on, private entertainments for Mr. and Mrs. Blossom and the Fords. At last, when the first maple leaves crimsoned and the frost silvered the mullein leaves in the pasture, Hazel, her father, Jack, and their friends bade good-bye to the Mountain and all its joys of acquaintance, and in some cases, friendship, and turned their faces, not without reluctance on the part of some of them, city-wards.

"Oh, mother! has n't it been too beautiful for anything?" exclaimed Rose, turning to her mother, as the last of the riding-party waved his cap in farewell to those on the porch. It was Jack.

"We have had a happy summer, Rose;--I think they have, too," her mother added, shading her eyes from the setting sun. "You 'll be very lonely here at home, dear, after all this gayety."

"Lonely! Why, Martie Blossom, how can you think of such a thing!" said Rose, still scanning the lower road for a last glimpse of the riders. "See, see, they are all waving their handkerchiefs!"

The whole Blossom family laid hold of what they could--napkins, towels, a table-cloth, and Chi seized his shirt, which he had hung on the line to dry, and waved frantically until the party was no longer to be seen.

"Lonesome! the idea," said Rose, turning to her mother. "Think of all the studying March and I have to do, and the French evenings, and the Fords, and Thanksgiving coming, and then Christmas, and then--

"Then," said Mrs. Blossom, interrupting her, "my Rose takes a little plunge into that whirlpool of gay life and fashion in New York."

"Yes," said Rose, with a happy smile that spoke volumes to her mother, "I do look forward to it, Martie dear; but the whirlpool shan't suck me under; I shall come home just your old-fashioned Rose-pose."

"I hope so, dear," said her mother, a little wistfully, and called the children in to supper.

Indeed, they found little opportunity to miss their friends in the ensuing months; for there came kindly letters, and friendly letters, and something very nearly resembling love-letters. The mail brought papers, books, and magazines. The express brought to Barton's River many a box of lovely flowers. At Christmas came more than one remembrance for them all, including Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann, and four special invitations for Rose to visit in New York directly after the holidays. One was from Mr. Clyde--with an urgent request from Hazel to say "yes" by telegram and "relieve her misery," so she put it--; one from Mrs. Heath; one from Aunt Carrie, and a gushingly cordial one from Mrs. Fenlick! Each claimed her for a month. But Mrs. Blossom shook her head.

"No, no, dear, you would wear your welcome out. I shall need you at home by the last of February. I think you can accept only Mr. Clyde's and Mrs. Heath's. You can accept social courtesies from the other four of course."

"But, mother," Rose's face was the image of despair, "what shall I wear? Just hear what Hazel has planned--'lunches, dinners, theatre, concerts'--why! I can never go to all those things."

"I 've thought of that, too, Rose; but the little colt shan't go bare this time--it will take some courage, dear, to wear the same things over and over again, not to mention the puzzle of planning for it all."

"I 'm not 'Molly Stark' for nothing," laughed Rose, and the two women began to plan for what Chi called "Rose's campaign." The pretty white serge was lengthened and made over to appear more grown up, as Cherry put it; the dark blue wash silk--Hazel's gift that had never been made up--was fashioned into a "swell affair"--so March pronounced it; the old-fashioned blue lawn was cut over into a dainty full waist, and then Mrs. Blossom added her surprise--a delicate blue taffeta skirt to match the waist. Rose went into raptures over it, and sought the best bedroom regularly three times a day to feast her girl's eyes on the silken loveliness as it lay in state on the best bed. A new dark blue serge was to do duty for a street suit, with a plain felt hat. For best, there was a turban made of dark blue velvet to match the wash silk.

"And four pairs of gloves! Martie Blossom, you are an angel, to give me these that Hazel gave you a year ago last Christmas. Have you been keeping them for me all this time?"

Mrs. Blossom smiled assent, and was rewarded by a squeeze that interfered decidedly with her breathing apparatus.

The night before she left, Rose "costumed" for the benefit of the entire family, who were assembled in the long-room, together with Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann, to see Rose in her finery.

"I 'll make it a climax," said Rose, laughing half-shamefacedly, as she slipped upstairs to change her street suit, which had brought forth admiring "Ohs" and "Ahs" from the children, and favorable criticism from their elders.

Down she came in her white serge; there were nods and smiles of approval.

Her reappearance in the wash silk and velvet turban was the signal, on March's part, for a burst of applause, and cries of admiration from Budd and Cherry.

"Grand transformation scene!" cried March, as Rose tripped down in the blue taffeta, looking like a very rose herself.

"Beats all!" murmured Chi, who had become nearly speechless with admiration, "what clothes 'll do for a good-lookin' woman; but for a ravin', tearin' beauty like our Rose--George Washin'ton! She 'll open those high-flyers' eyes."

"Cinderella--fifth act!" shouted March as, after a prolonged wait, he heard Rose on the stairs.

But was it Rose?

The beautiful India mull of her mother's had been transformed into a ball-dress. She had drawn on her long white gloves and tucked into the simple, ribbon belt three of Jack's Christmas roses.

Maria-Ann gasped, and that broke the, to Rose, somewhat embarrassing silence.

Marshalled by March, the whole family formed a procession, and Rose was reviewed:--back breadths, front breadths, flounces, waist, gloves; all were thoroughly inspected.

Chi touched the lower flounce of the half-train gingerly with one work-roughened forefinger, then, straightening himself suddenly, sighed heavily.

"What's the matter, Chi?" Rose laughed at the dubious expression on his face.

"You ain't Rose Blossom nor Molly Stark any longer. You 're just a regular Empress of Rooshy, 'n' you don't look like that girl I took along to sell berries down to Barton's last summer, 'n' I wish you--" he hesitated.

"What, Chi?" said Rose.

"I wish you was back again, old sunbonnet, old calico gown, patched shoes 'n' all--"

"Oh, Chi, no, you don't," said Rose, laughing merrily; "you forget, I shall probably see Miss Seaton down there in New York, and you wouldn't want me to appear a second time before her in that old rig."

"You 're right, Rose-pose," replied Chi, his expression brightening visibly. He drew close to her and whispered audibly:

"Just sail right in, Molly Stark, 'n' cut that sassy girl out right 'n' left. She never could hold a candle to you."

"Sh-sh, Chi!" said Mrs. Blossom, meaningly, but with a twinkle in her eye.

"I mean just what I say, Mis' Blossom. Folks can't come up here on this Mountain to sass us to our faces, 'n' she _did_;--I've stayed riled ever since, 'n' I hope she'll get sassed back in a way that 'll make her hair stand just a little more on end than it did, when she gave that mean, snickerin' giggle--"

"Chi, Chi," Mrs. Blossom interrupted him in an appeasing tone.

"You need n't Chi me, Mis' Blossom. These children are just as near to me as if they was my own, 'n' when they 're sassed, I 'm sassed too; 'n' my great-grandfather fought over at Ticonderogy, 'n' I ain't bound to take any more sass than he took--"

By this time the whole family were in fits of laughter over Chi's persistent use of so much "sass," and, at last, Chi himself joined in the laugh at his excessive heat:--

"Over nothin' but a wind-bag, after all," he concluded.

On the following morning, Mr. Blossom, Chi, March and Budd drove down to Barton's to see Rose off. The old apple-green pung had been fitted with two broad boards for seats, and covered with buffalo robes and horse blankets. There was just room in the tail for Rose's old-fashioned trunk and a small strapped box, which held two dozen of new-laid eggs, six small, round cheeses, and a wreath of ground hemlock and bitter-sweet--a neighborly gift from Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann to Hazel and Mr. Clyde.

As the train moved away from the station, Chi watched it with brimming eyes.

"She'll never come back the same Rose-pose, livin' among all those high-flyers--never," he muttered to himself; but aloud he remarked, with forced cheerfulness, turning to Mr. Blossom while he dashed the blinding drops from his eyes with the back of his hand:

"Looks mighty like a thaw, Ben; kind of wets down, don't it?"

"Yes, Chi," said Mr. Blossom, busy with conquering his own heartache, "we 'd better be getting on home;" and the masculine contingent of the Blossom household climbed into the pung and took their way homeward in silence.

But what a reception that was for the transplanted Rose!

Mr. Clyde met her at the Grand Central Station, and Rose felt how welcome she was just by the hand-clasp, and his first words:

"We have you at last, Rose; I would n't let Hazel come because I thought the train might be late, and there's a cold rain falling. Martin, take this box--"

"Oh, no; I must carry that myself," laughed Rose, looking up at the liveried footman with something like awe. "I promised Aunt Tryphosa and Maria-Ann I would n't let any one take them till they were safe in the house; thank you," she bowed courteously to Martin, who confided to the coachman so soon as they were on the box: "Hi 'ave n't seen nothink so 'ansome since Hi 've bean in the States."

As the brougham whirled into the Avenue, and the electric lights shone full into the carriage, Rose could see the luxuriously upholstered interior, and a sudden thought of the old apple-green pung and the buffalo robes dimmed her eyes. But it was only for a moment; Mr. Clyde was telling her of Hazel's impatience, and how the coachman had had special orders from her to hurry up so soon as he should be on the Avenue, and he had hardly finished before the coachman drew rein, slackening his rapid pace as he turned a corner, Martin was opening the door, and Hazel's voice was calling from a wide house entrance flooded with soft light:

"Oh, Rose, my Rose! Is it really you, at last?"

"And this, I am sure, is Wilkins," said Rose, when finally Hazel set her arms free. "We 've heard so much of you, that I feel as if I had known you a long time." Rose held out her hand with such sincere cordiality that Wilkins' speech was suddenly reduced to pantomime, and he could only extend his other hand rather helplessly towards the box that Rose still carried. But Rose refused to yield it up.

"Here, Hazel, I promised Maria-Ann and Aunt Tryphosa I would n't give it into any hands but yours. Oh! be careful--they 're eggs!"

"Eggs!" repeated Hazel, laughing. "Here, Wilkins, unstrap it for me, quick--Oh, papa, look!" She held out the box to Mr. Clyde, and, somehow, John Curtis Clyde for a moment thought with Chi, that there was going to be a "thaw." Each egg was rolled in white cotton batting and wrapped in pink tissue paper. The six little cheeses were enclosed in tin-foil, and cheeses and eggs were embedded in the Christmas wreath. On a piece of pasteboard was written in unsteady characters:

To Mr. John Curtis Clyde of New York City, with the season's compliments.

MOUNT HUNGER, VERMONT, January 6th, 1898.

"And you 've had such lovely flowers come for you, five boxes of them, Rose, and piles of invitations. I 'm sure you 're engaged up to Ash Wednesday."

"Come, Chatterbox," said her father, smiling at her volubility, "Rose has just time to dress for dinner; you know Aunt Carrie and Uncle Jo are coming to-night."