CHAPTER XX.

AT LAST.

The Cheerful Three were sitting in Persis’s room. One by one had the old friends been admitted to see the convalescent, who as yet could not stand much excitement.

“And so, Miss Patty,” she was saying, “I was right, and you did like Wilson. I am heartily glad we are to have you for a neighbor; and when is the wedding to be?”

“Not till fall,” returned Patty. “Oh, Persis, it is very nice to have you back again. What a romantic time you must have had!”

Persis looked grave, she could not yet, without shrinking, look back upon the ordeal through which she had passed.

“And were you always cheerful, Persis?” asked Nettie, slyly.

“Indeed, I was not, although I tried to be. What presumptuous creatures we are when we first flaunt our wings in the sunshine, and how we talk of high-flying, and scorn those poor maimed creatures who crawl. Yet, I still maintain that a certain amount of cheerfulness is possible under most conditions, and when those nearest and dearest are close to us, well, and in no dire need or disgrace, nothing else seems of much account.”

“How queer that you should have been teaching in Pen Rivers’s country. You met him, didn’t you?” Nettie said.

“Yes, and he is a nice boy; but his parents are nicer, I think. No one could have been kinder than they were to me.”

“Did you meet any nice girls?” asked Patty.

“Not very many,” Persis returned, with a thoughtful smile. “There were not more than a dozen girls in the village.”

“Well, I hope they behaved with more grace than some girls I met once in a country community where I visited,” Nettie remarked. “They made a rule never to present any of the young men of the neighborhood to a girl visiting there. Of course, sometimes they couldn’t help it, but they never asked them to call, or in any way tried to secure attention for the girls who came as strangers.”

“Now, Nettie, that’s hard to believe. Where would you find girls so ill-bred and selfish? Surely not in a Christian country,” Patty responded.

Nettie laughed. “If I mentioned the locality you wouldn’t believe it.”

“It must be in the vicinity of Hong Kong, or somewhere around Bagdad,” returned Patty, “for it certainly does seem hard to believe that girls anywhere in an enlightened land could so far transgress the first law of Christianity.”

“Which is, do as you would have done to you,” interposed Persis, “and that gives us to understand what Patty would like. However, I think in almost every community there are one or two such girls. I have come across a few,” remembering Sid Southall.

“I’m glad you didn’t say you had met many,” returned Patty. “I wonder what those same girls would think if the tables were turned when they went visiting.”

“They would be indignant, of course. I was so surprised, girls, when Mr. Rivers spoke of the Dixons,” Persis said. “Do tell me, is it really true that Walter and Connie are engaged? I imagined last summer that it would be so.”

“Oh, yes, they really are, and as happy as can be,” Nettie replied.

“And your sister Margaret is married. Dear, dear, how all the girls are leaving me to pine on the stem.”

“Oh, Perse, it isn’t time for you to talk that way. Any girl with your attractions,” protested Patty.

“I think it would be too bad for Persis to marry,” put in Nettie. “She has so much ability, and could make a name for herself.”

“Without changing it, eh? Well, I don’t know. So far, all I have done is to succeed in teaching a district school seven months out of the year.”

“And all I’ve done is to go and fall in love, and promise to be married. That’s what my college education has done for me,” said Patty.

“Never mind, Patsy dear,” replied Persis, patting the plump little hand on which Wilson’s ring shone. “I’ll tell you what I think. A woman’s best, purest, and highest ambition is that which is exercised in the making of a home. It will require all the knowledge she can acquire in any direction if she can fill her place as wife and mother wisely and nobly. If she is self-seeking, or if she desires self-gratification, pleasure, and admiration more than her best development, she would best not marry, for she will not do her duty. There is little room for Ego in a woman’s kingdom. I beg your pardon, girls, for delivering a lecture. I’ve been a school-marm, remember.”

“It sounds like old times; go on,” said Patty.

“That’s one side of it, but a woman may do her duty, and fail of success because she has married a selfish, domineering man, or a weak, silly one. Give us a lecture on that, Miss School-marm,” put in Nettie.

“Oh, I’m speaking of ideal marriages, I suppose. I think a happy marriage brings the most complete life. Yes, it is a thousand times better to remain single than to marry a man you cannot respect, who wins your contempt because he is a petty tyrant, or whom you despise because he is a cringing slave, without principle or backbone. If you don’t meet a man whom you _know_ will make you a better, as well as a happier woman, you would much better go unmated. A very noble, beautiful, independent and happy life can be lived by the unmarried woman who has some definite aim, who doesn’t care one whit whether she is called an old maid or not, and who can scatter her fine experiences broadcast for the benefit of her poor, married sisters who have never had the chance of stepping outside a given circle.”

Nettie laughed, and Patty looked very thoughtful.

“You have scared Patty to death,” said the former. “I believe this minute she is contemplating sending back Wilson’s ring. If you do, Miss Patty, I’ll send you back to Washington to-morrow.”

“I was contemplating nothing of the kind,” she replied. “I was only thinking of what a responsibility I am going to take, and hoping I should be all that Persis said.”

“Her words of wisdom fell on good ground, it seems. Dear old Perse, it is good to have you with us again, even when you do say such solemn things. It takes me back to college when we used to settle the affairs of the nation. Ah, me! those were good old times. Now tell us your plans. You’ll not go away again, I hope.”

“Not unless I go with my parents. There is some talk of papa’s taking another trip to Greece and Egypt; and since his eyes have been troubling him, I could help him in his work. I think I should find it very fascinating. There is talk of taking some queer sort of a villa in one of the isles of Greece.”

“‘The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!’” quoted Nettie.

“Yes, that very romantic locality; and there we may remain a year or two.”

“And you would really like it!”

“Yes, immensely, for we could all go. Grandma, and all of us.”

“Lisa, and the baby?”

“Well, no, they would have to stay this side the Atlantic, I suppose. Still, this is all very vague at present. Just now the family seem to consider that my whole duty consists in absorbing everything nourishing that any one of them happens to suggest. Here comes some one now, and I’ll venture to say it is Mell, with broth or jelly or milk, or something. Do stay girls, and let me take it by proxy.” For the girls had risen to take their leave.

“Thank you, no; we ought to have gone long ago,” they replied. “We have overstayed our time as it is, but we were so glad to see you again, Persis. Take the broth, or whatever it is, so as to get strong soon. Good-bye.”

The footsteps Persis had heard on the stair halted at the top of the first flight, but in a little while were heard coming nearer; then there was a gentle tap at the door, and in a moment a little figure in deep mourning had entered the room.

“Annis!” cried Persis; “oh, Annis!” And, at the flood of memories which overcame them both, they rushed together and burst into tears.

“Oh, Persis! Persis! my poor darling Persis! I have wanted you so,” murmured Annis. “It seemed as if I had lost everything; as if you, too, I should never see again.”

“Oh, Annis, I know! I know! I wish I could tell you how I feel about it,—about everything.” And the two girls in each other’s arms stood silent for some moments.

It was Annis who finally lifted her head from her cousin’s shoulder and looked searchingly in her face. “Dear,” she said, “I forgot that you are not strong. Come sit down, and let me look at you. Why, Persis, how ill you must have been to still look so!”

“Now, Annis,” she replied, “that is discouraging. I was flattering myself that I was beginning to look quite well. You should have seen me six weeks ago.”

“It is not only that you are thinner, but you are somehow different.”

“How, different?”

“You have a new look in your eyes. I think it is because you went away a girl and have come back a woman.”

“Perhaps that is it. Take my lovely, big comfortable chair, Annis, and I will lie on the lounge. Am I not fine with all these new things?”

“Yes; I heard of them. To think, Persis, you have been home two weeks, and I have just seen you. I could not come before; there were some matters I had to attend to.”

For the rest of the morning the two girls sat and talked over the many things that had happened since they parted, and at last Annis said, “Persis dear, there is one thing I want you to know. From the moment you went away I realized what a weak, disloyal creature I had been—you know—about Basil. I made up my mind right then that it was a foolish, foolish fancy, for I saw at once not only that he cared for you,—oh, Persis, you do not know how much!—but that it was unwomanly and altogether dishonorable for me to think of him for one moment. You know, he went abroad only a few weeks after you left us. He wrote to me when dear mamma was gone, and I answered. It was not hard then; nothing was hard compared to the one great trouble that swallowed up everything else. And now I think it seems—I cannot understand why I ever cared for—there is—some one else.”

Persis held out her hand and took Annis’s in a close clasp. “I know, dear,” she said; “it is Mr. Dan.”

Annis looked down; then she lifted her head proudly. “Yes, it is. Oh, Persis, you cannot imagine what a help and comfort, what a rock of refuge, he has been to me. It seems now as if we had always belonged to each other. I know he cared for you. I used only to think of him as your lover. I feel proud that he was; I don’t know why it has never troubled me to know it. I think, perhaps, it is this: that if after being fond of you he could turn to me, that he pays me the highest compliment he could. Perhaps it seems very soon for me to feel so, but it isn’t because I forget dear mamma. I was so lonely, so lonely! and he, too, is all alone, and that is why, out of the whole world, it seems as if we ought to have chosen each other. You don’t know how good and thoughtful he is.”

“Don’t I know? Why, Annis, if I had searched the world over, I could not have chosen better for you. I do like him so much, I always have; and now, why, Annis, it is just like a story-book: all the tangles are straightened out. Oh, my dear, I wasn’t sure; but now I am very, very happy.”

“And Basil,” Annis continued. “Persis, you must, must care for him. Why, Mr. Dan says he can see now how much you have always been to each other, and how Basil has felt all along. He wonders that we were all so blind. Persis, you must, must care. Don’t say that, after all, you are indifferent.”

“I’m like the tar-baby, ‘I keep on a-sayin’ nuffin’,’” laughed Persis. “It would be perfectly nonsensical for me to give up all my ideas of living a life of single-blessedness, instead, as Walter very elegantly expressed it, instead of one of ‘double-cussedness.’ It would be so commonplace, so conventional for us all to marry. Just think of it! not one of us started up the ladder of fame. It is not at all according to my notion of what ought to be.”

Nevertheless, there came a day, not long after, when Persis had to decide the question. It was a soft June morning. She was lying on the sitting-room lounge, in her pretty pale-blue wrapper which Mellicent had made her. She was half asleep, and scarcely heard some one who came softly in, but, opening her eyes, she saw Basil bending over her. She had not believed that she would be so unutterably glad to see him; but before she could say a word he had dropped on his knees beside her, and had gathered her hands in his.

“Oh, Persis, my poor, dear little Persis!” he began, brokenly. “No, no, don’t get up; let me stay here and tell you something. I took the first steamer I could catch after the news came that you were home again. The vessel got in this morning. I have just seen your grandmother, and she told me I should find you here. Persis, tell me, why did you go to that little village? Was it because we were there together? You knew that day what I wanted to say. You knew I cared. Why did you put me off? You were such a witch. Why did I let you elude me? My dear, my dear, don’t you know you are a part of my life? No, I shall not let you escape me again.”

The same old spirit of mischief took possession of Persis. “Basil, that is taking a mean advantage of me. You know I can’t run away this time.”

“I know it. I don’t mean to have you. I could not stand it to lose you a second time. Why, Persis, I have kept you in my heart of hearts for years, ever since I first knew you. My love has grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength. If you had——” His voice faltered, and he buried his face in the pillows.

“Don’t, Basil, don’t. Why, Basil,” Persis murmured, “I never dreamed you cared like that.”

[Illustration: He had dropped on his knees beside her, and had gathered her hands in his.]

He lifted his head. “No, I never was the stormy kind; but if I had lost you, Persis,—now that I know how near you were to another world, for you are so white and frail-looking, I can realize it,—it seems as if I could not bear the thought of what might have been. I should have gone through life maimed and halting. I thought at one time that you were fond of Mr. Dan, and how miserable I was!”

“Oh, Basil, Basil, I never dreamed you were. I was jealous, too.”

“Then you cared, you cared.”

“Of course I care. Didn’t you know it? I, too, have always cared, always. Let me stand up, Basil, so you can see I am not such an invalid as you think. There, do I look so very ill? I am well, and I am getting stronger every day.”

For answer he clasped her in his arms, and she whispered, “I know now, Basil, that part of my misery was giving you up. I didn’t tell myself so, but it was, it was.”

“But, my darling, you didn’t have to. Nothing would have made any difference.”

“I thought I had to, and that was just as bad; but I know now, if at any time I had seen you for one minute, that I never, never could have done it. As soon as I saw you just now I knew it. But, Basil, there is one thing I don’t see how I can bring myself to do.”

“And that is——?”

“Change my name again. It is too much to expect of any girl.” And she looked up with laughing eyes.

He smiled in his old way. “You won’t have to. I’ll only build an addition to it.”

“There spoke the architect.”

“And you can call yourself Mrs. Holmes Phillips.”

“With a hyphen?”

“I will even submit to the hyphen if it will make you happy.”

“But, Basil, I could never, never go away from home, even so far as Washington, to live.”

“You shall not. I have resolved to settle right here, where all my friends are.”

“And it will be years—years before I could make up my mind to leave home at all.”

“Even if we could live next door, or across the street, or if I were to build a house on the first vacant lot nearest?”

“Well, perhaps; but it is a very open question, and needn’t be mentioned at all for centuries.”

“And to think,” Persis said to her grandmother as they sat in the twilight,—“to think that all my sufferings were useless. I needn’t have made one sacrifice.”

“Were they useless?” replied Mrs. Estabrook. “I doubt it. All sorrow is for our advantage, dear child. We need the strength, the knowledge of spiritual laws, which it gives us.”

“Yes, I suppose we do need a sort of moral gymnastics to keep us from being weak and flabby.”

“That sounds more like my old Persis than anything I have heard for a year.”

“It is because I am so entirely, deliciously happy. Grandma, did you know all along about Basil?”

“Yes, I believe I did.”

“Do you think I am a silly, sentimental goose?”

“Why, my blessed child, no, a thousand times no. And your father and mother will be more than content. There is no one who is so like a son to them, whom they love more. Basil has the first place among the boys, and he is very, very dear to me.”

“I am so glad. Isn’t it strange that each should have had such a narrow escape? But it has brought us very close together.”

“It is the sorrowful things which do.”

“Yes, I know. It is the same with Annis and Mr. Dan. If I had not gone away, I do not believe that it would ever have been just like this for them, or for me, either.”

“Grief is, after all, a friend.”

“Yes, I begin to understand that; and, grandma, I believe, because of it, Basil and I will be able to be truer and finer and stronger. I could not—I always said I could not—marry a man who did not respond to the best within me.”

There was a sound of welcoming laughter in the hall below, and Mellicent came flying up the steps. “Come, Perse; Mr. Dan has come, and Lisa has had a despatch saying Richard will be here directly. Isn’t it fine? Three arrivals in one day! And oh, Perse! Basil——” She paused, and looked from her sister to her grandmother. “Why,” she went on, “I believe I have guessed something. Papa and Basil have been talking in the library for an hour, and papa has come out looking as happy as a lord, and he actually had his arm around Basil. Papa! So, miss, I verily believe—yes, I am confident, from your modest, drooping eye—that you have something to do with it. Yes, you. Tell me, am I good at guessing?”

“Yes, most sapient maiden,” returned her sister, “you are.”

“Good! Dear old Baz! Why, he’s like a brother already. The blessed old fellow, I shall go hug him if he’ll let me.” And she was off like a flash.

“One of the good things which has come from sorrow is that Mellicent is improving,” Mrs. Estabrook said. “Nothing has ever stirred her up and caused her to forget herself like this year’s trouble.”

“Here we all are,” cried Lisa, as Persis approached. “Come, speak to Richard, Perse. He’s consumed with longing to see you. There, Mr. Dan, you’ve made a long enough speech.”

Persis looked around from one to the other. All her best beloved ones were gathered about her. The first faint color appeared in her cheeks; her eyes shone. “Why, you look quite like yourself,” said Richard. “I expected to see a poor, puny invalid.”

“Happiness is a great healer,” replied Persis, “and I am very happy.”

“I think it is about as beaming a crowd as I’ve seen in a long time,” returned Richard. “Each seems to have some especial inward satisfaction, which is visibly apparent in a protracted and expansive smile. There must be some reason for it. Which of you men is open to congratulations?”

“Mr. Dan,” cried Persis.

“Basil,” cried Annis. And every one laughed.

“Never mind, Melly, your time will come,” Richard said, teasingly. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Mellicent made a saucy reply, and the party separated.

In a few moments Annis and Mr. Danforth had wandered to the porch; Persis and Basil walked up and down the garden with Mrs. Estabrook; Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sat listening to Lisa singing up-stairs a gentle lullaby; at the gate stood Mellicent, an expectant look on her face.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.