PRIDE MEETS PRIDE
“Well, thanks be there are only two more weeks of incarceration in this
prison.”
Gwynette Poindexter-Jones was in no pleasant mood as her two companions
could easily discern. “I would simply expire of ennui if I had to remain
here one day longer. When I think that Ma Mere, after having had a
wonderful winter in France, is now arriving in San Francisco, where I
suppose she will remain for a time, I feel as though I never can stand
the stupid routine of this place even a fortnight longer. And the truth
is, I don’t know as I will. I wrote Mother that I had refused to take the
final tests. I cannot see why I should care for a diploma from this
seminary, or any other, since I am next year to become a debutante in San
Francisco’s best society. One doesn’t have to pass an examination in
history, thank heavens, to make an eligible marriage. Beauty is far more
requisite.”
“And I suppose you are quite satisfied with yourself on that score.” It
was Beulah Hollingsworth who made this sarcastic remark. The three girls
were seated in the summer-house on the lawn of the seminary waiting for
the arrival of the rural postman. A box of chocolates lay open on the
table before them, and, spread about it, were books and magazines.
Patricia Sullivan, to the displeasure of at least one of her friends, was
reading a romance of the West. She had not heard the remarks of her
companions until the last sentence had been uttered and the tone in which
it had been said made her look up and exclaim: “What is the matter,
Beulah? Your disposition used to be quite amiable, but it certainly is
changing. Are you living on vinegar?”
Gwynette tossed her head. “Her favorite pastime seems to be finding
something to be sarcastic about. Of course I know that I am no rare
beauty, but I do believe that I can hold my own.”
Beulah reached over and took an especially luscious looking chocolate. As
she did so, the driveway for a moment was in her vision. A crunching of
wheels attracted her attention and she saw an old-fashioned wagon drawn
by a heavy white horse. A girl, dressed in yellow and wearing a
wide-brimmed hat wreathed with buttercups, was the driver. Beulah said:
“If you would like to see a girl who has real claim to beauty, cast your
glance out of the summer-house.”
Patricia closed her book and, rising, sauntered to the rose-hung doorway.
Turning, she said in a low voice: “Gwyn, isn’t that the girl we saw at
your Rocky Point Farm?”
Indignant, because Jenny Warner’s beauty had been compared with her own,
Gwynette replied with great indifference, as she purposely turned her
back: “I neither know nor care. I have no interest in my mother’s
servants.”
But it was quite evident by Jenny’s manner that she had some interest in
the summer-house, for she drew rein, and called in her prettiest manner:
“Can you tell me where I will find Miss Poindexter-Jones? I have a
message for her.”
Patricia good-naturedly replied: “You won’t have far to hunt. Her
highness is holding court in this very summer-house.”
Gwynette’s groundless anger against the world in general but increased
when she heard the inquiry, and she snapped as Patricia turned toward
her: “If that girl has a message for me, tell her to bring it to me at
once, though I am sure I cannot conceive what it can be.”
Jenny, who had clearly heard every word that had been spoken, as indeed
Gwynette had intended that she should, replied, not without pride in her
tone: “Kindly tell Miss Poindexter-Jones that I will send the message to
Miss Granger and she may receive it from her.”
But this was not all pleasing to the haughty girl. She did not wish to
have a needless audience with the woman who disapproved of her conduct as
she well knew. Appearing in the doorway, she said angrily: “Why don’t you
bring me the message, if you have one for me? I shall report your
behavior to my mother.”
Jenny said nothing, but, picking up the reins, she was about to drive on
to the school when Gwynette stepped out of the summer-house saying:
“Kindly give me whatever message you have for me. I do not wish it taken
to Miss Granger.” Jenny took from her basket a letter, which she handed
to the girl, and for one moment, and for the first time, they looked
straight into each other’s eyes.
Gwynette glanced at the envelope, then, handing it back toward the girl
on the high seat of the wagon, she said disdainfully: “You are mistaken,
this letter is addressed to your grandmother and not to me.”
Jenny, undisturbed, nodded her agreement. “That is why it came to the
farm, but Mrs. Poindexter-Jones made a mistake. The message is for you.”
The girl, standing in the drive, flushed angrily when she found that this
was true. “Well, I certainly hope your grandmother was not snooping
enough to read it,” she flashed, desiring to hurt someone’s feelings in
an endeavor to relieve her own.
It was Patricia who protested, as she saw the flaming color in the face
Beulah had called beautiful. “Gwyn,” she said sharply, “I hope the time
will come when you meet someone who will hurt your feelings as you so
enjoy hurting other people’s.”
Jenny Warner made no response, but drove around to the kitchen door to
deliver the honey and eggs. When she returned, Gwynette was not in sight,
as she had at once gone to her room to be alone when she read the letter.
She instinctively knew that it contained a message that would increase
her already belligerent mood.
As she was passing the summer-house, Jenny saw Patricia Sullivan leap out
of the doorway and beckon to her. “Miss Warner,” she called, “won’t you
have a few of my chocolates? They’re guaranteed to be sweet clear
through.”
Beulah appeared at her side. “That’s more than can be said of Gwynette
Poindexter-Jones. No one knows how glad I am that at the expiration of a
fortnight I shall have no further need to associate with her. You, Miss
Warner, will be the unfortunate victim, as you are to have her for a
neighbor all summer, I believe.”
Jenny, seeing that these girls evidently wished to be friendly, had again
drawn rein and had taken one of the proffered candies.
Patricia looked rather longingly at the old-fashioned wagon and then at
the placid old white horse. Her gaze returned to the driver and she said
in her impulsive way: “Maybe you won’t believe that it can be true, but
it is! I have never ridden in a conveyance of this kind, and I’d just
love to try it. Should you mind if I rode down the canyon road part way
with you?”
“Of course I wouldn’t mind,” Jenny replied with her brightest smile.
“There is plenty of room for both of you.” She included Beulah in her
invitation. Then added with a glance at the seminary, “if you are sure
that Miss Granger will not mind.”
Patricia scrambled up as she merrily replied: “Why should she care?”
Beulah remarked: “It does seem to me that there is some archaic rule
about not going beyond the gates without a chaperone, but we each have
one. Miss Warner may chaperone me and I will chaperone Pat.”
They laughed gleefully as though something really clever had been said.
“But who will chaperone Miss Warner?”
“Dobbin will,” the driver replied. “He usually does.”
“This is jolly fun,” Patricia declared a few moments later when she had
requested to drive. Beulah burst into unexpected merriment. “Oh, don’t I
hope her beautiful highness saw us when we drove away. Her wrath will
bring down a volcano of sparks on our heads when we get back.”
Patricia retorted: “Beulah, I sometimes think that you like to stir up
the embers in Gwyn’s nature, even when they are smouldering and might die
if they were let alone.”
Instead of replying, the other girl exclaimed after a glance at her wrist
watch: “Great moons! I must go back on a run! I have a French test at 4.”
Jenny took the reins and brought Dobbin to a stop. When they were in the
road, Patricia asked: “May we come down and see you some day? I wanted to
go out on that rocky point when we were there before, but when Gwyn’s
along, everything has to be done her way.”
“I’d be glad to have you,” was Jenny’s sincerely given reply.