Tracy Park Part 65

'No, no. I couldn't have done that much longer,' he exclaimed, energetically, as he began to walk up and down the room. 'I could not bear it. And the shadow which for years has been with me night and day, counselling me for bad, was growing so black, and huge, and unendurable that I must have confessed or died. But it is gone now, or will be when I have told my brother.'

'Told your brother! Mr. Tracy--Uncle Frank--you cannot mean to do that?'

Jerrie exclaimed.

'But I do mean to do it,' Frank replied, 'as a part of my punishment, and he will not forgive as you have done. He will turn me out at once, as he ought to do.'

Jerrie thought this very likely, and with all her powers she strove to dissuade Frank from making a confession which could do no possible good, and might result in untold harm.

'Remember Maude,' she said, 'and the effect this thing would have upon her if your brother should resort to immediate and violent means, as he might in his first frenzy.'

'But, I mean to tell Maude, too,' Frank replied.

Then Jerrie looked upon him as madder than Arthur himself, and talked so rapidly and argued so well that he consented at last to keep his own counsel, for the present at least, unless the shadow still haunted him, in which case he must tell as an act of contrition or penance.

'He will think the photograph came with the other papers in the bag,'

Jerrie said, as she kissed the sweet face, which looked so much like life that it was hard to think there was not real love and tenderness in the eyes which looked into hers so steadfastly.

It was the hardest to forgive the letter hidden so long, and Jerrie did feel a pang of resentment, or something like it, as she took it in her hand and thought of the day when Arthur had confided it to her, saying he could trust her when he could not another. And she had trusted Frank, who had not been true to the trust, and here, after the lapse of years, was the letter, in her hands, with its singular superscription, covering its whole side, and its seal unbroken. But she would break it now.

Surely she might do that, if Arthur was never to see it; and after a moment's hesitancy, she opened it, and read, first, wild, crazy sentences, full of love and tenderness for the little Gretchen to whom they were addressed, and whom the writer sometimes spoke to as living, and again as dead. There was the expression of a strong desire to see her, a wish for her to come where her husband was waiting for her, and her diamonds too. Here Jerrie started with an exclamation of surprise, and involuntarily read aloud:

'The most exquisite diamonds you ever saw, and I long to see them on you. They are safe, too--safe from her--Mrs. Frank Tracy--who had the boldness to flaunt them in my face at a party the other night. How she came by them I can't guess; but I know how she lost them, I found them on her dressing-table, where she left them when she went to breakfast, and took possession at once. That was no theft, for they are mine, or rather yours, and are waiting for you in my private drawer, where no one has ever looked, except a young girl called Jerrie, who interests me greatly, she is so much like what you must have been when a child. There has been some trouble about the diamonds--I hardly know what, my head is in such a buzzing most of the time that everything goes from me but you.

Oh, if I had remembered you years ago as I do now--'

Jerrie could read no further, for the letter dropped from her hands, as she cried joyfully:

'I knew he had them. I was sure of it, though I did not know where they were.'

Then very briefly she explained to Frank that on the morning when the diamonds were missed, Arthur was so excited because Harold had been in a way accused, and had rambled off into German, and said many things which made her know that he had taken them himself and secreted them.

'You remember my sickness,' she said, and how strangely I talked of going to prison as an accessory or a subst.i.tute? Well, it was for your brother I was ready to go; and when he told me, as he did one day, that he knew nothing of the diamonds, I was never more astonished in my life; but afterward, as I grew older, I came to believe that he had forgotten them, as he did other things, and that some time he would remember and make rest.i.tution, I am glad we know where they are, but we cannot get them until he returns. When do you think that will be?'

Frank did not know. It would depend, he said, upon whether he was in San Francisco when Tom's telegram was received. If he were and started at once, travelling day and night, he would be home in a week.

It seemed a long time to wait in Jerrie's state of mind, and very, very short to the repentant man, who shrank from his brother's return as from an impending evil, although it was a relief to think that he need not tell him what a hypocrite he had been.

'Thank you, Jerrie,' he said at last, as he rose to go, 'Thank you for being so kind to me. I did not deserve it. I did not expect it. Heaven bless you. I am glad for you, and so is Maude. Oh, Jerrie, heaven is dealing hard with me to take her from me, and yet it is just. I sinned for her; sinned to see her in the place I was sure was yours, although the shadow was always telling me that I did not and never could know for sure that you were Arthur's child; but I did, and I meant to go to Germany some day, when I had the language a little better, and clear it up, and then I had promised myself to tell you. Will you lay again that you forgive me before I go back to Maude?'

He was standing before her with his white head dropped upon his hat, the very picture of misery and remorse, and Jerrie laid her hand upon his head, and said:

'I do forgive you, Uncle Frank, fully and freely, for Maude's sake if no other; and if she lives what is mine shall be hers. Tell her so, and tell her I am coming to see her as soon as I am able, I am so tired to-day, and everything is so strange. Oh, if Harold were here.'

Jerrie was indeed so tired and exhausted that for the remainder of the day she lay upon the couch in her room, seeing no one but Judge St.

Claire and Tom, both of whom came up together, the latter bringing the answer to his telegram, and asking what to do next.

'Why, Tom,' Jerrie said, as she read Arthur's reply, 'pay him then, for I shan't come,' what does he mean? What did you say to him, and whom are you to pay?'

With a half comical smile Tom replied, 'I told him the Old Nick was to pay, though I am afraid I used a stronger name for his Satanic majesty than that. I guess you'll have to try what you can do.'

And so Jerrie's message, 'I need you,' went across the continent, and brought the ready response, 'coming on the wings of the wind.' It was Judge St. Claire who wrote to Harold, for Jerrie's nerveless fingers could not grasp the pen, and she could only dictate what she wished the judge to say.

'Tell him everything,' she said, 'and how much I want him here; and tell him, too, of Maude, whose life hangs on a thread. That may bring him sooner.'

It was three days before Jerrie went again to the Park House, and then Tom came for her, saying Maude was failing very fast. The shock which had come upon her so suddenly with regard to Jerrie's birth and the suspicions resting upon Harold had shortened the life nearing its close, and the moment Jerrie entered the room she knew the worst, and with a storm of sobs and tears knelt by the sick girl's couch and cried:

'Oh, Maude, Maude, I can't bear it. I'd give up everything to save you.

Oh, Maude, Maude, you don't know how much I love you!'

Maude was very calm, though her lips quivered a little and the tears filled her eyes as she put her hand caressingly upon Jerrie's golden hair. A great change had come over Maude since the night when she heard Jerrie's strange story--a change for the better some might have thought, although the physician who attended her gave no hope. She neither coughed nor suffered pain, and could talk all she liked, although often in a whisper, she was so very weak. 'Yes, Jerrie,' she said, 'I know you love me, and it makes me very glad, and dying seems easier for it; for, Jerrie, oh, Jerrie! once before I knew about you, and when I feared I might die, I wrote something on paper for father to see when I was dead, and it was that he should take you in my place, you and Harold.'

Maude's voice shook a little here, but she soon steadied it and went on:

'I wanted him to give you what I thought would be mine had I lived, and what all the time was yours. Oh, Jerrie, how can you help hating me, who have stood so long where you ought to have stood, and enjoyed what you ought to have enjoyed?'

'Maude,' Jerrie cried, as she kissed the little wan face, 'don't talk like that; as if I, or any one, could ever have hated you. Why, I worshiped you as some little empress when I used to see you in your bright sashes and yellow kid boots, with the amber beads around your neck; and if the contrast between your finery and my high-necked gingham ap.r.o.n and white sun-bonnet sometimes struck me painfully, I had no wish to take the boots and sashes from you, whom they fitted so admirably; and as we grew older and you did not shrink from or slight Jerrie Crawford, I cannot tell you how great was the love which grew in my heart for you, the dearest girl friend I ever had, and a thousand times dearer now that I know you are my cousin.'

Maude was silent for a moment, and then she asked abruptly:

'Jerrie, why did you never fall in love with Harold?'

'Oh, Maude!' and Jerrie started as if Maude had struck her, while the tell-tale blood rushed to her face, and into her eyes there came a look which even Maude could not understand.

'Jerrie,' she exclaimed, 'forgive me. I didn't know, I never guessed, I was go stupid; but I have been thinking so much since Harold went away.

Does he know about you? who you are? and how long before he will come home?'

'Judge St. Claire wrote him everything three days ago,' Jerrie replied, 'and told him how sick you were. That will surely bring him at once, if it is possible for him to leave; but it will he three or four days now before the letter will reach him, and take a week for him to come. Would you like to see him very much?'

'Yes,' Maude answered with a sob, 'very much, but I never shall. Jerrie, did Harold ever--did he--does he--love you?'

'He never told me so,' Jerrie answered, frankly; 'but I have thought that he loved you'

'N--no,' Maude answered, piteously, with the great tears in her eyes.

'It is all a mistake, and when I am dead and Harold comes, promise to tell him something from me, will you?'

'Yes,' Jerrie answered, and Maude continued:

'Tell him the very first time you and he are alone together, and speak of me, that I have been thinking and thinking until it came to me clear as day that it was all a mistake, a stupid blunder on my part. I was always stupid, you know; but I believe my brain is a little clearer now.

Will you tell him, Jerrie?'

'Mistake about what?' Jerrie asked with a vague apprehension that the task imposed upon her might not be a pleasant one if she know all it involved.

'Harold will tell you what,' Maude answered 'He will understand what I mean, and you must tell him, for I shall not be here when he comes, I am sure of it. I hope to live till Uncle Arthur comes, for I must see him and ask him not to be hard on poor father, and tell him that I am sorry that I have been so long in your place where you should have been. You will stay here when he comes, and be with me to the last. I want you with me--want you to hold my hand when I say good-bye for ever. You are so strong that I shall not be afraid with you to see and hear as long as I hear and see anything.'

'And are you afraid?' Jerrie asked, and Maude replied:

'Of the death struggle, yes; but not what lies beyond where He is, the Saviour, for I know I am going to Heaven; and when you think me asleep I am often praying silently for more faith and love, and for you all, that you may one day come where I soon shall be. Heaven is very, very beautiful, for I have seen it in my dreams--a material heaven some would say, for there are trees and flowers, and gra.s.s; and on a golden bench, beneath a tree whose leaves are like emeralds, and whose blossoms are like pearls, I am sitting, on the bank of a shining river, resting, resting, and waiting, as little Pilgrim waited for the coming of the Master, and for you all.'

Maude was very tired now, and her voice was so low that Jerrie could scarcely hear it, while the eyelids drooped heavily, and in a few moments she fell asleep, with a rapt look on her as if she were already resting on the golden seat beneath the tree whose leaves were emeralds and whose blossoms were like pearls.