A Colony of Girls

by Kate Livingston Willard

  Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  A Colony of Girls

  By KATE LIVINGSTON WILLARD

  New York Dodd, Mead and Company

  Copyright, 1892, by DODD, MEAD & COMPANY. All rights reserved.

  CONTENTS.

  PAGE

  I. THE LAWRENCES AND OTHERS, 1

  II. NAN'S SHIP ARRIVES, 11

  III. A LEAF FROM HELEN'S PAST, 24

  IV. A SAIL ON THE "CYCLONE," 38

  V. SUNSET-HOUR ON THE CLIFFS, 51

  VI. A DINNER AT THE MANOR, 59

  VII. A WALK IN THE SHRUBBERY, 69

  VIII. NAN REBELS, 88

  IX. A FLYING MACHINE AND WHAT CAME OF IT, 97

  X. MISS STUART'S ARRIVAL, 118

  XI. DULL DAYS, 131

  XII. EDDYING CURRENTS, 139

  XIII. AN INVITATION, 156

  XIV. A DANCE AT CRESCENT BEACH, 171

  XV. HELEN IS PUZZLED, 184

  XVI. "IT WAS ONLY MY IMAGINATION," 193

  XVII. THE "VORTEX" DEPARTS, 206

  XVIII. A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS, 224

  XIX. A CABLEGRAM, 244

  XX. "PEACE ON EARTH--GOOD WILL TO MEN," 259

  A COLONY OF GIRLS.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE LAWRENCES AND OTHERS.

  "I cannot understand why the children do not return from the beach.They have been gone so long."

  "None too long," sighed Nathalie Lawrence, swinging lazily to and froin a hammock which was hung across one end of the veranda. "What aheaven it is without them. I declare, Helen," she continued,addressing her sister in aggrieved tone, "we do get a lot of thosechildren, somehow or other. For my part, I cannot see why you let themstay about with us all the time, when they are a thousand times betteroff with Mary," and she gave a vindictive tug at a rope fastened tothe railing, which sent the hammock back and forth with the utmostrapidity.

  "Take care, Nat; you will be out next, and there will be a hubbubworse than the children would think of making in their wildestmoments."

  The young girl who thus spoke laughed a low, musical laugh, and lookedup from her book with a pair of wide-open blue eyes.

  "Nathalie, as usual, thinks only of herself," said Helen with a frown,as she walked away.

  "I never can say one word about those children without raising Helen'sire. She spoils them, and she might as well admit it."

  "In my short and uneventful career," responded Jean smiling, "I havenot found that people are over-fond of admitting anything, least ofall their weaknesses. I don't see how you can expect Helen to besuperior to all the rest of the world--yourself and myself included.Now, imagine," she continued tantalizingly, "if anyone insisted uponyour admitting your weakness for Mr. Church----"

  "Oh, keep quiet, Jean; you are too stupid."

  "Dear, dear," cried Jean, jumping up and closing her book, "of courseI am, and that is my weakness; so now we are quits."

  Nathalie tossed her head as much as her position would permit.

  "Jean Lawrence," she said solemnly, "you bore me."

  "What a catastrophe!" Jean flung back her head with a merry laugh."Good-by, dear; you are the picture of injured innocence."

  "Jean, come back," cried Nathalie, struggling to obtain an uprightposition. "I do think you are too bad. Ah, well, some day,"--thenbreaking into song:

  "Some day, some day, some day I shall meet you, Love, I know not when nor how; Love, I know not when nor how. Only this, Only this, only this, that once you loved me; Only this, I love you now----"

  "Rats!" called out a small voice from the lawn below.

  Nathalie raised herself on her elbow, and peered through the railing.

  "Larry, I am thunderstruck. What is the meaning of that weirdexpression?"

  "Nathalie singing a love song," cried Larry, scampering about on thelawn. "Oh, what fun!"

  "Larry," called Helen, coming out once more on to the veranda. "Whereare Willie and Gladys? Why did you stay so long? I have been worryingabout you."

  "Oh, they're coming along. Now, don't you worry, Helen, 'cause we wasall right. You don't need never to send Mary with us," he addedeagerly, "'cause we wouldn't get drownded, nor nothing, really."

  Jean strolled back from the other end of the veranda, and put her handon Helen's shoulder.

  "Larry, love," she said, looking down at her little brother, "yourgrammar is something to be deplored."

  A fleeting smile lit up Helen's pale face and gentle brown eyes.

  "Ah, here come the little culprits," she cried, starting forward."Gladys, my precious baby, I have been worried to death about you.What naughty chicks to have staid so long. Willie, I can never trustyou."

  Willie was a grave little fellow, the eldest of the three children.

  "Why, Helen, we weren't gone long. Gladys was good, and so wasLarry--that is pretty----" he added deprecatingly. "The moment I said'Come on, children,' we all started; only Gladys, she couldn't walkvery fast, so Larry wouldn't wait for us. Oh," sighed Willie, hisgrave little face in a pucker at the recollection, "I would ratherMary went along with Gladys another time."

  "Anyhow I was awful good, sister," lisped little Gladys, trying tofrown on Willie, "only----"

  "Only your short little legs would not carry you any quicker. Is thatnot so, darling? Well, since you were all good, there is nothing toscold you about."

  "Helen's faith is sublime," laughed Jean, in an aside to Nathalie.

  Helen took little Gladys in her arms, and sat down in a large rocker,which stood close to the front door.

  She was a slender, frail-looking girl. Her soft, brown hair wasarranged close to her head with the utmost simplicity, and her ratherpale face would perhaps have been plain, had it not been redeemed by apair of beautiful sad brown eyes. She was the eldest of the Lawrences,and it seemed to her only a brief time since the Angel of Death had,twice in one short year, visited their home, leaving them bereft offather and mother.

  Her father had been a physician of undoubted skill, a man of widelearning and great culture. Had the lash of poverty given an incentiveto his somewhat lagging spirit, he might have commanded the attentionand the admiration of his fellow-men; but his was a nature of greatshyness and reserve, and when his father died, leaving him acomfortable fortune, he had, with an almost unconscious sigh ofrelief, turned his back on ambition and withdrawn to the old homesteadin the sleepy little town of Hetherford, content with a small countrypractice which left him undisturbed hours among his books and in hislaboratory.

  Mrs. Lawrence's inclinations were thoroughly social; but so unboundedwas her faith in her husband's judgment that it never occurred to herto complain of the narrowness and isolation of their life inHetherford. As her girls grew older, however, she reproached herselfwith the thought that she was hardly doing them justice in thussecluding them from the advantages of contact with the great worldwhich lay beyond their own pretty village. She appeased her
conscienceby giving them occasional visits to town and one long, happy summer inEurope, which they had enjoyed to their hearts' content.

  The winter following this last delightful holiday, Dr. Lawrence hadbeen stricken with a fatal illness and, after weeks of suffering, hadpassed away.

  Mrs. Lawrence survived this blow but two months, and at little Gladys'birth had turned to Helen with a weary, heartbroken sigh:

  "My darling, I am so lonely--your father. Take care of the littleones--this wee lamb. God bless you, my----"

  Helen had sunk speechless at her mother's bedside, until the sound ofa wailing cry brought her once more to herself.

  "My dear," said gentle Aunt Helen, leaning over her, "won't you takethe poor little baby? Perhaps she will help to comfort you."

  And Helen took her little sister in her arms, and made her way intothe nursery, where, in two small cribs, side by side, lay her littlebrothers, fast asleep.

  Jean and Nathalie stood by the nursery window, looking out into thenight. At Helen's entrance they turned sharply.

  "O Helen, how is mamma?" Jean stopped short, appalled at the change inher sister's face.

  "Helen," she cried, a sharp ring of pain in her voice, "mamma is not--"

  "Yes, Jean--Nathalie--mamma is gone. Oh, what shall we do," Helenmoaned.

  "My poor children," said Aunt Helen tenderly, crossing the room andputting an arm around little Nathalie, and clasping Jean's handtightly in hers; "your dear mamma is gone. She was so sad and lonelywithout papa. Oh, darlings! do not grieve, but think of her as happyand at rest. You, Helen, must learn to be a mother to these littlesisters and brothers, and teach them all your dear mamma would havethem know. And Jean and even little Nathalie, too, can help."

  "Auntie"--Helen's tears were falling fast--"I will do all I can. Poorbaby," she whispered, and she kissed the soft little face, which wasnestled in her arms, and then she turned toward the cribs, and lookedwith loving eyes at the sleeping children. "God bless them, and helpme."

  Since that sad night six years had rolled by. Nathalie was noweighteen, Jean her elder by two years, and Helen's twenty-thirdbirthday was close at hand. Larry and Willie were respectively eightand ten, and little Gladys was fast outgrowing her babyhood.

  Aunt Helen, Mrs. Dennis, had since Mrs. Lawrence's death made herpermanent home with her nieces and nephews. She was a sweet, gentlewoman, a widow and childless, and her lonely life had been thusgladdened by the love of this household of happy-go-lucky children.She had always been delicate, and during the past few years had becomeso great an invalid that she rarely left her room.

  Thus Helen Lawrence had been obliged to assume unusual cares andresponsibilities for so young a girl, and these were not without theireffect on her mind and character.

  For years the manor house of Hetherford had been in the possession ofthe Lawrences, and no family in the town was better known, or moreuniversally loved. The manor itself was a charming old park,stretching out far enough to make it no small walk to compass itsgrounds. Grand old trees shaded the well-kept lawns, and prettygraveled paths, lined with box-wood, led hither and thither.

  The house was old-fashioned in the extreme, large, square, andcommodious. A broad veranda ran around three sides of it, and acrossthe front there was an upper balcony, which, in the season, wascovered with trailing vines of roses, honeysuckles, and passionflowers. During the warm summer days this was a favorite retreat ofthe girls. A few rugs were thrown down, comfortable wicker chairs werescattered here and there, and on the low round table in the centerthere was always a motley collection of books, writing materials, andwork-baskets. Through occasional openings in the vines were revealedpretty vistas of lawn and flowering rosebeds, beyond which stretchedthe blue waters of the sound, sparkling in the sunshine as if strewnwith a thousand jewels. It was, indeed, an Arcadian spot.

  Within doors everything was equally old-fashioned and comfortable.Opening on to the broad hall, which ran through the middle of thehouse, were four large airy rooms, simply but substantially furnished,and with an unmistakable air of being lived in. Upstairs, in additionto the rooms occupied by the family, each one of which was bright andcheery, and clearly revealed the individuality of its occupant, wereseveral guest chambers, with heavy four-post bedsteads and quaintmahogany dressing-tables, and during the summer season these wererarely untenanted, for the Lawrences' hospitality was as old-fashionedas their home.

  Quiet Hetherford was almost unknown as a summer resort, but the fewpeople who had once found their way there came again and again, andwith them all the Lawrences were on intimate and friendly terms. Itwas not strange that young men came but rarely to this out-of-the-waylittle village, but a colony of girls thrived and were happy there;happier, perhaps, for this very lack of the masculine element. Thegirls often laughed merrily over it, and no one of them seemed to takeit very much to heart, save pretty little dark-eyed Emily Varian, whospent her summers with her uncle, Dr. Evelyn Birdsall, thePresbyterian minister.

  "It is deplorable," she sighed, "and if the girls were not selfishlylazy they could quite easily get some men to come out here. Certainlytown is not so far off as to make us quite out of the world. It isnothing but stupid nonsense and vanity on the girls' part. They thinkit is something fine and independent never to see anything of men. Formy part, I should think they would be ashamed of it."

  There was one girl who always laughed good-humoredly at Emily'sgrumbling, and she was none other than charming Eleanor Hill. However,she had less cause to complain, for while Emily went from her winterhome in one little country town to sleepier Hetherford for the summermonths, Miss Hill for more than half of every year led the gayest oflives in New York. When June came with its warm sunshine and longdays, she and her mother gladly turned their face toward pretty,dreamy Hetherford; to them the dearest spot in the world.

  Mollie Andrews said that, for her part, she didn't care. Taking it allin all, she did not see but that they had a pretty good time. TheAndrews had been coming to Hetherford for years, and were all deeplyattached to the place; Mollie's handsome, scatterbrained brother Dickhad set the seal of his approval on their choice of a summer resort,and thenceforth Mollie would have deemed it nothing short of heresy tocall the place stupid. To be sure, Dick rarely turned up oftener thanonce a week, but then her cousin Clifford Archer, nicknamed "the fatalbeauty," was wont to put in an appearance for a few days, frequentlywith his great chum Wendell Churchill, whose yacht was quite afamiliar object in Hetherford Harbor.

  "It is perfectly absurd of Emily," Mollie would end, with a toss ofher head.

  Emily always looked scornful, and Nan Birdsall, happy-go-lucky Nan,who rarely went away from Hetherford, would laugh gleefully.

  "Poor Em," she exclaimed one evening, after one of her cousin'stirades, "you are man-crazy. Never mind, dear; you wait. I know athing or two, and by and by when my ship comes in," looking around atthe girls, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "you will besurprised. Perhaps we will have more men here than we have bargainedfor."

  "What do you mean, Nan?" they cried in chorus; but not a bit ofsatisfaction would Nan give them.

  The parsonage adjoined the manor, and an opening in the hedge madeintercourse between the two families an easy matter. Just across theroad was the inn, where all the summer visitors stayed, and a quainterretreat could not be imagined. They formed only a small circle ofpeople, but many were the happy times they had together.