Sisters
by Grace May North · English · Gutenberg #42840 · 412,526 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Sisters
Author: Grace May North
Release date: May 29, 2013 [eBook #42840]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42840
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SISTERS ***
“Will you do me the favor to stand in front of this long mirror with me?”
(Page 305)
SISTERS
_By_ GRACE MAY NORTH
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
Akron, Ohio New York
Copyright MCMXXVIII
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
_Made in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. How It Began 3
II. Jenny 15
III. Forlorn Etta 21
IV. A Pitiful Plight 28
V. Friends in Need 39
VI. Wanted, a Waitress 45
VII. Jenny’s Teacher 59
VIII. An Adventure Filled Day 75
IX. An Old Friend Appears 88
X. Brother and Sister 94
XI. Views and Reviews 99
XII. Plots and Plays 105
XIII. Ferns and Friends 108
XIV. Dearest Desires 116
XV. Peers or Pigs 125
XVI. Good News 133
XVII. Pride Meets Pride 138
XVIII. A New Experience 145
XIX. A Welcome Guest 151
XX. Ingratitude Personified 168
XXI. A Second Meeting 178
XXII. Revelations and Regrets 186
XXIII. Mother and Son 194
XXIV. Harold and Charles 201
XXV. A Jolly Plan 207
XXVI. A Rustic Cabin 217
XXVII. Fun as Farmers 222
XXVIII. A Difficult Promise 232
XXIX. The Haughty Gwynette 238
XXX. Gwyn’s Awakening 249
XXXI. Conflicting Emotions 257
XXXII. Three Girls 266
XXXIII Gwynette’s Choice 279
XXXIV An Agreeable Surprise 289
XXXV A Birthday Cake 293
XXXVI Sisters 302
SISTERS
CHAPTER I.
HOW IT BEGAN
Gold and blue were the colors that predominated on one glorious April
day. Gold were the fields of poppies that carpeted the foothills
stretching down to the very edge of Rocky Point, against which the
jewel-blue Pacific lapped quietly. It was at that hour of the tides when
the surf is stilled.
A very old adobe house surrounded on three sides by wide verandas, the
pillars of which were eucalyptus logs, stood about two hundred feet back
from the point. Rose vines, clambering at will over the picturesque old
dwelling, were a riot of colors. There was the exquisite pink Cecil
Brunner in delicate, long-stemmed clusters; Gold of Ophir blossoms in a
mass glowing in the sunshine, while intertwined were the vines of the
star-like white Cherokee and Romona, the red.
Mingled with their fragrance was the breath of heliotrope which grew,
bushwise, at one corner so luxuriantly that often it had to be cut away
lest it cover the gravel path which led around the house to the orchard.
There, under fruit trees that were each a lovely bouquet of pearly bloom,
stood row after row of square white hives, while bees, busy at honey
gathering, buzzed everywhere.
Now and then, clear and sweet, rose the joyous song of mating birds.
A little old woman, seated in a rustic rocker on the western side porch,
dropped her sewing on her lap and smiled on the scene with blissful
content. What a wonderful world it was and how happy she and Silas had
been since Jenny came. She glanced across the near gardens, aglow with
early bloom, to a patch of ploughed brown earth where an old man was
cultivating between rows of green shoots, some of them destined to
produce field corn for the cow and chickens, and the rest sweet corn for
the sumptuous table of Mrs. Poindexter-Jones.
Then the gaze of the little old woman continued a quarter of a mile along
the rocky shore to a grove of sycamore trees, where stood the castle-like
home of the richest woman in Santa Barbara township. Only the topmost
turrets could be seen above the towering treetops. The vast grounds were
surrounded by a high cypress hedge, and, not until he reached the wrought
iron gates could a passer-by obtain a view of the magnificence that lay
within. But the little old woman knew it all in detail, as she had been
housekeeper there for many years, until, in middle-age, she had married
Silas Warner, who managed the farm for Mrs. Algernon Poindexter-Jones.
For the past fifteen years the happy couple had lived in the old adobe
house at Rocky Point, while at Poindexter Arms, as the beautiful estate
was named, there had been a succession of housekeepers and servants, for
their mistress was domineering and hard to please.
Of late years the grand dame had seldom been seen by the kindly old
farmer, Si Warner and his wife, for Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had preferred
to live in her equally palatial home in San Francisco overlooking the
Golden Gate.
She visited Santa Barabra periodically, merely to assure herself that her
orders were being carried out by the servants left in charge of
Poindexter Arms and Rocky Point farm. Often Mrs. Si Warner did not catch
a glimpse of their employer on these fleeting visits, and yet she well
knew that the imperious mistress of millions was linked more closely than
she liked to remember to the old couple at Rocky Point.
As she resumed her sewing, memory recalled to her that long ago incident
which, by the merest chance, had made the proud woman and the humble,
sharers of a secret which neither had cared to divulge.
It had been another spring day such as this, only they had all been
younger by fourteen years.
While ploughing in the lot nearest the highway, Farmer Si had noticed a
strange equipage drawn to one side of the road. He thought little of it
at first, believing it to be a traveling tinsmith, as the canopied wagon
was evidently furnished with household utensils, but, when an hour later,
he again reached that side of the field and saw the patient horse still
standing there with drooping head and no one in sight, his curiosity was
aroused, and, leaping over the rail fence, he went to investigate.
Under that weather-stained canopy a sad tragedy had been enacted. On the
driver’s seat a young man, clothed in a garb of a clergyman, seemed to be
sleeping, but a closer scrutiny revealed to the farmer that the Angel of
Death had visited the little home on wheels. For a home it evidently had
been. In the roomier part of the wagon a beautiful little girl of three
sat on a stack of folded bedding, while in a crude box-like crib a sickly
looking infant lay sleeping.
Whenever Mrs. Silas Warner recalled that long ago day, she again
experienced the varying emotions which had come to her following each
other in rapid succession. She had been ironing when she had seen a queer
canopied equipage coming up the lane which led from the highway.
Believing it to be a peddlar, who now and then visited their farm, she
had gone to the side porch, there to have her curiosity greatly aroused
by the fact that it was her husband Si who was on the seat of the driver.
Then her surprise had been changed to alarm when she learned of the three
who were under the canopy. Awe, because she was in the presence of death,
and tender sympathy for the little ones, who had evidently been orphaned,
mingled in the heart of the woman as she held the scrawny, crying infant
that her husband had given to her. Even with all these crowding emotions
there had yet been room for admiration, when the little three-year-old
girl was lifted down. The child stood apart, quiet and aloof. She had
heard them say that her father was dead. She was too young to understand
and so she just waited. A rarely beautiful child, with a tangled mass of
light brown, sun-glinted hair hanging far below her shoulders, and wide,
wondering brown eyes that were shaded with long curling lashes.
But still another emotion had been stirred in the heart of Susan Warner,
for a most unexpected and unusual visitor had at that moment arrived. A
coach, bearing the Poindexter Arms, turned into the lane, and when the
liveried footman threw open the door, there sat no less a personage than
the grand dame, Mrs. Algernon Poindexter-Jones, on one of her very
infrequent visits to the farm which belonged to her estate. She had been
charmed with the little girl, and after having heard the story, she
announced that she would keep the child until relatives were found. Then
she was driven away, without having stated her errand, and accompanying
her, still quietly aloof, rode the three-year-old girl. A doctor and
coroner soon arrived, having been summoned by Mrs. Poindexter-Jones. The
latter had searched the effects of the dead man and had found an
unfinished letter addressed to a bishop in the Middle West. In it the man
had told of his wife’s death, and that he was endeavoring to keep on with
his traveling missionary work in outlying mountain districts, but that
his heart attacks were becoming threateningly more frequent. “There is no
relative in all the world with whom to leave Gwynette, who is now three,
and little Jeanette, who is completing her first year.” No more had been
written.
After the funeral Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had announced that she would
adopt the older child and that, if they wished, the farmer and his wife
might keep the scrawny baby on one condition, and that was that the girls
should never be told that they were sisters. To this the childless couple
had rejoicingly agreed. The doctor and coroner had also been sworn to
secrecy. The dead man’s effects were stored in the garret above the old
adobe and the incident was closed.
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones left almost at once for Europe, where she had
remained for several years.
Tenderly loved, and nourished with the best that the farm could produce,
the scrawny, ill-looking infant had gradually changed to a veritable
fairy of sunshine. “Jenny,” as they called her, feeling that Jeanette was
a bit too grand, walked with a little skipping step from the time that
she was first sure that she would not tumble, and looked up, with
laughter in her lovely eyes, that were the same liquid brown as were her
sister’s, and tossed back her long curls that were also light brown with
threads of sunlight in them. And ever after, there were little skipping
steps to her walk, and, when she talked, it seemed as though at any
moment she might break into song.
Jenny had never questioned her origin. She had always been with Granny
Sue and Granddad Si, and so, of course, that proved that she belonged to
them. She was too happy, just being alive, to create problems for herself
to solve, and too busy.
There had been too few children on the neighboring ranches to maintain a
country school, and Jenny had been too young to send on a bus to Santa
Barbara each day, but her education had not been neglected, for a
charming and cultured young woman living not far away had taught her
through the years, and she had learned much that other girls of her age
did not know.
When the weather was pleasant Jenny, her school books under her arm,
walked to the hill-top home of her teacher, Miss Dearborn, but during the
rainy season her grandfather hitched their faithful Dobbin to the
old-fashioned, topped buggy and drove her to her destination in the
morning, calling for her in the late afternoon.
But on one wild March day when Jenny had been thirteen, an unexpected
storm had overtaken her as she was walking home along the coast highway.
Luckily she had worn her mackintosh, but as she was passing between wide,
treeless meadows that reached to the sea on one side and a briary hill on
the other, there had been no shelter in sight.
However, a low gray car had soon appeared around a bend and the driver, a
youth whose face was hidden by cap, collar and goggles, had offered her a
ride. Gladly she had accepted and had been taken to her home, where, to
her surprise, Grandmother Sue had welcomed the lad with sincerest
pleasure. That had been the first time Jenny Warner had met Harold, the
only son of their employer, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones.
His visit had brought consternation to the little family at Rocky Point,
for, inadvertently, he had told the old man that his mother planned
selling the farm when she could find a suitable buyer.
The old woman sitting on the side porch dropped her sewing to her lap as
she recalled that long-ago scene in the kitchen.
The farmer had been for the moment almost stunned by the news, then
looking up at the boy with a pitiful attempt at a smile, he had said
waveringly:
“I reckon you see how ’tis, Harry-boy. We’ve been livin’ here at Rocky
Point so long, it’s sort o’ got to feelin’ like home to us, but you tell
your ma that the Warners’ll be ready to move when she says the word.”
The boy had been much affected, and, after assuring them that perhaps a
buyer would not be found, he had taken his departure.
When he had gone, Jenny had cuddled in her grandfather’s arms and he had
held her close. Susan Warner remembered that the expression on his face
had been as though he were thanking God that they had their “gal”. With
her irrepressible enthusiasm the girl had exclaimed:
“I have the most wonderful plan! Let’s buy Rocky Point Farm, and then it
will be all our very own.”
“Lawsy, child,” Susan Warner had remonstrated, “it’d cost a power o’
money, and it’s but a few hundred that we’ve laid by.”
But Jenny had a notion that she wanted to try out. “Granny, granddad,”
she turned from first one to the other and her voice was eager, earnest,
pleading: “Every Christmas since I can remember you’ve given me a
five-dollar gold piece to be saving for the time when I might be all
alone in the world. I want to spend them now.” Then she unfolded her
plan. She wanted to buy hens and bees. “You were a wonderful beekeeper
when you were a boy, granddad,” she insisted. “You have told me so time
and again, and I just know that I can sell eggs and honey to the rich
people over on the foothill estates, and then, when we have saved money
enough, we can buy the farm and have it for our very own home forever and
ever.”
The old couple knew that this would be impossible, but, since they had
not the heart to disappoint their darling, the scheme had been tried.
Every Saturday morning during the summer that she had been thirteen,
Jenny, high on the buckboard seat, had driven old Dobbin up and down the
long winding tree-hung lanes in the aristocratic foothill suburb of Santa
Barbara. At first her wares were only eggs from her flocks of white
Minorka hens, but, when she was fourteen, jars of golden strained honey
were added, and gradually, among her customers, she came to be known as
“The Honey Girl” from Rocky Point Farm. And now Jenny was fifteen.
Susan Warner was startled from her day-dreams by the shrill whistle of
the rural mail carrier. Neatly folding her sewing (and Granny Sue would
neatly fold her sewing if she were running away from a fire), the old
woman went to the side porch nearest the lane where the elderly Mr.
Pickson was then stopping to leave the Rural Weekly for Mr. Silas Warner
and a note from Miss Isophene Granger for “The Honey Girl.”
“I reckon it’s a fresh order for honey or eggs or such,” the smiling old
woman told him. The mail carrier agreed with her.
“I reckon ’tis! There’s a parcel o’ new girls over to the seminary,” was
his comment as he turned his horse’s head toward the gate, then with a
short nod he drove away.
Susan Warner went back into the kitchen, and, feeling sure that the note
was not of a private nature, she unfolded the paper and read the message,
which was couched in the formal language habitually used by the principal
of the fashionable seminary.
“Miss Isophene Granger desires six dozen eggs to be delivered this
afternoon not later than five.”
The old woman glanced at the clock. “Tut! Tut! And here it’s close to
three. I reckon I’d better be gatherin’ the eggs this once. Jenny says
it’s her work, but it’ll be all she can do to get there, with Dobbin to
hitch and what not.”
Taking her sunbonnet from its hook by the kitchen door, the old woman
went out to the barnyard where, in neat, wired-in spaces, there were
several flocks of white Minorka hens. After filling the large basket that
she carried with eggs, Susan Warner returned through the blossoming
orchard, and although she was unconscious of it, she smiled and nodded at
the bees that were so busily gathering honey; then she thought of her
girl.
“Dear lovin’ child that she is!” The faded blue eyes of the old woman
were tender. “Si and me never lets on that her plan can’t come to
nothin’. ’Twould nigh break her heart. All told there’s not more’n seven
hundred now in the bank, an’ the farm, when they come to sell it, is like
to bring most that an acre, or leastwise so Pa reckons.”
But later, as Susan Warner was sorting the eggs and placing them in boxes
holding a dozen each, she took a more optimistic view of the matter.
“It’s well to be workin’ and savin’, how-some-ever,” she concluded. “Our
darlin’ll need it all an’ more when her granddad an me are took.” Then,
before the old woman could wipe away the tears that always came when she
thought of leaving Jenny, her eyes brightened, and, peering out of a
window near she exclaimed aloud (although there was only a canary to
hear), “Wall now, here comes Jenny this minute, singin’ and skippin’ up
the lane, like the world couldn’t hold a trouble. Bless the happy heart
of her!”
CHAPTER II.
JENNY
Susan Warner turned to beam a welcome at the apparition standing in the
open door of the kitchen. With the sun back of her, shining through the
folds of her yellow muslin dress and glinting through her light, wavy
brown hair, the girl did indeed look like a sprite of the springtime,
and, to add to the picture, she held a branch, sweet with apricot
blossoms.
“Greetings, Granny Sue!” she called gayly. “This is churning day, isn’t
it?”
“That’s right, ’tis, Jenny darlin’, or leastwise ’twould o’ been ’ceptin’
for a message Mr. Pickson fetched over from Granger Place Seminary.
There’s some new pupils come sudden like, I reckon, an’ they need eggs a
day sooner than ordinary. I’ve got ’em all packed in the hamper, dearie.
You’ve nothin’ to do but hitch Dobbin and start.”
“Righto, Granny Sue; but first I must put these poor blossoms into a jar.
I found the branch broken and just hanging by a shred of bark on that old
tree ’way down by the fence corner.”
Jenny took a brown jar from a cupboard as she talked and filled it with
water from the sink pump.
“They’ll be lonely for their home tree, like as not,” she chattered on,
“but perhaps they’ll be a bit glad when they find that they are to
brighten up our home for a few days. Don’t you think maybe they will,
Granny Sue? Don’t you think when we can’t do the thing we most want to
do, we still can be happy if we are just alive and doing the most
beautiful thing that is left for us to do?”
This last was called over her shoulder as she carried the jar and
blossoming branch toward the door of the living-room. Luckily she did not
pause for an answer, for the little old woman always felt confused when
her girl began such flights of fancy. Had she been obliged to reply, she
no doubt would have said:
“Why, ’taint likely, Jenny, that branch of apricot flowers even knows
it’s broken off, an’ as for that, the ones that are left will make all
the better fruit with some of ’em gone.”
While the girl was placing the jar on the living-room center table, close
to the book that she had been reading, Granddad Si entered the kitchen
for a drink, and upon hearing of the message from Miss Granger, he
hurried to the barn to hitch old Dobbin to the cart, and so, when five
minutes later the girl skipped out, laughing over her shoulder at her
grandmother’s admonition to go more slowly, lest she fall and break the
eggs, there was Granddad Si fastening the last buckles. He straightened
up, pushed his frayed straw hat to the back of his head and surveyed the
girl with pardonable pride.
“Jenny, gal,” he began, and from the expression in his eyes she knew just
how he would complete the sentence, and so, laughingly, she put her free
hand over his mouth.
“Oh, granddad, ’tisn’t so, not the least bit, and you mustn’t say it
again. A stranger might hear you some time, and what if he should think
that I really believed it.”
But the old man finished his sentence, even though the words were mumbled
behind the slim white hand of his girl:
“It’s the Gospel truth, Jenny. I’m tellin’ ye! Thar ain’t a gal over to
that hifalutin seminary that’s half as purty as yo’ be. I reckon I know,
’cause I watch the whole lot of ’em when they go down the road on them
parade walks they take, with a teacher ahead and one behind like they was
a flock of geese and had to have a gooseherd along, which more’n like
they are. A silly parcel, allays gigglin’.”
The last half of this speech had been more clearly spoken, for Jenny,
having kissed him on the top of the nose from the wagon step, had climbed
into the cart.
As she was driving away, she called back to him: “Wrong you are,
Granddad, for I am only an egg and honey vender, while they are all
aristocrats. Good-bye.”
Then, a second later, she turned again to sing out:
“Tell Granny I’d like a chocolate pudding tonight, all hidden in
Brindle’s yellowest cream.”
Long after the girl had driven away, the farmer stood gazing down the
lane. An old question had returned to trouble him:
Was it honest not to tell her that she wasn’t their own kin?
He couldn’t do it. It would break all of their hearts. She was their kin,
somehow. No own grandchild could be dearer. Then he thought of the other
girl, Jenny’s sister. He had heard something that day about her, and he
had been mighty sorry to hear it.
When his “gal” disappeared from sight, up one of the tree-shaded lanes
leading toward the foothill estates, Farmer Si turned and walked slowly
back to the kitchen. He delivered Jenny’s message about the chocolate
pudding to his wife, who, even then, was preparing the vegetables for
supper. Crossing to the sink pump, the old man began working the handle
up and down. A rush of crystal clear water rewarded his effort and, after
having quaffed a long refreshing draught of it, he wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand.
Then, after hanging his hat on its nail by the door, he sank down in his
favorite arm chair close to the stove and sighed deeply as though he were
very weary. His wife looked at him questioningly and he said in a voice
and manner which were evidently evasive:
“Powerful poor weather for gettin’ the crops started. Nothin’ but
sunshine this fortnight past.”
Susan Warner was briskly beating the eggs needed for her darling’s
favorite pudding. When the whirr had ceased she turned and smiled across
the room at the old man whose position showed that he was dejected.
“What’s worryin’ yo’, Si?” The tone of the old woman’s voice promised
sympathy if it were needed. “’Tisn’t about the farm yo’re really
cogitatin’. I can tell that easy. Thar’s suthin’ else troublin’ yo’, an’
yo’ might as well speak out furst as last.”
“Wall, yo’re close to right, Susan, as I reckon yo’ most allays are. I
was mendin’ the fence down by the highway when ol’ Pickson drove up an’
stopped to pass the time o’ day, like he generally does, an’ he says,
says he, ‘Si, have yo’ heard the news?’ I w’a’nt particular interested,
bein’ as Pickson allays starts off that a-way, but what he said next
fetched me to an upstandin’, I kin tell you.”
Susan Warner had stopped her work to listen.
“What did Mr. Pickson tell you, Si? Suthin’ that troubled you?” she
inquired anxiously.
“Wall, sort o’ that way. Mabbe it won’t be nuthin’ to worry about, and
mabbe agin it will. Pickson said as how Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had gone to
some waterin’ place over in France for her nerves, an’ not wishin’ to
leave her daughter in the big city up north alone with the servants,
she’d sent her to stay in the seminary down here for the time bein’, an’,
what’s more, a flock of her friends from San Francisco came along of her.
Them are the new pupils you was mentionin’ a spell ago, as being the
reason extra eggs was needed.”
The old woman stared at her spouse as one spellbound. When she spoke her
voice sounded strained and unnatural. “Si Warner, do yo’ mean to tell me
our Jenny has gone to fetch eggs for her very own sister an’ her friends?
They’re likely to meet up wi’ each other now, arter all these years, an’
neither will know who the other really is. Oh, the pity of it, that one
of ’em should have all that money can buy, and the other of ’em ridin’
around peddlin’ eggs and honey.”
But the old man took a different view of the matter. “Susan,” he said,
“if our gal had the pick of the two places, I reckon she’d choose stayin’
with us. I reckon she would.”
Susan Warner’s practical nature had again asserted itself. “Wall, there’s
no need for us to be figurin’ about that. Jenny shall never know that she
has a sister. Who is there to tell her? An’ what’s more, she’ll never
have a chance to choose betwixt us and the Poindexter-Joneses.” Then, as
a tender expression crept into the faded blue eyes, the old woman added,
“Jenny wouldn’t leave us, Si. No, not for anyone. I’m sartin as to that,
but I’m hopin’ she’ll never know as she isn’t our own. I’m sure hopin’
that she won’t.”
CHAPTER III.
FORLORN ETTA
Dobbin never could be induced to go faster than a gentle trot and this
pace was especially pleasing to his driver on a day when the world, all
the world that she knew, was at its loveliest. Having left the coast
highway, she turned up the Live-Oak Canon road and slowly began the
ascent toward the foothills.
There was no one in sight for, indeed, one seldom met pedestrians along
the winding lanes in the aristocratic suburb of Santa Barbara. Now and
then a handsome limousine would pass and Dobbin, drawing to the far side
of the road, would put up his ears and stare at the usurper. He seemed to
consider all vehicles not horse-drawn with something of disdain. Then,
when it had passed, he again took the middle of the road, which he deemed
his rightful place.
“Dobbin,” the girl sang out to him, “what would you think, some day, if
you saw me riding in one of those fine cars?” Then, as memory recalled a
certain stormy day two years previous, Jenny continued, “I never told
you, Dobbin, but I did ride in one once. It was a little low gray car and
the boy who drove it called it a ‘speeder.’”
Then, as Dobbin seemed to consider this conversation not worth listening
to, the girl fell to musing.
“I wonder what became of that boy. Harold P-J, he called himself, and he
said I mustn’t forget the hyphen. He laughed when he said it. There must
have been something amusing about it. He was a nice boy with such
brotherly gray eyes. He hasn’t been back since, I am sure, for he told
granddad he would come to the farm the very next time his mother
permitted him to visit Santa Barbara.” Then Jenny recalled the one and
only time that she had seen Harold’s mother. It was when she had been
ten. She had been out in the garden gathering Shasta daisies to give to
Miss Dearborn, her teacher. She had on a yellow dress that day, she
recalled; yellow had always been her favorite color and she had been
standing knee deep among the flowers with her arms almost full when the
grand coach turned into the lane. Jenny had often heard Granny Sue tell
about the coach, on the door of which was emblazoned the Poindexter-Arms,
and the small girl, filled with a natural curiosity, had glanced up as
the equipage was about to pass. But it had not passed, for the only
occupant, a haughty-mannered, handsomely-gowned woman had pulled on a
silken cord which evidently communicated with the driver’s seat, for,
almost at once, the coach had stopped and the woman had beckoned to the
child.
“Are you Jeanette Warner?” she had asked abruptly. The child, making a
curtsy, as Miss Dearborn had said all well-mannered little girls should,
had replied that her name was Jenny. Never would the girl forget the
expression on the handsome face as the eyebrows were lifted. The grand
dame’s next remark, which was quite unintelligible to the child, had been
uttered in a cold voice as though the speaker were much vexed about
something. “I am indeed sorry to find that you are so alike.”
The haughty woman had then jerked on the silken cord in a most imperious
manner and the coach had moved toward the farmhouse.
Jenny had never told anyone of this meeting, but her sensitive nature had
been deeply hurt by the cold, disdainful expression in the woman’s eyes.
She had sincerely hoped she never again would encounter the owner of
Rocky Point, nor had she done so. Time, even, had erased from her memory
just what Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had said, since, at the time, the words
had conveyed no real meaning to the child. All that was left in her heart
was a dread of the woman, and she had been glad, glad that she lived far
away to the north instead of next door.
Suddenly the impulsive girl drew rein. “Dobbin,” she exclaimed joyfully,
“stand still a moment. I want you to look at that wonderful stone wall
around the Bixby estate. Isn’t it the most beautiful thing that you ever
saw with the pink and white cherokee roses, star-like, all over it?” Then
she waved her hand toward an acacia tree beyond the wall that was golden
with bloom, and called out to an invisible mocking bird that was
imitating one lilting song after another, “I don’t wonder that you shout
hosannas of praise. It’s such a wonderful world to live in. Trot along,
Dobbin! We must get the eggs to the seminary before five.”
The tree-shaded, lane-like road they were following had many a bend in it
as it ascended higher and higher into the foothills, and, as they turned
at one of them, Jenny again addressed her four-footed companion.
“Dobbin, do hurry! There’s that poor forlorn Etta Somebody who pares
potatoes at the seminary. I see her all crouched down over a pan of
vegetables every time I go into that kitchen to deliver eggs and honey,
but not once has she looked up at me. I know she’s terribly unhappy about
something. I don’t believe she even knows that she’s living in a
wonderful world where everything is so beautiful that a person just has
to sing. Please do hurry, Dobbin. I may never get another chance to speak
to her and I want to ask her if she wouldn’t like to ride.”
Jenny slapped the reins on the back of the old dusty-white horse, and,
although he at first cast a glance of indignation over his right
shoulder, he decided to humor his young mistress, and did increase his
speed sufficiently to overtake the tall angular girl who shuffled as she
walked and drooped her shoulders as though the burden upon them was more
than she could bear. She wore an almost threadbare brown woolen dress,
though the day was warm, and a queer little hat which suggested to Jenny
pictures she had seen of children in foreign lands. She had one day heard
the cook address the girl as Etta in a voice that had expressed
impatience, and so, pulling on the rein, Jenny called cheerily, “Etta,
are you going up to the seminary? Won’t you ride with me? I’m taking the
eggs a day early.”
The girl, whose plain, colorless face was dully expressionless, climbed
up on the seat at Jenny’s side. “You look awfully fagged and dusty. Have
you been walking far?” the young driver ventured.
The strange girl’s tone was complaining—“Far? Well, I should say I have.
All the way to Santa Barbara railway station and back. Folks enough
passed me goin’ and comin’, but you’re the first that offered me a lift.”
“Eight miles is a long walk,” the young driver put in, “on a day as warm
as this” Etta’s china blue eyes stared dully ahead. She made no response
and so Jenny again started Dobbin on the upward way.
From time to time she glanced furtively at her companion, wondering why
she was so evidently miserable.
At last she said, “I suppose everyone was in a hurry. I mean the folks
who passed you.”
But her companion, with a bitter hatred in her voice, replied, “Don’t you
believe it. Most of ’em don’t have nothin’ to do that has to be done.
Rich folks ridin’ around in their swell cars, but do you s’pose they’d
give me a lift. Not them! They’d think as how I’d poison the air they
breathed if I sat too close. I hate ’em! I hate ’em all!”
Hate was a new word to Jenny and she did not like it. “I suppose some
rich folks are that way, but I don’t believe they all are.” Then she
laughed, her happy rippling laugh which always expressed real mirth.
“Hear me talking as though I knew them, when I don’t. I never spoke to
but one rich person in all my life, and just a minute ago I was wishing
that I never would have to speak to her again.” Jenny wondered why Etta
had walked to the railway station. As they turned the last bend before
their destination was to be reached, she impulsively put her free hand on
the arm of her companion and said, “Etta, would it help any if you told
me why you are so dreadfully unhappy? I don’t suppose I could do
anything, but sometimes just talking things over with someone who wishes
she could help, makes it easier.”
The china blue eyes of the rebellious girl at her side were slowly turned
toward the speaker and in them was mingled amazement and doubt. Then she
remarked cynically, “There ain’t nobody cares what’s making me
miserable.” But when Jenny succeeded in convincing the forlorn girl that
she, at least, really did care, the story of her unhappiness was
revealed.
CHAPTER IV.
A PITIFUL PLIGHT
“There ain’t much to tell,” Etta said bitterly, “but I haven’t always
been miserable. I was happy up to the time I was ten. I lived with my
grandfolks over in Belgium. My mother left me there while she came to
America. She’d heard how money was easy to get, and, after my father died
in the war and the soldiers had robbed my grandfolks of all they had on
the farm, we had to get money somewheres. That’s why she came, takin’ all
that she’d saved for her passage. How my mother got away out here to
Californy, I don’t know, but anyway she did. She was a cook up in Frisco.
Every month she sent money to my grandfolks. My mother kept writing how
lonesome she was for me and how she was savin’ to send for me. The next
year I came over with a priest takin’ charge of me, but when I got here
they told me my mother had died and they put me in an orphanage. My
grandfolks tried to save money to send for me to go back to Belgium, but
what with sickness and they bein’ too old to work the farm, it’s seven
years now, an’ the money ain’t saved. Last year, me bein’ sixteen, I got
turned out o’ the orphanage and sent here to work parin’ vegetables. I
don’t get but three dollars a week and board, and I’ve been savin’ all I
can of it. But ’tain’t no use. That’s why I walked to the railway station
over to Santa Barbara to ask how much money I’d have to save to take me
home to my grandfolks.” The girl paused as though too discouraged to go
on.
Jenny had been so interested that she had not even noticed that Dobbin
had stopped to rest at one side of the steep road.
“Oh, you poor girl, I’m so sorry for you!” she said with a break in her
voice. “I suppose it takes a lot of money for the ticket to New York and
then the passage across the Atlantic in one of those big steamers.”
The tone in which her companion answered was dull and hopeless. “’Tain’t
no use tryin’. I never can make it. Never! It’d take two hundred dollars.
An’ I’ve only got a hundred with what my grandfolks have sent dribble by
dribble.” The dull, despairing expression had again settled in the
putty-pale face. “’Tain’t no use,” she went on apathetically. “I can’t
save the whole three dollars a week. I’ve got to get shoes an’ things.
Cook said yesterday how she’d have to turn me out if I didn’t get some
decent work dresses; a fashionable seminary like that couldn’t have no
slatterns in the kitchen.” Then, after a hard, dry sob that cut deep into
the heart of the listener. Etta ended with “I don’t know what I’m goin’
to do, but it’s got to be done soon, whatever ’tis.”
Jenny felt alarmed, she hardly knew why. “Oh, Etta, you don’t mean you
might take——” She could not finish her sentence. Her active imagination
pictured the unhappy girl going alone to the coast at night and ending
her life in the surf, but to her surprise Etta looked around as though
she feared she might be overheard; then she said, “Yes, I am. I’m going
to take one hundred dollars out of the school safe, and after I’ve got
over to Belgium I’m going to work my fingers to the bone and send it
back. That’s what I’m goin’ to do. I’ve told ’em at the station to keep
me a ticket for the train that goes out tomorrow morning.” Then, when she
felt, rather than saw, that her companion was shocked, she said bitterly,
“I was a fool to tell you. Of course you’ll go and blab on me.” To the
unhappy girl’s surprise she heard her companion protesting, “Oh, no, no!
I won’t tell, Etta. Never, never! But you _mustn’t_ steal. They’d put you
in prison. But, most of all, it would be very, very wrong. You can’t gain
happiness by doing something wicked. I just _know_ that you can’t.”
Then, after a thoughtful moment, Jenny amazed her companion by saying, “I
have some money that is all my very own. If Granny and Granddad will let
me, I’ll loan you a hundred dollars, because I _know_ you’ll pay it
back.”
Radiant joy made Etta’s plain face beautiful, but it lasted only a moment
and was replaced by the usual dull apathy. “They won’t let you, an’ they
shouldn’t. I just told you as how I was plannin’ to steal, and if I’d do
that, how do you know I’d ever send back your hundred dollars?”
“I know that you would,” was the confident reply. Jenny then urged Dobbin
to his topmost speed, and since he had rested quite a while, he did spurt
ahead and around a bend to the very crest of the low foothill where stood
the beautiful buildings of the seminary in a grove of tall pine trees.
The majestic view of the encircling mountain range usually caused Jenny
to pause and catch her breath, amazed anew each time at the grandeur of
the scene, but her thoughts were so busy planning what she could do to
help this poor girl that she was unconscious of aught else.
They turned into the drive, which, after circling among well-kept gardens
and lawns, led back of the main building to the kitchen door.
“I’m awful late and I’ll get a good tongue lashin’ from the cook but what
do I care. This’ll be the last night she’ll ever see me.” Jenny glancing
at her companion, saw again the hard expression in the face that had been
so radiant with joy a few moments before.
“She doesn’t believe that I’m going to loan her my money,” Jenny thought.
“And maybe she’s right. Maybe Granny and Granddad will think I ought
not.” But what she said aloud was: “Etta, let me go in ahead and I’ll fix
things up if you’re late and going to be scolded.” And so, when they
climbed from the wagon, it was the girl from Rocky Point Farm who first
entered the kitchen. “Good afternoon, Miss O’Hara,” she called cheerily
to the middle-aged Irish woman who was taking a roast from the huge oven
of the built-in range.
“Huh,” was the ungracious reply, “so _you_ had that lazy good-for-nothing
out ridin’, did you?” The roast having been replaced, the cook turned and
glared at Etta, her arms akimbo. “Here ’tis, five o’clock to the minute
and not a potato pared. How do you suppose I’m going to serve a dinner
for the young ladies at six-thirty and all that pan of peas to shell
besides.”
Etta was about to reply sullenly when Jenny, who had placed her basket of
eggs on one end of a long white table, turned to say: “Miss O’Hara, I
want to ask you a favor. If I stay and help Etta get the vegetables
ready, will you let her come over to my house to supper? Won’t you
please, Miss O’Hara?”
Jenny smiled wheedlingly at the middle-aged Irish woman who had always
had a soft spot in her heart for “the honey girl,” and so she said
reluctantly, “Wall, if it’s what you’re wishin’, though the Saints alone
know what _you_ see in Etta Heldt to be wantin’ of her company.”
Ignoring the uncomplimentary part of the speech, Jenny cried joyfully:
“Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss O’Hara! Now give me a big allover apron,
please, for I mustn’t soil my fresh yellow muslin.”
Miss O’Hara’s anger had died away, confident that the peas would be
shelled and the potatoes pared on time. She went about her work humming
one of the Irish tunes that always fascinated Jenny.
Etta, without having spoken a word, took her customary place and began to
pare potatoes, jabbing out the spots as though she were venting upon them
the wrath which she felt toward the world in general, but even in her
heart there was dawning a faint hope that somehow, some way, she had come
to a gate on the other side of which, if only she could pass through, a
new life awaited her.
She looked up and out of the window by which they were seated, when
Jenny, pausing a moment in the pea-shelling, exclaimed: “Oh, Etta, do see
those pretty girls. Aren’t they the loveliest? Just like a flock of
butterflies dancing out there on the lawn. There are eight, ten, twelve!
Oh, my, more than I can count! How many girls are there now at the
seminary, Miss O’Hara?”
“With the three that came in today, there’s thirty-one,” the cook
answered as she broke a dozen eggs into a pudding which she was stirring.
“Did three new pupils come today? Isn’t it late in the year to start in
school? Only two months more and the long vacation will begin,” Jenny
turned to inquire.
“It is late,” Miss O’Hara replied, then suddenly she stopped stirring the
batter and stared at Jenny with a puzzled expression in her Irish blue
eyes. “When I saw one of ’em, a haughty, silly minx, I thought to myself
as I’d seen her before somewhere’s though I knew I hadn’t. Now I know why
I thought that. There’s something about you, Jenny Warner, as looks like
her. Folks do look sort of like other folks once in a while, and be no
way related.”
Jenny agreed brightly. “Yes, Miss O’Hara, that’s absolutely true. My
teacher has often said that the reason she has kept on tutoring me is
because I look like a sister she once had. That makes two folks I
resemble, and I suppose likely there are lots more. What is the new
pupil’s name. Miss O’Hara?”
Then it was that the cook recalled something. “Begorrah, and maybe you
know her being as her ma owns the farm you’re living on.”
Jenny looked up with eager interest. “Oh, no, I didn’t even know Mrs.
Poindexter-Jones had a daughter. But I do know the son Harold. That is, I
met him for a few moments once two years ago, and now I do recall that he
mentioned having a sister.” Then, returning to the shelling of the peas,
she concluded with: “You know they have not lived in Santa Barbara
lately. I never saw the mother, that is, only once.”
“Well, you’re not likely to do more than see the daughter. She wouldn’t
speak civil to a farmer’s granddaughter.” Jenny’s bright smile seemed to
reply that it troubled her not at all.
For another ten minutes the girls worked silently, swiftly; then Jenny
sprang up, removed her apron and, as she donned her hat, she exclaimed:
“Miss O’Hara, you just don’t know how grateful I am to you for having
said that Etta might go home to supper with me.”
Although the cook regretted having given the permission, she merely
mumbled a rather ungracious reply.
Etta went up to her room to put on her “’tother dress,” as she told
Jenny, but on reaching there she bundled all her belongings into an
ancient carpet bag, stole out of a side door and was waiting in the buggy
when Jenny reached it.
“Well, I sure certain don’t see how ’twas the ol’ dragon let me go along
with you,” Etta Heldt declared, seeming to breathe for the first time
when, high on the buckboard seat at Jenny’s side, old Dobbin was actually
turning out of the seminary gates that had for many months been as the
iron-barred doors of a prison to the poor motherless, fatherless and
homeless girl. And yet not really homeless, for, far across the sea on a
small farm in Belgium there was a home awaiting her, and a dear old
couple (Jenny was sure that they were as dear and loving and lovable as
were her own grandparents) yearning for the return of their only
grandchild.
Jenny, who always pictured in detail anything and everything of which she
had but the meagerest real knowledge, was seeing the old couple going
about, day by day, planning and striving to save enough to send for their
girl, but failing because of the privation that had been left blightingly
in the trail of the cruel world war. Then her fancy leaped ahead to the
day when Etta would arrive at that far-away farm.
Jenny’s musings were interrupted by a querulous voice at her side.
“Don’t you hear nothing I am saying? What do you see out there between
your horse’s ears that you’re starin’ at so steady?”
Jenny turned a pretty face bright with laughter. “I didn’t see the ears,”
she confessed, “and do forgive me for not listening to what you were
saying. Oh, yes, I recall now. You wondered what the old dragon would say
when she found you were really gone.”
Then, more seriously: “Truly, Etta, Miss O’Hara isn’t dragony; not the
least mite. I have sold eggs and honey to her for two years, long before
you came to be her helper, and she always seemed as glad to see me as the
dry old earth is to see the first rains.”
Then, hesitating and slowly thinking ahead that her words might not hurt
her companion, she continued: “Maybe you didn’t always try to please Miss
O’Hara. Weren’t you sometimes so unhappy that you let it show in your
manner? Don’t you think perhaps that may have been it, Etta?”
“Oh, I s’posen like’s not. How could I help showin’ it when I was so
miserable?”
Then, before Jenny could reply, Etta continued cynically:
“Well, I’m not goin’ to let myself to be any too cheerful even now.
’Tisn’t likely your grandfolks’ll let you loan me a hundred dollars.
How’ll they know but maybe I’d never return it. How do you know?”
Jenny turned and looked full into the china blue eyes of her companion.
The gaze was unflinchingly returned. Impulsively Jenny reached out a
slender white hand and placed it on the rough red one near her.
“Etta Heldt,” she said solemnly, “I know you will return my money if it
lies within your power to do it. I also know that when it came to it, you
would not have stolen money from the Granger place safe. There’s
something in your eyes makes me know it, though I can’t put it into
words.”
As the other girl did not reply, Jenny continued: “I’m _not_ sure certain
that I _can_ loan you my money, of course. I have been saving and saving
it for two years so that I could add it to the money grandpa had if we
needed it to buy Rocky Point Farm, but the farm hasn’t been put on the
market, granddad says, and so I guess we can spare it for awhile.”
Suddenly and most unexpectedly the girl at her side burst into tears.
“Oh, oh, how sweet and good you are to me. Nobody, nowhere has ever been
so kind, not since I came to this country looking for mother. When they
told me she was dead and had been buried two days before I got here, and
all her belongings sold to pay for the funeral, nobody was kind. They
just tagged me with a number and sent me with a crowd of other children
out to an orphan asylum. And there it was just the same: no one knew me
from any of the rest of the crowd.”
There were also tears in her listener’s eyes.
“Poor, poor Etta, and here I’ve been brought up on love. It doesn’t seem
fair, someway.” Then slipping an arm comfortingly about her companion,
Jenny said brightly: “Let’s keep hoping that you can borrow my money.
Look, Etta, we’re coming to the highway now, and that long, long lane
beyond the barred gate leads right up to my home. Don’t cry any more,
dearie. I just _know_ that my grandfolks will help you, somehow. You’ll
see that they will.”
Thus encouraged, the forlorn Etta took heart and, after wiping away the
tears which had brought infinite relief to her long pent-up emotions, she
turned a wavering smile toward Jenny.
“I’ll never forget what all you’re trying to do for me. Never. Never,”
she ended vehemently. “And I’m hoping I’ll have the chance some day to
make up for it.”
“All the reward that I want is to have you get home to your grandfolks
and be as happy with them as I am with mine,” Jenny called brightly as
she leaped out of the wagon to open up the barred gate.
CHAPTER V.
FRIENDS IN NEED
Grandma Sue had been often to the side porch nearest the lane and had
gazed toward the highway wondering why her girl did not return. The
supper had been ready for some time and the specially ordered chocolate
pudding was done to perfection. At last the old woman hurried back into
the kitchen to exclaim: “Wall, I declare to it, if Jenny ain’t fetchin’
someone home to supper. I reckon its Mis’ Dearborn, her teacher, as she
sets sech a store by.”
But, as Dobbin approached at his best speed (for, was he not nearing his
own supper?) the old woman, peering from behind the white muslin curtains
at a kitchen window, uttered an ejaculation of surprise. “Silas Warner,”
she turned wide-eyed toward the old man, who, in carpet slippers, had
made himself comfortable in his tipped back arm chair to read the _Rural
News_.
“Yeap, Susan?” his tone was one of indifferent inquiry. He presumed that
his spouse was merely going to affirm what she had already suspected.
Well, even if that were true, all he would have to put on was the house
coat Jenny had made for him. It never would do to go to the table in
shirt sleeves if teacher—he rose to carry out this indolently formed
decision when he saw his wife tip-toeing across the room toward him, her
finger on her lips. “Shh! Don’t say nothin’, Si!” she whispered. “Jenny’s
left the horse hitched and she’s comin’ right in and trailin’ arter her
is a gal totin’ a hand satchel. Who do you cal’late it can be?”
The old man hastily slipped on the plaid house coat and stood waiting,
trying not to look too curious when their girl burst in with, “Oh,
Granny, Granddad, this is my friend Etta Heldt. You know I told you about
the girl who pares vegetables up at the seminary and who always looked
so—so unhappy.” Jenny did not want to say discontented as she had that
other time. “Well, I’ve found out what makes her unhappy and I’ve fetched
her over to supper. Etta, this is my Grandmother Sue and my Granddaddy
Si.”
The strange girl sent a half appealing, half frightened glance at each of
the old people and then burst into tears.
Jenny slipped a protecting arm about her new friend, as she said by way
of explanation: “Etta’s all upset about something. I’ll take her into my
room to rest a bit, and then I’ll come back and tell you about it.”
Left alone, the elderly couple looked at each other in amazement.
“I reckon that poor girl is like the stray kittens and forlorn dogs our
Jenny fetches home so often,” the old woman said softly. “I never saw
such a hungerin’ sort of look in human eyes afore.”
The old man dropped back into his armed chair and shook his head as much
as to say that their “gal’s” ways were beyond his comprehension. A moment
later that same “gal” reappeared and, going at once to her grandfather,
she knelt at his side and held his knotted work-hardened hand in a
clinging clasp.
“Tut! Tut! Jenny, you’re all a-tremble.” The old man always felt deeply
moved when the girl he loved seemed to be troubled. He placed his free
hand on her curls.
“I reckon you’d better start at the beginnin’. Me’n your grandma here is
powerful curious.”
The girl sprang up. “Granny dear,” she pleaded, “you sit here in your
rocker and I’ll be close between you on this stool. Now I’ll tell you all
and please, please, please say yes.”
The two old people looked lovingly into the eager, uplifted face of their
darling and wondered what the request was to be. They never had denied
their “gal” anything she had asked for in the past, but they had always
been such simple desires and so easily fulfilled. However, there was an
expression in the girl’s lovely face that made them both believe that
this was to be no ordinary request.
Jenny glanced from one to another of her grandparents anxiously, eagerly.
Then, taking a hand of each, she fairly clung to them as her words rushed
and tumbled out, sometimes incoherently, but the picture was clearly
depicted for all that. The two old people could see the forlorn little
Belgian girl coming alone to America to join the mother who had died and
been buried only two days before the child reached San Francisco. Then
the long dreary years in a crowded city orphanage where no one really
cared.
Grandma Sue began to wipe her eyes with one corner of her apron at that
part of the story. She was thinking that their own darling might have
been brought up in just such a place had not Grandpa Si happened to see
the canopied wagon on that long ago day. The girl felt the soft wrinkled
hand quivering in her clasp, and she looked up almost joyfully, for she
believed she had an ally. Then she told of the time when Etta had reached
an age where she could no longer be kept in the institution and how work
had been procured for her paring vegetables at Granger Place Seminary.
Food and a place to sleep were about all that orphan girls were given,
and so, although she had tried and tried to save the little money she
earned, she could not, for she had to buy shoes and clothes.
The old woman nodded understandingly. “What was she savin’ for, dearie?
Anything special?”
“Oh, yes, Grandma Sue, something very special.” Then Jenny told about the
feeble old grandparents far across the sea whose little farm had been
laid waste by the war and how they longed for their granddaughter to be a
comfort in their last days. At this point Grandpa Si took out his big red
bandana handkerchief and blew his nose hard. He was thinking what it
would mean to them if their Jenny was far away and couldn’t get back.
Then, looking at their “gal” shrewdly, he asked, “Jenny, darlin’, what be
yo’ aimin’ at? Yo’ ain’t jest tellin’ this story sort of random-like, be
yo’?”
The girl shook her head. “No! No!” Her tear-brimmed eyes implored first
one and then the other. Then she explained that it would take one hundred
dollars to pay for Etta’s transportation in the steerage.
How the girl pleaded, her sensitive lips quivering. “Think of it, Grandma
Sue, Granddad, only one hundred dollars to take that poor girl to her old
grandparents who love her so. Won’t you let me loan her that much from
the money I’ve made selling eggs and honey? Please, please say that you
will. You’ve always told me that it is mine and oh, I do so want to help
Etta.” Then, as her surprised listeners hesitated, she hurried on:
“She’ll pay it back, every cent, and only the other day, Granddad, you
said you didn’t think the farm was going to be sold, because nothing more
had been heard about it.”
The old man’s eyes questioned his spouse. Still tearful, Grandma Sue
nodded. Then drawing the girl to her, she held her close as she said,
“Silas, I reckon we owe it to the good Lord to help one of His poor
little children.”
“O, Granny! O, Grandpa! However can I thank you?” The flushed, happy girl
sprang up, kissed each of them and ran toward the bedroom to tell the
wonderful news to the waiting Etta.
CHAPTER VI.
WANTED, A WAITRESS
Such a supper as that had been. Etta’s expression had so completely
changed that Grandma Sue decided that she was almost pretty with her
corn-colored hair and china blue eyes. It was the first time that Jenny
had seen her smile and she found herself wishing that Miss O’Hara could
see it also. They made their plans. Etta was to remain with them all
night. Then early in the morning Granddad would drive both of the girls
to Santa Barbara and take the money from the bank, then they would go to
the railway station and buy a ticket, both for the train and the steamer.
Jenny was sure that there were such tickets because she had heard her
teacher, Miss Dearborn, tell about one that she purchased all the way
through to Liverpool. Then there would be no fear that Etta would lose
the money. When she reached Belgium, Etta promised, oh, so faithfully,
that each month she would send back part of the hundred. She was so
strong. She would work the farm again. The women over there all worked in
the fields. She knew she would have money to send. Every time she thought
of the great joy in store for the old couple, she began to cry and laugh
at the same time. But once she had a thought which brought only
frightened tears. What if this voyage should be like the other? What if
her loved ones would be dead?
But Jenny had said that she must not think of that, though they all knew
that she would, poor girl, till the very moment that she reached the farm
and saw her grandparents.
“You’ll write us all about it, won’t you, dearie?” Grandma Sue said.
The chocolate pudding was eaten, but no one seemed conscious of it. They
were all thinking the same thing and yet with wide variations. Grandma
and Grandpa were being so thankful because they had Jenny, and that
little maid was deciding how she would tell Miss O’Hara when Etta was
gone.
Everything happened just as they had planned. The next day dawned in the
silvery mist that so often veils the seaside mornings in California, but
later it burst into a glory of sunshine, as golden as the oranges, and
sweetly, spicily fragrant with the breath of the lemon groves they passed
as they drove to Santa Barbara. The money was drawn from the bank, the
ticket, a very long ticket, was procured. Etta, hardly able to believe
that she was really awake, had expressed her thanks in all the ways that
she knew, and the train at last bore her away.
It was not until Jenny was back in her own farm home that she told what
she planned doing next. “I must drive right over to the seminary and tell
Miss O’Hara what has become of Etta. Of course she hasn’t worried yet,
because she knew that Etta was with us over here, but she’ll be getting
impatient if there’s no one to pare the vegetables and help her get
lunch.”
Grandmother Sue’s eyes were opened wide. “But, dearie, this is your very
own Saturday. The one that’s for you to do with as you please. I thought
you and Miss Dearborn were goin’ to drive way up into the foothills.
Wasn’t that what you’d planned?”
The girl nodded brightly. “Yes, it was,” she said, “and maybe there’ll be
time for that later, but first, I must tell Miss O’Hara about Etta’s
having gone back to Belgium. I suppose she’ll send up to the orphanage
for another helper, but that will take a day or two, maybe more.”
Granny Sue said no more and as Dobbin was not needed on the farm, Jenny
again drove up the winding tree-shaded lane to the crest of the low hill
on the broad top of which stood the picturesque buildings and grounds of
the fashionable school for girls. This time Jenny drew rein before she
entered the gate and gazed far across the valley to the range of circling
mountains, gray and rugged near the peaks, but green and tree-clad lower
down. Jenny always felt, when she gazed at those majestic mountains, the
same awe that others do in a great cathedral, as though she were in the
real presence of the Creator. “Father, God,” she whispered, “I thank Thee
that at last Etta is really going home.” Then she turned in at the gate.
As Jenny had feared, Miss O’Hara was becoming very wrathful because of
the delayed return of her helper, and when the kitchen door opened, she
whirled about, a carving knife in her hand and a most threatening
expression on her plain Irish face. When she saw who had entered, the
expression changed, but her sharp blue eyes were gazing back of the girl
as though to find one whom she believed was purposely lingering outside
until a just wrath were somewhat appeased. But when Jenny turned and
closed the door, Miss O’Hara demanded: “Where’s that wench? Are you
tryin’ to shield her? You can’t do it! She’d ought to’ve been here two
hours back. Me with all the silver to clean and the vegetables to pare.”
Then, noting a happiness like a morning glow in the face of the girl, the
woman concluded: “Well, say it out, whatever ’tis! But first let me tell
you, I’m _through_ with that ne’er-do-well. I set myself down right in
the middle of the mornin’ and wrote to that orphanage place tellin’ ’em
they’d have to find work elsewhere for Etta Heldt, and I’d be obliged to
’em if they’d send me another girl as soon as they could. An’ what’s
more, I made it plain that I didn’t want any sour face this time. I want
someone who’s willin’ and agreeable, that’s what! So, if that minx is
waitin’ to hear what I’m sayin’, you might as well fetch her in and let’s
have it out.”
To the amazement of the irate woman, Jenny clapped her hands girlishly
and then, skipping forward, gave Miss O’Hara an impulsive hug as she
cried: “Oh, oh, I’m so glad you feel that way about it! Then you won’t
mind so terribly because Etta Heldt is gone—gone for good, I mean?”
Miss O’Hara stared blankly. “Gone?” she repeated. “Where’s she gone to?”
Jenny glanced at the clock. It was nearing noon and she knew that the
cook had little time for idle visiting, and so she said briskly: “I’ve
come over to help. I’ll put on Etta’s apron and do anything you want
done, and while we’re working, I’ll tell you the whole sad story,
because, Miss O’Hara, it is awfully sad, and I do believe if you had
known it, you would have been sorrier for Etta, and maybe, a little more
patient.” Then, fearing that this might offend her listener, the tactful
girl hurried on with: “I know how kind you can be. No one knows better.”
The cook, who had turned back to the slicing of cold meat, which had been
the reason for the carving knife, merely grunted at this. She was not
sure but that a little of her own native blarney was being applied to
her. But she answered in a pleasanter voice to the girl’s repeated
inquiry: “What shall I do to help?”
“Well, you might be fixin’ the salad. You’ll find the mixin’s for it all
in the icebox up top.”
“Oh, goodie!” Jenny skipped to the box as she spoke: “I adore making
things pretty, and salads give one a chance more than most anything else,
don’t you think so, Miss O’Hara?” She had lifted the cover and was
peering in where, close to the ice, lay the cheesecloth bag of crisped
lettuce and a bowl of tiny cooked beets. These she carried to the long
white table as she asked: “May I prepare it just as I want to, Miss
O’Hara, or have you some special way of doing it?”
“Fix it to suit yourself,” was the ungrudgingly given response. “You’ll
find all sort of bowls for it in the pantry, you’ll need four, there
being four tables.”
Jenny chose pretty glass bowls and set about making as artistic a salad
as she could, and, while she worked, she told the whole story to a
listener who at first was merely curious, but who gradually became
interested and finally sympathetic. “Well, I sure certain wish I’d known
about her comin’ to this country and findin’ her mother dead. Like as not
I’d have tried some to cheer her up. As I look back on it now, I wasn’t
any too patient with her. It’ll be a lesson to me, that’s what it will.
When the next orphan comes to this kitchen, I’ll try to make it as
home-like for her as I can.” Then the cook recalled her own troubles.
“How-some-ever, I wish Etta Heldt had given me notice. Here I’ll be
without a helper for no one knows how long, a week maybe.”
Jenny, having heaped a glass bowl with a most appetizing salad, stepped
back to admire it. Then she revealed her plan. “Miss O’Hara, if you’ll
let me, I’ll come right over after school every day and do Etta’s work
until you can get another helper.”
Miss O’Hara again turned, another knife in her hand, as she had been
cutting bread. “Jenny Warner, are you meaning that? Will you help out for
a few days? Well, the Saints bless the purty face of you as they’ve done
already. I only wish I could have a helper all the time as cheery as you
are. I could get on with after-school help. I’m thinkin’, on a scratch.”
Then, glancing at the clock, she continued: “Well, if ’tisn’t
eleven-thirty all ready. Here, cut the bread, will you, Jenny, while I go
upstairs and see if one of the maids won’t help with the servin’ today? I
can’t be in the kitchen dishin’ up, an’ in the dinin’ room at the same
time.”
Jenny, glad to assist in any way, finished the task, and then wandered to
a window near to await further orders. She heard a gong ringing somewhere
in the big school. Then a side door opened and a bevy of girls, about her
own age, trooped out on the lawn for a half hour of recreation before
lunch. How pretty they were, nearly all of them, the watcher thought. By
their care-free, laughing faces she concluded that they had none of them
known a sorrow or felt a feather weight of responsibility. They had come
from homes of wealth, Jenny knew, where they had had every pleasure and
luxury their hearts could desire. But she did not envy them. Where in all
the wide world was there a home more picturesque than her very own old
adobe farmhouse, overgrown with blossoming vines, with the ever-changing
ocean and the rocky point in front, and at the back the orchard, which,
all the year round, was such a delight. And who could they have in their
rich homes more lovable than Granny Sue and Grandpa Si? There couldn’t be
any one more lovable in all the land. Then the watcher wondered which one
of the girls was Harold P-J’s sister. “Proud and domineering,” Miss
O’Hara had said that she was. Maybe she was that tall girl who had drawn
apart from the rest with two companions. She carried herself haughtily
and there was a smile on her face that Jenny did not like. It was as
though she were accompanying it with sarcastic comment about the other
girls. The two who were with her glanced in the direction which their
leader had indicated. Jenny did also and saw a shy-looking girl dressed
far simpler than the others, whose light brown hair hung straight down,
fastened at her neck by a plain brown ribbon. “She must be a new pupil,
too,” Jenny decided, “for she doesn’t seem to be acquainted with any of
the girls.”
At that moment Miss O’Hara returned, more flustered than she had been an
hour earlier, if that were possible. “The de’il himself is tryin’ to fret
me, I’m thinkin’,” she announced. “That silly Peg Hanson’s had a letter
and there’s somethin’ in it that upset her so, she took a fit of cryin’
and now she’s got one of her blind headaches and can’t stand. The other
maid’s in the middle of the upstairs cleanin’, being as she had to do
Peg’s work and her own. Now, I’d like to know _who_ is to wait on that
parcel of gigglin’ girls this noon? That’s what!”
“O, Miss O’Hara, won’t you let me? I’m just wild to have a chance to be
near enough to them to hear what they say. It would be awfully
interesting to me. Please say that I may?”
The cook stared her amazement. “Well, now, what do _you_ know about
waitin’?” she inquired.
“Nothing at all,” was the merry reply, “but my teacher has often said
that I have a good intelligence, and I do believe, if you’d tell me what
ought to be done, I could remember enough to get through.”
The cook’s troubled face broke into a pleased smile. “Jenny Warner,” she
commented, “you’re as good as a pinch of soda in sour milk. Somehow
mountain-sized troubles dwindle down to less’n nothin’ when you take a
hand in them.” She glanced at the clock.
“Lunch is served at twelve-thirty,” she continued. “We’ll have to both
pitch in and get things on the table, and, while we’re doin’ it, I’ll
tell you what you’ll have to know about servin’.”
* * * * * * * *
Jenny was in a flutter of excitement half an hour later as she donned the
white cap and apron of the waitress uniform. They were really very
becoming, and soft brown ringlets peeped out from under the dainty
band-like cap which was tied about her head.
“There’s very little waitin’-on to be done at noon, thanks for that,”
Miss O’Hara said. “Most things are on the table, but you’ll have to go
around and pour the chocolate and do the things as I told you. There now!
The bell’s ringing and I hear those silly girls laughing, so they’re all
in the dining room. Here’s the chocolate pot. I haven’t filled it full,
fearin’ it might be too heavy. You’ll have to come back and get more when
that’s gone.”
With cheeks flushed and eyes shining, as though she were about to do
something which pleased her extremely, Jenny entered the dining room,
where four tables, surrounded by girls, stood along the walls. Few there
were who even noticed her as she went from place to place filling the
dainty cups with steaming liquid.
At the first table the girls were chattering about a theatre party to
which they were going with Miss Granger, and not one of them gave the
waitress more than a fleeting glance. But at the second table Jenny found
the girl she sought. The sister of Harold P-J, and the daughter of the
proud owner of Rocky Point Farm.
The little waitress knew at once which she was, for a companion spoke her
name. Jenny was disappointed when she heard her speak. There was a
fretful, discontented note in her voice. And why should there be, she
wondered, as she slowly approached the end of the table where Gwynette
Poindexter-Jones sat with an intimate friend from San Francisco at each
side.
Surely she had everything her heart could desire. But evidently this was
not true, for, as Jenny drew nearer, she could hear what was being said.
“Patricia Sullivan, you make me weary! You certainly do!” she addressed
the girl on her right. “How can you say that this is a pleasant place?
When I think of my mother in France luxuriating in the sort of life I
most enjoy, it makes me rebellious. Sometimes I feel that I just can’t
forgive her. What right has a mother to send her daughter to an
out-of-the-way country boarding school if the girl prefers to be educated
abroad?”
The friend who had been called “Patricia” now put in, almost
apologetically: “But I merely said that it is a beautiful country, and I
repeat that it is. I think that it is wonderful to be so high up on a
foothill and have a sweeping view of the ocean from one side of the
school and a view of the mountains from the other side.”
A shrug, accompanied by an utterance of bored impatience, then Gwynette’s
reply: “Scenery isn’t what I want, and if I did, I prefer it in France.”
After glancing critically from one table to another, she continued:
“There isn’t a single girl in this room who belongs to our class, really.
They are all our social inferiors.”
But Beulah Hollingsworth, the friend on Gwynette’s left, leaned forward
to say in a low voice, which was audible to Jenny merely because she had
reached the trio and was filling Patricia’s cup:
“I’ve heard that there is a girl in this school whose father is a younger
son of some titled English family. She ought to be in our class, don’t
you think?”
Patricia, whose back was toward the room, could not turn to look at the
other pupils, but suddenly she recalled one of them, and so, leaning
forward, she also said in a low voice:
“Look at Clare Tasselwood. She’s stiff enough at least to be a somebody.”
Gwynette and Beulah agreed.
They both glanced at a tall blonde girl at the table across the room,
whose manner was neither disagreeable nor pleasant, expressing merely
bored endurance of her present existence. Gwynette’s face brightened. “I
believe you are right. Let’s cultivate her!”
Jenny could hear no more of their conversation as she had to go back to
the kitchen to refill the silver pot, and when she returned she began to
fill cups at a third table, the one at which sat the supposed daughter of
a “younger son.” Clare Tasselwood was so deeply engrossed in her own
thoughts that she seemed scarce aware that the timid girl at her left was
offering her a platter of cold meat. She took it finally with a brief
nod; absently helped herself to a slice and passed it to the neighbor on
her right.
Jenny found herself feeling sorry for the little girl whom she had
noticed at the recreation hour; the one so simply dressed in brown with
whom no one had been talking, and about whom Gwynette and her friends had
evidently been making uncomplimentary comment. When the new waitress
poured that girl’s cup full of chocolate, the little maid smiled up at
her and said, “Thank you.”
More than ever Jenny’s heart warmed toward her. “Poor thing! I’d like to
be friends with her if she were not a pupil of this fashionable school.
She looks more like real folks than some of them do.”
Then, having completed the round with the chocolate pot, the waitress
went out to the kitchen to get the tray on which were to be heaped the
plates after the first course had been finished. Jenny really dreaded
this task, fearing that she would break something, and was relieved to
find that the upstairs maid who had been cleaning had come down and was
ready to assist.
“Here, Jenny,” Miss O’Hara said, “you follow and give each girl her
dessert. Then you come out and eat your own lunch. After that you can go.
Tomorrow, being Sunday, I can get along alone, and probably by Monday the
new helper’ll be here.”
An hour later Jenny drove away, laughing to herself over her amusing
adventure and eager to tell Grandma Sue and Granddad Si all about it.
CHAPTER VII.
JENNY’S TEACHER
It was two o’clock when Jenny skipped to the side porch of the Rocky
Point farmhouse. Her grandmother, who was sitting there with her mending
basket at her side, looked up with the welcoming smile that she always
had for the girl. Dropping down on the wooden bench, back of which hung a
blossom-laden garland of Cecil Brunner rose vine, Jenny took off her
wide, flower-wreathed straw hat and began fanning her flushed face. The
sparkle in her soft brown eyes told the watcher at once that something of
an unusual nature had occurred. The old woman dropped her sewing on her
lap, pushed her spectacles up under her lavender-ribboned cap and then
said with a rising inflection: “Well, Jenny dearie, what have you been up
to?”
A peal of amused laughter was the girl’s first answer, followed by a
series of little chuckles that tried to form themselves into words but
couldn’t. Mirth is contagious and the old woman laughingly said: “Tut!
Tut! Jenny, don’t keep all the fun of it to yourself. What happened over
to the seminary that was so amusing? I reckoned you’d have sort of a hard
tune making things straight with Miss O’Hara, if she’s as snappy as poor
Etta Heldt said she was.”
Jenny became serious at once, and, leaning forward, she began earnestly:
“Miss O’Hara is kindhearted, Granny Sue, but she does seem to have a
powerful lot to worry her. Etta didn’t try to be real helpful, I know
that, although I was so sorry for her, and when I told Miss O’Hara all
about the poor orphan, there were tears in her eyes, honestly there were,
Granny, and she said that when the next orphan came, she’d try to make
that kitchen more homelike.”
Her listener was pleased and nodded many times, as she commented: “Well,
well, that’s somethin’ now that my Jenny gal has brought to pass, but it
wasn’t about that you were having such a spell of laughin’, I reckon.”
Again there were twinkles in the brown eyes as the girl confessed: “No,
Granny Sue, it wasn’t, and in as many years as Rip Van Winkle slept, you
couldn’t guess what it was.”
The old woman looked puzzled, as she always did when Jenny quoted from
some of her “readin’ books.” “Wall, I reckon I couldn’t, bein’ as I don’t
know how long the lazy fellow slept, so I reckon you’d better tell me
what you’ve been up to over to the seminary.”
She had replaced her glasses and was again sewing a patch on an old shirt
of Grandpa Si’s, but she looked up when the girl said: “You’ll be
astonished as can be, because you never even guessed that your
granddaughter knew how to wait on table, stylish-like, with all the
flourishes.”
Down went the sewing, up went the glasses, and an expression of shocked
displeasure was in the sweet blue eyes of the old woman.
“Jenny Warner, am I hearin’ right? Are yo’ tellin’ me that my gal waited
on table over to the seminary?”
The girl looked puzzled. Grandma Sue was taking almost tragically what
Jenny had considered in the light of a merry adventure.
“Why, yes, Granny, I did. You don’t mind, do you? You have always wanted
me to help where help was needed, and surely poor Miss O’Hara needed a
waitress. If we hadn’t spirited Etta away, she would have been there. You
see, don’t you, Grandma, that I just had to help?”
“Yes, yes, I reckon like as not you did, but don’t do it again, Jenny,
don’t! Promise, just to please your old Grandma Sue.”
The girl placed her hat on the bench and went to her grandmother’s side
and knelt, her head nestled lovingly against the old woman’s shoulder.
“Why, Granny, dearie,” she said contritely, “I didn’t suppose you’d mind.
Why is it that you do?” She was plainly perplexed.
But the old woman had no intention of telling the girl she so loved that
she could not bear the thought of having her act as a servant to her own
sister, Gwynette. And so she replied with an assumed cheeriness: “Just a
notion, dearie, like as not. I feel that our gal is as good, and heaps
better’n a lot of them seminary pupils, and I guess I sort of don’t like
the idea of you waitin’ on ’em.” Then anxiously: “It won’t happen again,
will it, Jenny?”
The girl kissed her grandmother lovingly. Then rising, she put her hat on
her sun-glinted head as she replied: “It won’t be necessary, because Peg,
the real waitress, will be well again tomorrow. She had one of her blind
headaches today, but I did promise to go over Monday after school and do
Etta’s work, preparing vegetables. You don’t mind that, do you, Granny
dear. The new orphan will be there by Tuesday surely.”
“Well, well, you do whatever you think right. That heart o’ yourn won’t
take you far wrong. You’re goin’ over to your school-teacher’s now,
aren’t you, dearie? She’ll be expectin’ you.”
The girl nodded, skipped into the house to get a book, returned, saying
as she went down the path: “This is our mythology lesson day. Good-bye,
Granny dear. I’ll be home in time to get supper.”
As Jenny drove Dobbin along the coast highway, she wondered why her
grandmother had objected so seriously to the act of kindness that she had
done. Her teacher, Miss Dearborn, had so often said: “Jeanette, it isn’t
what we do that counts, it is what we are.” Surely Jenny had been no
different from what she really was when she had been filling cups with
steaming golden brown chocolate. Moreover, Granny Sue hadn’t minded in
the least that time, last year, when Jenny had gone over to the cabin
home of the poor forlorn squatter family in the sycamore woods and had
cleaned it out thoroughly.
She had found the mother sick in bed and the three children almost
spoiling for a bath. Jenny smiled as she recalled how she had taken them,
one after another, down to the creek in the canon below the cabin, and
had washed them, showing the oldest, Rosa, who was eight, how to give
future baths to Sara, aged five, and Elmer, aged two. And after that she
had driven, at Miss Dearborn’s suggestion, into Santa Barbara to tell the
Visiting Nurse’s Association about the poor squatter family. Grandma Sue
had been pleased, then, to have Jenny serve others. Why did she object to
a similar service for Miss O’Hara? This being unanswerable, the girl
decided to drive through the Sycamore Canon Road, as it was really but a
little out of her way, and see how the squatter’s family was progressing.
It became very cool as she turned out of the sunshine of the broad
highway, and the deeper she drove into the canon, the damper and more
earth fragrant the air. Great old sycamore trees that had grown in most
picturesque angles were on either side of the narrow dirt road, and
crossing and recrossing, under little rustic bridges, rambled the brook
which in the spring time danced along as though it also were brimming
over with the joy of living. The cabin in which the Pascoli family lived
had been long abandoned when they had taken possession. It stood in a
more open spot, where, for a few hours each day, the sunlight came. It
was partly adobe (from which its former white-washed crust had broken
away in slabs) and partly logs. A rose vine, which Jenny had given to the
older girl, was bravely trying to climb up about the door, and along the
front of the cabin were ferns transplanted from the brookside.
When Jenny hallooed, there was a joyful answering cry from within, and
three children, far cleaner than when they had first been found, raced
out, their truly beautiful Italian faces beaming their pleasure. They
climbed up on the sides of the wagon shouting, in child-like fashion, “O,
Miss Jenny, did you fetch us any honey?”
“No, dearies. I didn’t! And I don’t believe you’ve eaten all that I
brought you last week, have they, Mrs. Pascoli?” the girl looked over
Sara’s head to the dark-eyed woman who appeared in the open door carrying
a wee baby wrapped in a shawl. She replied: “No, ma’am! The beggars they
are!” Then came a rebuking flow of Italian which had the effect desired,
for the three youngsters climbed down and said in a subdued chorus,
“No’m, we ain’t et it, and thanks for it till it’s gone.” the latter part
of the sentence being added by Sara alone. Jenny smiled at them, then
said to the woman:
“You’re quite well again, Mrs. Pascoli. I’m so glad! Grandpa tells me
that your husband is working steadily now. Next week I’ll bring some more
honey and eggs. Good-bye.”
The girl soon turned out of the canon on to a foothill road and after a
short climb came suddenly upon a low built white house that had a
wonderful view of the ocean and islands.
She turned in at the drive, the gate posts of which were pepper trees,
and at once she saw her beloved teacher, Miss Dearborn, working in her
garden.
The woman, who was about thirty-five, looked up with a welcoming smile
which she reserved for this her only pupil. “Jenny Warner, you’re an hour
late,” she merrily rebuked. “Hitch Dobbin and come in. I have some news
to tell you.”
“O, Miss Dearborn, is it good news? I’m always so dreading the bad news
that, some day, I just know you are going to tell me. It isn’t that,
yet?”
The woman, whose strong, kind, intelligent face was shaded with a
wide-brimmed garden hat, smiled at the girl, then more seriously she
said: “Shall you mind so very much when the call comes for me to go back
East?”
Jenny nodded, unexpected tears in her eyes. “East is so far, so very far
away, and you’ve been here for—well—for as many years as I have been
going to school.”
“Ten, to be exact,” was the reply. “But that isn’t my news today. It is
something about you, and you’ll be ever so excited when you hear it.”
Miss Dearborn led the way into a long, cool living room which extended
entirely across the front of the house. In one end of it was a large
stone fireplace, on either side of which were glassed-in book shelves.
There were Navajo rugs on the hardwood floor, a piano at the opposite
end, deep, cozily cushioned seats under the wide plate-glass windows that
framed such wonderful views of sea, rocky promontory and islands,
mist-hung.
In the middle was a long library table and everywhere were chairs
inviting ease. Great bowls of glowing yellow poppies stood in many places
about the long room. This had been Jenny Warner’s second home, and Miss
Dearborn a most beneficial influence in her development.
Having removed her garden hat, a mass of soft, light brown hair was
revealed. Seating herself at one end of the table, the older woman
motioned the girl to a chair at her side.
For a long moment she looked at her earnestly. “Jenny,” she said at last,
“I believe you are old enough to be told something about me, but since it
is not nearly as important as the something about you, I will begin with
that.”
Jenny, not in the least understanding why, felt strangely excited. “Oh,
Miss Dearborn, if only it hasn’t anything to do with your going back
East.”
A strong white hand was placed over the smaller one that was lying on the
table, and for a searching moment the gray eyes met the brown. “I
believe, after all, I will have to tell you the part about myself first
in order that you may more clearly understand the part about you,” Miss
Dearborn said. “I never told you why I came West ten years ago. It was
this way. When I was fifteen, I went to a boarding school in Boston and
met there a girl, Beatrice Malcolm, who became, through the four years
that followed, as dear to me as an own sister would have been. She was
not strong and she never had been able to bear disappointment. I always
gave in to her and tried to shield her whenever I could. She clung to me,
depended on me and loved me, if not quite as devotedly as I loved her, at
least very dearly. When we left boarding school we visited each other for
weeks at a time. She came to my Cape Cod home in the summer, and I went
to her New York home in the winter, and so we shared the same friends and
were glad to do so, until Eric Austin came into our lives. Eric and I
were unusually companionable. He loved books and nature and especially
the sea. He had come to Cape Cod to write a group of poems and I met him
at our Literary Club. He came often to my home and we read together day
after day. Then Beatrice came for her annual summer visit, and, after
that there were three of us at the readings. Eric’s voice was deep,
musical and stirringly expressive. I began to notice that Beatrice hung
on every word that he uttered as though he were a young god. There was
something poetically beautiful about his fine face. Then, one day, she
confessed to me that if she could not win Eric Austin’s love, she would
not care to live. This was cruelly hard for me, because I also loved Eric
and he had told me that my love was returned. Indeed, I had not allowed
myself to really care, until I knew that he cared, but I had told him
that I wanted to wait until we had known each other at least through one
summer.”
Miss Dearborn paused and gazed out of the window at the blue sea
shimmering in the distance, then turned and smiled into the sensitive,
responsive face of the girl at her side. Almost tearfully, Jenny said:
“Oh, Miss Dearborn, I know what you did. You gave up the man you loved
for that selfish girl.”
The woman shook her head. “Not selfish! Just spoiled, and I had helped,
for I had always given up to her, and that is what I did. I pretended not
to care. I left them much alone, and then, when the summer was over, I
closed my Cape Cod home and came West. Eric was deeply hurt, and wrote me
that, although he never could care for anyone as he did for me, he was
going to marry Beatrice and would try to make her as happy as he had
hoped to make me. That was all. They were married while I was settling in
this new home. Year after year Beatrice has written that some day she
wants me to come and visit them, and she has named her oldest girl after
me. Little Catherine is now eight. That is all about me. Now I will tell
the something about you.”
Jenny, deeply affected by what she had heard, said with a little half
sob: “Oh, Miss Dearborn, it makes my heart ache to think that you have
lived all these years so alone when you might have had the companionship
of that man who really loved you. I just know he never could have loved
your friend Beatrice. She must have known you cared and she let you make
that cruel sacrifice.”
Before answering the older woman took the girl’s hand and held it in a
close clasp as she said earnestly: “Jenny, dear, I gave up much, very
much, but think what I won. You, for instance. I had thought that I might
have a daughter, as I suppose all girls, growing into young womanhood,
dream that, some day, they will marry and have children, and that
daughter, I now believe, would have been like you. So you see I gained
something very precious.” There were tears in Jenny’s tender brown eyes
as she replied: “Oh. Miss Dearborn, I am the one who has gained. I just
can’t picture life without you. I remember so well when you first came.
You heard that our little schoolhouse down on the coast highway was to be
closed because the board of education was not allowed to pay a teacher’s
salary unless there were eight pupils to attend the school. There were
only five of us, the four from the Anderson Bean Ranch and me. You
offered to teach us for nothing, saying that you wanted to do something
for children. I didn’t know that until long afterwards, then Grandma told
me how it had all come about. We were too little to go on the bus to the
big schools in Santa Barbara.”
“I’m glad indeed that I did it,” Miss Dearborn put in, “but, of course,
when the Andersons moved back to their Iowa farm and you were the only
pupil we closed that coast highway school and had our lessons here, and
such an inspiration as they have been to me, Jenny Warner! I just know
that you are leading up to an expression of gratitude. I’ve heard it time
and again and I do appreciate it, dear girl, but now that you know the
great loneliness that was in my heart when I came West, you will readily
understand that having you to teach filled a void, filled it beautifully,
and so, I also have a deep sense of gratitude toward you.”
“And two years ago,” Jenny continued retrospectively, “when we completed
the work of the sixth grade, you can’t think how unhappy I was, for I
supposed that at last I would have to leave you and go by bus each day to
the Santa Barbara Junior High, and I never shall forget that wonderful
day when you told me you had received permission to teach me through the
eighth grade.”
Miss Dearborn laughed happily. “What I never told you, Jenny, was that
the board of education insisted that I take an examination at their State
Normal to prove to them that I knew enough to teach one lone pupil the
higher grade work. I brushed up evenings and passed creditably.”
Impulsively the girl pressed the woman’s hand to her cheek. “Oh, Miss
Dearborn,” she exclaimed tremulously, “to _think_ that you did _all_ that
_just_ for me.”
“Wrong you are, Jenny girl!” the woman sang out. “I did it first of all
for Catherine Dearborn. I felt a panic in my heart I had not dreamed
possible when I thought that I was to be left all alone, day in and day
out, with only memory for company. I wanted to keep you, to teach you, to
love you, and I did keep you, but now along comes a letter from the same
board of education. If we thought they had forgotten us, we are mistaken.
That’s my news about you.”
Opening a small drawer in the end of the table, Miss Dearborn took out a
letter and read:
“Miss Jenny Warner will be required to take the entrance examination in
all the subjects at the High School of Santa Barbara during the week of
June 10th. The results of these tests will determine where she is to
continue her studies.”
The girl’s lovely face was the picture of dismay. “Oh, Miss Dearborn, I
can’t! I can’t! I’d be simply frightened to death to even enter the door
of that imposing building, and if any of the pupils as much as spoke to
me, I’d simply expire.” Her teacher laughed. “Nonsense!” she declared.
“Not only must my pupil enter the door but she must pass the tests with
high grades if I am to be permitted to teach her another year.”
Then to change the girl’s thought, Miss Dearborn continued brightly:
“Saturday is our mythology day, isn’t it? But since you came late and we
have spent so much time visiting, we will not go up into the hills as we
usually do for this lesson. Let me see. Weren’t you to write something
about Apollo, Diana and Echo that I might know if you fully understand
just what each stands for in poetry and art?”
“Oh, Miss Dearborn,” Jenny laughed as she drew a paper from her book, “I
don’t know what you will say about the composition I tried to write. It
isn’t good, I know, but I ever so much wanted to write it in verse. Shall
you mind my trying?” The girl’s manner was inquiring and apologetic at
the same time.
“Of course not,” was the encouraging reply. “We all reach an age when we
want to write our thoughts in rhyme. Read it to me.”
And so timidly Jenny began:
At Sunrise
Gray mists veil the dawn of day,
Silver winged they speed away,
When across a road of gold
In his shining chariot rolled
Young Apollo. Day’s fair King
Bids the birds awake and sing!
Robin, skylark, linnet, thrush
From each glen and flower-glad bush
Burst their throats with warbles gay
To welcome back the King of Day.
Diana, huntress, Apollo’s twin,
Standing in a forest dim,
A quiver on one shoulder fair
Filled with arrows. (In her hair
A moonlike crescent.) Calls her hounds
To new adventures with them bounds,
While lovely Echo in the hill,
Though grieving for Narcissus still,
Must need call back their song or bay,
And so is dawned a glad new day.
Miss Dearborn smiled as she commented: “Dear girl, there is no need to
blush about this, your first effort at verse. I am going to suggest that
you write all of your compositions on this poetical subject in rhyme.
Keep them and let us see how much better the last will be than the
first.” Then after a thoughtful moment: “Dawn is a subject much loved by
the poets.”
Then she quoted from Byron:
“The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense and with cheek all bloom;
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn
(Living as if earth contained no tomb)
And glowing into day.”
“Oh, Miss Dearborn,” was Jenny’s enthusiastic comment, “how happy I will
be when my memory holds as many poems as you know. It will add to the
loveliness of every scene to know what some poet has thought about one
that was similar.”
“You are right, dear, it does.” Then rising, Miss Dearborn said: “Come
with me to the porch dining room. I hear the kettle calling us to
afternoon tea.”
CHAPTER VIII.
AN ADVENTURE FILLED DAY
It was late afternoon when Jenny returned from Miss Dearborn’s home high
in the foothills. As she drove up the long lane leading to the farmhouse,
she saw three young ladies from Granger Place Seminary on horseback
cantering along the highway toward the mansion-like home of Mrs.
Poindexter-Jones. She was too far away, however, to be sure that among
them was the girl whom she believed to be the daughter of the rich woman
who owned the farm.
Going to the barn, Jenny unhitched Dobbin, patting him lovingly and
chatting in a most intimate friendly manner as though she were sure that
he understood.
“We’ve had a red letter day, haven’t we, Dob? First, early this morning
we drove that poor Etta Heldt to the station and loaned her money to help
her buy a ticket to Belgium.” Then, in silent meditation, the girl
thought: “How I wish I had a magic carpet like that of The Little Lame
Prince. I would love to be over on that quaint Belgian farm when the old
people first see their granddaughter arriving.”
Then as she led the faithful horse out to the watering trough under a
blossoming peach tree, another thought presented itself. “Dobbin.” she
again addressed her companion, “now that we have loaned part of the honey
and egg money, wouldn’t it be dreadful if Mrs. Poindexter-Jones should
decide to sell this farm?” She sighed. “Though I suppose that hundred
dollars wouldn’t go very far toward buying it.” For a contemplative
moment the girl gazed across the meadow where a pale green of early grain
was beginning to show, and then at the picturesque old adobe partly
hidden by the blossoming orchard. It was all the home she had ever known
and it was hard to even think of moving to another. “Don’t climb over a
stile till you get to it,” Grandpa Si had often told her. Remembering
this, she turned her attention to her companion, who had lifted his
dripping head. “My, but you were thirsty, weren’t you, Dob? Come on now
into your nice cool stall. I’m eager to tell Grandma about that dreadful
examination I am to take.”
Later, as she walked along the path which led past the rows of beehives
where there was ever a cheerful humming, through the orchard and to the
side porch, her thoughts were varied. “How I wish I could tell Grandma
Sue about Miss Dearborn’s romance, but _that_ was meant just for me.
Maybe it’s wrong, but I can’t help wishing that something will happen
_some day_ which will make it possible for that romance to end happily,
as stories always should, whether they are real or in books.”
At the corner of the porch she stopped to breathe in the fragrance of the
heliotrope blossoms that grew on a riotous bush which seemed to be
trying, vine-fashion, to reach the roof.
“Home again, after a day crowded full of unusual happenings,” her
thoughts hummed along. “I don’t suppose that anything more _can_ happen
in it.”
But Jenny Warner was mistaken, for something of vital importance to her
(though she little guessed it) was yet to happen on that day.
Skipping into the kitchen, the girl beheld her grandmother busy at the
ironing board. Self rebukingly she cried: “Oh, Grandma Sue, why did you
iron today? You promised me faithfully, since I had to go over to the
seminary, and then to my teacher’s, that you wouldn’t iron until next
week, when I could help. Now you look all hot and tired, and as thirsty
as Dobbin was. Please stop and rest while I make us some lemonade.”
The flushed face of the old woman was smiling contentedly as she
protested: “I like to iron, dearie. I’m not doing much, just pressin’ out
our church-goin’ things. Grandpa Si needed a fresh shirt and I reckoned
as how, mabbe, you’d like to wear that white muslin o’ yourn with the
pink flowers on the bands, so I fetched it out an’ washed it an’ ironed
it, an’ there ’tis, lookin’ as purty again this year as it did when it
was furst made. Shouldn’t you think so. Jenny?” This a little
anxiously—“or do you reckon we’d better buy you a new Sunday dress for
this comin’ summer?”
Jenny whirled toward the clothes-horse where hung the pink sprigged
muslin which had been “church goin’” dress for the past three summers.
The hem had twice been let down, but, except that the pink had somewhat
faded, it was as pretty as it ever had been. “Oh, it’s a love of a
dress.” The girl was sincere. “I hope I never will have to give it up.
I’ve been so happy in it, and then it matches that sweet parasol Miss
Dearborn gave me and the wreath on my white leghorn hat. I’m glad I may
begin wearing it tomorrow, Grandma Sue, and it was mighty nice of you to
iron it for me, but now, as soon as we’ve had our drink, I’m going to
iron your Sunday go-to-meeting lavender dress. Please say that I may.
I’ll do the ruffles just beautifully. You will be so vain!”
“Tut! Tut! dearie.” Susan Warner sank down in Grandpa’s armed chair to
wipe her warm face and rest while her beloved Jenny made lemonade. “It
wouldn’t do to wear that dress to meetin’ if it’s goin’ to make me vain.”
How the girl laughed as she squeezed the juicy lemons that grew on the
big tree close to the back porch. Nearly all the year round that tree was
laden with blossoms, green and ripe fruit at the same time. “The most
obliging kind of tree,” Jenny had often said. “It provides a perfume,
delicious lemon pies and a refreshing drink whenever its owners wish.”
“There now, Granny Sue, if only we had ice to clink in it as Miss
Dearborn has we’d think that we were rich folks, but it’s real nice as it
is.” The girl drank her share with a relish.
“That was mighty good tastin’,” Susan Warner commented. “I wish your
Grandpa could have a drink of it. He’s cultivatin’ close to the high
hedge. That’s a hot place when the sun is beatin’ down the way it has
been all day. Couldn’t you carry a little pailful over to him, dearie?”
“Of course I can and will, Mrs. Susan Warner, if you will promise me one
thing.” The girl gazed down into the smiling face of the old woman. “I
have my suspicions that you’re trying to get rid of me so that you may
iron the lavender dress. Is that the truth?”
“Maybe ’tis,” was the smilingly given confession, “but if you’ll let me
iron that one while you’re gone, you can do Grandpa’s best shirt when you
come back.”
Filling a quart pail with the lemonade, Jenny snatched her garden hat
from its nail by the door and skipped away, although she had to walk more
carefully when the ploughed ground was reached. “It makes me think of
Robert Burns, and how, in far-away Scotland, his plough turned over the
home nest of a poor little old field mouse,” she thought. “Oh, how glad,
glad I am that Miss Dearborn is teaching me to love poetry. I can just
see that tender-hearted young poet leaning over, ever so sorry because he
had destroyed the little creature’s home and telling it not to be
frightened.
“‘Wee, sleekit, cowrin’, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa’ sae hasty
Wi’ bick’ring brattle.
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring prattle.’”
“Jenny gal, what air yo’ sayin’, talkin’ to yourself that a-way?” The
girl suddenly looked up, realizing that she had neared the high hedge
that separated the farm from the mansion-like home and its grounds.
Laughing happily, she replied: “What you’d call up to my old tricks,
Granddad, reciting poetry that Miss Dearborn has had me learn. See, here
is a pail brimming full of cool lemonade, if it hasn’t warmed while I
crossed the field. I’m sure you must be as thirsty as Grandma and Dobbin
and I were.” For answer the old man pushed his wide brimmed straw hat to
the back of his head, lifted the pail to his lips and drank it all
without stopping. Then said gratefully: “I reckon I kin keep on now fer a
spell longer. I was most petered out an’ I do want to finish this field
afore I quit.”
The girl left at once, as she wished to hurry home to help with the
ironing. She followed the hedge, as the walking was easier, but suddenly
she paused and her hand went to her heart. She had heard the voices of
girls talking on the other side of the evergreens and what one of them
was saying greatly startled the listener.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” a proud voice was saying, “we own about one hundred
acres, Ma Mere, brother Harold and I. Our property extends along the
seacoast to the highwater mark, then back across the highway up into
Laurel Canon, and includes the farm just beyond the hedge.”
Another voice commented, “If your mother should die, you and your brother
would be very rich.”
“Oh, yes, fairly,” this with a fine show of indifference. “But if I had
my way, all of our country property would be turned into money, then we
could live abroad ever after. Mother promised that when she comes in July
she will consider selling the farm and the canon property at least. She
would have sold the farm two years ago had it not been for my brother
Harold. For some reason, which Ma Mere and I cannot in the least
understand, he pleaded to have the farm kept. He even offered to take it
as part of his share, that and the canon acreage, and let me have the
home and estate.”
“What did your mother say to that?” a third voice inquired.
“Too utterly ridiculous to consider, and that, since she wishes to turn
something into cash, if we are to live abroad, she will sell one or the
other, and, of course, there will be a more ready market for the farm.
It’s a most picturesque old place. That is, from a distance. I have never
really been there. You see, we have practically lived away from our
country home ever since I was born. I have always supposed that, because
of our father’s long lingering illness here, Ma Mere has dreaded
returning to stay, so imagine my surprise when she wrote that we were all
three to spend this summer at the old place.”
Jenny, who had stood transfixed, listening, though against her will, for
she scorned eavesdropping, started to run across the ploughed field,
stumbling and almost falling in her haste. Oh, what should she do? Should
she tell Grandma and Grandpa the terrible possibility that, after all,
Rocky Point Farm might be sold, and that very summer? No! No! She
couldn’t do that. Oh, if only she had not loaned Etta Heldt part of the
honey and egg money, and yet, with a crushing sense of depression, Jenny
realized that it did not in the least matter about that paltry sum. If
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones wished to sell part of her land, all that her
grandfather had saved or could procure would be no inducement to her.
When the orchard was reached, she stood very still for a moment, her hand
again on her heart, as though to quiet its anxious beating that was
almost a pain. “Jenny Warner,” she said to herself, “you _must_ not let
Grandma suspect that anything is wrong because, perhaps, nothing really
is. If Harold does not want the farm sold, his mother may heed his
wishes.”
Two moments later a smiling girl entered the kitchen, hung her hat on its
nail by the door as she said, “Well, Granny Sue, I was longer than I
expected to be and you have started on the shirt. Let me have the iron.
I’ll promise not to scorch it, the way I did that towel you let me iron
when I was just head above the ironing board. Do you remember it? You
were so sweet about it when I cried. I recall, even now, how you
comforted me by saying that the two ends of the towel would make such
nice wash cloths, hemmed up, and that it was lucky the scorch was in the
middle of the towel because that would make the wash cloths just the
right size.” The old woman had relinquished the iron, and, sitting near
in Grandpa’s armed chair, she smiled lovingly at the girl, who continued:
“That’s just the way you’ve overlooked all the mistakes I ever made. I do
wish that every girl in all the world had a grandmother like you.” Jenny
was purposely chattering to keep from telling what was uppermost in her
mind.
“What a proud, vain girl that Gwynette Poindexter-Jones must be!” Jenny’s
thoughts were very different from her spoken words. “How cold and
superior the tone of her voice when she informed her friends that she had
never visited the farm, but that it looked very picturesque from a
distance.” Jenny’s cheeks flushed as she indignantly told herself that
she certainly hoped that the farm never would be visited by——. Her
thought was interrupted by her exclamation of dismay. “Grandmother Sue.
_Here_ they come!”
The old woman rose hastily from the armed wooden chair. “Who, dearie? Who
is it you see?” No wonder she asked, for the girl with the iron safely
upheld, that it might not scorch the shirt front, was staring with a
startled expression out of the window toward the long lane.
Susan Warner had not seen the missionary’s older daughter in many years,
and so she did not recognize her as being the young lady in the lead
mounted on a nervous, high-stepping black horse. Following were two other
girls in fashionable riding habits on small brown horses. But the old
woman did not need to be told who the visitor was, for at once she knew.
There was indeed a resemblance to her own Jenny in the face and the very
build of the girl in the lead. However, a stranger who did not know the
relationship would think little of it because of the difference in the
expressions. One face indicated a selfish, proud, haughty nature, the
other was far more sensitive, joyous and loving. Jenny was again ironing
when the old woman turned from the window to ask, “Do yo’ know who they
be?”
“Why, yes, Granny; the one ahead is Gwynette Poindexter-Jones, and the
two others are her best friends, the ones who came to Granger Place with
her from San Francisco. You know I saw them all close up this noon when I
waited on table over at the seminary.”
Susan Warner had stepped out on the side porch when the young lady in the
lead drew rein. She wanted to close the door, shutting Jenny in, but
since the door stood open from dawn until sunset each day, she knew that
such an act would arouse suspicion. But _how_ she did wish she could
prevent Jenny’s meeting her very own sister and being treated as an
inferior.
The girl at the ironing board listened intently, strainingly, that she
might hear if the selling of the farm was mentioned.
Gwynette was saying, “My mother told me to ride over to our farm some day
and ask you to see that the big house is put in readiness for occupancy
by the first of July. Ma Mere said that you could hire day labor to have
the cleaning done, but that she prefers to engage our permanent servants
after she arrives.”
How unlike her dear grandmother’s voice was the one that was coldly
replying: “I reckon your ma’ll write any orders she has for me. She
allays does.”
If Gwynette recognized a rebelliousness in the remark and manner of the
farmer’s wife, she put it down to ill-breeding and ignorance, and so said
in her grandest air, “Kindly bring us each a drink of milk.” Then,
turning to her friends, she added, “All of the produce of the farm is for
our use, but since we are seldom here, it is, of course, sold in the
village. I suppose Ma Mere receives the profits.”
“Aren’t you being unnecessarily rude?” Beulah Hollingsworth inquired.
Gwynette shrugged. “Oh, nobody heard,” she said in a tone which implied
that she would not have cared if they had. But she was mistaken, for
Jenny had heard and her cheeks flamed with unaccustomed anger.
“Are the bees yours also?” Patricia Sullivan inquired, glancing back at
the orchard where a constant humming told that swarms of tiny winged
creatures were gathering sweets.
“Why, of course,” was the languidly given reply. “We’ll take some of the
honey back with us. These people have to do as I say. They are just our
servants.” To the amazement of the three, a flashing-eyed girl darted out
on the porch as she cried, “You shall _not_ call my grandmother and my
grandfather your servants. And those bees _do not_ belong to you. I
bought them, and the white hens, with my _very own_ Christmas and
birthday money.”
Susan Warner, coming from the cooling cellar with three goblets of milk,
was amazed, for very seldom had she seen a flash of temper in the sweet
brown eyes of her girl.
“Never mind, dearie, whatever ’twas they said,” she murmured in a low
voice. “Go back to your ironin’, Jenny; do, to please your ol’ granny.”
Obediently the girl returned to the kitchen, but she felt sure, from the
fleeting glance she gave the companions of Gwynette, that _they_ were not
in sympathy with her rudeness.
After drinking the milk, the three rode away, and from the indignant
tones of one of them the listeners knew that the proud daughter of Mrs.
Poindexter-Jones had been angered by the attitude of her mother’s
servants.
Jenny’s heart was indeed heavy as she contemplated the dreary possibility
that her angry words might hasten the day when her loved ones would lose
their home.
Sadly she finished her task and put away the ironing board. Then she
recalled that an hour before she had assured herself that nothing else of
an unusual nature was apt to happen in that day already crowded with
events, but she had been mistaken. She had met Harold’s sister and had
quarreled with her. Then, and for the first time, she realized that she
had half hoped that the daughter of their next door neighbor and she
might become friends. Jenny had never had a close girl friend, and like
all other girls she had yearned for one.
“Dearie,” her grandmother was making an evident effort at cheeriness, “if
you’ll be settin’ the table, I’ll start the pertatoes to fryin’. Here
comes your grandpa. He looks all petered out, and he’ll want his supper
early.”
Jenny smiled her brightest as she began the task of consoling herself
with the thought that Harold Poindexter-Jones was their true friend, and
how she did wish that she might see _him_ and ask him if the farm was to
be sold.
CHAPTER IX.
AN OLD FRIEND APPEARS
The next morning, while Jenny was standing in front of her mirror in her
sun-flooded bedroom nearest the sea, she reviewed in memory the events of
the day previous. She found it hard to understand her own anger or why it
had flared so uncontrollably. After all Grandpa Si _was_ the farmer in
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones’ employ and, what was more, Grandma Sue _had_ been
housekeeper over at the big house for years before Jenny had been born,
and there was no disgrace in that. The girl challenged the thought that
had recalled this almost forgotten fact. Didn’t Miss Dearborn say that it
is not your occupation but what you are that really counts?
Determinedly she put from her the troubling memory and centered her
attention for the first time on the reflection before her. She did indeed
look pretty in the ruffled white muslin with the pink sprig embroidery,
and tender brown eyes looked out from under a wide white hat, pink
wreathed. There was no complaining thought in her heart because both
dress and hat were many summers old.
Opening a drawer in her old-fashioned bureau, Jenny took out her prized
pink silk parasol and removed its soft paper wrappings.
A mocking bird just outside her open window poured one joyous song after
another into the peaceful sunlit air. For a thoughtful moment the girl
gazed out at the shimmering blue sea. “I’m sorry I flared up at Harold’s
sister,” she said aloud. Then hearing her grandmother calling from the
side porch, she sang out: “Coming, Granny Sue.”
Jenny could not have told why everything and everyone revolved around
Harold P-J. She thought of the proud woman, whom she had once seen in the
long ago, as “Harold’s mother,” and of the girl whom she had defied as
“Harold’s sister,” yet she had not seen the boy since that stormy day two
years before.
Skipping to the side porch, she found Grandma Sue looking very sweet in
her lavender muslin, and tiny black bonnet with lavender ribbons, already
up on the wide seat of the buggy. Breaking a few blossoms from the
heliotrope at the corner of the house, Jenny handed them up to her. “Put
them on, somewhere,” she called merrily, “and I shall have a cluster of
pink Cecile Brunner roses for my belt. Granddad, how dressed up you look
in the shirt that I ironed. Do you want a buttonhole bouquet?”
“Me?” the old man’s horrified expression amused the girl. Standing on
tiptoe, she kissed his brown, wrinkled cheek, then clambered up beside
her grandmother.
Silas Warner climbed over the wheel and took up the loose rein. Dobbin
was indeed a remarkable horse. He seemed to know that on Sunday he was to
turn toward the village, and yet he stopped after having cantered about
two miles and turned down a pine-edged lane that led to St.
Martin’s-by-the-Sea. It was the only church in all that part of the
country, and so was attended by rich and poor alike. The seminary girls
attended the service all together and filled one side of the small
church. Jenny, near the aisle, close to the back, was kneeling in prayer
when a late arrival entered and knelt in front of her. It was a young man
dressed in a military school uniform.
Grandpa Si was the first to recognize the stranger and he whispered to
his companion: “Ma ain’t that little Harry?”
Discreetly the good woman nodded, her eyes never leaving the face of the
preacher who was beginning his sermon. Jenny’s heart was in a flutter of
excitement. Surely it was her friend Harold P-J, and yet, two years
before he had been just a boy. Now he was much taller with such broad
shoulders and how straight he stood when they rose to sing a hymn. She
had not seen his face as she was directly behind him. Perhaps, after all,
she was mistaken, she thought, for she had plainly heard his sister tell
her friends that Harold was not expected until the mother returned from
France in July and it was only the first week in May. But she had not
been wrong, as she discovered as soon as the benediction had been said,
for the young man turned with such a pleased expression on his good
looking face, and, holding out his hand to the older woman, he said with
ringing sincerity in his voice. “It’s great, Mrs. Warner, to see you
looking so well.” Then, after giving a hearty handshake, and receiving
two from the farmer, the boy turned smilingly toward Jenny. “You aren’t,
you _can’t_ be that little, rubber-hooded girl whom I picked up two years
ago in the storm!”
“I am though.” Jenny’s rose-tinted cheeks were of a deeper hue, “But you
also have grown.”
Standing very straight and tall, the boy looked down beamingly upon all
three. “I’ll say I have,” he agreed, “but honestly I do hope I’m not
going up any higher.” Then after a quick glance across the aisle, where
the Granger Place Young Ladies were filing out, he said hastily. “Mrs.
Warner, won’t you invite a stranded youth to take dinner with you today?
I’ve got to see sister this afternoon, and return to the big city
tonight, but I’m pining to have a real visit with you.” Then to Jenny, by
way of explanation. “Perhaps you never heard about it, but your Grandma
Sue took care of me the first three years of my life and so I shall
always consider her a grandmother of mine.” Susan Warner’s mind had flown
hastily back to the home larder. What did she have cooked that was fine
enough for company. But the youth seemed to understand. “Just anything
that you have ready is what I want. No fuss and feathers, remember that.
I’ll be there in one hour. Will that be time enough?”
Grandpa Si spoke up heartily. “I reckon you’ll find a dinner waitin’
whenever you get there, Harry-boy.”
Gwynette received her brother with a sneering curve to her mouth that
might have been pretty. “Well, didn’t you know that everyone in the
church was watching you and criticizing you for making such a fuss over
our mother’s servants,” was her ungracious greeting. A dull red appeared
in the boy’s cheeks, but he checked the angry words before they were
uttered. Instead he said: “Gwynette, may I call at the seminary this
afternoon? I have had a letter from Mother and I want to talk it over
with you.”
“This afternoon?” a rising inflection of inquiry. “Aren’t you going to
take me to The Palms to dine? I’m just starved for a real course dinner
and the minute I saw you I made up my mind that was what we would do.”
The boy hesitated. His conscience rebuked him. He knew that their mother
would expect him to be chivalrous to his sister. He also knew that a
vision in pink and white, a pair of appealing liquid brown eyes had, for
the moment caused him to forget his duty. “All right, sis,” he said,
trying not to let the reluctance in his heart show in his voice. “Ask
your chaperone if you may go with me now.”
As soon as he was alone, Harold hurried around the vine-covered church to
the sheds where he hoped to find the Warner family. They were just
driving out of the lane, but the old man drew rein when he saw the lad
hurrying toward them.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Warner,” he began with a ring of sincerity in
his voice, which carried conviction to the listeners. “Gwynette wants me
to take her to The Palms for dinner, and, of course, _that_ is what our
mother would wish me to do.”
“Wall, wall, that’s all right, Harry,” Grandpa Si put in consolingly.
“’Taint as though you can’t come again. You’re welcome over to the farm
whenever you’re down this way.”
Harold’s last glance was directed at the girl as also was his parting
remark. “I’m going to run down from the city real soon. Good-bye.”
Jenny was truly disappointed as she had hoped to have an opportunity to
ask the lad if it were true that his mother planned selling the farm
during the summer.
She consoled herself by recalling his promise to come back soon. And then
as Dobbin trotted briskly homeward, the girl fell to dreaming of the
various things that might happen during the summer.
CHAPTER X.
BROTHER AND SISTER
“The Palms,” architecturally a Mission Inn, was gorgeously furnished and
catered only to the ultra-rich. It was located picturesquely on a cliff
with a circling palm-edged drive leading to it.
Santa Barbara was both a winter and summer resort and its hostelries were
famed the world over.
Gwynette led her brother to the table of her choice in the luxurious
dining room, the windows of which, crystal clear, overlooked the ocean.
She was fretful and pouting. Harold, after having drawn out her chair,
seated himself and looked almost pensively at the shimmering blue
expanse, so close to them, just below the cliff.
“You aren’t paying the least bit of attention to me,” Gwynette
complained. “I just asked if you weren’t pining to be over in Paris this
spring.”
The lad turned and looked directly at the girl, candor in his clear grey
eyes.
“Why no, sister, I do not wish anything of the sort,” he replied
sincerely. “What I _do_ hope is that our mother will be well enough to
return to us, and that the quiet of our country home will completely
restore her health.”
Gwynette shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing, until their orders had
been given; then she remarked:
“I don’t see why our mother needs to rusticate for three months in this
stupid place. If _we_ could have a house party, of course, that would
help to make it endurable for _me_, but in her last letter Ma Mere
distinctly said that we were to invite no one, as her nerves were in need
of absolute quiet.”
The boy, who had folded his arms looked at his sister penetratingly,
almost critically. Suddenly he blurted out:
“Do you know, Gwynette, sometimes I think you do not care, really care,
deep in your heart for our mother as much as I do. In fact, I sometimes
wonder if you care for anyone except yourself.”
The girl flushed angrily. “Your dinner conversation is most ungracious, I
am sure,” she flung at him, but paused and looked at a young man also in
uniform, who was hurrying toward their table with an undeniably pleased
expression on his tanned face. Harold rose and held out his hand, glad of
any interruption.
“Well, Tod, where did you drop from?” Then to the girl he said: “Sister
Gwynette, this is a chap from the same San Francisco prison in which I am
incarcerated—Lieutenant James Creery by name.”
The girl held up a slim, white hand over which the youth bent with an
ardor which had won for him the heart of many a young lady in the past
and probably would in the future, but in the present he was welcomed as a
much-needed diversion from a most upsetting family quarrel. Having
accepted their invitation to make a third at the small table, apart from
the others, the young man seated himself, saying to the girl: “Don’t let
me interrupt any confidences you two were having. I know you don’t see
each other often, since we poor chaps have but one free Sunday a month.”
Gwynette smiled her prettiest and even her brother conceded that if Gwyn
would only take the trouble to smile now and then she might be called
handsome.
“Our conversation was neither deep nor interesting to anyone but me. I
was wishing that we were to spend the summer—well, anywhere rather than
in our country home four miles out of this stupid town.”
“Stupid?” the young man, nicknamed Tod, glanced about at the charmingly
gowned young women at the small tables near them. “This crowd ought to
keep things stirring.”
Gwynette shook her head. “Nothing but weekend guests motored up from Los
Angeles or down from San Francisco. From Monday to Friday the place is
dead.”
And so the inconsequential talk flowed on, until at last James Creery
excused himself, as he had an engagement. Again bowing low over
Gwynette’s hand, he departed. The smiling expression in the girl’s eyes
changed at once to a hard glint.
“Well, you said that you came down especially to talk over a letter from
our mother. You might as well tell me the worst and be done with it.”
The lad made no attempt to hide his displeasure. “There was no worst to
it, Gwynette. I merely hoped that you would wish to plan with me some
pleasant surprise as a welcome to our mother’s homecoming. I find that I
was mistaken. Shall we go now?”
The girl rose with an almost imperceptible fling of defiance to her
shapely head. “As you prefer,” she said coldly. “I really cannot say
honestly that I feel any great enthusiasm about we three settling down in
humdrum fashion in our country place, but, if it is my duty, as you seem
to infer, to _pretend_ that I am overjoyed, you may plan whatever you
wish and I will endeavor to _seem_ enthusiastic.”
They were again in the small car before the lad replied: “Do not feel
that it is incumbent on you in any way to co-operate with me in welcoming
_my_ mother.” There was an emphasis on the my which did not escape the
notice of the girl, and it but increased her anger. She was convinced
that her brother meant it as an implied rebuke, and she was right.
Gwynette bit her lips and turned away to hide tears of self pity. When
the seminary was reached, the lad assisted the haughty girl from the car
with his never-failing courtesy, accompanied her to the door, ventured a
conciliating remark at parting, but was not even rewarded with a glance.
Harold was unusually thoughtful as he rode along the highway. He passed
the gate to the lane leading to the farm, assuring himself that he was in
no mood for visiting even with friends.
CHAPTER XI.
VIEWS AND REVIEWS
Monday morning dawned gloriously, but it was with great effort that Jenny
made her mood match the day. Often her grandparents glanced at her and
then at one another as they ate their simple breakfast. At last her
grandfather asked: “What be yo’ studyin’ on so hard, dearie? Is it
anything about yo’re schoolin’ that’s frettin’ you?”
The girl, who had been gazing at the bowl of golden poppies on the middle
of the table with unconscious abstraction, looked up with a bright smile.
Luckily her grandfather’s remark gave her a suggestion to enlarge upon.
Turning to the little old woman whose sweet blue eyes were watchfully
inquiring, the girl said: “Something has happened, or rather it is going
to happen.” She paused a moment, but her grandfather urged: “Do go on,
Jenny. Don’t let’s stop for no guessin’ contest this time. I’ve got to
get out early to the cultivatin’.”
Jenny told how the Board of Education had required Miss Dearborn to take
a teacher’s examination before she had been permitted to continue
instructing her one lone pupil.
“Tut! Tut! Wall now, yo’ don’ tell?” Grandma Sue was much impressed. “Did
Miss Dearborn go an’ take them teachin’ examinations jest so she could
keep on helpin’ yo’ wi’ your studies?”
The girl nodded. “She must set a power by you,” the old woman concluded.
Grandpa Si spoke up. “Huh, how could she help it? I reckon every critter
as knows Jenny sets a power by her, but thar must be more to the yarn. I
don’ see anything, so far, for you to fret about.”
“Yes, there is more,” Jenny agreed, “Miss Dearborn has had a letter from
the Board of Education saying that I must take the high school
examinations next month. Think of it, Granny Sue! I’ve got to go to that
big new high school over in Santa Barbara where I don’t know a single
soul, and take written examinations, when I never have had even one in
all my life.”
Again the grandfather’s faith in his “gal” was expressed. “It’s _my_
notion when them examinations are tuk, _your’s_ ’ll be leadin’ all the
rest. Thar ain’t many gals as sober minded as _yo’_ be, Jenny, not by a
long ways.”
The girl’s merry laughter pealed out and the twinkle in her liquid brown
eyes did not suggest sober-mindedness. Rising she skipped around the
table kissing affectionately her grandfather’s bald spot.
“Here’s hoping that you won’t be disappointed in your granddaughter. But
really she isn’t half as wise as you think she is.” Then turning toward
the smiling old woman, she concluded, “Is she, Mrs. Susan Warner?”
The sweet blue eyes told much more than the reply. “Wall, I reckon yo’
won’t come out tail-end.”
Again the girl laughed, then donning her hat and taking her books, she
merrily called “Good-bye.” But her expression changed when she reached
the lane and started walking briskly toward the highway.
The real cause of her anxiety returned to trouble her thoughts. “Oh, I
_must_ study so hard, so hard,” she told herself. “Then I will be able to
be a teacher and make a home for my dear old grandparents. How I hope the
farm will not be sold until then.”
Jenny did not follow the highway, but took a short cut trail to Miss
Dearborn’s hillside home. It led over a rugged upland where gnarled live
oaks twisted their rough barked branches into fantastic shapes. Jenny
loved low-growing oaks and she never climbed through this particular
grove of them, however occupied her thoughts might be as they were on
this troubled morning, without giving them a greeting. “I’m glad that
Miss Dearborn is teaching me mythology, for otherwise I wouldn’t know
that each of these trees is really the home of a dryad, beautiful,
slender graceful sprites, born when the tree is born and dying when the
tree dies. How I would love to come here some moon-lit night in the
spring and watch them dance to the piping of Pan. They would have wide
fluttering sleeves in their garments woven of mist and moonbeams and they
would be crowned with oak leaves, but how sad it would be if a
woodchopper came and chopped down one of the trees, for that night there
would be one less dryad at the dance on the hill.”
Beyond the trees there was a long sweep of meadowland down the hill side
to the highway, and beyond to the rocky edge of the sea. On this bright,
spring morning it was a glittering, gleaming carpet of waving poppy cups
of gold.
Joyfully the girl cried, pausing on the edge of it, “O, I know the poem
Miss Dearborn would quote. I thought of it right away.” Then she recited
aloud, though there was no one to hear.
“I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of shining daffodils
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine,
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never ending line,
Along the margin of the bay.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee.
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company.
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought.
For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude.
And then my heart with rapture fills
And dances with the daffodils.
“If only Wordsworth had lived in California,” she thought as she
continued on her way, “he would have written just such a poem about these
fields of golden poppies.”
Ten minutes later, the girl, feeling an inward glow from so close a
communion with Nature, the greatest of artist-poets, skipped between the
two graceful pepper trees that were the gate posts of Miss Dearborn’s
attractive hillside home.
“Well, dearie, how bright you are this morning,” was the greeting the
woman, digging about in her garden, sang out. Then, standing her hoe
against a rustic bench, she began taking off her gloves, as together they
walked toward the house. “I am indeed glad,” she concluded, “for you are
to have a hard testing today.”
Instantly the morning glow faded from the girl’s face and a troubled
expression clouded her eyes. “Miss Dearborn, what now?”
The older woman laughed. “No need of high tragedy,” she said. “It’s only
that I have paid a visit to the principal of the high school, and have
obtained from him the questions used on examinations for several years
past, and today I am going to give you your first written test. We have
nearly a month for review, and each week I shall ask you one complete set
of questions of previous years and then, at least, you will be familiar
with written examinations.”
“Oh, Miss Dearborn, how kind, how wonderfully kind you are to me. It
would be most ungrateful of me to fail.”
“Fail? There is no such word for the earnest student who has worked
faithfully day by day all through the term as my pupil has. There will be
no need of that nerve-racking system called cramming for you.” Then, as
they ascended the steps to the wide veranda, Miss Dearborn exclaimed,
“See, I’ve put a table in the glassed-in corner. I’m going to shut you in
there until noon with the questions, and I shall expect your average to
be 90 at least.”
Jenny felt a little thrill of excitement course over her, and she started
at her new task with a determination to try her best to be worthy of the
faith placed in her by the three who loved her so dearly.
CHAPTER XII.
PLOTS AND PLAYS
Meanwhile a very different scene was being enacted in the Granger Place
Seminary.
Gwynette Poindexter-Jones occupied the largest and most attractively
furnished room on the second floor of the dormitory building, and her two
best friends shared the one adjoining. There was a bath between with
doors opening upon a narrow private corridor.
Gwynette had not liked the room when she first arrived, as it was, she
declared, too “barnlike” in its barrenness. Miss Granger regretted this,
as she assured the daughter of her richest patron, but she really could
not furnish the rooms to please the young ladies, and there was no other
apartment available at that late period of the term.
The haughty Gwynette had then requested that the furniture in the room be
removed. After this had been done, she brought from her mother’s home by
the sea handsome mahogany pieces upholstered in rich blue. There were
portieres and window hangings to match and priceless pictures adorned the
walls. The furnishing in the room of her friends had remained unchanged
and was far more appropriate, in that it suggested studiousness rather
than indolence and luxury.
Gwynette, in a velvet dressing robe of the same rich blue embroidered
with gold in chrysanthemum design, was lying at full length on a
many-cushioned lounge, a blue and gold slipper dangling from the toe of
one foot. She was reading a forbidden novel, and eating chocolate creams,
when there came a soft tap on the door leading into the main corridor.
Gwynette always kept it locked that she need not be surprised by the
appearance of Madam Vandeheuton, monitor of the dormitory, or by one of
the infrequent visits of Miss Granger herself. Sitting erect, the girl’s
eyes narrowed as she pondered.
Should she keep very still and pretend that she was out, or——
Her thought was interrupted by a low voice calling: “Gwyn, let us in,
can’t you!” Languidly the girl rose and, after unlocking the door, she
inquired of the two who entered: “What’s the idea? You know the door
between our rooms is always unlocked. Couldn’t you come in that way?”
Beulah Hollingsworth reached down to the little blue velvet stool near
the couch and helped herself to a chocolate. “Of course we could have
come the usual way, only we were passing through the corridor and so this
door was nearer.”
“Well, don’t do it again. I implore.” Gwynette once more stretched at
full length and ease as she remarked indolently, “It’s easier for you to
go around than for me to get up. Well?”
She looked inquiringly at Patricia Sullivan. “Did you call on the sphynx
and get at her secret? Sit down, do! It makes me tired to see you
standing so stiffly as though you had ramrods for backbones.”
Both of the girls sat down, one on a Louis XVI chair and the other on one
of recent and more comfortable design. Beulah began—
“Yes, we called and found Clare Tasselwood as uncommunicative as she was
when we met her in the garden and tried to draw her out.”
Patricia continued—
“But I am more than ever convinced that the secretive Clare is the
daughter of a younger son of a noble English family. My theory is that
she is going to keep quiet about it until the older son dies, and then
those who befriended her when she was unknown will be honored as her
guests when she takes her rightful place.”
“Well, I for one shall cultivate her. An invitation to visit the castle
home of Lord Tasselwood would be most welcome to me. You girls may do as
you please about it.” Gwynette was again in a sitting posture and she
glanced inquiringly at her companions. They both declared that they
wished to be included. “Then, firstly, we must obtain permission to give
a spread worthy of her presence, at The Palms, no less, even if it costs
our combined allowances for a month.”
Then they planned together what they would wear and whom they would
invite. “We’ll ask my brother to bring down as many cadets as we have
girls,” was Gwyn’s final decision.
When Clare Tasselwood received the gilt-edged invitation, there was a
little twist to one corner of her month which was her way of smiling when
she was amused, and cynical. She had overheard a conversation the day
they had met in the garden. “The Lady Clara of Tasselwood Manor accepts
with pleasure,” she told her reflection in the mirror.
CHAPTER XIII.
FERNS AND FRIENDS
True to her promise, Jenny Warner went to the seminary on Monday, after
her lessons were over, to see if she could be of assistance to Miss
O’Hara.
The kindly Irish woman saw the girl coming and met her at the open
kitchen door with so beaming a face that the newcomer was convinced that
something of a pleasant nature had occurred, nor was she wrong.
“Colleen, it’s true blue you are, keepin’ your word so handsome, but
there’s no need for you to be stayin’. Another of them orphans blew in
along about noon-time, and it did me heart good to set eyes on the bright
face of her. She went to work with a will, not wishin’ to rest even. Her
name’s Nora O’Flynn, and her forebears came from the same part of old
Ireland which gave birth to mesilf. ’Twon’t be hard to be makin’ the
kitchen homelike for _this_ orphan,” she concluded.
Jenny went away joyfully. Things had turned out wonderfully for them all.
Miss O’Hara could never have been happy with Etta Heldt, who was of a
race she could not understand, but now that she was to have with her one
of her own people, her long days of drudgery would be lightened and
brightened.
As Jenny tripped down the box-bordered path leading from the seminary to
a canyon trail that would be a short-cut to the farm, she passed the
tennis courts, where several games were in progress. She glanced at the
players, wondering if any of them might be the haughty sister of Harold
P-J. But tennis was altogether too strenuous a pastime for the ever
indolent Gwynette.
The back trail led along the Sycamore Canyon creek, where ferns of many
varieties were growing; some were as tall as the girl who was passing
them, while, among the moss-covered rocks, close to the brook, were the
more feathery and delicate maiden hair ferns. It had been very warm in
the sun, but there was a most welcome damp coolness in the canyon. For a
moment Jenny stood still at the top of the trail gazing down, listening
to the quietness, broken only by the constant gurgling rush of the water.
Then she started walking slowly along the trail, picking her way
carefully, as it was rough and rocky, and at places very narrow. It
amused her to note the different sounds of the brook. At one spot there
was a whirling little eddy, then a sudden fall over a steep rock, then a
hurried rushing till a broad pool-like place was reached. There the
waters were deeper and quieter, as though pausing for a moment’s rest
before taking a plunge of many feet to the lower part of the canyon. Just
above the Maiden-hair Falls, a rustic bridge crossed from one great
boulder to another, and, as Jenny came in sight of it, she stopped,
amazed, for there, sitting on one end of the bridge and leaning against
the bending trunk of a great old sycamore tree, was a girl of her own
age. Who could she be? Jenny had not heard of anyone new moving into the
neighborhood. In fact, there were no houses in the canyon except the one
occupied by the Pascoli family.
A small stone, disturbed by Jenny’s foot, rattled noisily down the trail,
struck the bridge and bounded away into the lower canyon.
The stranger glanced up with an expression that was almost startled and
Jenny saw that it was the girl in brown whom she had twice noticed: once
in the yard of the seminary, when she had been left so alone, and again
in the dining hall when she had passed a dish, almost shyly, to the grand
appearing Clare Tasselwood. Jenny remembered that this girl had said
“Thank you,” and had smiled pleasantly when her cup had been filled with
chocolate. She was smiling again, a bright welcoming smile, which assured
Jenny that the stranger wished to speak to her, nor was she wrong, for,
as soon as the bridge was reached, the girl in brown exclaimed: “Isn’t
this a wonderful place that I’ve found? It’s the first time since I came
to this school that I haven’t been depressingly lonesome.”
Jenny’s heart rejoiced. This girl must also love nature if she could feel
real companionship in an almost silent canyon. Impulsively, she said,
“Shall you mind if I sit here with you for a time?”
“Mind?” The other girl’s brown eyes gladdened. “I was hoping that you
would.”
Jenny seated herself on the rustic bridge directly over the rushing
falls. “Oh, hadn’t you better move over near this end?” her companion
asked anxiously. “Won’t the hurrying whirl of the water underneath make
you dizzy?”
Jenny shook her head. “We’re old friends,” she explained. “I am
acquainted with Sycamore Canyon brook from its very beginning way up in
the foothills, and it flows into the sea not far from the farm where I
live.”
“Oh, good!” Again the bright upward glance. “I’m so glad you live on a
farm, for I do also, when I’m at home in Dakota. My father is a farmer. I
haven’t told it before, fearing the seminary girls might snub me if they
knew. Not that I would care much. All I ask of them is to let me alone,
and they certainly do that.” Then in a burst of confidence, “I really
don’t know what to say to girls, nor how to act with them. I have lived
so many years on an isolated farm and, would you believe it, I never,
actually never, had a flesh and blood girl friend. I’ve had steens and
steens of book-character friends, and I honestly believe, on the whole, I
like them best.” Then with a shy side glance, “Do you think I am queer?
Tell me so truly if you do.”
Jenny moved closer to the girl in brown as she exclaimed, “Yes, I do
think you are queer, if queer means different from those other girls.”
Then she laughingly confessed, “The truth is I never had a girl friend
either, not one, but I have lots of make-believe friends, so, you see, I
also am queer.”
The girl in brown beamed, “O, I am so glad, for maybe, do you think
possibly you and I might become friends, being both queer and all that?”
Jenny nodded joyfully. “Why, of course we can be friends if you wish.
That is, if Miss Granger would want you to be friendly with any but the
gentry. Perhaps she doesn’t allow the pupils of her school to make
acquaintances on the outside.”
This thought was not at all troubling to the strange girl. “You see,” she
began seriously, “I am not subject to the rules governing the other
pupils.”
Then, noting the puzzled expression in the listener’s eyes, she leaned
back against the tree as she laughingly continued: “Suppose I begin at
the beginning and then you will understand about me once for all.”
“We don’t even know each other’s names,” Jenny put in. “Mine is Jeanette
Warner. I have always lived with my grandparents on Rocky Point farm,
which belongs to the estate of the Poindexter-Jones family.” A shadow
passed over the speaker’s face, which, a moment before, had been so
bright. “I want to be real honest before we begin a friendship. We are
not farmers in our own right. We are hired to run a farm, therefore we
are servants in the employ of the mother of one of your classmates. At
least that is what Gwynette Poindexter-Jones calls us.”
The observant listener saw the flush mounting to her new friend’s cheeks,
and, impulsively, she reached out a hand and placed it on the one near
her. “What does _that_ matter? I mean so far as our friendship is
concerned,” she asked.
Jenny was relieved. “Doesn’t it really? Well, then I’m glad. Now please
tell me all about yourself from the very beginning.”
Jenny noticed that her companion looked frail and so she was not
surprised to hear her say that she had been very ill. “Lenora Gale is my
name,” she began, “and my family consists of an unequalled father, and of
a brother who is just as nice only younger. My dearest mother died of
lung trouble years ago, and every time since then when I have caught
cold, it has taken my vitality to an alarming extent, and last fall, when
the bitter winter weather set in, and oh, how cold our northern winters
are, father wanted me sent to California, but he could not come himself.
Brother Charles wished to attend an agricultural college near Berkeley
and so I was put in a boarding school up there, just as a place to stay
and be well cared for. I was not to attend classes unless I desired. But
the rainy season continued for so long that Brother thought best to bring
me farther south, and that is why I am now in the Granger Place
Seminary.”
Jenny rose and held out a hand. “Lenora Gale,” she said seriously, “the
damp coolness of this canyon will not do at all for you. I’m going to
walk back with you to the top of the trail. I can see quite plainly that
you need a friend to look after you.” And evidently Jenny was right, for
the rough upward climb was hard for the girl who had not been well, and
she scarcely spoke until they said good-bye at the side door of the
seminary. Then she turned and clung to the hand of her new friend as she
said imploringly, “You won’t just disappear and forget me, will you? I do
so want to see you again.”
“Indeed not,” Jenny assured her. “I’ll come up and get you tomorrow, if I
may have Dobbin, and take you home to supper. I want you to meet Grandma
Sue and Grandpa Si.”
Lenora’s pale face brightened. “Oh, how wonderful that will be. I wish
today were tomorrow.”
Again Jenny descended the Sycamore Canyon brook trail, but this time she
skipped along that she need not be late to help get supper. At the
bridge, though, she stopped for one moment as at a shrine. “Here,” she
said aloud, “is where I met my first girl friend.” A lizard on a stone
near lifted its gray head and looked at her with bright black eyes, but
Jenny, with a song of gladness, passed on down the trail, for once
without noticing the wild life about her.
CHAPTER XIV.
DEAREST DESIRES
On the day following the meeting of the two girls on the rustic bridge
over Maiden Hair Falls, Jenny, true to her promise, drove to the seminary
ostensibly to deliver an order of honey and eggs, but a girl in brown
rode with her on the high front seat when Dobbin turned out of the school
gates. Another girl was watching them from her wide, upper window.
Turning back into the room, she remarked to two others who were trying to
study: “That Lenora Gale must belong to the bourgeoise. She is actually
going for a ride with the granddaughter of my mother’s servants.”
Patricia Sullivan turned a page in the book she was conning and remarked
without looking up: “Gwyn, how can you expect to win honors if you never
open your books?”
The girl addressed sank languidly into a comfortable chair, picked up her
novel and replied, as she found her place: “_Me_, win honors? _Why should
I_, pray? Does it make one a more winsome debutante? You must know that
this is to be my last year of confinement within the walls of a seminary.
Ma Mere has promised to give me a coming-out party when I am eighteen
which will dazzle even blasé San Francisco.”
Beulah arose, as she said rather impatiently: “Well, Gwyn, just because
_you_ do not wish to learn is no reason why Pat and I should follow in
your footsteps. I’m going to our own room where I can study
uninterrupted.”
“I’ll go with you.” Patricia arose to accompany her friend. “_Au
revoir!_”
Gwynette, having found her place, was too absorbed in her story to reply.
Meanwhile Jenny and Lenora were having the happiest kind of time riding
down the gently sloping hill, now in the sunlight and again in the shadow
of great overhanging trees.
“Has anything pleasant happened since yesterday?” Lenora asked with a
side glance at the beaming face of the driver.
“Yes, indeed,” the other girl nodded gleefully. “I passed 100 per cent in
two subjects and over 90 per cent in all the others.”
The brown eyes of her companion were questioning. “Why, I didn’t know you
were going to have examination. In fact, I didn’t know anything about
your school. Is there one near or do you have to go to Santa Barbara?”
Jenny told the story of her schooling from its beginning to a most
interested listener. “Oh, how I do envy you.” Lenora exclaimed. “If I had
had a teacher like your Miss Dearborn, I would be wiser than I am. We
always lived too far away from a school for me to attend one. Dad has
tutored me when he had time and so has Brother during his vacations.”
Then the girl’s face brightened. “But my best teachers have been books
themselves. How I have enjoyed them! Dad ordered all of the books in a
graded reading course for me, and I have shelf after shelf filled with
them around the walls of my room. I especially like nature poetry.”
Jenny flashed a bright smile at her companion. “Oh, I am so glad!” she
cried. “Miss Dearborn is teaching me to love it. She wants me to be able
to quote some poem that will describe every beautiful thing in nature
that I see. Of course, I can’t always think of one, but then I store the
scene away in my memory and ask Miss Dearborn what poem it would suggest
to her.”
“I would love to know your teacher,” Lenora said. “I believe I could
learn rapidly if I had her to teach me.”
“It’s almost the end of the school year,” Jenny commented, as she looked
up and down the Coast Highway before crossing it, “and, anyway, I suppose
it would hardly do for a pupil of the seminary to be taught by someone
outside when they have special teachers there for all subjects.”
“No, of course not,” her companion agreed. Then, as they started down the
long narrow lane leading to the farmhouse, the girl in brown exclaimed:
“Oh, Jenny, do you live in that picturesque old adobe house so near the
sea? I adore the ocean and I haven’t been real close to it since I came.
It’s so very warm today, don’t you think we might go down to the very
edge of the water and sit on the sand?”
Jenny nodded brightly: “We’ll go out on Rocky Point,” she said. “You’ll
love it, I’m sure.” Then impulsively, “Oh, Lenora Gale, you don’t know
what it means to me to have a girl friend who likes the same things that
I like.”
“Yes, I do know,” the other girl replied sincerely, “for it means the
same to me.”
Grandma Warner was delighted with Jenny’s new friend, and, as for Lenora,
she was most enthusiastic about everything around the farm. She thought
the old adobe house with its heavy beams simply fascinating, and when she
saw Jenny’s very own room with its windows opening out toward the point
of rocks and the sea, she declared that she knew, if only she could sleep
in a room like that, she would not be troubled with long hours of
wakefulness as she had been since her last illness. “The ocean sings a
lullabye to you all of the time, doesn’t it?” she turned to say.
Jenny, who was indeed pleased with her friend’s phrase, nodded, then she
laughingly confessed that sometimes, when there was a high wind or a
storm, the song of the sea was a little too wild and loud to lull one to
slumber. But her listener’s eyes glowed all the more. “How I would love
to hear it then. I would want to stay awake to listen to the crashing of
the waves.” Then she said: “I suppose you think me foolishly enthusiastic
about it, but when one has lived for years and years on an inland
prairie, the sea is very strange and wonderful.”
Jenny nodded understandingly. “I don’t believe I could live far away from
the coast,” she commented. “I would feel as though a very important part
of my life had been taken from me. I have always lived within sound of
the sea, but come, I want to take you down to the Rocky Point.” The girls
went again through the kitchen, and Jenny said to the dear little old
lady who was sitting on the vine-hung side porch, busy, as always, with
her sewing, “Grandma Sue, please let Lenora and me get the supper. We
won’t be gone more than an hour and after that will be plenty of time.”
Lenora’s face brightened. “Oh, Mrs. Warner, how I wish you would let us.
It would be such a treat to me. I love to cook, but it has been perfect
ages since I have been allowed in a kitchen, and yours is so homey and
different.”
Susan Warner nodded a pleased consent. “I reckon you may, if it’s what
you’re wantin’ to do,” she said. Then she dropped her sewing in her lap,
pushed her spectacles up among the lavender ribbons of her cap and gazed
after the two girls as they went hand in hand down the path that led
toward the Rocky Point. “It’s a pleasant sight,” the old woman thought,
“Jenny having a friend of her own kind at last, and her, being a farmer’s
gal, makes our darlin’ feel right at home wi’ her. Not one of the
upstandin’ sort like Gwynette Poindexter-Jones.” There was seldom a hard
expression on the loving old face, but there was one at that moment. The
spectacles had been replaced and Susan Warner began to stab her needle
into the blue patch she was putting on a pair of overalls in a manner
that suggested that her thoughts were of no gentle nature.
“What _right_ has _one_ of ’em to be puttin’ on airs over the other of
’em? That’s what I’d like to be told. They bein’ flesh and blood sisters
even if one of ’em has been fetched up grand. But I reckon there’s a
justice in this world, an’ I can trust it to take keer o’ things.”
Having reached this more satisfactory state of mind, the old woman again
glanced toward the point and saw the two girls climbing out on the
highest rock. Jenny was carefully holding her friend’s hand and leading
her to a wide boulder against which the waves had crashed in many a storm
until they had cut out a hollow resembling a canopy-covered chair wide
enough for two to sit comfortably.
It was low tide at that hour, and, when they were seated, Lenora
exclaimed joyfully: “Oh, isn’t this the nicest place for confidences?
Let’s tell each other a secret, shall we? That will make us intimate
friends.”
Jenny smiled happily. “I don’t believe I have any secrets, that is, none
of my own that I could share.” Miss Dearborn’s secret was the only one
she knew.
“Then let’s tell our dearest desires,” Lenora suggested, “and I will
begin.”
Then she laughingly confessed: “It will not take long to tell, however. I
want to grow strong and well that I may become father’s housekeeper. It
is desperately lonely for him with both Mother and me away, and yet,
since his interests are all bound up in our Dakota farm, he cannot leave
it, and so, you see, I must get well as soon as ever I can.”
Jenny nodded understandingly. “My dearest desire is to find a way by
which I can help Grandpa Si buy Rocky Point farm. I have thought and
thought, but, of course, just thinking doesn’t help much. There are ten
acres in it, from the sea back to the highway, and then to the tall hedge
you can see over there. That is where the Poindexter-Jones’ grounds
begin, and in the other direction to where the canyon brook runs into the
ocean.”
“It is a beautiful little farm. I wish you could buy it. How much do you
suppose it will sell for?” Lenora asked, but Jenny did not know. Then she
sighed as she added that she supposed they would know soon, for the
daughter of Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had said that it was to be sold in the
summer when her mother returned from France. But, as it was not natural
for Jenny to be long depressed, she smilingly announced that she had two
other desires that were very dear. One was that she did so want her
wonderful teacher to remain in California another winter. “If she
doesn’t, if Miss Dearborn goes back East, I will have to go to the Santa
Barbara High School next year, and no one knows how I would dread that. I
even dread going there for a few days next month to take the written
examinations.”
Jenny had one more desire, which she did not mention, but, as she glanced
across the green field and saw the turrets of the deserted
Poindexter-Jones home, she thought of Harold and wondered when he would
come again. He had said that he would run down some time soon and have
dinner with them. Then, surely, she would have an opportunity to be alone
with him long enough to ask about the farm.
Arousing herself from her thoughts, Jenny glanced at her companion and
saw, on the sweet face, an expression of infinite sadness. Impulsively
she reached out a strong brown hand and placed it lovingly over the frail
one near her.
“Lenora, aren’t you happy, dear?”
The brown eyes that were lifted were filled with tears. “There is
something sad about the ocean and Tennyson’s poem makes me think of my
dear mother. No one can ever know how I miss her. We were more like two
sisters, even though I was so very young. Mother died when I was twelve.”
“What poem is it, dear? Shall you mind repeating it to me? I haven’t had
any of Tennyson’s poetry yet.” Then Jenny added hastily, “but don’t, if
you would rather not.”
“I would like to.” In a voice that was almost tearful, Lenora began:
“Break, break, break
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea.
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman’s boy
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill!
But O for the touch of a vanished hand
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.”
Then, before Jenny could comment on the poem, Lenora said, smiling
through her tears, “That is what the poets do for us: they express our
emotions better than we could ourselves.” Not wishing to depress her
friend, she arose, held out a hand as she entreated: “Please help me down
to that shining white sand.”
Such a happy half hour as they spent and when at last they started back
toward the house, Jenny, in the shelter of the rocky point, impulsively
kissed her companion. “I love you,” she whispered. “I have always wished
that I had a sister. I’d like to adopt you if you will let me.”
“Of course I will let you. I would rather have you for a sister than
anyone I ever knew.” Then, mischievously, Lenora inquired, “Now, what
relation is my brother Charles to you?” “We’ll let _him_ decide when he
comes,” was Jenny’s practical answer. “He may not want to be adopted.”
Then, as the house had been reached, she added impulsively, “but Grandma
Sue and Grandpa Si would love to be, so I will let you share them. Now,
Sister Lenora, it’s time for us to get supper.”
CHAPTER XV.
PEERS OR PIGS
The day of the party to be given in honor of Clare Tasselwood arrived and
the three most interested were in Gwyn’s room dressing for the occasion.
“There is something very queer about Clare,” Beulah announced. “I just
passed her room a moment ago. The door was open and I saw her sitting in
front of the mirror brushing out that mass of long yellow hair of hers,
and I am positive that she was laughing. She saw my reflection, I
suppose, for the moment I had passed she got up and closed the door so
quickly that it sounded like a slam.”
Gwynette, bemoaning the fact that they were not permitted to have maids
assist them with their dressing, said impatiently: “Pat, you’ll simply
_have_ to help me with these hooks.” Then, to Beulah: “What are you
driving at? Why do you think it is queer that Clare Tasselwood should be
laughing? You laugh sometimes yourself, don’t you?”
“Why, of course I do, if I think of something funny,” Beulah agreed, “but
what I can’t understand is why Clare Tasselwood should laugh all alone by
herself when she is dressing to go to our party. Of course she can’t have
any idea that we are giving it because we believe her to be the daughter
of a younger son of the English nobility, can she?”
“Of course not!” Gwyn declared. “We three are the only ones who know that
and we have not told. I am more than ever convinced that it is true, for
yesterday, when Madame Vandeheuton asked me to take Clare’s mail to her
room there was a letter with what appeared to be a crest on it.”
Patricia, having finished hooking up the blue satin gown of her friend,
remarked with energy: “Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that. I’ve had
‘ma doots’ lately about the whole thing, and now and then a faint idea
penetrates my brain that we’re idiots whichever way it is. Here we are
squandering not only this month’s spending money but next month’s as
well, and what is to come of it?”
Beulah sat on a low stool to put on her gilt slippers. “Oh, we’ll have to
take a gambler’s chance. Pat, be a sport. We know for a fact that there
is a pupil at this seminary who is the daughter of a younger son of a
noble English family. Miss Granger was only too glad to let _that_ much
be known. I’ve no doubt it brought her several pupils whose vain mothers
wished them to be associated with such a girl even if they could not know
which one she was.”
Pat agreed. “And didn’t we study the qualities of every girl in this
establishment, beginning with Clare and ending with that timid,
sickly-looking creature who always wears brown?”
“And who associates, by choice, with the granddaughter of my mother’s
servants,” Gwyn scoffed as she surveyed her beautiful party gown in the
long gilt-framed mirror. “Wasn’t it adorable of Ma Mere to send me this
creation from Paris? She knows how hurt I am because she put me in this
detestable prison instead of permitting me to accompany her to France,
and so she sends me presents to sooth my wounded spirits, I suppose.”
“Your mother is mighty good to you,” Pat remarked in rather a critical
tone, “better than I think you deserve. I have never yet heard you say
that you wish you could do something to add to _her_ pleasure.”
Gwynette crossed the room, watching the swing of the soft satin folds in
the mirror over one shoulder. Her lips were pressed together as though
she were trying to keep from retorting to her friend’s speech, but her
mounting anger caused her to stop in front of Pat’s chair and flare at
her. “I can’t understand _why_ you continue to associate with me at all,
since you disapprove of me so entirely. If you feel that it is an idiotic
thing for us to try to do homage to the daughter of nobility, why didn’t
you say so at first? It is too late now to make any changes in our plans,
but after tonight I shall no longer expect you to be one of my intimate
friends.”
Beulah said conciliatingly: “Gwyn, we aren’t any of us perfect, and we
certainly don’t want our friends to pretend they think we are, do we?”
Then, in an entirely different tone, she continued: “For myself, Gwyn,
since your brother and fifteen other cadets are coming to our party, I
shall consider my money well spent. I’m pining for a dance. And, as for
the Lady Clare Tasselwood, I don’t care a fig whether she is or isn’t.
Hark, what’s the commotion without?”
The palatial bus from The Palms was arriving and on the high seat with
the driver, resplendent in his gold-trimmed blue uniform, sat Cadet
Harold.
Beulah, who had skipped to the front window, hurried back to don her
cloak and tie a becoming cherry colored scarf over her short light brown
curls. “Gwyn, I wish you would be the one to tell Lady Clare that the
hour of departure has arrived. Pat and I will round up the other twelve.”
Gwynette lifted her eyebrows as she adjusted her swansdown-trimmed cloak
about her slim shoulders. “Sometimes, Beulah, from your choice of
English, I might think you a cowgirl.”
The rebuked maiden chuckled mischievously. “I ain’t, though,” she said
inelegantly, “but if ever there was a romance of the Wild West written
that I haven’t read, I hope I’ll hear of it soon. I’m daffy about the
life. Truth is, I’d heaps rather meet a cowgirl than I would a younger
daughter of——”
But Gwynette, with a proud toss of her handsome head, had swept from the
room, leaving Beulah to mirthfully follow, accompanied by Pat, whose dark
looks boded no good. Beulah drew her friend back and closed the door.
“Child,” she remonstrated, “don’t take Gwyn’s loftiness so much to heart.
I think she is just as superlatively selfish as you do, and I also think
she treats her invalid mother shamefully, but you know we can’t go around
this world telling everyone _just_ what we think of them. It isn’t done
in the best society. Gwyn has her good points, too, otherwise we wouldn’t
have been chumming with her, would we?”
“Well, take it from me. I’ve chummed my last. After tonight I’ll choose
my friends, not have them chosen for me.”
“Meaning what?”
“You know as well as I do that because our three mothers were in the same
set at home, we were all packed off here together, but come, I’ll try to
get some pleasure out of this idiotic party.”
When they reached the lower hall, they found all of the girls who had
been invited waiting for Madame Vandeheuton, who was to be the evening’s
chaperone. She was a timid little French woman who felt that the girls
were always making fun of her efforts at speaking English, and so she
usually kept quiet, except when she was teaching her dearly loved native
tongue. Gwynette had especially asked that Madame Vandeheuton be
permitted to accompany them, since they could not go without one of the
teachers.
Clare Tasselwood was gorgeously arrayed in a brocaded gold velvet gown
with a crownlike arrangement of pearls bound about her mass of soft
yellow hair. She looked more than ever regal. Gwynette sat beside her in
the bus and was her constant companion throughout the evening. The
ballroom of The Palms had been reserved for this party and the fifteen
cadets were charmed with the pretty girls from the select seminary, but
handsome Clare was undeniably the belle.
Each time that a dance was concluded, Gwyn asked her partner to take her
to that part of the salon to which Clare’s partner had taken her.
Harold Poindexter-Jones noticed this after a time and asked slangily:
“What’s the big idea, Sis? Is the tall blonde a new crush?”
Gwyn’s haughty reply was: “Harold, I consider your language exceedingly
vulgar. If you wish to know, this party is being given in honor of Clare
Tasselwood, whose father is a younger son of English nobility.”
Her brother looked at her in wide-eyed amazement, then burst into a
laugh. Indignantly Gwyn drew him through an open door, out upon a
deserted porch.
“What do you mean by such an ill-mannered explosion?” she inquired wrath
fully.
Harold became very sober. “Sis,” he said, “are you in dead earnest? Has
that girl been telling any such yarn about her family?”
“Why no,” Gwyn had to confess, “she didn’t tell it, but——”
Again the boy laughed: “That’s too good to keep. I’ll have to tell the
fellows. Old Hank Peters, the chap who has danced with her so much, comes
from her part of the globe—Chicago, to be accurate, and he said that her
father made his pile raising pigs—and they aren’t English at all. They
are Swedes.”
Gwynette was angry with herself and everyone else. “Don’t you dare to
tell; not a single soul!” she flared. “If you do, I’ll get even with you
some time, some way.”
The boy, suddenly serious, took his sister’s hand. “Gwyn,” he said, “I
have no desire to make this a joking matter with the fellows. Of course
I’ll keep it dark, but I do hope it will teach you a lesson.”
Beulah and Pat wondered at Gwynette’s altered manner toward the guest of
honor, but, not even to them did she confide the humiliating information
she had received.
On the ride back to the seminary in the bus Gwyn had very little to say
and the others attributed it to weariness.
Gwynette noticed a merry twinkle in the blue eyes of Clare Tasselwood
when she effusively bade the three hostesses good-night, assuring them
that she had spent a most delightful evening. Gwyn went sulkily to her
room almost _sure_ that the daughter of that pig-raising Westerner had
known all along _why_ the party had been given. She had indeed learned a
lesson she decided as she closed her room door far less gently than she
should have done at that hour of night. Before retiring she assured
herself that even if she found out who _really was_ the daughter of a
younger son of English nobility, she wouldn’t put _herself_ out to as
much as speak to her.
CHAPTER XVI.
GOOD NEWS
Sunday morning dawned gloriously, and although the sun rose at an early
hour, Jenny was out on the Rocky Point to watch the crimson and gold
shafts of light flaming up back of the mountain peaks; then she looked
out at the sea with its opalescent colors. Turning, she saw someone
walking along the beach from the house beyond the high hedge.
It was not hard to recognize the military bearing of the youth. As the
girl had not known of the party given on the previous evening at The
Palms, she had no knowledge of the near presence of the lad whom she had
so longed to see, that she might ask about the farm. Harold had said
nothing to his sister Gwynette of his determination to remain over night,
but when his comrades had departed for the big city far to the north, he
had climbed into his little gray speeder and had gone to the deserted
mansion-like home belonging to his mother.
Being without a thought of fear, the lad had not in the least minded the
ghastliness of the spacious rooms where the furniture wore coverings of
white and where his footsteps awakened echoes long silent. He had slept
in his own bed, but had aroused early, meaning to breakfast with his old
nurse and her family.
When he saw the girl standing on the highest rock of the points with the
shining morning sky back of her, he snatched off his cap and waved it,
then broke into a run, which soon took him scrambling up the rocks to her
side.
Holding out a strong brown hand, he exclaimed, real pleasure glowing in
his eyes: “Why, little Jenny Warner, how tall you are, and graceful, like
a flower on a slender stem.”
The girl laughed merrily. “Do boys always feel that they must say pretty
things to their girl acquaintances?” she asked.
As he gazed into her liquid brown eyes with their tender depths, the lad
suddenly found himself wishing that he were a poet, that he might say
something truly fitting, but as words failed him, he confessed that most
girls seemed to like to receive compliments. How innocent was the
expression of the sweet face that was lifted toward his.
“Really, do they?” Then she confessed: “I don’t know many girls, only
one—a farmer’s daughter who is over at Granger Place Seminary.”
The lad raised his eyebrows questioningly. Then he began to laugh.
“A farmer’s daughter, is she? Well, I’m glad there is _one_ pupil at that
school who is honest about her family.”
Then noting that his companion was looking at him as though wondering
what he meant, he explained in an offhand way, not wishing to break his
promise to his sister: “Oh, I just heard that some one of the girls in
that school is supposed to be the daughter of a younger son of the
English nobility.” Adding quickly: “You say that you are acquainted with
only one girl. Hasn’t my sister Gwyn been over to call on the Warners
yet, and haven’t you met her?”
A color that rivaled the rose in the sky flamed into Jenny’s face. Harold
saw it and correctly concluded that the girls _had_ met, and that Jenny
had been rudely treated.
“Gwyn is a snob,” was his mental comment. Aloud he said: “Do you suppose
that your grandmother will invite me to stay to breakfast? I’ll have to
start for the big town by ten, at the latest, and so I cannot be here for
dinner.”
“Of course she will.” Jenny glanced back at the farmhouse as she spoke
and saw that the smoke was beginning to wreath out of the chimney above
the kitchen stove. “They’re up now, and so I’ll go in and set the table.”
But still she did not move, and the lad watching her expressive face
intently, exclaimed impulsively: “Jenny, is something troubling you?
Can’t I help if there is?”
That Harold’s surmise had been correct the lad knew before the girl
spoke, for her sweet brown eyes brimmed with tears, and she said in a
low, eager voice:
“Oh, how I have wanted to see you to ask about the farm. I heard, I
overheard your sister telling her two friends from San Francisco that
when your mother comes from France the farm is to be sold, and if it is,
dear old Grandpa and Grandma will have no place to go.”
An angry color had slowly mounted the tanned face of the boy, and he said
coldly: “My sister presumes to have more knowledge of our mother’s
affairs than she has. The farm is _not_ to be sold without my consent.
Mother has agreed to that. I have asked for Rocky Point and the Maiden
Hair Falls Canyon for my share of the estate.”
He looked out over the water thoughtfully before he continued: “Mother, I
will confess, thinks my request a strange one, since the home and the
fifteen acres about it are far more valuable, and she will not consent to
the making of so unequal a division of her property, but she did promise
that she would not sell the farm until I wished it sold. I believe she
suspects that when I finish my schooling I may plan to become a gentleman
farmer myself.”
The lad laughed as though amused, but as he looked intently at the lovely
girl before him, he became serious and exclaimed as though for the first
time he had thought of considering it:
“Perhaps, after all, I might do worse. I simply will not go into the
army. I should hate that life.”
Then, catching the girl’s hand, he led her down the rocks as he called
gayly: “Come on, little Jenny Warner, let’s ask your grandfather if he
will begin this very summer to teach me how to be a farmer.”
And so it was a few moments later, when Grandpa Si came from the barn
with a pail brimming with foamy milk, that he was almost bumped into by a
girl and boy who, hand in hand, were running joyfully from the other
direction.
“Wall, I’ll be dod-blasted!” the old man exclaimed, “if it ain’t little
Harry!”
Then he called: “Grandma Sue, come an’ see who’s here!”
The bright-eyed old woman appeared in the open door, fork in hand. The
lad leaped up the porch steps and kissed her on a flushed, wrinkled
cheek.
“Grandma Sue,” he asked merrily, “have you room for a starved beggar boy
at your breakfast table?”
“Room, is it?” was the pleased response. “Thar’ll allays be that, sonny,
whenever you’re wantin’ a bite to eat.”
Such a merry meal followed. No one could make pancakes better than Susan
Warner, and when the first edge was taken from his appetite, Harold
insisted on helping Jenny turn the cakes for the other two. He wondered
what Gwynette would think and say, if she could see him, but for that he
cared not at all. Then, when they were seated, the boy astonished the
farmer by asking if he were willing to take him on that coming summer as
a helper.
“Tush! Nonsense it is yo’re talkin’ now, Harry boy. Yo’ wouldn’t want to
be puttin’ on overalls, would ye, an’ be milkin’ ol’ Brindle?”
But Harold was in dead earnest, they were finally convinced, and when at
last he started away along the beach it was with the understanding that
he was to return the first of June to be Farmer Warner’s “helper.”
CHAPTER XVII.
PRIDE MEETS PRIDE
“Well, thanks be there are only two more weeks of incarceration in this
prison.”
Gwynette Poindexter-Jones was in no pleasant mood as her two companions
could easily discern. “I would simply expire of ennui if I had to remain
here one day longer. When I think that Ma Mere, after having had a
wonderful winter in France, is now arriving in San Francisco, where I
suppose she will remain for a time, I feel as though I never can stand
the stupid routine of this place even a fortnight longer. And the truth
is, I don’t know as I will. I wrote Mother that I had refused to take the
final tests. I cannot see why I should care for a diploma from this
seminary, or any other, since I am next year to become a debutante in San
Francisco’s best society. One doesn’t have to pass an examination in
history, thank heavens, to make an eligible marriage. Beauty is far more
requisite.”
“And I suppose you are quite satisfied with yourself on that score.” It
was Beulah Hollingsworth who made this sarcastic remark. The three girls
were seated in the summer-house on the lawn of the seminary waiting for
the arrival of the rural postman. A box of chocolates lay open on the
table before them, and, spread about it, were books and magazines.
Patricia Sullivan, to the displeasure of at least one of her friends, was
reading a romance of the West. She had not heard the remarks of her
companions until the last sentence had been uttered and the tone in which
it had been said made her look up and exclaim: “What is the matter,
Beulah? Your disposition used to be quite amiable, but it certainly is
changing. Are you living on vinegar?”
Gwynette tossed her head. “Her favorite pastime seems to be finding
something to be sarcastic about. Of course I know that I am no rare
beauty, but I do believe that I can hold my own.”
Beulah reached over and took an especially luscious looking chocolate. As
she did so, the driveway for a moment was in her vision. A crunching of
wheels attracted her attention and she saw an old-fashioned wagon drawn
by a heavy white horse. A girl, dressed in yellow and wearing a
wide-brimmed hat wreathed with buttercups, was the driver. Beulah said:
“If you would like to see a girl who has real claim to beauty, cast your
glance out of the summer-house.”
Patricia closed her book and, rising, sauntered to the rose-hung doorway.
Turning, she said in a low voice: “Gwyn, isn’t that the girl we saw at
your Rocky Point Farm?”
Indignant, because Jenny Warner’s beauty had been compared with her own,
Gwynette replied with great indifference, as she purposely turned her
back: “I neither know nor care. I have no interest in my mother’s
servants.”
But it was quite evident by Jenny’s manner that she had some interest in
the summer-house, for she drew rein, and called in her prettiest manner:
“Can you tell me where I will find Miss Poindexter-Jones? I have a
message for her.”
Patricia good-naturedly replied: “You won’t have far to hunt. Her
highness is holding court in this very summer-house.”
Gwynette’s groundless anger against the world in general but increased
when she heard the inquiry, and she snapped as Patricia turned toward
her: “If that girl has a message for me, tell her to bring it to me at
once, though I am sure I cannot conceive what it can be.”
Jenny, who had clearly heard every word that had been spoken, as indeed
Gwynette had intended that she should, replied, not without pride in her
tone: “Kindly tell Miss Poindexter-Jones that I will send the message to
Miss Granger and she may receive it from her.”
But this was not all pleasing to the haughty girl. She did not wish to
have a needless audience with the woman who disapproved of her conduct as
she well knew. Appearing in the doorway, she said angrily: “Why don’t you
bring me the message, if you have one for me? I shall report your
behavior to my mother.”
Jenny said nothing, but, picking up the reins, she was about to drive on
to the school when Gwynette stepped out of the summer-house saying:
“Kindly give me whatever message you have for me. I do not wish it taken
to Miss Granger.” Jenny took from her basket a letter, which she handed
to the girl, and for one moment, and for the first time, they looked
straight into each other’s eyes.
Gwynette glanced at the envelope, then, handing it back toward the girl
on the high seat of the wagon, she said disdainfully: “You are mistaken,
this letter is addressed to your grandmother and not to me.”
Jenny, undisturbed, nodded her agreement. “That is why it came to the
farm, but Mrs. Poindexter-Jones made a mistake. The message is for you.”
The girl, standing in the drive, flushed angrily when she found that this
was true. “Well, I certainly hope your grandmother was not snooping
enough to read it,” she flashed, desiring to hurt someone’s feelings in
an endeavor to relieve her own.
It was Patricia who protested, as she saw the flaming color in the face
Beulah had called beautiful. “Gwyn,” she said sharply, “I hope the time
will come when you meet someone who will hurt your feelings as you so
enjoy hurting other people’s.”
Jenny Warner made no response, but drove around to the kitchen door to
deliver the honey and eggs. When she returned, Gwynette was not in sight,
as she had at once gone to her room to be alone when she read the letter.
She instinctively knew that it contained a message that would increase
her already belligerent mood.
As she was passing the summer-house, Jenny saw Patricia Sullivan leap out
of the doorway and beckon to her. “Miss Warner,” she called, “won’t you
have a few of my chocolates? They’re guaranteed to be sweet clear
through.”
Beulah appeared at her side. “That’s more than can be said of Gwynette
Poindexter-Jones. No one knows how glad I am that at the expiration of a
fortnight I shall have no further need to associate with her. You, Miss
Warner, will be the unfortunate victim, as you are to have her for a
neighbor all summer, I believe.”
Jenny, seeing that these girls evidently wished to be friendly, had again
drawn rein and had taken one of the proffered candies.
Patricia looked rather longingly at the old-fashioned wagon and then at
the placid old white horse. Her gaze returned to the driver and she said
in her impulsive way: “Maybe you won’t believe that it can be true, but
it is! I have never ridden in a conveyance of this kind, and I’d just
love to try it. Should you mind if I rode down the canyon road part way
with you?”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” Jenny replied with her brightest smile.
“There is plenty of room for both of you.” She included Beulah in her
invitation. Then added with a glance at the seminary, “if you are sure
that Miss Granger will not mind.”
Patricia scrambled up as she merrily replied: “Why should she care?”
Beulah remarked: “It does seem to me that there is some archaic rule
about not going beyond the gates without a chaperone, but we each have
one. Miss Warner may chaperone me and I will chaperone Pat.”
They laughed gleefully as though something really clever had been said.
“But who will chaperone Miss Warner?”
“Dobbin will,” the driver replied. “He usually does.”
“This is jolly fun,” Patricia declared a few moments later when she had
requested to drive. Beulah burst into unexpected merriment. “Oh, don’t I
hope her beautiful highness saw us when we drove away. Her wrath will
bring down a volcano of sparks on our heads when we get back.”
Patricia retorted: “Beulah, I sometimes think that you like to stir up
the embers in Gwyn’s nature, even when they are smouldering and might die
if they were let alone.”
Instead of replying, the other girl exclaimed after a glance at her wrist
watch: “Great moons! I must go back on a run! I have a French test at 4.”
Jenny took the reins and brought Dobbin to a stop. When they were in the
road, Patricia asked: “May we come down and see you some day? I wanted to
go out on that rocky point when we were there before, but when Gwyn’s
along, everything has to be done her way.”
“I’d be glad to have you,” was Jenny’s sincerely given reply.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A NEW EXPERIENCE
May was a busy, happy month for Jenny. Never had she studied harder and
her teacher, Miss Dearborn, rejoiced in her beloved pupil’s rapid
advancement. Then, twice a week, on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons,
when she drove around to the beautiful country homes of the rich
delivering eggs and honey, on the high seat at her side rode her very
first girl friend, Lenora Gale. Jenny was jubilantly happy on these
occasions, and, as for Lenora, she spent the hours in between the rides
in anticipation of the next one or in dreaming over the last one. She
wrote long letters to her far-away farmer father or to her nearer
brother, Charles, telling all about this new friend who seemed to the
readers of those letters to be a paragon indeed.
“I just know that you will love my dear Jenny when you see her,” she
wrote indiscriminately in either letter, and Charles smiled to himself.
He might like this Jenny Warner in a general way, but he was not at all
afraid that he would “love” any girl in particular, soon or ever. He was
convinced of that. He had met many girls, but he had never felt strongly
appealed to by any of them, and since he would be twenty-one on his next
birthday he decided that he was immune, but of this he said nothing in
his letters to his beloved little sister, for he well knew that she did
not refer to romantic love when she so often prophesied that her brother
would love Jenny Warner.
But, as the weeks passed, Charles found that he was looking forward with
a new interest to the middle of June, when he was to go to Santa Barbara
to get his sister and take her, if she were well enough to travel, back
to their Dakota farm for the summer.
As for Harold P-J. he had returned to the military academy jubilantly
eager for the beginning of his duties as Farmer Warner’s “helper.” He
wrote a long, dutiful letter to his mother each week, and, after that
visit to Rocky Point, he told his plan for the summer not without
trepidation and ended with a description of the flower-like qualities of
the granddaughter: “Mother mine, there’s a girl after your own heart.
You’ll just love Jenny Warner.”
Perhaps it was because of this letter that Mrs. Poindexter-Jones changed
her plans and decided to leave for Santa Barbara at an earlier date.
At last there came a day when Jenny did not look about her at the gnarled
old oaks or at the carpet of wild flowers in the uplands as she walked
along the familiar trail which led to Miss Dearborn’s pepper-tree guarded
gate, for she was conning over and over a lesson. Nor was her teacher in
the garden where she so often busied herself as she awaited her pupil.
Instead she stood in the drive with her hat and jacket on.
When at last the girl lifted her eyes from her book, she stopped—an
expression of dread and consternation in her eyes. “Miss Dearborn,” she
exclaimed, “you aren’t going back East, are you?”
The pleasant-faced woman laughed. “Not yet,” she replied. “How you do
dread that event, which I can assure you is not even a remote
possibility. Why should I go East, dear?”
Jenny Warner could not explain why she seemed so often to be oppressed by
that dread. “Do you believe that coming events cast their shadows
before?” she asked, putting her hand to her throat. “Honestly, Miss
Dearborn, I feel as if something terribly awful is about to happen. And
seeing you just now with your hat and jacket on made me think that you
might have had a telegram and that you were just leaving.”
Miss Dearborn merrily put in: “I _am_ just leaving, and for that matter
so are _you_. I received a telephone message half an hour ago that the
date of the first examination had been changed and is to take place at 10
o’clock _this morning_.”
Jenny’s books fell to the path and her look of consternation would have
been comical if it had not been tragic. “Miss Dearborn, I knew it! I have
felt just perfectly miserable as though I had lost my last friend with
fifty other calamities added. Now I know coming events cast their shadows
before. I thought we were going to have all this day for review.”
Miss Dearborn’s reply was cheerfully optimistic. “I’m glad that we are
not. I object to the system of cramming. You would tire your brain and be
less able to answer questions tomorrow than you are today. Now take your
books into the house, dear, and leave them on the library table, then
hurry back. We are to catch the nine o’clock stage.”
Poor Jenny’s heart felt heavily oppressed. Together they went down to the
Coast Highway, and, as they had a few moments to wait for the bus in the
rustic little roadside station, Jenny ventured, “Don’t you think, Miss
Dearborn, it would be a good plan for you to ask me questions or explain
to me something that you think I do not understand very clearly?”
“No, I do not.” Miss Dearborn was emphatic in her reply. Then she
inquired: “How is your little friend Lenora Gale? You promised to bring
her up to have a tea-party with me soon. You haven’t forgotten, have
you?”
A shade of sorrow passed over the girl’s pretty face. “Miss Dearborn,”
she said earnestly, “Lenora isn’t as well as she was. I am ever so
troubled about her. She seemed so much better after we met, and then,
last week, she caught another cold. Now she is worse again, and has to
stay in bed. I was up to the seminary Saturday to take the eggs and
honey, and I asked if I might see her. Miss O’Hara went to inquire of
Miss Granger, but she came back without the permission I wanted. The
doctor had requested that Lenora be kept perfectly quiet. Oh, I just know
that she is fretting her heart out to see me, and she doesn’t like it at
the seminary. It’s such a cold, unfriendly sort of a place. The girls
never did take to Lenora, partly because she is retiring, almost timid, I
suppose, and, besides, they may have heard that her father is only a
farmer.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the bus. Then, when
they were seated within, Jenny continued, almost with bitterness: “Rich
girls are haughty and horrid, that is, if they are all like Gwynette
Poindexter-Jones.”
“But they aren’t, dear. Don’t judge the many by the few. I had many
wealthy classmates and they were as simple and sweetly sincere as any
poor girl could be.”
Miss Dearborn purposely kept Jenny’s thoughts occupied with her friend
Lenora. Then she asked if Etta Heldt had been heard from. Jenny shook her
head. “We should have heard, at least two weeks ago. Grandpa Si thinks we
never will hear. He said the best way to lose a friend is to loan him
money, but I have faith in Etta Heldt. I just know she will write some
day soon if she reached Belgium alive.” Miss Dearborn had visited Belgium
and she described that interesting little country, and at last the bus
reached the high school in Santa Barbara. Jenny, with a glance of terror
at her teacher, took one of her hands and held it hard.
Throngs of bright-eyed girls, many of them in short sport skirts and
prettily colored sweater coats, trooped past the two who were strange.
Some few glanced at Jenny casually as though wondering who she might be,
but no one spoke.
Fragments of conversation drifted to her. “Gee-whiliker!” a
boyish-looking girl exclaimed. “I’d rather have the world come to an end
than take the geom exam from Seer Simp.”
Professor Simpson, as Jenny knew, was the instructor in charge of that
morning’s exams.
“Say! Wouldn’t I, though?” her companion replied with a mock shudder.
Then these two passed and another group hurried by. The leader turned to
fling over her shoulder: “O-o-h!! My hands are so cold now I won’t be
able to hold a pen, but if Monsieur Simpson so much as looks at me with
his steely blue eyes, I’ll change to an icicle.”
A moment later Jenny found herself confronted by that same dreaded
professor. Miss Dearborn was introducing her and a kindly voice was
saying: “Miss Warner, we are expecting much of you since you have had the
advantage of so much personal instruction.”
The eyes of the small elderly gentleman were, it is true, a keen
grey-blue, but there was friendliness in their expression.
Then it was that Jenny realized that since her tutor had done so much for
her, she, in turn, must do her best, and be, if only she could, a credit
to her beloved friend.
A gong was ringing somewhere in the corridor. As one in a dream, Jenny
bade good-bye to Miss Dearborn, who promised to return at noon. Then the
girl followed her new acquaintance into a room thronged with boys and
girls and sat at the desk indicated.
CHAPTER XIX.
A WELCOME GUEST
Three days later, when Jenny entered the farmhouse kitchen, Grandpa Si,
who was washing at the small sink pump, looked up twinkling-eyed to
inquire: “Wall, Jenny-gal, them examinations are over now, ain’t they? I
reckon they wasn’t nigh so terribul as yo’d figgered, when you got plumb
up to ’em, was they now?”
Jenny, looking very pale and weary, dropped into the big armed chair
opposite her grandmother, who was shelling peas for supper.
Then, unexpectedly, she burst into tears. Instantly the pan of peas was
placed on the table and her grandmother had comforting arms about the
girl. “Dearie, what is ailin’ yo’? Warn’t yo’ able to get the right
answers for them examination questions?”
The distressed grandfather also hovered about, saying huskily: “Now look
a-here, little un, we don’t keer, not a farthing’s worth, whether you
knowed them answers or didn’t know ’em. I reckon you’re smarter’n most,
how-so-ever, ’twas.” Jenny, who had been clinging to her grandmother,
astonished them by saying between sobs: “’Tisn’t the examinations I’m
crying about. It’s Lenora. They let me see her for a moment this
afternoon and she is so weak and oh so unhappy. She thinks she will never
get well, not if she has to stay in that cold, dreary old seminary, and
Oh, Grandma Sue, how I do want her to get well. I have always longed to
have a sister, and when I found Lenora Gale, I made believe she was the
sister I had so wanted. No one knows how I love her.”
The old couple were greatly distressed. All these years their “gal” had
so longed to have a sister of her very own, and all that time she had had
one, whom she didn’t know. Grandma Sue smoothed the rumpled hair and
kissed Jenny on the forehead. “Go to your room, dearie, and rest till
supper time,” she said soothingly. “You’re all tired out with them
examinations. You’ll feel better after you’ve had suthin’ warm to eat.”
Jenny permitted her grandfather to help her out of the chair and to lead
her toward her room. There she flung herself down on her bed, and the
loving old man drew a cover over her. Then he tiptoed back to the
kitchen. “Ma,” he said, “I reckon us and Mis’ Poindexter-Jones have got
suthin’ to answer for, makin’ it so them two gals grew up not knowin’ as
they was sisters.”
“Mabbe so,” the old woman had resumed her pea-shelling. “Mabbe so, Silas,
but it’s too late now. That proud, haughty gal wouldn’t thank no one to
tell her she’s our Jenny’s sister, and she wouldn’t be no comfort to our
gal, bein’ as she’s been fetched up so different. But that sweet Lenora
Gale, her as is a farmer’s daughter, she’s a friend more suitin’ to our
Jenny.” For a few moments the old woman’s fingers were busy, but she was
silent and thoughtful. When the peas were ready for the pot, she poured
them into the boiling water, then turned and said: “Silas Warner, you and
me keer more to have Jenny happy than anything else, don’t we?”
“I reckon we do, Ma. What be yo’ aimin’ at? I kin see easy thar’s suthin’
yo’ want to say. I’m agreeable to it, whatever ’tis.”
The old woman seemed relieved. “I was thinkin’ as how it would please our
Jenny if we was to let her invite her friend Lenora to visit her here a
spell. Jenny could sleep on the couch in the livin’ room, and let the
sick gal have her bed. I think more’n half what’s the matter with Lenora
Gale is that she’s pinin’ for a place that’s home wi’ folks in it to keer
for her. Jenny says she’s allays speakin’ of her ma, lonesome-like,
because she’s dead.”
The old man blew his nose hard, then said blinkingly: “Pore little gal! I
was jest a thinkin’ how it might o’ been our Jenny that was sick up to
that school prison wi’ no one as really keered.”
Jenny’s joy knew no bounds when she learned that she might invite her
dear friend Lenora Gale to come to her home and make her a real visit. So
sure was she that the sick girl would accept, Jenny was up the next day
with the sun. Tying a towel about her curly light brown hair and donning
an all-over apron, she swept and scoured a
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