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Tracy Park by Mary Jane Holmes

M >> Mary Jane Holmes >> Tracy Park




'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.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

MAUDE.


Harold did not finish his work at the Allen farm-house until Tuesday, so
it was not until Wednesday afternoon that he started to pay his promised
visit to Maude. Jerrie had seen her twice, and reported her as much
better, although still very weak.

'She is so anxious to see you. Don't you think you can go this
afternoon?' she said to Harold, in the morning, as she helped him weed
the garden and pick the few strawberries left upon the vines.

'Ye-es, I guess I can--if you'll go with me,' he said.

He was so loth to be away from Jerrie when it was not absolutely
necessary, that even a call upon Maude without her did not seem very
tempting. But Jerrie could not go now, for Nina and Marian Raymond came
down to the cottage to spend the afternoon, and Harold went alone to the
park house, where he found Maude in the room she called her studio
trying to finish a little water-color which she had sketched of the
cottage as it was before the roof was raised.

'I mean it for Jerrie,' she had said to Harold, who stood by her when
she sketched it, 'and I am going to put her under the tree, with her sun
bonnet hanging down her back, as she used to wear it when she was a
little girl, and you are to be over there by the fence, looking at me
coming up the lane.'

It was the best thing Maude had ever done, for the likeness to Jerrie
and to herself was perfect, while the cottage, embowered in trees and
flowers, made it a most attractive picture. Harold had praised it a
great deal, and told her that it would make her famous. But when the
carpenter work came in Maude put it aside until now, when she brought it
out again, and was just beginning to retouch it in places, as Harold was
announced.

She was looking very tired, and it seemed to Harold that she had lost
many pounds of flesh since he saw her last. Her face was pale, and
pinched, and wan, but it flushed brightly as Harold came in, and she
went eagerly forward to meet him.

'Hally, you naughty boy!' she began, as she gave him her little, thin
hand. 'Why didn't you come before? You don't know how I have missed you.
You must not forget me now that Jerrie is at home.'

She had led him to a seat, and then herself sank into a large cushioned
easy chair, against which she leaned her head wearily, while she looked
at him with eyes which ought to have told Harold how much he was to her,
and so put him on his guard, and saved the misunderstanding which
followed.

'No, Maude, I couldn't forget you,' he said; and without really knowing
that he was doing it, he put his hand upon the little soft white one
lying on the arm of the chair.

Every nerve in Maude's body thrilled to the touch of that hand upon
which she involuntarily laid her other one, noticing as she did so the
signs of toil upon it, and feeling sorry for him. One would have thought
them lovers, sitting there thus together, but nothing could have been
farther from Harold's mind. He was thinking only of Jerrie, and his
resolve to confide in Maude, and get her opinion with regard to his
chance.

'Now is as good a time as any,' he thought, wondering how he should
begin, and finding it harder than he had imagined it would he.

At last after a few commonplaces, Maude told him again that he must not
neglect her now that Jerrie was at home.

'Neglect you? How can I do that?' he said, 'when I look upon you as one
of my best friends, and in proof of it, I am going to tell you
something, or, rather, ask you something, and I hope you will answer me
truly. Better that I know the worst at first than learn it afterward.'

Maude's face was aflame now with a great and sudden joy, and her soft
eyes drooped beneath Harold's as he went on stammeringly, for he began
to feel the awkwardness of telling one girl that he loved another, even
though that other were her dearest friend.

'I hardly know how to begin,' he said, 'it is such a delicate matter,
and perhaps I'd better say nothing at all.'

'Was he going to stop? Had he changed his mind--and would he not after
all, say the words she had so longed to hear?' Maude asked herself, as
she turned her eyes appealingly to him, while he sat silent and unmoved,
his thoughts very, very far from her to whom he was all in all.

Poor Maude! She was weak and sick, and impulsive and mistaken in the
nature of Harold's feelings for her; so judge her not too harshly, my
prudish reader, if she at last did what Arthur would have called
'throwing herself at his head.'

'I can guess what you mean,' she said, after a long pause, during which
he did not speak. 'I have long suspected that you cared for me just as I
care for you, and have wondered you did not tell me so, but supposed
that you refrained because I was rich and you were poor; but what has
that to do with those who love each other? I am glad you have spoken;
and you have made me very happy; and even if we can never be more to
each other than we are now, because I may die, as I sometimes fear I
shall--'

'Oh, Maude, Maude, you are mistaken. I--,' came from Harold like a cry
of horror as he wrenched away his hand lying between hers, and to which
her slender fingers hung caressingly.

What could she mean? How had she understood him? he asked himself, while
great drops of sweat gathered upon his forehead and in the palms of his
hands, as like lightning the past came back to him, and he could see as
in a printed page that what he had thought mere friendship for himself
was a far different and deeper feeling, while he unwittingly had fanned
the flame; and was now reaping the result.

'What can I do?' he said aloud, unconsciously, while from the depths of
the chair on which Maude was leaning back so wearily came a plaintive
voice like that of a child:

'Ring the bell, and give me my handkerchief.'

He was at her side in a moment, bending over her, and looking anxiously
into the pallid face from which the bright color had faded, leaving it
gray, and pinched, and drawn, it seemed to him. Had he killed her by
blurting out so roughly that she was mistaken; and thus filling her with
mortification and shame? No, that could not be, for as he brought her
handkerchief and bent still closer to her, she whispered to him:

'I am not mistaken, Hally. I am going to die, but you have made the last
days of my life very, very happy.'

She thought he was referring to herself and her situation when he told
her she was mistaken, and with a smothered groan he was starting for the
camphor, as she bade him do, when the door opened, and Mrs. Tracy
herself appeared.

'What is it?' she asked, sharply; then, as she saw Maude's face she knew
what it was, and going swiftly to her, said to Harold:

'Why did you allow her to talk and get excited? What were you saying to
her?'

Instantly Maude's eyes went up to Harold's with an appealing look, as if
asking him not to tell her mother then--a precaution which was needless,
as he had no intention to tell Mrs. Tracy, or any one, of the terrible
blunder he had made; and with a hope that the reality might dawn upon
Maude, he answered, truthfully:

'I was talking to her of Jerrie. I am very sorry.'

If Maude heard she did not understand, for drops of pinkish blood were
oozing from her lips, and she looked as if she were already dead, as in
obedience to Mrs. Tracy's command, Harold took her in his arms and
carried her to the couch near the open window, where he laid her down as
tenderly as if she were indeed his affianced wife.

'Thanks,' she sighed, softly, and her bright, beautiful eyes looked up
at him with an expression which half tempted him to kiss the quivering
lips from which he was wiping the stains so carefully, while Mrs. Tracy,
at the door, gave some orders to a servant.

'You can go now,' she said, returning to the couch, and dismissing him
with her usual hauteur of manner; while Maude put up her hand and
whispered:

'Come soon--and Jerrie.'

Had Harold been convicted of theft or murder he could scarcely have felt
worse than he did as he walked slowly through the park, reviewing the
situation and wondering what he ought to do.

'If it almost killed her when she thought I loved her, it would surely
kill her to know that I do not,' he thought. 'I cannot undeceive her
now, while she is so weak; but when she is better and able to bear it, I
will tell her the truth.'

'And if she dies?' came to him like the stab of a knife, as he
remembered how white she looked as he held her in his arms. 'If she
does,' he said, 'no one shall ever know of the mistake she made. In this
I will be true to Maude, even should the world believe I loved her and
had told her so. But, oh, Heaven! spare me that, and spare Maude's life
for many years. She is too young, too sweet, too good to die.'

This was Harold's prayer as he rested for a moment in the pine-room,
where he had often played with the little girl, and where he could now
see her so plainly picking up the cones, or sitting on the soft bed of
needles, with the bloom on her cheeks and the brightness in her soft
black eyes which had looked so lovingly at him an hour ago. 'Spare
Maude; do not let her die!' was his prayer, and that of many others
during the week which followed, when Maude's life hung on a thread, and
every bell at the park house was muffled, and the servants spoke only in
whispers; while Frank Tracy sat day and night in the room where his
daughter lay, perfectly quiet, except as she sometimes put up her hand
to stroke his white hair or wipe away the tears constantly rolling down
his cheeks.

In Frank's heart there was a feeling worse than death itself, for keen
remorse and bitter regret were torturing his soul as he sat beside the
wreck of all his hopes and felt that he had sinned for naught. He knew
Maude would die, and then what mattered it to him if he had all the
money of the Rothschilds at his command?

'Oh, Gretchen, you are avenged, and Jerrie, too! Oh, Jerrie!' he said,
one day, unconsciously, as he sat by his daughter, who, he thought, was
sleeping. But at the mention of Jerrie's name her eyes unclosed and
fixed themselves upon her father with a look in which he read an earnest
desires for something.

'What is it, pet?' he asked. 'Do you want anything?'

They had made her understand that, she must not speak, for the slightest
effort to do so always brought on a fit of coughing which threatened a
hemorrhage, of which she could not endure many more. But they had
brought her a little slate, on which she sometimes wrote her requests,
though that, too, was an effort. Pointing now to the slate, she wrote,
while her father held it:

'I want Jerrie.'

'I thought so; and you shall have her for just as long as she will
stay,' Frank said; and a servant was dispatched to the cottage with the
message that Jerrie must come at once, and come prepared to pass the
night, if possible.

It had been very dreary for Maude during the time she had been shut up
in her room, to which no one was admitted except her father and mother,
the doctor, and the nurse. Many messages of enquiry and sympathy,
however, had come to her from the cottage, and Grassy Spring, and Le
Bateau, where Ann Eliza was still kept a prisoner with her sprained
ankle; and once Jerrie had written to Maude a note full of love and
solicitude and a desire to see her. As a postscript she added:

'Harold sends his love, and hopes you will soon be better. You don't
know how anxious he is about you. Why, I believe he has lost ten pounds
since your attack, for which he seems to blame himself, thinking he
excited you too much by talking to you.'

Maude listened to this note, which her father read to her, with a smile
on her face and tears on her long eyelashes; but when he came to the
postscript she laughed aloud, as a little child laughs at the return of
its mother, for whom it has been hungering. This was the first word she
had had from him, except that he had called to enquire for her, and she
had so longed for something which should assure her that he remembered
her even as she did him. She had no distrust of him, and would as soon
have doubted that the sun would rise again as to have doubted his
sincerity; but she wanted to hear again that he loved her, and now she
had heard it, and, folding her hands upon her breast, she fell into the
most, refreshing sleep she had had since her illness. Could Maude have
talked and seen people, or if she had been less anxious to live, she
would probably have told Jerrie and Nina, and possibly Ann Eliza
Peterkin, of what had passed between herself and Harold, but she had not
seen them; while life, with Harold to love her, looked so bright and
sweet, that if by keeping silence she could prolong it, she would do so
for months, if necessary. To live for Harold was all she wished or
thought about; and often when they hoped she was sleeping, she lay so
still, with her eyes closed and her arms folded upon her breast, just as
if she were praying in her dreams, her father thought. She _was_ praying
for life and length of days, with strength to make Harold as happy as he
ought to be, and was thinking of and planning all she meant to do for
him when once they were married. First to Europe, where she would be so
proud to show him the places she had seen, and where Jerrie would be
with them, for in all her plans Jerrie had almost as prominent a place
as herself.

'I am nothing without Jerrie,' she thought 'She keeps me up, and Jerrie
will live with us, and Mrs. Crawford; that makes four, just enough for a
nice game of whist in long winter evenings, when it is so cold outside
but warm and bright within--always bright for Harold, whose life has
been so full of care and toil. Poor boy! how I pitied his great warm
hand when it was holding mine so lovingly, and how I could have kissed
every seam and scar upon it. But by and by his hands shall be white like
Tom's, though not so soft. I hate a hand which feels like a fluff of
cotton. He shall not live here, for Harold could never get along with
mother and Tom; but we will build a house together, Hally and I, with
Jerrie to help and plan--build one where the cottage stands, or near it,
so Jerrie can still see the old Tramp House she is so fond of. Not a
house like this, with such big rooms, but a pretty, modern Queen Ann
house, with every room a corner room, and a bay-window in it. And Harold
will have an office in town, and I shall drive down for him every
afternoon and take him home to dinner and to Jerrie.'

Such was the nature of Maude's thoughts, as she lay day after day upon
the couch, too weak to do more thin lift her hands or rise her head
when the dreadful paroxysms of coughing seized her and racked her
fragile frame. Still she was very happy, and the happiness showed itself
upon her, where there rested a look of perfect content and peace, which
her father and mother had noticed and commented upon, and which Jerrie
saw the moment she entered the room and stood by Maude's side.

'Dear Maude,' she said, as she took the hot hands in hers and kissed
them tenderly.

Then she sat down beside her, and smoothed her hair, and told her how
lovely she looked in her pretty rose-colored wrapper, and how sorry
every one was for her, and that both she and Nina would have been there
every day, only they knew they could not see her. Then, as the great
black eyes fixed themselves steadily upon her, with a look of enquiry in
them, she set her teeth hard, and began:

'I don't think anyone has been more sorry than Harold. Why, for the
first few days after you were taken so ill he just walked the floor all
the time he was in the house, and when grandma asked what ailed him, he
said, "I am thinking of Maude, and am afraid my call upon her was the
cause of the attack."'

'N--n--,' Maude began, but checked herself in time, and taking up her
slate, wrote, 'Tell him it was not his call. I am glad he came.'

'Yes I will,' Jerrie replied, scarcely able to keep back her tears, when
she saw how cramped and irregular the handwriting was, so unlike
Maude's, and realized more and more how weak and sick was the little
girl whose eyes followed her everywhere and always grew brighter and
softer when she was talking to her of Harold.

All day and all night Jerrie sat by her, sometimes talking to her and
answering the questions she wrote upon the slate, but oftener in perfect
silence, when Maude seemed to be asleep. Then Jerrie's tears fell like
rain, the face upon the pillow looked so much like death, and she kept
repeating to herself the lines:

'We thought her dying when she slept.
And sleeping when she died.'

When the warm July morning looked in at the windows of the sick-room,
bringing with it the perfume of hundreds of flowers blooming on the
lawn, and the scent of the hay cut the previous day, it found Jerrie
still watching by Maude, her own face tired and pale, with dark rings
about her eyes, which were heavy with tears and wakefulness. She had not
slept at all, and her head was beginning to ache frightfully when the
nurse came in and relieved her, telling her breakfast was ready. Maude
was awake, and wrote eagerly upon the slate:

'You'll come back? You'll stay all day? You do me so much good, and I am
a great deal better for your being here.'

Jerrie hesitated a moment; her head was aching so hard that she longed
to get away. But selfishness was not one of Jerrie's faults, and putting
her own wishes aside, she said:

'Yes, I will stay until afternoon, and then I must go home. I did not
tell you that Harold was going away to-night, did I?'

Maude shook her head, and Jerry went on:

'You know, perhaps, that some time ago a Mr. Wilson, of Truesdale, sued
Peterkin for some infringement on a patent, or something of that sort.'

Maude nodded, and Jerrie continued:

'The suit comes off to-morrow, and Harold is subpoenaed as a witness, as
he was in Peterkin's office a while and knows something about the
arrangement between them. I am sorry he has got to swear against
Peterkin; it will make him so angry, and he hates Harold now. The suit
is to be called in the morning and Judge St. Claire and Harold are going
to-night on the five o'clock train; and as he may be gone a day or two I
must be home to see to packing his bag. But I will stay with you just as
long as I can.'

She said nothing of her head which throbbed in a most peculiar way,
making her dizzy and half blind as she went down to breakfast, which she
took alone with Mrs. Tracy. Frank had eaten his long before, and was now
pacing up and down the long piazza with his head bent forward and his
hands locked together behind him.

'I shall never have rest or peace again until it is known. Oh, if it
would only come out without my telling,' he said to himself, little
dreaming how near it was to coming out and that before that day's sun
had set Jerrie would know!

Tom seldom appeared until after ten, and when Jerrie went for a few
moments into the grounds, to see if the fresh air would do her good, she
found him seated in an arm-chair under a horse chestnut tree, stretching
himself and yawning as if he were just out of bed.

'Jerrie, you here? Did you stay all night? If I'd known that, I'd have
made an effort to come down to breakfast, though I think getting up in
the morning a bore. Why, what's the matter? You look as if you were
going to faint. Sit down here,' he continued, as he saw Jerrie reel
forward as if she were about to fall.

He put her into the chair and stood over her, fanning her with his hat
and wondering what he should do, while for a moment she lost
consciousness of the things about her, and her mind went floating off
after the picture on the wall in Wiesbaden, which was haunting her that
morning.

When she came to herself, Tom and Dick and Billy were all three hovering
around, and so close to her that without opening her eyes she could have
told exactly where each one was standing, Tom by the smell of tobacco,
with which his clothes were saturated, Billy by the powerful scent of
white rose with which he always perfumed his handkerchief, and Dick,
because, as she had once said to Nina when a child, he was so clean and
looked as if he had just been scrubbed. The two young men had come to
enquire for Maude, and had found Jerrie half swooning under the tree,
with Tom fanning her frantically and acting like a wild man.

Jerrie had seen Dick twice since her refusal of him, and both times her
manner, exactly like what it had always been to him, had put him at his
ease, so that a looker-on would never have dreamed of that episode under
the pines when she nearly broke his heart. Billy, however, was more
conscious. He had not seen Jerrie since he took her home in his
dog-cart, and his face was scarlet and his manner nervous and
constrained as he stood before her, longing and yet not daring to fan
her with his hat just as Tom was doing.

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