It May Come
"I've had almost all the experiences of life," she continued, clearing her throat. "The endless cycle of birth and death has passed on its way through me. I've known poverty, defeat, humiliation, doubt, grief, discouragement, despair. I've had illness and death; I've borne children only to lose them again. I've worked hard and many times I've had to work alone, but I've had love, though all I have left of it is a sunken grave."
"And I," answered Edith, "have had everything else but love. Believe me, I'd take all you've had, even the grave, if I could have it once."
"It may come," said Madame, hopefully.
Edith shook her head. "That's what I'm afraid of."
"How so? Why be afraid?"
"You see," she explained, "I'm young yet and I'm not so desperately unattractive as my matrimonial experiences might lead one to believe. I haven't known there was another man on earth except my husband, but his persistent neglect has made me open my eyes a little, and I begin to see others, on a far horizon. Red blood has a way of answering to red blood, whether there are barriers between or not, and if I loved another man, and he were unscrupulous——"
"But," objected the older woman, "you couldn't love an unscrupulous man."
Like the Circus
"Couldn't I? My dear, when I see the pitiful specimens of manhood that women love, the things they give, the sacrifices they make, the neglect and desertions they suffer from, the countless humiliations they strive to bear proudly, I wonder that any one of us dares to look in the mirror.
"It's the eternal woman-hunger for love that makes us what we are, compels us to endure what we do, and keeps us all door-mats with 'Welcome' printed on us in red letters. Eagerly trustful, we keep on buying tickets to the circus, and never discover until we're old and grey, that it's always exactly the same entertainment, and we're admitted to it, each time, by a different door.
"Sometimes we see the caged wild animals first, and again, we arrive at the pink-lemonade stand; or, up at the other end, where the trapezes are, or in the middle, opposite the tank. Sometimes the band plays and sometimes it doesn't, but all you need in order to be thoroughly disillusioned is to stay to the concert, which bears about the same relation to the circus that marriage does to your anticipations."
"Are you afraid," laughed Madame, "that you'll buy another ticket?"
"No, but I'll find it, or somebody will give me a pass. I'm too young to stay to the concert and there's more of life coming to mestill. I only hope and pray that I'll manage to keep my head and not make the fatal, heart-breaking mistake of the women who go over the precipice, waving defiance at the social law that bids them stay with the herd."
Mixed Metaphors
"Your metaphors are mixed," Madame commented. "Concerts and circuses, and herds, and precipices and door-mats. I feel as though you had presented me with a jig-saw puzzle."
"So I have. Is my life anything more than that? I don't even know that all the pieces are there. If they would only print the picture on the cover of the box, or tell us how many pieces there are, and give us more than one or two at a time, and eternity to solve it in, we'd stand some chance, perhaps."
"More mixed metaphors," Madame said, rolling up the mended stockings.
A maid came into the dining-room and began to set the table for luncheon. Edith rose from her chair and came to Madame. The dark hollows under her eyes were evident now and all the youth was gone from her face and figure.
"Well," she said, in a low tone, "what am I to do?"
It was some little time before Madame answered. "I do not know. These modern times are too confused for me. The old way would have been to wait, to do the best onecould, and trust God to make it right in His own good time."
Invited to Stay
Edith shook her head. "I've waited and I've done the best I could, and I've tried to trust."
"No one can solve a problem for another, but, I think, when it's time to act, one knows what to do and the way is clearly opened for one to do it. Don't you feel better for having come here and talked to me?"
"Yes, indeed," said the young woman, gratefully. "So much was right—I'm sure of that. The train had scarcely started before I felt more at peace than I had for years."
"Then, dear, won't you stay with me until you know just what to do?"
Edith looked long and earnestly into the sweet old face. "Do you mean it? It may be a long time."
"I mean it—no matter how long it is."
Quick tears sprang to the brown eyes, and Edith brushed them aside, half ashamed. "It means more trunks," she said, "and your son——"
"Will be delighted to have you with us," Madame concluded.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely." Madame was not at all sure, but she told her lie prettily.
"Then," said Edith, with a smile, "I'll stay."
Alden's Idea of a Trunk
With the tact that seems the birthright of the gifted few, Mrs. Lee adjusted herself to the ways of the Marsh household. Some commotion had been caused by the arrival of four more trunks, of different shapes and sizes, but after they had been unpacked and stored, things went on smoothly.
Alden's idea of a trunk had hitherto been very simple. To him, it was only a substantial box, variation in size and in exterior finish being the only possible diversions from the original type. When it fell to his lot, on a Saturday morning, to superintend the removal of Mrs. Lee's empty trunks to the attic, he discovered the existence of hat trunks, dresser trunks, and wardrobe trunks, cannily constructed with huge warts on all sides but the one the trunk was meant to stand upon.
"Why so scornful?" a sweet voice asked, at his elbow.
"I'm not scornful," he returned. "I'm merely interested."
In the Hall
"You're fortunate," she smiled, "to be so easily interested."
"We're out of the world here, you know, and unfamiliar varieties of the trunk species make me feel much as Crusoe did when he came upon a human footprint in the sand."
"I wonder," mused Mrs. Lee, "how he really did feel. It must have been dramatic beyond all words."
She sat down on the window-seat in the hall and leaned back against the casement of the open window. The warm Spring wind, laden with the sweet scent of growing things, played caressingly about her neck and carried to Alden a subtle fragrance of another sort. Her turquoise-blue silk kimono, delicately embroidered in gold, was open at the throat and fastened at the waist with a heavy golden cord. Below, it opened over a white petticoat that was a mass of filmy lace ruffles. Her tiny feet peeped out beneath the lace, clad in pale blue silk stockings and fascinating Chinese slippers that turned up at the toes.
From above came discordant rumblings and eloquent, but smothered remarks on the general subject of trunks. Mrs. Lee laughed. "They're trying to make the wardrobe-trunk stand up on the wrong end, and it won't."
"How do you know that's it?"
"Because I've heard the same noises and the same general trend of conversation all theway from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back again. The farther west you go, the more accomplished the men are in the art of profanity."
Sounds from the Attic
"Is it an art? I thought it came naturally."
"It does, to some, but you have no idea what study and constant practice can do in developing a natural gift."
The sunlight illumined her hair into a mass of spun gold that sparkled and gleamed and shone. It made golden lights in her brown eyes, caressed the ivory softness of her skin, and deepened the scarlet of her lips.
"Listen," she said. "Isn't it awful?"
"No," returned Alden, "it isn't. In fact, I don't know of any sound I'd rather hear than your trunks being put into our attic."
A faint suggestion of a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, then vanished. "Well done," she said. "You have atoned nobly for your dismay the night I came, when you found I'd brought a trunk."
"I wish you wouldn't," he replied, awkwardly. "It wasn't that."
"Such a small trunk," she went on, mercilessly. "Just a plain little steamer trunk that you can put under a bed. The kind you can ask a cabman to take down to the cab for you. A little trunk that a woman can almost carry herself! Only room for one gown, one hat, and a few toilet articles!"
Always Too Late
The golden lights in her eyes were dancing and her hair shimmered in the sun. Alden sat down at the farthest end of the window-seat and looked out upon the vineyard, faintly green, now, with the new leaves. The two men descended from the attic and went down the back stairs.
"How did Robinson Crusoe feel when he saw the footprint?" he asked, determined to get away from the unlucky subject of trunks.
"I don't know," Edith answered, "for I wasn't there. He must have been surprised and frightened and pleased all at once. How interesting it must be to have something happen to you that never happened to anybody before!"
"But it's all happened before," he objected. "Is there anything new under the sun?"
"It's been new, at one time or another. We're always too late, that's all. Somebody ate the first oyster and somebody went to sleep first and somebody wore the first false hair.
"No," she continued, with a rose-pink flush mantling her face, "I don't. If I did, I wouldn't mind saying so, but Nature gave me quantities of it, so why should I borrow more? Besides, I don't believe there is any more like it, so I couldn't, anyway."
"No," he returned, thoughtfully, "I don't believe there is any more like it, either. Your wish to be first in something is surely gratified,for there never was such hair as yours and never will be again."
Red Hair and Auburn
"Mother's was like it."
He shook his head. "No, it wasn't. I never saw your mother, but I know better than that."
"Ask your mother. There she is now."
Madame appeared at the head of the stairs, on the way to her room, to dress for luncheon. She paused to smile at the two who sat on the window-seat, then would have gone straight on had not Edith called to her.
"Mrs. Marsh! Isn't my hair exactly like my mother's?"
Madame came to her, turned the shining head a little more toward the sun, and patted the fluffiness caressingly. "No," she said, "though your mother had glorious hair, it was nothing like this. Hers was auburn and smooth, yours is reddish-gold—almost copper-coloured—and fluffy. Besides, you must have nearly twice as much of it."
"There," said Alden, "I told you so."
"But," persisted Edith, "if it's really copper-coloured, it's common. Look at the lady on the copper cent, for instance."
"The lady on the copper cent," returned Alden, "is a gentleman who wears feathers."
"But under his feathers he has hair the colour of this."
"He may not have any hair at all."
What's the Matter with Her?
They both laughed, and Madame smiled, though she did not quite understand what they were talking about. She was still smiling when she reached her own room, for she found it very pleasant to have Edith there, and was delighted to have Alden come to a realising sense of his duties as host.
He had, indeed, conducted himself admirably ever since Mrs. Lee's arrival, though he had been very quiet and reserved at first. With some trepidation, she had told him that she had invited the guest to remain indefinitely, tactfully choosing a moment after an unusually good dinner, when they chanced to be alone.
Alden had taken it calmly, betraying no outward sign of any sort of emotion. "What's the matter with her?" he had asked, curiously. "What's she in trouble about?"
"If she wants you to know, my son, she will tell you herself," Madame had replied, in a tone of gentle rebuke. "I have no right to violate her confidence."
He shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. "You don't need to squelch me like that, Mother. I don't know that I care, particularly. I was merely making conversation."
"Refined conversation is not made of impertinences," Madame suggested. The words were harsh, but the tone was kind.
"Don't stab me with epigrams, please, for I don't believe I deserve it."
Dream-Children
Madame recalled every word they had said as she took down her afternoon gown of black silk, and began to sew frills of real lace in the neck and sleeves. She was glad he had been pleasant about it, for it seemed much more like living, someway, to have another woman in the house.
If Virginia had lived—she, too, had brown eyes, but her hair was brown also. She would have been four years older than Edith was now, and, undoubtedly, married. All Madame's feminine ancestors for generations back had been married. The only spinster in the family, so far as Madame knew, had remained true to the memory of a dead lover.
"Some women are born to be married, some achieve marriage, and others have marriage thrust upon them," Madame said to herself, unconsciously paraphrasing an old saying. Virginia would have been meant for it, too, and, by now, there would have been children in the old house, pattering back and forth upon the stairs, lisping words that meant no more than the bubbling of a fountain, and stretching up tiny hands that looked like crumpled rose-petals, pleading to be taken up and loved.
These dream-children tugged strangely at the old lady's heart-strings in her moments of reverie. Even yet, after Rosemary came—but they would not be like her own flesh and blood, as a daughter's children always are.Poor Rosemary! How miserable she was at home, and how little she would need to make her happy! To think that she dared not tell her Grandmother and Aunt that she was engaged to Alden! Madame's cheeks grew warm with resentment in the girl's behalf. Motherless, friendless, alone, with Life's great cup of wonder in her rough, red hands!
"Fussed Over"
A tap at the door made her start. "Come in!" she called.
It was Edith, trig and tailor-made, in dark green, with a crisp white linen shirtwaist, an immaculate collar, and a dashing green tie.
"Mr. Marsh has invited me to go for a drive after luncheon," she said, "and he asked me to come and see if you weren't almost ready. May I do your hair for you?"
Madame submitted, not because she cared to have her hair done, but because she liked to be "fussed over," as she put it. There was something very pleasant in the touch of Edith's cool, soft hands.
"You're—you're not going to change the way I do it, are you?" she asked, a little anxiously.
"No, indeed! I wouldn't change it for anything. It suits you just as it is."
"I'm glad you think so, for I've always worn it like this. Alden wouldn't know me if I became fashionable."
It Isn't Right
"He doesn't look a bit like you," said Edith, irrelevantly.
"No, but he's the living image of his father, and I'm very glad. It keeps me from—from missing him too much," Madame's voice broke a little on the last words.
"It must be lovely to be missed," said Edith, quickly. "Now I——"
"Dear, haven't you told him yet?"
"He's probably discovered it by this time. Still, I don't know—I've only been away a week."
"It isn't right," said Madame, decidedly. "You must let him know where you are."
"Why? I never know where he is."
"That doesn't make any difference. Two wrongs never make one perfect right. If you do your part, things will be only half wrong, instead of entirely so."
"I'll do whatever you think best," said Edith, humbly. "I came to you because I could think for myself no longer. I'll write him a note before luncheon, if you say so, and post it this afternoon."
"I do say so."
Therefore luncheon waited for a few moments, to Alden's secret impatience, until Edith came down with her note. She offered it to Madame, doubtfully. "Want to see it?"
"No, dear. I'll trust you."
She sealed it with shamefaced gladness thatMadame had not availed herself of the opportunity. She was quite sure that her counsellor would not approve of the few formal lines which were all she had been able to make herself write.
On the Way to the Post-Office
After luncheon, when Alden assisted her into Madame's decrepit phaeton, and urged the superannuated horse into a wildly exciting pace of three miles an hour, she asked to be driven to the post-office.
"Thank you," said Alden, "for alluding to it as a drive. It's more like a walk."
"It isn't exactly like going out in a touring car," she admitted, "but it's very pleasant, nevertheless. It gives you time to look at the scenery."
"Also to photograph it if you should so desire. You don't even need to limit yourself to snap-shots. A time-exposure is altogether possible."
When they reached the post-office, Alden took her note, and went through the formality of tying the horse. He glanced at the superscription, not because he was interested in her unknown correspondent, but because the handwriting claimed his attention. Through the delicate angular tracery he made out the address: "Mr. William G. Lee." The street and number were beyond his skill in the brief time he had at his command.
"So," he said, when he came back, "you'reMrs. William G. I trust you don't call him 'William'?"
Mrs. William G.
"No—he's the sort of William who is always known as 'Billy.'"
"Good! That speaks well for him."
Alden began to wonder, as he alternately coaxed and threatened the horse toward the river-road, what manner of man she had married. Someone, undoubtedly, with the face and figure of Apollo, the courtesy of Chesterfield, and the character of a saint. "It was good of him," he said, gratefully, "to let you come to us."
Edith bit her lips and turned her face away. "I was glad to come," she answered, after a pause. For a moment she trembled upon the verge of a confidence, then summoned all her conversational powers to the rescue.
She began with the natural beauty of the country through which they were driving, observed that the roads were better adapted to a horse than to an automobile, noted the pleasant situation of the Marsh house on the river shore, veered for a moment to the subject of good roads in France, came back to the blue reflection of the sky upon the smooth surface of the river, admired the situation of the vineyard, said that Madame's phaeton was extremely comfortable, and concluded by asking if it wasn't almost time for apple-blossoms.
"I Just Knew!"
"All of which means," said Alden, quietly, "that you're unhappily married."
"How do you know?" demanded Edith, crimson with surprise and mortification. "Did—did your mother tell you?"
"No, she didn't—most decidedly she didn't. I just know, that's all."
"How? Do I betray myself so completely as that?"
He answered her question by another. "How did you know, the night you came, that I was surprised and not altogether pleased by the fact that you had brought a trunk? Were my manners as bad as all that?"
"Why, no—I just knew."
"And how did you know, this morning, when we were sitting on the window-seat, that I was wondering whether or not you wore false hair?"
"Why—I just knew."
"That's it, exactly."
"How long have you—known?"
"Ask me something easier than that," he laughed, endeavouring to relieve a situation that threatened to become awkward. Following his lead, she began to ask questions about the vineyard, and, when he told her he feared he knew very little about his work, suggested that he should read up on vine-culture and make it the best-paying vineyard in the State.
An Afternoon Drive
"Has mother been talking to you?" he demanded, turning to her quickly.
"About the vineyard? No. But, if it's your work, why not do it better than anybody else does it?"
Alden looked at her long and earnestly. The golden lights of her eyes were thrown into shadow now, for it was afternoon and they were driving east. Her answering smile gave him confidence, courage. Moreover, it challenged him in some subtle way he could not analyse. It dared him, as it were, to make the best of the vineyard—and himself.
"Thank you," he said, at length. "I believe—I will."
The divine moment passed, and, for the remainder of the drive, they talked commonplaces. But the fresh air from the hills, the freedom of the wind-swept spaces, the steady aspiration of everything that lived, brought the colour to Edith's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes, and ministered secretly to her soul. When she went in, she looked happier than she had since she came. Madame saw it and was glad, but wisely said nothing.
She came down at dinner-time in a black lace gown trimmed with spangles that glittered when she moved. It was cut away slightly from the rounded, ivory throat, and the white arms were bare to the elbow. The upper parts of the sleeves were made of black velvet ribbon,latticed into small diamond-shaped openings through which the satin texture of the skin showed in the candlelight. She wore no rings, except the slender circlet of gold that had been put on her finger at the altar, six years ago.
A Sense of Foreboding
Conversation at dinner proceeded slowly, but on pleasant lines. Edith seemed preoccupied, and, at times, Alden relapsed into long silences. Madame noted that they scarcely spoke to each other, and was vaguely troubled, for she liked Edith, and wanted Alden to like her too.
After dinner, Edith played cribbage with Madame and Alden read the paper. When Madame had won three games, in rapid succession, Edith said good-night. Alden, from the depths of his paper, murmured the conventional response.
That night he started from his sleep with a sense of foreboding. He sat up and listened, but there was no sound. Not even the wind moving a shutter, nor a swaying branch tapping at his window—not a footfall, nor an echo, nor a breath.
The tall clock on the landing struck four. The silvery strokes died away into a silence that was positive, rather than negative. The sense of foreboding still persisted; moreover, he was conscious that someone else was awake also.
A Mysterious Perception
Was it his mother? Was she ill? No—he was sure of that. Was it Edith? Yes, that was it. She was awake, and had been awake all night. Moreover, she was crying.
His heart throbbed with tender pity. He yearned to comfort her, to assure her that whatever was wrong must eventually be made right. Why, from the crown of her beautiful head to the turned-up toe of her blue Chinese slipper, Edith had been made for joy—and for love.
Out of the darkness came a sudden mysterious perception. She knew she had awakened him, and had smiled at the knowledge. A sense of weariness quickly followed, then a restful silence which carried no thought with it.
He lay back on his pillow and waited, with his eyes closed, until he felt that she was asleep. Then he slept also.
A Letter for Rosemary
Rosemary peered into the letter box and saw thatThe Household Guardianwas there. On one Thursday it had failed to appear and she had been unable to convince Grandmother of her entire innocence in the matter. Even on the following day, when she brought it home, in the original wrapping, she felt herself regarded with secret suspicion. As it never had failed to come on Thursday, why should it, unless Rosemary, for some reason best known to herself, had tampered with the United States Mail?
There was also a letter, and Rosemary waited eagerly for the postmaster to finish weighing out two pounds of brown sugar and five cents' worth of tea for old Mrs. Simms. She pressed her nose to the glass, and squinted, but the address eluded her. Still, she was sure it was for her, and, very probably, from Alden, whom she had not seen for ten days.
Ways and Means
She felt a crushing sense of disappointment when she saw that it was not from Alden, butwas addressed in an unfamiliar hand. Regardless of the deference she was accustomed to accord a letter, she tore it open hastily and read:
"My Dear Rosemary:"Can you come to tea on Saturday afternoon about four? We have a guest whom I am sure you would like to meet.
"My Dear Rosemary:
"Can you come to tea on Saturday afternoon about four? We have a guest whom I am sure you would like to meet.
"Affectionately, your
"Mother."
The words were formal enough, and the quaint stateliness of the handwriting conveyed its own message of reserve and distance but the signature thrilled her through and through. "Mother!" she repeated, in a whisper. She went out of the post-office blindly, with the precious missive tightly clasped in her trembling hand.
Would she go? Of course she would, even though it meant facing Grandmother, Aunt Matilda, and all the dogs of war.
As the first impulse faded, she became more cautious, and began to consider ways and means. It was obviously impossible to wear brown gingham or brown alpaca to a tea-party. That meant that she must somehow get her old white muslin down from the attic, iron it, mend it, and freshen it up as best she could. She had no doubt of herability to do it, for both old ladies were sound sleepers, and Rosemary had learned to step lightly, in bare feet, upon secret errands around the house at night.
Secret Longings
But how could she hope to escape, unobserved, on Saturday afternoon? And, even if she managed to get away, what of the inevitable return? Why not, for once, make a bold declaration of independence, and say, calmly: "Grandmother, I am going to Mrs. Marsh's Saturday afternoon at four, and I am going to wear my white dress." Not "May I go?" or "May I wear it?" but "I am going," and "I am going to wear it."
At the thought Rosemary shuddered and her soul quailed within her. She knew that she would never dare to do it. At the critical moment her courage would fail her, and she would stay at home. Perhaps she could wear the brown gingham if it were fresh and clean, and she pinned at her throat a bow of the faded pink ribbon she had found in her mother's trunk in the attic. And, if it should happen to rain Saturday, or even look like rain, so much the better. Anyhow, she would go, even in the brown gingham. So much she decided upon.
Yet, with all her heart, she longed for the white dress, the only thing she had which even approached daintiness. An old saying came back to her in which she had found consolation many times before. "When an insurmountable obstacle presents itself, sometimes there is a way around it." And, again, "Take one step forward whenever there is a foothold and trust to God for the next."
A Bit of News
That night, at supper, Aunt Matilda electrified Grandmother with a bit of news which she had jealously kept to herself all day.
"The milkman was telling me," she remarked, with an assumed carelessness which deceived no one, "that there's company up to Marshs'."
Grandmother dropped her knife and fork with a sharp clatter. "You don't tell me!" she cried. "Who in creation is it?"
"I was minded to tell you before," Aunt Matilda resumed, with tantalising deliberation, "but you've had your nose in that fool paper all day, and whenever I spoke to you you told me not to interrupt. Literary folks is terrible afraid of bein' interrupted, I've heard, so I let you alone."
"I didn't know it was anything important," murmured Grandmother, apologetically.
"How could you know," questioned Matilda, logically, "before I'd told you what it was?"
There being no ready answer to this, Grandmother responded with a snort, which meant much or little, as one might choose. A dull red burned on her withered cheeks and she hadlost interest in her supper. Only Rosemary was calm.
A Play-Actin' Person
"As I was sayin'," Matilda went on, after an aggravating silence, "there's company up to Marshs'."
"Seems to me," Grandmother grunted, "that she'd better be payin' up the calls she owes in the neighbourhood than entertainin' strangers." This shaft pierced a vulnerable spot in Matilda's armour of self-esteem, for she still smarted under Madame Marsh's neglect.
"The milkman says it's a woman. Her name's Mis' Lee. She come a week ago and last Saturday she was to the post-office, and up the river-road all the afternoon in that old phaeton with young Marsh."
Rosemary's heart paused for a moment, then resumed its beat.
"She's a play-actin' person, he says, or at any rate she looks like one, which amounts to the same thing. She's brought four trunks with her—one respectable trunk, same as anybody might have, one big square trunk that looks like a dog-house, and another big trunk that a person could move into if there wasn't no other house handy, and another trunk that was packed so full that it had bulged out on all sides but one, and when Jim and Dick took it up into the attic there wasn't but one side they could set it on. And whiles they wasfindin' a place to set it, she and young Marsh was laughin' down in the hall."
Servant's Gossip
"Who is she?" demanded Grandmother. "Where did she come from? How long is she goin' to stay? Where'd Mis' Marsh get to know her?"
"The milkman's wife was over last Monday," Matilda continued, "to help with the washin', and she says she never see such clothes in all her born days nor so many of 'em. They was mostly lace, and she had two white petticoats in the wash. The stocking was all silk, and she said she never see such nightgowns. They was fine enough for best summer dresses, and all lace, and one of 'em had a blue satin bow on it, and what was strangest of all was that there wa'n't no place to get into 'em. They was made just like stockin's with no feet to 'em, and if she wore 'em, she'd have to crawl in, either at the bottom or the top. She said she never see the beat of those nightgowns."
"Do tell!" ejaculated Grandmother.
"And her hair looks as if she ain't never combed it since the day she was born. The milkman says it looks about like a hen's nest and is pretty much the same colour. He see her on the porch for a minute, and all he could look at was that hair. And when he passed 'em on the river-road after they come from the post-office, he couldn't see her hair at all,cause she had on a big hat tied on with some thin light blue stuff. He reckoned maybe her hair was a wig."
Discussing the Stranger
"I'd know whether 'twas a wig or not, if I saw it once," Grandmother muttered. "There ain't nobody that can fool me about false hair."
"I guess you ain't likely to see it," retorted Matilda, viciously. "All we'll ever hear about her'll be from the milk folks."
"Maybe I could see her," ventured Rosemary, cautiously. "I could put on my best white dress and go to see Mrs. Marsh, to-morrow or next day, after I get the work done up. I could find out who she was and all about her, and come back and tell you."
For an instant the stillness was intense, then both women turned to her. "You!" they said, scornfully, in the same breath.
"Yes," said Grandmother, after an impressive pause, "I reckon you'll be puttin' on your best dress and goin' up to Marshs' to see a play-actin' woman."
"You'd have lots to do," continued Aunt Matilda, "goin' to see a woman what ain't seen fit to return a call your Aunt made on her more'n five years ago."
"Humph!" Grandmother snorted.
"The very idea," exclaimed Aunt Matilda.
What had seemed to Rosemary like an open path had merely led to an insurmountablestone wall. She shrugged her shoulders good-humouredly. "Very well," she said, "I'm sure I don't care. Suit yourselves."
One Step Forward
She began to clear away the supper dishes, for, though the others had eaten little, they had apparently finished. Out in the kitchen, she sang as she worked, and only a close observer would have detected a tremor in the sweet, untrained soprano. "Anyway," thought Rosemary, "I'll put on the flat-irons."
The fire she had built would not go out for some hours. She had used coal ruinously in order to heat the oven for a special sort of tea-biscuit of which Grandmother was very fond. While the fire was going out, it would heat the irons, and then——
"One step forward whenever there is a foothold," she said to herself, "and trust to God for the next."
That night, as fortune would have it, Grandmother and Aunt Matilda elected to sit up late, solving a puzzle inThe Household Guardianfor which a Mission rocker was offered as a prize. It was long past ten o'clock when they gave it up.
"I dunno," yawned Aunt Matilda, "as I'm partial to rockers."
"Leastways," continued Grandmother, rising to put her spectacles on the mantel, "to the kind they give missionaries. I've seenthe things they send missionaries more'n once, in my time."
More than One Way
By eleven, the household slept, except Rosemary. As silently as a ghost, she made her way to the attic, brought down the clean white muslin, and, with irons scarcely hot enough, pressed it into some semblance of freshness. She hung it in her closet, under the brown alpaca of two seasons past, and went to sleep, peacefully.
Bright and early the next morning the Idea presented itself. Why not put on the white gown with one of the brown ones over it and take off the brown one when she got there? Mrs. Marsh would understand.
Rosemary laughed happily as she climbed out of bed. Surely there was more than one way of cheating Fate! That afternoon, while the others took their accustomed "forty winks," she brought down the faded pink ribbon that had been her mother's. That night she discovered that neither of the brown ginghams would go over the white muslin, as they had shrunk when they were washed, but that the alpaca would. There was not even a bit of white showing beneath the skirt, as she had discovered by tilting her mirror perilously forward.
She was up early Saturday morning, and baked and swept and dusted to such good purpose that, by three o'clock, there was nothingmore that anyone could think of for her to do until it was time to get supper. She had put the white gown on under the alpaca when she dressed in the morning, as it was the only opportunity of which she was at all sure.
Hung in the Balance
Grandmother and Aunt Matilda were nodding in their chairs. The kitchen clock struck the half hour. Finally, Rosemary spoke.
"Is there anything either of you would like me to get at the store?"
"No," said Grandmother.
"No," echoed Aunt Matilda. Then she added: "Why? Were you thinkin' of goin' out?"
"I thought I would," said Rosemary, with a yawn, "if there was nothing more for me to do. It's such a nice day, and I'd like a breath of fresh air."
For a moment, Fate hung in the balance, then Grandmother said, generously: "Go on, Rosemary, and get all the fresh air you want. You've worked better'n common to-day."
"I should think you'd be tired enough to stay home and rest," Aunt Matilda commented, fretfully, but the door had closed on the last word, and Rosemary was gone.
"But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day;So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kissCreep, as the Spring now thrills through every sprayUp your warm throat to your warm lips—"
"But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day;So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kissCreep, as the Spring now thrills through every sprayUp your warm throat to your warm lips—"
Rosemary Meets Edith
The beautiful words sang themselves through her memory as she sped on. She had forgotten about the guest for the moment, remembering with joy that almost hurt, the one word "Mother," and the greater, probable joy that overshadowed it. Of course he would be there! Why not, when he knew she was coming to tea—and when they had a guest, too? The girl's heart beat tumultuously as she neared the house, for through it, in great tides, surged fear, and ecstasy—and love.
Madame herself opened the door. "Come in, dear!"
"Oh, Mrs. Marsh! Please, just a minute!"
"Mrs. Marsh again? I thought we were mother and daughter. Edith!" she called. Then, in the next moment, Rosemary found herself in the living-room, offering a rough, red hand to an exquisite creature who seemed a blurred mass of pale green and burnished gold, redolent of violets, and who murmured, in a beautifully modulated contralto: "How do you do, Miss Starr! I am very glad to meet you."
The consciousness of the white gown underneath filled Rosemary's eyes with tears of mortification, which Madame hastened to explain. "It's raw and cold still," she said, "in spite of the calendar. These keen Spring winds make one's eyes water. Here, my dear, have a cup of tea."
An Uncomfortable Afternoon
Rosemary took the cup with hands that trembled, and, while she sipped the amber fragrance of it, struggled hard for self-possession. Madame ignored her for the moment and chatted pleasantly with Edith. Then Alden came in and shook hands kindly with Rosemary, though he had been secretly annoyed when he learned she was coming. Afterward, he had a bad quarter of an hour with himself while he endeavoured to find out why. At last he had shifted the blame to Edith, deciding that she would think Rosemary awkward and countrified, and that it would not be pleasant for him to stand by and see it.
However, the most carping critic could have found no fault with Edith's manner. If she felt any superiority, she did not show it. She accorded to Rosemary the same perfect courtesy she showed Madame, and, apparently, failed to notice that the girl had not spoken since the moment of introduction.
She confined the conversation wholly to things Rosemary must have been familiar with—the country, the cool winds that sometimes came when one thought it was almost Summer, the perfect blend of Madame's tea, the quaint Chinese pot, and the bad manners of the canary, who seemed to take a fiendish delight in scattering the seed that was given him to eat.