SISTERS
The big house was brilliantly illuminated and yet there were delightful
twilight nooks, half hidden behind great potted palms which had come from
a florist’s in Santa Barbara. Guests had been arriving in motors from the
big city all the afternoon. Gwynette was in her element. Tom Pinkerton,
the roommate of Charles, had been summoned by phone to round up a few of
their classmates, and be there for the gala occasion. Gwyn had asked
Patricia, Beulah and a few other girl friends, while Harold had sent
telegraphic invitations to his pals at the military school. There had
only been two days to perfect arrangements, but had there been a week,
the big house could not have been more attractively arrayed, for the
wisteria arbor was in full bloom and great bunches of the graceful white
and purple blossoms filled every vase and bowl in the house.
There were flowers in each of the ten guest rooms where the young people
who had arrived in the afternoon had rested until the dinner hour.
* * * * * * * *
The musical chimes were telling the hour of eight when Harold led his
companions into the brilliantly lighted hall and up to the rooms where
they were to remove their wraps. Jenny glanced through the wide double
doors into the spacious parlors and library where the chairs and lounges
had been placed around the walls, leaving the floor clear for dancing.
Beautifully dressed girls and young men in evening clothes sauntered
about in couples visiting with old friends and meeting others. Jenny did
not feel real. She had often read stories describing events like this
one, and she had often imagined that she was a guest. She almost had to
pinch herself as she was ascending the wide, softly-carpeted stairway to
be sure that _this_ was real and not one of her dreams.
When they had removed their wraps and had descended, they were greeted by
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones, who, beautifully gowned, sat in her wheeled chair,
with Gwynette, lovely in a filmy blue chiffon, standing at her side. Miss
Dane had reluctantly consented to permit her patient, who had grown
stronger very rapidly in the last few days, to remain downstairs for one
hour.
When the hidden orchestra began to play, Miss Dane pushed the invalid
chair to a palm-sheltered nook, wherein Susan Warner and her good man had
at once taken refuge, and there, at their side, the patrician woman sat
watching the young people dance, talking to her companions from time to
time. Then she asked Miss Dane to tell her daughter that she would like
to speak to her. “I don’t see her just now. You may find her in her room.
She had forgotten her necklace.”
Miss Dane, after glancing about at the dancers, went upstairs. There was
someone in the room where the wraps had been removed. Rushing in the open
door, the nurse said: “Miss Gwynette, your mother wishes to speak to
you.”
The girl turned and, smiling in her friendly way, said, “You are
mistaken, Miss Dane. I am Jenny Warner.”
Miss Dane hesitated, gazing intently at the apparition before her.
“Pardon me, Miss Warner,” she then said. “It must be because you and Miss
Gwynette are both wearing blue that you look so much alike.”
She turned away and met Gwyn just ascending the stairway. The nurse had
been so impressed with the resemblance that she could not refrain from
exclaiming about it. “Really,” she concluded, “you two girls look near
enough alike to be sisters.”
Gwyn did not feel at all complimented, and her reply was coldly given.
“Tell Mother that I will come to her as soon as I get my necklace.”
Jenny was leaving the bedroom, whither she had gone for her handkerchief,
just as the other girl was entering. One glance at the haughty, flushed
face of her hostess and the farmer’s granddaughter knew that something of
a disturbing nature had occurred, but she did not dream that she was in
any way concerned in the matter. She was very much surprised to hear Gwyn
saying in her haughtiest manner: “Miss Warner, my mother’s nurse tells me
that she spoke to you just now, believing that you were me. I recall that
the girls in the seminary once alluded to a resemblance they pretended to
see. Will you do me the favor to stand in front of this long mirror with
me, that I may also find the resemblance, if there is one, which I
doubt!”
Jenny, her heart fluttering with excitement, stood beside the older girl
and gazed directly at her in the mirror.
Gwyn continued, appraisingly: “Our eyes are hazel and we both have light
brown hair, but so have many other girls. I cannot understand, can you,
why Miss Dane should have said that we look near enough alike to be
sisters.”
On an impulse Jenny replied, “Yes, Gwynette, I can understand, because we
_are_ sisters.”
Instantly Jenny regretted having revealed the long kept secret, for
Gwynette sank down on a lounge near her, her hand pressed to her heart,
every bit of color receding from her face until she was deathly pale.
Jenny, all solicitude, exclaimed: “Oh, are you going to faint? I ought
not to have told you. But you asked me! Forgive me, if you can.”
There was a hard, glinting light between the arrowed lids of the older
girl. “Jenny Warner, I do _not_ believe you! Why should _you_ know more
of _my_ parentage than I do myself?”
Sadly Jenny told the story. She deeply regretted that her impulsiveness
had rendered the revelation necessary. “One stormy day, several years
ago, while I was rummaging around in the attic of the farmhouse, I found
pushed way back in a dark cobwebby corner a small haircloth trunk which
interested me. I did not think it necessary to ask permission to open it,
as I did not dream that it held a secret which my dear grandparents might
not wish me to discover, and so I dragged it over to the small window.
Sitting on one of the broken backed chairs, I lifted the lid. The first
thing that I found was a darling little Bible, bound in soft leather. It
was quaint and old-fashioned. Miss Dearborn had taught me to love old
books, and I at once looked for the date it had been published, when two
things dropped out. One was a photograph. There were four in the group.
The man was young and reminded me of Robert Burns; his companion was a
very beautiful girl, and yet under her picture had been written ‘Mother’
and under the other ‘Father.’ I judged that was because with them were
two children. Beneath them was written, ‘Gwynette, aged three; Jeanette,
just one today.’ And then there was the date. The other was an unfinished
letter, written in purple ink that had faded. Its message was very sad,
for it told that the girl-mother had died and the young wandering
missionary, our father, feared that he had not long to live because of
frequent heart attacks. He wanted his little girls to know that they came
of a New England family that was above reproach, the Waterburys of
Waltham, Mass.
“How well I remember the last message that dear hand had been able to
write. ‘My darling little baby girls, I have had another of those dread
attacks, but I do want to say with what strength I have left, as the
years go by, love ye one another.’ That was all. Then the pen had fallen,
I think, for there was a blot and an irregular blurred line of ink.”
Gwyn, crushed with an overwhelming sense of self-pity, had buried her
head in the soft silken pillows at one end of the lounge and was sobbing,
but Jenny did not try to comfort her, believing that she could not, and
so she continued: “I put the letter and the photograph into the little
old Bible and replaced it. Then I dragged the haircloth trunk back into
its dark corner. I was greatly troubled to know whether or not I ought to
tell grandmother what I had learned. I asked the advice of my dear
teacher and she said: ‘Do not tell at present, Jeanette. If your
grandmother does not wish you to know, perhaps it would be wiser to wait
until she tells you. Then she told me that she had a college friend
living in Waltham, and that she would make inquiries about our family. In
time the reply came. Our father’s father and grandfather had been
ministers in high standing, philanthropists and scholars. Our father had
been the last of the family, and, as they had given all they had to the
poor, there was no money to care for us. Oh, Gwynette!”
Jenny touched the other girl ever so tenderly on the shoulder. “How
grateful I have been; how very much more I have loved my dear adopted
grandparents since I realized what they had saved me from. Had they not
taken me into their home, and shared with me the best they had, I would
have been sent to a county orphanage, and no one knows to what fate.”
Gwynette was sitting erect, her hands crushingly clasped together. Jenny
paused, wondering what she would say. It was a sincere cry of regret.
“Oh, to think how ungrateful I have been to that wonderful woman who has
given me every advantage and who would have loved me like an own daughter
if I had not been so selfish, ever demanding more.”
Gwyn turned and held both hands out to her companion. “Jenny, forgive me.
I am not worthy to call you sister. From this hour, forever, let us carry
out our father’s last wish. Let us truly love one another.”
Rising, she went to her jewel box, took from it the necklace for which
she had come, and turning, she slipped it about the neck of her
companion. Kissing her flushed cheek, she said: “Sister, this is my first
gift to you. Keep it forever in remembrance of this hour.” Then, after
removing all traces of tears, she held out her hand, saying: “Come, dear,
let us go down together.”
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had wanted to ask Gwynette if she would like to
have her engagement announced at this party. The woman was amazed to see
the girl’s lips quivering. Gwyn bent low to listen, then, after
assenting, she said in a low voice, tense with feeling. “Mother, I love
you.”
Jenny had slipped at once to the side of Susan Warner, and held her
wrinkled old hand in a loving clasp. There was an expression in her face
they had never seen before.
Charles Gale, seeing that his fiance had returned, went at once to her
side. The music had stopped, and Miss Dane pushed the invalid chair
forward. The dancers, standing in groups about, were hushed, realizing
that an announcement of some kind was to be made.
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones spoke clearly: “Friends of my daughter and of my
son, I have the great pleasure of announcing Gwynette’s engagement to a
young man of whom we are very proud, Charles Gale of Dakota.” Not one
word about English ancestry. Mrs. Poindexter-Jones truly had changed.
Then before the guests could flock about the young couple to congratulate
them, Gwynette had quickly stepped back, and taking Jenny by the hand,
she led her out to where Charles was standing. Slipping an arm lovingly
about the wondering girl, Gwyn said, “And I wish to introduce to you all
my own dear sister, Jeanette.”
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text—this e-text
is public domain in the country of publication.
--Added a Table of Contents.
--Silently corrected palpable typos and inconsistent proper names; left
non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.