Looking into the Crystal Ball
Rosemary merely sat in the corner, tried to smile, and said, as required, "Yes," or "No." Alden, pitying her from the depths of his heart and yet secretly ashamed, tried unsuccessfully, now and then, to draw her into the conversation.
Edith drained her cup, affected disappointment at finding no stray leaves by which she might divine the future, then went to Rosemary, and took the empty cup which she sat holding with pathetic awkwardness.
"You have none, either, Miss Starr," she said, sweetly. "Suppose we try the crystal ball? I've been wanting to do it ever since I came, but was afraid to venture, alone."
Rosemary, her senses whirling, followed her over to the table, where the ball lay on its bit of black velvet.
"How do you do it?" asked Edith, of Madame.
"Just get into a good light, shade your eyes, and look in."
"That's easy," Edith said. She bent over the table, shaded her eyes with her white, beautifully-kept hands, and peered into the crystalline depths. "There's nothing here," she continued, somewhat fretfully, to Alden, "except you. By some trick of reflection, I could see you as plainly as though it were a mirror. You try, Miss Starr."
Madame's heart contracted suddenly as sheremembered the day she had looked into the crystal ball, and had seen not only Alden, but a woman with flaming red hair, clasped closely in his arms. "It's all nonsense," she tried to say, but her stiff lips would not move.
A Black Cloud
Rosemary left the table and went back to her corner. "What did you see?" queried Edith. "Did you have any better luck than I did?"
"No," Rosemary answered, with a degree more of self-possession than she had shown previously. "There was nothing there but a black cloud."
The task of keeping up the conversation fell to Edith and Alden, for Madame had unconsciously withdrawn into herself as some small animals shut themselves into their shells. All were relieved, though insensibly, when Rosemary said she must go.
Alden went into the hall with her, to help her with her coat and hat, and, as opportunity offered, to kiss her twice, shyly, on her cheek. He wanted to go part way home with her, but Rosemary refused.
"You'd better not," she said, "but thank you just as much."
"Won't you even let me go to the corner with you?"
"No," said Rosemary, with trembling lips, "please don't."
So she went on alone, while Alden returnedto the living-room. Edith was saying to Madame: "Poor little brown mouse! How one longs to take a girl like that and give her all the pretty things she needs!"
Edith's Desire for Rosemary
Madame took the crystal ball, wrapped it in its bit of velvet, and put it on the highest shelf of the bookcase, rolling it back behind the books, out of sight.
"Why do you do that, Mother?" asked Alden, curiously. "Because," returned Madame, grimly, "it's all nonsense. I won't have it around any more."
Alden laughed, but Edith went on, thoughtfully: "I'd like to do her hair for her, and see that all her under-things were right, and then put her into a crêpe gown of dull blue—a sort of Chinese blue, with a great deal of deep-toned lace for trimming, and give her a topaz pendant set in dull silver, and a big picture hat of ecru net, with a good deal of the lace on it, and one long plume, a little lighter than the gown."
"I would, too," said Alden, smiling at Edith. He did not in the least know what she was talking about, but he knew that she felt kindly toward Rosemary, and was grateful for it.
Rosemary, at home, went about her duties mechanically. There was a far-away look in her eyes which did not escape the notice of Grandmother and Aunt Matilda, but theyforebore to comment upon it as long as she performed her tasks acceptably. At supper she ate very little, and that little was as dust and ashes in her mouth.
Heartburns
Before her, continually, was a heart-breaking contrast. She, awkward, ugly, ill at ease in brown alpaca made according to the fashion of ten or fifteen years ago, and Mrs. Lee, beautiful, exquisite, dainty to her finger-tips, richly dowered with every conceivable thing that she herself lacked.
"Mother," said Rosemary, to herself. "Oh, Mother!" She did not mean Mrs. Marsh, but the pretty, girlish mother who had died in giving birth to her. She would have been like Mrs. Lee, or prettier, and she would have understood.
Her heart smarted and burned and ached, but she got through the evening somehow, and, at the appointed time, stumbled up to her own room.
Why should she care because another woman was prettier than she, knew more, and had more? Were there not many such in the world, and had she not Alden? Accidentally, Rosemary came upon the cause of her pain.
Of course she had Alden, for always—unless—then, once more, reassurance came. "She's married," said Rosemary, smiling back at the white, frightened face she saw in the mirror. "She's married!"
The Comforting Thought
The thought carried with it so much comfort that presently Rosemary slept peacefully, exhausted, as she was, by the stress of the afternoon. "She's married," was her last conscious thought, and a smile lingered upon her lips as she slept. She had not enough worldly wisdom to know that, other things being equal, a married woman may be a dangerous rival, having the unholy charm of the unattainable, and the sanction of another man's choice.
Awake in the Night
The darkness was vibrant, keen, alive. It throbbed with consciousness, with mysterious fibres of communication. There was no sense of a presence in the room, nor even the possibility of a presence. It was vague, abstract, yet curiously definite.
Edith woke from a troubled dream with a start. For a moment she lay quietly and listened, not afraid, but interested, as though upon the threshold of some new experience. The scurrying feet of mice made a ghostly patter in the attic, above her room, and a vagrant wind, in passing, tapped at her window with the fairy-like fingers of the vine that clung to the wall.
Otherwise all was still, and yet the darkness trembled with expectancy. Something hitherto unknown seemed to have entered her consciousness, some thought, emotion, instinct, or what? Wide awake, staring into space, she lay there, wondering, waiting, not in the least frightened, but assured of shelter and of peace.
Another Personality
Gradually she had lost consciousness of her body. She had relaxed completely and her mind soared, free. She moved one foot, cautiously, to see whether her body was still there, and smiled when she was reassured by the cool smoothness of the linen sheet, and the other warm little foot she touched in moving.
Somewhere, in this same darkness, was another personality. Of so much she eventually became sure. It was not in the room, perhaps not even in the house, but for someone else, somewhere, was this same sense—of communication? No, but rather the possibility of it.
Someone else had also lost consciousness of the body. Another mind, released for the moment from its earthly prison, sought communion with hers. Was this death, and had she wakened in another world? She moved her foot again, pressed her hand to the warm softness of her breast, felt her breath come and go, and even the steady beating of her heart. Not death, then, only a pause, in which for once the body, clamorous and imperious with its thousand needs, had given way to the soul.
The curious sense of another personality persisted. Was this other person dead, and striving mutely for expression? No, surely not, for this other mind was on the same plane as hers, subject to the same conditions. Notdisembodied entirely, but only relaxed, as she was, this other personality had wakened and found itself gloriously free.
A New Self
A perception of fineness followed. Not everyone was capable of this, and the conviction brought a pleasant sense of superiority. Above the sordid world, in some higher realm of space and thought, they two had met, and saluted one another.
For the first time Edith thought of her body as something separate from herself, and in the light of a necessary—or unnecessary—evil. This new self neither hungered nor thirsted nor grew weary; it knew neither cold nor heat nor illness; pain, like a fourth dimension, was out of its comprehension, it required neither clothes nor means of transportation, it simply went, as the wind might, by its own power, when and where it chose.
Whose mind was it? Was it someone she knew, or someone she was yet to meet? And in what bodily semblance did it dwell, when it was housed in its prison? Was it a woman, or a man? Not a woman—Edith instantly dismissed the idea, for this sense of another personality carried with it not the feeling of duality or likeness, but of difference, of divine completion.
Some man she knew, or whom she was to know, freed for the moment from his earthly environment, roamed celestial ways with her.She was certain that it was not lasting, that, at the best, it could be of very brief duration, and this fact of impermanence was the very essence of its charm, like life itself.
Who Was the Man?
The clock down-stairs began to strike—one, two, three—four. It was the hour of the night when life is at its lowest, the point on the flaming arc of human existence where it touches the shadow of the unknown, softening into death or brightening into life according to the swing of the pendulum. Then, if ever, the mind and body would be apart, Edith thought, for when the physical forces sink, the spirit must rise to keep the balance true.
Who was the man? Her husband? No, for they were too far apart to meet like this. She idly went over the list of her men acquaintances—old schoolmates, friends of her husband's, husbands of her friends, as one might call the roll of an assembly, expecting someone to rise and answer "Here."
Yet it was all in vain, though she felt herself on the right track and approaching a definite solution. The darkness clung about her like a living thing. It throbbed as the air may when a wireless instrument answers another, leagues away; it was as eloquent of communication as a network of telephone and telegraph wires, submerged in midnight, yet laden with portent of life and death.
She sat up in bed, straining every nerveto the point where all senses unite in one. "Who are you?" Her lips did not move, but the thought seemed to have the sound of thunder in its imperious demand. Tangled fibres of communication noiselessly wove themselves through the darkness, and again all her soul merged itself into one question—"Who? For God's sake, who?"
The Answer
Then, after a tense instant of waiting, the answer flashed upon her, vivid as lightning: "Alden Marsh!"
And swiftly, as though in response to a call, a definite, conscious thought from the other personality presented itself: "Yes? What would you have of me?"
Edith lay back among her pillows, as the clock struck the half hour. The body, as though resentful of denial, urged itself swiftly upon her now. Her heart beat tumultuously, her hands shook, she thrilled from head to foot with actual physical pain. The darkness no longer seemed alive, but negative and dead, holding somewhere in its merciful depths the promise of rest.
Utterly exhausted, she closed her eyes and slept, to be roused by a tap at her door.
"Yes," she answered, drowsily, "come in!"
Madame came in, pulled up the shades and flooded the room with sunshine. "I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, dear, but I was afraid you were ill. I've been here twice before."
Aroused from Sleep
Edith sat up and rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"
"Half-past nine."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! You mustn't spoil me this way, for I do want to get up to breakfast. Why didn't you call me?"
Madame sat down on the side of the bed and patted Edith's outstretched hand with affectionate reassurance. "You're to do just as you please," she said, "but I was beginning to worry a bit, for you've been the soul of punctuality."
"Did—" Edith closed her lips firmly upon the instinctive question, "Did he miss me?" She dismissed it as the mere vapouring of a vacant brain.
"Did what?" asked Madame, helpfully.
"Did you miss me?"
"Of course. Alden did too. The last thing he said before he went to school was that he hoped you were not ill."
"That was nice of him." Edith put a small pink foot out of bed on the other side and gazed at it pensively. Madame laughed.
"I don't believe you've grown up," she said. "You remind me of a small child, who has just discovered her toes. Do you want your breakfast up here?"
"No, I'll come down. Give me half an hour and I'll appear before you, clothed and in my right mind, with as humble an apologyfor my sins as I'm able to compose in the meantime."
Call of the Wander-Lust
She was as good as her word, appearing promptly at the time she had set, and dressed for the street. After doing justice to a hearty breakfast, she said that she was going out for a walk and probably would not be back to luncheon.
"My dear!" exclaimed Madame. "You mustn't do that. I'll have luncheon kept for you."
"No, please don't, for I really shan't want any. Didn't you observe my breakfast? Even a piano-mover couldn't think of eating again before seven, so let me go a-gypsying till sunset."
Madame nodded troubled acquiescence, and, with a laugh, Edith kissed her good-bye. "I'm subject to the Wander-lust," she said, "and when the call comes, I have to go. It's in my blood to-day, so farewell for the present."
Madame watched her as she went down the street, the golden quill on her green hat bidding jaunty defiance to the wind. As she had said, she felt the call at times, and had to yield to its imperative summons, but to-day it was her soul that craved the solace of the open spaces and the wind-swept fields.
As she dressed, she had tried to dismiss last night's experience as a mere fantasy ofsleep, or, if not an actual dream, some vision hailing from the borderland of consciousness, at the point where the senses merge. Yet, even as she argued with herself, she felt the utter futility of it, and knew her denials were vain in the face of truth.
Roaming through the Village
She dreaded the necessity of meeting Alden again, then made a wry face at her own foolishness. "Ridiculous," she said to herself, "preposterous, absurd!" No matter what her own nightmares might be, he slept soundly—of course he did. How could healthy youth with a clear conscience do otherwise?
For an hour or more, she kept to the streets of the village, with the sublime unconsciousness of the city-bred, too absorbed in her own thoughts to know that she was stared at and freely commented upon by those to whom a stranger was a source of excitement. Her tailored gown, of dark green broadcloth, the severe linen shirtwaist, and her simple hat, were subjects of conversation that night in more than one humble home, fading into insignificance only before her radiant hair. The general opinion was that it must be a wig, or the untoward results of some experiment with hair-dye, probably the latter, for, as the postmaster's wife said, "nobody would buy a wig of that colour."
The school bell rang for dismissal, and filled her with sudden panic. After walking throughthe village all the morning to escape luncheon with Alden, it would be disagreeable to meet him face to face almost at the schoolhouse door. Turning in the opposite direction, she walked swiftly until she came to a hill, upon which an irregular path straggled half-heartedly upward.
The Finding of the Red Book
So Edith climbed the Hill of the Muses, pausing several times to rest. When she reached the top, she was agreeably surprised to find a comfortable seat waiting her, even though it was only a log rolled back against two trees. She sank back into the hollow, leaned against the supporting oak, and wiped her flushed face.
Others had been there before her, evidently, for the turf was worn around the log, and there were even hints of footprints here and there. "Some rural trysting place, probably," she thought, then a gleam of scarlet caught her attention. A small red book had fallen into the crevice between the log and the other tree. "The House of Life," she murmured, under her breath. "Now, who in this little village would—unless——"
The book bore neither name nor initials, but almost every page was marked. As it happened, most of them were favourite passages of her own. "How idyllic!" she mused; "a pair of young lovers reading Rossetti on a hill-top in Spring! Could anything be morepastoral? I'll take it back to the house and tell about it at dinner."
Mutually Surprised
She welcomed it as a sure relief from a possible awkward moment. "I knew I was right," she said to herself, as she turned the pages. "To-day was set aside, long ago, for me to go a-gypsying."
The clear air of the heights and the sunlit valley beneath her gave her a sense of proportion and of value which she realised she had sadly needed. Free from the annoyances of her daily life, she could look back upon it with due perspective, and see that her unhappiness had been largely caused by herself.
"I can't be miserable," she thought, "unless I'm willing to be."
She sat there for a long time, heedless of the passing hours. She was roused from her reverie by a muffled footstep and an involuntary exclamation of astonishment.
"Why, how do you do, Miss Starr?" said Edith, kindly, offering a well-gloved hand. "Are you out gypsying too?"
"Yes," Rosemary stammered. Her eyes were fixed upon the small red book that Mrs. Lee held in her other hand.
"See what I found," Edith went on, heedlessly. "Rossetti'sHouse of Life, up here. Boy Blue must have brought it up to read to Bo-Peep in the intervals of shepherding. There may not be any such word as 'shepherding,' but there ought to be, I love to make words, don't you?"
Shrines Laid Bare
"Yes," said Rosemary, helplessly. She had thought Alden had the book, but had forgotten to make sure, and now the most precious hours of her life had been invaded and her shrines laid bare. Was it not enough for this woman to live in the same house with Alden? Need she take possession of the Hill of the Muses and the little book which had first awakened her, then brought them together? Resentful anger burned in her cheeks, all the more pitiful because of Mrs. Lee's utter unconsciousness, and the impossibility of reparation, even had she known.
"Sit down," Edith suggested. "You must be tired. It's a long climb."
"Did—did you come up here to—to meet anyone?" The suspicion broke hotly from Rosemary's pale lips.
Edith might have replied that she came up to avoid meeting anyone, but she only said, with cool astonishment: "Why, no. Why should I?"
There was no answer to that. Indeed, thought Rosemary, floundering helplessly in a sea of pain, there was no reason. Was she not in the same house with him, day in and day out?
"She's married," Rosemary said to herself with stern insistence, trying to find comfortin the thought, but comfort strangely failed now. Another suspicion assailed her and was instantly put into headlong speech. "Is your husband dead, or are you divorced?"
Too Late
Mrs. Lee turned quickly. She surveyed the girl calmly for an instant, entirely unable to translate her evident confusion; then she rose.
"Neither," she returned, icily, "and if there are no other personal questions you desire to ask me, I'll go back."
Rosemary kept back the tears until Mrs. Lee was out of sight. "She's married," she sobbed, "and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced, so why—oh, why?" The pain unreasonably persisted, taking to itself a fresh hold. She had offended Mrs. Lee and she would tell Alden, and Alden would be displeased and would never forgive her.
If she were to run after her, and apologise, assuring her that she had not meant the slightest offence, perhaps—. She stumbled to her feet, but, even as she did so, she knew that it was too late. She longed with all the passion of her desolate soul for Alden's arms around her, for only the touch of his hand or the sound of his voice, saying: "Rosemary! Rosemary dear!" But it was too late for that also—everything came too late!
By the time she reached the foot of the hill Edith had understood and pardoned Rosemary. "Poor child," she thought. "Think of her loving him, and actually being jealous of me! And, man-like, of course, he's never noticed it. For her sake, I hope he won't."
Like a Nymph
She waited to gather a spray or two of wild crab-apple blossoms, then went home. She did not see Alden, but stopped to exchange a few words with Madame, then went on up-stairs. The long walk had wearied her, but it had also made her more lovely. After an hour of rest and a cool shower, she was ready to dress for dinner.
She chose a dinner-gown of white embroidered chiffon that she had not yet worn. It was cut away a little at the throat and the sleeves came to the elbow. She was not in the mood for jewels, but she clasped a string of pearls around her perfect throat, and put the crab-apple blossoms in her hair. The experiment was rather daring, but wholly successful, as she took care to have green leaves between her hair and the blossoms.
When she went down, Madame and Alden were waiting for her, Alden in evening clothes as usual and Madame in her lavender gown.
"You look like a nymph of Botticelli's," commented Alden, with a smile. There was no trace of confusion, or even of consciousness in his manner, and, once again, Edith reproached herself for her foolishness.
"Don't Leave Me Alone"
Dinner was cheerful, though not lively. Once or twice, Edith caught Alden looking at her with a strange expression on his face. Madame chattered on happily, of the vineyard and the garden and the small household affairs that occupied her attention.
Afterward, Alden read the paper and the other two played cribbage. It was only a little after nine when Madame, concealing a yawn, announced that she was tired and would go to bed, if she might be excused.
Edith rose with alacrity. "I'll come, too," she said. "It's astonishing how sleepy it makes one to be outdoors."
"Don't," Madame protested. "We mustn't leave him entirely alone. You can sleep late to-morrow morning if you choose."
"Please don't leave me alone, Mrs. Lee," pleaded Alden, rather wickedly.
"All right," Edith answered, accepting the inevitable as gracefully as she might. "Shall I play solitaire while you read the paper?"
"If you like," he replied.
Madame took her candle and bade them good-night. As she went up-stairs, Edith said, with a pout: "I wish I were going to bed too."
"You can't sleep all the time," he reminded her. The paper had slipped to the floor. "Mother tells me that you slept this morning until half-past nine."
The Souvenir of Rural Lovers
"Yes—but—." She bit her lips and the colour rose to her temples. She hastily shuffled the cards and began to play solitaire so rapidly that he wondered whether she knew what cards she was playing.
"But," he said, "you didn't sleep well last night. Was that what you were going to say?"
Edith dropped her cards, and looked him straight in the face. "I slept perfectly," she lied. "Didn't you?"
"I slept just as well as you did," he answered. She thought she detected a shade of double meaning in his tone.
"I had a long walk to-day," she went on, "and it made me sleepy. Look," she continued, going to the mantel where she had left the book. "See what I found on top of a hill, in a crevice between an oak and a log that lay against it. Do you think some pair of rural lovers left it there?"
"Possibly," he replied. If the sight of the book he had loaned Rosemary awoke any emotion, or even a memory, he did not show it. "Sit down," he suggested, imperturbably, "and let me see if I can't find a sonnet that fits you. Yes, surely—here it is. Listen."
She rested her head upon her hand and turned her face away from him. In his smooth, well-modulated voice, he read:
Alden Reads a Sonnet
HER GIFTS
High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithalSome wood-born wonder's sweet simplicity;A glance like water brimming with the skyOr hyacinth-light where forest shadows fall;Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthralThe heart; a mouth whose passionate forms implyAll music and all silence held thereby;Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal;A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrineTo cling to when the heart takes sanctuary;Hands which forever at Love's bidding be,And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:—These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er.Breathe low her name, my soul, for that means more.
High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithalSome wood-born wonder's sweet simplicity;A glance like water brimming with the skyOr hyacinth-light where forest shadows fall;Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthralThe heart; a mouth whose passionate forms implyAll music and all silence held thereby;Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal;A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrineTo cling to when the heart takes sanctuary;Hands which forever at Love's bidding be,And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:—These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er.Breathe low her name, my soul, for that means more.
Her heart beat wildly and her colour came and went, but, with difficulty, she controlled herself until he reached the end. When she rose, he rose also, dropping the book.
"Mrs. Lee—Edith!"
"Yes," she said, with a supreme effort at self-command, "it is a pretty name, isn't it?" She was very pale, but she offered him her hand. "I really must go now," she continued, "for I am tired. Thank you—and good-night."
Alden did not answer—in words. He took the hand she offered him, held it firmly in his own, stooped, and kissed the hollow of her elbow, just below the sleeve.
No Guarantee
"She's married, and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced. She's married and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced." Rosemary kept saying it to herself mechanically, but no comfort came. Through the long night, wakeful and wretched, she brooded over the painful difference between the woman to whom Alden had plighted his troth and the beautiful stranger whom he saw every day.
"She's married," Rosemary whispered, to the coarse unbleached muslin of her pillow. "And when we're married—" ah, it would all be different then. But would it? In a flash she perceived that marriage itself guarantees nothing in the way of love.
Hurt to her heart's core, Rosemary sat up in bed and pondered, while the tears streamed over her cheeks. She had not seen Alden since Mrs. Lee came, except the day she had gone there to tea, wearing her white muslin under her brown alpaca. There was no wayto see him, unless she went there again—the very thought of that made her shudder—or signalled from her hill-top with the scarlet ribbon.
Hugging her Grief
And, to her, the Hill of the Muses was like some holy place that had been profaned. The dainty feet of the stranger had set themselves upon her path in more ways than one. What must life be out in the world, when the world was full of women like Mrs. Lee, perhaps even more beautiful? Was everyone, married or not, continually stabbed by some heart-breaking difference between herself and another?
Having the gift of detachment immeasurably beyond woman, man may separate himself from his grief, contemplate it calmly in its various phases, and, with a mighty effort, throw it aside. Woman, on the contrary, hugs hers close to her aching breast and remorselessly turns the knife in her wound. It is she who keeps anniversaries, walks in cemeteries, wears mourning, and preserves trifles that sorrowfully have outlasted the love that gave them.
If she could only see him once! And yet, what was there to say or what was there to do, beyond sobbing out her desolate heart in the shelter of his arms? Could she tell him that she was miserable because she had come face to face with a woman more beautiful than she; that she doubted his loyalty, hisdevotion? From some far off ancestor, her woman's dower of pride and silence suddenly asserted itself in Rosemary. When he wanted her, he would find her. If he missed her signal, fluttering from the birch tree in the Spring wind, he could write and say so. Meanwhile she would not seek him, though her heart should break from loneliness and despair.
Worn and Weary
Craving the dear touch of him, the sound of his voice, or even the sight of his tall well-knit figure moving along swiftly in the dusk, she compelled herself to accept the situation, bitterness and all. Across her open window struck the single long deepening shadow that precedes daybreak, then grey lights dawned on the far horizon, paling the stars to points of pearl upon dim purple mists. Worn and weary, Rosemary slept until she was called to begin the day's dreary round of toil, as mechanical as the ticking of a clock.
Cold water removed the traces of tears from her cheeks, but her eyes were red and swollen. The cheap mirror exaggerated her plainness, while memory pitilessly emphasised the beauty of the other woman. As she dressed, the thought came to her that, no matter what happened, she could still go on loving him, that she might always give, whether or not she received anything at all in return.
"Service," she said to herself, rememberingher dream, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer." If this indeed was love, she had it in fullest measure, so why should she ask for more?
Waiting for Breakfast
"Rosemary!"
"Yes," she called back, trying hard to make her voice even, "I'm coming!"
"It beats all," Grandmother said, fretfully, when she rushed breathlessly into the dining-room. "For the life of me I can't understand how you can sleep so much."
Rosemary smiled grimly, but said nothing.
"Here I've been settin', waitin' for my breakfast, since before six, and it's almost seven now."
"Never mind," the girl returned, kindly; "I'll get it ready just as quickly as I can."
"I was just sayin'," Grandmother continued when Aunt Matilda came into the room, "that it beats all how Rosemary can sleep. I've been up since half-past five and she's just beginnin' to get breakfast, and here you come, trailin' along in with your hair not combed, at ten minutes to breakfast time. I should think you'd be ashamed."
"My hair is combed," Matilda retorted, quickly on the defensive.
"I don't know when it was," Grandmother fretted. "I ain't seen it combed since I can remember."
"Then it's because you ain't looked.Any time you want to see me combin' my hair you can come in. I do it every morning."
Fluffy Hair
Grandmother laughed, sarcastically. "'Pears like you thought you was one of them mermaids I was readin' about in the paper once. They're half fish and half woman and they set on rocks, combin' their hair and singin' and the ships go to pieces on the rocks 'cause the sailors are so anxious to see 'em they forget where they're goin'."
"There ain't no rocks outside my door as I know of," Matilda returned, "and only one rocker inside."
"No, nor your hair ain't like theirs neither. The paper said their hair was golden."
"Must be nice and stiff," Matilda commented. "I'd hate to have my hair all wire."
Grandmother lifted her spectacles from the wart and peered through them critically. "I dunno," she said, "as it'd look any different, except for the colour. The way you're settin' now, against the light, I can see bristles stickin' out all over it, same as if 'twas wire."
"Fluffy hair is all the style now," said Matilda, complacently.
"Fluffy!" Grandmother grunted. "If that's what you call it, I reckon it'll soon go out. It might have been out for fifteen or twenty years and you not know it. I don't believe any self-respectin' woman would let her hair go like that. Why 'n the name ofcommon sense can't you take a hair brush and wet it in cold water and slick it up, so's folks can see that it's combed? Mine's always slick, and nobody can't say that it isn't."
Grandmother's Disappointment
"Yes," Matilda agreed with a scornful glance, "it is slick, what there is of it."
Grandmother's head burned pink through her scanty white locks and her eyes flashed dangerously. Somewhat frightened, Matilda hastened to change the subject.
"She wears her hair like mine."
"She?" repeated Grandmother, pricking up her ears, "Who's she?"
"You know—the company up to Marshs'."
"Who was tellin' you? The milkman, or his wife?"
"None of 'em," answered Matilda, mysteriously. Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she added: "I seen her myself!"
"When?" Grandmother demanded. "You been up there, payin' back your own call?"
"She went by here yesterday," said Matilda, hurriedly.
"What was I doin'?" the old lady inquired, resentfully.
"One time you was asleep and one time you was readin'."
"What? Do you mean to tell me she went by here twice and you ain't never told me till now?"
"When you've been readin'," Matildarejoined, with secret delight, "you've always told me and Rosemary too that you wan't to be disturbed unless the house took afire. Ain't she, Rosemary?"
If Anything's Important
"What?" asked the girl, placing a saucer of stewed prunes at each place and drawing up the three chairs.
"Ain't she always said she didn't want to be disturbed when she was readin'?" She indicated Grandmother by an inclination of her frowsy head.
"I don't believe any of us like to be interrupted when we're reading," Rosemary replied, tactfully. She disliked to "take sides," and always avoided it whenever possible.
"There," exclaimed Matilda, triumphantly.
"And the other time?" pursued Grandmother. Her eyes glittered and her cheeks burned with dull, smouldering fires.
"You was asleep."
"I could have been woke up, couldn't I?"
"You could have been," Matilda replied, after a moment's thought, "but when you've been woke up I ain't never liked to be the one what did it."
"If it's anything important," Grandmother observed, as she began to eat, "I'm willin' to be interrupted when I'm readin', or to be woke up when I'm asleep, and if that woman ever goes by the house again, I want to betold of it, and I want you both to understand it, right here and now."
Have You Seen Her?
"What woman?" queried Rosemary. She had been busy in the kitchen and had not grasped the subject of the conversation, though the rumbling of it had reached her from afar.
"Marshs' company," said both voices at once.
"Oh!" Rosemary steadied herself for a moment against the back of her chair and then sat down.
"Have you seen her?" asked Grandmother.
"Yes." Rosemary's answer was scarcely more than a whisper. In her wretchedness, she told the truth, being unable to think sufficiently to lie.
"When?" asked Aunt Matilda.
"Where?" demanded Grandmother.
"Yesterday, when I was out for a walk." It was not necessary to go back of yesterday.
"Where was she?" insisted Grandmother.
"Up on the hill. I didn't know she was there when I went up. She was at the top, resting."
"Did she speak to you?" asked Aunt Matilda.
"Yes." Rosemary's voice was very low and had in it all the weariness of the world.
"What did she say?" inquired Grandmother, with the air of the attorney for the defence.The spectacles were resting upon the wart now, and she peered over them disconcertingly.
What Does She Look Like?
"I asked you what she said," Grandmother repeated distinctly, after a pause.
"She said: 'How do you do, Miss Starr?'"
"How'd she know who you were?"
"There, there, Mother," put in Aunt Matilda. "I reckon everybody in these parts knows the Starr family."
"Of course," returned the old lady, somewhat mollified. "What else did she say?"
"Nothing much," stammered Rosemary. "That is, I can't remember. She said it was a nice day, or something of that sort, and then she went back home. She didn't stay but a minute." So much was true, even though that minute had agonised Rosemary beyond words.
"What does she look like?" Grandmother continued, with deep interest.
"Not—like anybody we know. Aunt Matilda can tell you better than I can. She saw her too."
Accepting modestly this tribute to her powers of observation, Aunt Matilda took the conversation out of Rosemary's hands, greatly to her relief. The remainder of breakfast was a spirited dialogue. Grandmother's doubt on any one point was quickly silenced by the sarcastic comment from Matilda: "Well, bein' as you've seen her and I haven't, of course you know."
Under the Ban
Meanwhile Rosemary ate, not knowing what she ate, choking down her food with glass after glass of water which by no means assuaged the inner fires. While she was washing the breakfast dishes the other two were discussing Mrs. Lee's hair. Grandmother insisted that it was a wig, as play-actresses always wore them and Mrs. Lee was undoubtedly a play-actress.
"How do you know?" Matilda inquired, with sarcastic inflection.
"If she ain't," Grandmother parried, "what's she gallivantin' around the country for without her husband?"
"Maybe he's dead."
"If he's dead, why ain't she wearin' mourning, as any decent woman would? She's either a play-actress, or else she's a divorced woman, or maybe both." Either condition, in Grandmother's mind, was the seal of social damnation.
"If we was on callin' terms with the Marshs," said Matilda, meditatively, "Mis' Marsh might be bringin' her here."
"Not twice," returned Grandmother, with determination. "This is my house, and I've got something to say about who comes in it. I wouldn't even have Mis' Marsh now, after she's been hobnobbin' with the likes of her."
After reverting for a moment to the copper-coloured hair, which might or might not be awig, the conversation drifted back to mermaids and the seafaring folk who went astray on the rocks. Aunt Matilda insisted that there were no such things as mermaids, and Grandmother triumphantly dug up the article in question from a copy ofThe Household Guardianmore than three months old.