SHE ORDERS HER LIFE
"Prudence, are you going to Aunt Grace's early in the summer, or late?"
demanded Fairy.
"Oh, let's not talk of that now. There's plenty of time."
"No, there isn't. School will be out in a week, and Babbie wants to
give a house party and have our little bunch at his home for a few days
this summer. He wants to set the date, and I can't tell him when
because I do not know when you are going to auntie's."
They sat around the breakfast table, Prudence and Fairy and their
father, talking of the summer. The twins and Connie had long since
excused themselves, and even now could be heard shouting gaily in the
field beyond the old red barn.
Prudence looked restlessly from one to the other, when her sister
insisted upon an answer.
"Why," she began, "I've about decided not to go to Aunt Grace's this
summer."
Fairy rapped on the table with the spoon she held in her hand. "Don't
be silly! You have to go. You've never had a vacation in your life,
and father promised Aunt Grace on his reputation as a minister, didn't
you, papa?"
"Yes, I promised all right."
"But, papa! I do not have to go, do I? A whole month,--oh, honestly,
I do not want to."
"Why don't you? Last fall you were wild about it. Don't you remember
dreaming----"
"Oh, but that was last fall," said Prudence, smiling softly, and
unconsciously she lifted one hand to where a bulky letter nestled
inside her dress. "I didn't know I was going to sprain my ankle, and
be so useless. It may be two weeks yet before I can walk on it."
"What has that got to do with it?"
"Do you really prefer to stay at home, Prudence?" queried her father.
"The whole summer?"
Prudence blushed most gloriously. "Oh, well," she began slowly. Then
she took the plunge recklessly. "Why, you see, father, Jerry lives
with his aunt in Des Moines,--he told you that, didn't he? And they
have quite a big house, and--he wants to take me and the twinnies to
Des Moines in the car for a week or ten days. And Fairy will take care
of you and Connie. And--if I can do that--I do not want any more
vacation. I couldn't bear to stay at auntie's a whole month, away from
you and the parsonage." She felt very guilty, for she did not add, as
she was thinking, "Besides, Jerry is coming every two weeks, and if I
were away, we would miss a visit!"
Fairy laughed in an irritating, suggestive way, but Mr. Starr only
nodded.
"I am sure you will not mind that, will you father? His aunt must be a
perfectly good and nice woman, and--such a long drive in the auto,
and--to see all over Des Moines." But Prudence paused guiltily, for
she did not add, "With Jerry!" although the words were singing in her
heart.
"That will be very nice indeed, and of course I do not object. It will
be a forty years' delight and wonder to the twins! Yes, I will be glad
to have you go. But you can still have your month at Grace's if you
wish."
"But I do not wish," protested Prudence promptly. "Honestly, father,
I'll write her the sweetest kind of a letter, but--oh, please do not
make me go!"
"Of course, we won't make you go, you goose," said Fairy, "but I think
you are very foolish."
"And you can go, Fairy," cried Prudence hospitably. "Aunt Grace loves
you so, and you've worked so hard all year, and,--oh, yes, it will be
just the thing for you." Prudence wished she might add, "And that will
let me out," but she hardly dare say it.
"Well, when does your Des Moines tour come off? I must know, so I can
tell Babbie about the house party."
"Let Babbie choose his own date. Jerry says we shall go whenever I
say--I mean whenever you say, father,--and we can decide later on.
Give Babbie first choice, by all means."
That was the beginning of Prudence's golden summer. She was not given
to self-analysis. She did what seemed good to her always,--she did not
delve down below the surface for reasons why and wherefore. She hadn't
the time. She took things as they came. She could not bear the
thought of sharing with the parsonage family even the least ardent and
most prosaic of Jerrold's letters. But she never asked herself the
reason. It seemed a positive sacrilege to leave his warm, life-pulsing
letters up-stairs in a bureau drawer. It was only natural and right to
carry them in her dress, and to sleep with them under her pillow. But
Prudence did not wonder why. The days when Jerry came were tremulously
happy ones for her,--she was all aquiver when she heard him swinging
briskly up the ramshackle parsonage walk, and her breath was
suffocatingly hot. But she took it as a matter of course. The nights
when Jerry slept in the little spare bedroom at the head of the stairs,
Prudence lay awake, staring joyously into the darkness, hoping Jerry
was sound asleep and comfortable. But she never asked herself why she
could not sleep! She knew that Jerry's voice was the sweetest voice in
the world. She knew that his eyes were the softest and brightest and
the most tender. She knew that his hands had a thrilling touch quite
different from the touch of ordinary, less dear hands. She knew that
his smile lifted her into a delirium of delight, and that even the
thought of sorrow coming to him brought stinging tears to her eyes.
But why? Ah, Prudence never thought of that. She just lived in the
sweet ecstatic dream of the summer, and was well and richly content.
So the vacation passed, and Indian summer came. And the girls went
back to their studies once more, reluctantly, yet unaccountably glad
even in their reluctance. It is always that way with students,--real
students. They regret the passing of vacation days, but the thought of
"going back to school" has its own tingling joys of anticipation.
It was Saturday evening. The early supper at the parsonage was over,
the twins had washed the dishes, and still the daylight lingered.
Prudence and Jerry sat side by side, and closely, on the front porch,
talking in whispers. Fairy had gone for a stroll with the still
faithful Babbie. Connie and the twins had evidently vanished. Ah--not
quite that! Carol and Lark came swiftly around the corner of the
parsonage.
"Good evening," said Lark politely, and Prudence sat up abruptly. The
twins never wasted politeness! They wanted something.
"Do you mind if we take Jerry around by the woodshed for a few minutes,
Prue?"
"I'll come along," said Prudence, rising.
"Oh, no," protested Lark, "we do not want you,--just Jerry, and only
for a little while."
Prudence sniffed suspiciously. "What are you going to do to him?" she
demanded.
"We won't hurt him," grinned Carol impishly. "We had intended to tie
him to a stake and burn him alive. But since you have interceded on
his behalf, we'll let him off with a simple scalping."
"Maybe he's afraid to come," said Lark, "for there are two of us, and
we are mighty men of valor."
"That's all right," Prudence answered defensively. "I'd sooner face a
tribe of wild Indians any day than you twins when you are
mischief-bent."
"Oh, we just want to use him a few minutes," said Carol impatiently.
"Upon our honor, as Christian gentlemen, we promise not to hurt a hair
of his head."
"Oh, come along, and cut out the comedy," Jerry broke in, laughing.
"I'll be back in two minutes, Prue. They probably want me to shoo a
chicken out of their way. Or maybe the cat has been chasing them."
Once safely around the corner, the twins changed their tactics.
"We knew you weren't afraid," said Lark artistically, "we were just
teasing Prudence. We know we couldn't hurt you."
"Of course," emphasized Carol. "We want to ask a favor of you, that's
all. It's something we can't do ourselves, but we knew you could do
it, all right."
Jerry perceived the drift of this argument. "I see! I'm paid in
advance for my service. What's the job?"
Then the twins led him to the woodshed. This woodshed stood about
twenty feet from the back door of the parsonage, and was nine feet high
in front, the roof sloping down at the back. Close beside the shed
grew a tall and luxuriant maple. The lower limbs had been chopped off,
and the trunk rose clear to a height of nearly twelve feet before the
massive limbs branched out. The twins had discovered that by climbing
gingerly on the rotten roof of the woodshed, followed by almost
superhuman scrambling and scratching, they could get up into the leafy
secrecy of the grand old maple. More than this, up high in the tree
they found a delightful arrangement of branches that seemed positively
made for them. These branches must be utilized, and it was in the act
of utilizing them that they called upon their sister's friend for help.
"Do you see this board?" began Lark, exhibiting with some pride a solid
board about two feet in length.
"My eyesight is quite unimpaired," answered Jerry, for he knew his
twins.
"Well, we found this over by the Avery barn. They have a big scrap
pile out there. We couldn't find anything around here that would suit,
so we looked, over there. It's just a pile of rubbish, and we knew
they wouldn't mind."
"Else you would not have taken it, eh? Anything like apples, for
instance, is quite under the ban."
"Yes, indeed," smiled Lark. "We're too old to steal apples."
"Of course," added Carol. "When we need our neighbor's apples, we send
Connie. And get nicely punished for it, too, I promise you."
"Quite so! And this exquisite board?"
"Well, we've found a perfectly gorgeous place up in the old tree where
we can make a seat. It's quite a ways out from the trunk, and when the
wind blows it swings splendidly. But it isn't very comfortable sitting
on a thin limb, and so we want a seat. It's a fine place, I tell you.
We thought you could nail this securely on to the limbs,--there are two
right near each other, evidently put there on purpose for us. See what
dandy big nails we have!"
"From the Avery's woodshed, I suppose," he suggested, smiling again.
"Oh, they are quite rusty. We found them in a sack in an old barrel.
It was in the scrap heap. We're very good friends with the Averys,
very good, indeed," she continued hastily. "They allow us to rummage
around at will--in the barn."
"And see this rope," cried Carol. "Isn't it a dandy?"
"Ah! The Avery barn must be inexhaustible in its resources."
"How suspicious you are, Jerry," mourned Lark.
"I wish we were that way, instead of innocent and bland and trustful.
Maybe we would get rich, too. This is the first time I ever really
understood how you came to be a success in business."
"But you are quite wrong this time," said Lark seriously. "Old Mr.
Avery gave me this rope."
"Yes, he did! Lark told him she was looking for a rope just exactly
like this one, and then he gave it to her. He caught the idea of
philanthropy right away. He's a very nice old gentleman, I tell you.
He's so trusting and unsuspicious. I'm very fond of people like that."
"We thought when you had the board nicely nailed on, you might rope it
securely to the limbs above. They are in very good position, and that
will make it absolutely safe. Do you suppose you can do that, Jerry?
Do you get seasick when you climb high?"
"Oh, no, high altitudes never make me seasick. I've a very good head
for such purposes."
"Then suppose you get busy before it grows dark. We're in a great
hurry. And we do not want Connie to catch us putting it up. It'll be
such fun to sit up there and swing when the wind blows, and have poor
Connie down beneath wondering how we manage to stick on. She can't see
the seat from the ground. Won't it be a good joke on her?"
"Oh, very,---yes, indeed.--Well, let's begin.--Now, observe! I will
just loop this end of the rope lightly about my--er--middle. The other
end will dangle on the ground to be drawn up at will. Observe also
that I bestow the good but rusty nails in this pocket, and the hammer
here. Then with the admirable board beneath my arm, I mount to the
heights of--Say, twins, didn't I see an old buggy seat out in the barn
to-day? Seems to me----"
"Oh, Jerry!" The twins fairly smothered him. "Oh, you darling. You
are the nicest old thing.--Now we can understand why Prudence seems to
like you. We never once thought of the old buggy seat! Oh, Jerry!"
Then they hastily brought the discarded seat from the barn, and with
the help of Jerry it was shoved up on the woodshed. From there, he
lifted it to the lowest limb of the old maple, and a second later he
was up himself. Then it was lifted again, and again he followed,--up,
and up, and up,--the loose end of the donated rope trailing loose on
the ground below. The twins promptly,--as promptly as possible, that
is,--followed him into the tree.
"Oh, yes, we'll come along. We're used to climbing and we're very
agile. And you will need us to hold things steady while you hammer."
And Jerry smiled as he heard the faithful twins, with much grunting and
an occasional groan, following in his wake.
It was a delightful location, as they had said. So heavy was the leafy
screen that only by lifting a branch here or there, could they see
through it. The big seat fitted nicely on the two limbs, and Jerry
fastened it with the rusty nails. The twins were jubilant, and loud in
their praises of his skill and courage.
"Oh, Jerry," exclaimed Carol, with deep satisfaction, "it's such a
blessing to discover something really nice about you after all these
months!"
"Now, we'll just----"
"Hush!" hissed Lark. "Here comes Connie. Hold your breath, Jerry, and
don't budge."
"Isn't she in on this?" he whispered. He could hear Connie making
weird noises as she came around the house from the front. She was
learning to whistle, and the effect was ghastly in the extreme.
Connie's mouth had not been designed for whistling.
"Sh! She's the band of dark-browed gypsies trying to steal my lovely
wife."
"I'm the lovely wife," interrupted Carol complacently.
"But Connie does not know about it. She is so religious she won't be
any of the villain parts. When we want her to be anything real
low-down, we have to do it on the sly. She would no more consent to a
band of dark-browed gypsies than she would----"
Connie came around the corner of the parsonage, out the back walk
beneath the maple. Then she gave a gleeful scream. Right before her
lay a beautiful heavy rope. Connie had been yearning for a good rope
to make a swing. Here it lay, at her very feet, plainly a gift of the
gods. She did not wait to see where the other end of the rope was.
She just grabbed what she saw before her, and started violently back
around the house with it yelling, "Prudence! Look at my rope!"
Prudence rushed around the parsonage. The twins shrieked wildly, as
there was a terrific tug and heave of the limb beside them, and then--a
crashing of branches and leaves. Jerry was gone!
It did look horrible, from above as well as below. But Jerry, when he
felt the first light twinge as Connie lifted the rope, foresaw what was
coming and was ready for it. As he went down, he grabbed a firm hold
on the branch on which he had stood, then he dropped to the next, and
held again. On the lowest limb he really clung for fifteen seconds,
and took in his bearings. Connie had dropped the rope when the twins
screamed, so he had nothing more to fear from her. He saw Prudence,
white, with wild eyes, both arms stretched out toward him.
"O. K., Prue," he called, and then he dropped. He landed on his feet,
a little jolted, but none the worse for his fall.
He ran at once to Prudence. "I'm all right," he cried, really alarmed
by the white horror in her face. "Prudence! Prudence!" Then her arms
dropped, and with a brave but feeble smile, she swayed a little. Jerry
took her in his arms. "Sweetheart!" he whispered. "Little sweetheart!
Do--do you love me so much, my dearest?"
Prudence raised her hands to his face, and looked intensely into his
eyes, all the sweet loving soul of her shining in her own. And Jerry
kissed her.
The twins scrambled down from the maple, speechless and cold with
terror,--and saw Prudence and Jerry! Then they saw Connie, staring at
them with interest and amusement.
"I think we'd better go to bed, all three of us," declared Lark
sturdily. And they set off heroically around the house. But at the
corner Carol turned.
"Take my advice and go into the woodshed," she said, "for all the
Averys are looking out of their windows."
Prudence did not hear, but he drew her swiftly into the woodshed. Now
a woodshed is a hideously unromantic sort of place. And there was
nothing for Prudence to sit on, that Jerry might kneel at her feet. So
they dispensed with formalities, and he held her in his arms for a long
time, and kissed her often, and whispered sweet meaningless words that
thrilled her as she listened. It may not have been comfortable, but it
was evidently endurable, for it is a fact that they did not leave that
woodshed for over an hour. Then they betook themselves to the darkest
corner of the side porch,--and history repeated itself once more!
At twelve, Jerry went up-stairs to bed, his lips tingling with the
fervent tenderness of her parting kiss. At one o'clock, he stood at
his window, looking soberly out into the moonlit parsonage yard. "She
is an angel, a pure, sweet, unselfish little angel," he whispered, and
his voice was broken, and his eyes were wet, "and she is going to be my
wife! Oh, God, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as
happy as she deserves."
At two o'clock he lay on his bed, staring into the darkness, thinking
again the soft shy words she had whispered to him. And he flung his
arms out toward his closed door, wanting her. At three o'clock he
dropped lightly asleep and dreamed of her. With the first pale streaks
of daylight stealing into his room, he awoke. It was after four
o'clock. A little later,--just a few minutes later,--he heard a light
tap on his door. It came again, and he bounded out of bed.
"Prudence! Is anything wrong?"
"Hush, Jerry, not so loud!" And what a strange and weary voice. "Come
down-stairs, will you? I want to tell you something. I'll wait at the
foot of the stairs. Be quiet,--do not wake father and the girls. Will
you be down soon?"
"In two minutes!"
And in two minutes he was flown, agonizingly anxious, knowing that
something was wrong. Prudence was waiting for him, and as he reached
the bottom step she clutched his hands desperately.
"Jerry," she whispered, "I--forgive me--I honestly-- Oh, I didn't
think what I was saying last night. You were so dear, and I was so
happy, and for a while I really believed we could belong to each other.
But I can't, you know. I've promised papa and the girls a dozen times
that I would never marry. Don't you see how it is? I must take it
back."
Jerry smiled a little, it must be admitted. This was so like his
conscientious little Prudence!
"Dearest," he said gently, "you have said that because you were not
awake. You did not love. But you are awake now. You love me. Your
father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. The
girls would not hear of it. They want you to be happy. And you can't
be happy without me, can you?"
Suddenly she crushed close to him. "Oh, Jerry," she sobbed, "I will
never be happy again, I know. But--it is right for me to stay here,
and be the mother in the parsonage. It is wicked of me to want you
more than all of them. Don't you see it is? They haven't any mother.
They haven't any one but me. Of course, they would not allow it, but
they will not know anything about it. I must do it myself. And father
especially must never know. I want you to go away this morning before
breakfast, and--never come again."
She clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter. "And
you must not write to me any more. For, oh, Jerry, if I see you again
I can never let you go, I know it. Will you do this for me?"
"You've been up all night, haven't you, dearest?"
"Yes,--I remembered, and then I couldn't sleep."
"What have you been doing all night? It is morning now."
"I walked up and down the floor, and pounded my hands together," she
admitted, with a mournful smile.
"You are nervous and excited," he said tenderly. "Let's wait until
after breakfast. Then we'll talk it all over with your father, and it
shall be as he says. Won't that be better?"
"Oh, no. For father will say whatever he thinks will make me happy.
He must not know a thing about it. Promise, Jerry, that you will never
tell him one word."
"I promise, of course, Prudence. I will let you tell him."
But she shook her head. "He will never know. Oh, Jerry! I can't bear
to think of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you,
and-- It seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it."
"Sit down here in my lap. Put your head on my shoulder, like that.
Let me rub your face a little. You're feverish. You are sick. Go to
bed, won't you, sweetheart? We can settle this later on."
"You must go right away, or I can not let you go at all!"
"Do you mean you want me to get my things, and go right now?"
"Yes." She buried her face in his shoulder. "If--if you stay in your
room until breakfast time, I will lock you in, so you can not leave me
again. I know it. I am crazy to-day."
"Don't you think you owe me something, as well as your father and
sisters? Didn't God bring us together, and make us love each other?
Don't you think He intended us for each other? Do you wish you had
never met me?"
"Jerry!"
"Then, sweetheart, be reasonable. Your father loved your mother, and
married her. That is God's plan for all of us. You have been a
wonderfully brave and sweet daughter and sister, I know. But surely
Fairy is old enough to take your place now."
"Fairy's going to be a professor, and--the girls do not mind her very
well. And she isn't as much comfort to father as I am.--It's just
because I am most like mother, you see. But anyhow, I promised. I
can't leave them."
"Your father expects you to marry, and to marry me. I told him about
it myself, long ago. And he was perfectly willing. He didn't say a
word against it."
"Of course he wouldn't. That's just like father. But still, I
promised. And what would the girls say if I should go back on them?
They have trusted me, always. If I fail them, will they ever trust
anybody else? If you love me, Jerry, please go, and stay away." But
her arm tightened about his neck. "I'll wait here until you get your
things, and we can--say good-by. And don't forget your promise."
"Oh, very well, Prudence," he answered, half irritably, "if you insist
on ordering me away from the house like this, I can only go. But----"
"Let's not talk any more about it, Jerry. Please. I'll wait until you
come down."
When he came down a little later, with his suitcase, his face was white
and strained.
She put her arms around his neck. "Jerry," she whispered, "I want to
tell you that I love you so much that--I could go away with you, and
never see any of them any more, or papa, or the parsonage, and still
feel rich, if I just had you! You--everything in me seems to be all
yours. I--love you."
Her tremulous lips were pressed against his.
"Oh, sweetheart, this is folly, all folly. But I can't make you see
it. It is wrong, it is wickedly wrong, but----"
"But I am all they have, Jerry, and--I promised."
"Whenever you want me, Prudence, just send. I'll never change. I'll
always be just the same. God intended you for me, I know, and--I'll be
waiting."
"Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" she whispered passionately, sobbing, quivering
in his arms. It was he who drew away.
"Good-by, sweetheart," he said quietly, great pity in his heart for the
girl who in her desire to do right was doing such horrible wrong.
"Good-by, sweetheart. Remember, I will be waiting. Whenever you send,
I will come."
He stepped outside, and closed the door. Prudence stood motionless,
her hands clenched, until she could no longer hear his footsteps. Then
she dropped on the floor, and lay there, face downward, until she heard
Fairy moving in her room up-stairs. Then she went into the kitchen and
built the fire for breakfast.