A LETTER FROM DOROTHY
"It seems an age, doesn't it, since we've had a real meeting," said the
founder of the Vigilantes, "and yet it's only nine weeks ago this very
identical day. I guess it's because the places are so far apart and so
different. The last time 'twas on the big rock back of the Retreat, and
now it's away out here in the Land of our Dreams. Oh, you'll never, never
know what it's meaning to me to have you all out here, because it's one of
the things you feel inside but can never, never tell!"
"I guess we know," cried Priscilla, "because we're feeling it, too! Every
day I think I'll die if I get any happier, but I guess happiness is one of
the things you can keep pouring into your heart like love--without its
overflowing."
"It's the very same way about pouring it out, too," said Mary. "There's
always plenty left like the oil in the Bible story."
"Aren't the mountains way off there blue?" cried Vivian. "I think blue's
the happiest color in the world. I'll never say that I feel _blue_ again
now that I've seen the mountains."
They had climbed to the summit of Spruce Ridge for their Vigilante
meeting--the first formal one they had held since their arrival in
Virginia's country. A letter from Dorothy, coming an hour ago, bore the
inscription, "To be read at a Vigilante meeting," and in order to be
honest to the letter, as well as in spirit, they had decided upon a place
apart and assembled.
"After all, it's better to come away like this, isn't it?" asked Virginia.
"There's a queer, common feeling that doesn't come when we just sit on the
porch and talk. And I love this sweep of country from the Ridge. It's real
Vigilante land. Now let's have the letter, Priscilla. I'm wild to hear it.
It's the very first we've had in a month."
The secretary of the order broke a large amount of sealing-wax, unfolded
sheets of blue stationery, and began:
"'A PIECE OF HEAVEN IN CALIFORNIA,
"'Aug. 11,19--.
"'DEAR FELLOW VIGILANTES:
"'I've been trying desperately to write you for weeks and weeks, but
you've no idea what the cares of a household are, especially when you
have a child around.'"
"A child!" cried all the Vigilantes at once. "What child?"
Priscilla continued:
"'But before I tell you about _Virginia Winthrop Richards_, I must
say that the summer is being even more wonderful than Dad and I ever
dreamed. I never got so well-acquainted with my own father in all my
life, and he's been a perfect darling to devote days and days to me.
The bungalow is more heavenly than ever. It's positively buried in
roses and heliotrope, and you'd never know it had a chimney. You'd
think that a huge geranium was growing right out of the roof. The
front porch looks out upon the sea. Oh, it's such a dark, deep,
sparkly blue! And when the sky is blue, too, and the sand is golden,
and the white gulls skim next the water--nothing could be more
beautiful in all the world! I think of you a hundred times a day, and
wish that you were here. So does Dad. I've told him all about the
Vigilantes, and he's so interested. He says he's thankful every day
that I have such fine friends at St. Helen's. In fact, I just know
he's more pleased with me than ever before. I think he sees there's
hope ahead, and it's a very comforting assurance.
"'Now I must tell you about Virginia Winthrop Richards. I know you're
consumed with curiosity. If you could see her, you'd be consumed with
envy. She is seven years old and all pink and white and blue and
gold. Her cheeks are just the color of wild roses, and her eyes deep
blue--almost like the water--and her hair golden brown with lights in
it. I dress her in pink or blue or white all the time. One day two
weeks ago Dad and I went to Los Angeles to buy clothes for her. I
don't believe I ever had quite such a good time in all my life. 'Twas
just like shopping for one's very own child. I put my hair up high
for the occasion, and endeavored to look matronly, but I guess I
failed, for when I saw a ravishing pink dress and said, "I guess it's
too small for my little girl," the stupid clerk laughed in my face.
"'We bought the sweetest things you ever saw! Hair-ribbons and
adorable shoes and socks striped like sticks of candy and little
fairy night-dresses all trimmed in lace. Then Dad bought some toys. I
let him do that. He bought a doll and books and a cart and horses,
for we want Virginia to be a trifle boyish, too, you see. While he
was doing it, his eyes just beamed and beamed. He said he felt just
as he did when I was little and he bought toys for me. When we
reached home and showed the things to Virginia Winthrop Richards, I
thought she'd die of happiness. Really, I didn't know but that we'd
lose her after all!
"'But here I am dressing my child for you, and you don't even know
who she is! She wasn't anybody but _Minnie_ and _No. 31_ until three
weeks ago. I've always thought it would be a heavy cross enough to
be named _Minnie_ anyway, even though you had a respectable surname,
but to be _Minnie_ without any surname at all, and _No. 31_ in
addition, seem to me the depths of misery. We found her in the Home
for Friendless Children, and I'll always believe that an angel led us
there! Dad and I went to the city three weeks ago this very Sunday
and walked by the Home. We didn't even know 'twas there--just
stumbled upon it while we were roaming around in search of adventure.
Poor little _31_ was sitting under a tree on the lawn holding a
shingle and singing to it. I'll never forget how she looked. Her
curls were braided up tight, and tied with a shoe-string, and she was
dressed in a hideous blue-checked thing, but even those drawbacks
couldn't spoil her. Dad and I just stopped and stared, and then we
walked up the steps and in at the door.
"'"Whose child is that out there on the lawn?" Dad asked the matron
who greeted us at the office entrance.
"'She was a tall, stern-looking person in a shirtwaist and a high,
starched collar. You just couldn't imagine her holding a baby, or one
cuddling up against her neck. She said _No. 31_ was nobody's child.
She had been left in an old basket on the steps six years ago. You
see, she isn't one of those children you read about with beautifully
embroidered clothes and gold lockets and one thousand dollars in
bills under her pillow. She didn't have any name or notes or requests
for whoever took her to call at the bank for a fortune when she was
twenty-one. She was just wrapped in an old blanket and left there.
But Dad and I don't care!
"'When the matron saw that we were interested, she asked if we didn't
want to borrow _No. 31_ for a few days. She said they sometimes lent
children for two weeks or so. When she said it, she sounded just as
though a child were a typewriter or a vacuum cleaner, sent on ten
days' free trial. I looked at Dad and Dad looked at me, and then he
said, "We'll take her!" It didn't take long for the matron to do up
her few clothes and to get her ready. She was so glad to make the
loan that she hurried. Little No. 31 was so surprised that she didn't
know whether to be happy or not. Perhaps she didn't understand what
it was to be really happy, but she knows now! She's positively
radiant!
"'I can't explain how it seemed when we brought her home. Somehow
'twas as though we'd just begun to be a _real_ family. She snuggled
between Dad and me on the front seat of the car, and kept looking
from one to the other of us. I think it was her name that first gave
us the idea of keeping her. We couldn't call that adorable child _No.
31_, and we wouldn't call her _Minnie_. Of course we couldn't name a
borrowed child, and so after I'd given her a bath, and we'd seen how
truly sweet and adorable she was, we decided that at all events she
should never, never go back to that Home, which is a satire on the
word. At first Dad thought he knew of a fine home for her with some
friends of his who haven't any children, but after the ten days' free
trial were over we knew we just couldn't give her up. Best of all,
Mrs. Shute, the housekeeper, who's been with us all summer, loves
her to death, and she's promised to stay right on with Dad, and keep
house for him next winter in Los Angeles. So you see Dad has a home
and another child, and he's the happiest man in California.
"'He let me do the naming, and, of course, I consulted my child. I
couldn't think of anything lovelier than to name her for the two
founders of the Vigilantes, and after I'd told her all about you she
was pleased as pleased could be. I let her choose between _Priscilla
Hunter Richards_ and _Virginia Winthrop Richards_, and she took
Virginia and named her new doll _Priscilla_. I wish I could have
named her for you and Mary, Vivian, dear, but Dad thought two names
were enough.
"'We're the very happiest family you ever saw. Virginia fits in
better every day. She's learning such sweet manners--I tell Dad it
just shows she must be sweet inside! She's learning to read and to
write, too. We have a lesson every morning after breakfast. The other
day I bought the pattern of a little dress, and Mrs. Shute helped me
cut it out and make it. I never felt so proud in all my life. I'm
obliged to be more _vigilant_ than ever, because Virginia does and
says everything that I do. The other day I said I should certainly
die if I didn't get a letter from some of you, and she was quite
frightened. So I guess I'll have to be more moderate in speech after
this.
"'There's one thing more I must tell you before I stop. I saw Imogene
the other day. Dad and Virginia and I were walking by one of the big
hotels here, when an automobile came up to the curbing. You can just
imagine how surprised I was when Imogene and Mrs. Meredith stepped
out. There was a young man with them whom I didn't like very well. He
had a queer way of looking at you, and was over-dressed, I thought.
Imogene looked very handsome, and, oh, loads older! I felt a perfect
baby beside her! Mrs. Meredith was just the same, only even more
elaborately gowned than she used to be when she visited Imogene.
Imogene was as surprised as I was, I think, though she didn't show
it. She and her mother shook hands with me, and she introduced her
friend. I was so excited I didn't hear his name at all. She told me
she was going to be married at Christmas time, and so wouldn't be
back at St. Helen's, and Mr. Whoever-he-was laughed and said Imogene
had been to school long enough. Dad and I asked them to tea with us,
but they said they were just hurrying through and couldn't come.
"'When they left us and went into the hotel I had the queerest
feeling. 'Twas just as though I had said good-by to Imogene
forever--just as though she'd gone away into a different world. And
the queerest part of it all was that I didn't care very much. It
seemed years since I had cared for her--years since we had done
things together at St. Helen's. That night after I had put Virginia
to bed, and come out on the porch with Dad, a big machine flew by our
house. I heard some one laugh, and knew it was Imogene. She hadn't
been hurrying through; she just hadn't cared to come. I suppose it
ought to have hurt me, but it didn't. I was glad she'd stopped
caring, too, the way I had. Then, at least, neither of us would be
hurt. The only thing I'm sorry about is that Imogene has gone into
that kind of a world. I don't believe it can give the best kind of
happiness, do you?
"'It's nearly church time, and I must hurry. We're all going
together. It's Virginia's very first service, except for those at the
Home, and I do hope she'll be good. I've been instructing her for
days--telling her just what to do and what not to do. I'm afraid I'll
send out many thoughts in your direction, but Miss Wallace says
they're prayers anyway--that is, the kind I'd send to you, so I guess
it will be all right. There's Virginia calling now.
"'Dearest love,
"'DOROTHY.
"'P.S. After service. She was angelic! When she knelt and closed her
eyes, she looked like one of Raphael's cherubs. Dad wiped his eyes--I
saw him--and I could have cried for happiness. The sermon was on
"Vigilance"--wasn't that strange? The minister spoke about watching
for opportunities to serve, for in so doing, he said, we served
ourselves most of all. Dad looked at me then and smiled, and we both
looked at Virginia, our opportunity. She was finding _A's_ in the
prayer-book.
"'This is a selfish letter--all about me--but I knew you'd want to
know about your namesake. Write me right away. We'll be watching
every mail.
"'DOROTHY.'"
They looked at one another with shining eyes as Priscilla folded the
letter. Mary was the first to speak.
"Isn't it the loveliest thing in all the world for Dorothy to do?" she
said.
"Wonderful!" cried the two who possessed a namesake.
"I think we ought to make Virginia Winthrop Richards a present," proposed
Priscilla. "I never felt so important in all my life, did you, Virginia?"
"Never!" said Virginia. "Why so quiet, Vivian?"
"I was thinking about Imogene," said Vivian. "I'm wondering why I don't
care much either. It's strange when I cared so much for her--only four
months ago."
In their excitement over Dorothy's child, the others had for the moment
forgotten Imogene.
"I guess it's because we went as far as the crossroads together,"
explained Virginia, "and then chose different paths. I feel the same way
Dorothy does. I'm sorry for Imogene, but I don't feel any great loss
myself."
"I propose we adjourn," said the excited Priscilla, "and go down and tell
the news to Aunt Nan and Mr. Hunter. That is, if there's no more
business," she added, looking toward the president.
The president declared the meeting adjourned, and they started homeward.
By a large spruce they stopped for a moment. The ground beneath the tree
was a garden, glad with blossoming flowers. Virginia's gray eyes looked at
them, then sought the distant mountains.
"I never thought," she said softly, "that I'd love to come up here the way
I do. Of course I know Jim isn't here. He's gone on to make others happy
Somewhere Else. But I like to remember how we used to climb up here and
look off at the country. He always loved it so. I used to be so lonely
without him, but now I'm glad--glad he's having all the wonderful things
that just must happen after we--go on! That's why I like William's flowers
so! They're so glad, too!"
"I like William for taking such good care of them," said Mary. "I saw him
coming up here yesterday with his garden tools."
"William!" cried Virginia gladly. "Why, William's _always_ been next best
to Jim!"