Jean crossed the room and took the envelope from Miss Stuart's hand. She could not repress a faint start of surprise as her eyes fell upon the superscription, but the scornful smile on Miss Stuart's lips lent her instant self-control. She slipped the letter into her pocket, and resuming her place at Eleanor's side, took up the thread of the conversation where it had been broken off, with apparent ease and facility. But her heart was beating wildly, and the hand that held the dainty teacup was far from steady.
It was almost an hour later when she pushed aside the portières, and entered the music room. She glanced about her anxiously to assure herself that she was alone, then crossing to the further end and ensconsing herself in one of the deep window-seats, pulled the letter from her pocket. For an instant she held it in her hand, her brows drawn together, a wistful, questioning look in her eyes. She was forcing herself to recall every word that Helen had said to her that miserable evening in the garden. In the light of that talk, this letter to her from Valentine Farr both puzzled and troubled her. She looked down at the address, and with a sudden light of determination in her face, broke the seal:
My Dear Miss Jean:
We have received our orders and leave Hetherford on Thursday. Will you not let me see you before we sail? I started for the manor yesterday, but from a distance saw you driving away. I seem to be most unfortunate, but I cannot turn my back on the place where I have found so much happiness, without an attempt to see you again, to assure myself, at least, that I carry with me your friendship and good will. You were very good to me in the early days of our sojourn here, Miss Jean, and in memory of those days I venture to ask you if I may call at the manor to-morrow about four o'clock.
Yours,
Valentine Farr.
Once, twice Jean read it through, then mechanically folded the bit of paper, and fitted it into the envelope carefully. A tremulous, incredulous joy was dawning on her face. She felt oppressed, and started to her feet. It surprised her to find that she was trembling so she could not stand. She laughed, a little hysterically, as she sank back on the window-seat. Then, suddenly, she flung out her hands, and slipping down on her knees, buried her face in the soft cushions, and a storm of weeping shook the slender figure. In her despair she had been silent, tearless, but in this awakening of hope within her, her pent-up feelings found relief in tears. A wild, almost unreasonable, joy was growing in her heart, and her quivering lips were pressed passionately to her lover's letter. Her faith in him, which Helen's words had so cruelly crushed, was fast springing into life again.
When at length the strength of her emotion had worn itself away, she lifted her head and, rising slowly to her feet, leaned against the casement, and looked thoughtfully out upon the peaceful scene. The sun was setting, and the western horizon was one blaze of golden glory. Jean's grave eyes seemed asking counsel of the far illumined sky. Once a deep sigh trembled through her lips, and the thought that prompted it almost formed itself in words.
"Oh, if only my mother were here! I could not ask advice of anyone else, but I think I could speak to her."
For a long time Jean stood there silent, motionless; and when at last she moved away the crimson light had quite faded, and a soft violet haze lingered in the western sky. She crossed the room, and seated herself at the open desk. For a moment she hesitated, holding her pen poised above the sheet of paper, then bent her head, and wrote rapidly:
My Dear Mr. Farr: