CHAPTER XV

AZALEA CHOOSES

“We might be eagles—or angels,” murmured Mrs. Carson, sinking into her seat.

“We couldn’t stand it in the house any longer,” Carin explained. “We made up our minds we’d have a ride even if the roads were bad.”

“The ford must have been pretty deep,” remarked Pa McBirney.

“I took the leading straps of the horses the ladies were riding, and we made a rush for it together,” Mr. Carson explained.

Then silence fell. There certainly was something strange about the night.

“We had other reasons for coming up here to-night,” Mr. Carson said at last. “We came because we knew that we could sit out here with you all, and that we could all look at this wonderful scene, and forget all about our bodies, and our troubles, and our little human way of looking at things. We could be, as my wife said, like eagles, or like angels. We could realize that we really were spirits.”

It was Ma McBirney who murmured: “Yes.”

“We came,” went on Mr. Carson gently, “to ask Azalea to make a choice. We are going to invite her to live with us and to be as our own daughter. She will share equally with Carin in everything; at least as far as it is possible for us to make an equal division. We know the story of her life and that under more fortunate circumstances the home we live in would have been hers. She would have been educated in the best manner and fitted for the life of a lady of position. Now, of our four children only one is left. So we offer her a share of our hearts and our substance. Do you understand, Azalea?”

Carin threw an arm about Azalea’s waist.

“Oh, say yes, dear. We will be so happy.”

“We will make you welcome from our heart of hearts,” said Mrs. Carson. But it seemed as if she were holding something back; and Azalea saw her white hand laid upon Ma McBirney’s arms.

The moon had gone under a dense cloud, and they were left in the bland, moist darkness. And in that darkness there gleamed before Azalea’s mental gaze, the two homes—the great, beautiful manor, and the mountain cabin. She knew little of the life in the former, but what she did know of it came to her now with all its ease, its pleasure, and its promise. She thought of the struggle there in the mountain home; of the sacrifice, the hard work, the eternal “doing without.” Then, as if something above and beyond her came to her to lift her out of herself, she glimpsed the kind wishes and helpful affection of those in the manor; and over against them she placed the tense and tender love of Mary McBirney who had clasped her to her heart when she was motherless.

They did not need her at the manor; but she was greatly needed in the cabin. Love demanded tribute of her. And suddenly, Azalea knew what she must do. If Ma McBirney loved her like a mother, she, Azalea, gave back a daughter’s love. There was, after all, nothing worth thinking of save that—save love. A warm glow swept over her, and the deepest sense of contentment she ever had known in all her restless, curious life of change filled her heart.

“I’ve thought of everything,” she said. “And I thank you, thank you, thank you—you dears!” She turned toward the Carsons, and they could see that she was holding out her hands in the gloom. “But this is my home. Ma McBirney is dearer to me than any one now on the earth. I’ll stay with her—if she wants me.”

And then she suddenly remembered that Mrs. McBirney had not said a word to oppose Mr. Carson’s arguments. Could it be, that because of their poverty, they _wished_ her to go to The Shoals? Little cold tremors ran over her, and her heart turned sick.

“But, ma, do you want me?” she cried with sharp agony.

“Want you!” sobbed ma, holding out her arms. “Want you, honey bird?”

The moon swam out again into the clear sky, transfiguring their world. A mocking bird began to sing, whistling low, muffled notes of sad sweetness.

“It is the word of truth you have spoken, Azalea,” said Mr. Carson slowly, “and I thank you for your honesty, and for your nobility too, my dear. We understand everything; don’t we Lucy, my love?”

“Everything,” replied Mrs. Carson.

“But now we have something to say which is not a request, but practically a command. Next week Miss Parkhurst, a friend of mine and a teacher of unusual ability, is coming to instruct Carin. You are to come daily, Azalea, to share her lessons with her. And that the going and coming may not be too much for you, we are sending a well-trained little horse to you. Its feed and keep shall be, so far as possible, the care of my stable boys, so that my good friend McBirney, who is so willing to take other people’s burdens on him, may not have another one added. But I promise you all, for myself and for Mrs. Carson and Carin, that you shall be thought of, Azalea, as the daughter of this home here on the mountains. And while we shall give you all you will take in the way of schooling and development, we will not do one thing to win you away from the life you have chosen.”

“Thank you, sir,” murmured Azalea. She could say no more.

“Oh, thank you,” added Ma McBirney, crushing down the tormenting little doubts that would arise in her heart. Could she really keep this scarlet tanager in her wren’s nest?

But no doubts troubled the others. Jim sat thinking and thinking. What wonderful things came to Zalie! And he—he was a gawk—a dunce—a silly hill billy! He wondered Azalea paid any attention to him! And yet, somehow, she seemed to think of herself as his sister. Well, then, he’d stick by her, sir, no matter what happened. Till he was an old man with long white whiskers he’d stick by her, and if anyone did her any sort of harm, he’d fix him. He almost leaped to his feet and stood there straight and fierce with his own combat, beside the girl.

[Picture: He stood there, straight and fierce]

“I forgot to say,” observed Mr. Carson in his slow way, “that there will be two little horses. They were a pair and the man didn’t want to sell them singly. So the second one is for Jim.”

“No!” cried Jim, and his voice sounded almost defiant in his excitement.

“Yes!” cried Mr. Carson, mocking him. “Shake hands on it.” And he wrung Jim’s hand in his own. Then the boy’s shyness came on him and made him slip away in the darkness. Yet he was on hand to hold the horses when the Carsons were ready to mount.

They rode away in the moonlight, with the bewitching world of cloud and shine about them. The trees were transformed into enchanted silver things amid which elves and dryads seemed to hide; the rushing water was a torrent of dancing crystal where the water maidens played. The three who rode away, went singing. But this time it was a song that Azalea did not know. She said so to Ma McBirney with a troubled smile.

“What a lovely, lovely song! And I never so much as heard it before.”

Ma McBirney kissed her slowly, and said with meaning:

“But you see, Zalie, they are going to teach it to you.”

Azalea did not answer. She lighted her candle.

“’Night, Jim,” she called. “You couldn’t get rid of me, could you?”

“Could if I tried. Didn’t try.”

“Good night, Pa McBirney.”

“Good night, daughter.” It was the first time he ever had called her that. She slipped over and bending above him, dropped a kiss on his brow as he sat there in the open room—the queer two-sided chamber that divided the closed rooms of the house.

“I reckon I’d better go to your room with you,” said Ma McBirney, “and see you safe.”

So together they climbed the rude stairs to that cotelike chamber that looked out on the transfigured mountain. All about them, save for the throating of the mocking bird, was silence. And in silence the two parted for the night. They had no need of words. Stronger than any mere accident of relationship was the love and trust in their hearts.

* * * * *

THE END.