CHAPTER V
TURNED-ABOUT GIRLS
It was thoroughly wrong, the deception that Jacqueline had suggested.She knew it was wrong, but she didn't care. As for Caroline, her mindwas such a jumble of cows and boys and fierce half-aunts (so much moreogreish in suggestion than whole aunts!) and an Institution, looming inthe background, that she hardly knew right from wrong.
Only as she followed Jacqueline's example and began to unfasten herrumpled frock, she mustered the spirit to falter:
"But they'll find out right away----"
"No, they won't, unless you're a silly."
"But some day your Aunt Edith who knows you will come----"
"Not before September," said Jacqueline cheerily, "and by that timesummer will be over, and we'll have had our fun. Think of the piano!"
"Oh, I don't know what to do!" wailed Caroline. She was a shiveringlittle figure, barelegged, in her underclothes, with her soiled andmussed checked gingham in a heap at her feet.
"Now you do as I tell you," counseled Jacqueline in her most masterfulmanner. "Why, Caroline, it's nothing but a joke, and just the minute youwant to, we'll change back. Be a good sport now! Come on!" WhenJacqueline smiled she was irresistible. She smiled now. Carolinewavered.
"If you don't," said Jacqueline sweetly, "you're a quitter, and I'llnever speak to you again."
To lose Jacqueline, the one friend she had in this new world into whichshe was being cast, was more than Caroline could bear.
"I'm not a quitter," she vowed. "I'll show you. Wait till I get out someclothes."
The big shabby much-traveled suitcase that was Caroline's, and the smartblack leather case that was Jacqueline's, alike held fresh changes ofclothes. In these the little girls dressed themselves from the skin out.Caroline gasped a little at the silk socks, the delicate undergarments,the knickers and the frock of henna-colored crepe in which she ratherguiltily encased herself. Jacqueline tumbled gleefully into cottonsocks, much-mended plain cotton underwear, and a fresh frock of brownand white gingham, with a big patch in the back breadth.
"I'm bigger than you," she chuckled. "These clothes look awful skimpy onme. I'll tell your half-aunt that I shot up last winter. I did really,so it isn't a fib."
"Your clothes look--nice on me," said Caroline, as she caught a glimpsein the mirror of the strange child into which she had turned herself."They fit me."
"That's because they're short for me," Jacqueline told her. "Aunt Ediehas 'em made that way--it's the smartest thing, this year. She'd thinkyou looked dowdy with your skirt way down to your knees, but probablyGreat-aunt Eunice won't mind."
In a businesslike way she restrapped the black leather suitcase.
"That's yours now, remember," she told Caroline, "and the hatbox, andthe black hat, and the coat, and my watch here,--don't forget to windit!--and those two books, and the vanity bag. Hang on to it! The checkfor my trunk--your trunk it will be now--and the key to it are there inthe little purse."
"But there's money in it, too," protested Caroline. "Oh, Jackie, I can'ttake your money."
"You won't take much of it," Jacqueline assured her. "I shall slip threedollars to the porter, and tell him not to give us away."
Caroline looked at her admiringly. She hadn't thought of the porter. Shefelt quite sure that if ever a woman became president of the UnitedStates, as she had heard was now possible, Jacqueline would be thatwoman.
"Now sit down," bade Jacqueline, and poked Caroline into a seat. "We'reonly half an hour from Baring Junction----"
"Oh!" Caroline softly squeaked.
"Don't _oh_! We've got to get things straight because they may askquestions. Now your father was John Gildersleeve----"
"No, he wasn't!" protested Caroline.
"You ninny! Don't you see--you're me now--Jacqueline Gildersleeve. Yourfather was John Gildersleeve. He was born and brought up in Longmeadow,and he and Cousin Penelope went to school together. By and by he grewup, and his father and mother died, and he went out to California. Hewas in the oil business. My mother--I mean, she's your mother now--wasMarion Delane. Her father had a big ranch, with horses and things, andAunt Edith is her sister. And she died--not Aunt Edith, but my motherthat you must call your mother--when my baby brother came, and he died,too, and my father was killed the next autumn in the oil fields. I'velived with Aunt Edith ever since, and our place is called BuenaVista--that's Spanish for Fair View--and first I had governesses, butlast year I went to boarding school. Aunt Edith married my new uncleJimmie Knowlton on the fifth day of June. He's Colonel Knowlton--he wasin the air service--and he took me up twice in his plane, and we did atailspin--oh, boy! He's some uncle. But they didn't want me on theirhoneymoon--they've gone to Alaska--that's why I'm going to Great-auntEunice. She's wanted me to spend a summer with her for years and years.I don't believe she likes Aunt Edith much."
Jacqueline paused at last for breath, and fixed her eyes on thetrembling Caroline.
"Can you remember all that?" she asked sternly.
"I--I guess so," Caroline answered dubiously.
"You'll be all right," Jacqueline encouraged. "Aunt Edie hardly everwrote letters to Great-aunt Eunice, so she doesn't really know muchabout us. Now see if I remember what I've got to know. I'm younow--Caroline Tait. My father was Henry Tait, and he was born inLongmeadow, and he came to Chicago years ago and was on a newspaper whenhe died. And he met my mother out there, and her name was Frances Meade,and she was a music teacher, and none of the Longmeadow folks ever sawher. And I've been living with her cousin, Delia Meade, and I'm going tomy father's half-sister, and her name is Martha Conway. Is that allright?"
"Yes," Caroline nodded, "but oh! I've just thought. Won't we have towrite letters back to your Aunt Edith and my Cousin Delia--and they'llsee that the handwriting isn't ours?"
For as much as half a second, Jacqueline hesitated. Then she rose to theoccasion.
"I've got two post-cards shut up in my Robin Hood book. Quick! Write toyour Cousin Delia on this one that you've got safe to Baring Junction,and your half-aunt met you and is very nice."
"But I don't know if she is!" protested truthful Caroline.
"You've got to take chances sometimes," Jacqueline silenced her. "Hurryup and write, and I'll write one, too, to my Aunt Edie."
Hastily and in pencil the post-cards were written. From a recess in thevanity bag Jacqueline dug out two stamps, the worse for wear but stillstickable. These she fixed upon the cards.
"The porter'll post 'em," she said. "That'll satisfy your Cousin Deliaand my Aunt Edie--and we've simply got to get out of writing them anymore letters, somehow."
Then the black porter hammered at the door, and Jacqueline bade himenter, and in her lordly manner permitted him to brush her off.
"Ain' yo' done mix yo' clothes up, Missy?" he asked with interest.
Caroline quaked. Jacqueline merely dimpled.
"Of course we have," she said. "We're going to put something over on ourrelations. You see, I know her folks just like she knows mine."
(Which was true in the letter, but not in the spirit. Jacqueline mightas well have told a fib and been done with it.)
The porter seemed to hesitate.
"It will be all right," Jacqueline told him loftily. "Here's somethingfor you. Take off that young lady and her luggage as soon as the trainstops. I'll look out for myself."
So sure of herself she was that the porter, like Caroline, was put tosilence. He pocketed the money that she gave him, chuckled, mutteredthat she was "de beatermost," and went his way.
"We'll be there in five minutes now," said Jacqueline. "Put on this hat.Here, give me yours. Take the books. Give me the doll."
"Oh, no!" cried Caroline, and clasped Mildred to her.
"But look here," said Jacqueline, "I'm you and the doll is yours, soI've got to have her."
"Oh, I can't--I can't!" cried Caroline. "Not Mildred! Don't you see?Daddy gave her to me--the Christmas before he
died--and Muzzy made allher clothes--I can't give her up, Jackie--not even to you--she'd behomesick."
"Now stop it!" commanded Jacqueline. "I don't want your silly old doll!Take her along with you. It won't give us away."
"But her clothes--they're in my suitcase--your suitcase--"
Already Jacqueline was tearing open the shabby suitcase.
"You shan't gum the show now," she panted. "We'd look like--like acouple of boobs. Here are the clothes. Take 'em, quick!"
"I can't get your suitcase open," chittered Caroline.
The train was slowing down for Baring Junction. Moments counted.Jacqueline seized the nearly emptied satin candy box and crammed itsremaining contents into the pockets of the brown and white gingham thatshe wore.
"I told you her clothes would go into the candy box," she said as shehastily crushed Mildred's wardrobe into the satin receptacle. "Take itquick--here's the porter--I'll strap the suitcase."
"Oh, Jackie!" Caroline turned wildly to her friend, like a frightenedkitten that doesn't know which way to run.
"Wipe your eyes, kid, and don't weaken!" bade Jacqueline stoutly."Porter, take the books, too--her hands are full. Beat it now, Carol!Ask for Mrs. Eunice Gildersleeve and don't forget there's sure to be apiano!"