28CHAPTER IIA WHITE PRESENCE
“Does yer pa want me?” grunted Matty, lifting a tousled black head.
Virginia made a gesture of negation.
“No, he told me to get the hell out,” she answered. “So I got! He’s awful sick! I guess mebbe he’ll die!”
Matty nodded meaningly.
“Some folks might better ’a’ stayed to hum for the past ten years than be runnin’ wild over the country like mad,” she observed.
Virginia reached behind the stove and drew Milly Ann from her bed.
“Father”—Jinnie enjoyed using the word and spoke it lingeringly—“says he wishes he’d stayed here now. You know, my Uncle Jordan, Matty––” She hesitated to confide in the negro woman what her father had told her. So she contented herself with:
“He’s coming here soon.”
Matty rolled her eyes toward the girl.
“I’se sorry for that, honey bunch.” Then, without explaining her words, asked: “Want me to finish about Jonathan Woggles’ grandpa dyin’?”
But Virginia’s mind was traveling in another channel.
“Where’s Bellaire, Matty?” she demanded.
“Off south,” replied the woman, “right bearin’ south.”
“By train?”29
“Yes, the same’s walkin’ or flying’,” confirmed Matty. “Jest the same.”
“Then you can finish the story now, Matty,” said Virginia presently.
Matty settled back in her chair, closed her eyes, and began to hum.
“How far’d I tell last night?” she queried, blinking.
“Just to where the white thing was waiting for Grandpa Woggles’ spirit,” explained Virginia.
“Oh, yas. Well, round and round that house the white shadder swep’, keepin’ time to the howlin’ of other spirits in the pine trees––”
“But there aren’t any pine trees at Woggles’,” objected Virginia.
“Well, they’d be pines if they wasn’t oaks,” assured Matty. “Oaks or pines, the spirits live in ’em jest the same.”
“I ’spose so,” agreed Virginia. “Go on!”
“An’ round and round he went, meltin’ the snow with his hot feet,” mused Matty, sniffing the air. “And in the house Betty Woggles set beside the old man, holdin’ his hand, askin’ him to promise he wouldn’t die.... Hum! As if a human bein’ could keep from the stalkin’ whiteness beckonin’ from the graveyard. ’Tain’t in human power.”
“Can’t anybody keep death away, Matty?” inquired Virginia, an expression of awe clouding her eyes.
She was thinking of the man upstairs whom she but twice had called “father.”
“Nope, not after the warnin’ comes to him. Now Grandad Woggles had that warnin’ as much as three days afore the angel clim’ the fence and flopped about his house. But don’t keep breakin’ in on me, little missy, ’cause I cain’t finish if ye do, and I’se jest reachin’ the thrillin’ part.”30
“Oh, then hurry,” urged Jinnie.
“Well, as I was sayin’, Betty set by the ole man, starin’ into his yeller face; ’twas as yeller as Milly Ann’s back, his face was.”
“Some yeller,” murmured Virginia, fondling Milly Ann.
“Sure! Everybody dyin’ gets yeller,” informed Matty.
Virginia thought again of the sick man upstairs. His face was white, not yellow, and her heart bounded with great hope. He might live yet a little while. Yes, he surely would! Matty was an authority when she told of the dead and dying, of the spirits which filled the pine trees, and it seldom occurred to Virginia to doubt the black woman’s knowledge. She wanted her father to live! Life seemed so dizzily upset with no Matty, with no Milly Ann, and no—father, somewhere in the world. Matty’s next words, spoken in a sepulchral whisper, bore down on her with emphasis.
“Then what do ye think, honey bunch?”
“I don’t know!” Virginia leaned forward expectantly.
“Jest as Betty was hangin’ fast onto her grandpa’s spirit, another ghost, some spots of black on him, come right longside the white one, wavin’ his hands’s if he was goin’ to fly.”
Virginia sat up very straight. Two spirits on the scene of Grandpa Woggles’ passing made the story more interesting, more thrilling. Her sparkling eyes gave a new impetus to the colored woman’s wagging tongue.
“The white spirit, he sez, ‘Whatyouhangin’ round here fer?’”
Matty rolled her eyes upward. “This he sez to the black one, mind you!”
Virginia nodded comprehendingly, keeping her eyes glued on the shining dark face in front of her. She always dreaded, during the exciting parts of Matty’s nightly31stories, to see, by chance, the garden, with its trees and the white, silent graveyard beyond. And, although she had no fear of tangible things, she seldom looked out of doors when Matty crooned over her ghost stories.
Just then a bell pealed through the house.
Matty rose heavily.
“It’s yer pa,” she grumbled. “I’ll finish when I git back.”
Through the door the woman hobbled, while Virginia bent over Milly Ann, stroking her softly with a new expression of gravity on the young face. Many a day, in fancy, she had dreamed of her father’s homecoming. He was very different than her dreams. Still she hoped the doctor might have made a mistake about his dying. A smile came to the corners of her mouth, touched the dimples in her cheek, but did not wipe the tragedy from her eyes. She was planning how tenderly she would care for him, how cheerful he’d be when she played her fiddle for him.
She heard Matty groping up the stairs—heard her pass down the hall and open the door. Then suddenly she caught the sound of hurried steps and the woman coming down again. Matty had crawled up, but was almost falling down in her frantic haste to reach the kitchen. Something unusual had happened. Virginia shoved Milly Ann to the floor and stood up. Matty’s appearance, with chattering teeth and bulging eyes, brought Jinnie forward a few steps.
“He’s daid! Yer pa’s daid!” shivered Matty. “And the house is full of spirits. They’re standin’ grinnin’ in the corners. I’m goin’ hum now, little missy. I’m goin’ to my ole man. You’d better come along fer to-night.”
Jinnie heard the moaning call of the pine trees as the winter’s voice swept through them,—the familiar sound32she loved, yet at which she trembled. Confused thoughts rolled through her mind; her father’s fear for her; his desire that she should seek another home. She could not stay in Mottville Corners; she could not go with Matty. No, of course not! Yet her throat filled with longing sobs, for the old colored woman had been with her many years.
By this time Matty had tied on her scarf, opened the door, and as Virginia saw her disappear, she sank limply to the floor. Milly Ann rubbed her yellow back against her young mistress’s dress. Virginia caught her in her arms and drew her close.
“Kitty, kitty,” she sobbed, “I’ve got to go! He said I could take you and your babies, and I will, I will! I won’t leave you here with the spirits.”
She rose unsteadily to her feet and went to the cupboard, where she found a large pail. Into this she folded a roller towel. She then lifted the kittens from the box behind the stove and placed them in the pail, first pressing her lips lovingly to each warm, wriggley little body. Milly Ann cuddled contentedly with her offspring as the girl covered them up.
Jinnie had suddenly grown older, for a responsibility rested upon her which no one else could assume.
To go forth into the blizzard meant she must wrap up warmly. This she did. Then she wrapped a small brown fiddle in her jacket, took the pail and went to the door. There she stood, considering a moment, with her hand on the knob. With no further hesitancy she placed the kittens and fiddle gently on the floor, and went to the stairs. The thought of the spirits made her shiver. She saw long shadows making lines here and there, and had no doubt but that these were the ghosts Matty had seen. She closed her eyes tightly and began to ascend the stairs,33feeling her way along the wall. At the top she opened reluctant lids. The library door stood ajar as Matty had left it, and the room appeared quite the same as it had a few moments before, save for the long figure of a man lying full length before the grate. That eternal period, that awful stop which puts a check on human lives, had settled once and for all the earthly concerns of her father. The space between her and the body seemed peopled with spectral beings, which moved to and fro in the dimly lit room. Her father lay on his back, the flames from the fire making weird red and yellow twisting streaks on his white, upturned face.
The taut muscles grew limp in the girl’s body as she staggered forward and stood contemplating the wide-open, staring eyes. Then with a long sigh breathed between quivering lips, she dropped beside the lifeless man. The deadly forces eddying around her were not of her own making. With the going of this person, who was her father by nature, everything else had gone too. All her life’s hopes had been dissolved in the crucible of death. She lay, with her hands to her mouth, pressing back the great sobs that came from the depths of her heart. She reached out and tentatively touched her father’s cheek; without fear she moved his head a little to what she hoped would be a more comfortable position.
“You told me to go,” she whispered brokenly, “and I’m going now. You never liked me much, but I guess one of my kisses won’t hurt you.”
Saying this, Jinnie pressed her lips twice to those of her dead father, and got to her feet quickly. She dared not leave the lamp burning, so within a short distance of the table she drew a long breath and blew toward the smoking light. The flame flared thrice like a torch, then spat out, leaving the shivering girl to feel her way around34the room. To the sensitive young soul the dark was almost maddening. She only wanted to get back to Milly Ann, and she closed the door with no thought for what might become of the man inside. He was dead! A greater danger menaced her. He had warned her and she would heed. As she stumbled down the stairs, her memories came too swiftly to be precise and in order, and the weird moans of the night wind drifted intermittently through the wild maze of her thoughts. She would say good-bye to Molly the Merry, for Molly was the only person in all the country round who had ever spoken a kindly word to her. Their acquaintance had been slight, because Molly lived quite a distance away and the woman had never been to see her, but then of course no one in the neighborhood approved of the house of Singleton.
Later by five minutes, Virginia left the dark farmhouse, carrying her fiddle and the pail of cats, and the blizzard swallowed her up.
35CHAPTER IIIJINNIE’S FAREWELL TO MOLLY THE MERRY
Virginia turned into the Merriweather gate, went up the small path to the kitchen, and rapped on the door. There was no response, so she turned the handle and stepped into the room. It was warm and comfortable. A teakettle, singing on the back of the stove, threw out little jets of steam. Jinnie placed the pail on the floor and seated herself in a low chair with her fiddle on her lap. Molly would be back in a minute, she was sure. Just as she was wondering where the woman could be, she heard the sound of voices from the inner room. A swift sensation of coming evil swept over her, and without taking thought of consequences, she slipped under the kitchen table, drawing the pail after her. The long fringe from the red cloth hung down about her in small, even tassels. The dining room door opened and she tried to stifle her swiftly coming breaths. Virginia could see a pair of legs, man’s legs, and they weren’t country legs either. Following them were the light frillings of a woman’s skirts.
“It’s warmer here,” said Miss Merriweather’s voice.
Molly and the man took chairs. From her position Virginia could not see his face.
“Your father’s ill,” he said in a voice rich and deep.
“Yes,” replied Molly. “He’s been near death for a long time. We’ve had to give him the greatest care. That’s why I haven’t told him anything.”36
The man bent over until Jinnie could see the point of his chin.
“I see,” said he.... “Well, Molly, are you glad to have me back?”
Molly’s face came plainly within Jinnie’s view. At his question the woman went paler. Then the man leaned over and tried to take one of her hands. But she drew it away again and locked her fingers together in her lap.
“Aren’t you glad to see me back again?” he repeated.
Molly’s startled eyes came upward to his face.
“I don’t know—I can’t tell—I’m so surprised and––”
“And glad,” laughed the stranger in a deep, mesmeric voice. “Glad to have your husband back once more, eh?”
Virginia’s start was followed quickly by an imploration from Molly.
“Hush, hush, please don’t speak of it!”
“I certainly shall speak of it; I certainly shall. I came here for no other reason than that. And who would speak of it if I didn’t?”
Molly shivered. There was something about the man’s low, modulated tones that repelled Virginia. She tried in vain to see his face. She was sure that nowhere in the hills was there such a man.
“You’ve been gone so long I thought you’d forgotten or—or were dead,” breathed Molly, covering her face with her hands.
“Not forgotten, but I wasn’t able to get back.”
“You could have written me.”
The man shrugged himself impatiently.
“But I didn’t. Don’t rake up old things; please don’t. Molly, look at me.”
Molly uncovered a pair of unwilling eyes and centered them upon his face.
“What makes you act so? Are you afraid?”37
“I did not expect you back, that’s all.”
“That’s not it! Tell me what’s on your mind.... Tell me.”
Molly’s white lids fell, her fingers clenched and unclenched.
“I didn’t—I couldn’t write,” she whispered, “about the baby.”
“Baby!” The word burst out like a bomb. The man stood up. “Baby!” he repeated. “You mean my—our baby?”
Molly swallowed and nodded.
“A little boy,” she said, in a low voice.
“Where is he?” demanded the man.
“Please, please don’t ask me, I beg of you. I want to forget––”
“But you can’t forget you’re married, that you’ve been the mother of a child and—and—that I’m its father.”
Molly’s tears began to flow. Virginia had never seen a woman cry before in all her young life. It was a most distressing sight. Something within her leaped up and thundered at her brain. It ordered her to venture out and aid the pretty woman if she could. Jinnie was not an eavesdropper! She did not wish to hear any more. But fear kept her crouched in her awkward position.
“I just want to forget if I can,” Molly sobbed. “I don’t know where the baby is. That’s why I want to forget. I can’t find him.”
“Can’t find him? What do you mean by ‘can’t find him’?”
Molly faced about squarely, suddenly.
“I’ve asked you not to talk about it. I’ve been terribly unhappy and so miserable.... It’s only lately I’ve begun to be at all reconciled.”
“Nevertheless, Iwillhear,” snapped the man angrily.38“Iwillhear! Begin back from the letter you wrote me.”
“Asking you to help me?” questioned the girl.
“Yes, asking me to help you, if you want to be blunt. Molly, it won’t make you any happier to hatch up old scores. I tell you I’ve come to make amends—to take you—if you will––”
“And I repeat, I can’t go with you!”
“We’ll leave that discussion until later. Begin back where I told you to.”
Molly’s face was very white, and her lids drooped wearily. Virginia wanted so much to help her! She made a little uneasy movement under the table, but Molly’s tragic voice was speaking again.
“My father’d kill me if he knew about it, so I never told him or any one.”
“Including me,” cut in the man sarcastically.
“You didn’t care,” said Molly with asperity.
“How do you know I didn’t care? Did you tell me? Did you? Did I know?”
Molly shook her head.
“Then I insist upon knowing now, this moment!”
“My father would have killed me––”
“Well!” His voice rushed in upon her hesitancy.
“When I couldn’t stay home any longer, I went away to visit a cousin of my mother’s. At least, my father thought I’d gone there. I only stayed with Bertha a little while and father never knew the truth of it.”
“And then after that?”
“I didn’t know what to do with my baby. I was afraid people’d say I wasn’t married, and then father––”
“Go on from the time you left your cousin’s.”
Molly thought a minute and proceeded.
“I looked in all the papers to find some one who wanted a baby––”39
“So you gave him away? Well, that’s easy to overcome. You couldn’t give my baby away, you know.”
“No, no, indeed! I didn’t give him away.... I boarded him out and saved money to pay for him. I even took summer boarders. The woman who had him––”
Molly’s long wait prompted the man once more.
“Well?” he said again. “The woman what?”
“The woman began to love the baby very much, and she wasn’t very poor, and didn’t need the money. Lots of times I went with it to her, and she wouldn’t take it.”
A thought connected with her story made Molly bury her face in her hands. The man touched her.
“Go on,” he said slowly. “Go on. And then?”
“Then once when I went to her she said she was going to take the baby on a little visit to some relatives and would write me as soon as she got back.”
“Yes,” encouraged the low voice.
“She never wrote or came back. I couldn’t find where she’d gone, and father was terribly ill, and I’ve hoped and hoped––”
“How long since you last saw him?”
Molly considered a moment.
“A long time,” she sighed.
“How many years?”
“One!”
“Then he was almost seven years with the woman?”
“Yes,” breathed Molly, and they lapsed into silence.
The man meditated a space and Jinnie heard a low, nervous cough come from his lips.
“Molly,” he said presently, “I’m going to have a lot of money soon. It won’t be long, and then we’ll find him and begin life all over.”
“Oh, I’d love to find him,” moaned Molly, “but I couldn’t begin over with you. It’s all hateful and horrible now.”40
The man leaned over and touched her, not too tenderly. When Molly’s face was turned to him, he tilted her chin up.
“You care for some one else?” he said abruptly.
The droop of the girl’s head was his answer. He stood up suddenly.
“That’s it! That’s it! What’s his name?”
A shake of her head was all the answer Molly gave him.
“I asked you his name. Get up! Stand up!”
As if to force her to do his will, he took hold of her shoulders sharply and drew her upward.
“What’s his name?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What’s his name?”
Virginia did not catch Molly’s whisper.
A disbelieving grunt fell from the stranger’s lips.
“I remember him as a boy. Weren’t they one summer at the Mottville Hotel? He’s years younger than you.”
Molly gathered courage.
“He doesn’t know how old I am,” she responded, “and his mother loves me, too. They were with me three summers.” Then, remembering the man’s statement, she added, “Ages don’t count nowadays. And Iwillbe happy.”
“You’ll get happiness withme, not withhim,” said an angry voice. “Has he ever told you he loved you?”
“No, no, indeed not. But he was here to-day! His mother’s ill and wanted me to come as her companion, but I couldn’t leave father right now.”
“Does he know you love him?”
An emphatic negative ejaculation from Molly brought a sigh of relief from the man.
“Forget him!” said he. “Now I’m going. I shall come back to-night, andrememberthis. I’ll leave no stone unturned to find that boy. I’ve always longed for one, and I’ll move Heaven and earth to find him.”41
Virginia saw him whirl about, open the door, and stride out.
Molly Merriweather stood for a few minutes in silence, trembling.
“I didn’t dare to tell him the baby was blind,” she whispered, too low for Jinnie to hear.
Then she slowly glided away, leaving the girl under the table, with her pail full of cats, and the fiddle. Presently Virginia crawled out cautiously, the pail on her arm, and hugging her fiddle, she opened the door swiftly, and disappeared down the road, running under the tall trees.
42CHAPTER IVJINNIE TRAVELS
Virginia took the direction leading to the station. Many a time she had watched the trains rush by on their way to New York, but never in those multitudinous yesterdays had it entered her mind that some day she would go over that same way, to be gone possibly forever. The wind was blowing at such a terrific rate that Jinnie could scarcely walk. There was no fear in her heart, only deep solemnity and a sense of awe at the magnificence of a storm. She had left the farmhouse so suddenly that the loneliness of parting had not then been forced upon her as it was now; the realization was settling slowly upon the clouded young mind.
She was a mere puppet in the hands of an inexorable fate, which had shown her little mercy or benevolence.
Out of sight of the Merriweather homestead, she kept to the path along the highway, now and then shifting the pail from one hand to the other, and clasping the beloved fiddle to her breast. Once she looked down to find Milly Ann peeping above the rim of the pail. Jinnie could see the glint of her greenish eyes. She stopped and, with a tenderly spoken admonition, covered her more closely with the roller towel. When the lighted station-house glimmered through the falling snow, Jinnie sighed with relief.
“I couldn’t ’ve carried you and the fiddle much farther, Milly Ann,” she murmured.43
At that moment a tall figure, herculean in size, loomed out of the night and advanced hastily. The man’s head was bent forward against the storm. Virginia caught a glimpse of his face as he passed in the streak of light thrown out from the station.
He sprang to the platform and disappeared in the doorway. Jinnie saw him plainly when she, too, entered, and her eyes followed him as he went out.
She had never seen him before. Like the man in the Merriweather kitchen, he bore the stamp of the city upon him.
Virginia bought her ticket as her father had directed, and while the pail was still on the floor, she bent to examine Milly Ann and the kittens. The latter were asleep, but the mother-cat lazily opened her eyes to greet, with a purr, the soft touch of Jinnie’s fingers. The girl waited inside the room until the shriek of the engine’s whistle told her of its approach; then, with the fiddle and the pail, she walked to the platform.
The long, snakelike train was edging the hill, its headlight bearing down the track in one straight, glittering line.
For the first time in her life, Jinnie felt really afraid. In other days, with beating heart, she had hugged close to the roadside as the monster slipped either into the station and stopped, or rushed around the curve. Tonight she was going aboard, over into a strange land among strange people.
She tilted the pail lovingly and hugged a little more tightly the fiddle in her arm. Whatever happened, she had Milly, her little family, and the comforting music. Jinnie could never be quite alone with these. As the train slowed up, the conductor jumped down.
It seemed to Virginia like a dream as she walked toward44the steps at the end of the car. As she was about to lift her foot to climb up, she heard a voice say:
“Let me help you, child. Here, I’ll take the pail.”
Virginia looked upward into the face of a man,—the same face she had seen in the station a few moments before,—and around the handsome mouth was a smile of reassuring kindliness.
She surrendered the pail with a burning blush, and felt, with a strange new thrill, a firm hand upon her arm. The next thing she knew she was in a seat, with the pail on the floor and the fiddle lying beside her.
She gazed around wonderingly. There was no one in sight but the tall man who, across the aisle, was arranging his overcoat on the back of the seat. Jinnie looked at him with interest—he had been so kind to her—and noted his thick, blond hair, which had been cropped close to a massive head. She admired him, too. Suddenly he looked up, and the girl felt a clutch at her heart. Just why that happened she could not tell. Again came the charming smile, the parted lips showing a set of dazzling white teeth.
Jinnie smiled back, responsively. The man came over.
“May I sit beside you?” he asked.
Jinnie moved the fiddle invitingly and huddled herself into the corner. When the man started to move the pail, Jinnie stayed him.
“Oh, don’t, please,” she protested. “It’s only Milly and––”
“Milly and what?” quizzically came the question.
“Her kitties—see?”
She drew aside the towel and exposed the sleeping family.
A broad smile lit up the man’s face.
“Oh, cats! I see! Where’re you taking them?”
“To Bellaire.”45
“Ah, Bellaire; that’s where I’m going. We’ll have a nice ride together, almost two hours.”
“I’m glad.” Jinnie leaned back, sighing contentedly.
In those few minutes she had grown to have great faith in this stranger, the third of the puzzling trio that had come into her life that night. First her father, then the man with Molly the Merry, and now this brilliant new friend, who quite took away her breath as she peeped up at him. His smile seemed to be ever ready. It warmed her and made her glow with friendliness. She liked, too, the deep tones in his voice and the sight of his strong hands as they gestured during his speeches.
“Where are you going in Bellaire?” he questioned.
Virginia cogitated for a moment. She couldn’t tell the story her father had told her, yet she must answer his kindly question.
At length, “The cats and I are going to live with my uncle,” said she.
“He lives in Bellaire?”
“Yes, but I’ve never seen him. I’ll find him, though, when I get there.”
It didn’t occur to the man to ask the name of her relatives, and Jinnie was glad he did not.
“Perhaps I shall see you some time in the city,” he responded to her statement. Jinnie hoped so; oh, how she hoped she might see him again!
“Mebbe,” was all she said.
“You see I live there with my mother,” continued the man. “Our home is called Kinglaire. My name is King.”
Virginia lifted her head with a queer little start.
“I’ve read about your people,” she said. “I’ve got a book in our garret that tells all about Kings.”
“That’s very nice,” answered Mr. King. “I won’t have to explain anything about us, then.”46
“No, I know,” said Jinnie in satisfaction.
At least she thought she knew. Hadn’t she read over and over, when seated in the garret, the story of the old and new kings, how they sat on their thrones, and ruled their people sometimes with a rod of iron? Jinnie brought to mind some of the vivid pictures, and shyly lifted a pair of violet eyes to scan the face above her. Surely this King was handsomer than any in the book. She tried to imagine him on his throne, and wondered if he were always smiling as now.
“You’re quite different from your relations,” she observed presently.
Theodore King laughed aloud. The sound startled the girl into a straighter posture. It rang out so merrily that she laughed too after making up her mind that he was not ridiculing her.
“Really you are!” she exclaimed. “I mean it. You know the picture of the King with a red suit on,—he doesn’t look like you. His nose went sort of down over his mouth—I mean, well, yours don’t.”
She stumbled through the last few words, intuitively realizing that she had been too personal.
“You like to read, I gather,” stated Mr. King.
“Yes, but I like to fiddle better,” said Jinnie.
“Oh, you play, do you?”
Jinnie’s eyes fell upon the instrument standing in the corner of the opposite seat, wrapped in an old jacket. She nodded.
“I play some. I love my fiddle almost as much as I do Milly Ann and her kitties.”
“Won’t you play for me?” asked Mr. King, gravely putting forth his hand.
Jinnie paused a moment. Then without further hesitancy she took up the violin and unfastened it.47
“I’ll be glad to fiddle for a king,” she said naïvely.
She did not speak as she turned and twisted the small white keys.
Outside the storm was still roaring over the hills, sweeping the lake into monstrous waves. The shriek of the wind mingled with the snap of the taut strings under the agile fingers of the hill girl. Then Jinnie began to play. Never in all his life had Theodore King seen a picture such as the girl before him made. The wondrous beauty of her, the marvelous fingers traveling over the strings, together with the moaning of the night wind, made an impression upon him he would never forget. Sometimes as her fingers sped on, her eyes were penetrating; sometimes they darkened almost to melancholy. When the last wailing note had finally died away, Jinnie dropped the instrument to her side.
“It’s lonely on nights like this when the ghosts howl about,” she observed. “They love the fiddle, ghosts do.”
Theodore King came back to himself at the girl’s words. He drew a long breath.
“Child,” he ejaculated, “whoever taught you to play like that?”
“Why, I taught myself,” answered Jinnie.
“Please play again,” entreated Mr. King, and once more he sat enthralled with the wonder of the girl’s melodies. The last few soulful notes Mr. King likened to a sudden prayer, sent out with a sobbing breath.
“It’s wonderful,” he murmured slowly. “What is the piece you’ve just played?”
“It hasn’t any name yet,” replied the girl. “You see I only know pieces that’re in my head.”
Then all the misery of the past few hours swept over her, and Jinnie began to cry. A burden of doubt had clouded the usually clear young mind. What if the man48to whom she was going would not let her and the cats live with him? He might turn them away.
Mr. King spoke softly to her.
“Don’t cry,” said he. “You won’t be lonely when you get to your uncle’s.”
But she met his smiling glance with a feeling of constraint. He did not know the cause of her tears; she could not tell him. If she only knew,—if she only had one little inkling of the reception she would receive at the painter’s home. However, she did cheer up a little when Mr. King, in evident desire to be of some service, began to tell her of the city to which she was going.
In a short time he saw the dark head nodding, and he drew Jinnie down against his arm, whispering:
“Sleep a while, child; I’ll wake you up at Bellaire.”
49CHAPTER VLIKE UNTO LIKE ATTRACTED
Jinnie Singleton watched Theodore King leave the train at the little private station situated on his own estate. As she drew nearer the city depot, her heart beat with uncertainty, for that day would decide her fate, her future; she would know by night whether or not she possessed a friend in the world.
For some hours she sat in the station on one of the hard benches, waiting for daylight, at which time she and Milly Ann would steal forth into the city to find Lafe Grandoken, her mother’s friend.
A reluctant, stormy dawn was pushing its way from the horizon as she picked up the pail and fiddle and stepped out into the falling snow.
Stopping a moment, she asked the station master about the Grandokens, but as he had only that week arrived in Bellaire, he politely, with admiration in his eyes, told her he could not give her any information. But on the railroad tracks Virginia saw a man standing with his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“What’d you want of Lafe Grandoken?” asked the fellow in reply to her question.
“I’ve come to see him,” answered Jinnie evasively.
“He’s a cobbler and lives down with the shortwood gatherers there on Paradise Road. Littlest shack of the bunch! He ain’t far from my folks. My name’s Maudlin Bates.”50
He went very near her.
“Now I’ve told you, you c’n gimme a kiss,” said he.
“I’ll give you a bat,” flung back Jinnie, walking away.
Some distance off she stood looking down the tracks, her blue eyes noting the row of huts strung along the road and extending toward the hills. At the back of them was a marshland, dense with trees and underbrush.
“My father told me Mr. Grandoken was a painter of houses!” Jinnie ruminated: “But that damn duffer back there says he’s changed his work to cobbling. I’ll go and see! I hope it won’t be long before I’m as warm as can be. Wonder if he’ll be glad to see me!”
“It’s the smallest house among ’em,” she cogitated further, walking very fast. “Well! There ain’t any of ’em very big.”
She traveled on through heavy snow, glancing at every hut until, coming to a standstill, she read aloud:
“Lafe Grandoken, Cobbler of Folks’ and Children’s Shoes and Boots.”
Jinnie turned and, going down a short flight of steps, hesitated a moment before she knocked timidly on the front door. During the moment of waiting she glanced over what she hoped was to be her future home. It was so small in comparison with the huge, lonely farmhouse she had left the night before that her heart grew warm in anticipation. Then in answer to a man’s voice, calling “Come in!” she lifted the latch and opened the door.
The room was small and cheerless, although a fire was struggling for life in a miniature stove. In one corner was a table strewn with papers. Back from the window which faced the tracks was a man, a kit of cobbler’s tools, in the disarray of daily use, on the bench beside him. He halted, with his hammer in the air, at the sight of the newcomer.51
“Come in and shut the door,” said he, and the girl did as she was bidden. “Cold, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Jinnie, placing the pail and fiddle on the floor.
The girl looked the man over with her steady blue eyes. Then her heart gave one great bound. The grey face had lighted with a sweet, sad smile; the faded eyes, under the bushy brows, twinkled welcome. A sense of wonderful security and friendship rushed over her.
“Well, what’s your business? Got some shoes to mend?” asked the man. “Better sit down.”
Jinnie took a chair in silence, a passionate wish suffusing her being that this small home might be hers. She was so lonely, so homesick. The little room seemed radiant with the smile of the cobbler. She only felt the wonderful content that flowed from the man on the bench to herself; she wanted to stay with him; never before had she been face to face with a desire so great.
“I’ve come to live with you,” she gulped, at length.
The cobbler gave a quick whack at the little shoe he held in the vise.
“I’m Jinnie Singleton, kid of Thomas Singleton, the second,” the girl explained, almost mechanically, “and I haven’t any home, so I’ve come to you.”
During this statement the cobbler’s hammer rattled to the floor, and he sat eyeing the speaker speechlessly. Then he slowly lifted his arms and held them forth.
“Come here! Lass, come here!” he said huskily. “I’d come to you, but I can’t.”
In her mental state it took Jinnie a few seconds to gather the import of the cobbler’s words. Then she sprang up and went forward with parted, smiling lips, tears trembling thick on her dark lashes. When Jinnie felt a pair of warm, welcoming arms about her strong52young shoulders, she shivered in sudden joy. The sensation was delightful, and while a thin hand patted her back, she choked down a hard sob. However, she pressed backward and looked down into Lafe Grandoken’s eyes.
“I thought I’d never cry again as long as I lived,” she whispered, “but—but I guess it’s your loving me that’s done it.”
It came like a small confession—as a relief to the overburdened little soul.
“I guess I’ve rode a hundred miles to get here,” she went on, half sobbing, “and you’re awful glad to see me, ain’t you?”
It didn’t need Lafe’s, “You bet your boots,” to satisfy Jinnie. The warmth of his arms, the shining, misty eyes, set her to shivering convulsively and shaking with happiness.
“Set here on the bench,” invited the cobbler, softly, “an’ tell me about your pa an’ ma.”
“They’re both dead,” said Jinnie, sitting down, but she still kept her hand on the cobbler’s arm as if she were afraid he would vanish from her sight.
The man made a dash at his eyes with his free hand.
“Both dead!” he repeated with effort, “an’ you’re their girl!”
“Yes, and I’ve come to live with you, if you’ll let me.”
She drew forth the letters written the night before.
“Here’s two letters,” she ended, handing them over, and sinking down again into the chair.
She sat very quietly as the cobbler stumbled through the finely written sheets.
“Mottville Corners, N. Y.
“Dear Mr. Grandoken,” whispered Lafe.
“My girl will bring you this, and, in excuse for sending53her, I will briefly state: I’m very near the grave, and she’s in great danger. I want to tell you that her Uncle Jordan Morse has conquered me and will her, if she’s not looked after. For her mother’s sake, I ask you to take her if you can. She will repay you when she’s of age, but until then, after I’m gone, she can’t get any money unless through her uncle, and that would be too dangerous. When I say that my child’s life isn’t worth this paper if she is given over to Morse, you’ll see the necessity of helping her. I don’t know another soul I could trust as I am trusting you. The other letter Virginia will explain. Keep it to use against Morse if you need to.
“I can’t tell you whether my girl is good or not, but I hope so. I’ve woefully neglected her, but now I wish I had a chance to live the past few years over. She’ll tell you all she knows, which isn’t much. What you do for her will be greatly appreciated by me, and would be by her mother, too, if she could understand her daughter’s danger. ”Gratefully yours,
“Thomas G. Singleton.”
The cobbler put down the paper, and the rattling of it made Jinnie raise her head.
“Come over here again,” said the shoemaker, kindly. “Now tell me all about it.”
“Didn’t the letter tell you?”
“Some of it, yes. But tell me about yourself.”
Lafe Grandoken listened as the girl recounted her past life with Matty, and when at the finish she remarked,
“I had to bring Milly Ann––”
Grandoken by a look interrupted her explanation.
“Milly Ann?” he repeated.
Then came the story of the mother-cat and her babies. Jinnie lifted the towel, and the almost smothered kittens54scrambled over the top of the pail. Milly Ann stretched her cramped legs, then proceeded vigorously to wash the faces of her numerous children.
“She wouldn’t ’ve had a place to live if I hadn’t brought her,” explained Jinnie, looking at the kittens. “I guess they won’t eat much, because Milly Ann catches all kinds of live things. I don’t like ’er to do that, but I heard she was born that way and can’t help it.”
“I guess she’ll find enough to eat around here,” he said softly.
“I brought my fiddle, too,” Jinnie went on lovingly. “I couldn’t live without it any more’n I could without Milly Ann.”
The cobbler nodded.
“You play?” he questioned.
“A little,” replied the girl.
Mr. Grandoken eyed the instrument on the floor beside the pail.
“You oughter have a box to put it in,” he suggested. “It might get wet.”
Virginia acquiesced by bowing her head.
“I know it,” she assented, “but I carried it in that old wrap.... Did Father tell you about my uncle?”
“Yes,” replied the cobbler.
“And that he was made to die for something my uncle did?”
“Yes, an’ that he might harm you.... I knew your mother well, lass, when she was young like you.”
An expression of sadness pursed Jinnie’s pretty mouth.
“I don’t remember her, you see,” she murmured sadly. “I wish I had her now.”
And she heard the cobbler murmur, “What must your uncle be to want to hurt a little, sweet girl like you?”
They did not speak again for a few moments.55
“Go call Peg,” the cobbler then said.
At a loss, Virginia glanced about.
“Peg’s my woman—my wife,” explained Lafe. “Go through that door there. Just call Peg an’ she’ll come.”
In answer to the summons a woman appeared, with hands on hips and arms akimbo. Her almost colorless hair, streaked a little with grey, was drawn back from a sallow, thin face out of which gleamed a pair of light blue eyes. Jinnie in one quick glance noted how tall and angular she was. The cobbler looked from his wife to her.
“You’ve heard me speak about Singleton, who married Miss Virginia Burton in Mottville, Peggy, ain’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered the woman.
“His kid’s come to live with us. She calls herself Jinnie.” He threw his eyes with a kindly smile to the girl, standing hesitant, longing for recognition from the tall, gaunt woman. “I guess she’d better go to the other room and warm her hands, eh?”
Mrs. Grandoken, dark-faced, with drooping lips, ordered the girl into the kitchen.
Alone with his wife, Lafe read Singleton’s letter aloud.
“I’ve heard as much of her yarn as I can get,” he said, glancing up. “I just wanted to tell you she was here.”
“We ain’t got a cent to bless ourselves with,” grumbled Mrs. Grandoken, “an’ times is so hard I can’t get more work than what I’m doin’.”
A patient, resigned look crossed the cobbler’s pain-worn face.
“That’s so, Peg, that’s so,” he agreed heartily. “But there’s always to-morrow, an’ after that another to-morrow. With every new day there’s always a chance. We’ve got a chance, an’ so’s the girl.”56
The woman dropped into a chair, noticing the cobbler’s smile, which was born to give her hope.
“There ain’t much chance for a bit of a brat like her,” she snarled crossly, and the man answered this statement with eagerness, because the rising inflection in his wife’s voice made it a question.
“Yes, there is, Peg,” he insisted; “yes, there is! Didn’t you say there was hope for me when my legs went bad—that I had a chance for a livin’? Now didn’t you, Peggy? An’ ain’t I got the nattiest little shop this side of way up town?”
Peg paused a moment. Then, “That you have, Lafe; you sure have,” came slowly.
“An’ didn’t I make full sixty cents yesterday?”
“You did, Lafe; you sure did.”
“An’ sixty cents is better’n nothin’, ain’t it, Peg?”
Mrs. Grandoken arose hastily.
“Course ’tis, Lafe! But don’t brag ’cause you made sixty cents. You might a lost your hands same’s your feet. ’Tain’t no credit to you you didn’t. Here, let me wrap you up better! You’ll freeze all that’s left of your legs, if you don’t.”
“Them legs ain’t much good,” sighed the cobbler. “They might as well be off; mightn’t they, Peg?”
Peggy wrapped a worn blanket tightly about her husband.
“You oughter be ashamed,” she growled darkly. “Ain’t you every day sayin’ there’s always to-morrow?”
This time her voice was toned with finality, and she turned and went out.