YOUR GOOD COMRADE.
Basil continued to improve, but only his mother and brother were allowed
to see him for the next day or two. The Dixons took their departure the
evening following the accident, and Mr. Danforth went at the same time.
The next morning Persis found her way out of a certain difficulty which
had presented itself to her. The doctor advised as speedy a removal as
possible of the patient to the sea-shore, and to the same place Persis
persuaded Mrs. Brown it would be best to take Annis.
“She didn’t improve in the mountains,” said the artful Persis. “And I
think, Mrs. Brown, that it will be so pleasant for you all to be
together. Annis doesn’t make friends at once, you know, and it will be
so nice for her to have the boys as company.” So Mrs. Brown had yielded,
and that much was settled.
Mrs. Wickes would not allow her remaining guests to shorten their stay
by one day. She had long wanted a visit from Mrs. Brown and Annis, and
declared that now she had them, she meant to keep them. The Phillips
family were old friends, and their stay was quite as hospitably insisted
upon. Mrs. Wickes was one of the few house-keepers who did not impress
her guests with a sense of their presence being an added care. There was
no attempt at over-entertainment, yet everything in the most unobtrusive
way was provided to add to the comfort of those in the house. At the
same time there was no striving at effect visible, neither did there
appear an oppressive anxiety. Captain Wickes, whole-souled, hearty, and
kind, was the essence of hospitality, and gave his guests to feel that
it was a privilege to receive them under his roof, consequently Basil
could not have been more fortunately situated.
Persis had expected to remain till the others were ready to go. She
rather dreaded seeing Basil. She felt that a sight of him, as one
rescued from death, would appeal to deepest emotions; that she would
find it difficult to keep back words which might mean too much, and she
wished for an escape, which fortunately just then came.
“Too bad,” she said one morning, after having looked through her mail;
“I shall have to go home at once. Papa must have some papers from his
desk, and needs them right away; so, as I am the only one within a
respectable distance, I am delegated to get them and send them or take
them on. I shall have to get ready and go off to-day, Aunt Esther.”
“Oh, my dear girl, I hate to have you go off alone,” said her aunt.
“Must you really go?”
“Yes; papa is very anxious to have the papers by a certain date, and has
sent me the key of the desk. You know old Prue keeps the house open, and
I’ll be very comfortable there over night. I’ll only stop long enough to
see to the matter and to repack my trunk, and then go right on.” She was
rather glad that, after all, fate had taken certain things out of her
hands. She could not see Basil if she wanted to, and no one could
question her excuse for taking a sudden departure.
Just before she was ready to leave her room she gave Annis a little
note, saying, “I have written this for you to give to Basil. I’ve sent
him a message by Mrs. Phillips besides.” Annis’s blue eyes were full of
tears. She had an uneasy feeling that Persis was giving up more than she
would admit. “Read the note,” her cousin said, gently. And Annis read,—
“DEAR BASIL,—The doctor has made a cast-iron rule that no one is to be
permitted to see you, so I must say good-bye by other means than a
hand-shake. Perhaps the hand-shake would be too vigorous, after all, for
I am so thankful you still have a hand and are going to get well soon.
Good-bye, dear old fellow; make haste and get strong, so that when I see
you I shall behold your hearty self. You’ll be glad to know that Annis
and her mother are going to the shore, too. I know when you can begin to
potter about on the sands you will see that Annis has a good time. She
is sort of doncie, I think, and needs chirking up; so I hope you’ll do
each other lots of good for your own sakes and that of your old crony.
“PERSIS.”
Annis slipped the note back into the envelope. “Persis,” she said, “I’m
not going to the shore. I’ve thought it over, and I will not.”
“You will.” Persis spoke determinedly. She took Annis by the shoulders.
“Promise you will, if you want me to go away satisfied; promise me.”
“I promise. Oh, Persis, I couldn’t believe you really wanted me to.”
For answer she was kissed and held in a close embrace. Her cousin felt
that the strength of her renunciation was in this parting. Strange, she
was not more jealous of Basil than of Annis, and into her devotion to
the latter had come an element which increased its fervor. “Annis,
Annis,” she said brokenly, “if you don’t keep on loving me I can’t stand
it.”
“Oh, my dear, my darling, no one but mamma ever was to me what you are,”
whispered Annis. “You are worth the whole world to me.” And Persis went
away satisfied.
Nevertheless, when the excitement of these last days was over, and when
she was by herself on the train which was bearing her swiftly away from
those who had been her daily companions for all these weeks, she felt a
sinking at heart, a sense of desolation began to creep over her. She
winked away tears that would rise to her eyes and set herself to force
other thoughts than those which would fill her mind, do what she would.
“All these years I’ve been away from my dear home people, and almost as
soon as I was back I traipsed off. I ought to be ashamed not to be
gladder that I’m going to them now. I must think about them. They must
come first.” But, for all, the unquiet spirit would not down. As fate
would have it, there had come to her a second source of trouble and
regret in a letter which that morning’s mail had brought her from Mr.
Danforth.
She had rather snubbed Mr. Dan of late until his effort in Basil’s
behalf had brought from her an effusiveness born of gratitude, and this
was the result. He had waited till she had finished her college course,
till she had completed this coveted trip, and now had asked her to marry
him.
“Oh, what a contrary world!” sighed poor Persis. “How easily it might be
settled if I had only a reasonable, manageable heart! Dear, good Mr.
Dan, I like him so well, and he saved Basil’s life; that alone ought to
compel my deepest feeling towards him; but I cannot, I cannot pretend to
more than I do feel. I should be so pleased to admit him to any other
relation but that of lover and husband. If I only could fall in love
with him, or if he and Annis had fancied each other; dear, oh, dear!
either would be so satisfactory to everybody; but it isn’t that way a
bit. It is the horrid contradictory thing that’s sure to happen. Annis
is just that quiet, still kind of a person who feels deeply. She never
could get over this, never, and she is not the one to turn to something
else and fill her life with it, as I believe I can do—as I must do. It
will be a tug for me, but I never was downed, and I won’t let myself be
now. Bless my dear old Basil! If he were a little less dear, how glad I
should be; but Annis will suit him far better than I could. No one could
doubt it for a moment.” With such thoughts did Persis fill her mind
during her trip home.
She never remembered being in her native city at this season, and it
seemed very desolate and lonely,—houses closed, heavy shutters barring
windows, streets dusty and deserted. In her own neighborhood, to be
sure, it was not so, for the pleasant grounds around each house and the
wide porches were an invitation to remain at home, which many families
accepted rather than to be crowded into close quarters at some
watering-place.
Finding the front door closed, but the library windows leading on a
porch open, Persis entered by the latter means, and passed through the
house to the kitchen, where old Prue was, with a protector in the person
of her grandson, a lad nearly grown.
The old colored woman was stirring up biscuits, and lifted her floury
hands in surprise as Persis entered, exclaiming, “Law, Miss Persy, hit
ain’t yuh! I ‘clar I thought yuh was a ha’nt comin’ in so suddint. What
in the worl’ fetched yuh home, honey?”
“Why, nothing very dreadful,” laughed Persis. “I have come from Aunt
Esther’s, and am going to join the family up in the mountains. Can you
give me some supper? And—yes, I’ll sleep in mamma’s room, it will be
cooler there. I have to hunt up some papers in the library to-night.
What time is it, anyhow?”
“Hit’s arter six. Me an’ Mose was gwine ter hev a bite when I bakes dese
biscuits, but I reckon yuh want sumpin’ better’n biscuits an’ bacon.”
“No, I don’t, unless it is a glass of milk.”
“Dey plenty ‘serbs, honey, I done put up whilst yo’ mah been
away,—blackbe’ies an’ cu’ants an’ raspbe’ies.”
“Well, I’ll have some blackberry-jam, or no—I have some fine peaches
with me, and Aunt Esther has stowed a lot of cakes in my bag. I think
she had an idea the city would be a desert waste, and that I should find
it hard to get food. I’ll go put on a cooler frock, Aunt Prue, and I’ll
be ready by the time the biscuits are.” Having finished her solitary
supper, for which, after all, the traveller did not feel much appetite,
she gave orders for breakfast, and then went to look up the papers she
was to find. “I shall take a train for New York about noon,” she told
Aunt Prue, “for I want to get the Sound boat. My trunk will be here
presently. Let it be taken up-stairs; I want to repack it in the
morning.”
She turned to the library. It was still quite light. “I shall have
plenty of time to get the papers before dark,” she said to herself, “and
I’d better be sure of them to-night. Let me see, in a tin box in one of
the drawers of the desk.” She fitted the key which her father had sent
her, and found no trouble in gaining access to the desk. She opened one
or two compartments, and finally came upon one which held two long,
narrow boxes and a number of packets of papers. A little padlock was
attached to each box.
“Oh, yes. Papa told me I should find a bunch of keys in the small drawer
to the left.” After fumbling around a little, she came across the bunch,
and, trying one or two of the keys, found one which opened the larger of
the two boxes which she had taken out.
“How much shorter the evenings are! It is nearly dark. I’ll take these
to the window,” she soliloquized. This she did and began to examine the
papers. “A deed from H. B. Holmes. That isn’t it. Old bills, no.”
Suddenly she started and hastily picked up the next paper she saw. She
bent over it eagerly, fear, dread, a dozen different emotions, causing
her to tremble. On the back of the envelope which she held to the light
she read, “The adoption papers of Anne Maitland, now known as Persis E.
Holmes;” then followed the date, nearly a year after Persis herself was
born.
[Illustration: She bent over it eagerly.]
“What does it mean? What does it mean?” she whispered, with cold lips.
She flung the paper from her as if it had been some pestilential thing,
and sank down on the floor, covering her face with her hands. She felt
numb, terror-stricken, and dared not move. The light faded, the room
grew dimmer and dimmer, the evening breeze sprang up and drifted the
scent of petunias and the strange sweet odor of opening moon-flowers
into the room.
“I must have become suddenly crazy,” said the girl at last as she rose
to her feet. “What a trick for the twilight to play me.” She felt weak,
and her knees trembled as she crossed the room to make a light. Twice,
three times she essayed to pick up the paper which she had flung from
her. The tin box still rested upon the window-sill. As she took it up to
replace the other papers which she had taken from it, Persis saw at the
very bottom a little package tied with a white ribbon. She took the box
over to the light, and lifted out the small bundle. On it she read, “One
of little Persis’s curls cut from her head when she died.” The year only
was given; it was the same as that on the larger packet which Persis had
flung from her. “I was a year old then,” she murmured. She opened the
paper; a shining bit of golden hair fell in a little spiral heap on the
table. Persis laughed hysterically. “My hair is black. It was always
black. I have always been told that it was never any other color. And
this—whose is this?” She went over and picked up the paper which had
fallen from the envelope. “I have a right to read this, I surely have,”
she whispered. And she unfolded it. All she could learn was that a
certain Anne Maitland was legally adopted by H. B. Holmes, and that she
was henceforth to be called Persis Estabrook Holmes. How long she sat
puzzling over it Persis did not know. She would not read anything more.
This concerned herself, and her father had given her free access to it.
Herself! She gave a little shudder. Was she—this Anne Maitland? Why, she
must be! The child with the golden hair was dead—was dead. This was why
she was so unlike her sisters. She dropped into a chair, and great sobs
shook her. Few tears came to her eyes, only those dreadful racking gasps
convulsed the form that cowered there in the silent room.
“Oh, it is too cruel, too cruel!” she moaned. “They never meant me to
know. I can see it all now. The little baby Persis with the golden hair
like Mellicent’s died, and I was chosen to take her place. If I had only
been told at the first, I could have borne it, but to know it now! Oh,
it is terrible, terrible! How could they deceive me! I remember, now,
that mamma has often told me that I was not named till I was over a year
old. It is only too true that I am Anne Maitland. Why,”—Persis sat up
straight again,—“they have even let me join a patriotic society, and
have let me claim the same ancestors as Mellicent and Lisa. Perhaps they
knew I had a right to them; perhaps I am a relative; but who? who?” She
struck her hands helplessly together and turned her head from side to
side as one in delirium. “I cannot stand it. I cannot bear to live a
lie, and all of them, even grandma—no, no,”—she drew her breath with a
little hissing sound,—“no, she isn’t mine. Not even grandma is mine. I
have nobody in the world!”
After a while she became calmer. She picked up the papers one by one,
and restored them to their place in the box. Her fingers shook as she
gathered up the little coil of fair hair in the palm of her hand, and
tied the paper in which she replaced it with the bit of white ribbon.
She locked the box and put it back where she had found it. Then she
proceeded to hunt for the paper which Mr. Holmes wanted, finding it
without difficulty in the second box. She laid it aside, and then sat
down again. She heard Mose come through the hall to close the shutters.
He stood irresolutely on the threshold.
“Shall I shut up the house now, Miss Persis?” he asked.
The girl started, and gathered up her keys and papers hastily. “Yes; I
will go up-stairs,” she replied. She dreaded to have any one see her;
and, passing by the room which had been prepared for her, she took
refuge in her own bedchamber.
There stood her familiar belongings, among them the old writing-desk
which her cousin,—“not her cousin,” came the thought,—Mr. Ambrose
Peyton, had given her; and this brought another subject to be
considered. He had believed her to be the actual granddaughter of his
beloved Persis, and in consequence had left her this desk and
contents,—those contents which turned out to be the little fortune of
ten thousand dollars. She had no right to that now, even though she had
been made Mrs. Estabrook’s namesake. No, no; it had all been fraud. Yet,
how could they, how could they, those dear, honorable guardians of her
youth, how could they permit it?
“Of course,” Persis reflected, “they argued that I was really legally
their daughter; that I was in reality the representative of the little
Persis who was born to them. And they love me, they do, they do,” she
murmured. “They have been as if I were really their very own, and I have
never known the difference. And grandma has loved me best of all. She
must have known, of course she must; and if she countenanced it, why, it
must be right. And yet—oh, I cannot stand it! I cannot!”
She opened her desk and sat down to write, first to Mr. Danforth,—that
was an easy task now,—then to—no, not to Basil, but to Annis, and, last,
to those still so dear, so very dear.
“My beloved ones,” she wrote to those whom she had called her parents,
“I have learned what you never intended I should know. I opened the box
by mistake. I cannot understand all the mystery, but this much is plain
to me, that I am not your child. For all your kind care, your loving
care, of me I am very grateful; but I cannot yet come to you, knowing
that I am not your very own. I could not bear to see your other”—this
was scratched out and “own” substituted—“daughters possessing a claim on
you which is not mine by inheritance. Some day, perhaps, when I have
come to be calmer and can get used to the thought, I may be willing to
take my place again in the family—if you will allow me—with all those
whom I so dearly, oh, so dearly, love. Never doubt this for a minute,
that I love you; I love you all. Please see that the ten thousand
dollars from Mr. Ambrose Peyton go to the real claimant. I cannot feel
that I have a right to it. Some time I may see you again. I am going to
make my own living. I can do it; do not be afraid for me, and do not
blame me. I shall suffer less by doing this way.
“Although I have no real right to the name, I must for the last time
sign myself,
“Your loving daughter,
“PERSIS.”
This letter, blistered by hot tears and written in an irregular manner,
unlike the writer’s usual neat style, was enclosed with the paper
desired by Mr. Holmes. Persis next set to work to gather together
certain of her possessions. “They will not grudge me anything, I know.
They would have me take all, but I shall only carry away what I am
likely to need.” She therefore packed two trunks,—one with winter
clothing, the other with the plainer attire belonging to her summer
wardrobe. She selected a few of her favorite books, some little trifles
which held an association very dear to her, the photographs of the
family and her dearest friends. She gathered together all Basil’s
letters, meaning to burn them. For a moment she held them lovingly in
her hand. Such pleasant letters they were, telling of boyish
experiences, of life at college and in Paris, and of days of travel.
Persis took out one or two from their envelopes and glanced over them
wistfully; then she made a package of them, sealed them up closely, and
left them in her desk with sundry other packets, leaving a note of
request that they should be left so until she should come to claim them,
or, if that never happened, to burn them when it was certain that she
would “no longer care for earthly matters.”
There was a little touch of tragical display in some of the things which
she did that an older woman would not have included in such a
leavetaking; but Persis was young, she was emotional, and her bravery
approached heroics at times.
She was conscious of the “chir-chir” of the insects in the trees
outside, of that faint odor of the moon-flowers, accompaniments to that
August night which always brought it back to her in after years.
It was nearly daylight when she had at last finished her work, and she
threw herself across the bed without undressing, worn out, but tingling
with nervous thrills which did not permit her to sleep except fitfully.
[Illustration: '[Fleuron]’]