RED ROSES AND YELLOW
The days went on peacefully after the new arrangements for the
shortwood. Every other day, at twelve o'clock, one of Theodore King's
cars waited for Jinnie at the head of the path leading into the
marsh.
When the weather was stormy, Bennett, the chauffeur, took the wood,
telling Jinnie to run along home.
All this made it possible for Jinnie to study profitably during the
warm months, and by the last of August she had mastered many difficult
subjects. Lafe helped her when he could, but often shook his head
despondently as she sat down beside him on the bench, asking his
advice.
"The fact is, honey, I ain't got much brains," he said to her one
afternoon. "If I hung by my neck till I could see through them
figures, I'd be as dead as Moses."
One Thursday morning, as she climbed into the big car with her load,
Bennett said,
"I ain't goin' to pay you this mornin'! The boss'll do it. Mr. King
wants to see you."
Jinnie nodded, her heart pounding.
It was delightful to contemplate seeing him once more. She wondered
where he had been all these days and if he had thought of her.
Jinnie's pulses were galloping along like a race horse. She stood
quietly until the master was called, and he came quickly without
making her wait.
"I'm going to ask you to do me a favor," he said, coming forward,
holding out his hand.
Now when Jinnie first heard that he wished to see her, she thought her
heart could beat no faster, but his words made that small organ tattoo
against her sides like the flutter of a bird's wing in fright. She
could do something for him! Oh, what joy! What unutterable joy!
"We're going to have some friends here Sunday evening----"
The sudden upfling of Jinnie's head cut off his words.
What difference would his having friends make to her? Oh, yes, they
wanted more wood. How gladly she would get it for him; search all day
for the driest pieces if he needed them!
"I was wondering," proceeded Mr. King, "if you would come here with
your violin and play for--for--us?"
Jinnie's knees relaxed and she staggered back against the wall.
"You musn't feel embarrassed about it," he hurried on. "I'd be very
much indebted to you if you thought you could."
Tears were so perilously near Jinnie's lids that some of them rolled
into her throat. To regain her self-possession enough to speak, she
swallowed several times in rapid succession. Such a compliment she'd
never been paid before. She brought her hands together appealingly,
and Mr. King noticed that his request had heightened her color.
"I'd love to do it," she breathed.
"Of course I'll pay you for it," he said, not able to think of
anything else,
"I couldn't take any money for fiddling," replied Jinnie. "But I'll
come. Lafe says money can't be made that way."
She turned to go, but Mr. King detained her.
"Wait a minute," he insisted. "I want to tell you something! You've a
great gift--a wonderful genius--and out of such genius much money
_is_ made.... I couldn't think of letting you come here unless you
allowed me to remunerate you."
Jinnie listened attentively to all he said, but refusal was still in
her steady gaze. Mr. King, seeing this, continued quickly:
"I want you very much, but on that one point I must have my way. I
shall give you twenty-five dollars for playing three pieces."
Then Jinnie thought she was going to faint. Twenty-five dollars! It
was a fortune--a huge fortune! But she couldn't take money for playing
tunes that came from her heart--tunes that were a part of herself the
same as her hands or feet. But before she could offer another
argument, the man finished hurriedly:
"It's settled now. You're to come here Sunday night at eight. I'll
send for you."
Lafe was sitting at the window as she ran through the shortcut along
the tracks. Her curls were flying in the wind, her cheeks glowing with
flaming color. Every day the cobbler loved her more, for in spite of
the dark soil in which Jinnie thrived, she grew lovelier in spirit and
face.
He waved his hand to her, and both of her arms answered his salute.
When the door burst open, Lafe put down his hammer expectantly. Before
he could speak, she was down upon her knees at his side, her curly
head buried in his loving arms, and tears were raining down her face.
Lafe allowed her to cry a few moments. Then he said:
"Something's hurt my lassie's heart.... Somebody!... Was it Maudlin?"
Through the tears shone a radiant smile.
"I'm crying for joy, Lafe," she sobbed. "I'm going to play my fiddle
at Mr. King's house and make twenty-five dollars for three tunes."
Lafe's jaws dropped apart incredulously.
"Twenty-five dollars for playin' your fiddle, child?"
Jinnie told all that had happened since leaving home.
Then Peggy had to be told, and when the amount of money was mentioned
and Jinnie said:
"It'll all be yours, Peggy, when I get it,"
Mrs. Grandoken grunted:
"You didn't make your insides, lassie. It ain't to your credit you can
fiddle, so don't get stuck up."
Jinnie laughed gaily and went to the kitchen, where for two hours,
with Bobbie curled up in the chair holding Happy Pete, she brought
from the strings of the instrument she loved, mournful tunes mingled
with laughing songs, such as no one in Bellaire had ever heard.
Over and over, as Lafe listened, he wondered where and how such music
could be born in the child--for Jinnie, to the lame cobbler, would
always be a little, little girl.
Later Jinnie went to the store, and when Peggy had watched her cross
the street, she sat down in front of her husband.
"Lafe," she said, "what's the kid goin' to wear to King's?... She
can't go in them clothes she's got on."
Lafe looked up, startled.
"Sure 'nough; I never thought of that," he answered. "An' I don't
believe she has uther."
It was the cobbler who spoke to Jinnie about it.
"I suppose you hain't thought what you're going to wear Sunday
night?"
Jinnie whirled around upon him.
"Oh, Lafe!" she faltered, sitting down quickly.
"Peggy 'lowed you'd forgotten that part of it."
"I did, Lafe; I did! Oh, I don't know what to do!"
"I wisht I had somethin' for you, Jinnie dear," breathed Bobbie,
touching her hand.
Jinnie's only response was to put her fingers on the child's head--her
eyes still on the cobbler.
"What did Peggy say, Lafe?"
"Nothin', only you couldn't go in the clothes you got."
Jinnie changed her position that she might see to better advantage the
plain little dress she was wearing.
"But I've got to go, Lafe; oh, I've got to!" she insisted. "Mr. King
wants me.... Please, Lafe, please!"
"Call Peggy, Bobbie," said Lafe, in answer to Jinnie's impetuous
speech.
Bobbie felt his way to the door, and Peggy came in answer to the
child's call.
"I only thought of the twenty-five dollars and the fiddling, Peggy,"
said Jinnie as Mrs. Grandoken rolled her hands in her apron and sat
down. "Did you say I couldn't go in these clothes?"
"I did; I sure did. You can't go in them clothes, an' what you're
goin' to wear is more'n I can make out. I'll have to think.... Just
let me alone for a little while."
It was after Jinnie had gone to bed with Bobbie that Peg spoke about
it again to Lafe.
"I've only got one thing I could rig her a dress out of," she said. "I
don't want to do it because I hate her so! If I hated her any worse,
I'd bust!"
The cobbler raised his hand, making a gesture of denial.
"Peggy, dear, you don't hate the poor little lass."
"Yes, I do," said Peg. "I hate everybody in the world but you....
Everybody but you, Lafe."
"What'd you think might make a dress for 'er?" asked Grandoken
presently.
Before answering, Peg brought her feet together and looked down at her
toes. "There's them lace curtains ma give me when she died," she said.
"Them that's wrapped up in paper on the shelf."
Lafe uttered a surprised ejaculation.
"I couldn't let you do that, Peg," he said, shaking his head. "Them's
the last left over from your mother's stuff. Everything else's
gone.... I couldn't let you, Peggy."
Mrs. Grandoken gave a shake of defiance.
"Whose curtains be they, Lafe?" she asked. "Be they mine or yourn?"
"Yourn, Peggy dear, and may God bless you!"
All through the night Jinnie had dreadful dreams. The thought of
either not going to Mr. King's or that she might not have anything fit
to wear filled the hours with nightmares and worryings. In the
morning, after she crawled out of bed and was wearily dressing Bobbie,
the little blind boy felt intuitively something was wrong with his
friend.
"Is Jinnie sick?" he whispered, feeling her face. "My stars ain't
shinin' much."
The girl kissed him.
"No, honey," she said, "Jinnie's only sad, not sick."
Together they went into the shop, where Peggy stood with the most
gorgeous lacy stuff draped over her arms. Strewn here and there over
the yards and yards of it were bright yellow and red roses. Nothing
could have been more beautiful to the girl, as with widening eyes she
gazed at it. Lafe's face was shining with happiness. Peggy didn't seem
to notice the two as they entered, but she lifted the lace, displaying
its length stolidly.
Jinnie bounded forward.
"What is it, Peg? What is it?"
Lafe beamed through his spectacles.
"A dress for you, girl dear. Peggy's givin' you the things she loves
best. She's the only woman in the world, Jinnie."
Reverently Jinnie went to Mrs. Grandoken's side. She felt abjectly
humble in the presence of this great sacrifice. She looked up into the
glum face of the cobbler's wife and waited in breathless hesitation.
Peg permitted her eyes to fall upon the girl.
"You needn't feel so glad nor look's if you was goin' to tumble over,"
she said. "It ain't no credit to any one them curtains was on the
shelf waitin' to be cut up in a dress for you to fiddle in. Go put the
mush on that there stove!"