"PEACE ON EARTH--GOOD WILL TO MEN."
On a most delicious day late in December there is an air of unusual
bustle and excitement over the manor. Outside the ground is covered
with a deep mantle of glistening snow, and overhead the winter's sun
shines cold and clear from out a vault of deepest blue. Within the
house wood fires are blazing on every hearth, and the atmosphere is
filled with the fragrance of fresh flowers which Helen's deft hands
have just arranged in every available vase and bowl.
Only yesterday the travelers from the other side arrived; Mrs.
Appleton supremely contented to be once more at home; Guy, with the
anticipation of his happiness lighting his whole face, and Jean sweet
and brave as ever, but with a deep sadness in her eyes, and looking
such a frail and slender figure in her close-fitting gown.
Helen and Nathalie had gone to town to meet them, and had brought them
to Hetherford; for on the morrow all the old friends were to gather at
the manor for Christmas, and the girls wanted one long quiet evening
with Jean before the arrival of their guests.
This home-coming was very hard for poor Jean; harder than she had
anticipated; and when the first little excitement of her meeting with
Aunt Helen and the children was over, it required all her courage to
keep her face bright and smiling, her voice gay and cheery. Everything
spoke to her of Farr, and she sighed a little wearily, as she realized
that all her journeyings had lessened not one whit the pain at her
heart. As they gathered before the blazing logs in the drawing-room,
just after dinner, to talk over all that had happened since they
parted, Helen's loving heart detected the undercurrent of pathos which
ran through all Jean's spirited accounts of her travels and
adventures; and she was tempted to speak just the few words which
alone could bring back the sunny light-hearted expression to Jean's
face. She resisted the temptation, however, for she had given Farr her
promise that his coming on the morrow should be a complete surprise.
He was to come out on an early train, so as to secure a quiet hour
with Jean before the manor was invaded by its other guests.
And now he is almost due, and Helen's heart beats fast, and her eyes
watch Jean's every movement as if she feared to let her out of her
sight. All the morning they have been dressing the house with
Christmas greens, and Jean stands on tip-toe to fasten the last wreath
over the fireplace, when a ringing of sleigh-bells breaks the
stillness of the snowy winter's day. Then there is a stamping of a
man's feet on the veranda, and Helen opens wide the door to admit
Valentine Farr. Jean's back is toward him, and there is just a brief
instant while she adjusts the last nail to secure the wreath, before
she turns.
"What a draught. Why don't you close the----" she begins; then,
turning, the hammer she is holding falls to the ground with a crash,
and, her hand on her heart, her eyes wide-open and startled, she
stands facing Valentine Farr.
In another instant Helen has closed the door and disappeared into the
drawing-room, and Farr has taken Jean's hands in his own, and is
speaking to her in a voice grown very deep and tender.
"Jean, my little love, have you no word of welcome for me?"
The blood rushes into her face, then ebbs away, leaving it even paler
than before.
"Ah, I have frightened you, sweetheart," Farr cries contritely, "and
you are not very strong yet, are you, dear? But I have waited such a
weary while; I have been so miserable for a sight of your sweet face;
I could not wait to tell you that I love you. Surely you must have
known it long ago, darling."
Jean's head droops lower and lower, and she does not speak.
"I want you to be my wife, dear," Farr's tender voice goes on. "Do you
love me, Jean?"
Still she is silent, and Farr's face grows very white.
"What is it, Jean? Are you angry with me for speaking to you so
abruptly? Oh, my love, my love, don't tell me that you cannot care for
me."
Then Jean raises her eyes, and though the tears are shining in them,
they are full of a great happiness.
"I do love you, dear, with all my heart and soul," she says very low,
but quite steadily.
Farr's face above her is eloquent, and for the moment they have no
need of words. Then the tears brim over in Jean's eyes, and with a
little tremulous cry she flings herself in his arms:
"O Val, I have been so miserable!"
And Farr, bending down, kisses her tenderly.
"Please God, darling, no misery will ever again come to you through
me."
* * * * *
A few hours later they all gather about the long dinner table and, in
the pause that follows upon their being seated, old Mr. Birdsall's
sweet and tremulous voice asks grace. In simple heartfelt words he
thanks God for the safe return of the travelers, and asks his tender
blessing for one and all. Every head is reverently bent, and every
heart echoes the earnest prayer.
This is a gala occasion, and in its honor Aunt Helen presides at the
head of the table, and Willie and Larry and even little Gladys are
present. With much ringing laughter and merriment the dinner hour
passes. Jean's voice is as joyous as in the old days, and Helen,
hearing the sweet sound, is filled with overwhelming gratitude.
"I tell you, girls," Dick cries enthusiastically, "this is a proud day
for me. I feel that it is entirely owing to my watchful care of you
all that these pleasant things have come to pass. Jean, my child, did
I not present Farr to you?"
Jean laughs, and blushes.
"Oh, I don't know, Dick. I am not quite clear about it. If you did I
am deeply indebted," and she turns a shy soft glance toward her lover.
"It was your humble servant. Now, there is a most appropriate way in
which you may reward me," and Dick holds a sprig of mistletoe high
above his head.
"No, no. What nonsense," protests Jean.
"You may," smiles Farr.
"But I don't want to," she laughs saucily.
"Poor Dick," exclaims Mollie sorrowfully, and she jumps up from the
table to give him a sisterly hug and a kiss. "I declare it is a shame.
I shan't see you so neglected."
"Thank you, my dear," returns Dick, with a grin, "that isn't quite the
same, but it is very sweet."
"Oh, dear," sighs Nan, as they push back their chairs, and wander into
the drawing-room, "how queer it seems to have Helen and Jean engaged.
It is all very amusing now, but what will become of us next summer. I
am afraid our compact is about at an end."
Cliff, who is standing near Eleanor, bends down to whisper something
to her, and then pushes her gently into the middle of the room. She
faces the group before her with flaming cheeks, and looks about her
helplessly.
"Girls, I suppose I must confess. I, too, am a traitor to our
compact."
"O Eleanor," cries Jean, excitedly, and puts a tender arm about her.
Cliff leans against the mantel, as nonchalant and languid as ever; but
his eyes rest on Eleanor with infinite pride and content. The girl
turns toward the others with a graceful gesture of appeal.
"Am I forgiven?"
They crowd about her with eager, loving words of congratulation; and
then, when the confusion has subsided, Nan begs their attention for a
moment.
"I have some news for you."
"O Nan! don't tell us you are engaged," implores Mollie dolorously.
Nan burst into a merry laugh.
"What an idea! No indeed. But, girls and boys what do you think? Emily
is _married_!"
"_Married?_" they cry in one breath.
"Yes, married to a very rich widower, with gray hair, and three big
children, and oh, lots of money!" and Nan almost chokes in her haste
to enumerate all these virtues.
"Now, Nan, be sensible, and take a long breath, and tell us all about
it," says Nathalie.
"Well, he owns a fine place at B----, where Em lives, and he knew her
when she was a little bit of a girl. He married and went to England to
live. About two years ago his wife died and this fall he returned to
B----, renewed his acquaintance with Em, proposed to her, and
yesterday they were married."
"What unseemly haste!" Mollie exclaims.
"No, not a bit of it. They didn't mean to be married until spring, but
Mr. Hazletine was suddenly recalled to England on important business,
which may keep him there several months, and he was so unhappy at
leaving Em that she consented to be married at once and go with him."
"To think of it! I suppose now Emily will roll by in her carriage,
wear magnificent clothes, and completely dazzle us with her jewels of
inestimable value."
"So much the better, Mollie," rejoins Helen heartily. "Poor little Em
has tasted of poverty all her life. Think what a relief it will be to
her to have ample means."
"It is fine," cries Eleanor.
"And what in the world shall we do?" groans Nathalie with a comical
glance at Nan and Mollie.
"Laugh at their love-making, and, with the hansom driver, be glad we
are not in it."
"O Nan, you rowdy," laughs Jean.
Helen rises, and makes her way to the door, closely followed by Guy.
"I am going to say good-night to Aunt Helen," she whispers, her eyes
drooping shyly under the steadfast gaze he bends upon her.
"I will wait for you here, dear," he says, and takes her hand in his,
but she blushes so painfully he lets it drop again.
"Foolish little woman," he sighs to himself. "Shall I ever really
possess her heart?"
In a few moments she rejoins him, and Guy puts his arm about her, and
leads her into the music room. No lamps are lighted, but the
window-shades are up, and the moon's soft rays shine through the
panes, illumining mysteriously the great empty room. Far away, across
the snowclad landscape, the slender spire of St. Andrew's points
heavenward, and through the windows of the church shines the red glow
of a light within. The scene is one of infinite peace and beauty, and
the magic of the hour casts its spell over Helen and her lover, as
speechless, motionless, they stand within the recess of the window,
gazing out at the marvelous beauty of the night.
By and by, Helen moves a little closer to her companion.
"I have something to tell you, Guy," she murmurs, "and I haven't the
courage to say it."
The old doubt, not yet dispelled, pales Guy's face.
"Don't tell me you are going to send me from you again, Helen."
The girl's heart throbs at the pain in his voice:
"No, no, dear. I want to tell you something so different. I love you,
Guy," her voice dropping to a whisper. "Please never leave me again."
He holds her to his heart with a love the deeper for all the pain and
waiting, finding a heaven in the sweet lips which meet his so frankly.
And even as they stand there the bell of St. Andrew's, solemnly
tolling the midnight hour, ushers in the glad Christmas tide.
"Helen," says Eleanor's voice from the doorway, "may we all come in?
We think it would be so sweet if you would play our Christmas hymn on
the organ and let us sing it together."
Helen pushes back the curtain, and steps forward, an expression of
perfect rest on her gentle face.
"Yes, indeed, I think it is a lovely idea."
Guy opens the organ. Helen steps into her place, and Cliff brings a
lamp from the hall, and places it nearby.
"Val," Jean whispers to her lover, "there is just one sad thought in
my heart to-night. I suppose it is the memory of Christ's message of
peace and love, which makes me so sorrowful when I think of the bitter
feeling between your mother and yourself. Do you think it will ever be
in my power to help to overcome it?"
"We will try together, sweetheart, and the great blessing of your love
will make all life easier, and better for me."
Then Helen's hands strike the opening chords of the hymn and a hush
falls upon the little group, and with one accord they move nearer the
organ, and as the last bell of St. Andrew's dies slowly away, their
voices take up the glad refrain:
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
"Peace on the earth, good will to men,
From heaven's all-gracious King."
The world in solemn stillness lay,
To hear the angels sing.
FINIS.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Colony of Girls, by Kate Livingston Willard