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.