"Are you listening, Marjorie?"
"Oh, yes."
Linnet stood very white beside her. Mrs. Rheid was weeping softly.
"They were near a ship in distress; the wind was high, and they could not go to her for many hours; at last Morris went in a boat, with some of the crew, and helped them off the wreck; he saved them all, but he was hurt in some way,--Will does not know how; the men tried to tell him, but they contradicted themselves,--and after getting safe aboard his own ship--do you understand it all?"
"Yes. Morris got back safe to the _Linnet_, but he was injured--"
"And then taken very ill, so ill that he was delirious. Will did everything for his comfort that he could do; he was with him night and day; he lived nine days. But, before he became delirious, he sent his love to his mother, and he gave Will something to give to you."
"Yes. I know," said Marjorie. "I don"t deserve it. I refused it when he wanted to give it to me. I wasn"t kind to him."
"Yes, you were," said Linnet, "you don"t know what you are saying. You were always kind to him, and he loved you."
"Yes; but I might have been kinder," she said. "Must I tell his mother?"
"No; Miss Prudence will do that," answered Hollis. "I have Will"s letter for you to take to her."
"Where is he? Where _is_ Morris?"
"Buried in England. Will could not bring him home," said Hollis.
"His mother! What will she do?" moaned Marjorie.
"Marjorie, you talk as if there was no one to comfort her," rebuked Mrs.
Rheid.
"You have all your boys, Mrs. Rheid, and she had only Morris," said Marjorie.
"Yes; that is true; and I cannot spare one of them. Do cry, child. Don"t sit there with your eyes so wide open and big."
Marjorie closed her eyes and leaned back against Linnet. Morris had gone to G.o.d.
It was hours before the tears came. She sobbed herself to sleep towards morning. She did not deserve it; but she would keep the thing he had sent to her. Another beautiful life was ended; who would do his work on the earth. Would Hollis? Could she do a part of it? She would love his mother. Oh, how thankful she was that he had known that rest had begun to come to his mother, that he had known that she was safe with Miss Prudence.
It was like Marjorie, even in her first great sorrow, to fall asleep thanking G.o.d.
XXIII.
G.o.d"S LOVE.
"As many as I love I rebuke and chasten."
Marjorie opened her "English Literature." She must recite to-morrow. She had forgotten whom she had studied about Sat.u.r.day afternoon.
Again Hollis was beside her in the train. Her shawl strap was at her feet; her ticket was tucked into her glove; she opened at the same place in "English Literature." Now she remembered "Donald Grant Mitch.e.l.l." His "Dream Life" was one of Morris" favorites. They had read it together one summer under the apple-tree. He had coaxed her to read aloud, saying that her voice suited it. She closed the book; she could not study; how strange it would be to go among the girls and hear them laugh and talk; would any of them ask her if she were in trouble? They would remember her sailor boy.
Was it Sat.u.r.day afternoon? Hollis wore those brown kid gloves, and there was the anchor dangling from his black chain. She was not too shy to look higher, and meet the smile of his eyes to-day. Was she going home and expecting a letter from Morris? There was a letter in her pocket; but it was not from Morris. Hollis had said he expected to hear from Will; and they had heard from Will. He would be home before very long, and tell them all the rest. The train rushed on; a girl was eating peanuts behind her, and a boy was studying his Latin Grammar in front of her. She was going to Morris" mother; the rushing train was hurrying her on. How could she say to Miss Prudence, "Morris is dead."
"Marjorie."
"Well," she answered, rousing herself.
"Are you comfortable?"
The voice was sympathetic; tears started, she could only nod in reply.
There seemed to be nothing to talk about to-day.
She had replied in monosyllables so long that he was discouraged with his own efforts at conversation, and lapsed into silence. But it was a silence that she felt she might break at any moment.
The train stopped at last; it had seemed as if it would never stop, and then as if it would stop before she could catch her breath and be ready to speak. If she had not refused that something he had brought her this would not have been so hard. Had he cared so very much? Would she have cared very much if he had refused those handkerchiefs she had marked for him? But Hollis had taken her shawl strap, and was rising.
"You will not have time to get out."
"Did you think I would leave you anywhere but with your friends? Have you forgotten me so far as that?"
"I was thinking of your time."
"Never mind. One has always time for what he wants to do most."
"Is that an original proverb?"
"I do not know that it is a quotation."
She dropped her veil over her face, and walked along the platform at his side. There were no street cars in the small city, and she had protested against a carriage.
"I like the air against my face."
That last walk with Morris had been so full of talk; this was taken in absolute silence. The wind was keen and they walked rapidly. Prue was watching at the window, loving little Prue, as Marjorie knew she would be.
"There"s a tall man with Marjorie, Aunt Prue."
Aunt Prue left the piano and followed her to the door. Mrs. Kemlo was knitting stockings for Morris in her steamer chair.
Marjorie was glad of Prue"s encircling arms. She hid her face in the child"s hair while Hollis pa.s.sed her and spoke to Miss Prudence.
Miss Prudence would be strong. Marjorie did not fear anything for her. It might be cowardly, but she must run away from his mother. She laid Will"s letter in Hollis" hand, and slipping past him hastened up the stairway.
Prue followed her, laughing and pulling at her cloak.
She could tell Prue; it would relieve her to talk to Prue.
They were both weeping, Prue in Marjorie"s arms, when Miss Prudence found them in her chamber an hour later. The only light in the room came through the open door of the airtight.