"I'll have his automobile break down in the middle of the road, and Prudence can run into it. The carbureter came off, and of course the car wouldn't run an inch without it."
"Yes, that's good," said Carol approvingly. "It must be a sixty cylinder, eight horsepower—er—Ford, or something real big and costly."
"Twins! You won't be ready," warned Prudence, and this dire possibility sent them flying upstairs in a panic.
While the girls, bubbling over with excitement, were dressing for the great event, Mr. Starr went down-stairs to sit with Prudence. Carol called to him on his way down, and he paused on the staircase, looking up at her.
"Lark and I are going to use some of Fairy's powder, father," she said. "We feel that we simply must on an occasion like this. And for goodness' sake, don't mention it before Him! It doesn't happen very often, you know, but to-day we simply must. Now, don't you say anything about falling in the flour barrel, or turning pale all of a sudden, whatever else you do. We'd be so mortified, father."
Mr. Starr was concerned with weightier matters, and went on down to Prudence with never so much as a reproving shake of the head for the worldly-minded young twins.
"Father," began Prudence, her eyes on the lace coverlet, "do you think it would be all right for me to wear that silk dressing-gown of mother's? I need something over my nightgown, and my old flannel kimono is so ugly. You know, mother said I was to have it, and—I'm twenty now. Do you think it would be all right? But if you do not want me to wear it——"
"I do want you to," was the prompt reply. "Yes, it is quite time you were wearing it. I'll get it out of the trunk myself, and send Fairy down to help you." Then as he turned toward the door, he asked carelessly, "Is he very good-looking, Prudence?"
And Prudence, with a crimson face, answered quickly, "Oh, I really didn't notice, father."
He went on up-stairs then, and presently Fairy came down with the dainty silk gown trimmed with fine soft lace. "I brought my lavender ribbon for your hair, Prudence. It will match the gown so nicely. Oh, you do look sweet, dearest. I pity Jerrold Harmer, I can tell you that. Now I must hurry and finish my own dressing."
But with her foot on the bottom stair, she paused. Her sister was calling after her. "Send father down here, quick, Fairy."
Father ran down quickly, and Prudence, catching hold of his hands, whispered wretchedly, "Oh, father, he—he is good-looking. I—I did notice it. I didn't really mean to lie to you."
"There, now, Prudence," he said, kissing her tenderly, "you mustn't get excited again. I'm afraid you are too nervous to have callers. You must lie very quietly until he comes. That was no lie, child. You are so upset you do not know what you are saying to-day. Be quiet now, Prudence,—it's nearly time for him to come."
"You are a dear good father," she cried, kissing his hands passionately, "but it was a lie. I did know what I was saying. I did it on purpose."
And Mr. Starr's heart was heavy, for he knew that his fears were realized.
At twenty minutes to four, the parsonage family clustered excitedly in the sitting-room, which the sunshine flooded cheerily. They were waiting for the hero of Prudence's romance.
"Oh, Larkie, will you run up-stairs and bring my lace handkerchief? It's on our dresser, in the burnt-wood box." And after Lark had departed, she went on, "The flowers are not quite in the center of the table, Fairy,—a little to the right.—If you would move the curtains the least little bit, those torn places would not show." Then she sighed. "How nice you all look. Oh, Connie, won't you turn the clock a little this way, so I can see it? That's better, thank you, precious. Thank you, Lark,—isn't it a pretty handkerchief? I've only carried it three times, and I have never really used it. Would you keep these pearls on, Fairy, or would you take them off?"
"I would keep them on, Prue,—they catch the color of the gown a little, and are just beautiful. You do look so sweet, but your face is very flushed. I am afraid you are feverish. Maybe we had better not let him see Prue to-day, father. Perhaps he can come back to-morrow."
"Fairy!" exclaimed Prudence. "Besides, he must come in to get his coat. We can't expect him to go coatless over Sunday. Listen,—listen, girls! Look, Fairy, and see if that is he! Yes, it is, I know,—I can tell by his walk." Warm rich color dyed her face and throat, and she clasped her hands over her heart, wondering if Connie beside her could hear its tumult.
"I'll go to the door," said Father Starr, and Prudence looked at him beseechingly.
"I—I am sure he is all right, father. I—you will be nice to him, won't you?"
Without answering, Mr. Starr left the room. He could not trust his voice.
"Listen, girls, I want to hear," whispered Prudence. And she smiled as she heard her father's cordial voice.
"You are Mr. Harmer, aren't you? I am Prudence's father. Come right in. The whole family is assembled to do you honor. The girls have already made you a prince in disguise. Come back this way. Prudence is resting very nicely."
When the two men stepped into the sitting-room, Prudence, for once, quite overlooked her father. She lifted her eyes to Jerrold Harmer's face, and waited, breathless. Nor was he long in finding her among the bevy of girls. He walked at once to the bed, and took her hand.
"My little comrade of the road," he said gaily, but with tenderness, "I am afraid you are not feeling well enough for callers to-day."
"Oh, yes, I am," protested Prudence with strange shyness.
He turned to the other girls, and greeted them easily. He was entirely self-possessed. "Miss Starr told me so much about you that I know you all to begin with." He smiled at Fairy as he added, "In fact, she predicted that I am to fall in love with you. And so, very likely, I should,—if I hadn't met your sister first."
They all laughed at that, and then he walked back and stood by Prudence once more. "Was it a bad sprain? Does it pain you very badly? You look tired. I am afraid it was an imposition for me to come this afternoon."
"She predicted I'm to fall in love with you."[Illustration: "She predicted I'm to fall in love with you."]
"She predicted I'm to fall in love with you."[Illustration: "She predicted I'm to fall in love with you."]
"Oh, don't worry about that," put in Connie anxiously. "She wanted you to come. She's been getting us ready for you ever since the doctor left. I think it was kind of silly for me to wear my blue just for one caller."
The twins glared at her, realizing that she was discrediting the parsonage, but Jerrold Harmer laughed, and Prudence joined him.
"It is quite true," she admitted frankly. "The mule and I disgraced the parsonage this morning, and I wanted the rest of you to redeem it this afternoon." She looked at him inquiringly. "Then you had another coat?"
"No, I didn't. I saw this one in a window this morning, and couldn't resist it. Was the ride very hard on your ankle?"
Mr. Starr was puzzled. Evidently it was not lack of funds which brought this man on foot from Des Moines to Mount Mark,—half-way across the state! He did not look like a man fleeing from justice. What, then, was the explanation?
"You must have found it rather a long walk," he began tentatively, his eyes on the young man's face.
"Yes, I think my feet are a little blistered. I have walked farther than that many times, but I am out of practise now. Sometimes, however, walking is a painful necessity."
"How long did it take you coming from Des Moines to Mount Mark?" inquired Carol in a subdued and respectful voice,—and curious, withal.
"I did not come directly to Mount Mark. I stopped several places on business. I hardly know how long it would take coming straight, through. It would depend on one's luck, I suppose."
"Well," said Lark, "taking it a little at a time it might be done, but for myself, I should never dream of undertaking so much exercise."
"Could you walk from here to Burlington at one stretch?" asked Connie.
He looked rather surprised. "Why, perhaps I could if I was in shape, but—seven miles was all I cared about this morning."
"Well, I think it was mighty brave of you to walk that far,—I don't care why you did it," announced Connie with emphasis.
"Brave!" he repeated. "I have walked three times seven miles, often, when I was in school."
"Oh, I mean the whole thing—clear from Des Moines," explained Connie.
"From Des Moines," he gasped. "Good heavens! I did not walk from Des Moines! Did you—" He turned to Prudence questioningly. "Did you think I walked clear from Des Moines?"
"Yes." And added hastily, "But I did not care if you did. It did not make any difference how you came."
For a moment he was puzzled. Then he burst out laughing. "I am afraid we had too much to talk about this morning. I thought I had explained my situation, but evidently I did not. I drove from Des Moines in the car, and——"
"The automobile!" gasped Carol, with a triumphant look at Lark.
"Yes, just so. I stopped several places on business as I came through. I drove from Burlington this morning, but I got off the road. The car broke down on me, and I couldn't fix it,—broke an axle. So I had to walk in. That is what I was seeing about to-day,—sending a man out for the car and arranging about the repairs." He smiled again. "What in the world did you think I would walk from Des Moines for?" he asked Prudence, more inquisitive than grammatical.
"I did not think anything about it until they asked, and—I did not know about the car. You did not mention it."
"No. I remember now. We were talking of other things all the time." He turned frankly to Mr. Starr. "Perhaps you have heard of the Harmer Automobile Company, of Des Moines. My father was Harvey Harmer. Two years ago, when I was running around in Europe, he died. It was his desire that I should personally take charge of the business. So I hurried home, and have had charge of the company since then. We are establishing sales agencies here, and in Burlington, and several other towns. I came out for a little trip, and took advantage of the opportunity to discuss the business with our new men. That's what brought me to Mount Mark." To Connie he added laughingly, "So I must sacrifice myself, and do without your praise. I did not walk until the car broke down and compelled me to do so."
For the first time in her life, Prudence distinctly triumphed over her father. She flashed him the glance of a conqueror, and he nodded, understandingly. He liked Jerrold Harmer,—as much as he could like any man who stepped seriously into the life of Prudence. He was glad that things were well. But—they would excuse him, he must look after his Sunday's sermons.
A little later the twins and Connie grew restless, and finally Connie blurted out, "Say, Prue, don't you think we've upheld the parsonage long enough? I want to get some fresh air." The twins would never have been guilty of such social indiscretion as this, but they gladly availed themselves of Connie's "break," and followed her out-of-doors. Then Fairy got up, laughing. "I have done my share, too. I think we'll leave the parsonage in your hands now, Prue. I want to write to Aunt Grace. I'll be just at the head of the stairs, and if Prudence wants me, you will call, won't you, Mr. Harmer? And won't you stay for dinner with us? I'm sure to disgrace the parsonage again, for I am no cook, but you can get along for once, surely. We spend more time laughing when the food is bad, and laughter is very healthful. You will stay, won't you?"
Jerrold Harmer looked very eager, and yet he looked somewhat doubtfully at Prudence. Her eyes were eloquent with entreaties. Finally he laughed, and said, "I should certainly like to stay, but you see I want to come back to-morrow. Now, will I dare to come back to-morrow if I stay for dinner to-night? Wouldn't Connie say that was disgracing the parsonage?"
Fairy laughed delightedly. "That is very good," she said. "Then you will stay. I'll try to fix it up with Connie to save the reputation of the house. Now, do not talk too much, Prue, and—what shall we have for dinner? We only say dinner when we have company, Mr. Harmer. What we have is supper."
Prudence contracted her brows in the earnest endeavor to compose a menu suitable for this occasion. "Mashed potatoes, and—use cream, Fairy. You'd better let Lark do the mashing, for you always leave lumps. And breaded veal cutlet," with a significant glance, "and creamed peas, and radishes, and fruit. Will that be enough for you, Mr. Harmer?"
"Oceans," he said contentedly.
"Well, I'll collect the twins and Connie and we will try to think up a few additions. Where's the money?"
"In the dungeon, and the key is on the nail above the door. And the silverware is there, too," with another significant glance.
After that, Prudence lay back happily on the pillows and smoothed the lace on her mother's silk dressing gown.
"Talk to me," she said, "tell me about where you live, and what you do,—your work, you know, and how you amuse yourself. I want you to amuse me now, Mr. Harmer."
"You called me Jerry this morning."
"Yes, I know. Do you want me to call you Jerry still?"
"Yes, Prudence, I do. Do you mind if I move my chair a little closer?"
"No, put it right here. Now, I am ready."
"But there's nothing interesting about me. Let's talk of——"
"It's interesting to me. Tell me about your business."
"You don't care anything about business, I am sure."
"I care about your business."
"Do you, Prudence?—You look so sweet this afternoon. I nearly blurted it out before the whole family. Wouldn't the twins have laughed? It would have disgraced the parsonage. I think Mr. Starr is awfully lucky to have five girls, and all of them pretty. But isn't it strange that the prettiest and dearest one of them all should be the oldest daughter?"
"Oh, but I'm not really—" Prudence began earnestly. Then she stopped, and added honestly, "But I am glad you think so."
No, they did not quote poetry, they did not discuss the psychological intricacies of spontaneous attraction, they did not say anything deep, or wise, or learned. But they smiled at each other, with pleased investigating eyes. He put his hand on the coverlet, just near enough to touch the lace on the sleeve of her silk dressing gown. And together they found Paradise in the shabby sitting-room of the old Methodist parsonage that afternoon.
"Must you prepare meat for breading half an hour before cooking, or when?" demanded Fairy, from the dining-room door.
"What?—Oh!—Fifteen minutes before. Don't forget to salt and pepper the crumbs, Fairy."
"Perhaps some time your father will let you and a couple of the others come to Des Moines with me in the car. You would enjoy a few days there, I know. I live with my aunt, a dear, motherly little old soul. She will adore you, Prudence, and you will like her, too. Would your father let you spend a week? We can easily drive back and forth in the car."
"Maybe he will,—but who will keep the parsonage while I am away?"
"Fairy, to be sure. She must be a good fairy once in a while. We can take the twins with us, Connie, too, if you like, and then Fairy will only have to mother your father. Do you like riding in a car?"
"Oh, I love it. But I have not ridden very much. Willard Morley took me quite often when he was here, but he is in Chicago now."
"When's he coming back?" suspiciously.
"Prudence, shall we have tea or coffee?" This was Lark from the doorway. "Fairy wants to know."
"What?—Oh!—Which do you want, Jerry?"
"Which does your father prefer?"
"He doesn't drink either except for breakfast."
"I generally drink coffee, but I do not care much for it, so do not bother——"
"Coffee, Lark."
"When's that Morley chap coming back?"
"I do not know." And then, "He is never coming back as far as I am concerned."
Jerrold relented promptly. "You are why he went away, I suppose."
"At any rate, he is gone."
"Did you ever have a lover, Prudence? A real lover, I mean."
"No, I, never did."
"I'm awfully glad of that. I'll——"
"Prudence, do you use half milk and half water for creamed tomato soup, or all milk?"
"What?—Oh!—All milk, Connie, and tell Fairy not to salt it until it is entirely done, or it may curdle."
"What in the world would they ever do without you, Prudence? You are the soul of the parsonage, aren't you?"
"No, I am just the cook and the chambermaid," she answered, laughing. "But don't you see how hard it will be for me to go away?"
"But it isn't fair! Vacation is coming now, and Fairy ought to take a turn. What will they do when you get married?"
"I have always said I would not get married."
"But don't you want to get married,—some time?"
"Oh, that isn't it. I just can't because I must take care of the parsonage, and raise the girls. I can't."
"But you will," he whispered, and his hand touched hers for just a second. Prudence did not answer. She lifted her eyes to his face, and caught in her breath once more.
A little later he said, "Do you mind if I go upstairs and talk to your father a few minutes? Maybe I'd better."
"But do not stay very long," she urged, and she wondered why the brightness and sunshine vanished from the room when he went out. "First door to the right," she called after him.
Mr. Starr arose to greet him, and welcomed him to his combination study and bedroom with great friendliness. But Jerrold went straight to the point.
"Mr. Starr, it's very kind of you to receive a perfect stranger as you have me. But I understand that with a girl like Prudence, you will want to be careful. I can give you the names of several prominent men in Des Moines, Christians, who know me well, and can tell you all about me."
"It isn't necessary. We are parsonage people, and we are accustomed to receiving men and women as worthy of our trust, until we find them different. We are glad to count you among our friends."
"Thank you, but—you see, Mr. Starr, this is a little different. Some day, Prudence and I will want to be married, and you will wish to be sure about me."
"Does Prudence know about that?"
"No," with a smile, "we haven't got that far yet. But I am sure she feels it. She hasn't—well, you know what I mean. She has been asleep, but I believe she is waking up now."
"Yes, I think so. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"No, indeed. Anything you like."
"Well, first, are you a Christian?"
"Not the kind you are, Mr. Starr. My parents were Christians, but I've never thought much about it myself because I was young and full of fun. I have never been especially directed to religion. I go to church, and I believe the Bible,—though I don't know much about it. I seldom read it. But I'll get busy now, if you like, and really study it and—try to come around your way. I know Prudence would make me do that." And he smiled again.
"Do you drink?"
"I did a little, but I promised Prudence this morning I would quit it. I never got—drunk, and I have not formed the habit. But sometimes with the boys, I drink a little. But I do not care for it, and I swore off this morning.—I smoke, too,—not cigarettes, of course. Prudence knows it, but she did not make me promise to quit that?" His voice was raised, inquiringly.
"Would you have promised, if she had asked it?" This was sheer curiosity.
"I suppose I would." He flushed a little. "I know I was pretty hard hit, and it was such a new experience that I would have promised anything she asked. But I like smoking, and—I don't think it is wicked."
"Never mind the smoking. I only asked that question out of curiosity. We're not as strait-laced as we might be perhaps. The only things I would really object to, are those things that might seriously menace your happiness, yours and hers, if the time does come. But the next question,—can you pass a strict physical examination?"
"Yes, I can. I'll go with you to your physician to-night if you like. I'm all right physically, I know."
"Tell me about your relations with your mother when she was living."
"She has been dead four years." Jerrold spoke with some emotion. "We were great chums, though her health was always poor. I wrote her three times a week when I was away from home, and she wrote me a note every day. When I was in school, I spent all my vacations at home to be with her. And I never went abroad until after her death because she did not like the idea of my going so far from her."
"Jerrold, my boy, I do not want to seem too severe, but—tell me, has there been anything in your life, about women, that could come out and hurt Prudence later on?"
Jerrold hesitated. "Mr. Starr, I have been young, and headstrong, and impulsive. I have done some things I wish now I hadn't. But I believe there is nothing that I could not explain to Prudence so she would understand. If I had thought beforehand of a girl like her, there are things I would not have done. But there is nothing, I think, that would really hurt, after I had a chance to talk it over with her."
"All right. If you are the man, God bless you. I don't suppose you are worthy of Prudence, for she is a good, pure-hearted, unselfish girl,—there could be none better. But the real point is just whether you will love each other enough!—I like your coming up here like this. I think that was very decent and manly of you. And, do you mind if I just suggest that you go a little slow with Prudence? Remember that she has been sound asleep, until this morning. I do not want her awakened too rudely."
"Neither do I," said Jerrold quickly. "Shall I go down now? The girls have invited me to stay for supper, and Prudence says I am to come back to-morrow, too. Is that all right? Remember, I'll be going home on Monday!"
"It is all right, certainly. Spend as much time here as you like. You will either get worse, or get cured, and—whichever it is, you've got to have a chance. I like you, Jerrold. Prudence judges by instinct, but it does not often fail her."
Prudence heard him running down the stairs boyishly, and when he came in, before she could speak, he whispered, "Shut your eyes tight, Prudence. And do not scold me, for I can't help it." Then he put his hands over hers, and kissed her on the lips. They were both breathless after that. Prudence lifted her lashes slowly, and gazed at him seriously. It was she who spoke first.
"I was never really kissed before," she whispered, "not really."
Then they sat in silence until Fairy announced that supper was ready. "But I won't promise it is eatable," she assured them, laughing.
"I wish I could go to the table, too," said Prudence, looking at her father wistfully, "I could lie on the old lounge out there."
"And have your supper on a tray, of course. Can you carry her, father?"
"I can!" volunteered Jerrold promptly. "I have done it."
"I think between us we can manage. We'll try it." And Prudence heroically endured the pain of being moved, for the sake of seeing Jerrold at the table with her parsonage family. For to her surprise, she realized that she could not bear that even a few minutes should pass, when she could not see the manly young face with the boyish mouth and the tender eyes!
Prudence, at last, was aroused from her slumber.
"Prudence, are you going to Aunt Grace's early in the summer, or late?" demanded Fairy.
"Oh, let's not talk of that now. There's plenty of time."
"No, there isn't. School will be out in a week, and Babbie wants to give a house party and have our little bunch at his home for a few days this summer. He wants to set the date, and I can't tell him when because I do not know when you are going to auntie's."
They sat around the breakfast table, Prudence and Fairy and their father, talking of the summer. The twins and Connie had long since excused themselves, and even now could be heard shouting gaily in the field beyond the old red barn.
Prudence looked restlessly from one to the other, when her sister insisted upon an answer.
"Why," she began, "I've about decided not to go to Aunt Grace's this summer."
Fairy rapped on the table with the spoon she held in her hand. "Don't be silly! You have to go. You've never had a vacation in your life, and father promised Aunt Grace on his reputation as a minister, didn't you, papa?"
"Yes, I promised all right."
"But, papa! I do not have to go, do I? A whole month,—oh, honestly, I do not want to."
"Why don't you? Last fall you were wild about it. Don't you remember dreaming——"
"Oh, but that was last fall," said Prudence, smiling softly, and unconsciously she lifted one hand to where a bulky letter nestled inside her dress. "I didn't know I was going to sprain my ankle, and be so useless. It may be two weeks yet before I can walk on it."
"What has that got to do with it?"
"Do you really prefer to stay at home, Prudence?" queried her father. "The whole summer?"
Prudence blushed most gloriously. "Oh, well," she began slowly. Then she took the plunge recklessly. "Why, you see, father, Jerry lives with his aunt in Des Moines,—he told you that, didn't he? And they have quite a big house, and—he wants to take me and the twinnies to Des Moines in the car for a week or ten days. And Fairy will take care of you and Connie. And—if I can do that—I do not want any more vacation. I couldn't bear to stay at auntie's a whole month, away from you and the parsonage." She felt very guilty, for she did not add, as she was thinking, "Besides, Jerry is coming every two weeks, and if I were away, we would miss a visit!"
Fairy laughed in an irritating, suggestive way, but Mr. Starr only nodded.
"I am sure you will not mind that, will you father? His aunt must be a perfectly good and nice woman, and—such a long drive in the auto, and—to see all over Des Moines." But Prudence paused guiltily, for she did not add, "With Jerry!" although the words were singing in her heart.
"That will be very nice indeed, and of course I do not object. It will be a forty years' delight and wonder to the twins! Yes, I will be glad to have you go. But you can still have your month at Grace's if you wish."
"But I do not wish," protested Prudence promptly. "Honestly, father, I'll write her the sweetest kind of a letter, but—oh, please do not make me go!"
"Of course, we won't make you go, you goose," said Fairy, "but I think you are very foolish."
"And you can go, Fairy," cried Prudence hospitably. "Aunt Grace loves you so, and you've worked so hard all year, and,—oh, yes, it will be just the thing for you." Prudence wished she might add, "And that will let me out," but she hardly dare say it.
"Well, when does your Des Moines tour come off? I must know, so I can tell Babbie about the house party."
"Let Babbie choose his own date. Jerry says we shall go whenever I say—I mean whenever you say, father,—and we can decide later on. Give Babbie first choice, by all means."
That was the beginning of Prudence's golden summer. She was not given to self-analysis. She did what seemed good to her always,—she did not delve down below the surface for reasons why and wherefore. She hadn't the time. She took things as they came. She could not bear the thought of sharing with the parsonage family even the least ardent and most prosaic of Jerrold's letters. But she never asked herself the reason. It seemed a positive sacrilege to leave his warm, life-pulsing letters up-stairs in a bureau drawer. It was only natural and right to carry them in her dress, and to sleep with them under her pillow. But Prudence did not wonder why. The days when Jerry came were tremulously happy ones for her,—she was all aquiver when she heard him swinging briskly up the ramshackle parsonage walk, and her breath was suffocatingly hot. But she took it as a matter of course. The nights when Jerry slept in the little spare bedroom at the head of the stairs, Prudence lay awake, staring joyously into the darkness, hoping Jerry was sound asleep and comfortable. But she never asked herself why she could not sleep! She knew that Jerry's voice was the sweetest voice in the world. She knew that his eyes were the softest and brightest and the most tender. She knew that his hands had a thrilling touch quite different from the touch of ordinary, less dear hands. She knew that his smile lifted her into a delirium of delight, and that even the thought of sorrow coming to him brought stinging tears to her eyes. But why? Ah, Prudence never thought of that. She just lived in the sweet ecstatic dream of the summer, and was well and richly content.
So the vacation passed, and Indian summer came. And the girls went back to their studies once more, reluctantly, yet unaccountably glad even in their reluctance. It is always that way with students,—real students. They regret the passing of vacation days, but the thought of "going back to school" has its own tingling joys of anticipation.
It was Saturday evening. The early supper at the parsonage was over, the twins had washed the dishes, and still the daylight lingered. Prudence and Jerry sat side by side, and closely, on the front porch, talking in whispers. Fairy had gone for a stroll with the still faithful Babbie. Connie and the twins had evidently vanished. Ah—not quite that! Carol and Lark came swiftly around the corner of the parsonage.
"Good evening," said Lark politely, and Prudence sat up abruptly. The twins never wasted politeness! They wanted something.
"Do you mind if we take Jerry around by the woodshed for a few minutes, Prue?"
"I'll come along," said Prudence, rising.
"Oh, no," protested Lark, "we do not want you,—just Jerry, and only for a little while."
Prudence sniffed suspiciously. "What are you going to do to him?" she demanded.
"We won't hurt him," grinned Carol impishly. "We had intended to tie him to a stake and burn him alive. But since you have interceded on his behalf, we'll let him off with a simple scalping."
"Maybe he's afraid to come," said Lark, "for there are two of us, and we are mighty men of valor."
"That's all right," Prudence answered defensively. "I'd sooner face a tribe of wild Indians any day than you twins when you are mischief-bent."
"Oh, we just want to use him a few minutes," said Carol impatiently. "Upon our honor, as Christian gentlemen, we promise not to hurt a hair of his head."
"Oh, come along, and cut out the comedy," Jerry broke in, laughing. "I'll be back in two minutes, Prue. They probably want me to shoo a chicken out of their way. Or maybe the cat has been chasing them."
Once safely around the corner, the twins changed their tactics.
"We knew you weren't afraid," said Lark artistically, "we were just teasing Prudence. We know we couldn't hurt you."
"Of course," emphasized Carol. "We want to ask a favor of you, that's all. It's something we can't do ourselves, but we knew you could do it, all right."
Jerry perceived the drift of this argument. "I see! I'm paid in advance for my service. What's the job?"
Then the twins led him to the woodshed. This woodshed stood about twenty feet from the back door of the parsonage, and was nine feet high in front, the roof sloping down at the back. Close beside the shed grew a tall and luxuriant maple. The lower limbs had been chopped off, and the trunk rose clear to a height of nearly twelve feet before the massive limbs branched out. The twins had discovered that by climbing gingerly on the rotten roof of the woodshed, followed by almost superhuman scrambling and scratching, they could get up into the leafy secrecy of the grand old maple. More than this, up high in the tree they found a delightful arrangement of branches that seemed positively made for them. These branches must be utilized, and it was in the act of utilizing them that they called upon their sister's friend for help.
"Do you see this board?" began Lark, exhibiting with some pride a solid board about two feet in length.
"My eyesight is quite unimpaired," answered Jerry, for he knew his twins.
"Well, we found this over by the Avery barn. They have a big scrap pile out there. We couldn't find anything around here that would suit, so we looked, over there. It's just a pile of rubbish, and we knew they wouldn't mind."
"Else you would not have taken it, eh? Anything like apples, for instance, is quite under the ban."
"Yes, indeed," smiled Lark. "We're too old to steal apples."
"Of course," added Carol. "When we need our neighbor's apples, we send Connie. And get nicely punished for it, too, I promise you."
"Quite so! And this exquisite board?"
"Well, we've found a perfectly gorgeous place up in the old tree where we can make a seat. It's quite a ways out from the trunk, and when the wind blows it swings splendidly. But it isn't very comfortable sitting on a thin limb, and so we want a seat. It's a fine place, I tell you. We thought you could nail this securely on to the limbs,—there are two right near each other, evidently put there on purpose for us. See what dandy big nails we have!"
"From the Avery's woodshed, I suppose," he suggested, smiling again.
"Oh, they are quite rusty. We found them in a sack in an old barrel. It was in the scrap heap. We're very good friends with the Averys, very good, indeed," she continued hastily. "They allow us to rummage around at will—in the barn."
"And see this rope," cried Carol. "Isn't it a dandy?"
"Ah! The Avery barn must be inexhaustible in its resources."
"How suspicious you are, Jerry," mourned Lark.
"I wish we were that way, instead of innocent and bland and trustful. Maybe we would get rich, too. This is the first time I ever really understood how you came to be a success in business."
"But you are quite wrong this time," said Lark seriously. "Old Mr. Avery gave me this rope."
"Yes, he did! Lark told him she was looking for a rope just exactly like this one, and then he gave it to her. He caught the idea of philanthropy right away. He's a very nice old gentleman, I tell you. He's so trusting and unsuspicious. I'm very fond of people like that."
"We thought when you had the board nicely nailed on, you might rope it securely to the limbs above. They are in very good position, and that will make it absolutely safe. Do you suppose you can do that, Jerry? Do you get seasick when you climb high?"
"Oh, no, high altitudes never make me seasick. I've a very good head for such purposes."
"Then suppose you get busy before it grows dark. We're in a great hurry. And we do not want Connie to catch us putting it up. It'll be such fun to sit up there and swing when the wind blows, and have poor Connie down beneath wondering how we manage to stick on. She can't see the seat from the ground. Won't it be a good joke on her?"
"Oh, very,—-yes, indeed.—Well, let's begin.—Now, observe! I will just loop this end of the rope lightly about my—er—middle. The other end will dangle on the ground to be drawn up at will. Observe also that I bestow the good but rusty nails in this pocket, and the hammer here. Then with the admirable board beneath my arm, I mount to the heights of—Say, twins, didn't I see an old buggy seat out in the barn to-day? Seems to me——"
"Oh, Jerry!" The twins fairly smothered him. "Oh, you darling. You are the nicest old thing.—Now we can understand why Prudence seems to like you. We never once thought of the old buggy seat! Oh, Jerry!"
Then they hastily brought the discarded seat from the barn, and with the help of Jerry it was shoved up on the woodshed. From there, he lifted it to the lowest limb of the old maple, and a second later he was up himself. Then it was lifted again, and again he followed,—up, and up, and up,—the loose end of the donated rope trailing loose on the ground below. The twins promptly,—as promptly as possible, that is,—followed him into the tree.
"Oh, yes, we'll come along. We're used to climbing and we're very agile. And you will need us to hold things steady while you hammer."
And Jerry smiled as he heard the faithful twins, with much grunting and an occasional groan, following in his wake.
It was a delightful location, as they had said. So heavy was the leafy screen that only by lifting a branch here or there, could they see through it. The big seat fitted nicely on the two limbs, and Jerry fastened it with the rusty nails. The twins were jubilant, and loud in their praises of his skill and courage.
"Oh, Jerry," exclaimed Carol, with deep satisfaction, "it's such a blessing to discover something really nice about you after all these months!"
"Now, we'll just——"
"Hush!" hissed Lark. "Here comes Connie. Hold your breath, Jerry, and don't budge."
"Isn't she in on this?" he whispered. He could hear Connie making weird noises as she came around the house from the front. She was learning to whistle, and the effect was ghastly in the extreme. Connie's mouth had not been designed for whistling.
"Sh! She's the band of dark-browed gypsies trying to steal my lovely wife."
"I'm the lovely wife," interrupted Carol complacently.
"But Connie does not know about it. She is so religious she won't be any of the villain parts. When we want her to be anything real low-down, we have to do it on the sly. She would no more consent to a band of dark-browed gypsies than she would——"
Connie came around the corner of the parsonage, out the back walk beneath the maple. Then she gave a gleeful scream. Right before her lay a beautiful heavy rope. Connie had been yearning for a good rope to make a swing. Here it lay, at her very feet, plainly a gift of the gods. She did not wait to see where the other end of the rope was. She just grabbed what she saw before her, and started violently back around the house with it yelling, "Prudence! Look at my rope!"
Prudence rushed around the parsonage. The twins shrieked wildly, as there was a terrific tug and heave of the limb beside them, and then—a crashing of branches and leaves. Jerry was gone!
It did look horrible, from above as well as below. But Jerry, when he felt the first light twinge as Connie lifted the rope, foresaw what was coming and was ready for it. As he went down, he grabbed a firm hold on the branch on which he had stood, then he dropped to the next, and held again. On the lowest limb he really clung for fifteen seconds, and took in his bearings. Connie had dropped the rope when the twins screamed, so he had nothing more to fear from her. He saw Prudence, white, with wild eyes, both arms stretched out toward him.
"O. K., Prue," he called, and then he dropped. He landed on his feet, a little jolted, but none the worse for his fall.
He ran at once to Prudence. "I'm all right," he cried, really alarmed by the white horror in her face. "Prudence! Prudence!" Then her arms dropped, and with a brave but feeble smile, she swayed a little. Jerry took her in his arms. "Sweetheart!" he whispered. "Little sweetheart! Do—do you love me so much, my dearest?"
Prudence raised her hands to his face, and looked intensely into his eyes, all the sweet loving soul of her shining in her own. And Jerry kissed her.
The twins scrambled down from the maple, speechless and cold with terror,—and saw Prudence and Jerry! Then they saw Connie, staring at them with interest and amusement.
"I think we'd better go to bed, all three of us," declared Lark sturdily. And they set off heroically around the house. But at the corner Carol turned.
"Take my advice and go into the woodshed," she said, "for all the Averys are looking out of their windows."
Prudence did not hear, but he drew her swiftly into the woodshed. Now a woodshed is a hideously unromantic sort of place. And there was nothing for Prudence to sit on, that Jerry might kneel at her feet. So they dispensed with formalities, and he held her in his arms for a long time, and kissed her often, and whispered sweet meaningless words that thrilled her as she listened. It may not have been comfortable, but it was evidently endurable, for it is a fact that they did not leave that woodshed for over an hour. Then they betook themselves to the darkest corner of the side porch,—and history repeated itself once more!
At twelve, Jerry went up-stairs to bed, his lips tingling with the fervent tenderness of her parting kiss. At one o'clock, he stood at his window, looking soberly out into the moonlit parsonage yard. "She is an angel, a pure, sweet, unselfish little angel," he whispered, and his voice was broken, and his eyes were wet, "and she is going to be my wife! Oh, God, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as happy as she deserves."
At two o'clock he lay on his bed, staring into the darkness, thinking again the soft shy words she had whispered to him. And he flung his arms out toward his closed door, wanting her. At three o'clock he dropped lightly asleep and dreamed of her. With the first pale streaks of daylight stealing into his room, he awoke. It was after four o'clock. A little later,—just a few minutes later,—he heard a light tap on his door. It came again, and he bounded out of bed.
"Prudence! Is anything wrong?"
"Hush, Jerry, not so loud!" And what a strange and weary voice. "Come down-stairs, will you? I want to tell you something. I'll wait at the foot of the stairs. Be quiet,—do not wake father and the girls. Will you be down soon?"
"In two minutes!"
And in two minutes he was flown, agonizingly anxious, knowing that something was wrong. Prudence was waiting for him, and as he reached the bottom step she clutched his hands desperately.
"Jerry," she whispered, "I—forgive me—I honestly— Oh, I didn't think what I was saying last night. You were so dear, and I was so happy, and for a while I really believed we could belong to each other. But I can't, you know. I've promised papa and the girls a dozen times that I would never marry. Don't you see how it is? I must take it back."
Jerry smiled a little, it must be admitted. This was so like his conscientious little Prudence!
"Dearest," he said gently, "you have said that because you were not awake. You did not love. But you are awake now. You love me. Your father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. The girls would not hear of it. They want you to be happy. And you can't be happy without me, can you?"
Suddenly she crushed close to him. "Oh, Jerry," she sobbed, "I will never be happy again, I know. But—it is right for me to stay here, and be the mother in the parsonage. It is wicked of me to want you more than all of them. Don't you see it is? They haven't any mother. They haven't any one but me. Of course, they would not allow it, but they will not know anything about it. I must do it myself. And father especially must never know. I want you to go away this morning before breakfast, and—never come again."
She clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter. "And you must not write to me any more. For, oh, Jerry, if I see you again I can never let you go, I know it. Will you do this for me?"
"You've been up all night, haven't you, dearest?"
"Yes,—I remembered, and then I couldn't sleep."
"What have you been doing all night? It is morning now."
"I walked up and down the floor, and pounded my hands together," she admitted, with a mournful smile.
"You are nervous and excited," he said tenderly. "Let's wait until after breakfast. Then we'll talk it all over with your father, and it shall be as he says. Won't that be better?"
"Oh, no. For father will say whatever he thinks will make me happy. He must not know a thing about it. Promise, Jerry, that you will never tell him one word."
"I promise, of course, Prudence. I will let you tell him."
But she shook her head. "He will never know. Oh, Jerry! I can't bear to think of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you, and— It seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it."
"Sit down here in my lap. Put your head on my shoulder, like that. Let me rub your face a little. You're feverish. You are sick. Go to bed, won't you, sweetheart? We can settle this later on."
"You must go right away, or I can not let you go at all!"
"Do you mean you want me to get my things, and go right now?"
"Yes." She buried her face in his shoulder. "If—if you stay in your room until breakfast time, I will lock you in, so you can not leave me again. I know it. I am crazy to-day."
"Don't you think you owe me something, as well as your father and sisters? Didn't God bring us together, and make us love each other? Don't you think He intended us for each other? Do you wish you had never met me?"
"Jerry!"
"Then, sweetheart, be reasonable. Your father loved your mother, and married her. That is God's plan for all of us. You have been a wonderfully brave and sweet daughter and sister, I know. But surely Fairy is old enough to take your place now."
"Fairy's going to be a professor, and—the girls do not mind her very well. And she isn't as much comfort to father as I am.—It's just because I am most like mother, you see. But anyhow, I promised. I can't leave them."
"Your father expects you to marry, and to marry me. I told him about it myself, long ago. And he was perfectly willing. He didn't say a word against it."
"Of course he wouldn't. That's just like father. But still, I promised. And what would the girls say if I should go back on them? They have trusted me, always. If I fail them, will they ever trust anybody else? If you love me, Jerry, please go, and stay away." But her arm tightened about his neck. "I'll wait here until you get your things, and we can—say good-by. And don't forget your promise."
"Oh, very well, Prudence," he answered, half irritably, "if you insist on ordering me away from the house like this, I can only go. But——"
"Let's not talk any more about it, Jerry. Please. I'll wait until you come down."
When he came down a little later, with his suitcase, his face was white and strained.
She put her arms around his neck. "Jerry," she whispered, "I want to tell you that I love you so much that—I could go away with you, and never see any of them any more, or papa, or the parsonage, and still feel rich, if I just had you! You—everything in me seems to be all yours. I—love you."
Her tremulous lips were pressed against his.
"Oh, sweetheart, this is folly, all folly. But I can't make you see it. It is wrong, it is wickedly wrong, but——"
"But I am all they have, Jerry, and—I promised."
"Whenever you want me, Prudence, just send. I'll never change. I'll always be just the same. God intended you for me, I know, and—I'll be waiting."
"Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" she whispered passionately, sobbing, quivering in his arms. It was he who drew away.
"Good-by, sweetheart," he said quietly, great pity in his heart for the girl who in her desire to do right was doing such horrible wrong. "Good-by, sweetheart. Remember, I will be waiting. Whenever you send, I will come."
He stepped outside, and closed the door. Prudence stood motionless, her hands clenched, until she could no longer hear his footsteps. Then she dropped on the floor, and lay there, face downward, until she heard Fairy moving in her room up-stairs. Then she went into the kitchen and built the fire for breakfast.