ROMA’S DECISION
Miss Fronde’s guests left Goblin Hall very soon after dinner, the lawyer
to go back to his chambers in Washington, the minister to return to his
parsonage.
Both, in taking leave of her, had placed themselves entirely at her
service, imploring her to notify them by message or telegram whenever
she might want them.
Roma thanked her old friends, and promised all they wished.
After their departure she sat quite alone in the small, dark-wainscoted
parlor. The sun had gone down behind a bank of clouds.
It was now coming on to rain, and the air was cold for April.
Pompous came in and lighted the wax candles at each end of the
mantelpiece and the moderator lamp on the round center table.
Then, without orders, he brought in a basketful of resinous pine cones
and kindled a bright fire on the hearth.
Roma scarcely noticed what he was doing until the sudden blaze in the
fireplace made her look up.
“Take de chill offen de ’a’, young mist’ess. Moughty onsartain dese
Ap’il days an’ nights—moughty. Yere dis mornin’ so hot in de sun you’d
’a’ sought it mought be July ’stead ob Ap’il; now so col’ an’ damp yo’
mought sink it was Janiwery. Now I gwine fetch two or free cedar logs
an’ lay on top o’ dese yere, an’ it will keep yo’ a sweet, lively little
fire all de ebenin’,” said the negro as he turned to leave the room.
“Thank you, Pontius,” replied Roma, leaving her seat, in her
restlessness, and beginning to walk up and down the floor.
In a few minutes the negro returned, laid the cedar logs across the
andirons, clapped his hands gently over the hearth, to shake them free
of fibers of bark, and then stood as if he had something to say.
Roma, pacing up and down the floor, scarcely noticed him.
At last he said:
“Mons’ous sorry to year wot happen’d ob, youn’ mist’ess. Nebber yeared
nuftin ’t all ’bout it till I come f’om de mill dis arternoon. Mons’ous
sorry I didn’ set Tige on dat lowlife w’ite trash yes’day. Mons’ous
sorry. Ef ebber he do sho’ his lowlife w’ite face onto dis plantation
ag’in I gwine set Tige on him, fo’ sho! I is, ef I’s got to hang fo’ it.
I is, indeed. Trufe, fo’ a fac’.”
“I do not think he will come again,” said Miss Fronde.
“He better not. ’Deed, he better not. Not ef he knows wot’s good fo’ his
healf, he hadn’t. But, say, young mist’ess, can’t yo’ have dat w’ite
herrin’ hung fo’ stealing dat chile?”
“Hardly, Pontius.”
“All yight, den. I’ll be hung fo’ him ef he ebber sho’ his face yere
ag’in. It’s de trufe, fo’ a fac’.”
Miss Fronde made no comment. She scarcely heard the monologue of the
man, who continued to talk in the same strain, repeating himself over
and over again, as is the manner of his kind, until, receiving no
encouragement to stand and talk, he strutted out of the room in his
usual ponderous fashion.
Roma came and threw herself down in the easy-chair beside the table, on
which stood the moderator lamp. By its light she saw the packet of
letters and papers that had been brought from the Goeberlin post office
by Puck in the afternoon, and, in the exciting events of the time, had
been forgotten until this moment.
There were three letters—all of them foreign—one from Mrs. Gray, one
from Abbot Elde, and one from Tim Toomie.
It is not necessary to go into this correspondence in detail, but only
to glance at it.
Tim Toomie’s letter—“the last shall be first”—was the only one with
which he had ever honored Miss Fronde. He wrote to implore her to go
over to Toomie’s Farm and see his people and tell him all about them.
“For,” he wrote, “they are not used to letter writing, and their letters
are not satisfactory. They give me only the baldest outlines of news, as
‘All are well here,’ or ‘Your granny has got a cold in her head,’ or
‘The red cow has got a calf,’ or something like that, and I am hungry
and thirsty for news from home, my dear Miss Fronde.”
“I will take a day and go over to see the Toomies, and write the little
fellow a long letter, with a full account of them,” Roma said to
herself.
Mrs. Gray’s and Abbot Elde’s letters still rang the changes on the
delights of their foreign home and their desire to have Roma with them.
“Come over,” wrote Mrs. Gray, “with Dr. Shaw. He has promised to make us
a visit in August and September. Persuade him to anticipate the time and
to escort you over in May.”
“Why not?” said Roma to herself, as she folded up her aunt’s letter.
“Why not, indeed? I have nothing to keep me here now. The court has
annulled the fraudulent marriage; Will Harcourt has been found, only to
be more completely lost to me than ever; my poor little adopted child
has been wrested from me by her own father, from whom I cannot recover
her, except at a price for which I would not purchase my own soul, if it
were about to be lost. Why not go to Scotland? But not before I settle
up some business here. I will consult Dr. Shaw. I cannot ask him to come
to me again so soon, but I shall see him at church on Sunday and make an
appointment with him for next week. Yes, that is the best I can do,”
concluded Roma, as she arose and resumed her walk up and down the floor.
She walked until she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Ceres,
who wanted to know if Miss Fronde would have a fire lighted in her
bedroom, as the night was so cold and wet.
Roma declined the fire, but said that as it was late she would retire,
which she immediately did.
The rain ceased to fall during the night, and the next morning the
weather was fair and mild.
Immediately after breakfast Roma ordered her carriage, and drove over to
Toomie’s Farm to see the family there. She found them all well, and
doing well. She did not tell them of their Tim’s complaining letter to
herself, lest it should give them pain, but she found out that she had
no occasion to do so, as they had had a letter from him by the same mail
which brought hers.
Roma accepted their invitation to spend the day, by doing which she knew
that she would be able to write a longer and fuller account to the
absent son.
She found—what, indeed, she had known before—that they were all very
proud and fond of Tim.
Roma returned home by sunset, and after tea spent the evening in writing
a very long letter to Mr. Toomie and two very short ones to Mrs. Gray
and Abbot Elde.
When she had finished and sealed these epistles she rang the bell, and
gave them to Puck, to be taken to the post office early in the morning.
Then she went to bed.
During the remainder of the week her neighbors began to call on her, to
welcome her back to her home.
They had all heard from Dr. Shaw of the terrible wrong that had been
attempted against her in the felonious marriage, and tendered their
hearty congratulations on her escape from danger.
“Our young men threaten to lynch him,” said Dr. Keech, “and although at
my age, and with my profession, which is to save life and not to destroy
it, I would not assist at such a ceremony, neither would I utter a word
or lift a finger to prevent it.”
Roma was certainly comforted by the hearty sympathy of her neighbors,
though she did wish that it had been silent and not clamorous.
At church, the next Sunday, she saw Dr. Shaw again and begged him to
call on her as early in the week as he conveniently could do so, as she
wished to consult him again. He promised to come on the next morning,
adding that Monday was always his least busy day.
So, early on the next morning, the good minister made his appearance at
Goblin Hall. It was one of the fine days of the fitful April
weather—warm enough for June. Roma was seated on the front piazza, with
Ducky Darling at her feet, playing on the broken musical box.
As the parson rode up, dismounted, and tied his horse, Roma arose to
meet him, shook hands with him cordially, and invited him into the
house.
“No, my child, I will sit here, if you please. It is cooler. It is very
pleasant out here,” he said, sinking into one of the Quaker chairs,
drawing his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his forehead.
Roma took his broad-brimmed felt hat into the hall and hung it up.
Ceres, who was dusting the dining-room, she told to make a pitcher of
iced lemonade and bring it out.
When she returned to the piazza she called Puck from the flower bed he
was weeding and told him to take the doctor’s horse to the stable and
attend to him there.
“Any fresh disturbance from that man, my child? For if there is, you
know we will have to bind him over to keep the peace,” said Dr. Shaw, as
soon as Roma had taken her seat beside him.
“Oh, no, thank heaven! But I have received letters from my relatives in
Delfcome, urging me to come to them. I think of going; that is all. No,
it is not all, either, by the way.”
“You think of going? How soon?”
“Just as soon as I get through some work I have set myself to do, by
which time I hope you will be ready to take care of me on the voyage.”
“I?—oh, my dear child!”
“They expect you for August and September.”
“A dream! a dream, my dear! I cannot leave my flock without a shepherd.”
“And you shall not, dear Dr. Shaw. Hear me, dear pastor. I am the
stewardess of more wealth than I know how to manage. I need your wisdom
to direct and assist me in its distribution. For that reason I begged
your company here this morning,” Roma said.
“What is your idea, my child?”
“Well, my dear pastor, my second and well beloved father, I hope you
will not be offended with your child, for, first of all, I wish to
employ an assistant to relieve you of some of the arduous work of the
parish,” Roma said, almost timidly, for there were some occasions—like
this, for instance—when our regal Amazon was timid. She was fearful of
seeming to patronize the venerable man who had all her reverence and
affection.
He understood her.
“Your thought is kind, my child, and I thank you. Have you any special
person in view?” he inquired.
“No, no one whatever. I wish you to find some proper man, and employ him
in your own name.”
“I will think it over, my child. Yes, such an assistant would be a very
great relief to me, at my age, though that circumstance, perhaps, ought
not to be considered in the question.”
“I do not see why it should not be. I think it is the first and most
important circumstance to be considered in the question,” Roma answered
warmly.
“Oh, yes, my child. I know you think so, and that is just where your
human affections and partialities come into the way to obscure your
clear view of duty and responsibility. Now, let me ask you—is there not
some other way, in fact, are there not many other ways, in which your
means could be employed with better advantage to the poor and suffering
of this world?”
“I do not know that there are. You are wearing yourself out in the work
of this parish, and you should be relieved.”
“But, my child, it is the duty of every servant of God to ‘spend and be
spent’ in His service.”
“Yes,” said Roma thoughtfully, “and that your services may be the longer
continued to your Lord and your people you must have an assistant.”
“But, my child, there are more ways——”
“Well, and there are more means,” said Roma. Then she broke forth, with
sudden energy: “So much more means! Oh, Dr. Shaw, you don’t know how
responsible I feel for all the wealth I have inherited. I hardly can
think it is mine—that I have any right to it.”
“Yet it is all your own, by every moral and legal right.”
“What have I ever done to earn it, to win it, or to deserve it? Nothing.
My father left me, his only child, this plantation. But the negroes made
it what it is, not I. And the negroes have a heavy claim on me. But how
is the best way to meet that claim? I shall want your wisdom to direct
me. Then—as if this was not enough for one woman—my Uncle Guyon died,
widowed and childless, and left me the Isle of Storms. What had I ever
done to earn or win that fine sanitary sea home? Nothing whatever; and I
have no right to keep it all to myself. Once, indeed, I thought of it as
a summer resort for my friends and myself only, but that was the
inspiration of pride and selflove. My friends were of that favored class
who can choose their own summer homes among the mountains, or by the
seashore, or wherever they please. The Isle of Storms was not given me
for my own selfish pleasure, but for the best uses to humanity to which
it can be put—perhaps as a sanatorium for destitute invalids and
children. And then, again, as if this Goeberlin plantation and the Isle
of Storms were not already much too much for one woman, my Uncle Thomas
dies unmarried, and leaves me the silver mine in Colorado. He discovered
the mine, not I. It has proved a source of almost fabulous wealth. But
what have I done to earn, to win, or to deserve all that? Nothing
whatever. So I know that all this is not mine, for my own selfish pride,
but that it is intrusted to me as a steward of the Lord.”
“Tell me, dear child, how do you propose to discharge the duties of your
stewardship? What are your ideas?”
“They are nebulous yet. I want your help to form them. I know there are
things that I must do.”
“And these?”
“First, get an assistant for you.”
The aged rector bent his head.
“Secondly, build a school here for the free education of the colored
people who have—they or their forefathers—tilled the soil for near two
centuries.”
“Yes! yes! yes!” assented the minister.
“Thirdly, convert the Isle of Storms into a free sanatorium for
destitute invalids and children, and to devote some share of my
California uncle’s wealth to the necessary expenses. So far, all is
clear; beyond this you will kindly direct me, Dr. Shaw.”
“My child, if you set these good works going within the next year, you
will have your hands as full as they can hold. Afterward we will talk of
other enterprises.”
“And you will aid me with your counsel?”
“Assuredly I shall endeavor to do so.”
“And now, immediately, will you seek out an assistant for yourself? Your
wide acquaintance with the young clergy of our church will afford you
facilities for suiting your parish. After you shall have secured your
co-laborer, and I shall have placed the material and financial part of
the school and the sanatorium in the hands of Mr. Merritt, we will go to
Europe, and make that promised visit to our friends in Delfcome, this
you will kindly direct me, Dr. Shaw.”
“It strikes me as Utopian, my child. At the age of seventy-five, after
fifty years in the pulpit, to have my first long holiday, my first visit
to Europe—a pleasure I never permitted myself to dream of. But I thank
heaven, my dear, that the old man has still health and strength enough
left for the voyage.”
Soon after this the rector took leave, as he had to make a sick call
seven miles on the other side of Goeberlin.
Miss Fronde went in the house and wrote a long letter to her lawyer,
describing her plans, and asking him if he could become her agent in
carrying them into execution—making contracts, engaging officers, and so
forth.
The capricious days of April passed, and the delightful days of May
came, but nothing was heard from Hanson or the child.
Then, one morning, Puck brought her a letter from the post office,
bearing the postmark of New York, but having no proof of the writer, for
it was imprinted by a typewriter, both as to the superscription and
contents.
Guessing whom it came from, and what it treated of, Miss Fronde
anxiously opened it, and read:
“The child is breaking her heart, is ill, is dying, and will die unless
she is restored to you. But you cannot have her, even to save her life,
unless you take me also, for I also am in almost as bad a plight. I am
desperate, for never man loved woman as I love you, nor ever did; or
dared as much for her as I have done and dared, and will do and dare for
you. Only give me an opportunity to plead my cause. Write and tell me
when and where you will see me. Direct your letter to A B Y Z, General
Post Office, New York.”
Roma’s first emotion on reading this letter was one of alarm and pity
for the child; but these were soon swallowed up in burning indignation.
She studied the letter—analyzed it. How meanly cautious it was to avoid
giving her any advantage over the writer! If he had stolen a child that
was not his own he could not have been more guarded in his endeavor to
profit by his theft without compromising his own safety from the law. He
had written with a typewriter, he had given no address, signed no name,
mentioned no name in the body of the letter.
“Why,” she asked herself, “had the man been so cowardly cautious in
communicating with her if he knew that the child he had carried off was
his own?”
Then, for the first time, Roma felt a doubt as to whether he did know
the child to be his own.
“Perhaps,” she reflected, “he does not know, or even suspect the truth.
Perhaps he thinks that he has put himself in the power of the law, and
therefore, even when trying to blackmail me, he is cautious not to let
me hold any positive proof of his identity or address, and so writes
with a typewriter, and neither dates nor signs his letter, but requires
an answer to be addressed to initials at the general post office. I
shall not answer the letter at all, even to refuse its terms. I will
never suffer myself to be either persuaded or provoked into answering
such impertinence. As to my darling little girl—yes, I could almost
break my heart for her, but I will not, and neither will she—the wise
little woman—break hers for me. Owlet is ‘possessed of common sense,’ to
use her own quaint phrase. Besides, I do not believe one word about her
being ‘ill, dying, and sure to die unless restored to me.’ Above all,
more than all, she is a child in the safe hands of the Lord, and, living
or dying, she cannot be lost out of them.”
Roma took up the letter again, to tear it into fragments; but on second
thought she determined to keep it, and show it to her two venerable
friends and supporters—Parson Shaw and Lawyer Merritt.
About once a week the old minister came to see her.
The first time he came, after the receipt of the typewritten letter,
Roma drew it from her pocket and put it in his hands.
She watched him until he had read it through and returned it to her, and
then she asked:
“What do you think of it?”
“Oh, the fellow is a cowardly cur—Heaven forgive me for saying it! Think
no more of the man or his dastardly letter. As for the child, you must
leave her to the Lord. You can do nothing in the case that would not do
harm. I have good news for you, Roma,” said the rector, with a beaming
smile.
“Ah! yes? Well?”
“I have secured an assistant—Paul Stone, a young graduate of the
Theological College at Alexandria, who has just been ordained—a fervent
young Christian, who is very happy in the prospect of going to hard
work.”
“I am very happy in the prospect of your getting some rest,” replied
Miss Fronde.
But there was a crisis at hand that must modify all their plans. It was
a crisis that no one dreamed of.