XIV.
A TALK AND ANOTHER TALK.
"Life's great results are something slow."—Howells.
Morris had said good-bye with a look that brought sorrow enough in Marjorie's eyes to satisfy him—almost, and had walked rapidly on, not once turning to discover if Marjorie were standing still or moving toward home; Mr. Holmes and Miss Prudence had promised to start out to meet her, so that her walk homeward in the starlight would not be lonely.
But they were not in sight yet to Marjorie's vision, and she stood leaning over the gate looking at the windows with their white shades dropped and already feeling that the little, new home was solitary. She did not turn until a footstep paused behind her; she was so lost in dreams of Linnet and Morris that she had not noticed the brisk, hurried tread. The white rose had fallen from her hair and the one at her throat had lost several petals; in her hand was a bunch of daisies that Morris had picked along the way and laughingly asked her to try the childish trick of finding out if he loved her, and she had said she was afraid the daisies were too wise and would not ask them.
"Haven't you been home all this time?" asked Hollis, startling her out of her dream.
"Oh, yes, and come back again."
"Do you find the cottage so charming?"
"I find it charming, but I could have waited another day to come and see it. I came to walk part of the way with Morris."
She colored, because when she was embarrassed she colored at everything, and could not think of another word to say.
Among those who understood him, rather, among those he understood, Hollis was a ready talker; but, seemingly, he too could not think of another word to say.
Marjorie picked her daisies to pieces and they went on in the narrow foot path, as she and Morris had done in the afternoon; Hollis walking on the grass and giving her the path as her other companion had done. She could think of everything to say to Morris, and Morris could think of everything to say to her; but Morris was only a boy, and this tall stranger was a gentleman, a gentleman whom she had never seen before.
"If it were good sleighing I might take you on my sled," he remarked, when all the daisies were pulled to pieces.
"Is Flyaway in existence still?" she asked brightly, relieved that she might speak at last.
"'Stowed away,' as father says, in the barn, somewhere. Mr. Holmes is not as strict as he used to be, is he?"
"No, he never was after that. I think he needed to give a lesson to himself."
"He looks haggard and old."
"I suppose he is old; I don't know how old he is, over forty."
"That is antiquated. You will be forty yourself, if you live long enough."
"Twenty-two years," she answered seriously; "that is time enough to do a good many things in."
"I intend to do a good many things," he answered with a proud humility in his voice that struck Marjorie.
"What—for example?"
"Travel, for one thing, make money, for another."
"What do you want money for?" she questioned.
"What does any man want it for? I want it to give me influence, and I want a luxurious old age."
"That doesn't strike me as being the highest motives."
"Probably not, but perhaps the highest motives, as you call them, do not rule my life."
And she had been praying for him so long.
"Your mother seems to be a happy woman," was her reply, coming out of a thought that she did not speak.
"She is," he said, emphatically. "I wish poor old father were as happy."
"Do you find many happy people?" she asked.
"I find you and my mother," he returned smiling.
"And yourself?"
"Not always. I am happy enough today. Not as jubilant as old Will, though. Will has a prize."
"To be sure he has," said Marjorie.
"What are you going to do next?"
"Go to that pleasant home in Maple Street with Miss Prudence and go to school." She was jubilant, too, today, or she would have been if Morris had not gone away with such a look in his eyes.
"You ought to be graduated by this time, you are old enough. Helen was not as old as you."
"But I haven't been at school at all, yet," she hastened to say. "And
Helen was so bright."
"Aren't you bright?" he asked, laughing.
"Mr. Holmes doesn't tell me that I am."
"What will your mother do?"
"Oh, dear," she sighed, "that is what I ask myself every day. But she insists that I shall go, Linnet has had her 'chance' she says, and now it is my turn. Miss Prudence is always finding somebody that needs a home, and she has found a girl to help mother, a girl about my age, that hasn't any friends, so it isn't the work that will trouble me; it is leaving mother without any daughter at all."
"She is willing to let Linnet go, she ought to be as willing to let you."
"Oh, she is, and father is, too. I know I don't deserve such good times, but I do want to go. I love Miss Prudence as much as I do mother, I believe, and I am only forty miles from home. Mr. Holmes is about leaving, too. How father will miss him! And Morris gone! Mother sighs over the changes and then says changes must needs come if boys and girls will grow up."
"Where is Mr. Holmes going?"
"To California. The doctor says he must go somewhere to cure his cough.
And he says he will rest and write another book. Have you read his book?"
"No, it is too dry for me."
"We don't think it is dry; Morris and I know it by heart."
"That is because you know the author."
"Perhaps it is. The book is everything but a story book. Miss Prudence has a copy in Turkey morocco. Do you see many people that write books?"
"No," he said, smiling at her simplicity. "New York isn't full of them."
"Miss Prudence sees them," replied Marjorie with dignity.
"She is a bird of their feather. I do not fly, I walk on the ground—with my eyes on it, perhaps."
"Like the man with the muck rake," said Marjorie, quoting from her old love, Pilgrims Progress, "don't you know there was a crown held above his head, and his eyes were on the ground and he could not see it."
"No, I do not know it, but I perceive that you are talking an allegory at me."
"Not at you, to you," she corrected.
"You write very short letters to me, nowadays."
"Your letters are not suggestive enough," she said, archly.
"Like my conversation. As poor a talker as I am, I am a better talker than writer. And you—you write a dozen times better than you talk."
"I'm sorry I'm so unentertaining to-night. When Linnet writes she says: "'I wish I could talk to you,' and when I talk I think: 'I wish I could write it all to you.'"
"As some one said of some one who could write better than he talked, 'He has plenty of bank notes, but he carries no small change, in his pocket.'"
"It is so apt to be too small," she answered, somewhat severely.
"I see you are above talking the nonsense that some girls talk. What do you do to get rested from your thoughts?"
How Marjorie laughed!
"Hollis, do talk to me instead of writing. And I'll write to you instead of talking."
"That is, you wish me near to you and yourself far away from me. That is the only way that we can satisfy each other. Isn't that Miss Prudence coming?"
"And the master. They did not know I would have an escort home. But do come all the way, father will like to hear you talk about the places you have visited."
"I travel, I don't visit places. I expect to go to London and Paris by and by. Our buyer has been getting married and that doesn't please the firm; he wanted to take his wife with him, but they vetoed that. They say a married man will not attend strictly to business; see what a premium is paid to bachelorhood. I shall understand laces well enough soon: I can pick a piece of imitation out of a hundred real pieces now. Did Linnet like the handkerchief and scarf?"
"You should have seen her! Hasn't she spoken of them?"
"No, she was too full of other things."
"Marriage isn't all in getting ready, to Linnet," said Marjorie, seriously, "I found her crying one day because she was so happy and didn't deserve to be."
"Will is a good fellow," said Hollis. "I wish I were half as good. But I am so contradictory, so unsatisfied and so unsatisfying. I understand myself better than I want to, and yet I do not understand myself at all."
"That is because you are growing," said Marjorie, with her wise air. "I haven't settled down into a real Marjorie yet. I shouldn't know my own picture unless I painted it myself."
"We are two rather dangerous people, aren't we?" laughed Hollis. "We will steer clear of each other, as Will would say, until we can come to an understanding."
"Unless we can help each other," Marjorie answered. "But I don't believe you need to be pulled apart, but only to be let alone to grow—that is, if the germ is perfect."
"A perfect germ!" he repeated. Hollis liked to talk about himself to any one who would help him to self-analysis.
But the slowly moving figures were approaching, the black figure with bent shoulders and a slouched hat, the tall slight figure at his side in light gray with a shawl of white wool across her shoulders and drawn up over her hair, the fleecy whiteness softening the lines of a face that were already softened.
"O, Prudence, how far ahead we are of those two," exclaimed the school-master, "and they are wiser than we, perhaps, because they do not know so much."
"They do not know so much of each other, surely," she replied with a low laugh. That very day Mr. Holmes had quoted to her, giving it a personal application: "What she suffered she shook off in the sunshine."
He had been arguing within himself all day whether or not to destroy that letter in his pocket or to show it to her. Would it give her something else to shake off in the sunshine?
Hollis was wondering if this Marjorie, with her sweet, bright face, her graceful step and air of ladyhood, with modest and quick replies, not at all intruding herself, but giving herself, unconsciously, could be the same half-bashful little girl that he had walked with on a country road four years before; the little girl who fell so far behind his ideal, the little girl so different from city girls; and now, who among his small circle of girlhood at home could surpass her? And she was dressed so plainly, and there were marks of toil upon her fingers, and even freckles hidden beneath the fresh bloom of her cheek! She would hunt eggs tomorrow and milk the cows, she might not only weed in the garden, but when the potatoes were dug she might pick them up, and even assist her father in assorting them. Had he not said that Marjorie was his "boy" as well as her mother's girl? Had she not taken the place of Morris in all things that a girl could, and had she not taken his place with the master and gone on with Virgil where Morris left off?
"Marjorie, I don't see the need of your going to school?" he was saying when they joined the others.
"Hollis, you are right," repeated the master, emphatically, "that is only a whim, but she will graduate the first year, so it doesn't matter."
"You see he is proud of his work," said Marjorie, "he will not give any school the credit of me."
"I will give you into Miss Prudence's keeping for a term of years, to round you off, to make you more of a woman and less of a student—like herself."
Marjorie's eyes kindled, "I wish Morris might hear that! He has been scolding me,—but that would satisfy him."
After several moments of light talk, if the master ever could be said to encourage light talk, he touched Miss Prudence, detaining her with him, and Marjorie and Hollis walked on together.
Marjorie and Hollis were not silent, nor altogether grave, for now and then her laugh would ripple forth and he would join, with a ringing, boyish laugh that made her forget that he had grown up since that day he brought her the plate.
But the two behind them were altogether grave; Miss Prudence was speaking, for Mr. Holmes had asked her what kind of a day she had had.
"To-morrow is to be one of our anniversaries, you know," she replied; "twenty-four years ago—to-morrow—was to have been to me what to-day is to Linnet. I wonder if I were as light hearted as Linnet."
"You were as blithe a maiden as ever trod on air," he returned smiling sadly. "Don't I remember how you used to chase me around that old garden. When we go back let us try another chase, shall we?"
"We will let Marjorie run and imagine it is I."
"Prudence, if I regain my strength out there, I am coming home to tell you something, may I?"
"I want you to regain your strength, but I am trembling when I think of anything to be told. Is it anything—about—"
"Jerome? Yes, it is about him and about my self. It is about our last interview when we spoke of you. Do you still believe that he is living?"
"Yes, we are living, why should he not be alive?"
"Do yon know how old he would be?"
"He was just twenty years older than I."
"Then he must be sixty-four. That is not young, Prudence, and he had grown old when I said goodbye to him on the steamer—no, it was not a steamer, he avoided the publicity, he went in a merchant ship, there was not even one passenger beside himself. He had a fine constitution and he knew how to take care of himself; it was the—worry that made him look old. He was very warm-hearted and lovable."
"Yes," escaped Miss Prudence's lips.
"But he was weak and lead astray—it seems strange that your silver wedding day might be almost at hand, and that tall boy and girl in front of you my brother's children to call me Uncle John."
"John," she sobbed, catching her breath.
"Poor child! Now I've brought the tears. I was determined to get that dead look out of your eyes that was beginning to come to-night. It shall go away to-night and you shall not awake with it in the morning. Do you know what you want? Do you want to tell me what you pray about on your wedding day?"
"Yes, and you can pray with me to-morrow. I always ask repentance and remission of sins for him and for myself that I may see him once more and make him believe that I have forgiven him."
"Did you ever wish that you had been his wife and might have shared his exile?"
"Not at first; I was too indignant; I did not forgive him, at first; but since I have wished it; I know he has needed me."
"But he threw you off."
"No, he would not let me share his disgrace."
"He did not love you well enough to keep the disgrace from you, it seems," said John Holmes, bitterly.
"No, I could not keep him from sin. The love of a woman is not the love of God. I failed as many a woman has failed. But I did not desert him; I went—but he would not see me."
"He was sorry afterward, he tried to write to you, but he always broke down and could not go on; you were so young and he had been a shame to you."
"You never told me this before."
"Because I hated him, I hated my brother, for disgracing you and disgracing my mother and myself; I have grown forgiving since, since God has forgiven me. He said that last day that you must not forget him."
"He knew I would not forget," said Miss Prudence, proudly.
"Did you ever hate him?"
"Yes, I think I did. I believed he hastened poor father's death; I knew he had spoiled all my life; yes, I hated him until my heart was softened by many sorrows—John, I loved that man who went away—so far, without me, but I held myself bound, I thought your brother would come back and claim [missing text] was while Jerome was in—before he went to Europe— and I said the shame and horror was too great, I could not become anybody's happy wife with that man who was so nearly my husband in such a place."
"Have you regretted that decision since?" he questioned in a dry hard tone.
"Yes."
How quiet her voice was! "I was sorry—when I read of his sudden death two years ago—and I almost hated your brother again for keeping so much from me—it is so hard not to hate with a bitter hatred when we have been so wronged. How I have prayed for a forgiving heart," she sighed.
"Have you had any comfort to-day?"
"Yes, I found it in my reading this morning. Linnet was up and singing early and I was sitting at my window over her head and I learned a lesson of how God waits before he comforts in these words that were given new to me. 'And the napkin that was about his head, not lying with the linen clothes, but wrapped together in a place by itself.'"
"I cannot see any comfort in that."
There was a broken sound in the master's voice that Miss Prudence had never heard before, a hopelessness that was something deeper than his old melancholy. Had any confession that she had made touched him anew? Was he troubled at that acknowledged hardness towards his brother? Or was it sorrow afresh at the mention of her disappointments? Or was it sympathy for the friend who had given her up and gone away without her?
Would Miss Prudence have been burdened as she never had been burdened before could she have known that he had lost a long-cherished hope for himself? that he had lived his lonely life year after year waiting until he should no longer be bound by the promise made to his brother at their parting? The promise was this; that he should not ask Prudence, "Prue" his brother had said, to marry him until he himself should be dead; in pity for the brother who had educated him and had in every way been so generous, and who now pleaded brokenly for this last mercy, he had given the promise, rather it had been wrung out of him, and for a little time he had not repented. And then when he forgot his brother and remembered himself, his heart died within him and there was nothing but hard work left to live for; this only for a time, he found God afterward and worked hard for him.
He had written to his brother and begged release, but no word of release had come, and he was growing old and his health had failed under the stress of work and the agony of his self-control, "the constant anguish of patience."
But the letter in his pocket was of no avail now, Prudence had loved him only as a brother all these long years of his suspense and hope and waiting; that friend whose sudden death had moved her so had been in her thoughts, and he was only her dear friend and—Jerome's brother.
It is no wonder that the bent shoulders drooped lower and that the slouched hat was drawn over a face that fain would have hidden itself. Prudence, his sister Prudence, was speaking to him and he had not heard a word. How that young fellow in front was rattling on and laughing as though hearts never ached or broke with aching, and now he was daring Marjorie to a race, and the fleet-footed girl was in full chase, and the two who had run their race nearly a quarter of a century before walked on slowly and seriously with more to think about and bear than they could find words for.
"I found comfort in that. Shall I tell you?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, "if you can make me understand."
"I think you will understand, but I shall not make you; I shall speak slowly, for I want to tell you all I thought. The Lord was dead; he had been crucified and laid away within the sepulchre three days since, and they who had so loved him and so trusted in his promises were broken-hearted because of his death. Our Christ has never been dead to us, John; think what it must have been to them to know him dead. 'Let not your heart be troubled' he said; but their hearts were troubled, and he knew it; he knew how John's heart was rent, and how he was sorrowing with the mother he had taken into his own home; he knew how Peter had wept his bitter tears, how Martha and Mary and Lazarus were grieving for him, how all were watching, waiting, hoping and yet hardly daring to hope,—oh, how little our griefs seem to us beside such grief as theirs! And the third day since he had been taken from them. Did they expect again to hear his footfall or his voice? He could see, all this time, the hands outstretched in prayer, he could hear their cries, he could feel the beating of every heart, and yet how slowly he was going forth to meet them. How could he stay his feet? Were not Peter and John running towards him? Was not Mary on her way to him? And yet he did not hasten; something must first be done, such little things; the linen clothes must be laid aside and the napkin that had been about his head must be wrapped together in a place by itself. Such a little thing to think of, such a little thing to do, before he could go forth to meet them! Was it necessary that the napkin should be wrapped together in a place by itself? As necessary as that their terrible suspense should be ended? As necessary as that Peter and John and Martha and Mary and his mother should be comforted one little instant sooner? Could you or I wait to fold a napkin and lay it away if we might fly to a friend who was wearying for us? Suppose God says: 'Fold that napkin and lay it away,' do we do it cheerfully and submissively, choosing to do it rather than to hasten to our friend? If a leper had stood in the way, beseeching him, if the dead son of a widow were being carried out, we could understand the instant's delay, if only a little child were waiting to speak to the Lord, but to keep so many waiting just to lay the linen clothes aside, and, most of all, to wrap together that napkin and lay it by itself. Only the knowing that the doing this was doing the will of God reconciles me to the waiting that one instant longer, that his mother need not have waited but for that. So, John, perhaps you and I are waiting to do some little thing, some little thing that we do not know the meaning of, before God's will can be perfect concerning us. It may be as near to us as was the napkin about the head of the Lord. I was forgetting that, after he died for us, there was any of the Father's will left for him to do. And I suppose he folded that napkin as willingly as he gave himself up to the cross. John, that does help me—I am so impatient at interruptions to what I call my 'work,' and I am so impatient for the Lord to work for me."
"Yes," he answered slowly, "it is hard to realize that we must stop to do every little thing. But I do not stop, I pass the small things by. Prudence, I am burning up with impatience to-night."
"Are you? I am very quiet."
"If you knew something about Jerome that I do not know, and it would disturb me to know it, would you tell me?"
"If I should judge you by myself I should tell you. How can one person know how a truth may affect another? Tell me what you know; I am ready."
But she trembled exceedingly and staggered as she walked.
"Take my arm," he said, quietly.
She obeyed and leaned against him as they moved on slowly; it was too dark for them to see each other's faces clearly, a storm was gathering, the outlines of the house they were approaching, were scarcely distinguishable.
"We are almost home," she said.
"Yes, there! Our light is flashing out. Marjorie is lighting the parlor lamp. I have in my pocket a letter from Jerome; I have had it a week; you seemed so quiet and happy I had not the heart to disturb you. It was sent to the old address, I told him some one there would always find me. He has not written because he thought we did not care to hear. He has the name of an honest man there, he says."
"Is that all?" she questioned, her heart beating with a rapid pulsation.
How long she had waited for this.
"He is not in Europe now, he is in California. His wife is dead and he has a little girl ten years old. He refers to a letter written twelve years ago—a letter that I never received; but it would have made no difference if I had received it. I wrote to him once begging him to release me from a promise that I made rashly out of great pity for him, it was cruel and selfish in him to force me to it, but I was not sure of myself then, and it was all that I could do for him. But, as I said, he released me when he chose to do it, and it does not matter. Perhaps it is better that I had the promise to bind me; you are happier for it, I think, and I have not been selfish in any demand upon you."
"John, I don't know what you mean," she said, perplexed.
"I don't mean anything that I can tell you."
"I hope he did not deceive her—his wife, that he told her all about himself."
"She died nine years ago, he writes, and now he is very ill himself and wishes to leave his little daughter in safe hands; her mother was an orphan, it seems, and the child has no relatives that he cares to leave her with; her mother was an English girl, he was married in England. He wishes me to come to him and take charge of the child."
"That is why you so suddenly chose California instead of Minnesota for your winter?"
"Yes."
"Have you written to him?"
"Yes."
"Is he very ill?"
"Yes; he may never receive my letter."
"I would like to write to him," said Miss Prudence.
"Would you like to see the letter?"
"No; I would rather not. You have told me all?" with a slight quiver in the firm voice.
"All excepting his message to you."
After a moment she asked: "What is it?"
"He wants you to take the guardianship of his child with me. I have not told you all—he thinks we are married."
The brave voice trembled in spite of his stern self-control.
"Oh!" exclaimed Prudence, and then: "Why should he think that?" in a low, hesitating voice.
"Because he knew me so well. Having only each other, it was natural, was it not?"
"Perhaps so. Then that is all he says."
"Isn't that enough?"
"No, I want to know if he has repented, if he is another man. I am glad I may write to him; I want to tell him many things. We will take care of the little girl, John."
"If I am West and you are East—"
"Do you want to keep her with you?"
"What could I do with her? She will be a white elephant to me. I am not her father; I do not think I understand girls—or boys, or men. I hardly understand you, Prudence."
"Then I am afraid you never will. Isn't it queer how I always have a little girl provided for me? Marjorie is growing up and now I have this child, your niece, John, to be my little girl for a long time. I wonder what her name is."
"He did tell me that! I may have passed over something else; you might better see the letter."
"No; handwriting is like a voice, or a perfume to me—I could not bear it to-night. John, I feel as if it would kill me. It is so long ago—I thought I was stronger—O, John," she leaned her head upon his arm and sobbed convulsively like a little child.
He laid his hand upon her head as if she were indeed the little child, and for a long time no words were spoken.
"Prudence, there is something else, there is the photograph of the little girl—her mother named her Jeroma."
"I will take that," she said, lifting her head, "and I will write to her to-night."
That night before she slept she wrote a long letter to the child with the brown eyes and sunny curls, describing the home in Maple Street, and promising to take her into her heart and keep her there always, to adopt her for her very own little daughter for her own sake and for her father's sake, whom she knew long ago, ending it thus:
"You cannot come to me too soon, for I am waiting for you with a hungry heart. I knew there was something good coming to me, and I know you will be my blessing.
"Your Loving Aunt Prue."