A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS.
September with its bright, warm days and cool nights was at hand. The
gayeties of the summer were a thing of the past, and the little colony
of girls had settled down into the old routine of life, "exactly as we
used to before the _Vortex_ came," Mollie Andrews said complacently.
No voice was raised in contradiction, and yet, perhaps no heart quite
echoed the sentiment.
Jean faced her trouble bravely and without complaint, but the effort
told on her as the days passed by, and she grew frail and slender, and
an expression of deep sadness lingered in her soft eyes; but the
change in her took place so slowly, so gradually, that no one seemed
to be aware of it. As the days shortened, they would spend their
evenings over the wood fire in the manor drawing-room, reading aloud
from some favorite book of poetry or prose. Jean invariably found a
place on the divan in the corner, and when someone rallied her on her
lazy habit, she only smiled faintly and nestled down among the
cushions. One cold, gusty evening, when the rain beat against the
windowpanes and the wind howled dismally about the house, Eleanor took
up a volume of poems from the table and began to read a poem called
"Oenone." Helen's eyes unconsciously sought Jean's face. It was half
turned away, and one little hand made shift to shield it, but Helen
distinctly saw two great tears steal silently down from under the
closed lids.
This set her heart to aching, and alone in her room that night she
pondered long what could be done for her poor little sister. In the
end she penned a letter, which in the morning she carried herself to
the post-office, and anxiously awaited the result.
Before October had well-nigh come around, Jean was really ill; so ill
that Aunt Helen, and even thoughtless Nathalie, were seriously
concerned. All day long she would lie on the sofa in her room,
scarcely speaking save in response to some direct question that was
put to her, and all through the long hours of the night her tired eyes
never closed.
"I don't think she ever sleeps," Nathalie confided to Helen one day in
a troubled voice. "Whenever I speak to her she is always wide-awake,
and once or twice I have thought I heard her crying."
Helen shook her head sadly, and watched the mails with an increasing
impatience for the answer to her letter. It came at last, and when she
had read it through hurriedly, she went at once to Jean's room, and
sitting down beside her, took her cold little hands in hers.
"Do you feel so badly to-day, dear?" she said tenderly.
"No, Helen, only very tired."
The sigh with which these words were spoken went right to Helen's
heart.
"Would you like to go away where you would have a complete change of
scene?"
Jean raised herself on her elbow, and turned an eager eye toward her
sister.
"Oh, yes. I want to go away. It's the only thing in the world I really
want, and oh, I want it so very much. Helen, I--I can't stay here."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't you see how hard it is for me?"
Helen bent down and kissed her.
"Well, darling, I have arranged it for you, and I have only been
waiting for this letter to tell you that it was all right. You see, I
didn't want to speak to you, dear, until everything was settled. Now,
shall I read you what the letter says?"
"Yes."
Helen drew the letter from her pocket and unfolded it:
"I am so sorry to hear that poor little Jean is not well. It
is hard to imagine her otherwise than rosy and smiling. I
think with you that probably a change of scene would do her
more good than all the medicines in the world, and I see my
way clear at once to carry out your proposition. My aunt,
Mrs. Fay, crosses in the middle of October to join us here
in Paris, and I want you to send Jean over with her. The
ocean trip will be the first step toward recovery, and you
must trust to our watchful care and the newness of her
surroundings to complete the cure."
Helen paused and Jean broke in hurriedly, a faint color rising in her
pale cheeks:
"Dear old Guy! how like him, always thoughtful, always tender. O
Helen, yes; let me go. I would be so glad to, and I know it would do
me good."
"Would you be happy with Guy and his mother, Jean?"
Jean's sad eyes met her sister's for a moment, and then were slowly
averted.
"I love them both dearly," she answered gently, "and I want above
everything to go away from Hetherford. Please help me to do this,
Helen. You will gain Auntie's consent."
And with this reply Helen was fain to be content. She had refrained
from reading aloud the closing lines of Guy's letter, which, running
thus, had made her heart beat strangely:
Our plans are somewhat indefinite. My aunt does not care to
spend more than two months over here, and it is her
intention to return home at Christmas time. If a stay of
this duration should effect Jean's cure she might return
with her, for there is a chance that she may be homesick so
far away from you all. It would be very pleasant to return
home at this sweet season. My own thoughts turn that way so
often. Helen, can you never hold out any hope to me? Must
this season of peace come and go, leaving my heart as lonely
as ever? Must I wait forever, in strange lands, for one word
from you? Forgive me if I do wrong to write you thus, but
your letter has undone me.
Faithfully yours,
GUY APPLETON.
In less than two weeks Jean Lawrence sailed for Europe under the care
of Mrs. Fay. A sense of desolation inwrapped the manor. The weather
was sharp and cold and the sweet warm summer seemed a dream, and every
little thing that recalled it gave the girls a pang. Emily Varian had
departed, and both the Hills and Andrews were about to turn their
faces cityward.
One crisp morning, when the wind blew fresh from the northwest,
Eleanor came out from the inn with Cliff Archer at her side and
started briskly forth in the direction of the parsonage. Eleanor's
face wore an expression of deep dejection, and Cliff, observing this,
made comment on it:
"You are down on your luck."
Eleanor smiled somewhat dubiously:
"It is in the air, Cliff. I don't know what is the matter with us all.
Our good spirits seem to have deserted us with Jean."
There was a brief silence, broken by Archer. He spoke slowly, as if
not quite sure of his ground:
"It was in the air before Jean went away, I think. It strikes me that
she was fully under its influence herself."
Eleanor shot a glance at her companion:
"Jean was not well, you know."
"And there was a cause. Come, Eleanor, let us be frank. You may trust
my affection for Jean to keep me from prying into her affairs, but
some things this summer were quite too patent to be disregarded."
"I don't know what you mean," Eleanor interposed hurriedly.
"Oh, yes, you do. It is natural for you to shield Jean, because from
your point of view, she has been badly treated. Well, I don't agree
with you in that. If ever a man was honestly in love, that man was
Valentine Farr. I don't pretend to know what the trouble was between
them, but I have a suspicion, on general principles, that jealousy was
at the bottom of it. I don't believe that Jean's was well founded and
I wish she had a friend who felt at liberty to tell her so. I have
kept silent for a long time, too long perhaps; but now I have set the
ball rolling, and shall await results."
They were in the parsonage grounds now, and Eleanor paused and laid
her hand lightly on Cliff's arm.
"I would do anything in the world for Jean, as you know, Cliff, but I
feel too much in the dark to take any step at present. You may be
right; indeed, I think you are; but remember neither you nor I are
quite sure of Jean's feeling on the subject, and it is a very delicate
matter to meddle with."
"I would risk it," smiled Cliff.
After a moment he spoke again, in a tone of deeper earnestness:
"A very grave trouble can arise from a slight misunderstanding,
Eleanor. I wish, dear, that you and I could put that possibility out
of reach. I have tried to be patient, but when I see so much sorrow
brought about undoubtedly by a lack of frankness and confidence, I
tremble for our future. If you do care for me, dear, why will you not
tell me so? Surely you cannot doubt the sincerity of my love for you."
Eleanor raised her eyes to her lover's face.
"I think you know, Cliff----" she began, when Nan's voice broke in
upon them.
"Hello! Now what are you two doing, philandering in this secluded
spot?"
"Talking of subjects quite beyond your ken, my dear," drawled Cliff
lazily.
"You won't catch your train if you don't come down to mother earth,"
laughed Nan.
Archer consulted his watch, and then bade the girls a hurried good-by
and started off for the station. Nan linked her arm in Eleanor's and
they proceeded leisurely to the parsonage, talking as they went. One
sentence remained in Nan's mind, awakening there a long train of
thought.
"The summer is over, Nan, and we are about to disband. We have,
perhaps, had more gayety and less real happiness than in the years
gone by. I think you know as well as I the reasons for this. You are
the only one, I think, who could set some crooked matters straight.
Suppose you see what you can do?"
Enigmatical as the words were, Nan understood their purpose, and when,
on the last evening before the Andrews and the Hills were to leave
Hetherford, they assembled at the manor, she had quite determined to
follow Eleanor's suggestion. It was a custom of long standing for Nan,
Mollie, and Eleanor to spend the last night of the season with the
Lawrence girls, to talk over the events of the summer and to
anticipate the future.
To-night, as they gathered around the wide fireplace in the
drawing-room, a certain sadness hovered over them, subduing their
voices, breaking the conversation with frequent spaces of silence.
Their hearts were full of thoughts that were left unspoken. Jean's
absence made itself strongly felt among them, so closely was she
associated with every like occasion in the past.
"Nothing seems real without her," said Eleanor drearily. "This parting
is like no other."
"I hate partings anyway," cried Mollie. "I am always so afraid that we
will not come together again quite in the old way!"
"All things must change
To something new, to something strange!"
quoted Helen.
"Now, girls, this is nonsense," exclaimed Nathalie, struggling with
the lump that would rise in her throat. "Jean is going to have a
splendid time, and will come home as strong and well as ever, and at
Christmas time you will all come up here and we will have a grand
reunion."
No answer to Nathalie's cheerful prediction suggested itself, and
Helen made a welcome diversion by announcing that it was bedtime.
"Nan, will you share my room?" she asked as they were on their way
upstairs.
"Well, I should think so. I particularly want to have a good talk with
you alone."
"That is nice. I am just in the humor for it, too."
When they had donned their wrappers Helen threw herself down on the
sofa before the open fire, and Nan knelt down on the hearthstone to
stir the logs into a brighter blaze.
"A cheerful fire is always inspiring to me," she said explanatorily.
"I can talk so much better when I am thoroughly warm and cozy."
Helen smiled indulgently.
"All right, Nan; make yourself comfie, and then talk to me."
The flames were crackling up the chimney now, and Nan settled herself
on the hearthrug with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Do you think Jean will be happy so far away from you all?"
"She wanted very much to go," Helen replied evasively.
"Yes, I know that. Helen, Jean was not happy before she went away. Did
you not see it?"
Helen did not speak, and after a moment Nan resumed quietly:
"Yes, Jean was unhappy, and yet Mr. Farr loved her dearly."
Helen sat up and looked at her friend in blank astonishment.
"Why, Nan----"
"Dear, I couldn't help guessing it. Indeed, I don't mean to be
impertinent, but I believe Mr. Farr was in love with Jean, and I can't
bear to see everything going wrong, when a little common sense would
set it right."
"I am afraid it would take more than that, Nan. Mr. Farr is in love
with Lillian, I think, and probably he meant nothing by his attentions
to Jean."
"He may have been in love with Miss Stuart once, but he is not now,"
declared Nan in a tone of conviction.
"You are mistaken, Nan. I am sure you are."
"I think not," returned Nan stubbornly. "I have had my eyes wide open,
and I believe I am right."
"Then why did he treat Jean so?" demanded Helen. "Toward the end of
his stay here he hardly ever came to the manor, and he went away
without even calling to say good-by. In fact I don't think Jean knew
the _Vortex_ was going."
But Nan's opinion was quite unshaken. She dropped her chin in her hand
and stared thoughtfully into the fire.
"I will tell you something," she said impressively. "The afternoon
before the _Vortex_ left, I was on my way to the inn, when from a
distance I saw Mr. Farr turn in at the manor gates. You remember that
shortly after Bridget came over for me, and I was so cross at having
to leave our game of tennis?"
Helen nodded, and Nan went on:
"Well, on my way over I saw Mr. Farr come out from the manor grounds.
His cap was drawn down over his eyes, and so lost was he in his own
thoughts that he passed me on the other side of the road, and did not
even see me. There was something in his whole figure and bearing
expressive of disappointment and unhappiness. Oh, you needn't look
incredulous," turning her head to scan Helen's face. "A person's
carriage is often most expressive."
"I wasn't looking incredulous, Nan, I was only wondering what point
you were going to make out of all this."
"That Mr. Farr did go to the manor to say good-by to Jean. I don't
think he could have seen her, for from the time he went in the manor
gates until he left them again, he could only have walked to the door
and right back again without stopping."
"I know he didn't," said Helen quietly, "for Jean told me so." She
hesitated a moment, then added: "Lillian was at home that afternoon."
Nan's face grew downcast.
"I don't believe he went to see Miss Stuart," she persisted, somewhat
unreasonably. "I believe that there was some great mistake somewhere.
I knew," she went on, as Helen did not reply, "that Jean was surprised
to find that he and Miss Stuart were old friends. He may not have told
her, but that was probably accidental. At any rate that was the
beginning of the difficulty, and every incident from there on served
to widen the breach. Jean thought she had been willfully deceived, and
Miss Stuart was not loath to lend herself to strengthen that
conviction."
"I don't see how you can blame Lillian," objected Helen irritably. "It
was not her fault that Mr. Farr was in love with her. I think they
were once engaged;" this last somewhat fearfully, for she did not know
that she was doing right to betray her friend's secret.
Nan shrugged her shoulders:
"That may be, but it is only a greater reason why he is not in love
with her now."
This bit of worldly cynicism struck on deaf ears, for Helen was
revolving many things in her mind.
"There are, of course, many things that I cannot attempt to explain,"
Nan continued, "but I still hold to my belief that Mr. Farr cared for
Jean. I like him, and I don't believe he would ever have deliberately
deceived her."
A brief pause ensued.
"Nan," said Helen, "I wish the _Vortex_ had never come to anchor
here. Everything has gone wrong since then."
"Be fair, Helen. Are you sure the fault lay there? It seems to me that
everything went happily until----"
"Until when? Go on, Nan."
"Until Miss Stuart came."
Helen, who had been half-sitting up, with her head propped on her
hand, dropped back among the cushions with a heavy sigh.
"I don't know why you should think so. You are prejudiced against
Lillian, and harsh in your thoughts of her. I am not at all sure that
it is fair."
Nan gained her feet, and looked gravely down at her friend:
"Is it not true, dear? Think, Helen. Have not many things gone wrong
since your acquaintance with Miss Stuart? Oh! I am sure of it, quite
sure."
Unbroken silence.
"Are you angry with me, Helen?" Nan asked at length.
"No, no."
"May I say something still further, dear?"
"Of course; I know you would never willfully be unkind."
Nan sat down on the sofa:
"Things have gone wrong since the day you met Miss Stuart, and the
reason is that you persisted in a friendship of which Guy so strongly
disapproved. Tell me, Helen, was it not Miss Stuart who separated you
from Guy? Was it not on her account that you quarreled?"
"I suppose so; but Guy was very strange and unreasonable, and I liked
Lillian; her friendship was very sweet."
"O Helen, you had known Guy all your life; you should have relied on
his judgment, you should have trusted him. Do you think that for any
light or insufficient reason he would have thwarted you? Had he not
always shown himself thoroughly unselfish in everything that concerned
you? You did him a very cruel wrong when you mistrusted him, Helen;
and I don't see how you could have been so cold when he loved you so."
For answer, Helen raised her eyes and looked at Nan through her tears.
"I want to help you to see what a mistake you have made," Nan
continued gently. "You had grown used to Guy, his devotion was such an
old story that you thought you did not love him. Miss Stuart's great
beauty fascinated you, and she soon found it easy to bend you to her
will. Forgive me, darling, but this once I must speak bluntly. Many
and many a time you would have gone back to your allegiance to Guy had
she not willed it otherwise, and had he, poor fellow, not taken the
worst course for his cause. It was foolish for him to go away, but Guy
never could bear half-measures. Since then you have almost learned to
know Lillian Stuart for yourself. Yet, even to this day, you blind
yourself about her. I sometimes am tempted to think it is simply
because she is so beautiful."
Helen started up, her face ablaze.
"Nan, Nan, you are unjust. You despise me because I gave Guy up, but
I tell you I realized I did not love him before I ever saw Lillian
Stuart. I do love her."
"Pshaw," interrupted Nan indignantly. "Guy Appleton is the best and
truest man in the world, and you must have loved him if you had not
been unduly influenced. There, dear, don't be angry. You know how fond
I am of Guy, and how keenly I took his disappointment to heart. He
loved you so, Helen, and he was so miserable."
"Please spare me, Nan," murmured Helen brokenly.
"I can't spare you, dear. If your mistakes had simply made you suffer,
I would never have said a word, but it is not so. Miss Stuart has
crossed Jean's path, and for her sake I have spoken."
"If it is true, if I were sure of it, I would want to die."
"Dying would not do any good. Live, and some day it may be in your
power to put an end to all this sorrow."
"Nan, are you sure that Mr. Farr is in love with Jean?"
"Not sure, Helen, but I think so."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing at present. We must wait, and see what happens. Oh! I am very
hopeful for the future."
When they were in bed and the lights were out, Nan ventured to ask:
"Don't you think Guy will ever return to Hetherford?"
"I don't know, dear," Helen replied, with a sound of tears in her
voice.
Nan longed to shake her, to say "You ought to know; it depends solely
upon you; why don't you do something about it?" but she felt she had
gone far enough for one night, and turning over on her pillow, fell
fast asleep.
Nan was only a country-bred lass, and yet not all her separation from
the world and from her fellow-creatures could shut her out from an
unerring comprehension of human nature. Her wide sympathies taught her
to understand Helen's coldness toward a lover whose one fault was that
he had demanded too little and yielded too much; and she was too
thorough an artist not to fully appreciate the wonderful spell that
beauty such as Miss Stuart's casts upon certain natures.
The next day the rain came down in sheets, and nothing drearier could
be imagined than the Hetherford station, where Helen and Nathalie
awaited the arrival of their friends, who were to depart on the train
which was now almost due. Presently the old omnibus backed up to the
platform, and from its damp interior the Hills and Andrews slowly
emerged, their faces as gloomy as the leaden sky above, as they went
through the irksome task of buying tickets and checking trunks. Nan
came rushing in upon the scene just as the train drew up at the
station. There were a few hurried words of farewell, and then, with a
clanging of bells and puffing of steam, the train sped on its way to
the far-off city. When the three girls clambered into the Lawrences'
great closed rockaway, they felt sorely tempted to give way to tears
and lamentations. The horses splashed through the mud, the rain beat
against the windowpanes, the east wind wailed and sighed through the
trees. Nan got out at the parsonage, and in silence the two sisters
drove on to the manor. Nathalie threw off her hat and coat, and
seating herself at the big table in the center of the hall-way, began
a long letter to Jean. From the fireside Helen watched her for a few
moments and then mounted slowly to her room, feeling too dispirited
for even Aunt Helen's society.
By and by a soft little voice from without begged for admission, and
she opened the door and gladly drew Gladys into the room.
"Baby, you are just the little girlie I wanted. Sister feels very dull
and lonely to-day."
"Me too," echoed Gladys, as she climbed into her lap.
"Well, well, that is too bad. We shall have to comfort each other."
"What is comfort, sister?"
"Comfort, Dolly? Why to comfort anyone is to try to make them happy
when something is troubling them."
"Auntie says I'se her comfort," Gladys affirmed, with a wise little
nod of her head.
"So you are, pet, and not only Auntie's, but mine too."
The child nestled down contentedly in her sister's arms. Her big eyes,
wandering about the room, rested at length upon a large folding frame
of photographs which stood on the mantel.
"I wish Jeanie didn't go 'way," she said in a pathetic little voice.
"What made you think of Jean, dear?"
"'Cause I just was lookin' at her picture."
Helen lifted her eyes to the mantel.
"So you were. We all miss Jean very much, don't we, darling?"
"Who's that, sister?" asked Gladys, pointing to the photograph next to
the one of Jean.
"Don't you know?"
"I kind of 'member, but I ain't sure."
"Have you forgotten Mr. Appleton, Gladys--Guy Appleton?" queried Helen
in a low tone.
"Oh, now I 'member," cried Gladys gleefully. "Don't you know the
little kitty he gave me? Larry harnessed her to my little wed cart,
an' she wan up the willow tree with it." And at the recollection, the
child burst into a merry peal of laughter.
Helen laughed, too, in sympathy, and then it came back to her how
nicely Guy had spoken to the children, telling them that what was fun
to them was suffering to poor kitty, and impressing upon them how
unkind and cowardly it was to be cruel to any living creature.
They talked on thus, this big and little sister, until twilight had
come. Then Helen put the child down from her lap, and sent her off to
the nursery for her supper. As she turned back into the room, her eyes
could just discern the outline of the frame upon the mantel, but
although the photographs within it were quite obscured by the dusk,
Guy's face rose before her with startling distinctness. She dropped
into a chair, and a dismal little laugh broke from her.
"Oh, dear, I wish Gladys and Nan had both kept still. Now I don't know
what I do want."
Week followed week monotonously, with little to mark the flight of
time save the arrival of letters from Jean and the Appletons. Jean
wrote cheerfully, declaring that she was much better and in excellent
spirits, but Mrs. Appleton's reports were much less encouraging.
"Jean never complains," she wrote, "and seems filled with a restless
desire to keep constantly on the move, but she still looks very
fragile, and I sometimes fear that all at once she will break down
completely. However, you must not be anxious, about her, for perhaps I
am needlessly so. Mrs. Fay expects to return home at Christmas time,
and I imagine that by then Jean will be quite ready to accompany her."
The last week in November Helen went to town to spend Thanksgiving
with the Hills.
"It seemed almost selfish to take you away from Nathalie," Eleanor
said, as they drove rapidly away from the station through the noisy,
crowded streets, "but I was longing for a sight of someone from
Hetherford, and I thought it would be such fun to begin to do our
Christmas shopping together. A little later the shops are so terribly
overcrowded."
The first few days of Helen's visit were passed chiefly in this wise,
and partly because her time was so fully occupied, and partly because
of a curiously uncomfortable feeling which she could not shake off,
she neglected to let Miss Stuart know that she was in town. On the
fourth evening after her arrival they dined at a famous restaurant
with an uncle and aunt of Eleanor's and two youths of the _jeunesse
dorée_. Helen had felt very shy at first, but this was fast wearing
off, and she was talking quite naturally and pleasantly with her
companion, when a party of two ladies and half a dozen men entered the
room, and selecting a table at a short distance from where Eleanor and
her friends were seated, grouped themselves about it; their loud
talking and easy assurance attracting universal attention. Helen
stared at them a little curiously, and then, as one of the ladies drew
off her long tan gloves and let her gaze wander slowly around the
room, she gave a sudden start. At the same instant the lady's glance
met Helen's, and the recognition was mutual. Miss Stuart gracefully
inclined her head, a certain surprise in her eyes, and Helen flushed
crimson as she returned the bow.
"Why, there is Miss Stuart," exclaimed Eleanor. "I can't imagine why
she chooses such a companion as Mrs. Desborough."
"And why should Miss Stuart be so particular?" laughed the man at her
side. "It would be the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn't it?"
Eleanor broke in hurriedly, with some totally irrelevant remark, but
the words had reached Helen's ears. The color died out of her face,
and from that moment her companion found her silent and absent-minded.
As they passed out of the restaurant, Miss Stuart bowed smilingly to
Eleanor and turned a steady level glance on Helen.
"Who were you bowing to?" asked Mrs. Desborough from the other side of
the table.
"To Miss Hill and her friend Miss Lawrence," Miss Stuart replied a
little stiffly.
"What?" laughed the man at her side, "not that demure little girl who
was dining with Miss Hill?"
"The very same. She is a great friend of mine."
"Oh, come now, don't tell me that. You two never hit it off together."
Miss Stuart frowned.
"You will oblige me by not discussing the subject," she returned, in a
tone so unlike her usual careless, flippant one that her companion was
impressed by it. "I like her infinitely better than any woman I have
ever known."
"By Jove, I believe you are in earnest!"
"Don't believe anything," she answered sharply, and turning to the man
on her left plunged at once into a reckless flirtation.