“I like Peyton’s suggestion that we go to California. I wish he had
been able to stay longer and tell us more about what he saw when he
was there. He might recall just the very place for us to take
Malcolm,” Megsy said.
“I invited them to remain all night,” Virg remarked as she took up
her sewing, “but Peyton thinks, now that his trusted overseer,
Trujillo, has gone back to Mexico, that he had better not leave his
ranch long at a time until he has another equally dependable.” The
two of whom they were speaking had ridden back to “Three Cross” when
Margaret and Virginia had accompanied Betsy to the station at Silver
Creek.
“What did I do with my letters, Virg?” Margaret had suddenly
recalled that she had not opened her mail. “I put them into
something for safe keeping. Oh yes, here they are! Why, I declare.
One of them is for you.”
“Oho, this is great! It’s from Eleanor Pettes! I was hoping to hear
from her soon. She told me when she came to our closing exercises at
Vine Haven that she had written a story which she believed to be the
very best thing she had ever done and she was actually going to send
it to a real magazine. I suppose by now she has heard from it. How I
do hope that it was accepted.”
“Eleanor writes so exceptionally well and had so much experience
editing the school magazine before she went to college prep that I
am sure, in time, she is bound to succeed,” Margaret was remarking
when her companion, having opened the letter, uttered a little
squeal of delight.
“What is it, Virg? Has Eleanor sold her story? I am sure by the way
your eyes are shining that there must be good news.”
Virginia had continued to silently read down the first page, then
she looked up, her face aglow. “Good? It’s glorious! Just wait until
you hear.” Then she read aloud from the delicately scented missive:
“Dear Kindred Spirit,
“If I were not afraid of falling from the literary pedestal upon
which I know that you two girls have placed me, I would begin this
letter with some expressive school girl slang. ‘Gee whiliker, but
it’s corking good news.’ But since Betsy Clossen can use that more
naturally than I can, I’ll simply say that I am amazed beyond
comprehending what this wonderful thing is which has happened. I
find myself rubbing my eyes and pinching myself as did Alice in
Wonderland. ‘Can it be really true?’ I ask myself a dozen times a
day. Then, fearing it to be but a dream, or a plot that I have
planned for a story, I go again to my desk and take the letter
therefrom and re-read what it has to say on the subject. You never
could guess what it is, no one could. I couldn’t myself if I didn’t
know, so I will have to tell you.
“I have inherited Something. I just had to start that with a capital
letter, for the inheritance surely deserves it. In fact it ought to
be all capital letters. Have I sufficiently aroused your curiosity?
Well, then, harken and you shall hear.
“A great-aunt of my Dad’s (goodness knows how old she was, I don’t),
has left me her estate. Think of that, Virginia, if you can grasp a
thing so stupendous. I’ll agree it’s very hard to believe all at
once and sudden like. This same estate, it seems, is located in the
Garden of Eden, not figuratively, but really true. The name of the
place, however, on the railroad map (I don’t suppose it’s big enough
to be on a school geography), is San Ceritos and it’s in California,
that Paradise-on-earth that you and I have heard so much about. When
I say that I am wild to behold it with my own eyes, I only faintly
describe my feelings. Think of it, Virg, you who love nature as much
as I do, this estate of mine has mountains to shelter it at the back
and its wooded acres slope down to the sea. Dad says that the water
in that sheltered cove is at times as blue as the Mediterranean, and
I own it; or, that is, I own half of it, but the mysterious part of
all this is that I don’t know who owns the other half and I haven’t
any way of finding out. The will is the queerest!
“Dad says that his Great-Aunt Myra was always called eccentric by
everyone who knew her. It seems that when she was a young girl she
was engaged, but on the very eve of her wedding day something
happened. Dad doesn’t know what, but his Great-Aunt Myra never
married.
“Dad’s parents came East when he was a little fellow, and, although
he heard now and then of this aunt who had shut herself up in her
mountain and sea-encircled home, neither he, nor any of the kin that
he knew of, had really corresponded with her. She didn’t even know
of my existence until last year and it was just the merest chance
that she learned of it even then. It happened this way: You remember
last winter in school when we girls had such a fad for looking up
our family trees. Well, when I came home for the holidays, I asked
Dad to tell me about every Pettes he could think of. It was a stormy
night and we sat in the cosy library by the fireplace and I wrote
down on a pad all the names and addresses he could recall. At last
he came to this great-aunt. He just happened to think of her, and,
girls, what if he hadn’t? I decided to write to each of these
relatives, and, since Aunt Myra was the oldest living branch on the
family tree, out of courtesy I began with her and sent her my
picture, the one I had taken last May Day at school. I didn’t hear a
word in reply, I wasn’t even sure that she had received it, until
last week a legal-looking envelope arrived addressed to me. It
contained the startling information I have just imparted.
“Well, as I said before, the will of my Dad’s Great-Aunt Myra is
surely the queerest. One might think that the dear old lady was _non
compos mentis_, but no, her attorney and servants report that up to
the last her mind was sane and sound. Of course, I am glad, for, if
she had not been mentally all right, the will, queer as it is, would
have been null and void, and your Kindred Spirit would not be
writing this thrilling epistle to tell you of her almost
incomprehensible inheritance.
“The will, of course, is couched in high-sounding legal terms, and
so I’ll just tell you the gist of it.
“‘I, Myra Pettes, do hereby will and bequeath one-half of my estate,
located between the Sierra Padre Mountains and the sea, to Eleanor
Pettes, the daughter of my grand-nephew, Oris Pettes, on condition
that she never opens the locked door of the upper front room until
she has found Hugh Ward, to whom I will and bequeath the other half
of my estate. When he has been found, they are to enter the room
together.’
“Did you ever hear of anything like that outside of a story-book? Of
course, _in_ a story queer things are to be expected, but in the
humdrum life of a school girl one doesn’t anticipate occurrences so
mysterious and exciting.
“Hugh Ward! Who in the world do you suppose he is? Dad says he never
heard the name before, and even Great-Aunt Myra’s attorney reports
that he has no knowledge whatever of the man, young or old. They
have advertised in every paper in the country, but have had no
reply. I suppose he is some very old gentleman whom my Aunt Myra
knew when she was young. Perhaps we ought to hunt for him in a ‘home
for the aged and infirm.’
“Well, be that as it may, I am supposed to go West and occupy my new
possession; that is, all but the locked front room, and, since the
housekeeper, in sending a description of the place, informs me that
there are twenty rooms, ten of them being sleeping apartments, I
presume I will be able to get along without entering the one that is
locked. I don’t see how one lone-maiden can occupy ten bedrooms. Dad
is obliged to go to Europe this month.
“Now harken and hear something which I think thrilling. Dad says I
may invite you and Margaret and Babs and the brothers I have heard
you tell about, Peyton and Malcolm, to accompany me when I visit my
new estate. I’m to have the use of Dad’s private car. For once I’m
glad he is a high-up railway official, and I’ll telegraph you at
what hour we will side-track at Douglas. If you can accept, be there
bag and baggage. I’m so excited I can hardly keep my feet on earth.
Sometimes I feel as though I were going to spin away up in the air.
Goodbye for now. I’ll telegraph tomorrow.
“Your K. S.
“Eleanor.”
Virginia looked up with glowing eyes. “It sounds like magic, doesn’t
it?” she inquired. “We wish for a place to go, in fact, we were
wishing that we might go to this very California, and here is a
letter inviting us to do so.”
Margaret was equally delighted and excited. “It’s perfectly
wonderful,” she agreed. “But, Virg, I didn’t suppose that dignified
girl could be so, well, girlishly jubilant about anything. Maybe
because she was a senior at school, I always thought she was
unusually mature, I mean.”
“News like this is enough to make any one act hilarious,” Virg
declared. “Moreover, although Eleanor has a dignified carriage, I
know that she is very enthusiastic about ever so many things.”
“Of course, you know her much better than I do,” Megsy agreed,
“since it was she who showed you how to edit the school magazine,
and, of course, you had an opportunity to get better acquainted, as
you spent hours together. I don’t wonder that Eleanor calls you
‘Kindred Spirit.’ I always did think that Winona and Eleanor were
more mental companions for you than any of the rest of us. Don’t
think I’m jealous, Virg. Honestly, I am not. I am glad that you do
love them, and even more glad that I have something no one can take
from me, and that is the great happiness of being your adopted
sister.” Then rising, Megsy held out her hand as she said, “If
Malcolm is awake, let’s read the letter to him and then tell him our
plan.”
Silently Virginia rose and tenderly she kissed the quiet Margaret.
“I do love you, little sister, and you occupy a place in my heart
that no one else shall ever have.” Then with arms about each other,
they went softly toward the closed door.