"There's a great big piece of news in my letter from daddy," confided Jeanne, who had been summoned to sit with her grandfather. He had been alone for longer than he liked. Since his illness, indeed, he seemed to like someone with him; and Jeanne was usually the only person available.
"What kind of news?" he asked.
"Good news, I guess. My stepgrandmother is gone forever. And I'm sort of glad."
"What! Is she dead?"
"Oh, no! I wouldn't be glad ofthat. You see, she had a bad son named John, who ran away from home ever so long ago. He was older than Mollie. His mother and everybody thought he was dead—it was so long since they'd heard anything from him. But he wasn't. He wasworking. They never guessed he'd do that. He hadn't any children, but he had a real good wife—a verysavingone. After she died he didn't have anybody, so he thought of his poor old mother—"
"About time, I should think."
"Yes,wasn'tit? Well, he went to Bancroft to hunt for his mother, and he's taken her to St. Louis to live. He gave Mollie some money for clothes and quilts and things; but it won't do a mite of good."
"Why not?"
"Mollie would be too lazy to spend it; or to take care of the things if she had them. Her mother spent a great deal for medicine for her rheumatism; but Mollie just bought things to eat—if she boughtanything. She loved to sit outside the door, all sort of soft and lazy, with the wind blowing her pale red hair about her soft, white face; and a baby in her lap. I can just see her, this very minute."
"I can't see," said Mr. Huntington, testily, "why your father ever married that woman."
"Hedidn't," said Jeanne. "She marriedhim—Barney Turcott said so. Daddy had nursed my mother through a terrible sickness—Ithinkit was typhoid, he said—and in spite of everything he could do, she died. Afterwards he was almost crazy about it—about losing her. He couldn't think of anything else. And while he was like that,hehad a fever and was sick for a long, long time. Before he was really well, he was married to Mollie. Barney said the Shannons took ad—adventures—no, that isn't it—"
"Advantage."
"Yes, that's it. Advantage of him. They thought, because his clothes were good, that he had money. But they took very good care of me at first, Barney said. But Mollie kept getting lazier and lazier, and father kept getting stronger and healthier. But the better he got, the more discouraged he was about having Mollie and all those children and not enough money. You see, he wasn'treallywell until after they were living on the dock—Barney said the fresh air was all that saved him, and that now he's a different man. Mollie's cooking is enough to discourage anybody; but Barney says: 'By gum! He stuck by her like a man.'"
"My child! You mustn't quote Barney quite so literally. Surely, he didn't say all that toyou?"
"No. Barney never talks to anybody but men, he's so bashful. He was telling another man why he liked my father. They were reeling a net."
"Where were you?"
"Behind them, peeling potatoes. I didn't knowthenthat it wasn't polite to listen."
"You poor little savage."
"I don't mind," assured Jeanne, "whenyoucall me a savage; but when Harold does, Ifeellike one."
Jeanne had been warned never to mention her mother in her grandfather's presence; and she had meant not to. But by this time, you have surely guessed that Jeanne, with no one else to whom she could talk freely, was apt to unbottle herself, as it were, whenever she found her grandfather in a listening mood. She was naturally a good deal of a chatterbox; but, like many another little chatterbox, preferred a sympathetic listener. Sometimes, as just now, she spoke of her mother without remembering that she was a forbidden subject. But now, some of the questions that she had been longing to ask, thronged to her lips. Her grandfather was so very gentle with her—Oh, if she only dared!
"Whatareyou thinking about?" asked Mr. Huntington, after a long silence. "That is a very valuable picture and you are looking a hole right through it."
"I was wondering," said Jeanne, touching her grandfather's hand, timidly, "if you wouldn't be willing to tell me something about my mother. Nobody ever has. What she was like when she was little, I mean. Whenshewas just thirteen and a half. Did she ever look even a tiny little scrap likeme?"
"Yes," replied her grandfather, quite calmly, "youarelike her. Not so much in looks as in other ways. You are darker and your bones are smaller, I think; but you move and speak like her, sometimes; and you, too, are bright and quick. And some part of your faceislike hers; but I don't know whether it's your brow or your chin. Now you may clean my glasses for me and hunt up my book; I think James must have moved it. It's time you were changing your dress for dinner."
After that, Jeanne learned a number of things about her mother. That she had loved flowers when she was just a tiny baby, that pink was her favorite color. That she had liked cats and peppermint and people. That she was very impulsive, often doing the deed first, the thinking afterwards. And yes, her impulses had almost always been kind. Once (Jeanne's grandfather so far forgot his grievance against his only daughter as to chuckle softly at the remembrance of the childish prank) she had felt so sorry for a hungry tramp that the cook had turned away, that the moment cook's back was turned Bessie had, at the risk of being severely burned, pulled a huge crock of baked beans from the oven, wrapped a thick towel about it, slipped outside, and thrust it upon the tramp. The tramphadbeen burned; and they had had to send for a policeman, in order to get his bad language off the premises.
Jeanne had heard this story the night that she had had her dinner with her grandfather. She was supposed to be eating in the breakfast-room with her cousins; but when Maggie had cleared Mr. Huntington's little table, that evening, preparatory to bringing in his tray, Jeanne had said: "Bring enough for me, too, Maggie. I'm going to stay right here. You'll let me, won't you, grand-daddy?"
"I'llinviteyou," was the response. "I don't know why I didn't think of doing it long ago."
You see, whenever the Huntingtons entertained at dinner, as they frequently did, the children were banished to the breakfast-room. Between Pearl's snippishness, Clara's snubbing, and Harold's teasing, these were usually unhappy occasions for Jeanne. And generally the three young Huntingtons quarreled with one another. Besides, with no elders to restrain him, Harold was decidedly rude and "grabby."
"I think," said Jeanne, after one particularly uproarious meal during which Harold had plastered Pearl's face with mashed potato and poured water down Jeanne's back, "that I've learned more good manners from Harold than from anybody else—his are so very bad that it makes me want nice ones."
After the meal with her grandfather was finished, he showed her where to find an old photograph album, hidden behind the books in his bookcase.
"There," said he, opening it at a page containing four small pictures. "This is your mother when she was six months old. She was three or four years old in this next one, and here is one at the age of twelve. She was seventeen when this last one was taken."
"Is this all there are?" asked Jeanne, who had studied the four little pictures earnestly. "Of her, I mean?"
"Yes, only those four. Young people didn't have cameras in those days, you know."
"Keep the place for me," said Jeanne, returning the book to her grandfather's knee. "I'll be back in just a second."
She returned very quickly with the miniature of Elizabeth Huntington Duval that she had been longing to show to her grandfather.
"My father had a friend who was an artist," said Jeanne, breathlessly. "He painted that soon after they were married. For apresent, father said. Wasn't it a nice one?"
"Why, I'm delighted to see this, my dear," said her grandfather, gazing eagerly at the lovely face. "It's by far the best picture of Bessie I've ever seen. It is very like her and her face is full of happiness—I'm very glad of that. I had no idea of its existence. I am very glad indeed that you thought of showing it to me."
"So am I," said Jeanne. "You're always so good to me that I'm glad I could giveyoua pleasure for once."
"You must take very good care of this," said Mr. Huntington. "It's a very fine miniature."
"I always do," returned Jeanne. "I thought it was ever so good of my father to give it to me—the only one he had."
"It was, indeed," said Mr. Huntington, appreciatively. "Now, put it away, my dear, and keep it safe."
In the dining-room, to which the guests had just been ushered by James in his very grandest manner, a lady had leaned forward to say, gushingly, to her hostess:
"What alovelychild your youngest daughter is, Mrs. Huntington. I saw her at dancing school last week and simply fell in love with her. So graceful andsucha charming face. She came in with your son."
"Claraisa lovely child," returned Mrs. Huntington, complacently.
"I think," said the guest, "my little son said that her name was Jeannette."
"That," said Mrs. Huntington, coldly (people were always singing that wretched child's praises), "was merely my husband's niece, who has been placed in our care for a short time. That time, I am happy to say, is almost half over. She is a great trial. Fortunately,mychildren have been too well brought up to be influenced by her incomprehensible behavior; her hoidenish manners."
At this moment there came the sound of a sudden crash, followed by shrieks faintly audible in the dining-room. Although Mrs. Huntington guessed that Harold had at last succeeded in upsetting the breakfast-room table; and that either Pearl or Clara had been burned with the resultant flood of soup, she turned, without blinking an eyelash, to the guest of honor on her right to speak politely of the weather.
It was Jeanne who rushed to the breakfast-room to find the table overturned and all three of her cousins gazing with consternation at a wide scalded area on Clara's white wrist. It was Jeanne, too, who remembered that lard and cornstarch would stop the pain. Also, it was Jeanne whom Mrs. Huntington afterwards blamed for the accident. Her bad example, her wicked influence was simply ruining Harold's disposition.
"Sure," said Maggie, telling Bridget about it later, "that lad wasbornwith a ruined disposition. As for Miss Jeannette, there's more of a mother's kindness in one touch of that little tyke's hand than there is in Mrs. H.'s whole body. And think of her knowing enough to use lard and cornstarch. The doctor said she did exactly the right thing."
Jeanne had liked her first teacher, Miss Wardell, very much indeed. And pretty Miss Wardell had been very fond of Jeannette; she knew that the child was shy, and the considerate young woman managed frequently to shield her from embarrassment, and to help her over the rough places.
Miss Turner was different. She said that Jeannette made her nervous. It is possible that the other thirty-nine pupils helped; but it was Jeanne whom she blamed for her shattered nerves. It is certain that Miss Turner made Jeanne nervous. No matter how well she knew her lesson, shecouldn'trecite it to Miss Turner. A chatterbox, with the right sort of listener, Jeanne was stricken dumb the moment Miss Turner's attention was focused upon her.
"What averybad card!" said Mrs. Huntington, at the end of May. "It is even worse than it was last month. Pearl and Clara had excellent cards and Harold had higher marks in two of his studies than you have. You are a very ungrateful child. You don't appreciate the advantages we are giving you. When school is out, I shall engage Miss Turner to tutor you through the summer."
"Horrors!" thought Jeanne.
"Miss Turner tutored Ethel Bailey all last summer," continued Mrs. Huntington. "Mrs. Bailey says that Ethel now receives excellent marks."
"From MissTurner," said Jeanne, shrewdly. "Ethel doesn't know a thing about her lessons. She's the stupidest girl in our grade. Iknowmine, but it's hard to recite. If Imusthave a tutor, couldn't I have Miss Wardell?—Ilikedher and she'd be glad of the extra money because she takes care of her mother. Oh,pleaselet me have Miss Wardell."
"No," returned Mrs. Huntington, firmly, "Miss Turner will know best what is needed for your grade. You are learningnothing. Only forty in history."
"Well," sighed Jeanne, "I'm not surprised. I said that Benedict Arnold wrote 'The Star-Spangled Banner' and that Lafayette painted Gilbert Stuart's portrait of Washington. Iknewbetter, but oh, dear! When Miss Turner looks me in the eye and asks a question, my poor frightened tongue always says the wrong thing."
"She'd freeze a lamp-post," said Harold, for once agreeing with his cousin. "I had her last year. Don't look at her eyes—look at her belt-buckle when you recite."
"Ihaveto look at her eyes," sighed Jeanne, miserably. "One is yellow, the other is black. Ihateto look at them, but I always have to."
"I know," agreed Harold. "I had ten months of those eyes myself. I hope you'll never meet a snake. You'd be so fascinated that you couldn't run."
"Miss Turner's eyes have nothing to do with the question," said Mrs. Huntington. "Mrs. Bailey said she made an excellent tutor, so I shall certainly engage her."
"Perhaps," suggested Harold, consolingly, when his mother had left the room, "she won't be able to come. Shemaywant a vacation."
"Oh, Ihopeso."
"So do I," said Harold, making a face. "You see, my marks in Latin are about as bad as they make 'em. Itmayoccur to mother to let Miss Turner use up her spare time onme. Wow!"
"Anyhow," said Jeanne, "I'm much obliged to you for trying to help."
All too soon it was June. School was out and Jeanne hadn't passed in a single study. Even her deportment had received a very low mark. Miss Turner, contrary to Jeanne's fervent hope, had gladly accepted the position Mrs. Huntington had offered her. Mrs. Huntington broke the discouraging news at the breakfast table.
"Your lessons will begin at nine o'clock next Monday, Jeannette," said she, firmly believing that she was doing the right thing by a strangely backward student. "With only one pupil, Miss Turner will be able to give all her attention to you."
Again Harold agreed with his cousin. "I'm sorry for you," said he. "All of Miss Turner's attention is more than any one human pupil could stand."
"Mother," suggested Clara, not without malice, "why don't you let Miss Turner help Harold withhislessons—ouch! you beast! stop pinching me."
"Why, that," approved Mrs. Huntington, "is averygood idea. I'm glad you mentioned it. Still, you are going to your grandmother's so soon—I fear Harold's Latin will have to be postponed."
So great was Harold's relief that he collapsed in his chair.
The summer was to prove a dreary one. Besides a daily dose of Miss Turner, Jeanne was worried, because, for six weeks, there had been no letter from her father. Previously, he had written at least twice a month and, from time to time, had sent her money; that she might have a little that was all her own. Indeed, Mr. Duval, who had no lack of pride, had every intention of repaying the Huntingtons as soon as he could for whatever they had expended for his daughter. But that would take time, of course.
At any rate, Jeanne was well provided with pocket money. To be sure, Pearl, who loved to order expensive concoctions with queer names at soda-water fountains, usually borrowed the money, sometimes forgetting to return it. Also, thus adding insult to injury, Pearl always invited her own friends to partake of these delicacies without inviting Jeanne, even though that wistful small person were at the very door of the ice-cream parlor. Pearl, several years older than her cousin and much taller, didn't wantchildrentagging along.
But now, for six weeks, there had been no letter from her father and no money. She didn't care about the money. When you are goinghomein three years, eleven months, and fourteen days, you are so afraid that you won't have enough money for your ticket when the time comes that yousave! Jeanne had saved her money whenever she could, and, with the thrift that she had perhaps inherited from some remote French ancestor, had hidden it in the fat pincushion of the work-box that Mrs. Huntington had given her for Christmas. She had hidden it so neatly, too, that no one would ever suspect that dollar bills had gradually replaced the sawdust. Only her grandfather knew about the money, and he had promised not to tell.
But after Jeanne had intrusted him with the secret, and when James was shaving the old gentleman, Mr. Huntington had suddenly chuckled.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I am thinking about my youngest grand-child," explained his master. "She is the wisest little monkey I ever knew. She has enough common sense for a whole family."
"She has that," agreed James. "Mrs. Huntington, sir, wouldn't dast try to teach cook how to make a new pie, cook's that set in her own conceit, much less do any cooking herself; but that there little black-eyed thing comes in last month with a new dessert that she'd learned in her Domestic Science, and if cook didn't sit right down like a lamb and let her make it. What's more, Bridget asked for the rule and has made it herself every Sunday since. Cook says many a married lady is less handy than that small girl. She's got brains—"
"That'll do, James. I like your enthusiasm, but not when you gesticulate with that razor—I can't spare any of my features. But I agree with you about the child. She is thoughtful beyond her years."
The postman came and came and came, and still there was no letter. Old Captain, to be sure, had written oftener than usual and, when one came to think about it, had said a great deal less. She knew from him that spring had come to the Cinder Pond, that the going-to-bed swallows had returned, that the pink-tipped clover had blossomed, that the mountain-ash tree that had somehow planted itself on the dock promised an unusual crop of berries, that the herring were unusually large and abundant but whitefish rather scarce. Also the lake was as blue as ever—she had asked about that—and Barney had a boil on his neck. But not a word about her father or Mollie or the children. Usually there had been some new piece of inquisitiveness on Sammy's part for the Captain to write about; for Sammy was certainly an inquisitive youngster if there ever was one; but even news of Sammy seemed strangely lacking. And he had forgotten twice to answer Jeanne's question about Annie's clothes; if the little ready-made dress that Jeanne had sent for Christmas was still wearable or had she outgrown it.
Then came very warm weather, and still no real news of her relatives and no letter from her father. Once, he and Barney had taken rather a long cruise to the north shore. Perhaps he had gone again; with Dan McGraw, for instance, who was always cruising about for fish, for berries, or for wreckage. Dan had often invited her father to go. Still, it did seem as if he would have mentioned that he was going; unless, indeed, he had gone on very short notice. Or perhaps—and that proved a most distressing thought—perhaps she had been gone so long that he was beginning to forget her. Perhaps Michael, to whom he had been giving nightly lessons, had taken her place in her father's affections. Indeed, Harold had once assured her that fathersalwaysliked their sons better than their daughters. Perhaps it was so, for Uncle Charles, who paid no attention whatever to Pearl and Clara, sometimes talked to Harold.
As before, the young Huntingtons had gone to their seashore grandmother. Jeannette, of course, had to remain within reach of Miss Turner, who now gave her better marks, in spite of the fact that her recitations were no more brilliant and even less comfortable than they had been in school.
Her grandfather, who seldom interfered in any way with Mrs. Huntington's plans, had objected to Miss Turner.
"She may be an excellent teacher for ordinary children," said he, "but she isn't Jeannette's kind, and she isn't pleasant."
"She is not unpleasant tome," returned unmoved Aunt Agatha, whose opinions were exceedingly difficult to change. "At any rate, it is too late to discuss the matter. I have engaged her for the summer, at a definite salary. Next summer, if it seems best, we can make some different arrangement."
"Then I suppose we'll have to stand it," sighed Mr. Huntington, "but it seems decidedly unfortunate that when ninety-nine school-ma'ams out of a hundred havesomemeasure of attractiveness, you should have chosen the hundredth."
Perhaps Mr. Huntington might have made some further effort toward dislodging Miss Turner; but shortly after the foregoing conversation, he was again taken ill. For more than a week he had been kept in bed and James had said something to the cook about "a slight stroke."
But to Jeanne's great relief this illness was of shorter duration than the preceding one. He was up again; and spending his waking hours in a wheeled chair under the big elm in the garden. Jeanne, however, could see that he was not so well. His eyes had lost some of their keenness, and often the word that he wanted would not come. He seemed quite a good many years older; and not nearly so vigorous as he had been before this new illness. Jeanne hovered over him anxiously.
Sometimes Mrs. Huntington told visitors that she feared that her father-in-law's faculties were becoming sadly impaired.
"He seems to dislike me," she added, plaintively, when she mentioned "impaired faculties" to her husband. James overheard this. Indeed, James wasalwaysoverhearing things not meant for his too-receptive ears, because he was so much a part of the furniture that no one ever remembered that he was in the room or gave him credit for being human. James told Bridget about it.
"The old gentleman," said he, "nor anybody else doesn't need impaired faculties to dislikethatlady. If she's got any real feelings inside her they're cased up in asbestos, like the pipes to the furnace. They never comes out. She's a human icicle, she is. I declare, if she'd get real mad just once and sling the soup tureen at me, I'd take the scalding gladly and say, 'Thank you kindly, ma'am; 'tis a pleasure to see you thawing, just for once.'"
James, you have noticed, was much more human in the kitchen than he was in the dining-room. Mrs. Huntington, who had lived under the same roof with him for many years, would certainly have been surprised if she had heard him, for in her presence James was like a talking doll, in that he had just two set speeches. They were, "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am."
"She's padded with her own conceit," said Bridget, "and there's a cast-iron crust outside that. She shows no affection for her own children, let alone that motherless lamb."
"If she ever swallowed her pride," said Maggie, "'twould choke her."
"Then I hope she does it," said James, going meekly to the front of the house to say "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am" to his frigid mistress. For if James were more talkative in the kitchen than he was in the dining-room he was also much braver.
Then, out of what was seemingly a clear sky, came a thunderbolt. Jeanne's self-satisfied Aunt Agatha, at least, had noticed no gathering clouds; and for that reason, perhaps, was the harder hit. Something happened. Something that no one had ever dreamedcouldhappen in so well-ordered a house as Mrs. Huntington's.
There is no doubt that the impaired faculties of old Mr. Huntington had a great deal to do with it. Possibly the "impaired faculties" combined with his ever-increasing dislike for his daughter-in-law had even more to do with it. Anyway, the astounding thing, for which Mrs. Huntington was never afterwards able to forgive "that wretched child from Bancroft," happened; but, as you shall see, it wasn't exactly Jeanne's fault. She merely obeyed her grandfather. It was not until the deed was done that she began to realize its unfairness to Mrs. Huntington, to whom Jeanne was not ungrateful.
This is how it happened. Jeanne, who had never reallycomplainedin her letters to her father, in her conversations with her grandfather, or in fact to anybody; Jeanne, who had borne every trial bravely and even cheerfully, had, for three days, burst into tears every afternoon at precisely four o'clock. You see, this was the time when the postman made his final visit for the day. As the lonely little girl usually spent her afternoons in the dismal garden with her grandfather, he had witnessed all three of these surprising outbursts. She hadn't said a word. She had merely turned from the letters that James had laid on the table, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. For two days her grandfather had not seemed to notice. Nowadays, hedidn'tnotice a great deal. On the first occasion of her weeping, he had even fallen into a doze, while Jeanne, her head on the littered table, had cried all the tears that hadalmostcome during the preceding weeks.
The third afternoon, her grandfather appeared brighter than he had for days. He noticed, while she watched for the postman, that the child's face seemed white and strained, that there were dark rings about her eyes. Again there was no letter from her father. Again she broke down and sobbed.
"Tell me about it," said he, with a trembling hand on Jeanne's heaving shoulder.
As soon as Jeanne was able to speak at all, she poured it all out, in breathless sentences mixed with sobs. She was lonely, she wanted a letter from her father, she wanted her father himself, she wanted the children, she wanted the lake, she wanted to go home—she had wanted to go home every minute since—well,almostevery minute since the moment of her arrival. She hated Miss Turner, she hated to practice scales, she hated the hot weather, she was homesick, she wanted Mollie tosmileat her—Mollie was always good to her. And oh, she wanted to cuddle Patsy.
"He—he'llgrow up," wailed Jeanne. "He won't be a baby if I wait three—three years, or wu—one muh—month less than three years. I—I wu—wu—want to go home."
"Why, bless my soul!" said her surprised grandfather; with a sudden brightening of his faded eyes. "There's no good reason, my dear, why you shouldn't go home for a visit. I didn't realize, I didn't guess—"
"Aunt Agatha never would let me," said Jeanne, hopelessly. "I've asked her twice since school was out. It's so hot and I'm so worried about daddy. I thought if I could go for just a little while—but she says it costs too much money—that I mustn't eventhinkof such a thing."
"Oh, she did, did she?"
Jeanne was startled then by the look that came into her grandfather's sunken eyes. It was a strange look; a malevolent look; a look full of malice. Except for the first few weeks of her residence with her grandfather his eyes had always seemedkind. Now they glittered and his entire face settled into strange, new lines. It had become cruel.
"Call James!" he said.
Jeanne jumped with surprise at the sharpness of his voice. Faithful James, who was snoring on the hat-rack—Mrs. Huntington being out for the afternoon and the hat-rack seat being wide and comfortable—hurried to his master.
"James," said Mr. Huntington, leaning forward in his chair, "not a word of this to anybody—do you promise!"
"Yes, sir," agreed James, accustomed to blind obedience.
"You are to find out what time the through train leaves for Chicago. Tonight's train, I mean. Be ready to go to the station at that time. You are to buy a ticket from here to Bancroft, Michigan—UpperMichigan—for my granddaughter. Reserve the necessary berths—she will have two nights on the sleeper. You will find money in the left-hand drawer of my dresser. If it isn't enough, you will lend me some—she will need something extra for meals and so forth. And remember, not a word to anybody. If necessary, go outside to telephone about the train."
"Very well, sir," said James. "I understand, sir—and by Jinks! I'mwithyou!"
"Good. Now, Jeannette, as soon as we know what time that train goes—"
"Idoknow," said Jeanne. "Nine-thirty, P.M. I have that time-card—the one that Allen Rossiter gave me—with the trains marked right through to Bancroft. But James had better make sure that the time hasn't been changed. And please, couldn't he send a telegram to Allen, in Chicago, to meet me! I have his address."
"Of course," returned Mr. Huntington. "I had forgotten that. Allen will be of great assistance. Now, go very quietly to your room. You are not to say good-by to anybody. No one but James is to know that you are going. Put on something fit to travel in and pack as many useful clothes as your suitcase will hold—things that you can wear in Bancroft. Have your hat and gloves where you can find them quickly and take your money with you. James will take care of everything else. Nowgo."
When Mr. Huntington said "Nowgo," people usually went. Jeannewantedto throw her arms about her grandfather's neck, and say a thousand thank-yous, but plainly this was not the time.
She flew to her room. Fortunately the house was practically deserted, for Jeanne was too excited to remember to be quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Huntington, however, had left at two o'clock for a long motoring trip to the country, and would not be home until midnight. It was Bridget's afternoon out and Maggie was busy in the kitchen.
"All the things Idon'twant," said she, opening her closet door, "I'll hang onthisside. I shan't need any party clothes for the Cinder Pond. Nor any white shoes."
Of course the suitcase wouldn't hold everything; no suitcase ever does. Jeanne's selection was really quite wonderful. She would have liked to buy presents for all the children, but there was no time for that. Besides, to the Cinder Pond child, the city streets had always been terrifying. She had never visited the shopping district alone. But there was a cake of "smelly" white soap to take to Sammy and an outgrown linen dress to cut down for Annie, and perhaps Allen would find her something in Chicago for the others. She hoped Sammy wouldn't eat the soap.
The suitcase packed, Jeanne, who was naturally orderly, folded her discarded garments neatly away in the dresser drawers. No one would have guessed that an excited traveler had just packed a good portion of her wardrobe in that perfectly neat room. Certainly not Maggie, who looked in to tell her that her dinner was ready in the breakfast-room.
"And not a soul here to eat it but you," added Maggie.
"Couldn't I have it with my grandfather?"
"He said not," returned Maggie. "I was setting it in there, but he said he wanted to eat by himself tonight. He seems different—better, maybe. Sick folks, they say,doget a bit short like when they're on the mend."
At eight o 'clock, Jeanne tapped at her grandfather's door. There was no response. She opened the door very quietly and went inside. Although he usually sat up until nine, Mr. Huntington was in bed and apparently asleep.
When you don't wish to say good-by to a person that you love very much and possibly never expect to see again, perhaps it is wiser to pretend that you are asleep. Jeanne left the softest and lightest of kisses on the wrinkled hand outside the cover, and then tiptoed to the hall to find James. Her only other farewell had been given to the mirror-child in her closet door.
"Ready, Miss Jeanne? Very well, Miss. I'll get your suitcase. We'd better be starting. It's a good way to the station and there's quite a bit to be done there. You can sit in a snug corner behind a newspaper, while I buy your tickets and all."
"I'll carry this," said Jeanne, who had a large square package under her arm. "It's my work-box. I shall need that. I expect to sew a lot in Bancroft, but it wouldn't go into my suitcase. And, James. I left two of my newest handkerchiefs on my dresser. Tomorrow, will you please give one of them to Maggie, the other to Bridget? I tried to find something for you; but there wasn't a thing that would do."
"Well," returned James, "it isn't likely I'll forget you, and the madam will be giving me cause to remember you by tomorrow."
When Jeanne was aboard the train and James, with a great big lump in his throat, had gulped out: "Good-by, Miss, and a pleasant journey to you," she yielded to the conductor as much as he wanted of her long yellow ticket.
Unconsciously she imitated what she called "Aunt Agatha's carriage manner." When Mrs. Huntington rode in any sort of a vehicle, she always sat stiffly upright, presenting a most imposing exterior. Jeanne was a good many sizes smaller than Aunt Agatha, but she, too, sat so very primly that no stranger would havethoughtof chucking her under the chin and saying: "Hello, little girl, where areyougoing all by yourself?" Certainly no one had ever ventured to "chuck" Aunt Agatha.
And then, remembering her other experience in a sleeper, Jeannette set about her preparations for bed, as sedately as any seasoned traveler.
She did one unusual thing, however. Something that Aunt Agatha hadneverdone. As soon as the curtains had fallen about her, she drew from the top of her stocking a very small pasteboard box. The cover was dotted with small pin pricks.
"I'm afraid," said Jeanne, eying this object, doubtfully, "this car is pretty warm. Maybe I'd better raise the cover just a little."
She slept from eleven to four. Having no watch, she felt obliged, after that, to keep one drowsy eye on the scenery. She hoped she should be able to recognize Chicago when she saw it. Anyway, there was plenty of time, since she was to have breakfast on the train. Nobody seemed to be stirring. Butsomethinghad stirred. When Jeanne looked into the little box on the window sill it was empty.
Making as little noise as possible, Jeanne searched every inch of her bed, her curtains, her clothes. She even looked inside her shoes.
"Oh, Bayard Taylor!" she breathed, "Itrustedyou."
And then, Jeanne was seized by a horrible thought. "Goodness!" she gasped. "Suppose he's in somebody else's bed—they'd die of fright!"
As soon as the other passengers began to stir, Jeanne hurriedly dressed herself. Then she pressed the bell-button in her berth.
"Mr. Porter," said she, "I wish you would please beverycareful when you make this bed. I have lost something—youmustn'tstep on it."
"Yore watch, Miss? Yore pocketbook?" asked the solicitous porter.
"No," returned Jeanne, a bit sheepishly, "just my pet snail."
Happily, not very much later, the wandering snail was safely rescued from under the opposite berth.
"Is this yerebugwhat you-all done lost?" asked the porter, grinning from ear to ear as he restored Jeanne's property. "Well, I declare to goodness, I nevah did see no such pet as that befoh, in all mah born days."
"I hope," said Jeanne, anxiously, "that I can buy a tiny scrap of lettuce leaf for his breakfast. I didn't have a chance to bring anything."
Not only Allen, but Allen's mother met the young traveler when she stepped from the train in Chicago. Such a bright, attractive mother, with such a nice, mother-y smile. No wonder Allen was a pleasant boy with gentle manners. It must be pretty nice, thought Jeanne, to live with a mother like that.
"We're going to take you home with us," said Mrs. Rossiter. "We brought the car so we can take your suitcase right along with us. We'll have lunch at home, with Allen's grandmother. She is very anxious to see you; she used to know your father's people, you know. They were neighbors once, in Philadelphia."
"I'll like that," said Jeanne.
"After lunch, we'll show you a little bit of Chicago—Lincoln Park, I think—and then we'll give you some dinner and put you on your train. You needn't worry about anything. Our young railroad man, here, has it all fixed up for you."
"That's lovely," said Jeanne, gratefully.
"Any adventures along the way?" asked Allen, who had carried the suitcase and the work-box, too, all the way to the automobile.
"Only one," said Jeanne. "I lost Bayard Taylor. He was a great American traveler, you know. We had him in school—"
"Was it a book?" asked Mrs. Rossiter. "Perhaps we can inquire—"
"I found him again," laughed Jeanne. "He was my pet snail."
"Where is he now?" asked Allen.
"In my stocking," confessed Jeanne. "Aunt Agatha had my jacket pockets sewed up so they wouldn't get bulgy. You see, Iwanteda kitten or a baby or a puppy oranykind of a pet; but Aunt Agatha doesn't like pets—her own children never had any. But I justhadto have something. And Bayard Taylor is it. A snail is a lovely pet. He is so small that nobody notices him. He doesn't need much to eat and he's so easy to carry around."
"I hope he doesn't do any traveling while he'sinyour stocking," laughed Mrs. Rossiter.
"He's in his little box," said Jeanne. "At my grandfather's I made a small yard for him under one of the evergreens with toothpicks stuck all around in the clay. He liked that and the little clay house I built."
"How do you know he did?" asked Allen. "He couldn't purr or wag his tail."
"He stuck up his horns and kept his appetite."
The Rossiters' house was homelike. Even the furniture wore a friendly look. An affectionate cat rubbed against Jeanne's stockings and an old brown spaniel trustfully rested his nose upon her knee. Jeanne liked them both, but shelovedthe big old grandmother, because she had so many pleasant memories of Jeanne's own grandmother.
"The finest little lady I ever knew," said she. "An aristocrat to the very tip of her fingers. And your grandfather Duval was another. Ever so far back, their people were Huguenots. Although they lost their estates, and their descendants were never particularly prosperous in business, they were always refined, educated people. Your father met your mother when she was visiting in Philadelphia. It was a case of love at first sight and your mother's hostess, a very sentimental woman she was, my dear, rather helped the matter along. They were married inside of three weeks; and you were born a year later in your grandmother's house in Philadelphia. She died very shortly after that and some business opening took your father to Jackson, Michigan. I believe he and your mother settled there. Her own people had not forgiven her hasty marriage; but I assure you, my dear, your young cousins have no reason to be ashamed of you. Your blood isquiteas good as theirs."
Her tone implied that it wasbetter.
"That's enough past history, granny," said Allen. "I want to show her my stamp collection, my coins, my printing press, and my wireless station on the roof."
Jeanne thoroughly enjoyed the noon meal—she hadn't supposed that nice personscouldbe so jolly and informal at the table. The ride through the park, too, was delightful.
"It's lovely," she said, "to have this nice ride. The wind is blowing all the whirligigs out of my head."
"I suppose you had lots of rides in the Huntingtons' new car—Allen says they have one."
"Not so very many. It was always closed to keep the dust out and Aunt Agatha liked to sit alone on the back seat. Sometimes she took Pearl or Clara. Never more than one at a time. She said it looked common to fill the car up with children. But once in a while, when I had to go to the dentist or have something tried on, I had a chance to ride."
"Is there anything you'd especially like to see?" asked Allen.
"Yes," said Jeanne, promptly. "I'd like a good look at Lake Michigan."
"That's easy," said Allen. "You shall havetwolooks."
But when they reached a point from which Lake Michigan was plainly visible, Jeanne was disappointed. "Are you sure," she asked, "that that's it?"
"Why, yes," smiled Mrs. Rossiter. "What's wrong with it?"
"I thought," said Jeanne, "that all lakes were blue. This one is brown."
"Itisbrown, today," said Mrs. Rossiter. "Sometimes it has more color; but never that intense blue that you have up north. We once took a lake trip on one of the big steamers and I saw your blue lake then."
"Oh, this is anicelake," said Jeanne, anxious to be polite, "but, of course, I'm more used to my own."
The Rossiters liked their visitor and urged her to remain longer; but Jeanne very firmly declined.
"I'd love to," she said. "And I would, if I were goingawayfrom home. But I'm just counting the minutes. It would be just like Patsy to grow anotherinchwhile I'm on the train tonight."
"I know just how you feel," assured Mrs. Rossiter. "But perhaps, when you are on your way back, you'll be able to stay longer."
"If she doesn't get back by the time she's twenty," laughed Allen, "I'm going after her. Just remember, Jeanne, I want to be on hand when you're ready to decide about that husband. I should hate to have that iceman get ahead of me."
"All right," agreed Jeanne, cheerfully. "Just hunt me up about six years from now. If I have time to bother with any husbands at all, I think, maybe, I'd rather have you around than the iceman."
"Be sure," said Mrs. Rossiter, at parting, "to let us know when you're starting back this way."
"I will," promised Jeanne. "I've had a lovely time. Good-by, everybody, and thank yousomuch."
Jeanne slept soundly that night and Bayard Taylor did no extra traveling, because Allen had made a tiny cage for him from a small wooden box, with bars of very fine wire.
At Negaunee, Jeanne succeeded in lugging all her belongings safely, if not comfortably, across the platform, from one train to the other.
"Is this the train to Bancroft?" she asked.
"It is," said the brakeman, helping her aboard.
The last half-hour of the journey seemed a year long. She had had no breakfast and she was sure that Patsy had gotten up earlier than usual that morning just on purpose togrow. Never was train so slow, never had fourteen miles seemed so many. The other passengers looked as if they had settled down and meant to stay where they were forweeks; but Jeanne was much too excited to do any settling. She wanted to get off and push. But at last a beautiful voice (that is, it sounded like a beautiful voice to the impatient little traveler) shouted: "All off for Bancroft."
In spite of her weighty belongings, the first passenger off that train was Jeannette Huntington Duval. There was a parcel-room in the station at Bancroft. Jeanne checked her suitcase—Allen had told her how to do that—put her check in her other stocking for safe keeping, and then, burdened only with her work-box, set out to surprise the Duvals. Her father, she was sure, would be willing to go for the suitcase that evening. He'd surely be home by now, even if Dan McGraw had taken him for alongtrip. No doubt she had passed his letter on the way. And how those children would come whooping down the dock at sight of her! The sky was blue and all Jeanne's thoughts were happy ones.
The walk was long, but at last Jeanne reached the blossoming bank, against which Old Captain's freight car rested. Nobody home at Old Captain's; but it was much too pleasant a day for a fisherman to stay ashore. One of his nets, however, hung over his queer house and his old shoes were beside his bed—the biggest, broadest shoes in all Bancroft; there was no mistakingthose.
Half a dozen steps down the grassy dock and Jeanne stood stock-still. The lake!There, all big and clear and blue. And just the same—herlake!
A great big lump in her throat and suddenly the lake became so misty that she couldn't see it.
"What a goose-y thing to do," said surprised Jeanne, wiping away the fog; "when I'mgladall the way to my heels. I didn't believe folks really cried for joy; but I guess they do. I wonder where those children are. They ought to be catching pollywogs, but they aren't. And here are flowers just asking to be picked—Annie must be getting lazy. Why doesn't somebody see me and comerunning? And why isn't Mollie sitting outside the door in the sun? Why! How queer the house looks—sort of shut up."
By this time, Jeanne was almost at the end of the dock and her heart was beating fast. The housewasshut up; not only that butboardedup, from the outside. It was certainly very strange and disconcerting.
Puzzled Jeanne seated herself on an old keg and reflectively eyed her deserted home.
"They'vemoved," she decided. "They've rented a house somewhere in town so Michael and Sammy can go to school. It's probably more comfortable, but I know the yard isn't half so beautiful. By and by, when I can stop looking at the lake, I'll find something to eat in Old Captain's house. I'm just about starved. I'll have to wait until he comes home to find out about everybody? Iwonderwhy nobody told me."
It was five o'clock when Barney's boat touched at the dock. Old Captain climbed out. Barney followed. Together they picked their way along the crumbling wharf. Something brown—awarmbrown that caught the glow from the afternoon sun—was curled on Captain Blossom's doorstep. When you've traveled for two nights and spent a long day outdoors on a breezy wharf, exploring all the haunts of your childhood, sleep comes easily. There was Jeanne, her head on her elbow, sound asleep.
Barney took one good look at the small, brunette face; and then, as if all the bad dreams he hadeverhad, had gotten after him at once, fled up the steep bank behind Old Captain's car and was gone. The Captain, when he had recognized his sleeping visitor, looked as if he, too, would have been glad to flee.
"So, so," he muttered, helplessly wringing his big hands. "Darned if I—hum, ladies present—dinged if I know what to do."
Suddenly Jeanne sat up and looked at him. Next she had flown at him and had kissed both of his broad red cheeks.
"Well!" she exclaimed. "It'stimeyou were coming home. Where is my father? Where'severybody?"
"Well, you see," said Old Captain, patting her gently, "they ain't—well, they ain't exactlyhere."
"I canseethat," returned Jeanne, exasperated by the Captain's remarkable slowness, "but wherearethey?"
"Well, now, Jeannie girl, maybe your father wrote you about Mis' Shannon's son John takin' her away to St. Louis last spring? Well, he done it."
"Yes?"
"After—well, after a while—Mollie was took sick. You see there was some sort o' reason for that there laziness of hern. There was something wrong with her inside. Her brother John come—I telegraphed him—and had her took to a hospital. Up at St. Mary's—t'other side of town. She's there yet. She ain't a-goin' to come out, they say."
"Oh!" breathed Jeanne, her eyes very big. "Oh,poorMollie!"
"She's just as contented as ever," assured the Captain, whose consoling pats had grown stronger and stronger until now they were so nearlyblows, that Jeanne winced under them. "I'll take you to see her first chance I git; she'll be thar for some time yet!"
"But the children," pleaded Jeanne. "Where are they?"
"Well, they're in St. Louis."
"Oh,no."
"I'm afeared theybe. You see, Mis' Shannon was no good at housekeepin' with that there rheumatism of hern; so, John up and married a real strong young woman to do the work. When he come here to look after Mollie, he took Sammy and Annie and the little 'un back to St. Louis with him."
"And Michael?"
"I'll tell you the rest tomorry," promised the Captain, who had stopped patting Jeanne, to wipe large beads of perspiration from his brow. "I'm a hungry man and I got a heap o' work to do after supper. You got to sleep some'eres, you know. My idee is to knock open the doors and windys of the two best rooms in your old shack out there. This here fish car ain't no real proper place for a lady. It was me nailed them doors up after—hum—me nailed 'emup."
"Afterwhat?" demanded Jeanne.
"After—after breakfast, I think it was," dissembled Old Captain, lamely. "I wisht that mean skunk of a Barney—hum, ladies present—that thereBarney, I mean, was here to help. Now, girl, I'm goin' up town to get somethin' fitten for a lady's supper—"
"I ate all your crackers and all your cheese," confessed Jeanne.
"Glad you did. You can put a chip in the fire now and again to keep her going. I'll start it for you and put the kettle on. Anythin' I can do for you up town?"
"Yes," said Jeanne, "I checked my suitcase at the station. Don'tyoucarry it. Here's a quarter—get some boy to do it."
"Huh!" grunted Old Captain, "thar ain't no boy goin' to carryyoursuitcase. No, siree, not while I'm here to do it. Just let these here potatoes bile while I'm gone."
Jeanne, finding no cloth, spread clean newspapers over the greasy table, scoured two knives and a pair of three-tined forks with clean white sand from the beach, and set out two very thick plates, one cup and a saucer. After that, she washed the teapot and found Old Captain's caddy of strong green tea. Then she picked up a basket of bits of snowy driftwood from the beach—such clean, smooth pieces that it seemed a pity to burn them, yet nothing made a more pleasing fire.
Presently Old Captain returned with Jeanne's suitcase. With him was a breathless boy who had found it difficult to keep up with the Captain's long stride. The boy's basket contained bread, butter, eggs, and a piece of round steak. Also there was a bundle containing a brand-new sheet and pillow-case.
"Them thar's a present foryou," explained Old Captain. "They was somethin' the matter with the towels—hadgluein 'em, I guess. Stiff as a board, anyhow. But your paw left some in his room—"
"Whereismy—"
"Now, I'mcookin'," returned Old Captain, hastily. "WhenI'm cookin', I ain't answerin' no questions. I'maskin''em. You can tell me how you got here and what started ye—I'm dyin' to hear all about it. But you can't ask no questions. And just remember this. I'm darn glad—hum—realglad you come. This here's a lonesome place with no children runnin' 'round; and I'm mighty glad to hear somethin' twitterin' besides them swallows, so just twitter away. First of all, who brung you?"
In spite of her dismay at Mollie's illness, in spite of her keen disappointment regarding the missing children, in spite of her bewilderment and her growing fear concerning her strangely absent father, Jeanne was conscious of a warm glow of happiness. Even ifeverybodyhad been gone, the Cinder Pond, more beautiful than ever, would still have beenhome.
But Old Captain's hearty welcome, and, more than all, the kindliness that seemed to radiate from his broad, ruddy face, seemed to enfold her like a warm, woolly bathrobe. The Captain was rough and uncultured; but you couldn't look at him without knowing that he wasgood.
Supper was a bit late that night. Jeanne, very neat in her brown poplin dress, Old Captain, very comfortable in his faded shirt-sleeves, ate it by lamplight at the Captain's small, square table. Truly an oddly contrasted pair. But in spite of the fact that the Captain's heart was much better than his table manners, Jeanne was able to eat enough fortwosmall girls.
After supper, the Captain lighted a big lantern, collected his tools, and trudged down the cindery road to the Duval corner of the old wharf. Presently Jeanne, who was clearing away after the meal, heard the sound of hammering and the "squawk" of nails being pulled from wood—noises travel far, over water that is quiet. When she had washed and dried the dishes, she followed Old Captain.
"Thought ye'd come, too, did ye! Well, she's all opened up. You'd best take your father's room—for tonight, anyway. It ain't been disturbed since—hum! The blankets is all right, I guess. There's a bolt on the door—better lock yourself in. Few boats ever touches here, but onemightcome. I'd hate like thunder to have ye kidnapped—wouldn't want to lose ye so soon. Did you bring along that sheet? Good. I'll leave you the lamp while I fixes up a bunk in Mollie's part of the house for my old bones."
The little room seemed full of her father's presence. An old coat hung behind the door. The little old trunk stood against the wall. On the big box that served for a table, with a mark to keep the place, was a library book. Happily, sleepy Jeanne did not think of looking at the card. If shehadlooked, she would have learned that the book was long overdue. Thanks to the big clean lake and the wind-swept wharf, there was no dust to show how long the place had been untenanted.
The music of the water rippling under the old dock, how sweet it was. The air that blew in at her open window, how good and how soothing. The bright stars peeping in through the little square seemed suchfriendlystars. Even the cold stiffness of the brand-new sheet was not sufficiently disturbing to keep the tired little girl awake.
She found her breakfast on the Captain's stove. Just in time, for the fire was out and a bright-eyed chipmunk, perched on the edge of the frying-pan, was nibbling a bit of fried potato. The Captain had disappeared. Jeanne didn't guess that he had purposely fled.
"There's so much to do," said Jeanne, eying the Captain's grimy teakettle, after she had finished her breakfast, "that I don't know where to begin. If I could find my old pink dress—I know what I'll do, I'llbuysomething and make me a great big apron. Even my everyday clothes are too good for a working lady. But first, I guess I'll clean the room Old Captain slept in. Mollie kept a lot of old stuff that ought to be thrown away. I hope there aren't any rats. And Imustremember to mail the letter that I wrote to my grandfather just before I got to Chicago. It's still in my work-box. I think some fresh hay would be nice for the Captain's bunk. There's a lot of long grass on top of the bank—perhaps I can cut some of that and dry it. I used to love to do that. I could make fresh pillows, too. But Imusthave something to work in."
A very ragged blue cotton shirt of Old Captain's was finally pressed into service. Of course it was much too big, but Jeanne tied up the flopping sleeves with bits of twine; found the Captain's broom, and marched down the dock.
The morning was gone by the time Old Captain's new room was cleared of rubbish. Jeanne, clad mostly in the old blue shirt, dumped it into the lake. Once her work had been interrupted by an old man who wanted to buy a fish. Jeanne, giggling at a sudden amusing thought, trotted down the dock to sell it to him from the end of the Captain's car. The business now was mostly a wholesale one; but neither Jeanne nor the customer knew that, so the fish were ungrudgingly displayed.
"Be you the fishman's little girl?" he asked, as Jeanne weighed the trout he had selected.
"Ibe," she returned, gravely. But as soon as the customer was out of earshot, Jeanne's amusing thought became too much for her.
"If Aunt Agatha could see me now," she giggled, "she'd drop into the Cinder Pond. And what a splendid splash she'd make! Think of Aunt Agatha's niece selling a fish! I hope I charged him enough for it. He looked as if he thought it a good deal."
Itwasa good deal. The Captain chuckled when she told him about it.
"You'd make money at the business," said he, "but I ain't going to haveyousellin' fish. Besides, we ships most of 'em wholesale, out of town. They'd been none in that there box if Barney'd been tendin' to business."
When Jeanne had finished her morning's housecleaning, the room contained only the two built-in bunks, one above another, a small box-stove, a battered golden-oak table, that had once belonged to Mrs. Shannon, a plain wooden chair, and a home-made bench.
"Some day," said Jeanne, "I'llscrubthat furniture, but if I don't eat something now I'lldie. I'm glad James gave me too much money. And I have nineteen dollars in my pincushion. After I've had lunch I'll go shopping, for I need a lot of things. Old Captain shall have sheets, too; and I'll buy some cheap stuff for curtains—it'll be fun to make them and put them up. I wonder if oilcloth like Aunt Agatha had in her kitchen costs very much. That would be pleasanter to eat on than newspapers and very easy to wash. White would be nicest, I think. And if I could buy some pieces of rag carpet—my floor is pretty cold."
It was rather a long way to town, but Jeannette, freshened by a bath in the Cinder Pond and clad in a clean dull-blue linen frock, trudged along the road until she reached the sidewalk. Here she unfolded something that she carried in her hand—a small square of cloth. With it she carefully wiped the dust from her shoes.
"There," said she, throwing away the rag. "The Cinder Pond Savage looks a little more like Jeannette Huntington Duval."
She proved a better shopper than Old Captain. A new five-and-ten-cent store provided her with some excellent plated knives, forks, and teaspoons. She bought three of each—Barney might want to stay to supper sometime. Also a nice smooth saucepan, some fruit, some rolls, some cookies; besides the white oilcloth, which had proved inexpensive; and some other drygoods. So many things, in fact, that she wondered how to get them home.