CHAPTER XIVPOSEY BECOMES ROSE
Thus it was that Posey, who for so long had been drifted at the mercy of adverse currents found herself, for a time at least, in a safe and quiet harbor. Very quickly she fell into the simple household ways; she washed the dainty old china for Mrs. Blossom; she dusted the carefully kept rooms; she pulled bastings and whipped edges for Miss Silence; she ripped braid and wound ribbons for Mrs. Patience, watching her the while as with hat-block in lap her deft fingers “sewed over” a hat or bonnet into a different shape—for at that time this was part of the work of a village milliner; and last but by no means least she listened to Grandmother Sweet’s gentle counsels and gentler admonitions. While in this atmosphere of cheer and kindliness her young heart that had known such scant measure of either, expanded like a flower in the sunshine.
From the first time she heard it the name Posey had been anything but pleasing to Grandmother Sweet’s Quaker ears, and the next day after her coming, when she had given as full an account as she could of her varied life, the old lady began to question her.
“And now what is thy real name, my child? For surely thy mother never gave thee ‘Posey’ for a life name.”
“I don’t know as I have any other,” answered Posey in surprise, for it was something she had never thought of before. “My mother, I can remember, often called me ‘Rose,’ and her ‘little Rose,’ but she called me ‘Posey,’ too; so did my father and the neighbors, and Madam Sharpe, and I always supposed that was all the name I had.”
“Thee can depend upon it,” was the old lady’s decided answer, “‘Posey’ was only that foolish custom—a nickname—of which I cannot approve.
“And as to thy surname, does thee not know that either? It seems anything but right that thee should continue to bear—especiallyas it is not thy own, the name of that wicked adventuress.”
Posey shook her head. “You know I was so little when my mother and father died, and Madam Sharpe called me by her name from the first. I think she wanted me to forget all I could for fear I might find some one who would take me away from her. I know whenever I asked her what my name was she would say she had forgotten, but I didn’t believe her then. Lately, I have tried to remember it, but I can’t. I know my mother’s first name was Kate, because I have her Bible, and that is the name written in it.”
“Will thee let me see it?”
Posey at once brought the little velvet covered Bible, and the book of child verse, now decidedly the worse for wear and age. On the fly leaf of the Bible was primly written, “Kate, from Aunt Sarah.”
In the other book was apparently no writing, but after examining it a moment grandmother asked, “Silence, will thee bring me a damp sponge? If I am not mistaken a leaf has been pasted down here.”
The sponge was brought, and the page when moistened readily lifted, proving Grandmother Sweet’s suspicion correct, and revealing to the onlookers, written in a delicate hand,
“To Rose Shannon, on her fourth birthday, December 12th.”
“There!” Grandmother Sweet’s tone was triumphant, “now we have thy rightful name, and thee shall be Rose to us, as thee was to thy mother,” and she patted the curly brown head.
“But why do you suppose she pasted the leaf down instead of tearing it out?” questioned Miss Silence.
“I think,” replied Posey, or rather Rose, “it was because the colored picture on the other side of the leaf was a favorite of mine, and if it was gone I would be sure to miss it.”
So it was without any purpose of her own, or a thought on the part of any one of concealing her identity, that with the very beginning of life under new conditions Posey Sharpe became Rose Shannon, and, or so it seemed to her, with the old name the old lifealso dropped away. Rose was delighted to possess a name that was hers by right, that was her very own, but at first it sounded strangely unfamiliar, and sometimes she failed to recognize it as belonging to herself; but very soon she grew as accustomed to it as to the placid round of the Blossom household.
In a short time Mrs. Patience made her trip to Cleveland, and made the promised call at the Refuge. Here she found that a letter had been received from Mrs. Hagood, full of complaints that Posey was an idle, troublesome, ungrateful girl, who had left her for no cause whatever; but at the same time demanding that she be sent back at once. For Mrs. Hagood had supposed, as Rose thought, that she would return to the Refuge. Mrs. Patience’s account, however, put the matter in a very different light. The superintendent was deeply indignant, and as the Blossoms had friends who were known to him, he gladly consented that she should remain with them till a more permanent provision could be made.
It was on this one point of Rose’s history,the cause and manner of her leaving Mrs. Hagood, that the Blossoms decided reticence to be best. As Mrs. Blossom said, “Mrs. Hagood is a stranger to us, and admitting that she was at fault, it seems to me neither kind nor right to repeat what might give others an unfavorable impression.”
Gentle Grandmother Sweet’s advice to Rose was, “The best way to keep from speaking of it is to put it out of thy thoughts, through that spirit of forgiveness, which we who err so often should always be ready to show.”
Not long after Mrs. Patience’s return from the city Rose received an offer of a home for the winter, with fifty cents a week wages, and the privilege of attending school afternoons. As she had seldom possessed a cent she could call her own this seemed like a small fortune; besides, as she had told Ben Pancost, she understood more than most of her age what it cost to live, and so was the quicker to see that with all the Blossoms’ generous hospitality, economy was carefully considered. For they were far from rich, this houseful of women with no outside breadwinnerto depend on, and with her sturdy, independent nature Rose shrank from being a burden on them, the more so because of their affectionate kindness. Miss Silence and Mrs. Patience having taken Rose under their wing were unwilling she should go, unless into a permanent home, but Mrs. Blossom held that Rose should decide the question for herself, especially as she would still be in the village where they could watch over her. While Grandmother Sweet placidly observed, “Providence seems to have opened the place for Rose, and the openings of Providence are usually for some wise purpose.”
The offer had been most unexpected. Miss Fifield had come to Silence Blossom to have a dress fitted, and in the familiar conversation which accompanied the process she had remarked that she and her sister were doing their work themselves as the hired girl had gone home sick. “Of course,” she explained, “we have Ellen Gill in to do the washing and ironing and scrubbing; not but that we could do it all, for it was my father’s boast that his daughters were thoroughlycapable. And they all are but Eudora; she will not, and while I’m willing to do my share I’m not willing to do mine and other people’s too. I don’t believe Eudora would soil her hands if her life depended on it. If you’ll believe me, Silence Blossom, she has gone and made a mop to wash dishes with. It makes me sick, it positively does, to see her mopping the dishes off, and lifting them out with a fork, for fear the dishwater will make her hands rough.” And Miss Fifield, tall, spare, and angular, who counted all attempt at personal adornment the sign of a weak mind, gave a little sniff of contempt.
At this moment Rose came into the sitting-room to bring Grandmother Sweet a piece of fresh sponge cake, her first triumph in real cake-making under Mrs. Blossom. Miss Fifield through the partly open door of the bedroom which also served as fitting-room, regarded her neat gingham work-apron and animated, rosy face with evident approval.
“Who is that young girl?” she asked. “I don’t remember to have ever seen her before.”
“She is Rose Shannon,” Miss Silence answeredas well as she could with her mouth full of pins. “She came to Farmdale with the idea that she could live with Aunt Maria Ames, and is staying with us for the present.”
Miss Fifield prided herself on her prompt decisions, and the idea at once occurred to her that such a tidy little handmaid would be pleasant and useful to have.
“If she wants to she can come to us; we will give her a home, and something besides.”
Silence Blossom was measuring Miss Fifield’s bony arm for the sleeve. “I don’t know,” her voice dubious; “Rose was planning to go to school when it opened next term.”
“I think we could manage for her to go afternoons; there isn’t much to do after dinner. I suppose,” she added, “that Eudora and Brother Nathan will object. They never agree on anything only in opposing me, but what I undertake I intend to carry through.”
But for once Miss Fifield was mistaken, Miss Eudora heartily agreed with the plan. She could put on gloves to sweep, and cakeand pastry making were something any lady might do with dignity; but dish-washing even with the aid of a mop, she viewed with horror. Furthermore, her sister refused to wash the dishes a day over half the time.
Squire Nathan Fifield, the middle-aged brother who with the two middle-aged sisters made up the Fifield family, caustically remarked that he should think two able-bodied women could do the work for themselves and one man, but if they couldn’t they would have to settle the matter their own way. “Only,” he warned them, “it is very likely this is the child of low-bred foreigners, and if she turns out to be a little liar, and a thief, I want you to remember that it was you that brought her here, not me.”
But the sisters, noways daunted by this foreboding, offered Rose the place and, as we have seen, she accepted the offer.