The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 8 June 1911, Page 1035

The Storyteller

THE HOUSE OF RECONCILIATION The old Perkins house on the hill was rented at last, it was certainly a misnomer to call it by that name, for the original Perkins was dead more than forty years, and liacl left no child to continue in unbroken succession, as the historical hand-books elegantly say, his wealthy but plebeian lineage. He was the last of his family, and a mighty poor family it was, of close-fisted, tyrannical, ambitious, money grabbers. The noble line of anti-spenders of the lerkms dynasty flourished, culminated, and ended with the most typical Perkins of them all, Samuel Perkins Esquire, whose demise, as having happily occurred some torty years ago, I have succinctly chronicled above. ' Where he got his money, how he got his money, and from whom he got ins money, it is not my business uncharitably to uitorin you. Any ancient settler of the town will tell you all that with more due regard to pleasant details than I could respectably descend to. The one thing I will say is that he did get plenty of it and held , on to that same plenty And for that very tenacity of purpose he lived unloved and died unmourned, and I can conceive of nothing more tragic than that in ■ the life of any one man. J I daresay he had intended to love and to be married finally, but the slack in business was never long enough to allow that, and so when he died without having made a M ill, it is safe to assert that he turned in his grave many times when all the carefully guarded Perkins coins slipped into the pockets of Samuel’s scapegoat cousin, presumed to be _ dead, but devotedly returning shortly after the obsequies to prove his claim, and then leaving for parts unknown to enjoy his dear cousin’s generosity. He never slept a night in the Perkins’ house; evidently he feared the return of Samuel to register a protest. But as soon as ij PT 0 P'k IC3 °f fashionable mourning would allow, he sold die whole estate to one of his dead cousin’s avowed enemies. I am not going to make this history the mere registry of deeds, denoting the various transfers of the property. They were, like the proverbial wedding gifts, numerous and costly. Yet nobody prospered in the place, hence nobody liked it. Very versatile it had been, now as a family dwelling, now as a boarding-house, now as a sanatorium for recovering inebriates, and finally, in the character it affected most, as a big ghost of an empty mansion that looked scornfully down upon the very prosaic three-decked flat-houses of a utilitarian present. Now I fear I have said a bit too much about Samuel 1 erkms, more than the proper proportion of a short story will allow, but my reason for so acting, and I feel perfectly justified, is to show you the peculiar .freak of fortune, or misfortune, in this that the ' latest occupant of the house was also known by the name of Perkins. Strange fate, indeed, for the poor old house after the lapse of nearly half a century. But this new Perkins was not a Samuel Perkins. In fact, there was no man in the family, simply a Mrs. Mary Perkins, her ten-year-old daughter Cecelia, and a middle-aged servant woman, whom I may fitly and finally describe as ever making a declaration of war that she would give in her notice if she were obliged to take care of that big barracks of a house unaided. Why Mrs. Mary Perkins had come to the big house, and she a widow with only one child and one servant, was long the sole consideration of the feminine contingent of the town. All sorts of reasons were advanced, and it was commonly and conclusively agreed that in a very short tune a freshly painted sign-board, advertising ‘ Board and Rooms,’ would be swinging and creaking over the entrance to the Perkins mansion. But in reality there was little mystery about her coming to that particular house. When she had come from those parts which were unknown to her new neighbors, she had remained a while in Boston, making investigations for a desirable house in the suburbs, and the real estate dealer upon hearing her name told her of the strange > coincidence of having had the Perkins house put into his hands that very day. That aroused her womanly curiosity, and she expressed a wish to see the place, and seeing it she at once fell in,love with it, leased it for a year, and moved into it as soon as the furnishers to whom she had, given carte blanche had done it up as expensively as it would permit. And so, although I said it was a misnomer to call it the Perkins house during that half a century, it was solely because it retained that name through all the various assaults of strange occupants that it was lucky enough to fall again into the hands of another 1 erkins. Lucky, I say, because if it had been known by any other name it might not have been rented to Mrs Mary Perkins, and then I would have no story to tell. ' ~ -All this is a very simple explanation which would have satisfied the world, _ but somehow it did not satisfy the world s wife. _ During the days when the house was beiim fitted up for its new mistress there was never a human being so minutely dissected as this unknown newcomer. But af last one day in early September Mrs. Perkins and hers arrived, Rather it was one night, late at night and Saturday night at that, and in a taxicab which had groaned heavily in mounting the steep hill as if barefacedly inviting the somnolent neighbors to arise and peek

: from behind the ''shades, and thereupon moralise; on the kind of woman any woman must be that makes her advent to aj house among ■■: respectable neighbours at such an hour and 1 in such a vehicle. At any rate such a manner of arriving was a confirmation of,; the town's hopes, for surely the taxicab was a ; positive proof that Mrs. Perkins was blessed with a superabundance of wealth. -.;'.,',. ~ ; " Meanwhile the Society of the Hill waited impatiently and slept disturbedly. The morning, Sunday morning would [tell just what.;;; kind of woman this new. neighbor was. : If she S were a good Christian she would go to Church. ;;; And much to the surprise of all? this woman who /came home late in a taxicab was a good Christian and did go to Church. But, alas for Society's hopes! it was to the Catholic Church she went. That in itself was a certain confession of plebeianism, but the most alarming of all her unintelligible actions was the sending" of the charming little Cecelia to the parish sdiool. :■ |il. have always thought that ; there must have been a remarkable fascination ; about| Mrs. Mary ' Perkins, for in spite of this double aux \ pas, this presumed belligerent attitude to the small but select Unitarian neighborhood, a week had-not passed before the said society had called upon her to a woman, and in- subsequent secret gatherings all had.voted her. a most refined, educated, charming hostess, /and:"a valuable acquisition to their exclusive set. ; ''",7 Mrs. Perkins, however, did not display any undue, enthusiasm over her admittance into the inner circle of these lineal / descendents of the Pilgrims, and real daughters of tho American Revolution. 'I do think she is charming and very handsome and ; a most exquisite -dresser,' said. Mrs. White-Greene, an authority -on Colonial families, to her bosom friend, Mrs. Sydney Hall, equally authoritative in the matter, of Colonial furniture, ' but somehow she does ; so seem _in effect to disregard blue blood. It is always an affectation of the nouveaux riches. Now, I chanced to mention, very casually, that our family had come from England in the Mayflower, and, she naively asked if the Mayflower did not win the cup last year. Fancy!' ' Do you know,' said Mrs. Hall, ' I sometimes think she is laughing at us, and yet, she has the manners of a princess. '.% Fancy her declining an invitation to the tea given by tho Daughters of the Revolution, because, she said, she did not approve of Revolutions!; You would think we were a petty South American Republic' -' Nevertheless, Mrs. Perkins returned the calls of all her neighbors, and was affability itself, even while she let it be known, gently, but firmly and positively, that she had no desire to be an active member of the society. All her life seemed to "be devoted to the little Cecelia," and she never let her out of her sight save during the hours in .which she was at the parish school under the eyes of the Sisters. ~' 'r " ? ; Just as the mother had I become at once the favorite of the society that would have made her its queen, had she : permitted, so the little daughter by her beauty, her sweet disposition, and her mature piety, had become soon the most popular child of the parish. That popularity had been firmly established by the wonderful party, during the Christmas holidays which had been given to the classmates of Cecelia. at Perkins house, a party which is even how referred to by the participants as the grandest ever. But Cecelia, like her mother, also possessed-the faculty of taking things for granted. It was merely a matter of course that she should have beautiful clothes, ride in a carriage and give such parties as other children only read of in fairy stories. There was no special reason to be proud of &uch ordinary things, and soon it was a saying among the nuns that Cecelia Perkins would not be surprised at the General Judgment. But that statement, even if it did originate in the convent, was a rank injustice to the 1 said Cecelia. . . .- . ; _ She could become excited, and she verily did become excited, and that, too, over her approaching First Communion. Such an event appealed to her as the most wonderful . thing possible in the life of any girl. Mrs. Perkins shared the excitement, just as she had entered heart and soul into all the plans of Cecelia, and many a book was ransacked by her in search of the beautiful stories relating to First Communion, stories later on retailed to the admiring girls who had long-before declared Cecelia's mother perfectly wonderful. More appealing, however, thanthe stories of Cecelia was her matter-of-fact announcement to the assembled multitude _that she was to have on the day after their First Communion another party which would put in the shade that memorable one of the Christmas holidays. But the best laid plans, according to the Scotch poet, sometimes fall through. And to the lasting consternation of those expectant little epicures, that party never came off. It was not Cecelia's fault, for in the very hour in which her v companions were begining their three-days' retreat she was stricken down with a sudden illness. 'ls it appendicitis ' said the alarmed mother, even as she prayed that it might not be so, to Doctor Walsh, who had been instantly summoned. a •':..':l fear-so,' he said, ' and, candidly, a bad case.' b. '.And you think—:?*.•■■■.< - ' J think an operation imperative,' he answered. 'I will summon a specialist at once.' Get the best possible,' she; said, eagerly. 'Spare nothing.- ;; She , must be saved. I will; telephone for the priest now.' ; - ■| t -^^'>■-'■-y. -*v» U

, And that is how Doctor Grant, the most famous surgeon or the country was summoned from: his Boston v home, to be driven in his auto at a reckless speed oh that blowy March night, accompanied by a nurse to the old Perkins house wnere the little Cecelia was lying in great agony. The ' Viaticum prepared her, but had been unable to 'give her viaticum. . ; ... It was Mrs. Perkins I herself who 2 went to the door as the machine rolled up to the house. It was a blessed sound to her who had l been counting the minutes from the time Doctor Walsh had telephoned to the City. 2 , ... A oil re the surgeon, of * course, : ’she said quickly, J ion Doctor Grant I’ s . * 1 n J) | You! —Lady Graham!’ said the doctor. . Do t , use that name here,’ she said, in a subdued voice, glancing at the nurse who was still standing in the doorway. I am Mrs. Perkins now. ; I will explain later. I have good reasons.. But go-go to my little girl. Doctor Walsh is with her. . 1 hank God it is you who have come.’ „ It was some hours later when Doctor Grant and Doctor U alsh came from the sick-room, leaving the little Cecelia Shea, U nurse. effects of . the ether, in the care of Miss bhea, the nurse. hand “ **“ mOU “ r ’ “* wl * Sras P”« !'"> Yes, said Doctor Grant, ‘ and I feel she ds going to recover. . 6 . A. ‘Thank God T she exclaimed. It was God that sent you. May I go in to see her?’ 1 oi a moment, just to look, at her. I know you will understand that you cannot remain.’ ‘I do,’ she said gratefully, ‘I will join you in the drawing-room. Doctor Walsh will kindly show you the way. ■ J Doctor Grant was pacing up and down the floor when tho mother entered the room after the brief space allowed her to gaze at the face of her unconscious child. . But the short time had given. the doctor ample opportunity to think seriously and to come to a decision. ■ ‘I am sure she will be better,’ she said. It is all due to you, Doctor Grant. I could not live without her.’ 1 Yet others have had to,’ he said quickly. ~ ‘You mean?’ she said, blushing. . ‘Your husband —Arthur. Forgive me, Lady Graham, it 1 seem severe at this time, and especially to one who was ever so kind and 'gracious to me during those happy days in England. But to us who admired Arthur— we ‘®lt for him, that you had loft him, and taken away his child, hiding yourself.’ ‘ You will not understand, doctor,’ she said. ‘ You cannot. • You are a Protestant, and naturally you will side with him. ; But my conscience tells me I am right. We were happy know how happy she, my little girl, began to grow up. Ho had promised, had sworn to. me that she, that what children God sent us would be educated as Catholics. Otherwise I would not have married him. He broke his promise, insisted that she accompany him to Protestant service, and placed her under a Protestant governess. I rebelled. He ignored my plea. And then in desperation, when I saw my pleading was useless, rather than see my child deprived of her faith, and be brought up to hate my religion, I left, and came to this foreign country to hide her.’ “It was ,a wild notion,’ said tho doctor, 4 A ‘To those who have'-faith, ’ she said, ‘ to whom religion is everything, nothing is wild that tends to preserve it.’ ‘And you have not considered his heart?’ asked the doctor; his roaming the world to find you—and-his daughter. Dear Lady Graham, don’t think me heartless at this moment, but should she die, and he not see her—■ yet she is his child as well as yours.’ ‘ But she will not die. You say the operation was successful.’ - ' :■ , :_v ‘ ‘Yes; but no one knows. I was pained for you both when ho told me —.’ ‘He told you,’ she said. ‘ You have seen him ‘ I have. He dined with me to-night. ,■ He is now in Boston. He has been quietly seeking you all these months. You said it was God that sent me to-night, and now I believe it.’ . ‘ But you will not tell him,’ she exclaimed,, alarm showing in her voice. ‘We have been safe here. ; I beg you, doctor, beg you on my knees to keep all this secret. ‘ Ho would take her away and break my heart. God alone knows how I have suffered in doing ray duty. You will not tell him.’ ‘Be reasonable, Lady Graham,’ said the doctor, pleadingly. ‘Arthur worships you. He has suffered. Let mo bring him to you.’ ‘ No — no— he cannot love me. But I adored him,, and I believed in him.’ > : ’ / b'i ‘ You will let me bring him,’ persisted the doctor. ‘Your child has not forgotten him?’ . ‘ She has begged to see him,’ confessed the woman. She has talked incessantly of him, asking when we were to go home. Every word cut mo to the heart.’ ‘Then you still love him.’ . : ‘ Love him? My heart is ever bound to him. 4 ‘ That is all I wished to know,’ he said. ‘ Let me act for you now. You will thank me later on. I will have him hero before midnight. Ho, was gone before'she could offer ; further --remonstrance, and as one whose heart was crushed she dragged

herself up the stairs and knelt at the door of Cecelia’s room, listening anxiously for the • first sounds of returning consciousness, and praying feverishly as the beads slipped through her fingers. Toward midnight the stillness was broken again by the chug of the doctor’s automobile, and as if driven by a wild fear she fled to her own room and locked the door after her. A few moments later she heard him come to her door and knock excitedly, but all power of voice and movement had left her, and she finally heard him go away after several futile attempts to gain admission. Then she fainted. The dawn was breaking when she regained consciousness, and summoning all her strength she went to the door of the sick-room, Miss Shea opened to her timid knock, and quietly warned her against any excitement. As she entered the room her eyes fell upon her husband, sitting behind a screen in the corner, where the child’s eyes might not see him. : : Her first impulse was to rush to him, but the hand of the nurse restrained her, and he held up his hand and pointed to the bed, as if to warn her against acquainting the child of her presence. ‘Mamma,’ said the child. ‘Yes, Cecelia, dear,’ said the mother, with a sob in her voice, as she went over to the bed and kissed the child, ‘l’m. so glad you came, Mamma dear. I had such a terrible dream.’ ‘You must not think of the dream now,’ said the mother. s- ‘ But I must tell you, Mamma dear. I had the loveliest dream that Papa came home and that he kissed me, and he asked me if I was happy, and I told him all about mv First Communion and the Lord Jesus, and how happy I was, and then he scowled and took me away just as I was going up to the altar, and he said I would never go to Communion in a Catholic Church, and just as I was going away the Lord Jesus said, Unless you eat of the flesh of the Son of Man and drink of His blood you shall not have life in you.” And then, Mamma, I asked God to let me die. Is it wrong to pray to die, Mamma dear?’ ‘Hush, Cecelia,’ said the woman. You are in the hands of God. Now go to sleep. Doctor will not let me stay longer.’ And she left the room. A few moments, and the child was asleep again, and the Hon. Arthur Graham stole quietly from the darkened room. ; This time she opened the door to his knock, and after a second’s glance into his eyes, during which she read there nothing but love and longing, she fell into his outstretched arms. ‘ I am not going to blame you, dear,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I did not understand. When you left me I was wild with rage, and when detective after detective failed I was on the verge of suicide. Then I came to Boston, and met an old friend, Doctor Grant. You would not see me when I came to your door. Perhaps it was best. But. all night I sat by her, unknown to her, yearning to kiss her, yet not permitted to let her see me. I heard her. childish ravings during those long night hours. It was all of God and her First Communion, and somehow, even before she related to you her dream, I discovered that I have been a brute, and aHiar. Forgive me, dear, and let us pray together to save our child.’ ' ‘ Thank God,’ she said, holding him closer to her. ‘lt was worth all the martyrdom to hear you say that.’ The month of April wore on, and then one day there was an exodus from the Perkins house. Rumor had been persistent in various ways in- regard to the handsome man who had arrived there on the very night little Cecelia was stricken, but no one was made the wiser. ‘I always felt there was something strange about that woman,’ said Mrs. White-Greene, chancing to meet Doctor Walsh, and taking advantage of the opportunity to investigate matters, f Now she’s gone as mysteriously as she came, and she was one who affected to despise our Daugthers of the Revolution.’ . . ‘You mean Lady Graham?’ said Doctor Walsh quietly. ‘Lady Graham? I mean Mrs. Perkins.’ ‘ They are one and the same,’ answered the doctor. ‘ Lady Graham desired to live in retirement for a while, and so came here. That distinguished man was her husband, the Hon. Arthur Graham. The Grahams go back to the s time of William the Conqueror, and,’ be added with a bit of malice, ‘ that.; is a few.years', before the Daughters of the 1 Revolution were organised.’ The Perkins house is again in the market. But I am S afraid it ; will never again be called by that prosaic name. For, as I boarded a common street can the other day, I heard Mrs. White-Green say to. Mrs. Sydney Hall, ‘ I do so. hope some desirable party will purchase our'friend’ Lady yGraham’s house.’ And I am quite sure that all the occupants of that plebeian car looked very much impressed. —The Magnificat.