AN ADVENTURE FILLED DAY
It was late afternoon when Jenny returned from Miss Dearborn’s home high
in the foothills. As she drove up the long lane leading to the farmhouse,
she saw three young ladies from Granger Place Seminary on horseback
cantering along the highway toward the mansion-like home of Mrs.
Poindexter-Jones. She was too far away, however, to be sure that among
them was the girl whom she believed to be the daughter of the rich woman
who owned the farm.
Going to the barn, Jenny unhitched Dobbin, patting him lovingly and
chatting in a most intimate friendly manner as though she were sure that
he understood.
“We’ve had a red letter day, haven’t we, Dob? First, early this morning
we drove that poor Etta Heldt to the station and loaned her money to help
her buy a ticket to Belgium.” Then, in silent meditation, the girl
thought: “How I wish I had a magic carpet like that of The Little Lame
Prince. I would love to be over on that quaint Belgian farm when the old
people first see their granddaughter arriving.”
Then as she led the faithful horse out to the watering trough under a
blossoming peach tree, another thought presented itself. “Dobbin.” she
again addressed her companion, “now that we have loaned part of the honey
and egg money, wouldn’t it be dreadful if Mrs. Poindexter-Jones should
decide to sell this farm?” She sighed. “Though I suppose that hundred
dollars wouldn’t go very far toward buying it.” For a contemplative
moment the girl gazed across the meadow where a pale green of early grain
was beginning to show, and then at the picturesque old adobe partly
hidden by the blossoming orchard. It was all the home she had ever known
and it was hard to even think of moving to another. “Don’t climb over a
stile till you get to it,” Grandpa Si had often told her. Remembering
this, she turned her attention to her companion, who had lifted his
dripping head. “My, but you were thirsty, weren’t you, Dob? Come on now
into your nice cool stall. I’m eager to tell Grandma about that dreadful
examination I am to take.”
Later, as she walked along the path which led past the rows of beehives
where there was ever a cheerful humming, through the orchard and to the
side porch, her thoughts were varied. “How I wish I could tell Grandma
Sue about Miss Dearborn’s romance, but _that_ was meant just for me.
Maybe it’s wrong, but I can’t help wishing that something will happen
_some day_ which will make it possible for that romance to end happily,
as stories always should, whether they are real or in books.”
At the corner of the porch she stopped to breathe in the fragrance of the
heliotrope blossoms that grew on a riotous bush which seemed to be
trying, vine-fashion, to reach the roof.
“Home again, after a day crowded full of unusual happenings,” her
thoughts hummed along. “I don’t suppose that anything more _can_ happen
in it.”
But Jenny Warner was mistaken, for something of vital importance to her
(though she little guessed it) was yet to happen on that day.
Skipping into the kitchen, the girl beheld her grandmother busy at the
ironing board. Self rebukingly she cried: “Oh, Grandma Sue, why did you
iron today? You promised me faithfully, since I had to go over to the
seminary, and then to my teacher’s, that you wouldn’t iron until next
week, when I could help. Now you look all hot and tired, and as thirsty
as Dobbin was. Please stop and rest while I make us some lemonade.”
The flushed face of the old woman was smiling contentedly as she
protested: “I like to iron, dearie. I’m not doing much, just pressin’ out
our church-goin’ things. Grandpa Si needed a fresh shirt and I reckoned
as how, mabbe, you’d like to wear that white muslin o’ yourn with the
pink flowers on the bands, so I fetched it out an’ washed it an’ ironed
it, an’ there ’tis, lookin’ as purty again this year as it did when it
was furst made. Shouldn’t you think so. Jenny?” This a little
anxiously—“or do you reckon we’d better buy you a new Sunday dress for
this comin’ summer?”
Jenny whirled toward the clothes-horse where hung the pink sprigged
muslin which had been “church goin’” dress for the past three summers.
The hem had twice been let down, but, except that the pink had somewhat
faded, it was as pretty as it ever had been. “Oh, it’s a love of a
dress.” The girl was sincere. “I hope I never will have to give it up.
I’ve been so happy in it, and then it matches that sweet parasol Miss
Dearborn gave me and the wreath on my white leghorn hat. I’m glad I may
begin wearing it tomorrow, Grandma Sue, and it was mighty nice of you to
iron it for me, but now, as soon as we’ve had our drink, I’m going to
iron your Sunday go-to-meeting lavender dress. Please say that I may.
I’ll do the ruffles just beautifully. You will be so vain!”
“Tut! Tut! dearie.” Susan Warner sank down in Grandpa’s armed chair to
wipe her warm face and rest while her beloved Jenny made lemonade. “It
wouldn’t do to wear that dress to meetin’ if it’s goin’ to make me vain.”
How the girl laughed as she squeezed the juicy lemons that grew on the
big tree close to the back porch. Nearly all the year round that tree was
laden with blossoms, green and ripe fruit at the same time. “The most
obliging kind of tree,” Jenny had often said. “It provides a perfume,
delicious lemon pies and a refreshing drink whenever its owners wish.”
“There now, Granny Sue, if only we had ice to clink in it as Miss
Dearborn has we’d think that we were rich folks, but it’s real nice as it
is.” The girl drank her share with a relish.
“That was mighty good tastin’,” Susan Warner commented. “I wish your
Grandpa could have a drink of it. He’s cultivatin’ close to the high
hedge. That’s a hot place when the sun is beatin’ down the way it has
been all day. Couldn’t you carry a little pailful over to him, dearie?”
“Of course I can and will, Mrs. Susan Warner, if you will promise me one
thing.” The girl gazed down into the smiling face of the old woman. “I
have my suspicions that you’re trying to get rid of me so that you may
iron the lavender dress. Is that the truth?”
“Maybe ’tis,” was the smilingly given confession, “but if you’ll let me
iron that one while you’re gone, you can do Grandpa’s best shirt when you
come back.”
Filling a quart pail with the lemonade, Jenny snatched her garden hat
from its nail by the door and skipped away, although she had to walk more
carefully when the ploughed ground was reached. “It makes me think of
Robert Burns, and how, in far-away Scotland, his plough turned over the
home nest of a poor little old field mouse,” she thought. “Oh, how glad,
glad I am that Miss Dearborn is teaching me to love poetry. I can just
see that tender-hearted young poet leaning over, ever so sorry because he
had destroyed the little creature’s home and telling it not to be
frightened.
“‘Wee, sleekit, cowrin’, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa’ sae hasty
Wi’ bick’ring brattle.
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring prattle.’”
“Jenny gal, what air yo’ sayin’, talkin’ to yourself that a-way?” The
girl suddenly looked up, realizing that she had neared the high hedge
that separated the farm from the mansion-like home and its grounds.
Laughing happily, she replied: “What you’d call up to my old tricks,
Granddad, reciting poetry that Miss Dearborn has had me learn. See, here
is a pail brimming full of cool lemonade, if it hasn’t warmed while I
crossed the field. I’m sure you must be as thirsty as Grandma and Dobbin
and I were.” For answer the old man pushed his wide brimmed straw hat to
the back of his head, lifted the pail to his lips and drank it all
without stopping. Then said gratefully: “I reckon I kin keep on now fer a
spell longer. I was most petered out an’ I do want to finish this field
afore I quit.”
The girl left at once, as she wished to hurry home to help with the
ironing. She followed the hedge, as the walking was easier, but suddenly
she paused and her hand went to her heart. She had heard the voices of
girls talking on the other side of the evergreens and what one of them
was saying greatly startled the listener.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” a proud voice was saying, “we own about one hundred
acres, Ma Mere, brother Harold and I. Our property extends along the
seacoast to the highwater mark, then back across the highway up into
Laurel Canon, and includes the farm just beyond the hedge.”
Another voice commented, “If your mother should die, you and your brother
would be very rich.”
“Oh, yes, fairly,” this with a fine show of indifference. “But if I had
my way, all of our country property would be turned into money, then we
could live abroad ever after. Mother promised that when she comes in July
she will consider selling the farm and the canon property at least. She
would have sold the farm two years ago had it not been for my brother
Harold. For some reason, which Ma Mere and I cannot in the least
understand, he pleaded to have the farm kept. He even offered to take it
as part of his share, that and the canon acreage, and let me have the
home and estate.”
“What did your mother say to that?” a third voice inquired.
“Too utterly ridiculous to consider, and that, since she wishes to turn
something into cash, if we are to live abroad, she will sell one or the
other, and, of course, there will be a more ready market for the farm.
It’s a most picturesque old place. That is, from a distance. I have never
really been there. You see, we have practically lived away from our
country home ever since I was born. I have always supposed that, because
of our father’s long lingering illness here, Ma Mere has dreaded
returning to stay, so imagine my surprise when she wrote that we were all
three to spend this summer at the old place.”
Jenny, who had stood transfixed, listening, though against her will, for
she scorned eavesdropping, started to run across the ploughed field,
stumbling and almost falling in her haste. Oh, what should she do? Should
she tell Grandma and Grandpa the terrible possibility that, after all,
Rocky Point Farm might be sold, and that very summer? No! No! She
couldn’t do that. Oh, if only she had not loaned Etta Heldt part of the
honey and egg money, and yet, with a crushing sense of depression, Jenny
realized that it did not in the least matter about that paltry sum. If
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones wished to sell part of her land, all that her
grandfather had saved or could procure would be no inducement to her.
When the orchard was reached, she stood very still for a moment, her hand
again on her heart, as though to quiet its anxious beating that was
almost a pain. “Jenny Warner,” she said to herself, “you _must_ not let
Grandma suspect that anything is wrong because, perhaps, nothing really
is. If Harold does not want the farm sold, his mother may heed his
wishes.”
Two moments later a smiling girl entered the kitchen, hung her hat on its
nail by the door as she said, “Well, Granny Sue, I was longer than I
expected to be and you have started on the shirt. Let me have the iron.
I’ll promise not to scorch it, the way I did that towel you let me iron
when I was just head above the ironing board. Do you remember it? You
were so sweet about it when I cried. I recall, even now, how you
comforted me by saying that the two ends of the towel would make such
nice wash cloths, hemmed up, and that it was lucky the scorch was in the
middle of the towel because that would make the wash cloths just the
right size.” The old woman had relinquished the iron, and, sitting near
in Grandpa’s armed chair, she smiled lovingly at the girl, who continued:
“That’s just the way you’ve overlooked all the mistakes I ever made. I do
wish that every girl in all the world had a grandmother like you.” Jenny
was purposely chattering to keep from telling what was uppermost in her
mind.
“What a proud, vain girl that Gwynette Poindexter-Jones must be!” Jenny’s
thoughts were very different from her spoken words. “How cold and
superior the tone of her voice when she informed her friends that she had
never visited the farm, but that it looked very picturesque from a
distance.” Jenny’s cheeks flushed as she indignantly told herself that
she certainly hoped that the farm never would be visited by——. Her
thought was interrupted by her exclamation of dismay. “Grandmother Sue.
_Here_ they come!”
The old woman rose hastily from the armed wooden chair. “Who, dearie? Who
is it you see?” No wonder she asked, for the girl with the iron safely
upheld, that it might not scorch the shirt front, was staring with a
startled expression out of the window toward the long lane.
Susan Warner had not seen the missionary’s older daughter in many years,
and so she did not recognize her as being the young lady in the lead
mounted on a nervous, high-stepping black horse. Following were two other
girls in fashionable riding habits on small brown horses. But the old
woman did not need to be told who the visitor was, for at once she knew.
There was indeed a resemblance to her own Jenny in the face and the very
build of the girl in the lead. However, a stranger who did not know the
relationship would think little of it because of the difference in the
expressions. One face indicated a selfish, proud, haughty nature, the
other was far more sensitive, joyous and loving. Jenny was again ironing
when the old woman turned from the window to ask, “Do yo’ know who they
be?”
“Why, yes, Granny; the one ahead is Gwynette Poindexter-Jones, and the
two others are her best friends, the ones who came to Granger Place with
her from San Francisco. You know I saw them all close up this noon when I
waited on table over at the seminary.”
Susan Warner had stepped out on the side porch when the young lady in the
lead drew rein. She wanted to close the door, shutting Jenny in, but
since the door stood open from dawn until sunset each day, she knew that
such an act would arouse suspicion. But _how_ she did wish she could
prevent Jenny’s meeting her very own sister and being treated as an
inferior.
The girl at the ironing board listened intently, strainingly, that she
might hear if the selling of the farm was mentioned.
Gwynette was saying, “My mother told me to ride over to our farm some day
and ask you to see that the big house is put in readiness for occupancy
by the first of July. Ma Mere said that you could hire day labor to have
the cleaning done, but that she prefers to engage our permanent servants
after she arrives.”
How unlike her dear grandmother’s voice was the one that was coldly
replying: “I reckon your ma’ll write any orders she has for me. She
allays does.”
If Gwynette recognized a rebelliousness in the remark and manner of the
farmer’s wife, she put it down to ill-breeding and ignorance, and so said
in her grandest air, “Kindly bring us each a drink of milk.” Then,
turning to her friends, she added, “All of the produce of the farm is for
our use, but since we are seldom here, it is, of course, sold in the
village. I suppose Ma Mere receives the profits.”
“Aren’t you being unnecessarily rude?” Beulah Hollingsworth inquired.
Gwynette shrugged. “Oh, nobody heard,” she said in a tone which implied
that she would not have cared if they had. But she was mistaken, for
Jenny had heard and her cheeks flamed with unaccustomed anger.
“Are the bees yours also?” Patricia Sullivan inquired, glancing back at
the orchard where a constant humming told that swarms of tiny winged
creatures were gathering sweets.
“Why, of course,” was the languidly given reply. “We’ll take some of the
honey back with us. These people have to do as I say. They are just our
servants.” To the amazement of the three, a flashing-eyed girl darted out
on the porch as she cried, “You shall _not_ call my grandmother and my
grandfather your servants. And those bees _do not_ belong to you. I
bought them, and the white hens, with my _very own_ Christmas and
birthday money.”
Susan Warner, coming from the cooling cellar with three goblets of milk,
was amazed, for very seldom had she seen a flash of temper in the sweet
brown eyes of her girl.
“Never mind, dearie, whatever ’twas they said,” she murmured in a low
voice. “Go back to your ironin’, Jenny; do, to please your ol’ granny.”
Obediently the girl returned to the kitchen, but she felt sure, from the
fleeting glance she gave the companions of Gwynette, that _they_ were not
in sympathy with her rudeness.
After drinking the milk, the three rode away, and from the indignant
tones of one of them the listeners knew that the proud daughter of Mrs.
Poindexter-Jones had been angered by the attitude of her mother’s
servants.
Jenny’s heart was indeed heavy as she contemplated the dreary possibility
that her angry words might hasten the day when her loved ones would lose
their home.
Sadly she finished her task and put away the ironing board. Then she
recalled that an hour before she had assured herself that nothing else of
an unusual nature was apt to happen in that day already crowded with
events, but she had been mistaken. She had met Harold’s sister and had
quarreled with her. Then, and for the first time, she realized that she
had half hoped that the daughter of their next door neighbor and she
might become friends. Jenny had never had a close girl friend, and like
all other girls she had yearned for one.
“Dearie,” her grandmother was making an evident effort at cheeriness, “if
you’ll be settin’ the table, I’ll start the pertatoes to fryin’. Here
comes your grandpa. He looks all petered out, and he’ll want his supper
early.”
Jenny smiled her brightest as she began the task of consoling herself
with the thought that Harold Poindexter-Jones was their true friend, and
how she did wish that she might see _him_ and ask him if the farm was to
be sold.