Kitabı oku: «Sisters», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XXX.
GWYN’S AWAKENING
“Wall, wall,” it was Silas Warner who entered the parlor five moments later, rubbing his hands and smiling his widest, “this here looks like a celebration or some sech. ’Tain’t anybody’s birthday, is it, Jenny-gal, that yer givin’ a party for?”
“Oh, don’t I wish it were, though,” Harold exclaimed, “then Grandma Sue would make one of her famous mountain chocolate cakes.” He looked around the group beseechingly. “Say, can’t one of you raise a birthday within the next fortnight. It will be worth the effort.”
Lenora flashed a smile across the room at her brother. “Charles can,” she announced. “He will be twenty-one on the twenty-fifth of June.”
“Great!” Then turning to the smiling old woman who sat near Jenny in the most comfortable rocker the room afforded, “Grandma Sue, I implore that your heart be touched! Will you make us a cake twenty-one layers high, with chocolate in between an inch thick? I’ll bring the candles and the ice cream.”
Jenny, who for the first time was surrounded by young people, caught Harold’s holiday spirit and clapping her hands impulsively, she cried, “Won’t that be fun! Grandma Sue, you’ll let us have a real party for Charles’ birthday, won’t you?”
Of course the old woman was only too happy to agree to their plans. While she and Jenny were talking, Harold sat back and looked at the two girls, the “unlike sisters” as he found himself calling them. Gwynette sat on the edge of a slipper haircloth chair, the stiffest in the room. There was an unmistakable sneer in the curve of her mouth, which was quite as sensitive as Jenny’s but lacking the sweet cheerful upturn at the corners. Nor was Harold the only one who was thinking about this very evident likeness, or unlikeness.
Farmer Si, chewing a toothpick (of all plebeian things!), stood warming his back at the nickel-plated parlor stove, hands back of him, teetering now and then from heel to toe and ruminating. “Wall,” was his self-satisfied conclusion, “who wants her can have ’tother one. Ma and me got the best of that little drawin’ deal.”
“But that birthday is a whole week away,” Harold was saying, “and here is a perfectly good evening to spend. The question before the house is, how shall we spend it?”
“O, I know,” Lenora leaned forward eagerly. “Let’s make popcorn balls. Brother and I used to call that the greatest kind of treat when we were children.”
Gwynette’s cold voice cut in with: “But we are not children.”
Harold leaped up exclaiming, “Maybe you are not, Gwyn, but the rest of us are. Grandma Sue, may we borrow your kitchen if we leave it as spotless as we find it?”
Gwynette rose, saying coldly, “I am very tired. I think I will go home now.” Harold was filled with consternation. He, of course, would have to accompany his sister, but, before he could speak, Charles was saying: “I will walk over with you, Miss Gwynette, if you will permit me to do so. I haven’t had nearly my usual amount of outdoor exercise today, and I’d be glad to do it.”
Gwynette flashed a grateful glance at him, and, wishing to appear well in his eyes, she actually crossed the room and held out her hand to the old woman, who, with the others, had risen. “Goodnight, Mrs. Warner,” she began, then surprised herself by ending with – “I hope you will invite me to the birthday party.” She bit her lip with vexation as soon as she was outdoors. She had not meant to say it. Why had she? It was the same as acknowledging that she considered herself an equal socially with the Warners and the Gales, who also were farmers. She knew the answer, even though she would not admit it.
“What a warm, pleasant evening it is,” Charles said when the door of the farmhouse had closed behind them. “Would it bore you terribly, Miss Gwynette, to go out on the point of rocks with me for a moment? I’d like to see the surf closer in the moonlight.”
“Oh, I’d love to.” Gwynette was honest, at least, when she made this reply. She liked to be with this good-looking young giant who carried himself as a Grecian god might have done.
Taking her arm, the young man assisted the slender, graceful girl from rock to rock until they had reached the highest point. There Charles noted the canopied rock where Lenora and Jenny sat on the first day of their visit to the point together.
“Is it too cool, do you think, to sit here a moment?” Gwynette asked somewhat shyly. For answer, the lad drew off his outer coat, folded it and placed it on the stone. “Oh, I don’t need it,” he said, when she protested. “This slipover sweater of mine is all that I usually wear, but I put on the coat tonight in honor of the ladies.” Then, folding his arms, he stood silently near, watching the truly inspiring scene. One great breaker after another rolled quietly in, lifting a foaming crest as it neared the shore, glistening like fairy snow in the silver of the moonlight.
“The surf doesn’t roar tonight, the way it does sometimes,” the lad said, dropping at last to the rock at the girl’s side. “Watch now when the next wave breaks, how all of the spray glistens.”
For a few moments neither spoke and, in Gwynette’s starved soul something stirred again, this time more distinctly. It was an intense love of nature that she had inherited, with Jenny, from a wandering poet-missionary father. She caught her breath when spray and mist dashed almost up to them. “O, it is lovely, lovely!” she said, for once being perfectly sincere and forgetting herself. “I never saw anything so exquisite.”
Charles was more than pleased. Perhaps he was to find the soul of the girl at his side. Harold did not believe that she had one. As he glanced down at her now and then her real joy in the beauty of the scene before them, he concluded that she was fully as beautiful as her sister.
“I wonder where the silver path leads,” she said whimsically.
“I wish I had a sailboat here,” the lad exclaimed, “and if you would be my passenger, we’d sail over that silver stream and find where it leads.”
The girl looked up at him. Her new emotion had changed the expression of her face. It was no longer cynical and cold. “Our father had a sailboat, but for years it has been hanging to the rafters of the boathouse. Perhaps Harold would like to take it down, now that he is to be here all summer.”
“Good. I’ll ask him!” the lad was enthusiastic. “I suppose you wonder how I, a farmer from the inland, learned to sail. It was the year before mother died that we all went to Lake Tahoe, hoping that the change of air would benefit her. A splendid sailboat was one of the accessories of the cabin we rented, and how I reveled in it. I do hope Harold will loan me his boat. It seems calm enough beyond the surf. In fact I saw several boats today evidently racing around a buoy over toward the town.”
“Yes, there is a yacht club at Santa Barbara and they have a wonderful harbor. Harold has been invited to join the club. I would like to attend one of their dances.”
The girl hesitated to ask her companion if he could dance. Probably not, having been brought up on an isolated ranch. To her relief the question was answered without having been asked.
“I believe I like skating better than dancing, but, when the music pleases me and my partner, I do enjoy dancing.” Gwyn found that she must reconstruct her preconvinced ideas about Dakota farmers. Then, after silently watching the waves for a thoughtful moment, he turned toward her as he smilingly said: “Miss Gwynette, do you suppose that you and I could go to the next Yacht Club dance?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” The girl’s eyes were glowing. Now indeed the resemblance to Jenny was marked. “We have the entree everywhere.”
As they walked side by side toward the big house. Gwyn was conscious of being happier than she had ever been in all her seventeen years. Then she realized, with a pang of regret, that in two weeks this companion who seemed to understand her better than did anyone else, would be gone.
At the foot of the steps she turned and held out her hand. “Goodnight, Mr. Gale,” she said simply. “Thank you for escorting me home.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
CONFLICTING EMOTIONS
Harold was more than glad to grant his sister’s request that the sailboat, which for years had been suspended in the boathouse, should be lowered and launched. Naturally, after having dried for so long leaks appeared as soon as it was afloat in the quiet cove sheltered by the little peninsula, Rocky Point. Again it was drawn up and a merry morning the two boys spent with the help of an old man about the place who at one time had sailed the seas. The cracks were caulked and again the pretty craft floated, seeming to dance for joy, over the smoothly rolling waves, when it was tied to the buoy a short distance from shore. The rowboat had been used by the gardener for fishing excursions, and so that was in readiness. The boys had been glad to find that, though the sails were somewhat yellowed, they had been so carefully rolled away and covered that no repairs were necessary.
“We’d better make a trial trip in the craft before we take the ladies,” Charles suggested when, dressed in their overalls, they paused on their way to the farm the next morning to look out at the boat.
It was that very day that Mrs. Poindexter-Jones again decided that she would like to be taken to the pond-lily garden and have Jenny Warner read to her. When, leaning on Miss Dane’s arm, she arrived in the charming shrub-sheltered nook, she saw Gwynette lying in a hammock which was stretched between two sycamore trees near. The girl at once arose and went forward to greet her mother with an expression of real solicitude which the woman had never before seen in her daughter’s face. She even glanced again to be sure that she had not been mistaken. Brightly the girl said, “Good morning, Ma Mere. I’m glad you are able to be out this lovely day. I was just coming to your room to ask if you’d like me to read aloud to you. I found such a good story in the library, a new one.”
The pleased woman glanced at the book the girl held. It was the one in which Jenny Warner had read a few chapters.
There was a glad light in the eyes of the girl’s foster-mother.
Gwyn saw it, and for the first time in her life her conscience stirred, rebuking her for having never before thought of doing anything to add to her mother’s pleasure.
What the older woman said was: “I shall be more than glad to have my daughter read to me. I was just about to send for Jenny Warner. Before you came home she started to read that very book to me, but we were only at the beginning.” Gwynette flushed. “Oh, if you would rather have – ” she began. But her mother, hearing the hurt tone and wishing to follow up any advantage the moment might be offering, hurriedly said: “Indeed I would far rather have you read to me than anyone else, dear Gwynette. I had not asked you because I did not know that you would care to.” There was an almost pathetic note in the voice which again carried a rebuke to the heart of the girl.
Miss Dane left them, after having arranged her patient in the comfortable reclining chair.
Gwynette, having read by herself to the chapter where Jenny had stopped, began to read aloud and the woman, leaning back luxuriously at ease, listened with a growing tenderness in her eyes. How beautiful Gwynette was, and surely there was a changed expression which had come within the last few days. What could have caused it? Why did she seem more content to remain in the country? The girl had not again mentioned the party for European travel which she had seemed so eager to join when her mother had proposed it. Half an hour later she suggested that they stop reading and visit.
“Dear,” she said, and Gwynette actually thrilled at the new tenderness in her mother’s voice, “it isn’t going to bore you as much as you thought to remain here with us?”
The girl rose and sat on a stool near the reclining chair. “Ma Mere,” she said, and there were actually tears in her eyes, “I have been very unhappy, miserably dissatisfied, and I sometimes think that what I am yearning for is love. I have had adulation,” she spoke somewhat bitterly. “I have demanded a sort of homage from the girls in my set wherever I was. I think often they grudgingly gave it. I’ve had lots of time to think about all these things during the last two weeks when Beulah and Patricia, who had been my best friends in San Francisco, were busy with final tests. I knew, when I faced the thing squarely, out there in the summer-house where I spent so many hours alone. I knew that neither of those girls really cared for me – I mean with their hearts – the way they did for each other, and it made me feel lonely – left out. I don’t know as I had ever felt that way before, and then, when I came over here, that first day after you came home, you talked about Harold with such loving tenderness, and again I felt so neglected.” She looked up, for the woman had been about to speak. “Let me finish, Ma Mere, please, for I may never again feel that I want to tell what I think. I have been locked up so long. I’ve been too proud to tell anyone that I knew Harold did not really care for me, that every little thing he did for me was because he considered it a duty.”
His mother knew this to be true, for her son had made the same confidence the day he had arrived from school. Her only comment was to lay her hand lovingly on the brown head. A caress had not occurred between these two, not since Gwynette had been a little girl.
There were unshed tears in the woman’s eyes. How blind she had been. After all, Gwynette was not entirely to blame. Well the foster-mother knew that she had encouraged the high-spirited girl to be proud and haughty. For many years Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had considered social standing of more importance than all else, but, during the long months that she had been ill, an idle watcher of the throngs who visited the famous health resort in France, something of the foolishness of it all had come to her and she had readjusted her sense of real values, scarcely knowing when it had happened. She had much to regret, much to try to undo.
“Dear girl,” she said, and there was in her voice a waver as though it were hard for her to speak, and yet she was determined to do so, “I fear I have done you a great wrong. I have taught you to be proud, to scorn worthiness in your fellow-men, or, if not exactly that, to place class distinction above it. Now I know that character is the true test of what a man is, not how much money he has or what his place in society. Of course, it is but right that we should choose our friends from among those people who interest us, but not from among those who can benefit us in a worldly way. Gwynette, daughter, is it too late for me to undo the wrong that I have done in giving you these false standards and ideals?”
Now there were indeed tears quivering on the lashes of the older woman. The girl was touched, as she never before had been. “Oh, Mother!” It was really a yearning cry. “Then you do love me. You do care?”
Miss Dane appeared at the moment and the older woman merely smiled at the girl, but with such an expression of infinite tenderness that, when the invalid had been led away, there was a most unusual warmth in Gwynette’s heart. She rose and walked down to the cliff. She wanted, oh, her mother could not know how very much she wanted to free herself from the old standards, because she admired, more than she had ever before admired anyone, the son of a mere rancher. She stood gazing at the boat and thinking so intently of these things that she did not hear footsteps near, but how her heart rejoiced when she heard a voice asking, “Will you go to the Yacht Club dance with me this evening, Miss Gwynette? Harold has procured the necessary tickets.”
Would she go? Gwynette turned such a glowingly radiant face toward the questioner that he marveled at her beauty. How could he know that it was the magic of his friendship which had wrought this almost unbelievable transformation.
“Oh, how splendid! The Yacht Club is a beautiful place and the music they have is simply divine.” Then she hesitated and looked doubtful, “but I haven’t a new party gown and I wore my old one there last month.”
How trivial and unimportant the young man’s hearty laugh made her remark seem, and what he said might have been called brutally frank: “You don’t suppose that anyone will recall what Miss Gwynette Poindexter-Jones wore on that particular occasion?”
The girl flushed, although she knew the rebuke contained in the remark had not been intentionally unkind. Yet she could not resist saying, with a touch of her old hauteur, “You mean that no one will remember me.” Then the native common sense which had seldom been given an opportunity to express itself came to save her from petty displeasure. “You are right, Sir Charles,” she said lightly, “of course no one there tonight will recall the gown I wore; in fact they won’t remember me at all.”
The lad had glanced quickly at the girl when she had called him “Sir Charles,” but, noting that it had been but a teasing preface to her remark, he stood by her side for a silent moment gazing out at the boat.
“Harold and I are going for a sail this afternoon,” he said, “if the craft doesn’t leak. We want to try it out before we take the young ladies for a sail. My sister Lenora used to love to be my passenger when we were up at Lake Tahoe.”
Gwyn did not know why she asked, just a bit coyly, “Was your sister your only passenger?”
The reply was frankly given: “No indeed! There were several young ladies at a nearby inn who accompanied us at different times.”
Harold came up just then and said: “Well, Gwyn, are you going to watch the famous sailors perform this afternoon? Jenny and Lenora have promised to be out on Rocky Point to encourage us with their presence, so to speak.” Charles looked keenly at the girl as he said: “I would be pleased if you would join them, Miss Gwyn. I would like you to know my sister better. You will love her when you do.”
They had turned and were walking toward the house. Gwynette did not in the least want to go. After hesitating, she replied: “I planned looking over my gown. It may need some alterations.”
Even as she spoke, she knew that her words did not ring true. She sensed, more than saw, that Charles was disappointed in her. He began at once to talk about sailing to Harold, and, for the rest of the walk she might have been quite alone. Her brother realized that Gwyn had not been courteous. She should, at least, have replied that she was sure she would like the sister of Charles. He, Harold, had said nothing of Jenny. He was not going to have his friend again humiliated by Gwyn’s haughty disdain. He was almost glad that she had invented an excuse for remaining away.
Gwyn lunched alone in the big formal dining-room. The boys had departed for their cabin, where Sing Long had prepared their midday meal as usual. The girl had hoped they would invite her to accompany them, but they had not done so.
After lunch she went to her room and took out the gown. She well knew that it was in perfect repair, for had she not worn it to the party she had given at The Palms in honor of the girl she had supposed was related to nobility? How foolish she had been! She did not much blame Patricia and Beulah for laughing at her. In all probability there had been no such girl in the seminary, and if there had been, what possible difference could it make to her? Then she recalled what her mother had said: “It is character that counts, not class distinction.” Gwyn was decidedly unhappy. She laid the filmy, truly exquisite gown on her bed and stood gazing out of her window. She saw the sailboat gliding past. She decided that at least she would go out on the cliff.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THREE GIRLS
Gwynette, dressed in a corn-yellow linen with tailored lines and wearing a very becoming sport hat of the same material and color, trimmed with old blue and orange, sauntered out to the cliff. She had intended to remain there on a rustic bench to watch the boys sail to and fro, hoping, though scarcely believing, that they would eventually land at the small pier at their boathouse. Another thought prompted: “They are far more apt to land nearer the Point of Rocks. Charles will want to be with his sister, and Harold cares much more for that – that – ” She hesitated, for even in her thought she did not like to connect her brother’s name with the granddaughter of her mother’s servants.
Rising, and without definite decision to do so, she sauntered along the cliff in the direction of the rocky point. She saw the two girls seated on the highest rock, and just at that moment they were waving seaward, and so Gwyn decided that the sailboat must be nearing the shore. A low-growing old pine hid the water from her view. When she had passed it, she glanced quickly out at the gleaming, dancing waves, and there, turning for a tack, was the boat she sought. Charles, at the rudder, saw her at once and waved his hat. She flushed. He would know that she was going over to the point to be with the other girls. Half angry with herself, when she realized that she was doing it merely to please him, and not in the least because it was her own desire, she actually paused, determining to turn back, but before she had done so, Jenny, having glanced around, saw her, and so it was too late to retreat even if she had really wished to do so. Remembering her promise to Harold, Jenny called in her most friendly manner, “Oh, Miss Poindexter-Jones, won’t you come over on the Reviewing Rocks, as Harold calls them? We have a wonderful view of the boat from here.”
Gwynette went, and if her smile was faint, it was at least a smile, and Jenny felt encouraged. She gave up her own position. “Do sit here,” she said, “this seat is really as comfortable as a rock can be. I would offer to go to the house for a cushion, but Lenora has the only two that we own and she needs them both.”
“Indeed, I do not.” The seated girl protested, and she was about to draw out the one against which she was leaning, but Gwyn had the good grace to at once declare that her gown washed nicely and she did not in the least mind sitting on the rocks. Then they turned to watch the antics of the sailboat.
“Charles is in his element now.” It was evident from her tone that Lenora was very proud of her brother. “When we were at Tahoe the daughters of the wealthy cottagers and guests at Tahoe Inn were always eager to have him accompany them, not only sailing but everywhere.” With a little laugh she concluded, “As you may guess, I have a very popular brother.” Then, more seriously, as she recalled why they had been at the lake, far-famed for its beauty: “But Charles refused nearly all invitations that he might remain with our dear mother, who was frail. In fact, the only ones he accepted were those that Mother and I insisted that he should not refuse. But, oftenest of all, Charles would take me with him for a sunrise sail before Mother would need us, and I shall never, never forget the beauty of the awakening day on that mountain-circled lake.” All this was told to Jenny, who had seated herself on another rock a little apart from the others.
Gwyn found herself thinking it strange that ranchers from Dakota should have the entree to Tahoe Inn, which she knew to be exclusive. Then she had to confess that she, herself, had always associated with only the first families, and yet she now was seated on the rocks with two girls far beneath her socially. She flushed as she had to acknowledge that she was there just to please Charles Gale. He probably had attracted the girls who had been at Tahoe Inn as he did her. Her lips, though she did not know it, were taking on the customary scornful lines, when Jenny stood up.
“They’re coming in close this time. Harold wants to tell us something. Everyone listen hard.”
The lad, making a trumpet of his hands, was shouting: “We’ll land next tack. Have some lemonade for us, will you?”
The standing girl nodded her head: then, holding out a hand to Lenora, said: “That command shall be obeyed.”
More formally, though in a tone of friendliness, Jenny turned to the other girl: “You will go with us, will you not, Miss Poindexter-Jones? I’ll gather some fresh lemons and – ” her face brightened as she added: “Let’s set the rustic table out under the trees near the hammock, and serve some of those little cakes Grandma made this morning, and we might even have strawberries. I gathered many more than we’ll need for the shortcake for dinner.”
“Oh! That will be jolly fun!” Jenny’s enthusiasm was contagious as far as Lenora was concerned, and so all three girls walked toward the house, two of them eagerly, but one reluctantly. Why didn’t she have the courage to say that she must go to her own home? What excuse could she give that would be the truth, for, strangely enough, Gwynette scorned falsehood. She had been angry with herself ever since she had made the excuse of the dress, knowing that it had not been true. Though they did not know it, that high sense of honesty these two girls had inherited from their missionary father.
While she was struggling with her desire to be one of the party when Charles should have landed, and her disinclination at being with girls far beneath her socially, Jenny, who was a little in the lead, turned and smilingly addressed her:
“Miss Poindexter-Jones, what would you prefer doing – hulling strawberries, making the lemonade or setting the table under the trees?”
Lenora, who was bringing up the rear of the little procession, smiled to herself. Jenny surely was daring, for, as they both well knew, Gwynette would not prefer to do anything at all. Surely she would now find some excuse for hasty retreat. She might go home and read to her mother if she had awakened. This Gwyn decided to tell them, but when she did hear her own voice it was saying: “If I may choose, I prefer to set the table.”
“Good!” Jenny turned to Lenora: “Dearie, shall you mind staining your fingers rosy red?”
“Strawberry red, you mean, don’t you?” Lenora dropped down on the top step of the front porch, adding with an upward smile: “Sister Jenny, bring the fruit and I will hull with pleasure.”
“All right-o.” Then to the other girl, who stood stiffly erect, Jenny said very sweetly: “If you will come with me, I’ll show you where Grandmother Sue keeps her best china. I know that she will let us use it for this gala occasion.” Then pointing: “See over there, by the hammock, is the little rustic table. There are five of us. I’ll bring out five chairs.”
“Don’t!” Lenora put in. “I’d far rather luxuriate in the hammock. Anyway, four chairs even up the table better.”
Gwyn removed her hat, and followed Jenny toward the kitchen, where in an old-fashioned china closet there were some very pretty dishes. The ware was thin and the fern pattern was attractive, and suitable for an out-of-door tea party.
For the next fifteen minutes these three girls were busy, and to Gwynette’s surprise she was actually enjoying her share of the preparations. After setting the table with a lunch cloth and the pretty dishes, she gathered a cluster of pink wild roses for the center.
“I love those single roses!” Jenny exclaimed when she brought out a large glass pitcher of lemonade on which were floating strips of peel. “They are so simple and – well – just what they really are, not pretending anything.”
Lenora appeared with a glass dish heaped with luscious strawberries. Their hostess was surely in an appreciative mood. “O-o-h! Don’t they look simply luscious under all that powdered sugar? Those sailors don’t know the treat that’s in store for them.”
“And for us!” It was Gwyn’s first impulsive remark. “I didn’t know that I was hungry, but I feel now as though I were famished.”
“So are we!” A hearty voice behind caused them all to turn, and there were the two boys who had stolen up quietly on purpose to surprise the girls. “We landed at the cabin, so we are all washed up and ready for the ‘eats’.”
And it truly was a feast of merriment. Gwyn was surprised to find herself laughing with the others.
Lenora, half reclining in the hammock, was more an observer than a partaker of the active merriment. From her position she could see the profiles of the two girls at the table. They were both dressed in yellow, for Jenny had on her favorite muslin. The shade was somewhat different from Gwyn’s corn-colored linen, but the effect was startlingly similar. They had both removed their hats and their hair was exactly the same soft waving light brown, with gold glints in it. Indeed, it might have been hair on one head. Charles and Harold, of course, had also noted this at an earlier period, but it was Lenora’s first opportunity to study the two girls. What could it mean? It was too decided a likeness to be merely a coincident. She determined to ask Charles.
That lad was devoting his time and thought to drawing Gwyn out of the formal stiffness which had been evident when the little party started. This he did, for Gwyn had had years of practice at clever repartee, and so also had Charles, for, as she knew, he had associated with the daughters of cultured families and also, of course, with the sons.
Jenny and Harold, seated opposite each other, now and then exchanged glances that ranged from amusement to gratification. They were both decidedly pleased that the difficult guest was being entertained.
When at last the strawberries, cakes and lemonade had disappeared, Harold sprang up, announcing that, since the young ladies had prepared the party, the young gentlemen would do the doing that was to follow. Charles instantly began to pile dishes high, saying in a gay tone, directly to Gwyn, “I suppose you hadn’t heard that I am ‘hasher’ now and then at our frat ‘feeds’.”
The girl shuddered. “No, I had not.” Her reply was so cold and her manner again so formal that Lenora put in rebukingly: “Charles, why do you say that? Of course I think it is splendid of boys who have to work their way through college to do anything at all that they can, but father insisted that you pay your way, that you might have your entire time for studying.”
