“Last night, but it is nothing but his raving,—he doesn’t know what he says; he thought I was his mother!” and the Deacon eyed Margaret anxiously.
It was eleven o’clock before they reached home, and, leaving her wet garments in the kitchen, where she found a neighbour who set about preparing her a cup of tea, Margaret went softly up the stairs.
The fire in the sitting-room had died down and she stirred it up, adding a fresh log, and resting a moment to collect herself, went to the attic chamber.
Outside the door of Gurth’s room stood a table with a small oil-stove upon it and a dish-pan full of flaxseed meal; great squares of cotton that had made poultices lay about.
Inside the room a bright fire burned, and the screened lamp showed Andrea sitting on one side of the bed, watching the clock, and father on the other side, watching the patient, and combining, as often happens in the calling of the country physician, both doctor and nurse.
Gurth was sleeping, if the uneasy tossing could be called sleep. Father was trying to keep the poultices in place, and now and then moistened the dry lips with a bit of ice. On seeing Margaret, Andrea came to the door, and, without saying a word, put her arms about her and laid her head on her shoulder, with a gesture of entire confidence that said, “Now that you have come, all will be right.” Already Margaret seemed the elder by years.
“Try to persuade her to lie down an hour, Miss Margaret,” said father; “she has not rested for two days, nor scarcely touched a morsel.” Andrea yielded, upon the promise that she should be called at the slightest change.
Margaret took the chair opposite father, rising at intervals to hand him what he needed. She felt that in being there now she was infringing no law, social or moral, and that she had a right to the moments that were so precious to her. It was almost one o’clock; Gurth stirred and muttered as father gave him some brandy. Suddenly Margaret became conscious that his eyes were open and fixed upon her with a look that was unmistakable. As she leaned forward, not trusting her sight, Gurth suddenly raised himself upon one arm and stretching the other towards her, grasped her hand, crying “Margaret!” in a joyful voice. The delirium began again, in which he seemed to be going through the last interview with his mother. Andrea was called. In vain she begged him to speak to her, to look at her, but he never again became conscious, and at five o’clock he died.
It was the day after Thanksgiving when Gurth was laid away in the hillside burying-ground, where he had so often scattered food for the hungry birds.
A troop of neighbours followed him there, for he had become a favourite through his varied tastes; he had meant to settle at the Glen, so he was one of them, and all the women felt deep pity for Andrea. On the way back much curiosity was expressed as to what disposition she would make of the farm, for they all took it for granted that it would be hers.
For a day or two Andrea stayed in her room alone, refusing all offers of sympathy and barely tasting food. But one morning when Margaret went down, she found her in the kitchen going about her work the same as usual. Her face was pale and drawn, but wore a look of quiet resolution that was unearthly. She did not mention Waldsen, but when the day’s work was done, went silently to his attic and, after feeding the birds, sat looking out, where upon the hillside there was a patch of fresh earth.
Margaret, watching the chance, followed her, and seated herself also by the window. For a moment neither spoke, and then Andrea laid her head in Margaret’s lap and said, great sobs nearly strangling her,—“Love me! Margaret, love me! I have tried not to speak of him and to keep the grief inside, for we have made you so much trouble, but oh, I cannot!” and the two women, clinging to each other, mingled their tears.
When Andrea grew calmer, Margaret spoke of the future, and how she hoped that Andrea would always feel that the Mill Farm was her home.
“It’s very good of you, dear Margaret, to want me, and I should like to stay, but I must finish Gurth’s work and make the fruit farm a success,—I know that he would wish it.
“These last few days and nights I have thought it out all myself, and I have decided. There is some money, you know; enough, he often said, until the fruit yields a return. I shall hire old Mr. and Mrs. Grigs to live with me, and if, in a year or two, I prosper, I will send for my little brothers (Ernest is twelve already), and then I shall have help enough.
“No, do not try to dissuade me, dear Margaret, you do not understand. When a woman has lost the love that bounded her life, the only thing between her and despair is a home!”
It fell to Deacon Tolford, in his legal capacity, as probate judge, to take the steps necessary for the regulation of Waldsen’s affairs. He told Andrea that, as a matter of form, he must look through Waldsen’s papers, and she willingly consented, only asking that any letters from herself be left unread.
The Deacon spent a morning in the attic, then, coming to the sitting-room where Margaret was sewing, closed the door gently, sat down, and began drumming on the table with his fingers, his face wearing a distressed look.
Margaret waited for him to speak, which he soon did, abruptly, as if he was beginning in the middle of his thoughts.
“Daughter, I want you to ask Andrea to stop with us as long as she likes. She can’t well go back to Denmark, and I hate to think of her facing the world so soon after this trouble.”
“I knew you would wish it, father, so I asked her yesterday to live with us; but she has thought out her future carefully, and I do not see any reason for opposing her.” Then she gave the details of Andrea’s plan.
The Deacon sat for some minutes, his head sunk between his shoulders, and then, pulling himself together, said, “I might as well tell you something first as last, Margaret,—a fact that neither of you women seems to think possible. Gurth Waldsen left no will or legal papers of any sort. The farm and money does not belong to Andrea any more than it does to us! More than this, it is my duty to inform his mother of the facts, as she is his only heir, and appoint an administrator to take charge of the estate, pending its settlement!”
Margaret had risen and was standing with dilated eyes and her hands clasped before her. “Father! father! I never thought of this. Can nothing be done? Can we not arrange in some way? Oh! who will tell Andrea?”
“As Waldsen did not have the foresight to protect her, we can do nothing, daughter. She need not be told for a few weeks, though, until I receive some order from his mother,—but know it she must. If they had married last spring, this trouble would have been avoided. Mark my words, daughter, some niceties of feeling are too good for daily use. Gurth was a dreamer, and dreams always end like this.”
“Let us wait a few weeks,” interrupted Margaret, hastily. “As you say, it may seem less brutal than to tell her now, or his mother, who is so rich, may let Andrea keep the land.”
With December the deep snows came, and there were times when Andrea could not make her daily pilgrimage to the Hill Farm. She regarded her plan of life as settled, and was grateful that she met with no opposition. She had spoken to the Grigses, and was only waiting for Christmas, her marriage day, to go home! Home! She made the most of the magic word, not realizing its emptiness.
She was in an overwrought, exalted state. Feeling that Waldsen was very near, she knew no loneliness. When she was not working, she sat in his room and looked up the hill. Once or twice she took down his violin, and drew the bow across its strings, half expecting it would yield its old music.
To sympathizing neighbours she told her plans freely, and they, marvelling at her courage, wondered among themselves if her head was quite right.
The weeks went on, and Margaret dreaded every mail, lest it should bring the foreign letter. Christmas was drawing near when, on the day before it, the letter came. It was from Mrs. Waldsen’s lawyer, brief and couched in technical language, giving directions for the disposal of the farm and declining peremptorily to make any allowance to “the woman who had brought about the estrangement between mother and son, and had so boldly followed the latter to America, though it was evident, as he had made no provision for her, that he had no intention of marrying her.”
The Deacon handed the paper to Margaret, and then sat looking dumbly at her. The snow blew against the window in great felty masses; it lay so deeply over wood and field that no one had been able to gather Christmas greens; even the laurels on the hillside were weighed down and hidden. “I cannot tell her,” said Margaret; “wait until after to-morrow; she will not try to go to the Hill House as she planned, for the road is drifted over.”
There was to be a Christmas tree down at the church at seven o’clock on Christmas Eve, and Margaret had promised to lead the carols with the children, as a matter of course. She looked out at half-past six and shivered at the storm, but a deacon’s daughter must not quail in the face of duty,—in a small town she always shares responsibility with the minister’s wife, and just now the minister’s wife was ill. Soon Andrea came downstairs dressed in the plain black gown that she had worn when Margaret first saw her, and said that she also wished to go to church; and the two women, preceded by the Deacon, and a blinking lantern, felt, rather than saw, their way out to the sleigh.
Once at the church, Andrea hid herself in the corner of an old-fashioned high pew, silently looking at the lights and the children’s happy faces. When the singing began, tears ran down her cheeks, and she made no effort to restrain them, or even wipe them away.
The Deacon hurried the girls home as soon as possible, after the exercises were over, for though the storm had ceased, the thermometer had fallen, and the cold was intense.
Margaret begged Andrea to share her room that night, for the house seemed inexpressibly dreary, but she refused gently, and, after kissing Margaret, went up to Waldsen’s attic room. There she moved about awhile, and finally Margaret heard her go to her own room, and in a few moments everything was still.
Andrea did not sleep, however, or even undress; the music had excited her imagination. It was Christmas Eve; how many years ago was the last Christmas? She had prepared no present for Waldsen, not even a wreath for his grave. The thought distressed her out of its due proportion.
Then she remembered that, under the eaves in his room, there was a sheaf of rye that he had saved to be the Christmas sheaf for their new home. She would take that up to the hill to him, and all the hungry birds would come there to-morrow for their festival. Presently it seemed to her as if the night lifted and day was dawning.
Andrea found the sheaf, and, pinning a shawl about her head and shoulders, crept softly downstairs. The wind blew so that she could barely close the woodshed door behind her; at her first step she sank knee-deep in the snow. Then a sort of second sight came to aid her, and she chose the places bared by the wind in picking out her path.
The moon came out brightly and the shadows bowed and beckoned encouragement to her as she struggled on. Could she ever climb the hill? Twice the wind wound her in her shawl and she fell, but, pausing a moment for breath, regained her footing. The sheaf grew like lead in her arms, and the wind fought with her for it.
At last she reached the picket fence that encircled the hill of white stones. The gate held fast until, dropping her burden, she shovelled the snow away desperately with her hands and released it. Was she growing dizzy? No, she felt stronger, better. The few clouds vanished, driven by the moon. A new light shone about the place, and beautiful colours radiated from the blowing particles of snow. The wind hushed its shrillness to soft music, the notes of Gurth’s violin. She was in her old home once more, and the little brothers were singing their carol.
How the wind blew! she must hurry now,—only a few steps more. Again the music arose; strange! it seemed to be her own voice that sang to the accompaniment of Gurth’s violin,—
“Sire, the night is darker now,And the wind blows stronger;Fails my heart, I know not how,I can go no longer!”
“Sire, the night is darker now,And the wind blows stronger;Fails my heart, I know not how,I can go no longer!”
“Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger;
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer!”
She caught hold of a stone to steady herself and turned toward the unmarked mound. Her feet almost refused to move, one final effort! It grew light again! Joy! The sheaf of rye seemed to part and open a way before her, revealing Waldsen standing on the threshold of the Hill House—would he close the door without seeing her? Casting herself forward, she cried, “Wait, beloved, I am coming!” and then all was warmth and light.
In the morning Margaret did not call Andrea when she first awoke. “Day will come to her soon enough,” she said. An hour later she went to the empty room and then, finding the bed untouched, searched the house in vain. Calling the Deacon, he suggested that Andrea might have gone to the Hill House, but there were no footsteps in the snow to guide them, for it had drifted all night.
A party of neighbours quickly formed; the men strode about, probing the drifts with sticks, while the women looked anxiously from their windows.
Margaret went to the attic room, where she could see the country on all sides. Something fluttered above the snow between the white stones on the hill, where the wind had swept bare places. In a moment she had gone out and called the nearest of the searchers, who chanced to be her father, and together they climbed the hill.
Pillowed by the rye knelt Andrea, her eyes turned skyward, a smile upon her parted lips, while above her the meadowlarks flocked and the buntings murmured as they made their Christmas feast from Gurth’s sheaf.
“We need not tell her now,” was all that Margaret said.
FINIS
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THE PRIDE OF JENNICO. Being a Memoir of Captain Basil Jennico.
“What separates it from most books of its class is its distinction of manner, its unusual grace of diction, its delicacy of touch, and the fervent charm of its love passages. It is a very attractive piece of romantic fiction relying for its effect upon character rather than incident, and upon vivid dramatic presentation.”—The Dial.“A stirring, brilliant and dashing story.”—The Outlook.
THE SECRET ORCHARD. Illustrated by Charles D. Williams.
The “Secret Orchard” is set in the midst of the ultra modern society. The scene is in Paris, but most of the characters are English speaking. The story was dramatized in London, and in it the Kendalls scored a great theatrical success.
“Artfully contrived and full of romantic charm * * * it possesses ingenuity of incident, a figurative designation of the unhallowed scenes in which unlicensed love accomplishes and wrecks faith and happiness.”—Athenaeum.
YOUNG APRIL. With illustrations by A. B. Wenzell.
“It is everything that a good romance should be, and it carries about it an air of distinction both rare and delightful.”—Chicago Tribune.“With regret one turns to the last page of this delightful novel, so delicate in its romance, so brilliant in its episodes, so sparkling in its art, and so exquisite in its diction.”—Worcester Spy.
FLOWER O’ THE ORANGE. With frontispiece.
We have learned to expect from these fertile authors novels graceful in form, brisk in movement, and romantic in conception. This carries the reader back to the days of the bewigged and beruffled gallants of the seventeenth century and tells him of feats of arms and adventures in love as thrilling and picturesque, yet delicate, as the utmost seeker of romance may ask.
MY MERRY ROCKHURST. Illustrated by Arthur E. Becher.
In the eight stories of a courtier of King Charles Second, which are here gathered together, the Castles are at their best, reviving all the fragrant charm of those books, likeThe Pride of Jennico, in which they first showed an instinct, amounting to genius, for sunny romances. “The book is absorbing * * * and is as spontaneous in feeling as it is artistic in execution.”—New York Tribune.
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THE CATTLE BARON’S DAUGHTER. A Novel. By Harold Bindloss. With illustrations by David Ericson.
A story of the fight for the cattle-ranges of the West. Intense interest is aroused by its pictures of life in the cattle country at that critical moment of transition when the great tracts of land used for grazing were taken up by the incoming homesteaders, with the inevitable result of fierce contest, of passionate emotion on both sides, and of final triumph of the inevitable tendency of the times.
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE. With illustrations in color by W. Herbert Dunton.
A man of upright character, young and clean, but badly worsted in the battle of life, consents as a desperate resort to impersonate for a period a man of his own age—scoundrelly in character but of an aristocratic and moneyed family. The better man finds himself barred from resuming his old name. How, coming into the other man’s possessions, he wins the respect of all men, and the love of a fastidious, delicately nurtured girl, is the thread upon which the story hangs. It is one of the best novels of the West that has appeared for years.
THAT MAINWARING AFFAIR. By A. Maynard Barbour. With illustrations by E. Plaisted Abbott.
A novel with a most intricate and carefully unraveled plot. A naturally probable and excellently developed story and the reader will follow the fortunes of each character with unabating interest * * * the interest is keen at the close of the first chapter and increases to the end.
AT THE TIME APPOINTED. With a frontispiece in colors by J. H. Marchand.
The fortunes of a young mining engineer who through an accident loses his memory and identity. In his new character and under his new name, the hero lives a new life of struggle and adventure. The volume will be found highly entertaining by those who appreciate a thoroughly good story.
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TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.
Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.