you realize the world is just jammed full of people who can do things,
I mean unusual things like painting and playing and singing, better
than the average person, and yet there are only a few of them who are
really great. It’s such a tragedy because they all keep on working
and hoping and thinking they’re going to be great. Aunt Win has about
a dozen tucked under her wing that she encourages, and I think it’s
perfectly deadly.”
Peg planted both elbows on the table and held her cup of coffee in the
air.
“Because they won’t be great geniuses, you mean?”
“Sure. They’re just half-way. All they’ve got is the longing, the urge
forward.”
“But it’s something to have the aims and the ambitions, don’t you
think?”
“Maybe so,” Peg said briskly. “Maybe I can’t see them myself, and it’s
just a waste of time keeping me at the Academy. I’m not a genius, and
I’ll never paint great pictures, but I am going to be an illustrator,
and while I’m learning I can imagine myself all the geniuses that ever
lived. We were told, not long ago, to paint a typical city scene. Most
of the class went in for the regulation things, Washington Arch and
Grant’s Tomb, Madison Square and the opera crowd at the Met. Do you
know what I did?” She pushed back her hair from her eager face, and
smiled. “I went down on the East Side and you know how they’re always
digging up the streets here after the gas mains or something that’s
gone wrong? Well, I found some workmen resting, sitting on the edge
of the trench eating lunch in the sunlight, and some kids playing in
the dirt as if it were sand. Golly, it was wonderful, Jean, the color
and composition and I managed to get it all in lovely splashes. I just
called it _Noon_. Does it sound good?”
“Splendid,” said Jean.
Peg nodded happily. “Miss Weston said it was the best thing I had done,
the best in the class. You can find beauty anywhere if you look for it.”
“Oh, gee, it’s good to be down talking to you again,” Jean exclaimed.
“It spurs me along so to be where others are working and thinking.”
“Think so?” Peg turned her head with her funny quizzical smile. “You
ought to hear Pop Higgins talk on that. He runs away to a little shack
somewhere up on the Hudson when he wants to paint. He says Emerson and
Thoreau were right when they wrote about the still places where you
rest and invite your soul. Let’s get dressed. It’s after eleven already
and if we want to do any shopping before that concert we ought to be
going.”
11. The Sculptured Head
That evening a few of Peg’s artist friends came in to talk shop, and
Jean found her old-time favorite teacher, Pop Higgins, among them. He
was about seventy, but erect and quick of step as any of the boys, with
iron-gray hair, close-cut and curly, and keen brown eyes. He was really
splendid looking, Jean thought.
“You know, Jeannie,” he began, slipping comfortably down a trifle in
his chair, “you’re looking fine. I think your studies here have done
something to you. How is it going?”
“It’s going beautifully, but much too fast. I’ll have to be going home
soon, I’m afraid. There are only a few weeks left in the course.”
“That’s all right. Anything that tempers character while you’re young
is good for the whole system. I was born out west in Kansas, when the
West was still pretty wild. I used to ride cattle for my father when I
was only about ten. And, Lord above, those nights on the plains taught
my heart the song of life. I wouldn’t take back one single hour of
them.”
“Did you paint then?”
He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that made Mrs. Moffat smile at them.
“Never touched a brush until after I was thirty. I loved color and
could see it. I knew that shadows were purple or blue, and I used to
squint one eye to get the tint of the earth after we’d plowed, dull
rusty-red like old wounds, it was. First sketch I ever drew was one of
my sister Polly. She stood on the edge of a gully hunting some stray
turkeys. I’ve got the painting I made later from that sketch. It was
exhibited, too, called _Sundown_.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it,” Jean said. “The land is all in deep blues and
hyacinth tones and the sky is amber and the queerest green, and her
skirt is just a dash of red.”
“The red that shows under an oriole’s wing when he flies. She was
seventeen then. About your age, isn’t it, Jeannie?”
He glanced at her sideways. Jean nodded.
“I thought so, although she looked younger.”
“I--I hope she didn’t die,” said Jean anxiously.
“Die? Bless your heart,” he laughed again. “She’s living up in
Colebrook. Went back over the same route her mother had traveled, and
married in the old home town. Pioneer people live to be pretty old.”
“It must have been wonderful,” Jean said. “Mother’s from the West too,
only way out West, from California. Her brother has the big ranch there
where she was born, but she never knew any hardships at all. Everything
was comfortable and there was always plenty of money, she says, and it
never seemed like the real West to us, when she’d tell of it.”
“Oh, but it is, the real West of the last sixty years, as it has grown
up to success and prosperity. If I keep you here talking any longer
to an old fellow like myself, the boys won’t be responsible for their
actions. You’re a novelty, you know. Bruce is glaring at me.”
He rose leisurely and went over beside Mrs. Moffat’s chair, and Bruce
Pearson hurried to take his place.
“I thought he’d keep you talking here all night. And you sat there
drinking it all in as if you liked it.”
“I did,” said Jean flatly. “I loved it. I haven’t been here at all.
I’ve been way out on a Kansas prairie.”
“Stuff,” said Bruce calmly. “Say, got any good dogs up at your place?”
“No. Kit wrote me she picked up a stray shepherd dog, but I haven’t
seen him yet. Why?” Jean looked at him with sudden curiosity.
“Nothing, only you remember when you were moving from the Cove, Tommy
sold me his Cocker pup?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“We’ve got some swell puppies. I was wondering whether you’d take one
home to Tommy from me if I brought it in.”
“I’d love to. Tommy had his twelfth birthday the other day and I
couldn’t think of anything to get him so I just sent a birthday
telegram. The puppy will make a perfect belated gift,” said Jean, her
face aglow. It was just like Bruce to think of that, and how Tommy
would love it. “I think we’ll name him Bruce, if you don’t mind.”
Bruce didn’t mind in the least. In fact, he felt it would be a sign of
remembrance, he said. And he would bring in the puppy as soon as Jean
was ready to go home.
“But you needn’t hurry her,” Peg warned, coming to sit with them. “She
hasn’t been here long, and I’m hoping if I can just stretch it along
rather unconsciously, she’ll stay right through the term, the way she
should.”
Jean felt almost guilty, as her own heart echoed the wish. How she
would study, if only it could happen.
On the following Saturday afternoon, Jean left Beth to go browsing
through the galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She had little
time left in New York, and wanted to revisit some of her favorites
before she had to go back to Elmhurst.
Beth drove her up to the station and waved to her as she boarded the
local. “Call me before you leave, and I’ll pick you up,” she called as
the train started to move. Jean nodded, walked back into the car, and
found a seat.
After settling herself comfortably, she opened her bag, and found a
letter from Ralph that had been in the day’s mail. She had not had time
to read it before she left. She opened it now and read.
Jeannie darling,
Your last letter sounded so enthusiastic about your work, that
I know you must be having a marvelous time. It’s too bad you
can’t stay there longer.
But who’s this Aldo guy that’s been squiring you thither and
yon, all over New York? You needn’t be so nice to him just
because he’s a friend of your cousin Beth’s. Too bad that I’m
not there to look after things. You better not go falling for
him with all his foreign airs and old-world charm. I know
that type of smooth operator, for I saw a bunch of them when I
served with the army overseas.
You’ll say I’m jealous. Well, what if I am? After all, I saw
you first.
Write me, my darling, immediately and say these fears of mine
are completely unfounded. I’ll be waiting anxiously for your
sweet words of comfort and encouragement. If I don’t receive
them, I’ll hop the next train and see for myself what the score
is.
Buzzy and I are working hard as usual and life goes on in
its unaltered and unalterable course. We will probably leave
here in April, instead of waiting until June. I want to be in
Elmhurst in the spring with you.
Dearest love,
Ralph.
Jean was greatly amused by his letter and laughed to herself over the
“villainous character” who was taking her away from Ralph. Of course
Aldo had been very nice to her, taking her to lunch and all that. But
he was only a good friend.
She spent a pleasant afternoon wandering through the art galleries of
the museum. She revisited many of her old favorites--paintings she had
stood before many times when the family had lived on Long Island. Then
she found a special exhibition of paintings by modern American artists.
Jean spent a long time looking at these. Some of the artists’ names
were familiar to her, others were new. In one corner of the gallery
she came upon the sculptured head of a woman. Her face looked old
and the lines in it were the lines of extreme hardship and pain. The
forehead was high, the nose long and sharp, but the mouth was quite
different. It was smiling, “in spite of everything,” Jean thought to
herself. Although everything else about the head characterized utter
disillusionment, the mouth looked gay and carefree.
A step behind her made Jean turn suddenly and there stood Aldo.
“Like it?” he asked briefly.
“Why, yes--no--I don’t know.” Jean hesitated, confused. “It’s so
strange. I can’t reconcile the mouth to the rest of the head--”
“I’ll tell you about her, then maybe you’ll understand. She is an old
Italian woman. Her husband and three sons were killed in the first
World War, but undaunted, she raised her youngest son alone, although
she was very poor and it was hard. Her son married and had two sons of
his own. He became a successful lawyer. Then the second war came. Her
home was demolished, her son’s entire family was killed, and yet, in
spite of everything she has been through, she manages to smile that
way, the smile of a young girl. I think it’s the best thing my father
ever did.”
“Your father? I didn’t know--I mean--I never looked at the nameplate.”
“Yes. You see, I brought it with me when I came. Then, when I heard
they were having this exhibition here, I entered it in his name. I
think he’ll be pleased when he hears. He never exhibited anything in
this country.”
The two stood and gazed at the head awhile in silence. It was Aldo who
spoke first. “Look, are you doing anything now, could we go somewhere
and have supper?”
“I think I could. If you’ll wait until I call Beth, so she won’t worry.”
They went back to the small Italian restaurant where Aldo had taken
Jean before. It was almost empty when they walked in for it was still
quite early. After they had eaten, Aldo said suddenly, “I’m going back
to Italy next week.”
“Oh, I’m sorry you’re going so soon,” replied Jean. “But we wouldn’t
have seen much more of each other anyway, I’m going home too.”
“Perhaps we will meet again someday, in Italy. Then I will show you all
the beautiful places I love that I have told you about.”
“Perhaps,” said Jean doubtfully. It seemed so far away, like having a
star for a goal and she was bound to hit the fence post.
12. From Out of the West
All too soon, the course was over for Jean and now she was going home.
It was hard for her to say goodbye to her friends at school, especially
Peg Moffat. She would always be indebted to Beth for giving her this
opportunity. They had many long talks about art and Beth offered to
criticize Jean’s work if she would send it to her.
Jean had had a letter from Ralph just before she left New York and he
said he was leaving then for Elmhurst. He and Buzzy had decided to
return earlier than they had previously planned so they could be at
Woodhow in time to celebrate Jean’s eighteenth birthday. He would
arrive about the same time she did. That was almost the only reason
she could think of for returning home and leaving the glamor and
breathlessness of New York behind her, although she had to admit to
herself she missed her family. It was the day before her birthday when
she arrived.
Jean looked around eagerly as she jumped to the platform, wondering
which of the family would drive down to meet her, but instead of Kit or
her mother, Ralph stepped up to her with outstretched arms. All the way
from Saskatoon, she thought, and just the same as he was a year before.
Kit said later, in describing him, “He doesn’t look as if he could be
the hero, but he’d always be the hero’s best friend, like Mercutio was
to Romeo.” But Jean felt differently. This was the one she had waited
for all those months to come back to her. Her exciting stay in New
York, the course at the art school, all faded into insignificance by
comparison with her feeling about Ralph.
Mr. Briggs waved a welcome as he trundled the express truck past them
down the platform. “Looks a bit like rain. Good for the planters,” he
called.
Ralph took Jean by the hand and led her over to the car. They drove up
the long curved hill from the station and Jean lifted her head to it
all, the long overlapping hill range that unfolded as they came to the
first stretch of level road, the rich green of the pines gracing their
slopes, and most of all the beautiful haze of young green that lay like
a veil over the land from the first bursting leaf buds.
“Oh, it’s swell to be home,” she exclaimed. “Over at Beth’s the land
seems so level, and I guess I really like the hills.”
“What on earth have you got in the basket, Jean?”
Jean had forgotten all about the puppy. Bruce had kept his word and
met her at the train with a sleepy, diminutive cocker pup all curled
up comfortably in a basket. He had started to show signs of personal
interest, scratching and whining as soon as Jean had set the basket
down at her feet in the car.
“It’s for Tommy. Bruce Pearson sent it up to him to remember Jiggers
by.”
“Jiggers?”
“It’s the dog Tommy had back at the Cove. He sold him to Bruce, a
neighbor of ours, before we moved away. Now, Bruce is sending one of
the pups back for Tommy.”
“How nice. I hear he and his friend Jack have been pleading for a
puppy. This will be a pleasant surprise. The girls were sorry they
couldn’t drive down,” Ralph said. “They were having some sort of Easter
doings at school. Buzzy and I arrived two days ago and I asked for
the privilege of coming down. Your mother’s up at the Judge’s today.
Billie’s pretty sick, I think.”
“Billie?” cried Jean. “Not Billie?”
Even to think of Billie’s being ill was absurd. It was like saying
a raindrop had the measles. He had never been sick all the years he
had lived up there, bare-headed in the winter, free as the birds and
animals he loved. All the way home she felt subdued.
“He came back from school Monday for Easter vacation and they are
afraid of pneumonia. I don’t understand how he could have gotten it,
but I’m sure if anybody could pull him through it would be Mrs. Ellis,”
said Ralph.
But even with the best nursing and care, things looked bad for Billie.
It was supper time before Mrs. Craig returned. The reunion between
mother and daughter was indeed a happy one. “I can’t tell you how I
feel to have you back again, darling.”
“And it’s wonderful to be back. I missed you all so.”
Doris was indignant and stunned at the blow that had fallen on her
friend, Billie. She sputtered, “The idea that Billie should have to be
sick during vacation. How long will he be in bed, Mother?”
“I don’t know, dear,” Mrs. Craig said. “He’s strong and husky, but it
will be some time, I’m afraid, before he’ll be well again. Dr. Gallup
came right over.”
“That’s good,” Kit put in. “He’ll get him well in no time. I don’t
think there ever was a doctor so set on making people well. I’d rather
see him come in the door, no matter what was wrong with me, sit down
and tell me I had just a little distemper, open his black case, and mix
me up that everlasting mess that tastes like cinnamon and sugar, than
have a whole line of city specialists tapping me.”
Doris and Tommy clung closely to Jean, taking her and Ralph around the
place to show her all the new chicks, orphans and otherwise. Woodhow
really was showing signs of full return this year for the care and love
spent on its rehabilitation. The fruit trees, after Buzzy’s pruning and
fertilizing, and general treatment that made them look like swaddled
babies, were blossoming profusely, and on the south slope of the field
along the river, rows and rows of young peach trees had been set out.
The garden too, had come in for its share of attention. Doris loved
flowers, and had worked there more diligently than she usually could be
coaxed to on any sort of real labor. She had cleared away the old dead
plants first, and with Tommy’s help had plowed up the central plot,
taking care to save all the perennials.
“You know what I wish, Mom,” said Doris, standing with earth-stained
fingers in the midst of the tangle of old vines and bushes. “I wish we
could lay out paths and put stones down on them, flat stones, I mean,
like flags. And have flower beds with borders. Could we, do you think?”
Her earnestness made Mrs. Craig smile, but she agreed to the plan, and
Becky helped out with slips from her flower store, so that the prospect
for a garden was very good. And later Buzzy Hancock came up with Sally
to advise and help too. The year out West had turned the country boy
into a stalwart, independent individual whom even Sally regarded with
some respect. He was taller than before, broad-shouldered, and sure of
himself.
“I think Ralph has done wonders for him,” Sally said. “Mother thinks
so too. He talks so enthusiastically about the West that she doesn’t
seem to mind going out there any more, after seeing what it’s made of
Buzzy. And Ralph says we’ll always keep the home here so that when we
want to come back, we can. I think he likes Elmhurst. He says it never
seems like home way out West. You need to walk on the earth where your
fathers and grandfathers have trod, and even to breathe the same air.
Mom says the only place she hates to leave behind is our little family
burial plot over in the woods.”
Although the Craig family had planned a birthday party and Kit had
baked a beautiful cake, it was at Jean’s own request that they decided
not to have the party since Billie was sick. Instead they had a family
picnic dinner in the back yard. Of course, Ralph and Buzzy were there.
Jean was thrilled with all her lovely gifts, especially with the rough
turquoise that Ralph had brought from Saskatoon. When he gave it to
her, he said, “I knew you would like to design your own setting for
this stone.” Jean was very pleased with his thoughtfulness.
Even Jack had a present for her, a picture that he had made by
collecting leaves and flowers from the woods and glueing them to a
piece of plywood. Tommy had helped him to make the birchwood frame, and
Jean was touched by their efforts to make her birthday such a happy
one.
13. Spring Picnic
In the days following Easter, while Mrs. Craig was over at the Ellis
place helping care for Billie who was still very sick, the girls and
Tommy managed the house alone. When Tommy came in from the barn one
morning, he found Jean getting breakfast in the kitchen. “Seen anything
of Jack?” he asked. “I haven’t seen him this morning, and he was going
to help me and Ralph plow. I’ll bet a cookie he’s taken to his heels.
He’s been acting funny for several days ever since that peddler went
along here.”
“Oh, not really, Tommy,” said Jean anxiously. She had overlooked Jack
completely in the excitement of Billie’s illness. “What could happen to
him?”
“Nothing special,” answered Tommy dryly, “maybe he was tired of staying
here and working all the time.”
“You can’t expect a little kid only nine to work very hard, can you?”
“No--o. But he’s got to do something. He keeps asking me when
somebody’s going down to Nantic. Looks suspicious to me!”
“Nantic? Do you suppose--” Jean stopped short. Tommy failed to notice
her hesitancy, but went on outdoors. Perhaps the boy was wondering if
he could get any trace of his father down at Nantic, she thought. There
was a great deal of her mother’s nature in Jean’s sympathy and swift,
sure understanding of another’s need. She kept an eye out for Jack all
day, but the afternoon passed and supper was on the table without any
sign of their Christmas waif. And finally, when Ralph came in from the
barn with Tommy, he said he was pretty sure Jack had run away.
“Do you think it’s because he didn’t want to stay with us while Mother
was away?” asked Doris.
“No, I don’t,” Tommy put in. “I think he’s just born restless and he
had to take to the road when the call came to him.”
But Jean felt the responsibility of Jack’s loss, and set a lamp burning
all night in the living room window as a sign to light his way back
home. It was such a long walk down to Nantic, and when he got there,
Mr. Briggs would be sure to see him, and make trouble for him. And
perhaps he had just wandered out into the hills on a regular hike and
had gotten lost.
But neither the next day, nor the day after, did any news come to them
of Jack. Mr. Briggs was sure he hadn’t been around the station or the
freight trains. Saturday Kit and Doris drove around through the wood
roads, looking for some sign of him, and Jean telephoned to all the
points she could think of, giving a description of him, and asking them
to send the wanderer back if they found him. But the days passed, and
it looked as if Jack had really gone.
One afternoon Jean and Ralph were sitting on the back steps when Buzzy
and Kit hailed them from the hill. Kit was wearing a pair of slacks and
a red blouse hanging outside of them. On her head she had jammed one of
Tommy’s caps, and on the side she had stuck a quail’s feather.
“Hi,” called Kit, “we’ve been for a hike, clear over to the village.
Mother phoned she needed some things from the drugstore, so we thought
we’d walk over and get them. Billie’s just the same. He doesn’t know
a soul, and all he talks about is making his math exams. I think it’s
perfectly shameful to take a boy like that who loves reading and nature
and natural things, and grind him down to regular stuff.”
She flopped down on the grass in front of them with Buzzy at her
side. “I love a good long hike,” Kit went on. “Especially when I feel
bothered or indignant. We’ve kept up the hiking club ever since the
roads opened up, Jean. It’s more fun than anything out here. I never
realized there was so much to know about just woods and fields until
Sally taught me where to hunt for things. Do you like to hike, Ralph?”
“I don’t know. Not too long. I think I’d rather ride.”
“Me, too,” Doris said flatly. She had been working in the garden and
had come up when she heard Kit and Buzzy’s voices. “I don’t see a
bit of fun dragging around like Kit does, through the woods and over
swamps, climbing hills, and always wanting to get to the top of the
next one.”
“Oh, but I love to,” Kit replied. “Maybe I’ll be a mountain climber
yet. Kids, you don’t grasp that there is something strange and
interesting in my own special temperament. The longing to attain,
the--the insatiable desire to seize adventure and follow her fleeing
footsteps, the longing to tap the stars on their foreheads and let them
know I’m here.”
Ralph laughed at her. “Well, even if I don’t share such desires with
you, Kit, how about all of us going for a picnic one of these days. It
seems to me that the ground isn’t too wet for one, and it would do us
all good to stop worrying about Billie since there is nothing we can do
to hasten his recovery. Do you agree, Buzzy?”
“That’s a swell idea, Ralph,” he replied, chewing on a blade of grass.
“Why not make it tomorrow. I’ll ask Mom to pack us up some food.”
“No, leave that to us, Buzzy,” Jean interrupted. “We’ve got some
steaks in the house that are just asking to be broiled outdoors over
a charcoal fire. With those and some fruit and coffee, we should have
enough. Let’s plan to leave here around five and make an evening of it.”
“What good times a large family can have,” Ralph said as he slipped his
arm through Jean’s on a walk through the garden later. “Sometimes I
wish I had been lucky enough to have had brothers and sisters. You feel
so odd when you are all the family yourself.”