CHAPTER III
Fifteen minutes later Rebecca Mary and Joan with Joan's suit case andthe picture and the clock and the potato masher were driving away withMrs. Simmons, while Mrs. Lee waved her apron and promised to let themknow the very first minute that Mr. Befort or Mrs. Muldoon returned.
"This is the picture of my very own father and my very own mother," Joanexplained as she showed Mrs. Simmons and Rebecca Mary the photograph ofa man in a very gorgeous uniform and with an order on his breaststanding beside a beautiful young woman in a smart evening gown, a longstring of pearls about her neck. There was a coat of arms emblazoned onthe silver frame, and Mrs. Simmons touched it with her fingers to callRebecca Mary's attention to the splendor of it.
"This clock was my mother's, too," Joan chattered on. "And I've wound itmyself every night since she went away so I had to bring it with me, andthis," she looked at the potato masher doubtfully. "I don't know why Ilike it, but I do."
"Then I'm glad you brought it with you." Mrs. Simmons patted the smallfingers which clutched the wooden potato masher and wondered if thepictured father was dressed for a costume ball or if his every-dayclothes were so gorgeous. "Did you ever see her father?" she askedRebecca Mary.
Rebecca Mary quite forgot the brief glimpse she had had of Mr. Befort'sback as he was leaving the Viking room with Joan. "Never!" she exclaimedwith an emphasis which made Mrs. Simmons laugh. It sounded so fierce, asthough if Rebecca Mary ever had seen Mr. Befort she would have told hima thing or two.
"He has only been at the factory for a few months," Mrs. Simmonsexplained. "We'll stop at my house and telephone to the office. It willbe interesting to hear where he has gone and why he has gone."
But when they stopped at Mrs. Simmons' house, a big sprawling mansion ofbrick and plaster and brown timbers, and telephoned to the office allthey learned was that Frederick Befort had gone away on special businessand could not be reached by any one--not by any one at all.
"Well, upon my word!" Mrs. Simmons was quite taken aback by the decisiveanswer from the office. "I've half a mind to show that man that I canreach Frederick Befort if I want to. It's ridiculous, perfectlyridiculous, to think that any business is more important than his child.What will you do?" she asked Rebecca Mary.
"I suppose I shall have to keep her until her father comes back," sighedRebecca Mary. "I really can't turn her over to the Associated Charities,but it seems to me that a good deal is expected of a teacher."
"She might stay here," suggested Mrs. Simmons. "One of my maids couldlook after her. How would you like that?" she asked Joan, who stoodbeside her.
"It would be like home." Joan looked about the big spacious rooms withtheir rich rugs and hangings, the attractive furnishings and beautifulpictures. "Our old home, I mean. But I wasn't loaned to you. I was--Iwas loaned to Miss Wyman." Her lips quivered and tears hung perilouslynear the edge of each black eye.
"So you were, honey." Suddenly Rebecca Mary realized that a great dealwas being expected of Joan, too, and she hugged her. She felt almost assorry for Joan as she did for herself. It couldn't be pleasant to beleft on the door step with a picture and a clock and a potato masher."It's ever so kind of you, Mrs. Simmons, but we'll manage some way."
"I'm sure she wouldn't bother me as much as she will you, and I have anobligation toward her as long as her father works for my husband. Don'tgo yet," as Rebecca Mary rose and took Joan's hand. "We'll have a cup oftea, and then I'll take you home in the car."
"I like to ride in cars," dimpled Joan, all smiles again. "I always usedto."
Over her head Mrs. Simmons looked at Rebecca Mary and raised hereyebrows questioningly, but Rebecca Mary could only shake her head.Rebecca Mary began to see that there might be something in herprincipal's wish to have her teachers know more of their pupils thantheir ability to read and cipher. There was such a lot more about Joanthat Rebecca Mary would like to have known that very minute.
"Where was your old home, my dear?" Mrs. Simmons did not hesitate to askfor any information she wished to have.
"Over the sea--at Echternach." Joan turned an eager face toward her,quite willing to talk of that old home where she had lived with herdaddy and her mother until she had come to the United States with hermother. Her mother had died suddenly, leaving Joan with a grandmotherwho had lived only long enough to give the little girl back to herfather when he came a year later. And as she chattered Mrs. Simmons andRebecca Mary looked at the coat of arms on the silver frame and at thephotograph of the gorgeously uniformed man and the beautiful woman.
"Tell me about your father?" Mrs. Simmons asked as soon as she couldslip a word in edgeways.
Joan looked up, a trifle puzzled by the question. "Daddy?" she repeated."Why, he's just--daddy. He's like--well, his eyes always look at me solovingly and his mouth talks to me so sweetly and his ears heareverything I say and his hands work for me and his feet bring him tome." She kept her eyes on the photograph to make sure she left nothingout. "That's my daddy!" she finished triumphantly, and she looked up asif she dared them to find fault with such a daddy.
Mrs. Simmons patted her shoulder, and Rebecca Mary hugged her.
"That's a very good working description of a daddy," smiled Mrs.Simmons. "And here is Sako with the tea."
When the Japanese butler had placed the tray on the low table besideMrs. Simmons, Joan handed cups and passed sandwiches quite as if shewere accustomed to that pleasant task.
"I'm consumed with curiosity," Mrs. Simmons whispered to Rebecca Mary."She is a most unusual child. You must tell me anything you learn abouther. Echternach sounds German, doesn't it? And although the war is overand we're told we are to forgive our enemies, I can't quite forgive theGermans for all the dreadful things they did. Nor the Turks. Of coursethe children aren't to be blamed, but--That's my grandson," she toldJoan, who was looking at a large framed photograph on the table. "YoungPeter Simmons, and I'm sinfully proud of him. He was my firstgrandchild, and even when he was a fat bald-headed baby I knew that someday he would do wonderful things. I suppose all grandmothers think that,just as all mothers do. But I really didn't think Peter would do aswonderful things as he has," she went on more to Rebecca Mary than toJoan. "You know he has a _croix de guerre_?" She drew a quick breath andlooked at Rebecca Mary with a smile which was not at all a laughingsmile. "I'm apt to be a bit foolish when I talk of young Peter Simmons,"she admitted as she wiped her eyes.
"I don't wonder!" Rebecca Mary drew a quick breath, too. "I should thinkyou would be proud!" She knew she should be proud if young PeterSimmons belonged to her. She didn't care if he had scowled at her.
"My daddy has one of those." Joan's pink finger pointed to the cross onyoung Peter Simmons' tunic. "Only his is an eagle." She showed it tothem on her pictured father. "He doesn't wear it every day."
"Neither does my Peter," complained Peter's grandmother. "Listen!Doesn't that sound like Peter now?" For a car had stopped before thehouse, and there was a rush of young feet and a chatter of youngtongues. "Don't you hope it is?"
Rebecca Mary must have hoped it was for she turned a deep crimson, andwhen young Peter Simmons did actually come in she gazed at him as if hewere the most wonderful, the most amazing, man in the world. RebeccaMary had never met a hero before and although Peter looked like anyyoung man of twenty-three, big and brave and jolly, she knew that he wasa hero and that the French government had given him a cross to provethat he was a hero. No wonder she drew a quick breath and that her eyeswere full of awe as she looked at him. She quite forgot that once he hadscowled at her, and she had scowled at him.
Peter was not alone, and Rebecca Mary and Joan were introduced to DorisKilbourne and Martha Farnsworth and Stanley Cabot. The girls rushedacross the room to kiss Granny Simmons and tell her about their golf atthe Country Club and to ask her if Peter wasn't a perfect brute to beatthem.
And Peter chuckled. "You must expect to be beaten," he told them in alordly manner. "Golf is no game for a girl, is it, Miss Wyman?"
Rebec
ca Mary colored to have him appeal to her, and she stammered a bitas she answered. "I thought it was a game for men, fat bald-headed oldmen."
The girls shrieked at that. "There, Peter Simmons! I reckon that willhold you for a while!"
"May we have some tea, Granny?" drawled Doris in her soft rich voice."Or is it all gone?" She would have peeped into the tea pot to see butGranny kept her brown fingers in her soft white hands.
"Is it, Miss Wyman? Do you think you can find any tea for these thirstychildren?"
Rebecca Mary was glad to pour tea. It gave her something to do while theothers laughed and chattered of golf and tennis and the Country Clubdances and a hundred other things about which she knew nothing. Dorisand Martha wore smartly cut skirts of heavy white pique. Doris had agreen sweater and a soft green hat and green stockings while Marthawore purple. Rebecca Mary could scarcely decide which she liked the bestas she sat back in her low chair, her hands loosely clasped on her knee.She wore a white skirt herself and a white blouse but they were a littlerumpled from spending the day in school. But in her white hat andclothes and with a red rose in each cheek she had only a faint familyresemblance to the girl in the shabby blue serge who had scowled atPeter that day in the Viking room. Peter looked at her curiously. Therewas something familiar about the rosy little face, but he could notremember where he had seen it as he refused tea and lounged back in achair to smoke a cigarette.
"Hello, who's the chap in the Prussian uniform?" he asked suddenly, andhe lifted the photograph of Joan's father and mother from the tablewhere it lay beside the clock and the potato masher.
"That's my father!" Joan ran across to look at the picture with him."And he has a medal, too." She pointed to it as she nodded at Peter.
"So he has, a real German eagle." Peter was as astonished as she couldwish, and he lifted his eyebrows inquiringly at Granny as if he wouldask where the German eagle came from.
"He showed it to me," Joan hinted delicately, and when Peter onlygrinned, she went on not quite so delicately; "I love to see medals."
"Joan!" Rebecca Mary was mortified to death. What would Peter think?
"You'd like to see it, too. You told the grandmother you would,"insisted Joan.
"Would you?" teased Peter, who had already discovered how easy it was tomake Rebecca Mary blush, and what fun it was, also.
She blushed then, all the way from the brim of her hat to the V of herblouse, but she had to say, "Yes, thank you." Goodness, if she hadimagined half the embarrassment her promise to Cousin Susan would causeher she never would have made it.
"All right, I'll show it to you, but it will be no treat to you, youngwoman," he pinched Joan's cheek, "if you have a German eagle in yourfamily. Where is your father now?"
"He's gone." Her eyes filled with tears, and Peter imagined that he knewwhat she meant, that her father was dead, and he patted her shouldersympathetically. "And I'm loaned to Miss Wyman!" The tears disappearedas she jubilantly announced what had happened.
"I hope Miss Wyman is as pleased as you are." Peter grinned at RebeccaMary.
Rebecca Mary laughed softly and said that Miss Wyman was, and she onlytold the truth, for if it had not been for Joan she knew very well thatshe never would be in Mrs. Peter Simmons' lovely room with young PeterSimmons laughing at her.
Joan had to ask him again before young Peter pulled a small box from hispocket and showed her and Rebecca Mary the _croix de guerre_. RebeccaMary had never seen anything which brought such a lump into her throatas that bronze cross on the red and green ribbon. She could not keep hervoice steady as she said:
"How proud you must be of it!"
"Huh," grunted young Peter, closing the box with a snap and thrusting itback into his pocket. "It makes me feel like a sweep. Why, every man inthe section deserved a cross more than I did!"
"The French general didn't think so!" Granny was indignant.
"It's true!" insisted Peter, red and embarrassed.
"Oh!" breathed Rebecca Mary. She liked to see Peter red and embarrassed.She hadn't supposed that heroes ever were that way, but she knew thatschool teachers were.
Stanley Cabot watched her face brighten. Stanley had been an artistbefore the war and now that the war was over he was an artist again,and the vivid expression of her face held his attention.
"She looks as if she had just wakened up," he said to himself.
But suddenly the bright color faded from Rebecca Mary's cheeks. "We mustgo home," she said quickly. "Come, Joan."
"Not yet," begged Granny. "You can't stay? Peter, will you see if Karlis waiting? He will drive them home. Yes, my dear," as Rebecca Maryprotested that it was not necessary, they could go home in the streetcar. "You have too much luggage," she laughed as Joan gathered herphotograph and her clock and her potato masher. "The suit case is in thecar, isn't it? I hope you will come very soon again," she saidcordially, as she went into the hall with them. "I want to see more ofyou and of Joan. I love young people, and I love to have them with me.It makes me feel young. I hate to be old, but I am old, and the only wayI can cheat myself is to have young people with me. You and Joan mustcome to dinner some night. Come Thursday. Perhaps we shall have heardsomething from Mr. Befort by then."
Joan, struggling with the potato masher and the clock, heard her. "Myfather's name," she said quickly, "isn't Mr. Befort. It's Count Ernachde Befort."
"What!" exclaimed Granny, who had no idea that she had been entertaininga young countess.
"Joan!" cried Rebecca Mary very much surprised, indeed, to learn that ayoung countess was in the third grade of the Lincoln school.
They were so amazed that Joan flushed and her fingers flew to her guiltylips. "Oh," she cried, "I forgot! I wasn't to tell. They don't havecounts in this country."
"Ernach de Befort," murmured Granny in Rebecca Mary's ear. "That soundslike a queer Franco-German combination. I'd like it better if it wereone thing or another, if it were French. Never mind, Joan," as Joanbegan to whimper that she had forgotten that she wasn't to tell. "We'llkeep the secret, won't we, Miss Wyman? Do you believe her?" shewhispered to Rebecca Mary.
Rebecca Mary shook her head. Not for a second did she believe thatJoan's father was Count Ernach de Befort. She had met the activeimagination of a child too often, and she whispered that Joan was onlyplaying a little game of "let's pretend" before she said good-by toGranny and promised to come Thursday to dinner.
Peter was waiting beside the luxurious limousine.
"I hope I shall see you again soon, Miss Wyman," he said pleasantly, andRebecca Mary devoutly hoped he would, too. "Good-by, Miss Loan Child."He grinned at Joan as she sat with her arms full of her treasures.
"Good-by." Joan released one hand to wave it at him as they drove away."He's very nice, don't you think so, Miss Wyman? And awfully brave or hewouldn't have that cross. My father is as brave as a lion, too." And sheheld the photograph up so that Rebecca Mary could see how brave herfather looked.
After Joan was tucked into Miss Stimson's abandoned bed Rebecca Mary satby the window in the soft darkness and recalled the astonishing eventsof the day. How amazing they had been! And how jolly! She hoped shewould see Peter Simmons again, but there wasn't much chance. He didn'tgo to the Lincoln school.
She laughed softly and jumped up and went to her desk to take out theinsurance policy which was such a bugbear to her now and which was to besuch a comfort to the old age that always had loomed so blackly beforeher. She read it over and then giggled as she took a sheet of paper andwrote across the top in large letters--"The Memory Insurance Company."And below in smaller letters she copied and adapted the form of her oldpolicy--"by this policy of insurance agrees to pay on demand to RebeccaMary Wyman such memories as she may have paid into the said company."And below that she wrote in large letters again just oneword--"Payments."
She pressed her fountain pen against her lips and studied that one wordbefore she chuckled and began to enter her payments.
"Kitchen curtains.
"A four-leaf c
lover, origin unknown.
"One loan child of mysterious parentage.
"A hero and his _croix de guerre_."
What a lot there were! Why, it was only ten days since she had promisedto take out a memory insurance policy. Cousin Susan would be pleased atthe number of payments she had made on it already. Her whole facetwinkled as she read the list. A hero and a _croix de guerre_! H-m! Andthat four-leaf clover! Where had it come from? That list--why, that listrepresented securities that she couldn't lose and which no one couldtake from her. So long as she could remember anything she would rememberCousin Susan's kitchen curtains which never would be bought now. Shecould scarcely wait to make another payment, and she felt in each of hertwo hundred and eight bones that there would be other payments,--many ofthem.