A HAPPY HOME
Unknown to Tabitha, Miss Pomeroy had telegraphed her coming, and Tom was
there to meet her at the station when the cars slowed down at the
forsaken-looking desert town. She looked at his white, haggard face and
heavy eyes, and her heart stood still. "Oh, Tom, he isn't--"
"No, dear, not that. He is better this morning, the doctor says; but he
is pretty badly hurt. I am glad you have come, though we didn't think it
was necessary to send for you."
That was all they said until the weather-beaten cottage was reached.
Then just as Tabitha opened the screen to enter the stifling kitchen,
Tom spoke:
"He is in your room. He insisted upon being put there with the bed drawn
up by the window. They probably won't let you see him yet, but there is
a heap of things to be done that I haven't the slightest notion about,
Puss. I can sweep and dust and make beds, and even cook potatoes and
boil coffee, but how in creation do you make broths that a sick man will
eat? And where can a fellow get cool water this kind of weather with no
ice in town? The ice-plant burned last week."
Tabitha's anxiety lifted for the moment, and laying aside her dainty
traveling dress, she donned a big apron and fell to work setting the
little house to rights. Those were hard days that followed, and more
than once the burden seemed almost too great for the slender shoulders.
Two miners were hurt at the Silver Legion, and the nurse was called away
to care for them at the hospital. The hot winds descended suddenly upon
the desert and Silver Bow writhed under the fierce glare of the blazing
sun. All who could get away left the stifling town for the cool breath
of the seashore, and no help could be found for the girl working so
bravely in the lonely little cottage, taking the place of nurse and
housekeeper and facing a situation before which many a stouter heart
would have quailed. Tom did his best, but the sick man became possessed
of a whim that no one should wait upon him but poor, tired Tabitha, and
day and night found her ministering to him in the sweltering heat that
seemed fairly to cook town and people.
Dr. Vane's face grew very grave as he watched the struggle, and one day
he said to Tom as he was leaving on his other calls, "Is it possible for
your aunt to come out here again?"
"I am afraid not, sir," was the discouraged answer. "She is just
recovering from a severe siege of fever herself."
The doctor shook his head. "I ought to have sent your father to Los
Angeles the minute I was called to attend him; but he was so set against
it that I didn't insist, and now--"
"Is there any danger?"
"If this heat would let up a little, I think there would be no doubt but
that we could pull him through. But--Tabitha ought to have some help for
her own sake."
Poor Tom! He could see that the little sister was weakening, and he was
doing all in his power to lighten her load, but he could not help her in
her ceaseless watching which was telling so fearfully on her strength.
In an agony of anguish and despair he slipped out to the back steps and
sat heavily down in the shade of the house, dropping his hot head on
his arms and two stinging tears coursing down his cheeks.
"I beg your pardon, but isn't this where Mr. Catt lives?"
The voice spoke directly at his elbow, and Tom, so much absorbed in his
unhappy thoughts that he had not heard the approaching footsteps, looked
up in surprise to see a tall, well-dressed, refined-looking stranger on
the lower step.
"Yes, sir."
"May I see him?"
"He is very sick--hurt--and doesn't know anyone. We can't allow folks to
see him."
"I understood that he was seriously injured and that you needed someone
to help care for him. I--"
"We are in need of help," Tom interrupted; "but he won't let anyone wait
on him but my sister."
"He will me." The man spoke with such confidence that again Tom looked
his surprise. "The little girl is all tired out. Take me to your father.
Oh, it is all right! I have Dr. Vane's sanction. Besides--well, I may as
well tell you now. I am the 'hermit of the hills' whom Tabitha saved
from burning to death more than a year ago. I was your father's partner
once and his dearest friend; but I proved false to my trust. I cheated
him out of his share in some valuable property--wrecked his whole life.
Take me to him and don't fear the consequences."
Tom rose quickly. "Come inside. Tabitha is with him now."
He led the unexpected guest to the little room where the sick man lay
tossing and muttering in the delirium of fever.
"Why didn't you put ice in that water?" he was saying querulously. "If
you are bound to feed me boiled water, I want it cold."
Patient little Tabitha sighed wearily and turned toward the kitchen with
the rejected glass on the tray, just as the hermit paused on the
threshold.
"Here is a glass of ice-water, Lynne," said the stranger, taking the
tumbler from the girl's hand. "Drink this and go to sleep."
"Why, hello, Decker!" exclaimed the patient, with a gleam of
intelligence lighting his face for the moment. "How did you come here?
Say, that water is fine!"
Dropping back among the pillows, the exhausted man slept; and Tabitha,
relieved of her responsibility, crept away to hold a quiet jubilation
with Tom before she, too, fell asleep, worn out by her tireless vigil.
Meanwhile the stranger busied himself with the neglected housework, and
soon the cottage took on a comfortable appearance again; Tom's spirits
began to rise and hope to sing in his discouraged heart once more.
Perhaps things were not as bad as they had seemed after all. At evening
the busy doctor drove up again, and was rejoiced to find both patient
and nurse still sleeping.
"There is a big storm brewing up in the mountains," he announced
jubilantly, "and we ought to have it a bit cooler here in a few hours.
Let them sleep as long as they will; both need it. Keep up your courage,
Tom; Simmons is a jewel and knows just what to do." He was gone again,
leaving Tom standing on the steps in the blackness of the night, singing
in his heart a hymn of thanksgiving.
The storm broke at length with terrible fury, and all night the heavy
thunder crashed from peak to peak as if threatening total destruction
to everything on the desert below; but when the hurricane had spent its
fury, the fearful heat was broken, and the whole world awoke refreshed
from its bath. In the sweet coolness of the early dawn, Mr. Catt opened
his eyes to consciousness for the first time since the day of the
accident, and his gaze fell upon the face of his strange nurse sitting
beside his bed.
"Decker Simmons!" he exclaimed in a weak, incredulous voice.
"Yes, Lynne. I have come back to face the music, but I have brought with
me every cent of your money and interest. Can you forgive the great
wrong I have done you?" His scarred face worked pathetically, and he
stretched out his hands somewhat hesitatingly, with entreaty in his
whole bearing.
The sick man looked steadily at him for a long moment, then clasped the
proffered hand weakly, and murmured, "I forgive!"
A deep silence fell over the room; then after a few moments of thought
too sacred for words, the invalid asked faintly, "Have you told Thomas
and Tabitha?"
"Yes."
He sighed contentedly, and still holding tightly to the hermit's hand,
drifted away into refreshing, health-giving slumber.
So it happened that a few days later when strength was flowing back into
the injured man's veins, he called his children to him. They went with
something like trepidation in their hearts; but one look into the white
face on the pillow told them that this was not the same man whom they
had known and feared all their lives. It may have been the restored
confidence in his friend, it may have been that the fever had burned out
the austerity and selfishness of his heart and brought the real fatherly
tenderness to the surface. He mutely held out a thin hand to each, and
they awkwardly gave him theirs, not knowing what to say and sitting in
silent embarrassment on either side of the bed, waiting for him to
speak. At last he laid Tabitha's hand on the counterpane, and fumbling
beneath his pillow, drew forth a bright gold piece, which he held out to
her, smiling sadly at the surprise in her face.
"What is this?" she found voice to ask.
"Long ago I punished you severely--too severely--and you called me a
beast. I think that was the first time I ever recognized how thoroughly
beastly I was. I--I wasn't man enough to tell you so, nor to admit how
sorry I was for my severity; so after you were asleep, I put this in
your hand, thinking it might--make up for my harshness. I suppose it
dropped to the floor during the night and rolled into that wide crack in
the corner where the bed used to stand. I saw the glint of it this
morning when a sunbeam chanced to fall upon it, and it brought back the
memory of that other day. Tabitha, I am sorry. Is it too late to forgive
me now?"
Tom surreptitiously drew his free hand across his eyes; and Tabitha,
almost too surprised for reply, squeezed her father's arm in a gentle
caress, as she whispered chokingly, "I forgave that long ago. It did
seem too great a punishment then, but it taught me a lesson I have never
forgotten."
"Poor little daughter! What a selfish brute I have been! And I might
have made you so happy!"
"Don't, Dad!" she pleaded. "I--I--you have made me happy now! The rest
doesn't count!"
He smiled tenderly into the soft black eyes, as he drew her closer to
him and said wistfully, "I wish the rest didn't count, children; but the
fact still remains that I have not done right by my boy and girl. I am
sorry, and when I get up from this bed, I mean to be a better man.
"Decker has come back, we are going into partnership again and work
those claims for all there is in them. Tom shall finish college and
Tabitha shall go back to boarding school or wherever she likes. There is
money enough for whatever you want, and it is all yours. A man with
children like mine is graciously blessed. I have been a fool and wasted
many precious years. I can't bring them back and live them over, but I
can and will live the rest of my life right in God's sight. Can you
still love me in spite of all that is past, children?"
For answer, by common impulse they slipped their arms around him, and he
drew each face down to his and kissed it. The barriers of years were
swept away, and father and children were united by love.
For a long time the little group sat there talking over plans for their
future happiness and drinking in the supremest joy of living.
Then the father spoke abruptly: "There is another matter, children.
When I named you as I did, I thought I was spiting the world. My own
life had been made bitter by just that same thing, and I wanted to get
even; but I only broke your mother's heart and made you both as
miserable as I had been. It isn't too late yet to change that. Drop
those names I gave you and choose for yourselves what you would like to
be called."
They stared at each other, then at him, in dumb amazement. Change their
names! The possibility of having such a privilege granted them had never
occurred to either one before. At length Tabitha spoke:
"If you had told me that once, I would have done it only too quickly;
but now I have learned that if a person is kind and lovable, no one
cares what the name is. Pretty names don't make nice people, and homely
ones don't make them bad, either. I am--beginning--to rather like
'Tabitha' now, and I don't wish to change my name."
"Or I mine," added Tom; and once more the father drew their faces down
to his own and kissed them.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Tabitha at Ivy Hall, by Ruth Alberta Brown