THE NEXT DAY.
Jerrie was astir the next morning almost as soon as the first robin
began to sing under her window. She had left a blind open, and the red
beams of the rising sun fell upon her face and roused her from a dream
of Germany and what she meant to do there. Once fairly awake, Germany
seemed far away, as did the fancies of the previous night. The spell,
mesmeric, or clairvoyant, or whatever one chooses to call it, was
broken, and she began dressing rapidly and noiselessly so as not to
awaken her grandmother, who slept in the room beneath hers.
"I shall get the start of her," she said, as she donned a simple working
dress which had done her service during the summer vacations for three
successive years. "I heard her telling Harold last night to have the
tubs and water ready early, for she had put off the Monday's washing
until I came home, as I was sure to bring a pile of soiled clothes. And
I have; but, my dear grandmother, your poor old twisted hands will not
touch them. What is a great strapping girl like me for, I'd like to
know, if it is not to wash her own clothes, and yours, too?" and Jerrie
nodded resolutely at the fresh young face in the mirror, which nodded
back with a smile of approbation of the _tout ensemble_ of the figure
reflected in the glass.
And truly it was a very pretty and piquant picture she made in her neat
calico dress, which, as it was three years old at least, was a little
too short for her, and showed plainly her red stockings and high-heeled
slippers, with the strap around her instep. Her sleeves were short, for
she had cut them off and arranged them in a puff above her elbows to
save rolling them up, and her white bib-apron was fastened on each
shoulder with a knot of blue ribbon, Harold's favorite color. She had
thoroughly brushed her hair, and then twisting it into a knot, had
tucked it under a coquettish muslin cap, whose narrow frill just shaded
her face.
"You look like a peasant girl, and I believe you are a peasant girl, and
ought to be working in the fields of Germany this minute," she said to
herself with a mocking courtesy, as she left the mirror and descended to
the kitchen, where, early as it was, she found Harold warming some
coffee over a fire of chips, and cutting a slice of dry bread.
"What in the world!" she exclaimed, stopping short on the threshold. "I
meant to be the first on the scene, and lo! here you are before me. What
are you doing?"
"Getting my breakfast," Harold replied, turning toward her with a slight
shade of annoyance on his face. "You see, I have a job. I did not tell
you last night that a Mr. Allen, who lives across the river, four miles
away, looked in one day when I was painting your ceiling, and liked it
so much that he engaged me to paint one for him. I told him I was only
an amateur, but he said he'd rather have me than all the boss painters
in Shannondale. He offered me three dollars a day and board, which means
dinner and supper, or fifteen for the job; and I took the last offer, as
I can make the most at it by beginning early and working late, and we
need----"
Here he stopped short, for how could he tell Jerrie that the raised roof
had taken all his means, and that he even owed the grocer for the sugar
she had eaten upon her berries, and the butcher for the bit of steak
bought the previous night for her breakfast and his grandmother's. But
Jerrie guessed it without his telling, but with her quick instinct and
delicate perception knew that no genuine man like Harold cares to have
even his best friend know of his poverty if he can help it. Forcing back
the tears which sprang to her eyes, she said, cheerily:
"Yes, I know; you are a kind of second Michael Angelo, though I doubt if
that old gentleman, at your age, could have done my room better than you
did. I don't wonder Mr. Allen wants you. But you are not going to tramp
four miles on a hot morning, on nothing but bread and coffee, and such
coffee--muddier than the Missouri River! You shall have a decent
breakfast, if I can get it for you. Just sit down and rest, and see what
a Vassar with a diploma can do."
As she talked she was replenishing the fire with hard wood, putting on
the kettle, pouring out the coffee dregs saved from yesterday's
breakfast, and hunting for an egg with which to settle the fresh cup she
intended to make.
"No, no, Jerrie. You must not take that; it is all we have in the house,
and grandma must have a fresh one every day at eleven o'clock, the
doctor says--it strengthens her," Harold said, rising quickly, while
Jerrie put the one egg back in the box and asked what Mrs. Crawford did
settle coffee with.
"I am sure I don't know; cold water, I guess," Harold said, resuming his
seat, while Jerrie tripped here and there laying the cloth, bringing his
cup and saucer and plate, and at last pouncing upon the bit of steak in
the refrigerator.
But here Harold again interfered.
"Jerrie--Jerrie, that is for your breakfast and grandma's. You must not
take that."
"But I shall take half of it. I would rather have a glass of Nannie's
milk any time than meat, and you are going to have my share; so, Mr.
Hastings, just mind your business and let the cook alone, or she'll be
givin' ye warnin'," Jerrie answered, laughingly, as she divided the
steak, which she proceeded at once to broil.
So Harold let her have her way, and felt an increase of self-respect,
and that he was something more than a common day-laborer, as he ate his
steak and buttered toast, and drank the coffee, which seemed to him the
best he had ever tasted. Jerrie picked him a few strawberries, and laid
beside his plate a beautiful half-opened rose, with the dew still upon
it. It was a delicate attention, and Harold felt it more than all she
had done for him.
"Thank you, Jerrie," he said, picking up the rose as he finished his
breakfast. "It was so nice in you to think of it, just as if I were a
king instead of a jack-at-all-trades; but I hardly think it suits my
blue checked shirt and painty pants. Keep it yourself, Jerrie," and he
held it up against her white bib apron. "It is just like the pink on
your cheeks. Wear it for me," and taking a pin from his collar, he
fastened it rather awkwardly to the bib, while his face came in so close
proximity to Jerrie's that he felt her breath stir his hair, and felt,
too, a strong temptation to kiss the cheek so near his own. "There; that
completes your costume," he said, holding her off a little to look at
her. "By the way, haven't you got yourself up uncommonly well this
morning? I never saw you as pretty as you are in this rig. If it would
not be very improper, I'd like to kiss you."
He was astonished at his own boldness, and not at all surprised at
Jerrie's reply, as she stepped back from him:
"No, thank you; it would be highly improper for a man who stands six
feet in his boots, to kiss a girl who stands five feet six in her
slippers."
There was a flush on her cheeks, and a strange look in her eyes, for she
was thinking of Harvard, where he had put her from him, ashamed that
strangers should see her kiss him. Harold had forgotten that incident,
which at the time had made no impression upon him, and was now thinking
only of the beautiful girl whose presence seemed to brighten and ennoble
everything with which she came in contact, and to whom he at last said
good-by, just as Peterkin's tower clock struck for half-past five.
"I _must_ go now," he said, taking up his basket of brushes. "I have
lost a full half-hour with you, and your steaks, and your coddling me
generally. I ought to have been there by this time. Good-by," and
offering her his hand, he started down the lane at a rapid pace,
thinking the morning the loveliest he had ever known, and wondering why
everything seemed so fresh, and bright, and sweet.
If he could have sung, he would have done so; but he could not, and so
he talked to himself, and to the birds, and rabbits, and squirrels,
which sprang up before him as he struck into the woods as the shortest
route to Mr. Allen's farm-house--talked to them of Jerrie, and how
delightful it was to have her home again, unspoiled by flattery, sweet
and gracious as ever, and how he longed to tell her of his love, but
dared not, until he was sure of her and of what she felt for him. He had
no faith now in her fancies with regard to herself. Of the likeness to
Arthur, which he thought he saw the previous day, there had been no
trace that morning when he pinned the rose upon her bib. She could not
be Gretchen's daughter, and was undoubtedly the child of the woman found
dead in the Tramp House--his Jerrie, whom he had found, and claimed as
his own, and whom he meant to win some day, when he had his profession,
and was established in business.
"But that will be a long, long time, and some one else may steal her
from me," he said to himself, sadly, as he thought of the years which
must elapse before he could venture to take a wife. "Oh, if I were sure
she cared for me as I do for her, I would ask her now, and have it
settled; for Jerrie is not a girl to go back on her promise, and the
years would seem so short, and the work so easy, with Jerrie at the end
of it all," he continued; and then he wondered how he could find out the
nature of Jerrie's feeling for him without asking her directly, and so
spoiling everything if he should happen to be premature.
Would his grandmother know? Not at all likely. She was too old to know
much of love, or its symptoms in a girl. Would Nina St. Claire know?
Possibly, for she and Jerrie were great friends, and girls always told
each other their secrets, so Maude said, and Maude was just then his
oracle. He had seen so much of her the last few months that he felt as
if he knew her even better than he did Jerrie, and he was certainly more
at his ease in her presence. Then why not talk with Maude and enlist her
as a partisan. He might certainly venture to make her his confidant, she
had been so very communicative and familiar with him, telling him things
which he had wondered at, with regard to her father, and mother, and
Tom, and the family generally. Yes, he would sound Maude, very
cautiously at first, and get her opinion, and then he should know better
what to do. Maude would espouse his cause, he was sure, for she
worshiped Jerrie. He could trust her, and he would.
He had reached the Allen farm-house by this time, and though he was
perspiring at every pore, for the morning was very hot, he scarcely felt
the heat or the fatigue of his rapid four-mile walk, as he mixed his
paints and prepared for his work, for there was constantly in his heart
a thought of Jerrie, as she had looked in that bewitching dress, and of
the bright smile she had given him when she said good-by.
Meanwhile Jerrie had watched him out of sight, whistling merrily:
"Gin a body meet a body,
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?"
And whistling it so loud and clear that Nannie came to the fence and put
her head over it with a faint low of approval, while Clover-top thrust
his white nose through the bars, and looked at her inquiringly, as
Jerrie pulled up handfuls of fresh grass and fed them from her hands,
noticing that Nannie had lost her knot of ribbon, and wondering where it
was. Then she returned to the house, and was busying herself with
preparations for her grandmother's breakfast and her own, when the
latter appeared in the kitchen, surprised to find her there, and saying:
"Why, Jerrie what made you get up till I called you? Why didn't you lie
and rest?"
"Lie and rest!" Jerrie answered, laughingly. "It is you who are to lie
and rest, and not a great overgrown girl like me. I have given Harold
his breakfast and seen him off. I cooked him half the steak," she added,
as she took out the remaining half and put it on the gridiron. "I don't
care for steak," she continued, as she saw Mrs. Crawford about to
protest. "I would rather any time have bread and milk and strawberries.
I shall never tire of them;" and the big bowl full, which she ate with a
keen relish, proved that she spoke the truth.
"Now, grandma," she said, when breakfast was over. "I am going to do the
washing. I must do something to work off my superfluous health, and
strength, and muscle. Look at that arm, will you?" and she threw out her
bare arm, which for whiteness and roundness and symmetry of proportion,
might have been coveted by the most fashionable lady in the land. "Go
back to your rocking-chair and rest your dear, old lame foot on your
softest cushion, and see how soon I will have everything done. It is
just seven now, and by ten we shall be all slicked up, as Ann Eliza
Peterkin says."
It was of no use to try to resist Jerrie. She would have her own way;
and so Mrs. Crawford, after skimming her milk, and attending to the
cream, went to her rocking-chair and her cushion, and sat there quietly,
while Jerrie in the wood-shed pounded and rubbed, and boiled and rinsed,
and wrung and starched and blued, and hung upon the line article after
article, until there remained only a few towels and aprons and stockings
and socks, and a pair of colored overalls which Harold had worn at his
work. As these last were rather soiled and had on them patches of paint,
Jerrie was attacking them with a will, when her grandmother called out
with great trepidation:
"Jerrie, Jerrie, do wipe your hands and come quick! Here's Tom Tracy,
hitching his horse to the gate."
Jerrie's first impulse was to do as her grandmother bade her, and her
second to stay where she was.
"If Tom chooses to call so early he must take me as he finds me," she
thought, while to her grandmother she said: "Nonsense! Who cares for Tom
Tracy? If he asks for me, send him to the woodshed. I can't stop my
work."
In a moment the elegant Tom, fresh from his perfumed bath, the odor of
which still lingered about him, and faultlessly attired in a cool summer
suit, was bending his tall figure in the door-way of the woodshed,
where Jerrie, who was rubbing away on Harold's overalls, received him
with a nod and a smile, as she said:
"Good-morning, Tom. You are up early, and so was I. Business before
pleasure, you know; so I hope you will excuse me if I keep right on. I
have stinted myself to get through, mopping and all, by ten, and it is
now nine by Peterkin's bell. Pray be seated. How is Maude?"
And she pointed to a wooden chair near the door, where Tom sat down,
wholly nonplussed, and not knowing at all what to say first.
Never before had he been received in this fashion, and it struck him
that there was something incongruous between himself, in his dainty
attire, with a cluster of beautiful roses in his hand, and that chair,
minus a back, in the woodshed, where the smell of the soap-suds would
have made him faint and sick if he had not been near the open door.
Tom had not slept well the previous night. He had joined the fine
dinner-party his mother had given to the Harts, and St. Claires, and
Athertons, and had sat next to Fred Raymond's sister Marian, a very
pretty young girl with a good deal that was foreign in her style and in
her accent for she had been in Europe nine years, and had only just come
home. Everything in her manner was perfect, and Tom acknowledged to
himself that she was the most highly polished and cultivated girl he had
ever met; and still she tired him, and he was constantly contrasting her
with Jerrie, and thinking how much better he should enjoy himself if she
were there beside him, with her ready wit and teasing remarks, which
frequently amounted to ridicule. Jerrie had been very gracious to him on
the train, and had laughed and joked with him quite as much as she had
with Dick St. Claire.
"Perhaps she likes me more than I have supposed she did," he thought.
"Any way, I'd better be on hand, now she is at home and can see Harold
every day. He don't care a copper for Maude, or wouldn't if she didn't
run after him so much, and that will sicken him pretty soon, now that he
has Jerrie. By George, I believe I'd be as poor as he is, and paint for
a living if I couldn't have Jerrie without it. But I think I can; any
way, I'm going to try. She cannot be insensible to the advantage it
would be to her to be my wife, and eventually the mistress of Tracy
Park. There is not a girl in the world who would not consider twice
before she threw such a chance away."
Such was the nature of Tom's reflections all through the dinner, and the
short summer night during which he was planning his mode of attack.
"I'll call in the morning and take her some roses: she likes flowers,"
he thought. "I wonder what she did with those I gave her at Vassar? They
were not with her in the car, unless she had them in that paper box she
carried so carefully. Yes, I guess they were there, and I shall see them
standing round somewhere."
And this was the secret of Tom's early call. He had thought at first to
walk, but had changed his mind, and driven down to the cottage in his
light buggy, with the intention of asking Jerrie to drive with him along
the river road. But she did not look much like driving as she stood by
the wash-tub in that working-dress, which he thought the most charming
of anything he had ever seen.
"I was coming this way," he said at last, "and thought I'd stop and see
how you stood the journey, and I've brought you some roses."
He held them toward her, and with a smile she came forward to receive
them.
"Oh, thank you, Tom," she said, "it was so kind in you. Roses are my
favorites after the white pond lilies, and these are very sweet."
She buried her face in them two or three times, and then, putting them
in some water, resumed her position by the wash-tub.
"I'd like you to drive with me," Tom said, "but I see you are too busy.
Must you do that work, Jerrie? Can't somebody--can't your grandmother do
it for you?"
"Grandmother! That old lady do my washing! No, indeed!" Jerrie answered,
scornfully, as she made a dive into the boiler with the clothes-stick
and brought out a pair of Mrs. Crawford's long knit stockings, which she
dropped into the rinsing water with a splash. "Grandma has worked
enough," she continued, as she plunged both her arms into the water.
"Harold and I shall take care of her now. He was up this morning at four
o'clock, and has gone to Mr. Allen's, to paint a room for him like
mine."
She said this a little defiantly, for she felt hot and resentful that
Tom Tracy should be sitting there at his ease, while Harold was working
for his daily bread, and also took a kind of bitter pride in letting Tom
know that she was not ashamed of Harold's work.
"Yes," Tom drawled, "that new room must have cost Hal his bottom dollar.
We all wondered how he could afford it. I hope you like it."
She was too angry to tell him whether she liked it or not, for she knew
his speech was prompted by a mean spirit, and she kept on rubbing a
towel until there was danger of its being rubbed into shreds. Then
suddenly remembering that Tom had not told her of Maude, she repeated
her question.
"How is Maude? She was coming to see me this morning. I hope I shall
have my work done before she gets here."
"Don't hurry yourself for Maude," Tom replied.
"She will not be here to-day. I had nearly forgotten that she sent her
love and wants you to come there. She is sick in bed, or was when I
left. She had a slight hemorrhage last night. I think it was from her
stomach, though, and so does mother; but father is scared to death, as
he always is if Maude has a pain in her little finger."
"Oh, Tom," Jerrie said, recalling with a pang the thin face, the
blue-veined hands, and the tired look of the young girl at the station.
"Oh, Tom, why didn't you tell me before, so I could hurry and go to
her;" and leaning over her tub, Jerrie began to cry, while Tom looked
curiously at her, wondering if she really cared so much for his sister.
"Don't cry, Jerrie," he said, at last, very tenderly for him, "Maude is
not so bad; the doctor has no fear. She is only tired with all she has
done lately. You know, perhaps, that she was here constantly with
Harold, and I believe she actually painted for him some, and for aught I
know helped shingle the roof, as Billy said."
"Yes, I know; I understand," Jerrie replied. "I saw it in her face
yesterday. She has tired herself out for me, and if she dies I shall
hate the room forever."
"But she will not die; that is nonsense." Tom began, when he was
interrupted by Mrs. Crawford, who called out:
"Oh, Jerrie, here is Billy Peterkin, with his hands full. What shall I
do with him?"
Dashing away her tears, Jerrie replied:
"Send him in here, of course."
In a few moments the dapper little man was in the wood-shed, with a
large bouquet of hot-house flowers in one hand and a basket of delicious
black-caps in the other. For a moment he stood staring first at Tom on
the wooden chair glaring savagely at him, and then at Jerrie by the
washtub with the traces of tears on her face--then, with a kind of
forced laugh, he said:
"Be-beg pardon, if I in-tr-trude. Looks dusedly like l-love in a
t-t-tub."
"And if it is, you have knocked the bottom out," Tom said to him.
Both jokes were atrocious, but they made Jerrie laugh, which was
something. She was glad on the whole that Billy had come, and when he
offered her the berries and the flowers, she accepted them graciously,
and bade him sit down, if he could find a seat.
"Here is one on the wash bench," she said, "or, will be when I have
emptied the tub;" and she was about to take up the latter, when Billy
sprang to her assistance and emptied it himself, while Tom sat looking
on, chafing with anger and disgust.
After a moment Billy stuttered out:
"Ann Eliza s-s-sent me here, and wants you to c-c-come and see her
rooms. G-g-got a suite, you know; and, by Jove, they are like a
b-b-bazaar, they are so f-full of things, and flowers; half Vassar is
there. Got your basket of daisies, Tom, and when I asked her where she
g-g-got 'em, she said it was n-n-none of my business. D-did she steal
'em?" and he turned to Jerrie, whose face was scarlet, as she replied:
"No, I gave them to her, with a lot of others; I couldn't bring them
all."
Tom could have beaten the air, he was so angry. He had been vain enough
to hope that his gift was carefully put away in some box or parcel; and
lo! it was in the possession of that red-haired Peterkin girl, whose
_penchant_ for himself he suspected, and whom he despised accordingly.
"Much obliged to you for giving away my flowers," he was going to say,
when Mrs. Crawford called again, and this time in real distress.
"Jerrie, Jerrie! you _must_ come now, for here is Dick St. Claire."
For an instant Jerrie hesitated, and then, ashamed of the feeling which
had at first prompted her not to let Dick into the wood-shed, she
replied:
"If Tom and Billy can be admitted to my boudoir, Dick can. Send him in."
"By George, this is jolly!" Dick said, as he seated himself upon the
inverted washtub which Billy had emptied. "Have you all been washing?"
"No," Jerrie answered, proudly. "I am the washer-woman, and all those
clothes you see on the line are my handiwork."
"By George!" Dick said again. "You are a trump! Jerrie, why didn't you
wear that dress when you were graduated? It's the prettiest costume I
ever saw."
"Th-that's what I think, only I d-didn't d-dare t-tell her so!" Billy
cried, springing to his feet and hopping about like a little sparrow.
"How is Nina?" Jerrie asked, ignoring the compliment.
"Brisk as a bee," Dick replied, "and sends an invitation for you and Hal
to come over to a garden-tea to-night to meet Marian Raymond, Fred's
sister. Awful pretty girl, with an accent like a foreigner; was over
there several years, you know. I was going to the Park House to invite
you and Maude," he continued, turning to Tom, "but as you are here, it
will save me the walk. Half-past five sharp."
Then, as his eye fell upon Billy, in whose face there was a look of
expectancy, his countenance clouded, for Nina had given him no
instructions to invite the Peterkins, and he felt that there was nothing
in common between Ann Eliza Peterkin and the refined and aristocratic
Marian Raymond, who had seen the best society in Europe, and in whose
veins some of Kentucky's bluest blood was flowing. But Dick was very
kind-hearted, and never knowingly wounded the feelings of any one if he
could help it; and, after an awkward moment, during which he was
wondering what Nina would do to him if he did it, he turned to Billy and
said, as naturally as if it were what he had been expressly bidden to
say:
"Why, I sha'n't have to walk over to Le Bateau either. I'm in luck this
hot morning, if you will take the invitation to your sister--for
half-past five."
"Th-thanks," Billy began; "b-but am I left out?"
"Of course not. I'm an awful blunderer," Dick said, adding, mentally,
"and liar, too, though I didn't say anybody would be happy to see them.
Poor Billy, he is well enough, and so is Ann Eliza, if she wouldn't pile
that red hair so high on the top of her head and wear so much jewelry.
Well, I am in for it, and Nina can't any more than kill me."
By this time Jerrie was putting away the washing paraphernalia and
sweeping the wood-shed, thus indicating that she had no more time to
lose with her three callers, two of whom Dick and Billy, took the hint
and left, but not until she had explained to the former that she feared
it would be impossible for Harold to be present at the garden-party, as
she knew he would not be home until late, and would then be quite too
tired for company.
"I am sorry that he cannot join us. I counted upon him," Dick said. "But
you will come, of course, and I offer my services on the spot to see you
home. Do you accept them?"
Jerrie seemed to see, without looking, the disappointment in Billy's
face, and the wrath in Tom's; but as she greatly preferred Dick's
society to theirs in a walk from Grassy Spring to the cottage, she
accepted his offer, and then said, laughingly:
"Now, good-morning to you, and good riddance, too, for I am in an awful
hurry. I am going over to see Maude as soon as I can get myself ready."
She had not thought that Tom would wait for her, and would greatly have
preferred to walk; but Tom was persistent, and moving his chair from the
wood-shed outside into the shade where it was cooler, he sat fanning
himself with his hat, and watching the long line of clothes, flopping in
the wind, with a feeling of mortified pride, as if his own wife had
washed them. He knew that his mother had once been familiar with tubs,
and wash-boards, and soap-suds, but that was before his day.
Twenty-seven years had wiped all that out, and he really felt that to be
a Tracy and live at Tracy Park was an honor scarcely less than to be
President of the United States, and Jerrie, he was sure, would see it as
such, when once the chance was offered her. She could not be so blind to
her own interest as to refuse one who was so much sought after by the
belles of Saratoga and Newport, where he had spent a part of two or
three seasons. He had been best man at the great ---- wedding in
Springfield, and groomsman at another big affair in Boston, and had
scores of invitations everywhere. Taken all together, he was a most
desirable _parti_, and he was rather surprised himself at his
infatuation for the girl whom he had found in the suds, and who was not
ashamed that he had thus seen her. This was while he was watching the
clothes on the line, and scowling at three pairs of coarse, vulgar
stockings which he knew belonged to Mrs. Crawford, and at the pair of
blue overalls which were Harold's.
"Yes, I do wonder at my interest in that nameless girl, whose mother was
a common peasant woman," he thought; but when the nameless girl
appeared, fresh, and bright, and dainty, as if she had never seen a
wash-tub, with her hat on her arm, and two of his roses pinned on the
bosom of her dress, he forgot the peasant woman, and the lack of a name,
and thought only of the lovely girl who signified that she was ready.
It was very cool in the pine woods, where the heat of the summer morning
had not yet penetrated, and Tom, who was enjoying himself immensely,
suggested that they leave the park, and take a short drive on the river
road. But Jerrie said, "No!" very decidedly. It would be hot there, and
she was anxious to be with Maude as soon as possible. So they drove on
until they reached the grounds which surrounded the house, and where
they were met by Mr. Tracy.