Kate Livingston Willard

"Let fall! Give way!"

Two oars struck the water with a splash, and the dingey shot out from the gang steps of the Sylph the steady strokes of two sturdy sailors sending the little craft swiftly on its way. The owner lounged lazily in the cushioned stern, one leg swung over the other, the tiller-ropes held loosely in his hands. They were sweeping under the stern of the Vortex when a voice from the schooner's deck hailed them. The sailors held their oars suspended, and Churchill pushed back his cap and looked up, frowning slightly, for the sun was in his eyes.

"Hello, Farr."

"Hello, old man. Going ashore?"

"Yes. Want a lift?"

"Thanks, if you don't mind putting back."

"Not a bit of it."

The orders were given, and the dingey brought up to the gang steps. Farr sprang in and they pushed off, heading once more for land.

Churchill pulled a cigar-case from his pocket and held it out to his companion, and then a brief silence ensued while each procured a light.

"You've been something of a recluse for the last few days, Farr; I haven't seen you about. Been sticking close to your quarters?"

"I've been grinding at the charts. Our stay here is about at an end, and Dodd is a little dissatisfied with the progress of our work. Through one cause and another we have been delayed, and the work has dragged."

"That doesn't seem to concern Dudley at all. He's ashore most of the time."

Farr laughed indulgently.

"Oh! Dudley's a lazy Southerner. You can't hustle him. He's the salt of the earth, when you have plenty of time; but you can't impress him with the necessity of haste."

"When do you go, old man?"

Farr took his cigar from between his lips, and watched the cloud of smoke as the breeze bore it far astern.

"I don't know exactly," he answered slowly. "Within the next week or ten days surely."

"You will be very much missed," said Churchill heartily; "yet I suppose it has been slow work for you."

Farr looked contemplatively down at the lighted end of his cigar.

"No. I shall be sorry to go."

After a slight pause he added:

"What has been going on?"

"Nothing much. Andrews has gone up to town. Miss Stuart is still at the manor; but, of course, that is no news to you."

"I imagined she had not left," returned Farr indifferently. "I am going to call there this afternoon."

"Suppose, then, you meet me here; say in a couple of hours," suggested Churchill, as he brought the dingey up to the float, "and go out and dine with me aboard the Sylph. I am by myself, for Andrews is away, and Archer is engaged."

"Thanks. I will be delighted."

Churchill turned to the sailor who stood erect in the boat, awaiting his orders.

"At six sharp, Petersen, and tell the steward there will be two for dinner."

Then the two men turned on their heels and strode briskly up the sandy road. Presently their paths diverged, and with a friendly nod they separated.

Farr went along in the direction of the manor at a swinging gait. He had not seen Jean since the night of the dance. In the events of that evening his love for her had sustained a severe shock. He could not at once readjust himself to this new and unwelcome development in the nature of her to whom he had given his deepest and most loyal allegiance. Heretofore he had found his love for her intensified by her coldness and indifference, but her flirtation with Maynard was not the sort of thing he had expected from her, and it disappointed him bitterly. The world condoned many of Maynard's offenses because he possessed a certain charm and amiability of manner, but Farr was too clean-minded and upright to look lightly upon the man's selfish disregard of every moral obligation, and he was impatient of his ill-deserved popularity. That Jean should show this man so marked a preference was to him incomprehensible. It was possible that she did not know the full truth in regard to him, but even her innocence and unworldliness could not altogether shield her from blame, for she did know that he was a faithless husband, and, moreover, his wife was her friend. Under any other circumstances Farr would have been jealous, but now the sharpness of his disappointment in Jean outweighed every other consideration. She had been to him the embodiment of sweetness and purity, and as he paced up and down the white decks of the Vortex, he inveighed bitterly against this second overthrow of his faith. His anger was short-lived, however, for the tender little Jean of the early summer had twined herself closely about his heart; and now she rose, strong in the power and might of her love, denying valiantly that other self, pleading earnestly for more confidence and trust. So it happened this sunshiny day that, as Farr leaned against the rail, gazing seaward, and pondered on these strange and contradictory events, suddenly the bitterness died out of his heart, and in its place sprang up a passionate longing to see Jean, to hear her sweet voice tell him it was all a mistake, to put an end forever to this intolerable uncertainty. And even as he came to this conclusion, the dingey from the Sylph hove in view, and, without pausing to reconsider, he hailed it.

Now he had left the manor gates behind, and striking out across the lawn, increased his pace, for his impatience would not be curbed. The crunching sound of wheels on the gravel brought him to a standstill. On his right a clump of cedars hid the road from sight. He thrust aside the low-growing branches, and as he peered through the aperture a carriage flashed by. Jean was driving, and he had a tantalizing glimpse of her bonny face, as she turned to speak to Eleanor and Cliff, who were on the back seat. An involuntary exclamation escaped him, and he sprang forward, but his voice was unheard, his presence unheeded, and with a heavy heart he gazed after the rapidly retreating vehicle. With a savage little laugh he swung about, and retraced his steps. The joyousness of the summer day was darkened for him, and in his heart was a fierce resentment against Fate.

His eyes were bent upon the ground as he plodded slowly along the road, and so he did not see Miss Stuart, driving alone in Helen's buckboard, until she was within a few yards of him.

Miss Stuart scanned his face furtively as he stood beside the carriage.

"Ah, Val," she said with an assumption of ease, "I suppose you have been at the manor?"

"No, I met them driving."

"How inhospitable of them not to have turned back," she exclaimed, with her eyes still on his face.

Farr was too obtuse to appreciate the drift of her remark.

"I was unfortunate. They did not see me."

Miss Stuart's brows contracted in a frown, and she flicked the long lash of her whip.

"You are not flattering, Val. I was at home."

He looked up at her quickly, a vague surprise in his eyes.

"I would not venture to inflict myself on you!" he replied with a careless laugh, and then he stood back a step, and raised his hat.

Miss Stuart's face flushed angrily, but she had no alternative but to drive on. As she gathered up the reins she shot a glance over her shoulder at Farr, but already he had turned away, and was moving rapidly down the road. She cut the horse with the whip, and in her heart was a burning desire to revenge herself on Jean.

As they took their places about the dinner-table at the manor that evening, Nathalie made some casual mention of the Vortex, thus giving Miss Stuart the pretext she sought.

"By the way," she said, fixing her eyes on Jean's face, although her words were addressed to Helen, "on my way home this afternoon after I left you, I met Mr. Farr and had such a pleasant chat with him. He was on his way to call on us, but as he met me, I suppose——" She broke off with a charming air of embarrassment.

Jean raised her head proudly, and met Miss Stuart's gaze with unflinching eyes.

"You should have brought Mr. Farr back to tea," she said, so unconcernedly that even Helen was deceived, and Miss Stuart was stirred with a passing feeling of admiration.

But the effort cost Jean a pang, and as she turned her eyes slowly away, there was a great coldness at her heart.

The following afternoon the girls were having tea in the drawing-room, the long French windows were pushed wide open, and the soft west wind moved the curtains gently to and fro. The blinds were drawn, for the sun shone hotly, and the half-darkened room seemed deliciously cool and refreshing, after the sultry atmosphere of the outer world.

Little Gladys danced in from the hall-way, waving a letter in the air.

"I took it away from Susie, sister," she cried, in her clear, childish treble. "I don't know who it's for."

Miss Stuart leaned forward in her chair, and caught the soft dimpled wrist in her firm white hand.

"Let me read the address for you, baby."

Gladys demurred, shaking her fluffy head, her blue eyes full of laughter, but Miss Stuart quietly possessed herself of the letter.

Her face fell as she turned toward the light and read the address. The handwriting, familiar, yet half strange, awakened a host of memories within her; but the written name was not the one she had been wont to see. She read the address aloud, with a tinge of sarcasm in her smooth voice:

"'Miss Jean Lawrence, The Manor House.' For you, Miss Jean."

Jean crossed the room and took the envelope from Miss Stuart's hand. She could not repress a faint start of surprise as her eyes fell upon the superscription, but the scornful smile on Miss Stuart's lips lent her instant self-control. She slipped the letter into her pocket, and resuming her place at Eleanor's side, took up the thread of the conversation where it had been broken off, with apparent ease and facility. But her heart was beating wildly, and the hand that held the dainty teacup was far from steady.

It was almost an hour later when she pushed aside the portiÈres, and entered the music room. She glanced about her anxiously to assure herself that she was alone, then crossing to the further end and ensconsing herself in one of the deep window-seats, pulled the letter from her pocket. For an instant she held it in her hand, her brows drawn together, a wistful, questioning look in her eyes. She was forcing herself to recall every word that Helen had said to her that miserable evening in the garden. In the light of that talk, this letter to her from Valentine Farr both puzzled and troubled her. She looked down at the address, and with a sudden light of determination in her face, broke the seal:

My Dear Miss Jean:

We have received our orders and leave Hetherford on Thursday. Will you not let me see you before we sail? I started for the manor yesterday, but from a distance saw you driving away. I seem to be most unfortunate, but I cannot turn my back on the place where I have found so much happiness, without an attempt to see you again, to assure myself, at least, that I carry with me your friendship and good will. You were very good to me in the early days of our sojourn here, Miss Jean, and in memory of those days I venture to ask you if I may call at the manor to-morrow about four o'clock.

Yours,
Valentine Farr.

Once, twice Jean read it through, then mechanically folded the bit of paper, and fitted it into the envelope carefully. A tremulous, incredulous joy was dawning on her face. She felt oppressed, and started to her feet. It surprised her to find that she was trembling so she could not stand. She laughed, a little hysterically, as she sank back on the window-seat. Then, suddenly, she flung out her hands, and slipping down on her knees, buried her face in the soft cushions, and a storm of weeping shook the slender figure. In her despair she had been silent, tearless, but in this awakening of hope within her, her pent-up feelings found relief in tears. A wild, almost unreasonable, joy was growing in her heart, and her quivering lips were pressed passionately to her lover's letter. Her faith in him, which Helen's words had so cruelly crushed, was fast springing into life again.

When at length the strength of her emotion had worn itself away, she lifted her head and, rising slowly to her feet, leaned against the casement, and looked thoughtfully out upon the peaceful scene. The sun was setting, and the western horizon was one blaze of golden glory. Jean's grave eyes seemed asking counsel of the far illumined sky. Once a deep sigh trembled through her lips, and the thought that prompted it almost formed itself in words.

"Oh, if only my mother were here! I could not ask advice of anyone else, but I think I could speak to her."

For a long time Jean stood there silent, motionless; and when at last she moved away the crimson light had quite faded, and a soft violet haze lingered in the western sky. She crossed the room, and seated herself at the open desk. For a moment she hesitated, holding her pen poised above the sheet of paper, then bent her head, and wrote rapidly:

The written words looked cold and formal, and with a tender feeling of compunction Jean raised the bit of paper to her lips.

"I would be more kind, dear, if I dared," she murmured softly.

The old Dutch clock in the corner of the hall-way was chiming the hour of three the following afternoon, when Jean opened the door of her room, and started to descend the wide staircase. From below voices floated up to her, and when she reached the landing she paused and, leaning over the banisters, looked down upon the girls who were standing near the open front door. Nathalie caught sight of her, and smiled blithely.

"Don't you want to come with us, Jean? We are going over to the inn for a game of tennis."

Jean shook her head.

"I am going to be thoroughly domestic this afternoon," she announced with a conscious little laugh.

At the sound of her voice Miss Stuart glanced sharply over her shoulder. There flashed into her mind the recollection of Farr's note to Jean the previous day. She closed her lips tightly as she followed Helen and Nathalie out upon the veranda, and was singularly silent as they sauntered leisurely across the lawn. When they were almost at the gates, she turned to Helen, a distressed expression on her lovely face.

"Would you mind very much if I should turn back? I have had a slight headache all day, and the sun seems to make it so much worse."

Helen looked sympathetically around at her.

"Why no, indeed, dear. I was afraid you were not feeling well, you have been so quiet. By all means let us go right back."

But Miss Stuart would not listen to such an arrangement, and declared, with quite the air of a martyr, that she should proceed to the inn, in spite of her headache, unless Helen would do as she desired. When at last she had succeeded in ridding herself of her companions, she drew a deep breath, and turning, walked hurriedly up the avenue. She did not quite see her way clear to prevent an interview between Farr and Jean, but she felt that if she were near at hand, fortune might throw some unlooked-for chance into her path. She had kept them apart so far. Surely she must not fail now at the very end, for the news of the Vortex's departure had been spread abroad by Dudley with loud lamentations.

A great stillness lay over the manor this warm August afternoon, and as she ascended the veranda steps she heard clearly Aunt Helen's soft voice calling to Jean from the floor above.

"My dear, will you not come up and read to me for a while? My eyes are troubling me so, I dare not use them any more."

Miss Stuart stood still and listened, as Jean came slowly out from the drawing-room.

"Very well, Auntie," the girl responded half-heartedly, and with an impatient sigh started up the stairs.

Miss Stuart waited a moment, then crossed the veranda noiselessly, and entered the house. After a cautious glance about the drawing-room, she stationed herself in one of the front windows which commanded the approach to the manor. The blinds were drawn to shut out the heat and glare, and she turned the slats slightly to afford a view of the driveway. A faint breeze rustled the vines that trailed over the veranda rail and climbed the graceful columns. The moments dragged slowly by. Even Miss Stuart's active mind began at length to yield itself to the drowsy influence of the lifeless atmosphere, the monotonous buzzing of the flies, and the lazy twittering of the birds as they rested idly on the branches of the elms, or sailed languidly through the haze which softly enveloped the earth. She flung one arm above her head, and leaned back in her chair. Her thoughts went back to those far-off happy days in Annapolis, and a faint smile curved the lines of her mouth. Dreamily her memories journeyed on toward the present, and then once more her jealous wrath was awakened. She started up the more effectually to shake off the torpor that was stealing over her, and, rising, took one or two short turns up and down the room, pausing frequently at her post, to peer out through the drawn blinds. Her vigil was a tedious one, the result of it uncertain, but the warring spirit within her was now thoroughly aroused and her patience did not flag.

"What move can I make?" she asked herself again and again. "I can't very well insist on playing an unwelcome third to their tÊte-À-tÊte. They have been driven, and they would outwit me there. Ah! well, we shall see, we shall see."

Then a sharp exclamation broke from her, for, as she halted at the window, she discovered Valentine Farr's erect figure swinging lightly across the lawn in the direction of the manor. She turned the slats softly and crossed hurriedly to the entrance of the drawing-room, and standing there, her hands holding the portiÈres apart on either side, she tilted her head forward, straining every nerve to catch the faintest sound from the floor above. It was perfectly quiet, and her face cleared a little. Next her anxious eyes swept the half-darkened hall-way, as if in search of some suggestion, but the wide chimney-place with its brass andirons agleam where the light touched them, the old clock in the corner ticking slowly, steadily, offered her no help. The outer door stood ajar, and leaning a little further forward she could see that Farr was within a short distance of the veranda. Ah! what should she do? Her quick ear caught the sound of a heavy footfall ascending from the lower floor and while her eyes were riveted on the spot whence the sound issued, the swinging door in the rear of the hall was pushed open, and a woman toiled laboriously through, bearing in her arms a hamper of clean linen. Miss Stuart's ready mind sprang at once to the solution of the difficulty, and while the thought formed itself, she cleared the distance between them.

Her voice shook a little as she spoke, for her heart was beating high in the hope of victory.

"Please set your hamper right down here, and go to the front door. There is a gentleman just coming in. Say to him that Miss Jean begs to be excused, that she particularly wishes to be excused. Well," imperiously, for the good-natured woman was staring at her stupidly, with gaping mouth and astonished eyes. "Don't you understand me? Put your hamper down at once and do as I tell you."

The woman obeyed her slowly, and wiping her hands on her apron, moved clumsily forward. Farr's foot was already on the step of the veranda, and Miss Stuart had barely time to push open the swinging door and conceal herself behind it, when his clear, quiet voice, addressing the strange servant, broke the stillness.

"Will you please tell Miss Jean Lawrence that Mr. Farr wishes to see her. She is expecting me, I believe."

The woman confused by her hurried orders, and embarrassed by the unusual duty of waiting upon the door, grew very red in the face, as she answered bluntly:

"She says she won't see yer, sir."

Farr stared blankly at her.

"What? Oh, I think you must be mistaken. Just take my message up to Miss Jean, please."

In her hiding-place Miss Stuart clutched tightly at the folds of her gown, and a look of desperation burned in her eyes. But her fears were unfounded. The woman's thickset figure barred the doorway, and she stood her ground stolidly.

"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 shivers a little, but does not stir from her position. Now the schooner is sailing gallantly along, the sun shining 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 pass 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 passion 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.