A very merry party of people assembled at the manor on Saturday evening. Nathalie flitted about among them with dancing feet and shining eyes, and one and all caught the spirit of her contagious enthusiasm.
"Oh, what a lark it is," she cried. "It is full moon to-night, and everything has gone right from beginning to end."
"The end is not yet, Miss Nathalie," Farr said to her with a faint smile.
She shrugged her shoulders and laughed light-heartedly.
"Don't be cynical. It is a bad habit."
"The moon is rising," interposed Jean, turning about from the open doorway. "It is too lovely to stay indoors."
A hush fell upon them as they followed her out upon the veranda. Sentences left unfinished, gay laughter checked on the lips, paid tribute to the impressive beauty of the scene. Far away in the east the moon, with slow and stately grace, lifted its splendor above the dark line of the horizon. Against its flaming glory were sharply defined the somber trunks of sturdy oaks and spreading elms. Seen betweentheir leafy branches lay the Sound, obscured a moment since by an impenetrable veil of darkness, but reflecting now on its rippling surface the golden light of the rising orb. The night air pulsed with the cheery chirp of the cricket, the monotonous chant of the katy-did. Softly the south wind blew rustling among the trees and shrubs.
Nathalie was the first to speak. Her quick ear had caught the sound of wheels.
"Here comes the stage at last. Do let us get off right away."
"Is everyone here?" queried Mrs. Andrews, looking around on the bevy of pretty girls with a smile of complacent satisfaction.
"Everyone but Lillian," Helen answered. "We may as well begin to take our places. She will be down in a few moments."
Already the stage had backed up before the door, and Jean was among the first to run lightly down the broad flight of steps. Farr stood at the foot, and as he held out his hand to assist her, she saw that he was regarding her sadly. There was no time for words, the others were flocking down the steps behind them. She turned her eyes to meet his with a plaintive, almost appealing smile. She thought they must have spoken for her, for ere he released her hand he gave it a quick pressure.
It was some few moments before Miss Stuart made her appearance. She descended the steps slowly, with no suggestion of haste. Farr held open the door for her to enter.
"Come up here by me, Lillian," Helen called toher from the other end of the stage, but she did not seem to hear the request, and slipped into a seat near the door.
Farr sprang lightly in, but as he would have passed her she laid a detaining hand on his arm.
"There is plenty of room here," she said, indicating the place beside her, and he had no alternative but to take it.
The other men crowded past them, and as the stage lurched forward, Cliff Archer dropped into a seat between Jean and Eleanor.
"A great deal of strength is wasted in undue haste," he observed lazily. "I find that laggards invariably prosper."
"What heresy, Cliff," laughed Eleanor softly, with an expressive glance in Miss Stuart's direction.
Cliff appealed to Jean.
"Can you imagine anything more barefaced than that attempt to extort a compliment. From a sheer sense of duty I feel compelled to disappoint her."
He stopped abruptly, struck by the expression of Jean's face. She had evidently not heard his words, for she was staring straight before her with strained, unseeing eyes. Her mouth was compressed with a look of suffering in the lines. Cliff was very fond of Jean. He knew her better than the other girls, for she and Eleanor were such fast friends. He did not stop to ponder on the cause of her unhappiness, but hastily resolved to shield her if possible. Eleanor leaned forward to speak to her across him, but he brought his slender figure between them.
"You can talk to Jean all day, and every day. Itis my turn to-night, my dear, and I intend to monopolize you to my heart's content."
When Cliff spoke in that tone Eleanor knew there was no appeal to be made, so she yielded the point at once with very good grace.
As the stage jolted lumberingly on its way, Jean saw nothing of the beauty of the night, heard nothing of the merry laughter, the gay snatches of song which reverberated around her. It was, perhaps, a trifling circumstance that Farr had seated himself quite at the other end of the stage, and at Miss Stuart's side, but to Jean, in her unhappy state of mind, it meant a great deal. To her the interchange of glances a few moments since had been tantamount to a truce between them. She had been so sure that Farr would make an effort to secure a place beside her that she had purposely crowded up in the corner, leaving a space for him between Eleanor and herself. Her humiliation was poignant, complete. The wound to vanity was beneficial in its effect, rousing all her self-respect, and determining her to hide the truth from Farr at all hazards.
"I must be brave," she said to herself resolutely. "I must let him see that I am happy and light-hearted," and she closed her lips firmly to still their quivering. She was quite mistress of herself by the time the hotel was reached.
The Maynards, with their friends the Endicotts, awaited them on the brilliantly lighted veranda, and as they descended from the stage with merry jest and laughter, Maynard left his wife's side and ran down the steps to welcome them. He was a good-lookingman, with a particularly charming and cordial manner. He had never given much thought to the Hetherford girls; in his mind he stigmatized them as provincial and uninteresting; but to-night, as Jean, standing in the full glare of the hotel office, unwound the scarf from around her neck, and flung back her wrap, an exclamation of surprise rose to his lips.
Jean was, indeed, looking very lovely. There were faint shadows under the deep blue eyes, the sweet mouth drooped slightly, lending new beauty and depth of expression to her face. Maynard hastened to offer her his arm, and they moved slowly down the long hall to the entrance of the ball-room. The music had just begun when Farr's voice fell on Jean's ears. At his first words she turned a startled face toward him:
"Miss Lawrence, I believe this is our dance. Sorry to deprive you, Maynard," and before Jean could recover from her astonishment, Maynard had bowed himself away and Farr was smiling gravely down at her.
"Please don't be angry, Miss Jean. 'Nothing venture nothing have,' you know, and I have had so little lately."
Jean looked up at him helplessly at a loss for an answer.
"I want the waltz very much," he added in a tone of pleading.
She laughed a bit unsteadily.
"Why, of course, I will dance with you, although I must confess your mode of asking me is very strange."
"'All is fair in——' Which is it, Jean?" he asked softly as they fell into the measure of the waltz.
She dropped her eyes, glad that at present no reply was required of her. When the last strain had died away, Farr drew her hand through his arm, and they threaded their way among the crowd out into the cool hall-way.
"Is this your wrap?" he queried, selecting one from the number that were thrown across a chair. "Now let us go outside for a little stroll."
They made their way out on to the little veranda, which on this side of the hotel was built on a ledge of rocks, and overhung the waters of Crescent Bay. Avoiding the rank and file of dancers, who were now promenading slowly up and down, they crossed to the railing and stood there gazing silently before them. In the harbor below myriads of boats lay at anchor, all gayly decorated in honor of the occasion. Further out the moon's bright radiance fell softly on the tremulous waves, and across its golden sheen a white-winged yacht sped silently on its way.
By and by, Jean roused herself with a slight effort:
"What Philistinism it is to illuminate the veranda with those ugly lanterns. Their flaring light quite spoils the effect of the moonlight."
Her poor little commonplace attempt to open the conversation met with disastrous failure. Farr muttered inattentively "Yes, indeed," and relapsed into silence again.
In the long pause that ensued the monotonous splash of the waves against the rocks below sounded deliciously cool and refreshing. A rowboat shot outfrom the pier, skimming the darkened waters under the lea of the shore.
Farr drew nearer to Jean and spoke with deep earnestness:
"We cannot take up the thread of the past, Miss Jean, with this constraint between us, but I am not willing to let it go without an attempt at an explanation. Will you not tell me what I have done to have forfeited your friendship?"
Jean's head was bent, her few words of dissent almost inaudible. Farr interrupted her in a voice that was both pained and stern.
"Please don't deny it. I cannot have forfeited the right to your honesty. Did I presume too much on your great kindness to me, Jean?"
"No, oh no!" she cried hastily, with a little break in her voice. "Indeed you must not think that."
A man's step approached them, and stopped at Jean's side.
"Miss Lawrence," Maynard's voice said, "the next waltz is ours. Shall I find you here?"
"Why, certainly," she replied with a forced laugh. "I shall not vanish."
"I wanted to assure myself of the pleasure. One is easily lost among all these people," he answered lightly, as he turned away.
Farr's face darkened.
"What right has Maynard to monopolize you?" he demanded savagely. "He is a married man, and not a man——"
It was an unwise speech, and he broke off abruptlyconvicted of his folly by the expression in Jean's unflinching eyes.
"You forget that Mr. Maynard is our host, Mr. Farr," she said coldly.
After a moment she added more gently:
"I did not want you to say anything that you would regret. I should be sorry to hear you speak ill of a friend. It is not like you."
The simple words touched Farr, and made him feel ashamed of himself.
"I beg your pardon," he said contritely. "I was a brute to speak so. The truth is, I am not myself, and have not been during the whole of this miserable week. I seem never to have the chance to speak with you, and I have tortured myself with the thought that it has been your deliberate purpose to avoid me."
The opening bars of the waltz, and Maynard's approach, cut short his words. Slowly the trio forced their way through the moving crowd until they had gained the entrance to the ball-room. Farr stood listlessly in the doorway as Maynard whirled Jean away from him across the polished floor. Some minutes later, someone touched his elbow and he turned with a start to meet Miss Stuart's eyes:
"Val, let us dance together 'for auld lang syne.'"
"With pleasure," he assented abstractedly, for as she spoke he had caught a glimpse of Jean disappearing through one of the long windows which gave on the veranda. Miss Stuart's glance followed his, and her eyes flashed. The carelessness of his reply hurt her cruelly.
"I will make Jean suffer for this," she vowed, aswith throbbing heart she took her place among the dancers.
Later, as they passed through the doorway, they encountered Jean and Maynard re-entering the room. Miss Stuart first caught sight of them. She raised her glorious eyes to her companion's face, and spoke in a voice carefully pitched to reach Jean's ears:
"Yes, indeed, Val, it is pleasant to dance together again. It brings back those bygone happy days so forcibly."
They were abreast of the other couple now, and Farr halted. Miss Stuart's speech had quite escaped him, absorbed as he was in watching Jean, so he was entirely unprepared for her reception of him. As he spoke her name she flashed a light impenetrable smile at him, and then deliberately turned away, and he heard her say gayly to the man at her side:
"Mr. Maynard, that waltz is divine. Don't let us miss another bar of it."
And Maynard answered softly:
"Your wish is my law, Miss Jean."
Then the crowd surged between them, and with a somewhat unreasonable bitterness in his heart Farr blindly followed Miss Stuart to a secluded corner of the veranda. Jean's treatment of him was inexplicable. It seemed so much easier for things to go wrong than right that he felt it was well-nigh useless to struggle against the inevitable. Disappointed and dispirited he paid but small heed to his beautiful companion, who was exerting her rare tact and diplomacy to please and divert him.
In the ensuing hour, Jean, all unsuspecting of thetruth, was amply avenged. Never before had it come home to Lillian Stuart, with such convincing force, that against Farr's love for this young girl she was utterly powerless. In vain love taught her a new unselfishness, a womanly gentleness quite strange to her; in vain did she crush down the rising storm of jealousy within her breast. Farr saw none of these things, cared for her not at all. He sought her society because she made so few demands upon him and accepted his varying moods unquestioningly. If he thought on the subject at all he explained her kindness to him by the fact that he was possibly more in touch with her world than anyone else in Hetherford. The subtle charm of her personality which she had ever found so potent was quite lost on this man whose love she had once possessed, and had valued so lightly. Hope was dead in her heart, but one weapon of revenge—Jean's evident jealousy—lay within her grasp, and this she wielded with unerring skill.
The music ceased, and soon the veranda was invaded by a host of flushed and heated dancers, and among their number Jean, with Maynard still at her side. There was a new elasticity in her step, a new light in her eyes, and she was flirting quite openly and markedly with her companion. As the stream bore them past Farr and Miss Stuart she did not apparently observe them, withdrawn as they were into the corner, and falling out of the line of people, selected seats at a short distance from them.
Maynard, to whom a pretty woman was always irresistible, was carried away by the girl'sinsouciance, and fascination. He was the more delighted becauseso completely taken by surprise. He had pictured Jean always as a little puritan who would look upon a flirtation as the height of immorality, but to-night the little puritan had suddenly blossomed out in a totally unexpected and charming character. He was not a little flattered by her evident willingness to linger on in this quiet spot with him when the crowd had once more sought the ball-room, and into his manner he infused an added warmth of interest.
Poor Jean, however, was invulnerable. She had never liked Mr. Maynard, although she had been forced to admit that he was charming, and agreeable as an acquaintance. The Hetherford girls were one and all too sincerely fond of Mrs. Maynard to have much patience with the man who could flagrantly neglect so sweet and lovely a wife. It had been an unwritten code of honor among them to treat him with polite indifference, and to promptly snub any attempt on his part to break down the barrier of reserve behind which they had entrenched themselves. Under ordinary circumstances Jean would have despised herself for the course she was now pursuing, but to-night the poor child was too utterly miserably to care what she did, or what became of her. She laughed and flirted recklessly with this man, of whom she strongly disapproved, to quell the ache at her heart, and when the remedy failed she but laughed and flirted the more. It was selfish, unworthy; but Jean was unversed in suffering, and seized upon the means within reach to enable her to cover up her pain and jealousy. Something of the same impulse that influenced Farr with Miss Stuart prompted herto keep this man at her side. Those old friends knew her too well, had seen too much of her with Farr, not to have their suspicions aroused by her feverish and exaggerated gayety.
At last the evening was over, and they stood in the hotel office, awaiting the arrival of the stage. Jean was somewhat apart from the others, with Maynard bending over her and talking to her in lowered tones.
Her little foot tapped the floor nervously, her cheeks burned hotly, and one unsteady little hand waved a big fan to and fro. Her courage was rapidly forsaking her, and she rallied all her strength in one last effort to appear naturally gay and at ease. She felt she must not break down now with Farr only a few paces away, for, although she never raised her eyes, yet she knew he was watching her.
As pretty little Mrs. Maynard moved about among her guests, speaking to them in her softly modulated voice, she bent a glance of anxious intentness upon Jean. She was far too inured to her husband's indifference to be deeply hurt by this new flirtation carried on before her very eyes, but this new phase in Jean's character puzzled her. But her own sad experience had quickened her intuition of others' unhappiness, and so it was that in her gentle heart there was more of commiseration than anger.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Dick's announcement that the stage was at the door. When Jean came to bid her good-night she looked into the strained, pathetic eyes with compassionate tenderness, and a sudden impulse made her lean forward and kiss the girl lovingly.
Once more the old stage rumbled over the road between Hetherford and Crescent Beach. The wind had veered a point to the east, and blew damp and chill, driving before it a mist of clouds across the sky, obscuring the moon's bright light. The sudden change in the atmosphere was felt by everybody, and the conversation was spasmodic, broken by long intervals of silence. Jean, very white and still now that the tension was relaxed, shrank back into her corner clinging fast to Eleanor's hand. In a further corner Farr sat at Helen's side, silent during the whole of the long drive.
Miss Stuart's visit was drawing to a close, and Nan was giving a luncheon in her honor. The little parlor of the parsonage was redolent with the fragrance of roses and mignonette, which were massed in every vase and bowl, and the arrangement of the simple, old-fashioned furniture bore evidence of Nan's artistic taste. A few good etchings and a half-dozen rare old prints adorned the walls, and scattered about on the low mantel were several valuable bits ofvertu.
Nan stood in the center of the room, and received her guests with outstretched hand and beaming face.
"Now, I call this delightful," she said cheerily, as she shook hands with Miss Stuart. "Even father has gone away for the day, so we are a typical Hetherford party—all girls and no men. Em said you would be bored to death," she rattled on in a confidential undertone, "but for once in a way I thought you might find it amusing to have plenty of your own sex. It is no novelty to us, as Em will tell you with a face as long as the moral code."
"I think it is charming," Miss Stuart affirmed, with a greater regard for amiability than for truth.
Nan smiled mischievously.
"Confess it is dull."
"Indeed it is not, Miss Nan. The imp of dullness would never dare to show his surly face in your presence."
"Ah, you do not know," and Nan shook her head in laughing protest. "Drop in here any Sunday between church-time and dinner, and you will find us boon companions."
The door into the dining-room was opened, and a grim-visaged woman in a starched calico gown of uncompromising stiffness appeared on the threshold. For a moment she eyed Nan threateningly, and then announced:
"Your lunch is on the table," and added, as she faced about and marched back into the dining room, "and it's getting cold."
Nan, in no wise disconcerted, turned a wry face toward her guests:
"Biddy and I had one of our most deadly affrays just before you arrived, so don't be surprised at anything she may give us for luncheon. I tried, for your sakes, to keep my temper until later in the day, but it wouldn't be kept."
"It never will," sighed Emily ruefully, in the midst of the general laugh.
Nan ushered them into the dining room:
"Miss Stuart, will you sit here on my right? Girls, take any places you want."
"You needn't have worried about luncheon, Nan. These biscuits are simply delicious," observed Helen, consolingly, as Bridget vanished into the kitchen. "Biddy is far too proud of her skill to disgrace you."
"Oh, she would not mind me," laughed Nan airily. "Nothing would restrain her but her sense of importance, and her undying jealousy of your cook."
"What a glorious time we had at the dance," Emily remarked irrelevantly. "It was about the most successful thing we have done this summer. It has made such a difference having theVortexhere, hasn't it, Jean?"
Jean, thus addressed, changed color rapidly, and then was furious with herself, for she caught Miss Stuart's eyes fixed on her with insolent directness.
"Oh, bother theVortex," cried Mollie petulantly. "Don't let us talk about men. There are dozens of subjects more interesting."
"We will make it 'man,' and talk of Dick. Eh, Mollie?" and Nathalie laughed provokingly.
"We couldn't do better," responded Mollie imperturbably. "Dick is lovely, is he not, Miss Stuart?"
Miss Stuart flung back her head with a merry laugh; no whit embarrassed by the naïve question. Dick had been her shadow for the past week, and was sighing and pining like the most approved of lovers, yet she answered with a nonchalance which Nathalie would have given worlds to acquire.
"He is truly charming, Miss Mollie. I quite share your enthusiasm."
Then she dropped out of the conversation, listening with languid interest to the topics which the others fell to discussing with much animation. Their views of life differed materially from her own; their complete unworldliness called a half-contemptuous smileto her lips, and yet there was awakened within her a shadowy feeling of regret. She had lived a purely pleasure-loving life, without a thought beyond her own advancement along the line of her ambitions. To a certain extent she had been eminently successful. Her marvelous beauty, supplemented by a decided mental ability, had strewn her path with the admiration and adulation which she craved, and faults and failings, which in a less beautiful woman would have received harsh censure, were in her case overlooked and condoned. To-day, for the first time, the thought assailed her that perhaps she was the victim of an erroneous idea; that perhaps these young girls, living their lives so simply, actuated by a desire to act uprightly and to be honest and affectionate in every relationship in life, had found a happiness which had eluded her grasp.
Nathalie, who vainly strove at times to be cynical, made some careless remark, and Miss Stuart listened wonderingly to a gentle remonstrance which Eleanor administered in accents of earnestness.
"Ah! Nat, dear, don't say that, even in fun. Everything makes a difference."
"Indeed, yes," added Helen.
"No stream from its source flows seaward,How lonely soever its course,But what some land is gladdened.No star ever rose or setWithout influence somewhere."
"No stream from its source flows seaward,
How lonely soever its course,
But what some land is gladdened.
No star ever rose or set
Without influence somewhere."
She quoted the lines charmingly, despite the little shyness which was so characteristic of her.
"I suppose that is true," said Mollie thoughtfully;"and in the large things in life we know that we can only be in harmony with God's plan by acting absolutely in accordance with our consciences. But it is hard to realize the importance of our decision in regard to the small daily occurrences. They seem almost too insignificant to exert any influence, either for good or evil."
"Influence does not lie only in deeds, Mollie," Eleanor replied, "either small or great. It seems to me that it is what we are, not what we do, that is the essential thing. If one's heart is pure and true, purity and truth will be manifested in one's actions, however trivial. And remember, dear, for I am going to quote now:
"No life can be strong in its purpose and pure in its strife,And all life not be stronger and purer thereby."
"No life can be strong in its purpose and pure in its strife,
And all life not be stronger and purer thereby."
Jean gave her friend's hand an affectionate squeeze.
"I do believe you are the best girl living," she whispered softly, with an air of profound conviction.
"You see, girls, what it is to have a friend like Jean."
"You mean like Eleanor," Jean promptly retorted.
"I suppose that is true friendship," mused Mollie.
"Must friendship necessarily be as blind as love?" queried Nan, with a smile at the two girls which robbed the words of any sting.
"Jean knows nothing of love," declared Emily, with an air of superiority which was eminently amusing. It was common parlance that Emily never saw the general aspect of things quite as clearly as most people.
Jean joined somewhat constrainedly in the laugh that greeted these words, and wondered if it could be her imagination that Miss Stuart's smile held a covert sneer.
It was late in the afternoon when Helen reached the manor and made her way up to the nursery. The room was dim, for heavy clouds shortened the summer day. A sharp east wind moaned through the trees outside, and nurse had wisely lighted a wood fire in the wide chimneyplace. Its fitful flickering light fell full on little Gladys kneeling before the hearth, her eyes big with excitement as her chubby hands shaped a wonderful house of blocks; while near her Larry, lying flat on his back, threw out occasional hints and suggestions as to its construction. Willie, curled up in one of the deep window-seats, was making the best of the fast-fading daylight to finish a story which, to judge from his absorbed expression, must have been of thrilling interest. As Helen pushed open the door and advanced toward the cheerful fire, three pairs of eyes looked up to greet her.
"Well, chicks, you all look very happy and comfie."
Gladys thrust out her hands in quick alarm to save her block house from dangerous contact with the skirt of Helen's gown.
"P'ease take care, sister," she lisped. "Don't step on our b'ocks, 'cause Larry an' me is buildin' a big castle."
"Baby, baby, 'Larry an' me is buildin'?'"
Gladys shook her fluffy head impatiently.
"I haven't got any time to bovver. I'm velly busy."
Helen laughed, and dropping down upon the floor, began to lend a helping hand. Gladys sank back on her heels with a complacent sigh.
"Build a booful one, sister, big as this," raising her arms high over her head.
Helen nodded, but paused from her task, block in hand, to give a glance at Willie.
"Put down your book, dearie," she said to him. "This is the worst possible light to read in. You will ruin your eyes."
Willie heaved a sigh as he closed the precious book and, stretching himself after his cramped position, rose slowly to his feet, and joined the group before the fire. Flinging himself down near Helen, he laid his head in her lap. She patted his little round face affectionately, and went on with her castle-building.
The setting sun had broken through the clouds, and a flood of yellow light streamed through the western windows. From the huge logs in the fireplace an increasing volume of flames roared up the chimney, its ruddy glow illuminating the eager faces of the children, intent on every movement of their sister's deft hands. The truly wonderful house of blocks was nearing completion when Jean came quietly into the room. For a moment she stood silent in the shadowy doorway contemplating the pretty scene with wistful eyes. As she approached more nearly she unconsciously echoed Helen's words of a few moments past.
"Well, you look very happy, all of you."
Helen laughed softly.
"This is an exciting moment, Jeanie, so you must not marvel if we are not very talkative."
Jean leaned against one side of the old-fashioned chimneyplace, and absently watched the placing of the last few blocks.
"Gladys," she whispered, after a moment, "what do you think I saw just now?"
"What, Jeanie?" lifting her flushed face to her sister's.
"Mary on her way upstairs with your supper, and oh, what cookies!"
"Goody!" cried Larry, springing to his feet with a bound which brought the beautiful castle tumbling to the ground.
"You naughty boy!" scolded Gladys crossly. "See what you done!"
Jean took the angry, pouting little face between her hands, and smiled tenderly down into the tearful eyes:
"It is hard luck, baby, but you might as well get used to having your castles demolished."
"It's a shame," grumbled Willie, who was almost as disappointed as his little sister. "Larry's always rough."
"Never mind, dear," interrupted Helen, rising from the floor. "I am sure Larry didn't mean to upset the house, and in any case we could not leave it in Mary's way."
"Bother Mary."
"Hush, Willie, you must not speak so. Now run away and dress for dinner. Larry and Gladys must have their supper."
Jean followed her sister out into the hall, and laid a detaining hand on her arm.
"Helen," she said, very low, "are you ever really unhappy?"
"Why yes, Jean, sometimes. But why do you ask? Surely you are always in good spirits."
Jean smiled a little bitterly:
"Oh, of course I am, and I suppose I must go on fulfilling my destiny until the end of the chapter. But even if one has a reputation for unending hilarity, there are times——" She broke off abruptly with a laugh which suggested tears, and rushed away in the direction of her room, leaving Helen sorely puzzled.
"May I come in, Aunt Helen?"
"Certainly, dear." Aunt Helen looked up from the open Bible on her knee, and welcomed Jean with a cheery smile. "Where were you all yesterday? I did not have a glimpse of you."
The girl crossed the room, and dropping down into an easy-chair near the open window, gazed listlessly out across the sunlit lawn.
"Oh, I was just here as usual."
Aunt Helen closed her Bible and laid it carefully down on the table.
"Are you tired already of so much pleasuring, Jeanie?"
"I don't see that we have had a great deal of pleasuring lately," her niece replied perversely. "I think Hetherford is the stupidest place in the world, and I am tired of everything."
Aunt Helen was far too wise to remonstrate just then. After a moment's silence, she opened a subject which had never failed to awaken an interest in Jean.
"I had a nice letter from Mrs. Appleton to-day. They seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves now, and she says Guy is working splendidly and expects to accomplish great things on his return."
"Yes," was Jean's inattentive response, as her eyes marked the circling of a buzzing fly outside the window.
"Miss Stuart is making quite a long visit," ventured Aunt Helen patiently. "I had thought that she would soon tire of Hetherford."
"I am sure I don't see why she doesn't go away. The whole house is turned upside down to provide her with amusement. It is a perfect bore."
"My dear," Aunt Helen objected, "that is surely not the spirit of true hospitality. We do not speak ill of our guests.Noblesse oblige."
"I can't help it," and Jean, now thoroughly aroused, started up from her chair; "I am not going to pretend to like a person when I don't. She is insufferably patronizing, and I hate her."
Aunt Helen looked up at her niece with real distress in her eyes.
"Why, child," and she held out her hand, "come here. I want to speak to you."
Jean stood irresolute, looking half ashamed, and wholly miserable. At that most inopportune moment Nathalie flung open the door.
"Oh, here you are, Jean. I have been looking all over for you. Come on down and have a game of tennis before dinner. Why, what's the matter?"
Jean hastily averted her face.
"Nothing. I don't care to play tennis."
"Oh, please do, I am just in the humor for it."
"You may be, but I am not," Jean returned curtly.
"What in the world has come over you?" asked Nathalie bluntly. "I never knew anyone's dispositionto become as uncertain and irritable as yours has lately."
"Why don't you let me alone, then? My temper may be growing bad, but yours has never been anything else."
Nathalie shrugged her shoulders, and laughing shortly, went on her way without another word.
When the door had closed on her, Jean slipped down on the floor and, burying her face in Aunt Helen's lap, sobbed convulsively.
"I don't know what is the matter with me," she faltered. "I am so cross and irritable lately. Everything seems to set my nerves on edge. I never used to feel so."
Aunt Helen passed her thin hand soothingly over the girl's bent head.
"Don't worry about it, dearie. Of course you did not mean to speak so. You are tired and unstrung to-day."
By and by Jean's sobs grew less frequent, then ceased altogether. She lifted her head, and, resting her arm on Aunt Helen's knee, dropped her chin in her hand, and stared absently before her. All trace of emotion had left her face, and it now wore an expression of utter weariness and dejection. Her aunt looked thoughtfully down at her. Had it been either Helen or Nathalie who had thus given way it would not have troubled her, but proud little Jean was too reserved and self-contained to break down unless she had been very sorely tried. The silence had lasted some few moments when Aunt Helen again spoke.
"In spite of your denial, Jean, I fear that yourplaytime has lasted too long. Discontent never fails to creep in among us when we are idle. You see, dear, I am taking it for granted that it is nothing deeper than a feeling of discontent which makes you so unhappy. I know of nothing else unless——" She paused. Jean stirred uneasily under her direct glance. Aunt Helen instantly averted her eyes, and resumed: "I am sorry that my ill health forces me to lead my life so apart from you all. I am in ignorance of the many currents and eddies which would otherwise be apparent to me, but if ever you need my advice you know how gladly I will give it to you, and there are times when an old head is better than a young one."
Still Jean did not speak. Aunt Helen sighed a little sadly:
"Well, my child, I suppose I am mistaken, and that your trouble is only a surfeit of pleasure."
"I am a great baby, Auntie, but I am glad I came here to you to have my cry out. You always help me so, and make me ashamed of being so impatient," and Jean looked lovingly up into the worn face which was bent above her.
"Thank you, dearie. You must come to me whenever you feel discouraged and unhappy, and remember I always stand ready to give you whatever comfort or counsel lies within my power. But, Jean," and her voice was very grave, "I have learned from my own experience, both of petty annoyance and of great trials, that there is only one true source of strength."
At a late hour that night Lillian Stuart sat beforethe low dressing-table in her cozy room, reviewing the events of the past week. The face which the mirror reflected was clouded, the eyes somber and full of fire, for the consciousness of defeat was upon her. As yet, however, no thought of capitulation occurred to her. Farr's indifference, his evident love for another, but deepened her love for him, stinging it into a passion that was well-nigh overmastering her. The difficulties in her path lent new zest to the struggle, rousing within her heart an insatiable desire for conquest. Possession had ever palled upon her. She had loved Farr, but as an accepted lover he had wearied her, and her love for him was not strong enough to drown the voice of worldly wisdom and prudence. To be sure, in those days he was hardly more than a boy, poor and unknown, whereas to-day he was a man well versed in the world's ways, liberally supplied with the world's goods, and with the respect and esteem of his fellow-men, yet preserving the same sweet, magnetic personality which long ago had made such a deep impression on her somewhat fickle heart. These considerations naturally had weight with her, but the secret of her determination lay not in these, but in the obstacles to be surmounted, the flattering assurance that her power could not be foiled. Had she been quite honest with herself she must have acknowledged that once the victory gained the charm would be forever broken. As Farr's wife she would be a thoroughly wretched woman. Knowing full well his hatred of an untruth, his contempt for a deception, his passionate anger at an injustice, did she not dream what a death to his soul a unionwith her would have been? Alas! she herself had revealed to him the shallowness of her nature, the pettiness of her ambitions, the faithlessness of her heart. The lesson was a bitter one but he had learned it well, and, deep in her soul, Lillian Stuart knew that never again would he give his love unworthily. She hated Jean Lawrence, yet she appreciated her purity and gentleness, the fineness of her nature, the almost exalted bent of her mind. But this appreciation did not soften her heart, nor weaken her determination. Jean had balked her, and Jean must suffer.
The face in the mirror before her grew hard; there were rigid lines about the mouth, the wonderful eyes gleamed strangely bright.
"I love him. I have always loved him. She shall not have him. It is the one satisfaction that is left me if all else fails."
Sharp upon these thoughts came a tap upon the door, and Helen Lawrence entered. A soft wrapper enveloped her slender frame, and her hair hung loose upon her shoulders.
"I wanted to come in for a little chat, Lillian. Do you mind if I braid my hair here?"
"Why, no, indeed. I am glad to have you. Sit down."
Helen drew a chair up close to the dressing-table, and seating herself, began slowly to plait her long soft hair. She put aside some light topic which Miss Stuart suggested, and spoke at once of the subject which lay nearest her heart.
"I am worried about Jean, Lillian. She does notseem like herself lately, and if it were not absurd, I should begin to think she was unhappy about something."
"Indeed." The response was so brief as to be almost an ejaculation. Helen's words accorded strangely with Miss Stuart's thoughts.
"Yes, and you don't know how unusual it is for Jean to be either irritable or moody. She has a very bright, sunny nature, and is particularly sweet-tempered."
"Perhaps there is something troubling her which you have not perceived."
Helen wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully.
"I am afraid there must be."
Miss Stuart darted a swift glance at her.
"Have you ever thought what it might be?"
Helen's attention was caught by a certain tone in her friend's voice. She raised her eyes questioningly:
"No, dear; I wish I had a clew."
"Suppose I should give you one?"
There was genuine surprise in Helen's face. She answered with a tenderness in her voice which gave her companion a pang.
"Why, Lillian, do you know of anything to make Jean unhappy?"
Miss Stuart lifted her head as if to strengthen her purpose, wondering at the sudden weakness in herself which made the words so hard to say:
"Your sister is in love with Mr. Farr."
"Oh!" gasped Helen, staring blankly at her friend.
"I only wonder you have not seen it before," added Miss Stuart coolly.
"Don't you think he is in love with her?" blundered Helen, who had not sufficiently recovered from her astonishment to be very wise in Jean's behalf.
The answer was incisive:
"I do not."
The hot tears rushed to Helen's eyes.
"Oh, my poor little Jean!"
Miss Stuart turned away and, to save herself, spoke harshly:
"For Heaven's sake, Helen, don't cry. It is such a weak thing to do."
The sharp words brought Helen suddenly to a realization of what she had done in thus accepting, without demur, Miss Stuart's statement in regard to Jean. Too late she remembered that it was little short of disloyalty to discuss the subject with an outsider; an outsider, moreover, who had never made any pretense of liking her sister. She resolved to retrieve herself if possible, and answered not a little proudly:
"I am sorry I offended you, Lillian. We often differ in our opinions as to what is weak and what is not."
"Not often, but always," Lillian broke in with a disagreeable laugh.
"Where I was weak," continued Helen, ignoring utterly the interruption, "was, in laying too much stress on your verdict in regard to my sister. I am not authorized to contradict your statement, but I think it is more than probable that your perceptions have been at fault. In regard to Mr. Farr, he has certainly seemed to both like and admire Jean. Once or twice I haveeven thought him very much concerned about her. Why, at the dance——"
"I imagine, my dear, that your perceptions are equally as faulty as my own. It may interest you to learn that Mr. Farr and I were at one time engaged; that he loved me madly, and that my breaking of the engagement was a terrible blow to him. It is possible, however, since in your opinion Mr. Farr has transferred his affections from me to your sister, that he has already confessed this to her." The taunting words were spoken lightly, but Miss Stuart's eyes searched Helen's face. What she saw there must have satisfied her, for she turned aside with an air of relief.
There was a brief pause, which was broken by a question from Helen:
"Does Mr. Farr still care for you, Lillian?"
The clear truthful eyes met Miss Stuart's squarely, and under their steady gaze she moved restively. It was not easy to tell a direct lie to Helen. She bent her head, and a slow flush mounted to her face.
"That is hardly fair, Helen. He certainly has not told me of any change in his feeling toward me." She flung back her head and her lustrous eyes held a challenge. "You have seen him with me. What do you think?"
Her face was alight with power and magnetism; the scarlet lips were slightly parted, as the breath came hurriedly through them; one firm white hand on her breast held together the loose folds of her dressing-gown, which fell about her superb figure in long, graceful lines. At that moment she was regal, majestic.
Helen gazed at her steadfastly, and her heart sank.
"Poor little Jean," she thought hopelessly. "What could she do?"
For Helen, as was her wont, laid too much stress upon her friend's great beauty of face and form, and overlooked the deeper beauty of her sister's soul.
As she crept into bed that night she murmured to herself:
"I must warn Jean, gently and lovingly. God grant it may not be too late."
Her opportunity came the very next evening, for directly dinner was finished Nathalie and Miss Stuart started off on a long-planned ride with Churchill and Andrews. Jean stood on the veranda to watch them mount and ride away. Her eyes followed them until their four figures, swaying slightly with the motion of the horses, were no longer silhouetted against the evening sky, then descended the broad flight of steps, and wandered out into the garden. The sun had already set, but the earth was still wrapped in the mystic light of the purple after-glow. Once in the sweet old-fashioned garden Jean paced slowly up and down the trim paths, bordered by rows of fragrant mignonette and carnations, and flanked at the corners by tall hollyhocks and slender poppies, and into her sad heart stole something of the peace and quiet of the tranquil spot.
"It is all so strange and incomprehensible," ran her thoughts, "but I am not going to worry about it. There must be some mistake somewhere. I believed in him so implicitly. I felt so sure of his love—oh, I cannot, I will not believe that he deliberately deceivedme. If only he were here now, while she is away, I am sure that everything could be explained. Oh, he might come—he might be honest with me!"
The garden gate clicked, and she looked up with startled eyes; but it was only Helen coming down the path to meet her.
"Why did you run away?" her sister asked as she linked her arm in hers.
"I didn't run very fast," smiled Jean. "I sauntered out when the girls started off for their ride. It is so restful here," she added in a lower tone.
"That doesn't sound one bit like you, Jean," said Helen slowly. "I am afraid something must be troubling you, if you feel the need of a restful place where you can be alone."
Jean laughed nervously.
"Why, what an absurd idea, Helen. Why should I be unhappy?"
"That is just what I don't know, dear, but I think you are."
"Well, what if I am?" cried Jean, brought to bay. "One cannot always be perfectly contented and happy; I do not suppose that I am to be any more exempt than other people."
Helen's eyes were bent on the ground, and she spoke with some hesitation.
"Of course that is true enough, but there is usually some definite cause for unhappiness. I don't want to be impertinent, Jean, but is there not some one thing weighing on you at present? Has—" She paused, then went on desperately—"has Mr. Farr anything to do with it?"
She felt the violent start that Jean gave, heard the sharp indrawing of her breath, and she did not dare to raise her eyes to her sister's face for fear of reading there still further confirmation of her surmises. She had need of all her courage yet to deal the cruel blow, and without pausing for breath, she hurried on. Her words were confused, incoherent, but they struck a chill as of death to Jean's tender heart.
"It was only a foolish idea of mine, Jeanie. Of course there is no truth in it—there can't be—there must not be. He—that is, I have just discovered that he is deeply in love with Lillian. They have been engaged, and I fear the engagement is about to be renewed. Why, darling, he is not worthy of a thought of yours. Forget him, Jean, darling. It is only your imagination." Her voice choked, and she ended abruptly.
For an instant not a sound broke the stillness, then Jean faced her sister with strained, wide-open eyes, and spoke to her in a voice that was quite steady, but curiously dull and unnatural.
"I am very glad you have told me of this, Helen. Now that I think of it I am not greatly surprised. You need not worry about me. I am all right."
They had ceased from their walking to and fro, and as they stood thus opposite each other Jean swayed a little. Helen flung both arms around her.
"Oh, darling, what is it? Speak to me. It is only Helen. I love you so, dear."
Jean suffered the embrace, but there was no responsive yielding in the slender, rigid figure. When Helen released her she drew away, and started towardthe gate. Helen did not stir, and when Jean had gone a few steps she paused and turned her white, stricken face toward her sister.
"You need not worry about me," she repeated, "I am all right." And then, with a pathetic outstretching of her hands, she added: "It was only my imagination."
Helen sprang forward, but Jean waved her back, and in another moment the shadows of the gloaming hid the flitting figure from Helen's tearful eyes.
"Let fall! Give way!"
Two oars struck the water with a splash, and the dingey shot out from the gang steps of theSylphthe steady strokes of two sturdy sailors sending the little craft swiftly on its way. The owner lounged lazily in the cushioned stern, one leg swung over the other, the tiller-ropes held loosely in his hands. They were sweeping under the stern of theVortexwhen a voice from the schooner's deck hailed them. The sailors held their oars suspended, and Churchill pushed back his cap and looked up, frowning slightly, for the sun was in his eyes.
"Hello, Farr."
"Hello, old man. Going ashore?"
"Yes. Want a lift?"
"Thanks, if you don't mind putting back."
"Not a bit of it."
The orders were given, and the dingey brought up to the gang steps. Farr sprang in and they pushed off, heading once more for land.
Churchill pulled a cigar-case from his pocket and held it out to his companion, and then a brief silence ensued while each procured a light.
"You've been something of a recluse for the lastfew days, Farr; I haven't seen you about. Been sticking close to your quarters?"
"I've been grinding at the charts. Our stay here is about at an end, and Dodd is a little dissatisfied with the progress of our work. Through one cause and another we have been delayed, and the work has dragged."
"That doesn't seem to concern Dudley at all. He's ashore most of the time."
Farr laughed indulgently.
"Oh! Dudley's a lazy Southerner. You can't hustle him. He's the salt of the earth, when you have plenty of time; but you can't impress him with the necessity of haste."
"When do you go, old man?"
Farr took his cigar from between his lips, and watched the cloud of smoke as the breeze bore it far astern.
"I don't know exactly," he answered slowly. "Within the next week or ten days surely."
"You will be very much missed," said Churchill heartily; "yet I suppose it has been slow work for you."
Farr looked contemplatively down at the lighted end of his cigar.
"No. I shall be sorry to go."
After a slight pause he added:
"What has been going on?"
"Nothing much. Andrews has gone up to town. Miss Stuart is still at the manor; but, of course, that is no news to you."
"I imagined she had not left," returned Farr indifferently."I am going to call there this afternoon."
"Suppose, then, you meet me here; say in a couple of hours," suggested Churchill, as he brought the dingey up to the float, "and go out and dine with me aboard theSylph. I am by myself, for Andrews is away, and Archer is engaged."
"Thanks. I will be delighted."
Churchill turned to the sailor who stood erect in the boat, awaiting his orders.
"At six sharp, Petersen, and tell the steward there will be two for dinner."
Then the two men turned on their heels and strode briskly up the sandy road. Presently their paths diverged, and with a friendly nod they separated.
Farr went along in the direction of the manor at a swinging gait. He had not seen Jean since the night of the dance. In the events of that evening his love for her had sustained a severe shock. He could not at once readjust himself to this new and unwelcome development in the nature of her to whom he had given his deepest and most loyal allegiance. Heretofore he had found his love for her intensified by her coldness and indifference, but her flirtation with Maynard was not the sort of thing he had expected from her, and it disappointed him bitterly. The world condoned many of Maynard's offenses because he possessed a certain charm and amiability of manner, but Farr was too clean-minded and upright to look lightly upon the man's selfish disregard of every moral obligation, and he was impatient of his ill-deserved popularity. That Jean should show thisman so marked a preference was to him incomprehensible. It was possible that she did not know the full truth in regard to him, but even her innocence and unworldliness could not altogether shield her from blame, for she did know that he was a faithless husband, and, moreover, his wife was her friend. Under any other circumstances Farr would have been jealous, but now the sharpness of his disappointment in Jean outweighed every other consideration. She had been to him the embodiment of sweetness and purity, and as he paced up and down the white decks of theVortex, he inveighed bitterly against this second overthrow of his faith. His anger was short-lived, however, for the tender little Jean of the early summer had twined herself closely about his heart; and now she rose, strong in the power and might of her love, denying valiantly that other self, pleading earnestly for more confidence and trust. So it happened this sunshiny day that, as Farr leaned against the rail, gazing seaward, and pondered on these strange and contradictory events, suddenly the bitterness died out of his heart, and in its place sprang up a passionate longing to see Jean, to hear her sweet voice tell him it was all a mistake, to put an end forever to this intolerable uncertainty. And even as he came to this conclusion, the dingey from theSylphhove in view, and, without pausing to reconsider, he hailed it.
Now he had left the manor gates behind, and striking out across the lawn, increased his pace, for his impatience would not be curbed. The crunching sound of wheels on the gravel brought him to a standstill. On his right a clump of cedars hid the roadfrom sight. He thrust aside the low-growing branches, and as he peered through the aperture a carriage flashed by. Jean was driving, and he had a tantalizing glimpse of her bonny face, as she turned to speak to Eleanor and Cliff, who were on the back seat. An involuntary exclamation escaped him, and he sprang forward, but his voice was unheard, his presence unheeded, and with a heavy heart he gazed after the rapidly retreating vehicle. With a savage little laugh he swung about, and retraced his steps. The joyousness of the summer day was darkened for him, and in his heart was a fierce resentment against Fate.
His eyes were bent upon the ground as he plodded slowly along the road, and so he did not see Miss Stuart, driving alone in Helen's buckboard, until she was within a few yards of him.
Miss Stuart scanned his face furtively as he stood beside the carriage.
"Ah, Val," she said with an assumption of ease, "I suppose you have been at the manor?"
"No, I met them driving."
"How inhospitable of them not to have turned back," she exclaimed, with her eyes still on his face.
Farr was too obtuse to appreciate the drift of her remark.
"I was unfortunate. They did not see me."
Miss Stuart's brows contracted in a frown, and she flicked the long lash of her whip.
"You are not flattering, Val. I was at home."
He looked up at her quickly, a vague surprise in his eyes.
"I would not venture to inflict myself on you!" he replied with a careless laugh, and then he stood back a step, and raised his hat.
Miss Stuart's face flushed angrily, but she had no alternative but to drive on. As she gathered up the reins she shot a glance over her shoulder at Farr, but already he had turned away, and was moving rapidly down the road. She cut the horse with the whip, and in her heart was a burning desire to revenge herself on Jean.
As they took their places about the dinner-table at the manor that evening, Nathalie made some casual mention of theVortex, thus giving Miss Stuart the pretext she sought.
"By the way," she said, fixing her eyes on Jean's face, although her words were addressed to Helen, "on my way home this afternoon after I left you, I met Mr. Farr and had such a pleasant chat with him. He was on his way to call on us, but as he met me, I suppose——" She broke off with a charming air of embarrassment.
Jean raised her head proudly, and met Miss Stuart's gaze with unflinching eyes.
"You should have brought Mr. Farr back to tea," she said, so unconcernedly that even Helen was deceived, and Miss Stuart was stirred with a passing feeling of admiration.
But the effort cost Jean a pang, and as she turned her eyes slowly away, there was a great coldness at her heart.
The following afternoon the girls were having tea in the drawing-room, the long French windows werepushed wide open, and the soft west wind moved the curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were drawn, for the sun shone hotly, and the half-darkened room seemed deliciously cool and refreshing, after the sultry atmosphere of the outer world.
Little Gladys danced in from the hall-way, waving a letter in the air.
"I took it away from Susie, sister," she cried, in her clear, childish treble. "I don't know who it's for."
Miss Stuart leaned forward in her chair, and caught the soft dimpled wrist in her firm white hand.
"Let me read the address for you, baby."
Gladys demurred, shaking her fluffy head, her blue eyes full of laughter, but Miss Stuart quietly possessed herself of the letter.
Her face fell as she turned toward the light and read the address. The handwriting, familiar, yet half strange, awakened a host of memories within her; but the written name was not the one she had been wont to see. She read the address aloud, with a tinge of sarcasm in her smooth voice:
"'Miss Jean Lawrence, The Manor House.' For you, Miss Jean."
Jean crossed the room and took the envelope from Miss Stuart's hand. She could not repress a faint start of surprise as her eyes fell upon the superscription, but the scornful smile on Miss Stuart's lips lent her instant self-control. She slipped the letter into her pocket, and resuming her place at Eleanor's side, took up the thread of the conversation where it had been broken off, with apparent ease and facility. Buther heart was beating wildly, and the hand that held the dainty teacup was far from steady.
It was almost an hour later when she pushed aside the portières, and entered the music room. She glanced about her anxiously to assure herself that she was alone, then crossing to the further end and ensconsing herself in one of the deep window-seats, pulled the letter from her pocket. For an instant she held it in her hand, her brows drawn together, a wistful, questioning look in her eyes. She was forcing herself to recall every word that Helen had said to her that miserable evening in the garden. In the light of that talk, this letter to her from Valentine Farr both puzzled and troubled her. She looked down at the address, and with a sudden light of determination in her face, broke the seal: