Tracy Park Part 36

Think of his refusing to take any more money from me unless I would accept his note promising to pay it all back in time--just as if he ever can, or will.'

'Indeed he will,' Jerrie exclaimed, rousing at once in Harold's defence.

'He will pay every dollar, and I shall help him.'

'You!' and Arthur laughed, merrily, 'How will you help him, I'd like to know.'

'I shall teach school, or give music lessons, or do both to earn something for grandmother,' Jerrie answered, quickly. 'And I shall help Harold, and shall pay Mr. Frank all he gave grandmother for my board. I know just how much it is. Three dollars a week from the time I was four years old until I was sixteen and came here to school--almost two thousand dollars; a big sum, I know, but I shall pay it. You will see,'

she went on rapidly and earnestly; as she saw the amused look on Arthur's face, and felt that he was laughing at her.

'You are going to pay my brother to the uttermost farthing, but what of me? Am I to be left in the cold?' he asked, as he arose from the table and seated himself upon the sofa near the window.

'I expect to be your debtor all my life,' Jerrie said, as went over to him and laid her soft, white arms around his neck. 'I can never pay you for all you have done for me, never. I can only love you, which I do so dearly, as the kindest and best of men.'

She was stooping over him now; and putting up his hands Arthur drew her close to him, so that the two faces were again plainly reflected, side by side in the mirror opposite--the man's gentle and tender as a woman's, the girl's flushed, and eager, and excited as she caught a second time the likeness which had made her cold and faint when she first saw it, and which made her faint again as she clasped her hands tightly together, and leaning a little forward, looked earnestly at the faces in the mirror, while she listened to what Arthur was saying.

'You owe me nothing, Cherry; the indebtedness is all on my side, and has been since the day when a little white sun-bonnet showed itself at my window, and a clear, ringing voice, which I can hear yet, said to me, "Mr. Crazyman, don't you want some cherries?" You don't know how much of life and suns.h.i.+ne you brought me with the cherries. My sky was very black those days, and but for you I am certain that I should long ere this have been what you called me--a crazy man for sure, locked up behind bars and bolts. My little Cherry has been all the world to me; and though she is very grand, and tall, and stately now, I love to remember her as the child in the sun-bonnet, clinging to the ladder, and talking to the lunatic inside. That would make a fine picture, and it I were an artist I would paint it some day. Perhaps Maude will. Poor little Maude! Did I tell you that while she was absent she dabbled in water-colors? and now she has what she calls a studio, where she perpetrates the most atrocious daubs you ever saw. Poor Maude! She is weak in the upper story, but is, on the whole, a nice girl, and very pretty, too, with her black eyes, and brilliant color, and kittenish ways. I did not care for her once, but we are great friends now, and she is a comfort to me in your absence. I am afraid, though, that she is not long for this world. Everything tires her, and she has grown so thin that a breath might blow her away. I think it would kill Frank to lose her. His life is bound up in hers; and he once said to me, either that he had sold, or would sell, his soul for her. What do you suppose he meant?'

Jerrie did not reply. The likeness in the mirror had disappeared as Arthur grew more in earnest, and she listened more intently to what he was saying of Maude, every word as he went on a blow from which she shrank as from some physical pain.

'Yes,' Arthur continued, 'Maude is weak, mentally and physically, though I believe she is trying hard to improve her wind, or rather, that young man, Harold, is trying to improve it for her. He is at the house nearly everyday, or she is at the cottage. But, hold on! I wasn't to tell, and I haven't told--only he reads to her, sometimes outside when the weather will admit, but oftener in her _studio_, where she talks to him of art, and where I once saw him giving her a sitting while she tried to sketch his face. A caricature, I called it, ridiculing it so much that she put it away unfinished, and is now at work on some water-lilies he brought her, and which are really very good. Mrs. Tracy is not pleased with Harold's visits, and I once overheard her saying to Maude, "Why do you encourage the attentions of that young man? why do you run after him so, down there every day?" Hold on, again! What a tattler I am! Why don't I stick to Dolly, who said, "You certainly do not care for him. He hasn't a cent to his name, nor any family and has even worked in Peterkin's furnace." What Maude replied I do not know, I only heard Dolly bang the door hard as she left the room, so I suppose the answer was not a pleasing one. Dolly is a grand lady and would not like her daughter to marry an ordinary man like Harold.'

'No,' Jerrie said, slowly, as if speaking were an effort. 'N-no; and you think Harold likes Maude very much?'

'Likes her? Yes. Why shouldn't he like a girl as pretty as she is, especially when she meets him more than half way?' Arthur replied, and Jerrie continued in the same measured tone:

'Ye-es, and you think he would marry her if her mother would permit it?'

'He is not at all likely to do that,' Arthur answered, quickly, 'A man seldom marries a woman who throws herself at his head and lets him see how much she cares for him, and Maude is doing just that. She cannot conceal anything. I tell you, Cherry, if the time ever comes when you love somebody better than all the world beside, don't let him know until he speaks for himself. Don't be lightly won. Better be shy and cold, than demonstrative and gus.h.i.+ng, like Maude. Gretchen was shy as a fawn, and after I told her I loved her she would not believe it possible. But, child, you look f.a.gged and tired. It is time you were in bed. I have talked you nearly to death.'

'I am not tired,' Jerrie said, 'and I want to know what it is about Maude's going to the cottage, which you must not tell me. Is she there very, very often, and does Harold like to have her come, and is that throwing herself at his head, as you call it?'

She had her arm around his neck in a coaxing kind of way, and Arthur smoothed the soft white hand resting on his coat-collar, as he answered, laughingly:

'Mother Eve herself. You would have eaten the apple, too, had you been Mrs. Adam. No, no, I shall not tell any secrets. You must wait and see for yourself. And now you must go, for I am tired myself.'

She said good-night, and went to her room, but not to sleep at once, because of the tumult of emotions which had been roused by what Arthur had told her of Maude and Harold.

'I don't believe now that I really meant him to make love to her when I asked him to amuse her,' she whispered to herself, as she dashed away two great tear-drops from her cheeks.

Then, after a moment, she continued:

'But they shall never know. No one shall ever know that I care, for I don't, or I am not going to. Harold is my brother, and I shall love Maude as my sister, and I will do all I can to make her more like what Harold's wife should be. She is beautiful, and good, and sweet, and true, and with money and position can do far more for him than I could--I, the daughter of a peasant woman, the child of the carpet bag; and yet--'

Here Jerrie's hands beat the air excitedly as she recalled the wild fancy which had twice taken possession of her that night, and which had been born of that likeness seen in the mirror. Many times since she had pa.s.sed from childhood to womanhood had she speculated upon the mystery which enshrouded her, while one recollection after another of past events flitted through her brain, only to bewilder her awhile and then to disappear into oblivion. But never before had she been affected as she was that night when the possibility of what might be nearly drove her wild.

'Oh, if that were so,' she said, 'I could help Harold, and I'd give everything to him and make him my king, as he is worthy to be. There is something far back,' she continued 'something different from the woman who died at my side. That face which haunts me so often was a reality somewhere. It has kissed me and called me darling, and I saw the life fade out of it--saw it cold and dead. I know I did, and sometime, when I have paid that debt to Mr. Frank Tracy, and have helped Harold, and made grandmother comfortable, I'll go to Germany, to Wiesbaden and everywhere, and clear the mystery, if possible; and if mother was a peasant girl, with hands coa.r.s.e and hard, and black from labor in the field, then, I, too, will be a peasant girl, and marry a peasant lad, and draw his potatoes home in a cart, while he trudges at my side.'

At this picture of herself Jerrie laughed out loud, and while trying to think how it would seem to draw potatoes in a cart, after having dug them, she fell asleep and dreamed of Maude and Harold, and studios and lilies, and a face which was a caricature, as Arthur had said, and which, when at a late hour she awoke, proved to be that of the chambermaid, whom Arthur had sent to rouse her, as he was waiting for his breakfast.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MAUDE'S LETTER.

TRACY PARK, June ----, 18--.

'My darling Jerrie:--I wish I could send you a whiff of the delicious air I am breathing this morning from the roses under my window and the pond-lilies which Harold brought me about an hour ago. Don't you think he was up before the sun, and went out upon the river to get them for me because he knows how fond I am of them, and I told him yesterday that they always made me think of you, they are an sweet, and pure, and fair. I wish you could have seen him, or, rather, have heard his voice and seen the look in his eyes, as he said: "Yes; Jerrie is the lily and you are the rose; you set each other off admirably. I am glad you are so good friends."

'Harold thinks the world of you, Jerrie, and were you his own sister, I am sure he could not love you better than he does. How handsome he has grown since I went away. I always thought him splendid-looking, but he is more than that now; so tall and straight, with his head set on his shoulders in such an aristocratic kind of way, and then his eyes, which look at you so--well, I don't know how they do look at you, but they are eyes you would trust and never be afraid of anything bad behind them. Uncle Arthur says his mother was lovely, and that his father was one of the handsomest men of his time, but I am certain that Harold looks better than either of them, and has inherited the good qualities of both, without a single bad one. He is so nice and gentlemanly, and has such a kind, courteous way of saying and doing things. Fred Raymond--who, you know, is so sweet on Nina St. Clair--says that if Harold had all the blood of a hundred kings in his veins he could not be more courtly or dignified in his manner than he is, and that is a great deal for a Kentuckian to say. Fred is now at Gra.s.sy Spring, visiting d.i.c.k St.

Claire, and will stay until Nina comes home. I wish Harold was rich, and if I had money of my own, I believe I'd give it to him, only he wouldn't take it, he is so awfully proud, and afraid somebody will help him; and yet I respect him for the pride, which has made him teach school, and do everything he could find to do in order to go through college the last two years and pay his own way. But I did not like it a bit when I heard he had accepted a situation in Peterkin's furnace. I know he had good wages, but it is dreadful to think of Harold under such a man, even if Billy is there. When I told Uncle Arthur he laughed, and said: "Honor and shame from no condition rise." I wonder what he meant? I asked Tom, and he said I was a fool.

'Weren't you proud of Harold, though, the day he graduated? What an oration that was! and how the building shook with applause when he came on and when he went off! And do you remember the expression of his face when he picked up the bouquet of roses I threw him, and looked over where we sat? I thought he touched his lips to them, but was not sure. Do you remember? He is studying law now all the time he can get in Judge St. Claire's office, but he comes to read to me for an hour or more nearly every day. He came of his own accord, too. I did not ask him, or even hint, as Tom says I do, when I want anything; and sometimes I half think he is trying to drive something into my head, or was, when he began to read to me about those old Greeks, Hesiod, or Herod, I don't know which, and Theogony--that's rather a pretty name, don't you think so? But I could not stand the Greeks. My mind is too weak to be impressed by anything Grecian, unless it is the Grecian bend. You tried it until you were discouraged and gave it up, telling me I was the stupidest idiot you ever saw! That was the time we had the a spelling-school in the Tramp House, and you were the teacher, and Harold chose me first, and I spelled biscuit "bisket!" Do you remember how I cried? and when you told me n.o.body would ever like me unless I knew something, Harold said. "Don't talk like that, Jerrie; those who know the least are frequently liked the best."

'What a comfort those words have been to me; and especially at the time when I failed so utterly in examination at Va.s.sar and had to give it up. Oh, Jerrie, you do not know how mortified I was over that failure, to think I knew so little; and the worst of it is I can't learn, or understand; or remember, and it makes my head ache so to try. I am sorry most on father's account, he is so proud of me and would like to see me take the lead in everything. Poor father! he is growing old so fast. Why, his hair is white as snow, and he sometimes talks to himself just as Uncle Arthur does. I wonder what ails him that he never smiles or seems interested in anything except when I am smoothing his hair or sitting on his knee; then he brightens up and calls me his pet and darling, and talks queer kind of talk, I think. He asks me if I am glad I live at Tracy Park--if I like the pretty things he buys me, and if I should be as happy if I were poor--not real poor, you know, but as we were at Langley before I was born. I went there with him a few weeks ago for the first time; and oh, my goodness gracious! such a poky little house, with the stairs going right up in the room, and such a tiny, stuffy bedroom! I tried to fancy mamma's scent bottles, and brushes, and combs, and the box for polis.h.i.+ng her nails, transported to that room, and her in there with Rosalie dressing her hair. It made me laugh till I cried, and I think papa did actually cry, for he sat down upon the stairs and turned his head away, and when he looked up his eyes were all wet and red, with such a sorry look in them that I went straight up and kissed him, and asked him playfully if he was crying for the old days when he lived in that house and sold codfish in the store.

'"Yes, Maude," he said. "I believe I'd give the remainder of my life if I could be put back right here as I was when your uncle Arthur's letter came and turned my head. Oh, if the years and everything could be blotted out!"

'What do you suppose he meant? I was frightened, and did not say a word until he asked me those questions I told you about; did I like pretty things? did I like to live at Tracy Park, and could I bear to be poor and live in the Langley house? I just told him, 'No, I should not like to live in Langley, that I did like living at Tracy Park, and did like the pretty things which money bought.'

'"Then I ought to be content, if my beautiful Maude is so," he said, and the tired look on his face lifted a little.

'He calls me beautiful so often. But I don't see it, do you? Of course you don't. You think me too black, and small, and thin, and so I am. Harold never told me I was pretty, and--I tell this in confidence, and you must never breathe it to any one--I have tried to wring a compliment from him so many times, but it's no use, I can't do it, he never understands anything, though he does sometimes say, when he brings me a bright rose: "Wear it, Maude; it will become your style."

'He never says you are pretty, either, and that is strange, for I think you have the loveliest and sweetest face I ever saw, except Gretchen's in the picture, you look like her; I saw it so plainly two years ago, when you were here one evening, and I spoke of it to father. Who was she, I wonder? Uncle Arthur does not talk much of her now, though I believe he kisses her every night and morning. How much he thinks of you, and how much he has talked of _Cherry_ since his visit to you in May. I am so glad you liked the dress, he was so anxious about it. Did he say any thing to you of a trip to California? He took us quite by surprise two weeks ago by telling us he was going. He wanted to see the Yosemite Valley before he died, he said, and June was the time to see it. So he started off with Charles about ten days ago, and the house seems like a tomb without him.

'If I can, I shall come and see you graduate with the other Va.s.sars, though I shall be ashamed to be seen where I failed so utterly. I might have known I should, for I haven't about me a single quality which would ent.i.tle me to be a Va.s.sar, unless it is my fondness for _gum_. Do you really chew an awful lot there, or is it a fib? How learned you and Nina will be, and how you will cast me in the shade, making me seem stupider than ever. I did try very hard to learn to speak German when I was abroad with mamma, for father wished it particularly; but I could not do it, and gave it up. I have not a capacity for anything, except to love and suffer and sacrifice for those I love. Do you know, it sometimes frightens me to think how devotedly I could love some one. Not a girl, but a man--a lover--a husband, who loved me. Why, I would give my life for him, and bear any kind of torture if it would add to his happiness. But why write this nonsense to you, who never acted as if you cared an atom for any boy, not even d.i.c.k St. Claire, who used to give you sugar hearts and call you his little wife. _Entre nous_ (who says I do not know two French words?) mamma would like to make a match between d.i.c.k and me, but she never will--never! d.i.c.k is nice, and I like him, but not that way. Poor mamma! How much she thinks of money and position! I tell her she ought to have a photograph of the old Langley House hung up in her room to keep her in mind of her former condition.

Just now she has the craze to hammer bra.s.s and paint in water-colors, and goes over to Mrs. Atherton's to take lessons.

Don't you think that Mrs. Peterkin--_May Jane_--had like aspirations with mamma, and wanted to join the cla.s.s; but the teacher found that she had as many pupils as she could attend to, and so May Jane is left out in the cold. But Mr. Peterkin says, 'By George, my wife shall have 'complishments if money can buy em!' And so, I suppose, she will. What strides those Peterkins have taken, to be sure, and what a big house he has built with such a funny name.--"_Le Batteau_", which, as he p.r.o.nounces it, sounds like _Lubber-too_! It is just finished, and they have moved into it. I have not been there, but Tom has, and he says it fairly glitters, it is so gorgeous, and looks inside like those chariots which come with circuses.

'You ought to hear Peterkin talk about his '_Ann Lizy_, who, he says, "is to Va.s.sar, gettin schoolin' with the big bugs, and when she comes _hum_ he is goin' to get her a hoss and cart for her own, and a maid, and a vally, too, if she wants one." Well, there are some bigger fools in the world than I am, and that's a comfort. As for Billy, he stammers worse, if possible, than he used to when he told us we were "pl-p-plaguey mean to pl-pl-plague Ann Lizy so;" but I guess I will let him burst upon you in all the magnificence of his summer attire--his almost white clothes, short coat, tight pants, pointed shoes, and stove-pipe hat to make him look taller. He comes here occasionally to see Tom, and always talks of you. I do believe you might be Mrs. Billy Peterkin and live at _Lubber-too_, if you wanted; but, really, Billy is very kind to Harold, who gets twice as much wages in the office, when he writes there, as he would if it were not for Billy.

'Tom is home, doing nothing, but taking his ease and aping an English swell. You know he was with mamma and me in England, and since his return has effected everything English, and looks quite like the _dude_ of the period. He, too, seems interested in your return; and I don't know but you might be mistress of Tracy Park, if you could fancy the inc.u.mbrance. d.i.c.k St. Claire is going to Va.s.sar to see you and Nina graduate; and Harold, too, if he possibly can.

He is very busy just now with something he must finish, and perhaps he cannot be there. Tom is going, and Fred Raymond, and Billy Peterkin--quite a turn-out from Shannondale.

'I can hardly wait to see you. Only think, it is almost two years since I said good-bye; for we went to Europe just after Harold was graduated, and your last Christmas holidays were over before we came home.

'What a long letter I have written you, and have not told you a word of my health, about which you inquired so particularly. Did Uncle Arthur tell you anything? I wish he had not, for it worries me to have people look, and act, and talk as if I were sick, when I am not. If I had not a pain in my side, and a tickling cough, which keeps me awake nights and makes me sweat until my hair is wet, I should be perfectly strong; and but for the pain and the weariness, I feel as well as I ever did; and I go out nearly every day, and I don't want to die and leave my beautiful home, and father, and mother, and you, and--everybody I love. I am too young to die. I cannot die.

'Oh, Jerrie, I am glad you are coming home! You will do me good, just as Harold does. He is so strong every way, and so kind I can't begin to tell you what he has been to me since I came home in March--more than a friend--more than a brother. I do not see why you never fell in love with him, thought I suppose it is living with him always, as you have, and looking upon him as a brother.

'And now I must say good-bye, for I am getting tired and must rest.

I was at the cottage this morning, and Harold is coming here this afternoon to read Tennyson's "May Queen" to me. He has read it a dozen times, but I am never tired of it, although it makes me cry to think of that grave in the long gra.s.s, with little Alice in it, cold and dead, listening for those she loved to come and weep over her.

You know, she says to her mother:

'"I shall hear you when you pa.s.s, With your feet above me, in the long and pleasant gra.s.s."