Tracy Park Part 34

'That's so,' Jerry said, with another emphatic kick and a slight tightening of her arm around the conscience-stricken man, who wondered if he should ever reach the cottage and be free from the clasp of those arms, which seemed to him like bands of fire burning to his soul. 'I'd never speak to him again,' Jerry continued, 'and Mr. Arthur wouldn't either. He is so right-up, and hates a trick. I don't believe, either, that any harm will come to Maude from that letter, as you said. If there does, and Mr. Arthur can fix it, he will, I know, for I shall ask him, and he once told me he would do anything for me, because I look as he thinks Gretchen must have looked when she was a little girl like me.'

They had reached the cottage by this time, where they found Harold in the yard looking up and down the lane for Jerry, whose protracted absence at that hour had caused them some anxiety, even though they were accustomed to her long rambles by herself and frequent absences from home. It was not an unusual thing for her to linger in the Tramp House, even after dark, talking to herself, and Gretchen, and Mah-nee, and her mother and a sick woman, whose face was far back in the past. She was there now, Harold supposed, and this belief was confirmed when Mr. Tracy said to him:

'You see I have picked up your little girl and brought her home. Jump down, Jerry, and good-night to you.'

She was on the ground in an instant, and he was soon galloping toward home, saying to himself:

'I don't believe I can even have a death-bed repentance now. I have told too many lies for that, and more than all, must go on lying to the end.

I have sold my soul for a life of luxury, which after all is very pleasant,' he continued, as he drew near the house, which was brilliantly lighted up, while through the long windows of the drawing-room he could see the table, with its silver and gla.s.s and flowers, and the cheerful blaze upon the hearth of the fire-place, which Dolly had persuaded Arthur to have built. There was every kind of bric-a-brac on the tall mantel, and Frank saw it as he pa.s.sed, and saw the colored man moving slowly about the room after the manner of a well-trained servant who understands his business. There was company staying in the house, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, from Kentucky, father and mother to Fred; and Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire, and Grace Atherton, and Squire Harrington had been invited to dinner, and were already in the dining-room when Frank entered it after a hasty toilet.

He had been out in the country and ridden further than he had intended, he said by way of apology, as he greeted his guests, and then took Mrs.

Raymond into dinner, which, with the exception of the soup and fish, was served from side tables. This was Dolly's last new kink, as Frank called it, and Dolly was very fine, in claret velvet, with her new diamonds, which were greatly admired, Grace Atherton declaring that she liked them quite as well as the stolen ones, whose setting was rather _pa.s.se._

'That is just why I liked them so, because they were old-fas.h.i.+oned; it made them look like heir-looms, and showed that one had always had a family,' Dolly said.

Grace Atherton shrugged her still plump shoulders just a little, and thought of the first call she ever made upon Dolly, when she entered through the kitchen and the lady entertained her in her working-ap.r.o.n!

Dolly did not look now as if she had ever seen a working-ap.r.o.n, and was very bright and talkative, and entertaining, and all the more so because of her husband's silence. He was given to moods, and sometimes aggravated his wife to desperation when he left all the conversation to her.

'Do talk,' she would say to him when they were alone. 'Do talk to people and not sit so glum, with that great wrinkle between your eyes as if you were mad at something; and do laugh, too, when anybody tells anything worth laughing at, and not leave it all to me. Why, I actually giggle at times until I feel like a fool, while you never smile or act as if you heard a word. Look at me occasionally, and when I elevate my eyebrows--_so_--brace up and say something, if it isn't so cunning.'

This _elevating of the eyebrows_ and _bracing up_ were matters of frequent occurrence, as Frank grew more and more silent and abstracted, and now after he had sat through a funny story told by Mr. St. Claire and had not even smiled, or given any sign that he heard it, he suddenly caught Dolly's eye and saw that both eyebrows, and nose, and chin were up as marks of unusual disapprobation, for how could she guess of what he was thinking as he sat with his head bent down, and his eyes seemingly half shut. But they came open wide enough, and his head was high enough when he saw Dolly's frown; and turning to Mrs. Raymond he began to talk rapidly and at random. She had just returned from Germany, where she had left her daughter, Marion, in school, and Frank asked her of the country, and if she had visited Wiesbaden, and had there met or heard of anyone by the name of Marguerite Heinrich.

Mrs. Raymond had spent some months in Wiesbaden, for it was there her daughter was at school, and she was very enthusiastic in her praises of the beautiful town. But she had never seen or heard of Marguerite Heinrich, or of anyone by the name of Heinrich.

'Marguerite Heinrich?' Dolly repeated. 'Who in the world is she--and where did you know her?'

'I never did know her. I have only heard of her,' Frank replied, again lapsing into a silence from which he did not rouse again.

He was thinking of the letter hidden away with the photograph and the book--of the lies he had told since his deception began, and now sure it was that he had sinned beyond forgiveness. When he was a boy he had often listened, with the blood curdling in his veins, to a story his grandmother told him with sundry embellishments, for he was not well versed in German literature, of a man--Foster it seemed to him was the name--who sold his soul to the devil in consideration that for a certain number of years he was to have every pleasure the world could give. It had been very pleasant listening to the recital of the fine things the man enjoyed, for Satan kept his promise well; but the boy's hair had stood on end as the story neared its close, and he heard how, when the probation was ended, the devil came for his victim down the wide-mouthed chimney, scattering bricks and fire-brands over the floor, as he carried the trembling soul out in the blackness of the stormy night.

Strangely enough this story came back to him now, and notwithstanding the horror of the thing he laughed aloud as he glanced up at the tall oak fire-place, wondering if it would be that way he would one day go with his master, and seeing in fancy Dolly's dismay when the tea-cups, and saucers, and vases, and plaques, came tumbling to the floor as he disappeared from sight in a blue flame, which smelled of brimstone.

It was a loud, unnatural laugh, but fortunately for him it came just as Grace Atherton had set the guests in a roar with what she was saying of the Peterkin's final struggle to enter society, and so it pa.s.sed unnoticed by most of them. But that night in the privacy of his room, where Dolly delivered most of her lectures, she again upbraided him with his taciturnity, telling him that he never laughed but once, and then it sounded more like a groan than a laugh.

'You have hit the nail on the head this time, for it was a groan,' Frank said, as he plunged into bed; and Dolly, as she undressed herself deliberately, and this time put her diamonds carefully away, little dreamed what was pa.s.sing in the mind of the man, who, all through the long hours of the night, lay awake, seldom stirring lest he should disturb her, but repeating over and over to himself, the words:

'Lost now forever and ever, but if Maude is happy I can bear it.'

CHAPTER XXIV.

JERRIE--NINE YEARS LATER.

She spelled her name with an _ie_ now, instead of a _y._ She was nineteen years old; she had been a student at Va.s.sar for four years, together with Nina St. Claire and Ann Eliza Peterkin, and in July was to be graduated with the highest honors of her cla.s.s. In her childhood, when we knew her as little Jerry, she had been very small, but at the age of twelve she suddenly shot up like an arrow, and had you first seen her, with her back to you, you might have said she was very tall, but had you waited till she turned her face toward you, or walked across the floor, you would have thought that if an eighth of an inch were taken from her height it would spoil her splendidly developed form. Her school companions called her the Princess, she was so tall and straight, and graceful in every movement, with that sweet graciousness of manner which won all hearts to her and made her a general favorite. Whether she spelled her name with an _ie_ or a _y_ and stood five feet six or four feet five, she was the same Jerry who had defended Harold against Tom Tracy, and been ready to go to prison, if need be, for Mr. Arthur.

Frank, unselfish, truthful, and original, she had been as a child, with perhaps a little too much pride in her hair, which she hid once cut off to see how it would seem, and she was original, and truthful, and unselfish now, with a pardonable pride in her luxuriant tresses, which lay in waves upon her finely-shaped head and glistened in the sunlight like satin of a golden hue. But nothing could spoil Jerrie, not even the adulation of her friends or the looking-gla.s.s which told her she was beautiful, just as Nina St. Claire told her every day.

'Yes; I am not blind, and I know that I am rather good-looking,' she once said to Nina, 'and I am glad, for, as a rule, people like pretty things better than ugly ones, but I am not an idiot to think that looks are everything, and I don't believe I am very vain. I used to be though, when a child, but Harold gave me so many lectures upon vanity that I should not do credit to his teachings were I now to be proud of what I did not do myself.'

'But Harold thinks you are beautiful,' Nina replied.

'He does? I did not know that. When did he say so?' Jerrie asked; with kindling eyes and a quick, sideways turn of her head, of which she had a habit when startled by some sudden emotion.

'He said so last vacation, when we were home, and I had that little musicale, and you played and sang so divinely, and wore that dress of baby-blue which Mr. Arthur gave you, with the blush-rose, in your belt.'

Nina said; 'I was so proud of you and so was mamma and Mrs. Atherton.

You remember there were some New Yorkers there who were visiting Mrs.

Grace, and I was glad for them to know that we had some talent, and some beauty, too, in the country; and Harold was proud, too. I don't think he ever took his eyes off you from the time you sat down to the piano until you left it, and when I said to him, "Doesn't she sing like an angel, and isn't the lovely?" he replied: "I think my sister Jerry has the loveliest face I ever saw, and that blue dress is very becoming to her."'

'Wasn't that rather a stiff speech to make about his _sister_?' Jerry said, with a slight emphasis upon the last word, as she walked away, leaving Nina to wonder if she were displeased.

Evidently not, for a few minutes later she heard her whistling softly the air 'He promised to buy me a knot of blue ribbon to tie up my bonny brown hair,' and could she have looked into Jerry's room she would have seen her standing before the mirror examining the face which Harold had said was the loveliest he had ever seen. Others had said the same, and their sayings had been repeated to her. Billy Peterkin, and Tom Tracy, and d.i.c.k St. Claire, and even Fred Raymond, from Kentucky, who was supposed to be devoted to Nina. But Jerry cared little for the compliments of either Fred or d.i.c.k, while those of Tom she scorned and those of Billy she ridiculed. One word of commendation from Harold was worth more to her than the praises of the whole world besides. But Harold had always been chary of his commendations, and was rather more given to reproof than praise, which did not altogether suit the young lady.

As Jerry had grown older, and merged from childhood into womanhood, a change had come over both the girl and boy, a change which Jerry discovered first, awaking suddenly one day to find that the brother and sister delusion was ended, and Harold stood to her in an entirely new relation. Just when the change had commenced she could not tell. She only knew that it had come, and that she was not quite so happy as she had been in the days when she called Harold her brother, and kissed him whenever she felt like it, which was very often, for she was naturally affectionate, and showed her affection to those she loved. She was seventeen when the dream came--the old, old story which transformed her from a romping, a rather gus.h.i.+ng child, into a woman more quiet and more dignified, especially with Harold, who missed and mourned in secret for the playful loving ways which had been so pleasant to him, even if he did not always make a return.

Though capable of loving quite as devotedly and unselfishly as Jerry, he was not demonstrative, while a natural shyness and depreciation of himself made him afraid to tell in words just what or how much he did feel. He would rather show it by acts; and never was brother tenderer or kinder toward a sister than he was to Jerry, whose changed mood he could not understand. And so there gradually arose between them a little cloud, which both felt, and neither could exactly define.

Arthur had kept his promise well with regard to Jerry, who had pa.s.sed from him to Va.s.sar, and he would have kept it with Harold, if the latter had permitted it. But the boy's pride and independence had a.s.serted themselves at last. He had accepted the course at Andover, and one year at Harvard, on condition that he should be allowed to pay Arthur back all he had received as soon as he was able to do it. As he entered Harvard in advance, he was a junior when he decided to care for himself, and during the remainder of his college course, which, of course, was longer than usual, he struggled on, doing what he could during the summer vacation--teaching school for months at a time--and in the college reducing his expenses by acting as proctor, and compelling obedience to the rules of the inst.i.tution. Even the few who were aware of his limited means, and his efforts to increase them, had to acknowledge, as he stood before the mult.i.tude, delivering the valedictory, and exciting thunders of applause by his graceful gestures and thrilling eloquence, that he was not only an orator, but every inch a gentleman.

His fellow students who saw him then, and listened entranced to his clear, well-trained voice, thought not of Harold's threadbare coat and s.h.i.+ning old-fas.h.i.+oned pants, which were so conspicuous as he pursued his studies in the cla.s.s-room, but which were now concealed by the gown he wore over them. They saw only the large, dark eyes, the finely chiseled features, and the manly form. But as they listened to the burning words which showed so much clear, deep thought, they said to each other:

'The young man has a future before him. Such eloquence as that could move the world, and rouse or quiet the wildest mob that ever surged through the streets of mad Paris.'

Jerry was there, and saw and heard. And when Harold's speech was over, and the building was shaking with applause, and flowers were falling around him like rain, she, too, stood up and cheered so loudly that a Boston lady, who sat in front of her, and who thought any outward show of feeling vulgar and ill-bred, turned and looked at her wonderingly and reprovingly. But in her excitement Jerry did not see the disapprobation in the cold, proud eyes. She saw only what she mistook for enquiry, and she answered eagerly:

'That's Harold--that's my brother! Oh, I am so proud of him!'

And leaning forward so that a curl of her bright hair touched the Boston woman's bonnet, she threw the bunch of pond lilies which she had herself gathered that day on the river at home, before the sun was up, and while the white petals were still folded in sleep. For Jerry had come down on the early train to see Harold graduated, and Maude had found her in the crowd and sat beside her, almost as pleased and happy as herself to see Harold thus acquit himself.

Maude's roses had been bought at a florist's in Boston at a fabulous price, for they were the choicest and rarest in market. Harold had seen both the roses and the lilies long before they fell at his feet. It was a fancy, perhaps, but it seemed to him that it sweet perfume from the latter reached him with the brightness of Jerry's eyes. He knew just where the lilies came from, for he had often waded out to the green bed when the water was low to get them for Jerry; and all the time he was speaking there was in his heart a thought of the old home, and the woods, and the river, and the tall tree on the bank, with the bench beneath, and on it the girl, whose upturned, eager face he saw above the sea of heads confronting him.

Jerrie's approval was worth more to the young man than that of all the rest; for he knew that, though she would be very lenient toward him, she was a keen and discriminating critic, and would detect a weakness which many an older person would fail to see. But she was satisfied--he was sure of that; and if there had been in his mind any doubt it would have been swept away when, after the exercises were over, and he stood receiving the congratulations of his friends, she worked her way through the crowd and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him fondly, and bursting into a flood of tears as she told him how proud she was of him.

The eyes of half his cla.s.smates were upon him, and though Harold felt a thrill of keen delight run through his veins at the touch of Jerrie's lips, he would a little rather she had waited until they were alone.

'There, there, Jerrie, that will do!' he whispered, as he unclasped her arms, and put her gently from him, though he still held her hand. 'Don't you see they are all looking at us.'

With a sudden, jerk Jerrie withdrew her hand from his and stepped back into the crowd, her heart beating wildly, and her cheeks burning with shame, as she thought what she had done and how it must have mortified Harold.

Maude was speaking to him now--Maude with her bright black eyes and brilliant color. But she was neither crying nor strangling him with kisses. She was shaking hands with him very decorously, and telling him how pleased and glad she was. And in his hand he held her roses, which he occasionally smelled as he listened, and smiled upon her with that peculiar smile of his which made him so attractive. But the lilies were nowhere to be seen; and when, an hour later, all the baskets and bouquets bearing his name were piled together, the lilies were not there.

'He has thrown them away! He did not care for them at all, and I might as well have staid in bed as to have gotten up at four o'clock and risked my neck to get them. He likes Maude and her roses better than he does me,' Jerrie thought, with a swelling heart and all through the journey home--for they returned that night--she was very quiet and tact.i.turn, letting Maude do all the talking, and saying when asked why she was so still, that her head was aching, and that she was too tired and sleepy to talk.

That was the last time for years that Jerrie put her arms around Harold's neck, or touched her lips to his; for it had come to her like a blow how much he was to her, and, as she believed, how little she was to him.

'Maude is preferred to me--I see it now so plainly; he likes me well enough, but he loves _her_--I saw it in the way he looked at her that time I mortified him so dreadfully with my _gush_,' she thought; and although of all her girl friends, not even excepting Nina St. Claire, Maude was the nearest and dearest, she was half-glad when a week or two later, Maude said good-bye to her, and with her mother sailed away to Europe, where she remained for more than a year and a half.