TELLING ARTHUR.
Who should do the telling was the question which for some time was
discussed by Frank and Judge St. Claire and Jerrie. Naturally the task
fell upon the latter, who went over and over again in her mind what she
should say and how she should commence.
But when at last the announcement came that Arthur was in Albany, it
seemed to her that she had suddenly turned into stone, for every thought
and feeling left her, and she had no plan of action or speech as she
moved mechanically about Arthur's rooms, making them bright with
flowers, especially the Gretchen room, which was a bower of beauty when
her skillful hands had finished it.
Slowly the day wore on, every minute seeming an hour, and every hour a
day, until Jerrie heard the carriage driving down the avenue, and not
long after the whistle of the engine in the distance. Then, bending over
Maude and kissing her fondly, she said:
"Pray for me, darling, I am going to meet my father."
Arthur had been very quiet during the first part of the journey from San
Francisco, and it was with difficulty that Charles could get a word from
him.
"Let me alone," he said once, when spoken to. "I am with Gretchen. She
is on the train with me, and I'm trying to make out what it is she is
telling me."
But after Albany was left behind, his mood changed and he became as wild
and excitable as he had before been abstracted and silent, and when at
last Shannondale was reached, he bounded from the car before the train
stopped, and was collaring Rob, the coachman, and demanding of him what
was the matter with Jerrie and why he had been sent for. Rob, who had
received his instructions to be wholly non-committal, answered stolidly
that nothing was the matter with Jerrie, but that Miss Maude was very
sick and probably would not live many days.
"Is that all?" Arthur said, gloomily, as he entered the carriage. "I
don't see what the old Harry has to do with Maude's dying, and certainly
Tom's telegram said something about that chap. I have it in my pocket.
Yes, here it is. 'Come immediately. The devil is to pay.' That doesn't
mean Maude. There is something else Rob has not told me. Here you
rascal, you are keeping something from me! What is it? Out with it?" he
shouted to the driver, as he thrust his head from the carriage window,
where he kept it, and in this way was driven to the door of the Park
House, where Frank was waiting for him outside, and where, inside,
Jerrie stood, holding fast to the banisters of the stairs, her heart
throbbing wildly one moment, and the next seeming to lie pulseless as a
piece of lead.
She heard Arthur's voice as he came up the steps, speaking to Frank, and
asking why he had been sent for; and the next moment she saw him
entering the hall, tall and erect, but with the wild look in his eyes
which she knew so well, but which changed at once to a softer expression
as they fell upon her.
"Cherry, you here!" he cried, as he sprang to her side and kissed her
forehead and lips, while Jerrie could scarcely restrain herself from
falling upon his neck and sobbing out, "Oh, my father! I am your
daughter, Jerrie!" But the time for this had not come, and when he
questioned her eagerly as to why she had sent for him, she only replied:
"Maude is very sick. But come with me to your rooms, and I will tell you
everything."
"Then there is something to pay; I thought so," he said, as he followed
her up stairs into the Gretchen room, where he stood for a moment amazed
at the effect produced by the flowers and vines which Jerrie had
arranged so skillfully. "It is like Eden," he said, "and Gretchen is
here with me. Darling Gretchen!" he continued, as he walked up to the
picture and kissed the lovely face which, it seemed to Jerrie, smiled in
benediction upon them both, as they stood there side by side, her hands
resting on his shoulder, which she pressed hard, as if to steady
herself, while he talked to the inanimate face before him.
"Have you been lonesome, Gretchen, and are you glad to have me back
again? Poor little Gretchen!" And now he turned to Jerrie, and said: "It
all came to me on the top of those mountains, about Gretchen--who she
was, and how I forgot her so long--that is the strangest of all; and,
Cherry," here his voice dropped to a whisper, "I know for sure that
Gretchen is dead--that came to me, too."
"Yes, Gretchen is dead," Jerrie answered him, while her hands tightened
their grasp on his shoulder, as she went on: "I have had a message from
her, and that is why we sent for you."
Jerrie's hands were not strong enough to hold him then, and, wrenching
himself from her, he stood confronting her with a look more like that of
a maniac than any she had seen in him before, and which might have
frightened one with nerves less strong than hers. But she was not
afraid, and a strange calmness fell upon her, now that she had actually
reached a point, where she must act, and her eyes, which looked so
steadily into Arthur's, held them fast, even while he interrogated her
rapidly.
"A message from Gretchen! Where is it? Give it to me quick, or tell me
about it! Where is she, and when is she coming?"
"Never!" Jerry answered, sadly. "I told you she was dead. But sit
here," and she motioned him to a large arm chair. "Sit here, and let me
tell you what I know of Gretchen."
Something in the girl's manner mastered him and made him a child in her
hands.
Sinking into the chair, pale and panting with excitement, he leaned his
head back wearily, and closing his eyes, said to her:
"Begin. What did Gretchen write?"
Jerrie felt that she could not stand through the interview, and,
bringing a low ottoman to Arthur's side, seated herself upon it just
where she could look into his face and detect every change in it.
"Let me tell you of Gretchen as she was when you first knew her," she
said, "and then you will be better able to judge of the truth of all I
know."
He did not reply, and she went on:
"Gretchen was very young--sixteen or seventeen--when you first saw her
knitting in the sunshine under the trees in Wiesbaden, and very
beautiful, too--so beautiful that you went again and again to look at
her and talk to her, until you came to love her very much, and told her
so at last; but you seemed so much above her that she could not believe
you at first. At last, however, you made her understand, and when her
mother died suddenly----"
"Her mother was Mrs. Heinrich, and kept a kind of fancy store," Arthur
interposed, as if anxious that nothing should be omitted.
"Yes, she kept a fancy store," Jerrie rejoined; "and when she died
suddenly and left Gretchen alone, you said to her, 'We must be married
at once,' and you were, in the little English chapel, by the Rev. Mr.
Eaton, who was then rector."
Here Arthur's eyes opened wide and fixed themselves wonderingly upon
Jerrie, as he said:
"Are you the old Harry that you know all this? But go on; don't stop; it
all comes back to me so plain when I hear you tell it. She wore a straw
bonnet trimmed with blue, and a white dress, but took it off directly
for a black one because her mother was dead. Did she tell you that?"
"No," Jerrie replied. "She told me nothing of the dress, only how happy
she was with you, whom she loved so much, and who loved her and made
her so happy for a time that earth seemed like heaven to her, and
then----"
Here Jerrie faltered a little, but Arthur's sharp "What then?" kept her
up, and she continued:
"Then something came to you, and you began to forget everything, even
poor little Gretchen, and went away for weeks and left her very sad and
lonely, not knowing where you were; and then, after some months, you
went away and never came back again to the little wife who waited, and
watched, and prayed, and wanted you so badly."
"Oh, Cherry! oh, Gretchen! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to do it; I
surely didn't. May God forgive me for forgetting the little wife! Was it
long? Was it months, or was it years? I can't remember, only that there
was a Gretchen, and I left her," Arthur said.
"It was years, four or more and--and--"--Jerrie's breath came heavily
now, for she was nearing the point relating to herself and wondering
what the effect would be upon him. "After awhile there came into
Gretchen's life the dawning of a great hope, which she felt would make
you glad, and wishing to keep it a secret till you came home, she only
gave you a hint of it. She wrote: 'I have something to tell you which
will make you as happy as it does me----'"
"Stop!" and Arthur put out both his hands as if groping for something
which he could not find; then he said. "Go on," and Jerrie went on,
slowly now, for every word was an effort, and spoken so low that Arthur
bent forward to listen to her.
"I don't know just where Gretchen's home was when she lived alone
waiting for you. I only know that after awhile there came to it a little
baby--a girl baby--Gretchen's and yours----"
She did not get any further, for with a bound Arthur was on his feet,
every faculty alert, every nerve strung to its utmost pitch, and every
muscle of his face quivering with wild excitement, as he exclaimed:
"A baby! Gretchen's baby and mine! A little girl! Oh, Cherry, if you are
deceiving me now!"
Jerrie too, had risen, and was standing before him with her hands upon
his arm and her eyes, so like Gretchen's, looking into his, as she said:
"I am not deceiving you. There was a baby born to you and Gretchen some
time in January, 18--, and it was christened in the little church where
you were married, by the Rev. Mr. Eaton. Oh, Mr. Arthur how can I tell
you; the baby, is living yet--grown to womanhood now, for this happened
more than twenty years ago, and the girl is twenty now, and is waiting
and longing so much for her father to recognize and claim her. Oh, don't
you understand me? Look at _me_ and then at Gretchen's picture!"
For an instant Arthur stood like one stricken with paralysis, his eyes
leaping from Jerrie's face to Gretchen's, and from Gretchen's back to
Jerrie's, and then, with a motion of his hands as if fanning the air
furiously, he gasped:
"Twenty years ago--twenty years ago? How old are you, Cherry?"
"Twenty," she answered, but her voice was a whisper, and her head fell
forward a little, though she kept her eyes upon Arthur, who went on:
"And they christened my baby and Gretchen's you say? What name did they
give her? Speak quick, for I believe I am dying."
"They called her Jerrine, but you know her as Jerrie, for--for I am
Gretchen's daughter," Jerrie said.
With a wild, glad cry, "My daughter! oh, my daughter! Thank God! thank
God!" Arthur sank back into the chair fainting and insensible.
For hours he lay in a state so nearly resembling death that but for the
physician's reassurance that there was no danger, Jerrie would have
believed the great joy given her was to be taken from her at once. But
just as the twilight shadows began to gather in the room he came to
himself, waking as from some quiet dream, and looking around him until
his eyes fell upon Jerrie sitting by his side; then over his white face
there came a look of ineffable joy and tenderness and love, as he said,
with a smile the most winning and sweet Jerrie had ever seen:
"My daughter, my little Cherry, who came to me up the ladder, with
Gretchen's eyes and Gretchen's voice, and I did not know her--have not
known her all these years, although she has so puzzled and bewildered me
at times. My daughter! oh, my daughter!"
He accepted her unquestioningly, and Jerrie threw herself into the arms
he stretched toward her, and on her father's bosom gave vent to the
feelings she had restrained so long, sobbing passionately as she felt
Arthur's kisses upon her face, and his caressing hands upon her hair, as
he kept repeating:
"My daughter! Gretchen's baby and mine!"
"There is more to tell. I have not heard it all, or how you came by the
information," he said, when Jerrie was a little composed, and could look
at and speak to him without a burst of tears.
"Yes, there is much more. There is a letter for you, with those you
wrote to her," Jerrie said, "but you must not have them to-night.
To-morrow you will be stronger, now you must rest."
She spoke like one with authority, and he did just what she bade him
do--took the food she brought him, went to bed when she said he must go,
and, with her hand locked in his, fell into a heavy slumber, which
lasted all through the night, and late into the next morning. It almost
seemed as if he would never waken, the sleep was so like death; but the
doctor who watched him carefully quieted Jerrie's fears and told her it
would do her father good, and that in all probability he would awake
with a clearer mind than he had had in years, for as a great and sudden
shock sometimes produced insanity, so, contrarywise, it sometimes
restored a shattered mind to its equilibrium.
And the doctor was partially correct, for when at last Arthur awoke he
seemed natural and bright, with a recollection of all which had happened
the day before, and an earnest desire for the letters and the rest of
the story, which Jerrie told him, with her arm across his neck, and her
cheek laid occasionally against his, as she read him the letter directed
to his friends, and then showed him the certificate of her birth and her
mother's death.
"Born, January 1st, 18--, to Arthur Tracy and Marguerite, his wife, a
daughter," Arthur repeated, again and again, and as often as he did so,
he kissed the bright face which smiled at him through tears, for there
was almost as much sadness as joy mingled with the reading of that
message from the dead.
Just what Gretchen's letter to Arthur contained Jerrie never knew,
except that it was full of love and tenderness, with no word of
complaint for the neglect and forgetfulness which must have hastened her
death.
"Oh, Gretchen, I can't bear it, I can't," Arthur moaned, as he laid his
hand upon Jerrie's shoulder and sobbed like a child. "To think I could
forget her, and she so sweet and good."
Everything came back to him for a time, and he repeated to Jerrie much
which was of interest to her concerning her mother, but with which the
reader has nothing to do; while Jerrie, in her turn, told him all she
could remember of her life in the old house where Gretchen had died.
Then she asked him why he had never told them that she was his wife. "It
might have helped to clear up the mystery with regard to Mah-nee and
myself," she said, and he replied: "Yes, yes, it might, and I don't know
why I didn't. When we were first married I was going to write Frank
about it, but Gretchen persuaded me not to. She had an idea that I was
as much above her as a king is above his subjects, and that my friends
would be very angry with me and perhaps win my love from her. I think
this idea so strong with her must have found a place in my maddened
brain and kept me from telling who she was. I remember having a feeling
that I must not tell until she came, when I knew her sweetness and
beauty would disarm all prejudice there might exist against her. I was
sane enough always to know that my wife would not be acceptable to
either Frank or Dolly. But oh, I wish I had told them the truth at once!
Poor Gretchen, poor Gretchen!" He began to pace the room rapidly and to
beat the air with his hands, as he always did when roused and excited.
But Jerrie quieted him at last and then gave him his own letters
addressed to Gretchen; but at these he barely glanced, muttering, as he
did so, "How could I have written such crazy bosh as that?" and then
suddenly recollecting himself, he asked for the photograph mentioned in
Gretchen's letter to his friends, and which he seemed to think had come
with the other papers. Taking it from the bag, Jerrie handed it to him,
while his tears fell like rain as he gazed upon the face which was far
too young to wear the sad, wan look it did.
"That is as I remember her," Jerrie said, referring again to the strange
ideas which had filled her brain and made her sure that not the dark
woman found dead at her side was her mother, but another and far
different person, whose face haunted her so continually and whose voice
she sometimes seemed to hear speaking to her from the dim shadows of the
far-off past when they lived in the little house in Wiesbaden, where the
picture hung on the wall.
Arthur remembered the picture well and when it was taken, though that,
too, had faded from his mind until Jerrie told him of it.
"We will go there together, Cherry," he said, "and find the house and
the picture, and Gretchen's grave, and bring them home with us. There is
room for them at Tracy Park."
He was beginning to talk wildly again, but Jerrie succeeded in pacifying
him, and taking up the box of diamonds opened it suddenly and held it
before his eyes. In reading the letters he had not seemed to pay any
attention to the diamonds, but when Jerrie said to him: "These were
mother's. You sent them to her from England," he replied: "Yes, I
remember, I bought them in Paris with other things--dresses, I
think--for her," while into his face there came a troubled look as if he
were trying to think of something.
Jerrie, who could read him so well, saw the look, and, guessing at once
its cause, hastened to say:
"Father, do you remember that you gave Mrs. Tracy some diamonds like
these, and that some one took them from her? Try and think," she
continued, as she saw the troubled look deepen and the fire beginning to
kindle in his eyes. "It was years ago, just after a party Mrs. Tracy
gave, and at which she wore them. You were there and thought they were
Gretchen's, did you not?"
"Ye-es," he answered, slowly, "I believe I did. What did I do with them?
Do you know?"
"I think you put them in your private drawer. Suppose you look and see."
Obedient to her as a child, Arthur opened his private drawer, bringing
out one thing after another, all mementoes of the old Gretchen days, and
finally the diamonds, at which he looked with wonder and fear, as he
said to Jerrie:
"Did I take them? Will they call it a steal? I thought they were
Gretchen's. I remember now."
Jerrie did not tell him then of the trouble the secreting of the
diamonds had brought to her and Harold, but she said:
"No one will think it a steal, and Mrs. Tracy will be glad to get her
jewels back. May I take them to her now?"
"Take them to her?--no," Arthur said, decidedly. "She has another set--I
bought them for her, and she wears them all day long. Ha, ha! diamonds
in the morning, with a cotton gown;" and he laughed immoderately at what
he thought Dolly's bad taste. "Take them to her? No! They are yours."
"But I have mother's," Jerrie pleaded; "and I cannot wear two sets."
"Yes, you can--one to-day, one to-morrow. I mean you shall have
seven--one for every day in the week. What has Dolly to do with
diamonds. They are for ladies, and she is only a whitewashed one."
He was very much excited, and it took all Jerrie's tact to soothe and
quiet him.
"Father," she began, and he stopped at once, for the sound of that name
spoken by Jerrie had a mighty power over him--"Father, listen to me a
moment."
And then she told him of the suspicions cast upon Harold, and said:
"You do not wish him to suffer any more?"
"Harold? The boy who found you in the carpet-bag--Amy's boy! No, never!
Where is he that I have not seen him yet? Does he know you are my
daughter?"
Jerrie had not mentioned Harold before, but she told her father now
where he was, and why he had gone, and that she had written him to come
home, on Maude's account, if on no other.
"Yes--Maude--I remember; but Harold did not care for Maude. Still, he
had better come. I want him here with you and me; and you must stay here
now day and night. Select any room you please; all is yours, my
daughter."
"But I cannot leave grandma," Jerrie said.
"Let her come, too," Arthur replied. "There's room for her."
"No," Jerrie persisted; "that would not be best. Grandma could not live
with Mrs. Tracy."
"Then let Dolly go at once. I'll give the order now," and Arthur put out
his hand to the bell-cord.
But Jerrie stopped him instantly, saying to him:
"Remember Maude. While she lives her mother must stay here."
"Yes, I forgot Maude. I have not seen her yet," Arthur replied, subdued
at once, and willing that Jerrie should take the jewels to Dolly, who
deserved but little forbearance from her.
Up to the very last Mrs. Tracy had, unconsciously perhaps, clung to a
shadowy hope that Arthur might repudiate his daughter and call it a
trumped-up affair; but when she heard how joyfully he had acknowledged
and claimed her, she lost all hope, and her face wore a gloomy
expression when Jerrie entered her room, and told her in a few words
that her own diamonds had been found, and where they had been secreted,
and that she had come to return them.
"Then your father was the thief," Dolly said, with that rasping,
aggravating tone so hard to hear unmoved.
"Call him what you please. A crazy man is not responsible for his acts,"
Jerrie answered calmly, as she walked from the room, leaving Dolly to
her own morbid and angry thoughts.
Not even the restored diamonds had power to conciliate her.
"I'll never wear them, because she has some like them," she said to
herself; and then the thought came to her that she could sell them, and
add to the sum which her husband had invested in his own name.
"Yes, I'll do it," she continued, "but even that will hardly keep the
wolf from the door, for Frank is growing more and more imbecile every
day, and Tom is good for nothing. He'll have to scratch for himself,
though, I can tell him."
Here her very characteristic soliloquy was brought to an end by a faint
call, which had the power to drive every other thought from her heart,
for the mother-love was strong even with her, and going to Maude, she
asked what she wanted.
"Uncle Arthur," Maude replied; "I have not seen him yet. And Jerrie,
too; she has scarcely been here to-day."
Maude's request was made known to Arthur, who, two or three hours later,
went to her room, and told her how sorry he was to find her so sick, and
that he hoped she would soon be better.
Frank was with Maude, sitting upon the side of her bed, near the head,
with his arm across her pillow, and his eyes fixed anxiously upon her as
she held her conference with his brother.
"No, uncle," she said, "I shall never be any better in this world; but,
pretty soon, I shall be well in the other. And I want to tell you how
glad I am for you and Jerrie, and to thank you for your kindness to us
all these years, when Jerrie should have been here in our place."
"Yes, yes," Arthur said, with a wave of his hand. "Only I didn't know.
If I had--"
"It would have been so different," Maude interrupted him. "I know that,
but I want you to be kind to poor father still, and forgive him, he is
so sorry, and--"
"Oh, Maude, Maude," came like a groan from Frank, as he laid his hand on
Maude's lips, while Arthur replied:
"Forgive him for what? He couldn't help being here. I sent for him. He
did not keep Jerrie from her rightful position as my daughter. If he
had, I could never forgive him. Why, I believe I'd kill him, or any
other one who, knowing that Jerrie was my daughter, kept it from me."
He was gesticulating with both hands, and Jerrie, who had come in with
him, took hold of them as they were swaying in the air and said to him
softly:
"Father!"
The word quieted him, and with a gasp his mood seemed to change at once.
"Maude is very tired," Jerrie went on; "perhaps we'd better go now, and
come again to-morrow."
"Yes, yes, that's best, child. I'm not fond of sick rooms, though I must
say this is very free from smells," Arthur replied; then stooping down
he kissed Maude and said to her as he arose to go:
"Don't worry about your father; he is my brother, and he was kind to
Jerrie. I shan't forget that. Come, my daughter."
And putting his arm around Jerrie he left the room.