CHAPTER XXXI. CONFLICTING EMOTIONS
Harold was more than glad to grant his sister's request that thesailboat, which for years had been suspended in the boathouse, should belowered and launched. Naturally, after having dried for so long leaksappeared as soon as it was afloat in the quiet cove sheltered by thelittle peninsula, Rocky Point. Again it was drawn up and a merry morningthe two boys spent with the help of an old man about the place who at onetime had sailed the seas. The cracks were caulked and again the prettycraft floated, seeming to dance for joy, over the smoothly rolling waves,when it was tied to the buoy a short distance from shore. The rowboat hadbeen used by the gardener for fishing excursions, and so that was inreadiness. The boys had been glad to find that, though the sails weresomewhat yellowed, they had been so carefully rolled away and coveredthat no repairs were necessary.
"We'd better make a trial trip in the craft before we take the ladies,"Charles suggested when, dressed in their overalls, they paused on theirway to the farm the next morning to look out at the boat.
It was that very day that Mrs. Poindexter-Jones again decided that shewould like to be taken to the pond-lily garden and have Jenny Warner readto her. When, leaning on Miss Dane's arm, she arrived in the charmingshrub-sheltered nook, she saw Gwynette lying in a hammock which wasstretched between two sycamore trees near. The girl at once arose andwent forward to greet her mother with an expression of real solicitudewhich the woman had never before seen in her daughter's face. She evenglanced again to be sure that she had not been mistaken. Brightly thegirl said, "Good morning, Ma Mere. I'm glad you are able to be out thislovely day. I was just coming to your room to ask if you'd like me toread aloud to you. I found such a good story in the library, a new one."
The pleased woman glanced at the book the girl held. It was the one inwhich Jenny Warner had read a few chapters.
There was a glad light in the eyes of the girl's foster-mother.
Gwyn saw it, and for the first time in her life her conscience stirred,rebuking her for having never before thought of doing anything to add toher mother's pleasure.
What the older woman said was: "I shall be more than glad to have mydaughter read to me. I was just about to send for Jenny Warner. Beforeyou came home she started to read that very book to me, but we were onlyat the beginning." Gwynette flushed. "Oh, if you would rather have--" shebegan. But her mother, hearing the hurt tone and wishing to follow up anyadvantage the moment might be offering, hurriedly said: "Indeed I wouldfar rather have you read to me than anyone else, dear Gwynette. I had notasked you because I did not know that you would care to." There was analmost pathetic note in the voice which again carried a rebuke to theheart of the girl.
Miss Dane left them, after having arranged her patient in the comfortablereclining chair.
Gwynette, having read by herself to the chapter where Jenny had stopped,began to read aloud and the woman, leaning back luxuriously at ease,listened with a growing tenderness in her eyes. How beautiful Gwynettewas, and surely there was a changed expression which had come within thelast few days. _What_ could have caused it? Why did she seem more contentto remain in the country? The girl had not again mentioned the party forEuropean travel which she had seemed so eager to join when her mother hadproposed it. Half an hour later she suggested that they stop reading andvisit.
"Dear," she said, and Gwynette actually thrilled at the new tenderness inher mother's voice, "it isn't going to bore you as much as you thought toremain here with us?"
The girl rose and sat on a stool near the reclining chair. "Ma Mere," shesaid, and there were actually tears in her eyes, "I have been veryunhappy, miserably dissatisfied, and I sometimes think that what I amyearning for is love. I have had adulation," she spoke somewhat bitterly."I have demanded a sort of homage from the girls in my set wherever Iwas. I think often they grudgingly gave it. I've had lots of time tothink about all these things during the last two weeks when Beulah andPatricia, who had been my best friends in San Francisco, were busy withfinal tests. I knew, when I faced the thing squarely, out there in thesummer-house where I spent so many hours alone. I knew that neither ofthose girls really cared for me--I mean with their hearts--the way theydid for each other, and it made me feel lonely--left out. I don't know asI had ever felt that way before, and then, when I came over here, thatfirst day after you came home, you talked about Harold with such lovingtenderness, and again I felt so neglected." She looked up, for the womanhad been about to speak. "Let me finish, Ma Mere, please, for I may neveragain feel that I _want_ to tell what I think. I have been locked up solong. I've been too proud to tell anyone that I _knew_ Harold did notreally care for me, that every little thing he did for me was because heconsidered it a duty."
His mother knew this to be true, for her son had made the same confidencethe day he had arrived from school. Her only comment was to lay her handlovingly on the brown head. A caress had not occurred between these two,not since Gwynette had been a little girl.
There were unshed tears in the woman's eyes. How blind she had been.After all, Gwynette was not entirely to blame. Well the foster-motherknew that she had encouraged the high-spirited girl to be proud andhaughty. For many years Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had considered socialstanding of more importance than all else, but, during the long monthsthat she had been ill, an idle watcher of the throngs who visited thefamous health resort in France, something of the foolishness of it allhad come to her and she had readjusted her sense of real values, scarcelyknowing when it had happened. She had much to regret, much to try toundo.
"Dear girl," she said, and there was in her voice a waver as though itwere hard for her to speak, and yet she was determined to do so, "I fearI have done you a great wrong. I have taught you to be proud, to scornworthiness in your fellow-men, or, if not exactly that, to place classdistinction above it. Now I know that character is the true test of whata man is, not how much money he has or what his place in society. Ofcourse, it is but right that we should choose our friends from amongthose people who interest us, but not from among those who can benefit usin a worldly way. Gwynette, daughter, is it too late for me to undo thewrong that I have done in giving you these false standards and ideals?"
Now there were indeed tears quivering on the lashes of the older woman.The girl was touched, as she never before had been. "Oh, Mother!" It wasreally a yearning cry. "Then you _do_ love me. You do care?"
Miss Dane appeared at the moment and the older woman merely smiled at thegirl, but with such an expression of infinite tenderness that, when theinvalid had been led away, there was a most unusual warmth in Gwynette'sheart. She rose and walked down to the cliff. She wanted, oh, her mothercould not know how very much she wanted to free herself from the oldstandards, because she admired, more than she had ever before admiredanyone, the son of a mere rancher. She stood gazing at the boat andthinking so intently of these things that she did not hear footstepsnear, but how her heart rejoiced when she heard a voice asking, "Will yougo to the Yacht Club dance with me this evening, Miss Gwynette? Haroldhas procured the necessary tickets."
Would she go? Gwynette turned such a glowingly radiant face toward thequestioner that he marveled at her beauty. How could he know that it wasthe magic of his friendship which had wrought this almost unbelievabletransformation.
"Oh, how splendid! The Yacht Club is a beautiful place and the music theyhave is simply divine." Then she hesitated and looked doubtful, "but Ihaven't a new party gown and I wore my old one there last month."
How trivial and unimportant the young man's hearty laugh made her remarkseem, and what he said might have been called brutally frank: "You don'tsuppose that anyone will recall what Miss Gwynette Poindexter-Jones woreon that particular occasion?"
The girl flushed, although she knew the rebuke contained in the remarkhad not been intentionally unkind. Yet she could not resist saying, witha touch of her old hauteur, "You mean that no one will remember me." Thenthe native common sense which h
ad seldom been given an opportunity toexpress itself came to save her from petty displeasure. "You are right,Sir Charles," she said lightly, "of course no one there tonight willrecall the gown I wore; in fact they won't remember _me_ at all."
The lad had glanced quickly at the girl when she had called him "SirCharles," but, noting that it had been but a teasing preface to herremark, he stood by her side for a silent moment gazing out at the boat.
"Harold and I are going for a sail this afternoon," he said, "if thecraft doesn't leak. We want to try it out before we take the young ladiesfor a sail. My sister Lenora used to love to be my passenger when we wereup at Lake Tahoe."
Gwyn did not know why she asked, just a bit coyly, "Was your sister your_only_ passenger?"
The reply was frankly given: "No indeed! There were several young ladiesat a nearby inn who accompanied us at different times."
Harold came up just then and said: "Well, Gwyn, are you going to watchthe famous sailors perform this afternoon? Jenny and Lenora have promisedto be out on Rocky Point to encourage us with their presence, so tospeak." Charles looked keenly at the girl as he said: "I would be pleasedif you would join them, Miss Gwyn. I would like you to know my sisterbetter. You will love her when you do."
They had turned and were walking toward the house. Gwynette did not inthe least want to go. After hesitating, she replied: "I planned lookingover my gown. It may need some alterations."
Even as she spoke, she knew that her words did not ring true. She sensed,more than saw, that Charles was disappointed in her. He began at once totalk about sailing to Harold, and, for the rest of the walk she mighthave been quite alone. Her brother realized that Gwyn had not beencourteous. She should, at least, have replied that she was _sure_ shewould like the sister of Charles. He, Harold, had said nothing of Jenny.He was not going to have his friend again humiliated by Gwyn's haughtydisdain. He was almost glad that she had invented an excuse for remainingaway.
Gwyn lunched alone in the big formal dining-room. The boys had departedfor their cabin, where Sing Long had prepared their midday meal as usual.The girl had hoped they would invite her to accompany them, but they hadnot done so.
After lunch she went to her room and took out the gown. She well knewthat it was in perfect repair, for had she not worn it to the party shehad given at The Palms in honor of the girl she had _supposed_ wasrelated to nobility? How foolish she had been! She did not much blamePatricia and Beulah for laughing at her. In all probability there hadbeen no such girl in the seminary, and if there had been, what possibledifference could it make to her? Then she recalled what her mother hadsaid: "It is _character_ that counts, not class distinction." Gwyn wasdecidedly unhappy. She laid the filmy, truly exquisite gown on her bedand stood gazing out of her window. She saw the sailboat gliding past.She decided that at least she would go out on the cliff.