A SAD HOMECOMING
As Jane walked up the circling graveled path which led to the
picturesque, rambling, low-built brown house that she called home her
heart was filled with conflicting emotions. She bit her trembling lips
and brushed away the tears that quivered on her eyelashes. She knew, oh,
how well she knew, that they were prompted only by self-pity. She
struggled to awaken the nobler self that her brother was so confident
still slumbered in her soul, but she could not. She felt cold, hard,
indignant every time she recalled that her father had sacrificed his
children's comfort for a Quixotic ideal. "It is no use trying," she
assured herself, noticing vaguely that they were passing the rose garden,
which was a riot of fragrant, colorful bloom. How tenderly her father
cared for that garden, for every bush in it had been planted by the loved
one who was gone.
The tall lad carrying her satchels walked silently at Jane's side. He
well knew the conflict that was raging in the heart of the girl he had
always loved, in spite of her ever-increasing selfishness, with a
tenderness akin to that which he had given his mother, but he said no
word to try to help. This was a moment when Jane must stand alone.
They were ascending the wide front steps when the door of the house was
flung open and a little girl of ten leaped out with a glad cry. "Oh,
Janey, my wonderful big sister Janey." Two arms were held out, and in
another moment, as the older girl well knew, she would be in one of those
crushing embraces that the younger children called "bear hugs." She
frowned slightly. "Don't, Julie!" she implored. "My suit has just been
pressed. Won't you ever grow up, and greet people in a more dignified
way?"
The glad expression on the freckled face of the little girl, who could
not be called really pretty, changed instantly. Her lips quivered and her
eyes filled with tears. "Don't be a silly," Jane said rebukingly, as she
stooped and kissed the child indifferently on the forehead.
A dear old lady, wearing a pretty lavender gingham and a white "afternoon
apron," appeared in the doorway all a-flutter of happy excitement. She
had not seen Jane for two years, and she took the girl's hands in her own
that trembled.
"Dear, dear Jenny!" (How the graduate of fashionable Highacres had always
hated the name her grandmother had given her.) "What a blessing 'tis that
you have come home at last. It'll mean more to your father to have you
here than you can think." The old lady evidently did not notice the
scornful curling of the girl's lips, or, if she did, she purposely
pretended that she did not, and kept on with her speech. "You know,
dearie, you're the perfect image of that other Jane my Daniel loved so
dearly, and she was just your age, Jenny, when they met. It'll be like
meeting her all over again to have you coming home now, when he's in such
trouble, you being so like her, and she was most tender and brave and
unselfish."
Even the grandmother noticed that her well-meant speech was not
acceptable, for the girl's impatience was ill concealed.
"Where is my father?" she said in a voice which gave Dan little hope that
the nobler self in the girl had been awakened.
"He's working in the garden, dearie; out beyond the apple orchard," the
old lady said tremulously. "He told me when you came to send you out. He
wants to be alone with you just at first. And your little brother,
Gerald; I s'pose you're wondering where he is. Well, he's got a place
down in the village as errand boy for Peterson's grocery. They give him
his pay every night, and he fetches it right home to his Dad. Of course
my Daniel puts the money in bank for Gerald's schooling, but the boy
don't know that. He thinks he's helping, and bless him, nobody knows how
much he is helping. There's ways to bring comfort that no money could
buy."
Dan knew that Jane believed their gentle old grandmother was preaching at
her. He was almost sorry. He feared that it was antagonizing Jane; nor
was he wrong.
"Well, I think the back orchard was a strange place for father to have me
meet him," she said, almost angrily, as she flung herself out of the
house. Dan sighed. Then, stooping, he kissed the little old lady. "Don't
feel badly, grandmother," he said, adding hopefully: "The real Jane must
waken soon."
The proud, selfish girl, again rebellious, walked along the narrow path
that led under the great, old, gnarled apple trees which the children had
used for playhouses ever since they could climb. She felt like one
stunned, or as though she were reading a tragic story and expected at
every moment to be awakened to the joyful realization that it was not
true.
Her father saw her coming and dropped the hoe that he had been plying
between the long rows of beans. "How terribly he has changed," Jane
thought. He had indeed aged and there was on his sensitive face, which
was more that of an idealist than a business man, the impress of sorrow,
but also there was something else. Jane noticed it at once; an expression
of firm, unwavering determination. She knew that appealing to his love
for his daughter would be useless, great as that love was. A quotation
she had learned in school flashed into her mind--"I could not love thee,
dear, so much, loved I not honor more."
There was, indeed, infinite tenderness in the clear gray eyes that looked
at her, and then, without a word, he held out his arms, and suddenly Jane
felt as she had when she was a little child, and things had gone wrong.
"Father! Father!" she sobbed, and then she clung to him, while he held
her in a yearning, strong embrace, saying, "It's hard, my daughter,
terribly hard for all of us, but it was the thing that I had to do. Dan,
I am sure, has told you all that happened. But it won't be for long,
Janey. What I have done once, I can do again." He led her to a rustic
bench under one of the trees, and removing her hat, he stroked her dark,
glossy hair. "Jane, dear," he implored, when her sobs grew less, "try to
be brave, just for a time. Promise me!" Then, as the girl did not speak,
the man went on, "We have tried so hard, all of us together, to make it
possible for you to finish at Highacres. Poor Dan made the biggest
sacrifice. I feared that I would have to send for you to come home,
perhaps only for this term, but Dan wrote, 'Father, use my college money
for Jane's tuition. I'll work my way through for the rest of this year.'
And that is what he did. Notwithstanding the fact that he had to study
until long after midnight, he worked during the day, nor did he stop when
he caught a severe cold. He did not let us know how ill he was, but
struggled on and finished the year with high honors, but, oh, my
daughter, you can see how worn he is. Dr. Sanders tells me that Dan must
go to the Colorado mountains for the summer and I have been waiting,
dear, to talk it over with you. You will want to go with Dan to take care
of him, won't you, Jane?"
Almost before the girl knew that she was going to say it, she heard her
self-pitying voice expostulating, "Oh, Dad, how cruel fate is! Marion
Starr wanted me to go with her to Newport. They're going to one of those
adorable cottage-hotels, she and her Aunt Belle, and we three girls who
have been Merry's best friends were to go with her. It would only cost me
one hundred dollars a month. That isn't so very much, is it, Dad?"
Mr. Abbott sighed. "Jane," and there was infinite reproach in his tone,
"am I to believe that you are willing that Dan should go alone to the
mountains to try to find there the health he lost in his endeavor to help
you?"
Again the girl sobbed. "Oh, Dad, how selfish I am! How terribly selfish!
I love Dan, but the thing I want to do is to go to Newport. Of course I
know I can't go, but, oh, _how_ I do want to."
The girl feared that her father would rebuke her angrily for the frank
revelation of her lack of gratitude, but, instead, he rose, saying kindly
as he assisted her to arise, "Jane, dear, you _think_ that is what you
want to do but I don't believe it. Dan is to go West next Friday. My good
friend Mr. Bethel, being president of a railroad, has sent me the passes.
As you know, I still own a little cabin on Mystery Mountain which I
purchased for almost nothing when I graduated from college and went West
to seek my fortune. There is _no_ mystery, and there was _no_ wealth, but
I have paid the taxes until last year and those Dan shall pay, as I do
not want to lose the place. It was to that cabin, as you have often heard
us tell, that your mother and I went for our honeymoon. You need not
decide today, daughter. If you prefer to go with your friends, I will
find a way to send you."