  “Well, thanks be there are only two more weeks of incarceration in this prison.” Gwynette Poindexter-Jones was in no pleasant mood as her two companions could easily discern. “I would simply expire of ennui if I had to remain here one day longer. When I think that Ma Mere, after having had a wonderful winter in France, is now arriving in San Francisco, where I suppose she will remain for a time, I feel as though I never can stand the stupid routine of this place even a fortnight longer. And the truth is, I don’t know as I will. I wrote Mother that I had refused to take the final tests. I cannot see why I should care for a diploma from this seminary, or any other, since I am next year to become a debutante in San Francisco’s best society. One doesn’t have to pass an examination in history, thank heavens, to make an eligible marriage. Beauty is far more requisite.” “And I suppose you are quite satisfied with yourself on that score.” It was Beulah Hollingsworth who made this sarcastic remark. The three girls were seated in the summer-house on the lawn of the seminary waiting for the arrival of the rural postman. A box of chocolates lay open on the table before them, and, spread about it, were books and magazines. Patricia Sullivan, to the displeasure of at least one of her friends, was reading a romance of the West. She had not heard the remarks of her companions until the last sentence had been uttered and the tone in which it had been said made her look up and exclaim: “What is the matter, Beulah? Your disposition used to be quite amiable, but it certainly is changing. Are you living on vinegar?” Gwynette tossed her head. “Her favorite pastime seems to be finding something to be sarcastic about. Of course I know that I am no rare beauty, but I do believe that I can hold my own.” Beulah reached over and took an especially luscious looking chocolate. As she did so, the driveway for a moment was in her vision. A crunching of wheels attracted her attention and she saw an old-fashioned wagon drawn by a heavy white horse. A girl, dressed in yellow and wearing a wide-brimmed hat wreathed with buttercups, was the driver. Beulah said: “If you would like to see a girl who has real claim to beauty, cast your glance out of the summer-house.” Patricia closed her book and, rising, sauntered to the rose-hung doorway. Turning, she said in a low voice: “Gwyn, isn’t that the girl we saw at your Rocky Point Farm?” Indignant, because Jenny Warner’s beauty had been compared with her own, Gwynette replied with great indifference, as she purposely turned her back: “I neither know nor care. I have no interest in my mother’s servants.” But it was quite evident by Jenny’s manner that she had some interest in the summer-house, for she drew rein, and called in her prettiest manner: “Can you tell me where I will find Miss Poindexter-Jones? I have a message for her.” Patricia good-naturedly replied: “You won’t have far to hunt. Her highness is holding court in this very summer-house.” Gwynette’s groundless anger against the world in general but increased when she heard the inquiry, and she snapped as Patricia turned toward her: “If that girl has a message for me, tell her to bring it to me at once, though I am sure I cannot conceive what it can be.” Jenny, who had clearly heard every word that had been spoken, as indeed Gwynette had intended that she should, replied, not without pride in her tone: “Kindly tell Miss Poindexter-Jones that I will send the message to Miss Granger and she may receive it from her.” But this was not all pleasing to the haughty girl. She did not wish to have a needless audience with the woman who disapproved of her conduct as she well knew. Appearing in the doorway, she said angrily: “Why don’t you bring me the message, if you have one for me? I shall report your behavior to my mother.” Jenny said nothing, but, picking up the reins, she was about to drive on to the school when Gwynette stepped out of the summer-house saying: “Kindly give me whatever message you have for me. I do not wish it taken to Miss Granger.” Jenny took from her basket a letter, which she handed to the girl, and for one moment, and for the first time, they looked straight into each other’s eyes. Gwynette glanced at the envelope, then, handing it back toward the girl on the high seat of the wagon, she said disdainfully: “You are mistaken, this letter is addressed to your grandmother and not to me.” Jenny, undisturbed, nodded her agreement. “That is why it came to the farm, but Mrs. Poindexter-Jones made a mistake. The message is for you.” The girl, standing in the drive, flushed angrily when she found that this was true. “Well, I certainly hope your grandmother was not snooping enough to read it,” she flashed, desiring to hurt someone’s feelings in an endeavor to relieve her own. It was Patricia who protested, as she saw the flaming color in the face Beulah had called beautiful. “Gwyn,” she said sharply, “I hope the time will come when you meet someone who will hurt your feelings as you so enjoy hurting other people’s.” Jenny Warner made no response, but drove around to the kitchen door to deliver the honey and eggs. When she returned, Gwynette was not in sight, as she had at once gone to her room to be alone when she read the letter. She instinctively knew that it contained a message that would increase her already belligerent mood. As she was passing the summer-house, Jenny saw Patricia Sullivan leap out of the doorway and beckon to her. “Miss Warner,” she called, “won’t you have a few of my chocolates? They’re guaranteed to be sweet clear through.” Beulah appeared at her side. “That’s more than can be said of Gwynette Poindexter-Jones. No one knows how glad I am that at the expiration of a fortnight I shall have no further need to associate with her. You, Miss Warner, will be the unfortunate victim, as you are to have her for a neighbor all summer, I believe.” Jenny, seeing that these girls evidently wished to be friendly, had again drawn rein and had taken one of the proffered candies. Patricia looked rather longingly at the old-fashioned wagon and then at the placid old white horse. Her gaze returned to the driver and she said in her impulsive way: “Maybe you won’t believe that it can be true, but it is! I have never ridden in a conveyance of this kind, and I’d just love to try it. Should you mind if I rode down the canyon road part way with you?” “Of course I wouldn’t mind,” Jenny replied with her brightest smile. “There is plenty of room for both of you.” She included Beulah in her invitation. Then added with a glance at the seminary, “if you are sure that Miss Granger will not mind.” Patricia scrambled up as she merrily replied: “Why should she care?” Beulah remarked: “It does seem to me that there is some archaic rule about not going beyond the gates without a chaperone, but we each have one. Miss Warner may chaperone me and I will chaperone Pat.” They laughed gleefully as though something really clever had been said. “But who will chaperone Miss Warner?” “Dobbin will,” the driver replied. “He usually does.” “This is jolly fun,” Patricia declared a few moments later when she had requested to drive. Beulah burst into unexpected merriment. “Oh, don’t I hope her beautiful highness saw us when we drove away. Her wrath will bring down a volcano of sparks on our heads when we get back.” Patricia retorted: “Beulah, I sometimes think that you like to stir up the embers in Gwyn’s nature, even when they are smouldering and might die if they were let alone.” Instead of replying, the other girl exclaimed after a glance at her wrist watch: “Great moons! I must go back on a run! I have a French test at 4.” Jenny took the reins and brought Dobbin to a stop. When they were in the road, Patricia asked: “May we come down and see you some day? I wanted to go out on that rocky point when we were there before, but when Gwyn’s along, everything has to be done her way.” “I’d be glad to have you,” was Jenny’s sincerely given reply. |
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