A MOMENTOUS ERRAND.
There were only three more sessions, but they were wonderful
"sittings together," for every member had been deeply impressed by
the signal manifestation of God's power in their midst, in
connection with Dorothy; and felt that the place whereon they
stood was indeed "holy ground."
Then the class was dismissed with solemn, but loving, injunctions
to go forth to "cheer the faint, uplift the fallen, and heal the
sick."
But, before letting them go, Mrs. Minturn cordially invited the
students to spend the following Thursday at her home in
Manchester; to enjoy a reunion and an outing before finally
separating to go to their different fields of labor.
As their last meeting occurred on Tuesday, there intervened but
one day in which to prepare for the prospective festivities on
Thursday. But willing hearts and hands--for Mr. Minturn was now at
home, and Prof. Seabrook and Dr. Stanley proffered their services-
-made light work of the various things to be done.
Katherine, Sadie and Jennie planned elaborate decorations for the
veranda; accordingly the coachman and hostler were dispatched to
the woods for pine boughs, evergreens, etc., then to a florist's,
for potted ferns and plants, with an order for cut-flowers to be
sent on Thursday morning, and it was not long before the house
began to put on quite a festive appearance.
On Wednesday, just after lunch, Mr. Minturn repaired to the attic
and brought forth a box supposed to contain Chinese and Japanese
lanterns, with other decorations; but, alas! when it was opened it
was found that the mice had made sad havoc with its contents, and
they were condemned as utterly useless.
"That means a trip to Boston," the gentlemen observed to his wife,
as he pushed the box into a corner with other rubbish, "for it
would not be safe to trust to an order, at this late hour, and yet
I do not see how I can go and leave things here."
"I suppose one of the maids might go," said Mrs. Minturn, rather
doubtfully, "but, really, they are having such a busy day, with
sweeping and cleaning, and there is so much still to be done, I
hardly have the heart to ask them."
Jennie, who, with Mrs. Seabrook, Dorrie, Katherine and Sadie, was
twining evergreen ropes and wreaths, and, at the same time, having
a lovely, social visit, overheard the above conversation, and,
knowing that Mr. Minturn could ill be spared, said to herself,
with a sharp pang of regret:
"I'm the one who ought to go; but--I don't want to."
She glanced wistfully at the happy faces about her; at the half-
finished wreath in her hands; at the deep-blue ocean whence came a
cool, refreshing breeze, then, with a quickly repressed sigh, laid
down her work and arose.
"Let me go," she said, turning to Mrs. Minturn and stealing a fond
arm around her waist. "I'm sure I can do the errand all right."
"Dear, they will make quite a package, for there will have to be a
good many," objected her friend, but with a quick smile of
appreciation for her thoughtfulness. "Besides," she added,
glancing at the merry group behind them, "you are all having such
a good time."
"Never mind anything so we have the lanterns. We must let our
light shine, you know; and just look at that for muscle!" cheerily
returned the girl, as she swept up her loose sleeve and revealed a
truly sturdy arm. "I can catch the next train, if I step lively,
and I'll be back on the one that leaves at five. Make out your
order, Mr. Minturn, and I'll be ready before you can say 'Jack
Robinson.'"
She bounded into the house and was halfway upstairs before Mr.
Minturn could get out his notebook and pencil, and in less than
ten minutes was down again equipped for her trip.
"'Jack Robinson,'" solemnly repeated Mr. Minturn, but with a
roguish twinkle in his eyes as he handed her the leaf which he had
torn from his notebook, with his order and the address of a Boston
firm written on it. "Now be off, you sprite, or you will lose your
train, and you shall have your reward later," he concluded, as the
trap, which he had ordered up from the stable, dashed to the door.
"I'll get my reward on the way," laughed the girl, throwing him a
bright glance over her shoulder as she ran nimbly down the steps
and sprang into the carriage, little thinking how true her
lightly-spoken words would prove.
Four hours later the trap was again sent to the station to meet
her, and, a five minutes' drive, behind the pair of spirited
beauties, landed her at home once more.
Much had been accomplished during Jennie's absence, and the broad
veranda was like a sylvan bower, the last nail having just been
driven, the last wreath and festoon put in place; while the
Seabrooks were on the point of going home to dinner as the
carriage stopped before the door.
She looked pale and appeared to see no one; but, leaping to the
ground, sprang up the steps, touched Katherine on the arm, saying
briefly, "Come!" then fled inside the house.
Everyone wondered at her strange behavior, and Katherine
immediately followed her to her room.
The moment she appeared Jennie caught her in her arms and swung to
the door.
"Katherine! Katherine!" she cried, breathlessly, "I'm found!--I'm
found!--I'm not a 'stray waif'--I'm not lost any longer--I'm--I'm-
-"
She could say no more-her breath was spent; her emotion mastered
her--and, bowing her head on her companion's shoulder, she burst
into passionate weeping that shook her from head to foot.
Katherine held her in a close, loving embrace for a moment, then
gently forced her into a rocker and knelt beside her, still
keeping her arms around her, while she worked mentally for
dominion and harmony.
But the flood-gates were open wide. The pent-up yearnings of years
were let loose, and it was some time before the storm began to
abate.
Once or twice she attempted to say something, then lapsed into
fresh weeping, her self-control strangely shattered; for Jennie
had seldom been known to shed tears in the presence of others,
even under great pressure.
"Hush!" at length commanded Katherine, with gentle authority; "be
still and know who has you in His care."
"That's pa-part of it!--to--to think that I--I didn't 'know'; and
now it has c-come when I never really had f-f-faith to be-believe
it would. I--do-don't d-deserve it," sobbed the girl, with another
helpless outburst.
While Katherine is patiently waiting and working for the return of
a more tranquil frame of mind, let us take a backward glance and
follow Jennie on her eventful trip to Boston.
Upon her arrival in town she went directly to the store to which
she had been directed and where her order was immediately filled;
then finding that she had more than an hour on her hands before
her train would go, she left her package to be called for and
slipped into a large department store, to look at some pictures
that had been recently and extensively advertised in the papers.
But before reaching the room where they were on exhibition, she
was attracted another way, by seeing a crowd of people standing
before an alcove that had been curtained off, and where a so-
called "transformation scene" was being enacted before admiring
and wondering observers.
She had never seen anything of the kind and stood like one
entranced, while an exquisite marble statue, representing a
beautiful girl holding a basket of flowers in her hands, slowly
and mysteriously took on a lifelike appearance, until at length
she stood a living, breathing maiden, smiling brightly into the
faces around her, while her basket of flowers had also been
changed to a cradle of bulrushes, in the midst of which lay an
infant reaching up eager hands to the lovely woman above him.
Jennie watched this scene--supposed to represent "Pharaoh's
Daughter and The Infant Moses"--change the second time, then
turned abruptly away, just as the metamorphosis back to marble
began, to find herself confronted by a fine-looking, middle-aged
gentleman, who was gazing with strange intentness at her.
She would have passed him without a second glance, but, lifting
his hat to her, he courteously inquired:
"Young lady, will you kindly tell me your name?"
Jennie flushed with sudden embarrassment. She had often been
warned never to converse with strangers who might accost her; but,
in this instance, while she had no intention of telling him who
she was, she felt exceedingly awkward to refuse to grant a request
so politely solicited.
"I hope you will pardon me," he continued as he observed her
confusion. "I am aware that I appear presumptuous; but you are the
counterpart of a sister whom I lost years ago, and whose daughter
I have been vainly seeking during the last five years."
Jennie's heart bounded into her throat at this, and her discretion
instantly vanished in her eagerness to verify a startling
suspicion that had popped into her head while he was speaking.
"Oh, sir," she began, with a nervous catch in her breath. "I am
called Jennie Wild, but that isn't really my name--I don't know
what it is. My father and mother were both killed in a railroad
accident when I was a baby, and a kind lady adopted me and--
perhaps--oh, do you think---" but her voice failed her utterly at
this point, for her heart was panting painfully from mingled hope
and fear.
The stranger smiled genially down upon her, but his own voice was
far from steady, as he said:
"Suppose, Miss Wild, we go and sit down over yonder, where we will
be by ourselves"--indicating a remote corner of the room--"and,
perhaps, we can find out a little more about this double-puzzle;
at least, we can ascertain whether your facts and mine will fit
together."
He led the way and placed a chair for her in a position to shield
her from observation as they talked, and then, sitting down beside
her, asked her to please tell him as much of her history as she
was willing he should know.
But, as we are aware, that was very little, indeed, and took only
a few minutes to relate.
"Well, my child," the man observed, when; she concluded, "there is
not much in what you have told me that throws any light upon what
I am anxious to learn; your face and form alone seem to indicate
kinship, and that may be but a singular coincidence. All the same,
you shall hear my story.
"Years ago I had a sister whom I loved very dearly. She was much
older than I and took the place of my mother when I lost her. I
lived with this sister, after her marriage, until I was eighteen
years of age, and grew to love the little daughter who came to her
when I was a boy of ten, with a tenderness which I have no words
to express. At the age of eighteen, an East India merchant, who
dealt in spices, coffee, tea, etc., and who, having no children of
his own, had made a kind of protege of me, proposed that I come to
him and learn his business. His partner in the East had recently
died; he was about to go abroad to take his place and suggested
that this would give me a fine start in life. It was too good an
opportunity to be slighted, and I eagerly accepted it. Years
passed; my sister and her husband both died--their daughter
married and settled in a thriving town, not far from San
Francisco, Cal. Then, after a time, word came that there was
another little girl in the daughter's home, and she wrote begging
me to come back to her, if only for a visit, for I was now her
only living relative and her lonely heart was hungry for me. I
immediately made plans to do so; but my partner--who formerly had
been my employer--was suddenly taken away and I was obliged to
give up the trip. Nearly a year later my niece wrote very
hurriedly, telling me that her husband had obtained a fine
position in Chicago, that they had sold their home and were on the
point of leaving for that city, but she would send me their
address when they were settled. That was the last I ever heard
from her, although I wrote numberless letters of inquiry to their
former place of residence and also to Chicago. Complications in
business made it impossible for me to come to the United States to
institute a personal search, until about five years ago, and I
have spent these years looking for the dear girl who so strangely
disappeared after leaving her California home. I have been in
nearly every large city in the land, and in each have advertised
extensively, but all to no purpose. A month ago I came to Boston
for the second time, and have liked the place so well I am loath
to leave it. While looking at the transformation scene over
yonder, I was attracted by your remarkable resemblance to my
sister, as she was at your age, and could not refrain from
speaking to you, hoping that I might hear a familiar name. Miss
Wild, can you tell me just when this accident, which deprived you
of your parents, occurred?"
Jennie gave him the date of the month and the year, and her
companion's face changed as he heard it.
"That was the same month and the year that my niece left
California to go to Chicago," he said. "I believe--I wonder--By
the way, Miss Wild"--with a sudden start--"was there nothing about
you when that woman found you, by which you could have been
identified?"
"Oh, yes! I never thought!" panted Jennie, as her trembling hands
flew to her throat.
In a trice she had unclasped the string of amber beads which she
always wore inside her clothing, and laid them in his hand.
The man grew very white as he saw them, turned the curious clasp
over and read the initials engraven there. He did not speak for a
full minute. He was evidently deeply moved, and Jennie sat
watching him with bated breath and tensely clasped hands.
"My dear," he finally said, "this is the 'open sesame' to
everything. This and your remarkable resemblance to my sister,
together with the date you have given me, prove to me beyond the
shadow of a doubt that you are the daughter of my niece."
"O-h!" breathed Jennie, with tremulous eagerness.
"The initials 'A. A. to M. A. J.,' on the clasp, stand for 'Alfred
Arnold to Mildred Arnold Jennison,'" the gentleman continued. "I
am Alfred Arnold. When my niece wrote me of the birth of her
little daughter, and that she had named her 'Mildred' for her
mother, and 'Arnold,' for me, I bought this string of amber in
Calcutta, had the initials engraved on the clasp and sent it to
the tiny stranger."
"Then--then I am--you are--" began Jennie, falteringly.
"You are my grandniece--I am your great-uncle. My child, do you
think you will care to own the relationship?"
But the girl was, for the moment, beyond the power of speech.
To have the harassing mystery of her life solved at last; to learn
something definite regarding her family, even though no one
remained to claim her save this distant relative, yet to find in
him a cultured gentleman, and reaching out to her with tender
yearning, as the only link with his past--was more than she could
bear with composure. To have tried to speak just then would have
precipitated a burst of tears and she "wouldn't cry in public."
So she could only throw out an impulsive, trembling hand to him
and smile faintly into the grave, kind face beside her.
He folded it within his own and patted it soothingly with a
fatherly air.
"Little girl, little girl!" he said, huskily, but tenderly, "I can
hardly believe it! I was becoming discouraged in my quest; but I
begin to think now that life is worth living, even though the dear
one I sought is gone and I shall never see her again in this
life."
"My mother! my father--have you their--" but Jennie was obliged to
stop again because of the refractory lump in her throat.
"Yes, I have numerous photographs of them all," Mr. Arnold
replied, and instinctively comprehending her thought. "I even have
one of baby Mildred," he added, with a smile, "taken when she was
six months old. Your mother's maiden name was Pauline West, and I
have some beautiful letters from her that you will love to read
some day."
"Do I look like her at all?" queried Jennie, who was beginning to
forget herself and grow more composed as she drank in these
interesting facts.
"No; she resembled her father, and was light, with blue eyes,
though you have a way of speaking that reminds me of her. But you
are almost the image of my sister--her mother--who was dark, with
black eyes, and hair that curled, just as yours does, about her
forehead," Mr. Arnold replied, and added: "Your father I never
saw, but I have some pictures of a very nice-looking gentleman
whose autograph, 'Charles E. Jennison,' is written on the back."
"And my name is 'Mildred Arnold Jennison,'" said Jennie, and
drawing a long breath at the unfamiliar sounds.
"Yes, I am sure of it. With your resemblance to Annie, my sister,
the dates you have given me and this string of beads I could ask
for no stronger proofs," returned the gentleman as he gave back
the amber necklace.
"It is a very pretty name, I think," said the girl, a happy little
laugh breaking from her, "and I'm glad there is a 'Jennie' in it,
for I've been called that so long I would hardly know how to
answer to any other. But--oh! what time is it?" she cried,
starting to her feet. "I had forgotten all about my train!"
Mr. Arnold showed her his watch, whereupon she breathed more
freely.
"There is plenty of time," she added, more composedly, "but I
think I must go now, for I have a package to get from another
store. I hope, though, this hasn't been a 'transformation scene'
that will turn back to marble or--blankness," she concluded, with
a nervous laugh as she glanced towards the curtained alcove where
they had met.
"Do not fear--it is all living truth, and we are going to make it
seem more real every day," cheerily responded Mr. Arnold. "I will
see you to your train and we will thus have a little more time
together; then, very soon, I would like to come to you and meet
the friends who have been so kind to you."
Jennie asked if he could make it convenient to come to Manchester
on Friday, explaining why she could not make the appointment for
the next day; and it was so arranged.
He accompanied her to the station and put her aboard her train,
making himself very entertaining on the way by recounting
interesting incidents connected with his life and travels in the
East.
"You're sure you're a bona-fide uncle and no vanishing 'genie'?"
she half jestingly, half wistfully remarked as the warning "All
aboard!" sounded and she gave him her hand at parting.
"I'm sure of the relationship, and I think I am of too substantial
proportions to become invisible to mortal eyes at a moment's
warning. Whether I shall be obliged to vanish in any other way
will depend upon yourself later on," Mr. Arnold smilingly replied,
as he courteously lifted his hat and bowed himself away.
But during the ride home it seemed too wonderful to be true. She
had dreamed of a similar revelation so many times, only to awake
in the morning and find herself plain Jennie Wild, the same stray
waif still hopelessly bemoaning the mystery that enshrouded her
origin, that she could hardly believe she was not dreaming now.
"Mildred Arnold Jennison! Mildred Arnold Jennison!" she repeated
over and over. "I don't know her; I can hardly believe she really
exists; it seems more like one of the many vagaries of 'Wild
Jennie' who was ever fond of imagining herself some poor little
princess in disguise."
And thus, by the time she reached home, she had worked herself to
the highest pitch of nervous excitement, which culminated in
Katherine's arms, and which she was patiently trying to overcome
when we left them to take our "backward glance."