CHAPTER XXII
PENELOPE TAKES ALARM
Like the hero of the old music hall song, Jacqueline felt that "now wasthe time for disappearing." I wish I could say to her credit that shefled, simply because she was afraid that if she came face to face withCousin Penelope, she would be tempted beyond her strength and withdrawthe promise she had so impulsively made to Caroline. As a matter offact, I suspect that she ran away, because she had had enough drama withAunt Martha and Caroline to satisfy even her drama-loving soul for atleast one day. At any rate, she dove out of the garden through thenarrow gap in the hedge, like a scared and nimble rabbit, and Carolinewas left to face alone the onslaught of Cousin Penelope.
Of course Caroline ought to have been just as noble as Jacqueline. Sheought to have called Jacqueline back, and presented her to CousinPenelope as her really, truly little kinswoman, and then for her ownpart subsided gracefully into the company of the cows and the awfulboy-cousins, just as Tom Canty was willing to go back to rags and dirtand misery.
But Caroline thought of the party, and the darling little doll-favors.Sweet little Watteau gowns they wore, of figured silk, with theirpowdered hair piled high and topped with wee, beribboned hats of strawthat would have turned a fairy green with envy. Caroline thought, too,of the look that would come into Cousin Penelope's pale, stern face,when she knew that it was upon a little cheat that she had wastedkindness, and music lessons, and dentistry! No, Caroline hadn't thecourage to tell the truth. She just stood there, dumb and trembling,while Cousin Penelope bore down upon her.
"Jacqueline!" Cousin Penelope's voice, as she spoke to Caroline, wassharp with what an older person would have recognized as anxiety. "Whowas that child you were talking with?"
Mercy, what a chance to tell the truth--the whole dramatic truth--in adramatic manner! But Caroline, like Jacqueline on several occasions,told half a truth which, like many a half-truth, was as deceptive as agood, big whopper.
"A--a little girl," she stammered. "She lives down in the Meadows."
Through the dusk she could almost feel Cousin Penelope bristle, like alady-dog when rough strangers come too near her precious young.
"That bold, forward Conway child? Of all the audacity! What brought herprowling into our garden?"
"She--she wanted to--see me," faltered Caroline.
"To see you!" echoed Cousin Penelope. "Why should she _dream_ ofassociating with you, Jacqueline?"
Bewildered and badgered, Caroline knew that she must say _something_.
"We--we were on the train--coming from Chicago," she said in a voicethat see-sawed, though she tried hard to keep it steady. "We playedtogether--with Mildred. Oh, she's a nice little girl, Cousin Penelope,honest, she is--you'd like her--she's nicer than me--ever so much so!"
She had thought she hadn't a tear left in her, but now she began to cryagain, not noisily, but in soft little tired gasps. Oh, how was it thatclinging heroines in books always managed to swoon? She wished that_she_ could swoon, then and there, and so escape from everything. Shecouldn't bear to have Cousin Penelope ask her even one more question.
But Cousin Penelope stopped questioning. Amazingly she put her arm roundCaroline's tense little shoulders, and dabbed her eyes gently with herfilmy handkerchief, which smelt like a breeze over beds of violets.
"There, there!" she said. "You mustn't make your eyes red, on the nightbefore your party. You must have forgotten the party."
Forgotten the party! If only Cousin Penelope guessed!
They went back together through the dusky, fragrant garden. CousinPenelope urged Caroline to look at the little pale stars, which werecoming out now almost as fast as you could count them in the sky, thatwas the color of tarnished old silver.
"It will be a fine day to-morrow," Penelope told Caroline. "You don'trealize, you little Californian, how we have to study the sky, here inNew England, when we plan to give a garden-party."
Then she talked about the dress that Caroline should wear at the party,and the way in which the flowers should be arranged on the table. Shewas talking to take Caroline's mind off the scene with the rude littlegirl from the Conway farm. Caroline saw through her strategy, but shewas grateful to her, just the same. She only hoped that Aunt Eunicewouldn't see her red eyes, and have to be told about what had happenedin the garden.
Better than Caroline had dared to hope, they found Aunt Eunice seated onthe wide, cool porch, where it was now too dark for features to bedistinguished.
"This little girl is running up to bed," said Cousin Penelope blithely."We must get our beauty sleep before the party."
Thankful for this way of escape, Caroline kissed Aunt Eunice good-nightand trotted upstairs, to bathe her face and her smarting eyes. How goodit was that Aunt Eunice didn't suspect!
At that moment Aunt Eunice, on the dim, cool porch, was saying in atroubled voice:
"What's wrong, Penelope? The little thing had been crying. Her cheekswere quite wet. She isn't--homesick?"
"Not in the least!" replied Penelope, in a crisp voice that defied thewhole tribe of Delanes and the entire state of California. "Why shouldshe be homesick, here with _us_?"
"What was she crying about?"
"Such an annoying little incident, Mother. A child that is staying atthe Conways' scraped acquaintance with Jacqueline on the train and hasbeen trying to force herself upon her ever since. I found her just nowwith Jacqueline in the garden. She ran away, you may be sure, as soon asI appeared."
"A child from the Meadows?" exclaimed Aunt Eunice. "Why, she is ever sofar from home, and it's dark."
Penelope didn't seem to think that fact of any importance.
"Poor little Jacqueline is too young to know how to handle such anawkward situation," she went on. "She's Gildersleeve through andthrough, Mother. Loyal and affectionate. You should have heard her standup for the horrid little pushing creature, because she thought her afriend. I must find some way myself to put a stop to such intrusions. Iwonder if I'd better speak to the Conway woman? She seems verysensible."
"Martha Conway is the salt of the earth," said Aunt Eunice, withconviction. "You ought to know, Penelope. You went to public school withher once upon a time. After all, why shouldn't this child come play withJacqueline?"
Penelope spoke loftily, as she occasionally did speak to her mother.
"Now, Mother dearest, just for the sake of your democratic theories wecan't let Jack's daughter associate with every common child that pushesitself forward. Blood will tell, you know."
"Yes," said Aunt Eunice, with mild persistence, "but what's wrong withthe Conway blood, Penelope? Conways and Gildersleeves and Holdens andTaits and Trowbridges, they all came here together in the olddays--God-fearing farmer-folk, the lot of them, and not much to chooseamong them, though some have prospered lately more than others."
Penelope became indulgent. There wasn't much else for her to do, if shewas to retire gracefully from the argument.
"You're a darling old radical, Mother," she said. "It's fortunate that_I_ am here to protect Jacqueline."
Aunt Eunice sighed. She frequently did sigh at the end of one of herconversations with Penelope that never seemed to get them anywhere. Sherose to her feet and gathered up her thin scarf of silk.
"I think I'll go up to my room," she said. "I've a telephone call tosend."
So Penelope was left alone, victorious, if you please to call it so. Shewasn't quite sure. Indeed, to herself she said:
"Mother is provoking. If she really is going to take that view of thecase, I must act with decision. For, mother or no mother, I'm going tohead off any acquaintance between Jacqueline and that rough child fromthe Meadows, even if I have to alter all our summer plans to do it."