A Colony of Girls Part 15

"Yes, Miss."

"Well, you may go. I will bring the answer down myself when I have it ready."

When the maid had withdrawn Helen tore open the envelope. The message read thus: "Can you come to town for the night? Want to see you.

Please don't disappoint. L. S."

Helen read it through twice.

"Oh I should love to go," she thought. "I wonder if Auntie or the girls would object."

She folded the telegram and fitted it into the envelope, and then sat looking absent-mindedly at the address, the while her face wore a puzzled look. Her indecision lasted for an instant only, and then she sprang up and ran through the hall-way to Mrs. Dennis' room.

Aunt Helen met her request with a ready consent, and in a moment the little boy was riding off to the station with Helen's answer carefully stowed away in the pocket of his coat.

As Helen entered her room a glance at the clock told her that a little celerity would enable her to catch the twelve forty-five express, and she went to work with a will to collect her traps. She was in the midst of packing when a knock came at the door, and Jean, without waiting for permission, entered. She looked around the disordered room with a questioning glance.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

Her sister answered from the depths of her closet:

"I am going to town unexpectedly, and you are just the girl I want to see, Jeanie, for I have a lot of things to say to you before I leave."

"Where are you going to stay?"

"With Lillian."

Jean's face fell, and she spoke coldly.

"What train do you take?"

"The twelve forty-five, and I haven't a moment to spare. It must be noon now."

"It is. The village clock struck as I came in."

"Oh, dear! Put those things in the valise, Jean, won't you, while I hunt for my hat and gloves. The carriage will be at the door in five minutes."

Jean complied, and, as she was making room for the last few articles in the already crowded valise, Helen came and stood beside her.

"Dearie," she said, as she drew on her gloves, "will you please be very attentive to Aunt Helen while I am away, and not leave her too much alone? And, oh, Jean, do look after the children. Don't have them off your mind for a moment. I am always so afraid that something will happen to them when I am not here."

Jean laughed cheerily.

"That is nonsense, Helen. Why in the world should you worry? Of course I will look after them."

"I know you always do, dear; only I wanted to remind you."

"Well, you need not be anxious. When will you return?"

"To-morrow, I think. You might have the carriage meet the afternoon express. Now I must fly."

Jean caught up the valise, and carried it downstairs, while her sister went to say good-by to Mrs. Dennis.

The carriage was already at the door when Helen came out on the veranda. She stopped a moment to kiss the boys and charge them to be good, and caught Gladys up in her arms.

"Do you want to go to the station with sister?"

"Course I do," enthusiastically.

Helen put the child in the carriage, and then stepped in beside her.

"Is my valise in, Jean?"

"Yes, dear. Good-by, and have a good time."

"I will," replied Helen, as Nathalie took her place on the front seat and gathered up the reins. "Remember, Jean, you have the entire responsibility of the children, and do not let Gladys out of your sight."

Jean nodded smilingly, and stood on the steps and watched the carriage until a turn in the road bid it from view.

Then, as she slowly made her way into the house, the light died out of her face, and involuntarily she sighed.

"I wish I did not distrust Lillian Stuart as I do," she thought. "It is so unfounded--as yet."

CHAPTER IX.

A FLYING MACHINE AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

Early that same afternoon Eleanor and Nan dropped in at the manor and suggested a game of tennis. The Lawrences acquiesced, and after a search for b.a.l.l.s and rackets they wandered down to the courts. Jean stopped behind for a moment to find the children and tell them to follow her, for nurse had begged a holiday and had gone off for the afternoon. The sun's hot rays beat down upon the unshaded courts, discouraging even Nan's enthusiasm; so, after one set played with flagging energy, they threw down their rackets and retired to a pretty little summerhouse, just at the foot of the terrace. By and by, when they were cool again, Eleanor arose and suggested that they should stroll down toward the station to meet Cliff and d.i.c.k, who were coming up early. Jean alone demurred. It was sweet and peaceful within the shelter of the little summerhouse, and the prospect of a long hot walk along the dusty road was not tempting. Most opportunely she remembered Helen's injunction in regard to the children, and pleading this excuse she sent the others off with a half-promise that she might join them at the inn later, if nurse should get home in good season.

When Jean was alone, she leaned back in her comfortable corner with an air of great contentment. She rested her elbow on the ledge of the seat, and propping her chin in her hand gazed dreamily, unseeingly out across the sunlit lawn. The children were playing under the shade of a widespreading elm, and the clear treble of their young voices was a pleasant accompaniment to her happy thoughts. Now and again, as some look or gesture of Farr's recurred to her with peculiar distinctness, a shy and tremulous joy dawned in her face, and lingered there.

Ah, Jean, such moments are indeed golden, when in your dreams all life seems sweet and fair. Do not hasten the inevitable awakening, for with the realization comes ever a sting to make the heart ache and throb.

In after days this peaceful scene will live with you, the memory of its happiness haunt and mock you, until you fain would thrust it from you!

Meanwhile Valentine Farr was making his way down the terraced pathway in search of Jean, his heart strangely stirred with the thought of the sweet voice that would speak to him, of the pair of blue eyes that would welcome him. Then, as he walked blithely on, there fell on him the shadow of a memory fraught with pain. He threw back his head and drew a deep breath, as he squarely faced the difficulties that lay before him. He knew that before he might dare to hope, before he might dare to speak to Jean, there was much that must be told her, and although his heart grew heavy within him, the look of resolution on his grave face betokened a strong determination to overcome all obstacles so far as lay within his power.

He was descending the last terrace when little Gladys ran out from her shady playground and, holding out her arms to him, begged for a ride. He caught her up and swinging her on to his shoulder held her there securely as he hastened on toward the summerhouse, whence he had seen a flutter of Jean's white gown. Gladys was wild with excitement, and her shrill little cries of pleasure roused Jean from her reverie.

She s.h.i.+fted her position a little to see what was going on, and then started up and moved forward to the arched doorway of the summerhouse and stood waiting for them. From her elevated position, Gladys waved frantically to her and then flung her arms tightly around Farr's neck.

"That is hot work, little one," he declared with a laugh, as he deposited the child on the ground and raised his hat to Jean.

"Oh, it was grand!" cried Gladys, capering around and shaking her golden curls into a tangled ma.s.s.

Jean smiled and extended her hand to Farr, but her words were for Gladys.

"I have not a doubt of it, darling," she said, "but I fear Mr. Farr found you a very heavy load to carry this hot day."