A DINNER AT THE MANOR.
It was the evening of the dinner given in honor of the naval officers,
and even as the old Dutch clock in the corner of the manor hall struck
the hour of seven, Farr was shaking hands with Mrs. Dennis.
"I am so sorry," she said to him with a sweet smile, "that I shall be
obliged to absent myself from the dinner table to-night, but my
strength is not very great and I dare not overtax it. My niece Helen,"
with a proud accent, which was not lost upon Farr, "has taken my place
for so long that I feel no hesitation in leaving everything in her
hands."
"Oh, Auntie," cried Helen, with shy deprecation, "Mr. Farr will begin
to think me that most tiresome of all things, a paragon of household
virtue."
Farr made a gesture of dissent, and then as Clifford Archer presented
himself, he turned and followed Helen with admiring eyes. Very fair
and womanly she seemed to him, in her gown of pale lavender crepe,
moving about among her guests, greeting one and all with gentle
courtesy.
His gaze wandered on to where, in a further corner of the
drawing-room, Nathalie was keeping up a merry chatter with Wendell
Churchill. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked a very child
to-night, in her white mulle gown, with a broad white sash around her
waist, and one red rose in her brown hair. A spoiled child, too, she
undeniably was; unused to restraint, somewhat willful and
quick-tempered, but with a heart so true and generous that one could
always trust this small maiden and know that the good would
predominate.
Eleanor Hill, standing very erect, her slender figure clad in a
severely simple gown of India silk, her hair brushed straight from her
fair face, her blue eyes alight with intelligence, her sensitive mouth
revealing every passing shade of feeling, held his attention for a
moment, for there was something patrician in the girl's mien and
bearing which greatly charmed him.
Involuntarily Farr smiled as he caught sight of Nan's jolly face
beaming with an unending fund of good humor, and he was man enough of
the world for one glance at dainty Mollie Andrews to suffice to tell
him that she was an adept in the truly feminine art of dressing, for
her white gown, covered with lace and embroidery, was made in a
mysterious Parisian fashion, not easily imitated.
What an arrant little flirt was dark-eyed Emily Varian. The smile that
Nan had evoked deepened as Farr noted the rapt expression on Dudley's
face as he bent over her. Her yellow gown, while not as modish as
Eleanor's and Mollie's, nor as artistic as the Lawrence girls', yet
showed a fine sense of color, and lighted up her pretty, piquant face,
which was surmounted by a smooth coil of hair the color of a raven's
wing.
They were an unusually lovely group of girls, and, beyond this,
unusually pure-hearted and intelligent. Farr appreciated this the more
keenly, perhaps, in that he had seen much of the world in his thirty
years of life. Sometimes the old ideals of his boyhood had suffered
sadly; but his faith in the gentler sex was too deep-rooted to be
easily dispelled, and now all that was noblest and most chivalrous in
his nature was awakened by the atmosphere of honesty and sweetness
surrounding him.
He was brought back to the starting-point of his observations by
Helen's voice saying, apologetically:
"I am so sorry my sister is so late," and even as she spoke a little
hand pushed the portières hastily aside, and Jean stood in the
doorway.
She glanced impulsively across at Farr, and caught a wicked gleam from
his eyes as he advanced to meet her.
"'Time, tide, and dinner at the manor wait for no man,'" he quoted
maliciously.
"That is one advantage in being a woman," she promptly retorted.
She was radiant to-night in a gown of silver and blue. From under
level brows her eyes shone like stars, and some slight inward tremor
of excitement flushed her sweet face with unusual color. Her soft
yellow hair was gathered up in a simple coil, little tendrils of it
curling upon her forehead and on her neck.
"What a bonny little lass she is," thought Farr, surprised by the
sudden feeling of tenderness which took possession of him.
Then dinner was announced, and, with a half cynical smile at his own
susceptibility, he pulled himself together, and offered her his arm.
"Why, I am quite in the navy, am I not?" she asked archly, as she took
her place between Farr and Dudley.
"You honor it," Farr returned.
Jean's brows contracted with a slight frown. "That savors of flattery,
Mr. Farr."
"I especially dislike your accusation, Miss Lawrence."
"Then I must be more careful not to run counter to your prejudices
hereafter."
"If you would be so good," he said to her dryly; then their eyes met,
and they both laughed light-heartedly.
"I hope you enjoyed the sail the other day. I meant to ask you about
it yesterday afternoon."
"Thoroughly. Your songs were particularly delightful."
Jean blushed, and answered in some confusion:
"They were very foolish. I really hope you will forgive our absurd
behavior."
"Charming folly needs no apology," Jean found the glance he gave her a
trifle disconcerting.
"But pray, Mr. Farr, do not----" she began, and hesitated.
"Do not what?" he interrogated, with a faint show of eagerness.
"Do not allow your soup to grow cold," she finished, with a merry
glance at him from under her long lashes.
"While you are in Hetherford," spoke Nathalie across the table to
Dudley, "you should make a point of going up to the cemetery. There
are some epitaphs there a hundred years old, and they are so funny."
"So Andrews was telling us. Speaking of epitaphs I was very much
amused by one I saw in a magazine the other day. Let me see. How was
it?
"Here lies the body of Mary Ann,
With her head on the bosom of Abraham;
Pretty soft thing for Mary Ann,
But very hard lines on Abraham."
"Here is a good one," cried Dick, when he had partially recovered from
his ebullition of mirth:
"Here lies the body of Mary Bin,
Who having had her little fling,
Burst this outer shell of sin,
And hatched herself a cherubim."
Helen shook her head at Dick in gentle protest.
"What will Captain and Mrs. Dodd think of us." she said.
"Suppose I should recall one to you all," suggested the captain, with
a merry twinkle in his eye.
"Please do," they cried in chorus.
"He heard the angels calling him,
From that celestial shore,
He flapped his wings and away he went,
To make one angel more."
"Splendid," exclaimed Nathalie, with enthusiasm. "Mr. Dudley and Dick
are quite in the background."
"Dick saw his in that charming novel 'Comin' thro' the Rye.'"
"Guess I did, Nancy. By Jove, girls," he whispered mischievously, "you
are all stunning to-night," and he drew himself up with an air of
pride and satisfaction.
"You shine in a kind of reflected glory; don't you, Dick?" laughed
Nathalie.
After dinner they gathered about the great wood fire burning cheerily
in the drawing-room. The evening had grown suddenly chill. The wind
had veered to the southeast, and the strong sea breeze lowered the
temperature by many degrees; a not uncommon occurrence in our American
summers.
Helen seated herself at the open piano, and her music did much to
enhance the charm of the hour. She felt a bit sad to-night and
something of her feeling crept into her music, as she drifted into a
plaintive melody, with an oft-recurring refrain almost like a spoken
regret. As her eyes wandered about the fire-lit room, with its far-off
corners half in mystic shadow, there were awakened within her memories
of happy childhood days when the love of her father and mother had
been the sunshine of their home. Interwoven with these thoughts came
the recollection of one who, in those days, had been near at hand and
who was now far away, in strange lands, separated from her by more
than the mere expanse of restless waters.
She sighed a little and, bringing her music abruptly to an end, rose
and crossed the room. After a few words of courteous explanation to
Mrs. Dodd, she ran away upstairs to assure herself that the children
were safely in bed.
Just as she was passing through the doorway, she caught a glimpse of
Jean, who, with earnest upturned face, was talking interestedly with
Farr, and something she saw in her sister's blue eyes made her start.
What was there in that upturned face, in those eyes, which made Helen
feel so strangely, as if something were going to happen?
And Eleanor Hill chatting gayly with Cliff Archer found her thoughts
traveling in much the same direction.
In all these summers they had been a very happy little colony of
girls, and they had entered into a sort of compact in true girl
fashion that no lover should be allowed in their midst, to break the
spell. Helen had been engaged, but that relation had existed previous
to the making of the bond, and she had been so little absorbed that no
one had thought much about it. One other exception had to be made, for
there was no use in trying to hold Emily strictly to any such
agreement, for flirt she would whenever the opportunity offered.
However, her digressions had been few and far between, for Cliff
Archer and Dick were almost the only men who came to Hetherford, and
they were so like brothers to her that a sentimental attitude toward
either of them would have seemed supremely ridiculous.
So this summer had come around as many others had before, and already
a new element had entered into their midst, and that naughty little
Nathalie was at the root of the matter; for ever since one bright day
in May, when the _Sylph_ had come sailing along these pleasant waters
and Wendell Churchill had called at the manor to pay his respects, the
old order of things had been changed. Until that day the _Sylph_ had
been better known to Hetherford than her good-looking owner; for
rarely had he cast anchor in the harbor without having aboard his
yacht a party of gay and fashionable people, who urgently claimed his
whole attention. But now he no longer brought strangers to Hetherford,
and when, as now and then occurred, he was obliged to absent himself
for a few days, the _Sylph_ lay at the disposal of the girls. And all
this that little minx Nathalie had brought about, laughing while she
disclaimed emphatically any disloyalty to the vows of their bond.
The worst of it was the mischief was spreading, and Eleanor's eyes
falling just then upon Jean, she experienced a sense of keen
annoyance, for warm-hearted Jean had been the most whole-souled, the
most valiant of them all. It was a great pity that the _Vortex_ had
been stationed here, and doubly a pity that there was no immediate
prospect of her departure. It would not do to be introducing all sorts
of folly into their circle.
Eleanor had quite worked herself up to a pitch of righteous
indignation when, on surveying the ground that had brought her to this
point, she became uncomfortably conscious of some slight changes
within herself; for here before her, looking into her eyes and saying
all sorts of pretty things, which of course were nonsensical, was the
"fatal beauty" whom she had always looked upon as a boy. Half-vexed,
half-amused she rose to go, and when Cliff, after helping her with
her coat, gently pressed her hand, she felt immensely like boxing his
ears. It was idiotic and sentimental, his looking at her in that way,
and there was no occasion whatever for his saying good-night like a
lover in a play.
There was quite a little excitement and bustle of departure in the
hall-way, as coats and cloaks were sought for, found, and donned. Jean
stood by the large open fireplace, where a log lay smoldering, its red
ashes still giving out a grateful heat, and at her side was Farr, hat
in hand, a light summer overcoat on his arm. He spoke a few words to
her as he took her hand in parting, and she looked up at him smiling
and defiant. The girl's blue eyes were dark with unwonted excitement,
her cheeks flushed with bright color, and Eleanor noted all this and
found her impressions of the evening deepened.
When the last guest had gone, Helen dropped down on the foot of the
stairs.
"Oh, how tired I am," she exclaimed. "Do put out the lamps in the
drawing-room, Nat, like a good girl." Then she rose to her feet with a
little sigh of weariness. "I think I am sleepy too," she said.
"I wish I were," spoke Jean from before the fire, her whole expression
eminently wide-awake.
"Come to bed, Jeanie," laughed Helen, "and court sleep. Perhaps it
will come to you if you do."
Jean paused a moment by the hall table to select one from out of the
mass of books and magazines collected there, and then followed Helen
up the stairs.
When she had reached her room she threw herself down in an easy-chair
and opened her book.
"You won't mind if I read for a while, will you, Nat? There is no use
of thinking of going to sleep yet."
Nathalie whistled very softly, at which Jean glanced swiftly up at
her.
"Eh, Jean? Love at first sight?"
Jean blushed to the roots of her pretty hair, and there was an angry
light in her eyes.
"I wouldn't be a goose if I were you, Nathalie," she said scornfully.