Under the Country Sky

by Grace S. Richmond

  CHAPTER XXI

  MESSAGES

  Hope to reach Elmville at seven to-night.--E.C. JEFFERSON.

  This was the first of them. When Georgiana received it she had beenwaiting eight days for this first word. She had known well enough thatuntil Jeannette was entirely safe Doctor Craig would not leave her.Georgiana had not minded that she had had no word. She had not reallyexpected any. A man who was too busy to come would be too busy to write,and she wanted no makeshift letters. And she had not minded the delay inhis coming; rather, she had welcomed it. To have time to think, to hugher half-frightened, wholly joyous knowledge to her heart, to go tosleep with it warm at her breast, and to wake with it knocking at thedoor of her consciousness--this was quite happiness enough for theimmediate present.

  Meanwhile, what pleasure to put the house in its most shining order, toplan daily little special dishes, lest he come upon her unawares; to sitand sew upon her clothing, shifting and turning her patchwork materialsuntil she had worked out clever combinations which conveyed small hintof being make-overs!

  For the first time in her life she said nothing to her father of herexpectations. What was there to tell as yet? She could not bring herselfto put into words the memory of that brief interview, in which so muchhad been said in so few simple phrases. And if Father Davy read--as itwould have been strange if he had not--the signs of his daughter'ssinging lightness of heart, he made no sign himself; he only waited,praying.

  Georgiana received her first telegram at noon. She had flown for twowonderful hours about her kitchen, making ready, when the despatch wasfollowed by another:

  Unavoidably detained. Will plan to get away Thursday.

  This was Tuesday. Georgiana put away her materials, and swept the housefrom attic to cellar, though it needed it no more than her glowing faceneeded colour. What did it matter? Let him be detained a week, a month,a year--he would come to her in the end. Now that she was sure of that,each day but enhanced the glorious hope of a meeting, that meeting thevery thought of which was enough to take away her breath.

  On Thursday came the message:

  Cannot leave this week. Will advise by wire when possible.

  No letter came to explain further these delays. Georgiana felt that shedid not need one, yet admitted to herself that the ordinary course insuch circumstances would be to send a letter, no matter of how fewwords. Toward the end of the following week a telegram again set a dayand hour, and as before, another followed on its heels to negative it.The last one added, "Deep regret," and therefore bore balm.

  And then, after several more days, came a message which was all but aletter:

  It seems impossible to arrange for absence at present. Will you not bring your father and come to my home on Wednesday? Will meet train arriving seven-fifteen. Journey will not hurt Mr. Warne, and visit here will interest him. Please do not refuse. E. C. JEFFERSON.

  Well! What girl ever had a suitor of this sort? one too busy to come orwrite, yet who, on the strength of a few words spoken in the presence ofothers, ventured to send for the lady of his choice to come to him, thathe might speak those other words so necessary to the conclusion of thematter. Georgiana sat re-reading the slip of yellow paper, while herheart beat hard and painfully. For with the invitation had comeinstantly the bitter realization--they could not afford to go! Herrecent trip on the occasion of Jeannette's illness had taxed theiralways slender resources, and until the money should come in for thelast bale of rugs sent away, there was only enough in the familytreasury to keep them supplied with the necessities of life.

  The time had come--undoubtedly it had--when she must confide in FatherDavy. Not that he would be able to see any way out, but that she couldnot venture to refuse this urgent request without his approval.

  Georgiana tucked away in her belt the last long telegram, and went toher father. He lay upon his couch, the blue veins on his delicateforehead showing with pitiful distinctness in the ray of Novembersunshine which chanced to fall upon him.

  Georgiana knelt beside him. "Father Davy," she said, with her facecarefully out of his sight, "I have a little story to tell you--just theoutlines of one, for you to fill in. When I was in New York Mr.Jefferson--Doctor Craig, you know,"--she had told him this part of thetale when she had first come home,--"asked me when--when he might comehere."

  She paused. Her father turned his head upon the crimson couch pillow,but he could not see her face.

  "Yes, my dear?" he said, with a little smile touching his lips. "Well,that sounds natural enough. He knows he is always welcome here. When ishe coming?"

  "He isn't coming. He can't get away. He has tried three differenttimes, and cancelled it each time. He seems to be very busy, too busyeven to write."

  "That is not strange; he must be a very busy man. Doubtless he will comewhen he can make time. I shall be glad to see Mr. Jefferson."

  "But--you see--he wants us to come there."

  "Us?"

  "You and me. Father Davy--you understand, dear; don't make me put itinto words!"

  Her father's arm came about her and she buried her face in his thinshoulder. "Thank God!" he said fervently, under his breath. "Thank thegood God, who knows what we need and gives it to us."

  After a minute's silence: "But we can't go, Father Davy."

  "Can't we? I could not, of course, but you----"

  "I couldn't go without you--to his house. And--we haven't any money."

  "No money? Is it so bad as that?"

  "And if we had--I'm not sure that I want to take a journey to a man--sothat----"

  "Let me see the telegram, my dear," requested Mr. Warne. When he hadread it he regarded his daughter with a curious little smile. She wassitting upon the floor, close beside his couch, her brilliant eyes nowraised to his face, now veiled by their heavy lashes. "It seems clearenough," he said. "Concessions must be made to a man who belongs to thepeople as he does. I don't think it would be a sacrifice to yourdignity, daughter, if you were to go."

  "But, Father, darling, don't you see? I didn't want to tell you, butthere was no other way. We have quite enough to live on--withoutextras--till the next rug money comes. But that may not be for a month;they are always slow. And for us to go to New York--well, we could justabout get there. We couldn't get clear home. Father Davy, I can'tgo--penniless--_to him_!"

  He lay looking at her down-bent head with its splendid masses of darkhair, at the beautiful lines of her neck in her low-cut working frock ofblue-and-white print, at the shapely young hands gripping each otherwith unconscious tenseness in her lap. His eyes were like a woman's forunderstanding, and his lips were very tender. Slowly he raised himselfto his feet.

  "Stay just where you are, daughter," he said, "till I come back."

  She waited, staring at the old crimson pillow with eyes which saw againthe drawing-room in Aunt Olivia's apartment and the profile of DoctorCraig's face as he turned from her at Chester Crofton's interruptingquestion. That was more than three weeks ago----

  Father Davy was gone some little time, but he came back at length athis slow, limping pace, and sat down upon the couch. He held in his handa little bag of dark blue silk, a little bag whose contents seemed allheavily down in one corner. Georgiana's eyes regarded it with somewonder. She had thought she knew by heart every one of her father's fewbelongings, but this little bag was new to her.

  "I think," he said softly, "the time has come for this. It was meant,perhaps, to be given you a little later in your history, but if yourmother knew--nay, I feel she does know and approve--she would be thefirst to say to me: '_Give it to her now, David; she'll never want itmore than now._'"

  Georgiana leaned forward, her lips parted. She seemed hardly to breatheas her father went on, his slender fingers gently caressing the littleblue silk bag:

  "From the time you were a baby, a very little baby, she saved this moneyfor you. It came mostly from wedding fees; I always gave her those to dowith as she would. They were
a country minister's fees--two-and-three-dollarfees mostly--once in a great while some affluent farmer would pay mefive dollars. How your mother's eyes would shine when I could give her afive! She turned all the bills and silver into gold--a great many ofthese pieces are one-dollar gold pieces. There are none of them incirculation now; it may easily be that they have increased in value,being almost a curiosity in these days. I think I have heard ofsomething like that. At any rate, dear, it is all yours. It was to havebeen given to you to buy your wedding outfit; but--she would have wantedyou to have it when it could help you most." He held out the little bag."She made it of a bit of her wedding dress," he said, and his handtrembled as it was extended toward his daughter. "It was not only herwedding dress, it was the best dress she had for many years."

  With a low cry that was like that of a mother's for a child, Georgianatook the little blue silk bag, heavy in its corner with the weight ofmany small gold pieces, and crushed it against her lips. Then, with itheld close to her cheek, she laid her head down on her father's knee andsobbed her heart out for the mother she had missed for ten long years.

  In the little bag there proved to be almost a hundreddollars--ninety-two in all.

  "She sorely wanted to get it to a hundred," said Father Davy, when heand Georgiana, their eyes still wet, had counted the tarnished goldpieces that had waited so long to be delivered to their owner. "Thereseemed a dearth of marriages the year before she went; the sum increasedvery slowly."

  "She must have gone without--things she needed," Georgiana said withdifficulty.

  "I think she did, but she would never own it. She was very clever, asyou are, at making things over and over, and she looked always trim andfine. She was a beautiful woman--and a happy one, in spite of all shewas deprived of in her life with a poor country minister. 'If my littledaughter can only be as happy as I have been,' she used to say, 'it isall I ask.' My dear, she would have liked--she would have loved--Mr.Jefferson. I can't get over calling him that," he added, with hiswhimsical smile struggling to shine through the tears which would notquite be mastered.

  "O Father Davy!" was all Georgiana could say. But she lifted a flushedand lovely face with all manner of womanly qualities written in it, andkissed her father on brow and cheek and lips, as she would have kissedher mother at such words as those.

  * * * * *

  "I wonder," said Mr. Warne, sitting comfortably in the Pullman chair hisdaughter had insisted upon, "if I can possibly be awake, not dreaming. Inever thought to take another journey."

  "He said it wouldn't hurt you, and it's not. You're not too tired? Ihaven't seen you look so well for a long time," declared his daughter.

  The eyes of other passengers, across the aisle, were irresistibly drawnto these two travelers--the frail, intellectual-looking man with hiscurly gray hair and his gentle blue eyes, his worn but carefully keptgarments, his way of turning to his daughter at every change ofscene--the daughter herself, with her face of charm under the close hatwith its veil, her clothing the suit of dark summer serge with its linesof distinction, which was still doing duty as the only presentablestreet suit she possessed.

  They were a more than commonly interesting pair, these travelers, andthey were furtively watched from behind more than one newspaper.

  Georgiana had no eyes for possible observers. With Father Davy shepreferred to sit with her chair turned toward the window, looking out atthe hills and trying to realize the thing which was happening. She wasactually on her way to the home of a man whom a month ago she hadthought gone out of her life forever. And, even now, he had not spoken aword of love to her, had not asked her to marry him! Yet he was to meether at the end of this short journey; she was to look out upon theplatform and see that distinguished figure standing there, waiting forher--for her, Georgiana Warne, maker of rugs for small sums of money,wearer of other people's cast-oft clothing, undistinguished by anythingin the world--except by being the daughter of a real saint; and that wasmuch after all. Fate had not left her without the best beginning inlife, the being brought into it by such a father and mother--bless them!

  The hours flew by, the train passed through the outlying towns and cameat last to the monster city. The lights within the car and without werebright as they drew into the great station. Following the porter whocarried Mr. Warne's worn black bag and his daughter's fine one--givenher by Aunt Olivia that summer--her arm beneath her father's, Georgianamade her way through the car, into the vestibule, out upon the platform.No sight of Doctor Craig rewarded the hurried glance she gave about her.But before she could take alarm a fresh-faced young man in the livery ofa chauffeur came up to her, saying respectfully:

  "I beg pardon, is it Miss Warne?" And upon her assent he said rapidly:"Doctor Craig bid me say he was called to a case he could not refuse,but he hopes to be home soon. I am to take you up and to see to yourluggage."

  "We have no luggage but these bags," Georgiana told him, wondering for amoment how he had recognized her so readily, then understanding thatthough she herself might be a figure indistinguishable by descriptionfrom many another, that of Father Davy could not fail of recognition byone who had been told what to expect.

  "I have a chair here for the gentleman," the man said, and he indicatedone of the station chairs attended by a red-capped porter.

  Mr. Warne, being wheeled rapidly through the great station, lookedabout him with the eager eyes of a boy. It was twenty years--twenty longand quiet years, since he had been in New York. What had not happenedsince then? In spite of the myriad descriptions he had read and pictureshe had studied, the effect upon him of the real city, as, having beentransferred from the chair to a small but luxurious closed car, he wasconveyed along the thronged, astonishingly lighted streets, wasoverwhelming. Suddenly he closed his eyes and laid his head back againstthe cushioned leather.

  Georgiana bent anxiously toward him. "Are you frightfully tired, Fatherdear? Are you--faint?"

  His eyes opened and his lips smiled reassuringly. "A little tired, mydear, and very much dazed, but not upset in any way. I shall be glad tosleep--and glad to wake in this wondrous city."