Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (9 page)

 
          
           
Ethel came prancing back to her own party, full of praises of the
 
 Sibleys, and the fun they meant to
have together.
 
 

 
          
           
"They are going to the Langham; so we shall be able to go about with them,
and they know all the best shops, and some lords and ladies, and expect to be
in
Paris
when we are, and that will
be a great help with our dresses and things."

 
          
           
"But we are not going to shop and have new dresses till we are on our way
home, you know. Now we haven't time for such things, and can't trouble the
Homers with more trunks," answered Jenny, as they followed their elders to
the table.

 
          
           
"I shall buy what I like, and have ten trunks if it suits me. I'm not
going to poke round over old books and ruins, and live in a travelling-dress
all the time. You can do as you like; it's different with me, and
I
know what is proper."

 
          
           
With which naughty speech Ethel took her seat first at the table, and began to
nod and smile at the Sibleys opposite. Jenny set her lips and made no answer,
but ate her lunch with what appetite she could, trying to forget her troubles
in listening to the chat going on around her.

 
          
           
All that afternoon Ethel left her to herself, and enjoyed the more congenial
society of the new acquaintances. Jenny was tired, and glad to read and dream
in the comfortable seat Mrs. Homer left her when she went for her nap.

 
          
           
By sunset the sea grew rough and people began to vanish below. There were many
empty places at dinner-time, and those who appeared seemed to have lost their
appetites suddenly. The Homers were, good sailors, but Jenny looked pale, and
Ethel said her head ached, though both kept up bravely till
nine o'clock
, when the Sibleys precipitately retired after
supper, and Ethel thought she might as well go to bed early to be ready for
another pleasant day to-morrow.

 
          
           
Jenny had a bad night, but disturbed no one. Ethel slept soundly, and sprang up
in the morning, eager to be the first on deck. But a sudden lurch sent her and
her hair-brush into a corner: and when she rose, everything in the stateroom
seemed to be turning somersaults, while a deathly faintness crept over her.

 
          
           
"Oh, wake up, Jane! We are sinking! What is it? Help me, help me!"
and with a dismal wail Ethel tumbled into her berth in the first anguish of
seasickness.

 
          
           
We will draw the curtain for three days, during which rough weather and general
despair reigned. Mrs. Homer took care of the girls till Jenny was able to sit
up and amuse Ethel; but the latter had a hard time of it, for a series of
farewell lunches had left her in a bad state for a sea-voyage, and the poor
girl could not lift her head for days. The new-made friends did not trouble
themselves about her after a call of condolence, but faithful Jenny sat by her
hour after hour, reading and talking by day, singing her to sleep at night, and
often creeping from her bed on the sofa to light her little candle and see that
her charge was warmly covered and quite comfortable. Ethel was used to being
petted, so she was not very grateful; but she felt the watchful care about her,
and thought Jane almost as handy a person as a maid, and told her so.

 
          
           
Jenny thanked her and said nothing of her own discomforts; but Mrs. Homer saw
them, and wrote to Mrs. Amory that so far the companion was doing admirably and
all that could be desired. A few days later she added more commendations to the
journal-letters she kept for the anxious mothers at home, and this
serio-comical event was the cause of her fresh praises.

 
          
           
The occupants of the deck staterooms were wakened in the middle of the night by
a crash and a cry, and starting up found that the engines were still, and
something was evidently the matter somewhere. A momentary panic took place;
ladies screamed, children cried, and gentlemen in queer costumes burst out of
their rooms, excitedly demanding, "What is the matter?"

 
          
           
As no lamps are allowed in the rooms at night, darkness added to the alarm, and
it was some time before the real state of the case was known. Mrs. Homer went
at once to the frightened girls, and found Ethel clinging to Jenny, who was
trying to find the life-preservers lashed to the wall.

 
          
           
"We've struck! Don't leave me! Let us die together! Oh, why did I come?
why did I come?" she wailed; while the other girl answered with a brave
attempt at cheerfulness, as she put over Ethel's head the only life-preserver
she could find,—.

 
          
           
"I will! I will! Be calm, dear! I guess there is no immediate danger. Hold
fast to this while I try to find something warm for you to put on."

 
          
           
In a moment Jenny's candle shone like a star of hope in the gloom, and by the
time the three had got into wrappers and shawls, a peal of laughter from the
Professor assured them that the danger could not be great. Other sounds of
merriment, as well as Mrs. Sibley's voice scolding violently, was heard; and
presently Mr. Homer came to tell them to be calm, for the stoppage was only to
cool the engines, and the noise was occasioned by Joe Sibley's tumbling out of
his berth in a fit of nightmare caused by Welsh rarebits and poached eggs at
eleven at night.

 
          
           
Much relieved, and a little ashamed now of their fright, every one subsided;
but Ethel could not sleep, and clung to Jenny in an hysterical state till a
soft voice began to sing "Abide with me" so sweetly that more than
one agitated listener blessed the singer and fell asleep before the comforting
hymn ended.

 
          
           
Ethel was up next day, and lay on the Professor's bearskin rug on deck, looking
pale and interesting, while the Sibleys sat by her talking over the exciting
event of the night, to poor Joe's great disgust. Jenny crept to her usual
corner and sat with a book on her lap, quietly reviving in the fresh air till
she was able to enjoy the pleasant chat of the Homers, who established
themselves near by and took care of her, learning each day to love and respect
the faithful little soul who kept her worries to herself, and looked brightly
forward no matter how black the sky might be.

 
          
           
Only one other incident of the voyage need be told; but as that marked a change
in the relations between the two girls it is worth recording.

 
          
           
As she prepared for bed late one evening, Mrs. Homer heard Jenny say in a tone
never used before,—

 
          
           
"My dear, I must say something to you or I shall not feel as if I were
doing my duty. I promised your mother that you should keep early hours, as you
are not very strong and excitement is bad for you. Now, you WON'T come to bed
at ten, as I ask you to every night, but stay up playing cards or sitting on
deck till nearly every one but the Sibleys is gone. Mrs. Homer waits for us,
and is tired, and it is very rude to keep her up. Will you PLEASE do as you
ought, and not oblige me to say you must?"

 
          
           
Ethel was sleepy and cross, and answered pettishly, as she held out her foot to
have her boot unbuttoned,—for Jenny, anxious to please, refused no service
asked of her,—

 
          
           
"I shall do as I like, and you and Mrs. Homer needn't trouble yourselves
about me. Mamma wished me to have a good time, and I shall! There is no harm in
staying up to enjoy the moonlight, and sing and tell stories. Mrs. Sibley knows
what is proper better than you do."

 
          
           
"I don't think she does, for she goes to bed and leaves the girls to flirt
with those officers in a way that I know is NOT proper," answered Jenny,
firmly. "I should be very sorry to hear them say of you as they did of the
Sibley girls, 'They are a wild lot, but great fun.'"

 
          
           
"Did they say that? How impertinent!" and Ethel bridled up like a
ruffled chicken, for she was not out yet, and had not lost the modest instincts
that so soon get blunted when a frivolous fashionable life begins.

 
          
           
"I heard them, and I know that the well-bred people on board do not like
the Sibleys' noisy ways and bad manners. Now, you, my dear, are young and
unused to this sort of life; so you cannot be too careful what you say and do,
and with whom you go."

 
          
           
"Good gracious!
any
one would think YOU were as
wise as Solomon and as old as the hills. YOU are young, and YOU haven't
travelled, and don't know any more of the world than I do,—not so much of some
things; so you needn't preach."

 
          
           
"I'm
not wise nor
old, but I DO know more of the
world than you, for I began to take care of myself and earn my living at
sixteen, and four years of hard work have taught me a great deal. I am to watch
over you, and I intend to do it faithfully, no matter what you say, nor how
hard you make it for me; because I promised, and I shall keep my word. We are
not to trouble Mrs. Homer with our little worries, but try to help each other
and have a really good time. I will do anything for you that I can, but I shall
NOT let you do things which I wouldn't allow my own sisters to do, and if you
refuse to mind me, I shall write to your mother and ask to go home. My
conscience won't let me take money and pleasure unless I earn them and do my
duty."

 
          
           
"Well, upon my word!" cried Ethel, much impressed by such a decided
speech from gentle Jane, and dismayed at the idea of being taken home in
disgrace.

 
          
           
"We won't talk any more now, because we may get angry and say what we
should be sorry for. I am sure you will see that I am right when you think it
over quietly.
So good-night, dear."

 
          
           
"Good-night," was all the reply Ethel gave, and a long silence
followed.

 
          
           
Mrs. Homer could not help hearing as the staterooms were close together, and
the well-ventilated doors made all conversation beyond a whisper audible.

 
          
           
"I didn't think Jane had the spirit to talk like that. She has taken my
hint and asserted herself, and I'm very glad, for Ethel must be set right at
once or we shall have no peace. She will respect and obey Jane after this, or I
shall be obliged to say MY word."

 
          
           
Mrs. Homer was right, and before her first nap set in she heard a meek voice
say,—

 
          
           
"Are you asleep, Miss Bassett?"

 
          
           
"No, dear."

 
          
           
"Then I want to say, I've thought it over. Please DON'T write to mamma.
I'll be good. I'm sorry I was rude to you; do forgive—"

 
          
           
The sentence was not ended, for a sudden rustle, a little sob, and several
hearty kisses plainly told that Jenny had flown to pardon, comfort, and caress
her naughty child, and that all was well.

 
          
           
After that Ethel's behavior was painfully decorous for the rest of the voyage,
which, fortunately for her good resolutions, ended at Queenstown, much to her
regret. The Homers thought a glimpse at
Ireland
and
Scotland
would be good for the girls; and as the Professor had business in
Edinburgh
this was the better route for all parties. But Ethel longed for
London
,
and refused to see any beauty in the
Lakes of Killarney
,
turned up her nose at jaunting-cars, and pronounced
Dublin
a stupid place.

 
          
           
Scotland
suited
her better, and she could not help enjoying the fine scenery with such
companions as the Homers; for the Professor knew all about the relics and
ruins, and his wife had a memory richly stored with the legends, poetry, and
romance which make dull facts memorable and history enchanting.

 
          
           
But Jenny's quiet rapture was pleasant to behold. She had not scorned Scott's
novels as old-fashioned, and she peopled the cottages and castles with his
heroes and heroines; she crooned Burns's sweet songs to herself as she visited
his haunts, and went about in a happy sort of dream, with her head full of
Highland Mary, Tam o' Shanter, field-mice and daisies, or fought terrific
battles with Fitz-James and Marmion, and tried if "the light
harebell" would "raise its head, elastic from her airy tread,"
as it did from the Lady of the Lake's famous foot.