CHAPTER II—The Silent Partner and Others.
CHAPTER III—The Bee-hive.
CHAPTER IV—The Busy Bees.
CHAPTER V—Mammy Makes Investigations.
CHAPTER VI—Thanksgiving.
CHAPTER VII—Expansion.
CHAPTER VIII—Vaulting Ambitions.
CHAPTER IX—At Merry Yuletide.
CHAPTER X—“Then Came the Wild Weather.”
CHAPTER XI—In the Valley.
CHAPTER XII—Of the Shadow.
CHAPTER XIII—Aftermath.
CHAPTER XIV—In the Springtide.
CHAPTER XV—Mammy Makes a Discovery.
CHAPTER XVI—Mammy a Sherlock Holmes.
CHAPTER XVII—Cupid in Spectacles.
CHAPTER XVIII—Harvest Time.
CHAPTER XIX—Three Little Women’s Success
[Illustration: Charles Was Sitting Upright Talking Wildly.]
THREE LITTLE WOMEN SERIES
Three Little Women’s Success
_A STORY FOR GIRLS_
By
GABRIELLE E. JACKSON
Author of “The Joy of Piney Hill,” “Wee Winkles,” “Sunlight and Shadow,”
“By Love’s Sweet Rule,” Etc.
Illustrated
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY Philadelphia
Copyright 1913,
by The John C. Winston Co.
Copyright 1910,
by The John C. Winston Co.
_TO DOROTHY_
_A loyal, lovable lassie,_
_A trusted and true little friend._
G. E. J.
CHAPTER I
AFTER THREE YEARS.
October had come to Riveredge. This fact meant more than the five words
usually imply, for to few spots did October show such a gracious
presence as she did to this pretty town. Beautiful at all seasons, even
in its wintry dress of gleaming snow, in its autumn gorgeousness,
Riveredge was entirely irresistible. In summer the town drowsed, for
during July and August many of its inhabitants took a holiday and
journeyed thither and yonder; in the autumn it wakened to the busy
bustle of active life and its preparations for the drawing together of
all who dwelt therein, and spring was the time when it did its
renovating, its housecleaning, its decorating, but October’s crisp
westerly winds blowing across the broad expanses of the river set blood
stirring, made pulses throb many beats quicker, and caused even
strangers to smile and nod to one another as they passed along the
streets. Friends called gayly: “Isn’t the air delicious? Doesn’t it make
you want to prance like a colt?”
There was one individual in Riveredge whom it so affected, anyway. The
fact that nearly three years have slipped by since we last witnessed any
of her prancings has not lessened her propensity to do so, for with
nearly fourteen years numbered off upon her life’s calendar Jean Carruth
is as much of a romp as ever, full of impulses as she was upon the day
she rescued old Baltie; as she was when she so valiantly defended her
property and her rights against the hoodlums of McKimm’s Hollow. The
three years have brought about many changes, it is true, but Jean
Carruth will remain Jean Carruth to the end of the story. She has grown
like a weed, to be sure, and seems to be nearly all long arms and legs
with a body like a hazel wand—pliable and vigorous, with powers of
endurance far beyond its indications. A casual observer might think her
less strong than she is, but in reality she is “soun’ as a dollar and de
cause ob mo’ trebbilation dan a million ob ’em could be,” insisted old
Mammy. And Mammy was pretty well qualified to judge, having had charge
of that young person since she drew her first breath in the world. Mammy
still lived and flourished as Mammy Blairsdale-Devon. Nothing could
induce her to drop the Blairsdale. Hadyn Stuyvesant had quite
conclusively, though unwittingly, settled that point when he presented
the superb sign, with its gleaming gold letters, to the newly opened
lunch counter in the Arcade. Mrs. Carruth tried to persuade Mammy to
take the name of her lately restored spouse, and be known thenceforth as
Mrs. Charles Devon; but Mammy had scornfully stammered: “D-d-drap de
Blairsdale? Never! I was borned a Blairsdale, lived a Blairsdale
eighteen year befo’ I hooked on de Devon, an’ den hatter onhook it
inside of fo’ months; den I lived fo’ty-seben years wid de Blairsdale
name befo’ I foun’ out dat I had claim ter any odder. So what fo’ I drap
it now? Dey ain’t no name kin leave it behine as I knows on. Devon’s a
good one, I knows, and down yonder where we-all was borned at it do
stan’ high for a fac’, but it cyant rare up its head like de Blairsdale
name kin. No, sir! Devon can hook on to de Blairsdale all right an’
straight if it got a min’ ter; but I ain’t never gwine let it _lead_ it
no mo’, an’ I’s a-gwine ter let Charles lead _me_.” As the possibility
of Charles ever leading Mammy seemed more than visionary, Mrs. Carruth
gave up the argument. Besides, she had many other things to occupy her
thoughts. In the fall of 19— Eleanor had entered college, and within the
present college year would graduate with well won honors. From the
moment she entered she resolved to be independent so far as her personal
needs were concerned. The tuition fees were paid by her great-aunt, Mrs.
Eleanor Maxwell Carruth. Those she accepted because Mrs. Carruth, Sr.,
was amply able to meet them, but further than that she had resolved to
be independent and she had been. The first year was the hardest; a
freshman’s possibilities are circumscribed; Sophomore year brought with
it broader opportunities; Junior year established her place in the
college world beyond all argument, and now with senior year her triumph
and success lay close at hand. Moreover, this last year was being made
much easier for her by Constance’s success in her candy kitchen. The
same autumn that Eleanor entered college Constance, in spite of Mammy’s
protests and opposition, had branched out on a scale to outrage all the
old colored woman’s instincts and traditions. But Mammy had stormed and
scolded in vain, the addition to her little four-roomed cabin was built
by Haydn Stuyvesant, all Constance’s practical ideas for the needs of
such a kitchen being followed out to the minutest detail. He admired the
girl’s pluck and enterprise too much to bar her progress in any way, in
spite of the fact that Mammy had sought to dissuade him from encouraging
her in venturing further into the commercial world. Mammy had actually
gone to Haydn’s office to “ketch a word in private,” as she put it.
Finding all argument with Constance futile, she played what she hoped
would prove her trump card. Haydn had listened with all deference to her
arguments against “dat chile a-goin’ on so scan’lous, an’ a-startin’ out
fer ter make sweet stuff fer all creation, when dar’s mo’ sweet stuff in
de shops dis minit dan folks kin swaller if dey stuff desefs de whole
endurin’ time.”
“But, Mammy,” Haydn had replied, as he looked kindly at the troubled old
face before him, “you know none can equal Miss Constance’s. It would be
a downright piece of cruelty to deprive us all of our Saturday treat.”
“Den let her go ’long de way she’s been a-goin’; let her make it down
yonder in her Ma’s kitchen, an’ sell it in de Arcyde, jus’ lak she been
a-doin’ all dese months. She ain’t got no call fer to earn any mo’
money’n she’s a-earnin’ right now. Ain’t me an’ Charles a-comin’ ’long
right spry wid our lunch counter in dar?” she insisted, with a nod of
her turbaned head toward the section of the building in which she and
Charles had carried on a flourishing trade ever since the immaculate
counter had displayed its tempting viands to those who passed along the
Arcade, and who were not slow to avail themselves of Mammy’s wonderful
art of cookery, or to bring their friends to enjoy it also.
“Yes, Mammy, you and Charles are real wonders to all who know you; but
can’t you understand why a girl of Miss Constance’s type would never be
happy if dependent upon others? Why, with all her young and splendid
health, strength and energy, she must have some outlet for her
ambition.”
“Den let her go a-frolickin’ lak her Ma did when she was mos’ sixteen!
Let her go a-horsebackin’ and a-dancin’ at parties, an’ a-picnicin’ and
all dose t’ings what a girl lak her ought ter be a-doin’. Wha’ you
s’pose ma ol’ Massa Blairsdale say an’ do if he could come back an’ see
de doin’s in our house? Gawd-a-mighty, I wouldn’t crave ter be aroun’ if
he come along unbeknownst an’ see Miss Jinny’s chillern grubbin’ ’long
in candy kitchens and teachin’ oder folks’ chillern, and hikin’ all ober
de kentryside peddlin’ candy. He ax me fust, ‘Mammy, yo’no count ol’
nigger, wha’ you been about?’ An den he bang ma haid clean off!”
“I hardly think so, Mammy. The head and the heart have given too much to
those he loved. But don’t be troubled about Miss Constance. Remember
this: no matter what she chooses to do, she will remain the sweetest of
gentlewomen to the end of the story. You little guess the respect she
already inspires in all who know her, if she is but sixteen. Let me help
her by arranging her kitchen just as her practical little head has
planned it all. It is the least I can do. Miss Willing will bear the
brunt of the hard work this winter, leaving Miss Constance free to
finish her high-school-course. It is a wise plan all around and a kinder
one than you realize. The Arcade telephone switchboard was no place for
a girl like Mary Willing, and to have been instrumental in removing her
from the temptations she was sure to meet there is a more beautiful
charity than those blazoned at large in the daily papers. Don’t thwart
it, Mammy. Let the little girl down yonder go on with her good work; she
doesn’t realize how far-reaching it is: perhaps she will never learn.
Her mother does, however, and is using a very fine instrument to bring
the work to perfection.”
Mammy had sat very silent all the time, her old face wearing a puzzled
expression, her keen eyes fixed upon a paper cutter which lay upon
Haydn’s desk, her lips pursed up doubtfully. Haydn did not break the
silence; he only watched. After a few moments she looked up, gave a
perplexed sigh, and said:
“Well, sah, p’raps yo’ is right. P’raps yo’ is. I ain’t nothin’ but a’
ole nigger woman, but, bress Gawd, I loves ma white folks, an’ I hates
fer ter see de ole times so twisted up wid de new ideas, I sartain’
does. It goes against de grain p’intedly.”
“I can understand all that, dear old Mammy, but you mark my words, the
results will justify the deeds.”
So Mammy gave up the argument, though she was far from resigned to the
plans.
And thus had the enterprise grown. Constance finished her year at the
high-school, Mary Willing was established in the model little candy
kitchen, with all its practical little appointments, and before long was
nearly as proficient as Constance herself, and quite as enthusiastic.
One year slipped by and another followed it. Then a third was added to
the number, until now, with the autumn of 19— Constance was nineteen
years old and Eleanor twenty-one.
Neither has changed a great deal. Eleanor’s three years in the college
world have given her greater poise and independence, a more matured
outlook upon life, but the old Eleanor Carruth is still in evidence.
Constance had grown taller, the slight figure is more rounded, though
still girlish. She still has the wonderfully sweet, frank expression, in
spite of her two years out in the business world, for after her
graduation she took firmer hold than ever of her business venture and
branched out in many directions. New booths were opened in adjacent
towns, private orders were filled for patrons in New York City, holiday
consignments were made to more remote ones, to which her fame had spread
through friends and friends’ friends. Of course some losses had been
sustained, but in comparison with her output and returns they were
trivial, and her success was an established fact. But the work
continued, her aim being absolute independence for her mother, and for
Jean the home and the atmosphere their mother had formerly known and
loved.
And the silent partner of the firm, old Baltie, how had the three years
dealt with him? A horse which has attained twenty-five years and is
sightless is supposed to be out of the running, but Baltie lived
apparently to prove the fallacy of such a supposition. At twenty-eight
he was younger and more active than at twenty-four, his age when rescued
by Jean. Nothing could restore his sight, but with each year his hearing
seemed to have grown keener, and the ears were as sensitive as a wild
animal’s. But Baltie needs a chapter to himself.