Jean obeyed. Somehow Cousin Roxy had a way of sweeping objections away before her airily. And the wardrobe was at a low ebb, when it came to recent styles. In Gilead Center, anything later than the time of the mutton leg sleeve was regarded as just a bit too previous, as Deacon Farley’s wife said when Cousin Roxy laid away her great aunt’s Paisley shawl after she married the Judge.
She dragged her rocking chair over beside the sofa now, and took inventory of the pile of clothing Jean laid there.
“You’ll want a good knockabout sport coat like the other girls are wearing, and a pretty mid-season hat to match. Then a real girlish sort of a silk sweater for the warm spring days that are coming, and a good skirt for mornings. Bethiah likes to play tennis, and she’ll have you out at daybreak. Better get a pleated blue serge. Now, what about party gowns?”
Here Jean felt quite proud as she laid out her assortment. The girls had always gone out a good deal at the Cove, and she had a number of well chosen, expensive dresses.
“They look all right to me, but I guess Bethiah’ll know what to do to them, with a touch here and there. Real lace on them, oh, Elizabeth!” She shook her head reprovingly at Mrs. Robbins, just sitting down with a pan of apples to pare.
“I’d rather go without than not have the real,” Jean said quickly, trying to spare the Motherbird’s feelings, but Gilead had indeed been a balm to pride. She laughed happily.
“I know, Roxy, it was foolish. But see how handy it comes in now. We’ve hardly had to buy any new clothes since we moved out here, and the girls have done wonderfully well making over their old dresses.”
“Especially Helen,” Jean put in. “Helen would garb us all in faded velvets and silks, princesses wearing out their old court robes in exile.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d just bundle all I wanted to take along in the way of pretty things into the trunk and let Bethiah tell you what to do with them. She knows just what’s what in the latest styles, and you’ll be like a lily of the field. I’ll get you the coat and sweater and serge skirt, and all the shoes and stockings you’ll need to match. Go long, child, you’ll squeeze the breath out of me,” as Jean gave her a royal hug. “I must be trotting along.” She rose, and started to bundle up, but gave an exclamation as she glanced out of the window. “For pity’s sake, what’s Cynthy Allan doing way off up here?”
Sure enough, hobbling along from the garden gate was Cynthy herself, one hand holding fast to an old cane, the other drawing around her frail figure an old-fashioned black silk dolman, its knotted fringe fluttering in the breeze.