E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 38029-h.htm or 38029-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/38029/pg38029-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/38029/38029-h.zip)
[Illustration: "Good-bye, Baltie, dear"]
THREE LITTLE WOMEN, A STORY FOR GIRLS
by
GABRIELLE E. JACKSON
1913
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--The Carruths
CHAPTER II--"Baltie"
CHAPTER III--The Spirit of Mad Anthony
CHAPTER IV--Baltie is Rescued
CHAPTER V--A New Member of the Family
CHAPTER VI--Blue Monday
CHAPTER VII--Mammy Generalissimo
CHAPTER VIII--Chemical Experiments
CHAPTER IX--Spontaneous Combustion
CHAPTER X--Readjustment
CHAPTER XI--First Ventures
CHAPTER XII--Another Shoulder is Added
CHAPTER XIII--The Battle of Town and Gown
CHAPTER XIV--The Candy Enterprise Grows
CHAPTER XV--The Reckoning
CHAPTER XVI--United We Stand, Divided We Fall
CHAPTER XVII--A Family Council
CHAPTER XVIII--"Save Me From My Friends"
CHAPTER XIX--"An Auction Extraordinary"
CHAPTER XX--Constance B.'s Venture
CHAPTER XXI--Constance B.'s Candies
CHAPTER XXII--First Steps
CHAPTER XXIII--Opening Day
CHAPTER XXIV--One Month Later
CHAPTER I
The Carruths
The afternoon was a wild one. All day driving sheets of rain had swept
along the streets of Riveredge, hurled against windowpanes by fierce
gusts of wind, or dashed in miniature rivers across piazzas. At noon
it seemed as though the wind meant to change to the westward and the
clouds break, but the promise of better weather had failed, and
although the rain now fell only fitfully in drenching showers, and one
could "run between the drops" the wind still blustered and fumed,
tossing the wayfarers about, and tearing from the trees what foliage
the rain had spared, to hurl it to the ground in sodden masses. It was
more like a late November than a late September day, and had a
depressing effect upon everybody.
"I want to go out; I want to go out; I want to go out, _out_, OUT!"
cried little Jean Carruth, pressing her face against the window-pane
until from the outside her nose appeared like a bit of white paper
stuck fast to the glass.
"If you do you'll get wet, _wet_, WET, as sop, _sop_, SOP, and then
mother'll ask what _we_ were about to let you," said a laughing voice
from the farther side of the room, where Constance, her sister, nearly
five years her senior, was busily engaged in trimming a hat, holding
it from her to get the effect of a fascinating bow she had just pinned
upon one side.
"But I haven't a single thing to do. All my lessons for Monday are
finished; I'm tired of stories; I'm tired of fancy work, and I'm tired
of--_everything_ and I want to go _out_," ended the woe-begone voice in
rapid crescendo.
"Do you think it would hurt her to go, Eleanor?" asked Constance,
turning toward a girl who sat at a pretty desk, her elbows resting
upon it and her hands propping her chin as she pored over a copy of
the French Revolution, but who failed to take the least notice of the
question.
Constance made a funny face and repeated it. She might as well have
kept silent for all the impression it made, and with a resigned nod
toward Jean she resumed her millinery work.
But too much depended upon the reply for Jean Carruth to accept the
situation so mildly. Murmuring softly, "You wait a minute," she
slipped noiselessly across the room and out into the broad hall
beyond. Upon a deep window-seat stood a papier-mache megaphone.
Placing it to her lips, her eyes dancing with mischief above its rim,
she bellowed:
"Eleanor Maxwell Carruth, do you think it would hurt me to go out
now?"
The effect was electrical. Bounding from her chair with sufficient
alacrity to send the French Revolution crashing upon the floor,
Eleanor Carruth clapped both hands over her ears, as she cried:
"Jean, you little imp of mischief!"
"Well, I wanted to make you hear me," answered that young lady
complacently. "Constance had spoken to you twice but you'd gone to
France and couldn't hear her, so I thought maybe the megaphone would
reach across the Atlantic Ocean, and it _did_. Now can I go out?"
"_Can_ you or may you? which do you mean," asked the eldest sister
somewhat sententiously.
Constance laughed softly in her corner.
"O, fiddlesticks on your old English! I get enough of it five days in
a week without having to take a dose of it Saturday afternoon too. I
know well enough that I _can_ go out, but whether you'll say yes is
another question, and I want to," and Jean puckered up her small
pug-nose at her sister.
"What a spunky little body it is," said the latter, laughing in spite
of herself, for Jean, the ten-year-old baby of the family was already
proving that she was likely to be a very lively offspring of the
Carruth stock.
"And where are you minded to stroll on this charming afternoon when
everybody else is glad to sit in a snug room and take a Saturday
rest?"
"Mother isn't taking hers," was the prompt retort. "She's down helping
pack the boxes that are to go to that girls' college out in Iowa. She
went in all the rain right after luncheon, and I guess if _she_ can go
out while it poured 'cats and dogs,' I can when--when--when--well it
doesn't even pour _cats_. It's almost stopped raining."
"Where _do_ you get hold of those awful expressions, Jean? Whoever
heard of 'cats and dogs' pouring down? What _am_ I to do with you? I
declare I feel responsible for your development and--"
"Then let me go _out_. I need some fresh air to develop in: my lungs
don't pump worth a cent in this stuffy place. It's hot enough to roast
a pig with those logs blazing in the fire-place. I don't see how you
stand it."
"Go get your rubber boots and rain coat," said Eleanor resignedly.
"You're half duck, I firmly believe, and never so happy as when you're
splashing through puddles. Thank goodness your skirts are still short,
and you can't very well get _them_ sloppy; and your boots will keep
your legs dry unless you try wading up to your hips. But where are you
going?"
"I'm going down to Amy Fletcher's to see how Bunny is. He got hurt
yesterday and it's made him dreadfully sick," answered Jean, as she
struggled with her rubber boots, growing red in the face as she tugged
at them. In five minutes she was equipped to do battle with almost any
storm, and with a "Good bye! I'll be back pretty soon, and then I'll
have enough fresh air to keep me in fine shape for the night," out she
flew, banging the front door behind her.
Eleanor watched the lively little figure as it went skipping down the
street, a street which was always called a beautiful one, although now
wet and sodden with the rain, for Mr. Carruth had built his home in a
most attractive part of the delightful town of Riveredge. Maybe you
won't find it on the map by that name, but it's _there_ just the same,
and quite as attractive to-day as it was several years ago.
Bernard Carruth had been a man of refined taste and possessed a keen
appreciation of all that was beautiful, so it was not surprising that
he should have chosen Riveredge when deciding upon a place for his
home. Situated as it was on the banks of the splendid stream which had
suggested its name, the town boasted unusual attractions, and drew to
it an element which soon assured its development in the most
satisfactory manner. It became noted for its beautiful homes, its
cultured people and its delightful social life.
Among the prettiest of its homes was Bernard Carruth's. It stood but a
short way from the river's bank, was built almost entirely of
cobble-stones, oiled shingles being used where the stones were not
practicable.
It was made up of quaint turns and unexpected corners, although not a
single inch of space, or the shape of a room was sacrificed to the
oddity of the architecture. It was not a very large house nor yet a
very small one, but as Mr. Carruth said when all was completed, the
house sensibly and artistically furnished, and his family comfortably
installed therein:
"It is big enough for the big girl, our three little girls and their
old daddy, and so what more can be asked? Only that the good Lord will
spare us to each other to enjoy it."
This was when Jean was but a little more than two years of age, and
for five years they _did_ enjoy it as only a closely united family can
enjoy a charming home. Then one of Mr. Carruth's college chums got
into serious financial difficulties and Bernard Carruth indorsed
heavily for him.
The sequel was the same wretched old story repeated: Ruin overtook the
friend, and Bernard Carruth's substance was swept into the maelstrom
which swallowed up everything. He never recovered from the blow, or
false representations which led to it, learning unhappily, when the
mischief was done, how sorely he had been betrayed, and within
eighteen months from the date of indorsing his friend's paper he was
laid away in pretty Brookside Cemetery, leaving his wife and three
daughters to face the world upon a very limited income. This was a
little more than two years before the opening of this story. Little
Jean was now ten and a half, Constance fifteen and Eleanor, the
eldest, nearly seventeen, although many judged her to be older, owing
to her quiet, reserved manner and studious habits, for Eleanor was,
undoubtedly, "the brainy member of the family," as Constance put it.
She was a pupil in the Riveredge Seminary, and would graduate the
following June; a privilege made possible by an aunt's generosity,
since Mrs. Carruth had been left with little more than her home, which
Mr. Carruth had given her as soon as it was completed, and the
interest upon his life insurance which amounted to less than fifteen
hundred a year; a small sum upon which to keep up the home, provide
for and educate three daughters.
Constance was now a pupil at the Riveredge High School and Jean at the
grammar school. Both had been seminary pupils prior to Mr. Carruth's
death, but expenses had to be curtailed at once.
Constance was the domestic body of the household; prettiest of the
three, sunshiny, happy, resourceful, she faced the family's altered
position bravely, giving up the advantages and delights of the
seminary without a murmur and contributing to her mother's peace of
mind to a degree she little guessed by taking the most optimistic view
of the situation and meeting altered conditions with a laugh and a
song, and the assurance that "_some_ day she was going to make her
fortune and set 'em all up in fine shape once more." She got her
sanguine disposition from her mother who never looked upon the dull
side of the clouds, although it was often a hard matter to win around
to their shiny side.
Eleanor was quite unlike her; indeed, Eleanor did not resemble either
her father or mother, for Mr. Carruth had been a most genial,
warm-hearted man, and unselfish to the last degree. Eleanor was very
reserved, inclined to keep her affairs to herself, and extremely
matured for her years, finding her relaxation and recreation in a
manner which the average girl of her age would have considered tasks.
Jean was a bunch of nervous impulses, and no one ever knew where the
madcap would bounce up next. She was a beautiful child with a mop of
wavy reddish-brown hair falling in the softest curls about face and
shoulders; eyes that shone lustrous and lambent as twin stars beneath
their delicately arched brows, and regarded you with a steadfast
interest as though they meant to look straight through you, and
separate truth from falsehood. A mouth that was a whimsical
combination of fun and resolution. A nose that could pucker
disdainfully on provocation, and it never needed a greater than its
owner's doubt of the sincerity of the person addressing her.
This is the small person skipping along the pretty Riveredge street
toward the more sparsely settled northern end of the town, hopping
_not from_ dry spot to dry spot _between_ the puddles, but _into_ and
_into_ the deepest to be found. Amy Fletcher's home was one of the
largest in the outskirts of Riveredge and its grounds the most
beautiful. Between it and Riveredge stood an old stone house owned and
occupied by a family named Raulsbury; a family noted for its parsimony
and narrow outlook upon life in general. Broad open fields lay between
this house and the Fletcher place which was some distance beyond. In
many places the fences were broken; at one point the field was a good
deal higher than the road it bordered and a deep gully lay between it
and the sidewalk.
When Jean reached that point of her moist, breezy walk she stopped
short. In the mud of the gully, drenched, cold and shivering lay an
old, blind bay horse. He had stumbled into it, and was too feeble to
get out.