AT LE BATEAU.
Harold got his own breakfast the next morning, and was off for his work
just as the sun looked into the windows of the room where Jerrie lay in
a deep slumber. She had been awake a long time the previous night,
thinking over the incidents of a day which had been the most eventful
one of her life, but had fallen asleep at last, and dreamed that she had
found the low room far away in Wiesbaden, with the wall adorned with the
picture of a young girl knitting in the sunshine, and the stranger
watching her from a distance.
It was late when she awoke, and Peterkin's clock was striking eight when
she went down to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Crawford sewing, and
a most dainty breakfast waiting for her on a little round table near an
open window shaded with the hop-vines. There was a fresh egg for her,
with English buns, and strawberries and cream, and chocolate served in a
pretty cup which she had never seen before, while near her plate was
lying a bunch of roses, and on them a strip of paper, on which Harold
had written:
"The top of the mornin' to ye, Jerrie. I'd like to stay and see you,
but if I work very hard to-day, I hope to finish the job on Monday
and get my fifteen dollars. That's a pile of money to earn in three
days, isn't it? I hope you enjoyed the garden-party. If I had not
been so awfully tired I should have gone for you. Grandma will tell
you that I went to bed and to sleep before that shower came up, so I
knew nothing of it. I wonder you got home; but of course Dick came
with you, or Billy, or possibly Tom. I hear you entertained all
three of them at the washtub! Pretty good for the first day home!
Good-bye till to-night. I only live till then, as they say in
novels.
"HAROLD."
This note, every line of which was full of affection and thoughtfulness
for her, was worth more to Jerrie than the chocolate, or the bun, or the
pretty cup and saucer which Harold had bought for her the night before,
going to the village, a mile out of his way, on purpose to get them and
surprise her. This, Mrs. Crawford told her, as she eat eating her
breakfast, which she had to force down because of the lump in her throat
and the tears which came so fast as she listened.
'You see,' Mrs. Crawford began, 'Mr. Allen paid Harold two or three
dollars, and so he came home through the village, and bought the eggs,
and the buns, and the chocolate, which he knew you liked, and the cup
and saucer at Grady's. He has had it on his mind a long time to get it
for you, but there were so many other things to pay for. Don't you think
it is pretty?'
'Yes, lovely!' Jerrie replied, taking up the delicate bit of china,
through which the light shone so clearly. 'It is very pretty; but I wish
he had not bought it for me,' and Jerrie wiped the hot tears from both
her eyes, as Mrs. Crawford continued:
'Oh, he wanted to. He is never happier than when doing something which
he thinks pleases you or me. Harold is the most unselfish boy I ever
knew; and I never saw him give way, or heard him complain that his lot
was hard but once, and that was this summer, when he was building the
room, and had to dismiss the man because he had no money to pay him.
That left it all for him to do, and he was already so tired and
overworked; and then Tom Tracy was always making fun of the addition,
and saying it made the cottage look like a pig-sty with a steeple to
it, and that you would think so too; and if it were his he'd tear the
old hut down and start anew. Peterkin, too, made remarks about its being
out of proportion to the rest of the house, and wondered where Harold
got the money, and why he didn't do this and that, but supposed he
couldn't afford it, adding that "beggars couldn't be choosers." When
Harold heard all that, he was tired, and nervous, and sick, and
discouraged, and his hands were blistered and bruised with hard work.
His head was aching, and he just put it on that table, where you are
sitting, and cried like a baby. When I tried to comfort him, he said,
"It isn't the hard work, grandmother; I don't mind that in the least;
neither do I care for what they say, or should not, if there was not
some truth in it; things are out of proportion, and the new room makes
the rest of the cottage look lower than ever, and I'd like so much to
have everything right for Jerrie, who would not shame the Queen's
palace. I wish, for her sake, that I had money, and could make her home
what it ought to be. I do not want her to feel homesick, or long for
something better, when she comes back to us."'
Jerrie was crying outright now; but Mrs. Crawford, who was a little deaf
and did not hear her, went on:
'If you were a hundred times his sister he could not love you more than
he does, or wish to make you happier. He would have gone for you last
night, only he was so tired, and I persuaded him to go to bed. I knew
somebody would come home with you, Dick, wasn't it? I thought I heard
his voice.'
'Yes, it was Dick,' Jerrie answered, very low, returning again to her
breakfast, while her grandmother rambled on:
'Harold slept so soundly that he never heard the storm or knew there was
one till this morning. Lucky you didn't start home till it was over.
You'd have been wet to the skin.'
Jerrie made no answer, for she could not tell of that interview under
the pines, or that she had been wet to the skin, and felt chilly even
now from the effects of it. It seemed that Mrs. Crawford would never
tire talking of Harold, for she continued:
'He was up this morning about daylight, I do believe, and had his own
breakfast eaten and that table laid for you when I came down. He wanted
to see you before he went, and know if you were pleased; but I told him
you were probably asleep, as it was late when you came in, and so he
wrote something for you, and went whistling off as merrily as if he had
been in his carriage, instead of on foot in his working-dress.'
'And he shall have his carriage, too, some day, and a pair of the finest
horses the country affords, and you shall ride beside him, in a satin
gown and India shawl. You'll see!' Jerrie said, impetuously, as she
arose from the table and began to clear away the dishes.
The spell was upon her strongly now, and as her grandmother talked, the
objects around her gradually faded away; the cottage, so out of
proportion, and so humble in all its surroundings, was gone, and in its
place a house, fair to look upon, fair as Tracy Park and much like it,
and Harold was the master, looking a very prince, instead of the tired,
shabbily dressed man he was now.
'And I shall be there, too,' Jerrie whispered, or rather nodded to
herself. 'I know I shall, and I do not believe one word of the Maude
affair, and never will until he tells me himself, or she; and
then--well, then, I will be glad for them, until I come to be really
glad myself.'
She was moving rapidly around the kitchen, for there was a great deal to
be done--the Saturday's work and all the clothes to be ironed, and then
she meant to get up some little surprise for Harold, to show him that
she appreciated his thoughtfulness for her.
About half-past ten a servant from Le Bateau brought her a note from Ann
Eliza, who wrote as follows.
'Dear Jerrie:--Have pity on a poor cripple, and come as soon as you
can and see her. I sprained my ankle last night in that awful storm,
and Tom had to bring me home in his arms. Think of it, and what my
feelings must have been. I am hardly over it yet--the queer feelings
I mean--for, of course, my ankle is dreadful, and so swollen, and
pains me so that I cannot step, but must stay in my room all day. So
come as soon as possible. You have never seen the inside of our
house, or my rooms. Come to lunch, please. We will have it up here.
Good-bye.
'From your loving friend,
'ANN ELIZA.
'P.S.--I wonder if Tom will inquire for me.'
'Tell her I will be there by lunch time,' Jerrie said to the man, while
to her grandmother she continued: 'The baking and cleaning are all done,
and I can finish the ironing when I get back; it will be cooler then,
and I do want to see the inside of that show-house which Harold says
cost a hundred thousand dollars. Pity somebody besides the Peterkins did
not live there.'
And so, about twelve o'clock Jerrie walked up to the grand house of gray
stone, which, with its turrets, and towers, and immense arch over the
carriage drive in front of a side door, looked like some old feudal
castle, and flaunted upon its walls the money it had cost. Even the loud
bell which echoed through the hall like a town clock told of wealth and
show, as did the colored man who answered the summons, and bowing low to
Jerrie, held out a silver tray for her card.
'Nonsense, Leo!' Jerrie said, laughingly, for she had known the negro
all her life and played with him, too, at times, when they both went to
the district school. 'I have no card with me. Miss Ann Eliza has invited
me to lunch, and I have come. Tell her I am here.'
With another profound bow, Leo waved Jerrie into the reception-room, and
then started to deliver her message.
Seated upon one of the carved chairs, Jerrie looked about her curiously,
with a feeling that the half had not been told her, everything was so
much more gorgeous and magnificent than she had supposed. But what
impressed and at the same time oppressed her most was the height of the
walls from the richly inlaid floor to the gayly decorated ceiling
overhead. It made her neck ache staring up fourteen feet and a half to
the costly center ornament from which the heavy chandelier depended. All
the rooms of the old house had been low, and when Peterkin built the new
one, he made ample amends.
"I mean to lick the crowd," he said; and a man was sent to Collingwood,
and Grassy Spring, and Brier Hill, and lastly to Tracy Park, to take the
height of the lower rooms. Those at Tracy Park were found to be the
highest, and measured just twelve feet, so Peterkin's orders were to
"run 'em up--run 'em up fourteen feet, for I swan I'll get ahead of
'em."
So they were run up fourteen feet, and by some mistake, half a foot
higher, looking when finished so cold and cheerless and bare that the
ambitious man ransacked New York and Boston and even sent to London for
ornaments for his walls. Books were bought by the square yard, pictures
by the wholesale, mirrors by the dozen, with bronzes and brackets and
sconces and tapestry and banners and screens and clocks and cabinets and
statuary, with every kind of furniture imaginable, from the costliest
rugs and carpets to the most exquisite inlaid tables to be found in
Florence or Venice. For Peterkin sent there for them by a gentleman to
whom he said:
'Git the best there is if it costs a fortune. I'm bound to lick the
crowd.'
This was his favorite expression; and when his house was done, and he
stood, his broad, white shirt-front studded with diamonds and his coat
thrown back to show them, surveying his possessions, he felt that he
'had licked the crowd.'
Jerrie felt so, too, as she followed the elegant Leo up the stairs and
through the upper hall--handsomer, if possible than the lower one--to
the pretty room where Ann Eliza lay, or rather reclined, with her lame
foot on a cushion and her well one incased in a white embroidered silk
stocking and blue satin slipper. She was dressed in a delicate blue
satin wrapper, trimmed with swan's-down, and there were diamonds in her
ears and on the little white hands which she stretched toward Jerrie as
she came in.
'Oh, Jerrie,' she said, 'I am so glad to see you, for it is awfully
lonesome here; and if one can be homesick at home, I am. I miss the
girls and the lessons and the rules at Vassar; much as I hated them when
I was there; and just before you came in I wanted to cry. I guess my
rooms are too big and have too much in them; any way, I have the feeling
that I am visiting, and everything is strange and new. I do believe I
liked the old room better, with its matting on the floor and the little
mirror with the peacock feathers ornamenting the top, and that painted
plaster image of Samuel on the mantel. It is very ungrateful in me, I
know, when father has done it mostly to please me. Do you believe--he
has hunted me up a maid; Doris is her name; and what I am ever to do
with her, or she with me, I am sure I don't know. Do you?'
Jerrie did not know either, but suggested that she might read to her
while she was confined to her room. 'Yes, she might, perhaps, do that,
if she can read,' Ann Eliza said. 'She certainly has pretentions enough
about her to have written several treatises on scientific subjects. She
was a year with Lady Augusta Hardy, in Ireland. Don't you remember the
grand wedding father and mother attended in Allington two or three years
ago, when Augusta Browne was married to an Irish lord, who had been
bought by her money?--for of course he did not care much for her. Well,
Doris went out with her as maid, and acts as if she, too, had married a
peer. She came last night, and mamma and I are already as afraid of her
as we can be, she is so fine and airy. She insisted upon dressing me
this morning, and I felt all the while as if she were thinking how red
and ugly my hair is, or counting the freckles on my face, and
contrasting me with 'my Lady Augusta,' as she calls her. I wonder if she
ever saw my lady's mother, Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, who told me once that I
had a very _petty figger_, but she presumed it would _envelope_ as I
grew older. But then people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw
stones,' and Ann Eliza colored a little as she made this reference to
her own father and mother, whose language was not much more correct than
Mrs. Rossiter-Browne's.
For one brought up as she had been, Ann Eliza was a rather sensible
girl, and although she attached a great deal of importance to money, she
knew it was not everything, and that with her father's millions there
was still a wide difference between him and the men to whose society he
aspired; and knew, too, that although Jerrie had not a penny in the
world, she was greatly her superior, and so considered by the world at
large. She was very fond of Jerrie, who had often helped her with her
lessons, and stood between her and the ridicule of her companions, and
was never happier than when in her society. So now she made her bring an
ottoman close beside her, and held her hand while she narrated in detail
the events of the previous night, dwelling at length upon the fact that
Tom had carried her in his arms, and wondering if he would call to
inquire after her. Jerrie thought he would; and, as if in answer to the
thought, Doris almost immediately appeared with his card. She _was_ very
fine and very smart, and Jerrie herself felt awed by her dignity and
manner as she delivered her message. 'The gentleman sends his
compliments, and would like to know how you are this morning.'
'Jerrie, it's Tom! he has come!' Ann Eliza said, with joy in her voice.
'Surely I can receive him here, for this is my parlor.'
Jerrie thought she might, but the toss of the fine maid's head showed
that she thought differently, as she left the room with her mistress'
message.
'Thunderation! I didn't want to see her. It's enough to have to call,'
was Tom's mental comment, when Doris told him he was to walk up stairs.
Indeed, he would not have come at all if Maude, to whom he related his
adventure, had not insisted that he must.
'You needn't see her, of course; but you must go and inquire how she is.
According to your own statement you are to blame for her mishap; you
dragged her along too fast.
Tom knew there was some truth in this, and so he went the more
willingly; and, sending up his card, stood near the open door, ready to
leave the moment Leo came down with the message he had received from
Doris.
'I shall be cheek by jowl with these Peterkins, if I don't look out,' he
thought, as he ascended the stairs to the hall, where Doris stood
waiting to show him her mistress' room.
'What! Jerry! You here?' he exclaimed, his face clearing, and the whole
aspect of matters changing at once, as she arose to meet him.
With Jerrie there the place seemed different, and he did not feel as if
he were lowering himself, as he sat in the luxuriously furnished room,
and joined in the dainty lunch which was brought up and served from
Dresden china, and linen and cut glass, and was as delicate and dainty
in its way as anything he had ever found at the Brunswick or
Delmonico's. Mrs. Peterkin prided herself upon her _cuisine_, which she
always superintended, and as Peterkin was something of an epicure and
gourmand, the table was always supplied with every possible delicacy.
Tom enjoyed it all, and praised the chocolate, and the broiled chicken,
and the jellies, and thought Ann Eliza not so very bad-looking in her
blue satin wrapper, with the swan's-down trimmings, and made himself
generally agreeable. Maude was better, he said, and could talk a
little, and he asked Jerrie to go home with him and see her. But Jerrie
declined.
'I have a great deal of work to do yet,' she said, 'I must iron all
those clothes you saw upon the line yesterday, and so I must be going.'
Tom frowned at the mention of the clothes which Jerrie had washed; while
Ann Eliza insisted that she should stay until the dog-cart, which had
been sent to the station for Billy, came back, when Lewis would take her
home, as it was too warm to walk. Jerrie did not mind the walk, but she
felt morally sure that Tom meant to accompany her, and greatly preferred
the dog-cart and Lewis to another _tête-à-tête_ with him, for he did not
act at all like a discarded lover, but rather as one who still hoped he
had a chance. So she signified her intention to wait for the dog-cart,
which soon came, with Billy in it, anxious when he heard of his sister's
accident, delighted when he found Jerrie there, and persistent in saying
that he and not Lewis would take her home.
'Well, if you will, you will,' she said, laughingly; and bidding Ann
Eliza good-bye, and telling Tom to give her love to Maude and say to her
that she did not believe she should be at the park that day, she had so
much to do, she was soon in the dog-cart with Billy, whose face was
radiant as he gathered up the reins and started down the turnpike,
driving at what Jerrie thought a very slow pace, as she was anxious to
get home.
Something of Billy's thoughts must have communicated itself to Jerrie,
for she became nervous and ill at ease and talked rapidly of things in
which she had not the slightest interest.
'What of the lawsuit?' she asked. 'Are you likely to settle it?'
'N-no,' Billy answered, hurriedly. 'It will h-have to co-come into
co-court in a f-few days, and I am aw-awful sorry. I wa-wanted father to
p-pay what they demanded, but he won't. Hal is subpoenaed on the other
side, as he was in our office, and is supposed to know something about
it; b-but I ho-hope he won't da-damage us m-much, as father would
n-never forgive him if he went against us.'
'But he must tell the truth, no matter who is damaged,' Jerrie said.
'Ye-yes' Billy replied, 'of co-course he must, b-but he needn't
volunteer information.'
Jerry began to think that Billy had insisted upon coming with her for
the sake of persuading her to caution Harold against saying too much
when he was called to testify in the great lawsuit between Peterkin &
Co., manufacturers in Shannondale, and Wilson & Co., manufacturers in
Truesdale, an adjoining town; but she was undeceived when her companion
turned suddenly off upon the river road, which would take them at least
two miles out of their way.
'Why are you coming here!' Jerrie said, in real distress. 'It is ever so
much farther, and I must get home. I have piles of work to do.'
'Co-confound the work,' Billy replied, very energetically for him, and
reining his horse up under a wide spreading butternut tree, which grew
upon the river bank, he sprang out and pretended to be busy with some
part of the harness, while he astonished Jerrie by bursting out, without
the least stammer, he was so earnest and so excited: 'I've something to
say to you, Jerrie, and I may as well say it now as any time, and know
the worst, or the best. I can't bear the suspense any longer, and I got
out of the cart so as to stand where I could look you square in the face
while I say it.'
And he was looking her square in the face while she grew hot and cold
and experienced a sensation quite different from what she had when Tom
and Dick made love to her. She had felt no fear of them, but she was
afraid of this little man, who stood up so resolutely, with his tongue
loosened, and asked her to be his wife, for that was what he did, making
his wishes known in a very few words, and then waiting for her answer
with his eyes fixed upon her face and a firm, set look about his mouth
which puzzled and troubled her and made her uncertain as to how she was
to deal with this third aspirant for her hand within twenty-four hours.
Billy had long had it in his mind that Jerry Crawford was the only girl
in the world for him, but he might not have spoken quite; so soon had it
not been for a conversation held with his father the previous night,
when they were alone in a private room at the hotel in Shannondale,
waiting for the train which Billy was to take, and which was half an
hour late. Peterkin had exhausted himself in oaths and epithets with
regard to the lawsuit and those who had brought it against him, and was
regaling himself with a cigar and a glass of brandy and water, while
Billy sat by the window watching for the train and wishing himself at
Grassy Spring with Jerrie. Peterkin seldom drank to excess, but on this
occasion he had taken a little too much. When under the influence of
stimulants, he was either aggressive and quarrelsome, or jocose and
talkative. The latter mood was on him now, and as he drank his brandy
and water he held forth upon the subject of matrimony, wondering why his
son did not marry, and saying it was quite time he did so and settled
down.
'You can have the south wing,' he said, 'and if the rooms ain't up to
snuff now, why, I'll make 'em so. The fact is, Bill, I've got money
enough--three millions and better; but somehow it doesn't seem to do the
thing. It doesn't fetch us to the quality and make us fust-cut. We need
better blood than the Peterkins or the Moshers--need boostin', and you
must get a wife to boost us. Have you ever thought on't?'
'Billy never had thought of it in that light,' he said, although he had
thought of marrying, providing the girl would have him.
'Have you! Thunderation! A girl would be a fool who wouldn't marry three
millions, with Lubber-too thrown in! Who is she?' Peterkin asked.
After a little hesitancy Billy replied:
'Jerrie Crawford.'
'Jerrie Crawford! I'll be dammed! Jerrie Crawford!' and Peterkin's big
feet came down from the back of the chair on which they were resting,
upsetting the chair and his brandy at the same time. 'Jerrie Crawford! I
swow! A gal without a cent, or name either, though I used to have a
sneakin' notion that I knew who she was, but I guess I didn't. 'Twould
have come out afore now. What under heavens put her into your noddle?
She can't _boost_! and then she's head and shoulders taller than you be!
How you would look trottin' beside her! Jerrie Crawford! Wal, I swan!'
and Peterkin laughed until his big stomach shook like a bowl of jelly.
Billy was angry, and replied that he did not know what height had to do
with it, or name either; and as for _boosting_, he wouldn't marry a
king's daughter, if he did not love her; and for that matter Jerrie
could boost, for she stood quite as high in town as any young lady.
Both Nina St. Claire and Maude Tracy worshipped her, while Mrs. Atherton
paid her a great deal of attention; and so did the Mungers and
Crosbys--enough sight more than they did to Ann Eliza with all her
money.
'Mo-money isn't ev-everything.' Billy stammered, 'and Je-Jerrie would
make a ve-very different pl-place of Le Bateau.'
'Mebby she would--mebby she would; but I'd never thought of her for
you,' Peterkin said. 'I'd picked out some; big bug, who perhaps wouldn't
wipe her shoes on you. Jerrie is handsome as blazes and no mistake, with
a kinder up and comin' way about her which takes the folks. Yes, it
keeps growin' on me, and I presume Arthur Tracy would give her away,
which would be a feather in your cap; but lord! you'll have to git a
pair of the highest heels you ever seen to come within ten foot on her.'
'She's only two inches t-taller than I am,' Billy said, and his father
continued:
'Wall, if your heart's set on her go it, and quick, too, I'm goin' to
have a smasher of a party in the fall, and Jerrie'll be just the one to
draw, I can see her now, standin' there with the diamonds we'll give her
sparklin' on her neck, and she lookin' like a queen, and the _sinecure_
of all eyes. But for thunder's sake don't marry the old woman and all.
Leave her to Harold, the sneak! I never did like him, and I'll be mad
enough to kill him if he goes agin me in the suit, and I b'lieve he
will.'
At this point Peterkin wandered off to the suit entirely and forgot
Jerrie, who was to boost the house of Peterkin and make it 'fust-cut.'
But not so Billy, and all the way from Shannondale to Springfield he was
thinking of Jerrie, and wondering if it were possible that she could
ever look upon him with favor. Like Tom and Dick, he could scarcely
remember the time when he did not think Jerrie the loveliest girl in the
world, and ever since he had grown to manhood he had meditated making
her his wife, but had feared what his father might say, as he knew how
much importance he attached to money. Now however, his father had
signified his assent, and, resolving to lose no time, Billy, on his
return next day to Le Bateau, seized the opportunity to take Jerrie
home, as the occasion for declaring his love, which he did in a manly,
straightforward manner, never hinting at any advantage it would be to
her to be the wife of a millionaire, or offering any inducement in any
way except to say that he loved her and would devote his life to making
her happy. Tom Tracy Jerrie had scorned, Dick St. Claire she had pitied,
but this little man she felt like ridiculing.
'Oh, Billy,' she said, laughing merrily. 'You can't be in earnest. Why
I'm head and shoulders taller than you are. I do believe I could pick
you up and throw you into the river. Only think how we should look
together; people would think you my little boy, and that I should not
like. So, I can never be your wife.'
Nothing cuts a man like ridicule, and sensitive as he was with regard to
his size, Billy felt it to his heart's core; and as he stood nervously
playing with the reins and looking at Jerrie sitting there so tall and
erect in all the brightness of her wonderful beauty, it flashed upon him
how impossible it was for that glorious creature ever to be his wife,
and what a fool he had made of himself.
'For-gi-give me, Jerrie,' he said, his chin beginning to quiver, and the
great tears rolling down his face, 'I know you ca-can't, and I
ou-oughtn't to have ask-asked it, bu-but I d-did love you so much, that
I f-forgot how impossible it was f-for one like you to lo-love one
li-like me. I am so small and insig-insignificant, and st-stutter so. I
wish I was dead,' and laying his head upon the horse's neck, he sobbed
aloud.
In an instant Jerrie was out of the dog-cart and at his side, talking to
and trying to soothe him as she would a child.
'Oh, Billy, Billy,' she said. 'I am so sorry for you, and sorry I said
those cruel words about your size. It was only in fun. Your size has
nothing to do with my refusal. I know you have a big, kind heart, and
next to Harold and Dick, and Mr. Arthur, I like you better than any man
I ever knew; but I cannot be your wife. Don't cry, Billy; it hurts me so
to see you and know that I have done it. Please stop, and take me home
as quickly as possible.'
With a great gulp, and a long sigh like a grieved child, Billy dried
his tears, of which he was much ashamed, and helping Jerrie into the
cart drove her rapidly to the door of the cottage.
'I should not like Tom, nor Dick, nor Harold to know this,' he said to
her, as he stood a moment with her at the gate.
'Billy!' she exclaimed, 'do you know me so little as to think I would
tell them, or anybody? I have more honor than that,' and she gave him
her hand, which he held tightly in his while he looked earnestly into
the sweet young face which could never be his, every muscle of his own
quivering with emotion, and telling of the pain he was enduring.
'Good-bye. I shall be more like a ma-man, and less a ba-baby when I see
you again,' and springing into his cart he drove rapidly away.
Jerrie found her grandmother seated at a table and trying to iron.
'Grandma,' she said, 'this is too bad. I did not mean to stay so long.
Put down that flat-iron this minute. I am coming there as soon as I lay
off my hat.'
Running up the stairs to her room, Jerrie put away her hat, and then,
throwing herself upon the bed, cried for a moment as hard as she could
cry. The look on Billy's face haunted her, and she pitied him now more
than she had pitied Dick St. Claire.
'Dick will get over it, and marry somebody else, but Billy never,' she
said.
Then, rising up, she bathed her eyes, and pushing back her tangled hair,
stood for a moment before the mirror, contemplating the reflection of
herself in it.
'Jerrie Crawford,' she said, 'you must be a mean, heartless,
good-for-nothing girl, for it certainly is not your Dutch face, nor
yellow hair, nor great staring eyes, which make men think that you will
marry them; so it must be your flirting, coquettish manners. I hate a
flirt. I hate you, Jerrie Crawford.'
Once when a little girl, Jerrie had said to Harold, 'Why do all the boys
want to kiss me so much?' and now she might have asked, 'Why do these
same boys wish to marry me?' It was a curious fact that she should have
had three offers within twenty-four hours; and she didn't like it, and
her face wore a troubled look all that hot afternoon as she stood at the
ironing table, perspiring at every pore, and occasionally smiling to
herself as she thought, 'Grassy Spring, Le Bateau, Tracy Park, I might
take my choice, if I would, but I prefer the cottage,' and then at the
thought of Tracy Park her thoughts went off across the sea to Germany,
and the low room with the picture upon the wall, and her resolve to find
it some day.
'Far in the future it may be, but find it I will, and find, too, who I
am,' she said to herself, little dreaming that the finding was close at
hand, and that she had that day lighted the train which was so soon to
bear her on to the end.