Part 50 (1/2)

This is what Jerrie said to him, with much more, until he knew she was in earnest and felt as if his heart were breaking.

'I shall never forget you, Jerrie,' he said, 'or cease to hope that you will change your mind, unless--' and here he started so suddenly that the wet parasol, down which streams of water were still coursing their way to Jerrie's back, dropped from his hand and rolled off upon the bed of fine needles at his feet, just where it had been in the morning when Tom was there instead of himself--'unless there is some one between us, some other man whom you love. I will not ask you the question, but I believe I could bear it better if I knew it was because your love was already given to another, and not because of anything in me.'

For a moment Jerrie was silent; then suddenly facing d.i.c.k, she laid her hand on his and said:

'I can trust you, I am sure of that; there is some one between us--some one whom I love. If I had never seen him, d.i.c.k, never known that he lived--and if I had known you just as I do, I might not have answered just as I have. I am very sorry.'

d.i.c.k did not ask her who his rival was, nor did Harold come to his mind, so sure was he that an engagement existed between him and Maude.

Probably it was some one whom she had met while away at school; and if so, Nina would know, and he would sound her cautiously, but never let her know, if he could help it, the heart-wound he had received.

Poor d.i.c.k! every nerve was quivering with pain and disappointment when at last, as the rain began to cease, he rose at Jerrie's suggestion, and offering her his arm, walked silently and sadly with her to the door of the cottage. Here for a moment they stood side by side and hand in hand, until Jerrie said:

'd.i.c.k, your friends.h.i.+p has been very dear to me. I do not want to lose it.'

'Nor shall you,' he answered; and winding his arms around her, he kissed her lips, saying as he did so:

'That is the seal of our eternal friends.h.i.+p. The man you love would not grudge me that one kiss, but perhaps you'd better tell him. Good-bye, and G.o.d bless you. When I see you again I shall try to be the same d.i.c.k you have always known.'

For a few moments Jerrie stood listening to the sound of his footsteps as he went splas.h.i.+ng through the wet gra.s.s and puddles of water; then, kissing her hands to him, she whispered:

'Poor d.i.c.k! it would not be difficult to love you if I had never known Harold.'

Opening the door softly, she found, as she had expected, that both her grandmother and Harold had retired; and taking the lamp from the table where it had been left for her, she stole quietly up to her room and crept s.h.i.+vering into bed, more wretched than she had ever been before in her life.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

AT LE BATEAU.

Harold got his own breakfast the next morning, and was off for his work just as the sun looked into the windows of the room where Jerrie lay in a deep slumber. She had been awake a long time the previous night, thinking over the incidents of a day which had been the most eventful one of her life, but had fallen asleep at last, and dreamed that she had found the low room far away in Wiesbaden, with the wall adorned with the picture of a young girl knitting in the suns.h.i.+ne, and the stranger watching her from a distance.

It was late when she awoke, and Peterkin's clock was striking eight when she went down to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Crawford sewing, and a most dainty breakfast waiting for her on a little round table near an open window shaded with the hop-vines. There was a fresh egg for her, with English buns, and strawberries and cream, and chocolate served in a pretty cup which she had never seen before, while near her plate was lying a bunch of roses, and on them a strip of paper, on which Harold had written:

”The top of the mornin' to ye, Jerrie. I'd like to stay and see you, but if I work very hard to-day, I hope to finish the job on Monday and get my fifteen dollars. That's a pile of money to earn in three days, isn't it? I hope you enjoyed the garden-party. If I had not been so awfully tired I should have gone for you. Grandma will tell you that I went to bed and to sleep before that shower came up, so I knew nothing of it. I wonder you got home; but of course d.i.c.k came with you, or Billy, or possibly Tom. I hear you entertained all three of them at the washtub! Pretty good for the first day home!

Good-bye till to-night. I only live till then, as they say in novels.

”HAROLD.”

This note, every line of which was full of affection and thoughtfulness for her, was worth more to Jerrie than the chocolate, or the bun, or the pretty cup and saucer which Harold had bought for her the night before, going to the village, a mile out of his way, on purpose to get them and surprise her. This, Mrs. Crawford told her, as she eat eating her breakfast, which she had to force down because of the lump in her throat and the tears which came so fast as she listened.

'You see,' Mrs. Crawford began, 'Mr. Allen paid Harold two or three dollars, and so he came home through the village, and bought the eggs, and the buns, and the chocolate, which he knew you liked, and the cup and saucer at Grady's. He has had it on his mind a long time to get it for you, but there were so many other things to pay for. Don't you think it is pretty?'

'Yes, lovely!' Jerrie replied, taking up the delicate bit of china, through which the light shone so clearly. 'It is very pretty; but I wish he had not bought it for me,' and Jerrie wiped the hot tears from both her eyes, as Mrs. Crawford continued:

'Oh, he wanted to. He is never happier than when doing something which he thinks pleases you or me. Harold is the most unselfish boy I ever knew; and I never saw him give way, or heard him complain that his lot was hard but once, and that was this summer, when he was building the room, and had to dismiss the man because he had no money to pay him.

That left it all for him to do, and he was already so tired and overworked; and then Tom Tracy was always making fun of the addition, and saying it made the cottage look like a pig-sty with a steeple to it, and that you would think so too; and if it were his he'd tear the old hut down and start anew. Peterkin, too, made remarks about its being out of proportion to the rest of the house, and wondered where Harold got the money, and why he didn't do this and that, but supposed he couldn't afford it, adding that ”beggars couldn't be choosers.” When Harold heard all that, he was tired, and nervous, and sick, and discouraged, and his hands were blistered and bruised with hard work.

His head was aching, and he just put it on that table, where you are sitting, and cried like a baby. When I tried to comfort him, he said, ”It isn't the hard work, grandmother; I don't mind that in the least; neither do I care for what they say, or should not, if there was not some truth in it; things are out of proportion, and the new room makes the rest of the cottage look lower than ever, and I'd like so much to have everything right for Jerrie, who would not shame the Queen's palace. I wish, for her sake, that I had money, and could make her home what it ought to be. I do not want her to feel homesick, or long for something better, when she comes back to us.”'