So Anne Kitchell was not allowed to weep out her gratitude, though a dozen times she thought she was going to; she was filled, instead, with a new desire to work and to “be somebody.” There was no one here to saddle the old shameful stories on her—to refer to her as a drunkard’s wife. She would be taken at her own valuation, and in her keen, quick little brain she began to understand that the valuation might be a high one if she chose to make it so.
Mary McBirney gave her only a day or two to settle herself in her new home, and then, with a pail of mountain honey and a crock of cottage cheese by way of gifts, she came to see her. They liked each other at once, though the life of one had enabled her to make the best of herself, and the life of the other had kept her fighting like an angry rat. But the honesty that underlay the character of each, and the interest each had in Hi, and in Azalea—indeed, in children in general—helped them over the little strangeness they might have felt.
But Ma McBirney was restless. There was something on her conscience—something that had been there ever since her husband had told her that Azalea was the granddaughter of old Colonel Atherton, and that, if fortune had treated her kindly, The Shoals, and all the comforts and opportunities that went with the possession of the estate, would have been hers. True, the fine place had passed legitimately into the hands of the Carsons; yet knowing the generous and abounding nature of the Carsons as she did, she realized that were they to be told the truth about Azalea, they would at once offer her a home, and would give her an education such as their own daughter was receiving.
“I’m a wicked woman,” said Mary McBirney to herself. “I’m selfish and sinful. Just to give myself happiness, I’m keeping that dear child away from what belongs to her.”
The thought had goaded her for days. More, it had crept into the wakeful hours of the night. It had tortured her as she watched Azalea busy about the house, singing, or thinking in her intense, curious way. When the girl flung her arms about Ma McBirney’s neck, calling her the sweetest thing in the world, and saying how happy she was to be back with her again, it seemed as if Ma McBirney’s heart actually turned over in her side, with dread of losing her, and with shame at her own cowardice.
So, on the day she called on Mrs. Kitchell, she summoned her better angel—though it was difficult to imagine that Mary McBirney could be surrounded with anything but good angels—and made her way to The Shoals.
From every window of the great white house fluttered orange and white awnings. The lawn was trim and green; the flower beds aglow with lovely fresh blooms. Hammocks and couches swung on the wide gallery, and linen-covered chairs and great East Indian jugs filled with growing plants, stood about. Ma McBirney paused before the wide door with its fan-shaped transom and looked about her wistfully. By saying a word, Azalea could leave the humble little home which was now hers, and come down to enjoy the bright hospitality of this beautiful place. Music, books, travel—all of these things would come to her. Mary McBirney remembered how she herself had longed for opportunity in those early days when she first became aware of her ignorance, and how she had “given up” and gone her quiet way—the way to which she was born. But Azalea was not like that. She could not be happy in giving up an education and all that would go to make her capable and able to measure herself with the best. What had meant contentment for her, Mary McBirney, would mean failure for Azalea.
She turned these matters over in her large, kind mind, and—rang Mrs. Carson’s doorbell.
Mrs. Carson’s parlor maid, black, smiling, and chubby, answered the summons.
“Tulula Darthula,” said Mrs. McBirney in her soft voice, “might I see your mistress?”