A Colony of Girls

by Kate Livingston Willard

Churchill turned to the sailor who stood erect in the boat, awaiting his orders.

"At six sharp, Petersen, and tell the steward there will be two for dinner."

Then the two men turned on their heels and strode briskly up the sandy road. Presently their paths diverged, and with a friendly nod they separated.

Farr went along in the direction of the manor at a swinging gait. He had not seen Jean since the night of the dance. In the events of that evening his love for her had sustained a severe shock. He could not at once readjust himself to this new and unwelcome development in the nature of her to whom he had given his deepest and most loyal allegiance. Heretofore he had found his love for her intensified by her coldness and indifference, but her flirtation with Maynard was not the sort of thing he had expected from her, and it disappointed him bitterly. The world condoned many of Maynard's offenses because he possessed a certain charm and amiability of manner, but Farr was too clean-minded and upright to look lightly upon the man's selfish disregard of every moral obligation, and he was impatient of his ill-deserved popularity. That Jean should show this man so marked a preference was to him incomprehensible. It was possible that she did not know the full truth in regard to him, but even her innocence and unworldliness could not altogether shield her from blame, for she did know that he was a faithless husband, and, moreover, his wife was her friend. Under any other circumstances Farr would have been jealous, but now the sharpness of his disappointment in Jean outweighed every other consideration. She had been to him the embodiment of sweetness and purity, and as he paced up and down the white decks of the Vortex, he inveighed bitterly against this second overthrow of his faith. His anger was short-lived, however, for the tender little Jean of the early summer had twined herself closely about his heart; and now she rose, strong in the power and might of her love, denying valiantly that other self, pleading earnestly for more confidence and trust. So it happened this sunshiny day that, as Farr leaned against the rail, gazing seaward, and pondered on these strange and contradictory events, suddenly the bitterness died out of his heart, and in its place sprang up a passionate longing to see Jean, to hear her sweet voice tell him it was all a mistake, to put an end forever to this intolerable uncertainty. And even as he came to this conclusion, the dingey from the Sylph hove in view, and, without pausing to reconsider, he hailed it.

Now he had left the manor gates behind, and striking out across the lawn, increased his pace, for his impatience would not be curbed. The crunching sound of wheels on the gravel brought him to a standstill. On his right a clump of cedars hid the road from sight. He thrust aside the low-growing branches, and as he peered through the aperture a carriage flashed by. Jean was driving, and he had a tantalizing glimpse of her bonny face, as she turned to speak to Eleanor and Cliff, who were on the back seat. An involuntary exclamation escaped him, and he sprang forward, but his voice was unheard, his presence unheeded, and with a heavy heart he gazed after the rapidly retreating vehicle. With a savage little laugh he swung about, and retraced his steps. The joyousness of the summer day was darkened for him, and in his heart was a fierce resentment against Fate.

His eyes were bent upon the ground as he plodded slowly along the road, and so he did not see Miss Stuart, driving alone in Helen's buckboard, until she was within a few yards of him.

Miss Stuart scanned his face furtively as he stood beside the carriage.

"Ah, Val," she said with an assumption of ease, "I suppose you have been at the manor?"

"No, I met them driving."

"How inhospitable of them not to have turned back," she exclaimed, with her eyes still on his face.