THE FLOWER FADETH.
It took some days after Arthur's return for the household to settle down
into anything like order and quiet, Arthur was so restless and so happy,
and so anxious for everyone to recognise Jerrie as his daughter--Miss
Tracy, as he called her when presenting her to the people who had known
her all her life--the St. Claires, and Athertons, and Crosbys, and
Warners--who came to call upon and congratulate him. Even Peterkin came
in his coat-of-arms carriage, with a card as big as the back of
Webster's spelling book, and himself gotten up in a dress coat, with
lavender kids on his burly hands, which nearly crushed Arthur's in their
grasp as he expressed himself 'tickleder than he ever was before in his
life.'
'And to think I was the means on't,' he said, 'for if I hadn't of kicked
that darned old table into slivers when I was givin' on't to Jerrie,
she'd never of know'd what was in that dumbed rat-hole. I was a leetle
too upstrupulous, I s'spose, but I'll be darned if she didn't square up
to me like a catamount, till my hair riz right up, and I concluded the
Tramp House was no place for me. But I respect her for it; yes, I do,
and by George, old chap, I congratulate you with my whole soul, and so
does May Jane, and so does Ann 'Lizy, and so does Bill, and so does the
whole caboodle on us.'
This was Peterkin's speech, which Arthur received more graciously than
Jerrie, who, remembering Harold, could not be very polite to the man who
had injured him so deeply. As if divining her thoughts, Peterkin turned
to her and said:
'Now, one word, Miss Tracy, about Hal. I hain't one to go halves in any
thing, and I was meaner to him than pussly; but you'll see what I'll do.
I've met with a change, I swow, I have,' and he laid his lavender kid on
his stomach. 'He never took them diamonds, nor May Jane's pin, nor
nothin', and I've blasted it all over town that he didn't, and I've got
a kerridge hired, and some chaps, and a brass band, and a percession,
and when Hal comes, there's to be an oblation to the depot, with the
bugle a playin' "Hail to the Chief," and them hired chips a histen' him
inter the kerridge, with the star-spangled banner a floatin' over it,
and a drawin' him home without horses! What do you think of that for
high?' and he chuckled merrily as he represented the programme he had
prepared for Harold's reception.
Jerrie shuddered, mentally hoping that Harold's coming might be at
night, and unheralded, so as to save him from what she knew would fill
him with disgust.
That call of Peterkin's was the last of a congratulatory nature made at
Tracy Park for weeks, for the shadow of death had entered the grand old
house, the doors and windows of which stood wide open, one lovely
September morning, about a week after Arthur's return. But there was no
stir or sign of life, except in the upper hall, near the door, and in
the room where Maude Tracy was dying. Jerrie had been with her
constantly for two or three days, and the converse the two had held
together would never be forgotten, Maude was so peaceful and happy, so
sure of the home beyond, where she was going, and so lovely and sweet to
those around her, thinking of everything and planning everything, even
whose hands were to lower her into the grave.
'Dick, and Fred, and Billy, and Harold,' she said to Jerrie, one day,
'Something tells me Harold will be here in time for that; and if he is,
I want those four to put me in the grave. They can lift me, for I shall
not be very heavy,' and, with a smile, she held up her wasted arms and
hands, not as large now as a child's. 'And, Jerrie,' she went on, 'I
want the grave lined with boughs from our old playing place--the four
pines, you know--and many, many flowers, for I shudder at the thought of
the cold earth which would chill me in my coffin. So, heap the grave
with flowers, and come often to it, and think lovingly of me, lying
there alone. I am thinking so much of that poem Harold read me long ago
of poor little Alice, the May queen, who said she should hear them as
they passed, with their feet above her in the long and silent grass.
Maybe the dead can't do that. I don't know, but if they can, I shall
listen for you, and be glad when you are near me, and I know I shall
wait on the golden seat by the river. Remember your promise to tell
Harold that it was all a mistake. My mind gets clearer toward the end,
and I see things differently from what I did once, and I know how I
blundered. You will tell him?'
Again Jerrie made the promise, with a sinking heart, not knowing to what
it bound her; and as Maude was becoming tired, she bade her try to rest
while she sat by and watched her.
The next day, at the same hour, when the balmy September air was
everywhere, and the mid-afternoon sun was filling the house with golden
light, and the crickets' chirp was heard in the long grass, and the
robins were singing in the tree-tops, another scene was presented in the
sick room, where Frank Tracy knelt at his dying daughter's side, with
his face bowed on his hands, while her fingers played feebly with his
white hair as she spoke to Arthur, who had just come in. They had told
him she was dying and had asked for him, and with his nervous horror of
everything painful and exciting, he had shrunk from the ordeal; but
Jerrie's will prevailed, and he went with her to the room, where Frank,
and his wife, and Tom were waiting--Tom standing, with folded arms, at
the foot of the bed, and looking, with hot, dry eyes, into the face on
the pillow, where death was setting his seal; the mother, half-fainting
upon the lounge, with the nurse beside her; and Frank, oblivious of
everything except the fact that Maude was dying.
'Kiss me good-bye, Uncle Arthur,' she said, when he came in, 'and come
this side where father is.' Then, as he went round and stood by Frank,
she reached her hand for his, and, putting it on her father's head, said
to him: 'Forgive him, Uncle Arthur; he is so sorry, poor father--the
dearest, the best man in the world. It was for me; say that you forgive
him.'
Only Frank and one other knew just what she meant, although a sudden
suspicion darted through Jerrie's mind, and, when Arthur looked
helplessly at her, she whispered to him:
'Never mind what she means--her mind may be wandering; but say that you
forgive him, no matter what it is.'
Thus adjured, Arthur said to the grief-stricken man, who shook like an
aspen:
'I know of nothing to forgive except your old disbelief in Gretchen, and
deceiving me about sending the carriage the night Jerrie came; but if
there is anything else, no matter what it is, I do forgive you freely.'
'Thanks,' came faintly from Maude, who whispered:
'It is a vow, remember, made at my death-bed.'
She had done all she could, this little girl, whose life had been so
short, and who, as she once said, had been capable of nothing but loving
and being loved; and now, turning her dim eyes upon Jerrie, who was
parting the damp hair upon her brow, she went on:
'Remember the promise, and the flowers, and the golden seat where you
will find me resting by the flowing river whose shores I am now looking
upon, for I am almost there, almost to the golden seat, and the tree
whose leaves are like emeralds, and where the grass and flowers are like
the flowers and grass of summer just after a rain. I am glad for you,
Jerrie. Good-bye; and you, father dear, good-bye.'
That was the last, for Maude was dead; and the servants, who had been
standing about the door, stole noiselessly back to their work, with wet
eyes and a sense of pain and loss in their hearts, for not one of them
but had loved the gentle girl now gone forever from their midst.
If was Jerrie who led Frank from the room to his own, where she left him
by himself, knowing it would be better so, and it was Arthur who took
Dolly out, for Tom had disappeared, and no one saw him again until the
next day, when he came down to breakfast, with a worn, haggard look upon
his face, which told that he did care, though his mother thought he did
not, and taunted him with his indifference. Poor Tom! He had gone
directly to his room and locked the door, and smoked and smoked, and
thought and thought, and then, when it was dark, he had stolen out into
the park as far as the four pines, and smoked, and looked up at the
stars and wondered if Maude were there with Jack, sitting on the golden
seat by the river. Then going back to the house where no one saw him, he
went into the silent room where Maude was lying, and looked long and
earnestly upon her white, still face, and wondered in a vague kind of
way if she knew he was there, and why he had never thought before what a
nice kind of girl she was, and why he had not made more of her as her
brother.
'Maude,' he whispered, with a lump in his throat, 'if you can hear me,
I'd like to tell you I am sorry that I was ever mean to you, and I guess
I did like you more than I supposed.'
Then he kissed her pale forehead and went to his room, where he smoked
the night through, and in the morning felt as if he had lived a hundred
years since the previous night, and wondered how he should get through
the day. It occurred to him that it might be the proper thing to see
his mother; and after his breakfast he went to her room, and was
received by her with a burst of tears and reproaches for his
indifference and lack of feeling in keeping himself away from everybody,
as if it were nothing to him that Maude was dead, or that there was
nothing for him to do.
'Thunderation, mother!' Tom exclaimed, 'would you have me yell and
scream, and make a fool of myself? I sat up all night long, which was
more than you did, and I've been meditating in the woods, and have seen
Maude and made it square with her. What more can I do?'
'You can see to things,' Mrs. Tracy replied. 'Your father is all broken
up and has gone to bed, and it is not becoming in me to be around.
Somebody must take the helm.'
'And somebody has,' Tom answered her. 'Uncle Arthur is master of the
ceremonies now. He is running the ranch, and running it well, to.'
And Tom was right, for Arthur had taken the helm, and aided and abetted
by Jerrie, was quietly attending to matters and arranging for the
funeral, which Dolly said must be in the house, as she would not go to
the church, with a gaping crowd to stare at her. So it was to take place
at the house on Friday afternoon, and Arthur ordered a costly coffin
from New York, with silver mountings and panels, and almost a car-load
of flowers and floral designs, for Jerrie had explained to him Maude's
wishes with regard to her grave, which they lined first with the
freshest of the boughs from the four pines, filling these again with
flowers up to the very top, so that the grave when finished seemed like
one mass of flowers, in which it would not be hard to lie.
Dolly had objected to Billy as one of the pall-bearers. He was too short
and inferior looking, she said, and not at all in harmony with Dick, and
Fred, and Paul Crosby, the young man who, in Harold's absence, had been
asked to take his place. But Arthur overruled her with the words 'It was
Maude's wish,' and Billy kept his post.
The day arrived, and the hour, and the people came in greater crowds
than they had done when poor Jack was buried, or the dark woman,
Nannine, with only Jerrie as chief mourner, and the procession was the
longest ever seen in Shannondale; and Dolly, even while her heart was
aching with bitter pain, felt a thrill of pride that so many were
following her daughter to the grave.
Arrived at the cemetery, there was a halt for the mourners to alight and
the bearers to take the coffins from the hearse and carry it to the
grave--a halt longer than necessary, it seemed to Jerrie, who under the
folds of her veil did not see the tall young man making his way through
the ranks of the people crowding the road, straining every nerve to
reach the hearse, which he did just as the four young men were taking
the coffin from it.
With a quick movement he put Paul Crosby aside, saying, apologetically:
'Excuse me, Paul. I must carry Maude to her grave. She wished it so.'
Then, taking the young man's place, he went slowly on to the open grave
near which piles and piles of flowers were lying ready to cover the
young girl who it was hard for him to believe was there beneath his
hand, cold and dead, with no word of welcome for him who had tried so
hard to see her, and was only in time for this, to help lay her in the
grave and to listen to the solemn words 'ashes to ashes,' and hear the
dreadful sound of earth to earth falling upon the box which held the
beautiful coffin and the lovely girl within it.
Even then Jerrie did not see him, but when she took a step or two
forward to look into the grave before it was filled up, and someone put
a hand upon her shoulder and said, 'Not too near, Jerrie,' she started
suddenly, with a suppressed cry, and turning, saw Harold standing by
her, tall, and erect, and self-possessed, as he faced the multitude,
some of whom had suspected him of a crime, but all of whom were ready
now to do him justice and bid him welcome home.
'Oh, Harold,' Jerrie said, as she grasped his arm, 'I am so glad you are
here. I wish you had come before.'
Harold could not reply, for they were now leaving the spot, and many
gathered around him; first and foremost, Peterkin, who came tramping
through the grass, puffing like an engine, and, unmindful of the time or
place, slapping him upon the shoulder, as he said: 'Well, my boy, glad
to see you back, 'pon my soul, I be; but you flustrated all my plans. I
was meanin' to give you an oblation; got it, all arranged, and you
spiled it by takin' us onawares, like a thief in the night. I beg your
pardon,' he continued, as he met a curious look in Harold's eyes, 'I'm a
blunderin' cuss, I be. I didn't mean nothin', I've ever meant nothin',
and if I hev' I'm sorry for it.'
Harold did not hear the last, for he was handing Jerrie into the
carriage with her father, who bade him enter, too; saying they would
leave him at the cottage where he wished to go as soon as possible.
There was no time for much conversation before the cottage was reached,
and Harold alighted at the gate, and no allusion whatever had been made
to Jerrie's changed relations until Harold stood looking at her as she
kept her seat by her father and made no sign of an intention to stop.
Then he said, as calmly as he could:
'Do you stay at the Park House altogether now?'
'Oh, no,' she answered quickly. 'I have been there a great deal with
Maude, but am coming home to-night. I could not leave grandma alone, you
know.'
She acknowledged the home and the relationship still, and Harold's face
flushed with a look of pleasure, which deepened in intensity when
Arthur, with a wave of the hand habitual to him, said:
'I must keep her now that you are here to see to the grandmother, but
will let you have her to-night. Come up later, if you like, and walk
home with her.'
'I shall be most happy to do so,' Harold said, and then the carriage
drove away, while he went in to his grandmother, who had not attended
the funeral, but who knew that he had returned and was waiting for him.