Part 14 (1/2)
A glorious winter sun was beginning to light up the frost foliage of the maples lining St. Peter's streets when Anson, stiff with cold and haggard with a night of sleepless riding, sprang off the train and looked about him. The beauty of the morning made itself felt even through his care. These rows of resplendent maples, heavy with iridescent frost, were like fairy-land to him, fresh from the treeless prairie. As he walked on under them, showers of powdered rubies and diamonds fell down upon him; the colonnades seemed like those leading to some enchanted palace, such as he had read of in boyhood. Every shrub in the yards was similarly decked, and the snug cottages were like the little house which he had once seen at the foot of the Christmas-tree in a German church years before.
Feet crunched along cheerily on the sidewalks, bells of dray-teams were beginning to sound, and workmen to whistle.
Anson was met at the door by a hard-faced, middle-aged woman.
”How's my girl?” he asked.
”Oh, she's nicely. Walk in.”
”Can I see her now?”
”She's sleepin'; I guess you better wait a little while till after breakfast.”
”Where's Kendall?” was his next question.
”I d'n' know. Hain't seen 'im sence yesterday. He don't amount to much, anyway, and in these cases there ain't no dependin' on a boy like that.
It's nachel fer girls to call on their mothers an' fathers in such cases.”
Anson was about to ask her what the trouble was with his girl, when she turned away. She could not be dangerously ill; anyway, there was comfort in that.
After he had eaten a slight breakfast of bad coffee and yellow biscuits, Mrs. Stickney came back.
”She's awake an' wants to see yeh. Now don't get excited. She ain't dangerous.”
Anson was alarmed and puzzled at her manner. Her smile mystified him.
”What is the matter?” he demanded.
Her reply was common enough, but it stopped him with his foot on the threshold. He understood at last. The majesty and mystery of birth was like a light in his face, and dazzled him. He was awed and exalted at the same time.
”Open the door; I want to see her,” he said in a new tone.
As they entered the darkened chamber he heard his girl's eager cry.
”Is that you, pap?” wailed her faint, sweet voice.
”Yes: it's me, Flaxie.” He crossed the room and knelt by the bed. She flung her arms round his neck.
”O pappy! pappy! I wanted you. Oh, my poor mamma! O pap, I don't like her,” she whispered, indicating the nurse with her eyes. ”O pap, I hate to think of mother lying there in the snow--an' Bert--where is Bert, pap? Perhaps he's in the blizzard too----”
”She's a little flighty,” said the nurse in her matter-of-fact tone.
Anson groaned as he patted the pale cheek of the sufferer.
”Don't worry, Flaxie; Bert's all right. He'll come home soon. Why don't you send for the doctor?” he said to the nurse.
”He'll be here soon. Don't worry over that,” indicating Flaxen, who was whispering to herself. ”They of'n do that.”
”Do you s'pose I can find my folks if I go back to Norway?” she said to Anson a little after.
”Yes: I guess so, little one. When you get well, we'll try an' see.”