The man was an old bachelor,—a Mr. Bangs,—who lived alone on a farm some six miles north of Mr. March's. He looked longingly at the nice breakfast, and said to Mrs. March:—
"Well, I had what I called a breakfast before I left home; but your coffee does smell so tempting, I think I'll take a cup,—since you're so kind."
Then he drew up a chair and sat down, and began to eat and drink as if he had just come starved from a shipwreck.
Mr. March laid the letter down by his plate, and went on talking with Mr. Bangs as politely as if he had nothing else to do.
Rob and Nelly looked at the letter; then at each other; then at their father and mother: Rob fidgeted on his chair. Finally, Nelly put down her knife and fork, and said she did not want any more breakfast. Mrs. March could hardly keep from laughing to see the children's impatience, though she felt nearly as impatient herself. At last she said to the children:—
"You may be excused, children. Run out into the barn and see if you can find any eggs!" Rob and Nelly darted off, only too glad to be free.
"Did you ever see such a pig!" exclaimed Rob. "He'd had his breakfast at home. I don't see what made papa ask him!"
"He ate as if he were half starved," said Nelly. "I guess old bachelors don't cook much that's good. Oh! I do wish he'd hurry."
Mr. Bangs had no idea of hurrying. It was a long time since he had tasted good home-made bread and butter and coffee, and he knew it would be a still longer time before he tasted them again. He almost wished he had two stomachs, like a camel, and could fill them both. At last, when he really could eat no more, and Mrs. March had poured for him the last drop out of the coffee-pot, he went away. The children were watching in the barn to see him go. As soon as he had passed the barn-door, they scampered back to the house.
Their father had the open letter under his hand, on the table. He was looking at their mother, and there were tears in her eyes. He turned to the children, and said, in a voice which he tried hard to make cheerful:—
"Well, Nelly, are you ready for bad news?"
"Oh, yes!" interrupted Nelly, "indeed I am, all ready. I knew it would be bad news! I knew it when we were at Mr. Kleesman's."
"Pshaw!" said Rob, and sat down in a chair, and twirled his hat over and over between his knees: "I don't care! I'm going fishing." And he jumped up suddenly, and ran out of the room.
Mrs. March laughed in spite of herself.
"That is to hide how badly he feels," she said. "Let's all go fishing."
Nelly did not laugh. She stood still by the table, leaning on it.
"It's all my fault," she said. "If I hadn't found the mine, we shouldn't have had all this trouble."
"Why, child, this isn't trouble," exclaimed her father; "don't feel so. Of course we're all a little disappointed."
"A good deal!" interrupted Mrs. March, smiling.
"Yes, a good deal," he continued; "but we won't be unhappy long about it. We're no worse off than we were before. And there's one thing: we are very lucky to have got out of it so soon,—before we had put any money into it."
"What does Mr. Kleesman say?" asked Nelly.
"He says that there is a little silver in the ore, but not enough to make it pay to work the mine," replied her father; "and he says that he is more sorry to say this than he has ever been before in his life to say that ore was not good. I will read you the letter."
Then Mr. March read the whole letter aloud to Nelly. The last sentence was a droll one. Mr. Kleesman said:—
"I have for your little girl so great love that I do wish she may never have more sorrow as this."
"What does he mean, papa?" asked Nelly.
"Why, he means that he hopes this disappointment about the mine will be the most serious sorrow you will ever know: that nothing worse will ever happen to you," replied Mr. March.
"Oh," said Nelly, "is that it? I couldn't make it mean any thing. Well, I hope so too."
"So do I," said Mrs. March.
"And I," said Mr. March. "And if nothing worse ever does happen to us than to think for a few weeks we have found a fortune, and then to find that we haven't, we shall be very lucky people."
So they all tried to comfort each other, and to conceal how much disappointed they really were; but all the time, each one of them was very unhappy, and knew perfectly well that all the rest were too. Mr. March was the unhappiest of the four. He had made such fine plans for the future: how he would send Rob and Nelly to school at the East; build a pretty new house; have a nice, comfortable carriage; have Billy and Lucinda come back to live with them; buy all the books he wanted. Poor Mr. March! it was a very hard thing to have so many air-castles tumble down all in one minute!
Mrs. March did not mind it so much, because she had never from the beginning had very firm faith in the mine. And for Rob and Nelly it was not nearly so hard, for they had not made any definite plans of what they would like to do; and they were so young that each day brought them new pleasures in their simple life. Still it was a great disappointment even to them, and I presume would have made them seem less cheerful and contented for a long time, if something had not happened the very next day to divert their minds and give them plenty to think about.
CHAPTER XIV
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
Ever since they had lived in the valley, it had been Nelly's habit, when she got up in the morning, to go at once to the eastern window in her room and look out at Pike's Peak. She loved the mountain now just as much as she had when she first saw it; and her first thought in the morning always was:—
"I wonder if Pike is clear."
The next morning after Mr. Kleesman's letter came, Nelly slept late. She had been out all the day before with Rob, who had fished far down the creek, and led her a long, hard chase through the grape thickets and wet meadows. They had caught two basketsful of trout, which were pretty heavy to lug home; and both Rob and Nelly were so tired that they went to bed the minute they had eaten supper, and hardly spoke while they were undressing. When Nelly waked, she knew by the light in her room that it must be late. She sprang up and ran to the window. As soon as she looked out, she exclaimed "Why!" and rubbed her eyes and looked again. She could not believe what she saw.
"Rob! Rob!" she called. But Rob was fast asleep, and did not hear her. She slipped her feet into her slippers, and ran into his room (he slept in a tiny room opening out of hers: it was not much bigger than a closet, and only held a little narrow bed and one chair).
"Rob! Rob!" she said, shaking him, "get up! Come look out of the window."
"You let me be," said Rob, sleepily: "what is it?"
"Tents! Rob, tents! Four splendid great tents, right close to the wheat-barn. Do get up! Who do you suppose it is?"
"Tents!" cried Rob, as wide awake in one second as if the house were on fire, "tents! hurrah! I hope it's those men with instruments that came last summer. I'm going right down to see." And Rob bounced out of bed, and began to toss his clothes on at a furious rate. Nelly also made great haste; and, in less time than you would have thought possible, the two children were dressed and out in the lane, walking toward the tents. When they got there, they had had their walk for their pains: the tents were all closed up tight,—not a sign of life about one of them. Rob and Nelly walked round and round, like two little spies, trying to find out some sign by which they could tell what sort of people had come into their territory; but they could not.
"I know one thing," said Rob: "they've got splendid wagons and horses." There were six fine horses grazing in the field; and there was a nice covered carriage, besides the heavy white-topped wagon.
"What do you suppose the other two horses are for?" said Nelly. "They don't have four to draw the wagon: do they?"
"I guess they're horses to ride," said Rob: "one of them isn't much bigger than a pony. Oh, dear! I think they're real lazy people not to get up." And Rob and Nelly walked back to the house quite discontented. When they told their mother about the tents, she said:—
"Oh, yes, I know it. The party came late last night, after you had gone to bed. They sent up to the house for milk; they were very tired; they had come all the way from Canyon City. There's a little lame boy in the party; and the motion of the carriage hurts him. He was quite sick last night, the nurse said."
"Oh!" said Nelly: "poor little fellow! That's the reason they weren't up, then. I'm real sorry for him. Can't we go down there, by and by, and see him?"
"Yes, I think so," said her mother: "this afternoon, perhaps."
Rob and Nelly sat down on the barn-doorsteps, and watched the tents. It seemed a long time before anybody stirred. At last, a man came out of the tent which was nearest the barn. He stood still for a minute, looking up and down the valley. Then he gave a great stretch and yawned very loud, and walked off towards the field where the horses were.
"That's their man," said Rob: "he's going to water the horses. I mean to go and talk to him."
"Oh, no, don't!" said Nelly: "let's see who comes out next."
In a few minutes more, there came out of the next tent a stout woman, with a white cap on her head. The cap had thick fluted ruffles all round the front.
"Oh! what a funny cap!" said Rob. "That must be the little boy's mother."
"No," said Nelly, "I don't think so. I think that's the nurse. Mamma said there was a nurse."
"Oh, yes!" said Rob; "she must be the nurse."
The nurse stood looking, just as the man had, up and down the valley. Nobody could see that beautiful view without wanting to stand still and look at it.
"She's looking at Pike now," said Nelly. "I wonder if she ever saw such a mountain before."
The woman stood a long time without moving: then she turned and walked slowly back to the tent. As she walked she kept looking back over her shoulder at the mountains.
"Ah! ah!" said Nelly; "see how she looks at the mountains!"
"I should think she would," said Rob. "But I wish the boy'd come out."
The nurse went into the tent; and presently came out, bringing a chair all folded up into a flat shape: this she set down on the ground in the shadow of the tent, and unfolded it, and kept on unfolding it, till it was about as long as a lounge.
"Hullo!" said Rob, "what sort of a chair is that?"
"For the sick boy, I guess," said Nelly. "It's a kind of bed."
Then the nurse brought out pillows and blankets, and put them in it, and then she brought out two pretty bright rugs, and spread them down, one in front of the chair and one at its side. Next she brought out a little table, and set it close to the chair. On this she spread a white cloth.
"I guess he's going to have his breakfast on that," said Nelly.
Then the woman went into the tent, and did not come back again. In a few minutes another man came out of the tent out of which the first man had come. This man did not look about him at all. He ran to the place where the stove stood, and began making a fire in a great hurry.
"Oh, ho!" cried Rob: "two men! I say, Nell, they must be awfully rich folks. They've got a cook, and a driver, besides the nurse. I wish that boy'd come out."
"I guess if he's sick he won't get up early," said Nelly. "Don't you remember how you used to have to lie in bed when we were at home, Rob?"
"Oh, my! I guess I do!" said Rob. "Wasn't it horrid! I'd as lief die as be like that again. I haven't been sick once since we came to Colorado: have I, Nell?"
"No," said Nelly. "Don't you remember you used to say I ought to be sick half the time: it wasn't fair for me not to be sick any and for you to be sick all the time?"
"Did I?" said Rob: "that was real mean of me. I wouldn't say so now."
While they were talking, they suddenly saw the nurse come out again, and call the cook. He went in to the tent with her, and, in a moment more, they came out again, bringing in their arms a little boy about Rob's size.
"Oh, goodness!" cried Rob: "can't he walk? Pshaw! I hoped he'd go fishing with me! He won't be any fun."
"Why, Rob March!" exclaimed Nelly: "you're a selfish thing. How'd you like to be lame like that and not have anybody sorry for you?"
"Why, Nell, I am real sorry for him: I mean I expect I should be if I knew him; but I did hope he'd go round some with me. I haven't had a boy since we came to Colorado."
Nelly looked hurt.
"I'm sure I go everywhere that you do," she said. "You don't ever have to be alone."
"I know it, Nell," replied Rob, meekly: "you're as good as any girl can be,—lots better than most girls; but a boy's different. You'd like a girl sometimes yourself: you know you would."
"I wouldn't either," retorted Nelly: "I'd rather have you than any girl in the whole world."
The little sick boy had sharper eyes than the nurse had. She had not seen the two children sitting on the barn-doorsteps: but the boy spied them in a minute, and said to his nurse:—
"There are a boy and a girl sitting in that barn-door. Give me my opera-glass: I want to see what they're like."
Then Nelly and Rob saw the boy lift up a round thing to his eyes, and point it at them.
"He's looking at us, Rob," said Nelly, "through that thing: I saw a gentleman have one in the cars. I shall go away: I don't want him to look at us."
"Stop!" said Rob: "he's put it down. He's talking to his nurse."
This is what the boy was saying:—
"Flora, please go across there and ask that boy to come here: I want to see him. Tell him I'm sick. I want to ask him if there are any birds here,—if he can't get me a lark."
"Now, Master Arthur," the nurse replied, "you just wait till your mamma gets up, and ask her. Perhaps she wouldn't want you to have that boy play with you."
"You go along this minute," said Arthur, beginning to cry: "if you don't I'll cry. You know the doctor said I was not to be crossed in any thing. You go along, quick! Stay! you tell them both to come here."
The nurse walked away, muttering under her breath:
"And a fine life ye'll lead them, if ye get them under your thumb, to be sure! It's a thousand pities you ever heard that speech of the doctor's, you poor thing."
"She's coming over here, Rob," said Nelly, as she saw the woman walking in their direction: "what do you suppose she wants?"
"Milk or eggs, I guess," said Rob. "I can get her some splendid fresh eggs right behind this door. Old Spotty's got her nest in there now. The weasels got into her old nest and she won't lay there any more."
When the nurse reached the door, she said very politely to the children:—
"Good morning, children. Do you live here?"
"No, ma'am," said Rob, gravely.
Nelly looked at him indignantly.
"Why, Rob!" she began. But Rob went on:—
"Our oxen and cows and hens live here: we live in the house over yonder."
Nelly laughed out, and so did the nurse.
"You have a droll tongue in your head, my boy," she said. "I came to ask you if you wouldn't come over to the tent there and see Master Arthur. He's in the chair there: see him? He's lame: he can't walk."
"What's the matter with him?" asked Nelly. "Was he always lame?"
"Oh, no!" said the nurse: "he got a fall when he was about six years old, and he's been lame ever since: he's twelve now. But I must go right back: he don't like to be alone a minute. Will you come across?"
Rob looked at Nelly.
"Mamma said we might go this afternoon," he said: "do you think she'd care if we went now?"
"We'd better go and ask her," answered Nelly. "You tell the little boy we've gone to ask our mother if we may come," she said to the nurse, and ran off with Rob to the house as fast as feet could go.
The nurse looked after them, and sighed.
"Well, those are well-brought-up children, whosever they are, to be found out in this wilderness. Oh, but I'd like to see Master Arthur run like that."
Flora had been little Arthur's nurse ever since he was a baby; and, though she was often out of patience with him, she loved him dearly. When she went back and told him what the children said, he muttered fretfully:—
"Oh, dear! they needn't have gone to ask. Can't they go two steps without getting leave? I should think they were babies. They looked as old as I am."
"They're older, Master Arthur," replied Flora. "I think they are as much as thirteen: the girl is, at any rate."
"Is the boy nice?" asked Arthur.
Flora laughed.
"He's funny," she replied. And then she told Arthur what Rob had said when she asked him if he and his sister lived there.
Arthur smiled faintly: he hardly ever laughed. His back ached all the time, so that he could very seldom forget it; and this constant pain made him very nervous and irritable.
"You go up to the house and ask their mother to let them come," he said.
"Well, dear," Flora replied, "I will, if they don't come in a few minutes. But I'm sure they'll come, for they said their mother had told them they might come this afternoon; and I'm sure she'll let them come now instead."
"They can come in the afternoon too," said Arthur. "I want them all the time."
"Well, well: I dare say they'll like to stay with you, and read your books, and see your things, very much," said Flora.
"I'll show them my microscope," said Arthur: "that's the only thing I've got that's good for any thing. The books are no good."
Just now the cook came up, bringing Arthur's breakfast on a tray. It looked very nice: milk-toast, and baked apples, and poached eggs, and a cup of nice cocoa. It was wonderful what good things Ralph used to cook, in that little bit of a camp stove, out of doors. Ralph had lived in the family as long as Flora, and loved poor Arthur just as well as she did. It was into the area in front of the basement that Arthur had fallen when he got his terrible hurt; and Ralph had picked him up and carried him upstairs in his arms, thinking all the way that he was dead. Ralph often said that he'd never forget that time,—not if he should live to be a thousand years old! He often told the story to people they met on their journeys. Everybody took an interest in poor Arthur, and wanted to know how he came to be so lame; but nobody liked to ask his father or mother: so they would ask Flora or Ralph. Ralph was an Englishman, and he had a very queer pronunciation of all words beginning with h. He dropped the h's off such words, and he put them on to other words; which made his sentences sound very queer indeed.
"It was just about height o'clock," he would say, "an' I'd just in my 'and the 'ot water for the master's shaving; an' Thomas 'ee was a takin' hof it out o' my 'and, when we 'ears such a screech, such a screech, and the missus she come a flyin' hover the stairs,—I'm blessed hif 'er feet so much as lighted hon 'em,—an' she screeching screechin', an' 'ollerin'; an' the same minute I 'ears a noise to the front o' the 'ouse, an' a perliceman a knockin' at the airy door, an' the missus she got to't fust; an' if it wan't a meracle wat was it, for 'er to 'ave come down two flights o' 'igh stairs in less time than I could 'urry across the 'all? An' I takes Master Harthur out o' the perliceman's 'ands; an' 'is little 'ead a 'anging down 's if 't 'a' been snapped off. Oh! if it seemed one minute afore I got 'im hup to the nursery it seemed a 'undred years; an' the missus she was never 'erself again,—not till she died. She allers said as 'ow she'd killed 'im 'erself. You see 'ee was all alone with 'er in 'er bedroom, an' she never noticed that 'ee 'ad gone to the window. She was never 'erself again,—never: she'd sit an' look at 'im, an' look at 'im, an' the tears'd run down 'er face faster'n rain. But she couldn't 'old a candle to this missus, in no respects: not to my way o' thinkin'. It's a 'ard thing to say of 'er, bein' she's dead; but it's my 'onest opinion that she's better in 'eaven than hearth, an' all parties better suited."
This was Ralph's story of the accident, and he told it wherever they went. Every one was much surprised to hear that Mrs. Cook was not Arthur's own mother; for no own mother could have shown more patience and love than she did. She had never left Arthur for a whole day or a whole night since she became his mother; and it seemed as if she really thought of little else except how to invent some new thing to amuse him, and keep him from remembering his pain.
Just as Arthur had begun to eat his breakfast, he looked up and saw Rob and Nelly coming out of the door of the house. He pushed away his plate, and cried:—
"Take it away! take it away! I won't eat another mouthful. That boy and girl are coming. Take it away!"
"Oh, Master Arthur," said Flora: "indeed you must eat some more. You'll never get well if you don't eat."
"I won't! I won't! I tell you take it away," screamed Arthur. "I am not hungry. I hate it!"
Poor Arthur never was really hungry.
"Your mamma will be very unhappy when she comes out if you have not eaten any thing," said Flora.
Arthur's face fell.
"Well, give me the cocoa, then, quick!" he said: "I'll drink that, just to please mamma: that's all. She don't make me eat when I don't want to."
At that moment Mrs. Cook came out of her tent, and hurried to Arthur's chair.
"My darling," she said, "mamma was a lazy mamma, wasn't she, this morning? Have you had a nice breakfast? Papa will be out in a minute."
"Mamma! mamma!" cried Arthur, "see that boy and girl, the other side of the fence: they're coming over to see me. I sent Flora after them. I wish they'd hurry. Don't they walk slow?"
Mrs. Cook looked inquiringly at Flora, who explained that Master Arthur had spied the children sitting in the barn-door, and that nothing would do but she must go over and ask them to come and see him.
"They seem to be most uncommon nice-spoken children for these parts, ma'am," said Flora; "and the little girl she wouldn't come, nor let her brother come, till she'd gone into the house and asked leave of their mother."
Mrs. Cook was gazing very earnestly at the children, as they walked slowly towards the tent. In a moment more she sprang to her feet, and took two or three steps forward, and exclaimed, "Why, it is! it is my little Nelly!" and, to Arthur's great astonishment, he saw his mother run very fast to meet the children, and throw her arms round the little girl's neck, and kiss her over and over again.
Nelly was so astonished and bewildered she did not know what to do. She could not see the face of the lady who was kissing her for she held her so tight she could not look up; and, when she did look up, she did not at first know who the lady was.
"Why, Nelly, Nelly!" she cried; "have you forgotten me? Don't you remember I came on in the same car with you? Why! I've been looking for you and asking for you all over Colorado."
Then Nelly remembered; but still she looked bewildered.
"Oh, yes! Mrs. Williams. I remember you very, very well," she said; "but you don't look a bit as you used to."
"Come here! come here!" shouted Arthur; "come right here, all of you! Mamma, who is this girl, and what makes you kiss her?"
Arthur had been so long used to being the only child, and having all his mother's affection showered upon him, that he really felt uncomfortable to see her kiss another child.
"Why, Arthur! Arthur!" exclaimed his mother, leading Nelly and Rob towards him; "don't speak so. These are old friends of mamma's that she knew before she ever saw you. Don't you recollect my telling you about the little boy in the cars, that threw away the onions, and the little girl that had the nice wax doll all broken in the crowd? These are those very same children; and isn't it wonderful that we should have found them here? I am very glad to see them: Nelly, Rob, this is my little boy, Arthur, and he will be more glad to know you than you can possibly imagine; for he can't run about as you do. He has to lie in this chair all day."
While she was speaking, Arthur had been looking very steadily at Rob. He did not take much notice of Nelly. As soon as his mother stopped speaking, Arthur said to Rob:—
"How do you do? Mamma told me all about your throwing away the man's onions ever so long ago, and I used to make her tell me over and over and over again, till she said it was almost as bad as having onions in the house. Didn't you have fun when you did it?" and Arthur laughed harder than he had been seen to laugh for a long time.
"Why, no!" said Rob; "I don't think it was much fun. I don't remember much about it now; but I know I felt awfully mean: you see I felt like a thief when the man began to look for his onions."
Nelly was standing still, close to her new-found friend. She was thoroughly bewildered; she looked from Mrs. Williams to Arthur, and from Arthur to Mrs. Williams, and did not know what to make of it all: and no wonder. When Mrs. Williams bade Nelly good-by in Denver three years before, she was a thin, pale lady, dressed in the deepest black, and with a face so sad it made you feel like crying to look at her. She wore a widow's cap close around her face, and a long, black veil; and she was all alone with her nurse; and she had no little boy. Now she was a stout, rosy-faced lady; and she wore a bright, dark-blue cloth gown, looped up over a scarlet petticoat; and on her head she wore a broad-brimmed straw hat with scarlet poppies and blue bachelor's buttons round the crown. At last Nelly could not contain her perplexity any longer.
"Oh! Mrs. Williams," she exclaimed; "what does make you so pretty now?"
"That isn't my mamma's name," cried Arthur; "her name is Mrs. Cook. Wasn't she pretty when you saw her in the cars? She's always pretty now."
Mrs. Williams laughed very hard, and told Nelly she did not wonder that she was surprised to see her look so differently.
"I often think, when I look in the glass now," she said, "that I shouldn't know my own self, if I hadn't seen myself since three years ago."
Then she led Nelly to one side, and explained to her that she had met Arthur and his papa up at Idaho Springs, where she had gone immediately after leaving Nelly in Denver. Mr. Cook had taken Arthur there, to see if the water in the Idaho Springs would not cure his lameness. They had all lived in the same hotel at Idaho all winter, and in the spring Mrs. Williams had been married to Mr. Cook, and had thus become Arthur's mother. Mr. Cook's home was in New York; but they had come to Colorado every summer for Arthur's sake. He always was much better in Colorado. While they were talking, Mr. Cook came out of his tent; and surprised enough he looked to see his wife sitting on the ground with a little stranger girl in her lap, and Arthur in eager conversation with a boy he had never seen before. He stood still on the threshold of the tent for a moment, looking in astonishment at the scene.
"Oh, Edward! Edward!" exclaimed Mrs. Cook, "this is my little friend! Think of our having found her at last, down in this valley!"
"Is it possible!" said Mr. Cook. "Why, I am as glad to see you, my little girl, as if I were your own uncle. I didn't know but I should have to go journeying all about the world, like my famous ancestor, Captain Cook, to find you; for my wife has never given up talking about you since I have known her."
Mr. Cook was so tall and so big Nelly felt half afraid of him. He was as tall as Long Billy, and twice as big: he had a long, thick beard, of a beautiful brown color, and his eyes were as blue as the sky. Nelly thought he looked like one of the pictures, in a picture-book Rob had, of "Three Giant Kings from the North who came Over the Sea." But when he smiled you did not feel afraid of him; and his voice was so good and true and kind that everybody trusted him and liked him as soon as he spoke.
"Was Captain Cook really an ancestor of yours?" asked Nelly, eagerly.
"Oh!" cried Rob, bounding away from Arthur, and looking up with reverence into this tall man's face, "are you a relation of Captain Cook? Have you got any of his things? Did you know him? Did he ever tell you about his voyage? We've got the book about them: I know everywhere he went."
Mr. Cook lifted Rob up in his arms, and tossed him over his shoulders, and whirled round with him, and set him down on the ground again, before he answered. This was a thing Mr. Cook loved to do to boys of Rob's size. Boys of that age are not used to being picked up and tossed like babies; but Mr. Cook was so strong he could toss a big boy as easily as you or I could a little baby.
"No, sir, I am not a relative of Captain Cook's, so far as I know, nor of any other Cook, except of all good cooks: I am a first cousin and great friend and lover of all good cooks," shouted this jolly, tall man, whose very presence seemed like sunshine. "Ralph, you cook of cooks and for all the Cooks, is our breakfast ready?"
Ralph chuckled with inward laughter as he tried to answer with a quiet propriety. Long as he had lived with Mr. Cook, he had never grown accustomed to his droll ways.
Rob and Nelly looked on with amazement. This was a sort of man they had never seen.
"Oh, I wish papa was like this," thought Rob: in the next second he was ashamed and sorry for the thought. But from that moment he had a loving admiration for Mr. Cook, which was about as strong as his love for his own father.
As soon as Mr. and Mrs. Cook had eaten their breakfast, they walked up to the house with Nelly. Rob stayed behind with Arthur, entirely absorbed in the microscope. Nelly's feet seemed hardly to touch the ground: she was so excited in the thought of taking Mrs. Cook to see her mother. She utterly forgot all the changes which the three years had brought to them: she forgot how poor they were, and that her mother was at that moment hard at work churning butter. She forgot every thing except that she had found her old friend, and was about to give her mother a great surprise. She opened the door into the sitting-room, and, crying, "Mamma! mamma! who do you think is here?" she ran on into the kitchen, turning back to Mr. and Mrs. Cook and crying, "Come out here! Here she is!"
Mrs. March looked up from her churning, much astonished at the interruption, and still more astonished to see two strangers standing in her kitchen doorway, and evidently on such intimate terms with Nelly. Mrs. March had on a stout tow-cloth apron which reached from her neck to her ankles; this was splashed all over with cream. On her head she had a white handkerchief, bound tight like a turban. Altogether she looked as unlike the Mrs. March whom Mrs. Cook had seen in the cars as Mrs. Cook looked unlike the Mrs. Williams. But Mrs. Cook's smile was one nobody ever forgot. As soon as she smiled, Mrs. March exclaimed:—
"Why, Mrs. Williams! how glad I am to see you again. Pray excuse me a minute, till I can take myself out of this buttery apron: walk back into the sitting-room."
"No, no!" laughed Mr. Cook, "I know a great deal better than that! I was brought up on a farm. You can't leave that butter! Here! give me the apron, and let me churn it: it's twenty-five years since I've churned; but I believe I can do it." And, without giving Mrs. March time to object, he fairly took the apron away from her, and tied it around his own neck, and began to churn furiously.
"Now you two go in and sit down," he said, "and leave this little girl and me to attend to this butter. You'll see how soon I'll 'bring' it!" And indeed he did. His powerful arms worked as if they were driven by steam; and in less than a quarter of an hour the butter was firm and hard, and Nelly and Mr. Cook had become good friends. He liked the quiet, grave little girl very much; but, after all, his heart warmed most to Rob, and the greater part of his talk with Nelly was about her brother.
In the meantime, Mrs. Cook and Mrs. March were having a full talk about all that had happened. There was something about Mrs. Cook which made people tell her all their affairs. She never asked questions or pried in any way, but she was brimful of sympathy and kindly intent; and to such persons everybody goes for comfort and advice. Mrs. March had always remembered her with affectionate gratitude for her goodness to Nelly, and she was glad of the opportunity, even three years late, to thank her for that beautiful wax doll.
"It is as good as new now," she said. "Nelly keeps it rolled in tissue paper, in the box. She does not play with dolls any more, but it is still her chief treasure."
"Not play with dolls!" exclaimed Mrs. Cook: "why, she is not fifteen."
"I know it," replied Mrs. March, "but our hardworking life here has made both the children old for their years: especially Nelly. She was naturally a thoughtful, care-taking child. Rob is of a more mirthful, adventurous temperament. He has taken the jolly side of the life here; but Nelly has grown almost too sober and wise. She is a blessed child."
"Yes, indeed, she is," replied Mrs. Cook; "and she was so when I first knew her. I never could forget her earnest face. I want you to let her and Rob too be with us just as much as possible while we are here. We shall stay a month: perhaps six weeks, if it does not grow too cold. We find it is much better for Arthur to stay quietly in one place than it is to move about. He gains much more. Travelling tires him dreadfully."
"I shall be more than glad to have the children with you as much as possible," replied Mrs. March; "but that will not be so much as I could wish: for we are all working very hard now; and two days each week the children go to Rosita, to sell eggs and butter. That is the greater part of our income this summer."
Mrs. March said this in a cheerful tone, and as if it were nothing worth dwelling upon, and Mrs. Cook did not express any surprise; but in her heart she was much grieved and shocked to find that the Marches were so poor, and as soon as she was alone with her husband she told him of it with tears in her eyes.
"Only think, Edward," she said, "of those sweet children going about selling eggs and butter in the town."
Mr. Cook was a very rich man; but his father and his grandfather had been farmers; and in Mr. Cook's early years he had driven the market-wagon into town many a time and sold potatoes and corn in the market. It did not, therefore, seem so dreadful to him as it did to his wife that Rob and Nelly should carry about eggs and butter to sell in Rosita. Still, he was sorry to hear it, and exclaimed:—
"Do they really? The plucky little toads! That's too bad—for the girl: it won't hurt the boy any!"
"Oh, Edward!" said Mrs. Cook, "you wouldn't like to have Arthur do it."
"No, I wouldn't like to have him do it," replied Mr. Cook: "most certainly I wouldn't like to have him; but that wouldn't prove that it mightn't be better for him in the end if he had to. But fate has taken all such questions as that out of our hands, so far as poor Arthur is concerned." And Mr. Cook sighed heavily. Arthur's condition was a terrible grief to his father. All the more because he was so well and strong himself, Mr. Cook had a dread of physical pain or weakness. Many times a day he looked at his helpless son, and said in his inmost heart:—
"Rather than be like that, I would die any death that could be invented."
It was a mercy that Arthur did not inherit his father's temperament. He was much more like his mother: so long as he could be amused, and did not suffer severe pain, he did not so much mind having to lie still. When Rob said to him, one day:—
"Oh, Arthur, doesn't it tire you horribly to stay in that chair?" Arthur answered:—
"Why, no: it's the easiest chair you ever sat in. You just try it some day. I had one before this that did tire me, though: it was a horrid chair. It wasn't made right; but this is a jolly chair. It's better than the bed."
Rob, who had felt guilty the moment he had asked the question, thinking it was not kind, was much relieved at this answer, and thought to himself:—
"Well, that's lucky. He didn't mind my asking him one bit. I guess it's because he's been sick so long he doesn't remember how it felt to run about."
CHAPTER XV
CHANGES IN PROSPECT
I could not tell you one-half of the pleasant things that happened in the course of the next month to Rob and Nelly. They had such good times that they hardly ever thought of their disappointment about the mine. And even Mr. and Mrs. March thought less and less about it every day, they were so much interested in talking with Mr. and Mrs. Cook. Mr. March and Mr. Cook became good friends very soon. Mr. Cook would often work all day long in the fields with Mr. March. He said it made him feel as if he were a boy again, on his father's farm. The days that Rob and Nelly went to Rosita were very long days to Arthur. He was so lonely that Mrs. Cook proposed to her husband one day that they should let Thomas, the driver, take the children up town in the carriage, and bring them right back again.
"They need not be gone more than two hours in all," she said. "It is that tiresome walk that takes so long."
But Mr. Cook was too wise to do this.
"That would not be any true kindness to the children," he said. "It is much better that they should keep on with the regular routine of their life, just as they did before. If they were to have the carriage to take them up to town for a month, it would only make the walk seem very long and hard to them after we are gone. We will give them all the pleasure we can, without altering their way of living."
"The mere fact of our being here alters their whole life," said Mrs. Cook. "They have now constant companionship, and a variety of amusements and interests, in Arthur's toys and books, which are all new to them. Before we came, they had solitude, absolutely no amusements, and no occupation except hard work. Nelly told me the other day that she had read every book in their house, twice over."
"There are not very many books," said Mr. Cook: "I don't know how March comes to have so few."
"Oh, they had to sell ever so many last summer: Mrs. March told me so," replied Mrs. Cook.
"By Jove! did they?" exclaimed Mr. Cook. "That was too bad. I wonder if March would take it amiss if I sent him out a box of books this autumn."
"I don't know," Mrs. Cook said thoughtfully. "They haven't a particle of false pride, about their work, or selling things, or any thing of that kind; but I doubt their liking presents. They are very independent."
The weeks slipped by as if they weren't more than three days long. Rob and Nelly got up before daylight every morning, so as to hurry through their work and go down to the tents,—down to "Arthur's," they always called it, as if it were a house. Sometimes they stayed all day, till it was time for Rob to go for the cows. They read, or they played dominoes or chequers or backgammon; or they put dissected maps together; or they looked at all sorts of things under the microscope; or they painted flowers: this was the nicest thing of all. Mrs. Cook drew and painted beautifully. She had taught Arthur, so that he could paint a little simple flower really very well; and he had a beautiful paint-box, full of real good paints, such as artists use,—not such as are put in toy-boxes for children. This was the thing Nelly enjoyed best. Then Ralph, the cook, used to go off gunning every day, and he brought home beautiful birds, and Arthur and Rob used to nail the wings on boards to dry. Arthur had a little table that fitted across his chair, and on this table he could pound pretty hard; and he made a good many pretty things out of wood. It seemed to Rob that there wasn't any thing in the whole world which Flora could not bring out of the two big black boxes which stood in her tent, and held Arthur's things. As for books, he had fifty: every one of Mayne Reid's. When Rob saw those he was delighted.
"Oh, Arthur! Arthur! ain't they splendid! I've had 'The Cliff Climbers.'"
"I don't think so," said Arthur. "They're all about hunting and fighting, and such things."
"Oh, my!" said Rob, "don't you like that? That's just what I like. I'll read some of 'em to you. I bet you'd like them." And when Rob read them to him, Arthur really did like them.
He could not help sharing Rob's enthusiasm; but when Rob exclaimed:—"Oh, Arthur, don't you wish you could go to the Himalayas?" poor Arthur only shuddered, and said:—
"No, indeed! it shakes you so awfully to go in the cars."
Rob did not ask him again; but he told Nelly at night what Arthur had said, and he added:—
"Say, Nell, if I should ever get to be like Arthur, I'd take poison."
"Why, Rob!" cried Nelly, "that's awfully wicked! You wouldn't ever dare to!" And Nelly turned pale with fright.
"I expect it is," said Rob; "but I reckon I'd do it! Why, Nell, I'd just have to!"
Mrs. Cook sat with the children hours at a time, and listened to their talk and play. She and her husband took a drive or a ride every afternoon; but the rest of the time she did not leave Arthur. The more she saw the influence of Rob and Nelly upon him, the more grateful she felt for the strange chance which had brought them together. Arthur was really growing better. He had more color, more appetite, and very seldom complained of pain. He had something to think of beside himself; and he was happy,—the two best medicines in all the world: they will cure more diseases than people dream.
One day, Flora said to Mrs. Cook:—
"I suppose, ma'am, ye'll be going soon. There was quite a frost in the north o' the valley last night, Thomas was telling me. They say there'll be snow here before long."
"Yes, Flora, I suppose we will have to go very soon: week after next, Mr. Cook thinks," replied Mrs. Cook.
Arthur was lying back in his chair, with his eyes shut. They thought he was asleep; but at the sound of these words he opened his eyes, and cried out:—
"I won't go away, mamma! I won't go! You can't make me. I'm not going away ever. I'm going to stay here."
"Why, Arthur dear!" said his mother, "you wouldn't like to stay here without papa and without me; and you know papa must go home."
"Yes, I would!" cried Arthur: "I've been thinking about it for ever so long. Flora can stay: she can dress and undress me; and I can live in Mrs. March's house, and sleep in Rob's bed. I asked Nelly, and she said I could. Rob can sleep on the lounge. I shan't go home. I hate New York; and if you take me back there I'll get sicker and sicker, and die; and I don't care if I do, if I can't stay here!"
Mrs. Cook was grieved and shocked. She had often thought to herself that there was danger that Rob and Nelly would be discontented and lonely when Arthur went away; but strangely enough she had never thought of any such danger for Arthur. She had often wished she could take Nelly home with her to live; but she had dismissed it from her mind as an impossible thing. Now she began to think of it again. She sat a long time in silence, turning it over and over.
"Why don't you speak, mamma?" asked Arthur: "are you angry with me?"
"No, dear," replied Mrs. Cook: "I am not angry: only very, very sorry; and I am trying to think what we can do to make you happy when we go away. I shall be very sorry if all our pleasant time here only makes you unhappier after you go home. You were very contented before we came here."
"I don't think I was very, mamma," said Arthur, sadly. "I always wanted a boy or a girl; and none of the boys and girls in New York cared any thing about me,—only my things; but Nelly is just like my own sister,—at least I guess that's the way sisters are,—and Rob is just like my brother. Mamma, I can't go away! I don't see why you can't leave me. You and papa would come back in the spring. Oh, mamma, let me! let me!" And poor Arthur began to cry.
Mrs. Cook put her arms around him, and laid her face down close to his.
"My darling child!" she said, "haven't papa and I done every thing we possibly could to make you happy always?"
"Yes," sobbed Arthur; "and that's why I think you might leave me here."
"Dear boy, you don't seem to think," said his mother, "how lonely papa and I would be without you."
"Oh, mamma, would you, really? How could you be? I'm only a bother: I can't go round with you or any thing. I think you'd have a great deal better time without me. Perhaps I'd get so I could walk if I stayed here all winter. You know one doctor said I ought to stay a whole year."
"Arthur, dear," said Mrs. Cook, earnestly, "do not talk any more about this now. Promise mamma that you will try not to think about it either; and I promise you I will talk to papa and see what he thinks can be done. All we want in this world is to make you happy, and do what is best for you."
"Will you ask him to let me stay?" cried Arthur.
"I will tell him how you feel about being separated from Nelly and Rob," replied his mother; "and I think we can arrange in some way."
Mrs. Cook had already made up her mind what she would do. She would ask Mrs. March to let Nelly go back with them to New York for the winter. She knew that Mr. Cook would be willing; and she believed that Mrs. March might be persuaded to consent, on account of the advantage it would be to Nelly. But she would not mention this plan to Arthur now, because he would only be all the more disappointed if it failed. Arthur leaned his head back in his chair, and shut his eyes again.
"Oh, dear!" he said, "crying does always make my head ache so!"
"Yes, dear," said his mother, "that is reason enough, if there were no other, why you should try hard to behave like a man always, and never let any little thing upset you enough to make you cry."
"I know it," said Arthur, forlornly; "but you cry before you think you're going to; and then you can't stop."
As soon as Mrs. Cook was alone with her husband, she told him what Arthur had said.
"I am not at all surprised," he replied: "I have been expecting it."
"Of course it would never do to leave the child here," said Mrs. Cook.
"Of course not," said Mr. Cook. "But I'll tell you what we might do: take Rob and Nelly home with us for the winter. I think their father and mother would let them go."
"Rob too?" said Mrs. Cook.
"Rob too!" echoed Mr. Cook. "Why, if I could have but one Rob would be the one; but if we take one we've got to take both: you might as well propose to separate the Siamese twins."
"I was thinking of proposing to take Nelly," said Mrs. Cook. "I don't see how Mrs. March could spare them both."
"She could easier let them both go than have one left behind to pine. I don't know but it would kill them to be apart from each other. I don't see, though, how you can prefer Nelly to Rob?"
"And I don't see how you can prefer Rob to Nelly," answered Mrs. Cook: "as a companion for Arthur, Nelly is twice as good as Rob."
"Does Arthur like her better?" asked Mr. Cook.
"Yes, I think he does," replied Mrs. Cook: "he seems to lean on her. He is very fond of Rob, too. He said to-day that they were just like his sister and brother."
"Let us go down to-night and ask Mr. and Mrs. March about it," said Mr. Cook. "The sooner it is settled the better. If Arthur has got this crotchet in his head about staying, he won't be easy a minute."
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Cook walked down to the house, and proposed the plan. At first, Mr. March said no, most decidedly. But Mrs. March begged him to consider the thing, and not decide too hastily.
"Think what a splendid thing it would be for the children," she said.
"But think what a desolate winter you would have here without them," said Mr. March.
"Oh, no, not desolate!" said Mrs. March: "not desolate with you here. Nelly would write every week. The winter would soon pass away. And, Robert, they may never have another such opportunity in their lives. I think it would be wrong for us to refuse it for them."
"Why not consult them?" said Mr. Cook.
"I know beforehand what they would say," answered Mr. March. "Nelly would say stay here, and Rob would say go. No: we must decide the question ourselves; and Mrs. March is right: we ought not to decide too hastily. We will let you know in the morning."
"You understand, I hope," said Mrs. Cook, "that it is a very great favor, for the sake of our helpless boy, that we ask it. It is really asking you to give up your two children for a time, just to make our one happy."
"I understand that," replied Mr. March; "but you must know that it is also a very great obligation under which we lay ourselves to you. I feel it to be such, and I confess I shrink from it: I can never repay it."
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Cook. "The obligation is all on our side; and if you had ever had a poor helpless child like Arthur, you could realize it. Why, March, I'd give all my fortune this moment, and begin at the bottom and make it all over again, if I could see Arthur well and strong as your Rob." And the tears filled Mr. Cook's eyes, as he shook hands with Mrs. March, and bade her good-night.
Mr. and Mrs. March talked nearly all night before they could come to a decision about this matter. It was a terrible thing to them to look forward to a whole winter without the children. But Mrs. March continually said:—
"Robert, suppose we never have another chance to give either of them such an opportunity of pleasure and improvement as this. How shall we feel when we look back? We should never forgive ourselves."
So it was decided that the children should go.
In the morning Mrs. March said to Nelly:—
"You'll miss Arthur when he goes: won't you?"
Nelly hesitated, and finally said:—
"Arthur says he won't go!"
"Won't go!" exclaimed Mrs. March: "what does he mean?"
"He is going to ask his father to ask you to let him stay here with us," replied Nelly. "I thought he might sleep in Rob's bed. Rob says he'd just as soon sleep on the lounge; and I thought you'd be willing. He's such a poor dear! I could take all the care of him."
"Would you really like to have him?" said Mrs. March.
"Oh, yes, indeed, mamma, ever so much! I love him as well as I do Rob,—almost: not quite, I guess, because he isn't my own brother; but it is so hard for him to be sick, that makes me love him more."
"Mr. and Mrs. Cook came down here last night to ask us to let you and Rob go back to New York with them for the winter," said Mrs. March, very quietly, watching Nelly's face as she spoke.
It turned scarlet in one second, and the voice was almost a shriek in which Nelly cried out:—
"Oh, mamma! how perfectly splendid! Can we go?"
Then in the very next second she said:—
"But you couldn't spare us: could you? You couldn't stay here all alone." And her face fell.
"Yes, I think we could spare you; and we have said you might go," said Mrs. March, smiling.
Nelly's arms were round her mother's neck in one moment, and she was kissing her and half laughing and half crying.
"Oh, mamma! mamma!" she said, "I can't tell whether I am glad or sorry. I don't want to go away from you; but oh! if you only could hear Arthur tell of all the beautiful things in New York! Oh! I don't know whether I am sorry or glad!"
But Mrs. March knew very well that she was glad, and this made it much easier for her to bear the thought of the separation.
If Nelly, the quiet Nelly, were as glad and excited as this, how do you suppose the adventurous Rob felt, when he heard the news? The house wouldn't hold him. He had to run out and turn summersaults on the grass. Then he raced off down to the tents, and told Flora and Ralph and Thomas. It was early in the morning, and Arthur was not up. All the servants were glad. They all liked Rob and Nelly, and they all saw how much better Arthur had grown since he had had children to play with.
"Ah, Master Rob," said Thomas, "just wait till I drive ye out in the Park; that's a place worth looking at,—all beautiful green grass, and lakes, and roads as smooth and hard as a beach, and groves of trees,—not like this bare wilderness, I can tell ye."
"Are there mountains there, Thomas?" asked Rob.
"Mountains! no! The Lord be praised: never a mountain!" exclaimed Ralph; "and if ever I'm thankful for anything, it is to get out of sight of the ugly sides of 'em!"
"Oh, Ralph!" was all Rob could say at hearing such an opinion of mountains.
When Flora and Thomas brought Arthur out of the tent, Rob ran towards them.
"Oh, Arthur—" he began.
"I know all about it," said Arthur: "Nelly and you are going home with us. I'd rather stay here, but they won't let me; and having you go home with us is next best."
Rob thought this was rather an ungracious way for Arthur to speak, and so it was.
"You wouldn't like it here in the winter half so well as you do now, Arthur," he said. "It's awfully cold sometimes; and real deep snow. You'd be shut up in the house lots."
"So I am at home," said Arthur: "weeks and weeks."
"But your house is nicer to be shut up in than ours," continued Rob.
"I don't care," said Arthur: "I wanted to stay. But I'm real glad you and Nelly are going. Can Nelly skate? We'll go and see her skate in the Park."
"No, she can't! but I can," said Rob. "Is there good skating there?"
"Oh, goodness, Rob!" exclaimed Arthur, "didn't you know about the skating in Central Park? Well, you'll see! We drive up there every pleasant day. I'm sick of it. But the skating's some fun: I wish I could skate."
"Perhaps you'll get strong enough to, pretty soon," said Rob, sympathizingly.
"If they'd let me stay here I might," said Arthur, fretfully; "but they won't."
The nights grew cool so fast that Mr. and Mrs. Cook began to be impatient to set out for home. At first, Mr. and Mrs. March pleaded with them to stay longer; but one morning Mrs. March said suddenly to her husband:—
"Robert, I've changed my mind about the children's going: I think the sooner they go the better. It is just like having a day set for having a tooth pulled: you suffer all the pain ten times over in anticipating it. I can't think about anything else from morning till night. Oh, I do hope we haven't done wrong!"
"It isn't too late yet to keep them at home," said Mr. March. "Don't let us do it if your mind is not clear. I don't think Nelly more than half wants to go now."
"Oh, yes, she does!" replied Mrs. March. "She is so excited in the prospect that she talks in her sleep about it. I heard her, last night."
"The dear child!" said Mr. March. "It was Nelly that they really wanted most."
"Not at all," said Mrs. March, quickly: "Mr. Cook told me that he would have only asked for Rob, but he knew the children could not be separated."
"Well, that's odd," said Mr. March. "Mrs. Cook told me that she had been long thinking that she wished she could have Nelly, but she knew it would be out of the question to separate the children."
Mrs. March laughed.
"I see," she said: "they disagree about the children, just as you and I do. Mrs. Cook likes Nelly best, and Mr. Cook likes Rob."
"Why, Sarah!" exclaimed Mr. March, "what do you mean? We love the children just alike."
"Yes, perhaps we love them equally," replied Mrs. March; "but we don't like them equally. I like Rob's ways best, and you like Nelly's. It's always been so, ever since they were born. You'll see Nelly will make a good, loving, lovable woman; but Rob will make a splendid man. Rob will do something in the world: you see if he does not!"
Mr. March smiled.
"I hope he will," he said. "But as for my little Nelly, I wouldn't ask any thing more for her than to be, as you say, 'a good, loving, lovable woman.'"