Part 39 (1/2)
Jerrie thought a moment: ”That he is good and will love me dearly, and be ever so kind to me and teach me things?”
”And Prue, Aunt Prue; what do you know about her?”
”I know I have some of her name, not all, for her name is Pomeroy; and she is as beautiful as a queen and as good; and she will love me more than Uncle John will, and teach me how to be a lovely lady, too.”
”Yes, that is all true; one of these letters is from her, written to you--”
”Oh, to me! to _me_.”
”I will read it to you presently.”
”I know which is hers, the thin paper and the writing that runs along.”
”And the other is from Uncle John.”
”To me?” she queried.
”No, this is mine, but I will read it to you. First I want to tell you about Aunt Prue's home.”
”Is it like this? near the sea? and can I play on the beach and see the lions?”
”It is near the sea, but it is not like this; her home is in a city by the sea. The house is a large house. It was painted dark brown, years ago, with red about the window frames, and the yard in front was full of flowers that Aunt Prue had the care of, and the yard at the back was deep and wide with maples in it and a swing that she used to love to swing in; she was almost like a little girl then herself.”
”She isn't like a little girl now, is she?”
”No, she is grown up like that lady on the beach with the children; but she describes herself to you and promises to send her picture!”
”Oh, good!” exclaimed the child, dancing around the chair, and coming back to stand quietly at her father's side.
”What is the house like inside? Like this house?”
”No, not at all. There is a wide, old-fas.h.i.+oned hall, with a dark carpet in it and a table and several chairs, and engravings on the walls, and a broad staircase that leads to large, pleasant rooms above; and there is a small room on the top of the house where you can go up and see vessels entering the harbor. Down-stairs the long parlor is the room that I know best; that had a dark carpet and dark paper on the walls and many windows, windows in front and back and two on the side, there were portraits over the mantel of her father and mother, and other pictures around everywhere, and a piano that she loved to play for her father on, and books in book cases, and, in winter, plants; it was not like any one else's parlor, for her father liked to sit there and she brought in everything that would please him. Her father was old like me, and sick, and she was a dear daughter like you.”
”Did he die?” she asked.
”Yes, he died. He died sooner than he would have died because some one he thought a great deal of did something very wicked and almost killed his daughter with grief. How would I feel if some one should make you so unhappy and I could not defend you and had to die and leave you alone.”
”Would you want to kill him--the man that hurt me?”
But his eyes were on the water and not on her face; his countenance became ashy, he gasped and hurried his handkerchief to his lips. Jeroma was not afraid of the bright spots that he sought to conceal by crumpling the handkerchief in his hand, she had known a long time that when her father was excited those red spots came on his handkerchief. She knew, too, that the physician had said that when he began to cough he would die, but she had never heard him cough very much, and could not believe that he must ever die.
”Papa, what became of the man that hurt Aunt Prue and made her father die?”
”He lived and was the unhappiest wretch in existence. But Aunt Prue tried to forgive him, and she used to pray for him as she always had done before. Jerrie, when you go to Aunt Prue I want you to take her name, your own name, Prudence, and I will begin to-day to call you 'Prue,' so that you may get used to it.”
”Oh, will you?” she cried in her happy voice. ”I don't like to be 'Jerrie,' like the boy that takes care of the horses. When Mr. Pierce calls so loud 'Jerry!' I'm always afraid he means me; but Nurse says that Jerry has a _y_ in it and mine is _ie_, but it sounds like my name all the time. But Prue is soft like p.u.s.s.y and I like it. What made you ever call me Jerrie, papa?”
”Because your mamma named you after my name, Jerome. We used to call you Roma, but that was long for a baby, so we began to call you Jerrie.”
”I like it, papa, because it is your name, and I could tell the girls at Aunt Prue's that it is my father's name, and then I would be proud and not ashamed.”