He rolled over on the soft pasture turf, face downwards, his head resting on his arms.
"Why, March dear," said his mother, tenderly, "why can't you? I think it 's beautiful, so does father."
A sob shook the long, thin frame. His mother laid her hand on the back of the yellow head. "What is it, my dear boy? Can't you tell me?"
The head shook energetically beneath her hand, and muffled words issued from the grass.
"But, March, we thought it would please you to have such an opportunity.
You have read what Mr. Clyde says--you can look upon it as a loan. I hope you won't have any false pride in this matter--"
"'Tis n't false, mother," came forth from the grass, "and I would like to accept his offer, if only it were n't just his."
"Why not his, March? Surely, Hazel has been like one of us--a real little sister--" Another vigorous wagging of the yellow head arrested his mother in the midst of her sentence.
"Hazel is n't my sister."
"Why, of course, you can't feel as near to her as to Rose, but then, you must see how dear she has become to us all--and Mr. Clyde has put it in such a way, that the most sensitive person could accept it without injury to any feeling of true pride. Take time and think it over, March. It has come upon you rather suddenly, and I have been thinking about it for two weeks."
"It's no use to think it over." Deep tragedy now made itself audible, as March rolled over and sat up, displaying eyes bright with excitement, flushed cheeks, and a generally determined air of having it out with himself.
"Well, I can't understand you, March."
"I wish you could."
His mother smiled in spite of the gravity of the situation. "Can't you tell me? or give me some clue to this mysterious determination of yours?"
March cast a despairing glance at his mother. "Mother, will you promise never to tell?"
"Not even your father, March?"
"No, father, nor any one--ever, mother."
"Very well; I promise, March, for I trust you."
"Oh, mother, have n't you seen?--don't you know, that I--that I love Hazel! And how can I take the money from her father, when I 'm going to try to make her love me and marry me sometime, when I get through studying, and--and--Oh, don't you see?"
And Mrs. Blossom did see--at last.
She spoke very gently, after a minute's silence, in which March's ears burned red to their tips, and his fingers were busy digging up a tiny strawberry-plant by the roots. "My son, I see, and I honor you for feeling as you do; but, March, have you thought of the difference between you and Hazel?"
"What difference, mother?"
Now Mary Blossom was not a worldly woman, neither was she a woman of the world--and she found it difficult to answer.
"You know how Hazel is placed in life, although you do not know with what luxury she is surrounded in her home. She has beauty, a large circle of friends, immense wealth. There will be many who will seek her hand in four years' time, for she has a wonderful charm of her own, for all who come close to her.--Is it worth while to attempt, even, to win this little daughter of the rich? You, a poor boy, with his way to make?"
"But, mother,"--there was strong protest in the voice--"she did n't have any beauty till she came up here to us--and if she _was_ a rich girl, she was n't a healthy one till she lived up here, and I don't see the good of money and a lot of things, if you 're sick, and homely, too."
March waxed eloquent in his desire to convince his mother of the justice of his cause. "And if she hadn't come up here she would n't have got well, and then she would n't have grown so beautiful--and she _is_ beautiful, mother." (Mrs. Blossom nodded assent.) "And I don't see why I have n't just as much right to try to make her love me as any other fellow. You 've told us children, dozens of times, it's just character that counts, and not money, and if I try as hard as I can to keep straight and be a good man like father, I don't see why things would n't be all right in the end."
Mrs. Blossom was silenced,--"hoist with her own petard." "How can I destroy this lovely, young ideal? I dare not," was her thought. But aloud, she said:--"You 're right, March. Nothing but character counts.
Make yourself worthy of this little love of yours. We 'll keep this in our own hearts, and when you are tempted to wrong-doing--and there are fearful temptations for every young man to meet, March,--temptations of which you can form no conception here in the shelter of your home--just remember this little talk of ours, and keep yourself unspotted by the world just by the thought of this dear girl whom you hope some day to win. There is nothing, March, that will keep a young man in the right way like his love for just 'the one girl in the world'--if only she be worthy of his love. And I think Hazel will be--even of you."
March flung his arms about her neck and kissed her heartily:
"Dear, little Mother Blossom, I 'll try, and even if I fail, just the thought of such a glorious-filorious mother that does n't laugh at a fellow--I was afraid you would, though,--will keep me straight enough.
Why, Mother Blossom! I 'd be ashamed to look you in the eyes, if I did a down-right mean thing."
His mother laughed through her tears. "I wonder if many mothers get such a compliment? Come, dear, the dew is beginning to fall--it's been such a heavenly day, I had forgotten it is early spring. Do you feel chilly?"
"Not I," laughed March, and proceeded to relieve his feelings after his favorite method--by turning a double-back somersault down the pasture slope.
As Mrs. Blossom leaned over to kiss tired, sleepy Budd that night, she thought complacently to herself:--
"Well, thank fortune, here 's one who is heart-free," and laughed softly to herself. Chi had not told her of Budd's proposal.
"Wilkins, tell Miss Hazel to come down into the library when she is dressed for dinner."
"Yes, Marse Clyde." Wilkins sprang upstairs two steps at a time, and, knocking at Hazel's door, delivered his message.
"Tell papa I 'm going to dress early, for I 've some things to attend to about the table, Wilkins."
"Fo' sho', Miss Hazel," said Wilkins, with a broad smile of delighted surprise.
"And tell Mrs. Scott I 'll choose the service, if she will take out the linen, and I have ordered the flowers. Papa said I might."
Wilkins skipped downstairs, delivered his message to the amazed housekeeper, and then flew into the kitchen to impart his news to the cook, his confidante and co-worker for years in the Clyde household.
Minna-Lu was preparing a confection, and giving her whole soul to the making, when Wilkins made his appearance. She looked up grimly, the ebony of her countenance shining beneath the immaculate white of her turban:--
"Wa' fo' yo' hyar?"
Wilkins slapped both knees with the palms of his hands, and bent nearly double with noiseless laughter; then, straightening himself, approached Minna-Lu with boldness, despite the repelling wave of the cream-whip that she held suspended over the bowl, and confided to her the change of regime, to her edification and delight.
She put down the bowl and whip, stemmed her fists on her broad hips, and gurgled long and low. "'F little missus done take rale hol' er de reins, dere ain't no kin' er show fo' sech po' trash." She indicated with an upward movement of her thumb the upper regions where the housekeeper was supposed to be.
"When I wan's a missus, I wan's quality folks, an' little missus do take de cake. Nebber see sech er chile. Dem great, shinin' eyes, lookin' at yo' out o' all de do's, an' dat laff soun'in' jes' like de ol' mocker dat nebber knowed nuffin' 'bout bedtime--yo' recollecks?" Wilkins nodded emphatically, but was unprepared for Minna-Lu's next move:--
"Git out o' hyar, yo' good-fo'-nuffin' niggah. Huccome yo' stan'in'
roun' wif yo' legs stiffer 'n de whites er dese yer eggs, an' yo' jaw goin' like de egg-beatah, an' de comp'ny comin' at rale sharp eight."
Minna-Lu took up her bowl, and Wilkins beat a hasty retreat.
It was a warm first of May, and just about the hour when March and his mother were leaving the Wishing-Tree, that Hazel appeared in the dining-room. Wilkins gazed at her in a species of adoration. Her orders appeared to him revolutionary, but he obeyed them implicitly and unhesitatingly.
"Take off the candelabra, Wilkins, it is too warm to-night to have them on; besides, people don't have a nice time talking when they have to peek around them to get a glimpse of the people they 're talking to."
Wilkins whisked off the candelabra as if they had been made of thistledown.
"Dat's so, fo' sho', Miss Hazel. I see de folks doan' talk when dey ain' comf'ble; but I nebber tink ob de can'les."