back parlor they found her and Morris talking earnestly in low, rather
suppressed tones, Morris seemed excited, there was an air of resolution
about Miss Prudence's attitude that promised Marjorie there would be some
new plan to be talked about that night. There was no stagnation, even in
the monotony of Miss Prudence's little household. Hardly a day passed
that Marjorie did not find her with some new thing to do for somebody
somewhere outside in the ever-increasing circle of her friends. Miss
Prudence's income as well as herself was kept in constant circulation.
Marjorie enjoyed it; it was the ideal with which she had painted the
bright days of her own future.
But then--Miss Prudence had money, and she would never have money. In a
little old book of Miss Prudence's there was a list of names,--Miss
Prudence had shown it to her,--against several names was written "Gone
home;" against others, "Done;" and against as many as a dozen, "Something
to do." The name of Morris' mother was included in the last. Marjorie
hoped the opportunity to do that something had come at last; but what
could it be? She could not influence Morris' hardhearted sisters to
understand their mother and be tender towards her: even she could not do
that. What would Miss Prudence think of? Marjorie was sure that his
mother would be comforted and Morris satisfied. She hoped Morris would
not have to settle on the "land," he loved the water with such abounding
enthusiasm, he was so ready for his opportunities and so devoted to
becoming a sailor missionary. What a noble boy he was! She had never
loved him as she loved him at this moment, as he stood there in all his
young strength and beauty, willing to give up his own planned life to
serve the mother whom his sisters had cast off. He was like that hero she
had read about--rather were not all true heroes like him? It was queer,
she had not thought of it once since;--why did she think of it now?--but,
that day Miss Prudence had come to see her so long ago, the day she found
her asleep in her chair, she had been reading in her Sunday school
library about some one like Morris, just as unselfish, just as ready to
serve Christ anywhere, and--perhaps it was foolish and childish--she
would be ashamed to tell any one beside God about it--she had asked him
to let some one love her like him, and then she had fallen asleep. Oh,
and--Morris had not given her that thing he had brought to her. Perhaps
it was a book she wanted, she was always wanting a book--or it might be
some curious thing from Italy. Had he forgotten it? She cared to have it
now more than she cared last night; what was the matter with her last
night that she cared so little? She did "look up" to him more than she
knew herself, she valued his opinion, she was more to herself because she
was so much to him. There was no one in the world that she opened her
heart to as she opened it to him; not Miss Prudence, even, sympathetic as
she was; she would not mind so very, very much if he knew about that
foolish, childish prayer. But she could not ask him what he had brought
her; she had almost, no, quite, refused it last night. How contradictory
and uncomfortable she was! She must say good-bye, now, too.
During her reverie she had retreated to the front parlor and stood
leaning over the closed piano, her wraps all on for school and shawl
strap of books in her hand.
"O, Marjorie, ready for school! May I walk with you? I'll come back and
see Miss Prudence afterward."
"Will you?" she asked, demurely; "but that will only prolong the agony of
saying good-bye."
"As it is a sort of delicious agony we do not need to shorten it.
Good-bye, Prue," he cried, catching one of Prue's curls in his fingers as
he passed. "You will be a school-girl with a shawl strap of books, by and
by, and you will put on airs and think young men are boys."
Prue stood in the doorway calling out "goodbye" as they went down the
path to the gate, Miss Prudence's "old man" had been there early
to sweep off the piazzas and shovel paths; he was one of her
beneficiaries with a history. Marjorie said they all had histories: she
believed he had lost some money in a bank years ago, some that he had
hoarded by day labor around the wharves.
The pavements in this northern city were covered with snow hard packed,
the light snow of last night had frozen and the sidewalks were slippery;
in the city the children were as delighted to see the brick pavement in
spring as the country children were glad to see the green grass.
"Whew"! ejaculated Morris, as the wind blew sharp in their faces, "this
is a stiff north-wester and no mistake. I don't believe that small
Californian would enjoy walking to school to-day."
"I think that must be why Aunt Prue keeps her at home; I suppose she
wants to teach her to obey without a reason, and so she does not give her
one."
"That isn't a bad thing for any of us," said Morris.
"She has bought her the prettiest winter suit! She is so warm and lovely
in it--and a set of white furs; she is a bluebird with a golden crest.
After she was dressed the first time Miss Prudence looked down at her and
said, as if excusing the expense to herself: 'But I must keep the child
warm--and it is my own money.' I think her father died poor."
"I'm glad of it," said Morris.
"Why?" asked Marjorie, wonderingly.
"Miss Prudence and Mr. Holmes will take care of her; she doesn't need
money," he answered, evasively. "I wouldn't like Prue to be a rich woman
in this city."
"Isn't it a good city to be a rich woman in?" questioned Marjorie with a
laugh. "As good as any other."
"Not for everybody; do you know I wonder why Miss Prudence doesn't live
in New York as she did when she sent Linnet to school."
"She wanted to be home, she said; she was tired of boarding, and she
liked Master McCosh's school for me. I think she will like it for Prue.
I'm so glad she will have Prue when I have to go back home. Mr. Holmes
isn't rich, is he? You said he would take care of Prue."
"He has a very small income from his mother; his mother was not Prue's
father's mother."
"Why, do you know all about them?"
"Yes."
"Who told you? Aunt Prue hasn't told me."
"Mother knows. She knew Prue's father. I suspect some of the girls'
fathers in your school knew him, too."
"I don't know. He was rich once--here--I know that. Deborah told me where
he used to live; it's a handsome house, with handsome grounds, a stable
in the rear and an iron fence in front."
"I've seen it," said Morris, in his concisest tone. "Mr. Holmes and I
walked past one day. Mayor Parks lives there now."
"Clarissa Parks' father!" cried Marjorie, in an enlightened tone. "She's
in our first class, and if she studied she would learn something. She's
bright, but she hasn't motive enough."
"Do you think Mr. Holmes, will ever come home?" he asked.
"Why not? Of course he will," she answered in astonishment.
"That depends. Prue might bring him. I want to see him finished; there's
a fine finishment for him somewhere and I want to see it. For all that
is worth anything in me I have to thank him. He made me--as God lets one
man make another. I would like to live long enough to pass it on; to
make some one as he made me."
It was too cold to walk slowly, their words were spoken in brief, brisk
sentences.
There was nothing specially memorable in this walk, but Marjorie thought
of it many times; she remembered it because she was longing to ask him
what he had brought her and was ashamed to do it. It might be due to him
after her refusal last night; but still she was ashamed. She would write
about it, she decided; it was like her not to speak of it.
"I haven't told you about our harbor mission work at Genoa; the work is
not so great in summer, but the chaplain told me that in October there
were over sixty seamen in the Bethel and they were very attentive. One
old captain told me that the average sailor had much improved since he
began to go to sea, and I am sure the harbor mission work is one cause of
it. I wish you could hear some of the old sailors talk and pray. The
_Linnet_ will be a praise meeting in itself some day; four sailors have
become Christians since I first knew the _Linnet_."
"Linnet wrote that it was your work."
"I worked and prayed and God blessed. Oh, the blessing! oh, the blessing
of good books! Marjorie, do you know what makes waves?"
"No," she laughed; "and I'm too cold to remember if I did. I think the
wind must make them. Now we turn and on the next corner is our entrance."
The side entrance was not a gate, but a door in a high wall; girls were
flocking up the street and down the street, blue veils, brown veils, gray
veils, were streaming in all directions, the wind was blowing laughing
voices all around them.
Marjorie pushed the door open:
"Good-bye, Morris," she said, as he caught her hand and held it last.
"Good-bye, Marjorie,--_dear_" he whispered as a tall girl in blue brushed
past them and entered the door.
Little Miss Dodd ran up laughing, and Marjorie could say no more; what
more could she say than "good-bye"? But she wanted to say more, she
wanted to say--but Emma Downs was asking her if it were late and Morris
had gone.
"What a handsome young fellow!" exclaimed Miss Parks to Marjorie, hanging
up her cloak next to Marjorie's in the dressing room. "Is he your
brother?"
"My twin-brother," replied Marjorie.
"He doesn't look like you. He is handsome and tall."
"And I am homely and stumpy," said Marjorie, good-humoredly. "No, he is
not my real brother."
"I don't believe in that kind."
"I do," said Marjorie.
"Master McCosh will give you a mark for transgressing."
"Oh, I forgot!" exclaimed Marjorie; "but he is so much my brother that it
is not against the rules."
"Is he a sailor?" asked Emma Downs.
"Yes," said Marjorie.
"A common sailor!"
"No, an uncommon one."
"Is he before the mast?" she persisted.
"Does he look so?" asked Marjorie, seriously.
"No, he looks like a captain; only that cap is not dignified enough."
"It's becoming," said Miss Parks, "and that's better than dignity."
The bell rang and the girls passed into the schoolroom in twos and
threes. A table ran almost the length of the long, high apartment; it was
covered with green baize and served as a desk for the second class girls;
the first class girls occupied chairs around three sides of the room,
during recitation the chairs were turned to face the teacher, at other
times the girls sat before a leaf that served as a rest for their books
while they studied, shelves being arranged above to hold the books. The
walls of the room were tinted a pale gray. Mottoes in black and gold were
painted in one straight line above the book shelves, around the three
sides of the room. Marjorie's favorites were:
TO DESIRE TO KNOW--TO KNOW, IS CURIOSITY.
TO DESIRE TO KNOW--TO BE KNOWN, IS VANITY.
TO DESIRE TO KNOW--TO SELL YOUR KNOWLEDGE, IS COVETOUSNESS.
TO DESIRE TO KNOW--TO EDIFY ONE'S SELF, IS PRUDENCE.
TO DESIRE TO KNOW--TO EDIFY OTHERS, IS CHARITY.
TO DESIRE TO KNOW--TO GLORIFY GOD, IS RELIGION.
The words were very ancient, Master McCosh told Marjorie, the last having
been written seven hundred years later than the others. The words "TO
GLORIFY GOD" were over Marjorie's desk.
The first class numbered thirty. Clarissa Parks was the beauty of the
class, Emma Downs the poet, Lizzie Harrowgate the mathematician, Maggie
Peet the pet, Ella Truman wrote the finest hand, Maria Denyse was the
elocutionist, Pauline Hayes the one most at home in universal history,
Marjorie West did not know what she was: the remaining twenty-two were in
no wise remarkable; one or two were undeniably dull, more were careless,
and most came to school because it was the fashion and they must do
something before they were fully grown up.
At each recitation the student who had reached the head of the class was
marked "head" and took her place in the next recitation at the foot.
During the first hour and a half there were four recitations--history,
astronomy, chemistry, and English literature. That morning Marjorie, who
did not know what she was in the class, went from the foot through the
class, to the head three times; it would have been four times but she
gave the preference to Pauline Hayes who had written the correct date
half a second after her own was on the slate. "Miss Hayes writes more
slowly than I," she told Master McCosh. "She was as sure of it as I was."
The replies in every recitation were written upon the slate; there was no
cheating, every slate was before the eyes of its neighbor, every word
must be exact.
"READING MAKES A FULL MAN, CONFERENCE A READY MAN, WRITING AN EXACT MAN,"
was one of the wall mottoes.
Marjorie had an amusing incident to relate to Miss Prudence about her
first recitation in history. The question was: "What general reigned at
this time?" The name of no general occurred. Marjorie was nonplussed.
Pencils were rapidly in motion around her. "Confusion" read the head
girl. Then to her chagrin Marjorie recalled the words in the lesson:
"General confusion reigned at this time."
It was one of the master's "catches". She found that he had an abundant
supply.
Another thing that morning reminded her of that mysterious "vibgyor" of
the old times.
Master McCosh told them they could _clasp_ Alexander's generals; then
Pauline Hayes gave their names--Cassander, Lysimachus, Antiognus,
Seleucus and Ptolemy. Marjorie had that to tell Miss Prudence. Miss
Prudence lived through her own school days that winter with Marjorie; the
girl's enthusiasm reminded her of her own. Master McCosh, who never
avoided personalities, observed as he marked the last recitation:
"Miss West studies, young ladies; she has no more brains than one or two
of the rest of you, but she has something that more than half of you
woefully lack--application and conscience."
"Perhaps she expects to teach," returned Miss Parks, in her most
courteous tone, as she turned the diamond upon her engagement finger.
"I hope she may teach--this class," retorted the master with equal
courtesy.
Miss Parks smiled at Marjorie with her lovely eyes and acknowledged the
point of the master's remark with a slight inclination of her pretty
head.
At the noon intermission a knot of the girls gathered around Marjorie's
chair; Emma Downs took the volume of "Bridgewater Treatises" out of her
hand and marched across the room to the book case with it, the others
clapped their hands and shouted.
"Now we'll make her talk," said Ella Truman. "She is a queen in the midst
of her court."
"She isn't tall enough," declared Maria Denyse.
"Or stately enough," added Pauline Hayes.
"Or self-possessed enough," supplemented Lizzie Harrowgate.
"Or imperious enough," said Clarissa Parks.
"She would always be abdicating in favor of some one who had an equal
right to it," laughed Pauline Hayes.
"Oh, Miss West, who was that lovely little creature with you in Sunday
school Sunday?" asked Miss Denyse. "She carries herself like a little
princess."
"She is just the one not to do it," replied Miss Parks.
"What do you mean?" inquired Miss Harrowgate before Marjorie could speak.
"I mean," she began, laying a bunch of white grapes in Marjorie's
fingers, "that her name is _Holmes_."
"Doesn't that belong to the royal line?" asked Pauline, lightly.
"It belongs to the line of _thieves_."
Marjorie's fingers dropped the grapes.
"Her father spent years in state-prison when he should have spent a
lifetime there at hard labor! Ask my father. Jerome Holmes! He is famous
in this city! How dared he send his little girl here to hear all about
it!"
"Perhaps he thought he sent her among Christians and among ladies,"
returned Miss Harrowgate. "I should think you would be ashamed to bring
that old story up, Clarissa."
Marjorie was paralyzed; she could not move or utter a sound.
"Father has all the papers with the account in; father lost enough, he
ought to know about it."
"That child can't help it," said Emma Downs. "She has a face as sweet and
innocent as an apple blossom."
"I hope she will never come here to school to revive the old scandal,"
said Miss Denyse. "Mother told me all about it as soon as she knew who
the child was."
"Somebody else had the hardest of it," said Miss Parks; "_that's_ a story
for us girls. Mother says she was one of the brightest and sweetest girls
in all the city; she used to drive around with her father, and her
wedding day was set, the cards were out, and then it came out that he had
to go to state-prison instead. She gave up her diamonds and everything of
value he had given her. She was to have lived in the house we live in
now; but he went to prison and she went somewhere and has never been back
for any length of time until this year, and now she has his little girl
with her."
Miss Prudence! Was that Miss Prudence's story? Was she bearing it like
this? Was that why she loved poor little Prue so?
"Bring some water, quick!" Marjorie heard some one say.
"No, take her to the door," suggested another voice.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" This was Miss Parks.
Marjorie arose to her feet, pushed some one away from her, and fled from
them all--down the schoolroom, though the cloak-room out to the fresh
air.
She needed the stiff worth-wester to bring her back to herself. Miss
Prudence had lived through _that!_ And Prue must grow up to know! Did
Miss Prudence mean that she must decide about that before Prue could come
to school? She remembered now that a look, as if she were in pain, had
shot itself across her eyes. Oh, that she would take poor little Prue
back to California where nobody knew. If some one should tell _her_ a
story like that about her own dear honest father it would kill her! She
never could bear such shame and such disappointment in him. But Prue need
never know if Miss Prudence took her away to-day, to-morrow. But Miss
Prudence had had it to bear so long. Was that sorrow--and the blessing
with it--the secret of her lovely life? And Mr. Holmes, the master!
Marjorie was overwhelmed with this new remembrance of him. He was another
one to bear it. Now she understood his solitary life. Now she knew why he
shrank from anything like making himself known. The depth of the meaning
of some of his favorite sayings flashed over her. She even remembered one
of her own childish questions, and his brief, stern affirmative: "Mr.
Holmes, were you ever in a prison?" How much they had borne together,
these two! And now they had Prue to love and to live for. She would never
allow even a shadow of jealousy of poor little Prue again. Poor little
Prue, with such a heritage of shame. How vehemently and innocently she
had declared that she would not be called Jeroma.
The wind blew sharply against her; she stepped back and closed the door;
she was shivering while her cheeks were blazing. She would go home, she
could not stay through the hour of the afternoon and be looked at and
commented upon. Was not Miss Prudence's shame and sorrow her own? As
she was reaching for her cloak she remembered that she must ask to be
excused, taking it down and throwing it over her arm she re-entered the
schoolroom.
Master McCosh was writing at the table, a group of girls were clustered
around one of the registers.
"It was mean! It was real mean!" a voice was exclaiming.
"I don't see how you _could_ tell her, Clarissa Parks! You know she
adores Miss Pomeroy."
"You all seemed to listen well enough," retorted Miss Parks.
"We were spell-bound. We couldn't help it," excused Emma Downs.
"I knew it before," said Maria Denyse.
"I didn't know Miss Pomeroy was the lady," said Lizzie Harrowgate. "She
is mother's best friend, so I suppose she wouldn't tell me. They both
came here to school."
Master McCosh raised his head.
"What new gossip now, girls?" he inquired sternly.
"Oh, nothing," answered Miss Parks.
"You are making quite a hubbub about nothing. The next time that subject
is mentioned the young lady who does it takes her books and goes home.
Miss Holmes expects to come here among you, and the girl who does not
treat her with consideration may better stay at home. Jerome Holmes was
the friend of my boyhood and manhood; he sinned and he suffered for it;
his story does not belong to your generation. It is not through any merit
of yours that your fathers are honorable men. It becomes us all to be
humble?"
A hush fell upon the group. Clarissa Parks colored with anger; why should
_she_ be rebuked, she was not a thief nor the daughter of a thief.
Marjorie went to the master and standing before him with her cheeks
blazing and eyes downcast she asked:
"May I go home? I cannot recite this afternoon."
"If you prefer, yes," he replied in his usual tone; "but I hardly think
you care to see Miss Pomeroy just now."
"Oh, no, I didn't think of that; I only thought of getting away from
here."
"Getting away is not always the best plan," he replied, his pen still
moving rapidly.
"Is it true? Is it _all_ true?"
"It is all true. Jerome Holmes was president of a bank in this city. I
want you in moral science this afternoon."
"Thank you," said Marjorie, after a moment. "I will stay."
She returned to the dressing-room, taking a volume of Dick from the
book-case as she passed it; and sitting in a warm corner, half concealed
by somebody's shawl and somebody's cloak, she read, or thought she read,
until the bell for the short afternoon session sounded.
Moral science was especially interesting to her, but the subject this
afternoon kept her trouble fresh in her mind; it was Property, the use of
the institution of Property, the history of Property, and on what the
right of Property is founded.
A whisper from Miss Parks reached her:
"Isn't it a poky subject? All I care to know is what is mine and what
isn't, and to know what right people have to take what isn't theirs."
The hour was ended at last, and she was free. How could she ever enter
that schoolroom again? She hurried along the streets, grown older since
the morning. Home would be her sanctuary; but there was Miss Prudence!
Her face would tell the tale and Miss Prudence's eyes would ask for it.
Would it be better for Prue, for Aunt Prue, to know or not to know? Miss
Prudence had written to her once that some time she would tell her a
story about herself; but could she mean this story?
As she opened the gate she saw her blue bird with the golden crest
perched on the arm of a chair at the window watching for her.
She was at the door before Marjorie reached it, ready to spring into her
arms and to exclaim how glad she was that she had come.
"You begin to look too soon, Kitten."
"I didn't begin till one o'clock," she said convincingly.
"But I don't leave school till five minutes past two, childie."
"But I have something to tell you to-day. Something _de_-licious. Aunt
Prue has gone away with Morris. It isn't that, because I didn't want
her to go."
Marjorie followed her into the front parlor and began to unfasten her
veil.
"Morris' mother is coming home with her to-morrow to stay all winter, but
that isn't it. Do guess, Marjorie."
She was dancing all around her, clapping her hands.
"Linnet hasn't come! That isn't it!" cried Marjorie, throwing off her
cloak.
"No; it's all about me. It is going to happen to _me_."
"I can't think. You have nice things every day."
"It's this. It's nicer than anything. I am going to school with you
to-morrow! Not for all the time, but to make a visit and see how I like
it."
The child stood still, waiting for an outburst of joy at her
announcement; but Marjorie only caught her and shook her and tumbled her
curls without saying one word.
"Aren't you _glad_, Marjorie?"
"I'm glad I'm home with you, and I'm glad you are to give me my dinner."
"It's a very nice dinner," answered Prue, gravely; "roast beef and
potatoes and tomatoes and pickled peaches and apple pie, unless you want
lemon pie instead. I took lemon pie. Which will you have?"
"Lemon," said Marjorie.
"But you don't look glad about anything. Didn't you know your lessons
to-day?"
"Oh, yes."
"I'll put your things on the hat-rack and you can get warm while I tell
Deborah to put your dinner on the table. I think you are cold and that is
why you can't be glad. I don't like to be cold."
"I'm not cold now," laughed Marjorie.
"Now you feel better! And I'm to sit up until you go to bed, and you are
to sleep with me; and _won't_ it be splendid for me to go to school and
take my lunch, too? And I can have jelly on my bread and an orange just
as you do."