CHAPTER IX.
A FLYING MACHINE AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Early that same afternoon Eleanor and Nan dropped in at the manor andsuggested a game of tennis. The Lawrences acquiesced, and after asearch for balls and rackets they wandered down to the courts. Jeanstopped behind for a moment to find the children and tell them tofollow her, for nurse had begged a holiday and had gone off for theafternoon. The sun's hot rays beat down upon the unshaded courts,discouraging even Nan's enthusiasm; so, after one set played withflagging energy, they threw down their rackets and retired to a prettylittle summerhouse, just at the foot of the terrace. By and by, whenthey were cool again, Eleanor arose and suggested that they shouldstroll down toward the station to meet Cliff and Dick, who were comingup early. Jean alone demurred. It was sweet and peaceful within theshelter of the little summerhouse, and the prospect of a long hot walkalong the dusty road was not tempting. Most opportunely she rememberedHelen's injunction in regard to the children, and pleading this excuseshe sent the others off with a half-promise that she might join themat the inn later, if nurse should get home in good season.
When Jean was alone, she leaned back in her comfortable corner withan air of great contentment. She rested her elbow on the ledge of theseat, and propping her chin in her hand gazed dreamily, unseeingly outacross the sunlit lawn. The children were playing under the shade of awidespreading elm, and the clear treble of their young voices was apleasant accompaniment to her happy thoughts. Now and again, as somelook or gesture of Farr's recurred to her with peculiar distinctness,a shy and tremulous joy dawned in her face, and lingered there.
Ah, Jean, such moments are indeed golden, when in your dreams all lifeseems sweet and fair. Do not hasten the inevitable awakening, for withthe realization comes ever a sting to make the heart ache and throb.In after days this peaceful scene will live with you, the memory ofits happiness haunt and mock you, until you fain would thrust it fromyou!
Meanwhile Valentine Farr was making his way down the terraced pathwayin search of Jean, his heart strangely stirred with the thought of thesweet voice that would speak to him, of the pair of blue eyes thatwould welcome him. Then, as he walked blithely on, there fell on himthe shadow of a memory fraught with pain. He threw back his head anddrew a deep breath, as he squarely faced the difficulties that laybefore him. He knew that before he might dare to hope, before he mightdare to speak to Jean, there was much that must be told her, andalthough his heart grew heavy within him, the look of resolution onhis grave face betokened a strong determination to overcome allobstacles so far as lay within his power.
He was descending the last terrace when little Gladys ran out fromher shady playground and, holding out her arms to him, begged for aride. He caught her up and swinging her on to his shoulder held herthere securely as he hastened on toward the summerhouse, whence he hadseen a flutter of Jean's white gown. Gladys was wild with excitement,and her shrill little cries of pleasure roused Jean from her reverie.She shifted her position a little to see what was going on, and thenstarted up and moved forward to the arched doorway of the summerhouseand stood waiting for them. From her elevated position, Gladys wavedfrantically to her and then flung her arms tightly around Farr's neck.
"That is hot work, little one," he declared with a laugh, as hedeposited the child on the ground and raised his hat to Jean.
"Oh, it was grand!" cried Gladys, capering around and shaking hergolden curls into a tangled mass.
Jean smiled and extended her hand to Farr, but her words were forGladys.
"I have not a doubt of it, darling," she said, "but I fear Mr. Farrfound you a very heavy load to carry this hot day."
Gladys' head drooped, and she gave Farr a shy glance from out of thecorners of her eyes.
"Was I vewy heavy?" she asked, in such a plaintive little voice thathe had hard work to keep his face straight as he hastened to reassureher.
"Is not this a sylvan retreat, and are you not glad you came?" Jeanqueried, looking over her shoulder at him as she led the way into thesummerhouse.
"Glad!" he echoed. "Glad does not begin to express it."
"Wait until you see how sleepy and stupid I am before you make such arash assertion. Evidently you are in no way disheartened," she added,as Farr, looking somewhat incredulous, took his place beside her onthe low seat.
"Not one whit," he replied softly. "It would be a very novelexperience for me to find you stupid."
Jean turned a quizzical glance upon him.
"What an extravagant compliment. Where did you learn such gallantry?"
"When first I saw you," he returned, and although he spoke lightlythere was an undercurrent of earnestness in his tone.
Gladys, who had been chasing a butterfly around and around thesummerhouse, now stopped at the doorway and peeped in. She lingered amoment, tilting her head, first on one side and then on the other, andsmiling encouragingly on the twain. Then, as neither Jean nor Farrtook any notice of her, she twisted about and scampered off toward theplayground. Larry and Willie hailed her with delight, and anyonewatching the three little heads so close together would have knownthat there was mischief brewing.
"I know some splendid fun," Willie was saying in a cautiously loweredvoice. "I read lots about it in a book. It's all about flyin' machinesan' human birds. Let's go over to the orchard, an' I'll tell you howto play it."
"Me, too, Willie, please," piped Gladys.
"Oh, yes. You can come along, 'cause you're just the person we mightwant," and Willie's air of importance was most impressive.
"I guess Jean won't mind," said Larry.
Willie was far too excited to vouchsafe a reply, and the childrenscurried along toward the orchard. Their route lay past thesummerhouse, and when they were opposite it some pin-prick ofconscience made them pause and look within. Jean and Farr were deeplyabsorbed in conversation, and it was quite apparent, even to theirchildish minds, that their sister would never notice their absence. Ofone accord they broke into a run, and did not subside into a moredemure pace until the shrubbery hid them from view.
"You see," said Willie, when he had recovered his breath, "it is thegreatest fun to play birds. All we've got to do is to use our armsright, an' then we can fly good enough. It said so in the book," heended with a wise little nod of his head.
Gladys' eyes grew big with wonder.
"Can I fly, too?" she pleaded.
"Course you can. You're just the most principal."
Gladys beamed upon him, and her face wore a proud smile. To haveWillie call her "the most principal" was a very deep and far-reachingcompliment.
Willie heaved a sigh of relief when, after scrambling over the stonewall, they were at last within the orchard.
"Now, nobody can find us. We've all got to learn to fly. See, Larry,you just flop your arms so. They've got to be our wings."
"Don't guess I'se got any wings," sighed Gladys, "'cause they don'tf'y me a bit."
Willie and Larry were racing around the orchard, swinging their armsin the air until they looked like animated wind-mills. Gladys trottedafter them, striving to imitate their motions until her little legsand arms grew very weary. Then she stopped and stood watching themdisconsolately.
"I don't fink you games any fun at all," she exclaimed, in anaggrieved tone, as the boys ran up to her puffing and panting fromtheir exertions. "You don't f'y a bit like birdies, any more nor Ido."
Willie eyed her with great scorn.
"Oh, you're only a baby. Course you can't do anything."
"You said I was most principal," Gladys reminded him, with quiveringlips.
"Oh, I say," Larry broke in, "I'll tell you what we'll do, Will. We'llplay she's a baby bird, an' then we'll teach her to fly. We must puther up in a tree, an' then pretend to shove her out of the nest, justthe way the mamma bird does."
Gladys' face brightened, and she smiled sunnily.
"P'r'aps," objected tender-hearted Willie, "she might tumble herselfan' break her wings."
Larry scouted the
idea.
"You're a regular muff, Will. Gladys ain't afraid; are you, Gladys?"
"Course I aren't," cried Gladys stoutly.
After an exciting and somewhat heated discussion, the boys finallyarrived at a satisfactory decision as to the best way of gettingGladys up into a tree, and, in the midst of much chaffing and somewrangling, a rustic bench was drawn to the foot of a gnarled old appletree, and the difficult task was begun. "Oh, dear!" ejaculated Willie,very red and very warm, "She's a terrible heavy bird."
They were in a perilous position, and Gladys' burst of laughter nearlybrought them all to the ground.
"Guess I eated too many worms," she said.
When at last she was safely perched on a projecting branch, Willieclambered down and drew away the bench, and Larry, sitting astrideanother branch, assumed the role of master of ceremonies.
"Now, little bird," he said authoritatively, "I ain't goin' to bringyou any more worms to eat, an' you just got to learn to fly yourself.You must flap your wings like this, an' when I count three you mustfly away."
Gladys' first attempt to follow these instructions nearly upset her,but she regained her balance and gripping tight hold of an overhanginglimb turned a troubled face toward her brother.
"I guess my wings is gwowed w'ong."
"Cause there ain't any feathers on 'em, I s'pose," giggled Larry.
This sally proved too much for Gladys, and flinging back her head sheburst into a merry peal of laughter. In her sudden movement her littlehands lost their hold on the limb, and plunging forward she fellheavily to the ground. One sharp cry and then the child lay still andsilent, her little white face upturned.
"Oh!" gasped Willie, "p'r'aps she's broke her wings."
Larry slipped quickly down from the tree, and leaned anxiously overhis little sister's prostrate form.
"Get up, Gladys," he pleaded, and then, as the child did not stir, hebegan to cry piteously.
For an instant Willie stood irresolute, his hands tightly clinched,his ruddy face grown pale with fear.
"I'm going to find Jean," he said, and turned and started on a runtoward the shrubbery.
Larry caught hold of him and clung to him in an agony of fear.
"I'm awfully scared, Willie. Please don't leave me."
Willie shook him off impatiently, and pointed a reproachful finger towhere Gladys lay in an unnatural stillness, and then, without anotherword, he was gone.
* * * * *
During all this time Jean had not once thought of the children, andHelen's injunctions had been completely forgotten. While Farr waswaiting an opportunity to broach the subject that was uppermost in hismind, Jean herself opened the way for him. She had been telling him inher happiest vein of numberless incidents of her childish days;laughing outright at the memory of many a scrape and frolic, andspeaking with a pathetic quiver in her voice as she showed him thereverse side of the picture, recalling those dreary days when to thepoor little orphaned Lawrences, in their desolation, it seemed thatthe light of their lives had been forever darkened.
As Farr listened to the innocent recital, told in Jean's own forcefuldramatic way, he found his heart growing very tender, yet sad withal.It made him feel infinitely far away from her to hear her speak thuslovingly and trustfully of her family. Ah, yes, love was indeed thekeynote of life at the manor. Farr had never realized this morestrongly than he did to-day as he mentally contrasted the happyatmosphere, the tender relationships of Jean's home life, with his ownunloved, unhappy boyhood. So deep was he in thought that he did notnotice that Jean had ceased speaking, until she turned and called himby name.
"Mr. Farr, I have been very egotistical and I want you to do me agreat favor to prove that you have forgiven me."
"I would find it hard to refuse you."
"Do you remember that day down on the cliffs, so long ago?"
Farr signified his assent, and she continued:
"Well, that day you said that perhaps sometime you would tell mesomething of your life."
Farr's face flushed with gratification, and he would have spoken butshe stopped him almost imperiously.
"I have thought that your 'perhaps' signified a great deal; that itwas put in to save yourself in case, on further acquaintance with me,you felt that you did not want to give me your confidence, and Iconfess," looking up at him with a reproachful smile, "that I havebeen not a little hurt by your silence."
"Please don't say that, Miss Jean; and do you know that, strangelyenough, I came here to-day to tell you--to tell you that miserablestory, but I scarcely knew how to begin it."
He paused a moment, and then resumed bitterly:
"I never knew half how miserable the story would sound to you until Ilistened to you this afternoon, and realized all that I had missed outof my life."
Jean looked at him sympathetically, and her eyes urged him tocontinue, although she did not speak.
"I am going to try not to bore you with any complaints, Miss Jean, andI must beg you not to be distressed if I speak plainly in regard to myfamily, with whom I am on exceedingly bad terms."
"Surely that does not include Clarisse?"
"Oh, no; not Clarisse, bless her heart. She and I have always stoodfaithfully by each other. My troubles began when my father died. I wasquite a little chap at the time, but I loved my poor old governordearly. My mother is a woman of great strength of character and withan unbounded love of power, and she and I were decidedly antagonistic.My father, who was the mildest of men, had the greatest admiration forher and in most things yielded readily to her stronger will, but whereI was concerned he took a firm stand; so, although I was in great aweof my mother, I always had a refuge in my father. My older brothers,Lansing and Fred, never took to me at all. They were wise in their dayand generation, and even when they were youngsters studied to please,and so in our quarrels and disputes my mother invariably took theirpart. I felt the injustice without being able to reason about it, andgrew daily more surly and defiant. From the day my father died I had avery bad time of it, and was always in disgrace. I know I was by nomeans blameless, but there was something in my mother's cold disregardof me that roused a very demon of defiance in me. Clarisse was theonly person in the world whom I honestly loved, and the first serioustrouble with my mother was on her account," and even at this dayFarr's face grew black at the remembrance. "It was a rainy day, and wechildren were all playing in the nursery. Clarisse was just recoveringfrom an illness, and was not yet very strong. In some way sheaccidentally broke a new boat of Fred's. He was angry and, afterscolding her until she began to cry, finally struck her across theface. I sprang toward him, my blind rage lending me unusual strength,and beat him unmercifully. Lansing, nurse, and Clarisse set up a greathue and cry, and in the midst of it all my mother walked into theroom. Fred, who certainly did present a rather battered appearance,rushed to her and bawled out a garbled version of the affair and Islunk off into a corner, looking thoroughly guilty, I have not adoubt. My mother did not wait for any explanation, but summarily sentClarisse and myself to Coventry. I might have forgiven her for theinjustice to myself. I was so used to it as to have hardly noticed it,but I never forgave the unkindness to poor little Clarisse."
There was a brief silence, broken at length by Jean.
"I cannot understand it, Mr. Farr; surely a mother must love all herchildren."
"I suppose my mother did in her way. I do not tell you this, MissJean, to prejudice you against her nor to exonerate myself, but onlyto, in a measure, explain subsequent events. There was never anysympathy between us. My manner, my character, my very looks weredistasteful to her, and she made no attempt to conceal this from me.Up to the time of this occurrence I had had moments of feeling verycontrite, when I had striven to overcome my faults; but from that timeI hardened myself and never tried to break down the barrier that hadbeen raised. Clarisse shared my feeling to a great extent, but she wasfar too gentle and loving to oppose my mother. She did her best tosoften me and to pr
event circumstances from embittering me. As I grewolder my relationship with my family became more and more strained,and it was my great ambition to enter the navy and cut adrift from myhome. When finally I broached the subject to my mother, I learned forthe first time that my father had left his entire estate, which was aconsiderable one, to my mother, and that I was entirely dependent uponher. My mother was exceedingly generous in those matters, and injustice to her I must say that, however much she may have denied meher affection, she always treated me most liberally in a material way.I had been given every advantage without stint, and had been broughtup in the greatest comfort and luxury, and without any adequateknowledge of the value of money. She did not favor the idea of myentering the navy, but I was troublesome at home, so she made aconcession and I was allowed to go to Annapolis. In the meantime mybrothers had obediently followed the careers my mother had marked outfor them, and having furthermore married in accordance with herwishes, she provided each of them with a most liberal allowance,retaining, however, a controlling hand in their affairs. Those yearsat Annapolis were the happiest I had ever known. I had been very muchtouched by my mother's yielding, and when I was at home I did my bestnot to annoy or antagonize her in any way, and we really got alongvery smoothly."
Farr had reached a difficult point in his story, and hesitated amoment to mentally review the past, and then began again in the samequiet voice that had characterized his telling of it so far.
"The summer preceding my senior year I went home to find stopping inthe house a distant cousin of mine, a very nice pretty girl, whom Ishortly discovered my mother had selected to be her thirddaughter-in-law. Then I revolted. In the first place Carrie, poorgirl, was quite ignorant of the scheme and felt no interest whateverin me, and----" He broke off undecidedly, and looked with thoughtfuleyes out across the level tennis courts. There was one thing he couldnot quite make up his mind to recount to Jean. The memory of it wasgrowing faint (he could not but smile a little grimly as he thusargued to himself), and why rake up that disagreeable part of hispast. In truth, how could he tell clear-eyed, pure-hearted Jean ofthat other!
"Well?" interrogated Jean, cutting short his brief reverie.
His indecision was at an end. He straightened himself, squared hisshoulders, and answered with almost a show of relief.
"Well, the very fact that I was to be compelled to marry aroused sucha tempest of resentment within me that I had no room for any otheremotion. For several weeks the atmosphere was thunderous, and at theend of that time the storm broke. I boldly announced my determinationto remain single. My mother--well, she did not spare me. She told me Ihad always been a most unnatural and ungrateful son; that I haddeliberately and intentionally thwarted her in every possible waywithout once considering the duty that I owed to her. She gave me tounderstand most emphatically that, from the day I finished my courseat Annapolis, she would consider her obligations to me at an end. ThatI might go where I pleased, do what I pleased; but, that her home wasno longer mine."
"Oh, how cruel!" escaped from Jean. Her little hands were tightlyclenched, and her eyes flashed indignantly.
"It did seem rather hard, especially just at that time," he returnedslowly, some unexpected thought lending an expression peculiarlysomber and grave in his face. "But since then I have often thoughtthat I gave my mother a great deal of provocation."
"By not marrying according to her desire?" asked Jean, a littlequickly.
Farr looked straight in her eyes for a moment before answering dryly:
"That was certainly a great factor; you see Carrie was an heiress, andowned a lot of property adjoining ours."
"Oh!" was all Jean said, but the monosyllable was most expressive.
Farr laughed light-heartedly. He had been wrought up by this openingof a long-closed chapter in his life, and it was a relief to have thetension relaxed.
"I have never for one instant regretted it, and certainly now----"
"You haven't finished your story," Jean interrupted with but scantcourtesy, "please go on."
"There is not much more to tell, and I fear, too, that I am tiringyou. No? well I took my mother at her word, and from that day to thisI have never darkened her door. It came hardest on poor littleClarisse, I think," he went on sadly; "she had learned to depend uponme, and when she found that I was going to desert her she broke downcompletely. It wrung my heart to leave her, but it had to be done. Inever like to think of that scene."
"Poor Clarisse!" murmured Jean softly.
"It was uphill work, at first," Farr resumed. "The lesson of poverty,with its grinding necessities, was bitter, and its bitternessredoubled by experiences that shook my faith in humanity." He flungback his head and drew a deep breath. "Somehow I lived through thatfirst year, and then it grew easier; a maiden sister of my father'sdied and left me a legacy which, though small, is yet sufficient forall my needs. It is a good many years ago now, and I have only seenClarisse once or twice, when I have happened to be in Washington inthe winter. She is lonely, poor little girl; but we console each otherby planning the good times we will have in some indefinite future."
After a moment, he began speaking again:
"I know how terrible this must seem to you, Miss Jean. A man atvariance with his family is at a great disadvantage, and after all,you have only heard my side of the story. I almost dread," gloomily,"to have you tell me what you think of me now."
"Oh, how unjust you are to me," cried Jean indignantly. "Do you thinkthat your trouble could make any difference to me, except to make mesorry--oh, so sorry--for you, and to make me like you and want to beyour friend more than ever."
She stopped suddenly, half frightened by the look in Farr's eyes. Hehad grown very pale, and he spoke huskily.
"You must not be so kind to me; you tempt me to tell you why----"
"Jean! Jean!"
This piercing cry, so fraught with terror, brought them to their feet.They started forward, and even as they did so Willie stumbled acrossthe doorway and leaned up against the post, sobbing piteously.
"Gladys, hurt," he panted, and then, his courage forsaking him, heburst into a storm of tears.
Every bit of color faded from Jean's face.
"What do you mean? O Willie, where is Gladys?"
Farr put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Come, little man," he said kindly, "don't cry, but take a longbreath. There, that's a brave little chap. Now tell your sister whereGladys is, and what has happened."
"We were playing birds in a tree, and Gladys fell, and she can't getup," faltered Willie.
"Where?" Jean asked sharply.
"In the orchard."
Almost before the words had passed his lips, Jean pushed by him andwas flying toward the orchard. Farr stopped a moment, to tell Willieto run up to the house and have them send down a couple of pillows tothe orchard and to dispatch a man on horseback for the doctor; then hestarted in pursuit of Jean. He quickly overtook her, and they spedacross the intervening space in silence. As they entered the orchardLarry's heartbreaking sobs indicated the scene of the accident, and inanother instant Jean had fallen on her knees beside her little sister.The child's face was drawn, and the wide, distended eyes werestrangely, unnaturally bright.
"Gladys, precious, where does it hurt you?" But a moan was her onlyanswer.
"Oh, Mr. Farr, what can I do? How do you suppose she is hurt?"
Farr bent tenderly over little Gladys, and laid his hand lightly onher arm. A wail of pain escaped from the child's white lips, and sheagain lost consciousness.
Everything grew black to Jean and she swayed a little, leaning againstthe trunk of the tree for support. Farr's voice sounded veryindistinct and strange to her.
"Come, Miss Jean, you must not faint. Do you hear me? Now, take amouthful of this," holding out his flask to her.
Jean obeyed him unresistingly, and rallied at once, the color comingback into her face.
"Gladys has broken her arm," he went on, in a quiet, even voice thatsomehow hel
ped to steady her. "There, that is right. Now you look likeyourself again."
"Never mind me," she returned resolutely, straightening herself. "Isthere nothing we can do for Gladys?"
"I sent Willie to the house to tell nurse to come here with pillowsand to send Barnes for the doctor. Now give me the flask and put yourarm under her head and raise it a trifle, so that I can give her somebrandy. There, she is coming to now."
The white lids fluttered, and Gladys' eyes opened slowly.
"Jeanie, I twied to f'y, but I was too little," she murmured weakly,and she smiled up at her sister, who was bending over her with so muchtenderness.
The sound of footsteps reached them, and nurse, a comfortable,motherly-looking woman, bustled up to them, her arms laden withpillows and restoratives.
Her presence brought great reassurance to Jean.
"Oh, nurse, I am so glad you are here. Gladys has been hurt."
"My poor baby, Nana will make it all well. She shouldn't have left youat all. Whatever will Miss Helen say!"
Jean's face contracted sharply, and she turned away to hide the tearsthat sprang to her eyes. Farr threw an angry glance at nurse, who, allunconscious of her offense, was petting and comforting Gladys.
"This is no time for talking," he said. "We must get Gladys home asquickly as possible. Miss Jean, will you help me lift her?"
Jean recognized the kindly intent in his words, and her eyes wereeloquent with gratitude.
"Little one," he went on to Gladys, "will you be a good, brave littlegirl and let me carry you? I will put you on this pillow, and I willbe as gentle as possible. I can't promise that it won't hurt you some,but when you are once home you will be so comfortable."
"All right," assented Gladys, looking up at him with touchingconfidence.
But in spite of all their care, it was a very painful ordeal, and thepoor child was quite spent before the manor was reached. As theymounted the steps of the veranda the doctor's gig drove up to thedoor. They carried Gladys up to the nursery, and Farr lingered therelong enough to hear his opinion confirmed that the child had sustainedno further injury than the breaking of her arm.
"I will wait downstairs," he said in an undertone to Jean, and he wentout and closed the door softly behind him.
The moments dragged slowly, and he had almost renounced all hope ofseeing Jean again, when he heard her footfall on the stair. She camedown toward him, her white face showing the traces of tears. He sprangforward to meet her.
"I can't stay but a moment," she said to him, "for I must go rightback to Gladys. The doctor has set her arm and has given her somethingto make her sleep and he is going very soon now."
He laid his hand on her shoulder and looked tenderly down at her.
"You look worn out. Won't you try and rest a little?"
She did not resent his action, but she moved a step away from him andhis hand dropped at his side. Her lips quivered.
"I don't care about myself. I shall never, never forgive myself for mywicked thoughtlessness. That poor baby's suffering haunts me."
"I won't have you blame yourself," he declared vehemently. "I was moreat fault than you, for I claimed your attention with my stupid story."
"Don't talk nonsense," she returned gently, but, nevertheless, herface lost much of its misery.
They were silent for a moment. The past hour had broken down the lastbarrier of reserve between them and had drawn them very close to eachother. Of the two, Farr was perhaps the more conscious of the subtlechange that had been wrought, and he was filled with unspeakable joy.
"You must go now," Jean told him, "but you will come back to-morrow,won't you?" She was so sure of his answer that she did not wait forhim to speak. "I don't know how to thank you for all you have done forGladys--and me," she added very low.
"If I have been the least help to you, Jean, it is more----" he began,when the outer door was pushed open, and Nathalie rushed in like awhirlwind.
"What in the world has happened," she cried excitedly. "Larry saysthat Gladys is hurt, but he is too frightened to be clear about it."
Jean hastened to give her an account of the accident, shrinking back alittle from the light that streamed in from the open doorway, for fearof what her telltale face might reveal to Nathalie's keen eyes. Farrbade them good-by and went away, and then the two girls went directlyto the nursery.