OLD JEAN'S STORY
"It's 'Ho for the forest!'" sang Tom Gray jubilantly, as he waved his
stout walking stick over the low stone wall that separated the party of
picnickers from Upton Wood.
"Isn't it magnificent?" asked Grace of Anne, her gray eyes glowing as
she looked ahead at the snowy road that stretched like a great white
ribbon between the deep green rows of pine and fir trees.
"Perfect," agreed Anne dreamily, who was drinking in the solemn beauty
of the snow-wrapped forest, an expression of reverence on her small
face.
"I wonder if the snow in the road is very deep?" soliloquized Jessica
unsentimentally.
"How can you break in upon our rapt musings with such commonplaces?"
laughed Grace. "To return to earth; I don't imagine the snow is deep.
This road is much traveled, and the snow looks fairly well packed. What
do you say, Huntsman Gray?" She turned to Tom with a smile.
"It isn't deep. All aboard for Upton Wood!" called Tom cheerily. "Come
on, Grace." He extended a helping hand to her.
But Grace needed no assistance. With a laughing shake of her head she
vaulted the low wall as easily as Tom himself could have cleared it.
Nora followed her, then Miriam, while Anne and Jessica were content to
allow themselves to be assisted by David and Reddy. Then the picnickers
swung into the wide snow-packed road that wound its way to the other end
of Upton Wood, a matter of perhaps ten miles. Being a part of the road
to the state capital and a famous automobile route it was sedulously
looked after and kept in good condition, and was therefore not difficult
to travel.
The cabin of old Jean, the hunter, was situated some distance from the
main road in the thickest part of the forest. The day before, the five
young men, with a bobsled filled with grocers' supplies, had driven to
the point of the road nearest the cabin and a brisk unloading had
followed. After their first trip to the cottage old Jean had returned to
the sleigh with them, his fur cap awry, gesticulating delightedly and
chattering volubly as he walked. Of a surety Mamselle Grace and her
friends were welcome. He deplored the fact that they had insisted upon
bringing their own provisions, but David, who suspected the old hunter's
larder to be none too well stocked with eatables, had quieted Jean's
remonstrances with the diplomatic assertion that the affair having been
planned by the "Eight Originals Plus Two," as they had now agreed to
call themselves, and given in honor of the old hunter himself, it was
their privilege to pay the piper. Jean had shaken his head rather
dubiously over the miscellaneous heap of groceries that spread over at
least a quarter of his floor, but his first protest had been laughingly
silenced by the five sturdy foresters, who threatened to turn him out of
house and home if he did not allow his friends to celebrate in peace.
On this particular morning Jean had been up and doing since five
o'clock. He had decorated his cabin walls with ground pine and
evergreen, and as a last touch had, with many chuckles, suspended from
the ceiling an unusually perfect piece of mistletoe, which he had
tramped into Oakdale early that morning to secure. He had cleaned his
rifle first, then swept and scrubbed his cabin floor, and the pine table
off which he ate, until the most critical housekeeper could have found
no fault with the shining cleanliness of the place. The rousing fire
that he built in the big fireplace soon dried the floor, and after
arranging his few household effects to the best advantage, Jean busied
himself with getting in a good supply of wood before his young guests,
who had set the hour of three o'clock for their arrival, should appear
upon the scene.
It was precisely ten minutes to three when the little company reached
the top of the hill at the foot of which nestled old Jean's cottage, and
halted for a moment before descending.
"Sound the call of the Elf's Horn, Tom," demanded Grace. "I only wish I
could sound it. I've tried over and over again, but I can't do it."
"It is a gift which the fairies reserve for only a few favored mortals,"
teased Tom.
"Then I am not one of them," declared Grace. "I have watched for fairies
since I was a little girl and never met with one yet. I know every
individual fairy in Grimms', Andersen's and Lang's by reputation, too."
"What about your fairy prince?" was Tom's quick question. The two pairs
of gray eyes met. Grace smiled with frank amusement.
"I have never looked for a fairy prince," she said lightly. "I never
cared half so much about the fairy princes and the clothes and weddings
as I did about giants, witches and spells, mysterious happenings and
magic mirrors. I loved 'The Brave Little Tailor' and 'The Youth Who
Could Not Shiver and Shake.'"
"I always liked the 'False Bride' and 'Rapunzel,'" remarked Jessica
sentimentally, who had come up beside Grace and Tom.
"Of what are you talking?" asked Nora, who had caught Jessica's last
word.
"We were naming the fairy tales we always liked best."
"I always liked the 'Magic Fiddle,'" said Nora, with a reminiscent
chuckle. "I used to keep a copy of Grimms' Fairy Tales in my desk at
school, just for that story. It always made me giggle. I could fairly
see all those poor people dancing whether they wished to dance or not.
Ask Hippy what his favorite fairy tale is," she dimpled, lowering her
voice.
"Say, Hippopotamus," called Tom, "what's your favorite fairy tale?"
Hippy, who stood a little to one side, appeared to think deeply, then
said with a sentimental smile: "The 'Table Prepare Thyself' story. Oh,
if I might have had such a table!" Hippy sighed dolefully. "Then I would
never have been obliged when out on these excursions to humbly beg for
crumbs to sustain my failing strength till such time as you slow-pokes
saw fit to eat."
"Don't I always give you things to eat when everyone else laughs at
you?" demanded Nora belligerently.
"Yes, my noble benefactor," whined Hippy, "but you didn't to-day."
"I don't intend to, either," was Nora's unfeeling response. "I purposely
told Tom to ask you that. I knew you'd name one that had a good deal
about eating in it."
"Stop squabbling," commanded Reddy, his fingers fastened in the back of
Hippy's collar, "or down the hill you go. Keep quiet, now, Tom is going
to perform."
Tom placed his hands to his mouth. His friends listened intently. Then
came the peculiar whistle that sounded like the note of a trumpet. Tom
whistled repeatedly, and two minutes later they saw old Jean come racing
up the steep path toward them. He had heard the mysterious Elf's Horn.
"Never forgot it, did you, Jean?" laughed Tom, seizing the old man's
hand and shaking it warmly.
"No, Monsieur Tom; once I hear, it is impossible that I should forget,"
replied Jean in his quaint English. "An' now that you have honor me this
afternoon, it is well that you come to my cabin where the fire burn for
you an' the coffee wait, an' all is ready for my frien's who mak' so
long walk for the sake of ol' Jean."
"Of course we did, Jean," smiled Grace as they started for the cabin.
"Don't we always come to see you when we are home from college?"
"It is true, Mamselle Grace," returned Jean solemnly. "I am lucky man to
have such fren's."
"Don't look so sad over it, Jean!" exclaimed Hippy. "Be merry, and gayly
dance as I do." He essayed several fantastic steps over the frozen
ground, stubbed his toe on a projecting root and lunged forward, falling
heavily into a huge snowdrift, his hands and face plowing into the snow.
"Ha, ha!" jeered Reddy. "'Be merry, and gayly dance as I do.' No, thank
you. I prefer to walk along like an ordinary human being."
"That is exactly what you are," was Hippy's calm retort from the
snowdrift, "'an ordinary human being.'" Floundering out of the drift he
shook himself free of snow and, undaunted by his fall, went on skipping
and pirouetting toward the cabin, while his companions shrieked mirthful
comments into his apparently unhearing ears.
How fast the afternoon and evening slipped away! The girls insisted on
helping Jean with the dinner, and at half-past five the whole party sat
down at the rude table that had been improvised by the boys the day
before. Eating in the heart of the forest made things taste infinitely
better than at home. Never before had there been such coffee, or steak,
or baked potatoes! There was dessert, too--Mrs. Nesbit's famous fruit
cake and Mrs. Harlowe's equally prized mince pie, besides fruit and
nuts, Jean adding the latter to the feast. Then everyone's health was
drunk in grape juice, and it was almost seven o'clock before Jean and
his guests rose from the table.
"Ten minutes to seven," declared David, consulting his watch. "We must
leave here at eight o'clock. We ought to be home by nine. I feel very
responsible for these youngsters, Jean. It was I who agreed to play
chaperon."
"Youngsters, indeed," growled Reddy scornfully. "Listen to Methuselah."
"Tell us a story before we go, Jean," begged Grace. She loved to hear
the old hunter tell in his quaint way of his many perilous adventures in
the great northwestern woods of Canada, where he had spent so many years
of his life.
"If Mamselle Grace like I will tell of w'en I track the fierce panther
who have kill my lambs, an' what happen to me."
"Oh, splendid!" cried Grace. "We should love to hear it."
The glow from the big back log reflected the interested faces of the
others. Jean's stories were always well received. Settling himself
cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall, he related how,
after tracking a panther all day, he had slipped while going down a
steep bank and losing his footing had plunged to the bottom. How he had
lain there bruised and helpless with a broken leg, expecting at any time
to see the beast he had been tracking bear down upon him. How at last,
after hours of unspeakable agony, help had come in the shape of a tall,
strongly built young man, whose cabin was not far off and who had
carried Jean to it, then, after roughly setting the injured leg, and
making his patient as comfortable as might be expected under the
circumstances, he had ridden thirty miles for a doctor, then tended the
old hunter until his leg healed.
"Ten week I stay in bed an' this good frien' take care of me. He inten'
to go to Alaska for gold. He say he have wife once an' baby but they die
in railroad wreck. He never see their bodies. He very sad. The fire in
the train burn everybody, all t'ings." Jean waved his arms
comprehensively. "He stay by me until I am well. Then he say, 'Jean,
come along to Alaska.' But I say, 'No. I am too ol'. I wish live all my
days in Canada woods.' So he go on. After many years he write. Only last
summer I have receive his letter. He have found plenty gold, an' is
rich. He say when he come back, then he will buy for me a new rifle an'
give me much money. But what does Jean care for money? Rather I would
see my frien' whose letter I have always keep."
The old man ceased speaking and looked retrospectively into the fire.
Then, without speaking, he rose, shuffled to a small table in one corner
of the room, and opening the drawer took from it a well-thumbed
envelope. Returning to the group he handed it to Grace, saying proudly:
"This is the letter my frien' write. Will Mamselle Grace read?"
Grace obediently took the letter from the envelope.
"My dear Jean:" she read. "How can I ever forgive myself for neglecting
you so long? I can only say that though I have failed to make good my
promise to write, you have never been forgotten by me. Jean, I am sorry
you didn't come here with me. I found gold, more than I can spend in a
lifetime, and I have made you a stockholder in my mine. I am coming back
to the States next spring and will look you up first of all. I am
sending this to the old address, trusting that if you are not there it
will be forwarded to you. I used to think it would be glorious to be
rich, but now that I am alone in the world, money seems a poor
substitute for my lost happiness.
"Let me hear from you soon, Jean, and address your letter, Post Office
Box 462, Nome, Alaska. I hope you are well and happy. You always were a
sunshiny old chap. Here's hoping.
"Your old friend,
"DENTON."
"Is it not a very gran' letter?" asked old Jean with anxious pride. "My
frien' Denton have study in college, too."
"Indeed it is, Jean," agreed Anne warmly.
"Your friend seems to be the right sort of comrade, even if he is a bad
correspondent," remarked David Nesbit.
"Something like me," murmured Hippy gently.
No one appeared to notice this modest assertion.
"Sounds like a page from a best seller, doesn't it, Grace?" asked Tom
laughingly.
Grace did not answer. She was gazing at the signature of the letter with
perplexed eyes. She was wondering why the name Denton seemed so
familiar. Remembrance came suddenly--Ruth, of course. With that
recollection came a sudden startling train of thought. Ruth's father had
gone west, had been heard from in Nevada, then disappeared. Jean's
friend had lost his wife and child on a westbound train. Here, however,
Grace's supposition proved weak. Both wife and child had been burned to
death in the railroad wreck. Still, mistakes in identification were
frequently made on such painful occasions. Grace went back to her first
supposition. "It is the only shred of a clew that I have run across
yet," she reflected. "I am going to hang to it and see where it leads.
And to think that perhaps old Jean once knew Ruth's father. It's
unbelievable."
"We must start in ten minutes." David's crisp, business-like tones
brought her to a realization of her immediate surroundings.
"Ten minutes is long enough for me to say what is on my mind," Grace
said eagerly. Then she began to tell of Ruth, her poverty, and her great
wish to know whether her father were dead or alive. Knowing Grace as
they did, her friends guessed that she had something of real importance
to impart. When she came to the part about Ruth's father going west
after promising to send for his little family, a light began to dawn
upon them, and Jessica exclaimed: "Why, they must have been killed while
on their way to join him!"
"It is so. Mamselle speak the truth!" almost shouted Jean. "It was then
they die. He have tol' me so many times."
"Then the man who saved Jean must have been Ruth's father!" exclaimed
Miriam, "and a dreadful mistake was made in telling him his child was
dead, too. The packet fastened by a cord about Ruth's neck ought easily
to have proved her identity. Perhaps the packet was stolen."
"Then how did Ruth come by the watch and letter?" asked Grace.
"I give it up," replied Miriam. "It certainly is a tangled web."
"But we shall straighten it," said Grace resolutely. "The next thing to
do is to find Mr. Denton. Tell me, Jean, how many years since you first
met Mr. Denton?"
Jean counted laboriously on his fingers. "Twelve years," he finally
announced, "an' say his family have died six years then."
"Eighteen years," mused Grace, "and Ruth is twenty-two. The years seem
to tally with the rest of the story, too. Will you give me Mr. Denton's
address and allow me to write to him, Jean?"
"Whatever Mamselle Grace wishes shall be hers," averred Jean.
"Then I'll write the letter to-morrow. The sooner it is written and
sent, the sooner we shall receive an answer to it," declared Grace.
"That is unless he is dead. But I have a strange presentiment that he is
alive. What do you think, Jean?" she turned to the old hunter, who
nodded sagely.
"I think my frien', he alive, too," agreed Jean, "an' I hope, mebbe I
shall see again."
"You shall see him and so shall Ruth, if letters can accomplish your
wish, Jean," promised Grace.
"Eight o'clock," announced David judicially.
No one paid the slightest attention to him, however, Ruth Denton's
affairs being altogether too engrossing a matter for discussion. It was
half-past eight when, after a hearty vote of thanks and three cheers for
old Jean, the picnickers climbed the little hill and took the moonlit
homeward trail.