The Cinder Pond Part 27

Next, she inspected the shack on the dock; after that, the Captain's old freight car.

"And you _live_ here!" she said, seating herself on the bench outside and drawing Jeanne down beside her. "I want you to tell me all about it and about _you_. I want your whole history."

By asking a great many questions (she had lived with Roger long enough to learn how to do that) she soon knew a great deal about Jeanne, her life on the wharf, her two years with the Huntingtons, her father's wishes for her. Jeanne found it not only easy but pleasant to chatter to her sympathetic new acquaintance.

"This is a beautiful spot in summer," said Mrs. Fairchild, when she had the whole story, "but it is no place for a girl in winter. The minute cold weather comes, unless your people have already sent for you, I am going to carry you off to visit me. Of course, if you didn't happen to like us, you wouldn't have to stay; but I do want you to try us. _You_ know who Mr. Fairchild is, Captain Blossom--the lawyer, you know--so you see you can trust us with her. At any rate, my dear, you can stay with me until your people send for you. You see, neither Mr. Fairchild nor I will be able to rest until we've had a chance to know you better and to thank you--to _really_ thank you. I'm _very_ grateful to you. Roger's our only child; you saved him for us. I've had you on my conscience for more than two years. You _will_ come, won't you?"

"If I could think about it just a little," said Jeanne, shyly.

"You must persuade her, Captain Blossom. You _know_ she'd be better off with me--so much nearer school and other nice girls of her own age. I shall simply love to have her--I'm fond of her already."

Mrs. Fairchild was a pretty little woman, impulsive, kind-hearted, and very loyal in her friendships. One had only to look at her to know that she was good. Not a very wise woman, perhaps; but a very kind one. Her son Roger--she had lost her first two babies--was undoubtedly rather badly spoiled. Had her other children lived, Roger would certainly have been more severely disciplined.

"I'm coming tomorrow afternoon," said she, at parting, "to take this little girl for a ride."

"That'll be lovely," returned Jeanne.

After that, Mrs. Fairchild made a point of borrowing Jeanne frequently.

Her comfortable little open car often stopped in the road above the Captain's old freight car to honk loudly for Jeanne, and she often carried the Cinder Pond child home with her, and kept her to meals. Mrs.

Fairchild was the nearest approach to a girl companion that Jeanne had ever had. Jeanne _liked_ the pretty, fair-haired lady, who was so delightfully young for her thirty-seven years. She also liked Mr.

Fairchild child, whose clothes were quite as good as those of her Uncle Charles, while his manners were certainly better--at any rate, far more cordial.

"I'm crazy about dolls," confessed Mrs. Fairchild, one day, when she had Jeanne beside her in the little car. "I've promised to dress a whole dozen for the church guild. I want you to help me buy them right now.

Won't that be fun? And we'll dress them together. You shall choose the dresses for six of them. Isn't it a shame I never had any little girls of my own?"

Of course sympathetic Mrs. Fairchild heard all about Sammy, Annie, and Patsy, and how disappointed Jeanne had been to find them missing.

"I'm _worried_ about them," confessed Jeanne. "Their new uncle _may_ be good to them, but I'd like to know for _certain_. I'm bothered most about Annie. She's such a good, gentle little thing and Mrs. Shannon was always awfully cross to her."

"While we're dressing our other dolls," said Mrs. Fairchild, "we might make a little dress for Annie."

"She's almost six," sighed Jeanne. "I do wish I could watch her grow up--and teach her to be _nice_. But, of course, making a dress for her will help a little!"

Of Roger, Jeanne saw but little. At first he avoided her; still, he _did_ speak, when they met face to face; and, in the course of time, he was even able to say, "h.e.l.lo, Jeanne!" without blushing.

Jeanne went to school. It was a long walk and she hated to miss a single moment of the outdoor life on the old dock; but going to school was something that she could do for her father. Her clothes were beginning to trouble her a little. Some were wearing out, others seemed to be getting smaller. Jeanne, you see, was growing and her garments were not.

Still, the other pupils were far from suspecting that Jeanne was a motherless, fatherless waif from the Cinder Pond. She was always neat; and even daintier than many of her cla.s.smates; but the washing, ironing, and mending necessary to insure this daintiness, meant considerable work on Jeanne's part.

One evening, when she had taken off her dress to replace a b.u.t.ton, it occurred to Jeanne to feel in the pockets of her father's old coat--the coat that still hung behind the door of Leon Duval's room. She found in the pocket a letter that he had written. Except for a stamp, it was all ready to be mailed to _her_. She read it greedily.

There was the usual home news; but one paragraph stood out from all the others: "Be patient and learn all you can, my Jeanne. You, in turn, can teach it all to Annie and your brothers. Even the hated arithmetic you must conquer."

"Oh," sighed Jeanne, "I'm so glad I found this. I _will_ conquer those mathematics, and I _will_ teach those children, some day. Perhaps I'll have to teach kindergarten after all, so as to earn money enough to go after them. And dear me, they're growing older every minute. But, no matter how hard it is for me, I'm going to look after those children the very first minute I can."

While Jeanne was waiting for the first cold weather or else for news from the Huntingtons--one _couldn't_ tell which would come first--she studied to such purpose that her first month's marks surprised even herself, they were so good.

Another night, when she had gone early to the shack in order to mend a long rent in her petticoat, she found herself with half an hour to spare before bedtime. She had left her books on Old Captain's table and the kittens were also in the Captain's car. For once, now that her mending was finished, she had nothing to do unless she were to dress, and go up the dock to Old Captain's. And that, she decided, was too much trouble for so short a time. She was obliged to stand on a box to reach the nail she liked best for her dress. As she did so this time, the lamplight fell upon a crack in the wall that was level with her eyes, and contained something that suddenly glittered. She fished the small object from its hiding-place; and recognized in it the key to her father's little old trunk. She looked at it thoughtfully. Perhaps, since she was so very lonely for her father, he wouldn't mind if she opened that trunk to see what articles he had handled last.

She moved the lamp to a box beside the trunk, turned the key, and lifted the cover. Her father's best suit was there, very neatly folded, and his shoes. From under these came a gleam of something faintly pink. Jeanne carefully drew it forth.

"My old pink dress!" she exclaimed.

Jeanne slipped it on. It was much too short.

"Why," said she, "what a lot I've grown!"

Upright in one corner of the trunk, Jeanne found a green bottle. It held a withered stalk to which two dried pink petals still clung.

"I left that bottle with a rose in it on father's table when I went away," said Jeanne. "He must have found it there when he got back and _kept_ it. And this dress. He didn't give it to Annie. He _kept it_.

And I'm glad. Sometimes, when I was so awfully lonesome at Aunt Agatha's, I used to wonder if my father really _did_ love me. But now I _know_ he did--every single minute. I'll put this dress back where I found it."

Another thing that came to light was her father's bankbook. She showed that, the next day, to Old Captain, who studied it carefully.

"I'm glad," said Jeanne, "that there's a little money. It may be needed for Mollie."

It was. One day, early in October, Mollie failed to waken from one of her comfortable naps. Thanks to Leon Duval's modest savings, poor Mollie was decently buried. Mrs. Fairchild took Jeanne and Old Captain and all the flowers from Mrs. Schmidt's little greenhouse to the very simple funeral.

"I've got to be a mother to Mollie's children just as soon as ever I can," said Jeanne, on the way home. "I was going to do it for daddy, anyway; but now I want to for Mollie, too."

CHAPTER XXIV

MOLLIE'S BABIES

The following week, Jeanne and two of the kittens went to live with Mrs.

Fairchild. The other two were to stay with Old Captain, who, it seemed, was fond of kittens. Jeanne was spared the necessity of dividing the snail. Bayard Taylor had run away! As snails aren't exactly built for running, Old Captain and Barney considered this a huge joke. Whether Bayard Taylor crawled over the edge of the dock and fell in, or whether one of the playful kittens batted him overboard, or whether he was hidden in some crevice among the cinders, n.o.body ever knew. Though diligently sought for, the great American traveler never turned up.

Mr. Fairchild warmly welcomed both Jeanne and the kittens and declared that he was delighted to have somebody to make the table come out even at meal times.

"With three people," said he, "there's always somebody left out in the cold. Now we can talk in pairs."

Mrs. Fairchild was like a child with a new toy. Jeanne's room was newly decorated and even refurnished for her. It was the very girliest of girl's rooms and the windows overlooked the lake. Jeanne was glad of that. It made it seem like home.

Next, her wardrobe was replenished. Mrs. Huntington had replenished Jeanne's wardrobe more than once; but this was different. Loving care went into the selecting of every garment, and it made a surprising difference. Jeanne _loved_ her new clothes, her pretty, yet suitable trinkets; for Mrs. Fairchild's taste was better than Mrs. Huntington's and she took keen pleasure in choosing shades and colors that were becoming to Jeanne's gypsy-like skin. The Fairchilds were delighted with her appearance.

Roger proved a comfortable housemate. He wasn't a tease, like Harold.

Jeanne neither liked nor disliked him. She merely regarded him as part of the Fairchilds' furniture--the dining-room furniture, because she saw him mostly at meals. Roger certainly liked to eat. When he discovered that the visitor showed no inclination to talk about his undignified tumble into the lake, he found her presence rather agreeable than otherwise. With Jeanne to consider, his mother hadn't quite so much time to fuss over _him_. He hated to be fussed over. Moreover, she couldn't look at Jeanne and the marmalade at the same time. Roger, who loved marmalade, was glad of that.

One morning the express wagon stopped in front of Mrs. Fairchild's house. The express-man delivered a large wooden box addressed to "Miss J.H. Duval."

"This must be for you, Jeanne," said Mrs. Fairchild.

"Why, yes," said Jeanne, eying the address. "I suppose I _am_ Miss J.H.

Duval. I wonder who sent it."