A DANCE AT CRESCENT BEACH.
A very merry party of people assembled at the manor on Saturday
evening. Nathalie flitted about among them with dancing feet and
shining eyes, and one and all caught the spirit of her contagious
enthusiasm.
"Oh, what a lark it is," she cried. "It is full moon to-night, and
everything has gone right from beginning to end."
"The end is not yet, Miss Nathalie," Farr said to her with a faint
smile.
She shrugged her shoulders and laughed light-heartedly.
"Don't be cynical. It is a bad habit."
"The moon is rising," interposed Jean, turning about from the open
doorway. "It is too lovely to stay indoors."
A hush fell upon them as they followed her out upon the veranda.
Sentences left unfinished, gay laughter checked on the lips, paid
tribute to the impressive beauty of the scene. Far away in the east
the moon, with slow and stately grace, lifted its splendor above the
dark line of the horizon. Against its flaming glory were sharply
defined the somber trunks of sturdy oaks and spreading elms. Seen
between their leafy branches lay the Sound, obscured a moment since
by an impenetrable veil of darkness, but reflecting now on its
rippling surface the golden light of the rising orb. The night air
pulsed with the cheery chirp of the cricket, the monotonous chant of
the katy-did. Softly the south wind blew rustling among the trees and
shrubs.
Nathalie was the first to speak. Her quick ear had caught the sound of
wheels.
"Here comes the stage at last. Do let us get off right away."
"Is everyone here?" queried Mrs. Andrews, looking around on the bevy
of pretty girls with a smile of complacent satisfaction.
"Everyone but Lillian," Helen answered. "We may as well begin to take
our places. She will be down in a few moments."
Already the stage had backed up before the door, and Jean was among
the first to run lightly down the broad flight of steps. Farr stood at
the foot, and as he held out his hand to assist her, she saw that he
was regarding her sadly. There was no time for words, the others were
flocking down the steps behind them. She turned her eyes to meet his
with a plaintive, almost appealing smile. She thought they must have
spoken for her, for ere he released her hand he gave it a quick
pressure.
It was some few moments before Miss Stuart made her appearance. She
descended the steps slowly, with no suggestion of haste. Farr held
open the door for her to enter.
"Come up here by me, Lillian," Helen called to her from the other end
of the stage, but she did not seem to hear the request, and slipped
into a seat near the door.
Farr sprang lightly in, but as he would have passed her she laid a
detaining hand on his arm.
"There is plenty of room here," she said, indicating the place beside
her, and he had no alternative but to take it.
The other men crowded past them, and as the stage lurched forward,
Cliff Archer dropped into a seat between Jean and Eleanor.
"A great deal of strength is wasted in undue haste," he observed
lazily. "I find that laggards invariably prosper."
"What heresy, Cliff," laughed Eleanor softly, with an expressive
glance in Miss Stuart's direction.
Cliff appealed to Jean.
"Can you imagine anything more barefaced than that attempt to extort a
compliment. From a sheer sense of duty I feel compelled to disappoint
her."
He stopped abruptly, struck by the expression of Jean's face. She had
evidently not heard his words, for she was staring straight before her
with strained, unseeing eyes. Her mouth was compressed with a look of
suffering in the lines. Cliff was very fond of Jean. He knew her
better than the other girls, for she and Eleanor were such fast
friends. He did not stop to ponder on the cause of her unhappiness,
but hastily resolved to shield her if possible. Eleanor leaned forward
to speak to her across him, but he brought his slender figure between
them.
"You can talk to Jean all day, and every day. It is my turn to-night,
my dear, and I intend to monopolize you to my heart's content."
When Cliff spoke in that tone Eleanor knew there was no appeal to be
made, so she yielded the point at once with very good grace.
As the stage jolted lumberingly on its way, Jean saw nothing of the
beauty of the night, heard nothing of the merry laughter, the gay
snatches of song which reverberated around her. It was, perhaps, a
trifling circumstance that Farr had seated himself quite at the other
end of the stage, and at Miss Stuart's side, but to Jean, in her
unhappy state of mind, it meant a great deal. To her the interchange
of glances a few moments since had been tantamount to a truce between
them. She had been so sure that Farr would make an effort to secure a
place beside her that she had purposely crowded up in the corner,
leaving a space for him between Eleanor and herself. Her humiliation
was poignant, complete. The wound to vanity was beneficial in its
effect, rousing all her self-respect, and determining her to hide the
truth from Farr at all hazards.
"I must be brave," she said to herself resolutely. "I must let him see
that I am happy and light-hearted," and she closed her lips firmly to
still their quivering. She was quite mistress of herself by the time
the hotel was reached.
The Maynards, with their friends the Endicotts, awaited them on the
brilliantly lighted veranda, and as they descended from the stage with
merry jest and laughter, Maynard left his wife's side and ran down the
steps to welcome them. He was a good-looking man, with a particularly
charming and cordial manner. He had never given much thought to the
Hetherford girls; in his mind he stigmatized them as provincial and
uninteresting; but to-night, as Jean, standing in the full glare of
the hotel office, unwound the scarf from around her neck, and flung
back her wrap, an exclamation of surprise rose to his lips.
Jean was, indeed, looking very lovely. There were faint shadows under
the deep blue eyes, the sweet mouth drooped slightly, lending new
beauty and depth of expression to her face. Maynard hastened to offer
her his arm, and they moved slowly down the long hall to the entrance
of the ball-room. The music had just begun when Farr's voice fell on
Jean's ears. At his first words she turned a startled face toward him:
"Miss Lawrence, I believe this is our dance. Sorry to deprive you,
Maynard," and before Jean could recover from her astonishment, Maynard
had bowed himself away and Farr was smiling gravely down at her.
"Please don't be angry, Miss Jean. 'Nothing venture nothing have,' you
know, and I have had so little lately."
Jean looked up at him helplessly at a loss for an answer.
"I want the waltz very much," he added in a tone of pleading.
She laughed a bit unsteadily.
"Why, of course, I will dance with you, although I must confess your
mode of asking me is very strange."
"'All is fair in----' Which is it, Jean?" he asked softly as they fell
into the measure of the waltz.
She dropped her eyes, glad that at present no reply was required of
her. When the last strain had died away, Farr drew her hand through
his arm, and they threaded their way among the crowd out into the cool
hall-way.
"Is this your wrap?" he queried, selecting one from the number that
were thrown across a chair. "Now let us go outside for a little
stroll."
They made their way out on to the little veranda, which on this side
of the hotel was built on a ledge of rocks, and overhung the waters of
Crescent Bay. Avoiding the rank and file of dancers, who were now
promenading slowly up and down, they crossed to the railing and stood
there gazing silently before them. In the harbor below myriads of
boats lay at anchor, all gayly decorated in honor of the occasion.
Further out the moon's bright radiance fell softly on the tremulous
waves, and across its golden sheen a white-winged yacht sped silently
on its way.
By and by, Jean roused herself with a slight effort:
"What Philistinism it is to illuminate the veranda with those ugly
lanterns. Their flaring light quite spoils the effect of the
moonlight."
Her poor little commonplace attempt to open the conversation met with
disastrous failure. Farr muttered inattentively "Yes, indeed," and
relapsed into silence again.
In the long pause that ensued the monotonous splash of the waves
against the rocks below sounded deliciously cool and refreshing. A
rowboat shot out from the pier, skimming the darkened waters under
the lea of the shore.
Farr drew nearer to Jean and spoke with deep earnestness:
"We cannot take up the thread of the past, Miss Jean, with this
constraint between us, but I am not willing to let it go without an
attempt at an explanation. Will you not tell me what I have done to
have forfeited your friendship?"
Jean's head was bent, her few words of dissent almost inaudible. Farr
interrupted her in a voice that was both pained and stern.
"Please don't deny it. I cannot have forfeited the right to your
honesty. Did I presume too much on your great kindness to me, Jean?"
"No, oh no!" she cried hastily, with a little break in her voice.
"Indeed you must not think that."
A man's step approached them, and stopped at Jean's side.
"Miss Lawrence," Maynard's voice said, "the next waltz is ours. Shall
I find you here?"
"Why, certainly," she replied with a forced laugh. "I shall not
vanish."
"I wanted to assure myself of the pleasure. One is easily lost among
all these people," he answered lightly, as he turned away.
Farr's face darkened.
"What right has Maynard to monopolize you?" he demanded savagely. "He
is a married man, and not a man----"
It was an unwise speech, and he broke off abruptly convicted of his
folly by the expression in Jean's unflinching eyes.
"You forget that Mr. Maynard is our host, Mr. Farr," she said coldly.
After a moment she added more gently:
"I did not want you to say anything that you would regret. I should be
sorry to hear you speak ill of a friend. It is not like you."
The simple words touched Farr, and made him feel ashamed of himself.
"I beg your pardon," he said contritely. "I was a brute to speak so.
The truth is, I am not myself, and have not been during the whole of
this miserable week. I seem never to have the chance to speak with
you, and I have tortured myself with the thought that it has been your
deliberate purpose to avoid me."
The opening bars of the waltz, and Maynard's approach, cut short his
words. Slowly the trio forced their way through the moving crowd until
they had gained the entrance to the ball-room. Farr stood listlessly
in the doorway as Maynard whirled Jean away from him across the
polished floor. Some minutes later, someone touched his elbow and he
turned with a start to meet Miss Stuart's eyes:
"Val, let us dance together 'for auld lang syne.'"
"With pleasure," he assented abstractedly, for as she spoke he had
caught a glimpse of Jean disappearing through one of the long windows
which gave on the veranda. Miss Stuart's glance followed his, and her
eyes flashed. The carelessness of his reply hurt her cruelly.
"I will make Jean suffer for this," she vowed, as with throbbing
heart she took her place among the dancers.
Later, as they passed through the doorway, they encountered Jean and
Maynard re-entering the room. Miss Stuart first caught sight of them.
She raised her glorious eyes to her companion's face, and spoke in a
voice carefully pitched to reach Jean's ears:
"Yes, indeed, Val, it is pleasant to dance together again. It brings
back those bygone happy days so forcibly."
They were abreast of the other couple now, and Farr halted. Miss
Stuart's speech had quite escaped him, absorbed as he was in watching
Jean, so he was entirely unprepared for her reception of him. As he
spoke her name she flashed a light impenetrable smile at him, and then
deliberately turned away, and he heard her say gayly to the man at her
side:
"Mr. Maynard, that waltz is divine. Don't let us miss another bar of
it."
And Maynard answered softly:
"Your wish is my law, Miss Jean."
Then the crowd surged between them, and with a somewhat unreasonable
bitterness in his heart Farr blindly followed Miss Stuart to a
secluded corner of the veranda. Jean's treatment of him was
inexplicable. It seemed so much easier for things to go wrong than
right that he felt it was well-nigh useless to struggle against the
inevitable. Disappointed and dispirited he paid but small heed to his
beautiful companion, who was exerting her rare tact and diplomacy to
please and divert him.
In the ensuing hour, Jean, all unsuspecting of the truth, was amply
avenged. Never before had it come home to Lillian Stuart, with such
convincing force, that against Farr's love for this young girl she was
utterly powerless. In vain love taught her a new unselfishness, a
womanly gentleness quite strange to her; in vain did she crush down
the rising storm of jealousy within her breast. Farr saw none of these
things, cared for her not at all. He sought her society because she
made so few demands upon him and accepted his varying moods
unquestioningly. If he thought on the subject at all he explained her
kindness to him by the fact that he was possibly more in touch with
her world than anyone else in Hetherford. The subtle charm of her
personality which she had ever found so potent was quite lost on this
man whose love she had once possessed, and had valued so lightly. Hope
was dead in her heart, but one weapon of revenge--Jean's evident
jealousy--lay within her grasp, and this she wielded with unerring
skill.
The music ceased, and soon the veranda was invaded by a host of
flushed and heated dancers, and among their number Jean, with Maynard
still at her side. There was a new elasticity in her step, a new light
in her eyes, and she was flirting quite openly and markedly with her
companion. As the stream bore them past Farr and Miss Stuart she did
not apparently observe them, withdrawn as they were into the corner,
and falling out of the line of people, selected seats at a short
distance from them.
Maynard, to whom a pretty woman was always irresistible, was carried
away by the girl's _insouciance_, and fascination. He was the more
delighted because so completely taken by surprise. He had pictured
Jean always as a little puritan who would look upon a flirtation as
the height of immorality, but to-night the little puritan had suddenly
blossomed out in a totally unexpected and charming character. He was
not a little flattered by her evident willingness to linger on in this
quiet spot with him when the crowd had once more sought the ball-room,
and into his manner he infused an added warmth of interest.
Poor Jean, however, was invulnerable. She had never liked Mr. Maynard,
although she had been forced to admit that he was charming, and
agreeable as an acquaintance. The Hetherford girls were one and all
too sincerely fond of Mrs. Maynard to have much patience with the man
who could flagrantly neglect so sweet and lovely a wife. It had been
an unwritten code of honor among them to treat him with polite
indifference, and to promptly snub any attempt on his part to break
down the barrier of reserve behind which they had entrenched
themselves. Under ordinary circumstances Jean would have despised
herself for the course she was now pursuing, but to-night the poor
child was too utterly miserably to care what she did, or what became
of her. She laughed and flirted recklessly with this man, of whom she
strongly disapproved, to quell the ache at her heart, and when the
remedy failed she but laughed and flirted the more. It was selfish,
unworthy; but Jean was unversed in suffering, and seized upon the
means within reach to enable her to cover up her pain and jealousy.
Something of the same impulse that influenced Farr with Miss Stuart
prompted her to keep this man at her side. Those old friends knew her
too well, had seen too much of her with Farr, not to have their
suspicions aroused by her feverish and exaggerated gayety.
At last the evening was over, and they stood in the hotel office,
awaiting the arrival of the stage. Jean was somewhat apart from the
others, with Maynard bending over her and talking to her in lowered
tones.
Her little foot tapped the floor nervously, her cheeks burned hotly,
and one unsteady little hand waved a big fan to and fro. Her courage
was rapidly forsaking her, and she rallied all her strength in one
last effort to appear naturally gay and at ease. She felt she must not
break down now with Farr only a few paces away, for, although she
never raised her eyes, yet she knew he was watching her.
As pretty little Mrs. Maynard moved about among her guests, speaking
to them in her softly modulated voice, she bent a glance of anxious
intentness upon Jean. She was far too inured to her husband's
indifference to be deeply hurt by this new flirtation carried on
before her very eyes, but this new phase in Jean's character puzzled
her. But her own sad experience had quickened her intuition of others'
unhappiness, and so it was that in her gentle heart there was more of
commiseration than anger.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Dick's announcement that the stage
was at the door. When Jean came to bid her good-night she looked into
the strained, pathetic eyes with compassionate tenderness, and a
sudden impulse made her lean forward and kiss the girl lovingly.
Once more the old stage rumbled over the road between Hetherford and
Crescent Beach. The wind had veered a point to the east, and blew damp
and chill, driving before it a mist of clouds across the sky,
obscuring the moon's bright light. The sudden change in the atmosphere
was felt by everybody, and the conversation was spasmodic, broken by
long intervals of silence. Jean, very white and still now that the
tension was relaxed, shrank back into her corner clinging fast to
Eleanor's hand. In a further corner Farr sat at Helen's side, silent
during the whole of the long drive.