Nature's Serial Story Part 48

The old gentleman took Amy in his arms for a moment, and then said, "This is too good to keep to myself for a moment," and he hastened the blus.h.i.+ng, laughing girl to his wife, and exclaimed, "See what I've brought you for a Christmas present. See what that sly, silent Webb has been up to. He has been making love to our Amy right under our noses, and we didn't know it."

"_You_ didn't know it, father; mother's eyes are not so blind. Amy, darling, I've been hoping and praying for this. You have made a good choice, my dear, if it is his mother that says it. Webb will never change, and he will always be as gentle and good to you as he has been to me."

"Well, well, well," said Mr. Clifford, "our cup is running over, sure enough. Maggie, come here," he called, as he heard her step in the hall.

"Here is a new relative. I once felt a little like grumbling because we hadn't a daughter, and now I have three, and the best and prettiest in the land. You didn't know what Webb was about."

"Didn't I, Webb--as long ago as last October, too?"

"Oh, Webb, you ought to have told me first," said Amy, reproachfully, when they were alone.

"I did not tell Maggie; she saw," Webb answered. Then, taking a rosebud which she had been wearing, he pushed open the petals with his finger, and asked, "Who told me that 'this is no way for a flower to bloom'? I've watched and waited till your heart was ready, Amy." And so the time flew in mutual confidences, and the past grew clear when illumined by love.

"Poor old Webb!" said Amy, with a mingled sigh and laugh. "There you were growing as gaunt as a scarecrow, and I loving you all the time. What a little goose I was! If you had looked at Gertrude as Burt did I should have found myself out long ago. Why hadn't you the sense to employ Burt's tactics?"

"Because I had resolved that nature should be my sole ally. Was not my kiss under the mistletoe a better way of awakening my sleeping beauty than a stab of jealousy?"

"Yes, Webb, dear, patient Webb. The rainbow s.h.i.+eld was a true omen, and I am sheltered indeed."

CHAPTER LX

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND SHADOWS

Leonard had long since gone to the depot, and now the chimes of his returning bells announced that Burt and Gertrude were near. To them both it was in truth a coming home. Gertrude rushed in, followed by the exultant Burt, her brilliant eyes and tropical beauty rendered tenfold more effective by the wintry twilight without; and she received a welcome that accorded with her nature. She was hardly in Amy's room, which she was to share, before she looked in eager scrutiny at her friend. "What's in the air?" she asked. "What has transfigured Webb? Oh, you little wild-flower, you've found out that he is saying his prayers to you at last, have you? Evidently he hasn't said them in vain. You are very happy, dear?"

"Yes, happier than you are."

"I deny that point-blank. Oh, Amy darling, I was true to you and didn't lose Burt either."

Maggie had provided a feast, and Leonard beamed on the table and on every one, when something in Webb and Amy's manner caught his attention. "This occasion," he began, "reminds me of a somewhat similar one a year ago to-morrow night. It is my good fortune to bring lovely women into this household. My first and best effort was made when I brought Maggie. Then I picked up a little girl at the depot, and she grew into a tall, lovely creature on the way home, didn't she, Johnnie? And now to-night I've brought in a princess from the snow, and one of these days poor Webb will be captured by a female of the MacStinger type, for he will never muster up courage enough--What on earth are you all laughing about?"

"Thank you," said Amy, looking like a peony.

"You had better put your head under Maggie's wing and subside," Webb added. Then, putting his arm about Amy, he asked, "Is this a female of the MacStinger type?"

Leonard stared in blank amazement. "Well," said he, at last, "when _did_ this happen? I give up now. The times have changed. When I was courting, the whole neighborhood was talking about it, and knew I was accepted long before I did. Did you see all this going on, Maggie?"

"Certainly," she answered.

"Now, I don't believe Amy saw it herself," cried Leonard, half desperately, and laughter broke out anew.

"Oh, Amy, I'm so glad!" said Burt, and he gave her the counterpart of the embrace that had turned the bright October evening black to Webb.

"To think that Webb should have got such a prize!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Leonard.

"Well, well, the boys in this family are in luck."

"It will be my turn next," cried Johnnie.

"No, sir; I'm the oldest," Alf protested.

"Let's have supper," Ned remarked, removing his thumb from his mouth.

"Score one for Ned," said Burt. "There is at least one member of the family whose head is not turned by all these marvellous events."

Can the suns.h.i.+ne and fragrance of a June day be photographed? No more can the light and gladness of that long, happy evening be portrayed. Mrs.

Clifford held Gertrude's hand as she had Amy's when receiving her as a daughter. The beautiful girl, whose unmistakable metropolitan air was blended with gentle womanly grace, had a strong fascination for the invalid. She kindled the imagination of the recluse, and gave her a glimpse into a world she had never known.

"Webb," said Amy, as they were parting for the night, "I can see a sad, pale orphan girl clad in mourning. I can see you kissing her for the first time. Don't you remember? I had a strange little thrill at heart then, and you said, 'Come to me, Amy, when you are in trouble.' There is one thing that troubles me to-night. All whom I so dearly love know of my happiness but papa. I wish he knew."

"Tell it to him, Amy," he answered, gently, "and tell it to G.o.d."

There were bustle and renewed mystery on the following day.

Astonis.h.i.+ng-looking packages were smuggled from one room to another.

Ned created a succession of panics, and at last the ubiquitous and garrulous little urchin had to be tied into a chair. Johnnie and Alf were in the seventh heaven of antic.i.p.ation, and when Webb brought Amy a check for fifty dollars, and told her that it was the proceeds of his first crop from his brains, and that she must spend the money, she went into Mr. Clifford's room waving it as if it were a trophy such as no knight had ever brought to his lady-love.

"Of course, I'll spend it," she cried. "I know just how to spend it. It shall go into books that we can read together. What's that agricultural jargon of yours, Webb, about returning as much as possible to the soil?

We'll return this to the soil," she said, kissing his forehead, "although I think it is too rich for me already."

In the afternoon she and Webb, with a sleigh well laden, drove into the mountains on a visit to Lumley. He had repaired the rough, rocky lane leading through the wood to what was no longer a wretched hovel. The inmates had been expecting this visit, and Lumley rushed bareheaded out-of-doors the moment he heard the bells. Although he had swept a path from his door again and again, the high wind would almost instantly drift in the snow. Poor Lumley had never heard of Sir Walter Raleigh or Queen Elizabeth, but he had given his homage to a better queen, and with loyal impulse he instantly threw off his coat, and laid it on the snow, that Amy might walk dry-shod into the single room that formed his home. She and Webb smiled significantly at each other, and then the young girl put her hand into that of the mountaineer as he helped her from the sleigh, and said "Merry Christmas!" with a smile that brought tears into the eyes of the grateful man.

"Yer making no empty wish, Miss Amy. I never thought sich a Christmas 'ud ever come to me or mine. But come in, come in out of the cold wind, an'

see how you've changed everything. Go in with her, Mr. Webb, and I'll tie an' blanket your hoss. Lord, to think that sich a May blossom 'ud go into my hut!"

They entered, and Mrs. Lumley, neatly clad in some dark woollen material, made a queer, old-fas.h.i.+oned courtesy that her husband had had her practice for the occasion. But the baby, now grown into a plump, healthy child, greeted her benefactress with nature's own grace, crowing, laughing, and calling, "Pitty lady; nice lady," with exuberant welcome.

The inmates did not now depend for precarious warmth upon two logs, reaching across a dirty floor and pushed together, but a neat box, painted green, was filled with billets of wood. The carpeted floor was scrupulously clean, and so was the bright new furniture. A few evergreen wreaths hung on the walls with the pictures that Amy had given, and on the mantel was her photograph--poor Lumley's patron saint.

Webb brought in his armful of gifts, and Amy took the child on her lap and opened a volume of dear old "Mother Goose," profusely ill.u.s.trated in colored prints--that cla.s.sic that appeals alike to the hearts of children, whether in mountain hovels or city palaces. The man looked on as if dazed. "Mr. Webb," he said, in his loud whisper, "I once saw a picter of the Virgin and Child. Oh, golly, how she favors it!"

"Mrs. Lumley," Amy began, "I think your housekeeping does you much credit. I've not seen a neater room anywhere."

"Well, mum, my ole man's turned over a new leaf sure nuff. There's no livin' with him unless everythink is jesso, an, I guess it's better so, too. Ef I let things git slack, he gits mighty savage."

"You must try to be patient, Mr. Lumley. You've made great changes for the better, but you must remember that old ways can't be broken up in a moment."

"Lor' bless yer, Miss Amy, there's no think like breakin' off short, there's nothink like turnin' the corner sharp, and fightin' the devil tooth and nail. It's an awful tussle at first, an' I thought I was goin'

to knuckle under more'n once. So I would ef it hadn't 'a ben fer you, but you give me this little ban', Miss Amy, an' looked at me as if I wa'n't a beast, an' it's ben a liftin' me up ever sence. Oh, I've had good folks talk at me an' lecter, an' I ben in jail, but it all on'y made me mad.

The best on 'em wouldn't 'a teched me no more than they would a rattler, sich as we killed on the mountain. But you guv me yer han', Miss Amy, an'

thar's mine on it agin; I'm goin' to be a _man_."

She took the great h.o.r.n.y palm in both her hands. "You make me very happy," she said, simply, looking at him above the head of his child, "and I'm sure your wife is going to help you. I shall enjoy the holidays far more for this visit. You've told us good news, and we've got good news for you and your wife. Tell him, Webb."

"Yes, Lumley," said Webb, clapping the man on the shoulder, "famous news.

This little girl has been helping me just as much as she has you, and she has promised to help me through life. One of these days we shall have a home of our own, and you shall have a cottage near it, and the little girl here that you've named Amy shall go to school and have a better chance than you and your wife have had."

"Oh, goshwalader!" exclaimed the man, almost breaking out into a hornpipe. "The Lord on'y knows what will happen ef things once git a goin' right! Mr. Webb, thar's my han' agin'. Ef yer'd gone ter heaven fer her, yer couldn't 'a got sich a gell. Well, well, give me a chance on yer place, an' I'll work fer yer all the time, even nights an' Sundays."