JANE'S CHOICE
The father, with his hands clasped behind him, was pacing up and down the
long dining room when his daughter entered. He saw at once that she had
been crying, although she had endeavored to erase the traces of the tears
which had been shed almost continuously through the morning.
In a listless voice she said at once, "Father, I have decided to go with
Dan since you feel that it is my duty, but, oh, how I want to go to
Newport with Merry and the rest: but of course it would cost $300 and
there is no money."
The father had started eagerly toward his daughter when she had entered,
but, upon hearing the concluding part of her speech, he drew back, a hurt
expression in his clear gray eyes. He folded his arms and a more alert
observer than Jane would have noticed an almost hard tone in his voice.
Never before had it been used for the daughter who was so like the mother
in looks only. "The matter is decided. Jane," he informed her. "The $300
that you require will be forthcoming. However, I wish you would plan to
leave tomorrow, the same day that your brother goes West. I want to be
alone, without worries, that I may decide how best to go about earning
what I shall need to finish paying the debt that I still owe to the poor
people who trusted me."
"Oh, father, father!" Jane flung herself into her chair at the table and
put her head down on her folded arms. "I didn't know that you felt that
you owe them more than your entire fortune."
"It was not enough to cover their investments," the man said, still
coldly, for he believed the girl was crying because she would have to
give up even more than she had supposed, and be kept in poverty for a
longer period of time. She sat up, however, when her father said, "Jane,
dry your tears. Since you are to go to Newport, I see nothing for you to
cry about, and I do not wish mother and Julie to know how I feel about
this whole matter."
Hastily Jane left the table to again remove the traces of tears, and when
she returned, her grandmother and Julie were in their places. Her father
had remained standing until she also was seated. Then, bowing his head,
he said the simple grace of gratitude which had never been omitted at
that table.
Jane marveled at the courage of her father, for he was actually smiling
at the little old lady who sat at his side. "Mother mine," he said, "if
this isn't the same kind of a meat pudding that you used to make for me
as a special treat, long ago, when I had been good. Have I been good
today?"
There were sudden tears in the fading blue eyes and a quiver in the
corners of the sweet old mouth as the grandmother replied, "Yes, Dan, you
have been very good. And all the while I was making it I was thinking how
proud and pleased your father would be if he only knew, and maybe he does
know, how good you've been. When you weren't more than knee high to your
Dad, he began to teach you that it was better to have folks know that
your word could be depended on than to be praised for smartness, and
that's how 'tis, Danny, and I'm happy and proud."
The dear little old lady wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron; then
she smiled up brightly, and pretended to eat the meat pie, which was in
danger of being neglected by all except Julie, who prattled, "We've set
away two big pieces, one for brother Dan, when he comes home from the
city, and one for Gerry. Umm, won't they be glad when they see them?
They'll be hungry as anything! I like to be awful hungry when there's
something extra special to eat, don't you, Janey?" Almost timorously this
query was ventured. Julie did not like to have the big sister look so
sad. The answer was not encouraging. "Oh, Julie, I don't want to talk,"
the other girl said fretfully.
"Nor eat, neither, it looks like," the old lady had just said when the
front door bell pealed. Julie leaped up, looking eagerly at her father.
"Oh, Dad, may I go?" But, being nearest the door, he had risen. "I'll
answer it, Julie," he replied. "It is probably some one to see me." But
Mr. Abbott was mistaken. A messenger boy stood on the porch. After the
yellow envelope had been signed for, it was taken to Jane, to whom it was
addressed.
Eagerly the girl tore it open, the others watching her with varied
emotions, although Julie's was just eager curiosity. "Ohee," she
squealed, "telegrams are such fun and so exciting. What's in it, Janey,
do tell us!"
Mr. Abbott noted that a red spot was burning in each cheek of the
daughter who had been so pale. She glanced up at him, her eyes shining.
"Dad," she cried, "you won't have to give me $300. Listen to this. Oh,
Merry is certainly wonderful!" Then she read:
"Dearest Jane: Aunt Belle has changed her plans. She has rented a
cottage just beyond the hotel grounds and is going to take her own cook
and I want you to come as our guest, because, darling girl, I owe you a
visit, since you gave me such a wonderful time in the country with you
last year, and, what is more, we are going Friday, so pack up your
trunk today, and be at the Central Station tomorrow at 4:00. Lovingly,
your intimate friend--Marion Starr.
"P. S.--Who, more than ever, is living up to her nickname, Merry.--M.
S."
During the reading of the "night letter" Mr. Abbott had quickly made up
his mind just what his attitude would be. "That's splendid, Jane, isn't
it?" he said, and not even his watchful mother noted a trace of
disappointment in his voice. "If I were you I would pack at once. You
would better go over to the city in the morning and that will give you
time to buy a new summer dress, for I am sure that you must need one."
Jane started to reply, but something in her throat seemed to make it hard
for her to speak, and so she left the room hurriedly without having more
than touched her plate. Julie followed, as she adored packing. When they
were gone, the man sighed deeply. "Mother," he said, "I have decided to
send Julie with Dan. She can cook the simple things he will need and some
one must go with the boy. I would go myself, but I would be of little
use. In a few days, as soon as I can pull myself together, I am going
back to the city to start in some occupation far from Wall Street."
The old lady reached out a comforting hand and placed it on that of her
son nearest her. "Dan," she said in a low voice, "Jane doesn't know a
thing about your long illness, does she? Nobody's told her, has there?"
The man shook his head. "Jane has been so interested in her own problems,
and in finding a way to do as she wished, that she has not even wondered
why I am working about in the garden instead of going to the city daily,
as I always have done. But don't tell her, mother. She does not seem to
care, and, moreover, I am now much stronger. My only real worry is Dan,
and I do feel confident that if he can be well cared for, the mountain
air will restore his health."
Rising, he stooped to kiss his mother's forehead, then left the room,
going through the kitchen to the garden. As he worked he glanced often at
the open windows of the room above the tree tops. He saw the two girls
hurrying about, for Jane had gladly accepted Julie's offer of service,
and the trunk packing was evidently progressing merrily. This assurance
was brought to him when he heard Jane singing a snatch of a school song.
It sounded like a requiem to the man in the garden below. He leaned on
his hoe as he thought, self-rebukingly, "It is all my fault. I have
spoiled Jane. My love has been misdirected. It is I who have made her
selfish. I wanted to give her everything, for she had lost so much when
she lost her mother. I have done as much for the other three children,
but somehow they didn't spoil."
The comfort of that realization was so great that the father soon
returned to his self-imposed task, and, an hour later, when Dan appeared,
he told the boy Jane's decision, saying: "Son of mine, it would be no
comfort to you to have her companionship if her heart were elsewhere."
The shadow of keen disappointment in the lad's eyes was quickly
dispelled. Placing a hand on his father's shoulder he said cheerfully,
"It's all right, Dad. Julie is a great little pal."
But even yet the matter was not decided.
That Thursday night, after the younger members of the household were
asleep, Mr. Abbott and his mother talked together in his den.
"Julie was the happiest child in this world when I told her she was to go
with Dan." The old lady smiled as she recalled the hoppings and
squealings with which the small girl had expressed her joy. "Luckily I'd
washed and ironed her summer clothes on Monday and Tuesday, and this
being only Thursday, she hadn't soiled any of them."
Then her tone changed to one of tenderness. "Dan," she said, "Julie and
Jane aren't much alike, are they? That little girl didn't hop and squeal
long before she thought of something that sobered her. Then she told me,
'I don't like to go, Grandma, and leave Gerald at home. He's been wishing
and wishing and wishing he could go, but he wouldn't tell Dad 'cause he
wants to stay home and earn money to help.'"
To the little old lady's surprise, her companion sprang up as he
exclaimed: "Mother, I won't be gone long. Wait up for me!" Seizing his
hat from the hall "tree," he left the house. "Well, now, that's certainly
a curious caper," the old lady thought. "He couldn't have been listening
to a word I was saying. He must have thought of something he'd forgotten,
probably it's something for Jane. Well, there's nothing for me to do but
wait." She glanced at the clock on the mantle. Even then it was late. She
was usually asleep at ten. There had been time for many a little cat-nap
before she heard her son returning. His expression assured the old lady
that he was satisfied with the result of his errand.
"Why, Dan Abbott," she exclaimed, "whatever started you off in that way?
'Twasn't anything I said, was it?"
The man sank down in his chair again and took from his pocket a telegram.
"That's what I went after, mother," he told her. "I wired Bethel for one
more pass, as I had a small son who also wished to go West, and this is
his answer:
"'Glad indeed to accommodate you, Dan, and I'm sending one more, just for
good measure. Happened to recall that you have four children. Let me do
something else for you, old man, if I can.'"
The grandmother looked up with shining eyes as she commented: "Bert
Bethel's a true friend, if there ever was one. Won't Gerry be wild with
joy?
"But, goodness me, Danny, that means more packing to do. There's room
enough in Julie's trunk for the things Gerald will need, and I do believe
I'll go right up and put them in while the boy's asleep." Then she paused
and looked at her son inquiringly. "Will it be quite fair to Mr. Peterson
to have Gerry leave his store without giving notice?"
"I've attended to that, mother," the man replied. "While I was waiting
for an answer from Bert, I walked over to the grocery and told Jock
Peterson all that had happened, and he was as pleased as he could be. He
wants Gerald to come over there first thing in the morning to get a
present to take with him.
"He didn't say what it would be. I don't even suppose that he had decided
when he spoke. I was indeed happy to have him praise Gerald as he did. He
said that he would trust our boy with any amount of money. He has watched
Gerald, as he always does every lad who works in the store. He said that
nearly all of them had helped themselves to a piece of candy from the
showcase when they had wished, but that Gerald had never once touched a
thing that did not belong to him. Mr. Peterson was so pleased that he
asked Gerald about it one day, saying: 'Don't you like candy, lad?' And
our boy replied: 'Indeed I do, Mr. Peterson! I don't buy it because I
want to save all my money to help Dad.'
"Gerald hadn't even thought of helping himself as he worked around the
store."
"Of course, Gerry wouldn't," the old lady replied emphatically, "for
isn't he your son, Daniel?"
"And your grandson, mother?" the man smilingly returned. "But we must get
some sleep," he added, as the chimes on the mantle clock told them that
it was eleven. "Tomorrow is to be a busy day."
It was also to be a day of surprises, although this, these two did not
guess.