GWYNETTE’S CHOICE
Jenny Warner could not guess why there were so many mysterious smiles and
head noddings that night at supper and the next morning at breakfast.
“I just know that you’re all up to mischief,” she accused as they were
leaving the table.
“Guess what we four are going to do this morning,” Lenora beamed at her
friend.
“Well, I know Granddad is going into town.”
“And Grandma Sue, you, and I are going with him,” Lenora laughingly told
Jenny.
Jenny caught the glance that passed between Grandma Sue and Lenora and
knew they had a secret.
When an hour later Grandpa Warner stopped Dobbin in front of the most
fashionable store in Santa Barbara, Jenny was more puzzled than ever.
“Come on, sister mine.” Lenora took Jenny’s hand and the two girls and
Grandma Sue entered the store.
It was all very mysterious and exciting to Jenny. She looked at Grandma
Sue who gazed about at the rainbow-hued silks piled high on the counters,
at the display of exquisite laces, and at the dainty silk lingerie, as
though she were visiting a museum. “There’s a power o’ pretty things in
this here shop,” she confided to her companions.
Lenora, having spoken to a uniformed attendant, led them at once to an
elevator and they were silently and swiftly lifted to an upper floor.
There Jenny saw a handsomely furnished room with glass cases around the
walls, and in them hung dresses of every color and kind. She decided that
Lenora needed something new to wear on her long journey, which was only
five days away, and so she sat with Susan Warner on a velvet upholstered
sofa while the other girl spoke quietly with a trim-looking clerk who was
dressed in black with white lace collar and cuffs.
“Yes, indeed. We have the very latest things in party gowns.” Jenny could
not help overhearing this remark. The clerk continued: “If you will come
this way, I will show them to you.” Susan Warner was on her feet as soon
as Lenora beckoned. Jenny was more mystified than ever. Lenora did not
need a party gown, of that she was sure, for were there not two as pretty
as any girl could wish to possess hanging in her closet at the farm?
The saleswoman led them to a small room furnished in old gold and blue.
The walls were paneled with gilt-framed mirrors, and here the attendant
left them. Susan Warner sat down smiling as she noted Jenny’s perplexity.
That little maid could keep quiet no longer. “_Who_ is going to buy a
party gown,” she inquired. “Lenora doesn’t need another, and Grandma Sue,
I’m sure it can’t be _you_.”
“It’s for you, Miss Jeanette Warner,” Lenora whispered. “Sssh! Don’t act
surprised, for if you do, what will the saleswoman think? Now, what color
would you prefer, blue or yellow are both becoming to you.”
Jenny turned toward the older woman. “Grandma Sue,” she began, when the
clerk reappeared with an armful of exquisite gowns of every hue. So there
was nothing for Jenny to do but try on one and then another. How lovely,
how wonderfully lovely they were, but with a blue silk, the color of
forget-me-nots, she had fallen in love at once. It was trimmed with
shirred blue lovers’ knots, looping it in here and there, and with
clusters of tiny pink silk roses. “We’ll take that,” Grandma Sue
announced, not once having asked the price. Jenny gasped. The
saleswoman’s well-trained features did not register the astonishment she
felt. Susan Warner did not give the impression of wealth or fashion, but
one never could tell. The truth was that Lenora had told the clerk not to
mention the price, fearing that Jenny would refuse the party dress, which
was to be a gift to her from the two Gales. When they emerged from the
shop, the lovely gown carefully folded in a long box, Jenny was again
surprised to find Harold and Charles standing by the curb visiting with
her grandfather.
“Wall, wall, Jenny-gal, did they get you fixed up with fancy riggin’s?”
Grandpa Si beamed at the darling of his heart.
The girl looked as though she were walking in a dream. It all seemed very
unreal to her. “Oh, it is the loveliest dress!” she exclaimed, “but
wherever am I to wear it? I _never_ went to a party, so why do I need a
party gown?”
“You shall see what you shall see,” was Harold’s mysterious reply. Then
he added briskly, “Now since we happened to meet you, will you not honor
us with your company for lunch?”
“Yes, indeed we will.” Lenora, twinkling-eyed, was evidently carrying out
a prearranged conversation. “Just lead the way.”
An attractive café being near, the party, led thither by Harold, was soon
seated at a table in a curtained booth.
Silas Warner beamed across at his good wife. “Sort o’ hifalutin doin’s
we’re up to, hey, Ma?”
Susan Warner’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling. “It sure is a
treat to me to know what’s on the inside of these places. Will yo’ hear
that now? There’s a fiddle startin’ up somewhars.”
The “fiddle” was not alone, for an orchestra played during their entire
stay. The boys were told to order the lunch, and they seemed to get a
good deal of enjoyment out of doing it. They selected delicacies with
long French names, but Grandpa Si, who by that time had removed his hat,
since the boys had done so, ate everything that was brought to him with a
relish, smacking his lips appreciatively and asking, “Wall, Ma, do yo’
reckon _you_ could make one o’ them concoctions if the waiter’d tell you
what the mixin’s was?”
“Silas Warner, don’t yo’ go to askin’ him,” Susan warned. “He’ll think
we’re greener than we be, even though that’s green enough, goodness
knows, when it comes to puttin’ on sech styles.”
The old man leaned over and patted his wife’s hand, which was still
partly covered with the black lace mit. “Ma, don’ yo’ go to frettin’
about me. I ain’t goin’ to ask nothin’ an’, as fer the vittles, thar’s
none as can cook more to _my_ likin’ than yerself, even though thar be
less trimmin’s.”
It was while they were eating their ice cream and cake that Harold
suggested that they go to the theatre. It was quite evident that the old
people were delighted and so were the girls. “It’s a splendid play,”
Charles put in. “I do wish your sister had come with us.” Harold had
purposely neglected to tell his friend of the conversation he had had
that morning with Gwynette.
As they were leaving the café, Charles asked, “Should you mind, Hal, if I
borrow your little gray car and go back after Gwynette? I’m sure she
would enjoy the play.”
“Go by all means.” Harold drew his friend aside, although not seeming to
do so, as he added, “I’ll get a box for the Warners and Lenora. You would
better get seats somewhere else for you and Gwyn.”
“Why?” Charles questioned. “There is usually room for eight at least in a
box. Are they smaller here?”
“No-o, but——”
“Hmm! I understand. Well, just leave that to me. So long!”
Meanwhile Gwyn had been feeling decidedly neglected. She had read to her
mother in the garden as had become their morning custom but the older
woman noted that the girl was listless and disinterested. “Ma Mere,” Gwyn
had said, dropping the book to her lap, and showing by her remark that
she had not been thinking of the story. “If it isn’t too late I believe I
will go on that tour you were telling me about. I am desperately unhappy.
Something is all wrong with me.”
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones sighed. “I am sorry, Gwyn. It is too late dear, but
perhaps I will hear of another. I will make inquiries if you wish.” Then
Miss Dane had come to take the invalid indoors, and Gwyn spent a lonely
hour lunching by herself in the great formal dining-room.
It was in the library that Charles found her. She had been trying to
read, but oh, how eagerly she glanced up when she heard his step. The lad
bounded in, both hands held out. There was an expression in his fine eyes
that rejoiced the girl’s heart.
“Oh, I’ve been so dismally lonely,” Gwyn said, and there were tears of
self-pity on her long curling lashes.
“Poor girl I know what it is to be lonely.” Then, with one of his most
winsome smiles, Charles added, “That’s why I have come back for you,
Gwyn.” It was the first time he had called her that. “The others were
going to the theatre. Harold’s to get a box. I couldn’t enjoy the play
without you there—that is, not if you would like to go.”
Gwyn was torn between a desire to be with Charles Gale and a dread of
being seen in a box with these impossible Warners. “Oh, Charles!” They
were calling each other by their first names without realizing it. “I
want to go with _you_! I am always _proud_ of you anywhere, but—” she
hesitated and looked up at him almost pleadingly, “you won’t like me when
I tell you that I would be _ashamed_ to be seen in a box—with my mother’s
servants.”
Charles released her hands and walked to a window, where he stood
silently looking out. “Gwyn,” he said, turning toward her, “I didn’t
think I would ever meet a girl for whom I would care—_really care_, but I
know now that I have met one, but, since she scorns farmers, I shall have
to cease caring, for I by _choice_ am, and shall remain, a farmer, or a
rancher, as we are called in the Northwest.”
Gwyn’s heart beat rapidly. Was this handsome young man, who stood so
proudly erect, telling her that he loved her? And in that moment she knew
that she cared for him. She felt scornful of herself, for, had she not
often boasted that the most eligible bachelor in San Francisco’s younger
set would be the one of _her choice_, nor, had she any doubt but that
_she_ would also be his, and here she was silently acknowledging that she
loved a mere rancher. However, it might be with her but a passing fancy.
He would be gone in another week; then she would visit the city and meet
men of her _own_ class and forget. Yes, that is what she really _wanted_
to do, _forget_ this unsuitable attraction.
Charles broke in upon her meditations with, “Well, Gwyn, time is passing.
Do you care to go to the matinee with me and occupy a box with the
Warners, my sister and Harold?”
The proud girl felt that he was making this a test of whether or not she
could care for him as a rancher. “No,” she heard her voice saying coldly.
“I would rather be lonely than be seen in a box with those back-woodsy
Warners.”
“Very well, I must return at once or I will be late.” Charles started for
the door. Gwyn sensed, and truly, that her “no” meant a refusal of more
than an afternoon at the matinee.
“Good-bye!” he turned in the portier-hung doorway to say. He saw that she
had dropped to the sofa and, hiding her face in a cushion, was sobbing as
though her heart would break. One stride took him back to her. “Gwyn!
Dear, dear girl!” He sat beside her and took both of her hands, but she
continued to look away from him. “Why won’t you try to overcome these
petty false standards? I _want_ to ask you to be my wife, but I can’t,
when you think a rancher so far beneath you.”
For answer, she lifted a glowing face. “_I want_ to be a rancher’s wife.
Charles, please let me.”
The curtain had gone down on the first act when Gwynette and Charles
appeared in the box. They were welcomed with smiles and nods and a few
whispered words. Harold, from time to time, glanced back at his sister.
She was positively radiant. Then he caught a look full of meaning that
was exchanged by the girl and the man at her side.
It told its own story. Gwynette, the proud, haughty, domineering girl,
had been won by a rancher. Her brother well knew how she had struggled
against what she would call a misalliance, but Cupid had been the victor.
Then he wondered what his mother would say. Involuntarily Harold glanced
at the girl near whom he was sitting. Feeling his glance, she smiled up
at him, and yet it was merely a smile of good comradeship. He would have
to wait. Jenny was two years younger than her sister, and had never
thought of love.