COMING HOME.
"We haven't had a letter from Olive this week," said Bea, breaking a
silence that had fallen upon them, as they sat sewing in the cheerful
sitting-room. "How long she has been gone! Isn't it most time for her to
be coming home, mama?"
"She was to stay as long as she was enjoying herself, and pleasing Uncle
Ridley," answered Mrs. Dering. "I hardly thought she would stay so long
on account of her studies, but from what she writes about the scenery
and gallery of pictures at Congreve, I suppose she is having a little
artistic revelry that is very pleasant."
"Well, she has forever lost place in my eyes," said Kat severely, "for
not snubbing that chap. 'Cousin Roger,' she calls him! Stuff! He's no
more our cousin than I'm your uncle; and he's to own the Hall, when it
ought to be ours. I should think his conscience would wear a hole right
through him, and if she brings that picture of his head home with her,
I'll jab the carving-fork into it, sure's the world!"
"It would make you feel better, I've no doubt," remarked Kittie, who sat
by the window stitching ruffles, with a lady-like air, while a great
bouquet ornamented the sill, shedding its fragrance through the room; it
having been brought that morning by the polite colored man from
Raymond's, with a tiny, three-cornered card, fastened to a rose-bud, and
reading:
"FOR MISS KITTIE, FROM PANSY,"
in crazy-looking capitals.
"Well, I don't see how she can," said Kat, "be so polite to a fellow who
is paddling about in our canoe, while we flounder in the water, and get
along the best we can. I think it's too mean."
"But it's not his fault," remonstrated Bea. "Uncle Ridley has a right to
leave his money and house where he pleases; and I'm sure I can't see
what right we have to fuss, especially after all he's done for us."
"We have too much to be thankful for to make complaints of any kind,"
said Mrs. Dering, looking out of the window, as the gate was heard to
slam. "There comes a boy! You may go to the door, Kat, as you don't
appear to be doing anything."
Kat lifted herself from the floor with a yawn, and strolled lazily out
to the door, but came back in a moment, with quicker steps, and less
color in her face.
"It's a despatch," she said, holding out the envelope that always bears
alarm in its very face; and Mrs. Dering took it quickly, while the girls
hung round her chair in anxiety. Was Olive or Jean sick? Neither. The
paper unfolded, briefly read:
"I will be home on Wednesday with Ernestine. She is quite
ill. Meet the train with an easy carriage and pillows, and
with Dr. B.
"OLIVE."
For a moment not a sound broke the stillness, then Mrs. Dering dropped
the paper, and hid her face in her hands, and the girls knew that her
first thought was to return thanks for this answer to her long, yearning
prayers. A moment after, it was as though a whirlwind had struck the
peaceful room; no one seemed to know, in the excitement that possessed
them, just what it was they wanted to say or do, and between the joy and
anxiety that the news occasioned, they all laughed and cried
alternately.
"To-morrow is Wednesday, and Ernestine will be here. Oh, don't it seem
too happy to be true," cried Kittie, wiping away her tears with a strand
of ruffling. "How do you suppose it ever happened? I can hardly wait;
what shall we do to make time pass?"
There proved to be plenty to keep their hands in keeping with their
thoughts, for a room must be prepared for the invalid, and thoroughly
prepared, too. They went to work on it that afternoon, first building a
bright fire in the great fire-place, and throwing open all the windows
to let the sunshine pour in. How strange it seemed; how happy, and yet
how sad! Ernestine coming home! Not dead nor lost, but coming home,
feeble and helpless! Where had she been all these long, weary months?
and had any of their heart-aches and longings reached her? Perhaps she
had been sick and alone, had not known of their eager search, or been
able to drag herself back to them.
The girls laughed and cried, while they swept, and dusted, and made up
the bed like a snow-bank, ready turned down to admit the weary form. The
whitest, most beautifully fluted curtains were hung before the windows,
whose panes glistened like diamonds from hot soap-suds and crisp
rubbings. All the pretty knick-knacks were brought in and put upon the
walls with an eye to Ernestine's graceful little fancy likings. The
easiest chairs, and prettiest rugs--in short, when finished, it was a
little bower, and Kittie put the finishing touches in the way of flowers
and vines, that, together, with the sunshine, made a sick-room of
perfection to greet the coming invalid. Mrs. Dering went down to Mr.
Phillips's to get Prince and the buggy, and found that the news had
preceded her. The telegram had been repeated, and in an hour's time had
pretty near made the circle of Canfield; so her appearance was greeted
with joyful congratulations and sympathetic rejoicing; for Canfield had
taken the matter to heart, and having grieved with the family, were now
prepared to rejoice with it also. Miss Clara Raymond met Mrs Dering on
her way to Mr. Phillips's, and offered their carriage, which was
gratefully accepted, as it was large, low, and easy, and much more
comfortable than the buggy for an invalid.
Little sleeping was done that night, and in the morning the girls cooked
every dainty that Ernestine had ever loved. They cleaned the whole house
till it shone, under the stress of excitement; and, as train time drew
near, they fairly grew weak and sick with anxiety and suspense. Mrs.
Dering did not say much, but when the carriage came, and she put on her
hat, while the girls got the pillows, they saw that she was pale and
trembling, and that her voice shook beyond control when she gave Dr.
Barnett a smiling "good-morning."
There was nothing left to do, so after the carriage drove away the three
girls sat on the steps, with their hands clasped, and waited. Kittie
made one or two flying trips up stairs to see if everything was really
beyond further improvement, while Kat vibrated nervously between the
porch and the gate, and Bea sat still, looking at her ring, and
wondering if Ernestine would like the giver, and what she would say.
"There!" cried Kat at last, with a nervous jump. "The train is in, now
in just a little bit--"
It is possible that there was not a heart in Canfield but gave an
expectant throb when the rumble and roar of the train shook the little
place to its centre, and was heard to stop, a thing it did not often do;
and there were but few who did not imagine, and earnestly sympathize
with the joy it was bringing to one home in their midst.
"There they come! Oh, girls I feel perfectly faint," cried Kittie,
making a grasp at the gate post, to sustain her trembling excited self.
"How slow and careful,--she must be so sick."
No one answered, but six eager eyes watched, and three throbbing hearts
waited, as the horses came with slow steps, and the carriage rolled
carefully along. The top had been raised, and curious gazers along the
way could see nothing; neither could the girls, when at last the gate
was reached, but though they went out, something restrained their eager
joyous welcome, and they said nothing.
Olive got out first, then Mrs. Dering, and Dr. Barnett, and then came a
strange gentleman, bearing a perfectly helpless and evidently
unconscious figure, with its face covered; and the girls shrank back to
let them pass, then surrounded Olive with eager, trembling questions.
"She has fainted," Olive said. "She kept growing more excited after we
left New York, and I thought she would faint when we came in sight of
Canfield, but she didn't until the train stopped; and then the moment
she saw mama, she tried to speak, and fainted right away."
There was no time to ask, or answer further questions, as they hurried
into the house and up stairs, where Ernestine had been carried, and laid
upon the soft, snowy bed; but after one glance at her unconscious face,
they drew back and burst into tears. Olive was talking to the strange
gentleman, for whose name no one had thought to inquire, and Dr. Barnett
and Mrs. Dering hung over the bed, winning life back to the fragile
figure thereon. They all saw the first opening of her eyes, that went
straight to one dear face, saw the feeble arms lifted with a strength,
born of joy, and heard the sobbing cry:
"Mama, mama! darling mama!" and everybody cried.
After awhile the girls went in and kissed her quietly, then the room was
ordered to be cleared, and under the influence of an opiate, Ernestine
sank to sleep, with her hands clasping those of the dear woman who was,
and would be always, "mama."
When they went down stairs, Olive presented them to Cousin Roger, and
told in few words of all his kindness; and Kat, the vivacious, who hated
and longed to see him removed from the face of the earth, was seen to
drop two big tears on his hand that she was shaking heartily. To
Beatrice came the same vague, uncertain feeling that Olive had
experienced when first seeing him, and he caught the same bewildered
look in her eyes.
Had she ever seen him before? If not, what was it in his face that
reminded her of--something?
Mrs. Dering did not leave Ernestine's side again that day. Olive came up
with her, and they held a long conversation in low voices; and a look of
perfect content was seen to drift into the mother's pale, anxious face,
as she listened how Jean was growing well, and then looked down at the
quiet sleeper--the one who had been snatched from the burning, and given
back into her arms.
"Just think, if I had not gone to Virginia?" Olive said that evening,
while they were all in the kitchen, doing up the supper work. "It really
makes me tremble to think how I did not want to go, and hesitated about
it."
"If I had been you, I should have screamed right out when she came on
the stage," said Kat, unable to imagine herself in such a position and
remaining quiet. "How did you feel, Olive?"
"So weak that I could not move, I never came so near losing my senses in
my life, and it is such a dreadful feeling that you can't scream. It was
dreadful to sit there and watch her, and when the hemorrhage came, I
just jumped and ran."
"Dear me, how you must have felt," said Kittie with a shiver, as she
polished a tumbler brightly, and put it back in the water to every one's
amusement.
"I don't know what I would have done without Cousin Roger," said Olive.
"He was so kind and thoughtful."
"Who does he make me think of?" asked Bea, which caused Olive to look up
in surprise.
"How strange; he reminds me of some one, too, and it worried me so for a
while, but I thought it was nonsense, and never spoke about it," she
said.
"Well, I s'pose it is a notion," answered Bea, and then talk went back
to Ernestine and Jean, of whom, it seemed, enough could never be told.
The next day, a little discovery was made to the girls.
Mr. Congreve was seen walking about in the fresh autumn sunshine, before
breakfast, and the girls saw him gathering a small cluster of flowers,
selecting from the dewy bunches with much care; and after a while Olive,
who had slept late with fatigue, came down in her grey wrapper with its
blue facings, and part of the flowers were in her wavy hair, and part at
her throat, with a little knot of ribbon.
"Good gracious!" cried Kat, rushing into the kitchen with a tragic
expression, and setting a pile of dishes on the table with some force.
"Do you see that? What's this family coming to?"
"Dust," responded Kittie calmly. "What's the matter, Kat?"
"Do you mean to tell me you didn't see Olive wearing the flowers he
gathered before breakfast, and that you didn't see how he looked at her
at the table?" cried Kat impatiently.
"That's the way they all do; it's the first symptoms I guess, for it's
the way that Bea and Dr. Barnett began."
"Oh, the idea," laughed Kittie, "of Olive being in love."
"I don't care, perhaps she isn't, but he is," asserted Kat, with an
appeal to Bea, who had just come in.
"I don't know," said Bea. "I saw him give her the flowers, and fasten
those in her hair, but I don't think it's anything."
"Well, you watch--there they go now!" exclaimed Kat, whereupon they all
rushed to the window, to see Olive and Roger strolling out among the
flowers.
"Would you ever think that was Olive?" said Kittie, as they looked.
"Think how quiet and snappy she used to be, and how ugly she always
looked, and just see how pretty she is now, and how she laughs and
talks. But she's not in love, dear no; she looks as cool and dignified
as a cucumber, not a bit blushy, or anything of the kind."
"Well, I should hope not," said Kat severely. "One engaged sister is
enough; two would ruin the family."
"If such a thing was to happen," remarked Bea, with a little mercenary
expectation, "Congreve Hall would be Olive's; just think of it, girls,
how grand! and Cousin Roger is immensely wealthy, and there would be no
end of splendid things;" and Bea sighed a little, as she spoke, for she
was not going to win any wealth or grand home by her wedding, and there
came, just now, a little moment of regret, that such would never be
hers. Then she looked at her ring, and felt wicked and ungrateful. Would
she exchange with Olive, or any other girl who might win wealth? No, no,
never!
"Well, dear suz, what a funny place the world is," said Kat. "Here I've
just hated that Roger Congreve, and now I could bless him forever, for
being so good and kind, and after all, perhaps he'll be my brother, and
Congreve Hall come back to us. I don't like it though," she added, with
energy, "we're all getting broken up some way; it don't seem like old
times, and I don't want any of us to get married! It's horrid, and I
never will. Now Ernestine is home, I'd rather be poor all the days of my
life, and have us all stay together, and never get old, or big."
"Very good, but 'buds will be roses, and kittens, cats,' as Jo says,"
answered Bea, going off with a laugh.
Ernestine was still too weak to see or say much this day. She had been
much better on leaving Virginia, and as the trip home was taken in the
most luxurious way afforded to travellers, she might have stood it very
well, had it not been for the nervous excitement that completely
prostrated her before home was reached. So Dr. Barnett prescribed the
most perfect quiet, which was given, the girls only going in on tiptoe,
now and then, to carry some little dainty, or smile their loving
welcome, while Mrs. Dering spent all of her time at the bed side.
Ernestine seemed perfectly content, for she lay for hours, with
dreamy eyes fixed on Mrs. Dering's face, and never spoke or moved,
as though she had been beaten and bruised by her brief struggle with
the world, and only wanted to lie at peace, with one dear face in
constant sight; and to let her tired life drift in or out. The change
was heart-breaking, and drove the girls from her room at every visit, to
hide their tears, and think, as in a dream, of the time when Ernestine,
gay, frivolous, careless-hearted girl, was the sunshine of the house,
the one being who seemed to never feel or know the touch of care or
sadness.
Roger was to go back the second day, and on the evening before, he said:
"The scenery about this little place is perfectly beautiful. Does
Canfield afford a livery stable, Olive? If so, I will get a buggy in the
morning, and you shall pilot me around the country."
Kat sent an expressive wink and nod of her head to Kittie and Bea, while
Olive answered:
"There is a small one, I believe, where you might find something."
"Perhaps they'd loan you their wheel-barrow," added Kat, who found
herself in a fair way of liking this distant relative, in spite of his
usurping what she termed the family position.
So next morning Roger went down town, and came back in a rather
dilapidated buggy, with a lamb-like looking horse, and said with a
laugh, as he helped Olive in:
"The very best your city affords; I hope it will not break with us, for
my life is not insured."
"My mind's eye rests lovingly on Congreve Hall, as presided over by my
artistic sister," cried Kat, with a dramatic gesture, as they drove off;
and the next moment she was looking after them with a touch of regretful
sadness in her face.
"I don't like it," she said. "Bea gone, Olive going, Jean way off,
Ernestine so changed;--oh, Kittie! when anything happens to you, I will
be ruined for sure. You don't think you are going to fall in love, or be
sick, or go away, or anything; do you?"
"Nonsense," said Kittie, but gave an expressive hug that was soothing
and satisfactory, and set Kat's heart at rest.
The ride in that clear morning air, brought a warm stain of color into
Olive's clear cheeks, and a sparkle to her eyes, that was very becoming;
and she laughed and talked, in a careless, happy way, that left no doubt
in her companion's mind as to her perfect ignorance of his love, and
made him more determined not to return to Virginia, leaving her in
ignorance.
It was difficult to approach the subject, while her mind was so far away
from it, and his perfect assurance as to her answer made it still harder
for him. But Olive unconsciously led the way at last, for she was
talking of their trip home, and dwelling gratefully on his care and
kindness, her eyes bright with feeling, as she turned them to him
suddenly:
"You have helped me through it all," she said. "I wish I could thank you
for all your thoughtful kindness."
They were rolling lazily around a hill, with autumn colors on every
side, and autumn's soft winds fanning the air into life, and Olive
thought the answer she received was some deceptive flutter of their
wings.
"Do not try," he was saying. "Every care or anxiety you have felt have
been to me as my own. I have tried to show you what you were to me, and
I have failed, but you cannot help but understand me, when I say that I
love you, Olive."
She did not take her eyes from a distant hill-top, where their glance
had rested, neither did she blush or look pleased when he finished, but
was as silent for a moment as though studying on what he had said; then
looked at him slowly:
"You surely do not mean it?"
"I surely do mean it, and have tried to make you see and know it, for
weeks past, but your answer now is only what I had expected, for though
I at first thought your indifference feigned, I soon came to see that
neither I, nor any other man had ever received a thought from you, and
to fear that I never would. You seemed wedded to your love of art, but
now, when you know that I love you, cannot you find a little feeling
somewhere in your heart for me, Olive?"
"No, I cannot," answered Olive, after a moment, and with the air of one
who had been literally hunting for something, and failed to find it. "I
could not help but think a great deal of you, when you made my visit so
pleasant, and then was so kind when trouble came; but I never dreamed
that you loved me; I really think you must be mistaken, it seems so
strange. Why do you?"
There was no misunderstanding the honest wonder in her eyes, as she
asked the question, and no possibility of construing it into a desire
for flattery.
"I have loved you," he said, "ever since that first sad night, so long
ago, when you showed a womanly strength--"
"What night?" she asked eagerly, the old vague remembrance coming back
to her; and, at the interruption, he looked at her in amaze.
"Is it possible you do not remember?" he asked.
"No, I do not; but the moment I saw you, there seemed a remembrance that
has worried me ever since. What is it?"
For a moment he hesitated to tell her.
"It was I, who brought your father home," he said, at last; and with a
swift, painful recollection, she dropped her face into her hands, and
said nothing.
"When you came to the Hall," he went on presently, "and was introduced
to me, there was such an air of surprise, together with a look of pain
in your face, that I immediately supposed you remembered me, and that
the memory was painful, so I never spoke of it. I was travelling here in
New York, and was on the train just a few seats behind your father. I
saw him when he received the blow on the temple, and went to him as soon
as possible, and was the one asked to see him brought safely to his
home. I did not know, until my return home, two weeks later, that it was
Uncle Ridley's nephew."
After he finished speaking, they rode in silence for a long way, and the
peaceful old horse, finding himself unguided, turned his head homeward,
and jogged off more lively. Olive did not look up again. She was
evidently lost in sad memories, that his words awakened, and he had not
the heart to bring her back to a subject so foreign to her thoughts as
his love. So in silence, they reached home, and, as he helped her from
the buggy, Olive said with trembling lips:
"I'm glad it was you. I loved papa better than any one in the world, and
I can never forget that you saw him last and tried to help him." Then,
after telling her mother and the girls their additional cause for
gratitude to him, she went off to her room, and was not seen again for
some time; for when affected so that tears were her only relief, she
always took them alone.
Roger went that night. He spent the afternoon sitting in Ernestine's
room with them all, and telling over and over the last moments of Mr.
Dering, what he had overheard him saying to another passenger just a few
moments before the accident; just how the blow came, so quick and
painless, and how his last words had been of home, and how they would be
surprised at his sudden departure.
Olive was not present, and fearing that Roger might consider it rude,
Mrs. Dering explained the little habit of taking all her grief alone,
and how the reminding of that sad night had doubtless overcome her. But
Olive came down just before supper, and her face showed plainer than
ever before, its traces of heavy tears, though she said nothing about
it, and seemed to think her absence explained itself to the only one to
whom an explanation was due.
While the girls were busy in the kitchen, and mother was with Ernestine,
they were alone in the sitting-room, and Roger said to her, as they
stood by the window, watching the shadows creep through the yard, and
lift themselves in a misty cloud:
"Olive, have you no other answer for me, before I go?"
"No," said Olive, slowly. "You seem so different to me. In one way, I
love you; I could not help it; and, in another way, you are nothing to
me. I wish you would forget that you ever thought you loved me, and let
me feel as though you were my brother."
"I cannot," he answered. "I do not think that I love you, but I _know_
that I do, and that I always will; and some time, when you are older,
and come to feel that home-love and art cannot satisfy you, I will come
back and try to win a place in the new yearning."
"You needn't," said Olive, with discouraging honesty. "I shall never
love any one that way. I don't want to. All I want is mama and the
girls, and to study until I am satisfied with myself, or as near it as I
can be. But you mustn't let that keep you away; you will forget this,
indeed, you will, and must come and see us often, and then everything
will be delightful."
"No; I shall never come until I feel that I do not come in vain. Do not
doubt my love, Olive, because your own heart is so free from it. It is a
girlish heart, and when it reaches womanhood, I may not be the one to
satisfy it, but I will come and try."