CHAPTER VII. JENNY'S TEACHER
It was two o'clock when Jenny skipped to the side porch of the RockyPoint farmhouse. Her grandmother, who was sitting there with her mendingbasket at her side, looked up with the welcoming smile that she alwayshad for the girl. Dropping down on the wooden bench, back of which hung ablossom-laden garland of Cecil Brunner rose vine, Jenny took off herwide, flower-wreathed straw hat and began fanning her flushed face. Thesparkle in her soft brown eyes told the watcher at once that something ofan unusual nature had occurred. The old woman dropped her sewing on herlap, pushed her spectacles up under her lavender-ribboned cap and thensaid with a rising inflection: "Well, Jenny dearie, what have you been upto?"
A peal of amused laughter was the girl's first answer, followed by aseries of little chuckles that tried to form themselves into words butcouldn't. Mirth is contagious and the old woman laughingly said: "Tut!Tut! Jenny, don't keep all the fun of it to yourself. What happened overto the seminary that was so amusing? I reckoned you'd have sort of a hardtune making things straight with Miss O'Hara, if she's as snappy as poorEtta Heldt said she was."
Jenny became serious at once, and, leaning forward, she began earnestly:"Miss O'Hara is kindhearted, Granny Sue, but she does seem to have apowerful lot to worry her. Etta didn't try to be real helpful, I knowthat, although I was so sorry for her, and when I told Miss O'Hara allabout the poor orphan, there were tears in her eyes, honestly there were,Granny, and she said that when the next orphan came, she'd try to makethat kitchen more homelike."
Her listener was pleased and nodded many times, as she commented: "Well,well, that's somethin' now that my Jenny gal has brought to pass, but itwasn't about that you were having such a spell of laughin', I reckon."
Again there were twinkles in the brown eyes as the girl confessed: "No,Granny Sue, it wasn't, and in as many years as Rip Van Winkle slept, youcouldn't guess what it was."
The old woman looked puzzled, as she always did when Jenny quoted fromsome of her "readin' books." "Wall, I reckon I couldn't, bein' as I don'tknow how long the lazy fellow slept, so I reckon you'd better tell mewhat you've been up to over to the seminary."
She had replaced her glasses and was again sewing a patch on an old shirtof Grandpa Si's, but she looked up when the girl said: "You'll beastonished as can be, because you never even guessed that yourgranddaughter knew how to wait on table, stylish-like, with all theflourishes."
Down went the sewing, up went the glasses, and an expression of shockeddispleasure was in the sweet blue eyes of the old woman.
"Jenny Warner, am I hearin' right? Are yo' tellin' me that my gal waitedon table over to the seminary?"
The girl looked puzzled. Grandma Sue was taking almost tragically whatJenny had considered in the light of a merry adventure.
"Why, yes, Granny, I did. You don't mind, do you? You have always wantedme to help where help was needed, and surely poor Miss O'Hara needed awaitress. If we hadn't spirited Etta away, she would have been there. Yousee, don't you, Grandma, that I just had to help?"
"Yes, yes, I reckon like as not you did, but don't do it again, Jenny,don't! Promise, just to please your old Grandma Sue."
The girl placed her hat on the bench and went to her grandmother's sideand knelt, her head nestled lovingly against the old woman's shoulder."Why, Granny, dearie," she said contritely, "I didn't suppose you'd mind.Why is it that you do?" She was plainly perplexed.
But the old woman had no intention of telling the girl she so loved thatshe could not bear the thought of having her act as a servant to her ownsister, Gwynette. And so she replied with an assumed cheeriness: "Just anotion, dearie, like as not. I feel that our gal is as good, and heapsbetter'n a lot of them seminary pupils, and I guess I sort of don't likethe idea of you waitin' on 'em." Then anxiously: "It won't happen again,will it, Jenny?"
The girl kissed her grandmother lovingly. Then rising, she put her hat onher sun-glinted head as she replied: "It won't be necessary, because Peg,the real waitress, will be well again tomorrow. She had one of her blindheadaches today, but I did promise to go over Monday after school and doEtta's work, preparing vegetables. You don't mind that, do you, Grannydear. The new orphan will be there by Tuesday surely."
"Well, well, you do whatever you think right. That heart o' yourn won'ttake you far wrong. You're goin' over to your school-teacher's now,aren't you, dearie? She'll be expectin' you."
The girl nodded, skipped into the house to get a book, returned, sayingas she went down the path: "This is our mythology lesson day. Good-bye,Granny dear. I'll be home in time to get supper."
As Jenny drove Dobbin along the coast highway, she wondered why hergrandmother had objected so seriously to the act of kindness that she haddone. Her teacher, Miss Dearborn, had so often said: "Jeanette, it isn'twhat we do that counts, it is what we are." Surely Jenny had been nodifferent from what she really was when she had been filling cups withsteaming golden brown chocolate. Moreover, Granny Sue hadn't minded inthe least that time, last year, when Jenny had gone over to the cabinhome of the poor forlorn squatter family in the sycamore woods and hadcleaned it out thoroughly.
She had found the mother sick in bed and the three children almostspoiling for a bath. Jenny smiled as she recalled how she had taken them,one after another, down to the creek in the canon below the cabin, andhad washed them, showing the oldest, Rosa, who was eight, how to givefuture baths to Sara, aged five, and Elmer, aged two. And after that shehad driven, at Miss Dearborn's suggestion, into Santa Barbara to tell theVisiting Nurse's Association about the poor squatter family. Grandma Suehad been pleased, then, to have Jenny serve others. Why did she object toa similar service for Miss O'Hara? This being unanswerable, the girldecided to drive through the Sycamore Canon Road, as it was really but alittle out of her way, and see how the squatter's family was progressing.
It became very cool as she turned out of the sunshine of the broadhighway, and the deeper she drove into the canon, the damper and moreearth fragrant the air. Great old sycamore trees that had grown in mostpicturesque angles were on either side of the narrow dirt road, andcrossing and recrossing, under little rustic bridges, rambled the brookwhich in the spring time danced along as though it also were brimmingover with the joy of living. The cabin in which the Pascoli family livedhad been long abandoned when they had taken possession. It stood in amore open spot, where, for a few hours each day, the sunlight came. Itwas partly adobe (from which its former white-washed crust had brokenaway in slabs) and partly logs. A rose vine, which Jenny had given to theolder girl, was bravely trying to climb up about the door, and along thefront of the cabin were ferns transplanted from the brookside.
When Jenny hallooed, there was a joyful answering cry from within, andthree children, far cleaner than when they had first been found, racedout, their truly beautiful Italian faces beaming their pleasure. Theyclimbed up on the sides of the wagon shouting, in child-like fashion, "O,Miss Jenny, did you fetch us any honey?"
"No, dearies. I didn't! And I don't believe you've eaten all that Ibrought you last week, have they, Mrs. Pascoli?" the girl looked overSara's head to the dark-eyed woman who appeared in the open door carryinga wee baby wrapped in a shawl. She replied: "No, ma'am! The beggars theyare!" Then came a rebuking flow of Italian which had the effect desired,for the three youngsters climbed down and said in a subdued chorus,"No'm, we ain't et it, and thanks for it till it's gone." the latter partof the sentence being added by Sara alone. Jenny smiled at them, thensaid to the woman:
"You're quite well again, Mrs. Pascoli. I'm so glad! Grandpa tells methat your husband is working steadily now. Next week I'll bring some morehoney and eggs. Good-bye."
The girl soon turned out of the canon on to a foothill road and after ashort climb came suddenly upon a low built white house that had awonderful view of the ocean and islands.
She turned in at the drive, the gate posts of which were pepper trees,and at once she saw her beloved teache
r, Miss Dearborn, working in hergarden.
The woman, who was about thirty-five, looked up with a welcoming smilewhich she reserved for this her only pupil. "Jenny Warner, you're an hourlate," she merrily rebuked. "Hitch Dobbin and come in. I have some newsto tell you."
"O, Miss Dearborn, is it good news? I'm always so dreading the bad newsthat, some day, I just know you are going to tell me. It isn't that,yet?"
The woman, whose strong, kind, intelligent face was shaded with awide-brimmed garden hat, smiled at the girl, then more seriously shesaid: "Shall you mind so very much when the call comes for me to go backEast?"
Jenny nodded, unexpected tears in her eyes. "East is so far, so very faraway, and you've been here for--well--for as many years as I have beengoing to school."
"Ten, to be exact," was the reply. "But that isn't my news today. It issomething about you, and you'll be ever so excited when you hear it."
Miss Dearborn led the way into a long, cool living room which extendedentirely across the front of the house. In one end of it was a largestone fireplace, on either side of which were glassed-in book shelves.There were Navajo rugs on the hardwood floor, a piano at the oppositeend, deep, cozily cushioned seats under the wide plate-glass windows thatframed such wonderful views of sea, rocky promontory and islands,mist-hung.
In the middle was a long library table and everywhere were chairsinviting ease. Great bowls of glowing yellow poppies stood in many placesabout the long room. This had been Jenny Warner's second home, and MissDearborn a most beneficial influence in her development.
Having removed her garden hat, a mass of soft, light brown hair wasrevealed. Seating herself at one end of the table, the older womanmotioned the girl to a chair at her side.
For a long moment she looked at her earnestly. "Jenny," she said at last,"I believe you are old enough to be told something about me, but since itis not nearly as important as the something about you, I will begin withthat."
Jenny, not in the least understanding why, felt strangely excited. "Oh,Miss Dearborn, if only it hasn't anything to do with your going backEast."
A strong white hand was placed over the smaller one that was lying on thetable, and for a searching moment the gray eyes met the brown. "Ibelieve, after all, I will have to tell you the part about myself firstin order that you may more clearly understand the part about you," MissDearborn said. "I never told you why I came West ten years ago. It wasthis way. When I was fifteen, I went to a boarding school in Boston andmet there a girl, Beatrice Malcolm, who became, through the four yearsthat followed, as dear to me as an own sister would have been. She wasnot strong and she never had been able to bear disappointment. I alwaysgave in to her and tried to shield her whenever I could. She clung to me,depended on me and loved me, if not quite as devotedly as I loved her, atleast very dearly. When we left boarding school we visited each other forweeks at a time. She came to my Cape Cod home in the summer, and I wentto her New York home in the winter, and so we shared the same friends andwere glad to do so, until Eric Austin came into our lives. Eric and Iwere unusually companionable. He loved books and nature and especiallythe sea. He had come to Cape Cod to write a group of poems and I met himat our Literary Club. He came often to my home and we read together dayafter day. Then Beatrice came for her annual summer visit, and, afterthat there were three of us at the readings. Eric's voice was deep,musical and stirringly expressive. I began to notice that Beatrice hungon every word that he uttered as though he were a young god. There wassomething poetically beautiful about his fine face. Then, one day, sheconfessed to me that if she could not win Eric Austin's love, she wouldnot care to live. This was cruelly hard for me, because I also loved Ericand he had told me that my love was returned. Indeed, I had not allowedmyself to really care, until I knew that he cared, but I had told himthat I wanted to wait until we had known each other at least through onesummer."
Miss Dearborn paused and gazed out of the window at the blue seashimmering in the distance, then turned and smiled into the sensitive,responsive face of the girl at her side. Almost tearfully, Jenny said:"Oh, Miss Dearborn, I know what you did. You gave up the man you lovedfor that selfish girl."
The woman shook her head. "Not selfish! Just spoiled, and I had helped,for I had always given up to her, and that is what I did. I pretended notto care. I left them much alone, and then, when the summer was over, Iclosed my Cape Cod home and came West. Eric was deeply hurt, and wrote methat, although he never could care for anyone as he did for me, he wasgoing to marry Beatrice and would try to make her as happy as he hadhoped to make me. That was all. They were married while I was settling inthis new home. Year after year Beatrice has written that some day shewants me to come and visit them, and she has named her oldest girl afterme. Little Catherine is now eight. That is all about me. Now I will tellthe something about you."
Jenny, deeply affected by what she had heard, said with a little halfsob: "Oh, Miss Dearborn, it makes my heart ache to think that you havelived all these years so alone when you might have had the companionshipof that man who really loved you. I just know he never could have lovedyour friend Beatrice. She must have known you cared and she let you makethat cruel sacrifice."
Before answering the older woman took the girl's hand and held it in aclose clasp as she said earnestly: "Jenny, dear, I gave up much, verymuch, but think what I won. You, for instance. I had thought that I mighthave a daughter, as I suppose all girls, growing into young womanhood,dream that, some day, they will marry and have children, and thatdaughter, I now believe, would have been like you. So you see I gainedsomething very precious." There were tears in Jenny's tender brown eyesas she replied: "Oh. Miss Dearborn, I am the one who has gained. I justcan't picture life without you. I remember so well when you first came.You heard that our little schoolhouse down on the coast highway was to beclosed because the board of education was not allowed to pay a teacher'ssalary unless there were eight pupils to attend the school. There wereonly five of us, the four from the Anderson Bean Ranch and me. Youoffered to teach us for nothing, saying that you wanted to do somethingfor children. I didn't know that until long afterwards, then Grandma toldme how it had all come about. We were too little to go on the bus to thebig schools in Santa Barbara."
"I'm glad indeed that I did it," Miss Dearborn put in, "but, of course,when the Andersons moved back to their Iowa farm and you were the onlypupil we closed that coast highway school and had our lessons here, andsuch an inspiration as they have been to me, Jenny Warner! I just knowthat you are leading up to an expression of gratitude. I've heard it timeand again and I do appreciate it, dear girl, but now that you know thegreat loneliness that was in my heart when I came West, you will readilyunderstand that having you to teach filled a void, filled it beautifully,and so, I also have a deep sense of gratitude toward you."
"And two years ago," Jenny continued retrospectively, "when we completedthe work of the sixth grade, you can't think how unhappy I was, for Isupposed that at last I would have to leave you and go by bus each day tothe Santa Barbara Junior High, and I never shall forget that wonderfulday when you told me you had received permission to teach me through theeighth grade."
Miss Dearborn laughed happily. "What I never told you, Jenny, was thatthe board of education insisted that I take an examination at their StateNormal to prove to them that I knew enough to teach one lone pupil thehigher grade work. I brushed up evenings and passed creditably."
Impulsively the girl pressed the woman's hand to her cheek. "Oh, MissDearborn," she exclaimed tremulously, "to _think_ that you did _all_ that_just_ for me."
"Wrong you are, Jenny girl!" the woman sang out. "I did it first of allfor Catherine Dearborn. I felt a panic in my heart I had not dreamedpossible when I thought that I was to be left all alone, day in and dayout, with only memory for company. I wanted to keep you, to teach you, tolove you, and I did keep you, but now along comes a letter from the sameboard of education. If we thought they had forgotten us, we are mistaken.That's my news about you."
br /> Opening a small drawer in the end of the table, Miss Dearborn took out aletter and read:
"Miss Jenny Warner will be required to take the entrance examination inall the subjects at the High School of Santa Barbara during the week ofJune 10th. The results of these tests will determine where she is tocontinue her studies."
The girl's lovely face was the picture of dismay. "Oh, Miss Dearborn, Ican't! I can't! I'd be simply frightened to death to even enter the doorof that imposing building, and if any of the pupils as much as spoke tome, I'd simply expire." Her teacher laughed. "Nonsense!" she declared."Not only must my pupil enter the door but she must pass the tests withhigh grades if I am to be permitted to teach her another year."
Then to change the girl's thought, Miss Dearborn continued brightly:"Saturday is our mythology day, isn't it? But since you came late and wehave spent so much time visiting, we will not go up into the hills as weusually do for this lesson. Let me see. Weren't you to write somethingabout Apollo, Diana and Echo that I might know if you fully understandjust what each stands for in poetry and art?"
"Oh, Miss Dearborn," Jenny laughed as she drew a paper from her book, "Idon't know what you will say about the composition I tried to write. Itisn't good, I know, but I ever so much wanted to write it in verse. Shallyou mind my trying?" The girl's manner was inquiring and apologetic atthe same time.
"Of course not," was the encouraging reply. "We all reach an age when wewant to write our thoughts in rhyme. Read it to me."
And so timidly Jenny began:
At Sunrise
Gray mists veil the dawn of day, Silver winged they speed away,
When across a road of gold In his shining chariot rolled
Young Apollo. Day's fair King Bids the birds awake and sing!
Robin, skylark, linnet, thrush From each glen and flower-glad bush
Burst their throats with warbles gay To welcome back the King of Day.
Diana, huntress, Apollo's twin, Standing in a forest dim,
A quiver on one shoulder fair Filled with arrows. (In her hair
A moonlike crescent.) Calls her hounds To new adventures with them bounds,
While lovely Echo in the hill, Though grieving for Narcissus still,
Must need call back their song or bay, And so is dawned a glad new day.
Miss Dearborn smiled as she commented: "Dear girl, there is no need toblush about this, your first effort at verse. I am going to suggest thatyou write all of your compositions on this poetical subject in rhyme.Keep them and let us see how much better the last will be than thefirst." Then after a thoughtful moment: "Dawn is a subject much loved bythe poets."
Then she quoted from Byron:
"The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense and with cheek all bloom; Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn (Living as if earth contained no tomb) And glowing into day."
"Oh, Miss Dearborn," was Jenny's enthusiastic comment, "how happy I willbe when my memory holds as many poems as you know. It will add to theloveliness of every scene to know what some poet has thought about onethat was similar."
"You are right, dear, it does." Then rising, Miss Dearborn said: "Comewith me to the porch dining room. I hear the kettle calling us toafternoon tea."