Part 31 (2/2)
Jane felt utterly lost. Usually so resourceful, so capable of finding something to amuse her or interest her every minute of the day, she now went about her tasks indolently, and spent the rest of her time wandering around listlessly. Several times, she went down to call on Mr.
Sheridan, who trotted her down to see his new Leghorn hens and his six Jersey cows. He had gone in for farming with his whole soul. He also discussed the changes he was making in the old house. Yes, he had decided to live in Frederickstown for good, as his grandfather had done before him, and his uncle, the Major, had done for many years. No, he didn't think so much of solitude as he once had-but then there were reasons. Yes, he might travel now and then, but that didn't count. No, he had not planned to settle permanently in Frederickstown, when he had first come, but things had happened since then that had changed his mind. Of course Janey had heard the news. Yes, he was the happiest man in the world. No, he had never been _really_ in love before. No, he didn't think Peterson would ever get married. Jane listened to him with the half-disdainful interest that one, who has been hardly dealt with by fate, pays to the cheerful talk of the fortunate. Their positions were reversed.
Jane was almost sorry that everything had gone so smoothly with Lily and Mr. Sheridan-she would have liked to have some complications to work on.
It also seemed to her hardly dignified in Mr. Sheridan to have abandoned his pessimism so readily-whatever the cause of it might have been. And now that he was so cheerful and full of plans, he seemed to her less interesting than he had been before.
She was on pins and needles waiting for news of what had befallen Paul's picture. She had allowed no one to share this secret which was absolutely her own, and her restless eagerness to hear was increased by not having anyone with whom to speculate on the chances of its success or failure.
No word had come from Paul. Where he was, what he was doing, how he was living were unknown to the family.
One fine, sunny day Aunt Gertrude declared that she was going to shut up shop and take a holiday.
”Come, we'll take Dinah and the old wagon, and go out to the country.
Elise, you and Jane can make up sandwiches. Granny doesn't want to go, but Anna will be here to take care of her. Father is going over to Allenboro, so there doesn't have to be any lunch cooked here, and Anna can get Granny's.”
The prospect of this unexpected spree put everyone, including Jane into high spirits. Aunt Gertrude roasted two chickens, to be eaten cold, baked a chocolate cake with marshmallow filling, and boiled eggs, while Elise and Jane cut and spread enough sandwiches to stay the appet.i.te of a small army.
At noonday they set out in the old wagon that had made the trip to Allenboro, Carl driving, with Aunt Gertrude and the twins beside him, Jane and Elise in the back with the luncheon hamper, books, embroidery and games.
And away they rumbled. Aunt Gertrude who actually had not been into the open country lying around Frederickstown in years, had set her heart on picnicking in one particular spot.
”I remember it from the time when I was a girl,” she said, blus.h.i.+ng as she did so easily. ”Long ago we had a picnic there-it's about a mile below the Webster's farm, Carl-I'll show you-Nellie Webster, and Sam (she was referring to Dolly's father and mother) and poor Nannie Muller and Ben McAllister-just think, they're all old folk like me, now! And it was there that I met your father! Think of that now!”
Jane, finding this interesting, moved so that she could kneel behind the seat, with her elbows on the back.
”Is that really true, Mummy? And did you like him right away? Was he handsome?”
”Certainly he was handsome-and your father is still a _remarkably_ handsome man, my dear!” said Mrs. Lambert, rather aggressively; and indeed she firmly believed that her husband was a perfect model of masculine good looks.
”Yes. Well, go on, Mummy. What did you wear?”
”What did I wear? Well, it's very queer but I _do_ remember that quite plainly. I wore a green muslin dress-that very dress, Lisa, that you found in my old trunk the other day-and a white leghorn hat, with little pink roses. Lisa, have you any idea what ever became of that hat? No-I remember now, I trimmed it up again and gave it to you when you were a little girl-and how sweet you looked in it!”
”I want a hat with pink rothes,” murmured Lottie.
”Don't interrupt, Lottie. Go on, Mummy. What was Daddy like?”
”Your father,” said Mrs. Lambert complacently, ”was a _great_ catch. He was older than the rest of us, and so dignified. At that time, I remember, he wore a big moustache-and such a lovely brown. I was quite afraid of him, and I was sure that he thought me a very frivolous girl, as I certainly was. But-he didn't seem to mind. And that night, there was a lovely big moon, and the hay had just been cut-and he took me home.”
That seemed to be the end of the story; Mrs. Lambert stopped, and a thoroughly sentimental smile spread over her youthful face. Lisa sighed.
She was, if possible, even more sentimental than her mother, and in the hours that her flaxen head was bent over her incessant handiwork, it was filled with imaginings of romantic scenes, and das.h.i.+ng young gentlemen like Walter Scott's heroes. She liked the portion of her mother's artlessly told romance that touched on the moon and the new-mown hay, but for herself she would have preferred a smooth-shaven hero to one with the dragoon's moustache that her mother so greatly admired.
”Now, Carl, you drive along this road to the left,” said Mrs. Lambert.
”It's all changed very little. I remember that rock, _perfectly!_ And we can lead Dinah off from the road and hitch her to a tree. And here we all get out.”
<script>