It was late when Jean awoke. The household had been quiet on her
account, and breakfast was delayed. Jean came down white with her
vigil, but sweet and smiling notwithstanding.
The morning had brought clear vision and she was sure now that the
paper in her possession must be given to Holt and no other. She had
settled so much and would await her opportunity. This decided, her
mind was at peace, and she entered the dining-room with a smile of
greeting for everyone.
Late as it was, the master of the house had not yet appeared and the
family stood about waiting for him. But as Jean entered the servant
came in from an opposite door with his arms full of roses, and stood
before her.
Such roses! Jean had never seen such wealth of beauty, such
luxuriance of coloring. They all exclaimed in wonder over them!
Clear golden-yellow with a deep, rosy tint at heart like liquid
rubies spilled into them. Great heavy-headed buds and full blown
roses in abundance, many of them still on the trailing vines, as if
they had been plucked with ruthless hand to offer to a queen; their
fragrance filled the room like a burst of incense from some oriental
shrine. The servant laid them in her arms as though he were offering
her a crown and sceptre.
"How wonderful!" murmured the girl, receiving them and laying her
face reverently down to their exquisite beauty. "Where did they come
from? Are they mine? Do they grow here?"
"I found them at the door, Miss," said the man respectfully.
"There's only a card with your name."
"Why, how strange!" said Mrs. Harrington, stepping forward to inspect
the card. "Who could have sent them? I have told a number of the
young men about your coming, and they are all eager to see you; but
it's strange that whoever sent these beautiful roses shouldn't have
given his name. They are wonderfully rare. Somebody must have
squandered his month's earnings on them. They couldn't have been
bought around here. I suppose they came from some florist a long way
off."
The discreet servant narrowed his eyes and turned away suddenly as he
saw his master enter.
"Just look here, James, what beautiful roses someone has sent Jean!
Wasn't that lovely of him, whoever he is? They were at the door when
John opened it this morning, and no name on them! Who do you suppose
could have sent them? Stockton Holmes, or Gartney Fowler, or even
Captain Wetherill, perhaps?"
But the master of the house glanced sharply at the roses and a frown
came between his brows.
"There's only one place around here where roses like that grow," he
announced ominously.
His wife looked at him with a frightened expression.
"You don't mean----?"
"Yes," said Harrington. "They're Holt's Golden Sunset!"
There was an ominous silence as the husband and wife looked at each
other. Then Mrs. Harrington turned to her sister, who stood behind
her roses with an exquisite flush on her cheeks and a soft, burning
light of battle in her eyes.
"Jean, did you know where they came from?" her sister asked, almost
haughtily.
But Jean's lovely face showed no sign of intimidation as she raised
it, gravely sweet, from the roses which she held as she might have
held a little child.
"I thought perhaps Mr. Holt sent them," she said simply. "He told me
about his roses. But excuse me just a minute till I put them in
water. I won't keep you waiting."
When Jean returned after laying her roses tenderly in the wash-bowl
in her room and bending to touch her lips to their petals, there was
no look on her face as if anything unusual had passed except a kind
of glorified light in her eyes. She began at once to give her sister
a message from their mother, tactfully ignoring the flowers and their
donor. But Harrington's set look did not relax during the entire
meal.
After breakfast there was the whole place to be seen; the garden, the
horses, the rabbits, and the new lawn-tennis court, the only one in
town, where the young officers from the Fort came down to play
sometimes.
The children came out of their shyness and adopted their new relative
ecstatically, monopolizingly. They drew her down on the garden seat
and plied her with questions, and they chattered away happily,
feeling her hair, touching her cheek softly now and then, playing
with the ribbons at her throat.
"Papa's awfully angry that Jasper Holt brought you home," confided
Betty. "I heard him tell mamma he'd rather have lost fifty thousand
dollars than had it happen."
The color stole into Jean's cheeks and a flash came in her eyes, but
she tried to control herself. She did not want to discuss this
matter with the children, and yet she felt that she must be true to
the man who had saved her life.
"Mr. Holt was very kind to me, Betty," she said quietly. "I'm sorry
he is not a friend of your papa's. If he hadn't taken care of me I
would probably have drowned, and I'm sure I never would have got
safely here. He was wonderful!"
"Jasper Holt's a bad, wicked man," said Jamie, looking at her with
round eyes and a frown that was a very good imitation of his
father's. "He-he-he _hanged_ a man once! On a _tree_! Yes, he
_did_! Tied a string around his neck and hung him up hard till he
died! He's a _nawful_ bad man. Nicky Deens told me that. My mamma
don't know he told me. Nicky said not to tell. But Nicky Deens saw
the tree once when he went with his papa out to the desert riding,
and he heard the men tell all about it. They didn't know he heard
it, but he _did_."
"I don't think much of a little boy that tells you not to tell your
mother things," said Jean in a choking voice. "I don't believe I
shall like Nicky Deens."
"Oh, you will," said Jamie in distress for his friend. "He's a
_nawful_ nice boy. He can ride a horse just like his papa----" and
Jamie launched into a description of the prowess of Nicky Deens, but
Jean, although she tried to smile, was not listening. Her heart was
in a tumult and her eyes were full of fire and indignation. Jasper
had told her about that man who hung on the tree. She knew the whole
story with all its circumstances, and she knew that Nicky Deens had
heard a false account of the affair. Suddenly she turned on her
astonished young nephew and spoke:
"Jamie," she said looking earnestly into his big, blue eyes, "Jamie,
I want to tell you something. That story you heard about Mr. Holt is
not true. He is not a bad man. People don't know. He is good and
kind, and he has been Auntie Jean's friend. It isn't right nor fair
for you to listen to stories about him. Little boys like Nicky Deens
don't know about things always, and maybe they don't mean to tell
what isn't true, but if you love Auntie Jean and believe she tells
you what is true you will not let anybody say bad things any more
about Mr. Holt. It isn't necessary for you to talk about it at all
if your papa doesn't like Mr. Holt, but you don't need to listen to
unpleasant things about him. People have not understood Mr. Holt, or
they would not have talked that way."
Jamie looked at her with round, wondering eyes, and his paternal
frown grew. He did not like to have his thrilling story spoiled by
being told it was not true, but then, this new aunt had pretty eyes
and a smile that was good. Besides, she had promised to tell him a
story, so, with mental reservations, he said:
"Aw right, I won't!" and sighed to relinquish this choice bit of
gossip, even during the period of his aunt's stay.
It was a relief to Jean that her sister came just then and sent the
children off to play, sitting down for a real visit about home and
their dear ones.
Finally there came a pause in their conversation about home and the
two sisters looked at each other contentedly, glad to be together
again after the long separation.
"Jean, dear," said Eleanor eagerly, "I hope you're going to have a
lovely time while you're here. I've told every man in the region
about you and they are dying to call on you. I don't know how many
have tried to bribe me to let them be first. There are no end of
charming young fellows here. The Post being so near brings some of
them, you know, and they love to come over to our house and get a
real home meal and a glimpse of something like what they are used to.
There's Charlie Evans, you'll like him I know. He's quite
serious--thought of studying for the ministry at one time, but I
understand he began to be rather skeptical and gave it up. You'll be
just the one to do a little missionary work on him. You have great
talents in that direction I remember. Mother has been telling me
what wonders you've worked in your Sunday School class at the
mission. And there's Freeman Thorne, he's grave and serious enough
to suit your solemnest mood; and there are scores of others. You'll
have flowers and invitations, more than you can attend to, pretty
soon. We've lots of plans made already to help you have a good time.
But I want to give you a little warning, dear." A kind of constraint
came in her voice. "Don't speak about Jasper Holt unless you have
to, and then the very briefest word. He isn't in good repute at all,
indeed, he isn't! I understand how grateful you feel, of course; you
weren't in a position to judge what kind of a fellow he was. I don't
suppose one's manners would show up very badly in the woods when two
people had been drowning and barely escaped with their lives. People
don't think of manners at such a time----"
"Eleanor, he was a perfect gentleman," put in Jean indignantly.
"There were lots of chances to show unrefinement, and he was a
_perfect gentleman_ every time. You don't understand, Eleanor."
"Well, now dear, you'll have to trust me a little. I know just what
he is, _a bad man_--a really _bad_ young man! Papa wouldn't have
your name mixed up with his for _anything in the world_! I know you
can't be convinced, just now, because you've come through an unusual
experience together, and I'm sure I'm glad if he was half decent--it
wasn't to be expected--though it's what I've always claimed, that a
really nice girl always has the upper hand of a man, even a bad man,
and he dare not be rude to her. Then, of course, it was quite
thoughtful of him to leave those roses the way he did and go away
without any message. I'll give him credit for that. But it was most
unfortunate that he should have been the one to save you! Papa would
not at all approve of your having anything more to do with him
whatever."
"That is just what he said," said Jean quietly.
"What _he_ said!" exclaimed her sister. "Really! Then he does
realize a little what people think of him! Well, that is a
commendable attitude, of course, and if you think it necessary, you
might write a formal little note, very brief, and thank him for
bringing you home, but make him understand that he is not to
presume--or, if you prefer, I might do it for you. On second thought
I think mamma would prefer that I----"
"It is not in the least necessary, Eleanor; I have thanked Mr. Holt
already, and he understands perfectly that it would not be agreeable
to you to have him come here. You said you had sewing to do, don't
you want me to help you with something? I'd love to."
There was a dignity in the set of the head and the firm curve of lip
that made Mrs. Harrington survey her young sister with wonder and
silence as they arose and went toward the house. The way Jean had
set aside the topic of young Holt was masterly. Mrs. Harrington had
not said nearly all she meant to say on the subject, but somehow she
did not see the way clear to open the subject again at present. She
looked at Jean uneasily from time to time as they sat together in the
house, or went about from room to room, flying from one topic to
another as people will do who have been long separated. Three
distinct times did Mrs. Harrington essay to give an extended
dissertation on the evil deeds and reputation of Jasper Holt, and
each time the subject was as summarily closed, and quietly set aside
by Jean as if she had no interest whatever in the young man. It gave
the woman almost an uncanny feeling, and actually disturbed her
seriously, so that she was threatened with one of her nervous
headaches; and after lunch, having had to confess to her husband that
she had made no headway in doing his bidding about enlightening her
sister with regard to his enemy, she retired to her darkened room to
sleep. Jean, glad of escape to quiet, fled to her roses.
Broodingly, as a mother would touch her little child while it sleeps,
Jean hovered over those flowers. The door was locked safe from
intrusion, and the children sent to a neighbor's that the house might
be quiet. She drew the little table near the great window chair, and
placed the bowl of roses upon it.
They filled the bowl, lying heavy-headed in great sheaves over its
rim on their cool, luscious leaves, those leaves of that peculiar
green touched with burnt sienna on tips and veins, that speak of a
high state of cultivation, and rare stock. She laid her cheek
against the cool yellow of the flowers, then her lips, then her
closed eyelids, while she let her thoughts rove back to the yesterday
and the time when their giver had been at her side; the words he had
spoken, the way he had looked, the sound of his voice, and the firm
clasp of his hand. It all rushed over her in a tumult of joy and
sorrow. This was the man she knew, so kind, so tender, so strong, so
true; and that other was the one they thought he was! She could
never feel that way about him no matter what people told her, for she
had seen what they had not. If they had been there in her place and
he had been that strong companion and friend they might have
understood. She would, of course, respect their wishes, and not do
anything to trouble those who loved her; but she would trust him
always.
And now there stirred in her mind the remembrance of that paper, the
disposition of which she must decide at once. How should she get it
to him? It would not do to send for him. He could not, probably
would not, come if she did. Even a letter which did not explain too
much would be a difficult thing to manage, at least until she knew
the way to the post-office and could mail it herself. If it were
carried by a servant or a member of the family it might be subject to
inspection. Yet the paper ought to go to him at once. Still, of
course, in her keeping it was at least out of his enemies' hands, if
enemies they were, these dear people of her own family. Oh, why were
things at once so bitter and so sweet in this hard, bright world?
She buried her face in the roses again and let their sweetness rush
over her. As she did so a slight rustling sound startled her, and
when she lifted up her face and then pressed it close again she heard
it once more. Curious, with a wild fleeting hope floating through
her brain, she sat up and began to touch the buds and blossoms
softly, eagerly, searchingly with her fingers. Yes, there it was,
that sound of crackling paper!
She folded back the petals of the largest bud, and there, laid deftly
in like another flower-leaf, she found a tiny bit of folded paper.
Eagerly she took it out and opened it, for it was very thin and
folded close, and there was writing, small and fine, but boldly,
distinctly clear:
"I have to go away. For how long I do not know. I shall not forget
my promise. You may trust me. I hope you have a happy time."
The tears were in her eyes as she read the brief message over and
over again, and laid her lips upon it. Bright drops fell upon the
roses and stood like dew drops.
She searched the other blossoms carefully, but there were no more
messages, and she had known there would not be. He would not think
it "square" to write more of the things that were in his heart, and
she loved him the more for his sense of honor toward her.
Then she remembered the water contract.
Now, what should she do with the paper? She could not give it to him
while he was away. It might await his return and be lost if she
trusted it to the mail. She must wait for a few days and see if he
came back; and meantime she would listen and watch as far as it lay
in her power, that no harm came near his rights. If worst came to
worst she would confide in her father. He was wise, and he would
understand. He would feel as she did about this matter if he knew
all. The difficulty would be to make him know all through the medium
of a mere letter. But for the present she would wait.
A sense of desolation settled down upon her when she realized that
Holt was gone away; yet she was at peace about it. At least she need
not always be fearing lest her relatives should be unpleasant to him,
or that embarrassing circumstances might arise where she would be
obliged to choose between her sense of loyalty to her lover and her
sense of loyalty to her relatives in whose home she was a guest. But
for a little time she put away these thoughts and let her happy heart
dwell on the fact that he had sent these glorious roses with their
secret message; and finally she lay down for a rest and slept, with
one great yellow bud nestled against her cheek.