JULIE AND GERALD LOST
It was nearly noon when Dan returned to the cabin. He gave a long whistle
of astonishment when he saw the disordered living-room and heard no one
about. Jane at once appeared in her doorway. Her face still showed
evidence of her anger. "Dan," she said coldly, "my trunks are all packed.
Please put out a flag or whatever you should do to stop the stage. It
passes about one, does it not, on the way to Redfords?"
The lad went to the girl with outstretched hands. "Jane, dear, what has
happened? Have you and the children had more trouble? Is it so hard for
you to love them and be patient with their playfulness? You know it is
nothing more." The girl's lips curled scornfully. "Love them?" she
repeated coldly. "I feel far more as if I hated them. I don't believe
love is possible to me. I even hate myself! Dan, there's something all
wrong with me, and I'm going back East to Merry, who is about the only
person living who can understand me."
There was an expression of tender rebuke in the gray eyes that were
gazing at her. "You are wrong," the lad said seriously. "Father and I
love you dearly, not only because we know that you are different from
what you seem to be, but for Mother's sake." Then, turning and glancing
again at the confusion, the lad said, "Tell me just what happened."
Jane did so, adding petulantly: "My head was beginning to ache. I had had
an unpleasant encounter with your Meg Heger." Dan felt a sudden leaping
of his heart. How strange, he thought, that for the first time in his
life the name of a girl should so affect him. He had heard of love at
first sight, but he had never believed in it. With an effort he again
listened to Jane's indignant outpouring of words. "Don't say I deserved
just such treatment," she protested. "No one knows it better than I do. I
acknowledge that I am despicable and I hate myself. Honestly, Dan, I do,
but I don't know how to change. I don't seem to really want to be
different."
"That's just it, Jane." The boy had grown very serious. "Just as soon as
you desire to be different you will at once begin to change. We are the
sculptors of our own characters. We can set before ourselves a model of
what we would like to be and carve accordingly." Then, as the clock was
striking twelve, the lad suddenly inquired, "Jane, when did all this
trouble with the children occur? I left at nine. You think it was about
an hour after that?"
The girl nodded, then, glancing out of the wide front door, she
exclaimed: "I wonder why they don't come back. I supposed, of course,
that they had gone to find you. Gerald knew where you were going, didn't
he?"
Dan shook his head. "He could not have known, for I did not myself.
Yesterday and the day before I climbed up to the rim-rock and planned
doing it every morning as a strength restorative measure, but today,
after we had been wondering how we were to get to the Packard ranch, I
thought I would cross the mountain to the other side and look down into
the valley, and see if I could, how much nearer was the trail which Jean
Sawyer took on Sunday. But I found that it would be much too rough and
hard for you, and so we will wait until we receive directions from Mr.
Packard. If you will prepare the lunch, I will go out and put up a white
flag. Surely Mr. Wallace will know that I wish to speak to him. Then I
will call the children to come home. They may be close, but since you
told them that you wished you would never see them again, they are
probably hiding, hoping that you are to go on the afternoon stage."
Jane was indeed miserable. Her flaring anger had often caused her to say
things that afterwards she deeply repented. "Perhaps if I would go with
you and call they would know that I did not mean all that I said," she
ventured. But Dan was insistent that she, at least, prepare a lunch for
herself.
"You must not start for the East without having a good hearty noon meal,"
he told her. As he spoke he was fastening an old pillow case to a pole.
Leaving the house, he placed it at the top of the stairway.
Then going to the brook, he began a series of halloos, but a hollow,
distant echo was all that responded.
Dan, after a fruitless effort to call to the children, returned to the
cabin, his face an ashen white. "Jane," he said, and his voice was almost
harsh, "you will have to attend to stopping the stage if it comes soon.
Mr. Wallace can carry your baggage down without my assistance. I am going
to hunt for those poor little youngsters who felt that they were turned
out of their home. Goodbye."
Jane, with a low cry of agony, leaped forward with arms outstretched, but
Dan had not given her another look, and by the time she reached the brook
he was out of sight. The girl sank down on a boulder and sobbed bitterly.
"If they're lost I shall never forgive myself. Oh, how selfish, how
unkind I have been, thinking only of Jane Abbott and her comfort. I can't
go away now, and not know what has become of Julie and Gerald."
Then another thought caused her to rise and go slowly to the cabin. "They
want me to go, all of them, even Dan. Perhaps it would be the best thing
for me to do, and when they come back they will be glad to find that I
have gone."
Almost unconsciously Jane began to put the living-room in order. She
smoothed rugs and dragged the heavy furniture into the places it had
formerly occupied. Then she went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. If
Julie and Gerald had been climbing the mountains all the morning they
would be starved, as she well knew. Again Jane Abbott pared potatoes and
after studying upon the subject for some moments she made a fire in the
stove and put on a kettle of water. In the midst of these preparations
she was startled by the shrill blast of the horn carried by the stage
driver. Oh, she could not go just then. She was nowhere near ready. Jane
snatched up a letter that she had that morning written to Merry and
hurried down the stone steps. The surly driver took it with a grunt which
seemed to express displeasure, although, as Jane knew, taking the mail to
town was one of his duties.
When the big creaking stage had rocked around the corner, Jane suddenly
felt as though a great load had been lifted from her heart. She had not
really wanted to go at all. She wanted to be sure that all was well with
the children, and more than that, she did so want to see Jean Sawyer
again. But her pleasure was short lived, for, with a sense of oppression,
she again recalled that they would all be disappointed to find her there,
even Dan.
As the water in the tea kettle had not yet started to boil, Jane went to
her room to change her dress to one more suitable for the work she had
undertaken. Upon opening her trunk she saw, lying on top, a miniature
picture delicately colored in a dainty frame of silver filigree. The girl
lifted it and looked long into the truly beautiful face. Then with a
half-sob she said aloud, "My mother!"
Instantly she recalled what Dan had said: "We are each of us sculptors of
our own characters. We can choose a model and carve ourselves like it."
The girl sank on her knees, the picture held close to her cheek.
"Oh, mother, mother!" she sobbed, "I choose you for my model. Help me; I
am sure you can help me to be more like you."
A strange sense of strength came to her as she arose. She had been
struggling without a definite goal. She had known, the small voice within
had often told her, that she was despicable, but she had not found a way
to change, but surely Dan's suggestion would help her. She clearly
remembered her mother, gentle, courageous and always loving.
With infinite tenderness Jane again addressed the miniature:
"Oh, mother, if you had only lived, you would have helped me carve a
character more lovely, but alone I have made of it an ugly thing, but
now, dearest one, I'll begin all over."
But even as the girl spoke she feared that it might be too late to ask
Julie and Gerald to forgive her and try to love her.