Part 26 (1/2)
On went the story, and on went the girls; the sun sank lower and lower, the shadows crept longer and longer, the air grew cool and thin with the coming night. The man with the wooden leg had chopped it up for fuel, and Father Montfort had brought him and all the others in triumph to the ranch, and set them down by the fire, when-- ”Oh, dear me!” cried Ethel Fair. ”What a shame, girls! Here we are at the gate. I say! let's go on a little farther, Peggy.”
But Peggy was wise, and knew when to stop; besides, now that she was near the house again, the anxiety and distress that had been lulled by the walk and the story-telling, came back like a flood, and filled her heart. They were crossing the lawn; what tidings would greet them at the door? Some one was standing there now; Miss Cortlandt, was it? no, Miss Russell herself. She was waiting for them with the news; would it be good or bad? Peggy hung back for an instant; then she walked steadily forward. ”Quiet, girls!” was all she said. ”I think Miss Russell has something to tell us.”
They were at the foot of the steps now; and Miss Russell was coming down to meet them, running, the grave and stately woman, to meet them, like a girl. Her hands were outstretched, her face was all aglow with joy, the glad tears ran down her cheeks.
”It is over!” she whispered. ”Softly, my dear children. Come softly in.
The crisis is over, and the child will live! Come with me, and let us thank G.o.d together!”
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE END AND THE BEGINNING.
It was a month later. The first snow had fallen, and the lawn was white with it, and all the trees and bushes powdered with frost. Coming out of the cla.s.s-room one day, her heart singing of sines and cosines and tangents, Peggy found the Snowy and the Fluffy waiting for her at the door, with radiant faces.
”Oh, what?” cried Peggy. ”A letter?”
”Yes,” said Gertrude. ”It has just come, though the postmark is two or three days ago. Where shall we go to read it? Your room, Peggy? So we will; it's nearer than the Nest, and I know you can't wait.”
Grace's letters were indeed things to wait for in those days. She had gone to Lobelia's home with her; for, on coming to herself, the invalid had still clung to her new friend, with a persistency strange in one so timid and fearful. Convalescence came, with its unwilling fretfulness, its fits of unreason. Still Lobelia clung to Grace, and no one else could make her listen and obey. The nurse laughed, and said she might as well go, and leave her diploma with Miss Wolfe; yet stayed, for the two worked together in pleasant harmony and friends.h.i.+p. At last, Doctor Hendon ordered a change of scene, and now, too, Grace must go with her.
The Parkins mansion was within driving distance of Pentland; the whole school had turned out to see the departure, the sick girl lying on cus.h.i.+ons, her thin face already showing the signs of returning health, and really transfigured by the light of love and grat.i.tude that beamed from it, as she looked from Grace to Peggy, and back again to Grace. She beckoned to Peggy, who pressed to her side and bent over her. ”What is it, dear?” she whispered.
”Peggy!”
”Yes, Lobelia.”
”Peggy, you don't mind?”
”Mind what? I don't mind anything, now that you are getting well.”
”You--you were my first friend, the only friend I had. You don't mind--that I love her? I couldn't help it, Peggy. She kept me alive, you see. Often and often, when I was drifting away, and ready to die, she held me, and would not let me go. You are sure you don't mind, Peggy?”
Peggy kissed her heartily, and told her not to talk nonsense. ”If you didn't love her,” she said, ”I'd have nothing to do with you, Lobelia Parkins. Do you hear that? Nothing! I wouldn't speak to you in the street, if I met you.”
Lobelia smiled, and leaned back on the cus.h.i.+ons with closed eyes and a look of absolute content. ”You are so funny, Peggy!” she murmured. ”She is funny, too. I like people who are funny. Good-bye, and thank everybody. Everybody is so kind!”
The carriage drove away, and the last thing the girls saw was Grace's face, looking down at her charge; grave as ever,--Grace rarely smiled, and they hardly knew the sound of her laugh,--but bright as Lobelia's own with love and purpose and gladness. So they pa.s.sed out of sight.
And since then had come letters every week, telling of the child's progress; one to Miss Russell always, and one to the Owls or to Peggy.
It was one of these that Gertrude took from her pocket now and opened, as they sat together on Peggy's divan.
”You see, it is dated three days ago; probably been carried in a pocket, from the look of it.”
”DEAR SNOWY, ALSO FLUFFY:--Tu whit! She has been gaining so fast this week, we shall soon forget she has been ill at all. She can eat anything she likes, and she likes a great deal.
Miss P. keeps exclaiming at her appet.i.te.
Apparently the child never ate anything before she went to school. The rule of the house is, or was, one shredded wheat Abomination for breakfast, one chop for dinner, one smoked herring for supper. All this served on huge and hideous silver dishes. This order is changed.
Miss Parkins almost fainted when I ordered the first meal. She weeps every day over the butcher's book, but the child fattens apace, and all is well. I had to frighten her--the aunt--a little, though, before things went smoothly.