Part 42 (1/2)

”Yes.”

”I haven't yet ben to that me-tropo-lis,” said Hosy. ”On some accounts I should admire to go, on others not. Ben long at Caryl's?”

”Yes, some time.”

”My wife's cousin helps over there; Mirandy's her name. And she tells me, Mirandy does, that the heap of was.h.i.+ng over to that house is a sight to see. She tells me, Mirandy does, that they don't especial dress up for the Sabbath over there, not so much even as on other days.”

”That is true, I believe.”

”Sing'lar,” said the little man, ”what folks 'll do as has the money!

They don't seem to be capable of enj'ying themselves exactly; and p'r'aps that's what Providence intends. We haven't had city folks at Caryl's until lately, miss, you see; and I confess they've ben a continooal study to me ever since. 'Tis amazin' the ways the Lord'll take to make us contented with our lot. Till I _see_ 'em, I thought 'em most downright and all everlastin' to be envied. But _now_ I feel the ba'm of comfort and innard strengthenin' when I see how little they know _how_ to enj'y themselves, after all. Here's the train, miss.”

In another moment Anne felt herself borne away--away from the solitary station, with its s.h.i.+ning lines of rails; from the green hills which encircled Caryl's; from the mountain-peaks beyond. She had started on her journey into the wide world.

In darkness, but in safety, she arrived at the half-house, in the station-keeper's wagon, a few minutes before midnight. A light was still burning, and in response to her knock Jeanne-Armande herself opened the door, clad in a wrapper, with a wonderful flannel cap on her head. She was much astonished to see her pupil, but received her cordially, ordered the trunk brought in, and herself attended to the beating down of the station-keeper's boy to a proper price for his services. She remarked upon his audacity and plainly criminal tendencies; she thoroughly sifted the physical qualities of the horse; she objected to the shape of the wagon; and finally, she had noted his manner of bringing in the trunk, and shaving its edges as well as her doorway, and she felt that she must go over to the station herself early in the morning, and lodge a complaint against him. What did he mean by-- But here the boy succ.u.mbed, and departed with half-price, and Jeanne-Armande took breath, and closed the door in triumph.

”You see that I have come back to you, mademoiselle,” said Anne, with a faint smile. ”Shall I tell you why?”

”Yes; but no, not now. You are very weary, my child; you look pale and worn. Would you like some coffee?”

”Yes,” said Anne, who felt a faint exhaustion stealing over her. ”But the fast-day coffee will do.” For there was one package of coffee in the store-room which went by that name, and which old Nora was instructed to use on Fridays. Not that Jeanne-Armande followed strict rules and discipline; but she had bought that coffee at an auction sale in the city for a very low price, and it proved indeed so low in quality that they could not drink it more than once a week. Certainly, therefore, Friday was the appropriate day.

”No,” said the hostess, ”you shall have a little of the other, child.

Come to the kitchen. Nora has gone to bed, but I will arrange a little supper for you with my own hands.”

They went to the bare little room, where a mouse would have starved. But mademoiselle was not without resources, and keys. Soon she ”arranged” a brisk little fire and a cheery little stew, while the pint coffee-pot sent forth a delicious fragrance. Sitting there in a wooden chair beside the little stove, Anne felt more of home comfort than she had ever known at Caryl's, and the thin miserly teacher was kinder than her grandaunt had ever been. She ate and drank, and was warmed; then, sitting by the dying coals, she told her story, or rather as much of it as it was necessary mademoiselle should know.

”It is a pity,” said Jeanne-Armande, ”and especially since she has no relative, this grandaunt, nearer than yourself. Could nothing be done in the way of renewal, as to heart-strings?”

”Not at present. I must rely upon you, mademoiselle; in this, even Tante can not help me.”

”That is true; she can not. She even disapproved of my own going forth into the provinces,” said Jeanne-Armande, with the air of an explorer.

”We have different views of life, Hortense Moreau and I; but there!--we respect each other. Of how much money can you dispose at present, my child?”

Anne told the sum.

”If it is so little as that,” said Jeanne-Armande, ”it will be better for you to go westward with me immediately. I start earlier than usual this year; you can take the journey with me, and share expenses; in this way we shall both be able to save. Now as to chances: there is sometimes a subordinate employed under me, when there is a press of new scholars.

This is the autumn term: there _may_ be a press. I must prepare you, however, for the lowest of low salaries,” said the teacher, her voice changing suddenly to a dry sharpness. ”I shall present you as a novice, to whom the privilege of entering the inst.i.tution is an equivalent of money.”

”I expect but little,” said Anne. ”A beginner must take the lowest place.”

On the second day they started. Jeanne-Armande was journeying to Weston this time by a roundabout way. By means of excursion tickets to Valley City, offered for low rates for three days, she had found that she could (in time) reach Weston _via_ the former city, and effect a saving of one dollar and ten cents. With the aid of her basket, no additional meals would be required, and the money saved, therefore, would be pure gain.

There was only one point undecided, namely, should she go through to Valley City, or change at a junction twenty miles this side for the northern road? What would be the saving, if any, by going on? What by changing? No one could tell her; the complication of excursion rates to Valley City for the person who was not going there, and the method of night travel for a person who would neither take a sleeping-car, nor travel in a day car, combined themselves to render more impa.s.sive still the ticket-sellers, safely protected in their official round towers from the rabble of buyers outside. Regarding the main lines between New York and Weston, and all their connections, it would be safe to say that mademoiselle knew more than the officials themselves. The remainder of the continent was an unknown wilderness in her mind, but these lines of rails, over which she was obliged to purchase her way year after year, she understood thoroughly. She had tried all the routes, and once she had gone through Canada; she had looked at ca.n.a.l-boats meditatively. She was haunted by a vision that some day she might find a clean captain and captain's wife who would receive her as pa.s.senger, and allow her to cook her own little meals along sh.o.r.e. Once, she explained to Anne, a Sunday-school camp-meeting had reduced the rates, she being apparently on her way thither. She had always regretted that the season of State fairs was a month later: she felt herself capable of being on her way to all of them.

”But now, whether to go on to Valley City, or to leave the train at Stringhampton Junction, is the question I can not decide,” she said, with irritation, having returned discomfited from another encounter with a ticket-seller.

”We reach Weston by both routes, do we not?” said Anne.