The Cinder Pond Part 11

His sisters t.i.ttered. Poor Jeanne writhed in her chair. No one had _ever_ been unkind to her. Even Mrs. Shannon, whose tongue had been sharp, had never made her shrink like that.

"I am Jeannette Duval," returned the unhappy visitor. "My mother was Elizabeth Huntington. This is where my grandfather lives."

"Goodness!" exclaimed the taller of the two girls, whose name was Pearl; "she must be related to _us_!"

"Elizabeth Huntington is the aunt that we aren't allowed to mention, isn't she?" asked the younger girl.

"Yes," returned the boy. "She ran away and married a low-down Frenchman and my grandfather turned her out. That old gardener we had two years ago used to talk about it. _He_ said she was the best of all the Huntingtons, but of course he was crazy."

"Say, Clara," said the older girl, "we'll be late for school. You, too, Harold."

The three deserted Jeanne as unceremoniously as they did the furniture.

Left alone, Jeanne looked about her. The floor was very smooth and s.h.i.+ny. There were rugs that looked as if they might be interesting, close to. There were chairs and tables with very slender, highly-polished legs. There was a large mirror built into the wall--part of the time she had seen six cousins instead of three--and a big fireplace with a white-and-gold mantel.

"That's a queer kind of stove," thought Jeanne, noting the gas log.

After a thousand years (it seemed to Jeanne) the four grown-ups returned. Her father came first.

"You are to stay here for five years," said he, taking her hands in his.

"After that, we shall see. We have all decided that it is best for you to be here with your mother's people. They have consented to care for you. I shall pay, as I can, for what you need. For the rest, you will be indebted to the kindness of your grandfather. I need not tell you, my Jeanne, to be a good girl. You will write to me often and I will write to you. And now, good-by. I must go at once to make my train."

He kissed Jeanne first on one cheek, then on the other, French-fas.h.i.+on; then, with a gesture so graceful and comprehensive that Jeanne flushed with pride to see it, Leon Duval took leave of his relatives-in-law.

"He _isn't_ a low-down Frenchman and I _know_ it," was her comforting thought.

Poor child, the rest of her thoughts were not so comforting. Five years!

Not to see her wonderful father again for five years. Not to see good-natured Mollie, or Michael or Sammy or Annie or Patsy--Why, Patsy would be a great big boy in five years. There would be no one to make clothes for the children, no one to make Annie into a lady--she had firmly intended to do that. Unselfish mite that she was, her first distressing thoughts were for the other children.

"A maid will come for you presently," said the large, smooth lady, addressing Jeanne, "and will show you your room. I will look through your clothes later to see what you need. I am your Aunt Agatha. This is your Uncle Charles. This is your grandfather. I must go now to see about your room."

Her Uncle Charles nodded carelessly in her direction, looked at his watch, and followed his wife.

The room to which the maid escorted Jeanne was large, with cold gray walls, a very high ceiling, and white doors. The bra.s.s bed was wide, very white and smooth. The pillows were large and hard. The towels that hung beside the stationary basin looked stiff and uninviting. Jeanne wondered if one were supposed to unfold those towels--it seemed a pity to wrinkle their polished surface. Altogether it was not a cosy room; any more than Mrs. Huntington was a cosy person.

Jeanne turned hopefully to the large window. There was another house very close indeed. The gray brick wall was not beautiful and the nearest window was closely shuttered.

"Where," asked Jeanne, turning to the maid, who still lingered, "is the lake?"

"The lake!" exclaimed the maid. "Why, there isn't any lake. There's a small river, they say, down town, somewhere. _I_ never saw it--pretty dirty, I guess. When your trunk comes, push this b.u.t.ton and I'll unpack for you, if you like. There's your suitcase. You can use these drawers for your clothes--maybe you'd like to put them away yourself. I'll go now."

Jeanne was glad that she had her suitcase to unpack. It was something to do. But when she opened it, kneeling on the floor for that purpose, she found that it contained two articles that had not been there earlier in the morning. She remembered that her father had closed it for her on the train. Perhaps _he_ had put something inside.

There was a small, new purse containing a few coins--two dollars altogether. It seemed a tremendous sum to Jeanne. The other parcel seemed vaguely familiar. Jeanne removed the worn paper covering.

"Oh!" she breathed rapturously.

There was her mother's beautiful lace handkerchief wrapped about the lovely little miniature of her mother. Her father, who had cherished these treasures beyond anything, had given them to _her_. And he had not told her to take good care of them--he had _known_ that she would.

"Oh, _Daddy_," she whispered, "it was _good_ of you."

When Jeanne, who had had an early breakfast, had come to the conclusion that she was slowly but surely starving to death, the maid, whose name proved to be Maggie, escorted her to the dining-room.

In spite of her father's instructions, she made mistakes at the table, princ.i.p.ally because there were bread and b.u.t.ter knives and bouillon spoons invented since the days of Duval's young manhood. At least, however, she didn't eat with her knife. Unhappily, whenever she did the wrong thing, one or another of her cousins laughed. That made her grandfather frown. Some way, embarra.s.sed Jeanne was glad of that.

She was to learn that her cousins were much better trained in such matters as table manners than in kind and courteous ways toward other persons. Their mother was conventional at all times. She _couldn't_ have used the wrong fork. But there were certain well-bred persons who said that Mrs. Huntington had the very _worst_ manners of anybody in her set; that she never thought of anybody's feelings but her own; but the self-satisfied lady was far from suspecting any such state of affairs.

She thought herself a _very_ nice lady; and considered her children most beautifully trained.

Happily, by watching the others, Jeanne, naturally bright and quick, soon learned to avoid mistakes. As she was also naturally kind, her manners were really better, in a short time, than those of the young Huntingtons.

Her new relatives, particularly the younger ones, asked her a great many questions about her former life. Had she really never been to school?

Weren't there any schools? Was the climate _very_ cold in Northern Michigan? Were the people very uncivilized? Were they Indians or Esquimaux? What was her home like? What was the Cinder Pond? Sometimes the children giggled over her replies, sometimes they looked scornful.

Almost always, both Mr. and Mrs. Huntington appeared shocked. It wasn't so easy to guess what old Mr. Huntington thought.

CHAPTER XI

A NEW LIFE

At the conclusion of Jeanne's first uncomfortable meal with her new relatives, Mrs. Huntington detained the children, for a moment, in the dining-room.

"Next week," said she, "Jeannette will be going to school. You are not to tell the other pupils nor any of your friends, nor the maids in this house, anything of her former life. And you, too, Jeannette, will please be silent concerning your poverty and the fact that your father was a common fishman."

"Gee!" scoffed Harold, holding his nose. "A fishman!"

"He was a _gentleman_," replied Jeanne, loyally. "He was _not_ common.

Mollie was common, but my father wasn't."

"No gentleman _could_ be a fishman," returned Mrs. Huntington, who really supposed she was telling the truth. "You will remember, I hope, not to mention his business!"

"Yes'm," promised Jeanne, meekly.

"Yes, Aunt Agatha," prompted Mrs. Huntington.

"Yes, Aunt Agatha," said Jeanne, thoroughly awed by the large, cold lady.

"Now we will see what you need in the way of clothes. Of course you have nothing at all suitable."

Jeanne followed her aunt upstairs. Mrs. Huntington noted with surprise that the garments in the drawers were neatly folded. Also that they were of astonis.h.i.+ng fineness.

"Did your stepmother buy these!" asked the lady.

"No. My father."

"These handkerchiefs, too!"

"Yes, he bought _everything_."