Aunt Caroline's Silk Dress

Patty came in from her walk to the post office with cheeks finely

reddened by the crisp air. Carry surveyed her with pleasure. Of late

Patty's cheeks had been entirely too pale to please Carry, and Patty

had not had a very good appetite. Once or twice she had even

complained of a headache. So Carry had sent her to the office for a

walk that night, although the post office trip was usually Carry's own

special constitutional, always very welcome to her after a weary day

of sewing on other people's pretty dresses.

Carry never sewed on pretty dresses for herself, for the simple reason

that she never had any pretty dresses. Carry was twenty-two--and

feeling forty, her last pretty dress had been when she was a girl of

twelve, before her father had died. To be sure, there was the silk

organdie Aunt Kathleen had sent her, but that was fit only for

parties, and Carry never went to any parties.

"Did you get any mail, Patty?" she asked unexpectantly. There was

never much mail for the Lea girls.

"Yes'm," said Patty briskly. "Here's the _Weekly Advocate_, and a

patent medicine almanac with all your dreams expounded, _and_ a letter

for Miss Carry M. Lea. It's postmarked Enfield, and has a suspiciously

matrimonial look. I'm sure it's an invitation to Chris Fairley's

wedding. Hurry up and see, Caddy."

Carry, with a little flush of excitement on her face, opened her

letter. Sure enough, it contained an invitation "to be present at the

marriage of Christine Fairley."

"How jolly!" exclaimed Patty. "Of course you'll go, Caddy. You'll have

a chance to wear that lovely organdie of yours at last."

"It was sweet of Chris to invite me," said Carry. "I really didn't

expect it."

"Well, I did. Wasn't she your most intimate friend when she lived in

Enderby?"

"Oh, yes, but it is four years since she left, and some people might

forget in four years. But I might have known Chris wouldn't. Of course

I'll go."

"And you'll make up your organdie?"

"I shall have to," laughed Carry, forgetting all her troubles for a

moment, and feeling young and joyous over the prospect of a festivity.

"I haven't another thing that would do to wear to a wedding. If I

hadn't that blessed organdie I couldn't go, that's all."

"But you have it, and it will look lovely made up with a tucked skirt.

Tucks are so fashionable now. And there's that lace of mine you can

have for a bertha. I want you to look just right, you see. Enfield is

a big place, and there will be lots of grandees at the wedding. Let's

get the last fashion sheet and pick out a design right away. Here's

one on the very first page that would be nice. You could wear it to

perfection, Caddy you're so tall and slender. It wouldn't suit a plump

and podgy person like myself at all."

Carry liked the pattern, and they had an animated discussion over it.

But, in the end, Carry sighed, and pushed the sheet away from her,

with all the brightness gone out of face.

"It's no use, Patty. I'd forgotten for a few minutes, but it's all

come back now. I can't think of weddings and new dresses, when the

thought of that interest crowds everything else out. It's due next

month--fifty dollars--and I've only ten saved up. I can't make forty

dollars in a month, even if I had any amount of sewing, and you know

hardly anyone wants sewing done just now. I don't know what we shall

do. Oh, I suppose we can rent a couple of rooms in the village and

_exist_ in them. But it breaks my heart to think of leaving our old

home."

"Perhaps Mr. Kerr will let us have more time," suggested Patty, not

very hopefully. The sparkle had gone out of her face too. Patty loved

their little home as much as Carry did.

"You know he won't. He has been only too anxious for an excuse to

foreclose, this long time. He wants the land the house is on. Oh, if I

only hadn't been sick so long in the summer--just when everybody had

sewing to do. I've tried so hard to catch up, but I couldn't." Carry's

voice broke in a sob.

Patty leaned over the table and patted her sister's glossy dark hair

gently.

"You've worked too hard, dearie. You've just gone to skin and bone.

Oh, I know how hard it is! I can't bear to think of leaving this dear

old spot either. If we could only induce Mr. Kerr to give us a year's

grace! I'd be teaching then, and we could easily pay the interest and

some of the principal too. Perhaps he will if we both go to him and

coax very hard. Anyway, don't worry over it till after the wedding. I

want you to go and have a good time. You never have good times,

Carry."

"Neither do you," said Carry rebelliously. "You never have anything

that other girls have, Patty--not even pretty clothes."

"Deed, and I've lots of things to be thankful for," said Patty

cheerily. "Don't you fret about me. I'm vain enough to think I've got

some brains anyway, and I'm a-meaning to do something with them too.

Now I think I'll go upstairs and study this evening. It will be warm

enough there tonight, and the noise of the machine rather bothers me."

Patty whisked out, and Carry knew she should go to her sewing. But she

sat a long while at the table in dismal thought. She was so tired, and

so hopeless. It had been such a hard struggle, and it seemed now as if

it would all come to naught. For five years, ever since her mother's

death, Carry had supported herself and Patty by dressmaking. They had

been a hard five years of pinching and economizing and going without,

for Enderby was only a small place, and there were two other

dressmakers. Then there was always the mortgage to devour everything.

Carry had kept it at bay till now, but at last she was conquered. She

had had typhoid fever in the spring and had not been able to work for

a long time. Indeed, she had gone to work before she should. The

doctor's bill was yet unpaid, but Dr. Hamilton had told her to take

her time. Carry knew she would not be pressed for that, and next year

Patty would be able to help her. But next year would be too late. The

dear little home would be lost then.

When Carry roused herself from her sad reflections, she saw a crumpled

note lying on the floor. She picked it up and absently smoothed it

out. Seeing Patty's name at the top she was about to lay it aside

without reading it, but the lines were few, and the sense of them

flashed into Carry's brain. The note was an invitation to Clare

Forbes's party! The Lea girls had known that the Forbes girls were

going to give a party, but they had not expected that Patty would be

invited. Of course, Clare Forbes was in Patty's class at school and

was always very nice and friendly with her. But then the Forbes set

was not the Lea set.

Carry ran upstairs to Patty's room. "Patty, you dropped this on the

floor. I couldn't help seeing what it was. Why didn't you tell me

Clare had invited you?"

"Because I knew I couldn't go, and I thought you would feel badly over

that. Caddy, I wish you hadn't seen it."

"Oh, Patty, I _do_ wish you could go to the party. It was so sweet of

Clare to invite you, and perhaps she will be offended if you don't

go--she won't understand. Clare Forbes isn't a girl whose friendship

is to be lightly thrown away when it is offered."

"I know that. But, Caddy dear, it is impossible. I don't think that I

have any foolish pride about clothes, but you know it is out of the

question to think of going to Clare Forbes's party in my last winter's

plaid dress, which is a good two inches too short and skimpy in

proportion. Putting my own feelings aside, it would be an insult to

Clare. There, don't think any more about it."

But Carry did think about it. She lay awake half the night wondering

if there might not be some way for Patty to go to that party. She knew

it was impossible, unless Patty had a new dress, and how could a new

dress be had? Yet she did so want Patty to go. Patty never had any

good times, and she was studying so hard. Then, all at once, Carry

thought of a way by which Patty might have a new dress. She had been

tossing restlessly, but now she lay very still, staring with wide-open

eyes at the moonlit window, with the big willow boughs branching

darkly across it. Yes, it was a way, but could she? _Could_ she? Yes,

she could, and she would. Carry buried her face in her pillow with a

sob and a gulp. But she had decided what must be done, and how it must

be done.

"Are you going to begin on your organdie today?" asked Patty in the

morning, before she started for school.

"I must finish Mrs. Pidgeon's suit first," Carry answered. "Next week

will be time enough to think about my wedding garments."

She tried to laugh and failed. Patty thought with a pang that Carry

looked horribly pale and tired--probably she had worried most of the

night over the interest. "I'm so glad she's going to Chris's wedding,"

thought Patty, as she hurried down the street. "It will take her out

of herself and give her something nice to think of for ever so long."

Nothing more was said that week about the organdie, or the wedding, or

the Forbes's party. Carry sewed fiercely, and sat at her machine for

hours after Patty had gone to bed. The night before the party she said

to Patty, "Braid your hair tonight, Patty. You'll want it nice and

wavy to go to the Forbes's tomorrow night."

Patty thought that Carry was actually trying to perpetrate a weak

joke, and endeavoured to laugh. But it was a rather dreary laugh.

Patty, after a hard evening's study, felt tired and discouraged, and

she was really dreadfully disappointed about the party, although she

wouldn't have let Carry suspect it for the world.

"You're going, you know," said Carry, as serious as a judge, although

there was a little twinkle in her eyes.

"In a faded plaid two inches too short?" Patty smiled as brightly as

possible.

"Oh, no. I have a dress all ready for you." Carry opened the wardrobe

door and took out--the loveliest girlish dress of creamy organdie,

with pale pink roses scattered over it, made with the daintiest of

ruffles and tucks, with a bertha of soft creamy lace, and a girdle of

white silk. "This is for you," said Carry.

Patty gazed at the dress with horror-stricken eyes. "Caroline Lea,

_that is your organdie!_ And you've gone and made it up for _me_!

Carry Lea, what are you going to wear to the wedding?"

"Nothing. I'm not going."

"You are--you must--you shall. I won't take the organdie."

"You'll have to now, because it's made to fit you. Come, Patty dear,

I've set my heart on your going to that party. You mustn't disappoint

me--you _can't_, for what good would it do? I can never wear the dress

now."

Patty realized that. She knew she might as well go to the party, but

she did not feel much pleasure in the prospect. Nevertheless, when she

was ready for it the next evening, she couldn't help a little thrill

of delight. The dress was so pretty, and dainty, and becoming.

"You look sweet," exclaimed Carry admiringly. "There, I hear the

Browns' carriage. Patty, I want you to promise me this--that you'll

not let any thought of me, or my not going to the wedding, spoil your

enjoyment this evening. I gave you the dress that you might have a

good time, so don't make my gift of no effect."

"I'll try," promised Patty, flying downstairs, where her next-door

neighbours were waiting for her.

At two o'clock that night Carry was awakened to see Patty bending over

her, flushed and radiant. Carry sat sleepily up. "I hope you had a

good time," she said.

"I had--oh, I had--but I didn't waken you out of your hard-earned

slumbers at this wee sma' hour to tell you that. Carry, I've thought

of a way for you to go to the wedding. It just came to me at supper.

Mrs. Forbes was sitting opposite to me, and her dress suggested it.

You must make over Aunt Caroline's silk dress."

"Nonsense," said Carry, a little crossly; even sweet-tempered people

are sometimes cross when they are wakened up for--as it

seemed--nothing.

"It's good plain sense. Of course, you must make it over and--"

"Patty Lea, you're crazy. I wouldn't dream of wearing that hideous

thing. Bright green silk, with huge yellow brocade flowers as big as

cabbages all over it! I think I see myself in it."

"Caddy, listen to me. You know there's enough of that black lace of

mother's for the waist, and the big black lace shawl of Grandmother

Lea's will do for the skirt. Make it over--"

"A plain slip of the silk," gasped Carry, her quick brain seizing on

all the possibilities of the plan. "Why didn't I think of it before?

It will be just the thing, the greens and yellow will be toned down to

a nice shimmer under the black lace. And I'll make cuffs of black

velvet with double puffs above--and just cut out a wee bit at the

throat with a frill of lace and a band of black velvet ribbon around

my neck. Patty Lea, it's an inspiration."

Carry was out of bed by daylight the next morning and, while Patty

still slumbered, she mounted to the garret, and took Aunt Caroline's

silk dress from the chest where it had lain forgotten for three

years. Carry held it up at arm's length, and looked at it with

amusement.

"It is certainly ugly, but with the lace over it it will look very

different. There's enough of it, anyway, and that skirt is stiff

enough to stand alone. Poor Aunt Caroline, I'm afraid I wasn't

particularly grateful for her gift at the time, but I really am now."

Aunt Caroline, who had given the dress to Carry three years before,

was, an old lady of eighty, the aunt of Carry's father. She had once

possessed a snug farm but in an evil hour she had been persuaded to

deed it to her nephew, Edward Curry, whom she had brought up. Poor

Aunt Caroline had lived to regret this step, for everyone in Enderby

knew that Edward Curry and his wife had repaid her with ingratitude

and greed.

Carry, who was named for her, was her favourite grandniece and often

went to see her, though such visits were coldly received by the

Currys, who always took especial care never to leave Aunt Caroline

alone with any of her relatives. On one occasion, when Carry was

there, Aunt Caroline had brought out this silk dress.

"I'm going to give this to you, Carry," she said timidly. "It's a good

silk, and not so very old. Mr. Greenley gave it to me for a birthday

present fifteen years ago. Maybe you can make it over for yourself."

Mrs. Edward, who was on duty at the time, sniffed disagreeably, but

she said nothing. The dress was of no value in her eyes, for the

pattern was so ugly and old-fashioned that none of her smart daughters

would have worn it. Had it been otherwise, Aunt Caroline would

probably not have been allowed to give it away.

Carry had thanked Aunt Caroline sincerely. If she did not care much

for the silk, she at least prized the kindly motive behind the gift.

Perhaps she and Patty laughed a little over it as they packed it away

in the garret. It was so very ugly, but Carry thought it was sweet of

Aunt Caroline to have given her something. Poor old Aunt Caroline had

died soon after, and Carry had not thought about the silk dress again.

She had too many other things to think of, this poor worried Carry.

After breakfast Carry began to rip the skirt breadths apart. Snip,

snip, went her scissors, while her thoughts roamed far afield--now

looking forward with renewed pleasure to Christine's wedding, now

dwelling dolefully on the mortgage. Patty, who was washing the dishes,

knew just what her thoughts were by the light and shadow on her

expressive face.

"Why!--what?" exclaimed Carry suddenly. Patty wheeled about to see

Carry staring at the silk dress like one bewitched. Between the silk

and the lining which she had just ripped apart was a twenty-dollar

bill, and beside it a sheet of letter paper covered with writing in a

cramped angular hand, both secured very carefully to the silk.

"Carry Lea!" gasped Patty.

With trembling fingers Carry snipped away the stitches that held the

letter, and read it aloud.

"My dear Caroline," it ran, "I do not know when you will find

this letter and this money, but when you do it belongs to you.

I have a hundred dollars which I always meant to give you

because you were named for me. But Edward and his wife do not

know I have it, and I don't want them to find out. They would

not let me give it to you if they knew, so I have thought of

this way of getting it to you. I have sewed five twenty-dollar

bills under the lining of this skirt, and they are all yours,

with your Aunt Caroline's best love. You were always a good

girl, Carry, and you've worked hard, and I've given Edward

enough. Just take this money and use it as you like.

"Aunt Caroline Greenley."

"Carry Lea, are we both dreaming?" gasped Patty.

With crimson cheeks Carry ripped the other breadths apart, and there

were the other four bills. Then she slipped down in a little heap on

the sofa cushions and began to cry--happy tears of relief and

gladness.

"We can pay the interest," said Patty, dancing around the room, "and

get yourself a nice new dress for the wedding."

"Indeed I won't," said Carry, sitting up and laughing through her

tears. "I'll make over this dress and wear it out of gratitude to the

memory of dear Aunt Caroline."

Aunt Susanna's Thanksgiving Dinner.