"THE SPRING HAS COME"
During the remainder of Mr. Jeffreys' stay in the town Berkley
religiously kept away from Miss Ri's brown house on the point, and even
carried his determination so far that once seeing Linda in the distance
as he was coming out of his office he bolted back again and waited till
she was well out of sight before he came out. "What did I do that for?"
he said to himself, smiling a little. He did not see Mr. Jeffreys again
until one afternoon a week later when he came into the office.
"I am going around making my farewell calls, Matthews," he said. "I
take the boat for Baltimore this evening. My unfortunate old trunk and
I will soon be out of your way. Again let me thank you for all your
kindness."
"I'm sorry to see you go," replied Berkley, "but I hope you will carry
away some pleasant memories of our old 'eastern shore.'"
"I shall carry away many. I can never forget the hospitality and
kindness shown me here."
"And about those papers; if ever you want to renew the case I am ready
to help you, remember." He held out his hand.
"That matter is disposed of," returned Jeffreys with a little frown.
"We will dispense with the subject if you please. I am going to Miss
Talbot from here, and shall tell her that she need fear no more
interference from me. To-day our paths separate. Have you seen her,
Matthews?" he asked after a slight pause.
"No, I have not." Berkley looked straight into the other's eyes.
Jeffreys gave the hand he held a closer grip. "You are a good friend,
Matthews. Let me echo your offer; if there is anything I can ever do
for you, command me. Good-by."
Berkley laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Thank you,
Jeffreys. I will remember. Good luck to you and good-by."
So they parted and the boat slipping through the darkness over the
quiet waters of the river that night, bore away him whose coming and
going both seemed made under unpropitious stars.
It was a warm afternoon in February, one of those days when Spring
seems close at hand by reason of a bluebird's early note, and the
appearance of some venturesome crocus in the grass. February brings
such days in this part of Maryland. The morning's mail had given Linda
the happiness of receiving a magazine in which were some of her
verses, accepted and paid for. This step, which carried her beyond the
satisfaction of seeing herself in print, merely by compliment, was one
which well agreed with the springlike day. She was sitting at the piano
joyously singing:
"The spring has come, the flowers in bloom
The happy birds--"
She broke off suddenly, for in through the window open to the floor
came Berkley.
"Don't stop," he begged. "I love to hear you."
They stood smiling at one another, before either spoke again, then
Linda turned back to the piano to finish the song while Berkley leaned
above her to watch her slim fingers moving over the keys. "It just
suits the day, doesn't it?" she said when she had finished. "Did you
see that there was a crocus by the side of the walk? And this morning I
heard a bluebird."
"And that is what makes you look so happy?"
"Not altogether. Sit down over there by the little window, and if you
will be very good I will show you something."
He obediently took the place assigned him, where the window seat ran
along the small raised platform, and Linda produced the magazine.
"There," she said, opening to a certain page. "And it is paid for," she
added triumphantly.
Berkley read the lines through. "You have climbed into fame, haven't
you?" he said. "Are you feeling very high and mighty? Would you like
me to sit on the floor at your feet. It would be very easy on this
platform."
She laughed. It was good to hear the old foolish manner of speech
again. "No, I won't insist upon that, though I can't tell what I may
require if this continues. Do you like my verses, Berk?"
"Yes, very much. I suppose they are really better than these. He took
from his pocket-book a little clipping, 'The Marching Pines,' but I
shall always care more for these. I shall never be quite so fond of any
others, perhaps."
"Why?"
Berkley did not answer, but instead asked, "Did Jeffreys tell you of
his determination not to follow up his claim?"
"Yes, he told me." Linda looked grave.
"It was generous of him, don't you think?"
A half smile played around Linda's lips. "Yes, I suppose it was. He
meant to do me a great kindness and I appreciate it."
"But you could not agree to share it with him. He is a good fellow,
Linda, and I am very sorry for him. He was greatly cut up."
"How do you know?"
"He told me."
"That--"
"That he had asked you to marry him? Yes, he told me that. Poor old
chap. I grew quite fond of him. Why didn't you, Linda?"
"I don't know. I didn't; that's all; I didn't, though I tried very
hard."
"Don't you think he was actually heroic to give up the claim?"
"I am sure he meant to be, but of course you understand that I could
not accept such a sacrifice from him and that if the law were to give
him a right to Talbot's Angles, I couldn't think of doing anything but
giving it up to him."
"But he refuses to allow me to go on. I have the papers and I am to
burn them if I choose."
Linda smiled, a little mysterious, exultant smile. "That doesn't alter
my point of view."
"And so you refuse to allow him to be a hero."
"He isn't the only hero in the world. He himself told me of another."
There was a wise, kind expression in her eyes.
Berkley slipped down from the window seat to a cushion at her feet.
She bent over him as a mother over her child. "Linda," he said
whisperingly. "Linda." He took her soft hand in his strong lithe
fingers, and she let it lie there. He pressed the cool little hand
against his hot brow, then he looked up. "Linda," he repeated, "here
I am at your feet. I love you so! Oh, how I love you! I know I don't
deserve it, but do you think you could ever learn to care a little for
me? I am not rich, but some day maybe I could buy back Talbot's Angles.
There is nothing I would not do to make you happy."
"You said that once before, Berk."
"Did I?"
"Yes,--that night in the rain."
"I meant it."
"As much as you do now?"
"Every bit."
"And yet you avoided me, passed me by, allowed another to step in."
"It was for you, for you. I wanted you to be happy," he murmured.
"I see that now, but I missed my friend."
"Your friend? Am I never to be anything more, Linda? I love you with my
whole heart. You are the one woman in the world to me. Don't you think
that some day you might learn to love me a little?"
Linda's face was aglow with a tender light; her eyes were like stars.
"No, Berk," she said slowly, lingeringly, "I could never learn to love
you a little."
He dropped her hand and looked down, all the hope gone from his face.
"Because," Linda went on, bending a little nearer that he could hear
her whisper, "I already love you so much."
He gave a little joyous cry and sprang to his feet, all his divine
right suddenly recognized. He held out his arms. "Come," he said.
Linda arose with shining face, stepped down from the platform and went
to him.
The dim portraits on the walls smiled down at them. It was the old
story to which each passing generation had listened. The ancient house
could tell many a like tale.
"Berk," said Linda when they had gone back to the seat by the window,
"they told me you had a sweetheart in the city. Bertie Bryan vowed you
acknowledged it to her."
He took her hands and kissed them. "So I may have done, my queen, but
it was when you were there."
Linda sighed, a happy satisfied sigh. "Berk, dear, were you very
unhappy, then? You didn't have to be, you see."
"I thought it was necessary, and perhaps I needed the discipline."
"Just as I have needed the discipline of teaching. I am realizing by
degrees what a wonderful life work it might become."
"But you shall not teach long, though, Linda darling, I haven't told
you that we shall have to begin life rather simply, for you know I must
always think of my mother."
"Berk, dear, I couldn't be happy if I thought you ever would do less
than you do now for her."
"You are so wonderful, so wonderful," he murmured. "I hope to do better
and better in my profession, for I am much encouraged, and some day,
remember I shall buy back Talbot's Angles for you."
"You will never do that, Berk," returned Linda, trying to look very
grave.
"Why, sweet?"
"Because when Grace marries it will be mine without any question. We
have had a letter from Judge Goldsborough."
"And he said--"
"That he had discovered papers which prove that Cyrus Talbot had only a
lease on the place; it was for ninety-nine years, and it expired more
than ten years ago."
"Of all things!" ejaculated Berkley. "That was the last explanation
that would have occurred to me. Did Jeffreys know before he left?"
"Yes, we told him that afternoon he called to say good-by. Aunt Ri
thought it was best to tell him, and to show him the judge's letter."
"Poor old chap! And he had to go without even the recompense of having
made a sacrifice for you."
Linda's face clouded. "Yes, he said that everything had failed, even
his attempted good deeds. I hope he will find happiness some day."
"And you are very glad that you can feel an undisputed ownership of the
old home?"
"Yes, of course I am glad. Aren't you?"
"What is your happiness is mine, beloved Verlinda."
"The only drop of bitterness comes from the thought of Wyatt Jeffreys,
but even there Aunt Ri insists his unhappiness will not last and that
comforts me."
"Who is talking about Aunt Ri?" asked that lady coming in and throwing
aside her hat. "Parthy has a brood of thirteen young chickens just out,
and I have been down to see them. What were you two saying about me?
Hallo, Berk, what has brought you here, I'd like to know? I thought you
were so busy you could scarcely breathe."
"Oh, I'm taking an afternoon off," he responded. "A man can't be a mere
machine such weather as this."
"I've been telling him about the judge's letter," put in Linda.
"And I reckon that was a mighty big surprise; it certainly was to us.
It took a better lawyer than you, Berk Matthews, to unravel that snarl.
Even the judge himself didn't remember the facts."
"Which were?"
"That to Cyrus Talbot belonged Addition and a part of Timber Neck,
while to Madison belonged the Angles and the other part of Timber Neck;
that was in the first place when they had their inheritance from their
father, you see. They sold Timber Neck, and then Madison retained the
Angles, while Cyrus kept Addition. Well, it seems the Angles, being the
home plantation, had always gone to the eldest son. Madison's first
child was a daughter, and after her birth Madison's wife died. Cyrus'
first child was a son, and he wanted the Angles for him but Madison
wouldn't give it up, but at last he consented to lease the place to
his brother. Later on Cyrus' son died, and he left for the West,
selling out Addition to his brother Madison who had married a second
time. Madison went to Addition to live while Cyrus still clung to his
lease of the Angles. However, when the house at Addition was burned
he allowed his brother to go back to the homestead place to live. The
rest you know; how Cyrus rented the lands to this and that tenant, and
how the place went to the dogs at one time, and how it was finally
discovered by Charles Jeffreys to belong to his mother's family. He
wrote the letter you remember, the answer to which you have shown us.
There is no use going over all that, for you will see just how the
matter stands, and Verlinda will come to her own."
Linda looked at Berk who smiled back at her understandingly. "Aunt Ri,"
said the girl, going over and laying her cheek against the gray head,
"Verlinda has come to her own in more than one sense." She held out her
hand to Berkley who took it and drew it against his heart.
"What?" almost screamed Miss Ri. "You haven't a sweetheart in the city,
Berk Matthews? What did I tell you, Verlinda? I knew that Bertie Bryan
was making that all up."
"Not exactly, Miss Ri," said Berkley, "for I did give her reason to
think so."
"And why did you do it? Just to make Verlinda unhappy?"
"Oh, Aunt Ri," Linda put her hand over the dear lady's lips.
"I did have a sweetheart there, when you were in the city," replied
Berk, "and here she is, the only sweetheart for me."
Miss Ri pulled out her handkerchief and began to mop her eyes.
"I'm as glad as I can be," she wept, "but I am tremendously sorry for
myself. You will leave me, Verlinda, and you will take Phebe, too. What
am I to do?"
"Oh, it will not be for a long, long time from now," said Linda
consolingly.
"Yes, it will." Miss Ri was decided. "Of course it must be. Why in the
world should you wait? You will stop teaching after this year, anyway,
for then you will have the farm to depend upon, while as for Berk, he
is out of the woods, I know that; his mother told me so. By the way,
Berk, how glad your mother will be. She fell in love with Linda at
first sight. Oh, she told me a thing or two, and that's why I knew
Bertie Bryan was--"
"But she wasn't, you remember," interposed Linda. "She thought so."
"It amounts to the same thing. Well, I shall have to adopt somebody.
Never shall I be happy alone again, now that I know what it is to have
a young thing about. I believe I will send for Jeffreys, he is mighty
forlorn, and he needs coddling."
"He wouldn't come," said Berkley triumphantly.
"You mean you don't want him to; you look much better when he isn't
here to give the contrast," retorted Miss Ri. "I don't want him myself,
to tell the truth. See here, children, why can't you both come here
and live with me till I can find an orphan who wants an Aunt Ri? I'm
speaking for myself, for how I am to endure anyone's cooking after
Phebe's is more than I can tell, and think of me rattling around in
this big house like a dried pea in a pod. I should think you would be
sorry enough for me to be ready to do anything."
Miss Ri was so very unlike a dried pea that the two laughed. "We'll
talk about it some day," said Berkley, "but just now--"
[Illustration: "HER GAZE FELL ON THE TWO."]
"All you want is to be happy. Well," Miss Ri sighed, but immediately
brightened. "Go along," she cried, "I never get mad with fools, you
remember, and, as I have frequently told Verlinda, I am still thanking
the Lord that I have escaped. Go along with you. My brain has about
as much as it can stand."
The two stepped out upon the porch, but Miss Ri bustled after them.
"Here, take this shawl, Verlinda; it is growing damp. Don't stay out
too late. You'll stay to supper, Berk, of course."
"Thank you, Miss Ri. I'll be glad to come, but I must go to the office
for a few moments. I'll be back, though."
The sun was dropping in the west. Day was almost done for the workers
in the packing house near by, from which presently arose a burst of
song. Phebe, at her kitchen door, joined in, crooning softly:
"I'se gwine away some o' dese days
'Cross de riber o' Jordan
My Lord, my Lord."
As she sang her gaze fell on the two walking slowly toward the river's
brim, the man leaning over the girl, her eyes lifted to his. Suddenly
Mammy clapped her hand over her mouth, then she seized her knees,
bending double as she chuckled gleefully. "Ain't it de troof, now," she
murmured. "She nuvver look dat away at Mr. Jeffs, I say she nuvver.
Bless my honey baby." Then she lifted up her voice fairly drowning the
rival singers further away as she chanted:
"Dis is de way I long has sought--
Oh, glory hallelujah!
And mo'ned because I found it not--
Oh, glory hallelujah!"
"Phebe," said Miss Ri, suddenly interrupting the singing, "we have got
to have the best supper you ever cooked."
"Ain't it de troof, now, Miss Ri," Phebe responded with alacrity.
"Dat's thes what I say, dat's thes what I say."
The shadows fell softly, the singers ceased their weird chant. Phebe,
too busy conferring with Miss Ri to think of singing, bustled about the
kitchen. Berkley and Linda walked slowly to the gate.
"Berk," said the girl, "I wouldn't live anywhere but on this blessed
old Eastern Sho' for the world, would you?"
"If you were in the anywhere else, yes," he answered.
She stood at the gate watching his sturdy figure and springing step as
he went off down the street. So would she stand to watch him in the
years to come. It was all like a wonderful dream. The old home and the
love of Berkley, what more could heaven bestow upon her!
The sun had disappeared, but a golden gleam rose and fell upon the
water's surface with each pulsation of the river's heart. The
venturesome crocus had shut its yellow eye, the harbinger bird had
tucked its head under its wing. The world, life, love, all made a poem
for Linda.
Presently Mammy came waddling down the path in breathless haste. "Miss
Lindy, Miss Lindy," she panted, "Miss Ri say yuh jes' got time to come
in an' put on that purty floppity white frock. She puttin' flowers on
de table, an' we sho' gwine hab a fesibal dis night."
Linda turned her laughing face toward the old house, lightly ran up the
path, and disappeared within the fan-topped doorway. Presently Miss Ri
heard her upstairs singing:
"The spring has come."
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Page 172, changed "or" to "of" (some of whom are grown)
Page 219, changed "a" to "an" (merely an unostentatious)
Page 226, changed "Jefreys" to "Jeffreys" (and Mr. Jeffreys, acted)
Both homemade and home-made are used.
Both pocketbook and pocket-book are used.
Both schoolmarm and school-marm are used.