A FLYING MACHINE AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Early that same afternoon Eleanor and Nan dropped in at the manor and
suggested a game of tennis. The Lawrences acquiesced, and after a
search for balls and rackets they wandered down to the courts. Jean
stopped behind for a moment to find the children and tell them to
follow her, for nurse had begged a holiday and had gone off for the
afternoon. The sun's hot rays beat down upon the unshaded courts,
discouraging even Nan's enthusiasm; so, after one set played with
flagging energy, they threw down their rackets and retired to a pretty
little summerhouse, just at the foot of the terrace. By and by, when
they were cool again, Eleanor arose and suggested that they should
stroll down toward the station to meet Cliff and Dick, who were coming
up early. Jean alone demurred. It was sweet and peaceful within the
shelter of the little summerhouse, and the prospect of a long hot walk
along the dusty road was not tempting. Most opportunely she remembered
Helen's injunction in regard to the children, and pleading this excuse
she sent the others off with a half-promise that she might join them
at the inn later, if nurse should get home in good season.
When Jean was alone, she leaned back in her comfortable corner with
an air of great contentment. She rested her elbow on the ledge of the
seat, and propping her chin in her hand gazed dreamily, unseeingly out
across the sunlit lawn. The children were playing under the shade of a
widespreading elm, and the clear treble of their young voices was a
pleasant accompaniment to her happy thoughts. Now and again, as some
look or gesture of Farr's recurred to her with peculiar distinctness,
a shy and tremulous joy dawned in her face, and lingered there.
Ah, Jean, such moments are indeed golden, when in your dreams all life
seems sweet and fair. Do not hasten the inevitable awakening, for with
the realization comes ever a sting to make the heart ache and throb.
In after days this peaceful scene will live with you, the memory of
its happiness haunt and mock you, until you fain would thrust it from
you!
Meanwhile Valentine Farr was making his way down the terraced pathway
in search of Jean, his heart strangely stirred with the thought of the
sweet voice that would speak to him, of the pair of blue eyes that
would welcome him. Then, as he walked blithely on, there fell on him
the shadow of a memory fraught with pain. He threw back his head and
drew a deep breath, as he squarely faced the difficulties that lay
before him. He knew that before he might dare to hope, before he might
dare to speak to Jean, there was much that must be told her, and
although his heart grew heavy within him, the look of resolution on
his grave face betokened a strong determination to overcome all
obstacles so far as lay within his power.
He was descending the last terrace when little Gladys ran out from
her shady playground and, holding out her arms to him, begged for a
ride. He caught her up and swinging her on to his shoulder held her
there securely as he hastened on toward the summerhouse, whence he had
seen a flutter of Jean's white gown. Gladys was wild with excitement,
and her shrill little cries of pleasure roused Jean from her reverie.
She shifted her position a little to see what was going on, and then
started up and moved forward to the arched doorway of the summerhouse
and stood waiting for them. From her elevated position, Gladys waved
frantically to her and then flung her arms tightly around Farr's neck.
"That is hot work, little one," he declared with a laugh, as he
deposited the child on the ground and raised his hat to Jean.
"Oh, it was grand!" cried Gladys, capering around and shaking her
golden curls into a tangled mass.
Jean smiled and extended her hand to Farr, but her words were for
Gladys.
"I have not a doubt of it, darling," she said, "but I fear Mr. Farr
found you a very heavy load to carry this hot day."
Gladys' head drooped, and she gave Farr a shy glance from out of the
corners of her eyes.
"Was I vewy heavy?" she asked, in such a plaintive little voice that
he had hard work to keep his face straight as he hastened to reassure
her.
"Is not this a sylvan retreat, and are you not glad you came?" Jean
queried, looking over her shoulder at him as she led the way into the
summerhouse.
"Glad!" he echoed. "Glad does not begin to express it."
"Wait until you see how sleepy and stupid I am before you make such a
rash assertion. Evidently you are in no way disheartened," she added,
as Farr, looking somewhat incredulous, took his place beside her on
the low seat.
"Not one whit," he replied softly. "It would be a very novel
experience for me to find you stupid."
Jean turned a quizzical glance upon him.
"What an extravagant compliment. Where did you learn such gallantry?"
"When first I saw you," he returned, and although he spoke lightly
there was an undercurrent of earnestness in his tone.
Gladys, who had been chasing a butterfly around and around the
summerhouse, now stopped at the doorway and peeped in. She lingered a
moment, tilting her head, first on one side and then on the other, and
smiling encouragingly on the twain. Then, as neither Jean nor Farr
took any notice of her, she twisted about and scampered off toward the
playground. Larry and Willie hailed her with delight, and anyone
watching the three little heads so close together would have known
that there was mischief brewing.
"I know some splendid fun," Willie was saying in a cautiously lowered
voice. "I read lots about it in a book. It's all about flyin' machines
an' human birds. Let's go over to the orchard, an' I'll tell you how
to play it."
"Me, too, Willie, please," piped Gladys.
"Oh, yes. You can come along, 'cause you're just the person we might
want," and Willie's air of importance was most impressive.
"I guess Jean won't mind," said Larry.
Willie was far too excited to vouchsafe a reply, and the children
scurried along toward the orchard. Their route lay past the
summerhouse, and when they were opposite it some pin-prick of
conscience made them pause and look within. Jean and Farr were deeply
absorbed in conversation, and it was quite apparent, even to their
childish minds, that their sister would never notice their absence. Of
one accord they broke into a run, and did not subside into a more
demure pace until the shrubbery hid them from view.
"You see," said Willie, when he had recovered his breath, "it is the
greatest fun to play birds. All we've got to do is to use our arms
right, an' then we can fly good enough. It said so in the book," he
ended with a wise little nod of his head.
Gladys' eyes grew big with wonder.
"Can I fly, too?" she pleaded.
"Course you can. You're just the most principal."
Gladys beamed upon him, and her face wore a proud smile. To have
Willie call her "the most principal" was a very deep and far-reaching
compliment.
Willie heaved a sigh of relief when, after scrambling over the stone
wall, they were at last within the orchard.
"Now, nobody can find us. We've all got to learn to fly. See, Larry,
you just flop your arms so. They've got to be our wings."
"Don't guess I'se got any wings," sighed Gladys, "'cause they don't
f'y me a bit."
Willie and Larry were racing around the orchard, swinging their arms
in the air until they looked like animated wind-mills. Gladys trotted
after them, striving to imitate their motions until her little legs
and arms grew very weary. Then she stopped and stood watching them
disconsolately.
"I don't fink you games any fun at all," she exclaimed, in an
aggrieved tone, as the boys ran up to her puffing and panting from
their exertions. "You don't f'y a bit like birdies, any more nor I
do."
Willie eyed her with great scorn.
"Oh, you're only a baby. Course you can't do anything."
"You said I was most principal," Gladys reminded him, with quivering
lips.
"Oh, I say," Larry broke in, "I'll tell you what we'll do, Will. We'll
play she's a baby bird, an' then we'll teach her to fly. We must put
her up in a tree, an' then pretend to shove her out of the nest, just
the way the mamma bird does."
Gladys' face brightened, and she smiled sunnily.
"P'r'aps," objected tender-hearted Willie, "she might tumble herself
an' break her wings."
Larry scouted the idea.
"You're a regular muff, Will. Gladys ain't afraid; are you, Gladys?"
"Course I aren't," cried Gladys stoutly.
After an exciting and somewhat heated discussion, the boys finally
arrived at a satisfactory decision as to the best way of getting
Gladys up into a tree, and, in the midst of much chaffing and some
wrangling, a rustic bench was drawn to the foot of a gnarled old apple
tree, and the difficult task was begun. "Oh, dear!" ejaculated Willie,
very red and very warm, "She's a terrible heavy bird."
They were in a perilous position, and Gladys' burst of laughter nearly
brought them all to the ground.
"Guess I eated too many worms," she said.
When at last she was safely perched on a projecting branch, Willie
clambered down and drew away the bench, and Larry, sitting astride
another branch, assumed the rôle of master of ceremonies.
"Now, little bird," he said authoritatively, "I ain't goin' to bring
you any more worms to eat, an' you just got to learn to fly yourself.
You must flap your wings like this, an' when I count three you must
fly away."
Gladys' first attempt to follow these instructions nearly upset her,
but she regained her balance and gripping tight hold of an overhanging
limb turned a troubled face toward her brother.
"I guess my wings is gwowed w'ong."
"Cause there ain't any feathers on 'em, I s'pose," giggled Larry.
This sally proved too much for Gladys, and flinging back her head she
burst into a merry peal of laughter. In her sudden movement her little
hands lost their hold on the limb, and plunging forward she fell
heavily to the ground. One sharp cry and then the child lay still and
silent, her little white face upturned.
"Oh!" gasped Willie, "p'r'aps she's broke her wings."
Larry slipped quickly down from the tree, and leaned anxiously over
his little sister's prostrate form.
"Get up, Gladys," he pleaded, and then, as the child did not stir, he
began to cry piteously.
For an instant Willie stood irresolute, his hands tightly clinched,
his ruddy face grown pale with fear.
"I'm going to find Jean," he said, and turned and started on a run
toward the shrubbery.
Larry caught hold of him and clung to him in an agony of fear.
"I'm awfully scared, Willie. Please don't leave me."
Willie shook him off impatiently, and pointed a reproachful finger to
where Gladys lay in an unnatural stillness, and then, without another
word, he was gone.
* * * * *
During all this time Jean had not once thought of the children, and
Helen's injunctions had been completely forgotten. While Farr was
waiting an opportunity to broach the subject that was uppermost in his
mind, Jean herself opened the way for him. She had been telling him in
her happiest vein of numberless incidents of her childish days;
laughing outright at the memory of many a scrape and frolic, and
speaking with a pathetic quiver in her voice as she showed him the
reverse side of the picture, recalling those dreary days when to the
poor little orphaned Lawrences, in their desolation, it seemed that
the light of their lives had been forever darkened.
As Farr listened to the innocent recital, told in Jean's own forceful
dramatic way, he found his heart growing very tender, yet sad withal.
It made him feel infinitely far away from her to hear her speak thus
lovingly and trustfully of her family. Ah, yes, love was indeed the
keynote of life at the manor. Farr had never realized this more
strongly than he did to-day as he mentally contrasted the happy
atmosphere, the tender relationships of Jean's home life, with his own
unloved, unhappy boyhood. So deep was he in thought that he did not
notice that Jean had ceased speaking, until she turned and called him
by name.
"Mr. Farr, I have been very egotistical and I want you to do me a
great favor to prove that you have forgiven me."
"I would find it hard to refuse you."
"Do you remember that day down on the cliffs, so long ago?"
Farr signified his assent, and she continued:
"Well, that day you said that perhaps sometime you would tell me
something of your life."
Farr's face flushed with gratification, and he would have spoken but
she stopped him almost imperiously.
"I have thought that your 'perhaps' signified a great deal; that it
was put in to save yourself in case, on further acquaintance with me,
you felt that you did not want to give me your confidence, and I
confess," looking up at him with a reproachful smile, "that I have
been not a little hurt by your silence."
"Please don't say that, Miss Jean; and do you know that, strangely
enough, I came here to-day to tell you--to tell you that miserable
story, but I scarcely knew how to begin it."
He paused a moment, and then resumed bitterly:
"I never knew half how miserable the story would sound to you until I
listened to you this afternoon, and realized all that I had missed out
of my life."
Jean looked at him sympathetically, and her eyes urged him to
continue, although she did not speak.
"I am going to try not to bore you with any complaints, Miss Jean, and
I must beg you not to be distressed if I speak plainly in regard to my
family, with whom I am on exceedingly bad terms."
"Surely that does not include Clarisse?"
"Oh, no; not Clarisse, bless her heart. She and I have always stood
faithfully by each other. My troubles began when my father died. I was
quite a little chap at the time, but I loved my poor old governor
dearly. My mother is a woman of great strength of character and with
an unbounded love of power, and she and I were decidedly antagonistic.
My father, who was the mildest of men, had the greatest admiration for
her and in most things yielded readily to her stronger will, but where
I was concerned he took a firm stand; so, although I was in great awe
of my mother, I always had a refuge in my father. My older brothers,
Lansing and Fred, never took to me at all. They were wise in their day
and generation, and even when they were youngsters studied to please,
and so in our quarrels and disputes my mother invariably took their
part. I felt the injustice without being able to reason about it, and
grew daily more surly and defiant. From the day my father died I had a
very bad time of it, and was always in disgrace. I know I was by no
means blameless, but there was something in my mother's cold disregard
of me that roused a very demon of defiance in me. Clarisse was the
only person in the world whom I honestly loved, and the first serious
trouble with my mother was on her account," and even at this day
Farr's face grew black at the remembrance. "It was a rainy day, and we
children were all playing in the nursery. Clarisse was just recovering
from an illness, and was not yet very strong. In some way she
accidentally broke a new boat of Fred's. He was angry and, after
scolding her until she began to cry, finally struck her across the
face. I sprang toward him, my blind rage lending me unusual strength,
and beat him unmercifully. Lansing, nurse, and Clarisse set up a great
hue and cry, and in the midst of it all my mother walked into the
room. Fred, who certainly did present a rather battered appearance,
rushed to her and bawled out a garbled version of the affair and I
slunk off into a corner, looking thoroughly guilty, I have not a
doubt. My mother did not wait for any explanation, but summarily sent
Clarisse and myself to Coventry. I might have forgiven her for the
injustice to myself. I was so used to it as to have hardly noticed it,
but I never forgave the unkindness to poor little Clarisse."
There was a brief silence, broken at length by Jean.
"I cannot understand it, Mr. Farr; surely a mother must love all her
children."
"I suppose my mother did in her way. I do not tell you this, Miss
Jean, to prejudice you against her nor to exonerate myself, but only
to, in a measure, explain subsequent events. There was never any
sympathy between us. My manner, my character, my very looks were
distasteful to her, and she made no attempt to conceal this from me.
Up to the time of this occurrence I had had moments of feeling very
contrite, when I had striven to overcome my faults; but from that time
I hardened myself and never tried to break down the barrier that had
been raised. Clarisse shared my feeling to a great extent, but she was
far too gentle and loving to oppose my mother. She did her best to
soften me and to prevent circumstances from embittering me. As I grew
older my relationship with my family became more and more strained,
and it was my great ambition to enter the navy and cut adrift from my
home. When finally I broached the subject to my mother, I learned for
the first time that my father had left his entire estate, which was a
considerable one, to my mother, and that I was entirely dependent upon
her. My mother was exceedingly generous in those matters, and in
justice to her I must say that, however much she may have denied me
her affection, she always treated me most liberally in a material way.
I had been given every advantage without stint, and had been brought
up in the greatest comfort and luxury, and without any adequate
knowledge of the value of money. She did not favor the idea of my
entering the navy, but I was troublesome at home, so she made a
concession and I was allowed to go to Annapolis. In the meantime my
brothers had obediently followed the careers my mother had marked out
for them, and having furthermore married in accordance with her
wishes, she provided each of them with a most liberal allowance,
retaining, however, a controlling hand in their affairs. Those years
at Annapolis were the happiest I had ever known. I had been very much
touched by my mother's yielding, and when I was at home I did my best
not to annoy or antagonize her in any way, and we really got along
very smoothly."
Farr had reached a difficult point in his story, and hesitated a
moment to mentally review the past, and then began again in the same
quiet voice that had characterized his telling of it so far.
"The summer preceding my senior year I went home to find stopping in
the house a distant cousin of mine, a very nice pretty girl, whom I
shortly discovered my mother had selected to be her third
daughter-in-law. Then I revolted. In the first place Carrie, poor
girl, was quite ignorant of the scheme and felt no interest whatever
in me, and----" He broke off undecidedly, and looked with thoughtful
eyes out across the level tennis courts. There was one thing he could
not quite make up his mind to recount to Jean. The memory of it was
growing faint (he could not but smile a little grimly as he thus
argued to himself), and why rake up that disagreeable part of his
past. In truth, how could he tell clear-eyed, pure-hearted Jean of
that other!
"Well?" interrogated Jean, cutting short his brief reverie.
His indecision was at an end. He straightened himself, squared his
shoulders, and answered with almost a show of relief.
"Well, the very fact that I was to be compelled to marry aroused such
a tempest of resentment within me that I had no room for any other
emotion. For several weeks the atmosphere was thunderous, and at the
end of that time the storm broke. I boldly announced my determination
to remain single. My mother--well, she did not spare me. She told me I
had always been a most unnatural and ungrateful son; that I had
deliberately and intentionally thwarted her in every possible way
without once considering the duty that I owed to her. She gave me to
understand most emphatically that, from the day I finished my course
at Annapolis, she would consider her obligations to me at an end. That
I might go where I pleased, do what I pleased; but, that her home was
no longer mine."
"Oh, how cruel!" escaped from Jean. Her little hands were tightly
clenched, and her eyes flashed indignantly.
"It did seem rather hard, especially just at that time," he returned
slowly, some unexpected thought lending an expression peculiarly
somber and grave in his face. "But since then I have often thought
that I gave my mother a great deal of provocation."
"By not marrying according to her desire?" asked Jean, a little
quickly.
Farr looked straight in her eyes for a moment before answering dryly:
"That was certainly a great factor; you see Carrie was an heiress, and
owned a lot of property adjoining ours."
"Oh!" was all Jean said, but the monosyllable was most expressive.
Farr laughed light-heartedly. He had been wrought up by this opening
of a long-closed chapter in his life, and it was a relief to have the
tension relaxed.
"I have never for one instant regretted it, and certainly now----"
"You haven't finished your story," Jean interrupted with but scant
courtesy, "please go on."
"There is not much more to tell, and I fear, too, that I am tiring
you. No? well I took my mother at her word, and from that day to this
I have never darkened her door. It came hardest on poor little
Clarisse, I think," he went on sadly; "she had learned to depend upon
me, and when she found that I was going to desert her she broke down
completely. It wrung my heart to leave her, but it had to be done. I
never like to think of that scene."
"Poor Clarisse!" murmured Jean softly.
"It was uphill work, at first," Farr resumed. "The lesson of poverty,
with its grinding necessities, was bitter, and its bitterness
redoubled by experiences that shook my faith in humanity." He flung
back his head and drew a deep breath. "Somehow I lived through that
first year, and then it grew easier; a maiden sister of my father's
died and left me a legacy which, though small, is yet sufficient for
all my needs. It is a good many years ago now, and I have only seen
Clarisse once or twice, when I have happened to be in Washington in
the winter. She is lonely, poor little girl; but we console each other
by planning the good times we will have in some indefinite future."
After a moment, he began speaking again:
"I know how terrible this must seem to you, Miss Jean. A man at
variance with his family is at a great disadvantage, and after all,
you have only heard my side of the story. I almost dread," gloomily,
"to have you tell me what you think of me now."
"Oh, how unjust you are to me," cried Jean indignantly. "Do you think
that your trouble could make any difference to me, except to make me
sorry--oh, so sorry--for you, and to make me like you and want to be
your friend more than ever."
She stopped suddenly, half frightened by the look in Farr's eyes. He
had grown very pale, and he spoke huskily.
"You must not be so kind to me; you tempt me to tell you why----"
"Jean! Jean!"
This piercing cry, so fraught with terror, brought them to their feet.
They started forward, and even as they did so Willie stumbled across
the doorway and leaned up against the post, sobbing piteously.
"Gladys, hurt," he panted, and then, his courage forsaking him, he
burst into a storm of tears.
Every bit of color faded from Jean's face.
"What do you mean? O Willie, where is Gladys?"
Farr put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Come, little man," he said kindly, "don't cry, but take a long
breath. There, that's a brave little chap. Now tell your sister where
Gladys is, and what has happened."
"We were playing birds in a tree, and Gladys fell, and she can't get
up," faltered Willie.
"Where?" Jean asked sharply.
"In the orchard."
Almost before the words had passed his lips, Jean pushed by him and
was flying toward the orchard. Farr stopped a moment, to tell Willie
to run up to the house and have them send down a couple of pillows to
the orchard and to dispatch a man on horseback for the doctor; then he
started in pursuit of Jean. He quickly overtook her, and they sped
across the intervening space in silence. As they entered the orchard
Larry's heartbreaking sobs indicated the scene of the accident, and in
another instant Jean had fallen on her knees beside her little sister.
The child's face was drawn, and the wide, distended eyes were
strangely, unnaturally bright.
"Gladys, precious, where does it hurt you?" But a moan was her only
answer.
"Oh, Mr. Farr, what can I do? How do you suppose she is hurt?"
Farr bent tenderly over little Gladys, and laid his hand lightly on
her arm. A wail of pain escaped from the child's white lips, and she
again lost consciousness.
Everything grew black to Jean and she swayed a little, leaning against
the trunk of the tree for support. Farr's voice sounded very
indistinct and strange to her.
"Come, Miss Jean, you must not faint. Do you hear me? Now, take a
mouthful of this," holding out his flask to her.
Jean obeyed him unresistingly, and rallied at once, the color coming
back into her face.
"Gladys has broken her arm," he went on, in a quiet, even voice that
somehow helped to steady her. "There, that is right. Now you look like
yourself again."
"Never mind me," she returned resolutely, straightening herself. "Is
there nothing we can do for Gladys?"
"I sent Willie to the house to tell nurse to come here with pillows
and to send Barnes for the doctor. Now give me the flask and put your
arm under her head and raise it a trifle, so that I can give her some
brandy. There, she is coming to now."
The white lids fluttered, and Gladys' eyes opened slowly.
"Jeanie, I twied to f'y, but I was too little," she murmured weakly,
and she smiled up at her sister, who was bending over her with so much
tenderness.
The sound of footsteps reached them, and nurse, a comfortable,
motherly-looking woman, bustled up to them, her arms laden with
pillows and restoratives.
Her presence brought great reassurance to Jean.
"Oh, nurse, I am so glad you are here. Gladys has been hurt."
"My poor baby, Nana will make it all well. She shouldn't have left you
at all. Whatever will Miss Helen say!"
Jean's face contracted sharply, and she turned away to hide the tears
that sprang to her eyes. Farr threw an angry glance at nurse, who, all
unconscious of her offense, was petting and comforting Gladys.
"This is no time for talking," he said. "We must get Gladys home as
quickly as possible. Miss Jean, will you help me lift her?"
Jean recognized the kindly intent in his words, and her eyes were
eloquent with gratitude.
"Little one," he went on to Gladys, "will you be a good, brave little
girl and let me carry you? I will put you on this pillow, and I will
be as gentle as possible. I can't promise that it won't hurt you some,
but when you are once home you will be so comfortable."
"All right," assented Gladys, looking up at him with touching
confidence.
But in spite of all their care, it was a very painful ordeal, and the
poor child was quite spent before the manor was reached. As they
mounted the steps of the veranda the doctor's gig drove up to the
door. They carried Gladys up to the nursery, and Farr lingered there
long enough to hear his opinion confirmed that the child had sustained
no further injury than the breaking of her arm.
"I will wait downstairs," he said in an undertone to Jean, and he went
out and closed the door softly behind him.
The moments dragged slowly, and he had almost renounced all hope of
seeing Jean again, when he heard her footfall on the stair. She came
down toward him, her white face showing the traces of tears. He sprang
forward to meet her.
"I can't stay but a moment," she said to him, "for I must go right
back to Gladys. The doctor has set her arm and has given her something
to make her sleep and he is going very soon now."
He laid his hand on her shoulder and looked tenderly down at her.
"You look worn out. Won't you try and rest a little?"
She did not resent his action, but she moved a step away from him and
his hand dropped at his side. Her lips quivered.
"I don't care about myself. I shall never, never forgive myself for my
wicked thoughtlessness. That poor baby's suffering haunts me."
"I won't have you blame yourself," he declared vehemently. "I was more
at fault than you, for I claimed your attention with my stupid story."
"Don't talk nonsense," she returned gently, but, nevertheless, her
face lost much of its misery.
They were silent for a moment. The past hour had broken down the last
barrier of reserve between them and had drawn them very close to each
other. Of the two, Farr was perhaps the more conscious of the subtle
change that had been wrought, and he was filled with unspeakable joy.
"You must go now," Jean told him, "but you will come back to-morrow,
won't you?" She was so sure of his answer that she did not wait for
him to speak. "I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for
Gladys--and me," she added very low.
"If I have been the least help to you, Jean, it is more----" he began,
when the outer door was pushed open, and Nathalie rushed in like a
whirlwind.
"What in the world has happened," she cried excitedly. "Larry says
that Gladys is hurt, but he is too frightened to be clear about it."
Jean hastened to give her an account of the accident, shrinking back a
little from the light that streamed in from the open doorway, for fear
of what her telltale face might reveal to Nathalie's keen eyes. Farr
bade them good-by and went away, and then the two girls went directly
to the nursery.