A Colony of Girls Part 17

"I'm awfully scared, Willie. Please don't leave me."

Willie shook him off impatiently, and pointed a reproachful finger to where Gladys lay in an unnatural stillness, and then, without another word, he was gone.

During all this time Jean had not once thought of the children, and Helen's injunctions had been completely forgotten. While Farr was waiting an opportunity to broach the subject that was uppermost in his mind, Jean herself opened the way for him. She had been telling him in her happiest vein of numberless incidents of her childish days; laughing outright at the memory of many a sc.r.a.pe and frolic, and speaking with a pathetic quiver in her voice as she showed him the reverse side of the picture, recalling those dreary days when to the poor little orphaned Lawrences, in their desolation, it seemed that the light of their lives had been forever darkened.

As Farr listened to the innocent recital, told in Jean's own forceful dramatic way, he found his heart growing very tender, yet sad withal.

It made him feel infinitely far away from her to hear her speak thus lovingly and trustfully of her family. Ah, yes, love was indeed the keynote of life at the manor. Farr had never realized this more strongly than he did to-day as he mentally contrasted the happy atmosphere, the tender relations.h.i.+ps of Jean's home life, with his own unloved, unhappy boyhood. So deep was he in thought that he did not notice that Jean had ceased speaking, until she turned and called him by name.

"Mr. Farr, I have been very egotistical and I want you to do me a great favor to prove that you have forgiven me."

"I would find it hard to refuse you."

"Do you remember that day down on the cliffs, so long ago?"

Farr signified his a.s.sent, and she continued:

"Well, that day you said that perhaps sometime you would tell me something of your life."

Farr's face flushed with gratification, and he would have spoken but she stopped him almost imperiously.

"I have thought that your 'perhaps' signified a great deal; that it was put in to save yourself in case, on further acquaintance with me, you felt that you did not want to give me your confidence, and I confess," looking up at him with a reproachful smile, "that I have been not a little hurt by your silence."

"Please don't say that, Miss Jean; and do you know that, strangely enough, I came here to-day to tell you--to tell you that miserable story, but I scarcely knew how to begin it."

He paused a moment, and then resumed bitterly:

"I never knew half how miserable the story would sound to you until I listened to you this afternoon, and realized all that I had missed out of my life."

Jean looked at him sympathetically, and her eyes urged him to continue, although she did not speak.

"I am going to try not to bore you with any complaints, Miss Jean, and I must beg you not to be distressed if I speak plainly in regard to my family, with whom I am on exceedingly bad terms."

"Surely that does not include Clarisse?"

"Oh, no; not Clarisse, bless her heart. She and I have always stood faithfully by each other. My troubles began when my father died. I was quite a little chap at the time, but I loved my poor old governor dearly. My mother is a woman of great strength of character and with an unbounded love of power, and she and I were decidedly antagonistic.

My father, who was the mildest of men, had the greatest admiration for her and in most things yielded readily to her stronger will, but where I was concerned he took a firm stand; so, although I was in great awe of my mother, I always had a refuge in my father. My older brothers, Lansing and Fred, never took to me at all. They were wise in their day and generation, and even when they were youngsters studied to please, and so in our quarrels and disputes my mother invariably took their part. I felt the injustice without being able to reason about it, and grew daily more surly and defiant. From the day my father died I had a very bad time of it, and was always in disgrace. I know I was by no means blameless, but there was something in my mother's cold disregard of me that roused a very demon of defiance in me. Clarisse was the only person in the world whom I honestly loved, and the first serious trouble with my mother was on her account," and even at this day Farr's face grew black at the remembrance. "It was a rainy day, and we children were all playing in the nursery. Clarisse was just recovering from an illness, and was not yet very strong. In some way she accidentally broke a new boat of Fred's. He was angry and, after scolding her until she began to cry, finally struck her across the face. I sprang toward him, my blind rage lending me unusual strength, and beat him unmercifully. Lansing, nurse, and Clarisse set up a great hue and cry, and in the midst of it all my mother walked into the room. Fred, who certainly did present a rather battered appearance, rushed to her and bawled out a garbled version of the affair and I slunk off into a corner, looking thoroughly guilty, I have not a doubt. My mother did not wait for any explanation, but summarily sent Clarisse and myself to Coventry. I might have forgiven her for the injustice to myself. I was so used to it as to have hardly noticed it, but I never forgave the unkindness to poor little Clarisse."

There was a brief silence, broken at length by Jean.

"I cannot understand it, Mr. Farr; surely a mother must love all her children."

"I suppose my mother did in her way. I do not tell you this, Miss Jean, to prejudice you against her nor to exonerate myself, but only to, in a measure, explain subsequent events. There was never any sympathy between us. My manner, my character, my very looks were distasteful to her, and she made no attempt to conceal this from me.

Up to the time of this occurrence I had had moments of feeling very contrite, when I had striven to overcome my faults; but from that time I hardened myself and never tried to break down the barrier that had been raised. Clarisse shared my feeling to a great extent, but she was far too gentle and loving to oppose my mother. She did her best to soften me and to prevent circ.u.mstances from embittering me. As I grew older my relations.h.i.+p with my family became more and more strained, and it was my great ambition to enter the navy and cut adrift from my home. When finally I broached the subject to my mother, I learned for the first time that my father had left his entire estate, which was a considerable one, to my mother, and that I was entirely dependent upon her. My mother was exceedingly generous in those matters, and in justice to her I must say that, however much she may have denied me her affection, she always treated me most liberally in a material way.

I had been given every advantage without stint, and had been brought up in the greatest comfort and luxury, and without any adequate knowledge of the value of money. She did not favor the idea of my entering the navy, but I was troublesome at home, so she made a concession and I was allowed to go to Annapolis. In the meantime my brothers had obediently followed the careers my mother had marked out for them, and having furthermore married in accordance with her wishes, she provided each of them with a most liberal allowance, retaining, however, a controlling hand in their affairs. Those years at Annapolis were the happiest I had ever known. I had been very much touched by my mother's yielding, and when I was at home I did my best not to annoy or antagonize her in any way, and we really got along very smoothly."

Farr had reached a difficult point in his story, and hesitated a moment to mentally review the past, and then began again in the same quiet voice that had characterized his telling of it so far.

"The summer preceding my senior year I went home to find stopping in the house a distant cousin of mine, a very nice pretty girl, whom I shortly discovered my mother had selected to be her third daughter-in-law. Then I revolted. In the first place Carrie, poor girl, was quite ignorant of the scheme and felt no interest whatever in me, and----" He broke off undecidedly, and looked with thoughtful eyes out across the level tennis courts. There was one thing he could not quite make up his mind to recount to Jean. The memory of it was growing faint (he could not but smile a little grimly as he thus argued to himself), and why rake up that disagreeable part of his past. In truth, how could he tell clear-eyed, pure-hearted Jean of that other!

"Well?" interrogated Jean, cutting short his brief reverie.

His indecision was at an end. He straightened himself, squared his shoulders, and answered with almost a show of relief.

"Well, the very fact that I was to be compelled to marry aroused such a tempest of resentment within me that I had no room for any other emotion. For several weeks the atmosphere was thunderous, and at the end of that time the storm broke. I boldly announced my determination to remain single. My mother--well, she did not spare me. She told me I had always been a most unnatural and ungrateful son; that I had deliberately and intentionally thwarted her in every possible way without once considering the duty that I owed to her. She gave me to understand most emphatically that, from the day I finished my course at Annapolis, she would consider her obligations to me at an end. That I might go where I pleased, do what I pleased; but, that her home was no longer mine."

"Oh, how cruel!" escaped from Jean. Her little hands were tightly clenched, and her eyes flashed indignantly.

"It did seem rather hard, especially just at that time," he returned slowly, some unexpected thought lending an expression peculiarly somber and grave in his face. "But since then I have often thought that I gave my mother a great deal of provocation."

"By not marrying according to her desire?" asked Jean, a little quickly.

Farr looked straight in her eyes for a moment before answering dryly:

"That was certainly a great factor; you see Carrie was an heiress, and owned a lot of property adjoining ours."

"Oh!" was all Jean said, but the monosyllable was most expressive.

Farr laughed light-heartedly. He had been wrought up by this opening of a long-closed chapter in his life, and it was a relief to have the tension relaxed.

"I have never for one instant regretted it, and certainly now----"

"You haven't finished your story," Jean interrupted with but scant courtesy, "please go on."

"There is not much more to tell, and I fear, too, that I am tiring you. No? well I took my mother at her word, and from that day to this I have never darkened her door. It came hardest on poor little Clarisse, I think," he went on sadly; "she had learned to depend upon me, and when she found that I was going to desert her she broke down completely. It wrung my heart to leave her, but it had to be done. I never like to think of that scene."

"Poor Clarisse!" murmured Jean softly.

"It was uphill work, at first," Farr resumed. "The lesson of poverty, with its grinding necessities, was bitter, and its bitterness redoubled by experiences that shook my faith in humanity." He flung back his head and drew a deep breath. "Somehow I lived through that first year, and then it grew easier; a maiden sister of my father's died and left me a legacy which, though small, is yet sufficient for all my needs. It is a good many years ago now, and I have only seen Clarisse once or twice, when I have happened to be in Was.h.i.+ngton in the winter. She is lonely, poor little girl; but we console each other by planning the good times we will have in some indefinite future."

After a moment, he began speaking again:

"I know how terrible this must seem to you, Miss Jean. A man at variance with his family is at a great disadvantage, and after all, you have only heard my side of the story. I almost dread," gloomily, "to have you tell me what you think of me now."

"Oh, how unjust you are to me," cried Jean indignantly. "Do you think that your trouble could make any difference to me, except to make me sorry--oh, so sorry--for you, and to make me like you and want to be your friend more than ever."

She stopped suddenly, half frightened by the look in Farr's eyes. He had grown very pale, and he spoke huskily.

"You must not be so kind to me; you tempt me to tell you why----"

"Jean! Jean!"

This piercing cry, so fraught with terror, brought them to their feet.

They started forward, and even as they did so Willie stumbled across the doorway and leaned up against the post, sobbing piteously.

"Gladys, hurt," he panted, and then, his courage forsaking him, he burst into a storm of tears.

Every bit of color faded from Jean's face.