BROTHER AND SISTER
“The Palms,” architecturally a Mission Inn, was gorgeously furnished and
catered only to the ultra-rich. It was located picturesquely on a cliff
with a circling palm-edged drive leading to it.
Santa Barbara was both a winter and summer resort and its hostelries were
famed the world over.
Gwynette led her brother to the table of her choice in the luxurious
dining room, the windows of which, crystal clear, overlooked the ocean.
She was fretful and pouting. Harold, after having drawn out her chair,
seated himself and looked almost pensively at the shimmering blue
expanse, so close to them, just below the cliff.
“You aren’t paying the least bit of attention to me,” Gwynette
complained. “I just asked if you weren’t pining to be over in Paris this
spring.”
The lad turned and looked directly at the girl, candor in his clear grey
eyes.
“Why no, sister, I do not wish anything of the sort,” he replied
sincerely. “What I _do_ hope is that our mother will be well enough to
return to us, and that the quiet of our country home will completely
restore her health.”
Gwynette shrugged her shoulders, but said nothing, until their orders had
been given; then she remarked:
“I don’t see why our mother needs to rusticate for three months in this
stupid place. If _we_ could have a house party, of course, that would
help to make it endurable for _me_, but in her last letter Ma Mere
distinctly said that we were to invite no one, as her nerves were in need
of absolute quiet.”
The boy, who had folded his arms looked at his sister penetratingly,
almost critically. Suddenly he blurted out:
“Do you know, Gwynette, sometimes I think you do not care, really care,
deep in your heart for our mother as much as I do. In fact, I sometimes
wonder if you care for anyone except yourself.”
The girl flushed angrily. “Your dinner conversation is most ungracious, I
am sure,” she flung at him, but paused and looked at a young man also in
uniform, who was hurrying toward their table with an undeniably pleased
expression on his tanned face. Harold rose and held out his hand, glad of
any interruption.
“Well, Tod, where did you drop from?” Then to the girl he said: “Sister
Gwynette, this is a chap from the same San Francisco prison in which I am
incarcerated—Lieutenant James Creery by name.”
The girl held up a slim, white hand over which the youth bent with an
ardor which had won for him the heart of many a young lady in the past
and probably would in the future, but in the present he was welcomed as a
much-needed diversion from a most upsetting family quarrel. Having
accepted their invitation to make a third at the small table, apart from
the others, the young man seated himself, saying to the girl: “Don’t let
me interrupt any confidences you two were having. I know you don’t see
each other often, since we poor chaps have but one free Sunday a month.”
Gwynette smiled her prettiest and even her brother conceded that if Gwyn
would only take the trouble to smile now and then she might be called
handsome.
“Our conversation was neither deep nor interesting to anyone but me. I
was wishing that we were to spend the summer—well, anywhere rather than
in our country home four miles out of this stupid town.”
“Stupid?” the young man, nicknamed Tod, glanced about at the charmingly
gowned young women at the small tables near them. “This crowd ought to
keep things stirring.”
Gwynette shook her head. “Nothing but weekend guests motored up from Los
Angeles or down from San Francisco. From Monday to Friday the place is
dead.”
And so the inconsequential talk flowed on, until at last James Creery
excused himself, as he had an engagement. Again bowing low over
Gwynette’s hand, he departed. The smiling expression in the girl’s eyes
changed at once to a hard glint.
“Well, you said that you came down especially to talk over a letter from
our mother. You might as well tell me the worst and be done with it.”
The lad made no attempt to hide his displeasure. “There was no worst to
it, Gwynette. I merely hoped that you would wish to plan with me some
pleasant surprise as a welcome to our mother’s homecoming. I find that I
was mistaken. Shall we go now?”
The girl rose with an almost imperceptible fling of defiance to her
shapely head. “As you prefer,” she said coldly. “I really cannot say
honestly that I feel any great enthusiasm about we three settling down in
humdrum fashion in our country place, but, if it is my duty, as you seem
to infer, to _pretend_ that I am overjoyed, you may plan whatever you
wish and I will endeavor to _seem_ enthusiastic.”
They were again in the small car before the lad replied: “Do not feel
that it is incumbent on you in any way to co-operate with me in welcoming
_my_ mother.” There was an emphasis on the my which did not escape the
notice of the girl, and it but increased her anger. She was convinced
that her brother meant it as an implied rebuke, and she was right.
Gwynette bit her lips and turned away to hide tears of self pity. When
the seminary was reached, the lad assisted the haughty girl from the car
with his never-failing courtesy, accompanied her to the door, ventured a
conciliating remark at parting, but was not even rewarded with a glance.
Harold was unusually thoughtful as he rode along the highway. He passed
the gate to the lane leading to the farm, assuring himself that he was in
no mood for visiting even with friends.