Prudence, turning the big key.
And a ghost certainly never had such laughing blue eyes or such light
curls sprinkled with snow and surmounted by a jaunty navy-blue sailor
cap, and a ghost never could give such a spring and catch Marjorie in its
arms and rub its cold cheeks against her warm ones.
"O, Morris," Marjorie cried, "it's like that other night when you came in
the snow! Only I'm not frightened and alone now. This is such a surprise!
Such a splendid surprise."
Marjorie was never shy with Morris, her "twin-brother" as she used to
call him.
But the next instant she was escaping out of his arms and fleeing back to
the fire. Miss Prudence and Morris followed more decorously.
"Now tell us all about it," Marjorie cried, stepping about upon the rug
and on the carpet. "And where is Linnet? And when did you get in? And
where's Will? And why didn't Linnet come with you?"
"Because I didn't want to be overshadowed; I wanted a welcome all my own.
And Linnet is at home under her mother's sheltering wing--as I ought to
be under my mother's, instead of being here under yours. Will is on board
the _Linnet_, another place where I ought to be this minute; and we
arrived day before yesterday in New York, where we expect to load for
Liverpool, I took the captain's wife home, and then got away from Mother
West on the plea that I must see my own mother as soon as time and tide
permitted; but to my consternation I found every train stopped at the
foot of Maple Street, so I had to stop, instead of going through as I
wanted to."
"That is a pity," said Marjorie; "but we'll send you off to your mother
to-morrow. Now begin at the beginning and tell me everything that you and
Linnet didn't write about."
"But, first--a moment, Marjorie. Has our traveller had his supper?"
interposed Miss Prudence.
"Yes, thank you, I had supper, a very early one, with Linnet and Mother
West; Father West had gone to mill, and didn't we turn the house upside
down when he came into the kitchen and found us. Mother West kept wiping
her eyes and Linnet put her arms around her father's neck and really
cried! She said she knew she wasn't behaving 'marriedly,' but she was so
glad she couldn't help it."
"Dear old Linnet," ejaculated Marjorie. "When is she coming to see us?"
"As soon as Mother West and Mother Rheid let her! I imagine the scene at
Captain Rheid's tomorrow! Linnet is 'wild,' as you girls say, to see her
house, and I don't know as she can tear herself away from that kitchen
and new tinware, and she's fairly longing for washday to come that she
may hang her new clothes on her new clothes line."
"Oh, I wish I could go and help her!" cried Marjorie. "Miss Prudence,
that little house does almost make me want to go to housekeeping! Just
think of getting dinner with all her new things, and setting the table
with those pretty white dishes."
"Now, Marjorie, I've caught you," laughed Morris. "That is a concession
from the girl that cared only for school books."
"I do care for school books, but that house is the temptation."
"I suppose another one wouldn't be."
"There isn't another one like that--outside of a book."
"Oh, if you find such things, in books, I won't veto the books; but, Miss
Prudence, I'm dreadfully afraid of our Marjorie losing herself in a Blue
Stocking."
"She never will, don't fear!" reassured Miss Prudence. "She coaxes me to
let her sew for Prue, and I found her in the kitchen making cake last
Saturday afternoon."
Miss Prudence was moving around easily, giving a touch to something here
and there, and after closing the piano slipped away; and, before they
knew it, they were alone, standing on the hearth rug looking gravely and
almost questioningly into each others' eyes. Marjorie smiled, remembering
the quarrel of that last night; would he think now that she had become
too much like Miss Prudence,--Miss Prudence, with her love of literature,
her ready sympathy and neat, housewifely ways, Prue did not know which
she liked better, Aunt Prue's puddings or her music.
The color rose in Morris' face, Marjorie's lip trembled slightly. She
seated herself in the chair she had been occupying and asked Morris to
make himself at home in Miss Prudence's chair directly opposite. He
dropped into it, threw his head back and allowed his eyes to rove over
everything in the room, excepting that flushed, half-averted face so near
to him. She was becoming like Miss Prudence, he had decided the matter in
the study of these few moments, that attitude when standing was Miss
Prudence's, and her position at this moment, the head a little drooping,
the hands laid together in her lap, was exactly Miss Prudence's; Miss
Prudence's when she was meditating as Marjorie was meditating now. There
was a poise of the head like the elder lady's, and now and then a
stateliness and dignity that were not Marjorie's own when she was his
little friend and companion in work and study at home. In these first
moments he could discern changes better than to-morrow; to-morrow he
would be accustomed to her again; to-morrow he would find the unchanged
little Marjorie that hunted eggs and went after the cows. He could not
explain to himself why he liked that Marjorie better; he could not
explain to himself that he feared Miss Prudence's Marjorie would hold
herself above the second mate of the barque _Linnet_; a second mate whose
highest ambition to become master. Linnet had not held her self above
Captain Will, but Linnet had never loved books as Marjorie did. Morris
was provoked at himself. Did not he love books, and why then should he
quarrel with Marjorie? It was not for loving books, but for loving books
better than--anything! Had Mrs. Browning loved books better than
anything, or Mary Somerville, or Fredrika Bremer?--yes, Fredrika Bremer
had refused to be married, but there was Marjorie's favorite--
"Tell me all about Linnet," said Marjorie, breaking the uncomfortable
silence.
"I have--and she has written."
"But you never can write all. Did she bring me the branch of mulberry
from Mt. Vesuvius?"
"Yes, and will bring it to you next week. She said she would come to you
because she was sure you would not want to leave school; and she wants to
see Miss Prudence. I told her she would wish herself a girl again, and it
was dangerous for her to come, but she only laughed. I have brought you
something, too, Marjorie," he said unsteadily.
But Marjorie ignored it and asked questions about Linnet and her home on
shipboard.
"Have I changed, Marjorie?"
"No," she said. "You cannot change for the better, so why should you
change at all?"
"I don't like that," he returned seriously; "it is rather hard to attain
to perfection before one is twenty-one. I shall have nothing to strive
for. Don't you know the artist who did kill himself, or wanted to,
because he had done his best?"
"You are perfect as a boy--I mean, there is all manhood left to you," she
answered very gravely.
He colored again and his blue eyes grew as cold as steel. Had he come to
her to-night in the storm to have his youth thrown up at him?
"Marjorie, if that is all you have to say to me, I think I might better
go."
"O, Morris, don't be angry, don't be angry!" she pleaded. "How can I look
up to somebody who was born on my birthday," she added merrily.
"I don't want you to look up to me; but that is different from looking
down. You want me to tarry at Jericho, I suppose," he said, rubbing his
smooth chin.
"I want you not to be nonsensical," she replied energetically.
How that tiny box burned in his pocket! Should he toss it away, that
circlet of gold with _Semper fidelis_ engraved within it? How he used to
write on his slate: "Morris Kemlo, _Semper fidelis_" and she had never
once scorned it, but had written her own name with the same motto beneath
it. But she had given it a higher significance than he had given it; she
had never once thought of it in connection with any human love.
"How often do you write to Hollis?" he inquired at last.
"I do not write to him at all," she answered.
"Why not? Has something happened?" he said, eagerly.
"I suppose so."
"Don't you want to tell me? Does it trouble you?"
"Yes, I want to tell you, I do not think that it troubles me now. He has
never--answered my last letter."
"Did you quarrel with him?"
"Oh, no. I may have displeased him, but I have no idea how I did it."
She spoke very easily, not flushing at all, meeting his eyes frankly; she
was concealing nothing, there was nothing to be concealed. Marjorie was
a little girl still. Was he glad or sorry? Would he find her grown up
when he came back next time?
"Do you like school as well as you thought you would?" he asked, with a
change of tone.
He would not be "nonsensical" any longer.
"Better! A great deal better," she said, enthusiastically.
"What are you getting ready for?"
"_Semper fiddelis_. Don't you remember our motto? I am getting ready to
be always faithful. There's so much to be faithful in, Morris. I am
learning new things every day."
He had no reply at hand. How that innocent ring burned in his pocket! And
he had thought she would accept that motto from him.
"I am not the first fellow that has gone through this," he comforted
himself grimly. "I will not throw it overboard; she will listen next
time."
Next time? Ah, poor Morris, if you had known about next time, would you
have spoken to-night?
"Marjorie, I have something for you, but I would rather not give it to
you to-night," he said with some confusion.
"Well," she said, quietly, "I can wait."
"Do you _want_ to wait."
"Yes. I think I do," she answered deliberately.
Miss Prudence's step was at the front parlor door.
"You young folks are not observing the clock, I see. Marjorie must study
astronomy by starlight to-morrow morning, and I am going to send you
upstairs, Morris. But first, shall we have family worship, together? I
like to have a priest in my house when I can."
She laid Marjorie's Bible in his hand as she spoke. He read a short
Psalm, and then they knelt together. He had grown; Marjorie felt it in
every word of the simple heartfelt prayer. He prayed like one at home
with God. One petition she long remembered: "Lord, when thou takest
anything away from us, fill us the more with thyself."
XVIII.
ONE DAY.
"Education is the apprenticeship of life."--_Willmott._
Marjorie did not study astronomy by starlight, but she awoke very early
and tripped with bare feet over the carpet into Miss Prudence's chamber.
Deborah kindled the wood fire early in Miss Prudence's chamber that Prue
might have a warm room to dress in. It was rarely that Marjorie studied
in the morning, the morning hours were reserved for practicing and for
fun with Prue. She said if she had guessed how delightful it was to have
a little sister she should have been all her life mourning for one. She
almost envied Linnet because she had had Marjorie.
The fire was glowing in the airtight when she ran into the chamber, there
was a faint light in the east, but the room was so dark that she just
discerned Prue's curls close to the dark head on the pillow and the
little hand that was touching Miss Prudence's cheek.
"This is the law of compensation," she thought as she busied herself in
dressing; "one has found a mother and the other a little girl! It isn't
quite like the old lady who said that when she had nothing to eat she had
no appetite! I wonder if Miss Prudence has _all_ her compensations!"
She stepped noiselessly over the stairs, opened the back parlor door, and
by the dim light found a match and lighted the lamp on the centre table.
Last night had come again. The face of the clock was the only reminder
she had left the room, the face of the clock and a certain alertness
within herself. As she settled herself near the register and took the
astronomy from the pile her eye fell on her Bible, it was on the table
where Morris had laid it last night. Miss Prudence's words came to her,
warningly. Must she also give the fresh hour of her morning to God? The
tempting astronomy was open in her hand at the chapter _Via Lactea._
She glanced at it and read half a page, then dropped it suddenly and
reached forward for the Bible. She was afraid her thoughts would wander
to the unlearned lesson: in such a frame of mind, would it be an
acceptable offering? But who was accountable for her frame of mind? She
wavered no longer, with a little prayer that she might understand and
enjoy she opened to Malachi, and, reverently and thoughtfully, with no
feeling of being hurried, read the first and second chapters. She thought
awhile about the "blind for sacrifice," and in the second chapter found
words that meant something to her: "My covenant was with him of life and
peace." Life and peace! Peace! Had she ever known anything that was not
peace?
Before she had taken the astronomy into her hands again the door opened,
as if under protest of some kind, and Morris stood on the threshold,
looking at her with hesitation in his attitude.
"Come in," she invited, smiling at his attitude.
"But you don't want to talk."
"No; I have to study awhile. But you will not disturb; we have studied
often enough together for you to know how I study."
"I know! Not a word in edgewise."
Nevertheless he came to the arm-chair he had occupied last night and sat
down.
"Did you know the master gave me leave to take as many of his books as I
wanted? He says a literary sailor is a novelty."
"All his books are in boxes in the trunk room on the second floor."
"I know it. I am going up to look at them. I wish you could read his
letters. He urges me to live among men, not among books; to live out in
the world and mix with men and women; to live a man's life, and not a
hermit's!"
"Is he a hermit?"
"Rather. Will, Captain Will, is a man out among men; no hermit or student
about him; but he has read 'Captain Cook's Voyages' with zest and asked
me for something else, so I gave him 'Mutineers of the Bounty' and he did
have a good time over that. Captain Will will miss me when I'm promoted
to be captain."
"That will not be this voyage."
"Don't laugh at me. I have planned it all. Will is to have a big New York
ship, an East Indiaman, and I'm to be content with the little _Linnet_."
"Does he like that?"
"Of course. He says he is to take Linnet around the world. Now study,
please. _Via Lactea_" he exclaimed, bending forward and taking the book
out of her hand. "What do you know about the Milky Way?"
"I never shall know anything unless you give me the book."
"As saucy as ever. You won't dare, some day."
Marjorie studied, Morris kept his eyes on a book that he did not read;
neither spoke for fully three quarters of an hour. Marjorie studied with
no pretence: Master McCosh had said that Miss West studied in fifteen
minutes to more purpose than any other of her class did in an hour. She
did not study, she was absorbed; she had no existence excepting in the
lesson; just now there had been no other world for her than the wondrous
Milky Way.
"I shall have Miss West for a teacher," he had told Miss Prudence.
Marjorie wondered if he ever would. Mrs. Browning has told us:
"Girls would fain know the end of everything."
And Marjorie would fain have known the end of herself. She would not be
quite satisfied with Miss Prudence's lovely life, even with this
"compensation" of Prue; there was a perfection of symmetry in Miss
Prudence's character that she was aiming at, her character made her
story, but what Marjorie would be satisfied to become she did not fully
define even to Marjorie West.
"Now, I'm through," she exclaimed, closing the book as an exclamation
point; "but I won't bother you with what I have learned. Master McCosh
knows the face of the sky as well as I know the alphabet. You should have
heard him and seen him one night, pointing here and there and everywhere:
That's Orion, that's Job's coffin, that's Cassiopeia! As fast as he could
speak. That's the Dipper, that's the North Star!"
"I know them all," said Morris.
"Why! when did you see them?"
"In my watches I've plenty of time to look at the stars! I've plenty of
time for thinking!"
"Have you seen an iceberg?"
"Yes, one floated down pretty near us going out--the air was chillier and
we found her glittering majesty was the cause of it."
"Have you seen a whale?"
"I've seen black fish; they spout like whales."
"And a nautilus."
"Yes."
"And Mother Carey's chickens?"
"Yes."
"Morris, I won't tease you with nonsense! What troubles you this
morning?"
"My mother," he said concisely.
"Is she ill? Miss Prudence wrote to her last week"
"Does she ever reply?"
"I think so. Miss Prudence has not shown me her letters."
"Poor mother. I suppose so. I'm glad she writes at all. You don't know
what it is to believe that God does not love you; to pray and have no
answer; to be in despair."
"Oh, dear, no," exclaimed Marjorie, sympathetically.
"She is sure God has not forgiven her, she weeps and prays and takes no
interest in anything."
"I should not think she would. I couldn't."
"She is with Delia now; the girls toss her back one to the other, and
Clara wants to put her into the Old Lady's Home. She is a shadow on the
house--they have no patience with her. They are not Christians, and their
husbands are not--they do not understand; Delia's husband contends that
she is crazy; but she is not, she is only in despair. They say she is no
help, only a hindrance, and they want to get rid of her. She will not
work about the house, she will not sew or help in anything, she says she
cannot read the Bible--"
"How long since she has felt so?"
"Two years now. I would not tell you to worry you, but now I must tell
some one, for something must be done. Delia has never been very kind to
her since she was married. I have no home for her; what am I to do? I
could not ask any happy home to take her in; I cannot bear to think of
the Old Lady's Home for her, she will think her children have turned her
off. And the girls have."
"Ask Miss Prudence what to do," said Marjorie brightly, "she always
knows."
"I intend to. But she has been so kind to us all. Indeed, that was one of
my motives in coming here. Between themselves the girls may send her
somewhere while I am gone and I want to make that impossible. When I am
captain I will take mother around the world. I will show her how good God
is everywhere. Poor mother! She is one of those bubbling-over
temperaments like Linnet's and when she is down she is all the way down.
Who would have anything to live for if they did not believe in the love
of God? Would I? Would you?"
"I could not live; I would _die_," said Marjorie vehemently.
"She does not live, she exists! She is emaciated; sometimes she fasts day
after day until she is too weak to move around--she says she must fast
while she prays. O, Marjorie, I'm sorry to let you know there is such
sorrow in the world."
"Why should I not know about sorrow?" asked Marjorie, gravely. "Must I
always be joyful?"
"I want you to be. There is no sorrow like this sorrow. I know something
about it; before I could believe that God had forgiven me I could not
sleep or eat."
"I always believed it, I think," said Marjorie simply.
"I want her to be with some one who loves her and understands her; the
girls scold her and find fault with her, and she has been such a good
mother to them; perhaps she let them have their own way too much, and
this is one of the results of it. She has worked while they slept, and
has taken the hardest of everything for them. And now in her sore
extremity they want to send her among strangers. I wish I had a home of
my own. If I can do no better, I will give up my position, and stay on
land and make some kind of a home for her."
"Oh, not yet. Don't decide so hastily. Tell Miss Prudence. Telling her a
thing is the next best thing to praying about it," said Marjorie,
earnestly.
"What now?" Miss Prudence asked. "Morris, this girl is an enthusiast!"
She was standing behind Marjorie's chair and touched her hair as she
spoke.
"Oh, have you heard it all?" cried Marjorie, springing up.
"No, I came in this instant; I only heard that Morris must not decide
hastily, but tell me all about it, which is certainly good advice, and
while we are at breakfast Morris shall tell me."
"I can't, before Prue," said Morris.
"Then we will have a conference immediately afterward. Deborah's muffins
must not wait or she will be cross, and she has made muffins for me so
many years that I can't allow her to be cross."
Morris made an attempt to be his usual entertaining self at the breakfast
table, then broke down suddenly.
"Miss Prudence, I'm so full of something that I can't talk about anything
else."
"I'm full of something too," announced Prue. "Aunt Prue, when am I going
to Marjorie's school."
"I have not decided, dear."
"Won't you please decide now to let me go to-day?" she pleaded.
Miss Prudence was sure she had never "spoiled" anybody, but she began to
fear that this irresistible little coaxer might prove a notable
exception.
"I must think about it awhile, little one."
"Would I like it, Marjorie, at your school?"
"I am sure of it."
"I never went to school. The day I went with you it was ever so nice. I
want a copy-book and a pile of books, and I want the girls to call me
'Miss Holmes.'"
"We can do that," said Miss Prudence, gravely. "Morris, perhaps Miss
Holmes would like another bit of steak."
"That isn't it," said Prue, shaking her curls.
"Not genuine enough? How large is your primary class, Marjorie?"
"Twenty, I think. And they are all little ladies. It seems so comical to
me to hear the girls call the little ones 'Miss.' Alice Dodd is younger
than Prue, and Master McCosh says 'Miss Dodd' as respectfully as though
she were in the senior class."
"Why shouldn't he?" demanded Prue. "Miss Dodd looked at me in church
Sunday; perhaps I shall sit next to her. Do the little girls come in
your room, Marjorie?"
"At the opening of school, always, and you could come in at
intermissions. We have five minute intermissions every hour, and an hour
at noon."
"O, Aunt Prue! When _shall_ I go? I wish I could go to-day! You say I
read almost well enough. Marjorie will not be ashamed of me now."
"I'd never be ashamed of you," said Marjorie, warmly.
"Papa said I must not say my name was 'Jeroma,' shall I write it _Prue_
Holmes, Aunt Prue?"
"Prue J. Holmes! How would that do?"
But Miss Prudence spoke nervously and did not look at the child. Would
she ever have to tell the child her father's story? Would going out among
the children hasten that day?
"I like that," said Prue, contentedly; "because I keep papa's name tucked
in somewhere. _May_ I go to-day, Aunt Prue?"
"Not yet, dear. Master McCosh knows you are coming by and by. Marjorie
may bring me a list of the books you will need and by the time the
new quarter commences in February you may be able to overtake them if you
study well. I think that will have to do, Prue."
"I would _rather_ go to-day," sobbed the child, trying to choke the tears
back. Rolling up her napkin hurriedly, she excused herself almost
inaudibly and left the table.
"Aunt Prue! she'll cry," remonstrated Marjorie.
"Little girls have to cry sometimes," returned Miss Prudence, her own
eyes suffused.
"She is not rebellious," remarked Morris.
"No, never rebellious--not in words; she told me within the first half
hour of our meeting that she had promised papa she would be obedient.
But for that promise we might have had a contest of wills. She will not
speak of school again till February."
"How she creeps into one's heart," said Morris.
Miss Prudence's reply was a flash of sunshine through the mist of her
eyes.
Marjorie excused herself to find Prue and comfort her a little, promising
to ask Aunt Prue to let her go to school with her one day every week, as
a visitor, until the new quarter commenced.
Miss Prudence was not usually so strict, she reasoned within herself; why
must she wait for another quarter? Was she afraid of the cold for
Prue? She must be waiting for something. Perhaps it was to hear from Mr.
Holmes, Marjorie reasoned; she consulted him with regard to every
new movement of Prue's. She knew that when she wrote to him she called
her "our little girl."
While Miss Prudence and Morris lingered at the breakfast table they
caught sounds of romping and laughter on the staircase and in the hall
above.
"Those two are my sunshine," said Miss Prudence.
"I wish mother could have some of its shining," answered Morris. "My
sisters do not give poor mother much beside the hard side of their own
lives."