CHAPTER XXVII
While we wrestled with our problems, baby Jean wrestled with a great many that were all her own. The difference between her and the rest of us was that she said nothing.
But as day after day she watched with shining eyes the life in the street below, I fancy that the question of the Sphinx presented itself to her in many forms. Why articles that she threw from the window re-appeared in the nursery; why some people passed and did not come back, while others came back so often; why the big dog ran when the little dog chased him,—all these things were to her parts of an encompassing mystery.
Her vague wonder grew into childish thought. I watched—with a guilty feeling that I was neglecting the great thingsI had been set to do—her quick development.
She found that putting her fingers in her ears kept out unpleasant sound, and once when her mother reproved her she held them there, triumphant and unhearing. She found that she could agitate the entire family by hiding small possessions. And she did this often, looking inscrutable and dignified through the search for the lost articles, then always bringing them back when the fun was over. She never forgot.
The ways of life were hard for her tiny feet. She was quick-tempered, easily angered, and easily hurt. But always, after running away in wrath and tears, she would be back again in a minute with a solemn little face uplifted to be kissed.
She was born in an age of denial, and her first spoken word was “no.” With a sweet perversity she stoutly repudiated all her most ardent wishes. Even while her arms were stretched out to reach the desire of her heart, she always protested that she did not want it.
I think that I remember every one of her pretty attitudes, the turn of her head, the curves of her lithe little body.
I remember her as she looked one morning, tiptoe in her bed. It was very early; all the world was asleep. She had crawled up outside the curtain, and stood against the window, with her two hands outspread upon the pane, white as a little flower.
I remember her as she clung one day to the Lad as he was leaving the house.
“You do like me a little, don’t you, Jean?” said the Lad.
“No, no, no,” said the child, clasping her arms tightly about his neck.
“Ah, this is the baby,” said a caller who was entering. “Isn’t she like her aunt!”
The Lad’s eyes twinkled, and he answered the question, which had been addressed to me.
“Very much indeed,” he said gravely.