rising factory managers, rather unsuccessful lawyers and doctors practicing in Lyndon, and daughters of ‘old’ families as ‘reduced’ as she was herself. She maintained quite a delicate but firm distinction between the girls of ‘new people’ and those with ‘background’. This made for cliques, backbiting, snubs and coldness, and the cruel rivalries which only women understand. Caroline was aware of cliques and inner circles; she was part of neither and rejected by all. She had accepted this as one of the peculiar aspects of her existence and bore no malice.
She was known to be the daughter of the ambiguous John Ames, who was rarely in Lyndon. He was reputed to be very wealthy. None of the girls believed it. Caroline’s clothing was certainly not that of a rich man’s daughter. Her shabbiness aroused laughter among her schoolmates, who did not fail to point out to her that the elbows of her drooping wool frocks and her meager coats were obviously darned and patched, that her shoes were cheap and that she wore, at fifteen, heavy cotton stockings instead of lisle or even silk. But more than all else, it was less than tactfully called to her attention that she had no beauty, no presence, no grace. None of this depressed Caroline, for so far as she was concerned the girls were only frivolous annoyances. Her realities were her father, Beth Knowles, Tom Sheldon, and the moldering library of the house in Lyndon. These were her life, not tossing curls, not dances, not gay trippings in the narrow halls of the house of her teacher, not fluttering dresses and dainty slippers, not fashion and style, not rings and bracelets, not secrets whispered in class and the exchange of notes. Above all, not carriages bringing the other girls to school. She walked the four miles to Miss Brownley’s house and walked them home, and the weather was of no physical concern to her. Walking was an adventure. The girls declared she skulked and was ashamed of her wretched state and pretended to pity her.
Caroline believed herself ugly and was not disturbed by it. Tom Sheldon liked her. He did more than like her; he loved her. He was nearly eighteen now, and he wrote her of ‘the day when we’ll be married’. He never failed to write of her beautiful eyes. ‘A lady on one of the canal ships had a big topaz ring on her finger, and it was just like your eyes, Carrie, all full of brown light and twinkles. I sure wanted to see you again right away when I saw that ring.’ And Beth had told her roundly, “If men married only pretty and beautiful girls, the world wouldn’t have many people in it, believe me! You have to have something else, and I call it spirit.”
Caroline was not sure what spirit was. Was it what poor old dead Kate had called character? Was it intelligence? The girls at school, whom she hardly noticed, possessed neither of these things. Caroline often wondered if she did, and she would reread all of Tom’s letters, looking for enlightenment. Tom loved her, though she was stocky and clumsy and could never talk very well and there was no curl in the long hair as black and fine as straight silk and her clothes were coarse and mended. Therefore, she must have ‘spirit’. She was surprised to find that she was not entirely satisfied. Her Aunt Cynthia had recently adopted a little girl, and Melinda was very beautiful, almost as beautiful as Cynthia, for all she had been taken from an orphanage and had no family. Melinda was now four, a grave little girl who was nearly as silent as Caroline. But sometimes she would laugh, and the laugh tinkled and her gray eyes shone.
The Ames house in Lyndon stood on five acres of wooded land, wild and unkempt, for old Jim would do only sporadic gardening. He did keep an area about the house free of tall grass and fallen branches, but he never bothered with flowers; the family was away at the seashore from early June to the first of October. As he never planted seed, obstinately
She was known to be the daughter of the ambiguous John Ames, who was rarely in Lyndon. He was reputed to be very wealthy. None of the girls believed it. Caroline’s clothing was certainly not that of a rich man’s daughter. Her shabbiness aroused laughter among her schoolmates, who did not fail to point out to her that the elbows of her drooping wool frocks and her meager coats were obviously darned and patched, that her shoes were cheap and that she wore, at fifteen, heavy cotton stockings instead of lisle or even silk. But more than all else, it was less than tactfully called to her attention that she had no beauty, no presence, no grace. None of this depressed Caroline, for so far as she was concerned the girls were only frivolous annoyances. Her realities were her father, Beth Knowles, Tom Sheldon, and the moldering library of the house in Lyndon. These were her life, not tossing curls, not dances, not gay trippings in the narrow halls of the house of her teacher, not fluttering dresses and dainty slippers, not fashion and style, not rings and bracelets, not secrets whispered in class and the exchange of notes. Above all, not carriages bringing the other girls to school. She walked the four miles to Miss Brownley’s house and walked them home, and the weather was of no physical concern to her. Walking was an adventure. The girls declared she skulked and was ashamed of her wretched state and pretended to pity her.
Caroline believed herself ugly and was not disturbed by it. Tom Sheldon liked her. He did more than like her; he loved her. He was nearly eighteen now, and he wrote her of ‘the day when we’ll be married’. He never failed to write of her beautiful eyes. ‘A lady on one of the canal ships had a big topaz ring on her finger, and it was just like your eyes, Carrie, all full of brown light and twinkles. I sure wanted to see you again right away when I saw that ring.’ And Beth had told her roundly, “If men married only pretty and beautiful girls, the world wouldn’t have many people in it, believe me! You have to have something else, and I call it spirit.”
Caroline was not sure what spirit was. Was it what poor old dead Kate had called character? Was it intelligence? The girls at school, whom she hardly noticed, possessed neither of these things. Caroline often wondered if she did, and she would reread all of Tom’s letters, looking for enlightenment. Tom loved her, though she was stocky and clumsy and could never talk very well and there was no curl in the long hair as black and fine as straight silk and her clothes were coarse and mended. Therefore, she must have ‘spirit’. She was surprised to find that she was not entirely satisfied. Her Aunt Cynthia had recently adopted a little girl, and Melinda was very beautiful, almost as beautiful as Cynthia, for all she had been taken from an orphanage and had no family. Melinda was now four, a grave little girl who was nearly as silent as Caroline. But sometimes she would laugh, and the laugh tinkled and her gray eyes shone.
The Ames house in Lyndon stood on five acres of wooded land, wild and unkempt, for old Jim would do only sporadic gardening. He did keep an area about the house free of tall grass and fallen branches, but he never bothered with flowers; the family was away at the seashore from early June to the first of October. As he never planted seed, obstinately
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