XXIV
It was late April, and the snow was gone from the mountains save in a few sheltered places under some rock or overhanging tangle of roots. In the valley the apple trees were abloom; in the woods the dogwood was falling; the roadsides were turning from mellow brown to green, here and there carpeted with violets; a line of emerald showed where some willows caressed the stream. Great puffs of cloud floated slowly across the deep blue of the sky, their cool shadows passing reluctantly over the plowed fields, the few bright patches of wheat, and the brown ribbon of road—gray in summer and lately white with snow—that wound up from the lowland. Even the weather-worn buildings bore signs of spring. Barn doors were thrown back, and little calves tied in the barn yards protested their infant loneliness; while from upper windows of the houses, windows that had been kept closed during all the long winter, flapping curtains waved outward to the breeze.
Two months and more had passed since the night when John Ogilvie returned to consciousness to find the face he loved bending above him, and on this particular morning Father Cary had driven Rosamund to the post office at the Summit, on his way to sell a calf, and she was taking a leisurely homeward way, reading, as she went, the handful of letters the mail had brought her. Every now and then the betraying fragrance of arbutus lured her from the road to little excursions among the trees. Sometimes she looked up at the flash of a brilliant wing, or stopped to listen to an outburst of bird-music. It was plain to be seen that she was living in the hour; the present satisfied; she was taking it as unquestioningly as a child, caring neither to hasten its passing nor to hold it back. To past and future she was giving no thought; the moment was enough.
She smiled often over her letters.
Yetta's was a pæon of joy. She had been for two months under the care of the governess chosen by Mrs. Maxwell, working hard at all her lessons, devouring them, Rosamund thought—and going twice a week to an advanced pupil of a great master for singing lessons. She wrote that she had just received a letter from Mrs. Flood, saying that when the master declared her ready to study in Paris or Berlin, she would make it possible for her to go. "How funny it seems," she wrote, "to call dear Mrs. Reeves by that name!"
There was a long envelope from an architect, enclosing various blue-prints which she tried to unfold, but which so resisted the breeze that they were soon put back for later inspection. There was a thin letter from Cecilia, bearing a foreign stamp, which Rosamund read more than once, with varying emotions. It ran:
DEAR ROSAMUND:
Your letter has made me very happy. I had no right to expect anything from Colonel Randall's will, although he was always so good to me that I thought of him as a father. But I was hurt, and it would be foolish not to admit that I was disappointed, when I found that he had left me nothing. So was mamma; it was not easy for us to be dependent upon you. I don't mean to hurt you in saying that. Especially now! Because, Rose, dear, you have made me see that my stepfather was right when he left everything to you. He could trust you!
You have really been magnificent. Your gift—for that is what it is—will make the world a different place for me. I had to go to bed for two days after I got your letter. I was overcome!