  “What do you suppose is the matter with Gwyn? Ever since Jenny Warner delivered a note from her mother Saturday afternoon, she has been as glum as a—well, what is glum, anyway?” Patricia looked up from the book she was studying to make this comment. Beulah mumbled some reply which was unintelligible, nor did she cease trying to solve the problem she was intent upon. Pat continued: “I have it figured out that Gwyn’s mother wrote something which greatly upset our never-too-amiable friend. She kept shut in her room yesterday, tight as a clam in its shell. I rapped several times and asked if she had a headache and if she wished me to bring tea or anything, but she did not reply.” “Take it from me, Pat, you waste your good Samaritan impulses on a person like Gwyn. She is simply superlatively selfish.” Pat leaped up and put a hand over her friend’s mouth. “I heard the knob turn. I think we are about to be honored with a visit. Don’t be sarcastic, Beulah. Maybe Gwyn has a real trouble.” This whispered remark had just been concluded when there came an imperative rapping on the inner door. Pat skipped to open it. Gwynette, dressed for the street, entered. “What’s the grand idea of locking the door between our rooms?” she inquired. “Didn’t know it was locked,” Pat replied honestly. Beulah was again solving the intricate problem, or attempting to, and acted as though she had not heard. Patricia, always the more tender-hearted, offered their visitor a chair. Then solicitously: “What is the matter, Gwyn. You look as though you had cried for hours. Bad news in the note Jenny Warner brought you?” There was a hard expression in the brown eyes that were turned coldly toward the sympathetic inquirer. Slowly she said, “I sometimes think that I hate my mother and that she hates me.” There was a quick protest from Pat. “Don’t say that, Gwyn, just because you are angry! You have told me, yourself, that your mother has granted your every wish until recently.” Gwynette shrugged her proudly-held shoulders. “Even so! Why am I now treated like a child and told what I must do, or be punished?” Noting a surprised expression in Patricia’s pleasant face, Gwyn repeated with emphasis: “Just exactly that! If I do not take the tests, or if I fail in them when they are taken, I cannot have my coming-out party next year, but must remain in this or some other school until I obtain a diploma as a graduate with honors. So Ma Mere informed me in the note brought by that despicable Jenny Warner.” Beulah could not help hearing and she looked up, her eyes flashing. “Gwynette, if you wish to slander a friend of Pat’s and mine, you will have to choose another audience.” The eyebrows of the visitor were lifted. “Indeed? Since when have you become the champion of the granddaughter of my mother’s servants?” Beulah’s answer was defiant. “Pat and I both consider Jenny Warner one of the most beautiful and lovable girls we have ever met. We went for a ride with her on Saturday, and this afternoon, if we aren’t too exhausted after the tests, we are going to walk down to her farm home and call on her and upon little Lenora Gale, who has been moved there from the infirmary.” Gwynette rose, flinging over her shoulder contemptuously, “Well, I see that you have made your choice of friends. Of course you cannot expect to associate with me, if you are hobnobbing at the same time with our servants. What is more, that Lenora Gale’s father is a wheat rancher in Dakota. I, at least, shall select my friends from exclusive families. I will bid you good-bye. From now on our intimacy is at end.” The door closed behind Gwyn with an emphatic bang. Beulah leaped up and danced a jig. Pat caught her and pushed her back into her chair. “Don’t. She’ll hear and her feelings will be hurt.” “Well, she’s none too tender with other people’s feelings,” Beulah retorted. A carriage bearing the Poindexter-Jones coat-of-arms and drawn by two white horses was waiting under the wide portico in front of the seminary when Gwynette emerged. The liveried footman was standing near the open door to assist her within, then he took his place by the coachman and the angry girl was driven from the Granger Place grounds. She did not notice the golden glory of the day; she did not glance out as she was driven down the beautiful Live Oak Canyon road, nor did she observe when the wife of the lodgekeeper opened the wide iron gates and curtsied to her. She was staring straight ahead with hard, unseeing eyes. When the coach stopped and the footman had opened the door, the girl mounted the many marble steps leading to the pillared front porch. Instantly, and before she could ring, a white-caped maid admitted her. It was one who had been with them for years in their palatial San Francisco home, as had, also, the other servants. “Where is my mother, Cecile?” the girl inquired with no word of greeting, though she had not seen the trim French maid for many months. The maid’s eyes narrowed and her glance was not friendly. She liked to be treated, at least, as though she were human. She volunteered a bit of advice: “Madame is veer tired, Mees Gwyn. What you call, not yet strong. Doctor, he say, speak quiet where Madame is.” Gwyn glared at the servant who dared to advise her. “Kindly tell me where my mother is at this moment. Since she sent the carriage for me, it is quite evident that she wishes to see me.” “Madame is in lily-pond garden. I tell her Mees Gwyn has come.” But the girl, brushing past the maid, walked down the long, wide hall which extended from the front to the double back door and opened out on a most beautiful garden, where, on the blue mirror of an artificial pond many fragrant white lilies floated. There, sheltered from the sea breeze by tall, flowering bushes, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones reclined on a softly cushioned chair. Near her was a nurse in blue and white uniform who had evidently been reading aloud. When Gwynette approached, the older woman said in a low voice: “Miss Dane, I prefer to be alone when I receive my daughter.” The nurse slipped away through the shrubbery and Mrs. Poindexter-Jones turned again toward the girl whose rapid step and carriage plainly told her belligerence of spirit. The pale face of the patrician woman would have touched almost any heart, but Gwyn’s wrath had been accumulating since her conversation with Beulah and Pat. She considered herself the most abused person in existence. “Ma Mere,” the girl began at once, “I don’t see why you didn’t let me come to you in France. If you aren’t any stronger than you seem to be, I should have thought you would have remained where you were and sent for Harold and me to join you there.” “Sit down, Gwyn, if you do not care to kiss me.” There was a note of sorrow in the weary voice that did not escape the attention of the selfish girl. Stooping, she kissed her mother on the pale forehead. Then she took the seat vacated by the nurse. “Of course I am sorry you have been sick, Ma Mere,” she said in a tone which implied that decency demanded that much of her. “But it seems to me it would have been much better for you to have remained where you were. I was simply wild to have you send for me while you were at that adorable resort in France. I can’t see why you wanted to return here.” The last word was spoken with an emphasis of depreciation. Mrs. Poindexter-Jones leaned her head back wearily on the cool pillow as she said, more to herself than to her listener, “I just wanted to come home. I wanted to see the trees my husband and I planted when we were first married. I felt that I would be nearer him someway, and I wanted to see my boy. Harold wished me to come home. He preferred to spend the summer here and I was glad.” The pity, which for a moment had flickered in the girl’s heart when she saw how very weak her mother really was, did not last long enough to warm into a flame. “Ma Mere,” she said petulantly, “I cannot understand why you never speak of your husband as my father.” There was no response, only a tightening of the woman’s lips as though she were making an effort to not tell the truth. “Moreover,” Gwyn went on, not noticing the change in her mother’s manner, “why should Harold’s wishes be put above mine? Perhaps you do not realize that he has become interested, to what degree I do not know, but nevertheless really interested, in the granddaughter of your servants on the farm.” Mrs. Poindexter-Jones turned toward the girl. There was not in her eyes the flash of indignation which Gwynette had expected, only surprise and perhaps inquiry. “Is that true?” Then, after a meditative moment the woman concluded, “Fate does strange things. What was it they called her?” Gwyn held herself proudly erect. At least she had been sure that her mother would have sided with her in denouncing Harold’s plan to become a farmer under the direction of Silas Warner. She hurried on to impart the information without telling the name of the girl whom she so disliked, although without reason. “I recall now,” was the woman’s remark. “Jenny Warner. Jeanette was her name and yours was Gwynette.” Angrily her companion put in, “Ma Mere, did you hear me say that Harold has decided to become a farmer, a mere laborer, when you had planned that he should become a diplomat or something like that?” “Yes, I heard.” The woman leaned back wearily. “My boy wrote me that was why he wanted to stay here, although he would give up his own wishes if they did not accord with mine.” Then she added, with an almost pensive smile on her thin lips, “He is more dutiful than my daughter is, one might think.” Gwynette flung herself about in the chair impatiently. “Harold knows you will do everything to please him and nothing to please me.” The woman’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the hard, selfish face which nevertheless was beautiful in a cold way. The woman seemed to be making an effort to speak calmly. “Gwynette,” she said at last, “we will call this unpleasant interview at an end. The fault probably is mine. Without doubt I do favor Harold. He is very like his father, and I seem to feel that Harold cares more for me than you do.” She put up a protesting hand. “Don’t answer me, please. I am very tired. You may go now.” The girl rose, somewhat ashamed of herself. Petulantly, she said, “But Ma Mere, must I take the horrid old test? I will fail miserably and be disgraced. I supposed I was to make my debut next winter and I did not consider a diploma necessary to an eligible marriage.” The woman had been watching the girl, critically, but not unkindly. Her reply was in a softer voice. “No, Gwyn, you need not take the tests. Somehow I have failed to bring you up well.” Then to the listener’s amazement, the invalid added: “Tell the coachman, when he returns from the seminary, to stop at the farm and bring Jenny Warner over to see me. I would like to know how Susan Warner succeeded in bringing up her girl.” Gwynette was again angry. “You are a strange mother to wish to compare your own daughter with the granddaughter of one of your servants.” With that she walked away, and, with a sorrowful expression the woman watched her going. How she wished the girl would relent, turn back and fling herself down by the side of the only mother she had ever known, and beg to be forgiven and loved, but nothing was farther from Gwynette’s thought. Glad as she was to be freed from taking the tests, she was more than ever angry because she would have to remain at the seminary until the close of the term, which was another week. Why would not her mother permit her to visit some friend in San Francisco? Then came the sickening realization that she no longer had an intimate friend. Patricia and Beulah had both gone over to the enemy. Why did she hate Jenny Warner, she wondered as she was being driven back to the school. Probably because Beulah had once said they looked alike with one difference, that the farmer’s granddaughter was much the more beautiful. And then Harold actually preferred the companionship of that ignorant peddler of eggs and honey to his own sister. Purposely she neglected to mention to the coachman that he was to call at the farm and take Jenny Warner back with him. But Fate was even then planning to carry out Mrs. Poindexter-Jones’s wishes in quite another way. |
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