A LONELY SUMMER
Jeanne had liked her first teacher, Miss Wardell, very much indeed. And
pretty Miss Wardell had been very fond of Jeannette; she knew that the
child was shy, and the considerate young woman managed frequently to
shield her from embarrassment, and to help her over the rough places.
Miss Turner was different. She said that Jeannette made her nervous. It
is possible that the other thirty-nine pupils helped; but it was Jeanne
whom she blamed for her shattered nerves. It is certain that Miss Turner
made Jeanne nervous. No matter how well she knew her lesson, she
_couldn't_ recite it to Miss Turner. A chatterbox, with the right sort
of listener, Jeanne was stricken dumb the moment Miss Turner's attention
was focused upon her.
"What a _very_ bad card!" said Mrs. Huntington, at the end of May. "It
is even worse than it was last month. Pearl and Clara had excellent
cards and Harold had higher marks in two of his studies than you have.
You are a very ungrateful child. You don't appreciate the advantages we
are giving you. When school is out, I shall engage Miss Turner to tutor
you through the summer."
"Horrors!" thought Jeanne.
"Miss Turner tutored Ethel Bailey all last summer," continued Mrs.
Huntington. "Mrs. Bailey says that Ethel now receives excellent marks."
"From Miss _Turner_," said Jeanne, shrewdly. "Ethel doesn't know a thing
about her lessons. She's the stupidest girl in our grade. I _know_ mine,
but it's hard to recite. If I _must_ have a tutor, couldn't I have Miss
Wardell?--I _liked_ her and she'd be glad of the extra money because she
takes care of her mother. Oh, _please_ let me have Miss Wardell."
"No," returned Mrs. Huntington, firmly, "Miss Turner will know best what
is needed for your grade. You are learning _nothing_. Only forty in
history."
"Well," sighed Jeanne, "I'm not surprised. I said that Benedict Arnold
wrote 'The Star-Spangled Banner' and that Lafayette painted Gilbert
Stuart's portrait of Washington. I _knew_ better, but oh, dear! When
Miss Turner looks me in the eye and asks a question, my poor frightened
tongue always says the wrong thing."
"She'd freeze a lamp-post," said Harold, for once agreeing with his
cousin. "I had her last year. Don't look at her eyes--look at her
belt-buckle when you recite."
"I _have_ to look at her eyes," sighed Jeanne, miserably. "One is
yellow, the other is black. I _hate_ to look at them, but I always have
to."
"I know," agreed Harold. "I had ten months of those eyes myself. I hope
you'll never meet a snake. You'd be so fascinated that you couldn't
run."
"Miss Turner's eyes have nothing to do with the question," said Mrs.
Huntington. "Mrs. Bailey said she made an excellent tutor, so I shall
certainly engage her."
"Perhaps," suggested Harold, consolingly, when his mother had left the
room, "she won't be able to come. She _may_ want a vacation."
"Oh, I _hope_ so."
"So do I," said Harold, making a face. "You see, my marks in Latin are
about as bad as they make 'em. It _may_ occur to mother to let Miss
Turner use up her spare time on _me_. Wow!"
"Anyhow," said Jeanne, "I'm much obliged to you for trying to help."
All too soon it was June. School was out and Jeanne hadn't passed in a
single study. Even her deportment had received a very low mark. Miss
Turner, contrary to Jeanne's fervent hope, had gladly accepted the
position Mrs. Huntington had offered her. Mrs. Huntington broke the
discouraging news at the breakfast table.
"Your lessons will begin at nine o'clock next Monday, Jeannette," said
she, firmly believing that she was doing the right thing by a strangely
backward student. "With only one pupil, Miss Turner will be able to give
all her attention to you."
Again Harold agreed with his cousin. "I'm sorry for you," said he. "All
of Miss Turner's attention is more than any one human pupil could
stand."
"Mother," suggested Clara, not without malice, "why don't you let Miss
Turner help Harold with _his_ lessons--ouch! you beast! stop pinching
me."
"Why, that," approved Mrs. Huntington, "is a _very_ good idea. I'm glad
you mentioned it. Still, you are going to your grandmother's so soon--I
fear Harold's Latin will have to be postponed."
So great was Harold's relief that he collapsed in his chair.
The summer was to prove a dreary one. Besides a daily dose of Miss
Turner, Jeanne was worried, because, for six weeks, there had been no
letter from her father. Previously, he had written at least twice a
month and, from time to time, had sent her money; that she might have a
little that was all her own. Indeed, Mr. Duval, who had no lack of
pride, had every intention of repaying the Huntingtons as soon as he
could for whatever they had expended for his daughter. But that would
take time, of course.
At any rate, Jeanne was well provided with pocket money. To be sure,
Pearl, who loved to order expensive concoctions with queer names at
soda-water fountains, usually borrowed the money, sometimes forgetting
to return it. Also, thus adding insult to injury, Pearl always invited
her own friends to partake of these delicacies without inviting Jeanne,
even though that wistful small person were at the very door of the
ice-cream parlor. Pearl, several years older than her cousin and much
taller, didn't want _children_ tagging along.
But now, for six weeks, there had been no letter from her father and no
money. She didn't care about the money. When you are going _home_ in
three years, eleven months, and fourteen days, you are so afraid that
you won't have enough money for your ticket when the time comes that you
_save_! Jeanne had saved her money whenever she could, and, with the
thrift that she had perhaps inherited from some remote French ancestor,
had hidden it in the fat pincushion of the work-box that Mrs. Huntington
had given her for Christmas. She had hidden it so neatly, too, that no
one would ever suspect that dollar bills had gradually replaced the
sawdust. Only her grandfather knew about the money, and he had promised
not to tell.
But after Jeanne had intrusted him with the secret, and when James was
shaving the old gentleman, Mr. Huntington had suddenly chuckled.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I am thinking about my youngest grand-child," explained his master.
"She is the wisest little monkey I ever knew. She has enough common
sense for a whole family."
"She has that," agreed James. "Mrs. Huntington, sir, wouldn't dast try
to teach cook how to make a new pie, cook's that set in her own conceit,
much less do any cooking herself; but that there little black-eyed thing
comes in last month with a new dessert that she'd learned in her
Domestic Science, and if cook didn't sit right down like a lamb and let
her make it. What's more, Bridget asked for the rule and has made it
herself every Sunday since. Cook says many a married lady is less handy
than that small girl. She's got brains--"
"That'll do, James. I like your enthusiasm, but not when you gesticulate
with that razor--I can't spare any of my features. But I agree with you
about the child. She is thoughtful beyond her years."
The postman came and came and came, and still there was no letter. Old
Captain, to be sure, had written oftener than usual and, when one came
to think about it, had said a great deal less. She knew from him that
spring had come to the Cinder Pond, that the going-to-bed swallows had
returned, that the pink-tipped clover had blossomed, that the
mountain-ash tree that had somehow planted itself on the dock promised
an unusual crop of berries, that the herring were unusually large and
abundant but whitefish rather scarce. Also the lake was as blue as
ever--she had asked about that--and Barney had a boil on his neck. But
not a word about her father or Mollie or the children. Usually there had
been some new piece of inquisitiveness on Sammy's part for the Captain
to write about; for Sammy was certainly an inquisitive youngster if
there ever was one; but even news of Sammy seemed strangely lacking. And
he had forgotten twice to answer Jeanne's question about Annie's
clothes; if the little ready-made dress that Jeanne had sent for
Christmas was still wearable or had she outgrown it.
Then came very warm weather, and still no real news of her relatives
and no letter from her father. Once, he and Barney had taken rather a
long cruise to the north shore. Perhaps he had gone again; with Dan
McGraw, for instance, who was always cruising about for fish, for
berries, or for wreckage. Dan had often invited her father to go. Still,
it did seem as if he would have mentioned that he was going; unless,
indeed, he had gone on very short notice. Or perhaps--and that proved a
most distressing thought--perhaps she had been gone so long that he was
beginning to forget her. Perhaps Michael, to whom he had been giving
nightly lessons, had taken her place in her father's affections. Indeed,
Harold had once assured her that fathers _always_ liked their sons
better than their daughters. Perhaps it was so, for Uncle Charles, who
paid no attention whatever to Pearl and Clara, sometimes talked to
Harold.
As before, the young Huntingtons had gone to their seashore grandmother.
Jeannette, of course, had to remain within reach of Miss Turner, who
now gave her better marks, in spite of the fact that her recitations
were no more brilliant and even less comfortable than they had been in
school.
Her grandfather, who seldom interfered in any way with Mrs. Huntington's
plans, had objected to Miss Turner.
"She may be an excellent teacher for ordinary children," said he, "but
she isn't Jeannette's kind, and she isn't pleasant."
"She is not unpleasant to _me_," returned unmoved Aunt Agatha, whose
opinions were exceedingly difficult to change. "At any rate, it is too
late to discuss the matter. I have engaged her for the summer, at a
definite salary. Next summer, if it seems best, we can make some
different arrangement."
"Then I suppose we'll have to stand it," sighed Mr. Huntington, "but it
seems decidedly unfortunate that when ninety-nine school-ma'ams out of a
hundred have _some_ measure of attractiveness, you should have chosen
the hundredth."
Perhaps Mr. Huntington might have made some further effort toward
dislodging Miss Turner; but shortly after the foregoing conversation, he
was again taken ill. For more than a week he had been kept in bed and
James had said something to the cook about "a slight stroke."
But to Jeanne's great relief this illness was of shorter duration than
the preceding one. He was up again; and spending his waking hours in a
wheeled chair under the big elm in the garden. Jeanne, however, could
see that he was not so well. His eyes had lost some of their keenness,
and often the word that he wanted would not come. He seemed quite a good
many years older; and not nearly so vigorous as he had been before this
new illness. Jeanne hovered over him anxiously.
Sometimes Mrs. Huntington told visitors that she feared that her
father-in-law's faculties were becoming sadly impaired.
"He seems to dislike me," she added, plaintively, when she mentioned
"impaired faculties" to her husband. James overheard this. Indeed,
James was _always_ overhearing things not meant for his too-receptive
ears, because he was so much a part of the furniture that no one ever
remembered that he was in the room or gave him credit for being human.
James told Bridget about it.
"The old gentleman," said he, "nor anybody else doesn't need impaired
faculties to dislike _that_ lady. If she's got any real feelings inside
her they're cased up in asbestos, like the pipes to the furnace. They
never comes out. She's a human icicle, she is. I declare, if she'd get
real mad just once and sling the soup tureen at me, I'd take the
scalding gladly and say, 'Thank you kindly, ma'am; 'tis a pleasure to
see you thawing, just for once.'"
James, you have noticed, was much more human in the kitchen than he was
in the dining-room. Mrs. Huntington, who had lived under the same roof
with him for many years, would certainly have been surprised if she had
heard him, for in her presence James was like a talking doll, in that
he had just two set speeches. They were, "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am."
"She's padded with her own conceit," said Bridget, "and there's a
cast-iron crust outside that. She shows no affection for her own
children, let alone that motherless lamb."
"If she ever swallowed her pride," said Maggie, "'twould choke her."
"Then I hope she does it," said James, going meekly to the front of the
house to say "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am" to his frigid mistress. For if
James were more talkative in the kitchen than he was in the dining-room
he was also much braver.