slowly, for I want to tell you all I thought. The Lord was dead; he
had been crucified and laid away within the sepulchre three days since,
and they who had so loved him and so trusted in his promises were
broken-hearted because of his death. Our Christ has never been dead to
us, John; think what it must have been to them to know him _dead_. 'Let
not your heart be troubled' he said; but their hearts were troubled, and
he knew it; he knew how John's heart was rent, and how he was sorrowing
with the mother he had taken into his own home; he knew how Peter had
wept his bitter tears, how Martha and Mary and Lazarus were grieving for
him, how all were watching, waiting, hoping and yet hardly daring to
hope,--oh, how little our griefs seem to us beside such grief as theirs!
And the third day since he had been taken from them. Did they expect
again to hear his footfall or his voice? He could see, all this time, the
hands outstretched in prayer, he could hear their cries, he could feel
the beating of every heart, and yet how slowly he was going forth to meet
them. How could he stay his feet? Were not Peter and John running towards
him? Was not Mary on her way to him? And yet he did not hasten; something
must first be done, such little things; the linen clothes must be laid
aside and the napkin that had been about his head must be wrapped
together in a place by itself. Such a little thing to think of, such a
little thing to do, before he could go forth to meet them! Was it
necessary that the napkin should be wrapped together in a place by
itself? As necessary as that their terrible suspense should be ended? As
necessary as that Peter and John and Martha and Mary and his mother
should be comforted one little instant sooner? Could you or I wait to
fold a napkin and lay it away if we might fly to a friend who was
wearying for us? Suppose God says: 'Fold that napkin and lay it away,' do
we do it cheerfully and submissively, choosing to do it rather than to
hasten to our friend? If a leper had stood in the way, beseeching him, if
the dead son of a widow were being carried out, we could understand the
instant's delay, if only a little child were waiting to speak to the
Lord, but to keep so many waiting just to lay the linen clothes aside,
and, most of all, to wrap together that napkin and lay it by itself. Only
the knowing that the doing this was doing the will of God reconciles me
to the waiting that one instant longer, that his mother need not have
waited but for that. So, John, perhaps you and I are waiting to do some
little thing, some little thing that we do not know the meaning of,
before God's will can be perfect concerning us. It may be as near to us
as was the napkin about the head of the Lord. I was forgetting that,
after he died for us, there was any of the Father's will left for him to
do. And I suppose he folded that napkin as willingly as he gave himself
up to the cross. John, that does help me--I am so impatient at
interruptions to what I call my 'work,' and I am so impatient for the
Lord to work for me."
"Yes," he answered slowly, "it is hard to realize that we _must_ stop to
do every little thing. But I do not stop, I pass the small things by.
Prudence, I am burning up with impatience to-night."
"Are you? I am very quiet."
"If you knew something about Jerome that I do not know, and it would
disturb me to know it, would you tell me?"
"If I should judge you by myself I should tell you. How can one person
know how a truth may affect another? Tell me what you know; I am
ready."
But she trembled exceedingly and staggered as she walked.
"Take my arm," he said, quietly.
She obeyed and leaned against him as they moved on slowly; it was too
dark for them to see each other's faces clearly, a storm was gathering,
the outlines of the house they were approaching, were scarcely
distinguishable.
"We are almost home," she said.
"Yes, there! Our light is flashing out. Marjorie is lighting the parlor
lamp. I have in my pocket a letter from Jerome; I have had it a week; you
seemed so quiet and happy I had not the heart to disturb you. It was sent
to the old address, I told him some one there would always find me. He
has not written because he thought we did not care to hear. He has the
name of an honest man there, he says."
"Is that all?" she questioned, her heart beating with a rapid pulsation.
How long she had waited for this.
"He is not in Europe now, he is in California. His wife is dead and he
has a little girl ten years old. He refers to a letter written twelve
years ago--a letter that I never received; but it would have made no
difference if I had received it. I wrote to him once begging him to
release me from a promise that I made rashly out of great pity for him,
it was cruel and selfish in him to force me to it, but I was not sure of
myself then, and it was all that I could do for him. But, as I said, he
released me when he chose to do it, and it does not matter. Perhaps it is
better that I had the promise to bind me; you are happier for it, I
think, and I have not been selfish in any demand upon you."
"John, I don't know what you mean," she said, perplexed.
"I don't mean anything that I can tell you."
"I hope he did not deceive her--his wife, that he told her all about
himself."
"She died nine years ago, he writes, and now he is very ill himself and
wishes to leave his little daughter in safe hands; her mother was an
orphan, it seems, and the child has no relatives that he cares to leave
her with; her mother was an English girl, he was married in England. He
wishes me to come to him and take charge of the child."
"That is why you so suddenly chose California instead of Minnesota for
your winter?"
"Yes."
"Have you written to him?"
"Yes."
"Is he very ill?"
"Yes; he may never receive my letter."
"I would like to write to him," said Miss Prudence.
"Would you like to see the letter?"
"No; I would rather not. You have told me all?" with a slight quiver in
the firm voice.
"All excepting his message to you."
After a moment she asked: "What is it?"
"He wants you to take the guardianship of his child with me. I have not
told you all--he thinks we are married."
The brave voice trembled in spite of his stern self-control.
"Oh!" exclaimed Prudence, and then: "Why should he think that?" in a low,
hesitating voice.
"Because he knew me so well. Having only each other, it was natural, was
it not?"
"Perhaps so. Then that is all he says."
"Isn't that enough?"
"No, I want to know if he has repented, if he is another man. I am glad I
may write to him; I want to tell him many things. We will take care of
the little girl, John."
"If I am West and you are East--"
"Do you want to keep her with you?"
"What could I do with her? She will be a white elephant to me. I am not
her father; I do not think I understand girls--or boys, or men. I hardly
understand you, Prudence."
"Then I am afraid you never will. Isn't it queer how I always have a
little girl provided for me? Marjorie is growing up and now I have this
child, your niece, John, to be my little girl for a long time. I wonder
what her name is."
"He did tell me that! I may have passed over something else; you might
better see the letter."
"No; handwriting is like a voice, or a perfume to me--I could not bear it
to-night. John, I feel as if it would _kill_ me. It is so long ago--I
thought I was stronger--O, John," she leaned her head upon his arm and
sobbed convulsively like a little child.
He laid his hand upon her head as if she were indeed the little child,
and for a long time no words were spoken.
"Prudence, there is something else, there is the photograph of the little
girl--her mother named her Jeroma."
"I will take that," she said, lifting her head, "and I will write to her
to-night."
That night before she slept she wrote a long letter to the child with the
brown eyes and sunny curls, describing the home in Maple Street, and
promising to take her into her heart and keep her there always, to adopt
her for her very own little daughter for her own sake and for her
father's sake, whom she knew long ago, ending it thus:
"You cannot come to me too soon, for I am waiting for you with a hungry
heart. I knew there was something good coming to me, and I know you
will be my blessing.
"Your Loving Aunt Prue."
XV.
JEROMA.
"Whom hast them pitied? And whom forgiven I"--_Wills_.
The child had risen early that she might have a good time looking at the
sea lions; the huge creatures covered the rocks two hundred yards away
from her, crawling and squirming, or lying still as if as dead as the
rock itself, their pointed heads and shining bodies giving her a
delightful shiver of affright, their howling and groaning causing her to
run every now and then back to her father's chair on the veranda, and
then she would dance back again and stand and watch them--the horrible,
misshapen monsters--as they quarrelled, or suckled their young, or
furious and wild as they tumbled about and rolled off the craggy cliffs
into the sea. She left her chamber early every morning to watch them and
never grew weary of the familiar, strange Bight. Not that this sight had
been so long familiar, for her father was ever seeking new places along
the coast to rest in, or grow strong in. Nurse had told her that morning
that there was not any place for her papa to get well in.
He had breakfasted, as usual, upon the veranda, and, the last time that
she had brought her gaze from the fascinating monsters to look back at
him, he was leaning against the cushions of his rolling chair, with his
eyes fixed upon the sea. He often sat for hours and hours looking out
upon the sea.
Jeroma had played upon the beach every day last winter, growing ruddy and
strong, but the air had revived him only for a little time, he soon sank
back into weakness and apathy. He had dismissed her with a kiss awhile
ago, and had seemed to suffer instead of respond to her caresses.
"Papa gets tired of loving me," she had said to Nurse last night with a
quivering of the lip.
"Papa is very sick," Nurse had answered guardedly, "and he had letters
to-day that were too much for him."
"Then he shouldn't have letters," said the child, decidedly. "I'll tell
him so to-morrow."
As she danced about, her white dress and sunny curls gleaming in and out
among the heliotrope and scarlet geranium that one of the flower-loving
boarders was cultivating, her father called her name; it was a queer
name, and she did not like it. She liked her second name, Prudence,
better. But Nurse had said, when she complained to her, that the girls
would call her "Prudy" for short, and "Jerrie" was certainly a prettier
name than that.
"Jerrie," her father called.
The sound was so weak and broken by a cough that she did not turn her
head or answer until he had called more than twice. But she flew to him
when she was sure that he had called her, and kissed his flabby cheek and
smoothed back the thin locks of white hair. His black eyes were burning
like two fires beneath his white brows, his lips were ashy, and his
breath hot and hurried. Two letters were trembling in his hand, two open
letters, and one of them was in several fluttering sheets; this
handwriting was a lady's, Jeroma recognized that, although she could not
read even her own name in script.
"O, papa, those are the letters that made you sick! I'll throw them away
to the lions," she cried, trying to snatch them. But he kept them in his
fingers and tried to speak.
"I'll be rested in a moment, eat those strawberries--and then I
have--something to talk to you about."
She surveyed the table critically, bread and fruit and milk; there was
nothing beside.
"I've had my breakfast! O, papa, I've forgotten your flowers! Mrs. Heath
said you might have them every morning."
"Run and get them then, and never wait for me to call you--it tires me
too much."
"Poor papa! And I can howl almost as loud as the lions themselves."
"Don't howl at me then, for I might want to roll off into the sea," he
said, smiling as she danced away.
The child seemed never to walk, she was always frisking about, one hardly
knew if her feet touched the ground.
"Poor child! happy child," he groaned, rather than murmured, as she
disappeared around the corner of the veranda. She was a chubby,
roundfaced child, with great brown eyes and curls like yellow floss; from
her childishness and ignorance of what children at ten years of age are
usually taught, she was supposed by strangers to be no more than eight
years of age; she was an imperious little lady, impetuous, untrained,
self-reliant, and, from much intercourse with strangers, not at all shy,
looking out upon the world with confiding eyes, and knowing nothing to be
afraid of or ashamed of. Nurse had been her only teacher; she could
barely read a chapter in the New Testament, and when her father gave her
ten cents and then five more she could not tell him how many cents she
held in her hand.
"No matter, I don't want you to count money," he said.
Before he recovered his breath and self-possession she was at his side
with the flowers she had hastily plucked--scarlet geranium, heliotrope,
sweet alyssum, the gorgeous yellow and orange poppy, and the lovely blue
and white lupine. He received them with a listless smile and laid them
upon his knee; as he bade her again to eat the strawberries she brought
them to his side, now and then coaxing a "particularly splendid" one into
his mouth, pressing them between his lips with her stained fingers.
"Papa, your eyes shine to-day! You are almost well. Nurse doesn't know."
"What does Nurse say?"
"That you will die soon; and then where shall I go?"
"Would you like to know where you will go?"
"I don't want to go anywhere; I want to stay here with you."
"But that is impossible, Jerrie."
"Why! Who says so?" she questioned, fixing her wondering eyes on his.
"God," he answered solemnly.
"Does he know all about it?"
"Yes."
"Has it _got_ to be so, then?" she asked, awed.
"Yes."
"Well, what is the rest, then?"
"Sit down and I'll tell you."
"I'd rather stand, please. I never like to sit down."
"Stand still then, dear, and lean on the arm of my chair and not on me;
you take my breath away,"
"Poor papa! Am I so big? As big as a sea lion?"
Not heeding her--more than half the time he heard her voice without
heeding her words--he turned the sheets in his fingers, lifted them as if
to read them and then dropped his hand.
"Jerrie, what have I told you about Uncle John who lives near the other
ocean?"
Jerrie thought a moment: "That he is good and will love me dearly, and be
ever so kind to me and teach me things?"
"And Prue, Aunt Prue; what do you know about her?"
"I know I have some of her name, not all, for her name is Pomeroy; and
she is as beautiful as a queen and as good; and she will love me more
than Uncle John will, and teach me how to be a lovely lady, too."
"Yes, that is all true; one of these letters is from her, written to
you--"
"Oh, to me! to _me_."
"I will read it to you presently."
"I know which is hers, the thin paper and the writing that runs along."
"And the other is from Uncle John."
"To me?" she queried.
"No, this is mine, but I will read it to you. First I want to tell you
about Aunt Prue's home."
"Is it like this? near the sea? and can I play on the beach and see the
lions?"
"It is near the sea, but it is not like this; her home is in a city by
the sea. The house is a large house. It was painted dark brown, years
ago, with red about the window frames, and the yard in front was full of
flowers that Aunt Prue had the care of, and the yard at the back was deep
and wide with maples in it and a swing that she used to love to swing in;
she was almost like a little girl then herself."
"She isn't like a little girl now, is she?"
"No, she is grown up like that lady on the beach with the children; but
she describes herself to you and promises to send her picture!"
"Oh, good!" exclaimed the child, dancing around the chair, and coming
back to stand quietly at her father's side.
"What is the house like inside? Like this house?"
"No, not at all. There is a wide, old-fashioned hall, with a dark carpet
in it and a table and several chairs, and engravings on the walls, and
a broad staircase that leads to large, pleasant rooms above; and there is
a small room on the top of the house where you can go up and see vessels
entering the harbor. Down-stairs the long parlor is the room that I know
best; that had a dark carpet and dark paper on the walls and many
windows, windows in front and back and two on the side, there were
portraits over the mantel of her father and mother, and other pictures
around everywhere, and a piano that she loved to play for her father on,
and books in book cases, and, in winter, plants; it was not like any one
else's parlor, for her father liked to sit there and she brought in
everything that would please him. Her father was old like me, and sick,
and she was a dear daughter like you."
"Did he die?" she asked.
"Yes, he died. He died sooner than he would have died because some one he
thought a great deal of did something very wicked and almost killed his
daughter with grief. How would I feel if some one should make you so
unhappy and I could not defend you and had to die and leave you alone."
"Would you want to kill him--the man that hurt me?"
But his eyes were on the water and not on her face; his countenance
became ashy, he gasped and hurried his handkerchief to his lips. Jeroma
was not afraid of the bright spots that he sought to conceal by crumpling
the handkerchief in his hand, she had known a long time that when her
father was excited those red spots came on his handkerchief. She knew,
too, that the physician had said that when he began to cough he would
die, but she had never heard him cough very much, and could not believe
that he must ever die.
"Papa, what became of the man that hurt Aunt Prue and made her father
die?"
"He lived and was the unhappiest wretch in existence. But Aunt Prue tried
to forgive him, and she used to pray for him as she always had done
before. Jerrie, when you go to Aunt Prue I want you to take her name,
your own name, Prudence, and I will begin to-day to call you 'Prue,' so
that you may get used to it."
"Oh, will you?" she cried in her happy voice. "I don't like to be
'Jerrie,' like the boy that takes care of the horses. When Mr. Pierce
calls so loud 'Jerry!' I'm always afraid he means me; but Nurse says that
Jerry has a _y_ in it and mine is _ie_, but it sounds like my name all
the time. But Prue is soft like Pussy and I like it. What made you ever
call me Jerrie, papa?"
"Because your mamma named you after my name, Jerome. We used to call you
Roma, but that was long for a baby, so we began to call you Jerrie."
"I like it, papa, because it is your name, and I could tell the girls at
Aunt Prue's that it is my father's name, and then I would be proud and
not ashamed."
"No, dear, always write it Prudence Holmes--forget that you had any other
name. It is so uncommon that people would ask how you came by it and then
they would know immediately who your father was."
"But I like to tell them who my father was. Do people know you in Aunt
Prue's city?"
"Yes, they knew me once and they are not likely to forget. Promise me,
Jerrie--Prue, that you will give up your first name."
"I don't like to, now I must, but I will, papa, and I'll tell Aunt Prue
you liked her name best, shall I?"
"Yes, tell her all I've been telling you--always tell her
everything--never do anything that you cannot tell her--and be sure to
tell her if any one speaks to you about your father, and she will talk
to you about it."
"Yes, papa," promised the child in an uncomprehending tone.
"Does Nurse teach you a Bible verse every night as I asked her to do?"
"Oh, yes, and I like some of them. The one last night was about a name!
Perhaps it meant Prue was a good name."
"What is it?" he asked.
"'A good name--a good name--'" she repeated, with her eyes on the floor
of the veranda, "and then something about riches, great riches, but I do
forget so. Shall I run and ask her, papa?"
"No, I learned it when I was a boy: 'A good name is rather to be chosen
than great riches.' Is that it?"
"Yes, that's it: 'A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.'
I shan't forget next time; I'll think about your name, Jerome, papa; that
is a good name, but I don't see how it is better than _great_ riches, do
you?"
The handkerchief was nervously at his lips again, and the child waited
for him to speak.
"Jerrie, I have no money to leave you, it will all be gone by the time
you and Nurse are safe at Aunt Prue's. Everything you have will come from
her; you must always thank her very much for doing so much for you, and
thank Uncle John and be very obedient to him."
"Will he make me do what I don't want to?" she asked, her lips pouting
and her eyes moistening.
"Not unless it is best, and now you must promise me never to disobey him
or Aunt Prue. Promise, Jerrie."
But Jerrie did not like to promise. She moved her feet uneasily, she
scratched on the arm of his chair with a pin that she had picked up on
the floor of the veranda; she would not lift her eyes nor speak. She did
not love to be obedient; she loved to be queen in her own little realm of
Self.
"Papa is dying--he will soon go away, and his little daughter will not
promise the last thing he asks of her?"
Instantly, in a flood of penitent tears, her arms were flung about his
neck and she was promising over and over, "I will, I will," and sobbing
on his shoulder.
He suffered the embrace for a few moments and then pushed her gently
aside.
"Papa is tired now, dear. I want to teach you a Bible verse, that you
must never, never forget: 'The way of the transgressor is hard.' Say it
after me."
The child brushed her tears away and stood upright.
"The way of the transgressor is hard," she repeated in a sobbing voice.
"Repeat it three times."
She repeated it three times slowly.
"Tell Uncle John and Aunt Prue that that was the last thing I taught you,
will you?"
"Yes, papa," catching her breath with a little sob.
"And now run away and come back in a hour and I will read the letters to
you. Ask Nurse to tell you when it is an hour."
The child skipped away, and before many minutes he heard her laughing
with the children on the beach. With the letters in his hand, and the
crumpled handkerchief with the moist red spots tucked away behind him in
the chair, he leaned back and closed his eyes. His breath came easily
after a little time and he dozed and dreamed. He was a boy again and it
was a moonlight night, snow was on the ground, and he was walking home
from town besides his oxen; he had sold the load of wood that he had
started with before daylight; he had eaten his two lunches of bread and
salt beef and doughnuts, and now, cold and tired and sleepy, he was
walking back home at the side of his oxen. The stars were shining, the
ground was as hard as stone beneath his tread, the oxen labored on
slowly, it seemed as if he would never get home. His mother would have a
hot supper for him, and the boys would ask what the news was, and what
he had seen, and his little sister would ask if he had bought that piece
of ginger bread for her. He stirred and the papers rustled in his fingers
and there was a harsh sound somewhere as of a bolt grating, and his cell
was small and the bed so narrow, so narrow and so hard, and he was
suffocating and could not get out.
"Papa! papa! It's an hour," whispered a voice in his ear. The eyelids
quivered, the eyes looked straight at her but did not see her.
"Ah Sing! Ah Sing! Get me to bed!" he groaned.
Frightened at the expression of his face the child ran to call Nurse and
her father's man, Ah Sing. Nurse kept her out of her father's chamber all
that day, but she begged for her letter and Nurse gave it to her. She
carried it in her hand that day and the next, at night keeping it under
her pillow.
Before many days the strange uncle came and he led her in to her father
and let her kiss his hand, and afterward he read Aunt Prue's soiled
letter to her and told her that she and Nurse were going to Aunt Prue's
home next week.
"Won't you go, too?" she asked, clinging to him as no one had ever clung
to him before.
"No, I must stay here all winter--I shall come to you some time."
She sobbed herself to sleep in his arms, with the letter held fast in her
hand; he laid her on her bed, pressing his lips to her warm, wet face,
and then went down and out on the beach, pacing up and down until the
dawn was in the sky.
XVI.
MAPLE STREET.
"Work for some good, be it ever so slowly."--_Mrs. Osgood_.
The long room with its dark carpet and dark walls was in twilight, in
twilight and in firelight, for without the rain was falling steadily, and
in the old house fires were needed early in the season. In the time of
which little Jeroma had heard, there had been a fire on the hearth in the
front parlor, but to-night, when that old time was among the legends, the
fire glowed in a large grate; in the back parlor the heat came up through
the register. Miss Prudence had a way of designating the long apartment
as two rooms, for there was an arch in the centre, and there were two
mantels and two fireplaces. Prue's father would have said to-night that
the old room was unchanged--nothing had been taken out and nothing new
brought in since that last night that he had seen the old man pacing up
and down, and the old man's daughter whirling around on the piano stool,
as full of hope and trust and enthusiasm as ever a girl could be.
But to-night there was a solitary figure before the fire, with no
memories and no traditions to disturb her dreaming, with no memories of
other people's past that is, for there was a sad memory or a foreboding
in the very droop of her shoulders and in her listless hands. The small,
plump figure was arrayed in school attire of dark brown, with linen
collar and cuffs, buttoned boots resting on the fender, and a black silk
apron with pockets; there were books and a slate upon the rug, and a
slate pencil and lead pencil in one of the apron pockets; a sheet of note
paper had slipped from her lap down to the rug, on the sheet of paper was
a half-finished letter beginning: "Dear Morris." There was nothing in the
letter worth jotting down, she wondered why she had ever begun it. She
was nestling down now with her head on the soft arm of the chair, her
eyes were closed, but she was not asleep, for the moisture beneath the
tremulous eyelids had formed itself into two large drops and was slowly
rolling, unheeded, down her cheeks.
The rain was beating noisily upon the window panes, and the wind was
rising higher and higher; as it lulled for a moment there was the sound
of a footfall on the carpet somewhere and the door was pushed open from
the lighted hall.
"Don't you want to be lighted up yet, Miss Marjorie?"
"No, Deborah, thank you! I'll light the lamps myself."
"Young things like to sit in the dark, I guess," muttered old Deborah,
closing the door softly; adding to herself: "Miss Prudence used to, once
on a time, and this girl is coming to it."
After that for a little time there was no sound, save the sound of the
rain, and, now and then, the soft sigh that escaped Marjorie's lips.