WHAT THEY WERE DOING AND HAD DONE IN SHANNONDALE.
IF the earth had opened suddenly and swallowed up half the inhabitants of Shannondale the other half could not have been more astonished than they were at the news which Peterkin was the first to tell them, and which he had risen very early to do, before some one else should be before him. Irascible and quick tempered as he was, he was easily appeased and the fact that Jerrie was Arthur Tracy's daughter changed his opinion of her at once.
"The biggest heiress in the county except my Ann 'Liza, and, by gum, I'm glad on't for her and Arthur. I allus said she was hisen, and by George, to think I helped her into her fortin, for if I hadn't of knocked that rotten old table down she'd of never found them memoirs," he said to the first person to whom he communicated the news, and then hurried off to enlighten others, until every body knew and was discussing the strange story.
Before noon scores of people had found it in their way to walk past the cottage hoping to catch sight of Jerrie, while a few went in to tell her how glad they were for her and Mr. Arthur. But Jerrie was in her room too sick and tired to see them, and they could only question Mrs. Crawford who was herself half crazed.
When Mrs. Crawford heard the story Jerrie told her after her return from the Park House, she had been for a few moments stupefied with amazement, and had sat motionless until she heard Jerrie say to her:
"Dear grandma, I told you your working days were over, and they are, for what is mine is yours and Harold's, and my home is your home always, so long as you live."
Then the poor old lady put her head upon Jerrie's arm and cried hysterically for a moment, then she rallied, and kissed the young girl who had been so much to her, and whom for a brief moment she feared she might have lost. For a long time they talked of the past and the future, andof Harold, who was in Tacoma, where he might have to remain for three or four weeks longer. He had written several times to his grandmother and once to Jerrie, but had made no mention of the diamonds, while in her letters to him Mrs. Crawford had refrained from telling him what some of the people were saying, and the construction they were putting upon his absence. Jerrie had not yet written to him, but, "I shall to-morrow," she said, "and tell him to come home, for I need him now, if ever."
Jerrie was very tired when she went at last to bed, but the dreamless sleep which came upon her, and which lasted until a late hour in the morning, did her good, and probably saved her from a relapse, which might have proved fatal. Still she was very weak and too sick to go down stairs, for the excitement of the previous night was telling upon her, and when Tom came asking to see her, she received him in her room. He had been up since sunrise, strolling through the park, with a troubled look on his face, for he was extremely sorry for himself, though very glad for Jerrie, whose sworn ally he was and would be to the end. In a way he had tried to comfort his mother by telling her that neither his uncle or Jerrie would be unjust to her, if she'd only behave herself, and treat the latter as she ought, and not keep up such a high and mighty and injured air, as if Jerrie had done something wrong in finding out who she was.
But Dolly would not be comforted, and her face wore a sullen, defiant expression, as she moved about the house where she had queened it so long that she really looked upon it as her own, resenting bitterly the thought that another was to be mistress there. She had talked with her husband, and made him tell her exactly how much he was worth in his own right, and when he told her how little it was, she had exclaimed, angrily:
"We are beggars, and may as well go back to Langley and sell codfish again."
She had seen Tom that morning, and when to her question, "Why are you up so early?" he replied, "To attend to Jerrie's affairs," she tossed her head scornfully, and said:
"Before I'd crawl after any girl, much less Jerrie Crawford! You'd better be attending to your own sister.She's worse this morning, and looks as if she might die at any minute."
Then Tom went to Maude, who, since the shock of the night before, had lain as if she were dead, except for her eyes, in which there was a new and wondrous light, and which looked up lovingly at Tom as he came in and kissed her, a most unusual thing for him to do.
"Dear Tom," she whispered, "come closer to me," and as he bent down to her, she continued, "is every thing Jerrie's?"
"Yes, or will be. She is Uncle Arthur's daughter."
"Shall we be very poor?"
"Yes, poor as a church mouse."
Then there was a pause, and when Maude spoke again, she said, slowly:
"For me, no matter—sorry for you, and father, and mother; but glad for Jerrie. Stand by her, Tom; tell mother not to be so bitter—it hurts me. Tell Harold, when he comes, I meant to do so much for him, but Jerrie will do it instead. Tell her I must see her, and send for Uncle Arthur."
There was a lump in Tom's throat as he left his sister's room, and going to the village, telegraphed to his uncle's headquarters at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco.
At least a hundred people stopped him on his way to the office, asking if what they had heard was true, and to all he replied:
"True as the gospel; we are floored, as Peterkin would say."
And then he hurried to the cottage to see Jerrie, and tell her of the message sent to Arthur, though not how it was worded. After a moment he continued, hesitatingly, as if half ashamed of it:
"I called atLubbertoolast night to inquire after Ann Eliza's foot, and you ought to have seen Peterkin when I told him the news. At first he could not find any word in his vocabulary big enough to swear by, but after a while one came to him, and what do you think it was?"
Jerrie could not guess, and Tom continued:
"He said, 'By the great Peterkin!' and then he swowed and vowed, and snummed, and vummed, and dummed, and finally said he was glad of it, and had always known youwere a Tracy. Ann Eliza was so glad she cried, and I think Billy cried, too, for he left the room suddenly, with very suspicious looking eyes. Why, everybody is glad for you, Jerrie, and nobody seems to think how mean it is for us; but I'm not going to whine. I'm glad it's you, and so is Maude, and she wants to see you. I believe she's going to die, and—and—Jerrie—"
Something choked Tom for a moment, then he went on:
"If Uncle Arthur should get high, and order us out at once, as father seems to think he will, you'll—you'll—let us stay while Maude lives, won't you?"
"Tom," Jerrie said, reproachfully, "what do you take me for, and why does your father think his brother will order him out?"
"I don't know," Tom replied, "but he seems awfully afraid to meet him. Mother says he was up all night walking the floor and talking to himself, and yet he says he is glad, and he is coming this morning to see you and talk it over. I believe I hear him now speaking to Mrs. Crawford. Yes, 'tis he; so I guess I'll go; and when I hear from my telegram I'll let you know. Good-by."
A moment after Tom left the room his father entered it, looking haggard and old, and frightened, too, it seemed to Jerrie, as she met him with a cheery "good-morning, Uncle Frank."
It was the first time she had addressed him by that name, and her smile was so bright and her manner so cordial that for an instant the cloud lifted from his face, but soon came back darker than ever as he declined the seat she offered him and stood tremblingly before her.
Frank had not slept the previous night, but had walked his room until his wife said to him, angrily:
"I thought you were glad; seems to me you don't act like it; but for pity's sake stop walking, or go somewhere else to do it and not keep me awake."
Then he went into the hall outside, and there he walked the livelong night, trying to think what he should say to Jerrie, and wondering what she would say to him, for he meant to tell her everything. Nothing could prevent his doing that; and as soon as he thought she would see him he started for the cottage, taking with him the Bible, thephotograph and the letter he had secreted so long. All the way there he was repeating to himself the form of speech with which he should commence, but when Jerrie said to him, so graciously, "good-morning, Uncle Frank," the words left him, and he began, impetuously:
"Don't call me uncle. Don't speak to me, Jerrie, until you have heard what I have come to confess on my knees, with my white head upon the floor, if you will it so, and that would not half express the shame and remorse with which I stand before you and tell you I am a cheat, a liar, a villain, and have been since the day when I first saw you and that dead woman we thought your mother."
Jerrie was dumb with surprise, and did not speak or move as he went on rapidly, telling her the whole, with no attempt at an excuse for himself, except so far as to repeat what he had done in a business point of view, making provision for her in case of his death and enjoining it upon his children to see that his wishes were carried out.
"Here is the Bible," he said, laying the book in her lap. "Here is the photograph, and here the letter which you gave me to post, and which, had it been sent, might have cleared the mystery sooner."
He had made his confession, and he stood before her with clasped hands, and an expression upon his face such as a criminal might wear when awaiting the jury's decision. But Jerrie neither looked at him nor spoke, for through a rain of tears she was gazing upon the sweet face, sadder and thinner than the face of Gretchen in the window, but so like it that there could be no mistaking it, and so like to the face which had haunted her so often and seemed so near to her.
"Mother, mother! I remember you as you are here, sick and sorry, but oh, so lovely!" she said, as she pressed her lips again and again to the picture, with no thought or care for the wretched man who had come a step nearer to her, and who said, at last:
"Will you never speak to me Jerrie? Never tell me how much you despise me?"
Then she looked up at the face quivering with anguish and entreaty, and the sight melted her at once. Indeed, as he had talked she had scarcely felt any resentment toward him, for she was sure that though his error had beengreat, his contrition and remorse had been greater, and she thought of him only as Maude's father and the man who had always been kind to her. And she made him believe at last that she forgave him for Maude's sake, if not for his own.
"Had my life been a wretched one because of your conduct," she said, "I might have found it harder to forgive you, but it has not. I have not been the daughter of Tracy Park, it is true, but I have been the petted child of the cottage, and I would rather have lived with Harold in poverty all these years than to have been rich without him. And do you know, I think it was noble in you to tell me when you might have kept it to yourself."
"No, no. I couldn't have done that much longer," he exclaimed, energetically, as he began to walk up and down the room. "I could not bear it. And the shadow which for years has been with me night and day, counseling me for bad, was growing so black, and huge, and unendurable, that I must have confessed or died. But it is gone now, or will be when I have told my brother."
"Told your brother! You don't mean to do that?" Jerrie exclaimed.
"But I do mean to do it," Frank replied, "as a part of my punishment, and he will not forgive as you have done. He will turn me out at once, as he ought to do."
Jerrie thought this very likely, and with all her powers she strove to dissuade Frank from making a confession which could do no possible good, and might result in untold harm.
"Remember Maude," she said, "and the effect this thing would have upon her if your brother should resort to immediate and violent means, as he might in his first frenzy."
"But I mean to tell Maude, too," Frank replied.
Then Jerrie looked upon him as madder than Arthur himself, and talked so rapidly and argued so well that he consented at last to keep his own counsel, for the present at least, unless the shadow still haunted him, in which case he must tell as an act of contrition or penance.
"He will think the photograph came with the other papers in the bag," Jerrie said, as she again kissed the sweet face, which looked so much like life that it was hardto think there was not real love and tenderness in the eyes which looked into hers so steadfastly.
It was the hardest to forgive the letter hidden so long, and Jerrie did feel a pang of resentment, or something like it, as she took it in her hand and thought of the day when Arthur had confided it to her, saying he could trust her when he could not another. And she had trusted Frank, who had not been true to her trust, and here, after the lapse of years, was the letter, with its singular superscription covering the whole side, and its seal unbroken. But she would break it now. She surely might do that, if Arthur was never to see it; and, after a moment's hesitancy, she opened it and read, first, wild, crazy sentences, full of love and tenderness for the little Gretchen to whom they were addressed, and whom the writer sometimes spoke to as living, and again as dead. There was a strong desire expressed to see her, a wish for her to come and get her diamonds before they were taken from her a second time. Here Jerrie started with an exclamation of surprise, and involuntarily read aloud:
"The most exquisite diamonds you ever saw, and I long to see them on you. They are safe, too—from her—Mrs. Frank Tracy—who had the boldness to flaunt them in my face at a party the other night. How she came by them I can't guess; but I know how she lost them. I found them on her dressing-table, where she left them when she went to breakfast, and took possession at once. That was no theft, for they are mine, or rather yours, and are waiting for you in my private drawer, where no one has ever looked, except a young girl called Jerrie, who interests me greatly, she is so much like what you must have been when a child. There has been some trouble about the diamonds—I hardly know what, my head is in such a buzzing most of the time that everything goes from me, but you. Oh, if I had remembered you years ago as I do now—"
Jerrie could read no further, for the letter dropped from her hands, as she cried, joyfully:
"I knew he had them. I was sure of it, though I did not know where they were."
Then very briefly she explained to Frank that on the morning when the diamonds were missed, Arthur was so excited because Harold had been in a way accused, that hehad rambled off into German, and said things which made her think he had taken them himself and secreted them.
"You remember my sickness," she said, "and how strangely I talked of going to prison as an accessory or a substitute? Well, it was for your brother I was ready to go; and when he told me, as he did one day, that he knew nothing of the diamonds, I was never more astonished in my life; but afterward, as I grew older, I believed that he had forgotten them, as he did other things, and that some time he would remember and make restitution. I am glad we know where they are, but we cannot get them until he returns. When do you think that will be?"
Frank did not know. It would depend, he said, upon whether he was in San Francisco when Tom's telegram was received. If he were, and started at once, traveling day and night, he would be home in a week.
It seemed a long time to wait in Jerrie's state of mind, and very, very short to the repentant man, who shrank from his brother's return as from an impending evil, although it was a relief to think that he need not tell him what a hypocrite he had been.
"Thank you, Jerrie," he said at last, as he arose to go. "Thank you for being so kind to me. I did not deserve it. I did not expect it. Heaven bless you. I am glad for you, and so is Maude. Oh, Jerrie, Heaven is dealing hard with me to take her from me, and yet it is just. I sinned for her; sinned to see her in the place I was sure was yours, for I knew you were Arthur's child, and I meant to go to Germany some day, when I had the language a little better, and clear it up, and then I had promised myself to tell you. Will you say again that you forgive me before I go back to Maude?"
He was standing before her with his white head dropped upon his hat, the very picture of misery and remorse, and Jerrie laid her hand upon his head, and said:
"I do forgive you, Uncle Frank, fully and freely, for Maude's sake if no other; and if she lives what is mine shall be hers. Tell her so, and tell her I am coming to see her as soon as I am able. I am so tired and sick to-day, and everything is so strange. Oh, if Harold were here."
Jerrie was indeed so tired and exhausted that for theremainder of the day she saw no one but Judge St. Claire and Tom, both of whom came up together, the latter bringing the answer to his telegram, and asking what to do next.
"Why, Tom," Jerrie said, as she read Arthur's reply, "'Pay him then, for I shan't come,' what does he mean? What did you say to him, and whom are you to pay?"
With a half comical smile Tom replied, "I told him the old Nick was to pay, though I am afraid I used a stronger name for his Satanic majesty than that. I guess you'll have to try what you can do."
And so Jerrie's message, "I need you," went across the continent, and brought the ready response, "Coming on the wings of the wind." It was Judge St. Claire who wrote to Harold, for Jerrie, who said: "Tell him everything, and how much I want him here; and tell him, too, of Maude, whose life hangs on a thread. That may bring him sooner."
It was three days before Jerrie was able to go to the Park House, and then Tom came for her, saying Maude was failing very fast. The news which had come upon her so suddenly with regard to Jerrie's birth and the suspicions resting upon Harold shortened the life nearing its close, and the moment Jerrie entered the room she knew the worst, and with a storm of sobs and tears knelt by the sick girl's couch and cried:
"Oh, I can't bear it. I'd give up everything to save you. Oh, Maude, you don't know how much I love you."
Maude was very calm, though her lips quivered a little and the tears filled her eyes as she put her hand in Jerrie's. A great change had come over Maude since the night when she heard Jerrie's story—a change for the better some might have thought, although the physician who attended her gave no hope. She neither coughed nor suffered pain, and could talk all she liked, although often in a whisper, she was so very weak.
"Yes, Jerrie," she said, "I know you love me, and it makes me very glad, and dying seems easier, for I know you will be cared for—Once, when I first thought I must die, I wrote something on paper for father and uncle Arthur to see when I was dead, and it was that they should take you in my place, you and Harold."
Maude's voice shook a little here, but she soon steadied it and went on:
"I wanted them to give you what I thought would be mine had I lived, and what all the time was yours. Oh, Jerrie, how can you help hating me, who have stood so long where you ought to have stood, and enjoyed what you ought to have enjoyed?"
"Maude," Jerrie cried, "don't talk like that; as if I, or any one, could ever have hated you. Why, I worshiped you as some little empress when I used to see you in your bright sashes and yellow kid boots, with the amber beads around your neck; and if the contrast between your finery and my high-necked gingham apron and white sun-bonnet sometimes struck me painfully, I had no wish to take the boots and sashes from you, whom they fitted so admirably; and as we grew older and you did not shrink from or slight Jerrie Crawford, I cannot tell you how great was the love which grew in my heart for you, the dearest girl friend I ever had, and a thousand times dearer now I know you are my cousin."
Maude was silent for a moment, and then she asked, abruptly:
"Jerrie, why did you never fall in love with Harold?"
"Oh, Maude!" and Jerrie started as if Maude had struck her, while the tell-tale blood rushed to her face, and into her eyes there came a look which even Maude could understand.
"Jerrie," she exclaimed, "forgive me. I didn't know, I never guessed, I was so stupid; but I have been thinking so much since Harold went away. Does he know about you? who you are, I mean? and how long before he will come home?"
"Judge St. Claire wrote him everything three days ago," Jerrie replied, "and told him how sick you were. That will surely bring him at once, if it is possible for him to leave; but it will be three or four days now before the letter will reach him, and it will take a week for him to come. Would you like to see him very much?"
"Yes," Maude answered, "but I never shall. Jerrie, did Harold ever—did he—does he—love you?"
"He never told me so," Jerrie said, frankly; "but I have thought that he loved you."
"N—no," Maude answered, piteously. "It was all a mistake, and when I am dead and Harold comes, promise to tell him something from me, will you?"
"Yes," Jerrie replied, and Maude continued:
"Tell him the very first time you and he are alone together, and speak of me, that I have been thinking and thinking until it came to me clear as day that it was all a mistake, a stupid blunder on my part. I was always stupid, you know; but I believe my brain is clearer now. Will you tell him, Jerrie?"
"Mistake about what?" Jerrie asked, with a vague apprehension that the task imposed upon her might not be a pleasant one if she knew all it involved.
"Harold will tell you what," Maude answered. "He will understand what I mean, but I shall not be here when he comes. I am sure of it. I hope to live till Uncle Arthur comes, for I must see him and ask him not to be hard on poor father, and tell him I am sorry that I have been so long in the place where you should have been. You will stay here and be with me to the last. I want you to hold my hand when I say good-by forever. You are so strong that I shall not be afraid with you to see and hear as long as I hear and see anything."
"And are you afraid?" Jerrie asked, and Maude replied:
"Of the death struggle, yes; but not what lies beyond where He is, the Saviour, for I know I am going to Him; and when they think me asleep I am often praying silently for more faith and love, and for you all, that you may one day come where I soon shall be. Heaven is very, very beautiful, for I have seen it in my dreams—a material heaven some would say, for there are trees, and flowers, and grass; and on a golden bench, beneath a tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and whose blossoms are like pearls, I am sitting, on the bank of a shining river, resting, and waiting, as little Pilgrim waited for the coming of the Master, and for you all."
Maude was very tired, and her voice was so low that Jerrie could scarcely hear it, while the eyelids drooped heavily, and in a few moments she fell asleep, with a rapt look on her face as if she were already resting on the golden seatbeneath the tree whose leaves were emeralds and whose blossoms were like pearls.
That night Jerrie wrote as follows:
"Dear Harold: Maude is very low, and, unless you come soon, you will never see her again. The judge has written you of me, but I must tell you myself that nothing can ever change me from the Jerrie of old; and the fact which makes me the happiest is that now I can help you who have been so kind to me. How I long to see you and talk it all over. We expect Mr. Arthur in a few days. I cannot call him father yet, until he has himself given me the right to do so by calling me daughter first; but to myself I am calling Gretchen mother all the time, my darling little mother! Oh, Harold, you must come home and share my happiness which will not be complete till you are here.""Jerrie."
"Dear Harold: Maude is very low, and, unless you come soon, you will never see her again. The judge has written you of me, but I must tell you myself that nothing can ever change me from the Jerrie of old; and the fact which makes me the happiest is that now I can help you who have been so kind to me. How I long to see you and talk it all over. We expect Mr. Arthur in a few days. I cannot call him father yet, until he has himself given me the right to do so by calling me daughter first; but to myself I am calling Gretchen mother all the time, my darling little mother! Oh, Harold, you must come home and share my happiness which will not be complete till you are here."
"Jerrie."
During the next few days Jerrie staid with Maude waiting anxiously for tidings from Arthur until one lovely September morning, a telegram was brought to Frank from Charles, which said they would be home that afternoon.
TELLING ARTHUR.
WHO should do the telling was the question which for some time was discussed by Frank and Judge St. Claire and Jerrie. Naturally the task fell upon the latter, who went over and over again in her mind what she should say and how she should commence.
But when at last the announcement came that Arthur was in Albany, it seemed to her that she had suddenly turned into stone, for every thought and feeling left her, and she had no plan of action or speech as she moved mechanically about Arthur's rooms, making them bright with flowers, especially the Gretchen room, which was a bower of beauty when her skillful hands had finished it.
Slowly the day wore on, every minute seeming an hour, and every hour a day, until Jerrie heard the carriage driving down the avenue, and not long after the whistle of the engine in the distance. Then, bending over Maude and kissing her fondly, she said:
"Pray for me, darling, I am going to meet my father."
Arthur had been very quiet during the first part of the journey from San Francisco, and it was with difficulty that Charles could get a word from him.
"Let me alone," he said once, when spoken to. "I am with Gretchen. She is on the train with me, and I'm trying to make out what it is she is telling me."
But after Albany was left behind, his mood changed and he became as wild and excitable as he had before been abstracted and silent, and when at last Shannondale was reached, he bounded from the car before the train stopped, and was collaring Rob, the coachman, and demanding of him what was the matter with Jerrie and why he had been sent for. Rob, who had received his instructions to be wholly non-committal, answered stolidly that nothing was the matter with Jerrie, but that Miss Maude was very sick and probably would not live many days.
"Is that all?" Arthur said, gloomily, as he entered the carriage. "I don't see what the old Harry has to do with Maude's dying, and certainly Tom's telegram said something about that chap. I have it in my pocket. Yes, here it is. 'Come immediately. The devil is to pay.' That doesn't mean Maude. There is something else Rob has not told me. Here you rascal, you are keeping something from me! What is it? Out with it?" he shouted to the driver, as he thrust his head from the carriage window, where he kept it, and in this way was driven to the door of the Park House, where Frank was waiting for him outside, and where, inside, Jerrie stood, holding fast to the banisters of the stairs, her heart throbbing wildly one moment, and the next seeming to lie pulseless as a piece of lead.
She heard Arthur's voice as he came up the steps, speaking to Frank, and asking why he had been sent for; and the next moment she saw him entering the hall, tall and erect, but with the wild look in his eyes which she knew so well, but which changed at once to a softer expression as they fell upon her.
"Cherry, you here!" he cried, as he sprang to her side and kissed her forehead and lips, while Jerrie could scarcelyrestrain herself from falling upon his neck and sobbing out, "Oh, my father! I am your daughter, Jerrie!" But the time for this had not come, and when he questioned her eagerly as to why she had sent for him, she only replied:
"Maude is very sick. But come with me to your rooms, and I will tell you everything."
"Then there is something to pay; I thought so," he said, as he followed her up stairs into the Gretchen room, where he stood for a moment amazed at the effect produced by the flowers and vines which Jerrie had arranged so skillfully. "It is like Eden," he said, "and Gretchen is here with me. Darling Gretchen!" he continued, as he walked up to the picture and kissed the lovely face which, it seemed to Jerrie, smiled in benediction upon them both, as they stood there side by side, her hands resting on his shoulder, which she pressed hard, as if to steady herself, while he talked to the inanimate face before him.
"Have you been lonesome, Gretchen, and are you glad to have me back again? Poor little Gretchen!" And now he turned to Jerrie, and said: "It all came to me on the top of those mountains, about Gretchen—who she was, and how I forgot her so long—that is the strangest of all; and, Cherry," here his voice dropped to a whisper, "I know for sure that Gretchen is dead—that came to me, too."
"Yes, Gretchen is dead," Jerrie answered him, while her hands tightened their grasp on his shoulder, as she went on: "I have had a message from her, and that is why we sent for you."
Jerrie's hands were not strong enough to hold him then, and, wrenching himself from her, he stood confronting her with a look more like that of a maniac than any she had seen in him before, and which might have frightened one with nerves less strong than hers. But she was not afraid, and a strange calmness fell upon her, now that she had actually reached a point, where she must act, and her eyes, which looked so steadily into Arthur's, held them fast, even while he interrogated her rapidly.
"A message from Gretchen! Where is it? Give it to me quick, or tell me about it! Where is she, and when is she coming?"
"Never!" Jerry answered, sadly. "I told you she wasdead. But sit here," and she motioned him to a large arm chair. "Sit here, and let me tell you what I know of Gretchen."
Something in the girl's manner mastered him and made him a child in her hands.
Sinking into the chair, pale and panting with excitement, he leaned his head back wearily, and closing his eyes, said to her:
"Begin. What did Gretchen write?"
Jerrie felt that she could not stand through the interview, and, bringing a low ottoman to Arthur's side, seated herself upon it just where she could look into his face and detect every change in it.
"Let me tell you of Gretchen as she was when you first knew her," she said, "and then you will be better able to judge of the truth of all I know."
He did not reply, and she went on:
"Gretchen was very young—sixteen or seventeen—when you first saw her knitting in the sunshine under the trees in Wiesbaden, and very beautiful, too—so beautiful that you went again and again to look at her and talk to her, until you came to love her very much, and told her so at last; but you seemed so much above her that she could not believe you at first. At last, however, you made her understand, and when her mother died suddenly——"
"Her mother was Mrs. Heinrich, and kept a kind of fancy store," Arthur interposed, as if anxious that nothing should be omitted.
"Yes, she kept a fancy store," Jerrie rejoined; "and when she died suddenly and left Gretchen alone, you said to her, 'We must be married at once,' and you were, in the little English chapel, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton, who was then rector."
Here Arthur's eyes opened wide and fixed themselves wonderingly upon Jerrie, as he said:
"Are you the old Harry that you know all this? But go on; don't stop; it all comes back to me so plain when I hear you tell it. She wore a straw bonnet trimmed with blue, and a white dress, but took it off directly for a black one because her mother was dead. Did she tell you that?"
"No," Jerrie replied. "She told me nothing of the dress, only how happy she was with you, whom she lovedso much, and who loved her and made her so happy for a time that earth seemed like heaven to her, and then——"
Here Jerrie faltered a little, but Arthur's sharp "What then?" kept her up, and she continued:
"Then something came to you, and you began to forget everything, even poor little Gretchen, and went away for weeks and left her very sad and lonely, not knowing where you were; and then, after some months, you went away and never came back again to the little wife who waited, and watched, and prayed, and wanted you so badly."
"Oh, Cherry! oh, Gretchen! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do it; I surely didn't. May God forgive me for forgetting the little wife! Was it long? Was it months, or was it years? I can't remember, only that there was a Gretchen, and I left her," Arthur said.
"It was years, four or more and—and—"—Jerrie's breath came heavily now, for she was nearing the point relating to herself and wondering what the effect would be upon him. "After awhile there came into Gretchen's life the dawning of a great hope, which she felt would make you glad, and wishing to keep it a secret till you came home, she only gave you a hint of it. She wrote: 'I have something to tell you which will make you as happy as it does me——'"
"Stop!" and Arthur put out both his hands as if groping for something which he could not find; then he said. "Go on," and Jerrie went on, slowly now, for every word was an effort, and spoken so low that Arthur bent forward to listen to her.
"I don't know just where Gretchen's home was when she lived alone waiting for you. I only know that after awhile there came to it a little baby—a girl baby—Gretchen's and yours——"
She did not get any further, for with a bound Arthur was on his feet, every faculty alert, every nerve strung to its utmost pitch, and every muscle of his face quivering with wild excitement, as he exclaimed:
"A baby! Gretchen's baby and mine! A little girl! Oh, Cherry, if you are deceiving me now!"
Jerrie too, had risen, and was standing before him with her hands upon his arm and her eyes, so like Gretchen's, looking into his, as she said:
"I am not deceiving you. There was a baby born toyou and Gretchen some time in January, 18—, and it was christened in the little church where you were married, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton. Oh, Mr. Arthur how can I tell you; the baby, is living yet—grown to womanhood now, for this happened more than twenty years ago, and the girl is twenty now, and is waiting and longing so much for her father to recognize and claim her. Oh, don't you understand me? Look atmeand then at Gretchen's picture!"
For an instant Arthur stood like one stricken with paralysis, his eyes leaping from Jerrie's face to Gretchen's, and from Gretchen's back to Jerrie's, and then, with a motion of his hands as if fanning the air furiously, he gasped:
"Twenty years ago—twenty years ago? How old are you, Cherry?"
"Twenty," she answered, but her voice was a whisper, and her head fell forward a little, though she kept her eyes upon Arthur, who went on:
"And they christened my baby and Gretchen's you say? What name did they give her? Speak quick, for I believe I am dying."
"They called her Jerrine, but you know her as Jerrie, for—for I am Gretchen's daughter," Jerrie said.
With a wild, glad cry, "My daughter! oh, my daughter! Thank God! thank God!" Arthur sank back into the chair fainting and insensible.
For hours he lay in a state so nearly resembling death that but for the physician's reassurance that there was no danger, Jerrie would have believed the great joy given her was to be taken from her at once. But just as the twilight shadows began to gather in the room he came to himself, waking as from some quiet dream, and looking around him until his eyes fell upon Jerrie sitting by his side; then over his white face there came a look of ineffable joy and tenderness and love, as he said, with a smile the most winning and sweet Jerrie had ever seen:
"My daughter, my little Cherry, who came to me up the ladder, with Gretchen's eyes and Gretchen's voice, and I did not know her—have not known her all these years, although she has so puzzled and bewildered me at times. My daughter! oh, my daughter!"
He accepted her unquestioningly, and Jerrie threw herself into the arms he stretched toward her, and on herfather's bosom gave vent to the feelings she had restrained so long, sobbing passionately as she felt Arthur's kisses upon her face, and his caressing hands upon her hair, as he kept repeating:
"My daughter! Gretchen's baby and mine!"
"There is more to tell. I have not heard it all, or how you came by the information," he said, when Jerrie was a little composed, and could look at and speak to him without a burst of tears.
"Yes, there is much more. There is a letter for you, with those you wrote to her," Jerrie said, "but you must not have them to-night. To-morrow you will be stronger, now you must rest."
She spoke like one with authority, and he did just what she bade him do—took the food she brought him, went to bed when she said he must go, and, with her hand locked in his, fell into a heavy slumber, which lasted all through the night, and late into the next morning. It almost seemed as if he would never waken, the sleep was so like death; but the doctor who watched him carefully quieted Jerrie's fears and told her it would do her father good, and that in all probability he would awake with a clearer mind than he had had in years, for as a great and sudden shock sometimes produced insanity, so, contrarywise, it sometimes restored a shattered mind to its equilibrium.
And the doctor was partially correct, for when at last Arthur awoke he seemed natural and bright, with a recollection of all which had happened the day before, and an earnest desire for the letters and the rest of the story, which Jerrie told him, with her arm across his neck, and her cheek laid occasionally against his, as she read him the letter directed to his friends, and then showed him the certificate of her birth and her mother's death.
"Born, January 1st, 18—, to Arthur Tracy and Marguerite, his wife, a daughter," Arthur repeated, again and again, and as often as he did so, he kissed the bright face which smiled at him through tears, for there was almost as much sadness as joy mingled with the reading of that message from the dead.
Just what Gretchen's letter to Arthur contained Jerrie never knew, except that it was full of love and tenderness,with no word of complaint for the neglect and forgetfulness which must have hastened her death.
"Oh, Gretchen, I can't bear it, I can't," Arthur moaned, as he laid his hand upon Jerrie's shoulder and sobbed like a child. "To think I could forget her, and she so sweet and good."
Everything came back to him for a time, and he repeated to Jerrie much which was of interest to her concerning her mother, but with which the reader has nothing to do; while Jerrie, in her turn, told him all she could remember of her life in the old house where Gretchen had died. Then she asked him why he had never told them that she was his wife. "It might have helped to clear up the mystery with regard to Mah-nee and myself," she said, and he replied: "Yes, yes, it might, and I don't know why I didn't. When we were first married I was going to write Frank about it, but Gretchen persuaded me not to. She had an idea that I was as much above her as a king is above his subjects, and that my friends would be very angry with me and perhaps win my love from her. I think this idea so strong with her must have found a place in my maddened brain and kept me from telling who she was. I remember having a feeling that I must not tell until she came, when I knew her sweetness and beauty would disarm all prejudice there might exist against her. I was sane enough always to know that my wife would not be acceptable to either Frank or Dolly. But oh, I wish I had told them the truth at once! Poor Gretchen, poor Gretchen!" He began to pace the room rapidly and to beat the air with his hands, as he always did when roused and excited. But Jerrie quieted him at last and then gave him his own letters addressed to Gretchen; but at these he barely glanced, muttering, as he did so, "How could I have written such crazy bosh as that?" and then suddenly recollecting himself, he asked for the photograph mentioned in Gretchen's letter to his friends, and which he seemed to think had come with the other papers. Taking it from the bag, Jerrie handed it to him, while his tears fell like rain as he gazed upon the face which was far too young to wear the sad, wan look it did.
"That is as I remember her," Jerrie said, referring again to the strange ideas which had filled her brain andmade her sure that not the dark woman found dead at her side was her mother, but another and far different person, whose face haunted her so continually and whose voice she sometimes seemed to hear speaking to her from the dim shadows of the far-off past when they lived in the little house in Wiesbaden, where the picture hung on the wall.
Arthur remembered the picture well and when it was taken, though that, too, had faded from his mind until Jerrie told him of it.
"We will go there together, Cherry," he said, "and find the house and the picture, and Gretchen's grave, and bring them home with us. There is room for them at Tracy Park."
He was beginning to talk wildly again, but Jerrie succeeded in pacifying him, and taking up the box of diamonds opened it suddenly and held it before his eyes. In reading the letters he had not seemed to pay any attention to the diamonds, but when Jerrie said to him: "These were mother's. You sent them to her from England," he replied: "Yes, I remember, I bought them in Paris with other things—dresses, I think—for her," while into his face there came a troubled look as if he were trying to think of something.
Jerrie, who could read him so well, saw the look, and, guessing at once its cause, hastened to say:
"Father, do you remember that you gave Mrs. Tracy some diamonds like these, and that some one took them from her? Try and think," she continued, as she saw the troubled look deepen and the fire beginning to kindle in his eyes. "It was years ago, just after a party Mrs. Tracy gave, and at which she wore them. You were there and thought they were Gretchen's, did you not?"
"Ye-es," he answered, slowly, "I believe I did. What did I do with them? Do you know?"
"I think you put them in your private drawer. Suppose you look and see."
Obedient to her as a child, Arthur opened his private drawer, bringing out one thing after another, all mementoes of the old Gretchen days, and finally the diamonds, at which he looked with wonder and fear, as he said to Jerrie:
"Did I take them? Will they call it a steal? I thought they were Gretchen's. I remember now."
Jerrie did not tell him then of the trouble the secreting of the diamonds had brought to her and Harold, but she said:
"No one will think it a steal, and Mrs. Tracy will be glad to get her jewels back. May I take them to her now?"
"Take them to her?—no," Arthur said, decidedly. "She has another set—I bought them for her, and she wears them all day long. Ha, ha! diamonds in the morning, with a cotton gown;" and he laughed immoderately at what he thought Dolly's bad taste. "Take them to her? No! They are yours."
"But I have mother's," Jerrie pleaded; "and I cannot wear two sets."
"Yes, you can—one to-day, one to-morrow. I mean you shall have seven—one for every day in the week. What has Dolly to do with diamonds. They are for ladies, and she is only a whitewashed one."
He was very much excited, and it took all Jerrie's tact to soothe and quiet him.
"Father," she began, and he stopped at once, for the sound of that name spoken by Jerrie had a mighty power over him—"Father, listen to me a moment."
And then she told him of the suspicions cast upon Harold, and said:
"You do not wish him to suffer any more?"
"Harold? The boy who found you in the carpet-bag—Amy's boy! No, never! Where is he that I have not seen him yet? Does he know you are my daughter?"
Jerrie had not mentioned Harold before, but she told her father now where he was, and why he had gone, and that she had written him to come home, on Maude's account, if on no other.
"Yes—Maude—I remember; but Harold did not care for Maude. Still, he had better come. I want him here with you and me; and you must stay here now day and night. Select any room you please; all is yours, my daughter."
"But I cannot leave grandma," Jerrie said.
"Let her come, too," Arthur replied. "There's room for her."
"No," Jerrie persisted; "that would not be best. Grandma could not live with Mrs. Tracy."
"Then let Dolly go at once. I'll give the order now," and Arthur put out his hand to the bell-cord.
But Jerrie stopped him instantly, saying to him:
"Remember Maude. While she lives her mother must stay here."
"Yes, I forgot Maude. I have not seen her yet," Arthur replied, subdued at once, and willing that Jerrie should take the jewels to Dolly, who deserved but little forbearance from her.
Up to the very last Mrs. Tracy had, unconsciously perhaps, clung to a shadowy hope that Arthur might repudiate his daughter and call it a trumped-up affair; but when she heard how joyfully he had acknowledged and claimed her, she lost all hope, and her face wore a gloomy expression when Jerrie entered her room, and told her in a few words that her own diamonds had been found, and where they had been secreted, and that she had come to return them.
"Then your father was the thief," Dolly said, with that rasping, aggravating tone so hard to hear unmoved.
"Call him what you please. A crazy man is not responsible for his acts," Jerrie answered calmly, as she walked from the room, leaving Dolly to her own morbid and angry thoughts.
Not even the restored diamonds had power to conciliate her.
"I'll never wear them, because she has some like them," she said to herself; and then the thought came to her that she could sell them, and add to the sum which her husband had invested in his own name.
"Yes, I'll do it," she continued, "but even that will hardly keep the wolf from the door, for Frank is growing more and more imbecile every day, and Tom is good for nothing. He'll have to scratch for himself, though, I can tell him."
Here her very characteristic soliloquy was brought to an end by a faint call, which had the power to drive every other thought from her heart, for the mother-love was strong even with her, and going to Maude, she asked what she wanted.
"Uncle Arthur," Maude replied; "I have not seen him yet. And Jerrie, too; she has scarcely been here to-day."
Maude's request was made known to Arthur, who, two or three hours later, went to her room, and told her how sorry he was to find her so sick, and that he hoped she would soon be better.
Frank was with Maude, sitting upon the side of her bed, near the head, with his arm across her pillow, and his eyes fixed anxiously upon her as she held her conference with his brother.
"No, uncle," she said, "I shall never be any better in this world; but, pretty soon, I shall be well in the other. And I want to tell you how glad I am for you and Jerrie, and to thank you for your kindness to us all these years, when Jerrie should have been here in our place."
"Yes, yes," Arthur said, with a wave of his hand. "Only I didn't know. If I had—"
"It would have been so different," Maude interrupted him. "I know that, but I want you to be kind to poor father still, and forgive him, he is so sorry, and—"
"Oh, Maude, Maude," came like a groan from Frank, as he laid his hand on Maude's lips, while Arthur replied:
"Forgive him for what? He couldn't help being here. I sent for him. He did not keep Jerrie from her rightful position as my daughter. If he had, I could never forgive him. Why, I believe I'd kill him, or any other one who, knowing that Jerrie was my daughter, kept it from me."
He was gesticulating with both hands, and Jerrie, who had come in with him, took hold of them as they were swaying in the air and said to him softly:
"Father!"
The word quieted him, and with a gasp his mood seemed to change at once.
"Maude is very tired," Jerrie went on; "perhaps we'd better go now, and come again to-morrow."
"Yes, yes, that's best, child. I'm not fond of sick rooms, though I must say this is very free from smells," Arthur replied; then stooping down he kissed Maude and said to her as he arose to go:
"Don't worry about your father; he is my brother, and he was kind to Jerrie. I shan't forget that. Come, my daughter."
And putting his arm around Jerrie he left the room.
THE FLOWER FADETH.
IT was some days after Arthur's return before the household settled down into any thing like order and quiet for Arthur was so restless and so happy, and so anxious for every one to recognize Jerrie as his daughter—Miss Tracy, he called her when presenting her to the people who had known her all her life—the St. Claires, and Athertons, and Crosbys, and Warners—who came to call upon and congratulate him. Even Peterkin came with a card as big as the back of Webster's spelling book, and himself gotten up in a dress coat, with lavender kids on his burly hands, which nearly crushed Arthur's as he expressed himself "tickleder than he ever was before in his life."
"And to think I was the means on't," he said, "for if I hadn't of kicked that darned old table into slivers when I was givin' on't to Jerrie, she'd never of knowd what was in that dumbed rat-hole. I was a little too upstrupulous, I s'spose, but I'll be darned if she didn't square up to me like a catamount, till my hair riz right up, and I concluded the Tramp House was no place for me. But I respect her for it; yes, I do, and by George, old chap, I congratulate you with my whole soul, and so does May Jane, and so does Ann 'Lizy, and so does Bill, and so does the whole coboodle on us."
This was Peterkin's speech, which Arthur received more graciously than Jerrie, who, remembering Harold, could not be very polite to the man who had injured him so deeply. As if divining her thoughts, Peterkin turned to her and said:
"Now, one word, Miss Tracy, about Hal. I hain't one to go halves in any thing, and I was meaner to him than pussly; but you'll see what I'll do. I've met with a change. I swow, I have," and he laid his lavender kid on his stomach. "He never took them diamonds, nor May Jane's pin, nor nothin', and I've blasted it all over town that he didn't, and I've got a kerridge hired, and some chaps, and a brassband, and a percession, and when Hal comes, there's to be an oblation to the depot, with the bugle a playin' 'Hail to the Chief,' and them hired chaps a histen' him inter the kerridge, with the star spangled banner a floatin' over it, and a drawin' him home without horses! What do you think of that for high?" and he chuckled merrily as he repeated the programme he had prepared for Harold's reception.
Jerrie shuddered, mentally hoping that Harold's coming might be at night, and unheralded, so as to save him from what she knew would fill him with disgust.
That call of Peterkin's was the last of a congratulatory nature made at Tracy Park for weeks, for the shadow of death had entered the grand old house, the doors and windows of which stood wide open, one lovely September morning, about a week after Arthur's return. But there was no stir or sign of life, except in the upper hall, near the door, and in the room where Maude Tracy was dying. Jerrie had been with her constantly for two or three days, and the conversation the two had held together would never be forgotten. Maude was very peaceful and happy and sure of the home beyond, where she was going, and very lovely and sweet to those around her, thinking of everything, and planning everything, even whose hands were to lower her into the grave.
"Dick, and Fred, and Billy, and Harold," she said to Jerrie, one day. "Something tells me Harold will be here in time for that; and if he is, I want those four to put me in the grave. They can lift me, for I shall not be very heavy," and, with a smile, she held up her wasted arms and hands, not as large now as a child's. "And, Jerrie," she went on, "I want the grave lined with boughs from our old playing-place—the four pines, you know—and many flowers, for I shudder at the thought of the cold earth which would chill me in my coffin. So, heap the grave with flowers, and come often to it, and think lovingly of me, lying there alone. I am thinking so much of that poem Harold read to me long ago of poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should hear them as they passed, with their feet above her in the long and silent grass. Maybe the dead can't do that, I don't know, but if they can, I shall listen for you, and be glad when you are near me, and I know I shall wait on the golden seat by the river.Remember your promise to tell Harold that it was all a mistake. My mind gets clearer toward the end, and I see things differently from what I did once, and I know how I blundered. You will tell him?"
Again Jerrie made the promise, with a sinking heart, not knowing to what it bound her; and as Maude was becoming tired, she bade her try to rest while she sat by and watched her.
The next day, at the same hour, when the balmy September air was everywhere, and the mid-afternoon sun was filling the house with golden light, and the crickets' chirp was heard in the long grass, and the robins were singing in the tree-tops, another scene was presented in the sick room, where Frank Tracy knelt at his dying daughter's side, with his face bowed on his hands, while her fingers played feebly with his white hair as she spoke to Arthur, who had just come in. They had told him she was dying and had asked for him, and with his nervous horror of everything painful and exciting, he had shrunk from the ordeal; but Jerrie's will prevailed, and he went with her to the room, where Frank and his wife and Tom were waiting—Tom standing, with folded arms, at the foot of the bed, and looking, with hot, dry eyes, into the face on the pillow, where death was setting his seal; the mother, half fainting upon the lounge, with the nurse beside her; and Frank oblivious of everything except the fact that Maude was dying.
"Kiss me good-by, Uncle Arthur," she said, when he came in, "and come this side where father is." Then, as he went round and stood by Frank, she reached her hand for his, and putting it on her father's head, said to him: "Forgive him, Uncle Arthur; he is so sorry, poor father—the dearest, the best man in the world. It was for me; say that you forgive him."
Only Frank and one other knew just what she meant, although a sudden suspicion darted through Jerrie's mind, and, when Arthur looked helplessly at her, she whispered to him:
"Never mind what she means—her mind may be wandering; but say that you forgive him, no matter what it is."
Thus adjured, Arthur said to the grief-stricken man, who shook like an aspen:
"I know of nothing to forgive, except your old disbeliefin Gretchen, and deceiving me about sending the carriage the night Jerrie came; but if there is anything else, no matter what it is, I do forgive you freely."
"Thanks," came faintly from Maude, who whispered:
"Remember it is a vow made at my death-bed."
She had done all she could, this little girl, whose life had been so short, and who, as she once said, had been capable of nothing but loving and being loved; and now, turning her dim eyes upon Jerrie, she went on:
"Remember the promise, and the flowers, and the golden seat where you will find me resting by the river whose shores I am now looking upon, for I am almost there, almost to the golden seat, and the tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and where the grass and flowers are like the flowers and grass of summer just after a rain. I am glad for you, Jerrie. Good-by; and you, dear father, good-by."
That was the last, for Maude was dead; and the servants, who had been standing about the door, stole noiselessly back to their work, with wet eyes and a sense of pain and loss in their hearts, for not one of them but had loved the gentle girl now gone forever from their midst.
It was Jerrie who led Frank from the room to his own, where she left him by himself, knowing it would be better so, and it was Arthur who took Dolly out, for Tom had disappeared, and no one saw him again until the next day, when he came down to breakfast, with a worn, haggard look upon his face, which told that he did care, though his mother thought he did not, and taunted him with his indifference. He had gone directly to his room and locked the door, and smoked and smoked, and thought and thought, and then, when it was dark, he had stolen out into the park as far as the four pines, and smoked, and looked up at the stars and wondered if Maude were there with Jack, sitting on the golden seat by the river. Then, going back to the house when no one saw him, he went into the room where Maude was lying, and looked long and earnestly upon her white, still face, and wondered in a vague kind of way if she knew he was there, and why he had never thought before what a nice kind of girl she was, and why he had not made more of her as her brother.
"Maude," he whispered, with a lump in his throat, "if you can hear me, I'd like to tell you I am sorry that I wasever mean to you, and I guess I did like you more than I supposed."
Then he kissed her pale forehead and went to his room, where he smoked the night through, and in the morning felt as if he had lived a hundred years since the previous night, and wondered how he should get through the day. It occurred to him that it might be the proper thing to see his mother; and after breakfast he went to her room, and was received by her with a burst of tears and reproaches for his indifference and lack of feeling in keeping himself away from everybody, as if it were nothing to him that Maude was dead, or that there was nothing for him to do.
"Thunderation, mother!" Tom exclaimed, "would you have me yell and scream, and make a fool of myself? I sat up all night long, which was more than you did, and I've been meditating in the woods, and have seen Maude and made it square with her. What more can I do?"
"You can see to things," Mrs. Tracy replied. "Your father is all broken up and has gone to bed, and it is not becoming in me to be around. Somebody must take the helm."
"And somebody has," Tom answered her. "Uncle Arthur is master of ceremonies now. He is running the ranch, and running it well, too."
And Tom was right, for Arthur had taken the helm, and aided and abetted by Jerrie, was quietly attending to matters and arranging for the funeral, which Dolly said must be in the house, as she would not go to the church with a gaping crowd to stare at her. So it was to take place at the house on Friday afternoon, and Arthur ordered a costly coffin from New York, and nearly a car-load of flowers and floral designs, for Jerrie had explained to him Maude's wishes with regard to her grave, which they lined first with the freshest of the boughs from the four pines, filling these again with flowers up to the very top, so that the grave when finished seemed like one mass of flowers, in which it would not be hard to lie.
Dolly had objected to Billy as one of the pall-bearers. He was too short, she said, and not at all in harmony with Dick, and Fred, and Paul Crosby, the young man who, in Harold's absence, had been asked to take his place. ButArthur overruled her with the words, "It was Maude's wish," and Billy kept his post.
The day arrived, and the hour, and the people came in greater crowds than they had done when poor Jack was buried, or the dark woman, Nannine, with only Jerrie as chief mourner, and the procession was the longest ever seen in Shannondale; and Dolly, even while her heart was aching with bitter pain, felt a thrill of pride that so many were following her daughter to the grave.
Arrived at the cemetery, there was a halt for the mourners to alight and the bearers to take the coffin from the hearse—a halt longer than necessary, it seemed to Jerrie, who did not see the young man making his way through the ranks of people crowding the road, and straining every nerve to reach the hearse, which he did just as the bearers were taking the coffin from it.
With a quick movement he put Paul Crosby aside, saying, apologetically:
"Excuse me, Paul. I must carry Maude to her grave. She wished it."
Even then Jerrie did not see him or dream that he was there, but when toward the close of the service she took a step or two forward to look into the grave before it was filled up, and he put a hand upon her shoulder and said, "Not too near, Jerrie," she started suddenly, with a suppressed cry, and turning, saw him standing by her, tall, and erect, and self-possessed, as he faced the multitude, some of whom had suspected him of crime, but all of whom were ready now to do him justice and bid him welcome home.
"Oh, Harold," Jerrie said, as she grasped his arm, "I am so glad you are here. I wish you had come before."
Harold could not reply, for they were now leaving the spot, and many gathered around him; first and foremost Peterkin, who came tramping through the grass, puffing like an engine, and, unmindful of the time or place, slapping him upon the shoulder, as he said:
"Well, my boy, glad to see you back, 'pon my soul, I be; but you've flustrated all my plans. I was meanin' to give you an oblation; got it all arranged, and you spiled it by takin' us onawares, like a thief in the night. I beg your pardon," he continued, as he met a curious look inHarold's eyes. "I'm a blunderin' cuss, I be. I didn't mean nothin'. I've never meant nothin' and if I hev I'm sorry for it."
Harold did not hear the last, for he was handing Jerrie into the carriage with her father, who bade him enter, too, saying they would leave him at the cottage where he wished to go as soon as possible. There was no time for much conversation before the cottage was reached, and Harold alighted at the gate, and no allusion whatever was made to Jerrie's changed relations until Harold stood looking at her as she kept her seat by her father, and made no sign of an intention to stop. Then he said, as calmly as he could:
"Do you stay at the Park House altogether now?"
"Oh, no," she answered, quickly. "I have been there a great deal with Maude, but am coming home to-night. I could not leave grandma alone, you know."
She acknowledged the home and the relationship still, and Harold's face flushed with a look of pleasure, which deepened in intensity when Arthur, with a wave of the hand habitual to him, said:
"I must keep her now that you are here to see to the grandmother, but will let you have her to-night. Come up later, if you like, and walk home with her."
"I shall be most happy to do so," Harold said, and then the carriage drove away, while he went in to his grandmother, who had not attended the funeral, but who knew that he had returned, and was waiting for him.