Meg of Mystery Mountain Part 2

The glad expression on the freckled face of the little girl, who could not be called really pretty, changed instantly. Her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears. "Don't be a silly," Jane said rebukingly, as she stooped and kissed the child indifferently on the forehead.

A dear old lady, wearing a pretty lavender gingham and a white "afternoon ap.r.o.n," appeared in the doorway all a-flutter of happy excitement. She had not seen Jane for two years, and she took the girl's hands in her own that trembled.

"Dear, dear Jenny!" (How the graduate of fas.h.i.+onable Highacres had always hated the name her grandmother had given her.) "What a blessing 'tis that you have come home at last. It'll mean more to your father to have you here than you can think." The old lady evidently did not notice the scornful curling of the girl's lips, or, if she did, she purposely pretended that she did not, and kept on with her speech. "You know, dearie, you're the perfect image of that other Jane my Daniel loved so dearly, and she was just your age, Jenny, when they met. It'll be like meeting her all over again to have you coming home now, when he's in such trouble, you being so like her, and she was most tender and brave and unselfish."

Even the grandmother noticed that her well-meant speech was not acceptable, for the girl's impatience was ill concealed.

"Where is my father?" she said in a voice which gave Dan little hope that the n.o.bler self in the girl had been awakened.

"He's working in the garden, dearie; out beyond the apple orchard," the old lady said tremulously. "He told me when you came to send you out. He wants to be alone with you just at first. And your little brother, Gerald; I s'pose you're wondering where he is. Well, he's got a place down in the village as errand boy for Peterson's grocery. They give him his pay every night, and he fetches it right home to his Dad. Of course my Daniel puts the money in bank for Gerald's schooling, but the boy don't know that. He thinks he's helping, and bless him, n.o.body knows how much he is helping. There's ways to bring comfort that no money could buy."

Dan knew that Jane believed their gentle old grandmother was preaching at her. He was almost sorry. He feared that it was antagonizing Jane; nor was he wrong.

"Well, I think the back orchard was a strange place for father to have me meet him," she said, almost angrily, as she flung herself out of the house. Dan sighed. Then, stooping, he kissed the little old lady. "Don't feel badly, grandmother," he said, adding hopefully: "The real Jane must waken soon."

The proud, selfish girl, again rebellious, walked along the narrow path that led under the great, old, gnarled apple trees which the children had used for playhouses ever since they could climb. She felt like one stunned, or as though she were reading a tragic story and expected at every moment to be awakened to the joyful realization that it was not true.

Her father saw her coming and dropped the hoe that he had been plying between the long rows of beans. "How terribly he has changed," Jane thought. He had indeed aged and there was on his sensitive face, which was more that of an idealist than a business man, the impress of sorrow, but also there was something else. Jane noticed it at once; an expression of firm, unwavering determination. She knew that appealing to his love for his daughter would be useless, great as that love was. A quotation she had learned in school flashed into her mind--"I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more."

There was, indeed, infinite tenderness in the clear gray eyes that looked at her, and then, without a word, he held out his arms, and suddenly Jane felt as she had when she was a little child, and things had gone wrong.

"Father! Father!" she sobbed, and then she clung to him, while he held her in a yearning, strong embrace, saying, "It's hard, my daughter, terribly hard for all of us, but it was the thing that I had to do. Dan, I am sure, has told you all that happened. But it won't be for long, Janey. What I have done once, I can do again." He led her to a rustic bench under one of the trees, and removing her hat, he stroked her dark, glossy hair. "Jane, dear," he implored, when her sobs grew less, "try to be brave, just for a time. Promise me!" Then, as the girl did not speak, the man went on, "We have tried so hard, all of us together, to make it possible for you to finish at Highacres. Poor Dan made the biggest sacrifice. I feared that I would have to send for you to come home, perhaps only for this term, but Dan wrote, 'Father, use my college money for Jane's tuition. I'll work my way through for the rest of this year.'

And that is what he did. Notwithstanding the fact that he had to study until long after midnight, he worked during the day, nor did he stop when he caught a severe cold. He did not let us know how ill he was, but struggled on and finished the year with high honors, but, oh, my daughter, you can see how worn he is. Dr. Sanders tells me that Dan must go to the Colorado mountains for the summer and I have been waiting, dear, to talk it over with you. You will want to go with Dan to take care of him, won't you, Jane?"

Almost before the girl knew that she was going to say it, she heard her self-pitying voice expostulating, "Oh, Dad, how cruel fate is! Marion Starr wanted me to go with her to Newport. They're going to one of those adorable cottage-hotels, she and her Aunt Belle, and we three girls who have been Merry's best friends were to go with her. It would only cost me one hundred dollars a month. That isn't so very much, is it, Dad?"

Mr. Abbott sighed. "Jane," and there was infinite reproach in his tone, "am I to believe that you are willing that Dan should go alone to the mountains to try to find there the health he lost in his endeavor to help you?"

Again the girl sobbed. "Oh, Dad, how selfish I am! How terribly selfis.h.!.+

I love Dan, but the thing I want to do is to go to Newport. Of course I know I can't go, but, oh, _how_ I do want to."

The girl feared that her father would rebuke her angrily for the frank revelation of her lack of grat.i.tude, but, instead, he rose, saying kindly as he a.s.sisted her to arise, "Jane, dear, you _think_ that is what you want to do but I don't believe it. Dan is to go West next Friday. My good friend Mr. Bethel, being president of a railroad, has sent me the pa.s.ses.

As you know, I still own a little cabin on Mystery Mountain which I purchased for almost nothing when I graduated from college and went West to seek my fortune. There is _no_ mystery, and there was _no_ wealth, but I have paid the taxes until last year and those Dan shall pay, as I do not want to lose the place. It was to that cabin, as you have often heard us tell, that your mother and I went for our honeymoon. You need not decide today, daughter. If you prefer to go with your friends, I will find a way to send you."

CHAPTER V.

JANE'S SMALL BROTHER

There were many conflicting emotions in the heart of the tall, beautiful girl as she walked slowly back to the house, her father at her side with one arm lovingly about her.

"Jane," he said tenderly, "I wish there were words in our English language that could adequately express the joy it is to me because you are so like your mother, and, strangely perhaps, Dan is as much like me as I was at his age as you are like that other Jane. She was tall and willowy, with the same bright, uplifting of her dark eyes when she was pleased."

Then the man sighed, and he said almost pleadingly, "You do realize, do you not, daughter, that I would do anything that was right to give you pleasure?"

Vaguely the girl replied, "Why, I suppose so, Dad. I don't quite understand ideals and ethics. I've never given much thought to them."

Jane could say no more, for, vaulting over the low fence beyond the orchard, a vigorous boy of twelve appeared, and, if ten-year-old Julie had made a terrifying onrush, this boy's attack resembled that of a little wild Indian. "Whoopla!" he fairly shouted, "If here isn't old Jane! Bully, but that's great! Did you bring me anything?"

There was no fending off the boy's well meant embraces, and Jane emerged from them with decidedly ruffled feelings.

"I certainly don't like to have you call me old Jane," she scolded. "I think it is very lacking in respect. Father, I wish you would tell Gerald to call me Sister Jane."

Mr. Abbott reprimanded the crestfallen lad, then he told the girl that the boy had not meant to be disrespectful. "You know, Jane, that children use certain phrases until they are worn ragged, and just now 'old' is applied to everything of which Gerald is especially fond. It is with him a term of endearment." Then, with a smile of loving encouragement for the boy, their father added: "Why, that youngster even calls me 'old Dad' and I confess I rather like it."

The boy did not again address his sister, but going to the other side of his father, he clung affectionately to his arm and hopped along on one foot and then on the other as though he had quite forgotten the rebuff, but he had not. They entered a side door and Jane went upstairs to her own pleasant room with its wide bow windows that opened out over the tops of the apple trees and toward the sloping green hills for which New Jersey is famous. Grandmother was in the kitchen preparing a supper such as Jane had liked two years before when she had visited the Vermont farm, and Julie was setting the table, when Gerald appeared. Straddling a chair he blurted out, "Say, isn't Jane a spoil-joy? I'm awful sorry her school's let out, and 'tisn't only for vacation that she'll be home. Dan says it's forever 'n ever 'n ever. She'll be trying to tell us where to head in. We'll have about as much fun as--as--(the boy was trying hard to think of a suitable simile)--as--a----" Then as he was still floundering, Julie, holding a handful of silver knives and forks, whirled and said brightly, "as a rat in a dog kennel. You know last week how awful unhappy that rat was that puppy had in his kennel, till you held his collar and let the poor thing get away." Then as the small girl continued on her way around the long table placing the silver by each plate, she said hopefully, "Don't let's mope about it yet. Jane always goes a-visitin'

her school friends every summer and like's not she will this."

"Humph! She must be heaps nicer other places than she is here, or folks wouldn't want her." Their mutual commiserating came to an abrupt end, for Grandma appeared from the kitchen with a covered dish, out of which a delicious aroma was escaping. Then in from the other door came Dad, one arm about Jane and the other about Dan. Grandma glanced anxiously at her big son. His expression was hard to read, but he seemed happier. How she hoped Jane had proved herself a worthy daughter of her mother.

It is well, perhaps, that we cannot read the thoughts of those nearest us, for all that evening Jane was wondering how she could make over her last summer's wardrobe that it might appear new even in a fas.h.i.+onable cottage-hotel.

On Thursday, directly after breakfast, Jane went up to her room without having offered to help with the morning work. She had never even made her own bed in all the eighteen years of her life and the thought did not suggest itself to her that she might be useful. Or, if it did, she a.s.sured herself that Julie was far more willing and much more capable as a helper for their grandmother than she, Jane, could possibly be. The truth was that bright-eyed, eager, light-footed little Julie was far more welcome than the older girl, bored, sulky, and selfish, would have been.

Dan left early for the city, where he wished to purchase a few things he would need while "roughing it" in the Colorado mountains. Gerald went with him as far as the cross-roads, then the older boy tramped on to the depot while the younger one, whistling gaily and even turning a handspring now and then, proceeded to his place of business, and was soon nearly hidden in an ap.r.o.n much too big for him, while he swept out the store.

Mr. Abbott had watched his older daughter closely during that morning meal. He had said little to her, but had conversed cheerily with Dan, telling him just what khaki garments he would need, and, at Gerald's urging, he had retold exciting adventures that he had had in that old log cabin in the long ago days, when he had first purchased it. How the boy wished that he, also, could go to that wonderful Mystery Mountain, but not for one moment would he let Dad know of this yearning. He was needed at home to earn what he could by working at the Peterson grocery. His big brother was not well, so he, Gerald, must take his place as father's helper. He was a little boy, only twelve, and it took courage to whistle and turn handsprings when he would far rather have crept away into some hidden fence corner and sobbed out his longing for travel and adventure.

All that sunny July morning Mr. Abbott worked in his garden back of the apple orchard.

Often as he hoed between the long rows of thrifty vegetables, the sorrowing man glanced up at the windows of the room in which he knew his beloved daughter sat. How he wished she would come out and talk with him, even if it were to tell him that she had decided that she wanted to go with her friends to Newport. He had promised to find a way to obtain the $300 she would need, if she wished to go for three months.

He sighed deeply, and, being hidden from the house by a gnarled old apple tree, he stopped his work and took from his pocket an often read letter from an old friend who had offered to loan him any sum, large or small, at any time that it might be needed. "If Jane wants to go, I'll wire for the money," he decided. Never before had a morning dragged so slowly for the man who was used to the whirl, confusion and excitement of Wall Street.

And yet, though he hardly realized it, the warm, gentle breeze rustling among the leaves of the trees, the smell of the freshly turned earth in which he was working, the cheerful singing of the birds far and near--brought into his soul a sense of peace. At the end of one row he stood up, very straight as he had stood before it had all happened, and looking up into the radiant blue sky, he seemed to know, deep in the heart of him, that all would be well. It was with a brisker step than he had walked in many a day that he returned to the house, when little Julie appeared at the back door to ring the luncheon bell.

"Surely Jane has decided by now," he told himself. "And equally surely she will want to go West with the brother who has sacrificed himself, his ease and his health that she might finish her course at Highacres." So confident was he of his daughter's real n.o.bility of nature that he found himself planning what he would suggest that she take with her. She would ask him about that at lunch. There was not much time to prepare, but she would need little in that wild mountain country. At last he heard her slowly descending the stairs. His anxiety increased. What would Jane's decision be?

CHAPTER VI.

JANE'S CHOICE

The father, with his hands clasped behind him, was pacing up and down the long dining room when his daughter entered. He saw at once that she had been crying, although she had endeavored to erase the traces of the tears which had been shed almost continuously through the morning.

In a listless voice she said at once, "Father, I have decided to go with Dan since you feel that it is my duty, but, oh, how I want to go to Newport with Merry and the rest: but of course it would cost $300 and there is no money."

The father had started eagerly toward his daughter when she had entered, but, upon hearing the concluding part of her speech, he drew back, a hurt expression in his clear gray eyes. He folded his arms and a more alert observer than Jane would have noticed an almost hard tone in his voice.

Never before had it been used for the daughter who was so like the mother in looks only. "The matter is decided. Jane," he informed her. "The $300 that you require will be forthcoming. However, I wish you would plan to leave tomorrow, the same day that your brother goes West. I want to be alone, without worries, that I may decide how best to go about earning what I shall need to finish paying the debt that I still owe to the poor people who trusted me."

"Oh, father, father!" Jane flung herself into her chair at the table and put her head down on her folded arms. "I didn't know that you felt that you owe them more than your entire fortune."

"It was not enough to cover their investments," the man said, still coldly, for he believed the girl was crying because she would have to give up even more than she had supposed, and be kept in poverty for a longer period of time. She sat up, however, when her father said, "Jane, dry your tears. Since you are to go to Newport, I see nothing for you to cry about, and I do not wish mother and Julie to know how I feel about this whole matter."

Hastily Jane left the table to again remove the traces of tears, and when she returned, her grandmother and Julie were in their places. Her father had remained standing until she also was seated. Then, bowing his head, he said the simple grace of grat.i.tude which had never been omitted at that table.