Three Little Women Part 1

Three Little Women.

by Gabrielle E. Jackson.

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 bl.u.s.tered 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 ma.s.ses. 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 gla.s.s.

"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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 cras.h.i.+ng 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 Englis.h.!.+ I get enough of it five days in a week without having to take a dose of it Sat.u.r.day 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 s.p.u.n.ky 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 splas.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sured 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 s.h.i.+ngles being used where the stones were not practicable.

It was made up of quaint turns and unexpected corners, although not a single inch of s.p.a.ce, 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, suns.h.i.+ny, 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 a.s.surance 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 l.u.s.trous 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 spa.r.s.ely 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 s.h.i.+vering lay an old, blind bay horse. He had stumbled into it, and was too feeble to get out.

CHAPTER II

"Baltie"

"When he's forsaken Withered and shaken What can an old _horse_ Do but die?"

(With apologies to Tom Hood.)

For one moment Jean stood petrified, too overcome by the sight to stir or speak, then with a low, pitying cry of:

"Oh, Baltie, Baltie! How came you there?" the child tossed her umbrella aside and scrambled down into the ditch, the water which stood in it splas.h.i.+ng and flying all over her, as she hastened toward the p.r.o.ne horse.