HAROLD AND JERRIE.
The news which so electrified all Shannondale was slow in reaching Mrs.
Crawford, but it did reach her at last, crushing and overwhelming her
with a sense of shame and anguish, until as the day wore on, Grace
Atherton, and Mrs. St. Claire, and Nina, and many others, came to
reassure her, and to say that it was all a mistake, which would soon be
cleared up.
Thus comforted and consoled, she tried to be calm, and wait patiently
for the train. But there was a great pity for her boy in her heart, as
she sat by Jerrie's bedside and watched her in all her varying moods,
now perfectly quiet, while her wide-open eyes stared up at the ceiling
as if she were seeing something there, now talking of Peterkin, and the
Tramp House, and the table, and the blow, and again of the bag, which
she said was lost, and which her grandmother must find.
Thinking she meant the carpet-bag, Mrs. Crawford brought that to her;
but she tossed it aside impatiently, saying:
"No, no; the other one, which tells it all. Where is it! I must have
lost it. Find it, find it. To be so near, and yet, so far. What did it
say? Why can't I think? Am I like Mr. Arthur--crazy, like him?"
Mrs. Crawford thought her crazier than Arthur, and waited still more
impatiently for Harold, until she heard his step outside, and knew that
he had come.
"Harold!"
"Grandma!" was all they said for a moment, while the poor old lady was
sobbing on his neck, and then he comforted her as best he could, telling
her that it was all over now--that no one but Peterkin had accused
him--that every body was ready to defend him, and that after a little he
could explain everything.
"And now I must see Jerrie," he continued, starting for the stairs, and
glad that his grandmother did not attempt to follow him.
Jerrie had heard his voice, and had raised herself in bed, and as he
came in, met him with the question:
"Have you brought them? Has any one seen them?"
The strange light in her eyes should have told Harold how utterly
incapable she was of giving any rational answers to his questions, but
he did not think of that, and instead of trying to quiet her, he plunged
at once into the subject she had broached:
"Do you mean the diamonds?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, "the diamonds! the diamonds! Where are they!"
"Mrs. Tracy has them by this time," Harold replied.
"Mrs. Tracy!" Jerrie exclaimed. "What has she to do with them. They are
not hers. They are mine--they are mine! Bring them to me--bring them to
me."
She was terribly excited, and for a time Harold bent all his energies to
soothe her, and at last when from sheer exhaustion she became quiet he
said to her:
"Jerrie, where did you find the diamonds?"
She looked at him curiously, but made no reply, and he went on.
"You must tell me where you found them; it is necessary I should know."
Still she did not reply, and he continued:
"Those diamonds have caused me a great deal of trouble, and will cause
me more unless you tell me where you found them. Try and think. Was it
in the Tramp House?"
That started her at once, and she began to rave of the Tramp House, and
the rat-hole, and the table, and Peterkin, who dealt the blow. The
bruise on her head had not proved so serious as was at first feared, and
with her tangled hair falling over her face Harold had not noticed it.
But he looked at it now and questioned her about it, asking if Peterkin
struck her there.
"No," she said, and began again to babble of rat-holes, and table-legs,
and bags, and diamonds, until Harold was convinced that there was
nothing to be learned from her in her present condition, and started for
the Tramp House to see what that would tell him. The table was still
upon the floor, with the three legs upon it, while the fourth one was
missing. But Harold found it at last, for, remembering what Jerrie had
said of the rat-hole, he investigated that spot and from its enlarged
appearance drew his own conclusion. Jerrie had found the diamonds there;
he had no doubt of it, and he said so to Tom Tracy who appeared in the
door-way just as he was leaving it. Sitting down upon the bench inside
the two young men, who had been enemies all their lives, but who were
now drawn together by a common sympathy and love for Jerrie talked the
matter over again, each arriving at the same theory as the most probable
one they could accept.
Arthur, in a crazy fit, had secreted the diamonds, and Jerrie knew it,
though possibly not where he had put them. This accounted for her
strange sickness when a child, while her finding them later on, added to
other causes, would account for her sickness now. "Peterkin owns that he
was blowing her up for something, and that he knocked the table down
with his fist, but he swears he didn't touch her," Tom said, repeating
in substance all Peterkin had said to him in the train when shaking with
fear of a _writ_.
"And do you still mean to keep silent with regard to Jerrie?" he asked.
"Yes," Harold replied. "Her name must not be mentioned in connection
with the diamonds. I can't have the slightest breath of suspicion
touching Jerrie, _my sister_."
"Sister be hanged!" Tom began, savagely, then checked himself, and
added, with a laugh: "Don't try to deceive me, Hal, with your sister
business. You love Jerrie, and she loves you, and that is one reason why
I hate you, or shall, when this miserable business is cleared up. Just
now we must pull together and find out where she found the diamonds, and
who put them there. To write to Uncle Arthur would do no good, though
seeing him might; the last we heard he was thinking of taking the coast
voyage from San Francisco to Tacoma."
"Tom," Harold exclaimed, with great energy, as he sprang to his feet,
"that decides me;" and then he told of the offer Billy had made him on
the car. "When I saw how sick Jerrie was, I made up my mind not to
accept it, although I need the money badly. But now, if she gets no
worse, I shall start for Tacoma in a few days and shall find your Uncle
Arthur, if he is to be found."
It was growing dark when the two young men finally emerged from the
house and stood for a moment outside, while Harold inquired for Maude.
"She is not very well, that's a fact," Tom said, gloomily; "and no
wonder when mother keeps her cooped up in one room, without enough fresh
air, and lets nobody see her except the family and the doctor, for fear
they will excite her. She knows nothing about the diamonds, or that
Jerrie is sick. I did tell her, though, that you had come home; and, by
Jove! I pretty near forgot it. She wants to see you bad; but, Lord!
mother won't let you in. No use to try. She's like a she wolf guarding
its cub. Good-night."
And Tom walked away, while Harold went back to the cottage, where he
found Jerrie sleeping very quietly, with a look on her face so like that
it had worn in her babyhood, when he called her his little girl, that he
involuntarily stooped down and kissed it as one would kiss a beautiful
baby.
The next morning Jerrie was very restless and wild, and Harold began to
doubt as to whether he ought to take the Western trip or not.
If he went he must go at once, and to leave Jerrie in her present state
seemed impossible. He would consult the physician first, and Judge St.
Claire next. The doctor gave it as his opinion that Jerrie was in no
danger, if she were only kept quiet. She had taken a severe cold and
overtaxed her strength, but he had no fear for the result, and he
thought Harold might venture to leave her.
"Yes, I'd go if I were you," he added, for, like Billy, he too thought
it might be pleasanter for Harold to be out of the way for a time,
although he did not say so.
And this was the view the Judge took of it, after a few moments'
conversation. His first question had been:
"Well, my boy, can you tell me now who gave them to you?"
"No, I can't," was Harold's reply, and then, acting upon a sudden
impulse, he burst out impetuously: "Yes, I will, for I can trust you,
and I want your advice so badly."
So he repeated rapidly all he knew, and his theory with regard to
Arthur, whom he wished to find, and of Billy's proposition that he
should go on his business to Tacoma.
For a few moments the Judge seemed perplexed and undecided. If Harold
stayed he might have some unpleasant things to bear and hear, for there
were those who would talk, in spite of their protestations of his
innocence; while to go might look like running away from the storm, with
the matter unexplained. On the whole, however, he thought it was better
to go.
"Jerrie's interests are safe with me," he said, "and by the time you
return everything will be explained; but find Mr. Tracy as soon as
possible. I am inclined to think your theory with regard to him
correct."
So it was decided that Harold should go, and the next night was
appointed for him to start. Had he known that Peterkin, and even Mrs.
Tracy, were each in her and his own way insinuating that he was running
from public opinion, nothing could have induced him to leave. But he did
not know it, and went about his preparations with as brave a heart as he
could command under the circumstances. Jerrie was more quiet now, though
every effort on his part to learn anything from her concerning the
diamonds brought on a fit of raving, when she would insist that the
jewels were hers, and must be brought to her.
"But you told me they were Mrs. Tracy's," he said to her once.
And she replied:
"So they are, or were; but oh, how little you know!"
And this was all he could get from her.
He told her he was going away, but that did not affect her, and she
began to talk of Maude, who, she said, must not be harmed.
"Have you seen her?" she asked him.
"Not yet," he replied, "but I am going to say good-by;" and on the day
of his departure he went to the Park House and asked if he could see
Maude.
"Of course not," was Mrs. Tracy's prompt reply, when the request was
taken to her. "No one sees her, and I certainly shall not allow him to
enter her room."
"But, Dolly," Frank began, protestingly, but was cut short by the lady,
who said:
"You needn't 'Dolly' me, or try to take his part, either. I have my
opinion, and always shall. He cannot see Maude, and you may tell him
so," turning now to the servant who had brought Harold's message, and
who softened it as much as possible.
Harold had half expected a refusal, and was prepared for it. Taking a
card from his pocket, he wrote upon it:
"DEAR MAUDE:--I am going away for a few weeks, and am very sorry
that I cannot see you; but your mother knows best, of course, and I
must not do anything to make you worse. I shall think of you very
often, and hope to find you much better when I return.
"HAROLD."
"Will you give this to her?" he said to the girl, who answered that she
would, and who took it to her young mistress late in the afternoon,
while the family were at dinner, and she was left in charge of the
invalid.
"Mr. Hastings sent you this," she said, handing the card to Maude, into
whose face the bright color rushed, but left it instantly as she read
the few hurried lines.
"Going away! Gone! and I didn't see him!" she exclaimed, regardless of
consequences. "And mother did it. I know she did. I _will_ talk," she
continued, as the frightened girl tried to stop her, and then ran for
Mrs. Tracy, who came in much alarm, asking what was the matter.
"You sent Harold away. You didn't let him see me, and he is--" Maude
gasped, but could get no farther, for the paroxysm of coughing which
came on, together with a hemorrhage which made her so weak that they
thought her dying all night, she lay so white and still, and insensible,
save at times when her lips moved, and her mother heard her whisper:
"Send for Harold."