The House of the Misty Star by Frances Little (ereader for android TXT) 📕

  She talked incessantly and confidently of the hospital she intended to build in the Quarters. She had not a sen and I had less.

  With the grocery bill unpaid, her cheerful assurance sometimes provoked me. "Goodness, Jane, you haven't enough to buy even one shingle for a hospital! To hear you talk one would think the National Bank was at your command."

  "But, Miss Jenkins," she said, smiling, "we are not going to use shingles for the roof, but straw; and I have something stronger than a national bank. You see, I was just born hoping. I know some of the sweetest people at home. I've written nearly one thousand letters, telling them all about my dear friends in the Quarters."

  So that's where all the stamps went that she bought with the money I gave her for winter clothes!

  I was taking Jane to task for this when a note arrived from Zura. I had been almost sure that my invitation would meet the same fate as the English lessons. My fears disappeared when I opened the missive. It read as follows:

Dear Miss Jenkins:

  Thank you. Never did like to study in vacation, but if it is plain visiting I'll be delighted, for I'm starving. Have lived so long on rice and raw fish I feel like an Irish stew. You'll surely be shocked at what I can do to ham and eggs and hot biscuit! I'll float in about Thursday.

Hungrily yours,

Zura Wingate.

  When I told my companion that Zura was coming to make us a little visit, she was preparing to start for her work. She had just tied a bright green veil over her hat. Failing in its mission as trimming, the chiffon dropped forward in reckless folds almost covering her face; it gave her a dissipated look as she hurried about, gathering up her things, eager to be gone. But I was seeking information and detained her. "Jane," I asked, "what do young girls in our country like best?"

  "Boys and tolu," was the astonishing reply.

  The twinkle in her one visible eye increased to enough for two when I said with quite a good deal of dignity that, while I had some idea what boys were, I knew nothing of the other article she mentioned.

  "Oh, don't you really know what tolu is? It's a kind of rubber and girls like to chew it."

  "American girls chew! Why, the thing is impossible," I cried, pained to have an ideal shattered.

  "Keep calm, Miss Jenkins, this is a different kind of chew from the one you are thinking about. It isn't pretty, but it won't hurt them, any more than a peck of chocolates and, tolu or no tolu, in all the world there isn't anything dearer than young American girls. They are so fluffy and bossy and sweet, and they do make the darlingest mamas."

  Jane waited for some comment from me. Seeing I had none to make, she said, "Well, there aren't any boys for Zura to play with, and no tolu this side of San Francisco." Then, brightening with sudden inspiration, she exclaimed, "But I tell you what: wait till I take this basket down to Omoto's home and I'll run right back and make some bear and tiger cookies and gingerbread Johnnies. Children adore them."

  "What is the matter now down at Omoto's house?"

  "Oh, nothing much. He's in jail and his wife simply cannot work out in the field to-day. She has a brand-new pair of the sweetest twins, and a headache besides."

  Even after Jane departed I did some hard thinking how I was to entertain so youthful a visitor as Zura. Inside our simple home there was nothing especially beautiful, and my companion had never mentioned that she ever found me amusing. Outside fore and aft there was a view which brought rapture to all beholders and peace to many troubled souls. I was not sure how a wild young maid would thrive on views.

  From the moment Zura entered the house and I caught sight of her face as she looked at my garden through the glassed-in end of the sitting-room, my fears disappeared like mist before a breeze. A bit of her soul was in her eyes and, when she asked for a nearer view, I put down my work and led her through the carved gates into the ancient glory which was not only the garden of my house, but the garden of my soul. We passed a moss-grown shrine where a quaint old image looked out across the lake rimmed with flaming azaleas, and on its waters a family of long-legged cranes consulted with each other. Our way led over a bridge with a humped-up back and along a little path for one, then across a bank of ferns and into the tangle of bamboo all silvery with the sunshine.

  At the beginning of our walk my guest's conversation was of the many happy nothings I suppose most girls indulge in, but as we went farther she had less to say. Her eyes grew wider and darker as the beauty of the place pressed in upon her. We found a seat arched over with a blossoming vine and sat down for rest.

  Zura was quiet and, finding she avoided every allusion to home, I drifted into telling her a bit of the garden's history—its unknown age, the real princes and princesses who in the long ago had trodden its crooked paths. Legend said that so great was their love for it their spirits refused to abide in Nirvana and came to dwell in the depths of the dim old garden. I told her the spot had been my play place, my haven of rest for thirty years, and how for want of company I had peopled it with lords and ladies of my fancy. Armored knights and dark-haired dames of my imagination had lived and laughed and loved in the shadows of its soft beauty. Anxious to entertain and pleased to have an audience, I opened wider the doors to my sentimental self than I really intended. I went from story to story till the air was filled with the sweetness of romance and poetry. In the midst of a wondrous love legend a noise, sudden but suppressed, stopped me short. I looked at the girl. She was shaking with laughter.

  When I asked why, she managed to gasp, "Oh, but you're an old softy!"

  It was disrespectful, but it was also true and, though I felt as if a hot wind had been blowing on my face, there was such a note of comradeship in her voice that it cheered me to the point of joining in her merriment. Our laugh seemed to sweep away many of the years that stood between us and the old thrill of anticipation passed through me.

  We found many other things to talk about, for I searched every crook and cranny of my old brain for bits of any sort with which to interest her. The last turn in the path leading back to the house found us friendly and with a taste or two in common.

  Once, seeing something near by she wanted to sketch, she whispered to me as familiarly as if I were the same age, "For the love of Mike! hold my hat while I put that on paper."

  I had no acquaintance with "Mike" and she was bareheaded, but so infectious was her eagerness that I felt about twenty.

  What she wanted to sketch was only a small girl in a gay kimono and a big red umbrella, but the tiny mite made a vivid spot of color as she stood motionless to watch a great brown moth hovering over a bed of iris. Before I could explain that the child was a waif temporarily housed with me, shy and easily frightened, Zura whipped from somewhere out of the mysteries of a tight dress a pad and pencil and, with something like magic, the lines of the little maid's figure and face were transferred to the white sheet.

  "How Daddy would have loved her," said Zura, softly, as she covered her work. I was silent.

  Later my guest and I went into the house and I showed her my treasures. They were few, but precious in their way: Some rare old prints, a piece of ivory, and an old jewelry box of gold lacquer, all from grateful pupils. Zura's appreciation of the artistic side of her mother's country was keen. In connection with it she spoke of her father's great gift and how he had begun teaching her to paint when he had to tie her to a chair to steady her and almost before her hand was big enough to hold a brush. She referred to their close companionship. Mother wanted to rest very often and seldom joined them. Father and daughter would prepare their own lunch and go for a long day's tramping and sketching. Once they were gone for a week and slept out under the trees. Daddy was the jolliest chum and always let her do as she pleased. He trusted her and never had corrected her. Her voice was low and sweet as she dwelt upon the memories of her father, and when I saw her round white throat contract with the effort for control, I found something else to talk about.

  Altogether it was a smooth day and to me a very happy one. Jane had been absent since noon. Her occupations were unquestioned, but when she joined us at the evening dinner it was good to see how her tired face brightened at Zura's girlish way of telling things.

  Our guest thanked Jane for the cakes. Said she simply adored bear and tiger cookies, and as for gingerbread Johnnies she couldn't live without them. "It was so good of you to think of me," she told Jane.

  "Not at all," replied Miss Gray. "I was as glad to make them as I am to have you with us. Two lone women in one house are bound to get stale. We need young sweet things about to keep us enthusiastic and poetical."

  At this Zura's eyes sparkled, but the sincerity of Jane's welcome appealed to her better part and she suppressed a laugh.

  My house possesses one small guest-room. Without mentioning it, I disposed of a few curios and with the proceeds I ransacked the shops for things suitable for girls. My morning had been spent in arranging my purchases. It was a very sweet moment to me when, after I had ushered in my guest, she stood for a second taking it all in; then putting out her hand she said, "It's like a picture and you are very kind."

  Afterwards Jane Gray, looking like a trousered ghost in her outdoor sleeping garments, crept into my study and interrupted the work I was trying to make up.

  "Oh, Miss Jenkins," she whispered mysteriously, "I've just thought it all out—a way to make everybody happy, I mean. Wouldn't it be truly splendid if dear Page Hanaford and Zura were to fall in love? It's a grand idea. She has the mares and anners of a duchess and so has he." Excitement invariably twisted Jane's tongue.

  "For Heaven's sake, Jane, do you mean airs and manners?"

  "Yes, that's what I said," went on Jane undisturbed. "And oh! can you think of anything more sweetly romantic?"

  I laid down my pen and asked Miss Gray to look me straight in the eyes. Then I put the question to her: "Will you tell me what on earth romance, sweet or otherwise, has to do with a young fellow struggling not only with poverty, but with