CHAPTER XXXI
A LETTER FROM ALASKA
Cousin Marcia Vintner, who was Aunt Eunice's cousin, and stood toJacqueline in some obscure relationship that Caroline never was able towork out, had thoughtfully gone away for the summer to the Bosphorus.The cottage that she left at the disposal of her friends was whatCaroline, only five weeks removed from Cousin Delia's crowded quarters,would have called a house, and a very nice one.
The cottage, since Cousin Marcia wished to call it so, was of gray,weathered shingles, with latticed casements and a craftily contrived sagin the ridgepole, and it stood in a little tangle of old-fashionedflowers, on the side of a hill that sloped down to the rocks and thesea. Inside there was a living room, with a great brick fireplace andwalls sheathed in dark wood. The piano held the place of honor, with itsgleaming keyboard turned toward the windows.
There was a wee dining room, with cottage furniture of black and yellow,and dishes black and yellow, too. In the kitchen, all white and bluetiles, was Cousin Marcia's Jenny, a black woman who went with the houseand made beaten biscuit and sugar jumbles, such as Caroline had nevertasted before. Upstairs were darling bedrooms, with casements thatlooked to the sea. Caroline's room was all in delft blue and orange,like the sea in some lights and the smooth western clouds when the sunhas just set.
There were books in the house, and magazines, and there were prettythings to sew, which Aunt Eunice had brought along. Out of doors werethe downs, where Caroline went walking with a Cousin Penelope who seemedyounger and gayer and lovinger than she had been in Longmeadow. Therewere the rocks, with their treasure-pools of seaweed and shells andstrange live things that stayed rooted or moved so sluggishly theybarely seemed to move. There were the white sands, where Caroline playedwith a basket of new toys, fluted dishes, flower-shapes, fish-shapesthat molded the moist sand into forms of beauty. There were the waves,where Caroline paddled or sometimes, with little gasps at the cold shockof them, ventured to bathe, and bathed most willingly, when CousinPenelope was near.
People came and went. Children from the near-by cottages, all on thelordly scale of Cousin Marcia's dwelling, played with Caroline on thebeach and among the rocks. Lovely ladies, mothers and sisters of thechildren, and all young alike, came to tea with Aunt Eunice and CousinPenelope, and Caroline wore one of Jacqueline's pretty frocks, thecorn-colored net or the hemstitched white crepe de chine with the oldrose pipings, and passed the Dresden plate of cakes or the silver dishof plump bonbons.
Madame Woleski came, not for a week, but for three full days ofenchantment, and made music for them evenings in the soft light of thecandles. She kissed Caroline when she went away, and told her she wasmastering some of her faults of technique. Let her work hard and not bediscouraged! From Madame Woleski that was much more than gushing praisesfrom another, and so the music-loving soul in Caroline, that her motherhad fostered, knew and understood.
Wonderful days by the sea--days in which Jacqueline in the Meadows wasalmost forgotten, as Jacqueline herself had told Caroline toforget--days indeed when Caroline almost believed that she wasJacqueline, and that all this happiness and love and the singing pianowere to be hers forever.
There in Longmeadow, Jacqueline, helpless and little, hadn't known howto trace Caroline and the Gildersleeves. But the postmaster had theirnew address all the time! If Jacqueline had thought to ask him, no doubthe would have told it to her, but he would have told every one that shehad asked him, for he was the greatest old gossip in all the village.No, she wouldn't have dared to ask him, because he was such a gossip,even if she had known that he had the address.
The William Gildersleeves, The Sheiling, Monk's Bay, Mass. That was theaddress, written in a crabbed hand on a page in the postmaster'snotebook, and to The Sheiling, Cousin Marcia's cottage at Monk's Bay,came every now and then the letters that he forwarded.
One day there was a letter for Jacqueline Gildersleeve.
Cousin Penelope handed it to Caroline, when she came up from the beachto tea. Caroline was bare-legged, in her sandals, with her brown pongeeknickerbockers, beneath her pongee smock, a little dampened at the edgeswhere she had been wading, not wisely but too well. Under herbroad-brimmed straw hat with its tawny orange ribbons that matched theorange stitching of her smock her face was glowing and her eyes werewells of tranquil joy.
"Here's a letter from your aunt," said Cousin Penelope, in a vexed tone."I really believe it's the first letter she has written you in all theseweeks."
Aunt Eunice, in her basket chair by the open casement, shook her headnever so slightly.
"They've sent her a great many post-cards, Penelope," she said, like onewho makes an effort to be just. "When you're traveling all the time fromplace to place, it isn't always easy to write regular letters, andbesides you must remember that mail often goes astray."
"I--I didn't ask for letters," Caroline broke out, in a trembling voice."Oh, dear! You read it for me, Aunt Eunice, please!"
She had worn Jacqueline's clothes, and borne Jacqueline's name, andtaken Jacqueline's place, but there was something in her that shecouldn't overcome--something that Mother and Father both hadtrained--that cried out at the mere thought of opening a sealed letteraddressed to some one else.
But Aunt Eunice had apparently the same feeling.
"Certainly not, my dear," she said, gently enough, but in a tone thatleft no chance of appeal. "You must read your own letter. It is meantfor you, and for nobody else."
The glow had all gone out of Caroline's face and her eyes had filled.Now frankly she began to cry.
It was Cousin Penelope who caught her in her arms.
"There, there, precious!" she soothed. Think of it! Cousin Penelope, ofall people, soothing and understanding. "I know how it is. Letters fromoutside--they break things up----"
"Oh, it's been so lovely here with you," wept Caroline, "just too lovelyto last."
Cousin Penelope held her tight--tight enough almost to hurt her. CousinPenelope kissed her, almost passionately.
"Penelope!" That was Aunt Eunice speaking, but in a voice unlike her ownvoice--stern and hard. "It is tea time. Jacqueline must wash her faceand hands. Jacqueline, my dear! Run upstairs and make yourself tidy.Take your aunt's letter with you, and read it before you come down totea."
Caroline obeyed, and no wonder, but Penelope--that was the realwonder!--let her obey without a word of protest.
Up in her room Caroline washed her face and hands and feet, and brushedher hair. Then she opened the envelope, because she was afraid todisobey Aunt Eunice when she spoke in that stern voice. The letterinside the envelope was thick, but not very long, for Jacqueline's AuntEdith wrote a big, sprawling hand. Caroline read it, and to her relieffound that it wasn't so private as to make her feel absolutely a horridPaul Pry. Aunt Edith wrote about some of the places she had seen, andspoke of some gifts she was bringing to Jacqueline, and hoped she hadhad a pleasant visit in Longmeadow, and was glad that she and UncleJimmie were to see her in another month, and that was all. Just all!
Caroline had been silly for nothing. She was to have another month ofhappiness in beautiful places with Cousin Penelope and Aunt Eunice, andif the future could be judged by the past, probably in all that blissfulmonth Jacqueline's Aunt Edith wouldn't write again! Caroline began tohum to herself, like a drenched bee when the sun comes out, while sheput on her sand-colored socks and chose a fresh ribbon for her hair.
But Caroline at that moment (if you except Jenny, who was buttering hotlittle tea-biscuits in the kitchen) was the only tranquil person inCousin Marcia Vintner's cottage.
In the brown-sheathed living room Cousin Penelope and Aunt Euniceexchanged distressed glances, as soon as Caroline had fled from theirpresence.
"Penelope!" Aunt Eunice spoke as chidingly as if Cousin Penelope werejust a little girl again.
"I can't help it, Mother," whispered Penelope. "Jack's child--the poorlittle thing--so happy with us--like a different being since s
he came tous. You can see it yourself."
"I know," Aunt Eunice sighed pitifully.
"What right has this Delane woman to take her away from us?" Penelopeasked fiercely. "She's starved her all these years--oh, of course Idon't mean food, though her diet hasn't been properly regulated, and herteeth are in shocking condition. But I mean the things a child needsmore than food--books and pictures and the music that's more to thatlittle thing than the air she breathes. That Delane woman doesn'tunderstand her as we do--she doesn't love her as we do----"
"Hush, hush, Penelope!"
"And the child doesn't like her----"
"You've no right to say that."
"I'm going to say it, Mother. You've seen it yourself. Jacqueline neverspeaks of California or her mother's people. She wants to forget them.She's never written to them in all these weeks. She's barely glanced atthe post-cards that woman has sent--and you saw her just now when shegot that letter."
"What's the use of all this, Penelope? Edith is her aunt, and one of herguardians. And the child hasn't been abused. Don't conjure up horrors."
Penelope bowed her white forehead into her long slender hands.
"I can't bear it!" she whispered.
"We'll have to bear it," said Aunt Eunice in a steady, calm voice. Therewere no tears in her old eyes, but their patient look was very weary."At least we'll get all the comfort we can out of the weeks that areleft. Four weeks at least she'll be with us."
"No, we haven't even that," Penelope cried bitterly. "They've changedtheir plans. I had a letter from that woman in this same mail. Theydon't want to unsettle the child--as if they really cared! We're not totell her. As if I would, under any circumstances. Their dates areuncertain--it's like their selfishness to leave us in such cruel doubt.They've cut their Alaskan trip short--fickle, stupid people!"
"Penelope! Don't!"
"I can't help it. I loathe them both. They'll wire us--oh, they're soconsiderate! And they may turn up in Longmeadow any day after nextweek--and then they'll take Jack's little girl away from us!"
The Turned-About Girls Page 32