Gretchen: A Novel

by Mary Jane Holmes

"What is it, pet?" he asked. "Do you want anything?"

They had made her understand that she must not speak, for the slightest effort to do so always brought on a fit of coughing which threatened a hemorrhage. But they had brought her a little slate, on which she sometimes wrote her requests, though that, too, was an effort. Pointing now to the slate, she wrote, while her father held it:

"I want Jerrie."

"I thought so; and you shall have her for just as long as she will stay," Frank said; and a servant was dispatched to the cottage with the message that Jerrie must come at once, and come prepared to pass the night, if possible.

It had been very dreary for Maude during the time she had been shut up in her room, to which no one was admitted except her father and mother, the doctor, and the nurse. Many messages of inquiry and sympathy, however, had come to her from the cottage, and Grassy Spring, and Le Bateau, where Ann Eliza was still kept a prisoner with her sprained ankle; and once Jerrie had written a note full of love and solicitude and a desire to see her. As a postscript she added:

"Harold sends his love, and hopes you will soon be better. You don't know how anxious he is about you. Why, I believe he has lost ten pounds since your attack, for which he seems to blame himself, thinking he excited you too much by talking to you."

Frank read this to Maude, who, when he came to the postscript laughed aloud, as a child laughs at the return of its mother, for whom it has been hungering. This was the first word she had had from Harold, except that he had called to inquire for her, and she had so longed for something which should assure her that he remembered her as she did him. She had no distrust of him, and would as soon have doubted that the sun would rise again as to have doubted his sincerity; but she wanted to hear again that he loved her, and now she had heard it, and, folding her hands upon her breast, she fell into the most refreshing sleep she had had since her illness. Could Maude have talked and seen people, or if she had been less anxious to live, she would probably have told Jerrie and Nina, and possibly Ann Eliza Peterkin, of what had passed between herself and Harold, but she had not seen them; while life, with Harold to love her, looked so bright and sweet, that if by keeping silence she could prolong it, she would do so for months, if necessary. To live for Harold was all she wished or thought about; and often when they hoped she was sleeping, she lay so still, with her eyes closed and her hands folded upon her breast, she was praying for life and length of days, with strength to make Harold as happy as he ought to be, and was thinking of and planning all she meant to do for him if she lived and they were married. First to Europe, where she would be so proud to show him the places she had seen, and where Jerrie would be with them, for in all her plans Jerrie had almost as prominent a place as herself.

"I am nothing without Jerrie," she thought. "She keeps me up, and Jerrie will live with us, and Mrs. Crawford; but not here, for Harold could never get along with mother and Tom; we will build a house together, Hally and I, with Jerrie to help and plan—build one where the cottage stands, or near it, so Jerrie can still see the old Tramp House she is so fond of. Not a house like this, with such big rooms, but a pretty, modern Queen Ann house, with every room a corner room, and a bay-window in it. And Harold will have an office in town, and I shall drive down for him every afternoon and take him home to dinner and to Jerrie."

Such was the nature of Maude's thoughts, as she lay day after day upon the couch, too weak to do more than lift her hands or raise her head when the dreadful paroxysms of coughing seized her and racked her fragile frame. Still she was very happy, and the happiness showed itself upon her face, where there rested a look of perfect content and peace, which her father and mother had noticed and commented upon, and which Jerrie saw the moment she entered the room.

Sitting down beside her, she told her how lovely she looked in her pretty rose-colored wrapper, and how sorry every one was for her, and that both she and Nina would have been there every day, only they knew they could not see her. Then, as Maude's eyes fixed themselves steadily upon her, with a look of inquiry, she set her teeth hard, and began: