Tracy Park Part 47

Here Jerrie paused, for the lump in her throat would not suffer the words to come, and there arose before her as if painted upon canvas the low room, the white stove, the firelight on the whiter face, the writing on the lap, and the little child in the far-off German city. But she would have died sooner than have told Tom of this, or that the conviction was strong upon her that she should one day stand there under the pines, herself the heiress of Tracy Park, Gretchen's memory honored, and Gretchen's wrongs wiped out.

After a moment she went on:

'I care nothing for your money, and less for you, who show the meanness there is in your nature when you speak of Harold Hastings as you have done. Supposing he is poor--suppose he is a painter and a carpenter, and has been what you started to call him--is he less a man for that? A thousand times no, and there is more of true manhood and n.o.bility in his little finger than in your whole body; and if Maude has won his love, she should be prouder of it than of a d.u.c.h.ess' coronet. I do not wish to wound you, but when you talk of Harold, you make me so mad.

Good-morning; it is time for me to be at my drudgery, as you call it.'

She walked rapidly away, leaving her parasol, which she had again thrust into the ground, flopping in the breeze which had just sprung up, and each flop seemed to mock the discomfited Tom, who, greatly astonished but not at all out of conceit with himself, sat staring blankly after her, and with her head and shoulders more erect than usual, if possible, she went on almost upon a run until a turn in the road hid her from view. Then he arose and shook himself together, and picking up the soiled parasol, folded it carefully and put it upon the seat, saying as he did so:

'By George! did that girl know what she was about when she refused to marry me?'

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

THE GARDEN PARTY.

Jerrie went on very rapidly toward home, almost running at times, and not at all conscious of the absence of her parasol, or that the noonday sun was beating hot upon her head, conscious only of a bitter feeling of pain and vexation, the latter that she had allowed herself to speak so angrily to Tom, and of pain because of what he had said to her of Maude and Harold. Do what she might, she could not forget the tone of Harold's voice, or the look in his eyes when he bade her good-bye that morning, or that his whole manner since her return had been more like that of a lover than of a brother. And still there was that little throb of jealousy tugging at her heart-strings, notwithstanding that he had said to herself in substance not more than an hour before that she believed she could give Harold to Maude, whose love for him she could not doubt.

'And I'll do it now,' she said, at last, to herself. 'I'll fight it down, this something which makes me hate myself. If Harold loves Maude he shall never know from me of that horrible pain which cuts me like a knife and makes me forget to be indignant at Tom for talking so much of his money and his position, as if they could buy me! Poor Tom! I said some sharp things to him, but he deserved them, the prig! Let him marry that governor's daughter if he can. I am sure I wish him success.'

She had reached home by this time, and found their simple dinner waiting for her. 'Oh, grandma, why did you do it? Why didn't you wait for me?'

she said, as she took her seat at the table where the dishes were all so plain, and the cloth, though white and clean, so coa.r.s.e and cheap.

Jerrie was as fond of luxury and elegance as any one, and Tracy Park, with its appurtenances, would have suited her taste better than the cottage.

'But not with Tom, not with Tom,' she kept on repeating to herself, as she cleared the table and washed the dishes, and then brought in and folded the clothes for the morrow's ironing.

By this time she was very tired, and going to her cool, pretty room, she threw herself upon the lounge and slept soundly for three hours or more.

Sleep is a wonderful tonic, and Jerrie rose refreshed and quite herself again. Not even a thought of Maude and Harold disturbed her as she went whistling and singing around her room, hanging up her dresses one by one, and wondering which she should wear at the garden party. Deciding at last upon a simple white muslin, which, although two years old, was still in fas.h.i.+on, and very becoming, she arranged her wavy hair in a fluffy ma.s.s at the back of her head, brushed her bangs into short, soft curls upon her forehead, pinned a cl.u.s.ter of roses on the bosom of her dress, and was ready for the party.

'Tell Harold, if he is not too tired, I want him very much to come for me,' she said, to Mrs. Crawford, and then about five o'clock started for Gra.s.sy Spring, where she found the guests all a.s.sembled in the pleasant, shady grounds, which surrounded the house.

Tom was there in his character of a fine city dandy, and the moment he saw Jerry, he hastened to meet her, greeting her with perfect self-possession, as if nothing had happened.

'You are late,' he said, going up to her. 'We are waiting for you to complete our eight hand croquet, and I claim you as my partner.'

'I c-c call that mean, T-t-tom. I was g-g-going to ask J-jerrie to pl-play with m-me,' little Billy said, hopping around them, while d.i.c.k's face showed that he, too, would like the pleasure of playing with Jerrie, who was known to be an expert and seldom missed a ball.

Naturally, however, Marian Raymond, as a stranger, would fall to him, and they were soon paired off, d.i.c.k and Marian, Tom and Jerrie, Nina and Billy, Fred Raymond and Ann Eliza, who wore diamonds enough for a full dress party, and whose red hair was piled on the top of her head so loosely that the ends of it stuck out here and there like the streamers on a boat on gala days. This careless style of dressing her hair, Ann Eliza affected, thinking it gave individuality to her appearance; and it certainly did attract general observation, her hair was so red and bushy. d.i.c.k had stumbled and stammered dreadfully when confessing to his sister that he had invited the Peterkins, while Nina had drawn a long breath of dismay as she thought of presenting Ann Eliza and Billy to Marian Raymond, with her culture and aristocratic ideas. Then she burst into a laugh and said, with her usual sweetness:

'Never mind, d.i.c.kie. You could not do otherwise. I'll prepare Marian, and the Peterkins will really enjoy it.'

So Marian, who, with all her accomplishments and foreign air, was a kind-hearted, sensible girl, was prepared, and received the Peterkins very graciously, and seemed really pleased with Billy, whose big, kind heart shone through his diminutive body and always won him friends. He was very happy to be there, because he liked society, and because he knew Jerrie was coming; and Ann Eliza was very glad because she felt it an honor to be at Gra.s.sy Spring, and because she knew Tom was coming, and when he came she fastened upon him with a tenacity which he could not well shake off; and when croquet was proposed she was the first to respond.

'Oh, yes, that will be nice, and I know our side will beat,' and she looked at Tom as it were a settled thing that she should play with him.

But Tom was not in a mood to be gracious. He had come to the entertainment, which he mentally called a bore, partly because he would not let Jerrie think he was taking her refusal to heart, and partly because he must see her again, even if she never could be his wife. All the better nature of Tom was concentrated in his love for Jerrie, and had she married him he would probably have made her as happy as a wholly selfish man can make happy the woman he loves. But she had declined his offer, and wounded him deeper than she supposed.

A hundred times he had said to himself that afternoon, as he sat alone in the lovely park--of which he had once said to Harold, he was to be the _hare_, and of whose possession in the future he had boasted to Jerrie--that he did not care a _sou_, that he was glad she had refused him, for after all it was only an infatuation on his part; that the girl of the carpet-bag was not the wife for a Tracy; but the twinge of pain in his heart belied his words, and he knew he did love Jerrie Crawford better than he should ever again love any girl, whether the daughter of a governor or of the president.

'And I go to the party, too, just to show her that I don't care, and for the sake of looking at her,' he said. 'She can't help that, and it is a pleasure to look at a woman so grandly developed and perfectly formed as she is. By Jove! Hal Hastings is a lucky dog; but I shall hate him forever.'

So Tom pulled himself together, and went to Gra.s.sy Spring in a frame of mind not the most amiable; and when croquet was proposed, he sneered at it as something quite too _pa.s.se_, citing lawn tennis as the only decent outdoor amus.e.m.e.nt.

'Why, then, don't you set it up on your grounds, where you have plenty of room, and ask us all over there?' d.i.c.k asked, good-humoredly, as he began to get out the mallets and b.a.l.l.s.

To this Tom did not reply, but said, instead:

'Count me out. I don't like the game, and there are enough without me.'

Just then Jerry appeared at the gate, and he added quickly:

'Still, I don't wish to be ungracious; and now Jerrie has come, we can have an eight hand.'

Hastening toward her, he met her as we have recorded, and claimed her for his partner.

'Thank you, Tom,' Jerrie said, with a bright smile on her face, which made the young man's heart beat fast with both pleasure and pain, as he gave her the mallet and told her she was to play first.

Tom was making himself master of ceremonies, and d.i.c.k kept quiet and let him, and watched Jerrie admiringly as she made the two arches, and the third, and fourth, and then sent her ball out of harm's way. It was a long and closely contested game, for all were skilful players, except poor Ann Eliza, who was always behind and required a great deal of attention from her partner especially when it came to croqueting a ball. She did not know exactly what to do, and kept her foot so long upon the ball that less amiable girls than Nina and Jerrie would have said she did it on purpose, to show how small and pretty it looked in her closely fitting French boot. But Jerrie's side beat, as it usually did. She had become a 'rover' the second round, had rescued Tom from many a difficulty, and taken Ann Eliza through four or five wickets, besides doing good service to her other friends.

'I p-p-propose three ch-cheers for Jerrie,' Billy said, standing on his tiptoes and nearly splitting his throat with his own hurrah.

After the game was over they repaired to the piazza, where the little tables were laid for tea, and where Jerrie found herself _vis-a-vis_ with Marian Raymond, of whom she had thought she might stand a little in awe, she had heard so much of her. But the mesmeric power which Jerrie possessed drew the Kentucky girl to her at once, and they were soon in a most animated conversation.

'You do not seem like a stranger to me,' Marian said, 'and I should almost say I had seen you before, you are so like a picture in Germany.'

'Yes,' Jerrie answered, with a gasp, and a feeling such as she always experienced when the spell was upon her and she saw things as in a dream.

'Was it in a gallery?'

'Oh, no; it was in a house we rented in Wiesbaden. You know, perhaps, that I was there at school for a long time. Then, when mamma came out, and I was through school, we stayed there for months, it was so lovely, and we rented a house which an Englishman had bought and made over. Such a pretty house it was, too, with so many flowers and vines around it.'

'And the picture--did it belong to the Englishman?' Jerrie asked.

'Oh, no,' Marian replied: 'it did not seem to belong to anybody. Mr.

Carter--that was the name of our landlord--said it was there in the wall when he took the house, which was then very small and low, with only two or three rooms. He bought it because of the situation, which, though very quiet and pleasant, was so near the Kursaal that we could always hear the music without going to the garden.

'Yes,' Jerrie said again, with her head on one side, and her ear turned up, as if she were listening to some far-off, forgotten strains. 'Yes; and the picture was like me, you say--how like me?'

'Every way like you,' Marian replied; 'except that the original must have been younger when it was taken--sixteen, perhaps--and she was smaller than you, and wore a peasant's dress, and was knitting on a bench under a tree, with the suns.h.i.+ne falling around her, and at a little distance a gentleman stood watching her. But what is the matter, Miss Crawford? Are you sick?' Marian asked, suddenly, as she saw the bright color fade for an instant from Jerrie's face, leaving it deathly white, while Tom and d.i.c.k knocked their heads together in their efforts to get her a gla.s.s of water, which they succeeded in spilling into her lap.

'It is nothing,' Jerrie said, recovering herself quickly. 'I have been in the hot sun a good deal to-day, and perhaps that affected me and made me a little faint. 'It has pa.s.sed now;' and she looked up as brightly as ever.

'It's that confounded was.h.i.+ng!' Tom thought; but Jerrie could have told him differently.

As Marian had talked to her of the house in Wiesbaden and the picture on the wall--of the peasant girl knitting in the suns.h.i.+ne--she had seen, as by revelation, through a rift in the clouds which separated her from the past--the picture on the wall, in its pretty Florentine frame, and knew that it resembled the pale, sweet face which came to her so often and was so real to her. Was it her old home Marian was describing? Had she lived there once, when the house consisted of only two or three rooms?