Mrs. Carruth went upon her way to the breakfast room. Mammy had learned all she wished to know.
At four o’clock that afternoon Miss Jean Carruth was perched upon her point of vantage, from which every object approaching her home could be descried. It was not a particularly easy point to reach, but that only added to its attraction; nobody else was likely to choose it. Nearly everyone sought the terrace, the piazza, or the upper windows in preference to the stable roof, even though the stable roof boasted a delightful assortment of gables and dormer windows, to say nothing of a broad gutter, around which one could prance at the imminent risk of a header to the ground, at least twelve feet below. In the golden haze of that mellow November afternoon, for autumn lingered late this year, Jean sat curled up in her corner, her chin resting in her palms, and her wonderful eyes fixed upon the road leading up the hill to her home. It was in reality more street than road, but was nearly always mentioned as the “hill road,” owing to its contrast to the broader highway from which it branched and zig-zagged up the hill to the more sparsely settled section of Riveredge. The watcher commanded all its length. Presently the shining eyes lighted up with a queer, half-delighted, half-defiant expression. Far down the road a vehicle was approaching; it was one of the railroad station surreys, and in it were seated two people, besides the driver: two people quite oblivious to all the rest of the world, if one could judge by their absorbing interest in each other, for the keen eyes watching them could discern this, even from their owner’s distance from the surrey.
“Um.” The utterance might be interpreted almost any way. Then, “Now, I dare say, we’ve got to have him here all this evening, and all to-morrow, and all the next day, and all every day; and I don’t want him around every single minute. My goodness, it was bad enough before Nonnie left for —— College; we never could get a single word in edgeways. I wonder if he’s going to board here? I used to like him when he just came to see us all, but now he’s tickled to death if everybody’s engaged when he shows up; everybody but Nonnie. I reckon I’ve got to take things in hand. Nonnie’s only twenty-one, and he’s, he’s? I do believe he’s about forty-one, though I never could get him to tell. But it doesn’t make any difference! He’s too old for Nonnie, and I’m not going to let him have her,” was the emphatic conclusion to this monologue, as Jean scrambled to her feet and gave a defiant nod toward the vehicle, which had just drawn up in front of the carriage block. At that moment Mrs. Carruth and Constance hurried down the steps to greet the new arrivals. Evidently the welcome accorded the masculine member of the party aroused a keen sense of resentment in Jean, and some manner of outlet for her feelings became imperative. Physical exercise was her usual safety-valve, and in this instance she chose one which had on former occasions proved effective, and more than once brought Mammy to the verge of nervous prostration, and the dire prophecy that “sooner or later dat chile gwine brek her neck.” As before stated, the gutter was wide, it was also a stoutly constructed one of galvanized iron, but it had not been designed for a promenade, much less a running track for athletic training. Nevertheless, it had to serve as one this time, for Jean started running around it as though bent upon its destruction, or her own. It came near proving her own, for just as Homer Forbes was placing a couple of suit cases upon the piazza he chanced to catch sight of the prancing demoiselle, and with a shout of: “Great Josephus! Are you courting sudden death?” made a wild dash for the stable.
With a defiant skip, Jean made for the other side at top speed, lost her balance, slipped, and the next second was hanging suspended by her arms between earth and sky. Had she not been lithe as a cat she never could have saved herself. Forbes was nearly petrified.
“Hang on! Confound it, what took you up there, anyway?” he cried, with no little asperity, as the others hurried across the lawn to the trapeze performer’s rescue.
“My feet took me up and my hands are keeping me here. Stand from under! I’m going to drop.”
“Drop nothing!” was the very un-savant like retort. “You’ll break both your legs. Hold on till I can get up there,” and the would-be rescuer darted within the stable.
How she managed it no one could quite grasp, but there was a flutter of skirts, a swing, and Jean was in a little heap upon the soft turf. Springing lightly to her feet and dusting the grass from her palms, she said:
“Hello, Nonnie! I got him out of the way long enough to hug you without having him watch how it’s done. Reckon he’ll learn soon enough without me to teach him. Come on into the house, quick. He’ll find out that I’m not killed when he looks out of the window.”
If Mrs. Carruth seemed resigned, Constance quite convulsed and Eleanor unduly rosy, Jean seemed oblivious of those facts.