CHAPTER VIII

HOW HER HAIR TURNED WHITE

NOW followed the golden time of Grandmother’s life. I hardly know how to describe the change that came over her with the coming of little Faith. She seemed to grow taller, straighter, fuller. The windflower was gone, and instead there was a tall white lily, growing firm and strong, sending its roots deep down, spreading its broad green leaves and silver petals abroad to the sun.

She took all the care of the baby. Rachel was not strong, and could not bear to lose sleep, and Grandmother joyfully declared that she slept the better for having the cradle beside her bed. Rachel slept late, and Grandmother would take Baby down and tuck her up in Grandfather’s great chair while she got breakfast for Manuel and herself, and then made ready the pretty tray for Rachel. Then out she would run into the garden with the child in her arms, to get the morning dew.

“The morning dew to make you fair, The morning sun to curl your hair; The birds to sing to you, Fly to you, bring to you Everything sweet from everywhere.”

We realized now that many of Grandmother’s little songs were her own; we could see them making; they came bubbling up like bird-songs, and she would try one word and another, one note and another, till all was to her mind.

“How do you do it, Grandmother?” Anne Peace would say. And Grandmother would laugh and say, “I don’t, Anne. There isn’t any making about it; they just come.”

She never used to laugh, except with the children, but now she was full of laughter and singing. How could she help it? she would say. Who could help singing with a baby in the house, and such a baby as Faith?

The children were inclined to be jealous at first, all except “Saturday Nelly,” as they called the little lame girl. She simply fell down and worshipped with Grandmother. The others—well, it seemed strange to some of them, especially the boys, to have such a fuss made over a baby. They had babies at home, that looked (they thought in their ignorance) very like this one; but no one ever called them rose-leaf princesses or lily-bell angels. To be sure, they often cried—squalled, the boys called it—and this one never seemed to, just smiled and cooed.

“Why should she cry,” said Grandmother, “when she is well and happy? If she cries, children, it is our fault, and we must be whipped round the garden with bramble whips all over thorns. So dance now, and make her laugh!” Then they all would dance, and Baby Faith would leap in Grandmother’s arms, and crow, and wave her little arms.

“Where did she come from?” asked a little girl.

“Oh, I was just singing about that before you came,” said Grandmother. “Listen now, and you shall hear.

“Down from the sky came Little White Rose; How they could spare her Nobody knows. Through the gate slipping, Down the air tripping, What she could tell us, If she but chose!

Down to the earth came Little White Rose, Sadly the gold gates After her close; Left them all sighing, Sobbing and crying; Will they come after her, Do you suppose?”

“Will who come?” asked Benny Mack.

“Angels!” said Grandmother. “Troops of them, all shining with great white wings spread, and white lily-dresses; look up there, Benny! what do you see in the blue?”

“Clouds!” said Benny.

“Yes,” said Grandmother. “But I see something else, Benny; a white-lily lady sitting in a cloudy chair. Don’t you see her, Nelly? Stay up there, lily-lady; don’t come down here! Baby Faith is very well, you cannot have her back.”

“Do you know, children,” she said, lowering her voice, “do you know all the things that happened the day Baby came? You don’t? come and sit round here, all of you! Nelly-Nell, you shall—oh, Nelly, you are so good and dear and patient, you shall hold her a little, while I tell. Listen now!

“The lily-bells rang at the sight of her, The sunflower turned to the light of her, The little black mole Crept out of his hole, Just to peep at the darling delight of her.

“The daisies all danced ’neath the feet of her, The roses turned faint at the sweet of her; The firefly’s spark Came and lit up the dark, Just to show us the picture complete of her!”

Two years; two golden, beautiful, heavenly years. Then—it will not be easy to tell this part, yet it must be told.

Anne Peace thinks I am hard upon Rachel; her mother used to think I was just the reverse. She always seemed to me the one wholly selfish person I ever knew. She loved Manuel passionately; but so jealously that she did not even like to see him caress the baby, but would call him to her side, or make some excuse to give the child to Grandmother. And yet she was so jealous of Grandmother too! I do not think she ever cared much for the baby, yet she would have fits of jealous rage now and then.

“I’d like to know whose baby that is, Grandmother!” she would say. Grandmother would look up with the rapt smile she always wore when little Faith was in her arms.

“Whose baby? why, Rachel, don’t you know? White Rose, look at mother! throw a kiss to mother!”

“I don’t know as I do!” Rachel would go on. “I thought ’twas mine; I didn’t know as you’d had one, Grandmother, but maybe I was mistaken; maybe I just thought I had a baby, and she was yours all along.”

Then suddenly stamping her foot, she would flash out in the old way.

“I want you should understand that that child belongs to me and Manuel, and to no one else. I won’t have my own child taken away from me; I tell you I won’t! Give me my baby this minute!” And she would snatch the child from Grandmother’s arms. Of course then the poor little thing would begin to cry, frightened by her wild looks and angry voice, and this only enraged Rachel more. “You’ve turned her against me!” she shrieked. “You’ve stole her away from me, you wicked, wicked—” here she would break into a passion of furious sobs; and Grandmother would take the baby out of her arms and go away without a word, leaving her to storm and rave till Manuel came in to pet and caress her into good humor again.

But again, it would be Manuel at whom she would storm, accusing him of abetting Grandmother in her designs upon the baby; or still again, if she had her wish of the moment, and the baby was left with her for a few minutes, she would find herself ill-used and neglected, and left with all the care of the child on her hands. Well! poor Rachel!

One day—it was a bright fair day, like any other summer day—Manuel had promised to take Rachel for a drive. “We might take Faith!” he said; he had grown very fond of the little one since she began to talk.

“I don’t know as I want to!” said Rachel, who was in a bad mood. “I’d like to have a chance to talk to you once in awhile myself, Manuel.”

“I’ll take Baby out in her carriage,” said Grandmother happily. “We’ll go to the woods, won’t we, White Rose?”

That was enough. “No, you won’t!” said Rachel. “If she’s going out she can come with us. You put on her things, Grandmother, while I get mine.”

Grandmother carried little Faith out to the wagon, and put her into her mother’s arms, and waited to see them start. It was surely a pretty sight, Anne Peace said; she was watching from her window. Rachel had a gipsy hat full of scarlet poppies tied with scarlet ribbons under her chin. Manuel was bare-headed, his crisp black curls framing his brown handsome face; and between the two dark beauties the little White Rose with her silver curls and apple-blossom face. She was dancing up and down on Rachel’s lap, clapping her hands at the horse. A little piece of quicksilver she was.

“Hold her tight, won’t you, Rachel?” said Grandmother; “she does jump about so, bless her!”

“I guess I know how to hold my own child!” said Rachel.

So—they started, and Grandmother waved good-bye, and then went back to the house with a still look; peaceful and serene, but the radiant light gone out of her face.

No one was ever to see that light again.

They were gone about an hour. Grandmother was in the garden watching for them, when they came back. It did not need her eyes to see that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Manuel was driving furiously, lashing the horse, who galloped his best. Rachel was in a heap on the floor of the wagon moaning and crying; what was that little white drift on her knees, with the red stain creeping—

No! no! I cannot tell that part.

Next moment Grandmother had the child in her arms. She towered like an avenging angel over the wretched parents, who cowered at her feet.

“She isn’t dead!” shrieked Rachel. “Grandmother, Grandmother, say she isn’t dead. She’s only stunned a little, I tell you. She—lost her balance—”

But Manuel cried out hoarsely: “No lies now! we were quarrelling, and we forgot her. She sprang out—” he choked, and no more words came.

“_Only one hour!_” said Grandmother. Three words; her terrible eyes said the rest.

Grandmother fought for the child’s life, silently, desperately. The doctor came, a kind, quiet man, and they worked together. He said a few cheering words; but meeting Mrs. Peace’s eyes, he shook his head sadly.

It lasted an hour or more; the spirit nestled wonderingly in the little broken body, lately all light and strength and answering joy. The sweet eyes opened once or twice, seeking the face that had been their sun. It was there, bending close; it smiled, and White Rose smiled back. The last time, the baby arms moved, fluttered up toward Grandmother, then dropped; the eyes closed.

Presently the doctor rose and went out, with bowed head; he was a father of children. The elder woman, weeping silently, went to the window and opened it wide; and the sunset light, rosy and clear, streamed in on Grandmother, sitting motionless, with the dead child in her arms.