THE END OF A PERFECT DAY
When Caroline woke in the morning, she was surprised to find herself
still in the green and golden room with the bookshelves. She had rather
expected to find that the house with the dim, cool rooms, and the
songful piano, the white and nickel bath and the ladies (not her
relatives!) who were so kind and friendly, were all alike the fancies of
a dream, and that she was back in Cousin Delia's close little stuffy
house, with the smell of frizzled breakfast ham wafting up from the
kitchen, and the eldest baby clamoring to be dressed at once.
But the room, she found, was real, and the bath was real. She could
almost believe that she was _really_ Jacqueline. She only wished she
were!
She dressed herself in the henna-colored frock, and she dressed Mildred
very carefully, in a little white muslin with pink sprays, most becoming
to Mildred's blond beauty. Then she opened her bed to air, and sat down
by the window, where she could watch the mountain. In the morning light
it was quite different from the mountain of yesterday afternoon. The
green of the trees and the red of the exposed sandstone were very sharp
in the strong sunlight, and gave the huge pile a spick and span look, as
if it had made itself fine for the summer day.
She had put on the little watch which was Jacqueline's, though it seemed
almost too nice to wear every day, and the little watch said that it was
half past eight, when there came a knock at the door. Caroline flew to
open it, and there stood Aunt Eunice, in a cool gray and white lawn.
"Good morning, Aunt Eunice!" cried Caroline. "Oh, how nice you look!"
She reflected then that perhaps she shouldn't have said anything so
personal, but Aunt Eunice didn't at all mind. Instead she smiled one of
her shining smiles, and there even came a little fleck of pink into her
soft old cheeks. She bent to kiss Caroline, and suddenly, because she
just couldn't help it, Caroline put her arms round Aunt Eunice and
hugged her, and Aunt Eunice hugged her back. You don't know how good
that seemed to Caroline. There had been no one to hug her since her
mother died. Cousin Delia was a very busy woman, and then, too,
alongside the four babies, Caroline doubtless seemed to her quite grown
up, and too old to need cuddling.
Hand in hand Aunt Eunice and Caroline went down the long curved stair
and through the stately hall into the dining room. Cousin Penelope was
already there and the glass coffee machine, which Caroline found as
fascinating as any mechanical toy, was distilling an amber-hued,
fragrant liquid. They sat down at once to another of those well-ordered
meals that filled Caroline with amazement--almost with awe. She hadn't
known that food could be so good.
There were great red strawberries, which still wore their green elf
caps, and little glass dishes of powdered sugar, into which you dipped
the berries daintily, after a swift glance to see how Cousin Penelope
did it. Then there were bowls of crisp cereal, with rich cream, and
bacon, so thin and so deftly cooked that it crumbled into savory slivers
under your fork. There were thin slices of brown toast, piping hot, and
there were wee muffins of bran, which came to the table in a silver
dish, wrapped cozily in a fine white napkin. There were little balls of
fresh butter, and in a bewitching jar, shaped like a beehive, there was
strained honey. All the milk to drink, too, that one could want. And
would Jacqueline like an egg for her breakfast?
"Thank you, no, please," murmured Jacqueline's understudy, and then,
remembering the cold egg that she had lately eaten from the shoe box,
she added: "I--I'm not extra fond of eggs."
"Neither am I," Cousin Penelope said heartily.
Funny, thought Caroline, that Cousin Penelope should be so pleased at
every resemblance between them, but very nice of her. In time she
thought she should like Cousin Penelope, though never so much as she
_loved_ Aunt Eunice.
After breakfast Aunt Eunice asked Caroline to come walk with her in the
garden, and said, yes, she could bring Mildred. So Mildred, in her
pink-sprayed frock and white bonnet, and Aunt Eunice and Caroline walked
soberly in the shadiest parts of the garden. Aunt Eunice wore a broad
hat, tied under her chin with wide streamers of lawn. She paused once to
give directions to Frank, who was gardener as well as chauffeur, and
much more human in khaki overalls than Caroline had thought him the day
before in his imposing uniform.
Aunt Eunice showed Caroline all the special beauties of the garden--her
new rosebushes and her old thrifty plot of perennials, the pear trees
that later would furnish them fruit more delicious, Aunt Eunice
believed, than any they could buy in the shops, and the row of
gooseberry bushes, where the berries already were setting in tiny,
reddish furry blobs.
At the farther side of the garden they sat down in a little rustic
summer house, covered with woodbine. Caroline gazed with all her eyes at
the scene before her--the garden with its bright flowers of early
summer, blues and pinks and strong yellows, and its fruit trees, with
gray-lined leaves of glossy green, its smooth white walks and dark edges
of box, and beyond the garden the old white house, with its clustered
chimnies, the elms that shaded it, the mountain far beyond, the blue sky
over all. She thought it as breathlessly, chokingly lovely in its color
and clear outline as the loveliest of the pictures in her room.
But Aunt Eunice looked nearer home. She took up Mildred, and carefully
examined her clothes.
"What delicate fine stitches!" she said. "Did you make this dress
yourself, Jacqueline?"
"No, Aunt Eunice. I can't sew as well as that." Indeed, thought Caroline
with pride, not many people could sew as nicely as her mother, who had
made that precious wardrobe of Mildred's, every stitch.
"Do you like to sew?" went on Aunt Eunice, with a little, mysterious
smile.
"Oh, yes," said Caroline, truthfully.
There had been long hours in her life, when school was over and Mother
away giving music lessons, when she must either run the streets or amuse
herself in their room. Mother had beguiled her with handiwork to choose
the room, and not the street. Caroline sewed really rather better than
most little girls of her age, and she liked to sew. She wished that Aunt
Eunice could see the pair of rompers she had made, all alone, for Cousin
Delia's youngest baby.
"I'll tell you what," said Aunt Eunice. "I'll get out some pretty silk
pieces, and you and I will make this dolly some new dresses. It's years
and years since I've had a doll to sew for. Would you like that,
Jacqueline?"
Caroline smiled and patted Aunt Eunice's plump white hand.
"I'd just love it, Aunt Eunice. Can we begin to-day? I don't want to
lose any time."
Indeed she didn't, the poor little impostor! She wanted to squeeze all
that she could into every moment that she passed in this dream-house.
For the moments, as she knew, might already be numbered.
But there was no doll's dressmaking that morning, for just then Sallie
came briskly through the garden with a message. Miss Jacqueline's trunk
had been sent up, and Miss Penelope wished her to come at once and see
about unpacking.
Up in the golden green room, all fresh and ordered for the day, Caroline
looked helplessly at the big trunk that was Jacqueline's. When she had
got the key from Jacqueline's vanity bag, and Sallie had opened the
trunk, and she saw that it opened like a closet, and glimpsed the frocks
all hung on frames, she looked more helpless still. She was thankful
when Cousin Penelope took charge of things.
"Sit down, Jacqueline," Cousin Penelope bade with decision. "Sallie will
unpack, and I'll look things over. It's the quickest way for me to find
out what you have and what you haven't, and if you are like most
children, I shall need to know."
So Caroline sat down in the rocker, with Mildred on her knee, and in an
aloof, cool manner watched the taking out of what seemed to her the
princess-like wardrobe that had been wished upon her. There were frocks
of organdie and crêpe de chine, of muslin and fine gingham. There were
jumpers of tricotine and of jersey, and delicate little frilled blouses
of silk. (Privately Caroline wondered where the _everyday_ frocks could
be!) There were a dozen pairs of shoes and slippers and boots and
sandals, all on nice little beribboned trees. There were little coats
and sweaters of many colors and all sorts of texture. There were stacks
of filmy undergarments, and lapsful of silken socks. There were garters
and hair-ribbons and handkerchiefs and silk gloves. There was a lovely
little blue leather writing-case, and a jewel-case, and a camera.
Everything in the trunk Caroline, sitting gravely silent, admired with
all her heart, except the riding suit. When she saw the little white
breeches and the sleeveless brown coat unfolded, her heart sank within
her.
"Oh, Cousin Penelope!" she cried in despair. "Have I _got_ to ride
horseback?"
She was almost in tears. She had never been on a horse in her life. If
they put her on one, they'd know in a minute she wasn't Jacqueline, and
the piano and the Polish lady would be lost to her forever.
Cousin Penelope came to her side. For the first time Caroline saw her
protective and almost tender. She understood it all, did Penelope. That
horsy Amazon, Edith Delane, had forced that sensitive, timid little
girl, who was _all_ Gildersleeve, as any one could see, into riding
horseback and doing the athletic feats to which the Delane woman had
referred in her letters. Well, the Delane woman was hundreds of miles
away, and Penelope was here in charge.
"We arranged for a saddle-horse, as your aunt wished," she told
Caroline. "But you are _not_ going to ride _at all_, my dear, unless you
wish to."
So the horrid specter of a ramping steed was laid at rest, and Caroline
went happily through the hours of the day that was brimful of wonders.
She played for an hour on the piano. She ate a luncheon that seemed to
her grander than most dinners. Then she sat with Aunt Eunice in Aunt
Eunice's room, which was furnished with old dark pieces of polished
wood, with glass knobs on the drawers. Aunt Eunice had the dearest of
work tables, all unexpected drawers and cubbies, and she had a piecebox
full of pretties that she could turn into trifles for bazaars--bits of
silk and satin, velvet and brocade, quarter-yards of wide figured
ribbon, bits of lace and silver tissue, flowers of silk.
Together Aunt Eunice and Caroline planned a sumptuous party frock for
Mildred, and they even cut it out and gave her a first fitting, which
Mildred endured with more patience than some young ladies display on
such occasions.
They did not get beyond the fitting, though, for Cousin Penelope came
strolling in, to say that Jacqueline had better dress now. They must be
going along to Madame Woleski's.
"Just stop at Miss Crevey's, will you, and get me some thread," bade
Aunt Eunice. "I shall need eighty cotton and a spool of sixty, if
Jacqueline and I are going into the dressmaking business."
It seemed to Caroline hardly necessary to change her frock. She thought
the henna-colored crêpe good enough for almost any occasion. But of
course she did not argue with Cousin Penelope. She was terribly afraid
lest she might make herself too fine, but she took Cousin Penelope as a
guide, just as she did at the table, and she decided that if Cousin
Penelope wore a cool muslin, she would wear muslin, too. So she put on a
pretty muslin, with small yellow roses on a white ground and yellow
flowers of organdie at the ribbon girdle. Her socks were of white silk
and her sandals of white kid. From the hatbox she selected a white
leghorn, with stalks of yellow wheat and some wee blue flowers round the
crown.
She was in two minds about opening the jewel-case. She had the key in
Jacqueline's vanity bag, tied fast to the trunk key, but it seemed
rather horrid to make free with Jacqueline's jewelry. Still if she
didn't wear any, people might suspect she wasn't Jacqueline. So she
unlocked the leather case, and marveled at all the pretty pins and
chains that she found laid in the little velvet lined drawers. She
selected a chain of queer small beads, with flecks of yellow and blue
and green in them that would go nicely with the colors in her dress and
her hat.
It seemed that she had by chance selected very wisely, for when Cousin
Penelope came to look her over, she fairly flushed with pleasure.
"So you put on the beads I sent you," she cried. "That's a very pretty
tribute, Jacqueline."
"I--I like them," stammered Caroline.
"So do I!" said Cousin Penelope, quite merrily. "How many things we have
in common!"
This made Caroline feel at home with Cousin Penelope, and they chattered
together, quite volubly for two people so shy and self-contained, while
they drove through Longmeadow Street to Madame Woleski's.
The house that the Polish lady had taken for the summer was quite at the
farther end of the Street, right under the shadow of the mountain. It
was a little, irregular house which had been an artist's. The living
room had a big window on the north side, and the piano was drawn across
it. The furniture was old and dingy, and nothing matched with anything
else, thought Caroline. There were dark, rich-looking small rugs on the
floor, and on the walls were unframed sketches, which seemed to Caroline
to look like not much of anything, unless it were the drawings that
Cousin Delia's eldest baby made. But Caroline didn't know as much about
pictures as she knew about music.
Madame Woleski was thin and dark, with an intense face and untidy hair,
and long, nervous hands. She smiled at Caroline vaguely and sent her to
play in the garden, while she talked with Cousin Penelope.
Caroline didn't like the garden. She was afraid of hurting Jacqueline's
pretty clothes. But she found a clean bench where she could sit in
safety, and then along came a great fluffy cat, the color of an orange,
and he was friendly, after a condescending fashion, so she was able to
get through the time until she was called into the house.
Madame Woleski wanted Caroline to play for her, and Caroline did so,
quite simply. Mother had taught her long ago that when you were asked to
play, you either declined with all courtesy, or you sat down and played.
There was no excuse for shilly-shallying and waiting to be urged.
Caroline played, and Madame listened, and when the playing was over, a
maid brought in a silver tea-service, and they had some crumbly dark
fruit cookies, and fragrant strong tea, and tiny slim glasses of
cordial. Caroline of course only had cookies. She said, no thanks! to
the tea and the cordial, and Madame smiled at her, and offered her some
crystallized fruit in a silver box.
"Next time you come, I have milk for you to drink, little one," she
said. "Because you come again. But before you come, you do every day two
hours thees exercise."
She went herself to the piano and showed what "thees exercise" should
be, and she told Caroline she might come and play for her in the
morning, three days later.
Then the call was ended, and Caroline and Cousin Penelope were rolling
away in the limousine from the funny little house, while Madame Woleski,
with the orange cat carelessly tucked under her arm, like a piece of
fur, nodded them a good-by from her sunken doorstone.
"My dear!" said Cousin Penelope, with real enthusiasm. "Do you realize
that you are now a pupil of Woleski's?"
Caroline nodded solemnly. She was too happy to chatter as she had done
on the way to the little house. But she was no happier than Cousin
Penelope. For Penelope had loved her cousin, Jack Gildersleeve, and now
she had his child, who in spite of everything was like her, here beside
her in the car, and she was going to give her what her coarse and stupid
Delane relatives, with all their wealth, had failed to give her--the
music that she loved and craved!
So completely was Penelope carried away with her vision of Jacqueline
some day a great musician, and turning to her--not to the Delanes!--for
understanding and sympathy, that they had driven past the shops before
she realized it. Then she smiled at her own preoccupation, and told
Frank to turn back.
There were only four shops on Longmeadow Street. They stood in the very
center of the village, in the shadow of the Orthodox church, and just
across the street from the little inn. There was a general store, and
the Post Office, where you bought hardware and sundries, and a meat
market, which was open only twice a week, and Miss Crevey's little shop,
where you could buy talcum and tape, peppermints and pins, and
altogether the funniest mixture of drygoods and druggist's supplies,
confectionery and notions that ever was seen outside the shop that the
old sheep kept in the Looking Glass Country.
"Eighty cotton and sixty cotton," said Cousin Penelope, as she and
Caroline, in their cool pretty frocks, stepped out of the limousine.
"I'll get a cube of black pins, too, and some laces for my walking
shoes. One ought to encourage the little local shops--they're a great
convenience."
Caroline smiled, but not at Cousin Penelope's words. She was smiling at
the world. Because she had on a party frock, and was going home to
dinner with dear Aunt Eunice, and she was a pupil of Woleski's.
Smilingly, Caroline tripped up the steps at Cousin Penelope's side, and
into the little crowded shop, and then the smile left her face just the
way figures leave a slate when you draw a wet sponge across it. For she
saw two children standing at the counter, where the cheap candies were
displayed. One was a boy in old knickers and a shabby shirt, the other
was a girl in faded Peggy Janes, and Caroline had recognized those Peggy
Janes and knew what was coming, even before the girl turned her bobbed
brown head and showed the face of Jacqueline Gildersleeve.