'Coming on the wings of the wind, Yours respectfully,

'ARTHUR TRACY.'

In less than half an hour this singular message was flying along the wires across the continent, and within a few hours Arthur was following it as fast as the steam horse could take him.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

WHAT THEY WERE DOING AND HAD DONE IN SHANNONDALE.

If the earth had opened suddenly and swallowed up half the inhabitants of Shannondale the other half could not have been more astonished than they were at the news which Peterkin was the first to tell them, and which he had risen very early to do, before some one else should be before him. Irascible and quick-tempered as he was, he was easily appeased, and the fact that Jerrie was Arthur Tracy's daughter changed his opinion of her at once.

'The biggest heiress in the county except my Ann 'Liza, and, by gum, I'm glad on't for her and Arthur. I allus said she was hisen, and by George, to think that I helped her into her fortin, for if I hadn't of knocked that rotten old table down she'd of never found them memoirs,' he said to the first person to whom he communicated the news, and then hurried off to b.u.t.tonhole and enlighten others, until everybody knew and was discussing the strange story.

Before noon scores of people had found it in their way to walk past the cottage, hoping to catch sight of Jerrie, while several went in and told her how glad they were for her and Mr. Arthur, and looked at her with wondering eyes as if she were not quite the same girl they had known as Jerrie Crawford.

When, the previous night, Mrs. Crawford had listened to the story Jerrie told her after her return from the Park House, she had been for a few moments stupefied with amazement, and had sat motionless on her chair until she felt Jerrie's soft hands upon her head smoothing her silvery hair, and Jerrie's voice said to her:

'Dear grandma, I told you your working days were over, and they are, for what is mine is yours and Harold's, and my home is your home always, so long as you live.'

The poor old lady put her head upon Jerrie's arm and cried hysterically for a moment; then she rallied, and brushing away her tears, kissed the young girl who had been so much to her, and whom for a brief moment she feared she might have lost. Far into the night they sat, talking of the past and the future, and of Harold, who was in Tacoma, where he might have to remain for three or four weeks longer. He had written several times to his grandmother and once to Jerrie, but had made no mention of the diamonds, while in her letters to him Mrs. Crawford had refrained from telling him what some of the people were saying, and the construction they were putting upon his absence. Jerrie had not yet written to him, but, 'I shall to-morrow,' she said, 'and tell him to hurry home, for I need him now, if ever.'

Jerrie was very tired when she went at last to bed, but the dreamless sleep which came upon her, and which lasted until a late hour in the morning, did her good, and probably saved her from a relapse, which might have proved fatal. Still she was very pale and weak when she went down stairs about nine o'clock and found Tom waiting for her. He had been up since sunrise, strolling through the park, with a troubled, sorry look on his face for he was extremely sorry for himself, though very glad for Jerrie, whose sworn ally he was and would be to the end.

In a way he had tried to comfort his mother by telling her that neither his uncle nor Jerrie would be unjust to her, if she'd only behave herself, and treat the latter as she ought, and not keep up such a high and mighty and injured air, as if Jerrie had done something wrong in finding out who she was.

But Dolly would not be comforted, and her face wore a sullen, defiant expression, as she moved about the handsome house where she had queened it so long that she really looked upon it as her own, resenting bitterly the thought that another was to be mistress there. She had talked with her husband, and made him tell her exactly how much he was worth in his own right, and when he told her how little it was, she had exclaimed, angrily:

'We are beggars, and may as well go back to Langley and sell codfish again.'

She had seen Tom that morning, and when to her question, 'Why are you up so early?' he replied, 'To attend to Jerrie's affairs,' she tossed her head scornfully, and said: 'Before I'd crawl after any girl, much less Jerrie Crawford! You'd better be attending to your own sister. She's worse this morning, and looks as if she might die any minute.'

Then Tom went to Maude, who, since the shock of the night before, had lain as if she were dead, except for her eyes, in which there was a new and wondrous light, and which looked up lovingly at Tom as he came in and kissed her, a most unusual thing for him to do.

'Dear Tom,' she whispered, 'come closer to me,' and as he bent down to her, she continued, 'is every thing Jerrie's?'

'Yes, or will be. She is Uncle Arthur's daughter.'

'Shall we be very poor?'

'Yes, poor as a church mouse.'

Then there was a pause, and when Maude spoke again she said slowly:

'For me, no matter--sorry for you, and father and mother; but glad for Jerrie. Stand by her, Tom; tell mother not to be so bitter--it hurts me.

Tell Harold, when he comes, I meant to do so much for him, but Jerrie will do it instead. Tell her I must see her, and send for Uncle Arthur.'

There was a lump in Tom's throat as he left his sister's room, and going to the village, telegraphed to his uncle's head-quarters at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, that he was to come at once.

At least a hundred people stopped him on his way to the office, asking if what they had heard was true, and to all he replied:

'True as the gospel; we are floored, as Peterkin would say.'

And then he hurried to the cottage to see Jerrie, and tell her of the message sent to Arthur, though not how it was worded After a moment he continued, hesitatingly, as if half ashamed of it:

'I called at _Lubbertoo_ last night to enquire after Ann Eliza's foot, and you ought to have seen Peterkin when I told him the news. At first he could not find any word in his vocabulary big enough to swear by, but after a little one came to him, and what do you think it was?'

Jerrie could not guess, and Tom continued.

He said, "by the great Peterkin!" and then he swowed, and vowed, and snummed, and vummed, and dummed, and finally said he was glad of it, and had always known you were a Tracy. Ann Eliza was so glad she cried, and I think Billy cried, too, for he left the room suddenly, with very suspicious-looking eyes. Why, everybody is glad for you, Jerrie, and n.o.body seems to think how mean it is for us; but I'm not going to whine.

I'm glad it's you, and so is Maude, and she wants to see you. I believe she's going to die, and--and--Jerrie--'

Something choked Tom for a moment, then he went on:

'If Uncle Arthur should get high, and order us out at once, as father seems to think he will, you'll--you'll--let us stay while Maude lives, won't you?'

'Tom,' Jerrie said, reproachfully, 'What do you take me for, and why does your father think his brother will order him out?'

'I don't know,' Tom replied, 'but he seems awfully afraid to meet him.

Mother says he was up all night walking the floor and talking to himself, and yet he says he is glad, and he is coming this morning to see you and talk it over. I believe I hear him now speaking to Mrs.

Crawford. Yes, 'tis he; so I guess I'll go; and when I hear from my telegram I'll let you know. Good-bye.'

A moment after Tom left the room his father entered it, looking haggard and old, and frightened, too, it seemed to Jerrie, as she went forward to meet him with a cheery 'good-morning, Uncle Frank.'

It was the first time she had addressed him by that name, and her smile was so bright and her manner so cordial that for an instant the cloud lifted from his face, but soon came back darker than ever as he declined the seat she offered him and stood tremblingly before her.

Frank had not slept a wink the previous night, nor had he been in bed, but had walked his room until his wife said to him angrily:

'I thought you were glad; seems to me you don't act like it; but for pity's sake stop walking, or go somewhere else do it and not keep me awake.'

Then he went into the hall outside, and there he walked the livelong night, trying to think what he should say to Jerrie, and wondering what she would say to him, for he meant to tell her everything. Nothing could prevent his doing that; and as soon as he thought she would see him he started for the cottage, taking with him the Bible, the photograph and the letter he had secreted so long. All the way there, he was repeating to himself the form of speech with which he should commence, but when Jerrie said to him, so graciously, 'Good morning, Uncle Frank,' the words left him, and he began, impetuously;

'Don't call me uncle. Don't speak to me, Jerrie, until you have heard what I have come to confess on my knees, with my white head upon the floor, if you will it so, and that would not half express the shame and remorse with which I stand before you and tell you I am a cheat, a liar, a villain, and have been since that day when I first saw you and that dead woman we thought your mother.'

Jerrie was dumb with surprise, and did not speak or move as he went on rapidly, telling her the whole, with no attempt at an excuse for himself, except so far as to report what he had done in a business point of view, making provision for her in case of his death and enjoining it upon his children to see that his wishes were carried out.

'Here is the Bible,' he said, laying the book in her lap. 'Here is the photograph, and here the letter which you gave me to post, and which, had it been sent, might have cleared the mystery sooner.'

He had made his confession, and he stood before her with clasped hands and an expression upon his face such as a criminal might wear when awaiting the jury's decision. But Jerrie neither looked at him nor spoke, for through a rain of tears she was gazing upon the sweet face, sadder and thinner than the face of Gretchen in the window, but so like it that there could be no mistaking it, and so like to the face which had haunted her so often, and seemed so near to her.

'Mother, mother! I remember you as you are here, sick and sorry, but oh, so lovely!' she said, as she pressed her lips again and again to the picture, with no thought or care for the wretched man who had come a step nearer to her, and who said at last:

'Will you never speak to me, Jerrie? Never tell me how much you despise me?'

'Then she looked up at the face quivering with anguish and entreaty, and the sight melted her at once. Indeed, as he had talked she had scarcely felt any resentment toward him, for she was sure that though his error had been great, his contrition and remorse had been greater, and she thought of him only as Maude's father and the man who had always been kind to her. And she made him believe at last that she forgave him for Maude's sake, if not for his own.

'Had my life been a wretched one because of your conduct,' she said, 'I might have found it harder to forgive you, but it has not. I have not been the daughter of Tracy Park, it is true, but I have been the petted child of the cottage, and I would rather have lived with Harold in poverty all these years than to have been rich without him. And do you know, I think it was n.o.ble in you to tell me, when you might have kept it to yourself.'