A SECOND MEETING
“Lenora, dearie, can you spare Jenny a spell! I want her to tote a basket
of fresh eggs over to Poindexter Arms, and a few jars o’ honey. Like as
not the poor sick missus will be glad of somethin’ different and tasty.
Don’t let her pay for ’em, Jenny-gal. Tell her they’re a welcome-home
present from all of us. Tell her how we’re hopin’ the sea air’ll bring
back her strength soon, and that ol’ Susan Warner will pay her respects
as soon as she’s wanted. Jenny, dearie, can you recollect all that?”
The girl, who had been seated on the top step of the seaward veranda
shelling peas and reading to her best friend, had leaped up when her dear
old grandmother had appeared. Laughingly she slipped an arm about her,
when she finished speaking, and kissed both of her cheeks. Then she
peered into the faded blue eyes that were smiling at her so fondly as she
entreated, “Granny Sue, wouldn’t it do as well if I left the basket at
the kitchen door and asked a maid to give the message?”
The old woman looked inquiringly into the flower-like face so close to
her own. “Would you mind seein’ the missus, if you was let to? I’d
powerful well like to hear the straight of how she is, and when she’d
like to have me pay my respects. You aren’t skeered of her, are you,
dearie?”
“Of course not, Granny Sue. Although I must confess I was terribly scared
of her when I was little. I thought she was an ogress. I do believe I
will put in some of our field poppies to golden up the basket. Would she
like that, Granny, do you think? I gathered ever so many this morning.”
“I reckon she’d be pleased, an’ if I was you. I’d put on that fresh
yellow muslin. You look right smart in it.”
Lenora was an interested listener. She had heard all about the proud,
haughty woman who was owner of the farm, and mother of the disagreeable
Gwynette and of the nice Harold. She knew _he_ must be nice by the way
all three of the Warners spoke of him.
She now put in: “O, Jenny, do wear that adorable droopy hat with the
buttercup wreath. You look like a nymph of sunshine when you’re all in
yellow.”
“Very well, I will! I live but to please.” This was said gaily. “Be
prepared now for a transformation scene: from an aproned sheller of peas
to a nymph of sunshine.”
In fewer minutes than seemed possible, Jenny again appeared, and
spreading her fresh yellow muslin skirt, she made a minuet curtsy. Then
she asked merrily, “Mistress Lenora, pray tell how a nymph of sunshine
should walk and what she should say when she calls upon the most Olympian
person she knows. Sort of a Juno.”
“Just act natural, dearie,” the proud grandmother had appeared with the
basket of eggs, poppies and honey in time to reply to this query, “and no
nymphs, whatever they be, could be sweeter or more pleasin’.” Then she
added, “Your grandpa’s got Dobbin all hitched an’ waitin’ for you.
Good-bye, dearie! Harold’ll be glad to have you kind to his ma. He sets a
store by her.”
It was the last remark that gave Jenny courage to ask if she might see
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones, twenty minutes later, when she had driven around
to the side door of the mansion-like stone house. Cecile looked doubtful.
“Ef eets to give the basket, the keetchen’s the place for that.”
Jenny smiled on Cecile, and the maid found herself staring in puzzled
amazement. Who was this girl who looked like that other one who had just
left; looked like her and yet didn’t, for she was far prettier and with
such a kindly light in her smiling brown eyes. “Please tell Mrs.
Poindexter-Jones that Susan Warner, on the farm, sent me over and would
like me to deliver a message myself if she wishes to see me.”
There was nothing for Cecile to do but carry the message, and, to her
amazement, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones looked pleased and requested that the
maid show the girl at once to the pond-lily garden.
Almost shyly Jenny Warner went down the box-edged path. The elderly lady,
not vain and proud as she had been in her younger days, lying back on
soft silken pillows, watched her coming.
How pretty the girl looked in her simple yellow muslin frock, with her
wide drooping hat, buttercup wreathed, and on her arm a basket, golden
with field poppies.
As she neared, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones felt a mist in her eyes, for this
girl looked very like the other only there was such a sweet, loving
expression in the responsive face, while Gwynette’s habitual outlook on
life had made her proud, critical and cold. The woman impulsively held
out a hand. “Jenny Warner,” she said as she lifted the mist-filled eyes,
“won’t you kiss me, dear?”
Instinctively Jenny knew that this invalid mother of Harold was in real
need of tenderness and love. Unhesitatingly she kissed her, then took the
seat toward which Mrs. Poindexter-Jones motioned. The basket she placed
on the table. “Grandmother wished me to bring you some of our strained
honey and fresh eggs and to ask you when you would like her to come and
pay her respects.”
The woman smiled faintly. She seemed very very tired. Thoughtfully she
replied, “Tomorrow, at about this hour, if the day is as pleasant as
this. I will again be in the garden here. Tell Susan Warner I very much
want to see her. I want to ask her a question.” Then she closed her eyes
and seemed to be resting. Jenny wondered if she ought to go, but at her
first rustle the eyes were opened and the woman smiled at the girl.
“Jenny,” she said, somewhat wistfully, “I want to ask your grandmother
_how_ she brought you up.”
The girl was puzzled. Why should Mrs. Poindexter-Jones care about the
simple home life of a family in her employ.
But, before she had time to wonder long, the invalid was changing the
subject. “Jenny, do you like to read aloud?” she asked.
There was sincere enthusiasm in the reply. “Oh, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones, I
love to! I read aloud every day to my dear friend Lenora Gale, who is
visiting me. We are reading poetry just now, but I care a great deal for
prose also. Books and nature are the two things for which I care most.”
As she spoke Jenny glanced at the book lying on the small table where she
had placed her basket. Almost shyly she asked. “Were you reading this
book before I came?”
“My nurse, Miss Dane, was reading it to me. She is a very kind, good
woman, but her voice is rasping, and it is hard for me to listen. My
nerves are still far from normal and I was wishing that I had some young
girl to read to me.” Jenny at once thought of Gwynette. Surely she would
be glad to read to her mother while she was ill. As though she had heard
the thought, the woman answered it, and her tone was sad. “My daughter,
unfortunately, does not like to read aloud. She does not care for
books—nor for nature—nor for——” the woman hesitated. She did not want to
criticize Gwynette before another, and so she turned and looked with
almost wistful inquiry at the girl. “Jenny Warner, may I engage your
services to read to me one or two hours a day if your grandmother can
spare you that long?”
Jenny’s liquid brown eyes were aglow with pleasure. This was Harold’s
mother for whom she could do a real service. “Oh, may I read to you, Mrs.
Poindexter-Jones? I would be so glad to do something—” she hesitated and
a deeper rose color stole into her cheeks. She could not say for
“Harold’s mother.” Mrs. Poindexter-Jones would not understand the depth
of the girl’s gratitude toward the boy who was making it possible for her
dear old grandparents to remain on the farm. And the woman, gazing at
her, found that just then she could not mention remuneration.
“Suppose you come to me day after tomorrow at ten.” Miss Dane had
appeared to say that it was time for the invalid to go into the house.
“Is it noon so soon?” the woman inquired, then turning back toward the
girl who had risen, she added: “Seeing you has done me much good.
Good-bye. Tell Susan Warner I want to see her tomorrow.”
Jenny returned home, her heart singing. She was to have an opportunity to
thank Harold, and she was glad.
When Jenny reached the farmhouse she found her family in the kitchen, and
by the way they all stopped talking when she entered, she was sure that
something had happened during her absence which they had been discussing,
nor was she wrong.
She looked from one interested face to another, then exclaimed: “You’re
keeping a secret from me. What is it, please tell!”
Lenora, who had been made comfortable with pillows in grandfather’s easy
chair, drawn close to the stove, merrily replied: “The secret is in plain
sight. You must hunt, though, and find it.”
Jenny whirled to look at the table, already set with the supper things,
but nothing unusual was there; then her glance traveled to the old
mahogany cupboard, where, behind glass doors, in tidy rows, the best
china stood. There, leaning against a tumbler, was an envelope bearing a
foreign stamp.
With a cry of joy Jenny leaped forward. Instinctively she seemed to know
that it was the long watched-for letter from Etta Heldt, nor was she
wrong.
With eager fingers the envelope was opened. A draft fluttered to the
floor. Jenny picked it up, then, after a glance at it, turned a glowing
face toward the others.
“I knew it!” she cried joyfully. “I knew Etta Heldt was honest! This is
every penny that she owes us.”
The handwriting was difficult to read and for a silent moment Jenny
studied it, then brightly she exclaimed: “Oh, such wonderful news!” Then
she read:
“Dear Friend:
“I would have written long ago, but my grandpa took sick and was like
to die when I got here, and my grandma and I had to set up nights, turn
about, and days I was so tired and busy. I didn’t forget though. Poor
grandpa died after a month, but I’m glad I got here first. He was more
willing to go, being as I’d be here with grandma.
“Now I guess you’re wondering where I got the money I’m sending you. I
got it from Hans Heldt. He’s sort of relation of mine, though not
close, and he wanted me to marry him and I said no, not till I paid the
money I owed. He said he’d give it to me and then we’d make it up
working grandpa’s farm together. So we got married and here’s the
money, and my grandma wishes to tell your grandma how thankful she is
to her and you for sending me home to her. I guess that’s all.
Good-bye.
Your grateful friend,
Etta Heldt.”
There were tears in Jenny’s eyes as she looked up. “Oh, Grandma Sue,” she
ran across the room and clung to the dear old woman, “aren’t you glad,
glad, glad we brought so much happiness into three lives?” Later, when
they were at supper, Jenny told about her visit to Poindexter Arms.
There was a sad foreboding in the hearts of the old couple that evening.
Although they said little, each was wondering what the outcome of their
“gal’s” daily readings would be. “Whatever ’tis, ’twill like to be for
the best, I reckon,” was Susan Warner’s philosophic conclusion, and the
old man’s customary reply, “I cal’late yer right, Ma! Yo’ be mos’
allays.”