Prudence of the Parsonage Part 26

But he would not hear of this. "No," he said, "put it in the bank, Prudence, for there will come a time when you will want money very badly. Then you will have it."

"Let's divide it then,--a hundred for each of us," she urged.

Neither the younger girls nor their father would consent to this. But when Prudence stood very firm, and pleaded with them earnestly, they decided to divide it.

"I will deposit two hundred and fifty dollars for the four younger ones," he said, "and that will leave you as much."

So it was settled, and Prudence was a happy girl when she saw it safely put away in the bank.

"We can get it whenever we really need it, you know," she told her father joyfully. "It's such a comfort to know it's there! I feel just like a millionaire, I am sure. Do you think it would be all right to send Limber-Limb Grant a letter of thanks for it? We were horribly scared, but--well, I for one am willing to be horribly scared for such a lot of money as that!"

CHAPTER XI

ROMANCE COMES

Sometimes, Methodists, or Presbyterians or heretics, whatever we may be, we are irresistibly impelled to the conclusion that things were simply bound to happen! However slight the cause,--still that cause was predestined from the beginning of time. A girl may by the sheerest accident, step from the street-car a block ahead of her destination,--an irritating incident. But as she walks that block she may meet an old-time friend, and a stranger. And that stranger,--ah, you can never convince the girl that her stepping from the car too soon was not ordered when the foundations of the world were laid.

Even so with Prudence, good Methodist daughter that she was. We ask her, "What if you had not gone out for a ride that morning?" And Prudence, laughing, answers, "Oh, but I had to go, you see." "Well," we continue, "if you had not met him that way, you could have met him some other way, I suppose." "Oh, no," declares Prudence decidedly, "it had to happen just that way."

After all, down in plain ink on plain paper, it was very simple. Across the street from the parsonage was a little white cottage set back among tall cedars. In this cottage lived a girl named Mattie Moore,--a common, unlovely, unexciting girl, with whom Romance could not apparently be intimately concerned. Mattie Moore taught a country school five miles out from town, and she rode to and from her school, morning and evening, on a bicycle.

Years before, when Prudence was young and bicycles were fashionable, she had been intensely fond of riding. But as she gained in age, and bicycles lost in popularity, she discarded the amus.e.m.e.nt as unworthy a parsonage damsel.

One evening, early in June, when the world was fair to look upon, it was foreordained that Prudence should be turning in at the parsonage gate just as Mattie Moore whirled up, opposite, on her dusty wheel. Prudence stopped to interchange polite inanities with her neighbor, and Mattie, wheeling the bicycle lightly beside her, came across the street and stood beneath the parsonage maples with Prudence. They talked of the weather, of the coming summer, of Mattie's school, rejoicing that one more week would bring freedom from books for Mattie and the younger parsonage girls.

Then said Prudence, seemingly of her own free will, but really directed by an all-controlling Providence, "Isn't it great fun to ride a bicycle?

I love it. Sometime will you let me ride your wheel?"

"Why, certainly. You may ride now if you like."

"No," said Prudence slowly, "I am afraid it would not do for me to ride now. Some of the members might see me, and--well, I am very grown up, you know.--Of course," she added hastily, "it is different with you. You ride for business, but it would be nothing but a frolic with me. I want to get up at six o'clock and go early in the morning when the world is fast asleep. Let me take it to-morrow morning, will you? It is Sat.u.r.day, and you won't be going to school."

"Yes, of course you may," was the hearty answer. "You may stay out as long as you like. I'm going to sew to-morrow. You make take it in the parsonage now and keep it until morning. I always sleep late on Sat.u.r.days."

So Prudence delightedly tripped up the parsonage board walk, wheeling the bicycle by her side. She hid it carefully in the woodshed, for the twins were rash and venturesome. But after she had gone to bed, she confided her plan to Fairy.

"I'm going at six o'clock, and I'll be back in time to get breakfast.

But as you know, Fairy, my plans do not always work out as I intend, so if I am a little late, you'll get breakfast for papa and the girls, like a dear, won't you?"

Fairy promised. And early the next morning, Prudence, in a plain gingham house dress, with the addition of a red sweater jacket and cap for warmth, set out upon her secret ride. It was a magnificent morning, and Prudence sang for pure delight as she rode swiftly along the country roads. The country was simply irresistible. It was almost intoxicating.

And Prudence rode farther than she had intended. East and west, north and south, she went, apparently guided only by her own caprice. She knew it was growing late, "but Fairy'll get breakfast," she thought comfortably.

Finally she turned in a by-road, leading between two rich hickory groves.

Dismounting at the top of a long hill, she gazed anxiously around her.

No one was in sight. The nearest house was two miles behind, and the road was long, and smooth, and inviting, and the hill was steep.

Prudence yearned for a good, soul-stirring coast, with her feet high up on the framework of the wheel, and the pedals flying around beneath her skirts. This was not the new and modern model of bicycle. The pedals on Mattie Moore's wheel revolved, whether one worked them or not.

It seemed safe. The road sloped down gradually at the bottom, with an incline on the other side. What more could one desire. The only living thing in sight besides birds gossiping in the leafy branches and the squirrel scolding to himself, was a sober-eyed serious mule peacefully grazing near the bottom of the hill.

Prudence laughed gleefully, like a child. She never laughed again in exactly that way. This was the last appearance of the old irresponsible Prudence. The curtain was just ready to drop.

"Here goes!" she cried, and leaping nimbly into the saddle, she pedaled swiftly a few times, and then lifted her feet to the coveted position.

The pedals flew around beneath her, just as she had antic.i.p.ated, and the wind whistled about her in a most exhilarating way.

But as she neared the bottom, a disastrous and totally unexpected thing happened. The placid mule, which had been righteously grazing beside the fence, suddenly stalked into the middle of the road. Prudence screamed, jerked the handle-bar to the right, then to the left, and then, with a sickening thud, she landed head first upon some part of the mule's anatomy. She did not linger there, however. She bounced on down to the ground, with a little cry of pain. The bicycle crashed beside her, and the mule, slightly startled, looked around at her with ears raised in silent questioning. Then he ambled slowly across the road, and deliberately continued his grazing.

Prudence tried to raise herself, but she felt sharp pain. She heard some one leaping over the fence near her, and wondered, without moving her head, if it could be a tramp bent on highway robbery. The next instant, a man was leaning over her. "It's not a tramp," she thought, before he had time to speak.

"Are you hurt?" he cried. "You poor child!"

Prudence smiled pluckily. "My ankle is hurt a little, but I am not a child."

The young man, in great relief, laughed aloud, and Prudence joined him rather faintly.

"I'm afraid I can not walk," she said. "I believe I've broken my ankle, maybe my whole leg, for all I know. It--hurts--pretty badly!"

"Lie down like this," he said, helping her to a more comfortable position, "do not move. May I examine your foot?"

She shook her head, but he removed the shoe regardless of her head-shake.

"I believe it is sprained. I am sure the bone is not broken. But how in the world will you get home? How far is it to Mount Mark? Is that where you live?"

"Yes," considering, "yes, I live there, and it must be four miles, anyhow. What shall I do?"

In answer, he pulled off his coat, and arranged it carefully by the side of the road on the gra.s.s. Then jerking open the bag he had carried, he took out a few towels, and three soft shirts. Hastily rolling them together for a pillow, he added it to the bed pro tem. Then he turned again to Prudence.

"I'll carry you over here, and fix you as comfortably as I can. Then I'll go to the nearest house and get a wagon to take you home."

Prudence was not shy, and realizing that his plan was the wise one, she made no objections when he came to help her across the road. "I think I can walk if you lift me up."

But the first movement sent such a twinge of pain through the wounded ankle that she clutched him frantically, and burst into tears. "It hurts," she cried, "don't touch me."

Without speaking, he lifted her as gently as he could and carried her to the place he had prepared for her. "Will you be warm enough?" he asked, after he had stood looking awkwardly down upon the sobbing girl as long as he could endure it.

"Yes," nodded Prudence, gulping down the big soft rising in her throat.

"I'll run. Do you know which way is nearest to a house? It's been a long time since I pa.s.sed one coming this way."

"The way I came is the nearest, but it's two miles, I think."

"I'll go as fast as I can, and you will be all right This confounded cross-cut is so out of the way that no one will pa.s.s here for hours, I suppose. Now lie as comfortably as you can, and do not worry. I'm going to run."

Off he started, but Prudence, left alone, was suddenly frightened.

"Please, oh, please," she called after him, and when he came back she buried her face in shame, deep in the linen towel.

"I'm afraid," she whispered, crying again. "I do not wish to be left alone here. A snake might come, or a tramp."