Jeanne, Left Alone With The Strangers, Inspected Them With InterestJEANNE, LEFT ALONE WITH THE STRANGERS, INSPECTED THEM WITH INTEREST
"You have read my letter?" he asked, addressing the older man.
"Yes."
"Then pardon me, if I suggest that you grant me an interview apart from these young people. I have much to say to you, Mr. Huntington."
"In here," said the mild gentleman, opening a door.
"Remain where you are, Jeannette," prompted her father.
Jeannette, left alone with the strangers, inspected them with interest. The girls looked like their mother, she decided; rather smooth and polished on the outside—like whitefish, for instance, with round, hard grayish eyes. The boy's eyes were different; yellow, she thought, or very pale brown. His upper lip lifted in a queer way, as if nothing quite pleased him. They were all rather colorless as to skin. She had seen children—there had been several on the train, in fact—whose looks were more pleasing.
She began to wonder after a while if somebody ought not to say something. Was itherplace to speak? But she couldn't think of a thing to say. She felt relieved when the three young Huntingtons began to talk to one another. Now and again she caught a familiar word; but many of their phrases were quite new to her. At any rate, they were not speaking French; she had heard her father speak that. She had heard too little slang to be able to recognize or understand it.
Jeanne had risen from her chair because her father had risen from his. She thought now that perhaps she ought to resume her seat; but no one had said, as Old Captain always did: "Set right down, Honey, an' stay as long as ye like." Visiting Old Captain was certainly much more comfortable.
Still doubtful, Jeanne took a chance. She backed up and sat down, but Harold, yielding to one of his sudden malicious impulses, jerked the chair away. Of course she landed on the floor. Worst of all, her skirt pulled up; and there, for all the world to see, was a section of frayed rope dangling from below her knee. The shoestring showed, too.
For half a dozen seconds the young Huntingtons gazed in silence at this remarkable sight. Then they burst into peals of laughter. The fact that Jeanne's eyes filled with tears did not distress them; they continued to laugh in a most unpleasant way.
Jeanne scrambled to her feet, found her chair, and sat in it.
"Who are you, anyway?" asked the boy. "The letter you sent in gave the family a shock, all right. And we've just had another. Elastic must be expensive where you came from; or is that the last word in stocking-supporters? Hey, girls?"
His sisters tittered. Poor Jeanne writhed in her chair. No one hadeverbeen unkind to her. Even Mrs. Shannon, whose tongue had been sharp, had never made her shrink like that.
"I am Jeannette Duval," returned the unhappy visitor. "My mother was Elizabeth Huntington. This is where my grandfather lives."
"Goodness!" exclaimed the taller of the two girls, whose name was Pearl; "she must be related tous!"
"Elizabeth Huntington is the aunt that we aren't allowed to mention, isn't she?" asked the younger girl.
"Yes," returned the boy. "She ran away and married a low-down Frenchman and my grandfather turned her out. That old gardener we had two years ago used to talk about it.Hesaid she was the best of all the Huntingtons, but of course he was crazy."
"Say, Clara," said the older girl, "we'll be late for school. You, too, Harold."
The three deserted Jeanne as unceremoniously as they did the furniture. Left alone, Jeanne looked about her. The floor was very smooth and shiny. There were rugs that looked as if they might be interesting, close to. There were chairs and tables with very slender, highly-polished legs. There was a large mirror built into the wall—part of the time she had seen six cousins instead of three—and a big fireplace with a white-and-gold mantel.
"That's a queer kind of stove," thought Jeanne, noting the gas log.
After a thousand years (it seemed to Jeanne) the four grown-ups returned. Her father came first.
"You are to stay here for five years," said he, taking her hands in his. "After that, we shall see. We have all decided that it is best for you to be here with your mother's people. They have consented to care for you. I shall pay, as I can, for what you need. For the rest, you will be indebted to the kindness of your grandfather. I need not tell you, my Jeanne, to be a good girl. You will write to me often and I will write to you. And now, good-by. I must go at once to make my train."
He kissed Jeanne first on one cheek, then on the other, French-fashion; then, with a gesture so graceful and comprehensive that Jeanne flushed with pride to see it, Léon Duval took leave of his relatives-in-law.
"Heisn'ta low-down Frenchman and Iknowit," was her comforting thought.
Poor child, the rest of her thoughts were not so comforting. Five years! Not to see her wonderful father again for five years. Not to see good-natured Mollie, or Michael or Sammy or Annie or Patsy—Why, Patsy would be a great big boy in five years. There would be no one to make clothes for the children, no one to make Annie into a lady—she had firmly intended to do that. Unselfish mite that she was, her first distressing thoughts were for the other children.
"A maid will come for you presently," said the large, smooth lady, addressing Jeanne, "and will show you your room. I will look through your clothes later to see what you need. I am your Aunt Agatha. This is your Uncle Charles. This is your grandfather. I must go now to see about your room."
Her Uncle Charles nodded carelessly in her direction, looked at his watch, and followed his wife.
The room to which the maid escorted Jeanne was large, with cold gray walls, a very high ceiling, and white doors. The brass bed was wide, very white and smooth. The pillows were large and hard. The towels that hung beside the stationary basin looked stiff and uninviting. Jeanne wondered if one were supposed to unfold those towels—it seemed a pity to wrinkle their polished surface. Altogether it was not a cosy room; any more than Mrs. Huntington was a cosy person.
Jeanne turned hopefully to the large window. There was another house very close indeed. The gray brick wall was not beautiful and the nearest window was closely shuttered.
"Where," asked Jeanne, turning to the maid, who still lingered, "is the lake?"
"The lake!" exclaimed the maid. "Why, there isn't any lake. There's a small river, they say, down town, somewhere.Inever saw it—pretty dirty, I guess. When your trunk comes, push this button and I'll unpack for you, if you like. There's your suitcase. You can use these drawers for your clothes—maybe you'd like to put them away yourself. I'll go now."
Jeanne was glad that she had her suitcase to unpack. It was something to do. But when she opened it, kneeling on the floor for that purpose, she found that it contained two articles that had not been there earlier in the morning. She remembered that her father had closed it for her on the train. Perhapshehad put something inside.
There was a small, new purse containing a few coins—two dollars altogether. It seemed a tremendous sum to Jeanne. The other parcel seemed vaguely familiar. Jeanne removed the worn paper covering.
"Oh!" she breathed rapturously.
There was her mother's beautiful lace handkerchief wrapped about the lovely little miniature of her mother. Her father, who had cherished these treasures beyond anything, had given them toher. And he had not told her to take good care of them—he hadknownthat she would.
"Oh,Daddy," she whispered, "it wasgoodof you."
When Jeanne, who had had an early breakfast, had come to the conclusion that she was slowly but surely starving to death, the maid, whose name proved to be Maggie, escorted her to the dining-room.
In spite of her father's instructions, she made mistakes at the table, principally because there were bread and butter knives and bouillon spoons invented since the days of Duval's young manhood. At least, however, she didn't eat with her knife. Unhappily, whenever she did the wrong thing, one or another of her cousins laughed. That made her grandfather frown. Some way, embarrassed Jeanne was glad of that.
She was to learn that her cousins were much better trained in such matters as table manners than in kind and courteous ways toward other persons. Their mother was conventional at all times. Shecouldn'thave used the wrong fork. But there were certain well-bred persons who said that Mrs. Huntington had the veryworstmanners of anybody in her set; that she never thought of anybody's feelings but her own; but the self-satisfied lady was far from suspecting any such state of affairs. She thought herself averynice lady; and considered her children most beautifully trained.
Happily, by watching the others, Jeanne, naturally bright and quick, soon learned to avoid mistakes. As she was also naturally kind, her manners were really better, in a short time, than those of the young Huntingtons.
Her new relatives, particularly the younger ones, asked her a great many questions about her former life. Had she really never been to school? Weren't there any schools? Was the climateverycold in Northern Michigan? Were the people very uncivilized? Were they Indians or Esquimaux? What was her home like? What was the Cinder Pond? Sometimes the children giggled over her replies, sometimes they looked scornful. Almost always, both Mr. and Mrs. Huntington appeared shocked. It wasn't so easy to guess what old Mr. Huntington thought.
At the conclusion of Jeanne's first uncomfortable meal with her new relatives, Mrs. Huntington detained the children, for a moment, in the dining-room.
"Next week," said she, "Jeannette will be going to school. You are not to tell the other pupils nor any of your friends, nor the maids in this house, anything of her former life. And you, too, Jeannette, will please be silent concerning your poverty and the fact that your father was a common fishman."
"Gee!" scoffed Harold, holding his nose. "A fishman!"
"He was agentleman," replied Jeanne, loyally. "He wasnotcommon. Mollie was common, but my father wasn't."
"No gentlemancouldbe a fishman," returned Mrs. Huntington, who really supposed she was telling the truth. "You will remember, I hope, not to mention his business!"
"Yes'm," promised Jeanne, meekly.
"Yes, Aunt Agatha," prompted Mrs. Huntington.
"Yes, Aunt Agatha," said Jeanne, thoroughly awed by the large, cold lady.
"Now we will see what you need in the way of clothes. Of course you have nothing at all suitable."
Jeanne followed her aunt upstairs. Mrs. Huntington noted with surprise that the garments in the drawers were neatly folded. Also that they were of astonishing fineness.
"Did your stepmother buy these!" asked the lady.
"No. My father."
"These handkerchiefs, too!"
"Yes, he boughteverything."
"But you have only six. And not enough of anything else. And only this one dress!"
"That's all. Father didn't put any of my old things in. They weren't much good—I suppose Annie will have my pink dress."
Mrs. Huntington wrote many words on a slip of paper.
"I shall shop for these things at once," said she. "You need a jacket and rubbers before you can go to school. Of course you haven't any gloves."
"Yes, ma'am—yes, Aunt Agatha. Here, in this drawer."
"They're really very good," admitted Mrs. Huntington. "But you will need a heavier pair for everyday."
"And something for my stockings," pleaded Jeanne. "I guess father didn't know what to get. You see, most of the time I went barefoot—"
"Mercy, child!" gasped Mrs. Huntington, looking fearfully over her shoulder. "You mustn't tell things of that sort. They'redisgraceful. Maggie might haveheardyou."
"I'll try not to," promised Jeanne. "But my stockingswon'tstay up."
Mrs. Huntington wrote another word or two on her list.
"Anything else?" she asked.
"Things to write a letter with—oh, please, ma'am—Aunt Agatha, could I have those? I want to write to my father—he taught me how, you know."
"Maggie will put writing materials in the drawer of that table," promised Mrs. Huntington. "I'll ring for them now. I'm glad that you can at least read and write; but youmustnot say 'Ma'am.' That word is for servants."
"I'll try to remember," promised Jeanne.
Jeannette's first letter to her father would probably have surprised Mrs. Huntington had she read it. Perhaps it is just as well that she didn't.
DEAR DADDY [wrote Jeanne]:
The picture is safe. The handkerchief is safe. The purse is safe. And so am I. I amtoosafe. I should like to be running on the edge of the dock on the dangerous side, almost falling in. See the nice tail on the comma. I like to make commas, but I use more periods. The periods are like frog's eggs in the Cinder Pond but the commas are like pollywogs with tails. That's how I remember.
Mrs. Huntington is not like Mollie. Mollie looks soft all over. Some day I shall put my finger very softly on Mrs. Huntington to see if she feels as hard as she looks. Her back would be safest I think. She is very kind about giving me things but I do not know her very well yet. She does not cuddle her children like Mollie cuddles hers. She is too hard and smooth to cuddle.
There are little knives for bread and butter and they eat green leaves with a funny fork. I ate a round green thing called an olive. I didn't like it but I didn't make a face. I didn't know what to do with the seed so I kept it in my mouth until I had a chance to throw it under the table. Was that right?
There is no lake. They get water out of pipes but not in a pail. Hot and cold right in my room. Maggie, she is the maid, showed me how to make a light. You push a button. You push another and the light goes out. She said two years ago this house was all made over new inside.
This is another day. My bed is very big and lonesome. I am like a little black huckleberry in a pan of milk when I am in it. I can see in the glass how I look in bed. I have a great many new clothes. I have tried them on. Some do not fit and must go back. I have a brown dress. It is real silk to wear on Sunday. I have a white dress. It looks like white clouds in the sky. And a red jacket. And more under things but I like the ones you bought the best, because I likeyoubest.
This is four more days. I have been to church. I stood up and sat down like the others. I liked the feathers on the ladies' hats and the little boys in nightgowns that marched around and sang. Next Sunday I am to go to Sunday School. Mrs. Huntington says I am a Heathen.
I got a chance to touch her. Her backishard. Now I will say good-by. But I like to write to you; so I hate to send it away but I will begin another letter right now. Maggie will put this in the letter box for me. I like Maggie but I am afraid I will tell her about my past life. Mrs. Huntington says I must never mention bare feet or fish.
Yours truly,JEANNETTE HUNTINGTON DUVAL.
P.S.—Mrs. Huntington told a lady I was that, butyouknow I am just your Jeanne. I love you better than anybody.
Jeanne, you will notice, made no complaints against her rude young cousins and passed lightly over matters that had tried her rather sorely. From her letters, her father gathered that she was much happier than she really was. Perhaps nobodyeverenjoyed a letter more than Mr. Duval enjoyed that first one. He went to the post office to get it because no letter-carrier could be expected to deliver mail to a tumble-down shack on the end of a long, far-away dock. He read it in the post office. He read it again in Old Captain's freight car, and when Barney Turcott came in, he too had to hear it.
Then Mollie read it. And as she read, her face was quite beautiful with the "mother-look" that Jeanne liked—it was the only attractive thing about Mollie. Then the children awoke and sat up in their bunks to hear it read aloud. Poor children! they could not understand what had become of their beloved Jeanne.
Afterwards, Mr. Duval laid the letter away in his shabby trunk, beside the little green bottle that still held a shriveled pink rose, the late wild rose that Jeanne had left on his table that last day. He had found what remained of it, on his return from his journey. It was certainly very lonely in that little room evenings, without those lessons.
Jeannette Huntington Duval found school decidedly trying at first. The pupilswouldpry into her past. Their questions were most embarrassing. Even the teachers, puzzled by many contradictory facts, asked questions that Jeanne could not answer without mentioning poverty or fish.
Yes, she had lived in the country (ison a dock "in the country"? wondered truthful Jeanne). No, shetrulydidn't know what a theater was; and she had never had a birthday party nor been to one. What didkeepingone's birthday mean? Jeanne had asked. Howcouldone give her birthday away! Ofcourseshe knew all the capitals of South America. Mountains and rivers, too. She could draw maps showing them all—shelovedto draw maps. But asparagus—what was that? And velvet? And vanilla? And plumber?
"Really," said Miss Wardell, one day, after a lesson in definitions, "youcan'tbe as ignorant as you seem. Youmustknow the meaning of such words as jardinière, tapestry, doily, mattress, counterpane, banister, newel-post, brocade. Didn't you live in a house?"
"Yes'm—yes, Miss Wardell," stammered Jeanne, coloring as a vision of the Duval shack presented itself.
"Didn't you sleep on a mattress?"
Jeanne hung her head. She had guessed that that thick thing on her bed was a mattress, but how was she to confess that hay in a wooden bunk had been her bed! Fortunately, Jeanne did notlooklike a child who had slept on hay. She was small and daintily built. Her hands and feet were beautifully shaped. Her dark eyes were soft and very lovely, her little face decidedly bright and attractive. She suffered now for affection, for companionship, for the freedom of outdoor life; but never for food or for suitable garments. It is to be feared that Mrs. Huntington, during all the time that she looked after Jeannette, putclothesbefore any other consideration. The child was always properly clad.
Unfortunately, in spite of all Jeanne's precautions, her cousins succeeded in dragging from her all the details of her former poverty. They never got her alone that they didn't trap her into telling things that she had meantnotto tell. At those times, even Harold seemed almost kind to her.
Mean children, they were pumping her, of course, but for a long time honest Jeanne did not suspect them of any such meanness. After they had learned all that there was to know, Jeanne's eyes were opened, and things were different. Sometimes Harold, in order to embarrass her, told his boy friends a weird tale about her.
"That's our cousin, the Cinder Pond Savage," Harold would say. "Her only home was a drygoods box on the end of a tumble-down dock. She sold fish for a living and ate all that were left over. She never ate anythingbutfish. She had nineteen stepsisters with red hair, and a cruel stepmother, who was a witch. She wore a potato sack for a dress and never saw a shoe in her life until last month. When captured, she was fourteen miles out in the lake chasing a whale. Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen, to see the Cinder Pond Savage."
Harold's friends seemed to consider this amusing; but Jeanne found it most embarrassing. The strange boys always eyed her as if she really were some little wild thing in a trap. She didn't like it.
Clara put it differently. "My cousin, Jeanette Huntington Duval, has always lived on my uncle's estate in the country. She didn't go to school, but had lessons from a tutor."
But, however they put it, Jeannette realized that she was considered a disgrace to the family, a relative of whom they were all secretly ashamed. And her father, her good, wonderful father, was considered a common, low-down Frenchman, who had married her very young mother solely because she was the daughter of a wealthy man.
"I don't believe it," said Jeanne, when Clara told her this. "My fathernevercared for money. That's why he's poor. And he's much easier to be friends with thanyourfather—and he reads a great many more books than Uncle Charles does, so I know he isn't ignorant, even if you do think he is. Besides, he writes beautiful letters, with semicolons in them! Didyourfather write to you that time he was gone all summer?"
Clara was obliged to admit that he hadn't.
"But then," added Clara, cruelly, "arealgentleman always hires a stenographer to write his letters. He doesn'tthinkof doing such things himself, any more than he'd black his own boots."
"Then," said Jeanne, defiantly, "I'm glad my father's just a fishman."
During that first winter, Jeanne was fairly contented. Her school work was new and kept her fairly busy, and in her cousins' bookshelves she discovered many delightful books for boys and girls. Heretofore, she had read no stories. She had been too busy rearing Mollie's family.
Shy and sensitive, for several months she made no real friends among her schoolmates. Howcouldshe, with a horrible past to conceal? To be sure, when she thought of the big, beautiful lake, the summer days on the old dock, the lovely reflections in the Cinder Pond, the swallows going to bed in the old furnace chimney, the red sun going down behind the distant town, the kind Old Captain, the warm affection of Mollie's children, not to mention the daily companionship of her nice little father, it seemed as if her past had been anythingbuthorrible. But no city child, she feared, would ever be able to understand that, when even the grown-ups couldn't.
From the very first, her Uncle Charles had seemed not to like her. And sometimes it seemed to Jeannette that her Aunt Agatha eyed her coldly and resentfully. She couldn't understand it.
But James, the butler, and Maggie, the maid, sometimes gossiped about it, as the best of servants will gossip.
"It's like this," said James, seating himself on the corner of the pantry table. "Old Mr. Huntington is the real master of this house. Young Mrs. Huntington comes next. Mr. Charles is just a puddin'-head."
"You mean figure-head," said Maggie.
"Same thing. Now, Mr. Huntington owns all this (James's comprehensive gesture included a large portion of the earth's surface), and naturally Mr. Charles expects to be the heir, when the old gentleman passes away. Now, listen (James's voice dropped, confidentially). There's a young nephew of mine in Ball and Brewster's law-office. One day, when he was filing away a document with the name Huntington on it, he mentioned me being here, to another clerk—Old Pitman, it was. Well, Old Pitman said it was himself that had made a copy of old Mr. Huntington's will, leaving all that he had to his son Charles. Now lookee here. Supposin' old Mr. Huntington was to soften toward his dead daughter for runnin' away with that Frenchman, and was to make a new will leavin' everything to his grand-child—that new little girl. Between you and me, she's a sight better child than them other three put together."
"He wouldn't," said Maggie. "Of course, he might leave hersomething."
"That's it. Mark my words, Mr. and Mrs. Charles can't warm to that child because they're afraid of her; afraid of what she might get. She's a frozen terror, Missus is."
"Well, they're as cold to her as a pair of milk cans, them two. Maybe that's the reason."
Possibly it was. And it is quite possible, too, that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Charles Huntington realized the reason for their lack of cordiality. Only, they werenotcordial.
At first, Jeanne had seen but little of her grandfather. On pleasant days he sat with his book in the fenced-in garden behind the house. On chilly days, he sat alone in his own sitting-room, where there was a gas log. But sometimes, at the table, he would ask Jeanne questions about her school work.
"Well, Jeannette, how about school! Are you learning a lot?"
"Ever so much," Jeanne would reply. "There are so many thingstolearn."
One day, when he asked the usual question, Jeannette's countenance grew troubled.
"Next week," she confided, "we are to have written examinations ineverythingand there are a thousand spots where I haven't caught up with the class. Mathematics, language, United States history, and French. The books are different, you see, from the ones I had. I'll have tocram. Mathematics are the worst. Ican'tdo the examples."
"Suppose you bring them to me, after lunch. I used to think I was a mathematician."
That was the beginning of a curious friendship between the little girl and the very quiet old man. After that, there was hardly a day in which Jeanne, whose class was ahead of her in mathematics, did not appeal for help.
She liked her grandfather. He seemed nearer her own age than anyone else in the house. You see, when people get to be ninety or a hundred, they are able to be friends with persons who are only seventy or eighty—a matter of twenty years makes no difference at all. Mr. Huntington was sixty-eight, which is old enough to enjoy a friendship ofanyage.
But when people are young like Pearl and Clara, two years' difference in their ages makes a tremendous barrier. Clara was almost three years older than Jeanne, and Pearl was fourteen months older than Clara. Harold was younger than his sisters but older than Jeanne, who often seemed younger than her years.
Pearl and Clara looked down, with scorn, uponanychild of twelve. Indeed, they had been born old. Some children are, you know. Also, it seemed to their grandfather, they had been bornimpolite. For all that they called her "The Cinder Pond Savage," Jeanne's manners were really very good. She seemed to know, instinctively, how to do the right thing; that is, after she became a little accustomed to her new way of living. And she was always very considerate of other people's feelings. So was her grandfather, most of the time. But Mrs. Huntington wasn't; and her children were very like her; cold, self-centered, and decidedly snobbish.
Jeanne was quite certain that her girl cousins had neverplayed. Harold, to be sure, occasionally played jokes on the younger members of the family or on the servants; but they were usually rather cruel, unpleasant jokes, like putting a rat in Maggie's bed, or water in Pearl's shoes, or spiders down Clara's back. For Jeanne, he reserved the pleasant torture of teasing her about her father.
"Ugh!" he would say, holding Jeanne's precious mail as far as possible from him, while, with the other hand, he held his nose, "this must be for you—it smells of fish. Your father must have sold a couple while he was writing this."
Sometimes he would point to shoe advertisements in the papers, with: "Here's your chance, Miss Savage. No need to go barefoot when your five years are up. Just lay in a whopping supply of shoes, all sizes, at one-sixty-nine."
His grandfather liked his youngest grandchild's manners. He told himself, once he even told his son, that he couldn't possibly give any affection to the daughter of "that wretched Frenchman" who had stolenhisdaughter. Perhaps he couldn't, just at first. No doubt, hethoughthe couldn't. But hedid. 'Way down in his lonesome old heart he was glad that mathematics were hard for her, because he was glad that she needed his help.
"Just what are you thinking?" asked her grandfather, one day.
"I was making an example," explained Jeanne. "I've been here seven months. That leaves four years and five months; but the last two months went faster than the first two. If five years seemed like a thousand years to begin with, and the last two months—"
"I refuse," said her grandfather, with a sudden twinkle in his eye, "to tackle any such example as that."
"Well," laughed Jeanne, "here's another. Miss Wardell asked us in school today to decide what we'd like to do when we're grown up. We're to tell her tomorrow."
"Rather short notice, isn't it?"
"Ye—es," said Jeanne. "You see, ever since I visited Miss Warden's sister's kindergarten, I've thought I'd like to teachthat. But I thought I'd like to get married, too."
"What!" gasped her grandfather.
"Get married. I should like to bring up a familyright—with the proper tools. Old Captain says you have to have the proper tools to sew with.Ithink you have to have the proper tools to bring up a family. Tooth-brushes and stocking-straps, smelly soap and cold cream and underclothes."
"Have you picked out a husband?" asked her grandfather.
"That's the worst of it. You have to have one to earn money to buy the proper tools. But it's a great nuisance to have a husband around, Bridget says. She's had three; and she'd rather cook for Satan himself, she says, than a husband!"
"Jeannette! You mustn't repeat Bridget's conversations. Does Mrs. Huntington like you to talk to the servants?"
"No," returned Jeanne, blushing a little. "But—but sometimes I just have to talk. You see—well, you see—"
"Yes?"
"Well, Bridget likes to be talked to. I'm not sure, always, that anybody else—well, it's easy to talk to Bridget."
"How about me?"
"You come next," assured Jeanne.
The next day Jeanne returned from school with her big black eyes fairly sparkling. She went at once to her grandfather's room.
"I've decided what I'm going to do," said Jeanne. "I'm going to be married."
"Why?" asked her grandfather.
"Well, you see, if I had a kindergarten, I couldn't tuck the children in at night. That's the very nicest part of children—tucking them in. But the husband wouldn't need to bemuchtrouble. He could stay away all day like Uncle Charles does. What does Uncle Charlesdo? When he isn't at the Club, I mean?"
"He is in a bank from nine until three every day."
"Only that little bit? I guess I'd rather have an iceman. He gets up very early and works all day, doesn't he? Anyway, Miss Wardell said I didn't need to worry about pickinghimout until I was twenty. Sometimes I wish Aunt Agatha liked kittens and puppies, don't you? They're so useful while you're waiting for your children."
"I have a letter from Old Captain," confided Jeanne, that same afternoon. "Don't you want to read it? You wouldn't laugh at it,wouldyou?"
"Certainly I wouldn't laugh," assured her grandfather, taking the letter.
DEAR AND HONORED MISS [wrote Old Captain, in a large, sprawling hand]:
This is to let you know that it is a warm day for April. The lake is still froze. It seems as if the sun shines more when you are here. Sammy lost his freckles for a while, but they come back again last week. Michael and Annie were here yestiddy. He says your father is teaching him to read. As I am a better hand with a boat-hook than I am with this here pen, I will close, so no more at present.
Your true friend and well-wisher,
CAPTAIN JOHN BLOSSOM.
"Old Captainismy true friend," explained Jeanne. "He taught me to make dresses and things. But I've learned some more things about sewing in school. I can put in a lovely patch, with the checks and stripes all matching; and darn, and hem, and fell seams, and make buttonholes. Old Captain's buttonholes were so funny. He cut themroundand all different sizes. I'm ever so glad Michael is learning to read. It's too far for small children to walk to school. Besides, their clothes—well, theirbestclothes aren't just right, you know. I guess they haven'tanyby this time."
"Do you really like those children?" asked her grandfather.
"I love them. Annie and Patsy are sweet and Sammy is so funny. He's so curious that he gets too close to things and either tumbles in or gets hurt. Once it was a wasp! I guess I couldn't live with people and not like them a little."
"Then you like your cousins?"
"I—I haven't lived with them very long," evaded Jeanne.
Her grandfather chuckled.Hehad lived with them for quite a while.
With the coming of June, Jeanne began to yearn more than ever for the lake. She told Miss Wardell about it the day she had to stay after school to redraw her map.
"Jeannette," asked the teacher, "what possessed you to draw in all those extra lakes? You know there are no lakes in Kansas."
"That's why I put them in," explained Jeanne, earnestly. "There ought to be. If there were a large lake in the middle of each state with all the towns on the shore, it would be much nicer. But I didn't mean to hand that map in, it was just a play map. You see, when you can't have any real water you like to make pictures of it."
"Are you lonesome for Lake Superior?"
"Oh, yes. Last Sunday, when the minister read about the Flood I just hoped it would happen again. Not enough to drown folks, you know, but enough to make a lot of beautiful big lakes—enough to go round for everybody."
"You've been to the park?"
"Yes, but the lake there isn't as big as our Cinder Pond, and its brick edges are horrid. It looksbuilt."
"Of course it is artificial; but it's better than none."
"Ye-es," admitted Jeanne, very doubtfully. "I guess I like real ones best."
Along toward spring, when her "past" had become a little more comfortably remote, Jeanne had made a number of friends among her classmates. She had particularly liked Lizzie McCoy because Lizzie's red hair was even redder than that of the young Duvals, and her freckles more numerous than Sammy's. And Lizzie had liked Jeanne.
But when Lizzie had ventured to present herself at Mrs. Huntington's door, she had been ushered by James into the awe-inspiring reception-room, where Mrs. Huntington inspected her coldly.
"I came," explained Lizzie, nervously, "to see Jeanne."
"I don't seem to recall your name—McCoy. Ah, yes. What is your father's business?"
"He's a butcher," returned Lizzie.
"Where do you live?"
"Spring Street."
Mrs. Huntington shuddered. Fancy anyone from Spring Street venturing to ring at her exclusive portal!
"Jeannette is not at home," said she.
Susie Morris fared no better. Susie was round and pink and pleasant. Everybody liked Susie. Several times she had walked home with Jeanne; but they had always parted at the gate.
"Do come in," pleaded Jeanne. "I'll show you my new party dress. It's for the dancing school party; next week, you know."
"All right," said Susie.
The dress was lovely. Susie admired it in her shrill, piping voice. The sound of it brought Mrs. Huntington down the hall to inspect the intruder.
"Jeannette," she asked, "whoisthis child?"
"Susie Morris. She's in my class."
"What is her father's business?"
"He's a carpenter," piped Susie.
"Where do you live!" asked Mrs. Huntington.
"Spring Street," confessed Susie.
Mrs. Huntington shuddered again.Anotherchild from that horrible street! A blind child could have seen that she was unwelcome. Susie, who was far from blind, stayed only long enough to say good-by to Jeanne.
"You must be more careful," said Mrs. Huntington, "in your choice of friends."
"Everybody likes Susie," returned Jeanne, loyally.
"Her people are common," explained Mrs. Huntington. "I should begladto have you bring Lydia Coleman or Ethel Bailey home with you."
"I don't like them," said Jeanne.
"Why not?"
"There isn't a bit of fun in them," declared Jeanne, blushing because their resemblance to her cousins was her real reason for disliking them.
"Well, there's Cora Farnsworth. Surely there's plenty of fun in Cora."
"I don't like Cora, either. She says mean things just tobefunny," explained Jeanne, who had often suffered from Cora's "fun." "I don't like that kind of girls."
"Lydia, Ethel, and Cora liveon the Avenue," returned Mrs. Huntington. "Yououghtto like them. At any rate, you must bring no more East Side children home with you. I can't have them in my house."
Mrs. Huntington always talked about the Avenue as Bridget, who was very religious, talked of heaven. When their ship came in, Mrs. Huntington said, they should have a home in the Avenue. The old house they were in, she said, was quite impossible. Old Mr. Huntington, Jeanne gathered, did not wish to move to the more fashionable street.
Jeanne wondered about that ship of Aunt Agatha's. The river—she had seen it once—was a small, muddy affair. Surely no ship that could sail up that shallow stream would be worth waiting for. She asked her grandfather about it.
Her grandfather frowned. "We won't talk about that ship," said he. "I don't like it!"
"Don't you like boats?" asked Jeanne.
"Very much, but not that kind."
Jeanne was usually a very well-behaved child, but one Saturday in June she fell from grace. An out-of-town visitor, a very uninteresting friend of Mrs. Huntington's, had expressed a wish to see the park. Pearl, Clara, and Jeanne were sent to escort her there. It was rather a bracing day. Walking sedately along the cement walks seemed, to high-spirited Jeanne, a very tame occupation. Presently she lagged behind to feed the crumbs she had thoughtfully concealed in her pocket to a sad squirrel with a skinny tail. He was not half as nice as the chipmunks that sometimes scampered out on the Cinder Pond dock, but he reminded her of those cheerful animals. The squirrel seized a crumb and scampered up a tree. Jeanne looked at the tree.
"Why," said she, "it's a climb-y tree just like that big one on the bank behind Old Captain's house. I wonder—"
Off came Jeanne's jacket. She dropped it on the grass, seized the lowest branch, and in three minutes was perched, like a bluebird, well toward the top of the tree.
About that time, her cousins missed her and turned back. Unhappily, the park policeman noticed the swaying of the topmost branches of that desecrated tree and hurried to investigate. Clara and Pearl arrived in time to hear the policeman shout:
"Here, boy! Come down from there. It's against the park rules to climb trees."
Jeanne climbed meekly down, much to the astonishment of the policeman, who grinned when he saw the expected boy.
"Well," said he, "you ain't the sort of bird I was lookin' for."
"I should think," said Pearl, who was deeply chagrined, "you'd beashamed. At any rate, we're ashamedofyou."
"I shall tell mother about it," said Clara, virtuously. (Clara's principal occupation, it seemed to Jeanne, was telling mother.) "The idea! Climbing trees in the park! Right before mother's company, too. I don't wonder that Harold calls you the Cinder Pond Savage."
Jeanne spent a very dull summer. Part of the time, her cousins were away, visiting their grandmother, Mrs. Huntington's mother. Jeanne had eyed their departing forms a bit wistfully.
"I wish," thought she, "they'd invitedme." The sea, she was sure, would prove almost as nice as Lake Superior, unless, of course, one happened to be thirsty. Unfortunately, the grandmother had had room for only three young guests. Possibly she had been told that Jeanne was a "Little Savage," and feared to include her in her invitation.
After school closed, she had only her grandfather, the garden, books, and her music lessons.
Shehatedher music lessons from a cross old professor. It was bad enough to hear Pearl and Clara practice, without doing it herself. Her thoughts, when she practiced, were always gloomy ones. Once, downstairs, Maggie had sung a song beginning: "I am always saddest when I sing."
"And I," said Jeanne, in the big, lonely drawing-room, whose corners were always dark enough to conceal most any lurking horror, "am always saddest when I practice. I'dmuchrathermakethings—that's the kind of fingers mine are."
However, after she had discovered that two very deep bass notes rolled together and two others, higher up, could be mingled to make a noise like waves beating against the old dock, she felt more respect for the piano. Perhaps, in time, she could even make it twitter like the going-to-bed swallows.
The garden had proved disappointing. Jeanne supposed that a garden meant flowers—it did in Bancroft. But this was a city garden. The air was always smoky, almost always dusty. The garden, except just after a rain, never looked clean. There was a well-kept hedge, but it collected dust and papers blown from the street. The best thing about it was the large fountain, with three nymphs in the center, pouring water from three big shells. The nymphs were about Jeanne's size and looked as if they had been working for quite a number of years. Besides the fountain, there were four vases of red geraniums, two very neat walks, and some closely-trimmed, dusty grass. Also, some small evergreen trees, clipped to look like solid balls, and one large elm. Her grandfather often sat under the elm tree on an iron bench. Fortunately, he didn't object seriously to caterpillars.
One day, he discovered Jeanne, flat on her stomach, dipping her fingers into the fountain.
"My dear child!" said he, "whatareyou doing?"
"Just feeling to see how warm it is," said Jeanne, kicking up her heels in order to reach deeper. "It's awfully cold, isn't it? If there weren't so many windows and folks around, I think I'd like to go in swimming."
"Swimming! Can you swim?"
"Of course," returned Jeanne. "I swam in the Cinder Pond."
From time to time, homesick Jeanne continued to test the waters of the fountain. In August, to her delight, she found the water almost lukewarm. To be sure, the weather was all but sizzling. Her grandfather, accustomed to seeing her dabble her fingers in the water, was far from suspecting the shocking deed she was contemplating.
Then the deed was accomplished. For thirteen blissful mornings, the Cinder Pond Savage did something that made Harold seem, to his mother, like a little white angel, compared with "that dreadful child from Bancroft." Of course, itwaspretty dreadful. For thirteen days, Jeanne slipped joyfully from her bed at four o'clock, crept down the stairs, out of the dining-room door, and along the walk to the fountain. She slipped out of her night-dress, slid over the edge, and, for three-quarters of an hour, fairly revelled in the fountain. For thirteen glorious mornings—and then—!
Mrs. Huntington had had a troublesome tooth. She rose to find a capsicum plaster to apply to her gum. To read the label, it was necessary to carry the box to the window. She glanced downward—and dropped the box.
Something white and wet and naked was climbing out of the fountain. Had some horrid street-boy dared to profane the Huntington fountain?
The "boy," poised on the curb, shook his dark head. A bunch of dark, almost-curly hair fell about his wet shoulders.
"Jeanne!" gasped Mrs. Huntington. "Whatwillthat wretched child do next!"
Jeanne was late to breakfast that morning. She had fallen asleep after her bath. When she slipped, rather guiltily, into her place at the table, her Uncle Charles, who ordinarily paid no attention to her, raised his eyebrows, superciliously, and fixed his gaze upon her—as if she were an interesting stranger. Her grandfather, too, regarded her oddly. So did her Aunt Agatha.
"I'm sorry I'm so late," apologized Jeanne. "I slept too long."
"You are a deceitful child," accused Mrs. Huntington, frigidly. "You werenotasleep. For how long, may I ask, have you been bathing in the fountain?"
"About two weeks," said Jeanne, calmly. "It'slovely."
"Lovely!" exclaimed Mrs. Huntington. "It'sdisgraceful! And for two weeks! Are you sure that no one has seen you?"
"Only a policeman. He was on horseback. You see, I frightened a blue-jay and he squawked. The policeman stopped to see what had frightened him, but I pretended I was part of the statue in the middle of the fountain."
Uncle Charles suddenly choked over his coffee. Her grandfather, too, began suddenly to cough. Dignified James, standing unobserved near the wall, actuallyboltedfrom the room.
Mrs. Huntington continued to frown at the small culprit.
"You may eat your breakfast," said she, sternly. "Come to me afterwards in my room."
There was to be no more bathing in the fountain—even in a bathing suit. Jeanne learned that she had been averywicked child and that it wouldn't have happened if her father hadn't been "a common fishman."
"I am thankful," concluded Aunt Agatha, "that your cousins are out of town.Theywouldn'tthinkof doing anything so unladylike."
After that, Jeanne's liveliest adventures were those that she found in books. Fortunately, she loved to read. That helped a great deal.
She was really rather glad when the dull vacation was over and, oh, so delighted to see Lizzie and Susie! All that first week she couldn'thelpwhispering to them in school, even if the new teacher did give her bad marks and move her to the very front seat.
"I'd go home with you if Icould," said Jeanne, declining one of Susie's numerous invitations, "but I have to go straight home from school, always."
"You went into Lydia Coleman's house, yesterday," objected jealous Susie.
"Only to get a book for my cousin. Besides, that's right on my way home."
"Maybe ifyoulived on the Avenue, Susie," sneered Lizzie, who understood Mrs. Huntington's snobbishness only too well, "she'd be allowed to go with you."
"Hurry up and move," said Jeanne. "I'dloveyour house, Susie. I know it's a home-y house. I liked your mother when she came to the school exercises and I'm sure I'd like any house she lived in. But you see, I do so many bad things without knowing that I'm being bad, that it never would do for me to bereallybad. Besides I promised my father I'd mind Aunt Agatha, so of course I have to. I'd love to go home withbothof you."
Next to her grandfather, Jeanne's pleasantest companion out of school was the small brown maid in the big mirror set in her closet door. There were mirrors like that in all the Huntington bedrooms, so it sometimes looked as if there were two Claras and two Pearls and two Aunt Agathas, which made it worse if either of the girls were snippish, or if Aunt Agatha happened to be thinking of the fountain. Apparently, Mrs. Huntington wouldneverforget that, Jeanne thought.
But to Jeanne's mind, the girl she saw in her own mirror had aniceface, even if it was rather brown. She liked the other child's big, dark eyes; now serious, now sparkling under very neat, slender eyebrows, with some new, entertaining thought. The mirror-girl's mouth was just a bit large, perhaps, with red lips, full of queer little wiggly curves that came and went, according to her mood. Her nose, rather a small affair, at best, did it turn up or didn't it? One couldn't be quite sure. Lizzie's turned up, Ikey Goldberg's turned down; but this nose seemed to do both. For that reason, it seemed a most interesting nose, even if there were no freckles on it.
When lips are narrow and straight, when noses are likewise absolutely straight, as Pearl's and Clara's were, they may be perfect or even beautiful, but they are notinteresting. A wiggly mouth, as Jeanne said, keeps one guessing. So does an uncertain nose.
Then there was the mirror-child's chin. Not abigchin like the one in the picture of Bridget's first husband, the prize-fighter; nor a chinless chin like Ethel's.
"Quite a good deal of a chin, I should say," was Jeanne's verdict.
Then the rest of the mirror-child. A little smaller, perhaps, than many girls of the same age; but very nicely made. Arms the right size and length, hands not too big, shoulders straight and not too high like Bridget's, nor too sloping like Maggie's. A slight waist that didn't need to be pinched in like Aunt Agatha's. Legs that looked likegirls'legs, not like piano legs—as Hannah Schmidt's did, for instance, when Hannah wore white stockings. The feet were small. The hair grew prettily about the bright, sociable face.
"You're just about the bestyoungfriend I have," declared Jeanne, kissing the mirror-child. "I'm glad you live in my closet—I'd be awfully lonesome if you didn't."
Jeanne, however, was not a vain little girl, nor a conceited one. She simply didn't think of the mirror-child asherself. The girl in the mirror was merely another girl of her own age, and she loved her quite unselfishly. Perhaps Jeanne's most personal thought came when she washed her face.
"I'm so glad I don't have beginning-whiskers like the milkman," said she, "or a wart on my nose like Bridget's. It's much pleasanter, I'm sure, to wash a smooth face like this."
In November there came a day when nobody in the Huntington house spoke above a whisper. There was a trained nurse in the house, three very solemn doctors coming and going, and an air of everybodywaitingfor something.
James told Maggie, and Maggie told Jeanne, that old Mr. Huntington had had a stroke.
"Is my grandfather going to die?" asked Jeannette, when Maggie had patiently explained the serious nature of Mr. Huntington's sudden illness.
"I don't know," returned Maggie. "Nobody knows, not even the doctors."
For a great many dreary days, her grandfather remained "Just the same," until Jeanne considered those three words the most hateful ones in the English tongue. Then, one memorable morning—yearslater, it seemed—she heard Dr. Duncan say, on his way out: "A decided change for the better, Mrs. Huntington."
Jeanne was so glad that she danced a little jig with her friend in the mirror. Often, after that, she waylaid the pleasant white-capped nurse to ask about the invalid; but Miss Raymond's one response was "Nicely, my dear, nicely." For weeks and weeks, Jeanne saw nothing of her grandfather; consequently, her mathematics became very bad indeed. But at last, one Sunday morning, the nurse summoned her to her grandfather's room.
"Your grandfather wants to see you," said Miss Raymond. "You must be very quiet and not stay too long—just five minutes."
Five minutes were enough! There was a strange, wrinkled old man, who looked small and shriveled in that big white bed. Her grandfather's eyes had been keen and bright. The eyes of this stranger were dull, sunken, and oh, so tired.
"How do you do?" said Jeanne, primly. "I'm—I'm sorry you've been sick."
"Better now—I'm better now," quavered a strange voice. "How is the arithmetic?"
"Very bad," said Jeanne. "Miss Turner says I plastered a room with two bushels of oats, and measured a barn for an acre of carpet, instead of getting the right number of apples from an orchard. You have to do somanykinds of work in examples, that it's hard to remember whether you're a farmer or a paperhanger. I suppose wet thingswouldrun out of a bushel basket, but wet measure and dry measure get all mixed up—"
"I think your grandfather is asleep," said the nurse, gently. "You may come again tomorrow."
As Mr. Huntington improved, Jeanne's visits grew longer. After a time, he was able to help her again with her lessons. But all that winter, the old man sat in his own room. In February the nurse departed and James took her place. James, who had lived with the family for many years, was fond of Mr. Huntington and served him devotedly. As before, Jeannette spent much time with her grandfather. Also, in obedience to their mother's wishes, the young Huntingtons entered the old man's room, decorously, once a day to say good morning. Neither the children nor Mr. Huntington appeared to enjoy these brief, daily visits. Jeanne was certainly a more considerate visitor. She was ever ready to move his foot-stool a little closer, to peel an orange for him, to find him a book, or to sit quietly beside him while he dozed.
One day, in March, he told her where to find some keys and how to fit one of them to a small safe in the corner of his room.
"Bring me all the papers in the first pigeon-hole to the left," said he. "It's time I was doing some spring housecleaning."
"I love to help," said Jeanne, swiftly obedient.
He sorted the papers, dividing them into two piles. "Put these back, and bring me everything in the next hole."
Jeanne did that. This operation was repeated until all the papers, many quite yellow with age, had been sorted.
"These," said her grandfather, pointing to the documents on the chair beside him, "are of no use. We'll tear them into small pieces and wrap them in this newspaper. That's right. Now, do you think you could go to the furnace and put this bundle right on top of the fire, without dropping a single scrap? Do you know exactly where the furnace is?"
"Yes," said Jeanne. "When I first came, I asked Maggie what made the house warm. She said the furnace did. I wanted to see what a furnacewas, so she showed it to me."
"Where is Mrs. Huntington?"
"She's out with the girls—at the dressmaker's, I think."
"And Bridget?"
"Asleep in her room. This is Maggie's afternoon out: Bridgetalwayssleeps when Maggie isn't here to tease her."
"What is James doing?"
"I guess he's taking a nap on the hat-rack. He does, sometimes."
"Very well, the coast seems to be clear. Put the bundle in the furnace, see that it catches on fire. Also, please see that you don't."
"I'vecooked," laughed Jeanne, "and I've never yet cookedmyself."
In five minutes, Jeanne was back. "James is snoring," said she. "He does that only when Aunt Agatha isveryfar away. Listen! He does lovely snores!"
"Did the trash burn?"
"Every scrap," replied Jeanne. "I opened the furnace door, after a minute or two to see. The fire was pretty hot and they burned right up."
"It is foolish," said her grandfather, "to keep old letters—and old vows."
During the Easter vacation, the Huntingtons entertained a visitor, an attractive lad of fifteen, whose home was in Chicago. His name was Allen Rossiter.
"He's sort of a cousin," explained Harold. "His grandfather and my grandfather were brothers."
Jeanne decided that Allen was a pleasant "sort of a cousin." A fair, clean-looking lad with wide-awake blue eyes, Allen was tall for his age and very manly.
"I've heard a lot about you," said Jeanne, the day Allen paid his first visit to old Mr. Huntington. "You've been here before, haven't you?"
"Yes. You see, my father's a railroad man, so, naturally, I have to practice traveling because I'm going to be one, too. I've learned how to order a meal on the train and havealmostenough left to tip the porter."
"You've accomplished a great deal," smiled Mr. Huntington.
"More than that," said Allen. "I know how to read a time-table. How to tell which trains are A.M.'s and which are P.M.'s. Which ones are fast and which are slow. Here's a time-card—I have ten lovely folders in my pocket. Tell me where you want to go, Jeannette, and I'll show you just how to do it."
"To Bancroft," said Jeanne. "It's 'way, 'way up on Lake Superior."
"Here's a map. Now, where is it?"
"About there," said Jeanne. "Yes, that's it."
"And here's the right time-card. You go direct to Chicago—"
"I know that," said Jeanne.
"But you want a fast train. Here's a dandy. It starts at 9:30 P.M. That's at night, you know. You are in Chicago at noon. The first train out of there for Bancroft leaves at eight o'clock at night. Then you change at Negaunee—"
"That'seasy," said Jeanne. "You just walk across the station and say: 'Is this the train to Bancroft?' Daddy told me always toask. But what do I do in Chicago? That's the hardest part."
"You go from this station tothisone. Here are the names, do you see? There, I've marked them. I'll tell you what I'll do. You telegraph and I'll meet you and put you aboard the right train. When do you start?"
"Just three years and three months from now, right after school closes."
"Well," laughed Allen, "you certainly don't intend to miss that train. But I'll meet you. I'm the family 'meeter.' I meet my grandmother, I meet my aunts, and all my mother's friends. I'malwaysmeeting somebody with a suitcase full ofbricks. Anyway, nobody ever brings a light one. But your shoes, I'm sure, wouldn't weigh as much as my grandmother's—-she's abiggrandmother."
"May I keep this time-card?" asked Jeanne, earnestly.
"You may," returned the smiling lad, "but it'll be pretty stale three years from now."
"Andthree months," sighed Jeanne. "But having this to look at will make Bancroft seemnearer."
"So," said Mr. Huntington, "you're going to be a railroad man?"
"Yes," replied Allen. "If they have railroad ladies, by that time, Jeannette, I'll give you a job."
"I shan't need it," said Jeanne. "I'm going to be married."
"To whom?" asked Allen. "Got him picked out?"
"The iceman, I think. Oh, does a railroad man stay away from home a great deal?"
"Almost all the time, my mother says."
"Goody! That's what I'll have—a railroad man."
"I'll wait for you," laughed Allen. "You're the funniest little kid I've met in a long time."
"I don't have to decide until I'm twenty," said Jeanne, cautiously. "Imightfind a more stay-away husband than that."
The next morning the postman brought a letter from Jeanne's father. As usual, Harold, who had rudely snatched the mail from James, held Jeanne's letter behind him with one hand and held his nose with the other.
"What's the matter?" asked Allen.
"Fish," returned Harold, pretending to be very ill. "Her father's a fishman, you know. You can smell his letters coming while they're still on the train."
Allen glanced at Jeannette. She was red with embarrassment and very close to tears.
"You young cub," said he, "I've heard all about Jeanne's father from my grandmother. I don't know what he's doing now, but the Duvals were a splendid old French family even if theywerepoor. 'Way back, they were Huguenots—perhaps you've had those in school. Anyway, they were fine people. And Jeannette's father was well educated and a gentleman. It isn't a bit worse to sell fish than it is to sit all day in a bank. I'drathersell fish, myself.... Particularly, if I could do the catching."
"You'd better not let mother hear you," said Clara, primly. "Wearen't allowed to say anything about Jeannette's people."
"I'm sure we don'twantto," said Pearl, virtuously.
"Well," returned Allen, "my grandmother says that the Duvals began being an old family long before the Huntingtons did—that's all I know about it; but my grandmother never tells fibs, and she knew the Duvals. The rest of us don't. Hurry up and read your letter, Jeannette. We're all going to the park to feed the animals—which one shall we feedyouto?"
Jeanne laughed. Allen had hoped that she would. It was a nice laugh, quite different from Harold's teasing one.
At the park, Jeanne had another embarrassing moment when Clara maliciously pointed out the tree that Jeanne had climbed; but Allen had pretended not to hear. Harold, who had carried an umbrella because Pearl had insisted, slashed the shrubbery with it and used it to prod the animals. He annoyed the rabbits, tormented the parrots, the sea lion, and finally the monkeys.
"Quit it," said Allen.
"You're a sissy," retorted Harold, unpleasantly.
"No, I'm not.Mendon't torment animals."
"Haroldalwaysdoes," said Pearl.
"It's hard enough to live in a cage," said Jeanne, "without being poked. There! Mr. Monkey has torn your umbrella."
"Little brute!" snarled Harold, aiming a deadly thrust at the small offender. "I'll teach you—"
Allen wrenched the umbrella from his angry cousin. "Letmecarry it," said he. "There's a guard coming and you might get into trouble."
Allen's visit lasted for only five days. Jeanne was sorry that he couldn't stay for five years.Herespected her father. If that had been hisonlyadmirable trait, Jeanne would have liked him.
"Remember," said Allen, at parting, "that I am to act as your guide three years and three months from now."
"I won't forget," promised Jeanne, who had gone to the station with her cousins to see the visitor off. "I have your address and I learned in school how to write a long, long telegram inlessthan ten words. You'll surely get it some nice warm day in June, three and a quarter years from now."
How Jeannette kept this promise, you will discover later.