What if Hollis did not want to answer that last letter of hers, written
more than two months ago, just after Linnet's wedding day? That had been
a long letter; perhaps too long. But she had been so lonesome, missing
everybody. Linnet, and Morris, and Mr. Holmes, and Miss Prudence had gone
to her grandfather's for the sea bathing, and the girl had come to help
her mother, and she had walked over to his mother's and talked about
everything to her and then written that long letter to him, that long
letter that had been unanswered so long. When his letter was due she had
expected it, as usual, and had walked to the post-office, the two miles
and a half, for the sake of the letter and having something to do. She
could not believe it when the postmaster handed her only her father's
weekly paper, she stood a moment, and then asked, "Is that all?" And the
next week came, and the next, and the next, and no letter from him; and
then she had ceased, with a dull sense of loss and disappointment, to
expect any answer at all. Her mother inquired briskly every day if her
letter had come and urged her to write a note asking if he had received
it, for he might be waiting for it all this time, but shyness and pride
forbade that, and afterward his mother called and spoke of something
that he must have read in that letter. She felt how she must have
colored, and was glad that her father called her, at that moment, to help
him shell corn for the chickens.
When she returned to the house, brightened up and laughing, her mother
told her that Mrs. Rheid had said that Hollis had begun to write to her
regularly and she was so proud of it. "She says it is because you are
going away and he wants her to hear directly from him; I guess, too, it's
because he's being exercised in his mind and thinks he ought to have
written oftener before; she says her hand is out of practice and the
Cap'n hates to write letters and only writes business letters when it's a
force put. I guess she will miss you, Marjorie."
Marjorie thought to herself that she would.
But Marjorie's mother did not repeat all the conversation; she did not
say that she had followed her visitor to the gate and after glancing
around to be sure that Marjorie was not near had lowered her voice and
said:
"But I do think it is a shame, Mis' Rheid, for your Hollis to treat my
Marjorie so! After writing to her four years to give her the slip like
this! And the girl takes on about it, I can see it by her looks, although
she's too proud to say a word."
"I'm sure I'm sorry," said Mrs. Rheid. "Hollis wouldn't do a mean thing."
"I don't know what you call this, then," Marjorie's mother had replied
spiritedly as she turned towards the house.
Mrs. Rheid pondered night and day before she wrote to Hollis what
Marjorie's mother had said; but he never answered that part of the
letter, and his mother never knew whether she had done harm or good. Poor
little Marjorie could have told her, with an indignation that she would
have been frightened at; but Marjorie never knew. I'm afraid she would
not have felt like kissing her mother good-night if she had known it.
Her father looked grave and anxious that night when her mother told him,
as in duty bound she was to tell him everything, how she was arranging
things for Marjorie's comfort.
"That was wrong, Sarah, that was wrong," he said.
"How wrong? I don't see how it was wrong?" she had answered sharply.
"Then I cannot explain to you, Marjorie isn't hurt any; I don't believe
she cares half as much as you do?"
"You don't know; you don't see her all the time."
"She misses Linnet and Morris, and perhaps she grieves about going away.
You remind me of some one in the Bible--a judge. He had thirty sons and
thirty daughters and he got them all married! It's well for your peace of
mind that you have but two."
"It's no laughing matter," she rejoined.
"No, it is not," he sighed, for he understood Marjorie.
How the tears would have burned dry on Marjorie's indignant cheeks had
she surmised one tithe of her mother's remonstrance and defence; it is
true she missed his letters, and she missed writing her long letters to
him, but she did not miss him as she would have missed Morris had some
misunderstanding come between them. She was full of her home and her
studies, and she felt herself too young to think grown-up thoughts and
have grown-up experiences; she felt herself to be so much younger
than Linnet. But her pride was touched, simple-hearted as she was she
wanted Hollis to care a little for her letters. She had tried to please
him and to be thoughtful about his mother and grandmother; and this was
not a pleasant ending. Her mother had watched her, she was well aware,
and she was glad to come away with Miss Prudence to escape her mother's
keen eyes. Her father had kissed her tenderly more than once, as though
he were seeking to comfort her for something. It was _such_ a relief--and
she drew a long breath as she thought of it--to be away from both, and to
be with Miss Prudence, who never saw anything, or thought anything, or
asked any questions. A few tears dropped slowly as she cuddled in the
chair with her head on its arm, she hardly knew why; because she was
alone, perhaps, and Linnet was so far off, and it rained, and Miss
Prudence and her little girl might not come home to-night, and, it might
be, because Miss Prudence had another little girl to love.
Miss Prudence had gone to New York, a week ago, to meet the child and to
visit the Rheids. The nurse had relatives in the city and preferred to
remain with them, but Prue would be ready to come home with Miss
Prudence, and it was possible that they might come to-night.
The house had been so lonely with old Deborah it was no wonder that she
began to cry! And, it was foolish to remember that Holland plate in Mrs.
Harrowgate's parlor that she had seen to-day when she had stopped after
school on an errand for Miss Prudence. What a difference it had made to
her that it was that plate on the bracket and not that yellow pitcher.
The yellow pitcher was in fragments now up in the garret; she must show
it to Prue some rainy day and tell her about what a naughty little girl
she had been that day.
That resolution helped to shake off her depression, she roused herself,
went to the window and looked out into darkness, and then sauntered as
far as the piano and seated herself to play the march that Hollis liked;
Napoleon crossing the Alps. But scarcely had she touched the keys before
she heard voices out in the rain and feet upon the piazza.
Deborah's old ears had caught an earlier sound, and before Marjorie could
rush out the street door was opened and the travellers were in the hall.
Exclamations and warm embraces, and then Marjorie drew the little one
into the parlor and before the fire. The child stood with her grave eyes
searching out the room, and when the light from the bronze lamp on the
centre table flashed out upon everything she walked up and down the
length of the apartment, stopping now and then to look curiously at
something.
Marjorie smiled and thought to herself that she was a strange little
creature.
"It's just as papa said," she remarked, coming to the rug, her survey
being ended. The childishness and sweet gravity of her tone were
striking.
Marjorie removed the white hood that she had travelled from California
in, and, brushing back the curls that shone in the light like threads of
gold, kissed her forehead and cheeks and rosy lips.
"I am your Cousin Marjorie, and you are my little cousin."
"I like you, Cousin Marjorie," the child said.
"Of course you do, and I love you. Are you Prue, or Jeroma?"
"I'm Prue," she replied with dignity. "Don't you _ever_ call me Jeroma
again, ever; papa said so."
Marjorie laughed and kissed her again.
"I never, never will," she promised.
"Aunt Prue says 'Prue' every time."
Marjorie unbuttoned the gray cloak and drew off the gray gloves; Prue
threw off the cloak and then lifted her foot for the rubber to be pulled
off.
"I had no rubbers; Aunt Prue bought these in New York."
"Aunt Prue is very kind," said Marjorie, as the second little foot was
lifted.
"Does she buy you things, too?" asked Prue.
"Yes, ever and ever so many things."
"Does she buy _everybody_ things?" questioned Prue, curiously.
"Yes," laughed Marjorie; "she's everybody's aunt."
"No, I don't buy everybody things. I buy things for you and Marjorie
because you are both my little girls."
Turning suddenly Marjorie put both arms about Miss Prudence's neck: "I've
missed you, dreadfully, Miss Prudence; I almost cried to-night."
"So that is the story I find in your eyes. But you haven't asked me the
news."
"You haven't seen mother, or Linnet, or Morris,--they keep my news for
me." But she flushed as she spoke, reproaching herself for not being
quite sincere.
Prue stood on the hearth rug, looking up at the portrait of the lady over
the mantel.
"Don't pretend that you don't want to hear that Nannie Rheid has put
herself through," began Miss Prudence in a lively voice, "crammed to the
last degree, and has been graduated a year in advance of time that she
may be married this month. Her father was inexorable, she must be
graduated first, and she has done it at seventeen, so he has had to
redeem his promise and allow her to be married. Her 'composition'--that
is the old-fashioned name--was published in one of the literary weeklies,
and they all congratulate themselves and each other over her success. But
her eyes are big, and she looks as delicate as a wax lily; she is all
nerves, and she laughs and talks as though she could not stop herself.
What do you think of her as a school girl triumph?"
"It isn't tempting. I like myself better. I want to be _slow_. Miss
Prudence, I don't want to hurry anything."
"I approve of you, Marjorie. Now what is this little girl thinking
about?"
"Is that your mamma up there?"
"Yes."
"She looks like you."
"Yes, I am like her; but there is no white in her hair. It is all black,
Prue."
"I like white in hair for old ladies."
Marjorie laughed and Miss Prudence smiled. She was glad that being called
"an old lady" could strike somebody as comical.
"Was papa in this room a good many times?"
"Yes, many times."
Miss Prudence could speak to his child without any sigh in her voice.
"Do you remember the last time he was here?"
"Yes," very gently.
"He said I would like your house and I do."
"Nannie is to marry one of Helen's friends, Marjorie; her mother thought
he used to care for Helen, but Nannie is like her."
"Yes," said Marjorie, "I remember. Hollis told me."
"And my best news is about Hollis. He united with the Church a week or
two ago; Mrs. Rheid says he is the happiest Christian she ever saw. He
says he has not been _safe_ since Helen died--he has been thinking ever
since."
Tears were so near to Marjorie's eyes that they brimmed over; could she
ever thank God enough for this? others may have been praying for him,
but she knew her years of prayers were being answered. She would never
feel sorrowful or disappointed about any little thing again, for what
had she so longed for as this? How rejoiced his mother must be! Oh, that
she might write to him and tell him how glad she was! But she could not
do that. She could tell God how glad she was, and if Hollis never knew it
would not matter.
"In the spring he is to go to Europe for the firm."
"He will like that," said Marjorie, finding her voice.
"He is somebody to be depended on. But there is the tea-bell, and my
little traveller is hungry, for she would not eat on the train and I
tempted her with fruit and crackers."
"Aunt Prue, I _like_ it here. May I see up stairs, too?"
"You must see the supper table first. And then Marjorie may show you
everything while I write to Uncle John, to tell him that our little bird
has found her nest."
Marjorie gave up her place that night in the wide, old-fashioned mahogany
bedstead beside Miss Prudence and betook herself to the room that opened
out of Miss Prudence's, a room with handsome furniture in ash, the
prevailing tint of the pretty things being her favorite shade of light
blue.
"That is a maiden's room," Miss Prudence had said; "and when Prue has a
maiden's room it shall be in rose."
Marjorie was not jealous, as she had feared she might be, of the little
creature who nestled close to Miss Prudence; she felt that Miss Prudence
was being comforted in the child. She was too happy to sleep that night.
In the years afterward she did not leave Hollis out of her prayers, but
she never once thought to pray that he might be brought back again to be
her friend. Her prayer for him had been answered and with that she was
well content.
XVII.
MORRIS.
"What I aspired to be comforts me."--_Browning_.
It was late one evening in November; Prue had kissed them both good-night
and ran laughing up the broad staircase to bed; Miss Prudence had
finished her evening's work and evening's pleasure, and was now sitting
opposite Marjorie, near the register in the back parlor. A round table
had been rolled up between them upon which the shaded, bronze lamp was
burning, gas not having yet been introduced into old-fashioned Maple
Street. The table was somewhat littered and in confusion, Prue's
stereoscope was there with the new views of the Yosemite at which she had
been looking that evening and asking Aunt Prue numerous questions, among
which was "Shall we go and see them some day? Shall we go everywhere some
day?" Aunt Prue had satisfied her with "Perhaps so, darling," and then
had fallen silently to wondering why she and Prue might not travel some
day, a year in Europe had always been one of her postponed intentions,
and, by and by, how her child would enjoy it. Marjorie's books and
writing desk were on the table also, for she had studied mental
philosophy and chemistry after she had copied her composition and
written a long letter to her mother. Short letters were as truly an
impossibility to Marjorie as short addresses are to some public speeches;
still Marjorie always stopped when she found she had nothing to say. To
her mother, school and Miss Prudence and Prue's sayings and doings were
an endless theme of delight. Not only did she take Marjoire's letters to
her old father and mother, but she more than a few times carried them in
her pocket when she visited Mrs. Rheid, that she might read them aloud to
her. Miss Prudence's work was also on the table, pretty sewing for Prue
and her writing materials, for it was the night for her weekly letter to
John Holmes. Mr. Holmes did not parade his letters before the neighbors,
but none the less did he pore over them and ponder them. For whom had he
in all the world to love save little Prue and Aunt Prue?
Marjorie had closed the chemistry with a sigh, reserving astronomy for
the fresher hour of the morning. With the burden of the unlearned lesson
on her mind she opened her Bible for her usual evening reading, shrinking
from it with a distaste that she had felt several times of late and that
she had fought against and prayed about. Last evening she had compelled
herself to read an extra chapter to see if she might not read herself
into a comfortable frame of mind, and then she had closed the book with a
sigh of relief, feeling that this last task of the day was done. To-night
she fixed her eyes upon the page awhile and then dropped the book into
her lap with a weary gesture that was not unnoticed by the eyes that
never lost anything where Marjorie was concerned. It was something new to
see a fretful or fretted expression upon Marjorie's lips, but it was
certainly there to-night and Miss Prudence saw it; it might be also in
her eyes, but, if it were, the uneasy eyelids were at this moment
concealing it. "The child is very weary to-night," Miss Prudence thought,
and wondered if she were allowing her, in her ambition, to take too much
upon herself. Music, with the two hours a day practicing that she
resolutely never omitted, all the school lessons, reading and letters,
and the conscientious preparation of her lesson for Bible class, was most
assuredly sufficient to tax her mental and physical strength, and there
was the daily walk of a mile to and from school, and other things
numberless to push themselves in for her comfort and Prue's. But her step
was elastic, her color as pretty as when she worked in the kitchen at
home, and when she came in from school she was always ready for a romp
with Prue before she sat down to practice.
When summer came the garden and trips to the islands would be good for
both her children. Miss Prudence advocated the higher education for
girls, but if Marjorie's color had faded or her spirits flagged she would
have taken her out of school and set her to household tasks and to walks
and drives. Had she not taken Linnet home after her three years course
with the country color fresh in her cheeks and her step as light upon the
stair as when she left home?
The weariness had crept into Marjorie's face since she closed her books;
it was not when she opened the Bible. Was the child enduring any
spiritual conflicts again? Linnet had never had spiritual conflicts; what
should she do with this too introspective Marjorie? Would Prue grow up to
ask questions and need just such comforting, too? Miss Prudence's own
evening's work had begun with her Bible reading, she read and meditated
all the hour and a quarter that Marjorie was writing her letter (they had
supper so early that their evenings began at half-past six), she had read
with eagerness and a sense of deep enjoyment and appreciation.
"It is so good," she had exclaimed as she laid the Bible aside, and
Marjorie had raised her head at the exclamation and asked what was so
good. "Peter's two letters to the Church and to me."
Without replying Marjorie had dipped her pen again and written: "Miss
Prudence is more and more of a saint every day."
"Marjorie, it's a snow storm."
"Yes," said Marjorie, not opening her eyes.
Miss Prudence looked at the bronze clock on the mantel; it was ten
o'clock. Marjorie should have been asleep an hour ago.
Miss Prudence's fur-trimmed slippers touched the toe of Marjorie's
buttoned boot, they were both resting on the register.
"Marjorie, I don't know what I am thinking of to let you sit up so late;
I shall have to send you upstairs with Prue after this. Linnet's hour was
nine o'clock when she was studying, and look at her and Nannie Rheid."
"But I'm not getting through to be married, as Linnet was."
"How do you know?" asked Miss Prudence.
"Not intentionally, then," smiled Marjorie, opening her eyes this time.
"I'm not the old maid that eschews matrimony; all I want is to choose for
you and Prue."
"Not yet, please," said Marjorie, lifting her hands in protest.
"What is it that tires you so to-night? School?
"No," answered Marjorie, sitting upright; "school sits as lightly on my
shoulders as that black lace scarf you gave me yesterday; it is because I
grow more and more wicked every night. I am worse than I was last night.
I tried to read in the Bible just now and I did not care for it one bit,
or understand it one bit; I began to think I never should find anything
to do me good in Malachi, or in any of the old prophets."
"Suppose you read to me awhile--not in the Bible, but in your
Sunday-school book. You told Prue that it was fascinating. 'History of
the Reformation,' isn't it?"
"To-night? O, Aunt Prue, I'm too tired."
"Well, then, a chapter of Walter Scott, that will rest you."
"No, it won't; I wouldn't understand a word."
"'The Minister's Wooing' then; you admire Mrs. Stowe so greatly."
"I don't admire her to-night, I'm afraid. Aunt Prue, even a startling
ring at the door bell will not wake me up."
"Suppose I play for you," suggested Miss Prudence, gravely.
"I thought you wanted me to go to bed," said Marjorie, suppressing her
annoyance as well as she could.
"Just see, child; you are too worn out for all and any of these things
that you usually take pleasure in, and yet you take up the Bible and
expect to feel devotional and be greatly edified, even to find that
Malachi has a special message for you. And you berate yourself for
hardheartedness and coldheartedness. When you are so weary, don't you see
that your brain refuses to think?"
"Do you mean that I ought to read only one verse and think that enough?
Oh, if I might."
"Have you taken more time than that would require for other things
to-day?"
"Why, yes," said Marjorie, looking surprised.
"Then why should you give God's book just half a minute, or not so long,
and Wayland and Legendre and every body else just as much time as the
length of your lesson claims? Could you make anything of your astronomy
now?"
"No, I knew I could not, and that is why I am leaving it till morning."
"Suppose you do not study it at all and tell Mr. McCosh that you were too
tired to-night."
"He would not accept such an excuse. He would ask why I deferred it so
long. He would think I was making fun of him to give him such an excuse.
I wouldn't dare."
"But you go to God and offer him your evening sacrifice with eyes so
blind that they cannot see his words, and brain so tired that it can find
no meaning in them. Will he accept an excuse that you are ashamed to give
your teacher?"
"No," said Marjorie, looking startled. "I will read, and perhaps I can
think now."
But Miss Prudence was bending towards her and taking the Bible from her
lap.
"Let me find something for you in Malachi."
"And help me understand," said Marjorie.
After a moment Miss Prudence read aloud:
"'And if ye offer the blind for sacrifice, is it not evil? And if ye
offer the lame and sick, is it not evil? Offer it now unto thy governor;
will he be pleased with thee, or accept thy person? saith the Lord of
hosts.'"
Closing the book she returned it to Marjorie's lap.
"You mean that God will not accept my excuse for not feeling like reading
to-night?"
"You said that Mr. McCosh would not accept such an excuse for your
astronomy."
"Miss Prudence!" Marjorie was wide awake now. "You mean that I should
read early in the evening as you do! Is _that_ why you always read before
you do anything else in the evening?"
"It certainly is. I tried to give my blind, tired hours to God and found
that he did not accept--for I had no blessing in reading; I excused
myself on your plea, I was too weary, and then I learned to give him my
best and freshest time."
There was no weariness or frettedness in Marjorie's face now; the heart
rest was giving her physical rest. "I will begin to-morrow night--I can't
begin to-night--and read the first thing as you do. I am almost through
the Old Testament; how I shall enjoy beginning the New! Miss Prudence,
is it so about praying, too?"
"What do you think?"
"I know it is. And that is why my prayers do not comfort me, sometimes. I
mean, the short prayers do; but I do want to pray about so many things,
and I am really too tired when I go to bed, sometimes I fall asleep when
I am not half through. Mother used to tell Linnet and me that we oughtn't
to talk after we said our prayers, so we used to talk first and put our
prayers off until the last thing, and sometimes we were so sleepy we
hardly knew what we were saying."
"This plan of early reading and praying does not interfere with prayer at
bedtime, you know; as soon as my head touches the pillow I begin to pray,
I think I always fall asleep praying, and my first thought in the morning
is prayer. My dear, our best and freshest, not our lame and blind, belong
to God."
"Yes," assented Marjorie in a full tone. "Aunt Prue, O, Aunt Prue what
would I do without you to help me."
"God would find you somebody else; but I'm very glad he found me for
you."
"I'm more than glad," said Marjorie, enthusiastically.
"It's a real snow storm," Miss Prudence went to the window, pushed the
curtain aside, and looked out.
"It isn't as bad as the night that Morris came to me when I was alone.
Mr. Holmes did not come for two days and it was longer than that before
father and mother could come. What a grand time we had housekeeping! It
is time for the _Linnet_ to be in. I know Morris will come to see us as
soon as he can get leave. Linnet will be glad to go to her pretty little
home; the boy on the farm is to be there nights, mother said, and Linnet
will not mind through the day. Mother Rheid, as Linnet says, will run
over every day, and Father Rheid, too, I suspect. They _love_ Linnet."
"Marjorie, if I hadn't had you I believe I should have been content with
Linnet, she is so loving."
"And if you hadn't Prue you would be content with me!" laughed Marjorie,
and just then a strong pull at the bell sent it ringing through the
house, Marjorie sprang to her feet and Miss Prudence moved towards the
door.
"I feel in my bones that it's somebody," cried Marjorie, following her
into the hall.