FATE TAKES CHARGE
Four hours Prudence lay unconscious, with two doctors in close
attendance. Fairy, alert but calm, was at hand to give them service.
It is a significant thing that in bitter anguish and grief, Christians
find comfort and peace in prayer. Outsiders, as well as Christians,
pray in times of danger and mental stress. But here is the big
difference between the prayers of Christians and the prayers of
"others." "Others" pray, and pray, and pray again, and continue still
in the agony and passion of grief and fear. And yet they pray. But
Christians pray, and find confidence and serenity. Sorrow may remain,
but anguish is stilled.
Mount Mark considered this a unique parsonage family. Their
liveliness, their gaiety, their love of fun, seemed a little inapropos
in the setting of a Methodist parsonage.
"They ain't sanctimonious enough by half," declared old Harvey Reel,
the bus driver, "but, by Jings! I tell you they are dandies!"
But as a matter of fact, every one of the family, from Connie up, had a
characteristic parsonage heart. When they were worried, or frightened,
or grieved, they prayed. Fairy passing up the stairs with hot water
for the doctors, whispered to her father as he turned in to his own
room, "Keep on praying, father. I can't stop now, because they need
me. But I'm praying every minute between errands!" And Mr. Starr,
kneeling beside his bed, did pray,--and the stony despair in his eyes
died out, and he came from the little room quiet, and confident, and
calm.
Connie had been unfortunate. In seeking a secluded corner to "pray for
Prudence," she had passed the door of the dungeon, and paused. A
fitting place! So she turned in at once, drawing the door after her,
but leaving it a couple of inches ajar. Then in the farthest and
darkest corner, she knelt on the hard floor, and prayed, and sobbed
herself to sleep. Fairy passing through the hall, observed the door
ajar, and gave it a slight push. The lock snapped into place, but
Connie did not waken.
Lark remained loyally with Carol until consciousness returned to her.
As soon as she was able to walk, the two went silently to the barn, and
climbed into the much-loved haymow. There they lay flat on the hay,
faces downward, each with an arm across the other's shoulder, praying
fervently. After a time they rose and crept into the house, where they
waited patiently until Fairy came down on one of her numerous errands.
"Is she better?" they whispered. And Fairy answered gently, "I think
she is a little better." Then the twins, in no way deceived, went back
to the haymow again.
Fairy prepared a hasty supper, and arranged it on the kitchen table.
She drank a cup of hot coffee, and went in search of her father. "Go
and eat, dadsie," she urged. But he shook his head.
"I am not hungry, but send the girls to the table at once."
On their next trip into the house, Fairy stopped the twins. "Get
Connie, and eat your supper. It's just a cold lunch, and is already on
the kitchen table. You must help yourselves,--I can't come now."
The twins did not speak, and Fairy went hurriedly up the stairs once
more.
"I do not think I can eat," said Carol.
"I know I can't," was Lark's reply.
"Won't Fairy make us? She'll tell papa."
"We'd better take away about half of this food, and hide it. Then she
will think we have already eaten."
This novel plan was acted upon with promptitude.
"Where's Connie? She ought to eat something. We must make her do it."
"She probably cried herself to sleep somewhere. We'd better let her
alone. She'll feel much better asleep and hungry, than awake and sorry
for Prue."
So the twins went back to the haymow. When it grew dark, they slipped
into the kitchen, and huddled together on, the woodbox beside the
stove. And down to them presently came Fairy, smiling, her eyes
tear-brightened.
"She is better!" cried Carol, springing to her feet.
"Yes," said Fairy, dropping on her knees and burying her face in Lark's
lap, as she still sat on the woodbox. "She's better. She is better."
Lark patted the heaving shoulders in a motherly way, and when Fairy
lifted her face again it was all serene, though her lashes were wet.
"She is conscious," said Fairy, still on her knees, but with her head
thrown back, and smiling. "She regained consciousness a little while
ago. There is nothing really serious the matter. It was a hard knock,
but it missed the temple. When she became conscious, she looked up at
father and smiled. Father looked perfectly awful, twins, so pale, and
his lips were trembling. And Prudence said, 'Now, father, on your word
of honor, did you knock me down with that ball on purpose?' She spoke
very low, and weak, but--just like Prudence! Father couldn't say a
word, he just nodded, and gulped. She has a little fever, and the
doctors say we may need to work with her part of the night. Father
said to ask if you would go to bed now, so you can get up early in the
morning and help us. I am to stay with Prudence to-night, but you may
have to take turns in the morning. And you'll have to get breakfast,
too. So father thinks you would better go to bed. Will you do that,
twinnies?"
"Will we!" And Carol added, "Will you kiss Prudence good night for us,
and tell her we kept praying all the time? Prudence is such a great
hand for praying, you know."
Fairy promised, and the twins crept up-stairs. It was dark in their
room.
"We'll undress in the dark so as not to awake poor little Connie,"
whispered Lark. "It's nice she can sleep like that, isn't it?"
And the twins went to bed, and fell asleep after a while, never
doubting that Connie, in her corner of the room, was already safe and
happy in the oblivion of slumber.
But poor Connie! She had not wakened when Fairy closed the dungeon
door. It was long afterward when she sat up and began rubbing her
eyes. She did not know where she was. Then she remembered! She
wondered if Prudence-- She scrambled to her feet, and trotted over to
the dungeon door. It was locked, she could not turn the knob. At
first, she thought of screaming and pounding on the door.
"But that will arouse Prudence, and frighten her, and maybe kill her,"
she thought wretchedly. "I'll just keep still until some one passes."
But no one passed for a long time, and Connie stretched her aching
little body and sobbed, worrying about Prudence, fearful on her own
account. She had no idea of the time. She supposed it was still
early. And the parsonage was deathly quiet. Maybe Prudence had died!
Connie writhed in agony on the hard floor, and sobbed bitterly. Still
she would not risk pounding on the dungeon door.
Up-stairs, in the front room, Prudence was at that time wrestling with
fever. Higher and higher it rose, until the doctors looked very
anxious. They held a brief consultation in the corner of the room.
Then they beckoned to Mr. Starr.
"Has Prudence been worrying about something this winter?"
"Yes."
"Has she been grieving, and fretting for something?"
"Yes, she has."
"It is that young man, isn't it?" inquired the family doctor,--a
Methodist "member."
"Yes."
"Can you bring him here?"
"Yes,--as soon as he can get here from Des Moines."
"You'd better do it. She has worn herself down nearly to the point of
prostration. We think we can break this fever without serious
consequences, but get the young man as soon as possible. She can not
relax and rest, until she gets relief."
So he went down-stairs and over the telephone dictated a short message
to Jerry. "Please come,--Prudence."
When he entered the front bedroom again, Prudence was muttering
unintelligible words under her breath. He kneeled down beside the bed,
and put his arms around her. She clung to him with sudden passion.
"Jerry! Jerry!" she cried. Her father caressed and petted her, but
did not speak.
"Oh, I can't," she cried again. "I can't, Jerry, I can't!" Again her
voice fell to low mumbling. "Yes, go. Go at once. I promised, you
know.--They haven't any mother.--I promised. Jerry! Jerry!" Her
voice rang out so wildly that Connie, down in the dungeon, heard her
cries and sobbed anew, relieved that Prudence was living, frightened at
the wildness of her voice. "Oh, I do want you--more than anybody.
Don't go!--Oh, yes, go at once. I promised.--Father needs me." And
then a piercing shriek, "He is falling! Connie, drop that rope!" She
struggled up in the bed, and gazed wildly about her,--then, panting,
she fell back on the pillows.
But Mr. Starr smiled gently to himself. So that was the answer! Oh,
foolish little Prudence! Oh, sweet-hearted little martyr girl!
Hours later the fever broke, and Prudence drifted into a deep sleep.
Then the doctors went downstairs with Mr. Starr, talking in quiet
ordinary tones.
"Oh, she is all right now, no danger at all. She'll do fine. Let her
sleep. Send Fairy to bed, too. Keep Prudence quiet a few
days,--that's all. She's all right."
They did not hear the timid knock at the dungeon door. But after they
had gone out, Mr. Starr locked the door behind them, and started back
through the hall to see if the kitchen doors were locked. He
distinctly heard a soft tapping, and he smiled. "Mice!" he thought.
Then he heard something else,--a faintly whispered "Father!"
With a sharp exclamation he unlocked and opened the dungeon door, and
Connie fell into his arms, sobbing piteously. And he did the only wise
thing to do under such circumstances. He sat down on the hall floor
and cuddled the child against his breast. He talked to her soothingly
until the sobs quieted, and her voice was under control.
"Now, tell father," he urged, "how did you get in the dungeon? The
twins----"
"Oh, no, father, of course not, the twins wouldn't do such a thing as
that. I went into the dungeon to pray that Prudence would get well.
And I prayed myself to sleep. When I woke up the door was locked."
"But you precious child," he whispered, "why didn't you call out, or
pound on the door?"
"I was afraid it would excite Prue and make her worse," she answered
simply. And her father's kiss was unwontedly tender as he carried her
upstairs to bed.
Prudence slept late the next morning, and when she opened her eyes her
father was sitting beside her.
"All right this morning, father," she said, smiling. "Are the girls at
school?"
"No,--this is Saturday."
"Oh, of course. Well, bring them up, I want to see them."
Just then the distant whistle of a locomotive sounded through the open
window, but she did not notice her father's sudden start. She nodded
up at him again, and repeated, "I want to see my girls."
Her father sent them up to her at once, and they stood at the foot of
the bed with sorry faces, and smiled at her.
"Say something," whispered Carol, kicking Lark suggestively on the
foot. But Lark was dumb. It was Carol who broke the silence.
"Oh, Prudence, do you suppose the doctors will let me come in and watch
them bandage your head? I want to begin practising up, so as to be
ready for the next war."
Then they laughed, and the girls realized that Prudence was really
alive and quite as always. They told her of Connie's sad experience,
and Prudence comforted her sweetly.
"It just proves all over again," she declared, smiling, but with a sigh
close following, "that you can't get along without me to look after
you. Would I ever go to bed without making sure that Connie was safe
and sound?"
Down-stairs, meanwhile, Mr. Starr was plotting with Fairy, a willing
assistant.
"He'll surely be in on this train, and you must keep him down here
until I get through with Prudence. I want to tell her a few things
before she sees him. Bring him in quietly, and don't let him speak
loudly. I do not want her to know he is on hand for a few minutes.
Explain it to the girls, will you?"
After sending the younger girls down-stairs again, he closed the door
of Prudence's room, and sat down beside her.
"Prudence, I can't tell you how bitterly disappointed I am in you."
"Father!"
"Yes, I thought you loved us,--the girls and me. It never occurred to
me that you considered us a bunch of selfish, heartless, ungrateful
animals!"
"Father!"
"Is that your idea of love? Is that----"
"Oh, father!"
"It really did hurt me, Prudence. My dear little girl, how could you
send Jerry away, breaking your heart and his, and ours, too,--just
because you thought us such a selfish lot that we would begrudge you
any happiness of your own? Don't you think our love for you is big
enough to make us happy in seeing you happy? You used to say you would
never marry. We did not expect you to marry, then. But we knew the
time would come when marriage would seem beautiful and desirable to
you. We were waiting for that time. We were hoping for it. We were
happy when you loved Jerry, because we knew he was good and kind and
loving, and that he could give you all the beautiful things of
life--that I can never give my children. But you thought we were too
selfish to let you go, and you sent him away."
"But father! Who would raise the girls? Who would keep the parsonage?
Who would look after you?"
"Aunt Grace, to be sure. We talked it over two years ago, when her
husband died. Before that, she was not free to come to us. But she
said then that whenever we were ready for her, she would come. We both
felt that since you were getting along so magnificently with the girls,
it was better that way for a while. But she said that when your
flitting-time came, she would come to us gladly. We had it all
arranged. You won't want to marry for a year or so, yet. You'll want
to have some happy sweetheart days first. And you'll want to make a
lot of those pretty, useless, nonsensical things other girls make when
they marry. That's why I advised you to save your burglar money,--so
you would have it for this. We'll have Aunt Grace come right away, so
you can take a little freedom to be happy, and to make your plans. And
you can initiate Aunt Grace into the mysteries of parsonage
housekeeping."
A bright strange light had flashed over Prudence's face. But her eyes
clouded a little as she asked, "Do you think they would rather have
Aunt Grace than me?"
"Of course not. But what has that to do with it? We love you so
dearly that we can only be happy when you are happy. We love you so
dearly that we can be happy with you away from us,--just knowing that
you are happy. But you--you thought our love was such a hideous,
selfish, little make-believe that----"
"Oh, father, I didn't! You know I didn't!--But--maybe Jerry won't
forgive me now?"
"Why didn't you talk it over with me, Prudence?"
"I knew you too well, father. I knew it would be useless.
But--doesn't it seem wrong, father, that--a girl--that I--should love
Jerry more than--you and the girls? That he should come first?
Doesn't it seem--wicked?"
"No, Prudence, it is not wicked. After all, perhaps it is not a
stronger and deeper love. You were willing to sacrifice him and
yourself, for our sakes! But it is a different love. It is the love
of woman for man,--that is very different from sister-love and
father-love. And it is right. And it is beautiful."
"I am sure Jerry will forgive me. Maybe if you will send me a paper
and pencil--I can write him a note now? There's no use waiting, is
there? Fairy will bring it, I am sure."
But when a few minutes later, she heard a step in the hall outside, she
laid her arm across her face. Somehow she felt that the wonderful joy
and love shining in her eyes should be kept hidden until Jerry was
there to see. She heard the door open, and close again.
"Put them on the table, Fairy dearest, and--leave me for a little
while, will you? Thank you." And her face was still hidden.
Then the table by the bedside was swiftly drawn away, and Jerry kneeled
beside her, and drew the arm from her face.
"Jerry!" she whispered, half unbelievingly. Then joyously, "Oh,
Jerry!" She gazed anxiously into his face. "Have you been sick? How
thin you are, and so pale! Jerry Harmer, you need me to take care of
you, don't you?"
But Jerry did not speak. He looked earnestly and steadily into the
joyful eyes for a moment, and then he pressed his face to hers.