The tournament was set for the day before Jean started home.
It was to be a great event, the biggest thing the town of Hawk Valley
could devise in the way of entertainment for its most honored guests.
It was an all-day affair, with contests and games of every kind,
races and matches and a big procession with everyone wearing the
gayest and most fantastic garments the resources of the town afforded.
The climax of the program was to be late in the afternoon when the
great feats of riding were performed and the prizes and wreaths given
out to the victors.
The highest honor had been allotted to Jean, for she had been
selected to give out the prizes and crown the victor of the final
riding contest.
It had been the custom heretofore in other similar contests that a
lady so honored should ride once around the running track in company
with the victor and share with him the triumph of the occasion.
Great was the eagerness of all the young men to win this privilege on
this occasion, for Jean's delicate beauty and sweet, gentle ways had
made her most popular, and everyone was striving for the privilege of
riding with her and being crowned by her fair hand. All in a
friendly way there had been much merriment about it, much betting and
chaffing, much practising of horsemanship, much boasting, and many a
gallant gentleman had besought her to wear his flowers on the gala
day that he might stand the better chance of winning.
But Jean had smiled upon them all and would promise none. She took
it all as a beautiful piece of pleasantry in her honor, though
sometimes she was secretly distressed at the earnestness with which
many of her admirers pressed their suit. They were splendid fellows,
all of them, and it was hard to be refusing and disappointing them
all the time. Hard, too, it was, to disappoint her sister Eleanor
continually, who was an enthusiastic match-maker and felt real
chagrin that her beloved sister should go back home from all that
adulation still apparently heart-free, when she had been given so
many perfectly good chances to fall in love. Eleanor would have
liked nothing better than to have Jean marry and settle out near
herself. Then the father and mother would eventually come, of
course, and the family would be reunited. It was most aggravating to
her that Jean remained so unimpressionable.
The day before the tournament great boxes of flowers began to arrive
for Jean, embarrassing her with their riches, profusion and
costliness. Orchids and lilies, gardenias and roses of rare
varieties, carnations, jessamine, even delicate wild flowers and
wonderful poppies. Each admirer had spent much thought and care upon
his offering, hoping to have it chosen for wearing upon the great
occasion; and each had tried to have his flowers unusual and
noticeable enough to draw her choice away from all others. With each
great box came card or note or sometimes letter bearing the name and
earnest plea of the giver, three even offering themselves with their
flowers.
Jean stood among her blossoms, her cheeks vying with the roses, her
eyes as starry as the lilies, distressed and touched, but not quite
pleased. It was terrible to her that she seemed to have wrought such
havoc in the hearts of men.
Eleanor and the children hovered excitedly around, far more pleased
than Jean over the honors that were heaped upon her. Eleanor talked
in a high, sweet soprano about the merits of the different flowers,
and the reasons why each should be worn in preference to the others.
"There were the Captain's orchids--so expensive, poor fellow--and he
was so handsome!" Eleanor always ended with the Captain where she
had begun. It was plain that Eleanor favored the Captain most
mightily.
Jean stood and touched the flowers, tenderly, compassionately, as
though in some way they were human things that had been cheated into
coming without a cause; as she might have looked at and touched
something very beautiful that did not belong to her. It seemed a big
responsibility to have all these lovely blossoms with all they
represented, and as she filled each vase and jar and bowl to
overflowing till almost every available receptacle in the house was
filled, her eyes grew more and more troubled and thoughtful. Somehow
it seemed wrong for her to have all these perishing beauties, knowing
that the lasting treasure they were here to plead for their donors
was not hers to give.
"Which flowers are you going to wear, Jean?" asked Eleanor vexedly
that night, as they went upstairs together after tucking the blossoms
all away under damp papers. "You know you'll have to decide in the
morning, and there really aren't any more to come in, unless Mr.
Frazer sends some. Everybody, literally every man in the region that
could have a shadow of right to do so, has sent you some. It shows
how popular you are! I don't believe any girl that ever came here
before was so well treated, and so universally admired. It's
wonderful, Jean. You little, quiet, sweet child, but you've got them
all under your small thumb! I never would have suspected it of you."
Jean smiled wearily. She was tired and her sister's idea of triumph
was not hers. It savored too much of counting the scalps of those
she had slain. She did not want to have men at her feet to be turned
away. She looked at life more seriously than just a game where she
was to win all no matter who lost.
She turned away with a gentle good-night, and Eleanor's eyes followed
her dissatisfiedly.
"You know, you might wear one of each and satisfy them all," she
suggested.
Jean smiled and shuddered inwardly. The scalps again! A display of
them!
"Never!" she murmured.
"Well, what are you going to do?" Her sister was all out of patience
with her dallying.
"I'll sleep over it," she said brightly. "Aren't you tired, dear?"
And Eleanor had to let it go at that.
Young Frazer sent his flowers in the morning: wonderful violets, blue
as the sky over Hawk Valley; dewy and sweet, and raised with careful
tending; and there were more roses from several men at a distance who
had not been reckoned upon. But Eleanor was not told of the roses
that the servant found upon the doorstep when he went to sweep the
piazza, early in the morning; the roses with the dew upon them and
the golden ruby glow of sunset in their hearts. They were not
wrapped, or in a box, or accompanied by a card; nor was there even
any name upon them. They simply lay upon the doorstep and made their
mute appeal of fragrance; and the man servant, who, like all the
other men in Hawk Valley, servant though he was, had surrendered to
the gentle, beautiful girl, understood and carried them straight up
to her door without telling anyone. He knew from whom they came, and
he knew, by the starry look in her eyes when the others like them had
come, that she would know.
She gathered them into her willing arms and thanked him. Her problem
was solved, and she could go down to breakfast with a light heart.
"Have you decided which flowers to wear, Jean?" her sister asked
sharply the minute she came into the room.
"Yes," said the girl with a smile, "but it's a secret. I'm not going
to tell. You will see when I wear them."
Eleanor looked anxiously at the bright face with the firm lips, and
the decided set of the pretty head, and sighed. She knew she would
have to wait.
Jean was to go on her pony to the scene of the day's festivities,
that she might be ready for the triumphal ride at the end; and the
Captain had begged the privilege of accompanying her, being confident
that he should both see his costly orchids adorning her, and win the
right to ride home by her side, triumphant. It seemed to him that in
that case it would be but a short way to the other heights he hoped
to attain.
He arrived at the house on the minute appointed, but Jean, usually
punctual, kept him waiting. The Harringtons were all packed
comfortably in their motor-car. They kept calling impatiently.
"We'll be late, Jean, and James has to see about the signals and put
up some more ribbons. You know he's marshal of the day."
"Go on," called Jean sweetly from her window, "I'm just fastening on
my flowers. I'll be there in a minute. Don't wait, we'll catch you."
They heard her footsteps flying down the stairs and Harrington
started the car.
"Wait, James, I must see what flowers she chose."
"Nonsense!" said her husband, sending the car shooting forward at a
pace. "You can wait till she gets there. What difference does it
make anyway?"
"Why, if she doesn't take the right ones I can send her back," said
Eleanor, twisting her neck to see her sister, who was just mounting
her pony.
"The right ones? You don't know which ones you want her to wear
yourself; you've said so a dozen times this morning," laughed her
husband, jeeringly.
"Well, I know, but there are some quite impossible ones, you know,
and Jean is so queer and unconventional. It would be just like her
to wear John Beard's poppies because she felt sorry for him on
account of his lameness. She always was that way. Mamma let her
choose a canary when she was little, and she chose a poor, little
faded thing that wouldn't sing a note, because she said it wasn't
pretty like the others and would enjoy a nice cage."
"Well, I guess you'll have to let her choose her own husband, anyway.
She's got to live with him, and she's got a big will of her own."
"I know," said Eleanor, sighing. "I shall be relieved when she gets
safely married. Mamma is so shut in that she doesn't realize how
unworldly Jean is. But, James, I do wish you'd slow up a little. I
must see those flowers. Betty, dear, can you tell what they are Aunt
Jean is wearing?"
The little girl craned her neck.
"I think they're just roses, mamma," said Betty indifferently.
"Roses? Are you sure, child? Aren't they orchids? The poor
Captain! But there were multitudes of roses. I wonder whose they
are."
They had turned into the main street, now. Banners were flying and a
band playing martial music. The question of the flowers must
perforce become a side issue, for there were numberless little things
to be decided, and Mrs. Harrington was consulted many times before
she finally mounted the grand stand and took her seat among the
prominent people of the place, looking around with satisfaction to
see Jean ascending the steps followed by the handsome captain, whose
dejected face still showed his disappointment about the orchids. For
the moment she was too much taken up with the captain to look closely
at the wonderful roses that Jean wore; then suddenly she turned her
attention to them. Where had she seen roses like those? Who could
have sent them?
Then memory leaped on duty. Roses yellow as gold and with a heart of
ruby! Holt's Golden Sunset! She could hear her husband's sharp
voice repeating the hateful name. Could it be possible that he had
had the audacity to send Jean roses on this day, when all eyes would
be turned to the girl? And Jean, knowing how they felt about him,
had dared to wear them!
Her cheeks grew red and her eyes flashed. She looked daggers at the
girl, and then, realizing that the captain could see her, tried to
control her face; and even now Jean was moving away to the seat on
the right, the seat of honor for the lady who was to present the
prizes.
"Jean, wait! I must speak to you," she called. Jean, two chairs
away, leaned over, smiling. Perhaps she knew what was coming, but
her lips had that firm little twist as she said: "What is it?" that
indicated courage to stick to a decision.
Eleanor Harrington leaned over the two chairs, speaking low and
vehemently:
"Jean, take those flowers off and give them to me at once! I'll send
the man back for the orchids. People will just think you have
forgotten your flowers. Quick, give them to me."
Jean drew back with pretty dignity, and laid her hand protectingly
over the flowers at her waist:
"I'm sorry, Eleanor," she said gently and decidedly. "I can't do
what you ask. These are the flowers I intend to wear. Captain
Wetherill understands me perfectly. I told him beforehand not to
send me flowers."
And she turned away.
"But, Jean," cried her sister frantically, "you simply must not wear
those roses! Send the man back for any others, but don't wear those.
You don't understand! Everybody will know those are Jasper Holt's
roses. People will think it very strange. Why, he isn't even here.
It isn't respectable for you to have anything to do with him."
Jean looked her sister straight in the eyes.
"I understand perfectly, Eleanor," she said softly, for a group of
people were coming in and taking possession of the seats around them.
"I cannot and will not wear any of those other flowers."
"Then take them off entirely and don't wear any," said Eleanor, the
vexed tears coming into her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Eleanor, but I must wear them," said Jean, and went
quietly, almost sadly to her seat. She hated to hurt her sister, and
to seem to do violence to her wishes, but the wearing of these
flowers had become a thing of moment to her, a sacred duty and
privilege. She knew that to Holt, if he should see her, it would be
a symbol of her trust in him. If he did not come to the tournament
at least she would have the satisfaction of knowing in her own heart
that she had been loyal to him, in the only way vouchsafed her, that
of wearing his flowers before them all.
Eleanor settled back, defeated, in her chair, two red spots glowing
on her cheeks, and angry flashes in her eyes. She was mortified
beyond expression. That her young sister, who had the adulation of
the whole county poured at her feet, should choose, before the
assembled multitude, to wear the favor of a man whom nobody
recognized or favored filled her socially-aspiring soul with rage.
What would James say when he found her sister had been wearing his
enemy's flowers? Well, it was all James' fault anyway, for if he had
kept the car waiting a minute she would have discovered Jean's folly
in time to stop it. If she had seen those yellow roses glowing on
her sister's gown before she mounted her pony they would never have
come to the tournament, no, not if she had to detain Jean forcibly at
home for the day and tell people she was taken suddenly ill! This
came of bringing the girl up in a purely domestic and religious
atmosphere and not teaching her a little worldly wisdom. Well, she
would tell James it was his fault; that would be some satisfaction.
Yes, and she would tell Jean just what she thought of her headstrong
folly, too, when she got her home.
The waves of angry color had not yet ceased to flow over Eleanor's
handsome face when the Thornes bustled in and took the next seats.
Mrs. Thorne was a large, imposing person and had much to say of her
son's admiration for Jean. She purred eagerly about the girl's
beauty:
"So simple and sweet in that white dress with those beautiful yellow
roses! Freeman wouldn't tell me what flowers the sent her. I wonder
if they can be his. I never saw any like them around here, did you?
The boy is completely gone about her. I suspect he spent a fabulous
sum on flowers. He sent to Kansas City for them."
It was then that Eleanor began to take heart of hope. If Mrs. Thorne
didn't know whose roses Jean wore perhaps the other women wouldn't.
Women didn't visit Jasper Holt's home, and men didn't notice those
things much.
She settled back relieved, and allowed herself to think how well Jean
was looking and how devoted the Captain seemed in spite of his floral
setback. Perhaps, after all, he would only be the more keen that
Jean was not in a hurry to land him. Was she, after all, a little
deeper than they thought and did she plan her campaign with a view to
making her admirers all the more eager? Eleanor Harrington never had
been able to comprehend a nature higher than her own.