A Colony of Girls Part 33

"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 the _Vortex_ sailed. 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 the _Vortex_ lies at anchor. Already her sails are set, and in another moment the loud boom of her cannon announces her departure.

The girl s.h.i.+vers a little, but does not stir from her position. Now the schooner is sailing gallantly along, the sun s.h.i.+ning 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 the _Vortex_ been 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 are many 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 pa.s.s 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 these friends under whose roof she had spent the last three weeks? Her wicked pride and pa.s.sion 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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS.

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 the _Vortex_ came," 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 pa.s.sed 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 cus.h.i.+ons. 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 poem called "Oenone." Helen's eyes unconsciously sought Jean's face. It was half turned away, and one little hand made s.h.i.+ft to s.h.i.+eld 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."

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.

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.