And Baltie’s vocabulary was a liberal one; his conversational powers, exceptional; his friends understanding the keenest.
As often occurs, that blizzard, which is now history, was followed by weather as soft and balmy as mid-April rather than late March. As if by magic the snow disappeared, running away in rivers of water and leaving the turf beneath showing promising bits of green, which made one feel little tingles of joy at the hint of springtime. Only in sunless spots did banks of snow linger surlily and soiled, like some malign creature beaten, but yet too vindictive to withdraw. The stable fronted south, and all the graciousness of that early spring sunshine fell upon it and entered its doors the minute they were opened. In spite of her anxiety for Charles, and her increased labors as the result of his illness and convalescence, Mammy had somehow found time to visit Baltie each day, though she was not often able to do so early in the morning. It was Jean who ran out to him long before anyone else was astir, and more than once had Constance been obliged to go out after her, lest she forget breakfast, school, and everything else.
Baltie had been back in his own stable about a week when he began to show signs that the wonderful machinery which had endured for so many years was wearing out. Had Charles or Mammy been looking after him then, they would have recognized the signs; but Mr. Henry’s man, though he did everything for Baltie’s comfort, saw in him nothing but a worn-out old horse, which must very soon go the way of all old worn-out horses, and Jean lacked experience to understand. So the climax came when no one dreamed it was pending.
It was a wonderful morning in mid-April. Out in the garden some pioneer robins had ventured into the northern world, and were calling madly to one another of the grave responsibilities of selecting building sites, and constructing homes against the arrival of their wives, who had, like themselves, been wintering in the South. On the southern terrace a few venturesome crocuses popped their heads up through the moist earth to smile a “howdy, friend,” at a passerby. Off in the distance the river lay like a mirror, with vast ice floes dropping down stream with the tide, crystal barges for Elaine, and moving as silently, each duplicated in the water mirror that floated them, as were also the opposite shore and mountains. A wonderful picture, mirage-like in its outline and exquisite coloring. Those who knew that river best read the signs unerringly. The farmers living in the environs of Riveredge called this peculiar atmospheric condition a “weather breeder.”
There was something in Jean which fairly leaped out to meet the newly awakened world and springtide. From a little child she had lived very close indeed to nature’s heart. The first balmy breath of spring seemed to intoxicate her; the first bird-call could throw her into an ecstacy; an early spring blossom invariably caused a rapture; summer’s languor and richness bore her off into a beautiful world of her own; autumn’s “mellow, yellow, ripening days, floating in a golden coating of a dreamy, listless haze,” conveyed her instantly into dreamland; winter’s frost and sparkle produced the wildest exhilaration. Was it any wonder that, coming out into the early morning sunlight of that soft springlike day, with bird notes filling the air, and her own pulses thrilling with life at its dawn, Jean’s cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled with the very joy of living?
It was still very early and no one yet astir. Over in Mammy’s cottage a faint smoke wraith floated up from the chimney, telling that Mammy was astir. Jean had thrown a warm cape about her, for the morning air still had its chill, and, enticed by the sunlight, she ran down the piazza steps, inhaling deep breaths of the delicious air. Pausing a moment to revel in it all, her eyes fell upon the stable. The next second she was darting away like a swallow, no premonition in her heart of what lay behind its closed doors.
Opening the door she entered with a soft whistle. When had there failed to be an instant response to that whistle? This time there was silence only.
“Oh, Baltie, dear! Come, Baltie!” she called, running across to the box stall and opening the door. Then there was a low cry, and Jean stood for a moment as though petrified. On the sweet, clean straw lay the old horse, body inert, limbs relaxed, head resting upon its bed of soft straw as a tired, worn-out veteran’s might rest upon his pillow, his eyes closed, and without a flutter of the delicate nostrils to indicate breathing. Life seemed extinct. With a piteous cry Jean glided to the horse’s head and dropped upon her knees, clasping her arms about the silky neck.
“Baltie, oh, Baltie, dear, look at me! Speak to me,” she begged.
The eyelids fluttered, and the faintest possible nicker was breathed through the nostrils as he strove to raise his head. Too late! The angel of death was about to claim one of his most faithful creatures, and, let us hope, the recording angel was already checking off the deeds of a devoted life and a disposition which many of his friends claiming immortality might emulate.