CHAPTER XXII. REVELATIONS AND REGRETS
Susan Warner reached Poindexter Arms at the hour appointed and found heremployer in the lily-pond garden. The old woman curtsied. Her heart wasfilled with pity. How changed was her formerly haughty mistress. Therewere more lines in the pale, patrician face than there were in the ruddycountenance of the humbler woman who was years the older. Hesitatinglyshe spoke: "I reckon you've been mighty sick, Mis' Poindexter-Jones. It'sa pity, too, you havin' so much to make life free of care an' happy." Butthe sad expression in the tired eyes, that were watching her so kindly,seemed to belie the words of the old woman who had been nurse for BabyHarold and housekeeper at Poindexter Arms for many years.
"Be seated, Susan. Miss Dane, my nurse, has gone to town to make a fewpurchases for me. Some of them books--" the invalid paused and turnedquestioningly toward the older woman. "Did your Jenny tell you that Iwish to engage her services for an hour or two each morning--reading tome?"
Susan Warner nodded, saying brightly, "She was that pleased, Jenny was!She didn't tell me just what she was meaning, but she said, happy-like,'It will give me a chance to pay a debt.'"
"A debt." The invalid was perplexed. "Why, Jenny Warner is in no wayindebted to me." Then a cold, almost hard expression crept into her eyes,as she added, "If Gwynette had said that, I might have understood. Butshe never does. She takes all that I give her, and is rebellious becauseit is not more." She had been thinking aloud. Before her amazed listeneruttered a comment, if, indeed, she would have done so, which is doubtful,the younger woman said bitterly: "Susan Warner, I have failed, failedmiserably as a mother. You have succeeded. That is why I especiallywished to talk with you this morning. I want your advice." Then Mrs.Poindexter-Jones did a very unusual thing for her. She acknowledged herdisappointment in her adopted daughter to someone apart from herself.
"The girl's selfishness is phenomenal," she continued, not withoutbitterness. "She is jealous of the least favor I show my own boy andwishes all of our plans to be made with her pleasure as our onlyconsideration."
The old woman shook her head sympathetically. "Tut! tut! Mis'Poindexter-Jones, that's most unfeelin' of her. Most!" She had been aboutto say that it was hard to believe that the two girls were reallysisters, but, fearing that the comparison might hurt the other woman'sfeelings, she said no more.
The invalid, an unusual color burning in her cheeks, sighed deeply."Susan Warner," she said, and there was almost a break in her voice,"don't blame the girl too much. I try not to. If you had brought her up,and I had had Jenny, it might have been different. They----"
But Susan Warner could not wait, as was her wont for a superior to finisha sentence. She hurriedly interrupted with "Our Jenny wouldn't have beendifferent from what she is--no matter how she was fetched up. I reckonshe just _couldn't_ be. She'd have been so grateful to you for havin'given her a chance--she'd have been sweeter'n ever. Jenny would."
The older woman was not entirely convinced. "I taught Gwynette to beproud," she said reminiscently. "I wanted her to select her friends fromonly the best families. I was foolishly proud myself, and now I am beingpunished for it."
Susan Warner said timidly, "Maybe she'll change yet. Maybe 'tisn't toolate."
"I fear it is far too late." The invalid again dropped wearily back amongher silken pillows. She closed her eyes, but opened them almost at onceto turn a keenly inquiring glance at her visitor. "Susan Warner, I wantedto ask you this question: Do you think it might break down Gwynette'sselfish, haughty pride if she were to be told that she is your Jenny'ssister and my adopted daughter?"
The older woman looked startled. "Oh, I reckon I wouldn't be hasty abouttellin' that, Mis' Poindexter-Jones. I reckon I wouldn't!" Then she facedthe matter squarely. Perhaps the panic in her heart had been caused byselfish reasons. If the two girls were told that they were sisters, thenJenny would have to know that she was not the real granddaughter of theWarners. Would she, could she love them as dearly after that? The oldwoman rose, saying quaveringly, "Please, may I talk it over with Silasfirst. He's clear thinkin', Silas is, an' he'll see the straight of it."And to this Mrs. Poindexter-Jones agreed.
On the day following, at the appointed hour, Jenny Warner, again wearingher pale yellow dress, appeared in the garden by the lily pond, and waswelcomed by the invalid with a smile that brightened her weary face.
There were half a dozen new books on the small table, and Mrs.Poindexter-Jones, without preface, said: "Choose which one you would liketo read, Jeanette."
She glanced quickly at the girl, rebuking herself for having used thename of long ago, but it evidently had been unnoticed. The truth was thatMiss Dearborn, her beloved teacher, had often used that longer name.
"They all look interesting. O, here is one, 'The Morning Star.' I dobelieve that is poetry in prose. How I wish Lenora might hear it also."
"Lenora?" the woman spoke inquiringly; then "O, I recall now. You did saythat you have a visitor who is ill. Is she strong enough to accompany youto my garden for our readings?"
"She would be, I think. The doctor said that by tomorrow I might take herfor a drive. I could bring her chair and her cushions." But the olderwoman interrupted. "No need to do that Jeanette. I have many pillows andseveral reclining chairs." Then she suggested: "Suppose we leave the bookuntil your friend is with us. There is a collection of short stories thatwill do for today."
Jenny Warner read well. Miss Dearborn had seen to that, as she consideredreading aloud an accomplishment to be cultivated.
The invalid was charmed. The girl's voice was musical, soft yet clear,and most soothing to the harassed nerves of the woman, broken by theendless round of society's demands.
When the one story was finished, the woman said: "Close the book, please,Jeanette. I would rather talk. I want to hear all about yourself, whatyou do, who are your friends, and what are your plans for the future."
Jenny Warner told first of all about Miss Dearborn. That story was veryenlightening to the listener. She had felt that some influence, otherthan that of the Warners, must have helped in the moulding of the girlwho sat before her. "I would like to meet Miss Dearborn," was her onlycomment.
Then Jenny told about Lenora Gale and the brother, Charles, who wascoming to take her back to Dakota.
"But Lenora will not be strong enough to travel, perhaps not for a month,the doctor thinks. I do not know what her brother will do, but Lenorawill remain with me." Such a glad light was shining in the liquid browneyes that the older woman was moved to say, "It makes you very happy tohave a girl companion."
Jenny clasped her hands, as she exclaimed: "No one knows how I havealways longed to have a sister. I have never had friends--girl friends, Imean--I have been Miss Dearborn's only pupil, but often and often I havepretended that I had a sister about my own age. I would wake up in thenight, the way girls do in books, and confide my secrets to amake-believe sister. Then, when I went on long tramps alone up in thefoothills, I pretended that my sister was with me and we made planstogether."
The girl hesitated and glanced at her listener, suddenly abashed, fearingthat the older woman would think her prattling foolish. She was amazed atthe changed expression. Mrs. Poindexter-Jones was ashen gray and her facewas drawn as though she were suffering. "Dear," she said faintly, "callMiss Dane, please! I would like to go in. It was a great wrong, a verygreat wrong--and yet, every one meant well."
Puzzled, indeed, the girl arose and hastened toward the house. Mrs.Poindexter-Jones must have become worse, and suddenly she was evenwandering in her mind. Jenny found the nurse not far away lying in ahammock, just resting.
She hurried to her patient. The woman leaned heavily on her companion asshe walked toward the house. The girl, fearing that her chattering hadovertired Harold's mother, followed penitently.
At the steps the woman turned and held out a frail hand. There were tearson her cheeks and in her eyes. "Jeanette," she said, almost feebly, "I amvery tired. Do not c
ome again until I send for you. I want to think. Imust decide what to do."
Then, noting the unhappy expression on the sweet face of the girl, shesaid, ever so tenderly, "You have not tired me, dear, dear Jeanette.Don't think that. It is something very different." Puzzled and troubled,Jenny returned to the farm.
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