The Cinder Pond Part 19

After that, Jeanne learned a number of things about her mother. That she had loved flowers when she was just a tiny baby, that pink was her favorite color. That she had liked cats and peppermint and people. That she was very impulsive, often doing the deed first, the thinking afterwards. And yes, her impulses had almost always been kind. Once (Jeanne's grandfather so far forgot his grievance against his only daughter as to chuckle softly at the remembrance of the childish prank) she had felt so sorry for a hungry tramp that the cook had turned away, that the moment cook's back was turned Bessie had, at the risk of being severely burned, pulled a huge crock of baked beans from the oven, wrapped a thick towel about it, slipped outside, and thrust it upon the tramp. The tramp _had_ been burned; and they had had to send for a policeman, in order to get his bad language off the premises.

Jeanne had heard this story the night that she had had her dinner with her grandfather. She was supposed to be eating in the breakfast-room with her cousins; but when Maggie had cleared Mr. Huntington's little table, that evening, preparatory to bringing in his tray, Jeanne had said: "Bring enough for me, too, Maggie. I'm going to stay right here.

You'll let me, won't you, grand-daddy?"

"I'll _invite_ you," was the response. "I don't know why I didn't think of doing it long ago."

You see, whenever the Huntingtons entertained at dinner, as they frequently did, the children were banished to the breakfast-room.

Between Pearl's snippishness, Clara's snubbing, and Harold's teasing, these were usually unhappy occasions for Jeanne. And generally the three young Huntingtons quarreled with one another. Besides, with no elders to restrain him, Harold was decidedly rude and "grabby."

"I think," said Jeanne, after one particularly uproarious meal during which Harold had plastered Pearl's face with mashed potato and poured water down Jeanne's back, "that I've learned more good manners from Harold than from anybody else--his are so very bad that it makes me want nice ones."

After the meal with her grandfather was finished, he showed her where to find an old photograph alb.u.m, hidden behind the books in his bookcase.

"There," said he, opening it at a page containing four small pictures.

"This is your mother when she was six months old. She was three or four years old in this next one, and here is one at the age of twelve. She was seventeen when this last one was taken."

"Is this all there are?" asked Jeanne, who had studied the four little pictures earnestly. "Of her, I mean?"

"Yes, only those four. Young people didn't have cameras in those days, you know."

"Keep the place for me," said Jeanne, returning the book to her grandfather's knee. "I'll be back in just a second."

She returned very quickly with the miniature of Elizabeth Huntington Duval that she had been longing to show to her grandfather.

"My father had a friend who was an artist," said Jeanne, breathlessly.

"He painted that soon after they were married. For a _present_, father said. Wasn't it a nice one?"

"Why, I'm delighted to see this, my dear," said her grandfather, gazing eagerly at the lovely face. "It's by far the best picture of Bessie I've ever seen. It is very like her and her face is full of happiness--I'm very glad of that. I had no idea of its existence. I am very glad indeed that you thought of showing it to me."

"So am I," said Jeanne. "You're always so good to me that I'm glad I could give _you_ a pleasure for once."

"You must take very good care of this," said Mr. Huntington. "It's a very fine miniature."

"I always do," returned Jeanne. "I thought it was ever so good of my father to give it to me--the only one he had."

"It was, indeed," said Mr. Huntington, appreciatively. "Now, put it away, my dear, and keep it safe."

In the dining-room, to which the guests had just been ushered by James in his very grandest manner, a lady had leaned forward to say, gushingly, to her hostess:

"What a _lovely_ child your youngest daughter is, Mrs. Huntington. I saw her at dancing school last week and simply fell in love with her. So graceful and _such_ a charming face. She came in with your son."

"Clara _is_ a lovely child," returned Mrs. Huntington, complacently.

"I think," said the guest, "my little son said that her name was Jeannette."

"That," said Mrs. Huntington, coldly (people were always singing that wretched child's praises), "was merely my husband's niece, who has been placed in our care for a short time. That time, I am happy to say, is almost half over. She is a great trial. Fortunately, _my_ children have been too well brought up to be influenced by her incomprehensible behavior; her hoidenish manners."

At this moment there came the sound of a sudden crash, followed by shrieks faintly audible in the dining-room. Although Mrs. Huntington guessed that Harold had at last succeeded in upsetting the breakfast-room table; and that either Pearl or Clara had been burned with the resultant flood of soup, she turned, without blinking an eyelash, to the guest of honor on her right to speak politely of the weather.

It was Jeanne who rushed to the breakfast-room to find the table overturned and all three of her cousins gazing with consternation at a wide scalded area on Clara's white wrist. It was Jeanne, too, who remembered that lard and cornstarch would stop the pain. Also, it was Jeanne whom Mrs. Huntington afterwards blamed for the accident. Her bad example, her wicked influence was simply ruining Harold's disposition.

"Sure," said Maggie, telling Bridget about it later, "that lad was _born_ with a ruined disposition. As for Miss Jeannette, there's more of a mother's kindness in one touch of that little tyke's hand than there is in Mrs. H.'s whole body. And think of her knowing enough to use lard and cornstarch. The doctor said she did exactly the right thing."

CHAPTER XVII

A LONELY SUMMER

Jeanne had liked her first teacher, Miss Wardell, very much indeed. And pretty Miss Wardell had been very fond of Jeannette; she knew that the child was shy, and the considerate young woman managed frequently to shield her from embarra.s.sment, and to help her over the rough places.

Miss Turner was different. She said that Jeannette made her nervous. It is possible that the other thirty-nine pupils helped; but it was Jeanne whom she blamed for her shattered nerves. It is certain that Miss Turner made Jeanne nervous. No matter how well she knew her lesson, she _couldn't_ recite it to Miss Turner. A chatterbox, with the right sort of listener, Jeanne was stricken dumb the moment Miss Turner's attention was focused upon her.

"What a _very_ bad card!" said Mrs. Huntington, at the end of May. "It is even worse than it was last month. Pearl and Clara had excellent cards and Harold had higher marks in two of his studies than you have.

You are a very ungrateful child. You don't appreciate the advantages we are giving you. When school is out, I shall engage Miss Turner to tutor you through the summer."

"Horrors!" thought Jeanne.

"Miss Turner tutored Ethel Bailey all last summer," continued Mrs.

Huntington. "Mrs. Bailey says that Ethel now receives excellent marks."

"From Miss _Turner_," said Jeanne, shrewdly. "Ethel doesn't know a thing about her lessons. She's the stupidest girl in our grade. I _know_ mine, but it's hard to recite. If I _must_ have a tutor, couldn't I have Miss Wardell?--I _liked_ her and she'd be glad of the extra money because she takes care of her mother. Oh, _please_ let me have Miss Wardell."

"No," returned Mrs. Huntington, firmly, "Miss Turner will know best what is needed for your grade. You are learning _nothing_. Only forty in history."

"Well," sighed Jeanne, "I'm not surprised. I said that Benedict Arnold wrote 'The Star-Spangled Banner' and that Lafayette painted Gilbert Stuart's portrait of Washington. I _knew_ better, but oh, dear! When Miss Turner looks me in the eye and asks a question, my poor frightened tongue always says the wrong thing."

"She'd freeze a lamp-post," said Harold, for once agreeing with his cousin. "I had her last year. Don't look at her eyes--look at her belt-buckle when you recite."

"I _have_ to look at her eyes," sighed Jeanne, miserably. "One is yellow, the other is black. I _hate_ to look at them, but I always have to."

"I know," agreed Harold. "I had ten months of those eyes myself. I hope you'll never meet a snake. You'd be so fascinated that you couldn't run."

"Miss Turner's eyes have nothing to do with the question," said Mrs.

Huntington. "Mrs. Bailey said she made an excellent tutor, so I shall certainly engage her."

"Perhaps," suggested Harold, consolingly, when his mother had left the room, "she won't be able to come. She _may_ want a vacation."

"Oh, I _hope_ so."

"So do I," said Harold, making a face. "You see, my marks in Latin are about as bad as they make 'em. It _may_ occur to mother to let Miss Turner use up her spare time on _me_. Wow!"

"Anyhow," said Jeanne, "I'm much obliged to you for trying to help."

All too soon it was June. School was out and Jeanne hadn't pa.s.sed in a single study. Even her deportment had received a very low mark. Miss Turner, contrary to Jeanne's fervent hope, had gladly accepted the position Mrs. Huntington had offered her. Mrs. Huntington broke the discouraging news at the breakfast table.

"Your lessons will begin at nine o'clock next Monday, Jeannette," said she, firmly believing that she was doing the right thing by a strangely backward student. "With only one pupil, Miss Turner will be able to give all her attention to you."