Part 5 (1/2)
It was midnight when the j.a.p ”cleany yupped” after the spread furnished the serenaders, but no dance at its best, could have been more novel or enjoyable. The girls remained on their second floor balcony, while Mr.
Allen descended to entertain in the big, roomy kitchen, but even from that distance Jane and Judith heard the ”pieces spoke” and joined in the laughter following some of the ludicrous attempts at histrionic feats.
”After all,” philosophized Mr. Allen, ”living near to Nature makes children of us all, and our boys are mere kindergartners when it comes to home sports.”
”I always feel like a leader in a Sunday school,” commented Aunt Mary, ”when we entertain them. It is surely a good work, and they are so appreciative.”
”And I always feel like-well, as if I belonged to the idle rich, when the boys pay us a visit. It is so narrow to have to make cla.s.s distinction, and feed them in the kitchen,” Jane objected with a note of scorn in her voice.
”Now, Janie,” insisted Judith, ”didn't Woo Nah say something about Bolshevism and the Girl? Your sentiments sound rather extreme. Can you imagine Dingo Joe among forks?”
”Boy all samee too much grub,” objected Willie Wing the cook. ”Likee big cow.”
The above is an excerpt from the conversation that sifted through the Allen home on the morning following the ”doin's” catalogued as the Cowboys' Serenade. Jane and Judith both made copious notes of the occasion in their diaries, but in spite of these records the real story was not to be told in mere words. It required the language of the boys themselves to give the affair its actual color. This was, however, plentifully supplied all over the ranch for at least a day after, and the consensus of opinion seemed to be, ”that Miss Allen was a peach,”
and her friend ”some girl.” Also ”that Chief Allen ought to be president of the United States, and the little sister woman would be all right for the first lady of the land.”
The boys had rehea.r.s.ed for their concert for more than a week, and consequently what was not given in perfection was supplied in enthusiasm, and the memory of that performance, for actors and audience, would not soon be obliterated by the everyday work of life and its prosaic demands.
So it was that the last day at home for Jane Allen had arrived.
The presence of her friend, Judith, softened the usual sadness of the hour of parting. Mr. Allen was both father and companion to his high-strung, brave little daughter, and the separation was necessarily momentous. Judith, alert to the situation, bubbled around, blowing in and out, on all the little love scenes, managing adroitly to curtail Jane's meditation before the reverenced picture of ”Dearest,” Jane's departed mother.
”I can imagine what will happen when we take up our New York quarters,”
she prophesied as Jane was all velvet-eyed and unnaturally quiet after a ”word” with Aunt Mary. ”I am so glad I can go with you, and not be required to report home first. Our folks will be resting until Kingdom Come after that Coast tour. We had so many delays and mixups.”
”Oh, I could never go to housekeeping without you, Judy,” Jane replied brightening. ”I dream of the shopping tours and the hunting trips, and I match colors with my Polish girl's eyes, and take samples of her hair to bed with me. I have not really decided on her hair, although I rather incline to blonde.”
”Oh, of course. I never saw a Polish girl other than a blonde,”
declared Judith. ”But, Janie, I cannot help wondering how your daddy trusts you with so much-money. This will be very expensive.”
”You forget, Judy dear, that I am his confidential clerk. I could run this entire ranch if daddy were incapacitated. He misses Dearest so much I feel I must be more than just plain daughter to him,” and her soft gray eyes became suspiciously misty again.
”Well, I'm packed. Thank goodness my trunks went on from the coast! Do you remember how I packed someone's dress in my bag at Wellington? It may be funny to one's friends, to do absurd things through absent mindedness, but it simply terrifies me to think of what I may do with others' money and such trifles. Aren't you afraid, Janie dear, I will run off with some of your family plate?”
”Not the leastest bit,” and Jane swung around to give her chum a punctuating hug. ”Judy, haven't you promised to keep your failing for your enemies, and never to work it off on your friends?” she reminded the girl, who was fairly dancing around the s.p.a.cious room, as if wanting to cover every inch of it before bidding good bye to El Capitan.
”Yes, I know, Janie. But I have a horror of certain things,” and she glanced quizzically at the wonderful silver set on Jane's mahogany dresser. ”Then, too, I might walk in my sleep and-go right down stairs and talk sweetly to Fedario on one of his serenade sprees. But, Janie, I shall never forget-to-love-you.”
The journey East began next morning.
”It must be the quiet of the country that gives you such a wonderful set of nerves,” Judith ruminated when they had reached their compartment. ”I always feel I must explode, even when there is no chance of combustion. Here we are, without a hair lost, and I felt ten minutes ago we would never make this train.”
”Perhaps it is sort of self reliance,” Jane ventured. ”We ranchers never miss a train-wouldn't dare to, we would have to wait too long for the next; but neither would we feel justified in getting all ruffled up in excitement. That is bad for-georgette crepe,” she finished, smoothing the texture mentioned, in her dainty little blouse, that had brushed up the least bit in the final good byes.
”Now we can think of Wellington,” proposed Judith, settling back comfortably.
”I just can't bear to see Montana running away from me, so I refuse to look,” and she wheeled her chair around, back to window.