A Colony of Girls Part 29

"I am sure I don't see why she doesn't go away. The whole house is turned upside down to provide her with amus.e.m.e.nt. It is a perfect bore."

"My dear," Aunt Helen objected, "that is surely not the spirit of true hospitality. We do not speak ill of our guests. _n.o.blesse oblige._"

"I can't help it," and Jean, now thoroughly aroused, started up from her chair; "I am not going to pretend to like a person when I don't.

She is insufferably patronizing, and I hate her."

Aunt Helen looked up at her niece with real distress in her eyes.

"Why, child," and she held out her hand, "come here. I want to speak to you."

Jean stood irresolute, looking half ashamed, and wholly miserable. At that most inopportune moment Nathalie flung open the door.

"Oh, here you are, Jean. I have been looking all over for you. Come on down and have a game of tennis before dinner. Why, what's the matter?"

Jean hastily averted her face.

"Nothing. I don't care to play tennis."

"Oh, please do, I am just in the humor for it."

"You may be, but I am not," Jean returned curtly.

"What in the world has come over you?" asked Nathalie bluntly. "I never knew anyone's disposition to become as uncertain and irritable as yours has lately."

"Why don't you let me alone, then? My temper may be growing bad, but yours has never been anything else."

Nathalie shrugged her shoulders, and laughing shortly, went on her way without another word.

When the door had closed on her, Jean slipped down on the floor and, burying her face in Aunt Helen's lap, sobbed convulsively.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," she faltered. "I am so cross and irritable lately. Everything seems to set my nerves on edge.

I never used to feel so."

Aunt Helen pa.s.sed her thin hand soothingly over the girl's bent head.

"Don't worry about it, dearie. Of course you did not mean to speak so.

You are tired and unstrung to-day."

By and by Jean's sobs grew less frequent, then ceased altogether. She lifted her head, and, resting her arm on Aunt Helen's knee, dropped her chin in her hand, and stared absently before her. All trace of emotion had left her face, and it now wore an expression of utter weariness and dejection. Her aunt looked thoughtfully down at her. Had it been either Helen or Nathalie who had thus given way it would not have troubled her, but proud little Jean was too reserved and self-contained to break down unless she had been very sorely tried.

The silence had lasted some few moments when Aunt Helen again spoke.

"In spite of your denial, Jean, I fear that your playtime has lasted too long. Discontent never fails to creep in among us when we are idle. You see, dear, I am taking it for granted that it is nothing deeper than a feeling of discontent which makes you so unhappy. I know of nothing else unless----" She paused. Jean stirred uneasily under her direct glance. Aunt Helen instantly averted her eyes, and resumed: "I am sorry that my ill health forces me to lead my life so apart from you all. I am in ignorance of the many currents and eddies which would otherwise be apparent to me, but if ever you need my advice you know how gladly I will give it to you, and there are times when an old head is better than a young one."

Still Jean did not speak. Aunt Helen sighed a little sadly:

"Well, my child, I suppose I am mistaken, and that your trouble is only a surfeit of pleasure."

"I am a great baby, Auntie, but I am glad I came here to you to have my cry out. You always help me so, and make me ashamed of being so impatient," and Jean looked lovingly up into the worn face which was bent above her.

"Thank you, dearie. You must come to me whenever you feel discouraged and unhappy, and remember I always stand ready to give you whatever comfort or counsel lies within my power. But, Jean," and her voice was very grave, "I have learned from my own experience, both of petty annoyance and of great trials, that there is only one true source of strength."

At a late hour that night Lillian Stuart sat before the low dressing-table in her cozy room, reviewing the events of the past week. The face which the mirror reflected was clouded, the eyes somber and full of fire, for the consciousness of defeat was upon her. As yet, however, no thought of capitulation occurred to her. Farr's indifference, his evident love for another, but deepened her love for him, stinging it into a pa.s.sion that was well-nigh overmastering her.

The difficulties in her path lent new zest to the struggle, rousing within her heart an insatiable desire for conquest. Possession had ever palled upon her. She had loved Farr, but as an accepted lover he had wearied her, and her love for him was not strong enough to drown the voice of worldly wisdom and prudence. To be sure, in those days he was hardly more than a boy, poor and unknown, whereas to-day he was a man well versed in the world's ways, liberally supplied with the world's goods, and with the respect and esteem of his fellow-men, yet preserving the same sweet, magnetic personality which long ago had made such a deep impression on her somewhat fickle heart. These considerations naturally had weight with her, but the secret of her determination lay not in these, but in the obstacles to be surmounted, the flattering a.s.surance that her power could not be foiled. Had she been quite honest with herself she must have acknowledged that once the victory gained the charm would be forever broken. As Farr's wife she would be a thoroughly wretched woman. Knowing full well his hatred of an untruth, his contempt for a deception, his pa.s.sionate anger at an injustice, did she not dream what a death to his soul a union with her would have been? Alas! she herself had revealed to him the shallowness of her nature, the pettiness of her ambitions, the faithlessness of her heart. The lesson was a bitter one but he had learned it well, and, deep in her soul, Lillian Stuart knew that never again would he give his love unworthily. She hated Jean Lawrence, yet she appreciated her purity and gentleness, the fineness of her nature, the almost exalted bent of her mind. But this appreciation did not soften her heart, nor weaken her determination. Jean had balked her, and Jean must suffer.

The face in the mirror before her grew hard; there were rigid lines about the mouth, the wonderful eyes gleamed strangely bright.

"I love him. I have always loved him. She shall not have him. It is the one satisfaction that is left me if all else fails."

Sharp upon these thoughts came a tap upon the door, and Helen Lawrence entered. A soft wrapper enveloped her slender frame, and her hair hung loose upon her shoulders.

"I wanted to come in for a little chat, Lillian. Do you mind if I braid my hair here?"

"Why, no, indeed. I am glad to have you. Sit down."

Helen drew a chair up close to the dressing-table, and seating herself, began slowly to plait her long soft hair. She put aside some light topic which Miss Stuart suggested, and spoke at once of the subject which lay nearest her heart.

"I am worried about Jean, Lillian. She does not seem like herself lately, and if it were not absurd, I should begin to think she was unhappy about something."

"Indeed." The response was so brief as to be almost an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

Helen's words accorded strangely with Miss Stuart's thoughts.

"Yes, and you don't know how unusual it is for Jean to be either irritable or moody. She has a very bright, sunny nature, and is particularly sweet-tempered."

"Perhaps there is something troubling her which you have not perceived."

Helen wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully.

"I am afraid there must be."

Miss Stuart darted a swift glance at her.

"Have you ever thought what it might be?"

Helen's attention was caught by a certain tone in her friend's voice.

She raised her eyes questioningly:

"No, dear; I wish I had a clew."

"Suppose I should give you one?"

There was genuine surprise in Helen's face. She answered with a tenderness in her voice which gave her companion a pang.

"Why, Lillian, do you know of anything to make Jean unhappy?"

Miss Stuart lifted her head as if to strengthen her purpose, wondering at the sudden weakness in herself which made the words so hard to say: