"But they're the skeleton in the closet," I repeated, having heard it expressed that way all my life.
She was angry for a moment, then she began laughing reminiscently and rocking herself backward and forward slowly in her chair. Her face was as detached and crazy as Ophelia's over her botany lesson, when she gets on your nerves with her: "There is pansies, that's for thoughts," and so forth.
"Yes, he left a skeleton—what was considered a skeleton in those days—Uncle James—our family's great man—but such a skeleton! People now would understand how wonderful it is—with its carved ivory bones—and golden joints and ruby eyes! You little fool!"
"Why, I'm proud!" I denied, backing back, all a-tremble. "I'll love those letters, Aunt Patricia."
"You'd better!"
"I'll be sure to," I reiterated, but her face suddenly softened, and she caught up my hand in her yellow claw. She studied the palm for a moment.
"You'll understand them," she sighed. "Poor little, heart-strong Christie!"
And, whether her words were prophetic or delirious, she had told the truth. I have understood them.
She gave them over into my keeping that day; and the next morning we found her settled back among her pillows, imagining that all her brothers and sisters were flying above the mantlepiece and that the Chinese vase was in danger. Another day passed, and on Sunday afternoon all the wardrobe shelves yielded up their black bonnets.
I was not distressed, but I was lonely, with an ultra-Sabbathical repression over my spirits.