________________________________________________
_
CHAPTER SEVEN
1.
In the lives of each one of us, as we look back and review them in
retrospect, there are certain desert wastes from which memory winces
like some tired traveller faced with a dreary stretch of road. Even
from the security of later happiness we cannot contemplate them
without a shudder. Time robs our sorrows of their sharp vividness,
but the horror of those blank, gray days never wholly passes. It
remains for ever at the back of our consciousness to remind us that,
though we may have struggled through it to the heights, there is an
abyss. We may dwell, like the Pilgrim, on the Delectable Mountains,
but we never forget the Slough of Despond. Years afterwards, Jill
could not bring herself to think of that brief but age-long period
which lay between the evening when she read Derek's letter and the
morning when, with the wet sea-wind in her face and the cry of the
wheeling sea-gulls in her ears, she stood on the deck of the liner
that was taking her to the land where she could begin a new life. It
brooded behind her like a great, dank cloud, shutting out the
sunshine.
The conditions of modern life are singularly inimical to swift and
dramatic action when we wish to escape from surroundings that have
become intolerable. In the old days, your hero would leap on his
charger and ride out into the sunset. Now, he is compelled to remain
for a week or so to settle his affairs,--especially if he is an Uncle
Chris--and has got those affairs into such a tangle that hardened
lawyers knit their brows at the sight of them. It took one of the
most competent firms in the metropolis four days to produce some sort
of order in the confusion resulting from Major Selby's financial
operations; and during those days Jill existed in a state of being
which could be defined as living only in that she breathed and ate
and comported herself outwardly like a girl and not a ghost.
Boards announcing that the house was for sale appeared against the
railings through which Jane the parlormaid conducted her daily
conversations with the tradesmen. Strangers roamed the rooms eyeing
and appraising the furniture. Uncle Chris, on whom disaster had had a
quickening and vivifying effect, was everywhere at once, an
impressive figure of energy. One may be wronging Uncle Chris, but to
the eye of the casual observer he seemed in these days of trial to be
having the time of his life.
Jill varied the monotony of sitting in her room--which was the only
place in the house where one might be sure of not encountering a
furniture-broker's man with a note-book and pencil--by taking long
walks. She avoided as far as possible the small area which had once
made up the whole of London for her, but even so she was not always
successful in escaping from old acquaintances. Once, cutting through
Lennox Gardens on her way to that vast, desolate King's Road which
stretches its length out into regions unknown to those whose London
is the West End, she happened upon Freddie Rooke, who had been paying
a call in his best hat and a pair of white spats which would have cut
his friend Henry to the quick. It was not an enjoyable meeting.
Freddie, keenly alive to the awkwardness of the situation, was
scarlet and incoherent; and Jill, who desired nothing less than to
talk with one so intimately connected in her mind with all that she
had lost, was scarcely more collected. They parted without regret.
The only satisfaction that came to Jill from the encounter was the
knowledge that Derek was still out of town. He had wired for his
things, said Freddie and had retreated further north. Freddie, it
seemed, had been informed of the broken engagement by Lady Underhill
in an interview which appeared to have left a lasting impression on
his mind. Of Jill's monetary difficulties he had heard nothing.
After this meeting, Jill felt a slight diminution of the oppression
which weighed upon her. She could not have borne to have come
unexpectedly upon Derek, and, now that there was no danger of that,
she found life a little easier. The days passed somehow, and finally
there came the morning when, accompanied by Uncle Chris--voluble and
explanatory about the details of what he called "getting everything
settled"--she rode in a taxi to take the train for Southampton. Her
last impression of London was of rows upon rows of mean houses, of
cats wandering in back-yards among groves of home-washed
underclothing, and a smoky grayness which gave way, as the train
raced on, to the clearer gray of the suburbs and the good green and
brown of the open country.
Then the bustle and confusion of the liner; the calm monotony of the
journey, when one came on deck each morning to find the vessel so
manifestly in the same spot where it had been the morning before that
it was impossible to realize how many hundred miles of ocean had
really been placed behind one; and finally the Ambrose Channel
lightship and the great bulk of New York rising into the sky like a
city of fairyland, heartening yet sinister, at once a welcome and a
menace.
"There you are, my dear!" said Uncle Chris indulgently, as though it
were a toy he had made for her with his own hands. "New York!"
They were standing on the boat-deck, leaning over the rail. Jill
caught her breath. For the first time since disaster had come upon
her she was conscious of a rising of her spirits. It is impossible to
behold the huge buildings which fringe the harbor of New York without
a sense of expectancy and excitement. There had remained in Jill's
mind from childhood memories a vague picture of what she now saw, but
it had been feeble and inadequate. The sight of this towering city
seemed somehow to blot out everything that had gone before. The
feeling of starting afresh was strong upon her.
Uncle Chris, the old traveller, was not emotionally affected. He
smoked placidly and talked in a wholly earthy strain of grape-fruit
and buckwheat cakes.
It was now, also for the first time, that Uncle Chris touched upon
future prospects in a practical manner. On the voyage he had been
eloquent but sketchy. With the land of promise within biscuit-throw
and the tugs bustling about the great liner's skirts like little dogs
about their mistress, he descended to details.
"I shall get a room somewhere," said Uncle Chris, "and start looking
about me. I wonder if the old Holland House is still there. I fancy I
heard they'd pulled it down. Capital place. I had a steak there in
the year . . . But I expect they've pulled it down. But I shall find
somewhere to go. I'll write and tell you my address directly I've got
one."
Jill removed her gaze from the sky-line with a start.
"Write to me?"
"Didn't I tell you about that?" said Uncle Chris cheerily,--avoiding
her eye, however, for he had realized all along that it might be a
little bit awkward breaking the news. "I've arranged that you shall
go and stay for the time being down at Brookport--on Long Island, you
know--over in that direction--with your Uncle Elmer. Daresay you've
forgotten you have an Uncle Elmer, eh?" he went on quickly, as Jill
was about to speak. "Your father's brother. Used to be in business,
but retired some years ago and goes in for amateur farming. Corn
and--and corn," said Uncle Chris. "All that sort of thing. You'll
like him. Capital chap! Never met him myself, but always heard," said
Uncle Chris, who had never to his recollection heard any comments
upon Mr Elmer Mariner whatever, "that he was a splendid fellow.
Directly we decided to sail, I cabled to him, and got an answer
saying that he would be delighted to put you up. You'll be quite
happy there."
Jill listened to this programme with dismay. New York was calling to
her, and Brookport held out no attractions at all. She looked down
over the side at the tugs puffing their way through the broken blocks
of ice that reminded her of a cocoanut candy familiar to her
childhood.
"But I want to be with you," she protested.
"Impossible, my dear, for the present. I shall be very busy, very
busy indeed for some weeks, until I have found my feet. Really, you
would be in the way. He--er--travels the fastest who travels alone! I
must be in a position to go anywhere and do anything at a moment's
notice. But always remember, my dear," said Uncle Chris, patting her
shoulder affectionately, "that I shall be working for you. I have
treated you very badly, but I intend to make up for it. I shall not
forget that whatever money I may make will really belong to you." He
looked at her benignly, like a monarch of finance who has ear-marked
a million or two for the benefit of a deserving charity. "You shall
have it all, Jill."
He had so much the air of having conferred a substantial benefit upon
her that Jill felt obliged to thank him. Uncle Chris had always been
able to make people grateful for the phantom gold which he showered
upon them. He was as lavish a man with the money he was going to get
next week as ever borrowed a five-pound note to see him through till
Saturday.
"What are you going to do, Uncle Chris?" asked Jill curiously. Apart
from a nebulous idea that he intended to saunter through the city
picking dollar-bills off the sidewalk, she had no inkling of his
plans.
Uncle Chris toyed with his short mustache. He was not quite equal to
a direct answer on the spur of the moment. He had a faith in his
star. Something would turn up. Something always had turned up in the
old days, and doubtless, with the march of civilization,
opportunities had multiplied. Somewhere behind those tall buildings
the Goddess of Luck awaited him, her hands full of gifts, but
precisely what those gifts would be he was not in a position to say.
"I shall--ah--how shall I put it--?"
"Look round?" suggested Jill.
"Precisely," said Uncle Chris gratefully. "Look round. I daresay you
have noticed that I have gone out of my way during the voyage to make
myself agreeable to our fellow-travellers? I had an object.
Acquaintances begun on shipboard will often ripen into useful
friendships ashore. When I was a young man I never neglected the
opportunities which an ocean voyage affords. The offer of a book
here, a steamer-rug there, a word of encouragement to a chatty bore
in the smoke-room--these are small things, but they may lead to much.
One meets influential people on a liner. You wouldn't think it to
look at him, but that man with the eye-glasses and the thin nose I
was talking to just now is one of the richest men in Milwaukee!"
"But it's not much good having rich friends in Milwaukee when you are
in New York!"
"Exactly. There you have put your finger on the very point I have
been trying to make. It will probably be necessary for me to travel.
And for that I must be alone. I must be a mobile force. I should
dearly like to keep you with me, but you can see for yourself that
for the moment you would be an encumbrance. Later on, no doubt, when
my affairs are more settled . . ."
"Oh, I understand. I'm resigned. But, oh dear! it's going to be very
dull down at Brookport."
"Nonsense, nonsense! It's a delightful spot."
"Have you been there?"
"No! But of course everybody knows Brookport! Healthy, invigorating
. . . Sure to be! The very name . . . You'll be as happy as the days
are long!"
"And how long the days will be!"
"Come, come! You mustn't look on the dark side!"
"Is there another?" Jill laughed. "You are an old hum-bug, Uncle
Chris. You know perfectly well what you're condemning me to! I expect
Brookport will be like a sort of Southend in winter. Oh, well, I'll
be brave. But do hurry and make a fortune, because I want to come to
New York."
"My dear," said Uncle Chris solemnly, "if there is a dollar lying
loose in this city, rest assured that I shall have it! And, if it's
not loose, I will detach it with the greatest possible speed. You
have only known me in my decadence, an idle and unprofitable London
clubman. I can assure you that, lurking beneath the surface, there is
a business acumen given to few men . . ."
"Oh, if you are going to talk poetry," said Jill, "I'll leave you.
Anyhow, I ought to be getting below and putting my things together.
Subject for a historical picture,--The Belle of Brookport collecting
a few simple necessaries before entering upon the conquest of
America."
2.
If Jill's vision of Brookport as a wintery Southend was not entirely
fulfilled, neither was Uncle Chris' picture of it as an earthly
paradise. At the right time of the year, like most of the summer
resorts on the south shore of Long Island, it is not without its
attractions; but January is not the month which most people would
choose for living in it. It presented itself to Jill on first
acquaintance in the aspect of a wind-swept railroad station, dumped
down far away from human habitation in the middle of a stretch of
flat and ragged country that reminded her a little of parts of
Surrey. The station was just a shed on a foundation of planks which
lay flush with the rails. From this shed, as the train clanked in,
there emerged a tall, shambling man in a weather-beaten overcoat. He
had a clean-shaven, wrinkled face, and he looked doubtfully at Jill
with small eyes. Something in his expression reminded Jill of her
father, as a bad caricature of a public man will recall the original,
she introduced herself.
"If you're Uncle Elmer," she said, "I'm Jill."
The man held out a long hand. He did not smile. He was as bleak as
the east wind that swept the platform.
"Glad to meet you again," he said in a melancholy voice. It was news
to Jill that they had met before. She wondered where. Her uncle
supplied the information. "Last time I saw you, you were a kiddy in
short frocks, running around and shouting to beat the band." He
looked up and down the platform. "_I_ never heard a child make so
much noise!"
"I'm quite quiet now," said Jill encouragingly. The recollection of
her infant revelry seemed to her to be distressing her relative.
It appeared, however, that it was not only this that was on his mind.
"If you want to drive home," he said, "we'll have to phone to the
Durham House for a hack." He brooded awhile, Jill remaining silent at
his side, loath to break in upon whatever secret sorrow he was
wrestling with. "That would be a dollar," he went on. "They're
robbers in these parts! A dollar! And it's not over a mile and a
half. Are you fond of walking?"
Jill was a bright girl, and could take a hint.
"I love walking," she said. She might have added that she preferred
to do it on a day when the wind was not blowing quite so keenly from
the East, but her uncle's obvious excitement at the prospect of
cheating the rapacity of the sharks at the Durham House restrained
her. Her independent soul had not quite adjusted itself to the
prospect of living on the bounty of her fellows, relatives though
they were, and she was desirous of imposing as light a burden upon
them as possible. "But how about my trunk?"
"The expressman will bring that up. Fifty cents!" said Uncle Elmer in
a crushed way. The high cost of entertaining seemed to be afflicting
this man deeply.
"Oh, yes," said Jill. She could not see how this particular
expenditure was to be avoided. Anxious as she was to make herself
pleasant, she declined to consider carrying the trunk to their
destination. "Shall we start, then?"
Mr Mariner led the way out into the ice-covered road. The wind
welcomed them like a boisterous dog. For some minutes they proceeded
in silence.
"Your aunt will be glad to see you," said Mr Mariner at last in the
voice with which one announces the death of a dear friend.
"It's awfully kind of you to have me to stay with you," said Jill. It
is a human tendency to think, when crises occur, in terms of
melodrama, and unconsciously she had begun to regard herself somewhat
in the light of a heroine driven out into the world from the old
home, with no roof to shelter her head. The promptitude with which
these good people, who, though relatives, were after all complete
strangers, had offered her a resting-place touched her. "I hope I
shan't be in the way."
"Major Selby was speaking to me on the telephone just now," said Mr
Mariner, "and he said that you might be thinking of settling down in
Brookport. I've some nice little places round here which you might
like to look at. Rent or buy. It's cheaper to buy. Brookport's a
growing place. It's getting known as a summer resort. There's a
bungalow down on the shore I'd like to show you tomorrow. Stands in a
nice large plot of ground, and if you bought it for twelve thousand
you'd be getting a bargain."
Jill was too astonished to speak. Plainly Uncle Chris had made no
mention of the change in her fortunes, and this man looked on her as
a girl of wealth. She could only think how typical this was of Uncle
Chris. There was a sort of boyish impishness about him. She could see
him at the telephone, suave and important. He would have hung up the
receiver with a complacent smirk, thoroughly satisfied that he had
done her an excellent turn.
"I put all my money into real estate when I came to live here," went
on Mr Mariner. "I believe in the place. It's growing all the time."
They had come to the outskirts of a straggling village. The lights in
the windows gave a welcome suggestion of warmth, for darkness had
fallen swiftly during their walk and the chill of the wind had become
more biting. There was a smell of salt in the air now, and once or
twice Jill had caught the low booming of waves on some distant beach.
This was the Atlantic pounding the sandy shore of Fire Island.
Brookport itself lay inside, on the lagoon called the Great South
Bay.
"This is Brookport," said Mr Mariner. "That's Haydock's grocery
store there by the post-office. He charges sixty cents a pound for
bacon, and I can get the same bacon by walking into Patchogue for
fifty-seven!" He brooded awhile on the greed of man, as exemplified
by the pirates of Brookport. "The very same bacon!" he said.
"How far is Patchogue?" asked Jill, feeling that some comment was
required of her.
"Four miles," said Mr Mariner.
They passed through the village, bearing to the right, and found
themselves in a road bordered by large gardens in which stood big,
dark houses. The spectacle of these stimulated Mr Mariner to
something approaching eloquence. He quoted the price paid for each,
the price asked, the price offered, the price that had been paid five
years ago. The recital carried them on for another mile, in the
course of which the houses became smaller and more scattered, and
finally, when the country had become bare and desolate again, they
turned down a narrow lane and came to a tall, gaunt house standing by
itself in a field.
"This is Sandringham," said Mr Mariner.
"What!" said Jill. "What did you say?"
"Sandringham. Where we live. I got the name from your father. I
remember him telling me there was a place called that in England."
"There is." Jill's voice bubbled. "The King lives there."
"Is that so?" said Mr Mariner. "Well, I bet he doesn't have the
trouble with help that we have here. I have to pay our girl fifty
dollars a month, and another twenty for the man who looks after the
furnace and chops wood. They're all robbers. And if you kick they
quit on you!"
3.
Jill endured Sandringham for ten days; and, looking back on that
period of her life later, she wondered how she did it. The sense of
desolation which had gripped her on the station platform increased
rather than diminished as she grew accustomed to her surroundings.
The east wind died away, and the sun shone fitfully with a suggestion
of warmth, but her uncle's bleakness appeared to be a static quality,
independent of weather conditions. Her aunt, a faded woman with a
perpetual cold in the head, did nothing to promote cheerfulness. The
rest of the household consisted of a gloomy child, "Tibby," aged
eight; a spaniel, probably a few years older, and an intermittent
cat, who, when he did put in an appearance, was the life and soul of
the party, but whose visits to his home were all too infrequent for
Jill. Thomas was a genial animal, whose color-scheme, like a Whistler
picture, was an arrangement in black and white. He had green eyes and
a purr like a racing automobile. But his social engagements in the
neighborhood kept him away much of the time. He was the popular and
energetic secretary of the local cats' debating society. One could
hear him at night sometimes reading the minutes in a loud, clear
voice; after which the debate was considered formally open.
Each day was the same as the last, almost to the final detail.
Sometimes Tibby would be naughty at breakfast, sometimes at lunch;
while Rover, the spaniel, a great devotee of the garbage-can, would
occasionally be sick at mid-day instead of after the evening meal.
But, with these exceptions, there was a uniformity about the course
of life in the Mariner household which began to prey on Jill's nerves
as early as the third day.
The picture which Mr Mariner had formed in his mind of Jill as a
wealthy young lady with a taste for house property continued as vivid
as ever. It was his practice each morning to conduct her about the
neighborhood, introducing her to the various houses in which he had
sunk most of the money which he had made in business. Mr Mariner's
life centered around Brookport real estate, and the embarrassed Jill
was compelled to inspect sitting-rooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and
master's bedrooms till the sound of a key turning in a lock gave her
a feeling of nervous exhaustion. Most of her uncle's houses were
converted farmhouses and, as one unfortunate purchaser had remarked,
not so darned converted at that. The days she spent at Brookport
remained in Jill's memory as a smell of dampness and chill and
closeness.
"You want to buy," said Mr Mariner every time he shut a front-door
behind them. "Not rent. Buy. Then, if you don't want to live here,
you can always rent in the summer."
It seemed incredible to Jill that the summer would ever come. Winter
held Brookport in its grip. For the first time in her life she was
tasting real loneliness. She wandered over the snow-patched fields
down to the frozen bay, and found the intense stillness, punctuated
only by the occasional distant gunshot of some optimist trying for
duck, oppressive rather than restful. She looked on the weird beauty
of the ice-bound marshes which glittered red and green and blue in
the sun with unseeing eyes; for her isolation was giving her time to
think, and thought was a torment.
On the eighth day came a letter from Uncle Chris,--a cheerful, even
rollicking letter. Things were going well with Uncle Chris, it
seemed. As was his habit, he did not enter into details, but he wrote
in a spacious way of large things to be, of affairs that were coming
out right, of prosperity in sight. As tangible evidence of success,
he enclosed a present of twenty dollars, for Jill to spend in the
Brookport shops.
The letter arrived by the morning mail, and two hours later Mr
Mariner took Jill by one of his usual overland routes to see a house
nearer the village than most of those which she had viewed. Mr
Mariner had exhausted the supply of cottages belonging to himself,
and this one was the property of an acquaintance. There would be an
agent's fee for him in the deal, if it went through, and Mr Mariner
was not a man who despised money in small quantities.
There was a touch of hopefulness in his gloom this morning, like the
first intimation of sunshine after a wet day. He had been thinking
the thing over, and had come to the conclusion that Jill's
unresponsiveness when confronted with the houses she had already seen
was due to the fact that she had loftier ideas than he had supposed.
Something a little more magnificent than the twelve thousand dollar
places he had shown her was what she desired. This house stood on a
hill looking down on the bay, in several acres of ground. It had its
private landing-stage and bath-house, its dairy, its
sleeping-porches,--everything, in fact, that a sensible girl could
want. Mr Mariner could not bring himself to suppose that he would
fail again today.
"They're asking a hundred and five thousand," he said, "but I know
they'd take a hundred thousand. And, if it was a question of cash
down, they would go even lower. It's a fine house. You could
entertain there. Mrs Bruggenheim rented it last summer, and wanted to
buy, but she wouldn't go above ninety thousand. If you want it, you'd
better make up your mind quick. A place like this is apt to be
snapped up in a hurry."
Jill could endure it no longer.
"But, you see," she said gently, "all I have in the world is twenty
dollars!"
There was a painful pause. Mr Mariner shot a swift glance at her in
the hope of discovering that she had spoken humorously, but was
compelled to decide that she had not. His face under normal
conditions always achieved the maximum gloom possible for any face,
so he gave no outward sign of the shock which had shattered his
mental poise; but he expressed his emotion by walking nearly a mile
without saying a word. He was stunned. He had supported himself up
till now by the thought that, frightful as the expense of
entertaining Jill as a guest might be, the outlay was a good sporting
speculation if she intended buying house-property in the
neighbourhood. The realization that he was down to the extent of a
week's breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, with nothing to show for it,
appalled him. There had been a black morning some years before when
Mr. Mariner had given a waiter a ten-dollar bill in mistake for a
one. As he had felt then, on discovering his error when it was too
late to retrieve it, so did he feel now.
"Twenty dollars!" he exclaimed, at the end of the mile.
"Twenty dollars," said Jill,
"But your father was a rich man." Mr. Mariner's voice was high and
plaintive. "He made a fortune over here before he went to England."
"It's all gone. I got nipped," said Jill, who was finding a certain
amount of humor in the situation, "in Amalgamated Dyes."
"Amalgamated Dyes?"
"They're something," explained Jill, "that people get nipped in."
Mr Mariner digested this.
"You speculated?" he gasped.
"Yes."
"You shouldn't have been allowed to do it," said Mr Mariner warmly.
"Major Selby--your uncle ought to have known better than to allow
you."
"Yes, oughtn't he," said Jill demurely.
There was another silence, lasting for about a quarter of a mile.
"Well, it's a bad business," said Mr Mariner.
"Yes," said Jill. "I've felt that myself."
* * *
The result of this conversation was to effect a change in the
atmosphere of Sandringham. The alteration in the demeanor of people
of parsimonious habit, when they discover that the guest they are
entertaining is a pauper and not, as they had supposed, an heiress,
is subtle but well-marked. In most cases, more well-marked than
subtle. Nothing was actually said, but there are thoughts that are
almost as audible as words. A certain suspense seemed to creep into
the air, as happens when a situation has been reached which is too
poignant to last. Greek Tragedy affects the reader with the same
sense of over-hanging doom. Things, we feel, cannot go on as they
are.
That night, after dinner, Mrs Mariner asked Jill to read to her.
"Print tries my eyes so, dear," said Mrs Mariner. It was a small
thing, but it had the significance of that little cloud that arose
out of the sea like a man's hand. Jill appreciated the portent. She
was, she perceived, to make herself useful.
"Of course I will," she said cordially. "What would you me to read?"
She hated reading aloud. It always made her throat sore, and her eye
skipped to the end of each page and took the interest out of it long
before the proper time. But she proceeded bravely, for her conscience
was troubling her. Her sympathy was divided equally between these
unfortunate people who had been saddled with an undesired visitor and
herself who had been placed in a position at which every independent
nerve in her rebelled. Even as a child she had loathed being under
obligations to strangers or those whom she did not love.
"Thank you, dear," said Mrs Mariner, when Jill's voice had roughened
to a weary croak. "You read so well." She wrestled ineffectually with
her handkerchief against the cold in the head from which she always
suffered. "It would be nice if you would do it every night, don't you
think? You have no idea how tired print makes my eyes."
On the following morning after breakfast, at the hour when she had
hitherto gone house-hunting with Mr Mariner, the child Tibby, of whom
up till now she had seen little except at meals, presented himself to
her, coated and shod for the open and regarding her with a dull and
phlegmatic gaze.
"Ma says will you please take me for a nice walk!"
Jill's heart sank. She loved children, but Tibby was not an
ingratiating child. He was a Mr Mariner in little. He had the family
gloom. It puzzled Jill sometimes why this branch of the family should
look on life with so jaundiced an eye. She remembered her father as a
cheerful man, alive to the small humors of life.
"All right, Tibby. Where shall we go?"
"Ma says we must keep on the roads and I mustn't slide."
Jill was thoughtful during the walk. Tibby, who was no
conversationalist, gave her every opportunity for meditation. She
perceived that in the space of a few hours she had sunk in the social
scale. If there was any difference between her position and that of a
paid nurse and companion, it lay in the fact that she was not paid.
She looked about her at the grim countryside, gave a thought to the
chill gloom of the house to which she was about to return, and her
heart sank.
Nearing home, Tibby vouchsafed his first independent observation.
"The hired man's quit!"
"Has he?"
"Yep. Quit this morning."
It had begun to snow. They turned and made their way back to the
house. The information she had received did not cause Jill any great
apprehension. It was hardly likely that her new duties would include
the stoking of the furnace. That and cooking appeared to be the only
acts about the house which were outside her present sphere of
usefulness.
"He killed a rat once in the wood-shed with an axe," said Tibby
chattily. "Yessir! Chopped it right in half, and it bled!"
"Look at the pretty snow falling on the trees," said Jill faintly.
At breakfast next morning, Mrs Mariner having sneezed, made a
suggestion.
"Tibby, darling, wouldn't it be nice if you and cousin Jill played a
game of pretending you were pioneers in the Far West?"
"What's a pioneer?" enquired Tibby, pausing in the middle of an act
of violence on a plate of oatmeal.
"The pioneers were the early settlers in this country, dear. You have
read about them in your history book. They endured a great many
hardships, for life was very rough for them, with no railroads or
anything. I think it would be a nice game to play this morning."
Tibby looked at Jill. There was doubt in his eye. Jill returned his
gaze sympathetically. One thought was in both their minds.
"There is a string to this!" said Tibby's eye.
"Exactly what I think!" said Jill's.
Mrs Mariner sneezed again.
"You would have lots of fun," she said.
"What'ud we do?" asked Tibby cautiously. He had been this way before.
Only last Summer, on his mother's suggestion that he should pretend
he was a ship-wrecked sailor on a desert island, he had perspired
through a whole afternoon cutting the grass in front of the house to
make a ship-wrecked sailor's simple bed.
"I know," said Jill. "We'll pretend we're pioneers stormbound in
their log cabin in the woods, and the wolves are howling outside, and
they daren't go out, so they make a lovely big fire and sit in front
of it and read."
"And eat candy," suggested Tibby, warming to the idea.
"And eat candy," agreed Jill.
Mrs Mariner frowned.
"I was going to suggest," she said frostily, "that you shovelled the
snow away from the front steps!"
"Splendid!" said Jill. "Oh, but I forgot. I want to go to the village
first."
"There will be plenty of time to do it when you get back."
"All right. I'll do it when I get back."
It was a quarter of an hour's walk to the village. Jill stopped at
the post-office.
"Could you tell me," she asked, "when the next train is to New York?"
"There's one at ten-ten," said the woman, behind the window. "You'll
have to hurry."
"I'll hurry!" said Jill.
Content of CHAPTER SEVEN [P G Wodehouse's novel: The Little Warrior]
_
Read next: CHAPTER EIGHT
Read previous: CHAPTER SIX
Table of content of Little Warrior (Jill the Reckless)
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
