“BUT this aunt of yours, Sandy, what’s she like?” Eve asked. She was
parked on the couch in my room. Hattie May Lewis, my roommate, stood
before the mirror, trying to arrange her straight, straw-colored hair
into a windblown bob. It was the week before the closing of school for
the summer vacation and we were all looking ahead, in one way or
another, to what the next three months held in store for us.
“Well,” I considered, “I don’t honestly know much about Aunt Cal except
the little Dad has told me. She’s an aunt by marriage, you know. She
married my mother’s brother, my Uncle Tom Poole, he was. They went West
to live for a time, but after Uncle Tom died she came back to Fishers
Haven. She’s lived alone there ever since.”
“Narrow!” ejaculated Hattie May, “and very likely queer besides! You
can depend upon it. I know how old women get who live alone in the
country.” Saying what she thought about people, whether they were
present or not, was part of what Hattie May called her code of speaking
the truth.
“Well, perhaps,” I admitted. “But she’s not so very old.” I felt
slightly annoyed with Hattie May and wished she would go downstairs. I
was anxious for a very special reason to make Aunt Cal seem attractive
to the girl on the couch. For though Hattie May had been my roommate
this first year at school, it was Eve Fordyce’s opinions on most
subjects which had come to matter.
But Hattie May showed no inclination to depart, so I went on. “Perhaps
you’d like to hear what Dad says about her,” I suggested. I reached
into a pigeon-hole in my desk and took out a thin paper envelope with a
foreign stamp. My father is a missionary in China, you see, and that’s
why the long vacation didn’t mean to me quite what it did to the other
girls. It meant a summer spent with some one of a rather scattered
collection of relatives, none of whom I remembered in the least. This
summer it was to mean Aunt Cal.
“Oh, yes; let’s hear it.” Eve smiled encouragingly from the cushions. I
suppose she saw how in earnest I was.
“Your Aunt Calliope,” Dad wrote, “is in many ways a remarkable woman
and I feel that you cannot but profit by her acquaintance. It is,
however, not entirely on your own account that I have suggested this
visit. I am hoping that she in turn may reap some benefit from your
stay with her. I must confess that the occasional letters which we have
had from her within the last few years have reflected a certain
melancholy trend of thought which has given me some concern. So I am
hoping, my dear daughter, that you will bring her something of your own
happy——”
“Well, that’s about all,” I broke off because of that sudden chokiness
that comes over me still at times, even though ten whole months have
gone by since I said good-bye to Mother and Dad on the dock at Shanghai.
“What’d I tell you!” exclaimed Hattie May triumphantly. “Queer! Queer
and brooding! Honest, Sandy, I can’t say I envy you your summer.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Eve drawled. “I think she sounds rather
interesting. And I don’t think she necessarily has to be narrow because
she’s lived in a New England village most of her life. As for being
queer—well, everybody is a little, aren’t they?”
I threw her a grateful glance. “Maybe you’d like to hear her letter,
too,” I said on a sudden impulse. “It just came today. Of course it
doesn’t say much,” I added, a little doubtful, on second thought, of
the wisdom of revealing Aunt Cal any further with Hattie May in the
room.
“I’ll bet it says plenty!” Hattie May swung round. Her small bright
eyes fairly pounced on the letter as I pulled it from its envelope.
“You can tell a lot by handwriting and—well, reading between the
lines.”
“There’s nothing written between the lines,” I said, though I knew, of
course, what she was driving at. The letter was written in a straight,
angular hand and was very short.
My Dear Niece: I have received your father’s letter and shall be
very pleased to welcome you to my home at any time. I live very
plain. Your father speaks of your bringing one of your schoolmates
with you to keep you company. I don’t suppose two will be much more
trouble than one.
Your affectionate aunt,
Calliope Poole
As I finished reading, I saw that Hattie May had sunk into the Morris
chair and was fanning herself violently with a copy of “Queens of the
Screen.” Staging mock fainting fits is one of her pet stunts.
“Of course,” I said apologetically, “she didn’t realize quite how that
last sentence would sound.”
“Yes, written things often sound quite different than one means them,”
agreed Eve comfortably.
Hattie May came to life. “_What_ did you say her first name was—I
didn’t seem to get it?”
“Calliope,” I repeated. “Dad said her mother was sort of romantic when
she was young, read poetry a lot and all that. Calliope was a Muse of
poetry, I believe.”
Hattie May giggled. “It does amuse all right,” she said.
I ignored this. I felt that it was now or never with me. That the
moment had come to speak of the all important matter with which, ever
since the arrival of Aunt Cal’s letter, my heart had been bursting. If
by any wild miracle, I could persuade Eve Fordyce to go to Fishers
Haven with me, half the battle would be over. I felt that I could bear
any number of dour-faced relatives with Eve along. But what would she
think of such an invitation? It didn’t promise much for a clever girl
like Eve.
I was trying desperately to think how to begin when Eve herself took
the words out of my mouth. “Well, darling, who are you going to take
along with you on your mission of cheer?”
I plunged. “Why,” I began, “of course Hattie May can’t go because her
family expects her home and—well, she wouldn’t care ’bout it anyway.
But I thought, maybe—that is, it just occurred to me because of your
mother’s being abroad and all—I wondered, that is—of course it won’t
be exciting or anything like a regular seashore resort——.”
“Sandra, darling,” Eve’s throaty voice broke into my stumbling attempt,
“are you trying to invite me to spend the summer at the home of this
estimable woman, your aunt?”
“Of course she is,” said Hattie May. “But if you take my advice——”
Eve smiled her slow smile. “Hattie May,” she said, “I wouldn’t turn
down the chance of an adventure like that for anything.”
“Oh, Eve, do you really mean it?” I cried.
“Adventure!” snorted Hattie May. “Well, if you call being buried alive
an adventure——”
Eve got lazily to her feet, wrapping her orange coolie coat about her.
“I’m going to write to Aunt Margery right away,” she declared. “I’ll
tell her about the wonderful air and the simple, wholesome life at
Fishers Haven. She’ll eat that up!”
“Oh, Eve,” I gazed rapturously up at her, “that’s perfectly wonderful
of you. And I do hope—oh, I do—that you won’t be sorry!”
“Well, all I’ve got to say,” declared Hattie May stuffily, “is that I
wish you both a pleasant summer, but I’m mighty glad I’m not in your
shoes!”
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