Sisters

Suddenly she stopped, for, having reached a turn in the road, she saw ahead of her a young man on horseback. He had drawn to one side and was evidently waiting for the singer to appear. Jenny flushed, for she knew that he must have heard, as she had been trying some high soprano arias of her own composing. The young man had a frank, kind face with no suspicion of a smile, and so the girl decided that he was merely waiting for someone whom he expected, but, as she drew near, he lifted his cap and asked: “Pardon me, but can you tell me if I am on the Live Oak Road? You have so many canyon roads about here leading into the foothills. I am looking for the Granger Place Seminary, where my sister Lenora Gale is staying.”

Jenny impulsively put her hand to her heart. “Oh!” she gasped. “Are you going to take Lenora away? Please don’t!”

Charles Gale, cap in his hand, gazed inquiringly at the girl, who hurried on to explain: “You see, Lenora and I are best friends and she is so unhappy up at that school, where she doesn’t know anyone, really, and she has been so sick, my grandmother told me I might bring her over to our house to make a visit. Granny Sue said just as I left, ‘Jenny, tell your little friend she may stay with us as long as she wants to, until she is real well, anyway.’” So this was Jenny Warner.

The girl paused for breath and the young man, smiling at her, said sincerely: “I am indeed glad to learn that my sister has so true a friend, indeed, more than one, I judge, since your grandmother sent such a kind message to her, but I have come to take Lenora back with me.”

Jenny’s ever expressive face registered such disappointment and sorrow that the young man could not but add: “Suppose we go up to the seminary together and talk the matter over with my sister. Perhaps, if she is not strong enough to travel, it may be well for her to remain with you for a week or two. I would be glad to leave her in a pleasant place at least that long, as I shall not be through at the agricultural college for two weeks yet. Then I can accompany Lenora back to Dakota where our father so eagerly awaits her coming.”

Realizing that, as he had not introduced himself he said: “I presume that my sister has mentioned her brother Charles.”

“Oh, yes, I knew you at once.” Jenny’s clear brown eyes gazed out at him with friendly interest. “You look like Lenora, though I can’t say just how.” Then, as she again started Dobbin up the hill road, she beamed at her companion as she said: “This is going to be a happy day for your sister. How surprised she will be, and how glad! And I’m glad that I met you, for Miss Granger might have said that Lenora could not visit me, but if you say that she can, no one else will have any authority.” Then impulsively: “I’m going to be your friend forever and ever.” Then with one of her sudden changes, Jenny flashed a bright look at him, as she pointed ahead: “There, did you ever see a view like that before?” They had reached the top of the hill road and were near the seminary gate.

The view across the valley to the towering mountains was indeed magnificent. Then Jenny looked back of her and again pointed, this time toward the sea. “That is Rocky Point, just below the canyon road,” she said, “and that old adobe is our farmhouse.”

Charles was much impressed with the beauty of it all, and, as his gaze wandered back to the glowing face of the girl, he heard rather than thought, “You’ll just love Jenny Warner.”

Aloud he asked: “And is this the seminary?” His companion nodded and led the way between the high stone gate posts.

“Maybe I’d better wait outside while you go in and see Miss Granger,” Jenny suggested when they drew rein at the front of the seminary.

But Charles Gale would not agree to that. Having dismounted, he fastened the reins about a hitching post and asked if his companion could safely leave her horse.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Jenny replied brightly. “Dobbin wouldn’t move until I came again, if it was never.”

Together they went up the wide stone steps and Charles lifted the iron knocker. A maid admitted them, staring in amazement when she saw the girl, who delivered eggs and honey at the kitchen door, arriving at the front with a fine-looking young man in a golfing costume.

Charles, not knowing of this, could not understand the surprised expression directed at his companion. Jenny smiled and said “good morning” in her usual pleasant way. Having asked to see Miss Granger, he presented his card.

“Walk in,” the maid said. “I’ll tell Miss Granger that you’re here, sir.”

When they were alone in the prim little reception room, Jenny confided:

“Maggie has never seen me coming to the front door. My grandfather raises chickens and bees, and I often deliver honey and eggs around at the back door. Perhaps Miss Granger may think it queer if – ”

“Of course it isn’t queer!” Charles interrupted with emphasis. “My sister’s best friend has the right to enter the front door of – ” He did not complete his sentence, but rose instead, for a stately, rather haughty appearing woman had appeared. The visitor was warmly received.

“Mr. Gale, I am indeed pleased that you have come. Poor little Lenora has not been at all well of late, and that is why I sent for you. She has been at perfect liberty to do as she wished, as you requested, but she contracts frequent colds, and this last one has lingered.”

Miss Granger hesitated, then confessed. “The truth is, your sister does not seem to be real happy here. She is timid and does not care to mingle with her schoolmates.”

Then she added frankly: “I find that, on the whole, the young ladies are rather heartless. They do not make an effort to include in their pleasures one who is naturally reserved and who, in turn, seems to care nothing at all about being included.”

Miss Granger, on entering the room, had bowed somewhat distantly to Jenny Warner, whom she did not recognize, as she had seldom seen her. Charles, noting this, asked: “Miss Granger, are you acquainted with little Miss Warner, whose grandfather is a farmer in this neighborhood?”

The woman, whose manner was rather frigid at all times, lifted her eyebrows ever so slightly as though marveling that a young man whose sister attended her select seminary should be found in the companionship of a hired farmer’s granddaughter.

Their own father, Mr. Gale, might own a farm, but that was very different, as he had countless acres of wheat lands, she understood, and was very rich, while the Warners were merely hired to conduct a small farm belonging to the Poindexter-Jones estate. All this went quickly through the woman’s thoughts and she was astonished to hear the young man saying:

“I have decided, Miss Granger, to remove my sister to the farm home of Miss Warner for the two weeks remaining before I complete my studies at the Berkeley Agricultural College. My sister is very fond of Miss Jenny, and I feel that the companionship she will have in that home will do much to help her recover the strength she will need for the long journey to Dakota.”

Miss Granger prided herself on being able to hide all emotions, and on never expressing surprise, but she could not resist saying:

“I was unaware of this friendship, which is the result, no doubt, of the freedom of action which you wished your sister to have, but if it is a friendship sanctioned by Lenora’s brother, I, of course, can say nothing concerning it.”

Rising, she held out her hand: “I will have Miss Gale’s trunk packed at once, and shall I have it sent to the Poindexter-Jones farm?”

“Yes, if you please, and thank you, Miss Granger, for your many kindnesses to my sister.”

With a cold nod toward the girl and with a formal reply to Charles’ polite speech, she swept from the room. The lad turned with an amused smile toward his companion. In a low voice he said:

“I understand now why Sister never wrote me that I would be sure to love Miss Granger.”

Charles was shocked indeed at the appearance of the sister who was dearer to him than life itself. Pale and so wearily she came into the room leaning on the school nurse. Throwing her arms about her brother’s neck she clung to him. “I’ve been so lonely for mother lately,” she sobbed. “I dream of her often just as though she were alive and well. Then I am so happy, but I waken and realize that mother is never coming back.”

The young man, much moved, pressed his cheek close to the tear-wet one of the girl. “I know, darling, I know.” Then, striving to keep a break out of his voice, he said cheerily: “See who is here, Sister. Someone of whom you have often written me. And she has a wonderful plan to suggest.”

Lenora smiled wanly and held out a frail white hand. “I love Jenny Warner,” she said as though informing her brother of something he already knew. Then she asked, looking from one to the other: “Where am I going? Home to father?”

“Not quite yet, dear girl,” her brother replied. “Jenny’s grandmother has invited you to visit them for two weeks, or rather, until I am through with my studies, then, if you are strong enough, I will take you home to Dad.”

Before Lenora could express her pleasure, the ever watchful nurse stepped forward, saying: “Miss Gale ought not to be kept standing. Miss Granger has ordered the closed carriage and bade me accompany my patient to her destination.”

“That’s fine.” Charles found it hard to keep a note of anxiety out of his voice when Lenora sank into a near chair and began to cough. He followed the nurse from the room when she went to get her wraps. “Please tell me my sister’s condition,” he said in a low, troubled voice. “Her lungs are not affected, are they?”

“No, I am glad to say they are not. The trouble seems to be in her throat.” Then, after a thoughtful moment, the nurse added, glancing about to be sure that no one was near: “I would not wish to be quoted, but I believe Miss Gale’s recovery depends upon her being in an environment which she will enjoy. Here she is very lonely and broods continually for the mother who is gone.”

“Thank you for having told me.” Charles was indeed grateful to the nurse, whose name he did not know. “I shall see that such an environment is found for my dear sister if it exists anywhere. Our mother has been dead for several years, but, as time goes on, we miss her more and more.”

“I understand,” the nurse said as though she, too, had had a similar loss, then she glided quietly away.

On returning to the reception room, Jenny suggested that she would better go at once to the farmhouse that she might be there to welcome Lenora and the nurse. Charles agreed that the plan was a good one, and so, tenderly kissing her friend, Jenny went out; the young man opening the door for her.

When she had driven away, Charles returned to his sister, who smiled up at him faintly as she said: “Wasn’t I right, Charles? Isn’t Jenny the sweetest, dearest girl you ever saw?”

But her brother shook his head. “No, indeed,” he said, emphatically, taking one of the listless hands from the arm of the chair. “The sweetest, dearest girl in this world to me is your very own self, and, although I am quite willing to like any girl whom you may select as a best friend, you will never get me to acknowledge that she is sweeter than my very own sister. However, I will agree that I am pleased with Miss Jenny Warner to the extent of being willing, even glad, to have you in the same house with her until you are strong enough to travel to our home with me. I’ll wire Dad tonight. I have purposely kept your illness from him. It would be unwise for him to come here at this time of the year. We cannot both be away from the farm at seeding time.”

The nurse reappeared, saying the coach was waiting. The young giant of a lad lifted his sister and carried her out of the seminary which she was indeed glad to leave.

Jenny and her grandmother were on the side porch of the picturesque adobe farmhouse when Charles Gale on horseback rode up, immediately followed by the closed carriage. Susan Warner with tender pity in her face and voice, welcomed the pale girl, who was lifted out of the conveyance by the strong arms of her brother. Lenora’s sweet gray eyes were brimmed with tears and her lips trembled when she tried to thank the old woman for her great kindness. “There, there, dearie. Don’t try to be sayin’ anything now. You’re all petered out with the ride.” Then cheerily: “Jenny’ll show you where to fetch little Lenora, Mister – ” she hesitated and the girl at her side hastened to say: “Grandma Sue, this is Charles Gale, Lenora’s brother. Miss Granger had sent for him.”

The pleasant-faced young man bowed as he apologized for his inability to remove his hat. His sister having recovered from her first desire to cry, smilingly did it for him. “Haven’t I a giant for a brother?” she asked; then holding out a frail hand to the nurse, who had descended from the carriage carrying the wraps and a satchel. Lenora said: “Mrs. Warner, this is Miss Adelaide Wells, who has been very kind to me.” Then, as memory of the place she had left surged over her, the tears again came: “Oh, brother,” she half sobbed, clinging to him, “promise me I’ll never, never have to be sent to a seminary again.”

“Why, of course not,” he assured her. “When I have finished my schooling you and I will go back to our farm home and stay there forever and forever. If you need any further instruction, I can help you, so put that fear quite out of your thought.”

The girl smiled, but seemed too weak to make a reply. Charles followed Jenny through the kitchen and the cheerful living room into the bedroom which had been decked in so festive a fashion only that morning. After the nurse had put Lenora to bed, she returned to the seminary. The weary girl rested for a while with her eyes closed, then she opened them and looked about her.

She found Jenny sitting quietly by her bedside just waiting. Lenora smiled without speaking and seemed to be listening to the rush of the waves on the rocks, then she said: “That is the lullabye I once said I would like to hear in the night. It’s like magic, having it all come to pass.”

She smiled around at the flowers. “How sweet they are! I know that each one tells me some message of the thoughtfulness and love of my friend.” Holding out a frail hand, Lenora continued: “Jenny Warner, if I live, I am going to do something to make you glad that you have been so kind to me.”

A pang, like a pain, shot through the listener’s heart. “If I live.” She had not for one moment thought that her dear, dear friend might die. She was relieved to hear the other girl add in a brighter manner, as though she felt stronger after her brief rest: “I believe now that I shall live, but truly, Jenny, I didn’t care much when I lay all day up there in that cold, dreary seminary with no one near to mind whether I stayed or went. But now that I am here with you in this lovely, cheerful room, somehow I feel sure that I shall live.” Before her companion could reply, she asked: “Where is brother Charles?”

Jenny glanced out of the window. “Oh, there he is, standing on that high rock on the point, the one that canopies over our seat, you know, where we sat the last time you were at the farm. Shall I call him, dear?”

Lenora nodded and so Jenny, bareheaded, ran out toward the point of rocks. Charles, turning, saw her and went to meet her. “Has my sister rested?” he asked. Jenny said that she had, then anxiously she inquired: “Mr. Gale, what does the nurse think? Lenora is not seriously ill, is she?”

There was a sudden shadowing of the eyes that looked down at her. “I don’t know, Miss Jenny. I sincerely hope not. At my request Miss Wells will send me a daily report of my sister’s condition. The nurse takes a walk every afternoon, and, if your grandmother is willing, she will stop here until our little Lenora is much better.”

“I think that a splendid plan. It will be better than having a doctor call every day.” Then brightening: “Oh, Mr. Gale, I am sure Lenora will get well. She is better, come and see for yourself.” And so together they went indoors.

CHAPTER XX.

INGRATITUDE PERSONIFIED

“What do you suppose is the matter with Gwyn? Ever since Jenny Warner delivered a note from her mother Saturday afternoon, she has been as glum as a – well, what is glum, anyway?” Patricia looked up from the book she was studying to make this comment.

Beulah mumbled some reply which was unintelligible, nor did she cease trying to solve the problem she was intent upon. Pat continued: “I have it figured out that Gwyn’s mother wrote something which greatly upset our never-too-amiable friend. She kept shut in her room yesterday, tight as a clam in its shell. I rapped several times and asked if she had a headache and if she wished me to bring tea or anything, but she did not reply.”

“Take it from me, Pat, you waste your good Samaritan impulses on a person like Gwyn. She is simply superlatively selfish.”

Pat leaped up and put a hand over her friend’s mouth. “I heard the knob turn. I think we are about to be honored with a visit. Don’t be sarcastic, Beulah. Maybe Gwyn has a real trouble.”

This whispered remark had just been concluded when there came an imperative rapping on the inner door. Pat skipped to open it. Gwynette, dressed for the street, entered. “What’s the grand idea of locking the door between our rooms?” she inquired.

“Didn’t know it was locked,” Pat replied honestly. Beulah was again solving the intricate problem, or attempting to, and acted as though she had not heard.

Patricia, always the more tender-hearted, offered their visitor a chair. Then solicitously: “What is the matter, Gwyn. You look as though you had cried for hours. Bad news in the note Jenny Warner brought you?”

There was a hard expression in the brown eyes that were turned coldly toward the sympathetic inquirer. Slowly she said, “I sometimes think that I hate my mother and that she hates me.”

There was a quick protest from Pat. “Don’t say that, Gwyn, just because you are angry! You have told me, yourself, that your mother has granted your every wish until recently.”

Gwynette shrugged her proudly-held shoulders. “Even so! Why am I now treated like a child and told what I must do, or be punished?” Noting a surprised expression in Patricia’s pleasant face, Gwyn repeated with emphasis: “Just exactly that! If I do not take the tests, or if I fail in them when they are taken, I cannot have my coming-out party next year, but must remain in this or some other school until I obtain a diploma as a graduate with honors. So Ma Mere informed me in the note brought by that despicable Jenny Warner.”

Beulah could not help hearing and she looked up, her eyes flashing. “Gwynette, if you wish to slander a friend of Pat’s and mine, you will have to choose another audience.”

The eyebrows of the visitor were lifted. “Indeed? Since when have you become the champion of the granddaughter of my mother’s servants?”

Beulah’s answer was defiant. “Pat and I both consider Jenny Warner one of the most beautiful and lovable girls we have ever met. We went for a ride with her on Saturday, and this afternoon, if we aren’t too exhausted after the tests, we are going to walk down to her farm home and call on her and upon little Lenora Gale, who has been moved there from the infirmary.”

Gwynette rose, flinging over her shoulder contemptuously, “Well, I see that you have made your choice of friends. Of course you cannot expect to associate with me, if you are hobnobbing at the same time with our servants. What is more, that Lenora Gale’s father is a wheat rancher in Dakota. I, at least, shall select my friends from exclusive families. I will bid you good-bye. From now on our intimacy is at end.” The door closed behind Gwyn with an emphatic bang. Beulah leaped up and danced a jig. Pat caught her and pushed her back into her chair. “Don’t. She’ll hear and her feelings will be hurt.”

“Well, she’s none too tender with other people’s feelings,” Beulah retorted.

A carriage bearing the Poindexter-Jones coat-of-arms and drawn by two white horses was waiting under the wide portico in front of the seminary when Gwynette emerged. The liveried footman was standing near the open door to assist her within, then he took his place by the coachman and the angry girl was driven from the Granger Place grounds.

She did not notice the golden glory of the day; she did not glance out as she was driven down the beautiful Live Oak Canyon road, nor did she observe when the wife of the lodgekeeper opened the wide iron gates and curtsied to her. She was staring straight ahead with hard, unseeing eyes.

When the coach stopped and the footman had opened the door, the girl mounted the many marble steps leading to the pillared front porch. Instantly, and before she could ring, a white-caped maid admitted her. It was one who had been with them for years in their palatial San Francisco home, as had, also, the other servants. “Where is my mother, Cecile?” the girl inquired with no word of greeting, though she had not seen the trim French maid for many months. The maid’s eyes narrowed and her glance was not friendly. She liked to be treated, at least, as though she were human. She volunteered a bit of advice: “Madame is veer tired, Mees Gwyn. What you call, not yet strong. Doctor, he say, speak quiet where Madame is.”

Gwyn glared at the servant who dared to advise her. “Kindly tell me where my mother is at this moment. Since she sent the carriage for me, it is quite evident that she wishes to see me.”

“Madame is in lily-pond garden. I tell her Mees Gwyn has come.” But the girl, brushing past the maid, walked down the long, wide hall which extended from the front to the double back door and opened out on a most beautiful garden, where, on the blue mirror of an artificial pond many fragrant white lilies floated. There, sheltered from the sea breeze by tall, flowering bushes, Mrs. Poindexter-Jones reclined on a softly cushioned chair. Near her was a nurse in blue and white uniform who had evidently been reading aloud.

When Gwynette approached, the older woman said in a low voice: “Miss Dane, I prefer to be alone when I receive my daughter.”

The nurse slipped away through the shrubbery and Mrs. Poindexter-Jones turned again toward the girl whose rapid step and carriage plainly told her belligerence of spirit. The pale face of the patrician woman would have touched almost any heart, but Gwyn’s wrath had been accumulating since her conversation with Beulah and Pat. She considered herself the most abused person in existence.

“Ma Mere,” the girl began at once, “I don’t see why you didn’t let me come to you in France. If you aren’t any stronger than you seem to be, I should have thought you would have remained where you were and sent for Harold and me to join you there.”

“Sit down, Gwyn, if you do not care to kiss me.” There was a note of sorrow in the weary voice that did not escape the attention of the selfish girl. Stooping, she kissed her mother on the pale forehead. Then she took the seat vacated by the nurse. “Of course I am sorry you have been sick, Ma Mere,” she said in a tone which implied that decency demanded that much of her. “But it seems to me it would have been much better for you to have remained where you were. I was simply wild to have you send for me while you were at that adorable resort in France. I can’t see why you wanted to return here.” The last word was spoken with an emphasis of depreciation.

Mrs. Poindexter-Jones leaned her head back wearily on the cool pillow as she said, more to herself than to her listener, “I just wanted to come home. I wanted to see the trees my husband and I planted when we were first married. I felt that I would be nearer him someway, and I wanted to see my boy. Harold wished me to come home. He preferred to spend the summer here and I was glad.”

The pity, which for a moment had flickered in the girl’s heart when she saw how very weak her mother really was, did not last long enough to warm into a flame. “Ma Mere,” she said petulantly, “I cannot understand why you never speak of your husband as my father.” There was no response, only a tightening of the woman’s lips as though she were making an effort to not tell the truth.

“Moreover,” Gwyn went on, not noticing the change in her mother’s manner, “why should Harold’s wishes be put above mine? Perhaps you do not realize that he has become interested, to what degree I do not know, but nevertheless really interested, in the granddaughter of your servants on the farm.”