Rose O'Paradise by Grace Miller White
CHAPTER V
LIKE UNTO LIKE ATTRACTED
Jinnie Singleton watched Theodore King leave the train at the littleprivate station situated on his own estate. As she drew nearer thecity depot, her heart beat with uncertainty, for that day would decideher fate, her future; she would know by night whether or not shepossessed a friend in the world.
For some hours she sat in the station on one of the hard benches,waiting for daylight, at which time she and Milly Ann would stealforth into the city to find Lafe Grandoken, her mother's friend.
A reluctant, stormy dawn was pushing its way from the horizon as shepicked up the pail and fiddle and stepped out into the falling snow.
Stopping a moment, she asked the station master about the Grandokens,but as he had only that week arrived in Bellaire, he politely, withadmiration in his eyes, told her he could not give her anyinformation. But on the railroad tracks Virginia saw a man standingwith his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
"What'd you want of Lafe Grandoken?" asked the fellow in reply to herquestion.
"I've come to see him," answered Jinnie evasively.
"He's a cobbler and lives down with the shortwood gatherers there onParadise Road. Littlest shack of the bunch! He ain't far from myfolks. My name's Maudlin Bates."
He went very near her.
"Now I've told you, you c'n gimme a kiss," said he.
"I'll give you a bat," flung back Jinnie, walking away.
Some distance off she stood looking down the tracks, her blue eyesnoting the row of huts strung along the road and extending toward thehills. At the back of them was a marshland, dense with trees andunderbrush.
"My father told me Mr. Grandoken was a painter of houses!" Jinnieruminated: "But that damn duffer back there says he's changed his workto cobbling. I'll go and see! I hope it won't be long before I'm aswarm as can be. Wonder if he'll be glad to see me!"
"It's the smallest house among 'em," she cogitated further, walkingvery fast. "Well! There ain't any of 'em very big."
She traveled on through heavy snow, glancing at every hut until,coming to a standstill, she read aloud:
"Lafe Grandoken, Cobbler of Folks' and Children's Shoes and Boots."
Jinnie turned and, going down a short flight of steps, hesitated amoment before she knocked timidly on the front door. During the momentof waiting she glanced over what she hoped was to be her future home.It was so small in comparison with the huge, lonely farmhouse she hadleft the night before that her heart grew warm in anticipation. Thenin answer to a man's voice, calling "Come in!" she lifted the latchand opened the door.
The room was small and cheerless, although a fire was struggling forlife in a miniature stove. In one corner was a table strewn withpapers. Back from the window which faced the tracks was a man, a kitof cobbler's tools, in the disarray of daily use, on the bench besidehim. He halted, with his hammer in the air, at the sight of thenewcomer.
"Come in and shut the door," said he, and the girl did as she wasbidden. "Cold, ain't it?"
"Yes," replied Jinnie, placing the pail and fiddle on the floor.
The girl looked the man over with her steady blue eyes. Then her heartgave one great bound. The grey face had lighted with a sweet, sadsmile; the faded eyes, under the bushy brows, twinkled welcome. Asense of wonderful security and friendship rushed over her.
"Well, what's your business? Got some shoes to mend?" asked the man."Better sit down."
Jinnie took a chair in silence, a passionate wish suffusing her beingthat this small home might be hers. She was so lonely, so homesick.The little room seemed radiant with the smile of the cobbler. She onlyfelt the wonderful content that flowed from the man on the bench toherself; she wanted to stay with him; never before had she been faceto face with a desire so great.
"I've come to live with you," she gulped, at length.
The cobbler gave a quick whack at the little shoe he held in thevise.
"I'm Jinnie Singleton, kid of Thomas Singleton, the second," the girlexplained, almost mechanically, "and I haven't any home, so I've cometo you."
During this statement the cobbler's hammer rattled to the floor, andhe sat eyeing the speaker speechlessly. Then he slowly lifted his armsand held them forth.
"Come here! Lass, come here!" he said huskily. "I'd come to you, but Ican't."
In her mental state it took Jinnie a few seconds to gather the importof the cobbler's words. Then she sprang up and went forward withparted, smiling lips, tears trembling thick on her dark lashes. WhenJinnie felt a pair of warm, welcoming arms about her strong youngshoulders, she shivered in sudden joy. The sensation was delightful,and while a thin hand patted her back, she choked down a hard sob.However, she pressed backward and looked down into Lafe Grandoken'seyes.
"I thought I'd never cry again as long as I lived," she whispered,"but--but I guess it's your loving me that's done it."
It came like a small confession--as a relief to the overburdenedlittle soul.
"I guess I've rode a hundred miles to get here," she went on, halfsobbing, "and you're awful glad to see me, ain't you?"
It didn't need Lafe's, "You bet your boots," to satisfy Jinnie. Thewarmth of his arms, the shining, misty eyes, set her to shiveringconvulsively and shaking with happiness.
"Set here on the bench," invited the cobbler, softly, "an' tell meabout your pa an' ma."
"They're both dead," said Jinnie, sitting down, but she still kept herhand on the cobbler's arm as if she were afraid he would vanish fromher sight.
The man made a dash at his eyes with his free hand.
"Both dead!" he repeated with effort, "an' you're their girl!"
"Yes, and I've come to live with you, if you'll let me."
She drew forth the letters written the night before.
"Here's two letters," she ended, handing them over, and sinking downagain into the chair.
She sat very quietly as the cobbler stumbled through the finelywritten sheets.
* * * * *
"Mottville Corners, N. Y.
"Dear Mr. Grandoken," whispered Lafe.
"My girl will bring you this, and, in excuse for sending her, I willbriefly state: I'm very near the grave, and she's in great danger. Iwant to tell you that her Uncle Jordan Morse has conquered me and willher, if she's not looked after. For her mother's sake, I ask you totake her if you can. She will repay you when she's of age, but untilthen, after I'm gone, she can't get any money unless through heruncle, and that would be too dangerous. When I say that my child'slife isn't worth this paper if she is given over to Morse, you'll seethe necessity of helping her. I don't know another soul I could trustas I am trusting you. The other letter Virginia will explain. Keep itto use against Morse if you need to.
"I can't tell you whether my girl is good or not, but I hope so. I'vewoefully neglected her, but now I wish I had a chance to live the pastfew years over. She'll tell you all she knows, which isn't much. Whatyou do for her will be greatly appreciated by me, and would be by hermother, too, if she could understand her daughter's danger."Gratefully yours,
"THOMAS G. SINGLETON."
* * * * *
The cobbler put down the paper, and the rattling of it made Jinnieraise her head.
"Come over here again," said the shoemaker, kindly. "Now tell me allabout it."
"Didn't the letter tell you?"
"Some of it, yes. But tell me about yourself."
Lafe Grandoken listened as the girl recounted her past life withMatty, and when at the finish she remarked,
"I had to bring Milly Ann----"
Grandoken by a look interrupted her explanation.
"Milly Ann?" he repeated.
Then came the story of the mother-cat and her babies. Jinnie liftedthe towel, and the almost smothered kittens scrambled over the top ofthe pail. Milly Ann stretched her cramped legs,
"She wouldn't 've had a place to live if I hadn't brought her,"explained Jinnie, looking at the kittens. "I guess they won't eatmuch, because Milly Ann catches all kinds of live things. I don't like'er to do that, but I heard she was born that way and can't help it."
"I guess she'll find enough to eat around here," he said softly.
"I brought my fiddle, too," Jinnie went on lovingly. "I couldn't livewithout it any more'n I could without Milly Ann."
The cobbler nodded.
"You play?" he questioned.
"A little," replied the girl.
Mr. Grandoken eyed the instrument on the floor beside the pail.
"You oughter have a box to put it in," he suggested. "It might getwet."
Virginia acquiesced by bowing her head.
"I know it," she assented, "but I carried it in that old wrap.... DidFather tell you about my uncle?"
"Yes," replied the cobbler.
"And that he was made to die for something my uncle did?"
"Yes, an' that he might harm you.... I knew your mother well, lass,when she was young like you."
An expression of sadness pursed Jinnie's pretty mouth.
"I don't remember her, you see," she murmured sadly. "I wish I had hernow."
And she heard the cobbler murmur, "What must your uncle be to want tohurt a little, sweet girl like you?"
They did not speak again for a few moments.
"Go call Peg," the cobbler then said.
At a loss, Virginia glanced about.
"Peg's my woman--my wife," explained Lafe. "Go through that doorthere. Just call Peg an' she'll come."
In answer to the summons a woman appeared, with hands on hips and armsakimbo. Her almost colorless hair, streaked a little with grey, wasdrawn back from a sallow, thin face out of which gleamed a pair oflight blue eyes. Jinnie in one quick glance noted how tall and angularshe was. The cobbler looked from his wife to her.
"You've heard me speak about Singleton, who married Miss VirginiaBurton in Mottville, Peggy, ain't you?" he asked.
"Yes," answered the woman.
"His kid's come to live with us. She calls herself Jinnie." He threwhis eyes with a kindly smile to the girl, standing hesitant, longingfor recognition from the tall, gaunt woman. "I guess she'd better goto the other room and warm her hands, eh?"
Mrs. Grandoken, dark-faced, with drooping lips, ordered the girl intothe kitchen.
Alone with his wife, Lafe read Singleton's letter aloud.
"I've heard as much of her yarn as I can get," he said, glancing up."I just wanted to tell you she was here."
"We ain't got a cent to bless ourselves with," grumbled Mrs.Grandoken, "an' times is so hard I can't get more work than what I'mdoin'."
A patient, resigned look crossed the cobbler's pain-worn face.
"That's so, Peg, that's so," he agreed heartily. "But there's alwaysto-morrow, an' after that another to-morrow. With every new daythere's always a chance. We've got a chance, an' so's the girl."
The woman dropped into a chair, noticing the cobbler's smile, whichwas born to give her hope.
"There ain't much chance for a bit of a brat like her," she snarledcrossly, and the man answered this statement with eagerness, becausethe rising inflection in his wife's voice made it a question.
"Yes, there is, Peg," he insisted; "yes, there is! Didn't you saythere was hope for me when my legs went bad--that I had a chance for alivin'? Now didn't you, Peggy? An' ain't I got the nattiest littleshop this side of way up town?"
Peg paused a moment. Then, "That you have, Lafe; you sure have," cameslowly.
"An' didn't I make full sixty cents yesterday?"
"You did, Lafe; you sure did."
"An' sixty cents is better'n nothin', ain't it, Peg?"
Mrs. Grandoken arose hastily.
"Course 'tis, Lafe! But don't brag 'cause you made sixty cents. Youmight a lost your hands same's your feet. 'Tain't no credit to you youdidn't. Here, let me wrap you up better! You'll freeze all that's leftof your legs, if you don't."
"Them legs ain't much good," sighed the cobbler. "They might as wellbe off; mightn't they, Peg?"
Peggy wrapped a worn blanket tightly about her husband.
"You oughter be ashamed," she growled darkly. "Ain't you every daysayin' there's always to-morrow?"
This time her voice was toned with finality, and she turned and wentout.
"I GUESS THEY WON'T EAT MUCH, BECAUSE MILLY ANN CATCHESALL KIND OF LIVE THINGS. I DON'T LIKE HER TO DO THAT, BUTI HEARD SHE WAS BORN THAT WAY AND CAN'T HELP IT."]