Master of the Vineyard Part 21

[Sidenote: A Letter for Rosemary]

Rosemary peered into the letter box and saw that _The Household Guardian_ was 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 gla.s.s, 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.

[Sidenote: Ways and Means]

She felt a crus.h.i.+ng sense of disappointment when she saw that it was not from Alden, but was 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 her ability 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.

[Sidenote: Secret Longings]

But how could she hope to escape, un.o.bserved, on Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 G.o.d for the next."

[Sidenote: 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 a.s.sumed 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 had lost interest in her supper. Only Rosemary was calm.

[Sidenote: 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 d.i.c.k took it up into the attic there wasn't but one side they could set it on. And whiles they was findin' a place to set it, she and young Marsh was laughin' down in the hall."

[Sidenote: 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 was.h.i.+n', 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 pa.s.sed '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."

[Sidenote: Discussing the Stranger]

"I'd know whether 'twas a wig or not, if I saw it once," Grandmother muttered. "There ain't n.o.body 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 insurmountable stone wall. She shrugged her shoulders good-humouredly.

"Very well," she said, "I'm sure I don't care. Suit yourselves."

[Sidenote: One Step Forward]