THE FLOWER FADETH.
It was some days after Arthur's return before the household settled down
into any thing like order and quiet for Arthur was so restless and so
happy, and so anxious for every one to recognize Jerrie as his
daughter--Miss Tracy, he called her when presenting her to the people
who had known her all her life--the St. Claires, and Athertons, and
Crosbys, and Warners--who came to call upon and congratulate him. Even
Peterkin came with a card as big as the back of Webster's spelling book,
and himself gotten up in a dress coat, with lavender kids on his burly
hands, which nearly crushed Arthur's as he expressed himself "tickleder
than he ever was before in his life."
"And to think I was the means on't," he said, "for if I hadn't of kicked
that darned old table into slivers when I was givin' on't to Jerrie,
she'd never of knowd what was in that dumbed rat-hole. I was a little
too upstrupulous, I s'spose, but I'll be darned if she didn't square up
to me like a catamount, till my hair riz right up, and I concluded the
Tramp House was no place for me. But I respect her for it; yes, I do,
and by George, old chap, I congratulate you with my whole soul, and so
does May Jane, and so does Ann 'Lizy, and so does Bill, and so does the
whole coboodle on us."
This was Peterkin's speech, which Arthur received more graciously than
Jerrie, who, remembering Harold, could not be very polite to the man who
had injured him so deeply. As if divining her thoughts, Peterkin turned
to her and said:
"Now, one word, Miss Tracy, about Hal. I hain't one to go halves in any
thing, and I was meaner to him than pussly; but you'll see what I'll do.
I've met with a change. I swow, I have," and he laid his lavender kid on
his stomach. "He never took them diamonds, nor May Jane's pin, nor
nothin', and I've blasted it all over town that he didn't, and I've got
a kerridge hired, and some chaps, and a brass band, and a percession,
and when Hal comes, there's to be an oblation to the depot, with the
bugle a playin' 'Hail to the Chief,' and them hired chaps a histen' him
inter the kerridge, with the star spangled banner a floatin' over it,
and a drawin' him home without horses! What do you think of that for
high?" and he chuckled merrily as he repeated the programme he had
prepared for Harold's reception.
Jerrie shuddered, mentally hoping that Harold's coming might be at
night, and unheralded, so as to save him from what she knew would fill
him with disgust.
That call of Peterkin's was the last of a congratulatory nature made at
Tracy Park for weeks, for the shadow of death had entered the grand old
house, the doors and windows of which stood wide open, one lovely
September morning, about a week after Arthur's return. But there was no
stir or sign of life, except in the upper hall, near the door, and in
the room where Maude Tracy was dying. Jerrie had been with her
constantly for two or three days, and the conversation the two had held
together would never be forgotten. Maude was very peaceful and happy and
sure of the home beyond, where she was going, and very lovely and sweet
to those around her, thinking of everything, and planning everything,
even whose hands were to lower her into the grave.
"Dick, and Fred, and Billy, and Harold," she said to Jerrie, one day.
"Something tells me Harold will be here in time for that; and if he is,
I want those four to put me in the grave. They can lift me, for I shall
not be very heavy," and, with a smile, she held up her wasted arms and
hands, not as large now as a child's. "And, Jerrie," she went on, "I
want the grave lined with boughs from our old playing-place--the four
pines, you know--and many flowers, for I shudder at the thought of the
cold earth which would chill me in my coffin. So, heap the grave with
flowers, and come often to it, and think lovingly of me, lying there
alone. I am thinking so much of that poem Harold read to me long ago of
poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should hear them as they
passed, with their feet above her in the long and silent grass. Maybe
the dead can't do that, I don't know, but if they can, I shall listen
for you, and be glad when you are near me, and I know I shall wait on
the golden seat by the river. Remember your promise to tell Harold that
it was all a mistake. My mind gets clearer toward the end, and I see
things differently from what I did once, and I know how I blundered. You
will tell him?"
Again Jerrie made the promise, with a sinking heart, not knowing to what
it bound her; and as Maude was becoming tired, she bade her try to rest
while she sat by and watched her.
The next day, at the same hour, when the balmy September air was
everywhere, and the mid-afternoon sun was filling the house with golden
light, and the crickets' chirp was heard in the long grass, and the
robins were singing in the tree-tops, another scene was presented in the
sick room, where Frank Tracy knelt at his dying daughter's side, with
his face bowed on his hands, while her fingers played feebly with his
white hair as she spoke to Arthur, who had just come in. They had told
him she was dying and had asked for him, and with his nervous horror of
everything painful and exciting, he had shrunk from the ordeal; but
Jerrie's will prevailed, and he went with her to the room, where Frank
and his wife and Tom were waiting--Tom standing, with folded arms, at
the foot of the bed, and looking, with hot, dry eyes, into the face on
the pillow, where death was setting his seal; the mother, half fainting
upon the lounge, with the nurse beside her; and Frank oblivious of
everything except the fact that Maude was dying.
"Kiss me good-by, Uncle Arthur," she said, when he came in, "and come
this side where father is." Then, as he went round and stood by Frank,
she reached her hand for his, and putting it on her father's head, said
to him: "Forgive him, Uncle Arthur; he is so sorry, poor father--the
dearest, the best man in the world. It was for me; say that you forgive
him."
Only Frank and one other knew just what she meant, although a sudden
suspicion darted through Jerrie's mind, and, when Arthur looked
helplessly at her, she whispered to him:
"Never mind what she means--her mind may be wandering; but say that you
forgive him, no matter what it is."
Thus adjured, Arthur said to the grief-stricken man, who shook like an
aspen:
"I know of nothing to forgive, except your old disbelief in Gretchen,
and deceiving me about sending the carriage the night Jerrie came; but
if there is anything else, no matter what it is, I do forgive you
freely."
"Thanks," came faintly from Maude, who whispered:
"Remember it is a vow made at my death-bed."
She had done all she could, this little girl, whose life had been so
short, and who, as she once said, had been capable of nothing but loving
and being loved; and now, turning her dim eyes upon Jerrie, she went on:
"Remember the promise, and the flowers, and the golden seat where you
will find me resting by the river whose shores I am now looking upon,
for I am almost there, almost to the golden seat, and the tree whose
leaves are like emeralds, and where the grass and flowers are like the
flowers and grass of summer just after a rain. I am glad for you,
Jerrie. Good-by; and you, dear father, good-by."
That was the last, for Maude was dead; and the servants, who had been
standing about the door, stole noiselessly back to their work, with wet
eyes and a sense of pain and loss in their hearts, for not one of them
but had loved the gentle girl now gone forever from their midst.
It was Jerrie who led Frank from the room to his own, where she left him
by himself, knowing it would be better so, and it was Arthur who took
Dolly out, for Tom had disappeared, and no one saw him again until the
next day, when he came down to breakfast, with a worn, haggard look upon
his face, which told that he did care, though his mother thought he did
not, and taunted him with his indifference. He had gone directly to his
room and locked the door, and smoked and smoked, and thought and
thought, and then, when it was dark, he had stolen out into the park as
far as the four pines, and smoked, and looked up at the stars and
wondered if Maude were there with Jack, sitting on the golden seat by
the river. Then, going back to the house when no one saw him, he went
into the room where Maude was lying, and looked long and earnestly upon
her white, still face, and wondered in a vague kind of way if she knew
he was there, and why he had never thought before what a nice kind of
girl she was, and why he had not made more of her as her brother.
"Maude," he whispered, with a lump in his throat, "if you can hear me,
I'd like to tell you I am sorry that I was ever mean to you, and I
guess I did like you more than I supposed."
Then he kissed her pale forehead and went to his room, where he smoked
the night through, and in the morning felt as if he had lived a hundred
years since the previous night, and wondered how he should get through
the day. It occurred to him that it might be the proper thing to see his
mother; and after breakfast he went to her room, and was received by her
with a burst of tears and reproaches for his indifference and lack of
feeling in keeping himself away from everybody, as if it were nothing to
him that Maude was dead, or that there was nothing for him to do.
"Thunderation, mother!" Tom exclaimed, "would you have me yell and
scream, and make a fool of myself? I sat up all night long, which was
more than you did, and I've been meditating in the woods, and have seen
Maude and made it square with her. What more can I do?"
"You can see to things," Mrs. Tracy replied. "Your father is all broken
up and has gone to bed, and it is not becoming in me to be around.
Somebody must take the helm."
"And somebody has," Tom answered her. "Uncle Arthur is master of
ceremonies now. He is running the ranch, and running it well, too."
And Tom was right, for Arthur had taken the helm, and aided and abetted
by Jerrie, was quietly attending to matters and arranging for the
funeral, which Dolly said must be in the house, as she would not go to
the church with a gaping crowd to stare at her. So it was to take place
at the house on Friday afternoon, and Arthur ordered a costly coffin
from New York, and nearly a car-load of flowers and floral designs, for
Jerrie had explained to him Maude's wishes with regard to her grave,
which they lined first with the freshest of the boughs from the four
pines, filling these again with flowers up to the very top, so that the
grave when finished seemed like one mass of flowers, in which it would
not be hard to lie.
Dolly had objected to Billy as one of the pall-bearers. He was too
short, she said, and not at all in harmony with Dick, and Fred, and Paul
Crosby, the young man who, in Harold's absence, had been asked to take
his place. But Arthur overruled her with the words, "It was Maude's
wish," and Billy kept his post.
The day arrived, and the hour, and the people came in greater crowds
than they had done when poor Jack was buried, or the dark woman,
Nannine, with only Jerrie as chief mourner, and the procession was the
longest ever seen in Shannondale; and Dolly, even while her heart was
aching with bitter pain, felt a thrill of pride that so many were
following her daughter to the grave.
Arrived at the cemetery, there was a halt for the mourners to alight and
the bearers to take the coffin from the hearse--a halt longer than
necessary, it seemed to Jerrie, who did not see the young man making his
way through the ranks of people crowding the road, and straining every
nerve to reach the hearse, which he did just as the bearers were taking
the coffin from it.
With a quick movement he put Paul Crosby aside, saying, apologetically:
"Excuse me, Paul. I must carry Maude to her grave. She wished it."
Even then Jerrie did not see him or dream that he was there, but when
toward the close of the service she took a step or two forward to look
into the grave before it was filled up, and he put a hand upon her
shoulder and said, "Not too near, Jerrie," she started suddenly, with a
suppressed cry, and turning, saw him standing by her, tall, and erect,
and self-possessed, as he faced the multitude, some of whom had
suspected him of crime, but all of whom were ready now to do him justice
and bid him welcome home.
"Oh, Harold," Jerrie said, as she grasped his arm, "I am so glad you are
here. I wish you had come before."
Harold could not reply, for they were now leaving the spot, and many
gathered around him; first and foremost Peterkin, who came tramping
through the grass, puffing like an engine, and, unmindful of the time or
place, slapping him upon the shoulder, as he said:
"Well, my boy, glad to see you back, 'pon my soul, I be; but you've
flustrated all my plans. I was meanin' to give you an oblation; got it
all arranged, and you spiled it by takin' us onawares, like a thief in
the night. I beg your pardon," he continued, as he met a curious look
in Harold's eyes. "I'm a blunderin' cuss, I be. I didn't mean nothin'.
I've never meant nothin' and if I hev I'm sorry for it."
Harold did not hear the last, for he was handing Jerrie into the
carriage with her father, who bade him enter, too, saying they would
leave him at the cottage where he wished to go as soon as possible.
There was no time for much conversation before the cottage was reached,
and Harold alighted at the gate, and no allusion whatever was made to
Jerrie's changed relations until Harold stood looking at her as she kept
her seat by her father, and made no sign of an intention to stop. Then
he said, as calmly as he could:
"Do you stay at the Park House altogether now?"
"Oh, no," she answered, quickly. "I have been there a great deal with
Maude, but am coming home to-night. I could not leave grandma alone, you
know."
She acknowledged the home and the relationship still, and Harold's face
flushed with a look of pleasure, which deepened in intensity when
Arthur, with a wave of the hand habitual to him, said:
"I must keep her now that you are here to see to the grandmother, but
will let you have her to-night. Come up later, if you like, and walk
home with her."
"I shall be most happy to do so," Harold said, and then the carriage
drove away, while he went in to his grandmother, who had not attended
the funeral, but who knew that he had returned, and was waiting for him.