SUNSET-HOUR ON THE CLIFFS.
The following morning the girls were collected together in the upper
balcony of the manor, where the clustering vines afforded a welcome
shelter from the sun's hot rays. A wicker table, laden down with books
and work baskets, occupied a central position, and the low rockers
which surrounded it were tilted swiftly back and forth as the girls
worked and chatted in an easy, desultory way. On the wide
old-fashioned settle in the background sat Eleanor Hill and Nan
Birdsall; Eleanor lounging lazily back among the cushions, her hands
resting idly in her lap, Nan all curled up in a heap, her sketchbook
on her knee, her deft fingers making rapid strokes with a long,
well-sharpened pencil.
"Do you know," spoke Eleanor Hill, "I fear we behaved very badly
yesterday. I have had qualms of conscience ever since, and a growing
conviction that we made perfect fools of ourselves in the eyes of
those two strange men."
"Better that than dullards," laughed Nan lightly.
"Hobson's choice," said Jean dryly.
Just then Helen, with a somewhat preoccupied air, pushed back her
chair and passed into the house, her mind evidently intent on some
domestic question. Nathalie's eyes followed the retreating figure,
until it was quite lost from view in the shadowy hallway, and then
were bent thoughtfully on her work again.
"To change the subject, girls," she began, after a moment, devoting
herself energetically to the threading of her needle, and tossing her
head impatiently at every unsuccessful effort; "have you heard the
news? Helen's friend, Miss Stuart, is coming down upon us for a
visit."
"Yes, indeed we have." Emily's sigh came from the depths of her heart.
"I can't imagine what we will do with another girl here."
"What she will do with us may be more to the point," and Jean raised
her eyebrows expressively. "I don't know how it is, but I am
apprehensive about this visit. I suppose," with a sort of honest
protest in her voice, "that I have never really liked Miss Stuart."
"Nor I," agreed Nathalie. "There is something about her that I do not
trust. And the worst of it is," with a grimace, "that she winds Helen
around her little finger. It always makes me so angry."
"Nonsense, Nat. You do Helen an injustice," objected Eleanor
pleasantly. "However, I frankly confess to a fear that the harmony of
our own little circle will be somewhat marred by the advent of a
stranger."
"That's so, and then you know she is such a swell that she will
probably look down upon us poor country girls with the utmost scorn,"
and Nathalie gave a vindictive tug at her knotted thread.
"Of course she is devoted to men?" queried Emily lugubriously.
"Oh, I should judge so, although I have never seen her with them. You
know she has only stopped with us in the winter season, when we have
been alone."
"Let us do her the justice to suppose that the men are equally devoted
to her," added Jean generously.
"It amounts to about the same thing, whether she is devoted to men, or
they to her," and there was in Emily's tone such a note of tragic
melancholy that the girls could not refrain from laughing.
"Oh, what a happy nook and cranny of the great world this dear old
Hetherford is," cried Eleanor, clasping her hands behind her head, and
looking out with dreamy eyes over the sweep of softly undulating lawn
that stretched away toward the manor gates. "It all seems so idyllic
to me. There is so much petty jealousy and miserable heartburning
beyond the confines of this little haven of rest. People's motives are
so often selfish that one grows strangely doubting, even of one's
friends. Do you know," leaning forward impulsively and speaking with
deeper earnestness, "I think we girls have found the secret of true
friendship--mutual trust and respect. These are what have made our
long intercourse such a happy one."
"Indeed you are right, Eleanor, dear," Jean replied gently.
"The bother of it all will be," interrupted Nathalie following out her
own train of thought "that Mademoiselle will come here with trunks
full of fine clothes, and we will be obliged to dress up."
"I would like to see the girl who could make me discard my shirt and
blazer," laughed Nan defiantly.
"How would we look _en grande toilette_ with such hands as these,"
said Jean, thrusting forward her own little brown ones.
"Attractive, but from a different standpoint," Nan asserted with a
fine assumption of authority. "Everything depends upon your point of
view, according to Henry James. Now, from my artistic pinnacle,"
tilting her head to one side, and surveying the group with critical,
but approving eyes, "I declare I prefer brown hands to white ones."
"By the way," asked Jean, with well-feigned indifference, "what did
you think of the naval officers?"
"To return to our muttons," murmured Nathalie, with a sidelong glance
at her sister.
"Mr. Dudley was very pleasant and agreeable," replied Emily, "but I
thought Mr. Farr rather uninteresting."
"Well," laughed Eleanor demurely, "Nan is right. Everything does
depend upon one's point of view. Now I thought Mr. Farr decidedly
attractive, and Mr. Dudley just a good-natured boy."
"That reminds me of something I saw in the paper the other day," Jean
observed smilingly. "To the question 'What is taste?' the answer was
given, 'There is no such thing, except on the principle that some
people haven't any.'"
"That is a fine way of disposing of one," and there was an expression
of quiet amusement in Eleanor's eyes. "Never mind, dear," leaning
forward and pinching Jean's cheek, "I will forgive you. Besides,"
dropping her voice, "you know that you agree with me."
"Now, what are you girls whispering about?" complained Nathalie. "Oh,
bother this sewing," she went on irrelevantly; "I have had enough of
it for to-day," and the bit of work was tossed impatiently into her
basket.
This was the signal for a general uprising, and then, as they were
dispersing, Nathalie made the announcement:
"Helen has asked Mr. Dudley and Mr. Farr to dinner to-morrow night."
"Yes," answered Mollie, turning back from the open doorway, "and
Captain Dodd and his wife, too. Dick says," with an air of profound
conviction, "that they are delightful."
"That settles it," laughed Nan, "Dick can't be wrong. Come on, Moll,"
linking her arm in Mollie's, "I am going to take you home to luncheon
with me to-day."
It was late that afternoon when Jean, who had been reading for hours
on the quiet veranda, suddenly jumped to her feet, with a little sigh
of weariness, and tossed her book into a neighboring chair. She was
tired of sitting still so long and felt in the humor for a walk.
Slowly she made her way down the broad steps and across the grounds of
the manor. Strolling on in a reverie, and heeding but little in which
way her steps were taking her, she came upon the great iron gates
which opened out into the roadway. Passing through them she wandered
listlessly on toward the water.
It was the loveliest hour of the bright, sunny June day. Already the
shadows were lengthening, and a little whiff of cooler air was
stirring after the warmth of the noonday. The sun was nearing the
western horizon, now shining out in bright radiance, now obscured by
some light passing cloud. The murmur of a little brook which followed
the roadside, and the whispering of the wind among the leaves, made a
soft music. Now and then a bird darted by overhead, singing out a
shrill note in some high key, then dropping into a soft coo. A
squirrel ran out from the thicket, sped across the road, and
disappeared over a low stone wall.
"Oh, you foolish little chap," exclaimed Jean, half-aloud, as Master
Squirrel gave her one glance from his bright eyes, before dropping out
of sight. "You are the swiftest little fellow I have ever seen."
It was growing rough and heavy underfoot now, and in a moment more
Jean had reached the beach, and was strolling down toward the cliffs.
The water was alive with boats, their white sails glimmering in the
sunlight, as the dying breeze bore them slowly on their way.
At the foot of the cliffs Jean paused a moment. The glory of the
golden light fell on her slender, girlish figure, and illumined her
wistful, upturned face. As her eyes rested lovingly on the beautiful
scene that lay before her a deep sigh of pleasure escaped her slightly
parted lips, for to-day the old familiar sights and sounds seemed
strangely new and sweet. A narrow beaten track led temptingly to the
summit of the cliffs whence a magnificent view could be obtained, and
after an instant's hesitation she began the steep ascent. Turning the
corner of a sharp rock, which reared itself boldly into the air, she
came suddenly to a standstill, uttering a stifled exclamation, for
almost at her feet, stretched at full length in a sheltered cranny of
the rocks, lay Valentine Farr, his hat drawn down over his forehead,
his eyes thoughtfully intent upon the distant horizon. As Jean's
exclamation reached him, he glanced quickly up and sprang to his feet.
"Why, Miss Lawrence, this is indeed an unexpected pleasure. You stole
a march on me. I did not hear your approach at all."
"Indeed, I am equally surprised, Mr. Farr, and I assure you you really
startled me. I came upon you, so suddenly."
Farr's eyes rested admiringly on the soft color in the girl's face as
she went on:
"And may I ask how you hit upon my particular retreat in these rocks?
Let me warn you. You can only make yourself happy in it with my
especial permission."
"I had no idea I was trespassing. Pardon my curiosity, but by what
right do you hold your title to this spot?" he queried with an amused
smile.
"By the right of priority. Do you know of any better, Mr. Farr?" with
a pretty air of defiance. "When I was a little girl in pinafores I
played here with my doll; when I was a schoolgirl I studied my lessons
in this dear spot; and now that I am a grown woman," drawing herself
up to her full height, and glancing at him merrily, "I come here to
read, to ponder, and to think."
"A sacred spot indeed," spoke Farr laughingly, but with just a little
lowering of his voice. "I yield at once, for I see that no one could
dispute your right."
"No one." She threw out her hand with a pretty gracious gesture. "But
won't you let me extend to you an invitation to occupy it whenever you
feel inclined?"
"Thanks, ever so much," he rejoined heartily, "You are very good. And
now, can't I persuade you to rest a little after your climb, Miss
Lawrence?"
She slipped down on the rocks, and he threw himself at her side.
"What delightful times you all seem to have here," he went on. "Do you
know I think this is a most charming place, quite an Elysium." Jean's
soft eyes lighted up with pleasure.
"I am so glad you like it, but I fear you will find very little to
interest you in so sleepy a place."
Farr was about to make answer in words of conventional flattery, but
something in the girl's tone of sincerity and good faith deterred him
and impelled him to reply in kind.
"But I assure you I am delighted with it. You know we knock about a
good deal, and some of our stations are almost unendurable. We have
been on the Sound for several months now, and this is to me by far the
pleasantest place in which we have cast anchor."
"It does my heart good to hear you say that," she rejoined naïvely,
"for naturally Hetherford is very dear to us."
"You have lived here all your life, Miss Lawrence?"
"Ever since I was a wee little girl. Of course we have been away from
time to time, but we are always glad to get back again."
"I can well understand your feeling so, although I have had very
little of home life myself." Farr sighed as he uttered these last
words.
Jean looked at him with gentle sympathy. "You say that sadly," she
said.
"Do I?" He turned on his elbow, and his grave eyes met hers. His next
words were prompted by a sudden unwonted impulse. "Perhaps I will tell
you about it some day."
Then a silence fell between them.
The sweet stillness held its sway o'er land and sea, its perfect
harmony emphasized by the soft lapping of the waves against the
shadowy sands below. The breeze was dying with the dying sun. Just off
the shore a little white-sailed cat-boat was drifting in with the
flowing tide.
Jean drew a long breath and started swiftly to her feet.
"Why, how late it is growing," she exclaimed. "I must be going, Mr.
Farr."
"Already?" he said, and then they made their way down the rugged
cliff.
"Take care, Miss Lawrence," he cried, as she missed her footing and
slipped a little. "Please let me assist you," and he extended his
hand.
Jean put her hand in his with a demure uplifting of her eyebrows, and
just a fleeting smile on her lips. There flashed through her mind the
thought:
"How unmercifully Nan would chaff me, if she could catch a glimpse of
me now."
The descent was a brief one, and soon they had crossed the sands and
were strolling along the road in the direction of the manor.
"You are coming to dine with us to-morrow night, are you not, Mr.
Farr?"
"Your sister was good enough to ask us, and I shall be only too
delighted to avail myself of her kind invitation."
"I really will not let you come any further with me," she declared as
they reached the manor gates. "I fear, as it is, I have taken you very
much out of your way, and it must be late."
"It is close upon seven," he told her after looking at his watch. "And
you dine?"
"At seven, and let me warn you now that to be late is to meet with my
sister's ire."
"I shall remember," he answered, with his pleasant laugh. "And now can
I not see you to your door?"
"No, indeed. I must hurry away," she said as they shook hands, "for
time, tide, and dinner at the manor wait for no man. Good-by."
"Until to-morrow," he said, as he turned away.