The following week, Jeanne and two of the kittens went to live with Mrs. Fairchild. The other two were to stay with Old Captain, who, it seemed, was fond of kittens. Jeanne was spared the necessity of dividing the snail. Bayard Taylor had run away! As snails aren't exactly built for running, Old Captain and Barney considered this a huge joke. Whether Bayard Taylor crawled over the edge of the dock and fell in, or whether one of the playful kittens batted him overboard, or whether he was hidden in some crevice among the cinders, nobody ever knew. Though diligently sought for, the great American traveler never turned up.
Mr. Fairchild warmly welcomed both Jeanne and the kittens and declared that he was delighted to have somebody to make the table come out even at meal times.
"With three people," said he, "there's always somebody left out in the cold. Now we can talk in pairs."
Mrs. Fairchild was like a child with a new toy. Jeanne's room was newly decorated and even refurnished for her. It was the very girliest of girl's rooms and the windows overlooked the lake. Jeanne was glad of that. It made it seem like home.
Next, her wardrobe was replenished. Mrs. Huntington had replenished Jeanne's wardrobe more than once; but this was different. Loving care went into the selecting of every garment, and it made a surprising difference. Jeanne loved her new clothes, her pretty, yet suitable trinkets; for Mrs. Fairchild's taste was better than Mrs. Huntington's and she took keen pleasure in choosing shades and colors that were becoming to Jeanne's gypsy-like skin. The Fairchilds were delighted with her appearance.
Roger proved a comfortable housemate. He wasn't a tease, like Harold. Jeanne neither liked nor disliked him. She merely regarded him as part of the Fairchilds' furniture—the dining-room furniture, because she saw him mostly at meals. Roger certainly liked to eat. When he discovered that the visitor showed no inclination to talk about his undignified tumble into the lake, he found her presence rather agreeable than otherwise. With Jeanne to consider, his mother hadn't quite so much time to fuss over him. He hated to be fussed over. Moreover, she couldn't look at Jeanne and the marmalade at the same time. Roger, who loved marmalade, was glad of that.
One morning the express wagon stopped in front of Mrs. Fairchild's house. The express-man delivered a large wooden box addressed to "Miss J.H. Duval."
"This must be for you, Jeanne," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"Why, yes," said Jeanne, eying the address. "I suppose I am Miss J.H. Duval. I wonder who sent it."
"Let's look inside," said Mrs. Fairchild. "We'll get Roger to open it."
The box proved, when opened, to contain every garment and every article that Jeanne had left at the Huntingtons'. The things had not been nicely packed and were pretty well jumbled together.
"I guess," said Mrs. Fairchild, shrewdly, "they were just dumped in. What are they, anyway?"
"The clothes I left behind me," returned Jeanne, who had flushed and then paled at sight of her belongings. "I guess—I guess Aunt Agatha doesn't want me to go back."
Jeanne didn't want to go back; yet it seemed rather appalling to learn so conclusively that she wasn't expected. Her lips began to quiver, ominously.
"I'm glad she doesn't," said Mrs. Fairchild, with an arm about Jeanne. "I want you myself. I couldn't think of losing you now. You see, I wrote to her and told her that you were to visit me; and about your father. I suppose this is her reply—it isn't exactly a gracious one."
"I'm afraid I've outgrown some of the things, but this party dress was always too long and the petticoats have big tucks in them."
"Perhaps we can send whatever proves too small to Annie."
"They'd be too big, for a year or two; but I'd like to keep them for her. I'm glad of my books, anyway, and daddy's letters—they're safe in this writing-paper box."
Suddenly Mrs. Fairchild began to laugh softly. Jeanne looked at her in amazement. Jeanne herself had been rather close to tears.
"I feel," said Mrs. Fairchild, "as if I'd been unexpectedly slapped in the face. I wrote Mrs. Huntington such a nice letter. And now this box—hurled at little you."
"Aunt Agatha always makes people feel slapped," assured Jeanne, brightening.
"Then I'm gladder than ever that she doesn't want you. I was horribly afraid she might."
Shortly after this, Old Captain, who had sent the news of Mollie's death to St. Louis, received a letter from Mollie's brother. Captain Blossom toiled up the hill to show it to Jeanne.
Things were going badly in John Shannon's family. Work was slack and old Mrs. Shannon was a great trial to her daughter-in-law, who was not very well. The children, too, were very troublesome. Their new aunt, it seemed, had no patience with "brats." They had all been sick with mumps, measles, and whooping cough and would, just as like as not, come down with scarlet fever and chicken pox. Both Sammy and Patsy seemed to be sickly, anyway.
"You see," explained Old Captain, "them children didn't have no chance to catch nothin' in Bancroft—out on that there old dock where nobody ever come with them there germs. No wonder they're sick, with all them germs gettin' 'em to onct."
Altogether, it was a very depressing letter. It confirmed all Jeanne's fears and presented her with several new ones.
"They don't even go to school," sighed Jeanne. "But oh, I wish they had a nice aunt. There must be some nice aunts in the world; but I'm sure she isn't a nice one."
"I guess poor John picked the wrong woman," said Old Captain, shrewdly. "There's some that's kind to other people's children and some that ain't. John seemed a kind sort of chap, himself; but if his wife wan't a natural-born mother, with real mother feelin's, why all John's kindness couldn't make up for her cussedness, if she felt to be cussed. It's too bad, too bad. They was good little shavers. That there Sammy, now. I'd take him, myself."
"Oh," pleaded Jeanne, "I wish you'd take them all."
Old Captain shook his head. "My heart's big enough," he said, "but my freight car ain't."
"But the dock is," said Jeanne. "And there's the shack—"
"That shack's no place for children in cold weather. It's too far to school and I got to stay with my fish. Besides, I ain't goin' to marry no lady whatsoever to take care of no family of children. I'm a durned—hum, ladies present—real good cook and women-folks is mostly one kind outside and another kind inside. I had one wife and she give me this."
Jeanne and Mrs. Fairchild looked with interest at the inch-long furrow on the Captain's bald pate.
"She done it with the dipper," concluded the Captain.
"I'm sure I don't blame you," said Mrs. Fairchild, "for your caution."
"I s'pose," queried Old Captain, who seemed to be enjoying the glass of sweet cider and the plate of cookies that Mrs. Fairchild had offered him, "you ain't heard nothin' from the Huntingtons?"
"Well," explained Mrs. Fairchild, "I wrote to Mrs. Huntington two weeks ago, explaining matters and asking for news of Jeanne's grandfather—she has been very anxious about him, you know—"
"An' she ain't wrote yit? Well, the old iceberg!"
Jeanne giggled. She couldn't help it. She had so often compared chilly Aunt Agatha, whose frozen dignity had unpleasantly impressed older persons than Jeanne, with the curious ice-formations along the lake shore in winter. They looked, sometimes, precisely like smooth, cold ladies, waiting for the warm sun to come and melt them. Aunt Agatha, however, had not melted.
"She sent Jeanne's clothes," explained Mrs. Fairchild, "but she didn't write. Evidently, she is going to let us keep our nice girl."
Jeanne was glad she was to stay. But those poor children! The more comfortable she was herself, the more she worried over their possible discomforts. She possessed a vivid imagination and it busied itself now with those three poor babies. If Mollie had been too lazy to properly wash and clothe her children, at least she had cuddled and comforted them with her soft, affectionate hands. Even cold Mrs. Huntington had not been cross or ugly. She had merely been unloving. Suppose, in addition to being unloving, the new aunt were cross and cruel! Suppose she whipped those ailing babies and locked them up in dark closets! Jeanne worried about it before she went to sleep at night and awoke before daylight to imagine new horrors. No aunt could have been as black as Jeanne's fancy finally painted that one.
"That child is moping," said Mrs. Fairchild, one day. "In some ways, she is an old little person. Sometimes she reproaches herself for having deserted her grandfather—she fears he may be missing her. And she is terribly unhappy about those children. She thinks of them constantly and imagines dreadful things. Since that letter came, she hasn't been able to enjoy her meals for fear Annie and Sammy have been sent supperless to bed. I declare, some days, I'm more than half tempted to send for those children."
"Not with my consent," said Mr. Fairchild, firmly. "I am glad to have Jeanne here. It's a good thing for both of you and it isn't doing Roger any harm. I'm glad to feed and clothe and educate her; and to keep her forever if necessary; because she's all wool and a yard wide—you know what I mean. I like her well enough to do anything in reason for her. But Roger will have to go to college some day; and you know, my dear, I am only a moderately rich man. I can take good care of you three, but that's all. It wouldn't be fair to Roger to add three more or even two more to this family. You see, something might happen to me, and then, where would you be, with five hungry children to support?"
"Of course you're right," sighed Mrs. Fairchild; "but Jeanne is certainly unhappy about those children."
"She must learn to be contented without them," returned Mr. Fairchild. "She'll forget them, in time."
But Jeanne wasn't contented and she couldn't forget the babies that had been so much a part of her young life on the dock. Still, because she was a considerate young person, she tried not to talk about them; she even tried to pretend that she wasn't thinking of them; but Mrs. Fairchild knew, when she caught the big dark eyes gazing off into space, that they were seeing moving pictures of Sammy, Annie, and Patsy getting spanked by the crossest of aunts and scolded by the ugliest of grandmothers.
Of course she had written to them from time to time; but Sammy was barely seven and probably couldn't write. At any rate, no one had answered her letters or acknowledged her small gifts.