  The big house was brilliantly illuminated and yet there were delightful twilight nooks, half hidden behind great potted palms which had come from a florist’s in Santa Barbara. Guests had been arriving in motors from the big city all the afternoon. Gwynette was in her element. Tom Pinkerton, the roommate of Charles, had been summoned by phone to round up a few of their classmates, and be there for the gala occasion. Gwyn had asked Patricia, Beulah and a few other girl friends, while Harold had sent telegraphic invitations to his pals at the military school. There had only been two days to perfect arrangements, but had there been a week, the big house could not have been more attractively arrayed, for the wisteria arbor was in full bloom and great bunches of the graceful white and purple blossoms filled every vase and bowl in the house. There were flowers in each of the ten guest rooms where the young people who had arrived in the afternoon had rested until the dinner hour. * * * * * * * * The musical chimes were telling the hour of eight when Harold led his companions into the brilliantly lighted hall and up to the rooms where they were to remove their wraps. Jenny glanced through the wide double doors into the spacious parlors and library where the chairs and lounges had been placed around the walls, leaving the floor clear for dancing. Beautifully dressed girls and young men in evening clothes sauntered about in couples visiting with old friends and meeting others. Jenny did not feel real. She had often read stories describing events like this one, and she had often imagined that she was a guest. She almost had to pinch herself as she was ascending the wide, softly-carpeted stairway to be sure that this was real and not one of her dreams. When they had removed their wraps and had descended, they were greeted by Mrs. Poindexter-Jones, who, beautifully gowned, sat in her wheeled chair, with Gwynette, lovely in a filmy blue chiffon, standing at her side. Miss Dane had reluctantly consented to permit her patient, who had grown stronger very rapidly in the last few days, to remain downstairs for one hour. When the hidden orchestra began to play, Miss Dane pushed the invalid chair to a palm-sheltered nook, wherein Susan Warner and her good man had at once taken refuge, and there, at their side, the patrician woman sat watching the young people dance, talking to her companions from time to time. Then she asked Miss Dane to tell her daughter that she would like to speak to her. “I don’t see her just now. You may find her in her room. She had forgotten her necklace.” Miss Dane, after glancing about at the dancers, went upstairs. There was someone in the room where the wraps had been removed. Rushing in the open door, the nurse said: “Miss Gwynette, your mother wishes to speak to you.” The girl turned and, smiling in her friendly way, said, “You are mistaken, Miss Dane. I am Jenny Warner.” Miss Dane hesitated, gazing intently at the apparition before her. “Pardon me, Miss Warner,” she then said. “It must be because you and Miss Gwynette are both wearing blue that you look so much alike.” She turned away and met Gwyn just ascending the stairway. The nurse had been so impressed with the resemblance that she could not refrain from exclaiming about it. “Really,” she concluded, “you two girls look near enough alike to be sisters.” Gwyn did not feel at all complimented, and her reply was coldly given. “Tell Mother that I will come to her as soon as I get my necklace.” Jenny was leaving the bedroom, whither she had gone for her handkerchief, just as the other girl was entering. One glance at the haughty, flushed face of her hostess and the farmer’s granddaughter knew that something of a disturbing nature had occurred, but she did not dream that she was in any way concerned in the matter. She was very much surprised to hear Gwyn saying in her haughtiest manner: “Miss Warner, my mother’s nurse tells me that she spoke to you just now, believing that you were me. I recall that the girls in the seminary once alluded to a resemblance they pretended to see. Will you do me the favor to stand in front of this long mirror with me, that I may also find the resemblance, if there is one, which I doubt!” Jenny, her heart fluttering with excitement, stood beside the older girl and gazed directly at her in the mirror. Gwyn continued, appraisingly: “Our eyes are hazel and we both have light brown hair, but so have many other girls. I cannot understand, can you, why Miss Dane should have said that we look near enough alike to be sisters.” On an impulse Jenny replied, “Yes, Gwynette, I can understand, because we are sisters.” Instantly Jenny regretted having revealed the long kept secret, for Gwynette sank down on a lounge near her, her hand pressed to her heart, every bit of color receding from her face until she was deathly pale. Jenny, all solicitude, exclaimed: “Oh, are you going to faint? I ought not to have told you. But you asked me! Forgive me, if you can.” There was a hard, glinting light between the arrowed lids of the older girl. “Jenny Warner, I do not believe you! Why should you know more of my parentage than I do myself?” Sadly Jenny told the story. She deeply regretted that her impulsiveness had rendered the revelation necessary. “One stormy day, several years ago, while I was rummaging around in the attic of the farmhouse, I found pushed way back in a dark cobwebby corner a small haircloth trunk which interested me. I did not think it necessary to ask permission to open it, as I did not dream that it held a secret which my dear grandparents might not wish me to discover, and so I dragged it over to the small window. Sitting on one of the broken backed chairs, I lifted the lid. The first thing that I found was a darling little Bible, bound in soft leather. It was quaint and old-fashioned. Miss Dearborn had taught me to love old books, and I at once looked for the date it had been published, when two things dropped out. One was a photograph. There were four in the group. The man was young and reminded me of Robert Burns; his companion was a very beautiful girl, and yet under her picture had been written ‘Mother’ and under the other ‘Father.’ I judged that was because with them were two children. Beneath them was written, ‘Gwynette, aged three; Jeanette, just one today.’ And then there was the date. The other was an unfinished letter, written in purple ink that had faded. Its message was very sad, for it told that the girl-mother had died and the young wandering missionary, our father, feared that he had not long to live because of frequent heart attacks. He wanted his little girls to know that they came of a New England family that was above reproach, the Waterburys of Waltham, Mass. “How well I remember the last message that dear hand had been able to write. ‘My darling little baby girls, I have had another of those dread attacks, but I do want to say with what strength I have left, as the years go by, love ye one another.’ That was all. Then the pen had fallen, I think, for there was a blot and an irregular blurred line of ink.” Gwyn, crushed with an overwhelming sense of self-pity, had buried her head in the soft silken pillows at one end of the lounge and was sobbing, but Jenny did not try to comfort her, believing that she could not, and so she continued: “I put the letter and the photograph into the little old Bible and replaced it. Then I dragged the haircloth trunk back into its dark corner. I was greatly troubled to know whether or not I ought to tell grandmother what I had learned. I asked the advice of my dear teacher and she said: ‘Do not tell at present, Jeanette. If your grandmother does not wish you to know, perhaps it would be wiser to wait until she tells you. Then she told me that she had a college friend living in Waltham, and that she would make inquiries about our family. In time the reply came. Our father’s father and grandfather had been ministers in high standing, philanthropists and scholars. Our father had been the last of the family, and, as they had given all they had to the poor, there was no money to care for us. Oh, Gwynette!” Jenny touched the other girl ever so tenderly on the shoulder. “How grateful I have been; how very much more I have loved my dear adopted grandparents since I realized what they had saved me from. Had they not taken me into their home, and shared with me the best they had, I would have been sent to a county orphanage, and no one knows to what fate.” Gwynette was sitting erect, her hands crushingly clasped together. Jenny paused, wondering what she would say. It was a sincere cry of regret. “Oh, to think how ungrateful I have been to that wonderful woman who has given me every advantage and who would have loved me like an own daughter if I had not been so selfish, ever demanding more.” Gwyn turned and held both hands out to her companion. “Jenny, forgive me. I am not worthy to call you sister. From this hour, forever, let us carry out our father’s last wish. Let us truly love one another.” Rising, she went to her jewel box, took from it the necklace for which she had come, and turning, she slipped it about the neck of her companion. Kissing her flushed cheek, she said: “Sister, this is my first gift to you. Keep it forever in remembrance of this hour.” Then, after removing all traces of tears, she held out her hand, saying: “Come, dear, let us go down together.” Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had wanted to ask Gwynette if she would like to have her engagement announced at this party. The woman was amazed to see the girl’s lips quivering. Gwyn bent low to listen, then, after assenting, she said in a low voice, tense with feeling. “Mother, I love you.” Jenny had slipped at once to the side of Susan Warner, and held her wrinkled old hand in a loving clasp. There was an expression in her face they had never seen before. Charles Gale, seeing that his fiance had returned, went at once to her side. The music had stopped, and Miss Dane pushed the invalid chair forward. The dancers, standing in groups about, were hushed, realizing that an announcement of some kind was to be made. Mrs. Poindexter-Jones spoke clearly: “Friends of my daughter and of my son, I have the great pleasure of announcing Gwynette’s engagement to a young man of whom we are very proud, Charles Gale of Dakota.” Not one word about English ancestry. Mrs. Poindexter-Jones truly had changed. Then before the guests could flock about the young couple to congratulate them, Gwynette had quickly stepped back, and taking Jenny by the hand, she led her out to where Charles was standing. Slipping an arm lovingly about the wondering girl, Gwyn said, “And I wish to introduce to you all my own dear sister, Jeanette.” THE END |
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