A JOLLY PLAN
Harold’s little gray “bug,” as he sometimes called the car which he
boasted was the speediest of its kind, made the long upgrade in high, and
that, being a feat it had not accomplished on its last ascent, so
gratified the youthful owner that he swung into the seminary grounds with
a flourish. Upon seeing his sister sitting moodily in the summer-house
with a novel, unread, on her knee, he ran in that direction, waving his
cap gleefully.
“Hello, there, Sis!” he called. “Get on your bonnet and come for a ride.
The bug is outdoing itself today.”
The girl, whose eyes were suspiciously red, turned toward him coldly.
“Harold, how many times have I asked you not to call me Sis. It savors of
kitchen mechanics, and, what is more, I do not wear a bonnet. Finally, I
most certainly do not wish to ride in that racer of yours.”
The boy dropped down on the bench on the opposite side of the
summer-house and gave a long whistle which equally aggravated his
companion. Then, stretching out to be comfortable, he thrust his hands
deep into his pockets, as he inquired: “Well, then, Sister Gwynette, will
you enlighten me as to why your marblesque brow is darkly clouded?”
The girl’s frown deepened and she turned away from him petulantly. “You
know just as well as I do that you care nothing whatever about my
troubles,” she flung at him. “You wouldn’t be here now if Mother hadn’t
sent you, and I’m sure I can’t see why she did. She cares no more for me
than you do, or she would not force me to stay in this prison until the
close of the term just for appearance sake. I’m not taking the final
tests, so why should I pretend that I am?”
The boy drew himself upright and, leaning on the rustic table which was
between them, he said, trying not to let his indignation sound in his
voice: “Gwynette, do you know that our mother is very, very ill? She is
again in bed and I could only be with her for a few moments.”
Harold paused, hoping that his announcement would cause his listener some
evident concern, but there was no change in her expression, and so more
coldly he continued:
“Mother said nothing whatever about her reason for asking you to remain
here until the term is over, but it is my private opinion that when she
did send for you, some sort of a scene was stirred up which made Mother’s
fever worse. The nurse probably thought best for Mums to be undisturbed
as long as possible.” Suddenly the lad sprang up, rounded the table and
sat on the side toward which his petulant sister was facing. Impulsively
he took her hand as he asked, not unkindly, “Gwyn, don’t you care at all
whether our mother lives or dies?”
There was a sudden, startled expression in the girl’s tear-filled eyes,
but, as the lad knew, the tears were there merely because of self-pity.
“Dies?” she repeated rather blankly. No one whom she had ever known had
died, and she had seemed to think that those near her were immune. “Is Ma
Mere going to die?”
The boy followed up what he believed to be an advantage by saying gently,
“We would be all alone in the world, Gwyn, if our mother left us, and,
oh, it would be so lonely.”
Suddenly and most unexpectedly the girl put her arms on the table and,
burying her head upon them, she sobbed bitterly. Harold was moved to
unusual tenderness. He put his arm lovingly about his sister as he
hastened to say, reassuringly, “Miss Dane, the nurse, told me this
morning that Mother’s one chance of recovery lay in not being excited in
any way. Her fever must be kept down. We’ll help, won’t we, Gwyn?”
The girl sat up and wiped her eyes with her dainty handkerchief.
“I suppose so,” she said dully. The boy, watching her, could not tell
what emotion had caused the outburst of grief. He decided not to follow
it up, but to permit whatever seeds had been sown to sprout as they
would.
Springing up, he exclaimed: “Snapping turtles! I forgot something I
brought for you. It’s in the car.” He ran back, found the box of choice
candies, returned and presented them. Gwyn was still gazing absently
ahead of her. “Thanks,” she said, but without evidence of pleasure.
The boy stood in the vine-hung doorway gazing down at her. “Gwyn,” he
said, “if you want to come home, I’ll be over after you tomorrow. Just
say the word.”
“I prefer to wait until my mother sends for me,” was the cold answer. The
lad went away, fearing that he had accomplished little.
It was five-thirty when the “bug” again turned into the long lane that
led to the farmhouse near Rocky Point.
“Here comes Harold,” Jenny turned from the window to inform the other
occupants of the kitchen. Grandma Sue was opening the oven to test her
corn bread. Lenora was again in the comfortable armchair near the stove.
For the past hour she had been asleep in the hammock out in the sun, and
she felt stronger and really hungry. Charles, having been told that there
was nothing that he could do to help, sat on the bench answering the
questions his sister now and then asked.
Grandpa Si had not yet returned from a neighbor’s where he had gone to
help repair fences.
Jenny, dressed in her white Swiss with the pink dots, had a pink
butterfly bow in her hair. Her cheeks were flushed and her liquid brown
eyes glowing. She was wonderfully happy. Her dear friend Lenora was to
remain with her another two weeks. She was convinced that this was the
sole reason for her joy. It did not remotely enter her thought that
perhaps the return of Harold might be adding to her happiness.
Charles, hearing the siren call, leaped to the porch and the boys again
shook hands like old friends who had not met in many a day.
Harold was plainly elated. He detained Charles on the porch long enough
to tell his plan.
“I’ve been over to see Mother since I left and she is quite willing that
I open up the little cabin on the cliff that used to belong to my Dad
when he was young. It’s been closed since he died and I didn’t know how
Mother would feel about having it occupied. But when she heard about you,
she said she was glad indeed that I was to have a companion, as she knew
the big house would seem lonely while she is ill, so we’ll move right
over there after supper.”
“That’s great!” the Dakota boy was equally pleased. “Honest, I’ll confess
it now; I did dread going to that barren Commercial Hotel, and I couldn’t
afford to spend more than ten minutes at The Palms, not if I had to pay
for the privilege.”
“Come on, let’s tell our good news.” Harold led the way into the kitchen
where his jubilant enthusiasm was met with a like response. Lenora
clapped her hands. “Oh, won’t you two boys have the nicest time! Tell us
about that cabin. How did your father happen to build it?”
“I don’t believe I ever really knew. Gwyn and I were such little things
when he died.” Turning to the older woman, who had dropped on the bench
to rest, he asked, “Grandma Sue, you, of course, know all that happened.
You were living near here, weren’t you, when my father was a boy?”
“Indeed I was. My folks had the overseein’ of a lemon grove up Live Oak
Canyon way. First off I did fine sewin’ for your Grandma Jones. That’s
how I come to know your family so well. But she didn’t live long arter I
went there, and your grandpa was so broke up, he went to pieces sort of,
right arter the funeral an’ pined away, slow like, for two years about.
Your pa, Harry, was the only child, and he give up his lawin’ in the big
city and come home to stay and be company for his pa. I never saw two
folks set a greater store by each other, but the old man (your grandpa
wasn’t really old, but grievin’ aged him), even his boy seemed like
couldn’t cheer him up, he missed his good woman so. ’Twant long afore he
followed her into the great beyond. That other Harold, your pa, was only
twenty-two or thereabouts and he was all broke up. He didn’t seem to want
to go back to the lawin’ and it was too lonesome for him to stay in the
big house, so he sent the help all away, giving ’em each a present of
three months’ pay. That is, he sent ’em all but Sing Long. Sing was a
young Chinaman then, and he wanted to stay with your pa. That’s when he
had the cabin on the cliff built. He was allays readin’, your pa was, so
he filled one big room with books and with Sing Long to cook for him and
take care of him, there he stayed until he was twenty-five. Then he went
’round the world and came back with a wife.”
Grandpa Si’s entrance interrupted the story. The old man was surprised to
find company in the kitchen. “Wall, wall, I swan to glory!” He took off
his straw hat and rubbed his forehead with his big red bandanna
handkerchief. “If ’tisn’t my helper come so soon. Harry-lad, it’s good
for sore eyes to see you lookin’ so young, like there wa’n’t no sech
thing ahead as old age.”
Harold shook hands heartily as he exclaimed with his usual enthusiasm:
“Old age! Indeed, sir, I don’t believe in it. All I have to do is to look
at you and Grandma Sue to know that it doesn’t exist.” Then turning
toward the young visitor, he continued: “Silas Warner, may I make you
acquainted with Charles Gale?” The weather-bronzed face wrinkled into
even a wider smile as the old man held a hand toward the young stranger.
“Wall, now, you’re a size bigger’n our little Lenora here, ain’t you?
Tut, tut. We’ve allays boasted about how big we can grow things down here
in Californy, but I reckon Dakota’s got us plumb beat. Harry, you’ll have
to eat a lot to catch up with your friend.”
That youth laughingly replied that he was afraid that eating a lot would
make him grow round instead of high. The old man good naturedly
commented, “Wall, Harry-lad, you ain’t so much behind or below whichever
’tis, not more’n half a head, an’ you may make that up. Though ’tain’t
short you be now.”
Then he began to sniff, beaming at his spouse, whose cheeks, from the
heat of baking, were as ruddy as winter apples. “Ma,” he said, wagging
his head from side to side and smacking his lips in anticipation, “that
there smell oozin’ out of the oven sort of hits the empty spot. Cream
gravy on that thick yellar cornmeal bread! Wall, boys, if there’s rich
folks with finer feed ’n that I dunno what ’tis.”
He was washing at the sink pump as he talked.
“Neither do I,” Harold agreed as he sprang to help Jenny place the chairs
around the table. Their eyes met and Harold found himself remembering
that this lovely girl was own sister to his adopted sister. What relation
then was he to Jenny? But before this problem could be solved, Grandma
Sue was placing the two plates of cornbread on the table and Jenny had
skipped to the stove to pour the steaming gravy into its pitcher-like
bowl.
Charles led Lenora to her place, although she protested that she really
could walk alone. Harold leaped to the head to draw Grandma Sue’s chair
out, and then Jenny’s, while Charles did the same for his sister. Then
the merry meal began. Grandpa Si told all that had happened during the
day to Susan, as was his custom. Never an evening meal was begun without
that query, “Wall, Si, what happened today. Anythin’ newsy?”
It didn’t matter how unimportant the event, if it interested the old man
enough to tell it, he was sure of an interested listener. Indeed, two,
for Jenny having been brought up to this evening program, was as eager as
her grandmother to hear the chronicalings of the day, which seldom held
an event that a city dweller would consider worth the recounting.
“Wall, I dunno as there’s much, ’cept Pete says the lemon crop over on
that ranch whar you lived when you was a gal, Ma, is outdoin’ itself this
year. Tryin’ to break its own record, Pete takes it. He’s workin’ over
thar mornin’s and loafin’ arternoons, lest be he can pick up odd jobs
like fence-mendin’.” Then, when the generous slices of corn bread had
been served and were covered with the delicious cream gravy, there was
not one among them who did not do justice to it and consider it a rare
treat. After the first edge of hunger was appeased, the old man asked
what kind of a year ranchers were having in Dakota. This answered, he
smiled toward the frail girl. “Lenora,” he said, “yo’ ain’t plannin’ to
pull out ’f here soon, air yo’? It’ll be powerful lonely for Jenny-gal,
her havin’ sort of got used to havin’ a sister.” Then, turning to the
smiling Charles, the old man said facetiously: “Ma an’ me sort o’ wish
you an’ your Pa didn’t want Lenora. We’d like to keep her steady.
Wouldn’t we, Ma?” The old woman nodded, “I reckon we would, but there’s
others have the first right an’ we’ll be thankful for two weeks more.”
Directly after supper Harold said to his hostess: “Please forgive us if
we eat and run. I want to move into the cabin before dark.” Then, to the
old man: “I’ll be ready to start work early in the morning.”