My Dear Miss Jean:We have received our orders and leave Hetherford on Thursday. Will you not let me see you before we sail? I started for the manor yesterday, but from a distance saw you driving away. I seem to be most unfortunate, but I cannot turn my back on the place where I have found so much happiness, without an attempt to see you again, to assure myself, at least, that I carry with me your friendship and good will. You were very good to me in the early days of our sojourn here, Miss Jean, and in memory of those days I venture to ask you if I may call at the manor to-morrow about four o'clock.Yours,Valentine Farr.
My Dear Miss Jean:
We have received our orders and leave Hetherford on Thursday. Will you not let me see you before we sail? I started for the manor yesterday, but from a distance saw you driving away. I seem to be most unfortunate, but I cannot turn my back on the place where I have found so much happiness, without an attempt to see you again, to assure myself, at least, that I carry with me your friendship and good will. You were very good to me in the early days of our sojourn here, Miss Jean, and in memory of those days I venture to ask you if I may call at the manor to-morrow about four o'clock.
Yours,Valentine Farr.
Once, twice Jean read it through, then mechanically folded the bit of paper, and fitted it into the envelope carefully. A tremulous, incredulous joy was dawning on her face. She felt oppressed, and started to herfeet. It surprised her to find that she was trembling so she could not stand. She laughed, a little hysterically, as she sank back on the window-seat. Then, suddenly, she flung out her hands, and slipping down on her knees, buried her face in the soft cushions, and a storm of weeping shook the slender figure. In her despair she had been silent, tearless, but in this awakening of hope within her, her pent-up feelings found relief in tears. A wild, almost unreasonable, joy was growing in her heart, and her quivering lips were pressed passionately to her lover's letter. Her faith in him, which Helen's words had so cruelly crushed, was fast springing into life again.
When at length the strength of her emotion had worn itself away, she lifted her head and, rising slowly to her feet, leaned against the casement, and looked thoughtfully out upon the peaceful scene. The sun was setting, and the western horizon was one blaze of golden glory. Jean's grave eyes seemed asking counsel of the far illumined sky. Once a deep sigh trembled through her lips, and the thought that prompted it almost formed itself in words.
"Oh, if only my mother were here! I could not ask advice of anyone else, but I think I could speak to her."
For a long time Jean stood there silent, motionless; and when at last she moved away the crimson light had quite faded, and a soft violet haze lingered in the western sky. She crossed the room, and seated herself at the open desk. For a moment she hesitated,holding her pen poised above the sheet of paper, then bent her head, and wrote rapidly:
My Dear Mr. Farr:I shall be at home to-morrow afternoon, and shall be very glad to see you. I am sorry to learn that you are about to leave Hetherford, and somewhat surprised also, as I had no idea that your departure was imminent.Yours very sincerely,Jean Lawrence.
My Dear Mr. Farr:
I shall be at home to-morrow afternoon, and shall be very glad to see you. I am sorry to learn that you are about to leave Hetherford, and somewhat surprised also, as I had no idea that your departure was imminent.
Yours very sincerely,Jean Lawrence.
The written words looked cold and formal, and with a tender feeling of compunction Jean raised the bit of paper to her lips.
"I would be more kind, dear, if I dared," she murmured softly.
The old Dutch clock in the corner of the hall-way was chiming the hour of three the following afternoon, when Jean opened the door of her room, and started to descend the wide staircase. From below voices floated up to her, and when she reached the landing she paused and, leaning over the banisters, looked down upon the girls who were standing near the open front door. Nathalie caught sight of her, and smiled blithely.
"Don't you want to come with us, Jean? We are going over to the inn for a game of tennis."
Jean shook her head.
"I am going to be thoroughly domestic this afternoon," she announced with a conscious little laugh.
At the sound of her voice Miss Stuart glanced sharply over her shoulder. There flashed into her mind the recollection of Farr's note to Jean the previousday. She closed her lips tightly as she followed Helen and Nathalie out upon the veranda, and was singularly silent as they sauntered leisurely across the lawn. When they were almost at the gates, she turned to Helen, a distressed expression on her lovely face.
"Would you mind very much if I should turn back? I have had a slight headache all day, and the sun seems to make it so much worse."
Helen looked sympathetically around at her.
"Why no, indeed, dear. I was afraid you were not feeling well, you have been so quiet. By all means let us go right back."
But Miss Stuart would not listen to such an arrangement, and declared, with quite the air of a martyr, that she should proceed to the inn, in spite of her headache, unless Helen would do as she desired. When at last she had succeeded in ridding herself of her companions, she drew a deep breath, and turning, walked hurriedly up the avenue. She did not quite see her way clear to prevent an interview between Farr and Jean, but she felt that if she were near at hand, fortune might throw some unlooked-for chance into her path. She had kept them apart so far. Surely she must not fail now at the very end, for the news of theVortex'sdeparture had been spread abroad by Dudley with loud lamentations.
A great stillness lay over the manor this warm August afternoon, and as she ascended the veranda steps she heard clearly Aunt Helen's soft voice calling to Jean from the floor above.
"My dear, will you not come up and read to me fora while? My eyes are troubling me so, I dare not use them any more."
Miss Stuart stood still and listened, as Jean came slowly out from the drawing-room.
"Very well, Auntie," the girl responded half-heartedly, and with an impatient sigh started up the stairs.
Miss Stuart waited a moment, then crossed the veranda noiselessly, and entered the house. After a cautious glance about the drawing-room, she stationed herself in one of the front windows which commanded the approach to the manor. The blinds were drawn to shut out the heat and glare, and she turned the slats slightly to afford a view of the driveway. A faint breeze rustled the vines that trailed over the veranda rail and climbed the graceful columns. The moments dragged slowly by. Even Miss Stuart's active mind began at length to yield itself to the drowsy influence of the lifeless atmosphere, the monotonous buzzing of the flies, and the lazy twittering of the birds as they rested idly on the branches of the elms, or sailed languidly through the haze which softly enveloped the earth. She flung one arm above her head, and leaned back in her chair. Her thoughts went back to those far-off happy days in Annapolis, and a faint smile curved the lines of her mouth. Dreamily her memories journeyed on toward the present, and then once more her jealous wrath was awakened. She started up the more effectually to shake off the torpor that was stealing over her, and, rising, took one or two short turns up and down the room, pausing frequently at her post, to peer out through the drawnblinds. Her vigil was a tedious one, the result of it uncertain, but the warring spirit within her was now thoroughly aroused and her patience did not flag.
"What move can I make?" she asked herself again and again. "I can't very well insist on playing an unwelcome third to theirtête-à-tête. They have been driven, and they would outwit me there. Ah! well, we shall see, we shall see."
Then a sharp exclamation broke from her, for, as she halted at the window, she discovered Valentine Farr's erect figure swinging lightly across the lawn in the direction of the manor. She turned the slats softly and crossed hurriedly to the entrance of the drawing-room, and standing there, her hands holding the portières apart on either side, she tilted her head forward, straining every nerve to catch the faintest sound from the floor above. It was perfectly quiet, and her face cleared a little. Next her anxious eyes swept the half-darkened hall-way, as if in search of some suggestion, but the wide chimney-place with its brass andirons agleam where the light touched them, the old clock in the corner ticking slowly, steadily, offered her no help. The outer door stood ajar, and leaning a little further forward she could see that Farr was within a short distance of the veranda. Ah! what should she do? Her quick ear caught the sound of a heavy footfall ascending from the lower floor and while her eyes were riveted on the spot whence the sound issued, the swinging door in the rear of the hall was pushed open, and a woman toiled laboriously through, bearing in her arms ahamper of clean linen. Miss Stuart's ready mind sprang at once to the solution of the difficulty, and while the thought formed itself, she cleared the distance between them.
Her voice shook a little as she spoke, for her heart was beating high in the hope of victory.
"Please set your hamper right down here, and go to the front door. There is a gentleman just coming in. Say to him that Miss Jean begs to be excused, that she particularly wishes to be excused. Well," imperiously, for the good-natured woman was staring at her stupidly, with gaping mouth and astonished eyes. "Don't you understand me? Put your hamper down at once and do as I tell you."
The woman obeyed her slowly, and wiping her hands on her apron, moved clumsily forward. Farr's foot was already on the step of the veranda, and Miss Stuart had barely time to push open the swinging door and conceal herself behind it, when his clear, quiet voice, addressing the strange servant, broke the stillness.
"Will you please tell Miss Jean Lawrence that Mr. Farr wishes to see her. She is expecting me, I believe."
The woman confused by her hurried orders, and embarrassed by the unusual duty of waiting upon the door, grew very red in the face, as she answered bluntly:
"She says she won't see yer, sir."
Farr stared blankly at her.
"What? Oh, I think you must be mistaken. Just take my message up to Miss Jean, please."
In her hiding-place Miss Stuart clutched tightly at the folds of her gown, and a look of desperation burned in her eyes. But her fears were unfounded. The woman's thickset figure barred the doorway, and she stood her ground stolidly.
"It ain't no use, sir. She told me herself she pertick'ly wouldn't see you, sir."
Farr's face went very white, and without another syllable he turned on his heel and strode away.
"Sure I didn't say it just the same way yer told me, Miss," the woman said apologetically, as Miss Stuart opened the backdoor and confronted her, "but I sent him away for yer, well enough, I guess," and grinning broadly, she lifted her hamper, and proceeded heavily up the stairs.
A moment later Miss Stuart quietly followed her, congratulating herself on the wonderful success of her maneuver.
"It was a master-stroke," she said to herself triumphantly, as she closed the door of her room. "Susie will never know that he called, for I don't believe that stupid creature will mention the occurrence. Ah, how fortunate Mrs. Dennis's room is at the rear of the house," and she flung herself down on the lounge and closed her eyes wearily, for the excitement had worn upon her.
At the same moment, Aunt Helen's door softly shut, and Jean, her face full of glad expectancy, ran lightly down the stairs. More than an hour later she crept slowly up again, all the joy gone out of her blanched face, her sensitive lips quivering piteously; despair and misery in her eyes.
The following morning theVortexsailed. Captain Dodd and Dudley had called at the manor the evening before, and in the merry little party speculations were rife as to the cause of Farr's desertion, on this his last evening in Hetherford. Jean forced herself to sit quietly by and listen, and her heart grew numb and cold. Outwardly, however, her manner was so natural and self-possessed that Helen drew a deep breath of relief, and persuaded herself that Jean could not be so very unhappy.
In the morning, at an early hour, Jean is on the upper balcony. She crosses her arms on the rail, and her eyes are fastened on the place where theVortexlies at anchor. Already her sails are set, and in another moment the loud boom of her cannon announces her departure. The girl shivers a little, but does not stir from her position. Now the schooner is sailing gallantly along, the sun shining full on her white sails. Ah, how rapidly she nears the headland. She is rounding it. Now, only the top of her tall masts can be seen above the rocks. Ah, she is gone. Jean's face drops on her crossed arms, and a low cry breaks from her white lips.
Scarcely had theVortexbeen an hour on her way, when Miss Stuart presented herself in Helen's room, and announced in tones of deepest regret that she would be obliged to leave them on the following day.
"Mother has issued her commands," she said dolefully, and then, as a look of incredulity dawned in Helen's face, she made haste to add, "and there aremany reasons why it is much better that I should go."
Helen sighed, but did not attempt to alter her friend's decision.
That evening, when the last farewell words had been spoken to the friends from the inn and the parsonage, Miss Stuart went up to her room followed by the three Lawrence girls. Helen and Nathalie went to work over her half-packed trunks, and Jean, leaning against the footboard of the bed, looked on with languid interest. Miss Stuart, who was complacently issuing orders to the two packers, leaned lazily back in an easy-chair, her white hands folded idly in her lap. Jean surveyed her gravely, but without bitterness. This was the woman whom Valentine Farr loved, and much as she had suffered, she was ready to do her full justice. Suddenly Miss Stuart looked up, and their eyes met. Jean moved forward and held out her hand.
"Good-night and good-by, Miss Stuart. I am very tired and I fear I will not be up for the early train in the morning. I hope you have been happy at the manor." She broke off abruptly. She knew that she ought to add, "I am sorry you are going," but the words refused to pass her lips.
Miss Stuart rose and took the outstretched hand, but she could not meet Jean's clear gaze.
It was late when the door closed upon Helen and her kindly offices. Miss Stuart, possessed by an intense restlessness, paced up and down the room. Her thoughts were as accusing angels. What return had she made for the kindness and hospitality of thesefriends under whose roof she had spent the last three weeks? Her wicked pride and passion had indeed sown the seeds of misery in one heart. Of Jean she had thought with shrinking, but trusting, faithful Helen caused her the keener pang, the sharper suffering. It was not too late, however. With one word she could undo the mischief she had so deliberately wrought. Just for one moment Miss Stuart's better self held sway, softening her hard and jealous nature. Just for one moment—then the impulse died out, and with a reckless laugh she drowned the voice of conscience.
September with its bright, warm days and cool nights was at hand. The gayeties of the summer were a thing of the past, and the little colony of girls had settled down into the old routine of life, "exactly as we used to before theVortexcame," Mollie Andrews said complacently. No voice was raised in contradiction, and yet, perhaps no heart quite echoed the sentiment.
Jean faced her trouble bravely and without complaint, but the effort told on her as the days passed by, and she grew frail and slender, and an expression of deep sadness lingered in her soft eyes; but the change in her took place so slowly, so gradually, that no one seemed to be aware of it. As the days shortened, they would spend their evenings over the wood fire in the manor drawing-room, reading aloud from some favorite book of poetry or prose. Jean invariably found a place on the divan in the corner, and when someone rallied her on her lazy habit, she only smiled faintly and nestled down among the cushions. One cold, gusty evening, when the rain beat against the windowpanes and the wind howled dismally about the house, Eleanor took up a volume of poems from the table and began to read a poemcalled "Œnone." Helen's eyes unconsciously sought Jean's face. It was half turned away, and one little hand made shift to shield it, but Helen distinctly saw two great tears steal silently down from under the closed lids.
This set her heart to aching, and alone in her room that night she pondered long what could be done for her poor little sister. In the end she penned a letter, which in the morning she carried herself to the post-office, and anxiously awaited the result.
Before October had well-nigh come around, Jean was really ill; so ill that Aunt Helen, and even thoughtless Nathalie, were seriously concerned. All day long she would lie on the sofa in her room, scarcely speaking save in response to some direct question that was put to her, and all through the long hours of the night her tired eyes never closed.
"I don't think she ever sleeps," Nathalie confided to Helen one day in a troubled voice. "Whenever I speak to her she is always wide-awake, and once or twice I have thought I heard her crying."
Helen shook her head sadly, and watched the mails with an increasing impatience for the answer to her letter. It came at last, and when she had read it through hurriedly, she went at once to Jean's room, and sitting down beside her, took her cold little hands in hers.
"Do you feel so badly to-day, dear?" she said tenderly.
"No, Helen, only very tired."
The sigh with which these words were spoken went right to Helen's heart.
"Would you like to go away where you would have a complete change of scene?"
Jean raised herself on her elbow, and turned an eager eye toward her sister.
"Oh, yes. I want to go away. It's the only thing in the world I really want, and oh, I want it so very much. Helen, I—I can't stay here." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't you see how hard it is for me?"
Helen bent down and kissed her.
"Well, darling, I have arranged it for you, and I have only been waiting for this letter to tell you that it was all right. You see, I didn't want to speak to you, dear, until everything was settled. Now, shall I read you what the letter says?"
"Yes."
Helen drew the letter from her pocket and unfolded it:
"I am so sorry to hear that poor little Jean is not well. It is hard to imagine her otherwise than rosy and smiling. I think with you that probably a change of scene would do her more good than all the medicines in the world, and I see my way clear at once to carry out your proposition. My aunt, Mrs. Fay, crosses in the middle of October to join us here in Paris, and I want you to send Jean over with her. The ocean trip will be the first step toward recovery, and you must trust to our watchful care and the newness of her surroundings to complete the cure."
"I am so sorry to hear that poor little Jean is not well. It is hard to imagine her otherwise than rosy and smiling. I think with you that probably a change of scene would do her more good than all the medicines in the world, and I see my way clear at once to carry out your proposition. My aunt, Mrs. Fay, crosses in the middle of October to join us here in Paris, and I want you to send Jean over with her. The ocean trip will be the first step toward recovery, and you must trust to our watchful care and the newness of her surroundings to complete the cure."
Helen paused and Jean broke in hurriedly, a faint color rising in her pale cheeks:
"Dear old Guy! how like him, always thoughtful, always tender. O Helen, yes; let me go. I would be so glad to, and I know it would do me good."
"Would you be happy with Guy and his mother, Jean?"
Jean's sad eyes met her sister's for a moment, and then were slowly averted.
"I love them both dearly," she answered gently, "and I want above everything to go away from Hetherford. Please help me to do this, Helen. You will gain Auntie's consent."
And with this reply Helen was fain to be content. She had refrained from reading aloud the closing lines of Guy's letter, which, running thus, had made her heart beat strangely:
Our plans are somewhat indefinite. My aunt does not care to spend more than two months over here, and it is her intention to return home at Christmas time. If a stay of this duration should effect Jean's cure she might return with her, for there is a chance that she may be homesick so far away from you all. It would be very pleasant to return home at this sweet season. My own thoughts turn that way so often. Helen, can you never hold out any hope to me? Must this season of peace come and go, leaving my heart as lonely as ever? Must I wait forever, in strange lands, for one word from you? Forgive me if I do wrong to write you thus, but your letter has undone me.Faithfully yours,Guy Appleton.
Our plans are somewhat indefinite. My aunt does not care to spend more than two months over here, and it is her intention to return home at Christmas time. If a stay of this duration should effect Jean's cure she might return with her, for there is a chance that she may be homesick so far away from you all. It would be very pleasant to return home at this sweet season. My own thoughts turn that way so often. Helen, can you never hold out any hope to me? Must this season of peace come and go, leaving my heart as lonely as ever? Must I wait forever, in strange lands, for one word from you? Forgive me if I do wrong to write you thus, but your letter has undone me.
Faithfully yours,Guy Appleton.
In less than two weeks Jean Lawrence sailed for Europe under the care of Mrs. Fay. A sense of desolation inwrapped the manor. The weather was sharp and cold and the sweet warm summer seemed a dream, and every little thing that recalled it gave the girls a pang. Emily Varian had departed, and both the Hills and Andrews were about to turn their faces cityward.
One crisp morning, when the wind blew fresh from the northwest, Eleanor came out from the inn with Cliff Archer at her side and started briskly forth in the direction of the parsonage. Eleanor's face wore an expression of deep dejection, and Cliff, observing this, made comment on it:
"You are down on your luck."
Eleanor smiled somewhat dubiously:
"It is in the air, Cliff. I don't know what is the matter with us all. Our good spirits seem to have deserted us with Jean."
There was a brief silence, broken by Archer. He spoke slowly, as if not quite sure of his ground:
"It was in the air before Jean went away, I think. It strikes me that she was fully under its influence herself."
Eleanor shot a glance at her companion:
"Jean was not well, you know."
"And there was a cause. Come, Eleanor, let us be frank. You may trust my affection for Jean to keep me from prying into her affairs, but some things this summer were quite too patent to be disregarded."
"I don't know what you mean," Eleanor interposed hurriedly.
"Oh, yes, you do. It is natural for you to shield Jean, because from your point of view, she has been badly treated. Well, I don't agree with you in that. If ever a man was honestly in love, that man was Valentine Farr. I don't pretend to know what the trouble was between them, but I have a suspicion, on general principles, that jealousy was at the bottom of it. I don't believe that Jean's was well founded andI wish she had a friend who felt at liberty to tell her so. I have kept silent for a long time, too long perhaps; but now I have set the ball rolling, and shall await results."
They were in the parsonage grounds now, and Eleanor paused and laid her hand lightly on Cliff's arm.
"I would do anything in the world for Jean, as you know, Cliff, but I feel too much in the dark to take any step at present. You may be right; indeed, I think you are; but remember neither you nor I are quite sure of Jean's feeling on the subject, and it is a very delicate matter to meddle with."
"I would risk it," smiled Cliff.
After a moment he spoke again, in a tone of deeper earnestness:
"A very grave trouble can arise from a slight misunderstanding, Eleanor. I wish, dear, that you and I could put that possibility out of reach. I have tried to be patient, but when I see so much sorrow brought about undoubtedly by a lack of frankness and confidence, I tremble for our future. If you do care for me, dear, why will you not tell me so? Surely you cannot doubt the sincerity of my love for you."
Eleanor raised her eyes to her lover's face.
"I think you know, Cliff——" she began, when Nan's voice broke in upon them.
"Hello! Now what are you two doing, philandering in this secluded spot?"
"Talking of subjects quite beyond your ken, my dear," drawled Cliff lazily.
"You won't catch your train if you don't come down to mother earth," laughed Nan.
Archer consulted his watch, and then bade the girls a hurried good-by and started off for the station. Nan linked her arm in Eleanor's and they proceeded leisurely to the parsonage, talking as they went. One sentence remained in Nan's mind, awakening there a long train of thought.
"The summer is over, Nan, and we are about to disband. We have, perhaps, had more gayety and less real happiness than in the years gone by. I think you know as well as I the reasons for this. You are the only one, I think, who could set some crooked matters straight. Suppose you see what you can do?"
Enigmatical as the words were, Nan understood their purpose, and when, on the last evening before the Andrews and the Hills were to leave Hetherford, they assembled at the manor, she had quite determined to follow Eleanor's suggestion. It was a custom of long standing for Nan, Mollie, and Eleanor to spend the last night of the season with the Lawrence girls, to talk over the events of the summer and to anticipate the future.
To-night, as they gathered around the wide fireplace in the drawing-room, a certain sadness hovered over them, subduing their voices, breaking the conversation with frequent spaces of silence. Their hearts were full of thoughts that were left unspoken. Jean's absence made itself strongly felt among them, so closely was she associated with every like occasion in the past.
"Nothing seems real without her," said Eleanor drearily. "This parting is like no other."
"I hate partings anyway," cried Mollie. "I am always so afraid that we will not come together again quite in the old way!"
"All things must changeTo something new, to something strange!"
"All things must change
To something new, to something strange!"
quoted Helen.
"Now, girls, this is nonsense," exclaimed Nathalie, struggling with the lump that would rise in her throat. "Jean is going to have a splendid time, and will come home as strong and well as ever, and at Christmas time you will all come up here and we will have a grand reunion."
No answer to Nathalie's cheerful prediction suggested itself, and Helen made a welcome diversion by announcing that it was bedtime.
"Nan, will you share my room?" she asked as they were on their way upstairs.
"Well, I should think so. I particularly want to have a good talk with you alone."
"That is nice. I am just in the humor for it, too."
When they had donned their wrappers Helen threw herself down on the sofa before the open fire, and Nan knelt down on the hearthstone to stir the logs into a brighter blaze.
"A cheerful fire is always inspiring to me," she said explanatorily. "I can talk so much better when I am thoroughly warm and cozy."
Helen smiled indulgently.
"All right, Nan; make yourself comfie, and then talk to me."
The flames were crackling up the chimney now, and Nan settled herself on the hearthrug with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Do you think Jean will be happy so far away from you all?"
"She wanted very much to go," Helen replied evasively.
"Yes, I know that. Helen, Jean was not happy before she went away. Did you not see it?"
Helen did not speak, and after a moment Nan resumed quietly:
"Yes, Jean was unhappy, and yet Mr. Farr loved her dearly."
Helen sat up and looked at her friend in blank astonishment.
"Why, Nan——"
"Dear, I couldn't help guessing it. Indeed, I don't mean to be impertinent, but I believe Mr. Farr was in love with Jean, and I can't bear to see everything going wrong, when a little common sense would set it right."
"I am afraid it would take more than that, Nan. Mr. Farr is in love with Lillian, I think, and probably he meant nothing by his attentions to Jean."
"He may have been in love with Miss Stuart once, but he is not now," declared Nan in a tone of conviction.
"You are mistaken, Nan. I am sure you are."
"I think not," returned Nan stubbornly. "I have had my eyes wide open, and I believe I am right."
"Then why did he treat Jean so?" demanded Helen. "Toward the end of his stay here he hardly ever came to the manor, and he went away without even calling to say good-by. In fact I don't think Jean knew theVortexwas going."
But Nan's opinion was quite unshaken. She dropped her chin in her hand and stared thoughtfully into the fire.
"I will tell you something," she said impressively. "The afternoon before theVortexleft, I was on my way to the inn, when from a distance I saw Mr. Farr turn in at the manor gates. You remember that shortly after Bridget came over for me, and I was so cross at having to leave our game of tennis?"
Helen nodded, and Nan went on:
"Well, on my way over I saw Mr. Farr come out from the manor grounds. His cap was drawn down over his eyes, and so lost was he in his own thoughts that he passed me on the other side of the road, and did not even see me. There was something in his whole figure and bearing expressive of disappointment and unhappiness. Oh, you needn't look incredulous," turning her head to scan Helen's face. "A person's carriage is often most expressive."
"I wasn't looking incredulous, Nan, I was only wondering what point you were going to make out of all this."
"That Mr. Farr did go to the manor to say good-by to Jean. I don't think he could have seen her, for from the time he went in the manor gates until he left them again, he could only have walked to the door and right back again without stopping."
"I know he didn't," said Helen quietly, "for Jean told me so." She hesitated a moment, then added: "Lillian was at home that afternoon."
Nan's face grew downcast.
"I don't believe he went to see Miss Stuart," she persisted, somewhat unreasonably. "I believe that there was some great mistake somewhere. I knew," she went on, as Helen did not reply, "that Jean was surprised to find that he and Miss Stuart were old friends. He may not have told her, but that was probably accidental. At any rate that was the beginning of the difficulty, and every incident from there on served to widen the breach. Jean thought she had been willfully deceived, and Miss Stuart was not loath to lend herself to strengthen that conviction."
"I don't see how you can blame Lillian," objected Helen irritably. "It was not her fault that Mr. Farr was in love with her. I think they were once engaged;" this last somewhat fearfully, for she did not know that she was doing right to betray her friend's secret.
Nan shrugged her shoulders:
"That may be, but it is only a greater reason why he is not in love with her now."
This bit of worldly cynicism struck on deaf ears, for Helen was revolving many things in her mind.
"There are, of course, many things that I cannot attempt to explain," Nan continued, "but I still hold to my belief that Mr. Farr cared for Jean. I like him, and I don't believe he would ever have deliberately deceived her."
A brief pause ensued.
"Nan," said Helen, "I wish theVortexhadnever come to anchor here. Everything has gone wrong since then."
"Be fair, Helen. Are you sure the fault lay there? It seems to me that everything went happily until——"
"Until when? Go on, Nan."
"Until Miss Stuart came."
Helen, who had been half-sitting up, with her head propped on her hand, dropped back among the cushions with a heavy sigh.
"I don't know why you should think so. You are prejudiced against Lillian, and harsh in your thoughts of her. I am not at all sure that it is fair."
Nan gained her feet, and looked gravely down at her friend:
"Is it not true, dear? Think, Helen. Have not many things gone wrong since your acquaintance with Miss Stuart? Oh! I am sure of it, quite sure."
Unbroken silence.
"Are you angry with me, Helen?" Nan asked at length.
"No, no."
"May I say something still further, dear?"
"Of course; I know you would never willfully be unkind."
Nan sat down on the sofa:
"Things have gone wrong since the day you met Miss Stuart, and the reason is that you persisted in a friendship of which Guy so strongly disapproved. Tell me, Helen, was it not Miss Stuart who separated you from Guy? Was it not on her account that you quarreled?"
"I suppose so; but Guy was very strange and unreasonable, and I liked Lillian; her friendship was very sweet."
"O Helen, you had known Guy all your life; you should have relied on his judgment, you should have trusted him. Do you think that for any light or insufficient reason he would have thwarted you? Had he not always shown himself thoroughly unselfish in everything that concerned you? You did him a very cruel wrong when you mistrusted him, Helen; and I don't see how you could have been so cold when he loved you so."
For answer, Helen raised her eyes and looked at Nan through her tears.
"I want to help you to see what a mistake you have made," Nan continued gently. "You had grown used to Guy, his devotion was such an old story that you thought you did not love him. Miss Stuart's great beauty fascinated you, and she soon found it easy to bend you to her will. Forgive me, darling, but this once I must speak bluntly. Many and many a time you would have gone back to your allegiance to Guy had she not willed it otherwise, and had he, poor fellow, not taken the worst course for his cause. It was foolish for him to go away, but Guy never could bear half-measures. Since then you have almost learned to know Lillian Stuart for yourself. Yet, even to this day, you blind yourself about her. I sometimes am tempted to think it is simply because she is so beautiful."
Helen started up, her face ablaze.
"Nan, Nan, you are unjust. You despise me becauseI gave Guy up, but I tell you I realized I did not love him before I ever saw Lillian Stuart. I do love her."
"Pshaw," interrupted Nan indignantly. "Guy Appleton is the best and truest man in the world, and you must have loved him if you had not been unduly influenced. There, dear, don't be angry. You know how fond I am of Guy, and how keenly I took his disappointment to heart. He loved you so, Helen, and he was so miserable."
"Please spare me, Nan," murmured Helen brokenly.
"I can't spare you, dear. If your mistakes had simply made you suffer, I would never have said a word, but it is not so. Miss Stuart has crossed Jean's path, and for her sake I have spoken."
"If it is true, if I were sure of it, I would want to die."
"Dying would not do any good. Live, and some day it may be in your power to put an end to all this sorrow."
"Nan, are you sure that Mr. Farr is in love with Jean?"
"Not sure, Helen, but I think so."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing at present. We must wait, and see what happens. Oh! I am very hopeful for the future."
When they were in bed and the lights were out, Nan ventured to ask:
"Don't you think Guy will ever return to Hetherford?"
"I don't know, dear," Helen replied, with a sound of tears in her voice.
Nan longed to shake her, to say "You ought to know; it depends solely upon you; why don't you do something about it?" but she felt she had gone far enough for one night, and turning over on her pillow, fell fast asleep.
Nan was only a country-bred lass, and yet not all her separation from the world and from her fellow-creatures could shut her out from an unerring comprehension of human nature. Her wide sympathies taught her to understand Helen's coldness toward a lover whose one fault was that he had demanded too little and yielded too much; and she was too thorough an artist not to fully appreciate the wonderful spell that beauty such as Miss Stuart's casts upon certain natures.
The next day the rain came down in sheets, and nothing drearier could be imagined than the Hetherford station, where Helen and Nathalie awaited the arrival of their friends, who were to depart on the train which was now almost due. Presently the old omnibus backed up to the platform, and from its damp interior the Hills and Andrews slowly emerged, their faces as gloomy as the leaden sky above, as they went through the irksome task of buying tickets and checking trunks. Nan came rushing in upon the scene just as the train drew up at the station. There were a few hurried words of farewell, and then, with a clanging of bells and puffing of steam, the train sped on its way to the far-off city. When the three girls clambered into the Lawrences' great closedrockaway, they felt sorely tempted to give way to tears and lamentations. The horses splashed through the mud, the rain beat against the windowpanes, the east wind wailed and sighed through the trees. Nan got out at the parsonage, and in silence the two sisters drove on to the manor. Nathalie threw off her hat and coat, and seating herself at the big table in the center of the hall-way, began a long letter to Jean. From the fireside Helen watched her for a few moments and then mounted slowly to her room, feeling too dispirited for even Aunt Helen's society.
By and by a soft little voice from without begged for admission, and she opened the door and gladly drew Gladys into the room.
"Baby, you are just the little girlie I wanted. Sister feels very dull and lonely to-day."
"Me too," echoed Gladys, as she climbed into her lap.
"Well, well, that is too bad. We shall have to comfort each other."
"What is comfort, sister?"
"Comfort, Dolly? Why to comfort anyone is to try to make them happy when something is troubling them."
"Auntie says I'se her comfort," Gladys affirmed, with a wise little nod of her head.
"So you are, pet, and not only Auntie's, but mine too."
The child nestled down contentedly in her sister's arms. Her big eyes, wandering about the room, rested at length upon a large folding frame of photographs which stood on the mantel.
"I wish Jeanie didn't go 'way," she said in a pathetic little voice.
"What made you think of Jean, dear?"
"'Cause I just was lookin' at her picture."
Helen lifted her eyes to the mantel.
"So you were. We all miss Jean very much, don't we, darling?"
"Who's that, sister?" asked Gladys, pointing to the photograph next to the one of Jean.
"Don't you know?"
"I kind of 'member, but I ain't sure."
"Have you forgotten Mr. Appleton, Gladys—Guy Appleton?" queried Helen in a low tone.
"Oh, now I 'member," cried Gladys gleefully. "Don't you know the little kitty he gave me? Larry harnessed her to my little wed cart, an' she wan up the willow tree with it." And at the recollection, the child burst into a merry peal of laughter.
Helen laughed, too, in sympathy, and then it came back to her how nicely Guy had spoken to the children, telling them that what was fun to them was suffering to poor kitty, and impressing upon them how unkind and cowardly it was to be cruel to any living creature.
They talked on thus, this big and little sister, until twilight had come. Then Helen put the child down from her lap, and sent her off to the nursery for her supper. As she turned back into the room, her eyes could just discern the outline of the frame upon the mantel, but although the photographs within it were quite obscured by the dusk, Guy's face rose before herwith startling distinctness. She dropped into a chair, and a dismal little laugh broke from her.
"Oh, dear, I wish Gladys and Nan had both kept still. Now I don't know what I do want."
Week followed week monotonously, with little to mark the flight of time save the arrival of letters from Jean and the Appletons. Jean wrote cheerfully, declaring that she was much better and in excellent spirits, but Mrs. Appleton's reports were much less encouraging.
"Jean never complains," she wrote, "and seems filled with a restless desire to keep constantly on the move, but she still looks very fragile, and I sometimes fear that all at once she will break down completely. However, you must not be anxious, about her, for perhaps I am needlessly so. Mrs. Fay expects to return home at Christmas time, and I imagine that by then Jean will be quite ready to accompany her."
The last week in November Helen went to town to spend Thanksgiving with the Hills.
"It seemed almost selfish to take you away from Nathalie," Eleanor said, as they drove rapidly away from the station through the noisy, crowded streets, "but I was longing for a sight of someone from Hetherford, and I thought it would be such fun to begin to do our Christmas shopping together. A little later the shops are so terribly overcrowded."
The first few days of Helen's visit were passed chiefly in this wise, and partly because her time was so fully occupied, and partly because of a curiously uncomfortable feeling which she could not shake off,she neglected to let Miss Stuart know that she was in town. On the fourth evening after her arrival they dined at a famous restaurant with an uncle and aunt of Eleanor's and two youths of thejeunesse dorée. Helen had felt very shy at first, but this was fast wearing off, and she was talking quite naturally and pleasantly with her companion, when a party of two ladies and half a dozen men entered the room, and selecting a table at a short distance from where Eleanor and her friends were seated, grouped themselves about it; their loud talking and easy assurance attracting universal attention. Helen stared at them a little curiously, and then, as one of the ladies drew off her long tan gloves and let her gaze wander slowly around the room, she gave a sudden start. At the same instant the lady's glance met Helen's, and the recognition was mutual. Miss Stuart gracefully inclined her head, a certain surprise in her eyes, and Helen flushed crimson as she returned the bow.
"Why, there is Miss Stuart," exclaimed Eleanor. "I can't imagine why she chooses such a companion as Mrs. Desborough."
"And why should Miss Stuart be so particular?" laughed the man at her side. "It would be the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't it?"
Eleanor broke in hurriedly, with some totally irrelevant remark, but the words had reached Helen's ears. The color died out of her face, and from that moment her companion found her silent and absent-minded. As they passed out of the restaurant, Miss Stuart bowed smilingly to Eleanor and turned a steady level glance on Helen.
"Who were you bowing to?" asked Mrs. Desborough from the other side of the table.
"To Miss Hill and her friend Miss Lawrence," Miss Stuart replied a little stiffly.
"What?" laughed the man at her side, "not that demure little girl who was dining with Miss Hill?"
"The very same. She is a great friend of mine."
"Oh, come now, don't tell me that. You two never hit it off together."
Miss Stuart frowned.
"You will oblige me by not discussing the subject," she returned, in a tone so unlike her usual careless, flippant one that her companion was impressed by it. "I like her infinitely better than any woman I have ever known."
"By Jove, I believe you are in earnest!"
"Don't believe anything," she answered sharply, and turning to the man on her left plunged at once into a reckless flirtation.
The following morning a note came for Helen by a messenger. It was from Lillian Stuart and, without a word of upbraiding for having been kept in ignorance of Helen's presence in town, begged for a visit from her prior to her return to Hetherford. Helen was fully alive to the generous spirit thus shown toward her, but it did not alter her determination to decline the invitation. She worded her answer as kindly as possible, while making her meaning quite clear. It hurt her cruelly to take this step, and as she sealed the envelope there were tears in her eyes.
It was Mrs. Hill's day at home, and when, after luncheon, Eleanor reminded Helen of this fact, the girl pleaded to be excused, for she felt far too depressed and out of sorts to meet people and to exert herself to entertain them. Mrs. Hill indulgently granted her request, and so she put on her hat and coat and started out for a walk. She strolled down a beautiful avenue, lined with fine residences, succeeded, as she proceeded, by richly and gayly ornamented shops. A crowd of people were passing up and down, and the street at times was almost blocked with an innumerable throng of equipages. When Helen had reached a point where this avenue is intersectedby another, she crossed the street and entered a square, whose patches of grass and bare trees were a rest to her eyes after the rows of stately buildings all about her. Children were playing about on the smooth paths, and as Helen looked at them she found herself longing for a sight of dear little Gladys' round, chubby face. Across the street, on the block below, a swinging sign caught her attention. Its staring characters told her that an art exhibition was being held within, and she turned her steps in that direction. As she approached the showy and over-ornamented doorway, she glanced up at a man who was coming toward her. Something in his gait and general bearing struck her as familiar. As he gained her side he raised his hat, and she saw that he was Valentine Farr.
"Why, Miss Lawrence," he exclaimed, "this is a very great and unexpected pleasure. I had no idea you were in town. How are you?"
"Oh! very well, thank you, but," with a sympathetic glance at his arm, which she saw he carried in a sling, "have you been hurt, Mr. Farr?"
"I had a fall aboard ship on our way to Fort Munroe, and broke my arm. It was badly attended to, so I got leave to come home and have Dr. ——," naming a well-known surgeon, "fix it up for me."
"I am sorry," said Helen, looking at him with friendly eyes.
"Where were you going, Miss Lawrence?" Farr asked, as the surging throng crowded them close to the railing of a near house.
"I thought I would go in just above here, and see the pictures."
"Will you let me accompany you? I would deem it a very great favor, I have so many questions I want to ask you. I want to know all about Hetherford and everyone there.
"Indeed, I wish you would, and I will gladly satisfy your curiosity. There is not much to tell of Hetherford save that Jean has gone to Europe."
She tried to mention her sister's name quite naturally, but the color rose to her face, and she could not bring herself to look at her companion.
"To Europe?" he echoed, and could think of nothing further to say.
"I will tell you all about it when we are inside," Helen said to him rather flurriedly.
In a moment more they found themselves in a softly lighted room, the walls of which were lined with paintings. A few people, catalogue in hand, were slowly walking about or standing in groups of two or three before some painting of more than usual merit. Helen gained courage to raise her eyes to her companion's face, and something in its expression made her direct her steps at once toward a huge red ottoman which occupied the center of the room.
"Shall we sit down here and have our talk first?" her voice softly interrogated. "You can show me the pictures afterward."
Farr looked at her gratefully.
"It would be my wish, Miss Helen, but you mustn't let me bore you."
For answer, Helen seated herself and motioned him to take the place beside her.
"Jean went to Europe in October. She had not been at all well, and——"
"Not well?" he interrupted her with an anxious face.
"In fact, she was quite ill," Helen went on gravely, "and she had an opportunity to join some friends of ours who were over there, so we sent her in the hope that the change would benefit her."
"And how is she now?"
"Somewhat better, I think, but not very strong yet."
"I am deeply grieved," he answered, in a voice which his best efforts could not keep very steady.
There was a brief silence, during which Farr's eyes were fixed moodily on the carpet.
"I called to see your sister," he began at length, "the day before we left Hetherford, but she excused herself."
"I don't think Jean knew of your visit."
"You are mistaken," he returned bitterly. "The servant who admitted me had received orders that Miss Jean would not see me, and she made that fact patent to me beyond the possibility of any doubt."
"I cannot help that," said Helen, her determination to pursue the subject struggling against a sudden timidity. "I am sure you are wrong. I remember the afternoon perfectly. Nathalie and I had been to the inn, and when we reached home I found Jean on the sofa in her room, and I asked her if anyone had called, and she said 'no.'"
A puzzled expression crossed Farr's face.
"It is very strange. Why, Miss Helen, I wrote and asked your sister if she would see me, and she replied that she would be at home at the hour I mentioned in my note."
All at once there flashed through Helen's mind a recollection which suggested a most cruel suspicion. Farr was looking straight at her, his honest eyes demanding an honest answer.
"I cannot explain it, Mr. Farr," she said slowly, "but I feel perfectly safe in answering you that it was all a mistake, and that Jean never knew of your call at the manor."
"And what of the message the servant gave me? Forgive me, Miss Helen, if I seem to press you, but this is no light matter to me."
"I am quite sure that Jean never gave that message, although I can give you no further explanation of the matter."
Farr's face went very white, and, as Helen looked at him, she saw how much the past few months had changed him. There were deep lines about his mouth, and his grave eyes were immeasurably sad. Her heart went out to him in sudden sympathy, and she spoke to him with a touch of tenderness in her voice.
"Jean will be with us again at Christmas time, I hope, and then you must see her and let her explain to you how such a mistake was made."
Farr rested his elbow on his knee and dropped his head in his hand.
"If I only felt sure you were right, Miss Helen."He paused a moment, then resumed with deep earnestness, "I cared so much for your sister that the sudden withdrawal of her friendship was a bitter blow to me."
Helen's eyes were downcast, her lips refused to speak. The silence was broken by Farr.
"I think at one time I dreamed she cared for me a little, but my illusion was quickly dispelled."
Another pause of briefer duration, and then he turned to his companion with a question on his lips.
"How was it, Miss Helen? Did I presume too much on your sister's kindness to me? I suppose I must have, although it seems to me that I hardly deserved her excessive coldness and dislike."
Helen, thus put to the test, looked straight up at him, and answered a little tremulously:
"Mr. Farr, Jean always liked you."
He drew a quick sharp breath.
"Why do you think so?" he asked. Then before Helen could reply, he went on in a strained voice, "I loved Jean with all my heart, and was about to ask her to be my wife. I love her now—I shall always love her."
"And Jean cares for you," Helen whispered, so low he had to bend his head to catch the words.
"Cares for me?" he repeated, a sudden light in his eyes, his voice grown very deep and tender.
"Yes, oh yes. There must have been some wretched mistake which can be explained away. I don't know how it was," she went on with a plaintivesmile. "Jean's heart was almost broken because of you, and she grew so ill we had to send her away."
"Thank God!" he ejaculated solemnly.
Helen broke into a little laugh, which was full of tears.
"That Jean has gone away?" she queried.
Farr lifted his head and drew a deep breath.
"I can't thank you, Miss Helen. I seem to have no words to express to you what you have done for me to-day. Indeed, it seems as if Fate, for once, had chosen to do me a kind turn."
After a little Helen said gently:
"You must come to the manor for Christmas, Mr. Farr. I can think of no greater happiness for Jean than to have you there to welcome her on her return."
"Miss Helen, I—I can't realize it. You——" His voice broke, but after a moment he resumed: "You are not holding out a vain hope to me—you are sure?"
Helen met his eyes steadily, and he was reassured, even before she answered gravely:
"Quite sure, Mr. Farr. Do you think I would have spoken else?"
She turned away her head, and he saw a tear on her cheek.
"I have tried to fill my mother's place to the girls, but I was blinded by personal interests, and did not understand about Jean until too late. I don't think I could have borne it if it had not been put in my power to retrieve my mistake."
Farr looked at her curiously, a thoroughly puzzled expression on his face. He opened his lips to questionher, but suddenly changed his mind, and closed them without having spoken.
Helen rose from the ottoman.
"We have not seen the pictures, have we?" she asked in a lighter tone.
Farr stood looking down at her with earnest eyes.
"Miss Helen, if God is good to me, if all goes well, is there a welcome for me at the manor?"
She put out her hand to him, and he held it tightly for a moment.
"God bless you."
Some minutes later they descended the wide stairs, and, passing through the outer door, found themselves once more in the crowded thoroughfare. The short November day was drawing to a close, the wind was keen and sharp, and a flurry of snow filled the air.
"Now, Mr. Farr, I want you to put me in an omnibus, please, and you must not come uptown with me."
Then, as he demurred, she added, with a friendly smile:
"My mind is so full of thoughts, I would really rather be alone for a while. You understand, don't you?"
She turned on the steps of the omnibus to say:
"I will let you know about Jean's return, and remember, you are to spend Christmas with us."
"As if I could forget," Farr murmured to himself, as he strode away, his face alight with a great happiness.
As Helen rang the bell of the Hills' cozy apartment,the door was opened from the inside, and she found herself face to face with Lillian Stuart. From the drawing-room came the buzz of tongues, and through the half-open portières she could see quite a number of people standing about. Miss Stuart answered her unspoken thought:
"Don't go in there, Helen; take me to your room. I want to speak to you for a moment. I have already made my call on the Hills."
Helen obediently led the way down the hall, but her heart was very heavy, for she had no courage for another scene this afternoon. She knew that the conversation must necessarily be painful, and she made every effort to put off the evil moment; but in vain. Almost before the door was closed Miss Stuart began:
"Now, Helen, will you please explain to me why you must return to Hetherford in such haste? Surely your aunt can spare you to me for a few days. I can't imagine how you could have planned to be in town, and not to be with me for a little visit."
Helen flushed guiltily.
"I am so sorry, dear," she faltered. "Another time, perhaps, but now I must go home."
Miss Stuart started up, loosening her fur boa impatiently.
"That is absolute folly. There is nothing to stand in the way unless——" She broke off abruptly, and her eyes searched Helen's downcast face. "Do you want to put an end to our friendship," she cried sharply. "Is that why you act so strangely?"
Helen lifted her hand with an imploring gesture of dissent.
"Answer me, Helen. Am I not right?"
Helen's head was bent still lower, and she made no attempt to speak. Miss Stuart watched her for a moment in silence, and a slight quiver passed over her face. She came a step nearer, and laid her hand on the girl's shoulder:
"Who has influenced you against me, Helen? What has happened?"
"Why, Lillian, what makes you say that? It is not fair, simply because in one instance I am unable to fulfill your wishes."
Miss Stuart withdrew her hand, and her brow darkened.
"Helen, Helen; you disappoint me. Let us have the truth at all hazards. Tell me frankly, would not your answer always be the same now, whenever I might ask you for a visit?"
Helen shivered a little, and she could not bring herself to meet the girl's eyes. Presently Miss Stuart spoke again, the effort to subdue all emotion rendering her voice cold and stern.
"I understand. You have withdrawn your friendship from me. Oh! no doubt you have discovered the depth of my unworthiness, and feel perfectly justified. Content in your own moral superiority, and in that of your friends in general, you have decided that it would be wiser to banish me from the inner circle. Of course," she went on with a bitter laugh, "you have not reached this conclusion alone.Would you mind telling me who has helped you to it?"
The taunting question stung Helen into a response:
"You told me an untruth, Lillian. You deliberately deceived me. You caused untold suffering to one who is very dear to me, to what end I cannot imagine. And this was your return for all the love and trust I had given you."
Miss Stuart turned a startled glance on Helen.
"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly.
"I have seen Mr. Farr to-day, and a good many things that have puzzled me have been made clear. I am not judging you, Lillian. I am completely in the dark as to your motives. I only know that you were not honest with me."
"So you have seen Val Farr," murmured Miss Stuart. She flung back her head defiantly. "Well, what did he tell you of me? I thought he was too much of a man to speak ill of a woman."
"Your name was never mentioned, Lillian. I am not prepared to tell you what Mr. Farr said to me. Suffice it to say, it proved the untruth of what you led me to believe last summer."
Miss Stuart caught her breath.
"I suppose that means that he is in love with your sister?"
"We will not discuss that, please," replied Helen with quiet dignity.
Her companion laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound.
"Well, I could have told you that last summer. Idid lie to you about it. The game is played out now, and I have lost, so there is no further reason why I should not tell you the truth. I was jealous of that little sister of yours, and I did everything in my power to keep her and Valentine Farr apart. Placed in the same position, I should undoubtedly repeat the offense."
Cruel and unwomanly as the words were, there was something in her friend's voice which stirred Helen with a feeling of pity. She rose and laid a gentle hand on Miss Stuart's arm.
"You must not try to make me think badly of you, dear. I would so much rather believe that you did not realize how much misery you were causing. Let us not speak any more of this, Lillian."
A sudden rush of tears dimmed Miss Stuart's eyes.
"The least I can do is to grant your last request, Helen. One thing more I can do for you, dear—I can go. You need never see me again."
There was just a faint interrogation in the low-spoken words, but Helen remained quite silent. She was waging a bitter fight within herself. Everything pressed her into a renunciation of this friendship which had cost her so dear. Slowly there was awakening within her a deep knowledge of Guy Appleton's character, and with this knowledge came a great longing to win from him the love which she had so lightly sacrificed. While a vestige of this friendship remained Guy would never take her to his heart, and now her choice must be made. Then she thought of Jean and Valentine Farr, and the thought strengthened her conviction that only one path was open to her.Raising her tearstained face, she met Lillian's eyes smiling sadly on her.
"So you find it hard to give me up, Helen? Are you sure it is necessary?"
The critical moment had come, and involuntarily Helen put her hands before her eyes to shut out the beautiful face so close to her own:
"Our paths must lie apart, Lillian, dear; but as long as I live I will remember you and pray for you."
The silence that followed these words became oppressive, and Helen stirred uneasily and stole a timid glance at her friend. Miss Stuart's face was uplifted; her wonderful eyes, filled with unutterable sadness, gazed mournfully into space. If suffering can expiate a sin, in that moment she fully expiated the wrong she had done to Jean. After a while she turned and laid her hands on Helen's shoulders.
"I understand, my dear, and I do not blame you. Good-by!" And stooping, she kissed her gently on the lips.
Helen stood before the fire in the hall-way of the manor, two letters in hand, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. In four days Jean and Mrs. Fay would sail for home, and Guy had written: "Will you not send for me, Helen? I will never return until you do."
"Oh, dear," her thoughts ran, "why must it be left for me to decide! If Guy would only take it into his own hands and come, I would be so grateful."
Poor weak little woman! It was hard for her to act for herself. How happy she would be to findshelter in some safe harbor, guided there by a stronger hand than her own. With one stroke of a pen she could recall Guy, but the strangest shyness overmastered her. She wandered restlessly about the house, her heart as heavy as lead; and not until daylight was waning, and the long winter evening closing in upon the manor, did she finally start out for the telegraph office, a bit of paper held closely in the hand that was tucked in her muff.
In a hotel in Paris a party of people was assembled in a small private sitting-room. Against the walls, their lids gaping, were a number of half-filled trunks, and in the paraphernalia that were scattered around was every indication of an imminent departure. Mrs. Fay and Jean bustled busily about, stowing away the many purchases which this city of shops had tempted them to make, stopping now and then to consult Guy as to some detail of the long journey which lay before them. Poor Mrs. Appleton watched them with homesick eyes. She was tired of wandering about in strange lands, hungry for a sight of the little vine-covered cottage which had been empty for so many weary months. Surely no mother had ever given her son a greater love, a more generous sacrifice.
"I am a foolish old woman, my dear," she had said to him a few moments since, when he had looked up suddenly and had seen the tears in her eyes. "I suppose it is not unnatural that I should sometimes dream of spending the last years of my life in 'my own home.'"
Guy did not answer then. It was a shock to him to discover how much this exile had cost his patient, uncomplaining mother; and, as he sat at the little table in the center of the room, apparently absorbed in straightening out accounts, he was facing the duty which had suddenly been made clear to him.
"Poor mother!" he thought, with tender compunction, "I have been a selfish brute."
Yet it was not easy for him to depart from the course he had marked out for himself, for, like many another man of strong character, Guy was very obstinate. One glance at his mother's face, however, made him ashamed of his hesitation, and he pushed away his papers and rose to his feet, while he framed the sentence which would determine their return home. Just at that moment there was a knock at the door, and in response to Jean's brisk, "Entrez," a servant handed her a cablegram in its blue wrapper, addressed "Appleton, Continental, Paris."