A DREAM FULFILLED.
“Miss Anne, you have a chill,” exclaimed, the doctor, as he bundled his
charge into the buggy. “You ought to have stayed at home, close
in-doors.”
“On this beautiful day? Why, doctor, I must go to church. I wouldn’t
miss it for anything, especially now. Poor—no, happy Columbus! Such an
innocent, simple, loving soul! Oh, doctor, I promised to do one thing
for him. You will let me do it?”
“What is it?” And Persis told him what Columbus had requested concerning
his doll.
“I’ll see to it,” the doctor assured her. “You must not go near there.”
“Not even to the funeral?”
“No. I’m going to take you home and put you to bed. You’re shaking yet.”
“It is only a nervous chill, I know. I was so startled, so shocked.”
“How does your throat feel?”
“My throat? Why, a little stiff. I think that, too, comes from
nervousness.”
The doctor hurried her into his office and examined her pulse, her
throat. “To bed with you,” he ordered. “I’ve been afraid of it.” And
sure enough, before night Persis was in a raging fever, and the white
patches on her throat had spread alarmingly.
Night and day she was watched over by the doctor and his wife, who gave
her unremitting care. “I was afraid of it from the first,” the doctor
told Mrs. Rivers. “The boy Columbus was a very bad case, and Miss Anne
was just in a condition to contract any disease.”
It was noised throughout the neighborhood that Miss Maitland was
dangerously ill. The children gathered in the school-house one morning,
but there was no teacher. Mr. Boone drove up about half an hour after
the usual time for opening. “I’m sorry to be obliged to announce that
there is no one to take charge of the school,” he said. “Your teacher is
very ill. We are not at all inclined to close the school, and will try
and have a substitute in a day or two.”
Across the school-room the eyes of Joshua Harman and Josephine Flint
met. Josh arose, flushing to the roots of his hair, but there was always
a dogged persistence about the boy which prevented his allowing anything
to stand in the way of duty. He saw a chance to help Miss Anne. “If you
don’t object, sir, and the scholars are willing,” he began, “I’ll do my
best to keep them together. I reckon the boys will stand by me. I cyarnt
be so sure of the gyurls. Josey Flint’s ahead of the rest; if she’ll
take the gyurls, I’ll do my best with the boys.” And Josh sat down.
“I don’t see but that you have suggested an admirable plan,” Mr. Boone
assured him. “You two are the oldest, as well as the most advanced
pupils, I think I have heard Miss Maitland say, and you know her
methods. Yes, I think that is a very good plan, and we’ll be much
obliged to you if you can carry it out. If you have the slightest
trouble, report to the doctor or me.” And Mr. Boone mounted his horse
and drove off well pleased.
Then Josh addressed himself to the school. Rather an uncouth sort of a
speech it was, but it meant, “We’ll stand by Miss Anne shoulder to
shoulder, and even if we can’t make much headway we won’t slide back.”
Virginia Southall gathered up her books and departed. “She did not mean
to be under Joe Flint,” she announced.
“So much the better for me,” Josey thought. And therefore, each helping
the other, Josh and Joe started in.
Meantime, Persis lived in a strange, unreal world. She felt herself
floating off, with the buoyancy of a spirit untramelled by fleshly
conditions, as she had often before dreamed herself doing, out of the
window, over the tops of trees, out—out above the earth, yet all that
time something was clutching at her throat. What was it? Then again
Columbus was calling her to come; he wanted her. “Jes’ Miss Anne, jes’
Miss Anne.” She heard it over and over again, and they would not let her
go. And, last of all, she thought she was at home again, and that her
mother bent over her and called her “darling daughter.” This dream
lasted the longest, for whenever she opened her eyes she saw her mother
before her.
And one day she became aware that it was no dream, but that her mother
was really there by her side. Then it came to her that she had been
dreaming many strange things: that she had gone from home, and had been
through many queer experiences; but that thought, too, vanished into the
unreal world, and nothing seemed an absolute truth but that her mother
was there by her side.
“Mamma,” she said, weakly.
“Yes, my darling.”
“It is you? I’m not dreaming?”
“It is I, dear.”
“I dreamed you were not my mother; wasn’t it queer?”
“Very queer. Don’t talk, darling. Take this. There, now shut your eyes.”
“Mamma.”
“Yes, dearest.”
“Please hold my hand; I want to be sure I’m not dreaming.” And she fell
asleep with her mother’s hand clasping hers. For there had come a time
when Persis’s recovery looked very dubious to Dr. Rivers, and he had
gone to his desk and had taken from it the envelope the sick girl had
given him. “If ever there was to come a time for using this, it is
here,” he said, and before long a message flashed over the wires, a
message which brought Mrs. Holmes post-haste to the patient’s bedside.
It was a struggle, for Persis was very near the dark river, but the
doctor never left her till he had overcome the disease, and then
followed a low fever, which, after all traces of diphtheria had gone,
threatened to sap the patient’s remaining strength. But the unflagging
devotion of those about her brought the invalid up out of the valley of
the shadow of death, and it was with a leap of thankfulness at her heart
that Mrs. Holmes at last saw that she was conscious and in a more
natural state, very weak, but better.
“I am sure she is better,” she said, anxiously scanning the doctor’s
face.
He felt her pulse, took her temperature, and smiled. “Yes, she shows the
most favorable signs I have seen yet. I think we may hope, Mrs. Holmes.”
That was the day on which Persis first recognized her mother. The next
time she awoke her mind seemed still clearer.
“Mamma,” was the word which first sprang to her lips.
“Yes, my dearest one.”
“It is really you?”
“Yes, really your own mother.”
“But that dream, mamma; it was so very vivid. I seem to have been a long
time somewhere else, where I was not myself but some other person, and I
wasn’t your daughter. I am your daughter; tell me so, mamma.”
“Yes, my very own dear, darling daughter.”
“You are not saying that because I am so weak?”
“No, dear; you are my very own.”
Just then the doctor came in, and Persis turned a startled look on him.
She clutched her mother’s hand nervously. “Mamma,” she whispered, “he is
one of the persons in the dream. Why isn’t Dr. Armstrong here?”
“He couldn’t be, dear.”
“Oh, yes; and he has sent this doctor instead. But why does he look so
natural, so very familiar? I haven’t just dreamed about him.”
“There, dear, don’t bother about it. It is all right, all right,” her
mother said, soothingly.
“And you won’t go and leave me?”
“No; I’ll stay right here.”
“But this is a strange room, mamma. Am I in a hospital?”
“No; in the house of a friend, Persis, a very dear friend.”
“Why, you said Persis. I thought my name was—— What was my name?”
“Never mind; don’t try to think of anything but that you are my dear,
dear daughter. You must try to keep quiet, my child.”
The doctor ordered a quieting medicine, and for the time being the
patient was soothed. But as strength returned the old questions arose,
and one day it all came back to her, and she turned on her pillow and
wept softly.
Her mother found her thus, the tears trickling through her wasted
fingers. “My precious child, what is it?” she asked. “Are you in pain?”
“No; but oh, mamma, even if you are not my own mother, it isn’t so hard
as I thought it would be; and I can’t, I can’t have you leave me.”
“Why, my dearest, I have no idea of leaving you. What is it that is not
so hard?”
“The seeing you.”
“And why should it be?”
“Because, oh, mamma, you know I am not really yours. I remember now how
I found the papers, and it hurt me so. Oh, I have been so wretched, _so_
wretched! I couldn’t, I couldn’t reconcile myself to it. I said, ‘I
won’t! I won’t have it!’ And then I went away. I remember it all now.”
“But my dearest girl, I told you that you were my own, my very own.
Don’t you remember that?”
“Yes; but I know you only said it because I was so sick and weak, and
you didn’t want to agitate me.”
“But I tell you so again.”
Persis tried hard to rise, but fell back on her pillow, too weak to make
the exertion. “You’re doing it again! you’re doing it again!” she cried,
the tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Hush, my precious one; try and be quiet, and I will tell you all about
it. You must not be so disturbed, it is not good for you. Listen, dear:
you found a paper in a box and you thought it related to yourself. Why
did you think so?”
“Because it was signed H. B. Holmes, and because I found the little
golden curl of the baby that died, and I knew it must have belonged to
the real Persis. She had hair like Mellicent’s.”
“But she was not the real Persis.”
“Oh, no, no! You are not trying to deceive me? No, no! I cannot bear
it.”
“My darling, I wouldn’t deceive you for my right hand. Your father and I
never had an adopted daughter. The only Persis we ever called daughter
was our very own child, a little baby with black hair like my mother’s,
our own dear little baby, who now that she is grown insists upon calling
herself by another name.”
“Oh, mamma! mamma!”
“Yes, dear, you are Persis Holmes. It has always been your name since
you had a name at all.”
“And Anne Maitland?”
“Anne Maitland was a little baby girl who died when she was not two
years old. Can you remember anything about your Uncle Will’s wife,
Persis? She married a second time after Uncle Will died. She lives in
Italy. Helen Foscari is her name.”
“Yes; but I never remember seeing her.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do. Her maiden name was Helen Bancroft. She had
a sister who married a man by the name of Maitland, a very cruel, bad
man, who deserted his wife. On her death-bed Mrs. Maitland gave her baby
to her sister Helen, who legally adopted her; and because the child had
been called Anne, after Mr. Maitland’s mother, Helen determined that she
would change the name. She was very fond of your grandmother, so she
asked if she might name the little one after her, for she said, ‘I never
want the child in any way to be reminded of her father or his family.’
You may remember having been told that for a long time you were not
given a name. Your father wanted you called Mary, after me; your Aunt
Esther was very anxious that you should be her namesake; and I wanted to
name you Persis, after your grandmother; so when there was no longer any
little Persis, Aunt Esther and your father compromised, and agreed that
you should be named as I so greatly desired you should be. The adoption
papers for little Anne were made out legally, and, unfortunately,
instead of Helen’s signing her full name she simply signed H. B. Holmes.
Your father’s initials are the same, and you made a very natural
mistake, although if you had examined closely you would have seen a
difference in the signatures, although they do closely resemble each
other. Moreover, if you had read all the papers you would have learned
the truth. The little baby did not live long, but Helen loved her
devotedly; and after your uncle’s death, when she went abroad, she left
the box containing the papers and the lock of hair in your father’s
charge, and they have been in his desk ever since.”
Persis’s eyes were fastened on her mother’s face as though she would
never remove her gaze.
“We had almost forgotten about them,” continued Mrs. Holmes, “until your
discovery brought the old story to mind, and so, dear child, you see how
very easy it is to make a mistake, even with the proof of what we call
‘black and white.’”
Persis drew her mother’s hand towards her, and laid her cheek upon it.
She could scarcely realize yet that all these months had not been a
dream, but she felt that one great and good blessing was hers, that her
mother, her own mother, was by her side, and she sighed. “Oh, I am so
thankful, so thankful.” She lay very still, only now and then pressing
the dear hand closer. After a time she looked at her mother wistfully
and said, “Dear mamma, did you feel very bad when your naughty child ran
away?”
“How could I help it, darling? And yet I knew my child so well that I
could understand how she, of all my daughters, would be likely to suffer
the most at such a discovery as she believed she had made.”
“I ought not to have taken so much for granted, but it seemed so very,
very plain. Why had I never heard about the little baby that died?”
“Because, dear, we have not spoken much of your uncle’s wife, she lived
so far away, and I suppose we felt a little disapproval of her second
marriage, and a coolness seemed to arise after it took place. We have
not seen her for nearly twenty years.”
“I see. Everything seemed to conspire to make me take the wrong view.”
“Yes, it does seem as if it did.”
“Oh, mamma dear, think of how much there is for me to know. You will not
leave me?”
“I shall not go till you are able to go with me.”
“But my school.”
“Never mind the school. The doctor will not consent to any such labors
on the part of his patient for many weeks, I am sure, and then the
school session will be over.”
Dr. Rivers came in soon after this. “Well, Miss Anne,” he said,
cheerfully, “how goes it to-day?”
“But I’m not Miss Anne any more,” she said, smiling.
“You will be to me, to the end of the chapter.”
“Very well, I don’t care. I am quite willing to be called anything as
long as I know——Has mamma told you, doctor, what a strange mistake I
made?”
“Yes, I was told long ago.”
“Nobody seems to scold me very much, yet I think I deserve it.” And the
tears began to flow again.
“I think your punishment was inflicted by yourself, and that it has been
quite severe enough,” Mrs. Holmes remarked.
“But I had no right to punish you, only I thought—I didn’t believe you
could care so very, very much, for I thought only an own mother could,
and I didn’t dream I was making my own dear ones feel unhappy over me.”
“Or you wouldn’t have done it, of course. It’s as clear as mud,” said
the doctor, laughing. “But you’ve had excitement enough for one day.
Will you let this precious mother out of your sight long enough to give
her a chance for a breath of fresh air?”
“Oh, yes.”
“But you’d rather not, I’ll venture to say.”
“No matter what I’d rather. Take her right along before I get so silly
as to object.”
After this Persis recovered rapidly. There was so much that she was
eager to learn, that when she was able to be propped up in bed she asked
so many questions that her mother declared it kept her busy from morning
till night answering them.
“Tell me about Annis,” was one of the first requests.
Mrs. Holmes looked grave. “Annis has had a sad time,” she replied. “She
has met with a great loss.”
“Oh, mamma, not her mother!”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh, my poor, poor little Annis? Where is she?”
“With your Aunt Esther. Mrs. Brown died in Washington last October, and
Aunt Esther has kept Annis with her ever since. Excepting our family,
Aunt Esther is, you know, about her nearest relative.”
“And I was away when the poor darling needed me most. Oh, mamma, how
many dreadful things happen to make one reproach one’s self! How does
Annis bear it?”
“She is, of course, almost heart-broken, but I think she is becoming
calmer now. Mr. Danforth seems to be a great comfort to her.”
“Mr. Dan?” Persis’s eyes opened wide.
“Yes.” And Mrs. Holmes told of the young man’s work in Washington. “He
is very kind-hearted, and at the time of Mrs. Brown’s death did
everything in his power. I hardly know how Aunt Esther could have
managed without him, for the captain was laid up with rheumatism, and
Mr. Danforth relieved them of all trouble in the matter. His having lost
his own mother so recently has made him feel a very keen sympathy for
Annis. They are each comparatively alone in the world, and that is a
great bond between them.”
Persis looked very grave and thoughtful. “Mamma,” she said, “where is
Basil? Is he in Washington, too?”
“No; didn’t I tell you that he went abroad again, soon after his
accident? The doctor thought the voyage would do him good, and Basil is
such an earnest fellow, his friends all advised him not to settle down
to business for another year, and his mother insisted that he should
travel, since he had seen very little of any of the noted places, except
Paris. And so now he is hunting up the best examples of architecture,
and I dare say it is much better for his profession that he is doing
just what he is. Porter and his mother have lived in Mrs. Brown’s house
all winter. It is Annis’s house now, of course.”
“Yes; doesn’t it seem strange? I wonder——” Persis paused.
“What, dear?”
“Nothing much. I was wondering about Mr. Dan, that is all. It seems
strange that I never thought of his liking Annis, but they would suit
each other perfectly. Mr. Dan is so strong and reliable and likes to
take responsibilities, while Annis is dependent and needs some one on
whom she can lean. I think Mr. Dan always hoped I’d outgrow my
independent ideas, and come to accept him as my oracle.”
Mrs. Holmes smiled. “I knew he was fond of you, Persis; he told your
father so.”
“Then it is not such a secret. Yes, he was too fond of me, and I was
sorry. He is such a good man, such a fine character, yet I couldn’t like
him just in that way. I hope he has recovered from his fancy.”
“I think he has. He is not the man to let such a thing overwhelm him;
and from all I hear he is likely to be consoled.”
Persis smiled. All the snarls were beginning to unravel. How she should
like to see Annis, and hear about all her experiences!
It was very delightful to receive letters from all the dear people.
Grandma wrote such a long, loving epistle, and then came one from Mr.
Holmes. After this the missives poured in very fast. Mellicent, Annis,
every one, wrote.
“What is that letter, mamma?” asked Persis, the first day she was able
to be up and dressed, for her mother’s eyes looked very “weepy,” as the
children used to say, over a letter she had been reading.
“It is a letter from grandma, dear.”
“And why, mamma? Has anything happened?” Persis looked nervous and
anxious.
“Nothing but what we are glad to hear. Think of it, Persis. I am grandma
now, and grandma is great-grandmother. Lisa has a little son.”
“Oh, mamma, has she, really? And you are not with her!”
“No, but grandma is, and Mellicent is keeping house for them all. I did
not tell you, for fear you would grow impatient, but Lisa came home
before I left.”
“Oh, I shall be glad to be at home again, mamma; and yet—and yet, isn’t
it strange? I feel very sorry to leave this place. Did you ever see such
dear, good people as Dr. and Mrs. Rivers? And the Temples, too, are so
kind.”
“They have been friends, indeed. We owe them a great debt of gratitude,
which we shall never be able to repay. But for them I should have lost
my precious child, I am afraid.”
“Oh, mamma, it is dreadful, dreadful to think what one mistake can do! I
think I shall bear the marks of it to my dying day. But maybe—I do think
it has done me some good.”
“My dear one, I think it has, sad as it has been for us all. Sorrow is a
wonderful friend, if we could but learn to think so.”
Persis nodded thoughtfully. She looked very pale and thin, and her eyes
were big and shadowy. She was very unlike the rosy girl who had so
blithely started away for her summer outing.
“Mamma,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “I don’t believe I shall
ever be quite the same again; but one thing I do know, I shall never,
never want to leave you and papa and grandma again.”
[Illustration: '[Fleuron]’]